Reporting Live From…Avengers Tower | Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader | Masterlist!
SUMMARY: Daughter of Tony Stark, Wanda’s powers but purple, dating the new intern, living with a group of heroes. What could possibly go wrong?
PAIRING: Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader
A/N: Finally making an Avengers tower series, I’m so excited! Feel free to send in requests for this fic, I’ve already got a few more ideas lined up that I’m actively working on! Just be sure to specify that it’s for this series as I have separate stand alone Peter one shot requests :)
Find the Avengers tower playlist here!
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⚛︎ Dirty Little Secret
Summary: Tony Starks daughter, Wanda’s powers (but purple), dating the new intern in secret. What could possibly go wrong when Clint falls through the vents right after you sneak in your secret boyfriend?
⚛︎ Operation: Hangout In Peace
Summary: When you start dating the intern, Peter Parker, your dad enforces a list of rules for when he comes over. In order to ensure the rules are followed, you two must be babysat at all times, meaning the team circles in and out of who’s on monitoring duties. When you sneak out to hangout with your boyfriend without your father’s permission, the entire group of the world’s mightiest heroes are sent out on one major mission. Finding you…until they find out you’re building legos…? Tony begins to question his parenting. Perhaps a heart to heart conversation will help (it won't).
⚛︎ Game Night (Coming soon…)
Summary: Peter thinks the team could use some team bonding. What better way to bond than a family game night?
⚛︎ Peter’s Missing! (Coming soon…)
Summary: Your boyfriend can’t be found anywhere…maybe look to Sam and Bucky for some answers.
⚛︎ A Day In My Life (Coming soon…)
Summary: Peter vlogs a day in his life which entails going to school, hanging out with his girlfriend, saving the city, and being terrorized by half of the tower.
⚛︎ Date Night (Coming soon…)
Summary: Peter plans a date night with you that doesn’t exactly go to plan.
Taglist! (lmk if you want to be added or removed, if you’re on my regular Peter taglist I also added you!)
blurb: briar’s hockey team hosts their annual fundraiser for the hurricanes at malone’s. the prize? a date with one of the four hottest hockey player heartthrobs. the problem? you lost the bidding war to win your own boyfriend.
warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, the whole gang is here yay power of friendship, lowk crack fic with a side of romance, light jealousy, mentions of deanallie hehe, BEAU MAXWELL IS A FLIRT
“Allie, I gave you one job!”
And really, you did.
You were swamped with final exams and endless group projects. On this particular Friday night—the evening of the hurricanes fundraiser—you had to meet up with your teammates to go over presentation slides.
Thus, you entrusted your beloved friend, Allie Hayes, to ensure your spot in the bidding war for…well, your boyfriend.
“Aw, you wanna win me over once again, gorgeous?” Logan had teased you.
You had rolled your eyes and nudged him, “It’s for a good cause.”
“You’re paying to go out on a date with your boyfriend.”
“I’m paying to fund a little cane’s hockey endeavors.”
Except you can’t do either of those things because your trusted friend turned out to not be so trustworthy.
“I’m sorry, babe! I really am,” Allie’s eyes shone with guilt. “Della had me working a table during Logan’s segment, and I lost the stupid auction paddle—”
You raised your hand up to cut her off. With a resigned sigh, you let any hard feelings flee from your system. Allie had been having a rough couple of days—with the Sean breakup, and her recent streak of suspicious disappearances that you still hadn’t confronted her about, you knew this was a genuine mistake.
“Did he at least sell for a good price?” You asked.
“$750, baby!”
The voice came from behind you, along with a strong arm draping over your shoulders. You turned your head and met your boyfriend’s handsome face. Logan wore a gleeful smile, probably elated that the fundraiser had gone so well despite the last minute arrangements.
“Wow, that’s a lot,” you noted in surprise.
Logan’s expression shifted to a subtle pout. “You don’t think I’m worth that much?”
You kissed his stubble placatingly. “I think you’re priceless, babe.”
That got him to grin again.
Tucker came up behind and clapped him on the back, “Your boy here got the second highest bid.”
You shared an unimpressed look with Allie, “Let me guess, the top bid was on—”
“Well, well, well, Mrs. Logan. You finally showed up,” Dean joined the circle with a smug smile.
“I know you mean that as an insult, but I take it as a compliment.”
“You tell him, Al,” Beau popped up right behind Dean. He shot Allie a wink.
“How much did they get on you?” You redirected the conversation back into place.
The blond shrugged casually, peering down at his drink. “Nothing grand. A humble amount, really.”
Beau rolled his eyes and answered, “$1800.”
Your eyes widened, “You’re kidding.”
Dean’s mouth hung open, “Don’t stoop to their level, Mrs. Logan.” He pointed an accusing finger your way.
“I’m just shocked that somebody has that much money laying around,” you replied.
“We could’ve renovated the theatre department’s stage,” Allie noted bitterly.
“I could’ve gotten new car rims,” Logan added.
“Or that new gaming console,” Tucker said.
“Or my housing payment,” you continued.
“Or better toner for his hair,” Beau teased Dean.
“OKAY! WE GET IT!” Dean exclaimed, holding his hands up to stop the discussion.
Hannah and Garrett walked by, holding hands. The former shared a bright smile, “Hey, you made it!”
“How much was your boyfriend?” You asked her.
“5 bucks.”
“How.” You deadpanned. Garrett was a good looking guy, a very popular one at that. You’ve seen the herds of puck bunnies that worshipped him. A five dollar bid was ridiculous to even consider.
“Garrett stopped the auction once Wellsy placed her bid,” Tucker responded.
Smooth move, Graham.
And he knew it. Garrett had a shit-eating grin on his face like he knew he just won a million boyfriend points.
“That’s so cute,” you said before turning your head to eye your boyfriend. “Why didn’t you do that?”
The boys stifled their laughs at that.
Logan paused for a beat before he replied with: “I…wanted to make sure we raised enough money for the children.”
Smooth move, Logan.
Garrett dapped him up like his answer was ingenious. You hmphed and looked away. Logan squeezed your waist in an appeasing gesture.
“Well, when’s your date?” You asked.
Logan looked at his watch, which was on the wrist of the arm he had around you, so he charmingly pulled you closer to him to check the time. “In half an hour.”
You blinked. “What? Why so soon?”
Dean answered, “She requested it.”
“And is anyone gonna tell me who she is?”
“HIPAA,” Dean mimed zipping his lips closed.
“That’s for medical stuff, dingus,” Hannah told him.
“Is someone a sore loser?” Dean taunted.
Your gaze flew to Allie, “You placed a bid?”
“No,” she defended rather quickly. “Dean’s just…being stupid.” She muttered before rushing back into the staff kitchen.
You would’ve questioned their exchange more, but Logan’s arm returned to his side. “I should go too. You know, freshen up for my date.”
You flashed a faux smile, “Keep talking like that and you’ll have to go looking for a real date after this.”
The group dispersed—Garrett tugging Hannah along for their ‘fairly’-earned date, Dean and Tucker off to count up all the money they collected, Logan away to prepare for his mystery girl, and Beau gave your shoulder a reassuring rub and said, “If you give me $20 right now, I’ll go on a date with you” before you glared at him enough for him to bolt out.
You decided to stick around and help the group clean up the place once the festivities ended. Surely it wasn’t because you wanted to see the girl who spent hundreds of dollars to hang out with your boyfriend.
“Pop a fucking button, Logan. What is this, Sunday school?” Tucker was playing with Logan’s outfit to ensure he looked presentable for his date.
Logan’s eyebrows knitted together, “Relax, Law Roach. Are you forgetting she’s not actually my girlfriend?”
“For $750, you better start acting like she is.”
You cleared your throat loudly.
Tucker shot you an apologetic look.
“…John?”
The pair of them turned their attentions to the voice.
There stood a tall, stunning girl with beautiful deep tanned skin, hair down in luscious locs adorned in gold hair cuffs, and smooth legs peeking out from under her skirt. She looked like a model.
She looked between the two hockey players.
“You’re Amala,” Logan voiced.
She nodded with relief, “Yes. John, right?”
“We’re both John,” Tucker chimed in.
“Ohh,” Amala nodded.
“You can call me Logan,” your boyfriend said, stretching out a hand towards her.
“Logan,” she repeated the name, shaking his hand.
Tucker pushed Logan a step forward, “Have fun, you two.”
Logan looked over his shoulder to share one last look with you. He gave a reassuring smile, his eyes soft. Amala noticed and waved at you shyly. You waved back slowly.
Logan turned back to Amala, “Where would you like to go? You’re the boss.” He told her with a charming grin.
She shrugged with a smile, “Here is fine.”
“Here?” Logan raised a brow, surveying the post-function bar. “We could, though I thought of taking you out for ice cream—”
“Ice cream sounds great!”
“Yeah?” He smiled. “Perfect.”
Your eye twitched as you picked up discarded confetti off the floor.
Logan guided Amala out Malone’s with a hand hovering—not touching—over her lower back. The bell hanging over the door rang in a soft tune as they exited, marking their departure.
“Remind me again why I agreed to letting my boyfriend sell himself?” you queried as you picked up a broom.
Tucker raised a brow, “For charity?”
“Right,” you sighed.
Tucker looked around, “Hey, have you seen Dean? He was supposed to drive all this stuff back to the hockey house.”
You shook your head, “No. But he’s not the only unhelpful friend. Allie was supposed to clean up with me. She literally works here!”
“Huh.” Tucker licked his lips in thought.
He picked up a stack of boxes, “Well, I have to get these home myself. Do you need a ride?”
“I promised Della I’d clean up,” you replied.
“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”
You shrugged, “I’ll be fine, Tuck. Drive safe.”
Tucker nodded and bid goodbye before leaving the diner.
By the time you finished fixing up the place, flipping chairs over tables, and mopping the floor clean, the bell chimed again.
“We’re closed,” you called out as you tied a garbage bag shut.
A pair of familiar arms wrapped around your torso from behind you. “No late night service?” Logan’s voice tickled your ear.
You stood up straight and leaned back into him before remembering you were supposed to be mad at him.
You pulled back and turned to him, “How was your date?”
Logan let out a wistful sigh, “Amazing. You know, I might need to ask her out again.”
You pinched his arm. He winced.
Logan leaned in and held your hips, “I’m kidding. You’re the only girl I want.” He murmured as he pressed a kiss against your forehead.
That soothed your jealousy a bit. “What did you two do?”
He hummed. “Took her to Spoons, got ice cream, sat at a table and talked about you, drove back—”
“Wait, wait,” you stopped him. “Talked about me?”
Logan’s lips tugged upwards, “Yeah, we talked about you. Like the whole time.”
“Why?” You were so perplexed.
He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and responded, “Amala’s an exchange student. She shares a class with you. She’s been wanting to befriend you since the semester started but she didn’t know how to talk to you. So…she enlisted my help.”
You blinked a few times. “She went out with you…to ask you how she could be my friend?”
“Yeah. Sweet, right?”
“Oh my god, I feel like an asshole,” you breathed out.
Logan pulled you closer, “You’re not an asshole, baby.”
“I was cussing her out in my head for the past 2 hours!”
He chuckled, “I think that’s valid.”
“It’s not! I shouldn’t have judged so soon. Fuck, I feel so bad.” You started to spiral.
Before Logan could calm you down and reassure you, the bell rang again. You both turned to the door and saw Amala stepping in.
“Hey,” she shared a polite smile. “Logan, you left your wallet.” She handed it back to him.
“Oh, I didn’t even notice.” He took it from her hands. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
She smiled with a small nod. Her eyes flicked over to you. Amala mustered up some courage and said, “Logan said so many nice things about you. No wonder he loves you so much.”
Your guilt boiled over and settled into soft mush at that. “He’s…too kind.”
Logan rolled his eyes fondly and pulled you closer to him.
Amala smiled again then spoke, “We…we share an econ class together. The 10 am with Prof. Singh?”
You nodded, “Yeah, I’m in that class.” You didn’t want to tell her that you hadn’t noticed her before.
Amala nodded back, “Yeah…I think you’re pretty cool. And smart. Do you maybe wanna study together for the final exam this weekend?”
Your lips eased into a soft, genuine smile. “I’d love that, yeah.”
Amala’s eyes gleamed with excitement and relief. “Yeah? Great, that’s…” she cleared her throat to control herself and appear nonchalant. “Cool. Logan has my number, he can share that with you.”
“Will do,” Logan swore solemnly.
She waved goodbye and started heading towards the door, “Alright, text me! It was lovely meeting you both!”
And then she was gone.
You turned back to Logan. He had a smug, ‘I told you so’ smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes and shoved him. “Shut it.”
He buried his face in your hair, “Looks like you have an admirer.”
“Why, jealous?” You teased.
Logan’s brows lifted. “Me? Look who’s talking. You wanted to skin me alive a few hours ago.”
He wasn’t exactly wrong.
“God forbid a girl doesn’t want to see her boyfriend go out with someone else.”
Logan kissed your temple, “It was for a good cause,” he said softly.
“I know,” you squeezed his hand. You knew how much the hurricanes meant to Logan ever since he was a kid himself.
“So…” He brought you closer to him until your foreheads rested against one another. “How much for me to take you out on a date?”
Your eyes looked deep into his, “Hmm, how much have you got?”
Logan pretended to think about it. “If Amala didn’t rob me before returning my wallet, I should have 60 bucks and a punch card for free cheesy fries.”
You faked a delighted gasp, “How romantic!”
He chuckled at your comment before kissing you. His lips moved smoothly over yours, his kiss felt like a breath of relief after the long and busy evening. He held your chin in one hand, using the other to pull you even closer.
You separated for a moment to murmur, “Next year we’re sticking to signed hockey merch.”
Logan grinned, “Good luck trying to convince Dean of that.”
“He needs a girlfriend.”
He hummed, “And for $1800 and an hour, he might already have one.”
You laughed, taking his hand and tugging him out of Malone’s. “Come on, time for my own date with you.”
“You’re the boss,” he murmured with a kiss on your cheek.
And maybe it was best if you didn’t know that Logan purposely ‘forgot’ his wallet at the ice cream shop.
who remembers this trope from the movie ‘flipped’?
Summary: When y/n finds out that her drink has been spiked she has no one to turn to but Dean, her enemy. Dean finding y/n knocking at his door in her barely conscious state brings up clashing feelings.
TW: having a drugged drink at a party
Word Count: 4.8K
The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.
Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."
"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.
She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.
Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."
"I am relaxed."
"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."
"I'm mentally preparing."
"For Dean?"
Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."
Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.
Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.
"Go," Y/N said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."
"You might if Dean starts talking."
"I'll survive."
"I sure hope you do."
Y/N shoved her lightly.
"Go."
Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.
Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.
She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.
"You look hot," Hannah had declared.
"I look dressed."
"You look hot."
"I look like someone attending a party."
"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."
Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."
Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.
"Dude."
Dean barely looked at him.
"What?"
Logan nodded toward the front hall.
Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.
"...Oh."
Logan smirked.
"Oh?"
Dean recovered almost instantly.
"So?"
"So…?" Logan echoed.
Dean shrugged.
"She cleans up okay."
Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"
"Yeah."
"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."
"I absolutely have not."
"You absolutely have."
Dean tore his eyes away.
"I was observing."
Logan’s grin widened.
