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you're welcome
No way
gimme a chance
three times beau maxwell proves to you that he is boyfriend material, and the one time you decide to let yourself fall for his charms
PAIRINGS: beau maxwell x fem!reader, beau maxwell x curvy!reader
WARNINGS: reader is described as curvy, slightly shorter than beau with a naturally wavy/curly hair pattern, angsty as hell, fluffy as hell, deeply insecure self-talk, hardly any self-confidence, yearning, golden retriever energy (ala beau maxwell), dramatic confession
WORD COUNT: 4.3k
🎶 : boyfriend - justin bieber
AN: 🩵♥️💗 - i love this fic with my whole soul. i thought of this after seeing an edit on tiktok of beau to this song and i just ran with it. please enjoy and feel free to leave a comment!
one: the Sig Tau darty
You don’t like partying.
If you got into the gory details of it all, you’d find that wasn’t true.
You loved partying in its truest and purest form. You loved talking with your friends, dancing for hours and hours, and looking at the stars on the walk home. The dark was where you thrived: no one could see the sweat that built up on your brow, or your slightly disheveled appearance. Night served as a cloak, and it only built up your confidence. (Which, if you were being honest with yourself, wasn’t exactly very good to begin with.)
You loved partying, not dartying.
It was always too bright. Everyone could see your hair transform from perfectly blown out to your natural texture. In fact, if you were to take a photo of your hair every couple minutes and put it into stop motion, that short film would make it to the Cannes Film Festival. Plus, people got weird when they drank during the day.
Yet here you were.
Because Beau Maxwell had convinced you to come.
He’d asked you once, very casually, and you had to sit him down and explain why you detested darties. He honestly understood, but that hadn’t stopped his eyes from molding into the same melancholy look of a kicked puppy’s.
Dean tracked you down after and told you that your rejection had killed his spirit.
You hated how easily you caved after that.
So here you were at three in the afternoon on a Saturday.
Your jeans clung to your slightly damp skin, your top (a light green with florals and many fluttery layers) skillfully hid your rolls. Your hair was blown out, your makeup perfectly done (besides the beads of sweat building up on your brow), and your sunglasses were perched neatly on your nose.
In other words, you felt good. Hot, even.
There was one issue though. You’d yet to see Beau. Who, even if you were too scared to say it outloud, was the whole reason you were here.
You nervously fidgeted with your purse while taking a leisurely sip of the Sig Tau bucket. It tasted like a Dirty Shirley, but you couldn’t be sure.
“Come here often?”
“Nope.” You smiled lightly as your eyes scanned the crowd. “Just waiting on a friend.”
“Oh?” The frat brother was not leaving. Great. You tried to come across as friendly, but not friendly enough that it felt flirty. Obviously, you did not succeed. “If she’s half as beautiful as you, we’re in for a treat?”
There were so many things wrong with that statement, that you simply did not have time to unpack it. “He is on the way, so…”
“He?” This statement only seemed to egg on his flirtations. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Not exactly.” You thanked whatever was above that your glasses hid your deadly glare. “Look it was nice talking to you, but I should really get-”
“He obviously isn’t interested enough to stay by your side. Whereas I-”
“Am making someone extremely uncomfortable?” You raised a brow, officially done with playing nice.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” You took your glasses off, placing them on your head. “This entire conversation you have done nothing but talk over me and treat me as an object. I honestly thought that maybe you’d respect the threat of another man coming over here. But still, you persisted.” You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out ever so slightly. “You are the very worst of what Sig Tau has to offer.”
“You’re a-”
“Is there a problem here?” Beau’s voice broke through the tense air. “What’s going on, Tucker?”
“Maxwell.” Tucker seemingly cowered at the sight of Briar’s beloved quarterback. Good, serves him right.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Beau’s cologne flooded your senses. “Is there a problem here?”
“No.” Tucker shook his head quickly. “No problem.”
“Huh.” Beau’s eyes stayed on the boy as he addressed you. “Is there a problem here, Killer?”
Killer. A nickname you’d earned after tearing Beau to shreds. You were in a bad mood, and once you set your sights on Beau, there was no turning back. You’d apologized profusely, but it was too late. He’d dubbed you Killer, and the nickname had stuck ever since.
“Not anymore.” You responded. “I think Turner here was just leaving.”
“Tucker, but, yea.” Turner nodded. “Bye.”
Beau scoffed, mumbling under his breath. “I am so reporting his ass to standards.”
“That is so kind of you.” You imitated, turning around to face the boy. “How are you?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He frowned. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, which were grazing yours just barely. You could tell he was itching to reach out and hold you, to make sure you were alright. Deciding to put him out of his misery, you settled on a nice arm squeeze.
“I’m fine. But thank you.” You genuinely smiled at the boy, your hand still lingering on his arm. (It was hard not to notice exactly how muscular he was.) “Seriously. I had no idea where that was going.”
“Don’t worry. If I have it my way, Tucker won’t be a brother for much longer.”
You smirked, stepping just a hair closer, testing the waters. “And we all know the influence you have.”
“Are you having fun?” He laughed. “Besides the whole-”
“I’m having a great time.” Liar.
“And to think,” His pointer finger wrapped around yours. “That you hate darties. Now look at you.”
“What can I say?” You shrugged. “I’m a changed woman.”
“You know,” he was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. “I was just about to play a game of pong. I don’t know if you’d be down, but I need a partner.”
Something about seeing him reduced to a bumbling nervous mess made you incredibly mushy inside. “I’m down.” You smiled. “I’m so down. Lead the way.”
And when his hand tightened its grasp on yours, you said nothing, simply following after him.
two: the spa day
This was stupid. There was no way that he would want to do this.
Spa day was originally a girls' night. All of your roommates had excitedly put the event into their calendars. Then, suspiciously, hours before, all of their boyfriends had decided to take them out for a date, a date that they just couldn’t get out of.
They later confessed with not a shred of guilt in their tones.
They were giggling when they told you. Actually giggling in your face as they destroyed your girls night. The smug bastards. Grace at least gave you the courtesy of apoligizing.
“We’re sorry, but we knew you would never do it on your own. You need to make sure he knows you’re interested, babe. And what better way than a chill night in? Just the two of you.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Alone.”
“We want to see you in love.” Malia added on. “You deserve it.”
“And in order to do that-” Grace continued. “You need to be vulnerable.”
The phone is ringing longer than normal, and you take that as a sign to hang up. The second you pull the phone away from your ear, Beau’s voice rings out like a beacon in the dark. “Hello?” Your throat closes, and suddenly, you’ve forgotten how to speak. Why were you so nervous? “Killer? Are you there?”
“Hi.” You put him on speaker as you pace around your apartment, your voice crackling. “Are you, um…” You take a deep breath. “Are you busy right now?” You can hear Dean in the background, as well as some of the other hockey guys. Shit. “This was crazy, sorry for bothering-”
“I’m not busy at all.” Dean groans, and you can hear Beau hiss at him to ‘shut up’. “What’s up?”
“My roommates and I were supposed to have a spa day today, but they all backed out at the last minute. And I know this is stupid, so I honestly wouldn’t blame you for saying no, but I was wondering-”
“Yes.”
“Yes to this is stupid, or yes to-”
“To the spa day.” Beau laughed. “Yes to the spa day.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He sounded like he was smiling. God, you hoped he was smiling. “I’m on the way. Do you need anything?”
“I have snacks and wine and face masks, so I’m good.”
“Give me ten minutes.” It takes at least twenty minutes to get to your apartment from the hockey house. He most definitely drove over the speed limit, because ten minutes later, Beau was at your door.
You whipped it open, trying your best to look disappointed. “How many minor traffic laws did you break?”
“Only a few.” He grinned. “Can I come in?”
“Please.” You shut the door behind him, watching as he walked around your living room.
“It’s different from the last time I was here.”
Ah, yes, the last time he was here.
Sophomore year, you had had too much to drink. After making Beau swear that he would take care of you, your roommates all left the party. And take care of you he did. The entire night he stayed by your side, guarded your drinks, danced, and even laid with you on the grass to look at the stars.
When you were ready to leave, so was he. He walked you all the way home, took off your makeup, and tucked you into bed. Looking back, Beau had always been boyfriend material. Even when you were just mutual friends. That was just Beau though, he was kind to a fault.
“We went with a coastal grandmother vibe this year.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “As opposed to the ‘barbie hot pink’ vibe.”
“Exactly.” You laughed. “You get it.”
“This face mask is cold.”
“Did you expect it to be warm?” You mumble, carefully spreading the mask around his face. “It’s supposed to help your skin glow.”
“Do you think my skin needs to glow more than it already does?”
A snort escaped you before you could help it. “Just think, you’ll like the sun baby from Teletubbies after this.”
“I’ve always wanted to look like her.” “Really?” Giggles snuck out between every word. “Trust me. With the help of this mask, people are going to have to wear shades to look at you.”
“They already do.” He wiggled his brows. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because my future’s so bright.”
You closed your eyes. “You did not just say that.”
“I’m not ashamed.” He smirked. “What does the one that you’re wearing do?”
“It uh-” You opened your eyes, suddenly realizing how close the two of you are. There’s no other way to put it: you were sitting on his lap, straddling him as you applied his mask. “It’s supposed to hydrate your skin while cooling it down. Sometimes-” Your breath hitches as his hands drift up from your hips to your waist. Normally, you’d flinch. You’re extremely uncomfortable with people being anywhere near your rolls, but with Beau, you crave more. Always more. “My moisturizer doesn’t exactly do the trick, and I use this face mask to rejuvenate.”
“Huh.” His smile could make flowers bloom. “So that’s why your skin looks so dewy.”
Your head falls back as the giggles take over once again. “Dewy?”
“What’s so funny?” His hands squeeze ever so slightly. “Your skin is dewy.”
“You’re perfect.” You laugh. “Who taught you how to use that word?”
“Learned it all on my own, thank you very much.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” You focus back on the task at hand. “Now hold still, I’m almost done.”
He tried to contain his smile as he tipped his head back. “Yes, ma’am.”
three: the gala
“Football’s biggest fundraiser of the year is coming up.”
You look up from your textbook. “That’s cool.”
“It’s a silent auction, gala, sort of thing. Briar’s entire board of trustees normally attends. We also invite our biggest donors, parents, and friends.”
“Sounds like a fun night, Beau.” You smile, trying not to be obvious about the fact that you’re talking in the middle of a lecture. “Is it fancy?”
“The fanciest.” He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. “Would you want to go?”
“To the gala?” You hummed. “With you?”
“Yes?” He sounds scared.
“I’d love to.” You looked over, covering your mouth to hold back the laughter. “Breathe, Maxwell. You know I can’t say no to you.”
“I just don’t want you to go because you feel obligated or anything-”
“I don’t feel obligated, Beau.” You smiled. “I want to go with you.”
“Good.” He smiled back. “Good.”
“I’ll have to buy a new dress.”
“Of course.” He sounds so sure when he says it, that you just know he’s gonna weasel himself into coming along with you.
“Is there a color scheme?”
“Normally I see the girls wearing navy blue, red, black, that sort of stuff.”
“Briar colors?” You nod slowly, envisioning the possibilities. “I can work with that.”
“You know you’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear.”
Your cheeks could cook an egg. “That’s sweet of you to say but-”
“Am I interrupting something?” Your professor stared at the two of you. “Is Mr. Maxwell distracting you?”
“Not at all.” You smiled brightly. “I was just clarifying something for him.”
“Mhm.” She was not convinced. “Raise your hand next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Beau replied. “Will do.”
You waited a minute before continuing. “Is there dancing?”
“So much dancing.”
“Good.” You grinned. “I love dancing.”
“I know.” His pen tapped against the table at a million miles a minute. “I know you love to dance.”
“Relax, Killer.” Beau leans over, whispering in your ear.
“I’m very relaxed.”
“You’re messing with your dress a lot for someone who’s relaxed.”
“Do you always notice everything I do?” A scowl forms on your lips.
He hums. “Usually.”
“Oh.” You don’t have a retort for that. “I should have gone with the black one. It’s more slimming and-”
“You look beautiful. Like a movie star.” His eyes bear into yours, with a look that almost feels like he’s daring you to disagree with him. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.” You whisper. “Are you sure it’s not too much-”
“Killer, don’t make me do something drastic.”
“Drastic?” You raised a brow. “And what exactly would that entail?”
“Do you really want to know?” He put the car into park, staring at you.
“That’s why I asked.”
He smirked, running around to open your door. “I guess I’d have to prove to you just how beautiful I think you are.”
“Oh.” Your breath hitched as he extended his hand for you to take. “I’ll take your word for it then.”
“Thought you might.” He handed his keys to the valet, walking you into the venue. Jazz standards and small talk filled the air, with people packed into the hotel ballroom as far as the eye could see.
Beau was immediately bombarded with fans, board members, and the like. He smiled, shook hands, and introduced you to every single one of them. He talked his way through a million conversations like it was easy, like this was just another day. He’d grabbed you champagne without you even having to ask, handing it to you mid-conversation.
After what felt like an hour of talking, you’d finally found yourselves alone. Or at least, able to talk to each other without another person present. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” He tilted his head.
“You just seemed so-” Your cheeks feel hot. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s his attention. “So natural talking to all those people.”
“I like to talk, so it works out.”
“No that’s not it.” You shook your head. “You’re just so-”
“So?” His hand found its way to your waist.
“So confident. So quick witted and kind. A natural leader.” Your hands, now free of a champagne glass, found themselves placed gently on his chest. You can’t help but think that to an outsider, it must look like the two of you were about to kiss. “It’s admirable. You’re amazing.”
“Wow.” He grinned, his hands falling to your hips as he spoke. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.”
“Don’t let it get to your head.” You laughed. Your eyes drifted from his lips to his bow. “Your bow is crooked.”
“Oh.” He looked down, frowning.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Your hands reached up, fidgeting with it until it was just right. When you were done, you leaned back, admiring your work and smoothing out his jacket. Was it sort of an excuse to rub your hands down his chest?
Maybe.
Beau must have been holding his breath, because when you’d finished, his chest practically heaved. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Killer.” His voice broke.
“Beau.” This felt like something out of a fairytale.
“Do you want to dance?”
“Yes.” You sound breathless.
He grabbed your hand, leading you through the crowd. The dance floor is in sight when an older man and his wife steps in front of him. “Mr. Maxwell.”
“Sir, ma’am.” Beau smiles kindly. “How are you?”
“I’m great. You were fantastic this season. Lots of talk regarding the draft.”
“Thank you sir.” It’s hard to miss the way the quarterback’s eyes light up.
“Do you have time to talk?”
“I-” Beau looks back at you, and then at the man. “Sorry sir. I need to dance with my date.”
“Understood.” The older man smiles at you. “Miss.”
You nod, staring over your shoulder and Beau leads you the rest of the way. “Who was that?”
“Oh him?” Beau shrugs, twirling you into his arms. “He’s the head coach of the Buffalo Bills.”
“What?” You’re gawking, you can feel it. “Beau, go talk to him.”
“Do you not want to dance?” His hands find their place, gently swaying to the music. “Of course I want to dance. But I can wait.”
“Well, so can he.” He’s holding you so close it feels like you’re one person.
“That man could get you a career, Beau. It’s really not worth it.”
“It is to me.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “You’re worth it.”
You were gawking again. You can’t think of anything to say, and so, you lean your head against his chest and dance with him for what felt like forever.
And when the dance is over, he guides you back towards the Buffalo Bills coach with his hand on the small of your back. “Sir.”
“You have a good one here.” The man smiles.
“Thank you.” Your arm wraps around Beau’s. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Joey Brady, and this is my wife Lauren.”
“It’s so nice to meet you.” Lauren sticks her hand out, and you shake it.
