summary: over the years, you notice your son picking up more and more of logan’s habits, never realizing just how closely he’s been watching his dad
warnings: this genuinely is just pure fluff, if you’re not into parenthood fics i suggest skipping this one :)
word count: 2.5k
a/n: based on this request by @memedin4 ! i hope you enjoy it<3
john logan masterlist off campus masterlist
── ᵎᵎ ✦
logan had been home from a training camp for less than twelve hours when you walked into the kitchen and found a smaller version of him sitting at the table.
not physically, obviously. your son was three years old, barely tall enough to climb onto the dining chairs without using his knees, and currently wearing dinosaur pajamas with one sock missing. logan, meanwhile, looked every bit like a man who had landed in boston sometime after midnight and been woken before seven by a child who had apparently spent the last four days saving every thought he’d ever had for his father’s return.
they had already been downstairs for nearly an hour.
you knew this because you’d heard your son talking through the floorboards while you were still in bed. the conversation appeared to have been largely one-sided, punctuated every so often by logan’s lower, sleep-roughened voice. eventually, the smell of coffee had convinced you to join them.
logan sat slouched in his chair, one hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through his phone. his hair was still flattened on one side from sleep, and the exhaustion around his eyes suggested he was only technically awake.
beside him, your son sat in almost exactly the same position. his small body was slumped against the back of the chair, one hand wrapped around his plastic cup of milk while he stared down at the unopened coloring book in front of him with an expression of deep contemplation.
logan lifted his coffee, your son lifted his milk. logan took a sip, so did he.
you remained by the doorway, watching as logan lowered his mug and scratched absently at the stubble along his jaw. a few seconds later, your son raised one small hand and dragged his fingers thoughtfully across his own smooth chin.
your mouth twitched slightly at the utterly adorable sight. logan noticed you then, his eyes lifting from his phone, “morning.”
“morning.” you crossed the kitchen, placing a quick kiss against your husband’s lips before reaching for the coffee pot, and glancing toward the table again as you filled your mug.
logan leaned farther back in his chair, your son did the same. this time, you laughed.
both of them looked at you, and the resemblance in their equally confused expressions only made it worse. “what?” logan asked.
you shook your head and turned back toward the counter, “nothing.”
you heard logan mutter something to your son behind you, followed by a quiet little laugh.
at three, imitation was hardly unusual. your son copied plenty of things. he tried to use your hairbrush, repeated words he had no business knowing, and had recently spent an entire afternoon pretending to talk on a television remote after watching you take a work call.
by four, your son had worked out what it meant when logan left with a suitcase.
before, his father’s absences had existed without much explanation. dad went away sometimes. dad appeared on the television. dad eventually came home, usually with something small from whichever city he’d been in and enough guilt about missing bedtime to make him incapable of saying no for at least twenty-four hours.
now, your son understood that logan played hockey for the bruins and this information had completely changed his life.
he had a miniature jersey with his father’s name across the back and insisted on wearing it during games. on nights when logan was away, you let him stay up later than usual to watch, although he rarely made it through all three periods.
more than once, logan had called after a game only for you to turn the phone toward the couch, where his son was asleep beneath a blanket with one hand still loosely holding a plastic hockey stick.
when logan was home, things weren’t much different. your son followed him everywhere.
if logan went into the garage, the back door opened thirty seconds later and a small voice asked what he was doing. if logan went upstairs to change, your son waited outside the bedroom and resumed whatever story he’d been telling the moment his father reappeared. if logan sat down to watch something, there was usually a small body pressed against his side within minutes.
logan seemed entirely unaware of the fact that he had acquired a shadow. you, however, had noticed it most one saturday afternoon.
you had walked into the kitchen to find logan crouched in front of an open cabinet. a screwdriver rested between his fingers as he worked on one of the hinges, while your son sat cross-legged on the floor beside him.
his eyes followed logan’s hands as they moved. whenever logan paused to inspect the hinge, your son leaned forward slightly too. when logan frowned at something, a smaller crease appeared between your son’s eyebrows.
you leaned against the counter, “is he helping?”
logan glanced over his shoulder, “apparently.”
your son looked mildly offended, “i am.”
you looked at his empty hands with a small smile, “alright, love.”
logan continued working, explaining what he was doing whenever another question came from beside him. most of the answers were probably going over your son’s head, but that didn’t seem to matter. he listened with the solemn attention usually reserved for bedtime stories.
eventually, logan handed him the screwdriver and placed his own hand over the smaller one to help him tighten the final screw.
as your son looked ridiculously pleased with himself you smiled and left them to it.
later that evening, you found him sitting in front of one of his toy trucks with a plastic screwdriver in his hand. when you asked what he was doing, he barely looked up, “fixing it.”
you didn’t need to ask where he’d gotten the idea.
you discovered this at dinner when you noticed every cherry tomato from his salad arranged in a neat pile at the edge of his plate.
you stared at them for a moment, “what’s wrong with those?”
your son shrugged, “don’t like them.”
“you ate them yesterday.” you said with your brows knitted in confusion, but another shrug followed.
when you glanced across the table you noticed logan eating with the determined concentration of someone who knew better than to make eye contact. you looked at his plate, and sure enough, a small pile of tomatoes sat near the edge.
your eyes moved from him to your son, and back to your husband, “seriously?”
logan finally glanced up, “what?”
you gestured toward their plates. he looked down at his own and then toward your son’s. understanding dawned slowly causing his mouth to twitch.
“don’t,” you pointed your fork at him.
“i didn’t do anything,” he shrugged.