"Observing."
"Shut up."
He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.
It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.
Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.
There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.
Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."
Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."
"I almost didn't recognize you."
"No?"
"Nah."
He tilted his head.
"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."
She smiled sweetly.
"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."
A couple of people nearby chuckled.
Dean nodded once.
"Fair."
Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."
"I wasn't complimenting you."
"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."
Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."
"I know I am."
"Hm."
He folded his arms.
"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."
The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.
Dean did.
"So does your personality," she replied evenly.
He smiled again.
"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."
She stared at him.
"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."
"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."
"So do people invite me."
He looked around theatrically.
"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."
There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.
She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not."
"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."
Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."
"Must've been exhausting."
He stepped just a little closer.
"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."
Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."
Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."
Dean chuckled.
"There she is."
"What?"
"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."
Y/N held his gaze.
"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."
"No?"
She smiled.
"Just you."
The surrounding group burst into laughter.
Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.
So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”
Silence.
This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”
The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.
"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."
She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."
She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.
Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"
Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.
"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”
Dean frowned.
"What?"
Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."
Dean scoffed.
"I always act like an ass."
Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."
He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.
"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."
—
To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.
Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.
Shit…
What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.
Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.
Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.
She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.
She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.
So why had that one landed?
She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.
It had just been... Mean.
Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."
She closed her eyes. Of course.
Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"
Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."
He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.
Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.
Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.
She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.
For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.
"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."
She gave a small shrug.
"Good for Logan."
"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"
"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."
That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.
"What?"
She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.
"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"
Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.
"You know what your problem is?"
She sighed.
"Please. Enlighten me."
"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."
A tiny laugh escaped her.
"No."
"No?"
"I walk around trying not to care what people think."
He scoffed.
"That's adorable."
"It works most days."
"Clearly not tonight."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.
He should've left it there. Instead….
"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"
She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.
"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"
The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.
"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."
For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.
She always had one. Always.
Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.
"Okay."
No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.
"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."
Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.
Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.
Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.
"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"
A couple of people laughed.
Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.
Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.
—
Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.
Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.
"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.
Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.
But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.
He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.
"Dean." A familiar voice.
He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.
"I've been trying to find you."
"Have you?"
"Mhm."
She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.
"I thought maybe you disappeared."
Dean looked down at her hand.
Then back up.
"Huh."
She laughed.
"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."
Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.
She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.
Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."
For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.
It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.
A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”
He blinked. "Maybe later."
The girl looked surprised.
"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."
She disappeared back into the crowd.
Dean watched her go.
That was… weird.
He took another sip.
Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
"Dean!" Another voice.
This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.
"You owe me a rematch in pong."
"Do I?"
"You destroyed me last weekend."
"I probably did."
She laughed, looping an arm through his.
"You sound thrilled to see me."
Dean looked at her.
She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.
One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.
She squeezed his arm playfully.
"So?"
"So?"
"The rematch."
Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.
Then looked back at her.
"I think I'll pass."
Her smile faltered.
"You... don't want to play beer pong?"
"Not really."
She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.
"Okay..."
She walked away looking thoroughly confused.
Dean was, too.
What the hell?
He never turned down beer pong.
He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.
He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.
He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.
Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"
He waved without looking.
Another voice.
"Dean, come dance!"
He ignored it.
A hand caught his wrist.
He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.
"You've been avoiding me all night."
"Sorry."
She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."
Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.
Not even annoyance.
Just... Nothing.
"I'm actually heading upstairs."
Her smile slipped.
"Oh."
He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.
Halfway up, he stopped.
He looked down.
The entire house stretched beneath him.
Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.
Tonight it wasn't.
He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.
He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.
Silence.
Dean leaned back against the door.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.
"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."
He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.
He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.
All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"
—
Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.
Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.
Y/N stood in the middle of it all.
She couldn't hear herself think.
At first, she assumed it was the music.
Then she realized the room itself had started to move.
She frowned.
The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.
"Weird." She blinked hard.
Maybe she'd stood up too fast.
She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.
No.
Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.
The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.
Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.
Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.
"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."
Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.
Okay.
Okay, breathe.
When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
Too little air.
Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.
"Oh, shit."
Her voice trembled.
"Oh, shit..."
She looked down at the drink in her hand.
Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.
She needed Hannah.
That thought came immediately.
Hannah.
She'd know what to do.
Y/N turned toward the hallway.
Then remembered.
Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.
Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.
Privacy.
Right.
Y/N swallowed.
She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.
Absolutely not.
Her breathing grew uneven.
The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.
Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.
Think.
Who else?
Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.
An ambulance?
No.
That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?
No, no...
She wasn't even sure what was wrong.
She just... She just needed someone.
Someone she knew.
Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.
Dean.
She almost laughed.
It would've been funny under different circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis.
The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.
She hated him.
He was an ass.
Cocky.
Infuriating.
Meaner than he realized.
But...
He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.
Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.
She knew that with complete certainty.
Her feet were already moving.
The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.
Come on.
One more.
She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.
"No..."
She squeezed the railing harder.
"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.
Another breath.
Another step.
Then another.
By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.
Dean's door.
End of the hallway.
So close.
She took one step. Then another.
Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.
She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.
The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."
Everything suddenly felt so far away.
She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.
—
Inside, Dean didn't move.
He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.
The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.
A knock sounded.
Dean sighed.
Without getting up, he called toward the door.
"Occupied."
Silence.
Good.
Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.
Not happening.
He leaned back against the headboard again.
Another knock.
More insistent this time.
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I said go away."
Nothing.
Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.
Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.
He yanked the door open. And froze.
Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.
"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"
She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.
Was he angry? No.
Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.
"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”
Her eyes began slipping shut.
Dean's expression shattered.
Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.
"Y/N!"
He caught her before she could hit her head.
Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.
"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.
"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."
Nothing.
"Come on."
Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.
"There you are."
His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.
"What happened?"
She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.
Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.
"What did you have to drink?"
She frowned.
"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."
"Did you hit your head?"
A tiny shake. "No."
"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.
"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.
Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.
"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."
He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.
"I've got you."
He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.
She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.
The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.
She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.
"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.
"I'm trying."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."
She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.
"I'm here."
Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.
Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.
She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.
A lump settled painfully in his throat.
Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.
"I'm here." Dean whispered.
Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.
"No, no."
Dean gently squeezed her hand.
"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."
"Tired."
"I know."
"Just..." Her words were fading.
He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."
She tried.
God, she tried.
He could see it.
The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.
Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.
"Y/N?"
No answer.
Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.
Dean stayed exactly where he was.
Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.
Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.
blurb: a broken down car. boston. one phone call to your ex. a loft apartment. you did not expect this much from your weekend trip.
warnings: fem!reader, exes to lovers, angst but happy ending, alcohol, smut, oral (f. receiving), king of yearning john logan, celibate!logan, cumming untouched (m.)
“If your car ever needs a tune up, call me.”
The memory of Logan’s words was a harsh bite of mockery sneaking up on you in the middle of a surprise Boston rain shower, soaking you down to a lesser person.
Your thumb hovered over his contact name on your phone. The pitter patter of the rain hitting your screen like an underlining meant to emphasize his existence.
my hockey boy ❤️🏒
You hadn’t bothered to change it after the breakup. But frankly, that wasn’t entirely true.
You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.
You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.
Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.
The phone rang three times before the call connected.
“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.
You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”
He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.
“Is everything okay?”
He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.
You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”
“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.
You swallowed. “Boston.”
The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.
Then, “You’re here in Boston?”
You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Boston Common.”
You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.
“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”
“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”
Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.
He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.
“You hear me?” He repeated.
“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”
“And lock your doors.”
You pressed the button on your car door.
After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.
You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.
You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.
Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.
You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.
He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.
“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.
He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”
You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.
He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.
The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.
God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?
It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.
“It needs to be a loft apartment.”
“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.
“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.
He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”
“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”
His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”
“Fenway Park.”
Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”
The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”
He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”
Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.
It had been going so well.
Until it wasn’t.
Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.
No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned—like the sun and moon trying to meet.
You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”
“I live down the block.”
You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.
You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.
When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.
Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.
The floor to ceiling windows.
Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.
You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.
Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.
An unspoken exchange lingered between you.
“How’d you know where my car was?”
Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”
You nodded, “Of course you did.”
Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.
You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”
Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”
You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”
“I told you that when you bought it.”
Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.
Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.
He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.
Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”
“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.
He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”
Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.
You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”
Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”
Your smile faded away.
He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”
Your guy.
“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”
Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.
You nodded, putting your glass down.
“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”
You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—
Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”
He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.
Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.
You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.
He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”
You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.
By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.
He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.
He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.
“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”
“No, really, you should—”
“I insist—”
“But I—”
“Babe.”
You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.
Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”
This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.
You tried.
You really did.
But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.
“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.
You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”
“You’re what’s best for me!”
“No, I’m not—”
“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”
“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”
“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”
You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.
“Since when do you like baseball?”
Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”
You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.
“You been to any of their games?”
“One or two,” he answered.
“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.
“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.
You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”
His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”
Your eyes darted to him.
He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.
“Logan,” you called softly.
“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”
Your chest tightened, “Logan.”
“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”
“Logan—”
“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”
You kissed him.
He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.
Neither of you complained.
Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.
You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.
As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”
You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.
Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.
His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.
Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”
Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.
You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.
You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.
“Raise your hips for me, baby.”
You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.
“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.
You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.
“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.
His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.
“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”
You huffed, “Yes.”
He smirked. So smug.
“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.
“You’re so wet for me.”
“Don’t tease.”
Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”
Fuck was he right.
He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.
“Right there,” you gasped out.
Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.
Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”
Baby.
Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.
“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.
He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.
“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”
His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.
Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.
Your eyes widened.
Logan let out a small chuckle.
“It’s been a while,” is what he said.
“Since you ate out a girl?” You queried.
His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”
The room went quiet.
The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.
Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.
“Let me take care of you,” you offered.
“It’ll take a while,” he said.
Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.
Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.
“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.
Your heart ached at the pleading tone.
“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”
That was the life you wanted with Logan.
It was perfect.
He was perfect.
He did everything perfectly.
And you had let your fears ruin that.
But not anymore.
You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into your eyes.
“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.
Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.
“Whatever you want,” he murmured.
You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”
Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”
And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.
logan’s spotify wrapped the year you guys broke up included party 4 u by charlie xcx and back to me by the marías iktr
summary: in which allie, y/n, sabrina and grace chase a sunset from the hockey house roof, only to end up stranded while the boys swing wildly between panic, frustration, and overwhelming relief trying to get them down safely.
notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request, this was such a fun idea to write! i love incorporating moments where the girls are completely unfazed and oblivious while the boys are losing their minds trying to keep them safe. i hope you all enjoy!! 💌
✩.* found family fics!
✩.* found family masterlist
ꪆৎ
the sunset idea had sounded significantly smarter forty minutes ago.
back when the four of you were tipsy on cheap wine, sprawled across the living room floor while grace insisted the sky looked too pretty to waste from ground level.
“we should go on the roof,” allie had declared immediately from where she was sat on the couch. which, looking back now, should’ve concerned everyone a little more.
instead, grace had gasped dramatically.
“oh my god, yes!”
you had already started grabbing blankets from around the hockey house before anyone could question the plan, and suddenly all four of you were climbing out through the upstairs bedroom window.
the roof was perfect for sunset.
warm summer air brushed softly against your skin as the sunset stretched pink and orange across campus, the sky painted in streaks of gold that reflected against the windows of the dorm buildings nearby.
grace's speaker played quietly beside you, music low enough that your laughter still carried loud across the roof.
grace lay flat on her back with one arm thrown across her eyes, her half-empty wine glass balancing dangerously against her stomach.
sabrina sat cross-legged beside her trying to tell a story that kept getting interrupted because she physically could not stop laughing at her own retelling.
allie lay beside you, curled beneath a blanket while animatedly talking about how some girl in her tutorial thought dean was 'intimidating'. you smiled softly to yourself, knees tucked beneath your chin while the skyline glowed around you.
there was something so peaceful about being with your people. the kind of closeness that only existed when friendships had crossed so far beyond casual that they’d become something permanent.
your cheeks hurt from laughing, your body pleasantly heavy from alcohol and summer heat, the sunset so pretty it almost didn’t look real.
it felt warm.
safe.
which was probably why none of you noticed the window sliding shut behind you. not until nearly twenty minutes later.
sabrina was the first one to realise.
she’d leaned backwards toward the window to refill her drink from the wine bottle that had been sitting just inside the bedroom, before stopping abruptly.
“…guys?”
allie looked up immediately, “yeah?”
sabrina frowned slightly, pushing at the window once, then harder. to her dismay, it didn't budge and a strange silence settled over you all.
grace slowly sat upright, “why are you making that face?”
“the window’s locked.”
another pause.
“what do you mean locked?” grace asked slowly.
sabrina laughed uncomfortably, her eyes widening in realisation.
“i mean it's shut...it doesn't want to open”
allie crawled over immediately, “let me have a go.” she grabbed the handle, pulling on it, but nothing happened.
the window didn't budge.
her expression shifted almost instantly.
“…oh shit.”
you stared at her, your eyes widening in realisation. “allie, what exactly do you mean by ‘oh shit’?"
she looked back at the four of you and despite the situation, started laughing.
“i think we’re stuck up here.”
you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol coursing through your body or the way the moment felt too warm to properly hold onto, but before you could say anything, laughter spilled from your lips.
because of course this had happened, of course you had somehow found yourselves locked out from the house and stuck on the roof.
the boys were going to kill you.
“okay,” you managed eventually. “it's okay we'll just call one of them”
silence.
grace checked her pockets first.
“…i left my phone downstairs.”
“mine too,” sabrina admitted weakly.
allie slowly grimaced, she had too.
you reached into the pocket of your hoodie before stopping.
“…no.”
grace immediately collapsed backward onto the blankets again.
“oh guys.”
-
the boys knew something was wrong almost immediately, mostly because the house was quiet.
far too quiet.
logan walked through the front door first carrying takeout bags in one hand before immediately narrowing his eyes. “why does it feel haunted in here?”
“y/n?” garrett called out behind him.
nothing.
dean dropped his bag beside the stairs with a frown, noticing allie’s purse abandoned on the kitchen table.
tucker glanced slowly around.
“…why can i hear faint screaming?”
everyone stilled.
logan paused.
“wait.”
there it was again.
distant yelling somewhere above them.
then-
“we're stuck!"
all four boys whipped their heads upward simultaneously.
“…what the fuck?” dean muttered.
they moved immediately.
garrett took the stairs two at a time while logan nearly dropped the takeout trying to keep up. it wasn’t until they rushed into the upstairs bedroom that garrett spotted movement outside the window.
his entire face drained instantly because there you were, sitting on the roof wrapped in a blanket, a small smile gracing your features.
“what the-" logan starts, before garrett quickly cuts him off.
"why are you all on the fucking roof?”
“before you get mad-” you started carefully.
“we got locked out!” allie yells from behind you.
dean physically freezes at the window, his eyes wide in shock. “how does that even happen?”
grace points vaguely towards all of you. “group decision.”
“that does not make it better!"
tucker’s stomach drops the second he notices how close sabrina is to the edge.
“okay no, seriously” he said immediately. “move back, sweetheart.”
“tucker, relax-"
“absolutely not.”
sabrina blinked at him.
“you guys are being dramatic" allie states, a glint of humour evident in her eyes, clearly amused by the situation.
four male voices answer instantly.