“It’s nice to meet you as well.”
“Did you have fun dancing?” Lauren replies. “It’s so rare to find a moment to slow dance anymore.”
“I agree.” You smile. “Thank you for waiting.”
“No need to thank us.” Mr. Brady smiles. “I would do the same.”
The conversation flows easily between the four of you. The night ends before you can blink. You and Beau are leaning against the bar, nursing a couple of espresso martinis when the bartender yells out last call.
“Shall we?” You tilt your head, pushing your drink away.
“We shall.” he grins, shrugging off his coat. “Here.”
“You really don’t need to.”
“Take the coat, Killer.”
You gladly take the warm, cologne soaked coat from his hands, pulling it close. “If you insist.”
one: the conversation that changed everything
So this was what heartbreak felt like.
Yesterday, Briar Hockey threw a party. Of course, you went. You had fun, played Pong, danced (of course), and you’d even stayed longer than normal, watching ‘America’s Got Talent Worst Auditions’ with Dean and Beau until the wee hours of the night. And, in the deep moments of tired delusion, you’d left your things behind.
Most notably, your hoodie and purse.
You’d texted Garrett asking when a good time to come over was, and he’d said whenever. Your fist had been raised, you’d almost knocked. And then you heard it.
“She’s been leading you on, man.” Some Sig Tau brother.
Beau’s voice cuts through. “No she hasn’t.”
“She kind of has, though.” Some other Sig Tau brother. Dean must have been hosting some brotherly bonding event.
“What do you know about it?” Dean. You smiled to yourself. “Some girls take a little longer to warm up. That doesn’t mean that they’re leading you on.”
“It’s been four years, man.”
Beau scoffed. “Are you guys keeping track or something?”
“Maxwell, you have to admit, it’s crazy that she still hasn’t-” The first Sig Tau brother speaks up. “You know.”
“No I don’t, you know.” Beau sounds heavily annoyed. “And you should stop talking about her like you know her. You have no idea what she’s been through or what she’s actually like. You’ve talked to her once, dude. In class.”
“She’s not exactly the easiest person to talk to.” He had a point.
“Or the nicest.”
“I guess that’s why she’s called Killer.” The second Sig Tau brother mutters.
Tears threaten to spill over your water line. “Hold on a second. When did this turn into a ‘let's all be dickhead’s’ party?” Dean, once again.
“If she needs to take her time, then I’ll do anything she needs me to-” Beau’s voice grows in volume, but you sort of black out from the sheer embarrassment of it all. “And for however long she wants. I’m sorry you assholes don’t understand what being in lo-”
You step back, the floor board creaking under the weight. A gasp leaves your lips before you can help it, and you know you’ve been caught. The only reasonable thought that passes through your mind is to run.
So you do.
Or at least, you try to. You get down the porch steps and to the sidewalk when the door swings open, and Beau Maxwell calls out your name. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough.”
He frowns. “They’re dicks.”
“Beau-” A single tear falls. “I- I shouldn’t have been here. It’s really okay-”
“Killer.” He approaches you carefully, like you’re a stray dog. Like you’re going to bite at any minute. Because, in all fairness, you might. It’s your defense mechanism after all, and it kills you that you’ve made him feel like he has to walk on eggshells around you. “Don’t listen to them. They’re stupid, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“They’re not stupid.” You shook your head. “They’re right, and you know they are.”
“What?” This is the first time you’ve seen Beau look even slightly annoyed in your presence. You never want to see him look like that again. “What are you saying right now?”
“Beau-” You sob, hugging yourself. “I- It’s all my fault, why we haven’t-”
“Haven’t what?” He steps closer. “Haven’t what, baby?”
That’s new. “We could have been something this whole time, and I- I’ve held us back.”
“You haven’t held us back.” He shook his head. “How could you think that?”
You’re fully sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for projecting my insecurities on you. You just- you don’t understand what it’s like.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.” He whispered. “You have to know that.”
“Boys see someone like me and they laugh. It’s just the truth. Eventually, after years of being asked out as a joke, I decided that it was easier to be harsh and mean than it was to be kind and vulnerable. I became resentful, and harsh to cover up the fact that I-” You laughed, angrily wiping away your wet cheeks. “I wanted what everyone else had.”
“Baby-”
“And then you came along, all kind and pure, and I thought, this must be a joke. A bet him and his friends made. And then you kept talking to me. You hung out with me, you introduced me to your friends, and I was like maybe, maybe you liked me.”
“I do.” He’s now in front of you.
You almost step back from the shock of it all. “You care about me, even when I treat you like shit.”
“You don’t treat me like shit.”
“I do.” You whisper. “I do and you know it. I push you away, and you always come back.”
“Because I love you.” He sounds as confident as ever, like he’s barking out orders on the field. Like what he just said is something he’s said a million times. “And I’ve always known it, deep down. From the day you tore into me, I told myself that if it took a million years, I was gonna get you to trust me. And if it took another million, I was going to wait for you to love me back.”
“You’re determined.”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “I guess I am. Others could say I’m in love.”
Your stomach flipped as you spoke. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“About what exactly?”
“You don’t have to wait for me to love you back.”
The look of sheer panic was replaced with one of a pure smug nature. “Is that so?”
“I’ve loved you always. But I especially love you right now.”
He lunged forward, lips colliding against yours, and his hands holding your face as if it were made of glass. He’s no longer afraid to hold you. No longer are you a stray feral killer. You are in love with a man who knows all of you and chooses to stay.
He leans his forehead against yours, and his hands fall to your waist.
And, selfishly, you want more.
Always more.
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LOML - drabble
beau maxwell x reader
(spoilers ahead)
you said I'm the love of your life
The football field is too quiet for someone like Beau.
That's the first thing you think, sitting in the row of bleachers with your hands folded so tight your knuckles have gone white. Beau was never quiet. Beau was a laugh that filled a room before he even walked into it, was elbows on the kitchen counter and bad jokes at midnight and that grin he saved for when he knew he was being annoying and didn't care even a little.
The football field is too quiet and the flowers are wrong and none of this is right.
Joanna stands at the front. You don't know how she's doing it, standing up there with her spine straight and her chin lifted, the way you only stand when you've decided that falling apart is something you'll do later, alone, where no one can see. She starts to sing, and the first note of Let It Be settles over the open air like something ancient and unbearable.
You stop breathing.
if you know it in one glimpse, it's legendary
You remember a Tuesday. You don't know why it's a Tuesday specifically, but it is, you can feel it in the tone of the light coming through the kitchen window, pale and unhurried. Beau was making coffee he didn't know how to make, arguing with the machine like it owed him something, and you were sitting on the counter watching him with your chin in your hand.
"You're going to break it," you said.
"I'm not going to break it."
"Beau."
"I'm not —" and then the machine made a horrible sound and he turned around with this look on his face, completely unrepentant, delighted, and you laughed so hard you nearly fell off the counter.
He caught you. He always caught you.
Johanna's voice cracks and you feel it split something open in your chest.
it was legendary. it was momentary. it was unnecessary. should've let it stay buried.
Except that's the thing you keep circling back to, the thing that feels like swallowing glass, you wouldn't. You wouldn't undo a single Tuesday. Wouldn't unfeel any of it to hurt less now. You would choose him again in every version of this, walk straight into loving him with your eyes wide open knowing exactly where it ends, and that feels like the cruelest part of all.
our field of dreams engulfed in fire. and I'll still see it until I die.
Joanna finishes. The last note dissolves into the open sky.
You unfold your hands. Look down at the marks your own fingers left.
Beau would have said something unbearable right now. Something that made you laugh and hate him a little for it. He would have leaned over and whispered something stupid right in the middle of all this solemnity, and you would have had to press your face into his shoulder to muffle it.
You sit in the third row of bleachers.
The football field is too quiet for someone like Beau.
you're the loss of my life.
no bc it’s actually pissing me off that they’re just sitting there looking like that. MOCKING me!
Thigh high
John Tucker x Reader
Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.
word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.
It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."
Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.
Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.
Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—
"Uh, darlin'?"
Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.
You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.
"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.
"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."
"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."
"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."
Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.
The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.
You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.
"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"
Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.
"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"
"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."
Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."
You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.
You just stared.
Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.
He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.
You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.
"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.
He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.
Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.
A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.
"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"
You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.
"Yes," you whimpered.
The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.
He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.
"Come here."
Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.
Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.
The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.
"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.
Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.
The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.
Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."
All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.
The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.
The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.
As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.
You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.
He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.
"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."
You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.
His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.
Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.
"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."
He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.
"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."
@addisondavenport @slvrstrs @coolfrogs868 @ficdelusioncore @kristenm74 @jujuonthatbeat1357 @ayeeshuh @linnygirl09 @unknownsangel2 @rollsonrollss
✮ Dean doesn't fit in you after a week away :< !
“ow.”
“i haven’t even put it in yet.”
“then why does it already hurt?” you pout.
you’re flat on your back, legs hiked up, hands gripping the sheets like you’re about to be launched into orbit. dean is between your thighs, hovering on his elbows, his chest still heaving from the five minutes of frantic kissing that got you here. he’s golden all over—tanned skin, sweat-slick shoulders, that stupidly perfect hair already falling into his eyes. and his dick. hard. thick. pressing against your entrance like it’s trying to negotiate entry.
you haven’t done this in a week. not ‘cause anything’s wrong. he just had a match, a week long one. and now he’s here. saturday morning, sun bleeding through the curtains just right and he’s got that look in his eyes. the one that says:
‘i’ve-been-thinking-about-this-for-seven-straight-days’
except.
it doesn’t fit.
“did you get bigger?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
he blinks down at you. “what, like my dick went to the gym while i was gone?”
you smack his shoulder. “i’m serious! it never felt like a fucking pillar before.”
“maybe your pussy got shy. it missed me. it’s clamping up like a clam.”
“maybe your ego expanded so much it pushed all the blood flow south.”
he grins, slow and lazy, and kisses your collarbone. “god i missed you.”
you soften,smile curling your lips again. “i missed you too. just not...like this. impaled on a pillar.”
he snorts, then drops his forehead to your chest, groaning dramatically.
“this is tragic. my girl can’t take my dick anymore. how will we survive.”
“we could just cuddle. like normal people.”
he lifts his head, scandalised. “cuddle? baby. fuck no. i literally flew nine hours. i ate airplane pasta for you. you can’t take this from me.”
you burst out laughing. “what? what does airplane pasta have to do with anything?”
“everything. it was ass. i suffered. now i need my reward.”
you wipe your eyes, still laughing softly. “you’re so dramatic.”
but then you look at him proper – messy hair, pink cheeks, that sharp jawline, the way his eyes are soft even when he’s teasing. and you want him. even if it hurts a little. even if you’re tight and out of practice and your body forgot how to relax around him.
you bite your lip. “what if...we just leave it in. for a bit.”
his eyebrows shoot up. “you mean cockwarming?”
you roll your eyes. “don’t make it weird.”
“you want to sit on my dick like a lil’ space heater. say it.”
“dean.”
“fine, fine.”
he laughs, but he obliges. slowly – agonisingly slowly – he pushes in just the tip. then a little more. you hiss, and he stops immediately, his voice dropping soft.
“you okay?”
you nod, breathless. “just....thick. too thick. you’re like a freaking light post.”
he snickers. “and you’re a stale croissant. tight and unyielding.”
“that’s not sexy.”
“you’re not sexy.”
“take it back.”
“no.”
but then he leans down and kisses your forehead with a loud smooch. his hand comes up to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the tangles. and he doesn’t move – not a single thrust – just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, his weight a warm, solid pressure.
“this is kinda nice,” you whisper.
“i know. you’re warm. like a little oven.”
you flick his forehead, but you’re smiling. his eyes are closed, his breathing evening out. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he hums, content.
you fall asleep like that – him still inside, you curled around him, both of you finally still. and when you wake up the next morning?
oh yup.
it fits juuuuuust fine now.
© ririsaltar
taglist: @raevyng @coastalcowgirlie @bonjourjiminie @kelbrave @skankhvnt42 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @harrrrystylesslut @raf3cam3r0n @ghoulmetery @sexychickenmagnet @kittykatnookie @sweetstephie @wiishies @aria1108 @remuslupinwifee @loverloganlogan @tabisswag @justkeepingitpeachy @baeeyarr @ihatepeanutss
💌: you can't convince me dean would not call you a stale croissant.
ON TOP
pairing — dean di laurentis x fem!reader
summary — when you admit you’ve never been on top before, dean decides there’s no better place to learn than his bed.
warnings — 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, insecurity, first time riding, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, boob play, clit stimulation, missionary, soft aftercare.
word count — 3,468.
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ORIGINAL MASTERLIST)
You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.
Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.
It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.
He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.
"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.
Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."
"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.
"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."
You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."
"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."
"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.
"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.
You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.
Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."
"Don't start."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were about to, and we both know it."
He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.
Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.
His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.
"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.
Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"
"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."
His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"
Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."
"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.
"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.
He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."
"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."
Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."
You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."
"I'm great at comfort."
"You're absolutely not."
"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."
You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.
Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"
You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.
His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."
"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.
"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.
The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.
"Don't do that," he murmured.
You blinked at him. "Do what?"
"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."
Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.
Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.
That helped more than anything else could have.
By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.
"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."
You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."
You froze immediately. "Bad?"
His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"
"You made a face."
"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."
Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.
"You're not just saying that?"
Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."
So you did, moving slowly at first.
Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.
"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.
Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"
"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.
His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."
Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.
Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."
"I'm trying."
"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."
The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.
You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.
Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.
His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.
"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.
Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."
That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.
Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.
"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.
"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."
Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."
His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.
Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"
Your stomach fluttered.
His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."
You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.
Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.
That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"
His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."
Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.
"Oh—Dean."
His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."
"You're distracting me."
"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."
You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.
"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."
You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."
"Yeah?"
"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."
You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."
Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.
Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.
"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.
The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.
Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.
"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."
"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.
Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.
"Come here," he murmured.
Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.
Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.
Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."
"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.
Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.
"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."
"Dean," you whimpered.
"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."
His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.
"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.
He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."
The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.
Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.
For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."
His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."
Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."
"And you were so loud."
"Dean."
"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."
You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.
"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.
"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."
You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.
For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.
"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"
You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.
Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."
💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist
DEAN DI LAURENTIS TAGLIST: @elixirandstars @ethanthequeefqueen @beebeechaos
minors do not interact with 18+ content.
do not repost, copy, translate, or feed my work into ai.
🏒 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — john tucker x fem!reader
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — tucker thinks you’re pulling away from him. the truth is much bigger than either of you know how to hold.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — accidental pregnancy, pregnancy test, established relationship, emotional argument, fear of the future, realistic panic, crying, supportive but scared tucker, no smut.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 3,979
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫's 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — i told myself that if i reached 600 subscribers today, i’d post another one-shot before tomorrow's post. we’re currently at 657 subscribers, so here's another one-shot about Tucker (Jalen’s constantly on my mind). i’m sorry in advance for what you're about to see (i cried while proofreading it). thank you for your support, I love you all. and tomorrow, the one-shot about Beau is coming <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my temporary taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
Tucker knew something was wrong. You hated that he knew.
You hated that he knew you well enough to tell the difference between tired and quiet, between busy and avoiding, between I’m fine and please don’t ask me again because I’ll fall apart if you do.
He noticed everything. Usually, you loved that about him.
Usually, it felt like one of the safest things in the world, the way Tucker paid attention without making a performance out of it. He noticed when you were cold before you said anything, when parties started to overwhelm you, and when you were hungry but too stubborn to admit it. He remembered the kind of coffee you liked, the songs you skipped, and the exact look you got when Dean said something that made you want to throw something.
He noticed because that was how Tucker loved you, quietly and steadily and carefully, and now all that care felt like a light pointed straight at the thing you were trying to hide.