“you’re enjoying this.”
“a little.”
your son looked between you, clearly uninterested in whatever argument was taking place. he pushed another tomato into the pile and continued eating. you watched him glance briefly at logan’s plate before doing it.
the tomatoes were only the beginning.
your son began asking for eggs the same way logan ate them, despite previously insisting that the yolk was disgusting. he started sitting beside his father during breakfast instead of in his usual seat across the table. when logan came home from practice and dropped onto the couch with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, it wasn’t unusual to find your son sitting the same way twenty minutes later.
the expressions were the funniest part.
logan had a particular look whenever he thought you were being unreasonable. it wasn’t dramatic. one eyebrow lifted slightly while his mouth flattened at one corner, and after years of marriage, you knew exactly what it meant.
apparently, your son did too.
the first time he used it on you after being told he couldn’t have ice cream before dinner, you nearly called logan into the room to deal with the consequences of his own genetics.
by six, hockey had become more than something your son watched because his father was on television.
he wanted to play.
you knew logan had been secretly thrilled the first time your son asked for skates, but he tried hard not to show too much of it. hockey had been part of his life for so long that he seemed almost wary of accidentally making it an obligation for his son.
he didn’t have to worry, though, because your son loved it.
you spent more mornings than you could count sitting in cold rinks with coffee between your hands, watching him on the ice. whenever logan’s schedule allowed, he came along.
you could tell those were your son’s favorite mornings.
he listened differently when logan spoke. not because he ignored his coaches, he didn’t, but because anything his father said seemed to carry additional weight.
logan would demonstrate something once, skating slowly enough for him to follow and your son would try. usually, the first attempt wasn’t particularly successful, but logan never made a big deal out of it. he would skate over, say something you couldn’t hear through the glass, and show him again.
there was something about the concentration on your son’s face that felt familiar. his brows drew together the same way logan’s did before a faceoff, his mouth tightening slightly as he tried to remember where to put his feet.
when he finally got something right, he looked for logan immediately. every single time. and no matter how small the improvement was, logan always noticed.
you wondered if either of them understood just how much they watched each other.
at seven, your son announced that he would play for the bruins.
the declaration came over breakfast with such certainty that neither you nor logan questioned whether he’d meant it. logan looked up from his coffee, “that’s the plan?”
your son nodded and continued eating his cereal. logan glanced at you as you tried to hide your smile behind your mug. there was no point arguing. only a week earlier, your son had also informed you that he intended to become a marine biologist despite refusing to swim anywhere he couldn’t touch the bottom.
that evening, you sat with him during one of logan’s home games. your son had been to plenty by then, but his excitement never seemed to fade. he sat forward in his seat throughout warmups, tracking his father across the ice.
once the game started, his attention remained fixed. you occasionally had trouble following logan among the movement of jerseys and helmets, but your son never did.
he knew exactly when his father stepped onto the ice. he recognized the shape of his skating, the way he moved, the number on his back. whenever logan had the puck, your son became completely still.
you had seen him watch games hundreds of times, but for some reason, you really noticed it that night. there was admiration in the way he watched his father, but there was something else too. concentration, maybe. as though he weren’t only watching the game. he was learning.
logan finally noticed on a rainy sunday afternoon.
he was home for the day, which had become increasingly rare as the season grew busier. the three of you had spent most of it doing very little.
logan was stretched across one end of the couch, one arm resting behind you while a game played on television. your son had turned the space between the couch and coffee table into a makeshift rink, using a miniature stick and foam ball despite being told several times to watch the lamp.
you were reading a book while logan was half watching the game and half scrolling through his phone.
a bad call on the television made logan look up. he frowned at the screen and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “come on.”
it was a sentence you’d heard him say plenty of times, so you barely registered it.
a few minutes later, your son lost control of the foam ball. it bounced off the coffee table and disappeared beneath the couch. he stopped for a second as his eyes followed it, then, with a frustrated breath, he leaned on his stick and dropped his head, “come on.”
logan went still and you looked up from your book. his attention was fixed on your son, who had already dropped onto his stomach and was attempting to retrieve the ball from beneath the couch, “did you hear that?”
you followed his gaze, “hear what?”
“that.”
“you’ll have to be more specific.”
logan frowned, still watching him, “he sounded like me.”
you stared at your husband for several seconds before letting out a laugh. not because it wasn’t true, but because it had taken him seven years to notice.
logan looked at you, “what?”
“nothing.”
his eyes narrowed. the expression was so familiar that your amusement only grew, “he copies you all the time.”
logan looked genuinely doubtful, “since when?”
you smiled as you closed your book, because where were you supposed to begin?
you reminded him of the mornings when your son was three and copied the way he drank from his cup. the afternoon with the cabinet hinge. the tomatoes. the expressions. the way he rubbed his chin when he was thinking despite having no stubble to scratch.
logan listened quietly and his attention gradually moved back toward the floor. your son had retrieved the ball and was standing again, adjusting his grip on the stick. after a moment, he glanced toward logan, “dad, watch.”
logan did as your son tried the same little move he’d been practicing for the last ten minutes. the ball rolled wide. he frowned, but before he could try again, logan stood from the couch, “move your bottom hand down a little.”
your son immediately adjusted it. logan stepped around the coffee table and crouched beside him, correcting his grip before moving back, “try now.”
the second attempt was better and your son’s face changed immediately, looking at logan for his reaction, who smiled.
you watched something shift in your husband’s expression. it was subtle, but you knew him well enough to see it. the realization that this wasn’t new. that the little boy standing in front of him had been paying attention for years.
later, after your son had gone to bed, you found logan standing in the kitchen. he was looking through something on his phone. when you came closer, you realized it was an old video.
your son was four in it, pushing a plastic lawn mower across the backyard several feet behind logan, carefully following every turn he made.
you leaned back against the counter next to him and watched him as he rewinded the video and pressed play again, “you really never noticed?”
he shook his head slightly. for a few seconds, he didn’t say anything. his thumb moved across the screen, replaying the beginning of the video once more, “he was tiny.”
you smiled, “he still is.”