“no we are not!”
tucker already has both hands gripping the sides of his head. “you’re all drunk on a roof.”
dean narrows his eyes, focusing on the piece of blue fabric near the gutter.
“…why is there a blanket hanging off the gutter?”
everyone slowly looks down before grace visibly hesitates. “that might’ve been my attempt at making a rope.”
there was a moment of complete silence before dean covers his face with both hands.
“jesus christ-"
“i’m actually getting grey hairs.”
logan looks horrified as realisation crosses his features, “you guys were going to climb down?!”
“well we weren’t planning on living up here permanently,” sabrina points out.
“sabrina.”
“i’m kidding!”
“you’re not funny right now.”
which only makes her burst into laughter.
garrett’s attention snaps back towards you the second you shift closer to the window.
“baby,” he says carefully, in the kind of controlled voice that meant he was significantly more stressed than he wanted to sound.
"i need you to stop moving around up there.”
you blinked at him innocently in response. “i’m literally sitting.”
“exactly. stay sitting.”
“you sound stressed.”
“because my girlfriend is trapped on our roof”
a slight grin tugs at your lips. “trapped feels a bit dramatic, don't you think graham?"
“you guys made a blanket rope, y/n”
you pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing.
eventually, after twenty minutes of yelling over each other while dean attempted to figure out how the window had managed to lock in the first place and tucker actively debated whether breaking it would somehow make the situation worse, they finally managed to force it open from the inside.
dean was first to help allie climb back through the window while actively lecturing her at the same time.
“you climbed onto the roof drunk.”
“tipsy,” allie corrected immediately, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“that is not the part of the sentence i’m concerned about.”
once safe, logan had both hands on grace’s face like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to kiss or yell at her.
“you could’ve fallen.”
“i didn’t though.”
“grace.”
“logan.”
tucker looked genuinely stressed beside sabrina, hands rubbing over his face. “you guys seriously didn’t bring your phones?”
that somehow made all four boys visibly more upset.
“oh my god,” dean muttered. “you are all impossible.”
you were climbing carefully back through the window when garrett’s hand settled instinctively against your waist to steady you. the contact felt firmer than usual, protective in a way that immediately made your chest ache slightly.
because he still looked rattled.
his jaw was tight, eyes scanning over you again like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were okay.
“hey,” you said softly once the two of you were standing properly inside again.
garrett looked down at you immediately and something in his expression shifted the second your voice softened.
less frustration.
more relief.
you reached carefully for his wrist, “we’re okay, we were being safe.”
his hand moved instinctively higher against your waist then, pulling you closer without even seeming to realise he was doing it. he exhaled sharply against the top of your head like he’d been holding his breath ever since he saw you up there.
“how long were you guys stuck out there for?”
the question comes out sharper than he intends it to, his hands settling against your arms like he needed physical confirmation that you were fine.
“not that long,” you said carefully.
“define not that long.”
“…maybe forty minutes.”
he exhales, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.
“you scared the shit out of me, you know that?” his voice is quieter than before, the honesty in it hitting significantly harder than you expected.
he sounded genuinely shaken.
you tilted your head back slightly to look up at him.
“but did we die?”
all of the boys groaned simultaneously in response before dean points accusingly at all four of you.
summary: in which dean misunderstands a conversation between sabrina and tucker, leading to an entirely unsolicited birds and the bees talk, before later discovering that y/n is far less innocent than he originally believed - much to garrett’s amusement.
notes: thank you so much for your request! i personally had a lot of fun writing this one, dean's really stepped into his role of being a 'father' to the group (ironically).
✩.* found family fics!
✩.* found family masterlist
ꪆৎ
the hockey house had settled into one of those rare quieter evenings where nobody was actively screaming at each other for once.
not peaceful exactly, that would’ve been impossible with this friend group.
logan and grace were still arguing over a movie in the living room, dean was loudly complaining about someone stealing his leftovers from the fridge, and allie was attempting to paint her nails on the coffee table.
but it was comfortable.
warm.
the kind of night where everyone naturally drifted toward each other without thinking about it.
you were curled into garrett’s side on the couch underneath one of the blankets somebody had stolen from your dorm weeks ago, your legs draped lazily across his lap while his hand rested absentmindedly against your thigh. every so often his thumb would brush softly against your skin without thought, entirely distracted by whatever game highlights were playing quietly across the television.
you were barely paying attention to anything around you until dean wandered into the kitchen where sabrina and tucker were standing near the counter talking quietly to each other.
“i’m serious,” sabrina says softly. “what if i completely suck at it?”
dean pauses halfway through opening the fridge.
“you won’t,” tucker assures immediately. “the first time’s awkward for everybody.”
dean slowly stills.
“yeah but you already know what you’re doing,” sabrina mutters.
“baby, nobody knows what they’re doing the first time.”
“and honestly,” tucker continues casually, “it'll probably take a few times to get comfortable.”
dean slowly closes the fridge.
very slowly.
then without saying a single word, he grabs his drink and walks back out of the kitchen looking deeply distressed.
grace notices instantly.
“oh no.”
the thing about dean di laurentis was that once he got something into his head, there was genuinely no stopping him.
which was why approximately an hour later, long after everybody had split off into smaller conversations around the house, dean cornered sabrina alone in the kitchen with a serious expression.
sabrina looked immediately nervous.
“…why do you look like that.”
dean leans back against the counter beside her with a sigh.
“okay,” he says carefully. “first of all, i just want you to know i’m not judging you.”
sabrina blinks.
“…what.”
“and honestly? i did think it was a little surprising.”
she stares at him blankly. “dean, what are you talking about.”
“you and tucker have been together for a while now,” he says gently, like he’s handling a sensitive discussion.
“so i did think it was kinda unexpected you guys hadn’t slept together yet, but everybody moves at different speeds and i respect that.”
there’s silence. complete silence.
then sabrina’s eyes widen slowly in horror.
“OH MY GOD.”
dean immediately frowns.
“what?”
“you think tucker and i were talking about sex earlier?!”
“well-”
“DEAN.”
across the room, garrett physically drops his head into his hands because dean had apparently decided to continue this conversation within hearing distance of everybody else.
logan is already losing his mind laughing from the couch.
allie looks moments away from collapsing.
“you said you were nervous!” dean defends immediately.
“because tucker’s teaching me how to ice skate tomorrow!”
“you said everybody’s awkward their first time!”
“AT SKATING.”
dean still looks unconvinced. “he also said that it would take a bit for you to get comfortable.”
“SO I WOULDN'T FALL ON THE ICE”
grace folds over herself laughing.
“dean,” sabrina says weakly, face burning.
“why would you assume that.”
“because the conversation sounded concerning!”
“it did not!”
“it absolutely did!”
sabrina groans dramatically before dropping her face into her hands.
“i’m actually never speaking again.”
dean softens slightly then, patting awkwardly at her shoulder.
“hey,” he says reassuringly.
“if it helps, i was being very progressive about it.”
“that does not help.”
“i literally said i wasn’t judging.”
“nobody asked you to judge in the first place!”
unfortunately for you, the conversation didn't ended there.
it absolutely should’ve ended there.
instead, dean makes the mistake of glancing toward you where you’re still tucked against garrett on the couch in one of his hoodies, looking soft and sleepy beneath the dim lighting of the living room.
and something in his expression immediately shifts.
fondness.
protectiveness.
the exact same look he got anytime he remembered you existed.
you were only a year younger than the rest of the group, but somehow that was enough to make dean subconsciously slot you into the category of somebody he needed to protect from everything.
“although,” dean says suddenly, glancing toward you where you’re curled comfortably against garrett beneath the blanket.
“i’m still refusing to picture y/n participating in any of this.”
your head lifts immediately.
“excuse me?”
grace makes a choking noise beside logan.
allie’s eyes widen instantly because she already knows exactly where this conversation is about to go.
and garrett-
garrett goes suspiciously still beneath you.
“i’m serious,” dean continues, entirely unaware of the danger approaching.
“she still looks way too sweet all the time.”
“dean,” you say flatly.
“what? you do.”
“that means literally nothing,” grace says immediately.
“exactly,” dean argues. “that’s my point.”
logan physically buries his face into the couch cushions because somehow dean is only digging himself deeper.
“she still says ‘oh my god’ when we make dirty jokes,” dean continues confidently. “half the time she just sits there looking scandalised.”
you stare at him in disbelief.
“i do not.”
“you absolutely do.”
“that’s because the things you say are horrifying.”
“see?” dean says triumphantly, pointing at you like that proved something.
garrett suddenly coughs beside you.
hard.
you immediately turn your head toward him because his jaw is clenched suspiciously tight now, his lips pressed together so hard they’ve almost disappeared.
his shoulders are shaking slightly beneath your arm.
oh no.
dean notices too, his eyes narrow instantly.
“…why’s he making that face".
garrett shakes his head quickly.
“no reason.”
“garrett.”
“none at all.”
logan’s already starting to lose it laughing because he knows exactly what’s happening. grace physically turns away, shoulders shaking.
you can feel the amusement radiating off garrett beside you now.
“garrett,” dean says slowly. “what do you know.”
garrett looks over finally, still fighting a grin.
“dean,” he says carefully. “she’s my girlfriend.”
dean blinks once.
“…okay?”
“what do you mean okay?”
“i mean okay?”
garrett actually laughs then, one hand sliding higher against your waist beneath the blanket as he looks at dean like he’s genuinely confused.
“you think we just sit in my room and play board games for six hours?”
your eyes widen immediately.
“garrett.”
logan folds completely.
grace lets out a horrified scream of laughter.
dean looks personally betrayed.
“i don’t know what you guys do!”
“well-”
your hand clamps firmly over garrett’s mouth before he can finish the sentence.
“absolutely not,” you whisper violently.
his laughter vibrates straight against your palm instantly.
warm.
completely unhelpful.
garrett’s eyes crinkle with amusement as he glances down at you, entirely too pleased with himself while dean watches the interaction in growing horror.
“oh my god,” dean mutters weakly.
“mhm,” grace says, wiping tears from beneath her eyes. “starting to put the pieces together?”
dean points accusingly toward garrett.
“you’ve corrupted her.”
garrett gently pulls your hand away from his mouth just enough to grin lazily.
“respectfully,” he says. “i really haven’t.”
you immediately shove his shoulder.
“garrett!”
“baby,” he says innocently. “am i wrong?”
the look you give him could genuinely kill a man. unfortunately for you, it only makes him grin wider. dean’s still staring at both of you like the world has fundamentally shifted off its axis.
“no,” he says finally. “i’m choosing not to believe this.”
“dean,” allie says through laughter. “they’ve literally been together for ages.”
“that’s not helping me!”
“i’m just confused on what exactly you expected,” logan manages between laughs.
dean gestures helplessly toward you.
“look at her!”
garrett glances down at you instantly and his grin softens slightly for a second.
“yeah,” he says easily. “pretty hard not to.”
you feel heat rush straight into your face.
grace immediately groans. “okay wait that was actually sweet.”
“don’t encourage him,” you mumble.
garrett’s hand squeezes gently against your hip beneath the blanket before his gaze flicks back toward dean again, amusement returning immediately.
“seriously though,” he says casually. “you should hear the things she says to me when you guys aren’t around-”
“GARRETT.”
your hand flies back over his mouth again while the entire room erupts.
logan’s physically doubled over.
allie almost knocks over her nail polish bottle laughing.
grace is clutching her stomach.
and dean?
dean looks genuinely traumatised now.
“i need everyone to stop talking immediately,” he says weakly. “y/n is basically like a sister to me.”
“which somehow makes this significantly worse,” tucker mutters into his drink.
“don’t you have summer for that?” logan adds instantly.
dean throws a couch cushion at his head without hesitation. “stop. that's not the point”
garrett’s shoulders shake beneath your arm again, muffled laughter still trapped behind your hand while he wraps his other arm tighter around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against his chest.
the worst part?
his eyes are sparkling. he's completely delighted.
you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”
he kisses your palm once before gently pulling your hand away again.
“a little,” he admits.
“i’m genuinely never showing my face in this house again,” you admit weakly, sinking further beneath the blanket while embarrassment burns violently through your entire body.
grace immediately laughs.
“y/n, it's okay. us girls already know everything anyway”
there’s a beat of silence.
then beside you, garrett slowly turns his head toward you, eyebrows raising immediately while a dangerous smirk spreads slowly across his features.
“…you’ve told them?”
your eyes widen in horror.
“grace!”
grace looks completely unashamed.
“what? you tell us things!”
“not everything!”
garrett leans down slightly then, close enough that only you hear him when he murmurs quietly against your ear.
“did you tell them i'm a sex god?”
your hand flies instantly to his chest, shoving at him while your entire face burns hotter.
“oh my god,” you whisper violently.
his shoulders shake immediately with silent laughter, completely delighted with himself.
“for the record. i hate every single one of you.”
“that’s fair,” allie says sympathetically, still grinning.
beside you, garrett’s expression softens slightly at the sight of you practically disappearing beneath the covers. his hand slides slowly along your side beneath the blanket before settling warmly against your waist, thumb brushing gently back and forth against your skin in quiet reassurance.
“baby,” he murmurs softly beside your ear, voice low enough that only you hear. “c’mon. you know i’m never passing up an opportunity to embarrass dean.”
you groan quietly into the blanket.
“you embarrassed me.”
“collateral damage,” he says easily.
you finally peek up at him with a look of pure betrayal. “i do not want my sex life being discussed in front of dean di laurentis.”
logan immediately loses it again.
“that is genuinely the worst sentence ever spoken.”
“exactly!” you exclaim, horrified. “thank you.”
garrett’s grin only widens while his fingers continue tracing lazily against your waist beneath the blanket.
“for what it’s worth,” he says softly, eyes flicking down toward you with obvious amusement, “i thought you handled it pretty well.”
you stare at him blankly.
“garrett, you literally tried to expose me to the entire room.”
“attempted exposure,” he corrects easily. “you stopped me.”
“barely.”
his smile softens slightly then, something quieter settling beneath the teasing as he pulls you a little closer against his chest.
“still think you’re cute when you’re embarrassed though.”
𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: where you decide to prank logan by pretending to be excited for a date he never planned. unfortunately, your boyfriend's response to being pranked is to take you on the most thoughtful, romantic date of your life.
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.8k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: pure fluff, established relationship, prank gone wrong (or right?), logan being aggressively boyfriend-shaped, excessive sweetness, reader trying and failing to outsmart her boyfriend, garrett graham being a surprisingly useful best friend, bookstore dates, flowers, lots of hand-holding, kissing, logan remembering every little thing about reader, weaponized thoughtfulness, excessive use of "babe", use of she/her pronouns, reader is explicitly referred to as "girl", emotional damage via acts of service, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
𝐀/𝐍: alt title: john "whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets" logan. dedicated to the wonderful anon who brought to my attention that using the small font on here made fics hard to read—thank you for helping me get better <3
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎: so high school by taylor swift.
18+; mdni.
The plan had seemed significantly funnier about three hours ago.
The idea started with Hannah—which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign.
"Hear me out," she'd said, abandoning her Philosophy textbook entirely to lean across the table toward you and Allie. "You should tell Logan you're excited for the date he planned."
You had frowned. "What date?"
"Exactly."