At first, you told yourself it was stress. Your period was late, sure, but not late enough to panic.
By the second day, you decided your body was just being weird. On the third, you stopped looking at the calendar. By the fifth, you knew—not for sure, but enough. Something heavy had already settled in your stomach before you even bought the test, a quiet, awful certainty that made your hands shake as you stood in the pharmacy aisle, staring at pink boxes and trying not to cry in public.
You bought three, and you didn’t really know why, maybe because one felt too fragile, too easy to doubt. Maybe because part of you wanted the universe to have to say it more than once.
It did. All three were positive.
Three little answers sat lined up on your bathroom counter, blunt and impossible, nothing like the moments in movies where music swelled, and people somehow knew what to do with their faces.
You just sat down on the floor and stayed there for a long time, until your phone buzzed beside your thigh.
tuck
hey baby, you still coming over tonight?
You stared at his name until it blurred. Then you turned your phone face down and cried so quietly it made your throat ache.
After that, everything became about avoiding him without making it obvious, which was impossible because Tucker had never been stupid.
You canceled on him that night.
Then the next one.
You stopped going to the hockey house because you couldn’t stand the thought of sitting beside him on the couch while everyone yelled around you, pretending nothing had changed when your life had already split into before and after. You stopped staying over because his room felt too much like the place where it had happened, not the test, but the ordinary night that hadn’t seemed important enough to remember in pieces.
You and Tucker had always been careful. That was the part you kept circling back to until it made you feel sick.
You’d been careful. He’d been careful, because of course he had. He was Tucker. He always asked if you were okay before kissing you deeper. He checked in even when you rolled your eyes and told him he was being too sweet. For Tucker, responsibility had always been another kind of love.
And still, it had happened.
The sixth time you ignored one of his calls, you pressed your phone to your chest afterward and whispered, “I’m sorry,” to a room that couldn’t answer.
The next day, he stopped texting as much. He never stopped completely, but there was less of him on your screen.
Somehow, that was worse.
Somehow, that was worse, because it meant he thought space was what you wanted, and because you were hurting him, but he was still trying to be kind about it.
By Thursday night, you were sitting on the floor beside your bed, staring at the drawer where you’d hidden the tests, when there was a knock on your apartment door.
You went still.
Another knock followed, gentler this time, and then came his voice.
“Baby?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. No, not tonight. Please, not tonight.
“It’s me,” Tucker called softly through the door, as if you didn’t know, as if your heart wasn’t already trying to crawl out of your chest.
You didn’t move.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence from the hallway.
Then his voice came quieter. “Hannah told me you were home.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh, because of course she did. You’d deal with Hannah later. Right now, Tucker was outside your door, and three positive pregnancy tests were hidden in your nightstand.
You pushed yourself to your feet on unsteady legs and crossed the room. Your hand hovered over the doorknob for too long before you finally opened it.
Tucker stood in the hallway in sweats and a faded Briar Hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower, like he’d come straight over after practice. He looked tired, but not just physically.
His eyes softened when he saw you, but something in his face stayed guarded, like he was bracing for bad news and hated that he had to.
“Hey,” Tucker said softly.
Your throat felt raw, but you still managed, “Hey.”
He looked at you a little too long. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’m fine,” you lied.
His mouth tightened just barely, but you saw it. “You keep saying that.”
You looked down when you said it. “Because I am.”
Tucker was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was still gentle but firmer than before.
“Can I come in?”
You wanted to tell him no. You wanted to shut the door and sit alone with the truth for just a little longer, even though it’d already hollowed you out. But Tucker looked like you’d already been shutting doors in his face for days, so you stepped back and let him in.
He stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind him, and your room had never felt smaller.
The room felt different with him in it.
Tucker glanced around once, not because he was nosy, but because he noticed things, especially when you were falling apart. The unmade bed. His hoodie, the one you’d been sleeping in, was shoved halfway under your pillow like hiding it could make you miss him less. The mug on your desk with cold tea you hadn’t touched.
His eyes flicked to your nightstand, just for a second, before coming back to you.
You hated how quickly he noticed, and you hated even more how much you loved him for not asking yet.
“I’m not here to pressure you,” he said.
You crossed your arms over your chest, as that could somehow hold you together. “Okay.”
“I mean it,” he promised.
“I said okay,” you muttered.
He flinched a little, not dramatically, but enough for you to see it.
You wanted to take it back the second it left your mouth, but you didn’t know how. Apologizing felt dangerous, like one soft word might make you unravel.
Tucker pushed a hand through his hair and looked away for a second.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I’ve tried to be patient because I thought maybe you needed space, but I’m worried about you.”
“I do,” you answered too quickly, and his gaze found yours again.
“From me?” His voice went quieter.
Your chest tightened, and his name barely made it out. “Tuck—”
“Is it me?”
You couldn’t answer, and that was answer enough.
He nodded once, as he understood, but it wasn’t agreement. It was the look of someone trying to absorb the hit without making it their problem.
“Okay.”
You hated the way that word landed, hated the way he said it so low and carefully, like he was placing something sharp between you.
“It’s not like that,” you got out.
“I don’t know what it’s like.” His voice cracked a little, and he looked away again. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Your throat burned around his name. “Tucker.”
He let out a hard breath through his nose. “I’ve been trying to figure out what I did.”
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
His eyes were wet, though he wasn’t crying yet, only close enough to make you feel like the worst person alive.
“I keep replaying everything,” he said. “The last few weeks. The last time you came over. The game. That night.” His jaw tightened around the words. “I keep thinking maybe I pushed you somehow, or missed something, or said something stupid and didn’t realize it.”
“No,” you got out quickly.
“Then what is it?” His voice was quiet now.
You shook your head because the words still wouldn’t come. “I can’t.”
Tucker stared at you like he was trying to understand how to reach you, but the hurt on his face only deepened.
“You can’t tell me?” he asked.
“I don’t know how,” you admitted.
“Try.”
A brittle laugh slipped out of you. “It’s not that simple.”
“I’m not asking you to make it simple.”
“You don’t want this.”
Tucker went still, and for a second, neither of you seemed to breathe.
When Tucker spoke again, his voice had lost some of its steadiness. “Are you breaking up with me?”
The question cracked something open inside you.
“What? No.” The answer came out fast, almost frantic.
“Then why does it feel like you are?”
“I’m not.”
“You won’t call me back. You won’t come over. You barely answer texts. You don’t look at me when I see you.” His voice stayed quiet, but the panic underneath it was starting to fray. “What else am I supposed to think?”
“You’re supposed to leave it alone,” you snapped, and regretted it immediately.
Something in Tucker’s face changed, and it would’ve been easier if it had been anger. He looked like you’d finally said out loud the thing he’d been afraid of hearing.
He nodded slowly and took a step back, like he was trying to give you exactly what you’d asked for.
“Right,” he said, and panic shot through you before you could stop it, because he sounded like he was giving up.
“Tuck—”
“No, I get it.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t want to be the guy who keeps pushing when you’re asking me not to.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I just needed to know if I did something wrong.”
You couldn’t breathe, not when he looked so sad, not when he was still trying to respect you, and not when you’d somehow made him think this was his fault.
Suddenly, the truth felt too heavy to keep holding alone.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Tuck.” His gaze lifted to yours, and you heard your own breath shake. “I’m pregnant.”
For a second, it felt like everything stopped. The words didn’t echo because they didn’t need to. They just landed between you and sat there, impossible to take back.
Tucker stared at you like he was afraid to move.
For a moment, nothing happened. There was no movement, no sound, no immediate reaching for you, no perfect line or soft, cinematic promise. Just Tucker, frozen, his face going blank like every thought in his head had disappeared at once.
Then Tucker blinked once, and his gaze dropped, not quite to your stomach, just down, like he couldn’t help it, before coming back to your face.
“What?” he breathed, barely above a whisper.
Your arms tightened around yourself as you said it again. “I’m pregnant.”
His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. The color slowly drained from his face, and you watched the moment he understood.
The color slowly drained from his face, and you watched the moment he understood, watched as the boy who always knew what to do with his hands suddenly had no idea where to put them.
He stepped back once and sat down on the edge of your bed.
He took one step back and sat down on the edge of your bed, not because he was leaving or because he didn’t love you, but because his legs looked like they’d forgotten how to hold him up.
Seeing him like that made you want to disappear.
“I’m sorry,” you got out.
Tucker’s head lifted sharply, but no words came, and that was the part that hurt.
You knew he was shocked, knew he needed time, knew, logically, that no one could respond perfectly to those words. But his silence cracked open every fear you’d been carrying for days.
“I’m sorry,” you repeated, faster now. “I know we were careful, I swear. I don’t know how it happened. I took three tests, and they were all—”
“Three?” he echoed.
You nodded, and the tears finally spilled over. “Yeah.”
His gaze drifted toward the nightstand, like he couldn’t help it, and this time, you didn’t miss it.
“They’re in there,” you whispered, nodding toward the nightstand.
He didn’t reach for it. He just stared at the drawer like maybe it could answer for him.
Then he dragged both hands down his face and breathed, “Okay.”
Your heart sank, because that was all he had: okay. Not good, not bad, just the word people said when they had no idea what else to say.
“Okay,” he repeated, quieter this time.
“That doesn’t sound okay, Tuck.”
His hands dropped into his lap. He looked up at you, and for the first time since you’d known him, Tucker looked completely lost.
“It’s not,” he whispered, and somehow, his honesty hurt more than comfort would’ve.
You flinched, and Tucker saw it immediately.
“No, baby, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You regret this.”
His face twisted at that. “What?”
“You regret this,” you repeated.
“No,” he said, like the word had been ripped out of him.
“You do.” Your voice broke. “You’re looking at me like everything just ended.”
“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “That’s not the same thing.”
The room fell quiet again. You looked at him, and he looked back, eyes wet now, his jaw tight like he was using whatever strength he had left to hold himself together.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. The sentence felt small, awful, and real.
You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks. “Me neither.”
“I don’t know what happens now.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t know how to—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how to be what you need me to be right now.”
That nearly broke you because he sounded ashamed of it, as if being shocked made him cruel and being scared meant he’d failed you.
“Tuck,” you whispered. He looked up. “I don’t know how to be what I need right now either.”
His face crumpled a little.
For a second, he looked younger than you’d ever seen him. Not like a hockey player, and not like the steady boyfriend who always remembered your coat, walked you home, and kissed your forehead when you got anxious. Just a scared boy sitting on your bed, staring at a future neither of you’d planned.
“I thought you’d hate me,” you admitted.
His brows drew together like he couldn’t understand the words. “Hate you?”
“I know that’s not fair to you.”
“No.” His voice came out rough, but sure. “It’s not.”
Tucker closed his eyes for a second, like he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. When he opened them again, he looked at you.
“But I get it,” he said. “I hate that you thought it, and I hate that you were alone with it. But I understand being scared enough to think the worst.”
You cried harder then, not loudly, but silently, with tears falling faster than you could wipe them away.
Tucker stood slowly, careful not to rush you or assume.
His hands lifted a little before dropping again, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do.
“I want to hug you,” he admitted, his voice unsteady. “But I don’t know if you want me to.”
That was what undid you, not a speech or a promise, but the fact that even shattered and terrified, he still asked.
You nodded, and that was all it took. He crossed the room carefully and pulled you into his arms.
You broke against him then, completely. You pressed your face into his hoodie, hands gripping the fabric at his sides as you sobbed hard enough for your chest to hurt. Tucker held you tightly, not because he knew what to do, but because he knew you needed him there. His breathing was uneven, and his hand shook against your back. At one point, he whispered your name like it hurt to say.
“I’m scared,” you choked out, and his arms tightened around you.
“Me too,” he admitted, holding you tighter.
It wasn’t the answer you wanted, but it was the answer that made you believe him. He didn’t tell you not to be scared or promise that everything would be fine. He didn’t say the easy thing just because it would sound better. He only held you and admitted he was scared, too.
After a while, when your legs started to feel weak, he guided both of you down to the floor instead of the bed. The two of you sat on the floor beside your dresser, half tangled together, your knees touching and his shoulder pressed against yours.
It wasn’t romantic. It was ugly, quiet, and real. Tissues were scattered near your desk from the night before, and your laundry basket was overflowing. Tucker’s hoodie was still half-hidden under your pillow. Your face felt swollen from crying, and your eyes were red.
“What do we do?” you whispered.
Tucker looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.” Your stomach turned, but then he added, “Not tonight.”
You looked at him.
“I mean…” He rubbed his palms against his sweats, still nervous. “I don’t think we have to know all of it tonight.”
“All of it?” you echoed.
“Yeah.” His voice was careful. “Whatever all of this ends up being.”
The words sat between you. Neither of you said ‘options,’ ’ decisions,’ or ‘baby.’ Not yet. It was too big, too soon, too terrifying.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want,” you whispered.
Tucker nodded slowly, accepting that for now. “Okay.”
You looked at him, scared of the word again, and of course, he noticed.
“I mean… you don’t have to know right this second,” he said quickly. “That’s what okay means. Not that I don’t care.”
“I know.”
“I care.”
“I know.”
“A lot,” he added, and your lips trembled. His eyes did too. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing,” he admitted.
“You already thought I was leaving you.”
“That was before you said something that kind of changed everything.”
A broken laugh slipped out before you could stop it, surprising both of you.
Tucker looked at you for a second, then let out a shaky little sound that almost passed for a laugh before it was gone.
Then the silence came back, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It still hurt, still scared you, but it wasn’t lonely anymore.
“Are you mad?” you whispered.
“No,” he answered immediately.
“Not even a little?”
He looked at you then, really looked.
“I’m mad that this happened when we were careful,” he said. “I’m mad that you felt like you had to hide it. I’m mad that I didn’t know you were this scared.” His voice softened. “But not at you.”
Your eyes burned again when you said his name. “Tucker.”
“I’m not mad at you,” he repeated.
You pressed your hands over your face, and he waited.
After a moment, you felt his fingers gently touch your wrist, not pulling, just there. You lowered your hands.
He looked at you like his whole world had tilted, but even then, he was still trying to find you in it.
“I might need a second sometimes,” he said. “I might say the wrong thing, or get quiet, but I don’t want you to think that means I’m leaving.”
Your breath caught. “I don’t know how not to think that.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed gently over your wrist. “Then I’ll keep reminding you.”
You stared at him. “What if you change your mind later?”
Tucker looked like the question hurt, but he didn’t rush to answer, and that made it scarier and better at the same time. Because when he did speak, it sounded like he’d chosen the words instead of reaching for the prettiest ones.
“I can’t promise I won’t be scared tomorrow,” he said. “Or next week. I can’t promise I’ll always know what to say. I can’t promise this won’t be messy.”
Your throat tightened, but you still managed, “But?”
His hand slid down until his fingers carefully tangled with yours.
“But I love you.” His voice broke around the words. “And I’m here right now.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. “Just right now?”
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “God, no. I don’t mean it like that.” You couldn’t breathe. “I mean…” He squeezed your hand, eyes wet. “I don’t want to make a promise so big it sounds like I think this is easy, because it’s not. I’m scared out of my mind.”
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks in silence.
“But I’m here right now,” he said again. “And when right now turns into morning, I want to be there too. And after that… I want to keep showing up, as long as you’ll let me. I don’t know how else to say it.”
There was no perfect answer, no neat line that fixed anything, and no magical moment where the fear disappeared. But Tucker’s hand was in yours, still trembling, still there.
You leaned into him, and he pulled you gently against his side.
For a while, that was enough. Not enough to solve it or make you less pregnant. Not enough to make either of you ready or make tomorrow easier. But enough to get through the next minute, and then the one after that.