“not that tiny.”
there was something in his voice that made your chest tighten a little. you rested your head briefly against his shoulder.
on the screen, a four-year-old version of your son followed directly behind his father, pushing his plastic mower through grass that wasn’t being cut and occasionally looking up to make sure logan was still there.
logan watched until the video ended, then he played it again.
Garrett came back from his workout with his body still warm, the muscles in his shoulders and arms defined from the intense session.
He dropped his bag on the floor with a dull thud and headed straight to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of toasted bread and coffee.
You were standing with your back to him, now wearing a very short black cotton shorts and a loose white tank top. You stretched up to grab a mug from the top shelf.
The sight made Garrett stop in the doorway for a couple of seconds, just admiring.“Fuck…” he muttered, almost to himself.You turned your face, smiling innocently.
“Hi, babe. How was the tr—”
You didn’t get to finish. Garrett was already behind you. He spun you around with his big hands on your waist and lifted you effortlessly, sitting you right in the middle of the kitchen counter — exactly where he’d promised earlier.
“Hey! I was making a snack for us,” you laughed, trying to protest.“The snack can wait,” he replied, his voice hoarse, already settling between your spread legs.
“I warned you I was gonna use this counter when I got back.”He didn’t waste any time. He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you hungrily. It was a wet, urgent kiss, almost rough. His tongue invaded your mouth as he pressed his sweaty body against yours.You felt his heat, the mix of soap and raw masculine scent.
Garrett’s hands slid down your thighs, gripping them firmly, then moved under your top to cup your breasts. He squeezed them, brushing his thumbs over your already hard nipples, and you moaned into his mouth.
“Changed clothes just to drive me crazy, huh?” he teased, biting your lower lip.
“You knew I’d be thinking about you the whole time at the gym.”He yanked your top up and off in one motion, tossing it aside. He leaned in and closed his hot mouth around one of your breasts, sucking hard while his hand moved down to squeeze your ass.
You arched your back, grabbing his chain with one hand and burying the other in his damp hair.
“Garrett…” you sighed.He smiled against your skin.“That’s it. Pull harder. You know I lose it when you do that.”You tugged harder. He let out a deep groan and kissed you again, this time sliding one hand between your bodies.
He pushed your shorts and panties to the side without even removing them and ran two fingers along your already soaked entrance.
“So wet for me…” he murmured, voice low and dirty. “Were you thinking about me during my workout too?”He pushed both fingers inside you at once, deep, curling them against that spot that made you moan loudly.
While he fucked you with his fingers, he rubbed slow, precise circles on your clit with his thumb. You gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.After leaving you trembling, he pulled his fingers out, shoved his sweatpants and boxers down, and gripped his thick, hard cock. He rubbed the swollen head slowly against your entrance, teasing you.
“Garrett, please…”“Please what?” he taunted, looking into your eyes with that wicked little smirk. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
“Fuck me. Now.”
He thrust in hard, all the way to the hilt in one stroke. You both moaned together. The counter creaked under the force. Garrett held your thighs open, pulling you against him as he started pounding into you with a strong, steady rhythm.
Each thrust made your whole body shake.Your breasts bounced up and down, his chain swinging between you, the cool metal hitting your hot skin. He looked down, mesmerized by the sight of his cock sliding in and out of you.
“Look at that…” he growled. “Look how you take every inch of me.”He sped up, gripping your waist tightly, fucking you deep and fast.
The wet sounds of your bodies colliding filled the kitchen along with your moans.At one point he pulled you even further forward, almost off the counter, and changed the angle, hitting that perfect spot that made you see stars.
“Right there…” you moaned, digging your nails into his back.Garrett let out a guttural groan when he felt your nails marking his skin.He fucked you harder, deeper, one hand dropping to rub your clit while the other squeezed your breast.
You felt your orgasm building fast, your legs shaking around his waist.“Cum for me, baby,” he ordered, voice rough. “I want to feel you squeezing my cock.”You came hard, moaning his name, your whole body trembling.
Garrett kept thrusting through your orgasm, drawing it out, until he couldn’t hold back anymore.With a long, deep groan, he buried his face in your neck and came inside you, pulsing hard, his hips still giving short, deep thrusts as he emptied himself.
You stayed like that for a while, breathless and pressed together. The kitchen counter had definitely been put to good use, just like he’d promised.Garrett lifted his head, gave you a lazy kiss, and smiled against your mouth.
“Now… we can have that snack.”He kissed you again, slow and deep, still buried inside you.“But after the second round in the bedroom.”
The kitchen is still quiet, the only sound the steady drip of coffee brewing in the machine. Garrett is leaning against the counter, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants, the silver chain around his neck catching the morning light over his black compression shirt.
You walk in wearing one of his T-shirts, still looking sleepy, and the second he sees you, a lazy smile spreads across his face.
"Come here," he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your waist.With effortless ease, he lifts you onto the edge of the kitchen counter. Your legs naturally part as he steps between them.