Across from you, Allie had immediately burst out laughing. For a long moment, you simply stared at the two of them, confused. Then, the realization dawned on you. "Oh, that's evil."
Hannah leaned back in her chair, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Why, thank you."
Now, as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, half your closet scattered across the room, you were beginning to realize that there was a very real possibility that Logan would simply smile and nod. The man was impossible to prank—partly because he was so observant, partly because he was so annoyingly nice.
You lifted your favourite dress to your chest, studying it with a critical eye, just as the bedroom door creaked open.
Speak of the devil.
Logan stepped inside, hair still damp around the ends from his shower after practice. He was dressed in a Bruins t-shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Your eyes met his brown ones, the corner of his mouth tipped upward into that gorgeous smile.
You watched his face as gaze shifted from your face to the mess covering the bed and half of the floor space of the room, then landed right back to you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His smile widened at the sight of you with that dress. "What happened in here, babe?"
Game time, you thought to yourself, turning to him. "Oh good, you're here."
"Yeah?" confusion flickered across his face as you held up the dress, raising your eyebrows at him in question.
"What do you think of this?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.
Logan dropped his duffel back beside the bedside table, kicking off his shoes. He walked over to you, placing a hand on your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You know I love you in everything, babe. But yeah, that dress always looks incredible on you."
You smiled, turning back to the mirror. In the reflection, you could see the mattress dip beneath his weight as Logan perched on the edge of the bed, still studying you with that smile on his face.
You met his stare in the mirror, your mind playing the opening notes of your master plan. "God, I'm so excited for tomorrow."
Logan blinked. "What's tomorrow?"
You almost laughed—almost. But you were determined not to break character, so instead, you forced your face into a look of utter confusion. "What do you mean, what's tomorrow? Its the date you planned for us."
A long pause stretched out between the two of you. Then, Logan's brow creased into a tiny frown. "The... date. Right."
The words coming out of his mouth were perfectly calm, which immediately threw you off, because other than the little crease on his brow, there was no evidence of panic, or confusion—not even concern. You narrowed your eyes.
Interesting.
Logan reached for the TV remote, casually crossing his legs as he leaned back. Your suspicion deepened, because there was no way he was this calm, this collected. There was no date. No reservation, no plans, nothing.
You would've known. He would've told you... unless. A horrible possibility entered your mind, because John Logan was the kindest, most thoughtful man ever, and more importantly, he knew how much you loved surprises. So maybe, just maybe... he'd actually planned something, and you'd accidentally stumbled right into it?
The thought almost made your confidence waver, until you caught the look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but you knew the expression in his eyes. You'd seen it before—during games, while the two of you studied for finals, before presentations. John Logan was thinking.
You bit back your smile, trying not to completely ruin your own prank, especially as Logan, in the most faux-casual voice you'd ever heard, asked: "So, babe, what're you most excited about?"
Oh, he was fishing—you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out exactly what you were talking about. The realization nearly made you giddy, even as you fought to keep a straight face, shrugging. "Oh, you know what I'm most excited about."
"No, I don't know." The innocence in his voice was almost convincing—almost.
"No?" you asked, fighting to keep a straight face. The two of you stared at each other for a minute, and then—then, Logan's face split into a smile. A beautiful, Logan smile.
Suddenly, your faith in the plan working out wavered, because somehow, against all logic, it suddenly felt like he wasn't the one being set up—you were.
The second the bedroom door snapped shut behind him, Logan knew he was fucked.
Not because there was definitely a date, but because there might be. Which was, somehow, infinitely worse.
"You're pacing, man."
Logan looked up from where he'd been wearing a path into the carpet of his friend's bedroom. Garrett was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head as he watched Logan with growing amusement.
Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Garret raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Logan's feet.
Right. He was, in fact, pacing.
Garrett sat up. "Come on, man. What's wrong."
Logan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, contemplating whether or not he should keep the thoughts plaguing his mind to himself... then immediately abandoned that plan—because Garrett was his best friend, and he was rapidly losing his mind. "She says she's really excited for our date tomorrow."
Garrett blinked. "Is there a reason she should not be?"
"I don't even know if there's a date tomorrow," Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"What the fuck?" Garrett ran a hand over his face. "How could you not know?"
Logan shrugged. "There's a possibility she might be messing with me."
Garrett nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Or," Logan sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the foot of Garrett's bed. "I forgot."
"You forgot a date?" Garrett burst out laughing, and for a moment, Logan genuinely looked around the room for something to throw at his head.
"This isn't funny."
Garrett only laughed harder. "Sorry, man. It kinda is, though."
Logan burrowed his face into the mattress, groaning. "She's picking out dresses and shit, dude."
"Huh."
Logan lifted his head. "What?"
"No idea," Garrett shrugged. "But... if she's trying to prank you, that's hilarious."
Logan narrowed his eyes at Garrett, but his grin only widened. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "Okay, worst-case scenario: you forgot a date with your girlfriend."
Logan winced. "Jesus."
Garrett leaned forward. "No, listen. This is simple. You just need to take her on the greatest date of all time."
Logan blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, man. It's the only way. You gotta plan the date to end all dates."
"Come on, man. This is serious."
"I'm being serious." Garret sat up, his brow furrowing, deep in thought. "Think about it."
Logan usually hated when Garrett said that—because it meant that his friend was about to make an annoyingly good point. And it stood true this time too. Because either way, regardless of whether he was being pranked, or if he'd actually fucked up and forgotten, his girl deserved a date. Heck, his girl deserved everything. "Fuck."
Garrett leaned, back against the headboard, smug smile on his face. "Exactly."
If there really was a date he'd somehow forgotten, this fixed the problem. And if there wasn't—well, he still got to spend a day with you. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Garrett smirked. "There's that face again."
"What face?"
"The one you make whenever she's involved."
Logan rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
Garrett ignored him, grabbing Logan's phone. "Okay, let's plan the greatest date ever."
An hour later, what had somehow started as a joke had somehow turned into a full-scale operation.
Logan's notebook was open between the two of them, Garrett's laptop balanced on the edge of the bed.
"What's her favorite restaurant?" Garrett asked, frowning at the listings on the screen.
"The sushi place downtown."
The keys on Garrett's keyboard clacked as he wrote it down. "Favorite dessert?"
"Cheesecake from the bakery near campus."
"Favorite flowers?"
Logan didn't even take a moment. "Pink lillies."
Garrett paused, slowly turning his head to look at Logan. "Dude, you answered that way too quickly."
Logan frowned. "I know my girlfriend."
"You know your girlfriend's favorite flower. I don't even know my favorite flower."
Logan couldn't help but let out a laugh at the genuinely offended look on Garrett's face, because it made sense. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, and he wasn't about to let anything—anything—get in the way of making you happy, not even himself.
He could already feel the tension he'd been carrying since leaving the bedroom easing slightly, because now, he had a plan.
Actually, he had several plans—dinner, dessert, a walk afterward, maybe the bookstore you'd been talking about for months. Things that might not look like grand, extravagant gestures on the outside, but things he knew you'd love anyway. Things he knew would make you smile.
He could feel Garrett's watchful eyes on him and the realization settled warmly in his chest. "You know she's probably fucking with you, right?"
Logan could feel his face splitting into a slow, soft smile, "I know."
Garrett froze, the room enveloped in silence for a moment. Then: "What do you mean, you know? You spent an hour freaking out."
"I wasn't freaking out."
"You absolutely were."
Logan ignored him—because the truth was, he'd known almost immediately. The second you said it, the second he'd seen that look in your eyes—the one you got whenever you were trying not to laugh, he knew.
But that wasn't the point, it was never going to be. Because whether there had been a date or not, now there was. If his girlfriend wanted to spend a entire day together, Logan wasn't going to complain.
Garrett groaned. "Oh, my God."
"What?
"You're so disgustingly in love with her."
Logan considered arguing but instead, he just smiled. "Yeah, man. I am."
For once, Garrett didn't make fun of him for it.
By the time Logan picked you up the next evening, you were beginning to regret everything.
Not because the prank wasn't funny—it was downright hilarious. Or at least, it had been, right until a gorgeous bouquet of pink lillies had appeared on your bedside table with a note in Logan's handwriting.
Fuck, you loved them. They were your favorite flower.
The note read, Pick you up at 8. Wear the blue dress.
Now, standing in front of your mirror, smoothing down the skirt of the blue dress you loved so much, you were beginning to suspect that somewhere along the way, things had gotten out of hand.
A knock sounded from the other side of the door, making your stomach flutter. It was ridiculous—you'd been dating Logan for three years, and yet, as you opened the door, you immediately forgot every coherent thought you'd ever had.
Logan stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of dark jeans, navy button-down rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, his brown eyes softening the second they found you— like they always did. Every. Single. Time.
No matter how many years passed, they always softened. "Hi, babe."
A smile spread across your face automatically. "Hi."
For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Logan's gaze landed on the vase of flowers sitting on your bedside table. "You got the flowers I sent you?"
Your heart squeezed. "They're beautiful, Logan."
"I know."
You blinked, and Logan immediately cringed. "Oh, fuck. That sounded terrible.""
A laugh escaped you. "It really did."
He groaned. "I meant you're beautiful."
Your laugh grew louder, and Logan pressed his forehead against the doorframe, hiding his face and the shy, pink flush that was creeping up his cheeks. "I somehow made it worse."
"You absolutely did."
His answering grin was sheepish, beautiful. You slipped your hand into his, softly closing the door behind you. "Ready?"
Logan squeezed your fingers. "Always."
The date was perfect.
Not because of where he took you— though the restaurant was lovely. The bookstore afterward was also lovely. And the bakery where he insisted on buying three different desserts "for research purposes" was lovely.
Not because of any of it. The date was perfect because every stop felt intentional, like Logan had built the entire evening out of tiny pieces of you.
At dinner, he'd ordered an appetizer while you ducked into the restroom right after the two of you arrived, because he knew you always got hungry while looking at menus. At the bookstore, he somehow remembered the title of a novel you'd mentioned wanting to read six months ago. At the bakery, he'd walked directly to your favorite cheesecake without even glancing at the display.
By the time the two of you found yourselves walking along the Charles River, the city lights glittering across the water, you were fairly certain you'd accidentally created the best date of your life.
The realization was mildly infuriating.
Logan glanced at you. "What?"
"What do you mean, what?" you frowned.
"You've got your thinking face on."
You rolled your eyes. "I do not."
Logan laughed, the sound settling warmly in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The night air was cool, your hand fit perfectly in his. The city hummed around you—comfortable, easy.
Eventually Logan guided you toward a quiet bench overlooking the water. You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You could smell his cologne, could feel your heart beginning to stutter like it always did around him.
"You know," you said, carefully. "I had a really good time tonight."
Logan smiled. "I'm glad, babe. I did too."
You sighed, because you could feel the guilt winning. "I have to tell you something."
Immediately, Logan looked concerned. Your stomach twisted at the look on his face. God, he was too nice. "I kinda feel bad."
His eyebrows lifted. "About?"
You looked away, suddenly fascinated by the water. "The date thing."
"What about it?"
"Okay," you sucked in a deep breath. "I made it up. There wasn't actually a date."
The silence stretched out between the two of you—unbearable, suffocating, until you couldn't take it anymore. A groan escaped your lips. "Oh, my God, please stop looking at me like that."
Logan laughed. You froze, because it wasn't a surprised laugh, or even a confused one. No, he sounded... amused?
Slowly, you turned toward him, meeting his eyes. He was smiling.
Your eyes narrowed. "John Logan."
His grin widened. "Yeah, babe?"
"Oh, fuck off." The pieces clicked together all at once—the confidence, the calmness, the complete lack of panic. Your jaw slacked. "You knew."
Logan laughed. "I knew."
You stared at him, horrified, offended and impressed. Mostly offended. "When did you know?"
"The moment you said it."
Your mouth fully fell open this time. "You fucking liar."
Logan's shoulders shook with laughter. "You were picking out dresses, way too excited."
"I was acting," you gasped.
"Babe, come on." The words carried approximately zero belief.
You slapped his arm, and Logan caught your wrist immediately, still laughing. "You are unbelievable. You let me think I was winning!"
His grin softened. "You looked so excited." The words came out quietly, simply, like they explained everything.
And maybe, they did.
Logan continued, like it was obvious, like anyone else would've done the same thing. "You were excited, and I like taking you on dates."
You chest tightened. "So you planned all of this?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
The answer left his lips immediately, without hesitation, without uncertainty. "Because I love you."
The words settled softly between the two of you, warm and certain.
You groaned. "Fuck off, Logan. You can't be cute when I'm being mean and trying to prank you."
Logan chuckled, leaning forward, his forehead brushing yours. "You're not mean. You're perfect. And, you're so, so impressed by the fact that I pulled this off."
"I'm not," you scoffed, but you both knew you were lying.
His grin widened knowingly. You hated it—and you hated it even more when he kissed you, slow and sweet, smiling against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair.
When he finally pulled away, your heart was somewhere around your ankles. "You know what?"
"What?"
You jammed a finger in his chest. "This still counts as me pranking you."
Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench—and somehow, that felt like victory enough.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – garrett's girlfriend is drunk, freezing, and extremely loyal. so loyal, in fact, that she refuses his water, his jacket, and his flirting because she’s waiting for… garrett graham.
warnings – fluff, drunk antics, alcohol, post-game party, protective boyfriend garrett, reader doesn't recognise him for most of the fic
notes from me – part of my 1k celebrations!! & based on this request!! thank u anon, such a cute idea 🥹
word count – 4.4k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
There was two versions of Garrett Graham. The version people got in the rink, all sharp focus and captain voice and that very specific game-day intensity that made even strangers in the stands start sitting a little straighter when he skated past.
Then there was the version people got after he’d won, showered, changed, and been handed exactly two beers at a party by Logan, who had called it recovery hydration with the confidence of a man who had never once been trusted by medical professionals.
That Garrett was looser. Warmer. Still tired in the shoulders, still carrying the ache of a hard check somewhere along his ribs, but smiling more easily now, head tipped back while Tucker said something dry beside him and Dean yelled over the music from the kitchen like volume could make a story better.
His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.
He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept.
Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.
He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing.
She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.
So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”
Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”
“Die.”
Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield.
She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.
Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”
She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.
“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”
Garrett blinked.
Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.
“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”
“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”
“And he plays hockey.”
“No shit?”
“And he’s, like, really good at it.”
Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.
He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”
Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Baby.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”
“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”
“My boyfriend calls me baby.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds annoying.”
“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”
Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”
Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”
She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”
“I’m taking hydration’s side.”
Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”
She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not.
Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.
Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”
The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”
“Right. Yep. Forgot.”
“My boyfriend says that.”
“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.
Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.
Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”
Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”
Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”
“She’s drunk.”
“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”
Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”
“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”
Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”
“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”
Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face.
She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.
His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.
For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument.
He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.
She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice.
She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party.
She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.
Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.
The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears.
Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.
“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”
She froze.
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”
She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.
“Nope,” she said.
“Baby.”
Her head snapped around. “I said no.”
Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”
“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”
“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It literally has my name on it.”
She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”
“Not on this team.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”
Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”
Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”
From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.
She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”
“He’s very hot.”
“Is he?”
“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”
Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”
Logan choked.
Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”
“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”
“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”
“No thank you.”
“You’re gonna freeze.”