At some point, Tucker shifted closer and rested his cheek against the top of your head.
“I love you,” he whispered against your hair.
The words sounded different now, not lighter or easier, but still true, and that was what made you cry again.
“I love you too,” you whispered into his hoodie.
His fingers tightened around yours. Neither of you moved toward the bed. Neither of you talked about doctors, parents, the team, school, or what it would mean after tonight. Those things waited outside the room, as if neither of you was ready to step into.
For now, you stayed on the floor: two scared people, one impossible truth, no plan, no answers. Just Tucker breathing shakily beside you, his thumb tracing small, uneven circles over the back of your hand.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this,” you whispered.
He was quiet for a second. “Me neither.” His hand stayed wrapped around yours. “But maybe we don’t do it all tonight.”
Another tiny, broken breath shook through your chest.
“Then what do we do tonight?” you whispered.
Tucker swallowed. When he answered, his voice was barely a whisper. “We sit here until it feels like we can stand up.”
It was neither a solution nor a plan, and it did not make anything okay. But it was real, so you nodded, and Tucker stayed.
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist (check the link above) taglist: @05gwyn, @aetherysis, @angzls, @batmanssssss, @biologicallyyours, @blackgurlieee, @bunnyrose01, @camie18, @carla0407, @carlossainzapologist, @chickenburger22, @chrismattnick, @coc4aine, @cosmosnkaz, @destinyg237, @em1ly57, @enemiestoloversfan, @ethanthequeefqueen, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @fentygloss, @fromasgardandback, @gojodaddy1029, @hagarsays, @idgasb, @ihatepeanutss, @ilovejjmaybank, @indigohazardconduit, @itmekelpy, @jtr-hunter-blog, @just-hopeful, @justheretoreadmydear, @katieemerald, @keopidiaries, @kindollss, @kmc1989, @laceyvt3 , @leilareads58, @loonylups, @ludasgf, @lynst91, @mariamadison6-blog, @melaninbradshaw, @nellyboosworld, @parker-barnes-af, @pearled-wings, @purplerainx1, @rafecqmeronslove, @raven-dor, @rubleoy @saltyfriendsaladbandit
I LOVED the NSFW alphabet you did for Dean…would you be down to do one for John Tucker? 🥺
John Tucker's NSFW Alphabet
Pairing: John Tucker x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
Classification: Smut +18 | oral sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, edging and orgasm control, praise kink, dirty talk and praise, possessiveness and mild jealousy, marking, slow and rough sex, detailed aftercare, semi-public risk, light restraint, body worship, food play elements and creampies
Word count: 5,2k
Divider by me ;)
A - Attentiveness: Tucker is the ultimate attentive lover, approaching every sexual encounter with the thoughtful, observant care of a gentleman who genuinely wants to please and connect.
He reads your body language the way he reads the ice during a game, noticing the slightest hitch in your breath, the way your thighs tense, the flutter of your eyelashes or how your nails dig into his shoulders. He starts by kissing you deeply, his big, warm hands mapping every curve of your body as if committing it to memory, murmuring in that smooth, low voice, "Tell me what feels good, darlin'. I want to learn every single thing that makes you tremble." Once he's between your legs, it becomes an act of worship, his eyes locked on yours from below while his tongue laps slowly at your folds, savoring your taste, then focusing on your clit with precise, rhythmic suction. He adds thick fingers at just the right moment, curling them against your g-spot while he hums in approval at how wet you get for him.
If you try to close your thighs from the overwhelming pleasure, he gently but firmly holds them open with strong arms, continuing until you're gushing on his tongue and fingers. Tucker doesn't stop at one orgasm, his attentiveness means he coaxes you through waves of pleasure, adjusting pressure and speed based on your reactions, whispering constant praise like "That's my good girl, just like that" until you're a shaking, oversensitive mess. It never feels mechanical, it feels personal and intimate, as if he's pouring all his emotional availability into making you feel cherished and utterly undone at the same time.
B - Build-up: Tucker masters a slow, delicious build-up that turns you into a needy, dripping wreck long before he ever slides inside you. He's confident but never arrogant, using patience as his weapon.
It might start with him cooking dinner shirtless, the sight of his athletic build and low-slung pants already teasing you, then pulling you into him for deep, unhurried kisses that grow hotter and more demanding. His hands wander everywhere, palming your breasts and pinching your nipples until they ache, then sliding down to rub you through your panties with firm, circling pressure.
"No need to rush, sweetheart. I want you soaked and begging before I give you what you need," he says, voice dropping lower as he feels how wet the fabric gets. He loves stripping you piece by piece, kissing and licking every newly exposed inch of skin, sucking marks into your inner thighs while his fingers tease your entrance without pushing inside. By the time he finally lines up and sinks into you inch by inch, you're trembling with anticipation, walls clenching desperately around him as he groans at how perfectly you grip him. The build-up makes every thrust feel electric.
He starts slow and deep, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips, drawing it out until you're clawing at his back and pleading for more. It's sensual, controlled and deeply satisfying, reflecting his thoughtful nature and his ability to delay gratification for maximum pleasure.
C - Cooking and sensuality: Tucker's passion for cooking, inherited from raising himself alongside his single mom, infuses his sex life with rich, sensual layers that go beyond the physical. He prepares something warm and flavorful, maybe a late-night pasta or homemade dessert, feeding you bites from his fingers while you sit on the counter in just his shirt, his eyes darkening as sauce drips onto your thigh and he leans down to lick it off slowly.
That same appreciation for taste and texture carries into the bedroom, he eats you out like he's savoring a fine meal, burying his face between your thighs with enthusiastic, messy devotion. His tongue delves deep, then flattens to lap broadly at your folds, sucking your clit while two fingers pump steadily, groaning at how sweet you taste. "Fuck, you're delicious," he mumbles against your slick skin, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
After intense rounds, he's the one who carries you to the kitchen still naked and glowing, making sandwiches or pouring water while stealing kisses that quickly turn heated again, bending you over the counter for a slower fuck where he can reach around to rub your clit and tell you how much he loves taking care of you. The blend of nurturing through food and raw sensuality makes everything feel nourishing and intimate, as though he's feeding both your hunger and your desire in equal measure.
D - Devotion: Once Tucker commits, his devotion translates into intensely connective, reverent sex that makes you feel utterly cherished. He's emotionally available and supportive, so even the filthiest moments carry weight and care. He favors positions where he can maintain eye contact, deep missionary with your legs wrapped around his waist, his shoulders flexing as he thrusts slow and grinding, one hand cradling your cheek while the other pins your hip. "Look at me, baby. Feel how deep I am? This is all for you," he groans, voice husky as your walls flutter around him. He's not afraid of raw need either, he'll flip you onto all fours and take you harder, one hand fisted gently in your hair while the other reaches around to circle your clit, devotion showing in how he checks your reactions and praises you constantly.
After you come, he doesn't pull out right away. He stays buried deep, kissing along your spine, murmuring how perfect you are and how he wants to build a life with you. His devotion makes multiple rounds feel like an extension of emotional intimacy where he holds you close through overstimulation, coaxing one more orgasm with his fingers or mouth before filling you with his release, then cuddling you tightly afterward as though he never wants to let go. It's boyfriend-material sex at its finest, passionate, loyal and deeply fulfilling.
E - Endurance: Tucker's hockey-honed stamina means he can keep going long after most guys would tap out, turning nights into extended sessions of pleasure that leave you limp and satisfied. His tall, athletic frame, broad shoulders, powerful thighs and strong core give him the strength to move you effortlessly. He might start by eating you out until you come twice, then slide into you with a deep groan, setting a steady rhythm that builds gradually. "I've got all night for you, darlin'," he promises, sweat glistening on his skin as he switches positions without breaking stride, pulling you on top so you can ride him while he grips your hips and thrusts up to meet you, then flipping you again for deeper penetration.
He can hold a hard, pounding pace for ages or slow to sensual grinds that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. After a game, when he's still buzzing with energy, expect wall sex where he holds you up with ease, stretching you with every upward thrust while his mouth claims yours. That endurance lets him draw out pleasure for both of you, edging until you're sobbing his name, then finally letting go with a low, satisfied groan as he fills you. It never feels exhausting in a bad way, it feels like he could worship your body indefinitely, reflecting the same steady, reliable nature he carries both on and off the ice.
F - Foreplay: Foreplay with him is an extended, immersive experience that feels luxurious and perfectly tailored, never rushed. He takes his time, using his charm and attentive nature to heighten every sensation. It often begins with deep, soulful kissing, his tongue teasing yours while his hands explore, massaging your breasts, rolling your nipples between skilled fingers until you're arching into him. He loves verbal teasing, "You're already so wet for me, sweetheart. Let's see how much wetter I can make you." His mouth follows his hands, sucking marks onto your neck and collarbones, then moving lower to lavish attention on your breasts, tongue flicking your nipples while fingers dip between your legs to stroke your folds and circle your clit with maddening lightness.
He's a master of oral foreplay, settling comfortably between your spread thighs for long, unhurried sessions delivering broad licks from entrance to clit, focused suction and steady fingers pumping in rhythm until you're grinding against his face and coming hard.
Mutual pleasure matters just as much, he might guide your hand to stroke him while he fingers you or encourage you to sit on his face so he can taste you while you take him in your mouth. By the time he finally pushes inside, you're dripping, desperate and perfectly prepped, every nerve alight.
G - Gentleness: He balances raw athletic power with a surprising, soothing gentleness that makes even intense moments feel safe and cherished. As the thoughtful Southern gentleman, he knows when to be soft, especially after rougher rounds or when you're feeling vulnerable.
He cradles you in his arms, stroking down your back with feather-light touches while he kisses you slowly, deeply, staying nestled inside you without moving for long moments, just letting you feel full and connected. "Easy, darlin'. I've got you," he murmurs, rolling his hips in gentle, grinding circles that rub perfectly against your clit without overwhelming you.
He loves positions like spooning where he can wrap around you completely, one arm under your head, the other hand between your thighs rubbing soft, lazy circles while he thrusts shallow and slow, kissing the back of your neck. Even as passion builds and his strokes deepen, the gentleness remains in how he checks your face, whispers praise and holds you through your orgasms, never letting you feel exposed or used.
After you come, he's all tender kisses and soft caresses, cleaning you up gently with a warm cloth he prepared ahead of time, then pulling you against his chest so you can listen to his steady heartbeat.
H - Hands: Tucker's hands are a highlight, big, strong, calloused from hockey sticks and workouts, yet incredibly skilled and attentive.
He uses them like tools of seduction. He might pin your wrists above your head with one while the other explores, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to spread you open so he can watch his fingers disappear inside you. "Look how pretty you stretch for my fingers, baby," he says, voice low and appreciative as he curls them against your g-spot, pumping steadily until you're soaking his palm. He loves gripping your hips hard enough to leave faint marks while he fucks you from behind or wrapping one hand loosely around your throat during missionary with pressure that makes your pulse race while he holds your gaze.
His fingers stay relentless during foreplay, two or three digits stretching you open, thumb circling your clit in perfect rhythm until you come hard, then he makes you suck them clean while watching you with dark, appreciative eyes. Once you've come, those same hands turn gentle again, massaging sore muscles or cradling your face as he kisses you.
I - Intimacy: Intimacy with Tucker feels soul-deep because of his emotional availability and his desire for real connection. He thrives on eye contact, foreheads pressed together and whispered conversation mid-thrust. Slow, passionate sex in missionary is a favorite, his body covering yours, hips rolling deeply so every inch of him drags against your walls while he murmurs how much he loves you, how perfect you feel. He intertwines your fingers, pinning your hands beside your head as he builds to a powerful rhythm, groaning your name when you clench around him.
He pulls your back to his chest in doggy, one arm banded across your breasts, the other rubbing your clit as he thrusts deep, whispering filthy yet sweet praise right in your ear. "This is mine. You're my everything."
Afterward, he's all cuddles and soft talk, discussing dreams or just holding you in comfortable silence, reflecting his family-oriented, nurturing side.
J - Jealousy and possessiveness: Though Tucker is generally laid-back and confident without ego, a flicker of jealousy brings out a deliciously possessive edge that heightens everything.
If he catches someone flirting with you, he pulls you close later with a dark, heated look, kissing you possessively before bending you over the nearest surface. "You're mine, sweetheart. Only I get to see you like this," he growls, tugging your panties down and thrusting into you in one smooth motion, taking you hard and deep with powerful strokes that make the headboard slam.
His grip tightens, teeth grazing your shoulder as he claims you, all while staying attentive enough to make sure it feels incredible.
The possessiveness shows in how he marks you, hickeys on your breasts or inner thighs that he traces later with gentle fingers and in the way he fills you, then keeps you plugged with his fingers or his cock afterward.
K - Kissing: He’s an exceptional kisser, it makes your knees weak and your pulse race before clothes even come off. He kisses with purpose, starting soft and exploratory, then deepening with tongue and gentle bites, as if he can't get enough of you. During sex, the kissing never stops.
He kisses you through every thrust, swallowing your moans while his hips snap forward, or trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your body before settling between your legs to taste you with the same passionate focus. In cowgirl, he sits up to kiss you deeply while you ride him, hands guiding your hips as tongues tangle. Even during quick, desperate moments, he steals messy kisses, murmuring endearments between them.
L - Loyalty: Tucker's loyalty shows as unwavering focus and dedication in bed. Once he's yours, he's completely yours, pouring that same consistent, supportive energy into pleasing you. He remembers what you like from previous times and builds on it, making each encounter better.
He'll spend hours between your thighs if that's what you need, prioritizing your pleasure above his own, switching techniques until you're boneless and satisfied before finally letting himself come deep inside you with a low groan. His loyalty means he's there for the long haul, marathon sessions where he brings you to peak after peak, then holds you through the come-down, ready to go again when you are. It also shows in his willingness to experiment thoughtfully, trying new positions or toys because he wants to explore with you, always checking in with that caring gaze. "Whatever you want, baby. I'm right here with you."
M - Morning sex: It’s slow, warm and deeply intimate, reflecting his nurturing side and the same thoughtful consistency he brings to everything. He often wakes up first, his body curled behind yours, morning wood pressed hot and heavy against you. Instead of rushing, he starts with soft kisses along your shoulder and neck, one hand sliding down to cup your breast, thumb lazily circling your nipple until it pebbles.
"Mornin', darlin'," he murmurs, sleep still roughening his voice as his fingers dip between your thighs to find you already growing wet. He loves lazy grinding at first, sliding against your folds without entering, coating himself in your arousal while kissing the back of your neck. When he finally pushes inside from behind, it's a slow, deep slide that makes you both groan.
He sets a gentle rhythm, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand reaching around to rub slow circles on your clit, praising how perfect you feel in the morning light, how he could stay buried in you all day. The pace builds gradually as desire heats up, turning into deeper, more purposeful thrusts that have you pushing back against him, his free hand gripping your hip. He draws it out, making sure you come first, sometimes twice, before he lets himself go, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied groan.
N - Nurturing: Shaped by being raised by a single mom and his desire to build a family, it makes him an incredibly caring and attentive partner who prioritizes your comfort in every way. He's the one who keeps lube, water and snacks by the bed without being asked.
During particularly intense sessions, he pauses to check in softly, "You good, baby? Need a break?", even while buried deep. His nurturing shows in extended aftercare that feels like an extension of the act itself, like running a warm bath, massaging your thighs and back with strong but gentle hands and feeding you bites of fruit or something he quickly prepares. In the moment, it translates into positions and techniques focused on your ease and pleasure.
He loves having you on top so he can support your weight, hands guiding your hips while he thrusts up, watching your face with warm eyes and whispering encouragement.