Garrett doesn't waste a second—he cups your face in both hands and kisses you deeply, slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss he knows always melts you.
His hands slide down your thighs, giving them a gentle squeeze before slipping beneath the oversized T-shirt to rest against your waist. He pulls you closer until your body is pressed flush against his.
The kiss grows warmer, more desperate.He gently catches your lower lip between his teeth before trailing kisses down to your neck, lingering there as you reach up and tug playfully on the chain around his neck.
"Garrett..." you laugh softly, already a little breathless. "You have practice.""I know," he mumbles against your skin, making absolutely no effort to stop.
One of his hands glides up your back beneath the shirt while the other settles on your thigh. Then he's kissing you again, hungrier this time, his lips lingering as he holds you close.You can feel the warmth of him against you.
The cool chain sways against your chest every time he moves.You laugh between kisses, gently cradling his face."Babe, you're going to be late. Coach is going to kill you."
A low groan escapes him as he rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavily."Five minutes," he pleads in a quiet, playful voice. "Just five more minutes, and I'll go."Before you can answer, he's kissing you again, pulling you into another long, lingering kiss.
Eventually, you laugh once more and gently press a hand against his chest."Garrett Graham, go to practice. Now."He rests his forehead against yours again, eyes closed, taking a deep breath as though he's gathering every ounce of willpower he has.
"Okay... okay," he grumbles reluctantly.He steals one last long, lingering kiss before finally pulling away.His eyes travel over you—from where you're sitting on the counter in nothing but his T-shirt, with slightly swollen lips and messy morning hair—and he lets out a quiet sigh.
"How am I supposed to practice with you looking like that?"You laugh, giving his shoulder a light shove.
"Go already, you menace. We can finish this later."
Garrett grabs his gym bag from the couch, though he can't stop glancing back at you with that unmistakable look in his eyes.
"The second I get back..." he says, pointing at you, "...this counter is getting used again. And you're not getting away."He leans in to steal one last quick kiss, takes a sip from your coffee with a smug grin, and heads out the door, still adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants as he leaves.
I love love love your Off Campus fics!!! Could you also write something smutty for Garrett pls?
Morning Practice Can Wait
pairing: Garrett Graham x female reader
description: How is Garrett supposed to leave for early morning practice when he has you laying in his bed?
TW: MDNI, smut, lazy morning (unprotected) sex, fingering, praise kink, hand on neck, bit of dry-humping, established relationship.
masterlist
The first thing you register is warmth, a solid, familiar heat pressing against your back, an arm heavy across your waist. Garrett's breath is steady against your neck, soft puffs that stir the hair falling there. Morning light filters through the curtains, casting the room in hazy gold. You're drifting somewhere between sleep and waking when you feel it, a distinct hardness pressing against your ass, moving in slow, subtle thrusts as Garrett shifts in his sleep.
A smile plays on your lips as you press back slightly. "Someone's awake," you murmur, voice thick with sleep.
Garrett chuckles, the vibration rumbling through your back. "Morning," he rasps, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "And yeah, someone is." He nuzzles your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. "I was dreaming about you, but it doesn't even come close to the real thing."
Your heart swells at his words, even as a different kind of warmth pools low in your belly. You shift to face him slightly, but he pulls you back against his chest, wanting to maintain the spooning position. "No, stay like this," he murmurs. "I want to stay wrapped around you forever."
His hands begin their slow exploration, stroking your sides, tracing the curve of your hips, down to your thighs where he lingers, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. You sigh contentedly, melting into his touch. His hands settle on your inner thighs, gripping slightly and you can't help but wiggle your ass against him.
"Tease," he whispers, though there's amusement in his voice. His fingers dance higher, toying with the little bow on the front of your panties. "You're just so warm here. Perfect."
You try to keep still, to maintain this peaceful morning moment, but his touch is igniting something in you. Each stroke of his fingers, each press of his lips against your neck sends jolts of pleasure through your body. You're becoming increasingly aware of the wetness pooling between your thighs, the ache beginning to build.
"Garrett," you breathe out. "You have to leave for practice soon."
He groans against your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. "Don't remind me. I'd rather stay here with you all day." His hips rock against you again, more deliberately this time. The friction sends a shiver through you and you can feel just how hard he is for you.
Your response is immediate, more wetness soaking your panties, a fresh wave of arousal washing over you. Garrett notices, his fingers dipping slightly higher to brush against the damp fabric.
"Well now," he murmurs, voice dropping to that low, husky tone that never fails to undo you. "Looks like we have a little problem here." His fingers press more firmly against your clit through your panties, making you gasp. "Should I help you with that?"
Heat floods your cheeks as you try to close your legs, but Garrett's strong thighs prevent it. "No, no, don't hide from me," he whispers, his fingers continuing their teasing assault. "Let me take care of you."
His fingers circle your clit, applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl. "Imagine how good I'd feel inside you right now," he breathes against your ear. "Stretching you, filling you up perfectly. Fucking you just the way you like." His other hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. "Worshipping every inch of you."
He finds that spot on your neck, the one that makes you weak and sucks gently. That's all it takes to break your resolve. "Garrett," you gasp, "Please."
With a soft growl of satisfaction, Garrett hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and slides them down your legs. He shifts slightly, positioning himself and then two fingers are sliding into you, slow and deep. You arch against him as he stretches you, his fingers curling to find that spot that makes you see stars.
"Feel that?" he murmurs, scissoring his fingers slightly. "That's just a taste of what's coming." He pumps his fingers slowly, deliberately, until you're writhing against him, desperate for more.