“I’ll wait for Garrett.”
“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”
She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”
Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”
He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.
“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.
Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”
“She thinks I’m a stranger.”
“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”
“Great. That makes it better.”
Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”
Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”
“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”
“She refused me.”
“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”
Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”
Dean grinned. “Did I?”
“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”
“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”
Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.
By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal.
Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.
Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”
She frowned up at Dean. “What?”
“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”
She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”
Garrett blinked.
Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.
She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”
Garrett slowly looked at Dean.
“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”
“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.
“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”
Garrett’s eyebrows went up.
Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.
“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.
“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.
“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”
Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”
Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”
He froze. “Hi?”
“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”
She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”
Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.
Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”
She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”
His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”
Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”
She shook her head, very firm. “No.”
“No?”
“No. There was just this guy.”
Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”
She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”
Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”
Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Oh, I should?”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”
Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”
“He kept calling me baby.”
“That’s crazy.”
“And he tried to give me his jacket.”
“What a dick.”
She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”
Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt.
He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.
She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.
“Baby,” he murmured.
“Mhm?”
“You wanna get outta here?”
Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”
“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”
“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”
“Yeah, we can go home.”
“And maybe get McDonald’s?”
Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”
She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”
“Confident.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”
She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his.
He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.
“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”
She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”
“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”
She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.
“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.
Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”
She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”
He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely.
Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.
“You smell good,” she told him.
“Thanks.”
“Like Garrett.”
“Crazy coincidence.”
She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.
The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.
“She found you,” he said.
Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”
She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”
Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”
She nodded. “Way.”
Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”
Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”
She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”
“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.
Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car.
The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.
“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.
“Yeah?”
“That guy was so annoying.”
Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”
“He was talking to me all night.”
“Sounds like a loser.”
“He was kind of hot, though.”
Garrett stopped walking.
She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”
He stared at her. “Hot?”
She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”
“Uh huh.”
“And he had your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”
Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”
“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”
His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”
“And you already won.”
“I did.”
“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”
Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”
Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”
“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”
“Thanks, baby.”
She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”
At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”
“I always watch my head.”
“You don’t.”
“I have one.”
“Having one and watching it are different.”
She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her.
She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so glad I found you.”
His hand paused on the belt for half a second.
She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”
Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”
“There was this guy–”
“I heard.”
“–and he kept trying to give me water.”
“So rude.”
“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”
Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”
“And fries.”
“Obviously.”
“And a Sprite.”
“You need water.”
She made a face. “The guy said that too.”
Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”
She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”
“My bad.”
“You’re my boyfriend.”
“I am.”
“And I love you.”
The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.
He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”
She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”
“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door.
He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big.
When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.
Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.
For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.
“Babe?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”
Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”
“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”
His grin widened.
“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – a volunteer shift at hockey practice turns into a suspicious injury epidemic and garrett's forced to create a hands-off policy.
warnings – fluff, jealousy, fake injuries, hockey practice setting, possessive-ish garrett, strong language
notes from me – based on a combination of asks!!! hope u enjoy babes!! jealous garrett is soooo 🤤🥴
word count – 2.1k
navigation – masterlist |
By day three, she’s started to suspect that Briar hockey players are either medically fascinating or criminally stupid. There are only so many minor injuries a team can sustain in one week before pattern recognition begins to do what pattern recognition does.
Day one had been believable enough: a split knuckle, two bruised ribs, a nasty little scrape under someone’s chin from a helmet strap that looked more irritating than dramatic.
Day two had stretched credibility, but not snapped it entirely. Hockey was brutal. Boys were idiots. Ice was slippery. She could accept a certain baseline level of bodily misfortune.
Day three, however, is insulting.
She’s sitting on the bench with a roll of tape beside her thigh, a half-finished coffee going lukewarm near her foot, and the little volunteer lanyard they’ve made her wear twisted twice around her finger because the rink is cold and her hands have gone stiff.
Across from her, Garrett is skating drills with the kind of speed that makes the whole world narrow briefly to the hard cut of his skates and the flex of his thighs under practice gear, which is completely normal to notice and not at all a sign of advanced personal decline.
This is extra credit. Academic. Professional. She’s here for learning opportunities, supervised practice, and to develop confidence around minor sports-related injuries.
She’s not here because Garrett drives her there and back with her coffee in the cupholder and his hand on her thigh at red lights like that’s a casual transportation arrangement. She’s not here because watching him bark instructions across the ice does something deeply inconvenient to her blood pressure.
And she’s absolutely not here because every time he glances over between drills and catches her looking, his mouth tilts like he knows exactly what she’s doing and intends to be unbearable about it later.
A freshman comes off the ice holding his shoulder with the solemn expression of a man returning from war. “Hey,” he says, stopping in front of her. “I think I tweaked something.”
She looks at his shoulder. Then at his face. Then back at the ice, where Garrett has gone very still near the blue line.
“Did you fall?”
“No.”
She tilts her head. “Did someone hit you?”
“Not really.”
She raises her brows.
The freshman clears his throat. “It just feels weird.”
“Right,” she says, because she’s a healthcare-adjacent professional and therefore cannot say, does it feel weird because you skated directly over here after making eye contact with three of your friends? “Can you lift your arm?”
He lifts it immediately. Fully. Cheerfully, even.
Garrett’s voice cracks across the rink. “Miller, get your ass back on the ice. Your shoulder’s fine.”
Miller drops his arm like he’s been shot. “Just being safe, Cap.”
“You’re about to be unsafe if you miss the next drill,” Garrett barks.
She bites the inside of her cheek and gestures toward the rink with two fingers. “I think you’ve made a miraculous recovery.”
Miller grins, a little sheepish, and skates back out. He passes Garrett on the way, and because he’s either very brave or very new, mutters something that she just barely catches over the scrape of blades and the slap of a puck against the boards. “She’s so pretty, man.”
Garrett turns his head slowly.
Oh, this is excellent.
She looks down at her tape roll very hard.
The next one lasts seven minutes. An ankle, apparently. A deeply tragic ankle that carries its owner across half the rink and onto the bench without so much as a limp until he remembers, too late, to start favouring it in front of her. She crouches to check it anyway, because she may be enjoying Garrett’s visible descent into possessive insanity, but she’s not actually negligent.
“Pain from one to ten?” she asks.
The boy’s eyes flick to her face, then over her shoulder to where Garrett is watching with both gloves planted on top of his stick. “Like, a two?”
“A two,” she questions.
“Maybe three.”
Garrett’s laugh is flat enough to remove paint. “Skate it off, Peterson.”
She presses her thumb gently around the outside of the ankle. Nothing. No swelling. No heat. No tenderness. The guy does, however, blush when she looks up at him, which is not a symptom covered in her skills checklist but should perhaps be documented as acute stupidity.
“You’re fine,” she says, standing. “No sharp pain, no swelling, full movement. Go.”
Peterson nods and makes the fatal mistake of smiling at her. “Thanks.”
Garrett points his stick at him. “Move.”
By the time the third guy comes over with a wrist that has suffered spiritually rather than physically, Dean’s leaning over the boards with the grin of a man witnessing a gift from God. “You know,” he says, voice bright with menace, “I think my back’s kinda tight too. Might need a full assessment.”
Garrett doesn’t even look at him. “I’ll kill you.”
She gives Dean a look, but it lacks impact because she’s smiling. She likes Dean. She does. Against better judgement and all survival instinct, she’s developed a soft spot for him because he’s annoying in a way that feels almost brotherly now, all big dramatic beauty and terrible boundaries and weirdly sincere concern when it counts.
He asks about her exams. He calls her Florence Nightingale when he wants something. He once carried her entire backpack upstairs because he saw her rubbing her shoulder after placement and then pretended he only did it because Garrett gets weird when you’re injured and nobody has the time.
Tucker’s quieter about it, but somehow worse. Tucker keeps oat milk in the fridge now. Tucker leaves leftovers in labelled containers with her name on them, like that’s a normal thing for a man she’s not dating’s roommate to do.
Logan keeps more to himself, but he smiles at her when she comes in and calls her Garrett’s girlfriend whenever he wants both of them to make the same offended noise at once.
They’re making it very hard for her to maintain a casual delusion with dignity.
After practice, the team disappears into the locker room in a loud, sweaty wave, and she stays on the bench to repack the kit, still grinning to herself as the door swings shut behind them.
She gives it thirty seconds. Then Garrett’s voice erupts from inside, furious and carrying beautifully through the cinderblock wall. “No more fake fucking injuries just to get touched by the pretty nursing student. Enough!”
Her hand stills on the tape.
Someone says something she can’t catch. Then there’s laughter, followed by Garrett again, louder. “I’m serious. No fake injuries. No injuring yourself on purpose. No mysterious shoulder pain after eye-fucking my–” A pause. A dangerous one. “After eye-fucking her from the neutral zone.”
Dean’s voice rises, delighted. “Your what, G?”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, no, finish the sentence.”
“I swear to God, if I hear one more freshman say she’s pretty, I’m slamming someone’s face into the ice.”
“She is pretty,” Logan says, and the locker room immediately explodes.
It starts with one sharp bark of laughter from Dean, then Tucker saying, “Oh, man,” in the low, doomed voice of someone watching a car roll gently down a hill toward a lake. Then three freshmen lose the battle with self-preservation and start laughing too, and Garrett’s voice cuts through all of it like a skate blade through fresh ice.
“Great,” he says. “Perfect. Since apparently we need this spelled out for everyone with a fully developed frontal lobe and also Dean, we’re putting a policy in place.”
Dean sounds delighted. “A policy?”
“A policy,” Garrett snaps. “No more bullshit injuries.”
Someone makes a wounded noise. “Cap, my ankle was–”
“Your ankle was fine, Peterson. I watched you skate two laps after that.”
More laughter. A locker slams, probably from Garrett turning too fast and hitting something with his elbow because the room has officially entered the stage of his irritation where furniture becomes collateral damage.
“If you’re bleeding, dizzy, can’t move something, can’t feel something, or your bone is somewhere bones should not be, you go to the trainers or the volunteer table,” Garrett continues, voice getting louder over Dean’s wheezing. “If you have a real injury, obviously get checked. I’m not telling you morons to hide a concussion because you’re scared I’ll chirp you. But if one more guy skates over there because his wrist feels weird after he spent two minutes staring at her mouth, I’m making the entire line run suicides until graduation.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean, sounding absolutely thrilled to be alive, says, “So to clarify, we can approach the pretty nursing student if we’re actively bleeding?”
“She has a fucking name.”
She almost stops breathing on the bench outside.
The locker room goes briefly, beautifully still, like even the freshmen have enough collective instinct to understand that something has been said there that’s not covered by team policy. Then Logan makes a soft, disastrous sound that might be a laugh swallowed into a towel.
Garrett clears his throat hard enough to qualify as structural damage. “You know what I mean.”
“Do we?” Dean asks.
“Shut up.”
“I’m just asking for the boys. Because the policy feels emotionally loaded.”
Garrett groans. “The policy is don’t be a creep.”
“Strong policy,” Tucker says, and she can hear the smile in his voice even from outside. “I support it.”
Garrett seizes on that like a man being thrown a rope. “Thank you. See? Tucker understands basic conduct.”
“Tucker also left her pasta in the fridge last week,” Logan adds. “Is that allowed under the policy, or is food-based favouritism still okay?”
“That was different,” Tucker says, immediately defensive. “She had a late shift.”
Garrett’s voice drops into something flat and dangerous. “Why is everyone in this room obsessed with my–” He stops again. Another horrible, obvious stop. “With her schedule?”
Dean makes a noise like he’s been physically struck by joy. “Your what, G?”
“Everyone shut the fuck up and listen.” Garrett sounds like he’s standing now, captain voice dragging itself back into place by force. “Hands off. That’s the policy. No fake injuries. No flirting while she’s trying to do actual healthcare stuff. No making her uncomfortable. No skating over there because you want her to touch your shoulder. If she checks you out, you say thank you and get back on the ice. If I hear one more freshman say she’s pretty like she’s not sitting ten feet outside this room with ears and a working brain, I will personally introduce your face to the boards during non-contact drills.”
A freshman, very quietly, says, “Isn’t that contact?”
“Exactly.”
Dean loses it. Fully loses it. Laughs so hard it turns silent for a second, which is always worse, and then comes back in a rough, wounded wheeze. Tucker’s laughing too now, softer but absolutely not helping, and Logan says, “Garrett’s girlfriend protection program,” which makes the room explode all over again.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Garrett says, with the exact exhausted violence of a man who has said it too many times for it to remain believable.
Outside, she sits there with her lips pressed together, shoulders shaking silently, one hand clamped over her mouth like that might keep the laugh from escaping and ruining the best thing that’s happened to her all week.
When Garrett finally comes out, hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, jaw still tight with the remains of his very official captain’s speech, she’s sitting exactly where he left her, hands folded sweetly in her lap.
“Good practice?” she asks.
Garrett stops in front of her. His eyes narrow. “You heard that.”
“Heard what?”
“Don’t.”
She grins. “I’m just volunteering. For extra credit. Very focused on professional development.”
His gaze drops to her mouth, then back up, unimpressed and a little helpless. “You were enjoying that.”
She lifts one shoulder. “It’s nice to feel valued by the community.”
Garrett exhales through his nose, looking away like he needs strength from the rink ceiling. “Get your bag.”
“So bossy.”
“Yeah, well, apparently I have to implement a hands-off policy.”
She stands, slinging her bag over one shoulder, unable to stop the smile when he reaches for the strap and takes it from her without asking. “I’m not your girlfriend, Graham.”
Garrett looks down at her for a second too long, the noise from the locker room spilling warm and stupid behind him. His mouth curves, but softer now. Worse. “I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m being normal about it.”
She laughs the whole way to his truck.
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blurb: after a wild girls’ night out with hannah and allie to a local magic mike show, logan bites off more than he can chew when he shows up to pick up his tipsy girlfriend who’s feeling handsy…
warnings: fem!reader, suggestive, alcohol, established relationship, abs abs abs
John Logan prided himself on being an impeccably patient and responsible boyfriend.
You, however, incessantly challenged that on a daily basis.
Tonight was no different.
Allie, heartbroken and possessed by the recent breakup with Sean, exploded into action and dragged you and Hannah to a Magic Mike show run by a local dance company.
“Support the arts! Dance lives matter!” Allie all but chanted as the three of you had gotten ready in the dorm.
You and Hannah, in much need of a girls’ night, and of course, determined to help your friend recuperate after the messy separation, took it all with an easy stride and a mischievous craving for tantalizing fun.
Hence why the three of you were now stumbling outside the theatre post-show. All giggles and airy thoughts.
Logan arrived not long after your first call of distress.
Distress, perhaps, was not a fitting word for someone who so willingly submitted to the promising rush of the three pinkity drinkities you consumed.
“Hello?” You had hiccuped.
Logan could hear the knowing smile you had on your face even through the speaker.
“I take it girls’ night was a success?” He asked, already getting up from bed and putting on a jacket.
“A slam dunk, a home run, a goal in the net,” you replied with a breathy laugh.
“Where are you?”
He heard some rustling, your voice getting fainter as you presumably turned to speak to your friends. “Allie, where are we?”
Allie squinted at the sign, “It says Lexington and 6th Street.”
You returned to your phone, “Between Lexington and 6th.”
“By Rockside theatre and arts center!” He heard Hannah’s voice chime in.