He's also drawn to sensory care, using his mouth everywhere, licking and sucking until you're trembling, then holding you close through the aftershocks. This side of him makes sex feel safe and holistic, as if he's not just pleasuring you but actively caring for your body and heart at the same time, which only makes the rawer, more desperate moments hit harder by contrast.
O - Oral worship: Oral with Tucker is pure, enthusiastic worship that can last as long as you can handle it. He approaches going down on you with the same dedication he puts into hockey drills or cooking a perfect meal.
He settles between your spread thighs, shoulders holding you open and starts with reverent kisses along your inner thighs before licking a slow, broad stripe up through your folds. He uses his whole mouth, tongue working your entrance, lips sucking your clit, nose buried against you as he eats you messily and happily.
Two fingers join in, curling perfectly while he focuses suction on your clit, eyes flicking up to watch your reactions with intense focus. He doesn't stop after one orgasm, he gentles his touch to bring you down, then builds you right back up again, sometimes adding a finger elsewhere for extra fullness if you're into it.
When you take him in your mouth, he's vocal and appreciative, a hand resting in your hair, never forcing, hips twitching as he praises how good it feels, how well you take him. "That's it, sweetheart, just like that." Mutual oral in a sixty-nine position is heavenly because he can't stop touching and licking even while you work him with your mouth.
P - Playfulness: Despite his thoughtful demeanor, Tucker has a playful, charming side that comes out beautifully in bed, keeping things light and fun even during intense heat.
He might tease you with an easy smile and quick wit, tickling your sides mid-thrust just to hear you laugh and clench around him, then immediately switch to a deep, grinding stroke that wipes the smile off your face and replaces it with a moan.
He loves light-hearted challenges like "How many times can I make you come before I do?" delivered with a wink. His playfulness shows in the way he manhandles you affectionately, tossing you onto the bed with a grin before diving between your legs or lifting you effortlessly onto the counter after cooking together.
He incorporates small games too, like making you hold eye contact while he fingers you, or rewarding you with kisses for staying quiet during a risky quickie.
Q - Quiet intensity: Tucker can be quietly intense and it’s incredibly compelling with simmering passion that builds without needing loud theatrics. In moments of deep connection, he moves with controlled strokes, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours and every muscle in his body working in harmony.
Sometimes there's minimal talk, just heavy breathing, low groans and the sound of skin meeting skin as he drives deep and steady. He holds your gaze through an entire orgasm, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face while he stretches and fills you perfectly. It often surfaces after emotional conversations or during makeup sex, raw need expressed through devastatingly good physicality rather than volume. He might pin you gently but firmly, hips snapping with precision, one hand cradling the back of your head so you stay close.
R - Risk and restraint: He enjoys a touch of risk balanced with natural restraint and thoughtfulness. He's not as reckless as some teammates but the thrill of almost getting caught, a quick, heated moment in a semi-private spot like an empty locker room or the back of his car in a dark parking lot, brings out a focused, hungry side.
He keeps one ear listening for footsteps while he bends you over, tugging your panties aside and moving in deep and fast, one hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds.
"Gotta be quiet for me, baby," he whispers, the restraint in his voice making it hotter. At home, he shows a different kind of restraint during edging, bringing you right to the edge with his mouth and fingers, then backing off with soft kisses until you're begging, all while maintaining calm, devoted control.
S - Sensual slow sex: He excels at sensual slow sex that feels like an all-encompassing experience, drawing out every sensation until you're lost in him.
After a long day, he might draw you a bath or cook something simple, then carry you to bed where he spends what feels like hours just touching and kissing. He starts by worshipping your body with his mouth, sucking on your nipples until they're tight and sensitive, then kissing a trail down your stomach before spreading your thighs wide.
His tongue works you open slowly, licking broad stripes through your folds, circling your clit with patient precision while two fingers slide in and out at a maddeningly slow pace, curling just right against your g-spot.
"Feel that, darlin'? I love how you squeeze around me," he murmurs against your skin, eyes flicking up to watch your face. When he finally enters you, it's inch by inch, both of you groaning as he bottoms out and stays there, grinding deep in slow circles that rub against your clit. He maintains that torturously delicious pace for ages, long, deep strokes where you feel every ridge of him dragging along your walls. His hands roam constantly, cradling your face for deep kisses, squeezing your breasts or gripping your hips to pull you closer.
The scene is filled with his low praise, steady eye contact, and the slick sounds of connection. He brings you to the edge repeatedly, only letting you tip over when he's ready, finally speeding up just enough to come with you, spilling deep while holding you tight.
T - Teasing and edge play: They blend affectionate control with generous reward, rooted in his patient discipline and desire to make every moment intensely pleasurable for you.
He turns it into an extended game that can span hours. Imagine coming home to him after class, he greets you with an easy smile, pulls you onto the couch and starts with light touches, fingers tracing your thighs under your skirt and brushing over your panties without giving you the pressure you crave. "Not yet, sweetheart. We're gonna take our time tonight," he says, voice low and warm.
He brings you close with slow circles on your clit through the fabric, watching your face intently, then pulls back to kiss you deeply, tongue teasing yours while your arousal builds and fades. This cycle repeats, his fingers eventually slipping inside you, pumping slowly and curling against your g-spot, lips on your neck, until you're right on the edge, thighs shaking.
Then he stops, smiles that charming smile and suggests making a snack together, keeping you on edge the whole time with occasional touches. When he finally goes down on you, it's exquisite torture of long, slow licks, focused suction on your clit, fingers working in tandem, bringing you to the brink over and over until you're begging in broken whispers.
Only then does he let you come hard against his mouth, holding you through the waves before finally sliding inside your oversensitive body and moving with deep strokes that quickly build you toward another shattering orgasm.
U - Unhurried exploration: Tucker's unhurried exploration turns sex into a deeply personal journey of mutual discovery, reflecting his curious, emotionally available nature.
He dedicates full evenings or lazy weekends to this, creating a safe, pressure-free space.
A rich scene might start with both of you in bed after he's cooked a light dinner. He begins by having you lie back while he explores every inch with his hands and mouth, kissing the sensitive skin behind your knees, tracing along your hip bones, sucking gentle marks on your inner thighs while asking quietly what feels best. He encourages you to guide him or say what you want, turning it into an intimate conversation.
When he goes down on you, it becomes exploratory, trying different pressures and patterns with his tongue, adding fingers in new ways, even bringing in a small toy if you're open to it, all while watching your reactions closely.
"Like this? Or slower?" he asks, voice husky. Penetration comes later, after you're thoroughly relaxed and aroused. He slides in slowly, then experiments with angles, depths and rhythms, moving fluidly between positions, missionary for eye contact, you on top for control or spooning for closeness, to find what makes you moan loudest.
He might edge you lightly during this or introduce light restraint with his hands, always checking in along the way. The unhurried pace allows for multiple peaks, laughter when something feels ticklish and quiet conversation between rounds.
V - Vocal praise and dirty talk: Tucker's vocal praise and dirty talk work so well because they blend sweet charm with raw filth, delivered in a voice that sends shivers down your spine.
He stays generous from start to finish. During foreplay, as his fingers sink into you, "Fuck, baby, you're absolutely soaked for me. Such a perfect, greedy girl." While going down on you for a prolonged session, "Taste so damn sweet, darlin'. I could stay right here between these thighs all night, listening to you moan my name." As he moves deep and hard, "That's it, take every inch. Look how well you stretch for me, this was made just for me." He mixes in heartfelt praise that makes it feel emotional, "You're so beautiful when you come for me. I love how you trust me with your body."
In one scene after a win, still riding the high, he has you bent over the kitchen counter after a celebratory meal he made, moving into you while growling, "Been thinking about having you like this since the final buzzer. Gonna fill you up." Then he softens it with, "You feel incredible. I'm so lucky you're mine." He loves when you talk back, encouraging you with more praise for every moan or word.
W - Whole-body worship: Whole-body worship with Tucker is a slow, reverent ritual that celebrates every part of you.
He treats it like a full sensory experience, lights low, maybe soft music, starting with a full-body massage using warm oil. His hands work your shoulders, back and legs, turning therapeutic into erotic as he kisses every spot he massages. He pays loving attention to less obvious areas, sucking on your fingers, tracing the backs of your knees with his lips, gently biting along your hips before moving lower to tease with his tongue.
He spends ample time on your breasts, sucking and licking your nipples until they're hypersensitive, then moves lower for extended oral. During penetration, he continues the theme, hands and mouth everywhere, kissing your neck and collarbones while thrusting deep and slow. In cowgirl, he sits up to worship your breasts and rub your clit while you ride him. The entire act leaves you feeling adored from head to toe, with him murmuring constant appreciation, "Every inch of you is perfect." Afterward, the worship continues with gentle cuddling and caresses.
X - Extra care after rough sex: After rough, stamina-testing sessions where Tucker uses his athletic build for intense, pounding sex, his extra care is meticulous and loving, highlighting his protective qualities.
A typical rough scene might involve him taking you hard against the wall or in deep doggy until you're both sweaty and spent, leaving marks from his grip and more than one release. Immediately after, he shifts seamlessly into caretaker mode. He scoops you up, carries you to the bathroom for a warm shower where he washes you gently with soapy hands, massaging any sore muscles in your thighs, hips or shoulders.
Back in bed, he applies lotion to any sore spots or marks, whispering apologies mixed with praise, "You took me so well, baby. So strong for me." He makes sure you're hydrated, brings snacks he might have prepped (fruit, cheese, something light) and holds you close under the covers, legs tangled, stroking your hair while talking softly or simply being present.
If you're feeling emotional or a little floaty afterward, he stays exceptionally patient, offering reassurance and cuddles until you feel grounded again.
Y - Yearning: Tucker’s yearning for you runs deep and constant, a steady undercurrent that makes every reunion feel electric and every touch charged with genuine need.
Whether it’s after a road game or a long day apart, he comes to you with hunger in his eyes, pulling you close the moment he’s through the door. His hands roam like he’s trying to memorize you all over again, kissing you with slow-burning intensity while murmuring how much he missed the taste of your skin, the sound of your voice breaking on his name.
That yearning translates into thorough, focused lovemaking where he takes his time rediscovering every sensitive spot. He’ll spend ages with his mouth on you, licking and sucking like he’s starved for your pleasure, groaning against your folds about how he thought about this the entire time he was gone.
When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a low, relieved sound, hips rolling deep and steady as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together. “Been aching for you, darlin’,” he breathes against your lips, never rushing even when the need is overwhelming.
Z - Zest for your pleasure: He brings an infectious zest and enthusiasm to your pleasure that makes every encounter feel vibrant and alive. His athletic drive and positive energy mean he approaches sex with the same wholehearted commitment he gives to hockey, eager, focused,and determined to make you feel incredible. He gets visibly excited watching you come undone, that charming grin flashing before he dives back in with renewed vigor, whether it’s adding a third finger while sucking your clit or flipping you into a new position so he can hit that perfect angle.
He’s vocal about it too, praising your responses with genuine delight, “God, look at you…so fucking gorgeous when you let go for me.” That zest keeps things dynamic, one moment he’s playfully teasing you to the edge, the next he’s giving you exactly what you need with purposeful strokes that leave you breathless.
Even in the quiet moments afterward, his energy changes to warm, affectionate care, holding you close, laughing softly with you, already buzzing with ideas for the next round.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
John Tucker didn’t just love sex.
He loved the worship of it. While most guys were in a rush to get to the main event, he found his sanctuary between your thighs. He treated your pussy like a five-star meal, and he was never in a hurry to finish.
He had you pinned to the bed, your legs draped over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely exposed and shivering. Tucker didn’t say a word; he just looked up at you with those hungry eyes before diving back in. His tongue was a weapon, flicking rhythmically against your clit, swirling in wide, wet circles that made your hips jerk uncontrollably.
"Tuck... please," you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him up for a kiss.
He ignored you, humming against your wetness, the vibration sending electric shocks straight to your core. He loved the way you tasted, the way your walls pulsed against his tongue, and the way you begged. He wasn't looking for a quick release. No, he wanted to drain you.
An hour passed, then two. Every time you reached the peak, every time you screamed his name and shook with an orgasm, Tucker didn't stop. He stayed right there, licking away the excess juices, teasing your swollen nub back to life until you were sobbing from the overstimulation.
He spent the entire afternoon buried in you, his jaw aching but his resolve firm. He only pulled away when you were a trembling, incoherent mess, your legs shaking too hard to hold him. He looked up, a smug, satisfied grin on his face, his lips glistening with your slick.
"I told you," he whispered, kissing the inside of your thigh. "I'm not stopping until I've had my fill."
‘that’s like jamming a shark into a ziplock bag’
andrew cody who just doesn’t know how to fuck! his cock is just so big that whenever he gets close to fucking one, either he chickens out or the other person does. so, when andrew starts dating you, and hasn’t fucked you in the first six months, you think it’s just an issue from his past! not an issue, per say, because you’re perfectly contented to have him eat your pussy day and night as he so desires. but you just think maybe it’s trauma from his mom or a byproduct of his stay in prison, and he just wasn’t able to get hard. but then, one night once he’s finished licking and sucking at you for the past three hours and your practically wrung dry, you watch him go to the bathroom. he does this often after he’s finished making you cum, but that’s just because he needs to get ready for bed!
the only difference is that this time you follow him there, after a few moments that is. it’s almost your bedtime and you’d like to brush your teeth before falling asleep. this is not what you’ve expected to see. andrew has his head thrown back and he’s white knuckling the sink. the only hand is stroking up and down his cock, that’s bright red and angry. angry, weeping, and fucking huge. you don’t ever think that you’ve seen a cock that big but andrew doesn’t seem to see you, biting his lip harshly and eyes closed tight.
he does seem to notice when you whine out a soft holyyy shit. his eyes snap open and he whimpers at the lust in your eyes. he comes into the toilet, tips of his ears and cock the same bright red, and you whine petulantly at the fact that he’s not coming somewhere on you. yeah, you need to talk to him and reevaluate your sex life.
pope loves your tummy!!!!!!!!
he loves holding it and touching it and grabbing at your hips and waist and resting his tired lil head on it when he wants to sleep soooo bad but his insomnia won’t let him. he loves to kiss it as he works his way down to your sopping cunt, loves to press down on it while his cock is buried deep in you, asking if you can feel him all the way in your guts. he loves it in a bikini, strings pulled up high on your hips, belly soft. he loves it in a dress - so much so that he hides your spanx, wanting to see every single curve your body has to offer.
pope loves tummy :(
John Logan Is such and Eater 🤌🏻
thinking of john logan who eats you out for his pleasure, and it feels so right because he gets most pleased when he makes you feel good. he's also just- so good at focusing on what he's doing, it's very impressive. just imagine him spending minutes between your legs, he has to rub himself on the bed for a little while because it turns him on so much. he holds your legs securely on his shoulders, keeping your hips from moving, just keeps staying there even after he makes you come twice (um- yeah.)
cherry girl sleepover ♡
Mom and Dad | John Logan
summary: what happens when the mom and dad of the group become, well, mom and dad?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, hints to smut if you squint, pregnancy.
word count: 2.63k
authors note: this was actually a lot of fun to write because the idea was like all mapped out in my head before I wrote it tbh after our last piece John Logan I figured we needed to give him something more cutesy so here it is.
series masterlist | next part
The joke started the same way they always did with the group.
Casually, then completely unavoidable.
It was Dean who said this one first.
You were reorganising the boys fridge one night after he turned the takeout containers into a game of tetris “relax mom.” It made Logan laugh as he didn’t look up from his phone while he sat at the kitchen counter.
He claimed he was there as moral support, but it was really because he just wanted to be near you “don’t encourage her.” He warned “she gets worse when shes stressed.”