Finally, he withdraws his fingers and you feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He enters you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to his size. The stretch is exquisite, a perfect fullness that has you sighing in contentment.
"Fuck," he breathes against your neck once he's fully seated inside you. "You feel like home. Always so perfect for me."
He begins to move, establishing a slow, lazy rhythm that's perfect for a sleepy morning. Each thrust is deep, his hips rolling against yours in a way that sends pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands roam your body, one stroking your thigh, the other coming up to wrap loosely around your throat, his thumb stroking your pulse point.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his lips finding that sensitive spot on your neck again. "So beautiful taking my cock like this. Made for me."
His other hand moves to your breast, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple between them. The dual stimulation has you gasping, your inner walls clenching around him.
"Garrett," you moan, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair.
"I know, baby," he whispers, increasing his pace slightly. "I feel it too." His thrusts become more purposeful, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "You're so wet for me. Always so ready for my cock."
His words are filthy but loving, each one sending you higher. "Love how you feel around me," he continues, his voice thick with emotion. "Like you were made just for me. So tight, so perfect."
He shifts slightly, changing the angle and suddenly he's hitting your G-spot with every thrust. You cry out, your back arching as pleasure overwhelms you.
"Right there, huh?" he murmurs, his hand tightening slightly around your throat. "Right there where you need it." His other hand slides down to your clit, fingers circling in time with his thrusts. "Come on, baby. Let go for me. Want to feel you come around my cock."
The combination of his deep thrusts, his fingers on your clit and his dirty praise is too much. Your orgasm crashes over you, waves of pleasure so intense you're gasping his name. Your inner walls clench around him, milking his cock as you ride out your release.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. "That's it, baby. So fucking good for me."
With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his release. He collapses against you, both of you breathing heavily, his weight a comforting presence.
For a long moment, you just lie there, basking in the afterglow. Garrett presses soft kisses to your neck and shoulders, his hands stroking your sides soothingly.
"I love you," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "So much."
You turn in his arms, capturing his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. "I love you too," you whisper against his mouth.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Best way to start the day." Then he glances at the clock and groans. "But I really do have to go to practice."
You laugh, tracing patterns on his chest. "Go on, then. The team's waiting for their captain."
He sighs dramatically but starts to disentangle himself. "Fine. But only because I have to come back to you later." He presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips before getting out of bed. "Think about me while I'm gone?"
"Always," you promise, watching as he gathers his things. As he leaves, he blows you a kiss and you settle back into the warm sheets, feeling completely and utterly loved.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: After you show up to the off campus house to have fun and party. Some guys start flirting with you, dean takes you upstairs and makes you remember who you belong to.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Mentions of drinking, having sex (p n v) , dean is very dom and rude, controlling, cum control, bondage (wrist are held by dean), swearing, oral (fem receivied), fingering (fem received), teasing, pet names, reader calls dean "daddy”.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Fuck boy/ Daddy Dean di laurentis x fem reader
You guys weren’t even dating, just a fling. You just fucked whenever you guys both wanted to.
It was 11:30 pm in the off campus house, and of course there was a party going on since they won the game against Eastwood. Tucker and Dean had to set up the kegs, Logan was in charge of music until Garrett took over and played his 80s music. Tucker also helped make food for everyone.
You stepped into the house, you weren’t even wearing anything revealing, just a black dress and leather boots. You looked hot, and unfortunately, everyone else noticed too. Within two minutes of walking through the door, some guy from the hockey team was already trying to hand you a red solo cup and was leaning in way too close to talk over the music.
You leaned against the kitchen counter, totally zoning out of the conversation, while your eyes scanned the crowded room. It didn't take long to find Dean. He was standing across the room by the dining table, but he wasn't talking to anyone anymore. He was staring straight at you.
He didn't even try to play it cool or act like you were just a casual thing anymore. The exact second that guy leaned in closer to you, Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle tick. He didn't say a word to anyone else, he just set his cup down on the nearest table and marched straight through the crowded living room, ignoring everyone trying to talk to him.
Before the hockey guy could even finish his sentence, Dean was right there. He stepped directly between the two of you, completely cutting him off, and dropped a heavy, possessive hand onto your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He glared down at the guy with this look that said back the hell off, his grip tightening on your hip just to make sure you knew exactly who you belonged to.
He takes you up the stairs, away from the music, away from the people. the drinks. "Who was that guy?" Dean's voice is low against your ear, rough like gravel. His hand tightens on your waist, fingers pressing just a little too hard through the thin fabric of your dress. The bass from the party downstairs thrums through the floorboards, but up here in the hallway it’s just the two of you,his breath warm, his body crowding you against the wall like he owns it. Like he owns you.
You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Which one? The one with the blue shirt or the one who kept refilling my drink?" You bite your lip to keep from grinning, because Dean’s jaw clenches, that muscle jumping like it does when he’s trying and failing to stay calm.
Dean exhales sharply through his nose, that slow, controlled breath he does when he’s deciding whether to fuck you or strangle you. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “You’re gonna regret playing dumb, baby,” he murmurs, and the way he says it, sends a shiver down your spine.
His other hand slides higher on your waist, fingers skimming the edge of your ribcage, and you arch into him instinctively. “Dean,” you start, but he cuts you off with a rough kiss, all teeth and possessive hunger. You can taste the beer on his tongue, feel the heat of him pressed against you, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. He pulls back just enough to growl, “My room. Now,” and the command in his voice makes your knees weak.