Logan nodded despite you being unable to see it. “I will be there in 15 minutes. Are you girls outside or inside?”
“Outside,” you replied, watching as Hannah had to wrestle Allie’s phone away before she broke the 36 hour rule with Sean.
“Can you go back inside for me, please?” Logan asked nicely. You could hear the rumbling growl of his jeep’s engine starting.
“Back where the shirtless boys are? Tempting.”
You could practically picture the fond eye roll he probably made at your remark. “Back where it’s safe, gorgeous.” He clarified.
“The place is closed now, silly.”
He hummed in thought. “Okay. Sit tight. Don’t wander without Allie and Hannah.”
True to his word, he arrived 15 minutes later. You raised your arms up in celebration at the sight of the familiar car pulling up in front of you three.
He stepped out the jeep and rounded around to you. Your arms remained upright, awaiting your welcome hug. “Logan!”
He pulled you in with a soft kiss on your head. His eyes quickly assessed your whole body, silently running a prompt diagnostic to evaluate what level of tipsy you were currently exhibiting. His conclusion? A solid 4/10. Manageable.
His gaze turned to the other two musketeers; Hannah at a 3, and Allie at a striking 9. Not so manageable.
“Come on, let me get you guys back to the house,” Logan said, gesturing his head to the jeep.
Hannah shook her head, “Garrett’s coming to take Allie and I back to our dorm.”
“Guess I’m all yours,” you said in the sexiest tone you could muster in your state, running a finger down Logan’s chest.
Logan let out a huff of amusement and looked at the girls. “He say when he’s coming?”
“Should be another 10 minutes,” Hannah replied, now holding Allie’s head that kept lulling off to the side.
Logan, being the responsible and excellent man that he was, planted himself right there against the wall of the theatre and waited until Garrett arrived. He was not leaving Hannah and Allie to wait alone, in the dark, at night. Over his dead body.
“Aww, thanks, Logan,” Allie cooed, swaying in her step.
“Do you wanna wait in the car, Al? You’re moving very precariously,” he suggested, glancing at her from top to bottom with caution and care.
She shook her head, “Fresh air soothes me.” Though Logan didn’t think her statement was entirety factual, he let it slide, nodding politely.
You giggled, “You should’ve seen her on stage, Loge. She was a star.”
Logan raised his brows, “Oh yeah?”
Hannah nodded with an impressed smile, “Allie gave those boys a run for their money.”
Logan always knew Allie belonged on a stage, so hearing this was not shocking at all. He gave a supportive smile, “I bet.”
Allie raised her head off Hannah’s palm and looked at you and Logan, “Your girlfriend was the real stunner. Two of the dancers wanted her to come up for crowd work, but she declined both times.”
Logan froze.
He had to remind himself that he was not a possessive man so easily threatened by other males. Yet, Allie’s slurred comment raised alarm bells.
“Yeah?” His eyes settled on you.
Your cheeks warmed a little, and you shook your hand dismissively. “Audience participation is a big part of these strip shows. I was probably just the most convenient target since I sat by the aisle.”
“Once is convenience, twice is favoritism,” Allie sang.
Hannah looked at you, “I sat by the aisle too and they didn’t ask me,” she reminded.
“Face it, babes. You’re hot stuff,” Allie said with a wink before nearly tripping on her own feet if Hannah hadn’t been holding her arm.
This was all such useful information for Logan.
You hummed, appreciating the compliment and reveling in the flattery. “Thanks, Allie baby. But like I told you during the show, I don’t need a shirtless guy grinding up on me.”
Logan’s jaw ticked.
He was now leaning his arm on a spot on the wall that was by your head. You looked up at him through your lashes. Your wandering hand didn’t think twice before your palm settled on his abdomen. “Unless it’s you.”
Hannah and Allie giggled in that way only girls did when they were truly giddy.
Logan’s lips tugged into that easy smirk he mastered; not cocky enough to be a douche, but definitely not humble enough to pass for innocent.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist, keeping your hand right where it was. “Yeah?” His voice was lower, dangerously charismatic.
“Mhm, we got Magic Mike right here,” you responded, and he did not stop you when you lifted his cotton shirt up to reveal those glorious abs of his, sculpted from relentless hockey mornings and restless nights at the garage.
Logan had to bite his bottom lip to stop his mouth from splitting into a smug bastard’s grin. He shook his head in unserious exasperation, but really it was an excuse to lock in.
The girls and you chuckled freely, high off the drinks and fun night. Suddenly, the idea of Logan being a Magic Mike dancer seemed to be the most hilariously entertaining thing the three of you could imagine.
And because Logan was Logan—and what is Logan if not a devious charmer in sheep’s clothing—he put his free hand on the wall by the other side of your head, caging you in. The girls’ laughter doubled with accompanying squeals of hysteria.
You giggled too, feeling very much content and fine with this strapping 6 ft something hockey player holding you hostage against the wall with his fit body. You did not need any saving here.
Hannah snapped a quick photo that she would most definitely be sending into the group chat once morning comes.
Logan dipped his head down, teasing you by not kissing you, but staying right there in the crook of your neck. You felt his soft breathing against your skin. Goosebumps rippled through you, and you felt yourself squirm in place. Such sweet torture.
“Did they do this in the show?” Logan whispered by your ear.
You shook your head, “No, but now I wish they did.”
Logan pressed a kiss below your ear and pulled away, just in time, too, as Garrett’s black car pulled up right next to them.
Hannah and Allie sighed, “Our savior!” Allie breathed out in relief.
Garrett shot a curious and amused look Logan’s way, but did not ask follow-up questions. He simply guided his girlfriend and friend into his car. In similar fashion, Logan walked you over to his jeep with a hand on the small of your back.
Logan left you on aux duty, and he regretted his decision immediately when you played Pony by Ginuwine.
He shot you a look, but you were too busy dancing in the passenger seat to the music. Your eyes met his and you played oblivious to his reaction. Defeated, Logan simply shook his head with a smile and clipped his seatbelt on.
You were so getting it tonight.
this lowk sucks but i need to beat the writer’s block
summary: You know Dean Di Laurentis to be loud, a player, and a bit of a meathead. Basically your exact opposite. So why is he talking to you all of a sudden? Why is he dramatically inserting himself into your life? He can’t be interested in you romantically. Right?
contains: mostly fluff, smooching, jealous dean, no use of y/n, pet names (baby, sweetheart), reader is alluded to being on the spectrum <3
author’s note: I have returned from my retirement to write about my latest obsessions! idk if this will be my only off campus thing but i wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more to come :p i kinda have no idea what this is, but just a cute idea i had idk
You don’t really remember exactly when it started.
All you do know is that one day you were sitting in the front row of your English Lit class with the seats on either side of you vacant, and the next Dean Di Laurentis appeared.
You thought maybe it was a one time thing. Sure, there were plenty of seats for him to choose, but your location did happen to be superior to the rest. The window provided ample light, but the afternoon sun didn’t shine directly at you or cause a glare to appear on the white board ahead. The air conditioning vent blew the slightest breeze, which insured you were cool but not cold. And your professor preferred to stand to the right of her desk as opposed to the left which was closer to you, so you weren’t subjected to her voice at full volume, but you in no way had to strain to hear her.
You thought maybe he just caught on to the brilliance of your seating choice. But then he started talking.
At first, it was during class, which you absolutely did not tolerate. How were you meant to hear your professor and take adequate notes if he was speaking—albeit quietly, but speaking nonetheless—over her?
He caught on quickly that you would not entertain him when he attempted that, so he pivoted to trying to speak with you before and after class. You assumed he wanted to compare notes, perhaps even engage in extracurricular activities such as a weekend study group. This was not the case either.
He just asked you questions about yourself. He wanted to know what your name was, if you liked the class, if you wanted to come to the party he was throwing tonight. You actually laughed at him when he proposed that. He did not seem to like that very much.
You thought to ignore him and he would go away, but that only seemed to make him try harder, which was really confusing.
You didn’t completely live under a rock, you knew who he was. Everyone at Briar U did, even the kids who did not participate in the rowdier parts of college life. You didn’t really watch hockey, but you knew what it was. You knew the hockey team was a big deal here. Your dad had even attended a game or two with you.
So it didn’t really make much sense to you why Dean—hockey playing, sexually proficient, could get any girl he wants—Di Laurentis was making such an effort to speak with you.
One day, you finally broke and asked him.
“Look,” you began. “I’m not very good at picking up on things like sarcasm. I can’t always read between the lines, so I’d like it if you could be completely honest with me here. Do you want something? Are you failing the class and need help?”
He laughed in response, full and loud, which made everyone who remained in the room after class had ended look over to you two in curiosity, which undoubtedly turned your cheeks pink. If you hadn’t been so embarrassed, you might had been more affected by the dimples carving into his cheeks or the way his broad shoulders shook with laughter. Objectively, he was handsome. You understood why other women, and some men, had been so drawn to him. Was he bored? Was that it?
“Geez, I guess I’ve lost some of my game.” Your eyebrows furrow at this, not really sure his meaning. You were beginning to feel frustrated, with yourself and him. “Do you not want me to talk to you?”
You thought about it. “No, I don’t mind. I just don’t really know why you want to.”
“Well, for starters, you’re smart. You’re beautiful.” If your cheeks weren’t red already, they sure are now. “And you’re honest.” He shrugs like it makes all the sense in the world. He made it sound so simple, he just thought you were interesting. Which, you guess you could understand. Sort of.
So you shrugged too and said, “okay.” And turned to walk away.
-
The next place you started noticing Dean was in the cafeteria.
You usually sat in the courtyard or in a quieter corner on days when the weather was bad. He usually sat in the center of everything, at a table filled with other people.
You had been talking with your friends Anya and Lily when he waltzed over and took the seat just beside you. He greeted you briefly, a soft smile tilting the corners of his mouth before he began eating. You stared at him for a minute or two before turning to your friends, who were doing the same. After a few beats of silence, you just resumed your conversation with each other as if he weren’t there at all.
One day, he started contributing toward conversations. And he was actually very eloquent. His opinions were well thought out, his conclusions succinct. You were very pleasantly surprised. And before long, his friends started migrating from their table, to yours.
It was overwhelming at first, the chaos of his friend group and the energy they seemed to have. You never in a million years would have thought you could have fit in with a group like that, but occasionally, Dean would cut in and asked what you thought, and his friends would immediately get quiet and listen with rapt attention. They were always kind. It was, once again, surprising.
And then, Dean would find your hand under the table and give it a reassuring squeeze, like he was proud, or just reminding you he was there. And when exactly his presence became a comfort, you were not sure.
-
Then came the library.
You had gotten assigned a particularly difficult project in one of your courses and were spending the majority of your days tucked between the tall bookshelves and nestled in the pages of your textbooks. You hadn’t even considered to tell Dean. You didn’t think he would notice, quite honestly. But then he appeared one afternoon with two coffee cups in hand and placed one in front of you with a, “there you are.”
You looked between him and cup a few times before he explained it was tea, your favorite. When exactly he had managed to learn your favorite drink, you were once again unsure, but sometime in the past few weeks he had.
The two of you spent the rest of the day in the library together, him helping you with your project some of the time while also working on some of his own. Most of the time, you didn’t even talk, you would just exist in the quiet space together, occasionally brushing hands or feet beneath the table. He had this gentle side to him you hadn’t thought would be there.
Especially when he convinced you to start coming to his games, it was hard for you to see the Dean from the library as the same one who was shoving opponents into the sides of the hockey arena. But surprisingly, you really didn’t hate it. It was loud and the floors were littered with peanut shells which were constantly crunching under your feet, but the excitement was thrilling, and in between plays Dean would turn and find you in the crowd to offer a small wave with his big glove.
Somewhere, somehow, you had become friends.
-
Then came the kiss.
You were sitting out back at his house, the both of you laying in the grass, his head resting on your legs. You tried hard not to be distracted by how his soft hair tickled your bare thighs, or how his eyes crinkled when he laughed really hard, but you were finding it increasingly difficult not to be distracted by Dean.
You could not think of another time when you had felt this way. Being around him excited you; made you feel warm and fuzzy like being swaddled in the softest blanket. You didn’t feel this way around your other friends, though you hadn’t ever really had any guy friends before, not close ones anyway. You decided to treat your interactions like experiments. If you introduced a new component, what was the outcome?
He had been telling some story about him and his sister, his hands gesturing animatedly above him, and you suddenly got the overwhelming urge to kiss him. You had never felt that way before. Yes, you had been kissed, but you had never kissed someone. You hadn’t ever wanted to. Not until now.
“I’d like to try something,” you cut him off. His blue eyes flicked up to you, his hands coming down to rest on his stomach.
“Okay,” he replied calmly, though curiously.
You leaned down, the angle a bit awkward but not uncomfortable, and pressed your lips to his. They were soft and plaint beneath your own, the mere press of them underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time. His mouth had just begun to move when you suddenly pulled away.
“Huh,” you said. He looked up at you with an astonished sort of look, and then he sat up, slipped his hand behind your neck and pulled you in for another kiss.
This time, it was not just a mere press of flesh on flesh, this was movement and passion and heat. For the sake of the experiment, you decided to follow your instincts, so you walked on your knees to get closer without breaking the kiss to straddle his lap and press yourself more firmly to him. His hands were in your hair, his tongue was stroking the seam of your mouth, and you felt as though you were drowning in Dean, in the most positive way.
When you finally broke apart, the both of you were slightly out of breath and had goofy sort of smiles on your faces.
“That wasn’t…unpleasant,” you decided. Dean laughed and pressed his forehead against your own and you thought that if this is what guy friends were, you liked them quite a lot.
-
It was at a party that things finally came together.
Dean had convinced you to come over to the house for a party. He promised it was small—or at least smaller than usual—and guaranteed fun. You knew that was highly improbable, but you had agreed because…well, because he asked you.
You had grown closer with his friends over the months, though there were plenty of moments where you were still quite shy around them, you had gotten much more comfortable in their company, especially with Dean there.
When you arrived, he immediately took your hand in his and guided you through the house. He hadn’t lied, the party was not huge, but it wasn’t as small as you had been hoping. The music was loud and really the only thing you could hear was the bass, which you didn’t enjoy very much.
The kitchen was even more crowded than the living room with everyone gathered around the island where—you were assuming—Tucker had made food. Logan stood on the opposite side and offered you a small smile and tipped his beer bottle in your direction in lieu of a wave. You smiled back and found yourself sinking further into Dean’s side.
You hadn’t kissed again since your experiment a few days ago, though you would be lying if you said you didn’t want to. But you reminded yourself that Dean was your friend, and if he wanted to be more he surely would have told you by now.
The two of you stayed close almost the entire party, his hand either in yours or at the small of your back, like a warm anchor. He only left you when his friend had called him out back to look at something, and even then he promised you he would be right back before planting a kiss to your head.
You stood leaning against the counter behind you, looking out at the party—the people playing video games on the couch and the beer pong being played out back. You had been watching Dean so intently through the glass sliding door that you hadn’t noticed the guy approach you from the side.
You jumped a little when he said, “hey.”
He must have noticed you startle because he apologized quickly with a small laugh. “It’s okay,” you assured him. “Sorry. I’m not usually a big party person.”