His words were met with a gasp “excuse me?” You scowled letting your mouth fall open when you turned to glare at him.
Tucker grinned as he stole the chicken wings from your hands “careful dad, mom might get ya.” And somehow it just stuck.
Mom and Dad. You and Logan.
It wasn’t even meant to be the case at first but somewhere along the way, the two of you became the glue that kept everyone together.
Logan kept track of the practice schedule and ensured that everyone ate the food that Tucker cooked.
You kept a list of everyone’s birthdays, deadlines, arguments, and who wasn’t talking to whom.
Logan calmed the chaos, and you seemed to organise it. And somehow the two of you worked perfectly together.
So of course, the jokes kept on coming.
“Ask mom if I can go out.” Dean would say as he peered into the living room where you read a book, “Logan said no.” You knew all about the house arrest Logan had Dean on because he needed to study for a major midterm.
Your brother huffed as he sprawled out on the couch, resting his feet on your lap “hey!” You scoffed, watching him grab a carrot stick from your plate, “your boyfriend is being dramatic again.” His words came as he stuck his tongue out at you.
The sound of Logan complaining about the blocked shower drain travelled down the stairs. And Garrett was surprisingly calm about it, which was saying something as he’d once sworn that Logan wouldn’t live long enough to graduate if he dated you.
Now he just complained like Logan was already a part of the family.
Which in a way, now that your dad didn’t totally hate the idea, he was.
Except lately, you couldn’t laugh at it the same way.
Because something had shifted and only you knew why.
It all happened three weeks ago.
You were standing in your bathroom, staring at the sink as if it had personally betrayed you.
Two pink lines and those words you hated so much to see.
You were pregnant.
And the world did not stop. That was the most terrifying part. It just kept on going.
Outside of that room, Hannah was laughing at something on her laptop while Allie was humming as she got ready for class. Someone could even be heard yelling in the hallway about how they needed coffee.
Normal life kept on going on, while yours had just split into two.
You pressed your hand to your stomach instinctively; it was still flat and still normal.
Nothing looked different about you, yet everything was.
You were meant to see the boys later that day for lunch and you had no clue how to tell them.
Garrett took so long to accept that Logan was your boyfriend, but this was a different ballpark.
And Logan loved you like you were something delicate that he had to protect.
You were terrified that this would break that.
Logan on the other hand, was feeling like an idiot.
He was ready to marry you, as if you asked him to go to Vegas tomorrow to do it he would.
But it felt like you were ready to break up with him.
So rather than talking about it, he picked up whatever he could. Odd jobs to fill the time that he wasn’t spending with you.
And for the most part, that really did work. He was able to make himself so busy that there wasn’t time during the day to think about what you might have been doing that didn’t involve him.
But at night?”
That was a whole different story.
He’d park his truck outside your building and send you a text begging to let him come up. He knew he could ask Allie or Hannah to let him in, but he wasn’t going to go against your boundaries like that. If you didn’t want to talk to him, well, he was convincing himself that he was okay with that.
So instead, he would hide away in his room, scrolling through the album on his phone of the two of you that you organised one day while he studied.
It had everything from the time the two of you used to sneak around before anyone knew you were seeing each other. All the way to when Dean and Tucker would crash your couple pictures, swearing that ‘your kids’ have to be in them too.
It made him laugh, honestly remembering how you’d shoo the boys away so that Allie could get a decent picture. Then Logan got to the one that Hannah took.
It was from a party after a big win when the couples were playing each other in beer pong, despite the fact that Garrett swore he should be the one to play with his sister.
Logan’s arm was wrapped around your waist as you had your tongue out, trying to focus on the throw. All the boy was focused on, both now and then, was you.
Hannah couldn’t help it when her eyes stayed glued to the sight “I know Wellsy, he loves her more than he loves hockey.” Garrett’s voice was louder than he intended it to be as he spoke.
The words made your cheeks redden as Logan tightened his grip on you “no I don’t.” He shook his head, convincing nobody, as his eyes were still on you.
Garrett let out a dry laugh “I’m pretty sure she could ask you to drop hockey and move to Vermont to become tree farmers, and you’d do it.” Logan couldn’t argue with that because it was actually true.
That boy was ready to move to the end of the world for you if you asked him to.
You furrowed your eyebrows “that's not true.” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to your boyfriend. Your eyes settle onto his lips “we’d totally farm goats.” Your words made everyone laugh as you kissed Logan.
It earned a groan from Garrett with a complaint for you to just throw the ball. And all you did was flip him off in response.
The day when you knew you could no longer hide it from Logan came; it was gameday and also your one-year anniversary.
After the game, the two of you had plans to go out, but with the way you had been acting. Logan honestly wondered if you were even going to be at the game.
That was how Garrett ended up at your door.
Well more like in your room.
Because that’s where you found your brother sat, comfortably on your bed when you came back from getting a smoothie with Allie “oh please make yourself at home.” You grumbled letting your bag drop to the floor.
Your brother couldn’t help it when he let out a soft laugh “look are you okay?” The question made your eyes widen.
Because you were so clearly not okay “I’m perfect Gar.” You forced the lie out as you sat on your chair.
“No you’re not.”
You rolled your eyes “why’d you ask me if you already knew the answer?” You sucked at your teeth crossing your arms in the process “you’ve been avoiding your boyfriend.” The point made you feel nauseous all over again.
Garrett saw your reaction. It was like his little twinstinct to know exactly when your slight movement meant something so much worse “if he did something-” he was already getting up ready to march back to the house.
You were quick to press your hand into his chest, stopping him from leaving your room “he didn’t do anything I swear.” As much as you loved your brother, you knew that if he could. You’d be wrapped in bubble wrap and hidden away from the world. And even then he’d still worry himself sick over protecting you.
Garrett leaned against your table “then what is going on with you?” He knew that your dad had been blowing up both of your phones to meet his fiance but Garrett knew you ignored him in the best of times, so why would this affect you now.
Staring at the ground, you frowned, “I need to tell Logan first.” If you could have it your way you’d never tell your brother, and just say you fund your child on the street.
You couldn’t help it when you sighed, pulling your brother into a hug that usually made you feel better “I just need to find the right time.” You knew your answer didn’t make sense but when you were going with it.
Garrett nodded, not because he wanted to believe you but because he knew he had no choice in the matter “but please tell him before he eats himself up over something that isn’t his fault.” You wanted to point out that your boyfriend was in fact the exact reason why you were in this position.
But you couldn’t so instead you nodded “I promise I’ll tell him after the game tonight.” You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips when your brother kissed your head.
The game should have been an easy win. A game where they could have put up a B team and still won by 3 goals. But instead, it was an utter shitshow.
Logan spotted you in the crowd immediately; he always did the moment he stepped onto the ice. But tonight it seemed that once he knew you were there, he actually didn’t want to see you. He got into a fight, was thrown against the boards and spent more time in the penalty box than actual time on the ice as the coach pulled him off, seeing that his head wasn’t in the right place.
Garrett actually pitied his teammate; he never thought there’d be a day when he thought you were in the wrong and that whatever issues you two were having would be your doing.
So when you saw the look your brother gave you at the end of the game, you knew you were to stand by Logan’s truck waiting for him as the game ended. Or else Garrett would get involved, and quite frankly, nothing ever went well when he did.
And that was exactly where Logan found you after the game “I’ll see you guys later.” He announced, no longer looking at Dean or Tucker; instead, his eyes had settled on you.
You sent him a soft smile as the boys waved at you “hey.” Your voice was quiet as your boyfriend threw his bag into the back of his truck.
He remained silent, “look we need to talk.” Your announcement almost made him laugh.
Because how was it that you got to decide that tonight was when you’d finally talk “nice to know that my girlfriend still knows how to do that.” The comment came off harsher than it was intended to.
The boy sucked at his teeth when you reached for him “look I know I have been an ass-“ Logan had to admit he was glad you had more emotional awareness than your brother “it’s our one-year anniversary and I didn’t even know if I still had a girlfriend!”
You wanted to respond, you really did. But you felt your stomach churn, and suddenly you were bent over in the direction of the nearest bushes.
Instinctively, he reached for your hair, pulling it out of your face as he rubbed your back “you eat something bad today?” Logan cocked his head, knowing that it wasn’t like you to throw up.
You spat out a glob of spit as you shook your head “it’s what I wanted to tell you about.” You groaned, feeling your stomach churn again.
To his credit, Logan didn’t push until you were standing upright again “I wanted to have some speech, but that clearly isn’t gonna happen.” you brought your sleeve up to wipe your mouth, not caring that you’d regret it later.
“I’m pregnant.”
Your words made him freeze as his eyes went wide “we’ve been careful.” He spoke as if his word was gospel.
Your cheeks reddened at the memory, “not always.” Your eyes trailed back to the truck. It was a night where both your place and his were busy and the two of you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. So you figured that his car was the best place for the two of you to be.
Logan frowned as he furrowed his eyebrows “this is what you’ve been avoiding me for?” He realised as he shoved his hands into his pockets, “did you think I’d leave you?”
He wasn’t angry.
He was hurt.
Hurt that you would think that he’d leave you, and especially hurt that you thought he’d make you deal with this alone.
But you shook your head as tears welled in your eyes, “i thought you’d hate me.” Your voice broke as it broke something in him.
He hated seeing you sad “hate you?” His voice broke as his hands cupped your cheeks “are you actually insane?” He would have laughed if you weren’t upset.
That was the thing that broke you. Finally, tears streamed down your cheeks and Logan didn’t think twice about pulling you into his embrace “I’m scared.” Your confession made his heart break as he could only think about how long you had been dealing with that emotion alone.
His fingers ran through your hair, immediately soothing you “we will figure this out together, okay.” His words made you nod as you looked up at him.
His eyes didn’t hesitate to meet yours.
He was still him.
He was still yours.
And just like that Logan let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding “I thought you were leaving me.” It made your heart hurt that he could have thought that it was the issue.
You shook your head “I thought I was ruining your life.” You whispered back.
Just like that, his expression changed. It changed into something solid, yet protective in a way that made your knees weak “you are not ruining my life.” He said firmly, “you’re my life.” His words were easy to roll off his tongue as if he hadn’t said the one thing that finally made the last few weeks feel like they were nothing.
So the two of you stood there in silence as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back before his tired laugh finally broke it “I’m gonna be a dad.” You nodded, matching his tone “we’re gonna be parents.” He grabbed your hand, giving it a solid squeeze.
Before his face dropped, “your brother is actually going to kill me.” His words made you really laugh now, that was something you realised a while ago.
Logan guided you into the passenger seat of his car before he made his way to his own “you know,” you trailed off when he put the key into the ignition.
You leaned over to kiss his lips “we could always just become goat farmers in Vermont.”
He looked as if he was genuinely considering it “yeah but then our kid is gonna relate to Noah Kahan, and do we really want that?”
liquid iv
pairing – john logan x fem!reader
wc: 0.8k
synopsis – fainting in front of your boyfriend for the first time has only made his love and care for you grow stronger
based on this request!
warnings – reader has POTS (a nervous system disorder that causes fainting/dizziness), fainting, minor health scare, angsty, fluff, language, established relationship, Logan is the sweetest boyfriend ever
note – I spent a bit of time researching and educating myself on POTS, thank you for trusting me to write something like this, I hope this is what you envisioned!🥹 if you want to request something, you can submit it by clicking the ‘♡’ button on my page or commenting under this post! enjoy ♡
masterlist
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
The first time you fainted around Logan was honestly, probably best-case scenario, all things considered. Having not mentioned too much about your diagnosis to him, he couldn’t lie, he was absolutely terrified seeing you stand up very quickly from the kitchen chair before collapsing. Knowing what he did know, his reflexes kicked in, grabbing your body as you fell into him, his hand cradling your head as he lied you down flat on the floor, slightly elevating your legs.
With his heart beating out of his chest, he hovered his hand over your mouth and nose, ensuring you were breathing as he continued to monitor your breathing, waiting for you to wake up. Your eyes slowly opened, a large exhale of relief coming from Logan.
“Shh, don’t move too much, baby, just relax,” he softly spoke, his hand coming up to gently caress the side of your face. Your hand slowly finds his arm holding your face, your thumb stroking small lines on his arm, a silent ‘thanks’ being said from the action.
Once you were feeling better, you had fully let Logan in on what this condition was like for you. Your experiences, your signs and symptoms. You felt bad for not telling him sooner, but found yourself thankful for his receptiveness and understanding, him not thinking any less of you because of this.
Logan spent that night scouring the internet, caffeine fueling his system as he stayed up late, searching up anything and everything – triggers, other possible side effects, ways to help prevent and/or handle fainting when it occurs. His eyes trail to the large box of Liquid IV packets leftover from his sponsorship deal with Garrett. He was determined to ensure you would always be taken care of whenever you were together, no matter what.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
The football stands were packed out, the team on track to head to the championship. After scanning your tickets, you, Logan and the rest of your friend group walked around, everyone splitting off to grab snacks, drinks, take pictures. You reach into your bag, pulling out your portable fan and turning it on, feeling a hot flash starting to radiate through your body.
Focusing on your breathing, Logan noticed your body language shifting slightly, looking more tense. Logan happens to glance over at one of the food carts at the perfect time, seeing Garrett and Hannah trying to get his attention, motioning to see if he wants anything. He glances at you before throwing up a “W” with his hands, an indication for ‘water’ that you all universally understood. Garrett shoots him a thumbs up.
You both stand around waiting for the rest of the group. You scour the football field trying to find Beau, him being the main reason you all came – to show support the way he always does for all the hockey guys. You see him, shouting his name and waving, Logan joining you as Beau spots you both, returning the wave before going back to his warmups.
Slowly, everyone comes back, meeting up with you and Logan again. Garrett passes the water bottle to Logan discreetly. Everyone heads into the stands, Logan falling behind from the group and calling your name, making you turn around.
“Here,” he says, unscrewing the water bottle, then reaching around to his back pocket, pulling out an electrolyte packet. He rips the packet open with his teeth before pouring the contents into the water, closing it and shaking it up before handing it to you.
Finding yourself baffled at what you just witnessed, you thanked him, reopening the bottle and taking a sip. The mix of water and electrolytes circulates in your system, making the stress you were feeling slowly dissipate. Making the dizziness go away. Making the lightheadedness fade away.
A look of shock is written all over your face, while Logan looks at you with that same cheeky smile you know and love.
“How did you-“
“I did my research. I’m not gonna have my girl ever be worried around me,” he replies, gently slinging his arm around your shoulders as you smile up at him.
Logan has always been consistent, always showing up for you, always being your safe space, always showing off how much he loves you. Warmth spreads through your body at his continued kind nature in making sure you're taken care of, no matter what.
You lean in, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek before nuzzling into his side, sending him a 'thank you' through your hug. Glancing back up at him, the smile on his face like yours, not leaving.
“I do have some salty snacks for you too, but Dean got into some of them,” he admits.
You laugh, your heart warming at his attentiveness. He leans in to peck your lips lightly, giggling about how he can taste the flavor of the electrolyte packet on your lips as you both walk into the stands, joining your friends.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
note – not sponsored by liquid iv, I wish
tags: @slut-taylorsversionnn @choppedlamphandscowboy
a second shot
pairing – john logan x photographer!fem!reader
wc – 4.4k
synopsis – being John Logan’s secret girlfriend had its perks until one night changes everything in ways you both could’ve never imagined
based on this request
warnings – language, angst, fluff, drinking, mentions of unprotected sex but nothing explicit, ooc!Logan (he’s kind of an ass at the start), reader slightly gaslights herself in the beginning, mentions of menstrual cycle, pre-pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy and birth, reader's best friend is not gender specific, reader is referred to as she/her
note – this request is literally so amazing and I’m still not over it. enjoy ♡
masterlist
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
The shutter of the camera sounds in your ears as you snap photos of the Briar hockey team. Action shots as they pass the puck and shoot shots, still frames when the puck is about to drop, celebration photos when the team scored – you had a knack for capturing the perfect photos during practices and game days.