You don’t argue. The second his grip loosens, you’re turning toward the stairs, but Dean catches your wrist, yanking you back against him. “Uh-uh,” he says, nipping at your earlobe. “You walk in front of me.” His palm lands on the small of your back, guiding you up the steps with just enough pressure to make your pulse skip. You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every sway of your hips, and by the time you reach his door, your skin is buzzing with anticipation.
He crowds you against the frame, one hand braced above your head while the other works the door knob. “You like making me jealous?” he asks, voice dripping with faux casualness. The door opens before you can answer, and Dean doesn’t even bother flipping the light switch, he just follows you close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him. The room smells like him, beer and clean cotton and something unmistakably male, your breath hitches when his fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress.
“Answer me,” he demands, dragging the zipper down slow enough to make your skin prickle. The fabric slides off your shoulders, pooling at your waist before he pushes it the rest of the way down. His palm skims the curve of your hip, possessive and sure, like he’s reminding himself where you belong. You turn to face him, but he stops you with a hand on your throat, not tight, just present, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “Tell me you fucking love it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours without quite kissing you.
You could tease him. You could drag this out until he snaps. But the hunger in his eyes is too much, raw and unchecked, so you exhale a shaky, “Yes.” His grip tightens infinitesimally, and you press into it, chasing the sting. “I love it when you get like this.” Dean’s groan is all satisfaction, low and rough, and then his mouth is on yours, swallowing your gasp as he walks you backward toward the bed.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and he doesn’t give you time to brace yourself just shoves you down and climbs over you, caging you in with his body. His teeth scrape along your collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin there, and you arch into him with a breathless laugh. “That’s it,” he mutters against your throat, dragging his lips higher.
His hands are everywhere tugging your hair, palming your ribs, sliding down to grip your thighs and you’re already wrung out, already gasping, when he finally yanks his shirt off and tosses it aside. The moonlight catches the flex of his abs, and his biceps . You reach for him instinctively. Dean catches your wrist, pinning it above your head with a smirk. “Uh-uh,” he tuts, leaning down to nip at your bottom lip. “You don’t get to touch yet.”
The moment your wrist hits the mattress, pinned under his grip, you whimper, half frustration, half anticipation. Dean’s smirk deepens, his free hand tracing the dip of your waist like he’s memorizing it. “That’s the sound I like hearing,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your hipbone. The rough calluses on his fingers catch against your skin, sending sparks skittering up your spine. You squirm, but he just clucks his tongue, leaning down to blow a slow, teasing breath over the hollow of your throat. “Keep moving like that, and I’ll make you wait even longer.”
You go still, but your chest heaves, your pulse hammering where his lips hover just above your skin. Dean exhales a dark chuckle, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. “Good girl.” The praise shouldn’t make you shiver, but it does, pooling low in your stomach. His teeth graze your earlobe, and you bite back a moan, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He notices. Of course he does. “Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, rough and reverent, as his thumbs brush over the peaks of your breasts through the flimsy lace of your bra. You arch into him, chasing the pressure, and Dean rewards you with a groan, his mouth dropping to your collarbone. “So greedy,” he murmurs, but his hands don’t stop circling and teasing. His calloused fingertips dragging just enough to make you whimper.
When he finally unhooks your bra, you’re already breathless. The cool air hits your skin, but Dean’s hands are hotter, his palms cupping the weight of you like he’s memorizing the shape. His thumbs swipe over your nipples again, slow and deliberate, and you choke on a gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Daddy,” you sigh, just to watch his eyes darken, just to feel his grip tighten possessively.
He doesn’t disappoint. With a growl, he bends his head, taking one peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling just enough to make your back bow off the bed. His free hand pinches the other nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you’re writhing, your thighs clamping around his hips. “That’s it,” he mutters against your skin, his breath scalding. “Let me hear you.”
You’re too far gone to care. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth sends sparks skittering down your spine, pooling low in your stomach. When he switches sides, his mouth just as hungry, his fingers just as relentless, you sob his name, your hips jerking uselessly against the air.
Dean lifts his head just enough to smirk at you, his lips glistening, his hair mussed from your fingers. “You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he rasps, dragging his thumb over your swollen nipple one last time, just to watch you tremble. “But we’re not done yet.” His hand slides down your stomach, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitches when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties.
Dean’s fingers trail lower, agonizingly slow, his calloused fingertips skating over the dip of your navel before he drags his palm back up to your ribs, just to watch you squirm. “So impatient,” he murmurs against the curve of your breast, his breath hot as he presses an open-mouthed kiss just below your nipple. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He hums, low and satisfied, like the sound of your desperation is something he wants to savor. His tongue flicks over your nipple once, twice, teasing. Then he blows a slow, cool breath over the wetness, watching it tighten under his attention. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, before sucking it back into his mouth, his lips sealing tight as his tongue swirls in lazy circles.
Your back arches off the bed, a whimper tearing from your throat, but Dean just pins your hip down with his free hand, his grip firm. “Stay still,” he orders, his voice rough around the word. His thumb brushes over your other nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it’s pebbled and aching, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together, seeking friction.
Dean notices, of course he does, his dark chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to smirk at you. “You’re so fucking greedy,” he accuses, but there’s no heat in it, just a possessive and some sort of pride. His thumb drags over your nipple again, slow and deliberate, and you bite your lip to keep from begging.
Dean’s mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking over your nipple in slow, torturous circles while his fingers tease the other by pinching just hard enough to make your breath catch, then soothing with the rough pad of his thumb. You writhe beneath him, your hips arching off the bed, but he pins you down with a firm hand on your stomach, his grip unyielding. “Stay put,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “You’ll get what you want when I say so.”