“Yeah? I was just thinking I hadn’t seen you here before.” He was a taller guy with dark hair and dark eyes, wearing a letterman jacket that suggested he played football. You hadn’t recognized him either, though you and athletes didn’t often cross paths.
“Not really big into…crowds.” He steps a little closer, not much, but enough that you notice. You find yourself crossing your arms and hugging them to you like that might create some extra distance, though he seems undeterred.
“Do you want to find a quieter place?” He asks, not sounding disingenuous in the slightest. You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, an arm is sliding around your waist. You turn around quickly to find Dean there.
“No, she’s good.” His voice is different, not as soft as you’re used to. It’s got teeth to it, an edge, and you wonder if perhaps he doesn’t like this person. You look back to the stranger in front of you and watch him back away from you both.
“Sorry man, I didn’t know you guys were together.”
“Oh, we’re not—“
“Yeah. We are.” You look up at Dean startled, confused and surprised at his statement. Maybe he really did not like this person and just needed to make him go away?
Dean waits for the other guy to disappear back into the crowd before his posture relaxes again and he takes your hand in his and leads you through the house. You try to ask him what is wrong, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at you, not until you’re both in his bedroom with the door closed and locked.
“Dean?” You venture. “Are you okay?”
“Why did you say we weren’t together?” You stare at him for a moment, completely at a loss for words. You aren’t sure what you’re meant to say.
“I…I didn’t think…” Your voice is small, even in the quiet of the room.
He laughs bitterly, beginning to pace again. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Dean, please just tell me what is going on. You know I don’t do this well.”
“I thought we were together. When you kissed me, I thought that meant—“ he cuts himself off, running his hands through his hair and tugging slightly. “I’m obsessed with you. I can’t get you out of my head, and you couldn’t care less.”
“That’s not true,” you rush to say.
“How are you so unaffected?” He raises his voice slightly and you flinch a minuscule amount, though he notices and moves to sit on his bed with a tired sigh.
You slowly move to sit next to him, reaching over to bring his hand into your lap, tracing the veins there and the lines on his palm. “I thought…you wanted to be my friend. I didn’t think you saw me like that.”
You feel you can’t look at him after your confession, but out of the corner of your eye you can see him staring at you with his mouth open. “You thought…” he trails off and then huffs out a laugh. “Baby. I don’t look at my friends the way I look at you. I don’t pretend to like talking about the mystery of eel reproduction because I want to be your friend.”
You’re momentarily distracted. “What’s not to like? It’s one of the greatest mysteries of our world and you—“
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, lightly gripping your chin between his fingers. “That’s not my point.” He’s looking at you with that soft expression again, the one that now translates to a quiet fondness with a small smile curving his lips.
“I’m sorry. I think I tend to see things as very black and white, it’s hard for me to see the grey. And you’re grey.”
“I’m grey?” He repeats, clearly amused.
“Yes. You don’t really make sense. I mean, we’re complete opposites. You just randomly decided to sit next to me out of the blue a few weeks ago and never went away, how was I supposed to know you were flirting?”
“Oh my god.” He rubs his free hand that isn’t being held in my lap over his face in frustration, though he’s still smiling. “I had been trying to get your attention for months. I had to resort to sitting next to you because you didn’t see me otherwise.”
“I saw you,” you grumble stubbornly. “It’s impossible not to see you.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” He has a sort of morose, reserved expression on his face, so you stand and move between his knees, running your fingers through his hair to get him to look up at you.
“Dean. Do you like me?” You want to make sure there is no miscommunication this time.
“I think that’s an understatement.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“Yes.” You smile.
“Good. Because I really like you too. I may even describe how I’m feeling as obsessed with you, I just didn’t know what to call it before.” His smile is blinding and you find yourself unable to hide your own.
You bend down to press your mouth to his, pressing your palms into his shoulders as you move to straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress while his hands come up to hold your hips.
“But we are gonna have to talk about the eels thing,” you pull away suddenly, his mouth trying to follow yours.
“Anything you say, baby.” And he kisses you again.
And not in the cute, sitcom kind of way people imagined when they watched shows New Girl. It was actually the exact opposite.
It was difficult on the inside and out. When people found out you lived in the hockey house with four Division I athletes, there was no ‘ooh, that must be so fun’ unless it came from some lust filled puck bunny that only had the nastiest of fantasies. To people with actual working brains, more questions always followed their judgmental looks. Thing like ‘why, ‘how long’, ‘are you dating any of them’, ‘is that allowed’. Which you understood, but could only answer with one phrase.
“It’s a long story.”
Because it was! Getting into the intricacies of how you started the schools, and first ever, collage hockey cheer squad was too much: it always sounded like you were bragging about something that you didn’t see as a big deal. Plus, no one wanted to hear about how you despised the concept of bunking with a complete and total stranger for the sake of the college experience, especially when they were doing the same thing.
On the inside of the home, however, living with boys was even more difficult because… well, you actually had to live with them.
Living with boys was hard in a deeply specific, deeply exhausting way no one warned you about.
First, it was because boys were disgusting.
Not always and sometimes not intentionally, but sometimes and for some reason, even maliciously. Like that one time Dean left a condom in the shower because Logan ate his leftovers that Tucker made. You didn’t know if it was a man thing, or a sports thing, but they moved through life with a level of casual recklessness that made you wonder how any of them had survived into adulthood.
And the house itself reflected that.
At first glance, it looked like any off-campus athlete house. Loud with the occasional party, sort of worn-in due to said parties. It also constantly smelled of detergent and sweat.
But there were traces of you.
Your pink throw blankets were draped over the couch because the you always got cold and the boys knew nothing about buying decent blankets themselves. Your Vogue magazines were spread across the coffee table beside their sports journals and empty Gatorade bottles. There were tiny decorative glass bowls full of hair ties and bobby pins sitting in random places throughout the place because you kept losing them.
There was a lemon blossom candle on the kitchen counter that Dean lit it more than you did. He eventually stole it to put in his room for his after shower activities, but the touch was yours nonetheless.
Your shoes by the front door mixed into piles of massive sneakers and hockey bags was a contrasting sight. Your colorful sandals, soft Ugg boots and fuzzy animal house slippers. Your skincare products that lined one side of the downstairs bathroom sink stuck out next to Logan’s beard trimmer that sat threateningly close to your toothbrush.
There was the small pros that you found cute as you passed through, looking at the way your vastly different lives were all intertwined this way. But with the pros, comes the cons. And some cons might be to your doing as well.
There were the packages. God, the packages. The delivery driver knew you by name and you knew his. It was Anthony.
Boxes of PR constantly showed up at the house, to the point where neither them nor you could keep up. PR packages from makeup brands, clothing collaborations from boutiques that used your Instagram for promotion. There were skincare launches, cheer gear, women’s protein bars with aesthetically pleasing packaging because apparently gut health had to not only be gendered for some reason but become your entire personality this semester.
Though you found it stupid, you were doing it for the cheque. And the products worked because Garrett seemed to love them.
Dean once opened the front door and stared at the stack of boxes awaiting outside.
“What the hell is all this?” He asked exasperatedly, looking over at you, who sat in the couch. You glanced up from your laptop, peeking over the couch as if you could see the packages on the porch. “Probably PR.” You shrugged before going back to your screen.
“There are, like, ten boxes here.”
“Yeah.” You muttered, still clicking away on your laptop, not even looking up this time.
“Why?” He questioned, absentmindedly moving to load the boxes of various sizes into the home and sit them by the door. He lifted them up, dressed in nothing out gym shorts and slides, and closed the door with his foot. “I mean, who needs this much stuff? What even if half of this?”
You let out a small sigh, leaning back in the couch as you looked up at the blonde man. “What can I say Dean, the brands love me.” You shrugged with a cocky smirk before chuckling.
Dean scoffed and cut his eyes towards Garrett. “I picked the wrong career.”
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Living with boys also meant your things slowly stopped becoming just yours.
Your blankets became communal blankets that barely covered you since you had to share with Logan’s huge body. Your expensive vanilla syrup for coffee was now used in Tuckers cocktail recipes. The fridge you so carefully organized slowly became demented into disarray as if it was ravaged by some beast, especially because Tucker cooked like a suburban mother feeding a family of seven.
Every Sunday, Tucker stood in the kitchen for hours meal prepping while music played low through a speaker. He moved around the kitchen with efficiency, his broad shoulders hovering over simmering pots. The place was warm as something baked in the oven and the entire home just smelled great when Tucker cooked.
The feeling almost made up for the rest of the boys existing.
Almost.
You had your own section in the fridge. Well, you were supposed to.
Tucker, the cute gentleman that he is and was raised to be, respected it. The others did not.
Your shelf was painfully recognizable compared to theirs. You had your glass jars filled with matcha or chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding. There was your coconut water, almond milk, and lemonade alongside your fresh fruit and sweet streets. In the door was your wellness shots that tasted like shit. And last but not least, your coconut cult probiotic yogurt.
Garrett liked called your grocery hauls ‘rich girl rabbit food’, which was ironic considering he ate enough food in a day to feed a small village. But you knew it was just a joke, especially since he’s seen your late night door dash orders.
Still, you bought those things for a reason. Whether it was your skin, your stomach health, your energy levels. It all went into your focus for cheer, which was important to you.
Being captain of the cheer team meant constant appearances, performances, uniforms, cameras, and social media posts. You couldn’t survive off frozen pizza and energy drinks, as much as you wanted to, the way the some boys somehow did. Trust though, you did indulge yourself whenever you seen fit.
Unfortunately, the boys viewed your food as fascinating, like zoo animals discovering their enrichment toys.
One afternoon, after your morning yoga session in the attic, you padded downstairs in green leggings and an oversized Briar U sweatshirt, water bottle dangling from your hand.
The house was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet for your liking, which caused you to narrow your eyes immediately.
You rounded the corner before turning into the kitchen, and that’s when you spotted them.
Dean and Garrett were standing in front of the open fridge, spoons in hand and substance in their mouths. They seemed to enjoy whatever they were eating, humming in content.
You furrowed your brows before your eyes dropped to the jar in Deans hands. He was holding your yogurt. Your Coconut Cult yogurt.
Dean was actively eating from the jar while Garrett slightly grimaced through another spoonful, mildly enjoying its taste.
You froze at threshold of the kitchen, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “Oh my God.” You said, hands coming up to cover your mouth.
Both boys looked up at you, frozen like they were caught red handed. Which they were.
Dean swallowed. “Hey.” The words got clogged in his throat, trying to speak and swallow what he thought was a dessert.
“That jar is forty dollars worth of yogurt.” You snipped, eyes bouncing between them.
Garrett blinked. “Forty—”
“You ate my Coconut Cult?!”
Dean frowned down at the small jar. “It’s yogurt.” He scoffed. “And it definitely shouldn’t be forty bucks.”
“It’s probiotic yogurt!”
Garrett took another bite and immediately regretted it. “Is that why it has that weird aftertaste?”
“Yes!”
“So you buy this spoiled tasting yogurt on purpose?”
You marched across the kitchen in disbelief, snatching the jar from Dean’s hand like a mother catching teenagers with alcohol. “I eat this for my gut health, you idiots! You know I’m lactose intolerant!”
Dean leaned against the counter lazily. “Okay, we’ll owe you.” He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t know the chocolate moose yogurt was special and forty fucking dollars.” He chuckled in disbelief.
“Like you can’t afford it.” Garett mumbled.
“You two are going to regret this later.” You hissed, throwing the jar and what’s left over, in the trash. It’s not like you could use the rest anyway with the way they were digging back and forth into the probiotic.
Garrett scoffed. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He questioned, watching as you rounded the counter to walk away from them.
You paused, turning to stare at them for a long moment.
Then you slowly smiled. “You’ll see.” You grinned before making your way back upstairs, confused in what you can down for in the first place.
Tucker walked in halfway through the silence you left, carrying grocery bags. His eyes moved between the two boys, who was left frozen in your wake.
“What happened?”
“They ate her Coconut Cult,” Logan called from the living room, where he was playing a Mario Kart on the television.
Tucker let out a small chuckle in disbelief as she placed the bags in the counter. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, you idiots.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“That stuff has like a billion probiotics in it.”
Garrett’s face slowly changed while Dean still didn’t seem to get the point yet.
“And that means?” He questioned, eyeing the pair in the kitchen.
“Oh no.” Garrett mumbled, placing his head in his hand, holding himself up in the kitchen island. Dean eyed him, while Tucker chuckled in amusement.
“Bro, what? Come on, tell me.” The blonde urged.
“If you took more than a spoonful of that, you’re gonna shit your brains out.” Tucker smiled, moving around them to load the fridge full of food.
Deans face dropped as Logan’s chuckles echoed into the kitchen.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Then there’s the bathroom situation, which somehow managed to be even worse than the food situation.
Because the attic that you lived in only had a tiny half-bath. Just a toilet and sink squeezed beneath slanted ceilings. Meaning for showers, you had to use the downstairs bathroom. The shared house bathroom.
The one that you shared with four hockey players.
There were not enough candles or cleaning products in the world to emotionally prepare someone for sharing a bathroom with men.
You cleaned constantly.
Constantly.
You wiped the counters, refolded towels, reorganized the cabinet products, cleaned the floors. Anything to aid in stopping the place from delving into a yuck fest within hours.
One time Logan left a pair of compression undershorts hanging from the shower rod for three days.
Three. Days.
“You guys live like rats.” You complained, thudding down the stairs, gloves still on from scrubbing the bathroom counter. It was dark out, the soft sound of rain pelting the windows. “Logan, I’m throwing these shorts away.” You deadpanned, only gaining a shrug in response from the man.
Dean lounged against the archway of the living room, eating cereal straight from the box. “And yet you stay.” He grinned, eyes in the tv, where some rival team shame tape played.
“Unfortunately, I’ve grown attached.” You muttered, walking over to the kitchen trash can to rid yourself of the rubber gloves.
“Aww, to us?” Logan questioned with a smile, glancing over from the living room couch.
“To Tucker’s cooking.” You quipped, flashing him a large beam. His smile dropped, causing you to chuckle as you leaned against the wall opposite to Dean.
Speaking of, he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “How cruel, puck princess.” He chuffed, which instantly wiped the smile from your face. You reached over, slapping his arm.
“I told you about that name.” You said through clinched teeth. All while Dean just laughed, showing all of his pearly whites.
“Well, you hurt my feelings.” He shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
The problem with sharing a bathroom, though, was the complete destruction of privacy.
There was absolutely none. People, roommates and strangers alike, barged in constantly because apparently locks meant nothing nowadays. You were never in the habit of locking the bathroom door before you moved in with these people.
One night after practice, steam from the shower you just took was still clinging to your skin and you stood at the sink brushing your teeth while wrapped in your fluffy pink towel.
Dean stood beside you, half his faced covered in shaving cream and his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips while music played softly from his phone on the counter.
It was oddly domestic, but the usual after a few years living together. It was now your norm to do such things. And everything was fine, same as always.
Until you opened the drawer looking for floss. There, sitting very obviously amongst your hair ties and face masks was a hot pink vibrator.
You paused mid-brush, brows furrowed.
Dean noticed you stopping immediately, the chill vibe shifting to something else.
His eyes followed yours downward, and once they were placed onto what caught your attention, they widened in horror.