Attending Briar on an exchange program scholarship brought opportunities to you that you didn’t even imagine would be possible. This being your last semester before going back home, you knew you had to make a final impact, hoping to secure a photographer job back in the states when you could eventually afford to come back.
The timing feels comedic as the thoughts of welcoming unimaginable possibilities swarm through your head, seeing John Logan skate the perimeter of the rink. He sends you a soft wink through his face guard as he skates past you. You glance up from the camera, eyes following him as you return the smile, watching as he skates back towards the center of the rink.
The first day you started shooting for the team, Logan noticed you on the bench located off the ice behind the team’s bench, fiddling with your camera equipment.
Sitting there in your Briar sweatshirt and your favorite pair of jeans, you had pulled your memory cards out, finding the one tagged ‘B’ for Briar as you inserted it into the camera.
The concentrated look on your face as you moved on to clean the lens of your camera, he found adorable. He skated over to you, introducing himself. You returned the introduction as you chatted, building an instant connection.
Fast forward several months later, you were exclusively dating. Without anyone else knowing. What was going on between you and Logan truly was so exciting. Dating in secret brought an element of exhilaration to the relationship. There was no pressure to be public, just enjoying each other’s company was more than enough.
A small part of you never understood the secrecy, wanting to not only flaunt your man around, but wanting yourself to be shown off, as you deserved. You swallowed those thoughts, trying to remind yourself to be grateful for the attention you did get from him. It was thrilling being with someone who never wasted any time showing how much he liked you.
Sending you light smiles and subtle winks in public, hands and mouth worshipping your body in private.
Despite thinking you both were being discrete, Logan’s friends could immediately notice the shift in his behavior. His accuracy on the ice improved, he spent less time at the hockey house and when he was there, he never engaged in conversations with any other girls.
Garrett was the first one to catch on, noticing the several times you had made eye contact with Logan at hockey house parties. Garrett himself could feel the tension between you two, wondering exactly what was going on. Loose lips run amuck, Garrett telling the guys and his girlfriend, her telling her best friend. The group was now fully invested in this secret that neither of you knew was technically out.
Case in point, another party was being thrown at the hockey house, the final one of the semester. You were hanging out in the living room with your friends, making light conversation when your eyes hover over to the kitchen. Your eyes meet Logan’s, already looking at you. He takes a sip of his solo cup, his pointer finger lifting up to subtly say ‘hi’ to you. You mimic the action, taking a drink from your can of soda, pointer finger going up.
The interaction goes completely unnoticed by everyone at the party. Except by Garrett, who is tempted to laugh at his best friend’s lack of subtly. He wants to push Logan over to you, forcing you both to talk and cut all of the tension that swarms in the air whenever you look at each other.
You break the eye contact first, refocusing your attention to the conversation your friends were having as Logan does the same, softly smirking to himself before hearing his name being called, getting recruited for a game of beer pong.
The night goes on and before you know it, you’re in need of a replacement drink as you head towards the kitchen. Conversations are spilling over each other when one voice in particular stands out above the rest.
“I don’t know, man, you know how things get.”
Logan’s voice catches your attention, him clearly having more of a serious conversation with who you assume were his friends. You move to the other side of the wall to be out of sight as you shamelessly eavesdrop.
“Why don’t you just ask her out?”
Garrett Graham’s voice continues the conversation, your heart racing as you realize they’re most likely talking about you.
“Nah, she’s just someone I’m seeing, you know? It’s nothing serious. She's leaving soon anyway.”
Your heart sinks into your stomach at such a rapid rate. Brows furrowing, you feel your heart palpitate as Logan continues to dig himself a deeper hole.
“She was just a good time, that’s it.”
The overwhelming urge to vomit finds you as you rush out of the house, going unnoticed by anyone, including your friends. Your hand covers your mouth as you nearly sprint home, forcing every attempt to stop the tears from rolling down your face. Your brain flies with a thousand thoughts per minute, overanalyzing every conversation, every look, every moment.
It was all a lie.
The churn in your stomach is too much to handle, as you empty your guts into a bush nearby. Catching your breath, you stand back, one of your hands instinctively goes to hold your stomach as you continue to slow your breathing, sniffing softly. The anxiety slowly dissipates, only to be replaced with anger and sadness. Your desperate sprint home turns to a slow walk, hands settling in the pockets of your jacket as you replay the conversation in your head.
‘It’s nothing serious.’
‘She was just a good time, that’s it.’
After finally arriving home, you found it to be extremely great timing that your exchange program was coming to an end. You were expected to stay at Briar through the next week, getting to enjoy winter break before heading home.
Screw that.
Before you know it, you’re changing your flight, calling your family and telling them that you’re leaving Briar first thing tomorrow morning. You would figure out the rest of the details later. You spend the rest of the evening solemnly packing up your necessities, leaving what’s unimportant to you and quietly sobbing as you try to sleep, mourning the ‘what could have been’ between you and Logan.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Logan wakes up the next morning, groggy and confused as he sits up, wiping his face with his hands. Before getting up for the day, he checks his phone, hoping to get a text back from you. He hadn’t heard from you at all last night and didn’t see you leave at the party. Worried, he had continued texting you throughout the night, checking in to make sure you were okay.
11:01pm – hey, where’d you disappear off to?
11:06pm – i wanna see you tmrw, let me know if ur free.
11:32pm – everything okay?
12:15am – goodnight gorgeous
He feels his heart sink into his gut as he taps his phone, seeing the singular message you had sent him in the early hours of the morning, distracting him from any other notifications on his screen.
6:04am – goodbye Logan, we’re done.
No emotion, no cute emojis, nothing. Logan goes on a spiral, sending you several messages that refuse to go through, the text bubbles sitting there, green and undelivered. His mind races as he rushes out of bed, quickly changing and driving way over the speed limit to your place.
Arriving, he knocks excessively at your door. With no response, he uses the spare key you gave him to open your door, hands shaking as he unlocks the door. His heart sinks once again once the door opens, seeing nothing but an empty apartment. He walks around, seeing everything completely gone, minus the large pieces of furniture Briar provided.
His eyes find a folded-up jacket sitting on the kitchen island. He walks up to it, holding it up. His own blue hoodie meets his eyes, knowing you clearly left it for him, more than likely anticipating that he would make his way over here to try to find you.
Panic sinks in, wondering where the hell you were and why the hell you had left so suddenly without any explanation. Running his hands through his hair, he knew he had to tell someone. Someone had to know. Someone had to help him.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
“Jesus Christ man.”
Garrett sits at the kitchen island of the hockey house, having heard the word vomit coming from Logan as he explained everything. Your secret relationship, the fact that you weren’t answering his messages, how you left so abruptly, everything. Garrett had to fight the strong urge to say ‘I told you so’, clocking the relationship weeks ago. He swallowed his pride, attempting to offer Logan some reasoning.
“You don’t think she overheard us, do you?”
“What? When?”
“At the party. Last night.”
Logan once again feels the pit in his stomach, thinking about the conversation he had with Garrett. More specifically what he had said. The shame seeps deep inside of him. He knew he didn’t mean any of what he had said. He just didn’t want to be questioned about what you guys had going on.
No, that was a lie.
He was scared shitless.
Things with you were perfect. Too perfect. He found himself constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong. Unfortunately, he did that himself, ultimately finding a way to sabotage the relationship by brushing you off like you were nothing to him.
It all makes sense now – why you disappeared from the party, why you never answered him, why you left without a trace.
He rubs his hands over his face, pacing back and forth in the kitchen, regret and guilt finding him.
“Fuck me.”
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
“Fuck me.”
Nerves wring throughout your body as your hand shakes, the positive sign on the pregnancy test staring you right in the face, almost taunting you. You only snap back into the present moment as a tear drips from your cheek onto the floor as you blinked.
Something in your gut was telling you that something was off. Ever since you'd arrived home three weeks ago, you were experiencing random unfamiliar symptoms. Random vomiting like the night of the party, exhaustion finding you the moment you woke up, and most notably, missing your period. A late period was sometimes common for you. But not this late.
Tossing the test onto the counter, you breathe out a staggered exhale. Staring at yourself in the mirror, your eyes fall to your stomach.
This cannot be happening.
It was more than obvious who the father was. How it happened was the more important question. Every time without fail, you both went the extra mile to ensure you were safe and protected. Your eyes dart back and forth, when the lightbulb screws in just a bit tighter, your brows unfurrowing.
The night of Briar’s game win one week before you had left.
The thrill of the win overwhelmed Logan, as you met up that night after the game. Pinned against the wall, legs wrapped around him as he moved inside you, the passion and intensity of the moment so strong, protection became an unfortunate afterthought.
Biting your lip, one thought festers in your head, standing out above the rest.
Do you tell Logan?
No. You don’t. You can’t. He made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you, why on earth would he want you and a child? More heartbreak was the last thing you needed to deal with at this point. Anxiety fuels your system, wondering how the hell you were going to manage this unexpected new chapter of your life.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Nine months later, your beautiful, healthy baby boy is born. The joy of this moment is unlike any feeling you’ve ever felt in your entire life. Sprinkled in this moment was a hint of sadness, wondering what this experience would’ve been like with Logan.
You had always thought he would make an amazing father someday. Thinking about how he would’ve held your hand through every push, kissed your forehead in reassurance, seeing the first time he got to hold his baby boy.
Staying in the present moment felt more difficult as these thoughts continued to spiral through your head as the adrenaline in your system flowed simultaneously. Lifting your head off the pillow behind you, you stared down at your son, his tiny frame cradled in your arms.
It especially didn’t help that this gorgeous bundle of joy was the spitting image of his father.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Several months later, as if things couldn’t get any better for you, you were sitting in your living room when an email arrives in your inbox, the subject line making your eyes bulge out of your head.
Detroit Red Wings NHL Photographer – We Want You!
You do a triple take at your screen, sitting up as you read through the email. The email was straight to the point. They had somehow found your portfolio online and loved the work you did for Briar. The team would love to interview you and if all goes well, get you on board.
If it weren’t for your sleeping child in the next room over, you would’ve screamed. Replying immediately, you explain how you would be available for an online interview, needing to figure out logistics for moving back to the states in the meantime.
That’s when the team emailed you back, offering to cover housing expenses, that along with several other benefits notated in the employment contract that would be sent to you post-interview.
With the interview having gone perfectly days later, contracts were signed and two weeks later, you found yourself moving back to the states, with your best friend and your baby boy.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Becoming a traveling photographer for the Detroit Red Wings was truly a dream come true. You got to pursue your passion, while spending time with your baby. Your best friend offered to come over with you, having their own plans of wanting to move over for as long as they could remember. They were your lifesaver, also taking on babysitting responsibilities, them being more than willing to. Especially considering some of those other benefits listed in your contract.
Part of your contract ensured you could bring along family with you for the away games. You had fought hard for that, needing the extra support. This truly felt unreal, you felt as though you needed to pinch yourself, not believing your dreams were really coming true.
Tomorrow night, the Detroit Red Wings played the Boston Bruins. You, your friend and your baby make the commute to Boston, driving behind the buses with the team, coaches and staff. You can’t help but feel your heart drop when you think about your past in Boston.
So many memories were made in the time you spent there, so many friends you had made along the way. There was just one person you were hoping to not bump into. Massachusetts was a huge state though, there was no way you’d run into him.
“Hey,” your friend says, grabbing your attention, “everything’s gonna be okay.”
You nod in agreeance. They could clearly feel the tense energy radiating off you.
“I know. I just can’t help but think about my time here. It’s nice to reminisce, but there’s so much hurt mixed into all of the good memories,” you admit.
“Of course there is. But look at you now. You’re not just a mom, but a mom who’s living out her dreams. Screw him.”
You glance over to your friend, nodding and softly smiling.
“Yeah, screw him,” you say, both of you chuckling as you continue to drive.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Before you know it, it’s game night. You’re set up in the arena before anyone else, hanging out with your friend and baby in the front row of the stands behind the Red Wings’ bench. Tiny headphones adorn his ears as he coos at you. You smile down at him, kissing his nose lightly.
The older he gets, the more and more he looks just like his father. You push the thought down quickly, saying a goodbye before walking over to your set up on the opposite of the arena by one of the goalies.
Your camera sits on its tripod, lens angled through the camera hole of the clear protective shielding blocking pucks from flying out into the stands. You mess with the camera settings, getting some test shots during the pregame as the crowd slowly fills the stands.
Logan walks into the arena with Garrett, Dean and Tucker. Being able to score last minute tickets for the game, they knew it was a sign that they had to go. The guys sit higher up in the lower section behind the Bruins' bench, shuffling to the middle of the row. The energy in the arena was high, lights flashing around, the majority of the crowd dressed in black and yellow for the Bruins, the occasional bright red of Red Wings fans catching his eyes.
A bright red hoodie catches his attention by one of the goalies. He watches as the camera girl unscrews the camera off the tripod, her back to him as she takes photos as the players skate by. One of them shoots her a middle finger, to which she returns it by lifting her middle finger up off the camera and laughs. Attaching the camera back on the tripod, she turns around to open her camera bag. Logan’s heart sinks into his stomach.
It’s you.
Your bright smile lasts a few seconds longer as you grab something from the bag, adjusting your hoodie and turning your back to him once more. You stand there, arms now crossed as you patiently wait for the game to start. Logan doesn’t know if this is a sign from the universe or if the universe is just straight up messing with him.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about you all the time. What you were doing, how you were doing, if you were with someone else.
The overwhelming need to talk to you finds him. He seemed to be screwed in that department, not just by being sandwiched between Garrett and Tucker, but at both intermissions, you disappeared from the rink.
Logan was ashamed to admit he watched you more than he watched the game. A light smile graces his face whenever his eyes find you, seeing you do what you had always talked to him about doing with your photography career. Even though you probably want nothing to do with him anymore, he couldn’t help but admire you from afar.
He is so proud of you.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Disappointment finds you as the Red Wings lost 4-2. Despite the loss, you had still gotten a great deal of action shots, including some photos of a fight that you think would make for a great reaction meme on the team’s social media accounts.
The crowd clears out behind you as you begin packing up your equipment. With your back turned to the stands, you set the camera on the bench next to you, collapsing your tripod and packing up your bag. Right before you stand up to sling your bag over your shoulder, your name is softly called out.
You feel the blood drain from your face as you stand up slowly. Turning around, you nearly gasp at the sight of John Logan standing in front of you.
He seemed to stand taller, facial hair more prominent, a look in his eyes you couldn't pinpoint as you watch his eyes track down your body.
The guarded look in your eyes specifically makes Logan’s stomach churn with guilt. You’ve always been beautiful to him, but something about you did look different. You almost had a glow to you, your face fuller and more mature.
You were still the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen.
“You uh... work for the Red Wings?”
“Yeah, they somehow saw my portfolio from Briar and reached out a couple months back.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah…”
The silence becomes very awkward, until a baby’s cries snap you both out of the discomfort. You turn your head instinctively.
Too quick, Logan thought.
You see your baby with his hand out, seeing you and wanting to be near you, his soft cries echoing through the now nearly empty arena.
“Oh, hi honey,” you say, your friend handing your baby. He sits on your left hip as you calm him down with a light bounce of your arm. A confused look finds your friend as you speak up,
“This is John… Logan. He’s an… old friend.”
“Oh, shit,” your friend mumbles for only you to hear, looking between Logan and you, now finally putting a face to the name. You tell her you’ll meet her in the car, telling her where the car keys were in your bag.