His teeth graze the underside of your breast, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and you gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets. Dean hums in approval, his tongue dragging a wet path lower, tracing the curve of your ribs before he nips at the soft skin of your belly. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers hooking into the lace of your panties, and you lift your hips instinctively, eager for more. But he pauses, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the inside of your thighs, his breath warm against your skin. “So fucking eager,” he mutters, dark amusement lacing his voice.
Then his mouth is on you, his tongue flat and hot as he drags it up your center in one long, filthy stroke. Your back bows off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from your throat, but Dean doesn’t relent, he grips your thighs, spreading you wider, his tongue delving deeper, lapping at you like he’s starved. His groan vibrates against you, rough and satisfied, and you fist your hands in his hair, holding him there as he fucks you with his tongue, slow and deliberate.
When he finally pulls back, his lips glistening, his breath ragged, you whimper at the loss. Dean chuckles, low and smug, his fingers replacing his mouth, sliding through your wetness with agonizing slowness. “You’re fucking dripping,” he growls, his eyes locked on yours as he circles your clit, just once, just enough to make you jerk beneath him. “You love this, don’t you? Love making me lose my fucking mind.”
You don’t get a chance to answer. He surges up, capturing your mouth in a brutal kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands grip your waist, before going back to your thighs. His tongue presses flat against you, dragging up in one slow, deliberate stroke that leaves you trembling beneath him. You gasp, fingers twisting into the sheets as he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks skittering up your spine. Dean doesn’t let up, his mouth is relentless, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks just hard enough to make your hips jerk off the bed. His grip tightens on your thighs, fingers digging in to hold you still as he fucks you with his tongue, slow and deep, like he’s savoring every taste.
“Dean—” you choke out, but he growls against you, the sound vibrating through your core as his thumb circles your entrance, teasing but not giving you what you want. Not yet. He drags his tongue back up, swirling around your clit with torturous precision before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there. You whimper, thighs shaking, but he pins you down with a firm hand on your stomach, his grip unyielding. “Stay put,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot. “I’m not done with you.”
And then he’s back at it, his tongue lapping at you like he’s starved, his nose nudging against your clit with every flick of his tongue. Your back arches off the bed, a ragged moan tearing from your throat as his fingers finally slide into you, curling just right to make your vision blur. Dean groans against you, the sound rough and satisfied, and you can feel his lips curve into a smirk as you clench around his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he mutters, dragging his tongue over you one last time before pulling back, his breath ragged.
You whine, hips arching off the bed, but Dean smirks, leaning down to blow a slow, taunting breath over your skin. “You’ll come when I fucking say so,” he murmurs, his voice rough with want. His fingers slide into you again, curling just right, and your back bows off the mattress with a strangled moan. Dean watches you unravel beneath him, his eyes dark with satisfaction, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
Then he’s pulling away, stripping off his jeans with rough, impatient tugs. The moonlight catches the flex of his abs, the hard line of his cock as he fists himself once, his gaze locked on yours. “Look at you,” he growls, stepping closer, his hand wrapping around your throat,not tight, just present, as he nudges your thighs wider with his knee. “Fucking perfect.”
Before you can protest the loss, he’s flipping you onto your back, his hands rough as he yanks your hips to the edge of the bed. Dean doesn’t give you time to recover. He fists himself in one hand, stroking slowly as he lines up, his eyes locked on yours. “Look at me,” he demands, voice thick with want. And then he’s pushing in, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s buried to the maximum, his hips pressed flush against yours.
Dean doesn’t let you come down from the high of his fingers still buried inside you.
"You feel that?" he grits out, his voice wrecked already. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make you open for him, and when you whimper, he exhales a dark laugh. "Good. Remember who you belong to."
Then he’s moving, hard, relentless strokes that leave no room for gentleness, each snap of his hips driving you deeper into the mattress. His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, threading into your hair, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder to fuck into you at a sharper angle. You choke on his name, your nails raking down his back, but Dean only growls, catching your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Eyes on me," he demands, his breath hot against your mouth. His other hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring precision, circling just enough to make your vision blur. You arch into him, desperate for more, but Dean tuts, slowing his thrusts to a maddening grind. "Nuh-uh. You take what I give you."
Dean's fingers tighten around your wrists, pressing them deeper into the mattress as his hips roll against yours with torturous slowness. You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch of his cock inside you, the stretch bordering on unbearable, except you’d never tell him to stop, not when his breath hitches against your neck like he’s the one being ruined. "Fuck," he grits out, the word rough against your skin. "You’re so fucking tight—" His thumb circles your clit faster, compensating for the way he’s deliberately dragging his strokes out now, and you whimper, hips jerking uselessly against his grip.
He nips at your earlobe, breath hot. "Told you to stay still." His teeth graze your pulse point next, sharp enough to make you gasp, and you can feel his smirk against your throat when your thighs tremble around his waist. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, knows the way your body reacts to him like it’s been wired for his touch alone. His free hand slides down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises as he finally, finally, picks up the pace, driving into you with sharp, punishing thrusts that knock the breath from your lungs.
You arch off the bed with a cry, your nails scraping down his back, but Dean just growls, catching your hands and pinning them above your head again. "Look at me," he demands, his voice ragged. When your gaze flickers shut, he nips your chin, forcing your eyes open. "I said look at me." His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes, and you sob his name, your hips jerking into his touch. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours. "Come for me."