Painfully slowly, what you could see of his face started turning red.
You looked at him the same time he looked at you. I enter of you spoke for a while, just staring at each other like you were both caught in the middle of some compromising position.
Then the bathroom door opened and Tucker stepped inside holding folded towels before stopping dead in his tracks.
His eyes darted between the two of you, faces red and frozen in your half dressed states. He then glanced at the drawer, seeing the item, and then back up at you two.
A long silence followed, and his innocent stare gave nothing away.
Finally, Dean pointed aggressively.
“That’s not mine.” You both said at the same time.
“At all,” You added quickly.
Tucker blinked twice before he simply backed out of the bathrooms towels still in hand.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you two in silence again, though this time more charged than before.
You then burst into laughter, so hard toothpaste nearly came out of your nose. That broke the tension between you two, causing Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his half shaven face while still blushing violently. “Oh my God.”
Living with boys is hard. It’s exhausting and loud and invasive. It was a feat that meant never knowing peace.
But sometimes it also meant coming downstairs at two in the morning unable to sleep and finding Tucker making grilled cheese in the kitchen.
It meant Garrett silently carrying your PR packages upstairs because he knew they were heavy. Or Logan shoving vitamins toward you after practice because you “forgot your weird supplements this morning.”
And sometimes it meant Dean falling asleep on the couch under one of your pink blankets while a face mask on and a leopard print headband that sat on his forehead because you convinced him to do skincare with you.
The house was chaotic and messy. Sometimes a bit overcrowded. But somewhere between it all, it became home.
Pairing : Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!reader Warning : jealousy , possesive Dean, popular hockey boy x shy girl, accidental confession Word Count : 1,6k Summary : When Dean gets unexpectedly jealous at a Briar party and pulls you onto his lap in front of everyone, the line between friendship and something more suddenly disappears.
You hated Briar parties. Too loud. Too crowded. Too many drunk athletes screaming over terrible music.
Honestly, you would’ve stayed home if Dean hadn’t practically dragged you there himself.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he complained dramatically while walking backwards in front of you. “You can’t spend your entire Friday night hiding in your dorm.”
“Yes I can.”
Dean grinned immediately.
“Not anymore.”
Your stomach flipped stupidly. That happened a lot around Dean Di Laurentis. Which was unfortunate because Dean flirted with literally everyone.
Waitresses.
Classmates.
Random girls at parties.
Meanwhile you could barely survive eye contact with him.
“Relax,” he teased softly once you reached the crowded house. “I’ll protect you from the evil social interaction.”
You rolled your eyes, but still followed closely behind him inside. Dean noticed. He always noticed. That was the problem. People thought Dean was shallow because he joked constantly and flirted with everyone around him. But you knew better.
You noticed the little things:
how he always walked on the outside of sidewalks,
how he remembered your coffee order,
how he touched your lower back in crowded rooms without thinking,
how his eyes automatically searched for you first whenever he entered somewhere.
It was confusing.
Especially because Dean acted like you belonged to him half the time. Even though you definitely weren’t dating. Probably. Maybe. Honestly, you didn’t know anymore.
“Stay here,” Dean said while handing you a drink. “I’m grabbing Logan before he destroys someone at beer pong.”
You laughed quietly.
“Okay.”
“Don’t let anyone kidnap you while I’m gone.”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. Dean winked before disappearing into the crowd. You hated how easily he affected you. A few minutes later, you were standing awkwardly near the kitchen trying not to look completely uncomfortable. Bad idea. Because apparently standing alone at a party attracted attention.
“You look terrified.”
You looked up nervously to find a football player smiling down at you. Cute. Very tall.Definitely drunk.
“Oh,” you laughed weakly. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?” He leaned casually against the counter beside you. “You’ve been hiding over here all night.”
You smiled politely, unsure what to say. Social interaction was already hard enough. Flirting was worse.
“I’m Mason, by the way.”
You told him your name softly. Then immediately regretted it because his smile widened.
“Well,” Mason said, “you’re definitely the prettiest girl here.”
Your face burned.
“Oh, thank you.”
“You here with someone?”
Before you could answer, Mason’s hand landed lightly on your waist.
And suddenly,
“She’s sitting with me.”
The voice cut through the noise instantly. Your breath caught. Dean stood a few feet away staring directly at the football player.
And for once? Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t smiling. Your heartbeat immediately sped up.
Mason lifted his hands awkwardly. “Dude, I was just talking to her.”
“Cool.” Dean walked forward slowly. “Now you’re done.”
The tension shifted instantly.
You stared at Dean in complete shock while Mason looked between both of you confused.
“Wait,” Mason frowned slightly. “Are you guys together?”
Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist without hesitation.
“She’s with me.”
The words hit your chest so hard it almost hurt. Mason looked uncomfortable immediately.
“My bad.”
Dean didn’t answer.
He just guided you away from the kitchen with his hand still firmly against your waist.
Your entire body felt warm where he touched you.
“What was that?” you whispered once you reached the living room.
Dean looked down at you innocently.
“What was what?”
“You basically threatened him.”
Dean scoffed.
“He was flirting with you.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t like it.”
The answer came too fast. Too honestly. Your heart nearly stopped. Dean seemed to realize what he’d admitted because his expression shifted slightly. But instead of taking it back… His hand tightened against your waist.
“You’re sitting with me,” he decided suddenly.
Before you could process the sentence, Dean dropped onto the couch and pulled you directly into his lap. Your entire brain short-circuited.
“Dean!”
He looked completely relaxed despite the fact that your heart was trying to kill you.
“What?”
“I can’t sit on your lap!”
“Too late.”
Around you, several hockey players immediately started staring. Logan nearly spit out his drink. Garrett looked deeply unimpressed.
And Allie whispered:
“Oh my God finally.”
Your face burned hotter. Dean only looked smug. One of his hands rested casually against your thigh while the other held his drink. Completely comfortable. Like this was normal. Meanwhile you could barely breathe.
“Dean,” you hissed quietly. “Everyone’s looking.”
“Let them.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“How are you acting normal right now?”
He leaned closer slightly.
“I’m always normal.”
“You’re literally holding me hostage.”
Dean grinned lazily.
“Sweetheart, if I was holding you hostage, you’d know.”
Your brain stopped functioning. Absolutely stopped. And the worst part? You didn’t even want to move. Because sitting in Dean’s lap felt stupidly safe. Warm. His fingers absentmindedly traced circles against your leg while he talked to Garrett about hockey, completely unaware he was actively ruining your life.
Or maybe he was aware. That was somehow worse.
“You’re quiet,” Dean murmured eventually, looking down at you.
“I wonder why.”
He laughed softly.
Cute.
Dean Di Laurentis was annoyingly cute.
Which felt deeply unfair considering he looked like that and had the personality of a menace.
“You okay?” he asked more gently.
The softness in his voice caught you off guard. You nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
Dean studied your face for a second too long. Then his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your thigh. Your pulse jumped instantly. And suddenly something shifted. The teasing atmosphere faded slightly.
Now it was just:
Dean looking at you,
your body pressed against his,
and way too much tension between both of you.
“You know,” Dean said quietly, “I really hated watching him flirt with you.”
Your breath caught.
“Dean…”
“I’m serious.”
His expression softened completely now. No jokes. No flirting. Just honesty. And somehow that terrified you more.
“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” Dean admitted softly. “Or touched you.”
Your heart pounded painfully.
“Why?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean stared at you silently for a second.
Then laughed quietly to himself.
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You seriously don’t know?”
Your stomach twisted.
“Know what?”
Dean looked almost frustrated now.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, “I’ve been obsessed with you for months.”
Silence. Complete silence. The party noise faded into background static. You stared at him, convinced you misheard.
“What?”
Dean’s hand moved carefully to your waist again.
“You think I drag you to parties because I enjoy watching you avoid eye contact with everyone?”
Heat rushed violently to your face.
“You flirt with everybody,” you whispered.
Dean immediately shook his head.
“Not like this.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Then what is this?”
Dean smiled softly.
“This,” he murmured while pulling you slightly closer, “is me losing my mind over one shy girl.”
Your heart completely melted. And suddenly everything made sense. The constant attention. The touching. The jealousy. The way Dean always looked at you like you were something precious.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Dean laughed quietly.
“Yeah. Oh.”
You stared at him nervously.
“So…” Your voice came out tiny. “You like me?”
Dean looked genuinely offended.
“Baby, I’m one bad day away from writing poetry about you.”
A startled laugh escaped you instantly. Dean smiled immediately like hearing you laugh was his favorite thing in the world. God. You were so done for.
“You know what the worst part is?” you admitted quietly.
“What?”
“I think I liked when you got jealous.”
Dean froze for half a second. Then a dangerously smug grin appeared on his face.
“Oh, you’re into possessive behavior?” he teased.
Your eyes widened immediately.
“No!”
Dean laughed loudly while your face burned alive.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“You’re horrible.”
“And yet,” he murmured while leaning closer, “you’re still sitting in my lap.”
Your breath caught instantly. Because he was right. You hadn’t moved once. Not even a little. Dean’s eyes flickered briefly toward your lips. Then back up again.
“You wanna know something?” he asked softly.
“What?”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the second week I knew you.”
Your heartbeat became unbearable.
“Dean…”
“Tell me to stop.”
But the problem was… You really, really didn’t want him to stop. So instead, you whispered:
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
Dean stared at you for half a second before kissing you immediately.
Warm. Confident. Perfect.
One hand settled against your waist while the other tilted your chin upward carefully, like he wanted to make absolutely sure you felt everything behind the kiss. And honestly? You thought Dean flirting was dangerous. Kissing him was worse. When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard. Dean rested his forehead lightly against yours.
“Well,” he murmured lazily, “that’s gonna make parties way more interesting.”
You laughed softly despite yourself. Across the room, Garrett looked exhausted already. Logan looked deeply entertained. And Dean? Dean looked ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Still hate parties?” he whispered.
You glanced at him before smiling shyly.
“Maybe not this one.”
Dean grinned immediately before kissing your forehead. Then, because he was incapable of behaving normally for even five seconds, he looked around the room proudly and announced:
“Everybody relax. She likes me back.”
You immediately hid your face in his shoulder while the hockey team erupted into chaos.
A/N : Here's my third fanfiction on Dean Di Laurentis!!! Hope u like it ! Don't forget to LIKE,SHARE, COMMENT & SUBSCRIBE !! Next one gonna be GARRET GRAHAM !
The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills your small apartment as you sway your hips to the music playing from your phone. You're singing along, badly, to some 90s pop song, wooden spoon in hand as you stir the simmering sauce. It's been two weeks since you and Dean officially started dating and you've been on cloud nine ever since.
You don't hear the door open over the music, but you feel the strong arms suddenly wrapping around your waist from behind. Dean's chin rests on your shoulder, his warm breath tickling your neck.
"Didn't know I was dating a pop star," he murmurs against your skin, making you jump slightly before relaxing into his embrace.
You turn your head to kiss his cheek. "Well, now you do. Hope you're hungry."
"Starving," he says, nipping at your earlobe. "But not just for food."
You laugh, elbowing him playfully. "Behave yourself. Dinner's almost ready. Why don't you go sit down?"
"Can't. Too busy watching my girlfriend dance around the kitchen, looking absolutely beautiful."
You blush at the term "girlfriend" even though you've both agreed that's what you are. "Thank you, but please let me finish this, I would hate to burn this sauce after I worked so hard to get it this creamy."
Dean chuckles but his eyes follow you as you move around the kitchen, plating the pasta and sauce. When you finally turn to bring the plates to the table, his smile fades.
His eyes narrow as they focus on your chest, specifically on the name and number printed across the oversized t-shirt you're wearing.
"Whose shirt is that?" His voice is suddenly tight.
You glance down. "Oh, this old thing? Just grabbed it from the closet."
"Whose name is that?" he asks, stepping closer. "And whose number is 84?"
You try to laugh it off. "Just an old friend's shirt from high school. No big deal."
Dean's jaw clenches. "You're wearing another man's name and number. While cooking dinner. For me. In my apartment."
"Cooking dinner for us," you correct gently. "And it's just a shirt, Dean. Most of yours are in the wash and I didn't want to get anything dirty on something nice."
He shakes his head, eyes darkening. "No. That's not how this works."
Before you can respond, he's closing the distance between you, his hands gripping your waist. "You don't wear other men's names. You don't wear other men's numbers. You wear mine."
"Dean, it's really not..."
"Stop talking," he cuts you off, his voice low and dangerous. "Looks like I need to remind my girl who she belongs to."
He lifts you effortlessly and your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you toward the couch. The plates of pasta sit forgotten on the counter.
When he sets you down, his fingers hook under the hem of the offending shirt. "This ugly thing needs to go."
The sound of ripping fabric fills the room as he tears the shirt down the middle, exposing your bare breasts to his hungry gaze.
"Dean!" you gasp, more shocked than angry.
"All this," he says, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "Is mine."
He turns you around, bending you over the arm of the couch. Your ass is exposed, only your socks covering your feet.
"You need to learn a lesson," he says, his hand coming down hard on your right cheek.
You yelp at the sharp sting, but it's followed immediately by the pleasure of his fingers sliding between your folds.
"So wet already," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Does being punished turn you on?"
Another spank, this time on the left cheek. Your skin tingles where his hand made contact.
"Answer me," he demands, his fingers teasing your clit.
"Yes," you breathe out, pushing back against his hand.
"Good girl," he says, sliding two fingers inside you. "Because I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll forget any other name but mine."
He works you with his fingers, stretching you, preparing you. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp.
"No one else gets to see you like this," he says, his voice rough with possession. "No one else gets to touch you like this."
You can only moan in response as he removes his fingers, positioning himself behind you. The sound of his zipper is followed by the pressure of his cock against your entrance.
"Tell me whose you are," he demands, gripping your hips.
"Yours," you gasp as he pushes into you. "I'm yours, Dean."
He groans as he fills you completely, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust pushes you forward against the couch, his name falling from your lips with each movement.
"That's right," he grunts, his hands sliding up to grip your breasts. "Say my name. Let everyone know who's fucking you."
His fingers pinch your nipples, sending waves of pleasure through your body. The angle allows him to hit that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.
"Dean," you cry out, your fingers clutching at the couch cushions. "Please..."
"Please what?" he asks, his pace never faltering. "Please make you come? Please fuck you harder?"
"Both," you manage to say between moans. "God, both."
He chuckles, a dark, possessive sound. "As you wish."
One hand moves from your breast to your clit, rubbing circles that match his thrusts. The dual stimulation pushes you closer to the edge.
"That's it," he encourages, feeling you tighten around him. "Come all over my fucking cock. I want to feel you clench around me."
The combination of his words, his touch and the relentless pounding sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, your body convulsing as you cry out his name.
Dean follows moments later, his thrusts becoming erratic as he fills you with his release. For a moment, you both remain still, breathing heavily.
When he finally pulls out, he turns you around, his expression softening as he cups your face.
"I'll bring you some of my shirts tomorrow," he says, his thumb stroking your cheek. "A whole box of them. So you never have an excuse to wear someone else's name again."
You smile, leaning into his touch. "Is that your way of saying you accept the fact that you overreacted?"
Dean grins, the possessive fire in his eyes replaced by warmth. "Like hell I did."