During the conversation you’re having, Logan finds himself confused as he glances to the baby boy you’re holding. His eyes go further down, noticing the lack of a ring on your finger. You weren’t married. There’s no way you had gotten pregnant after leaving Briar, the timeline didn’t add up. He glances back up to see the baby staring right at him and he swallows intensely, brows unfurrowing.
This baby looked just like him. The spitting image of him, actually. The same brown eyes, the same facial structure. He then thinks back to the glow and fullness he noticed in your face. The glow of a mother.
He feels his heart rate rapidly pick up, his vision getting ever so slightly dizzy as you say his name, snapping him out of his thoughts.
You notice his facial expression, no words needed to be exchanged between the two of you to know exactly what he was thinking.
He knew.
You both had a million things to say, but the words were caught in both your throats, unable to figure out how to even start any other conversation without stating the obvious. Logan musters up the courage,
“Can we please talk? I don’t know how much longer you’re in town for, but I think we really need to talk,” he says, his eyes falling to the baby as he says ‘really’.
A sense of protectiveness falls over you as you feel your grip on your baby tighten. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you agree. After all, he was the father. He deserved to know his child.
“Yeah. I’ll... unblock your number and text you,” you say.
“Ouch,” he jokes.
“You should consider yourself lucky I’m even doing that,” you joke back, light smiles finding both of you, the flirty banter coming back as if it never left.
“I am,” he says sincerely.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Logan had texted you the location of a local cafe close to the arena. You both happened to arrive at the same time the next day, Logan seeing you walking up, pushing your stroller as he grabbed the door, holding it for you.
After placing your orders, you settled in the back corner of the cafe. Something must’ve been in the air as your baby boy fell right asleep as you guys settled in. Something probably as simple as him being around both of his parents for the first time.
“He’s never passed out like that, I’m shocked,” you lightly chuckle, tucking the blanket around him. Logan smiles, watching you embrace motherhood with ease.
“I am so sorry.”
Your eyes dart to his, not expecting that to be the first thing he says.
“For…?” you probe.
“For saying you meant nothing to me. It was the furthest thing from the truth. I was terrified that what we had was too good to be true and I didn’t want to believe it was real. But it was, it was the most real thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life.”
Pressing your lips in a fine line, you fight the urge to start crying as you take a deep breath.
“You have no idea how badly I wanted to tell you. About him. When I found out, I just assumed you that since you didn’t want anything to do with me, why would you ever want to deal with a kid too.”
“It would never be something I’d ‘deal’ with. I am so sorry I ever made you feel that way. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you throughout this,” he reaches over the table, folding his hand into yours.
“I used to get so mad. Every time I looked at him, all I’d see is you. He really is yours,” you chuckle, alleviating some of the tension as Logan laughs with you. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you continue, your eyes falling to the table.
“Hey,” he says sitting up, the grip tightening on your hand, your eyes meeting his again, “given what you heard me say that night, I do not blame you. What’s important is right here, right now. I want to be there for you. For both of you.”
Shock is written on your face as you were not expecting that response.
“What?”
“I want to be a part of both of your lives, if you’ll let me.”
The tears well up in your eyes, bottom lip quivering slightly as the faintest nod finds you. You take your free hand, placing it on top of his, staring at your hands before meeting his gaze once more.
“I’d really like that.”
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
note – i had to make her job to photograph for my fav hockey team (fun fact - it's also Antonio's fav), Detroit sports ftw!! hope you enjoyed!
tags – @mell-graham @champagnepoets @parker-barnes-af
safe haven
pairing - john logan x fem!reader
wc: 2.5k
synopsis – a scary incident reveals that your boyfriend is a lot closer to your friend group than they realize, and Logan takes care of you as you recover
based on this request
warnings – language, angst, detailed descriptions of a car accident and injuries, ambulance, hospital, mention of death, reader is referred to as she/her, protective!Logan, Hannah has her bluebaru
note – I’m a sucker for this type of fic, I absolutely loved writing this! if you’re sensitive to any of the warnings above, please read with caution! requests are currently closed, thank you for understanding. enjoy ♡
masterlist
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
A girl’s trip with Hannah and Allie was exactly what you needed. Renting a cabin with a fireplace, a hot tub, staying in the middle of nowhere, it was the winter-y getaway of your dreams. A freak snowstorm made its way into town, but you three still decided to head out anyway, hoping you’d get lucky and beat the storm.
Deciding to take two cars, you drove alone as Hannah and Allie followed behind you in Hannah’s car. As you continued to drive, the snow became heavier and heavier, the visibility lessening for you. The girls decided to pull over for a quick pee break, you letting them know you were going to keep going.
Seeing the snow finally let up, a sigh of relief comes from you, as you can at least see now. Maintaining a fair distance from the car in front of you and not going too fast, you were determined to get there on time and safely.
It was only a matter of time before the familiar feeling of your tires skidding makes your heart drop in your stomach. You try gently turning the wheel, foot hovering over the brake as your car eventually reaches the stop sign, coming to a complete stop at the divided highway.
Slowing your breathing down, you exhale, thankful nothing too scary happened. Seconds later, a car rear ends you, most likely unable to stop properly on the ice as well, causing your car to be pushed into the middle of the highway. Attempting to turn your wheel and move was a lost cause, the gas pedal doing nothing as your tires skid in place. A loud horn sounds as you look out of your driver’s side window, seeing bright headlights coming straight for you.
Your heart lurches in your throat, the car slamming into the center of the driver's side your car. Your head whips to the side on impact, your car now being pushed by the truck, unable to stop. Eventually, you separate from the truck as they successfully hit their brakes, only to send your car ping ponging off a metal pole as your car slides into a ditch.
Snow starts to pour down again as you finally stop, angled awkwardly in the ditch, the car tilting to the right. Your right foot managed to get stuck under the now busted brake pedal, any movement sending waves of pain through your foot and up your body. Airbags deployed, every light on your dash on or flashing, your seatbelt locking you in place. Being too scared to unbuckle it and do more damage, you leave it alone.
Trying to breathe and stop the tears, you try and reach for your purse. Your phone peeks out, just out of your reach, a loud groan leaving your lips as you realize you're trapped. A sense of lightheadedness creeps up on you, not knowing how severe your injuries were, you closed your eyes, focused on your breathing, praying that someone would help you.
Hannah and Allie weren’t too far behind you, confusion finding them as they still haven’t seen your car. They approach the divided highway, Allie noticing some slight debris in the road.
“What the hell?” she says, looking around, seeing a truck stuck in the middle of the road. She watches as the guy who presumably was in the truck runs towards the ditch. Allie’s heart drops, seeing a strange brush of the grass and snow paved out as if something slid through it, leading into the ditch.
“Hannah, pull over, they might need help.” Allie says. Hannah doesn’t question her, pulling off to the side of the road, putting the car in park. Allie rushes out, not caring if she slips on ice. Snow continues to fall as she runs to the top of the ditch. Her heart sinks, seeing a Briar U bumper heart shaped sticker, distorted from the initial hit but still visible on the right side of the back of the car.
The bumper sticker she gave you.
“Fuck! Call 911!’ Allie shouts out to someone, anyone, as she runs down the hill, Hannah on her trail, grabbing her phone. Allie finally reaches the car, her heart sinking once again, seeing you passed out in the driver’s seat. She yells out your name.
“Shit! We’re here, okay?! We’re gonna get you outta there!” she yells, not even knowing if you can hear her.
After what feels like hours, the police and fire rescue arrive, safely extracting you from the car, getting you onto a stretcher as you groan in pain at any sudden movements. The girls get the approval to leave Hannah’s car as they both get in the back of the ambulance with you, one of the firefighters handing Allie your purse with your belongings. Hannah holds your hand as Allie pulls your phone out to start calling your family. After notifying your family, she puts your phone away, grabbing hers from her pocket. Before she can call Dean, your mumbles catch her attention.
“Shhh try not to talk, okay?” Allie soothes.
“Logan…” you mumble, “someone… has to tell Logan,” you finish, your eyes slowly blinking, slightly loopy from the morphine given to you to help ease your pain. Allie and Hannah’s eyes leave yours to look at each other, both incredibly confused, thinking you’re just extra loopy. Hannah looks back down to you, leaning in closer to you.
“John… Logan?” Hannah asks. You nod ever so slightly.
Logan’s hanging out with the guys at the house, complaining once again about Tucker’s massive Christmas to-do list when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He laughter dies down, smile fading, confused when he sees the caller ID as ‘Allie Dean’. They were chill with each other, sure but never really interacted too much unless she was with Dean, hence the contact name. Unsure if it’s a butt dial, he answers.
“Hello?”
Logan’s chest tightens hearing Allie’s stressed voice, rambling as she explains what she knows about your situation and mentions that although strange to her, you asked her to call him. The guys look at Logan with concern, seeing the way his face dropped and the color seemed to wash away from his face. Allie drops the name of the hospital you’re headed to.
“You gotta get here now.”
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Logan enters the hospital faster than humanly possible, scouring the waiting room until he finds the girls sitting there, nervous looks on their faces. Garrett, Dean and Tucker follow behind him, the same stressed looks on their faces.
“Where is she?!” Logan asked, worried out of his mind. Hannah reassured him that you were currently in surgery and most importantly, that you were alive. Logan runs his hands through his hands as he sits down, his head now sitting in his hands as he tries to slow down his breathing, the adrenaline consuming him.
“What the fuck happened?” Dean asked, rushing to hug and comfort Allie.
Hannah tries to explain everything they know, not knowing how you ended up in the ditch. They described your injuries, Allie explaining how she found you, tears welling up in her eyes. The energy in the waiting room is heavy, not just from the stress of your unknown status, but of everyone but Logan looking at each other, confused yet intrigued about what was going on between the two of you.
No one brought it up, obviously wrong place, wrong time, but the thoughts did circulate, along with waiting, hoping and praying you’re okay.
After what felt like hours, the surgeon enters the waiting room, calling out your last name. All six heads snap towards the sound of his voice, Logan getting up the fastest as the surgeon walks over to the group.
“She’s stable,” he starts, exhales and sighs of relief leaving everyone.
“She did break her right foot and she’s got some minor fractures in her leg, along with some torn muscles, some cuts and bruises from the impact. Fortunately, there were no signs of spinal injury or any internal bleeding, but we did find signs of whiplash and the few broken bones. She’s incredibly lucky,” he finishes.
Logan rubs his sweaty palms against his pants, his body still shaking from the overwhelming anxiety. The surgeon continues,
“We’ve got her in the ICU now. We’re going to keep an eye on her for a little bit before we can move her to a room, then she can have visitors,” he finishes. Everyone says their thanks before sitting down.
The longer the wait, the more nervous Logan got. His leg bouncing at a rapid rate, him constantly standing up and pacing around the room. His heart raced in his chest at the thought of anything happening to you. Although he felt relief knowing you were okay, not being able to physically see you, to physically touch you, was killing him.
After what felt like days, into the late hours of the night, a nurse comes out, saying your last name, once again, grabbing everyone’s attention.
“She’s finally settled in her room, we can start bringing you guys back, but it’ll have to be one at a time,” she explains.
Garrett pats Logan on the back, “Go. Go see your girl.”
Logan nearly tears up, not even caring that everyone knows now. Everyone nods in agreement as Logan follows the nurse back into the inpatient rooms area. His heart races, not knowing what to expect. Eventually, he and the nurse arrive at the door, opening it softly.
Logan’s body tenses up, anxiety bubbling up inside him. You lay on the bed, peacefully sleeping, an oxygen mask sitting lightly in your nose. A small cut on your left temple, scrapes on your arms, your foot elevated in a sling and wrapped in a cast.
He didn’t think he hated anything the way he hated seeing you so hurt, so vulnerable, so quiet. The nurse leaves, shutting the door behind him as he approaches the bed. You lie there, another wave of nausea coming over him, his mind thinking the absolute worst. He finds the spare chair in the room and gently pulls it over so he can sit at your bedside. His hand reaches up to find yours, being careful to not touch any wires. Slight redness graces your knuckles as Logan brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles, wishing he could take away all of your pain.
“I’m so fucking glad you’re okay,” he mumbles into your hand, before dropping both your hands on the bed. As if his words had some magic touch, your brows furrow as you shift slightly, your eyes opening slowly, a groggy, glazed look in your eyes.
“Hey, hey…” Logan says, standing up so you can see him without having to move your head too much. “You’re okay.” he says, for you but also for him.
“Water… please,” you croak out, Logan letting go of your hand, finding the cup of water sitting on the counter. He grabs it, extending the straw for you as you try and sit up, grunting in pain.
The ice cold water washes into you like you had been dehydrated for weeks, instantly feeling better before nodding to signal you were done. Logan puts the cup down before coming back to you, sitting down in the chair. Despite the pain in your neck, you turn your head, a tear that was sitting in your eye falls down your cheek, bottom lip quivering.
“I thought I was gonna die,” you say, voice breaking, fighting more tears that threatened to spill.
Logan’s hand comes up to your head, lightly moving the hair from your forehead before kissing it, soothing you with gentle hands, his thumb lightly grazing your temple.
“I know, baby, I know. But you didn’t. You’re here and you’re safe,” he reassures, his thumb moving to your cheek. With a light nod, you agree, thankful that this didn’t go where you thought it was going to, being trapped in that car for so long.
After a few moments of a now more comfortable silence, Logan speaks up again,
“Allie called me, she and Hannah found you,”.
Tears refill your eyes, guilt washing over you knowing you had probably traumatized both of them, them having to see you like that. Logan immediately clocks it, shutting down those thoughts.
"Hey, this was not your fault. Thank God they were there and were able to get help, right?" he reassures. You nod, Logan's thumb coming to wipe the tears off your cheeks.
“They all know.”
“Good. It was about time we told them,” you joke, a light giggle leaving your lips, your eyes still full of tears. Logan had never been happier to hear your laugh, joining you in laughter.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
After the overnight stay, your vitals looked good and you were cleared to go home. After seeing everyone, you insisted that they all went home and got some sleep. Logan had immediately said no to that, staying with you the entire night, camping out on the guest chair in your room.
Once you got discharged, the nurse wheeled you out on a wheelchair to the front drive, Logan pulling his truck around the front. He and the nurse both worked to get you in the truck, saying your goodbyes and thanks before heading to your apartment.
You hobble off the elevator on your crutches, muscles still sore as you approach your apartment door. Logan opens your front door for you as you enter, you immediately finding your couch. Sighing, you plop down, thankful for finally be rid of that hospital bed.
“You hungry?”
“Oh my god, yes, I’m so tired of hospital lasagna and Jello cups.”
Logan stayed with you at your place for the first week of your recovery. The way he always took care of you, doing everything you needed - half the time without you even needing to ask - made this recovery process so much lighter and less stressful. No matter how frustrated you got, he always knew exactly what to say to calm you down and comfort you.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Following that first week, after your energy came back, you and Logan made your way to the hockey house, hanging out with everyone, you needing desperately to get out of the house. A hangout with your friends is exactly what you needed.
You all sit on the couch, Logan setting a pillow down on the coffee table for your foot, helping you hike your leg up before he sat down next to you as you both explain, well, everything.
"You guys have been dating?"
“For months??!”
"No way."
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Why wouldn’t you say anything?”
Questions bombarded both of you as you laughed. “In my defense, I was gonna tell you girls at the cabin,” you say, giggling.
Despite this very traumatic event, you found yourself incredible grateful for not just your boyfriend, but the group of friends you had surrounding you. This was going to continue to be a long and frustrating recovery process, but knowing you have the support system behind you that you do, alleviated some of that pain for you.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
tags – @katrinaellie @05gwyn @missmaddyline