The command tears through you like a live wire, your body clenching around him as pleasure crests sharp and sudden. Dean groans, his forehead dropping to yours as he fucks you through it, his thrusts turning erratic, his grip on your wrists tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. "One more," he rasps against your mouth, his breath uneven. "Give me one more." His teeth sink into your shoulder, blunt and possessive, and you gasp, oversensitive but unable to stop the way your body responds to him, the way pleasure coils tight again so soon.
The moment you start to come down from the first orgasm, Dean’s already shifting his grip, his fingers tightening around your wrists as he drags your hips higher off the bed. His thrusts turn deliberate again, slow and deep, each one dragging against oversensitive nerves until you’re squirming beneath him, torn between pulling away and arching into it. His smirk is all sharp edges when he catches your expression, his thumb pressing harder against your clit in a way that borders on cruel. "You love it," he mutters, more statement than question, and you can’t even deny it, not when your body’s already responding, clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper.
Dean’s breath hitches when you tighten around him, his hips stuttering for half a second before he regains control, slowing his pace just to watch you unravel. "Fuck," he exhales, rough and reverent, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher over his shoulder. The new angle punches a moan out of you, the stretch bordering on too much, but Dean doesn’t let up, just leans down to catch your gasp with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than finesse.
You barely register the sting of his teeth on your bottom lip, too focused on the way his cock drags against that spot inside you with every thrust, the sensation sharp enough to make your vision blur. Dean groans when your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip on your thigh tightening as he fucks into you harder, his rhythm faltering for the first time all night. "Look at me," he demands, voice raw, and when your eyes flicker open, his gaze is dark with something possessive, something hungry. "Say it."
You know what he wants, know it in the way his thumb circles your clit just right, in the way his hips snap against yours like he’s trying to imprint the shape of himself into your skin. "Yours," you gasp, and the word sends a shudder through him, his breath coming uneven against your throat.
Dean exhales sharply through his nose, that slow, controlled breath that means he's fighting to keep himself in check. But the second the word leaves your lips, "Yours",something snaps in him. His grip tightens on your thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and then he's fucking into you with a roughness that borders on desperate.
The headboard slams against the wall with each thrust, the rhythm uneven now, like he's forgotten how to be careful. You gasp, oversensitive from your first orgasm, but Dean doesn't let up, just growls against your throat, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Say it again," he demands, voice wrecked.
"Yours," you whimper, and his hips jerk, his cock twitching inside you. You can feel him losing control, feel the way his rhythm fractures with every ragged breath he takes.
Dean's hand slides from your thigh to your hip, fingers pressing into the bruise he left earlier like he's reminding himself it's there. His other hand grips your hair, tilting your head back so he can watch your face as he fucks you. "Fuck," he grits out, his voice rough. "Look at you—" His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make you open for him. "Taking me so fucking good."
Dean’s fingers tighten in your hair, angling your head back just enough that you can’t look away, not that you’d want to. The moonlight catches the sweat beading along his collarbones, the way his throat works as he swallows hard, his breath ragged. “Say it again,” he demands, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that punches a gasp out of you.
You’re wrung out, oversensitive, but your body arches into his anyway, like it’s been programmed to respond to him. “Yours,” you repeat, the word slurred at the edges, and Dean’s breath hitches like you’ve punched him. His rhythm stutters, his grip on your hip tightening to the point of pain, then he’s dragging you closer, his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue.
The noise he makes against your lips is half-growl, half-groan, raw and unfiltered, and you can feel the way his control frays with every ragged exhale. His thrusts turn uneven, his hips jerking forward like he’s chasing something just out of reach. You whimper into his mouth, your nails scoring down his back, and Dean curses, his forehead dropping to yours.
“Fuck—” His voice cracks, his body tensing above you, and then he’s coming with a groan that rattles through his chest, his hips grinding into yours as he spills deep inside you. You can feel the way his pulse races under your fingertips, the way his breath gusts hot against your neck, his body shuddering with the force of it.
Dean doesn’t pull out, just collapses half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he catches his breath against your throat. His lips move sluggishly against your pulse, more reflex than intention, his fingers still tangled in your hair like he’s forgotten how to let go. You can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat where his chest presses against yours, the damp heat of his skin sticking to yours in the aftermath.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly, his thumb brushing absently over your hipbone like he’s checking for damage. His other hand finally releases your hair, trailing down to cradle the back of your neck instead, possessive even in exhaustion. “You okay?”
You hum, too boneless to form words, your fingers tracing idle patterns along the sweat-slick planes of his back. Dean exhales a slow breath, his nose nudging against your jaw like he’s cataloging the scent of you, and you can feel the exact moment his muscles start to tense again, the way his grip tightens infinitesimally on your neck, the way his hips shift against yours.
“Dean,” you warn, but it comes out more breathless than stern, and he huffs a laugh against your skin, his teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone.
Dean's fingers trail down your spine in slow, idle strokes, his touch lighter now,not demanding, just present. His breath warms the curve of your shoulder where his face is half-buried in the pillow beside you, his body still draped over yours like a human blanket. "You're shaking," he mutters, voice rough with sleep and something softer. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. "Cold?"
You're not. The room is thick with heat, the sheets tangled around your legs, but your limbs won't stop trembling, aftershocks, you think, or maybe just the way Dean's fingers keep tracing your ribs like he's counting them. You shake your head, pressing back into his chest, and he hums, low and understanding. His palm flattens against your stomach, anchoring you. "Breathe," he reminds you, lips grazing your shoulder blade.
It takes a second, your lungs stuttering, your ribs expanding under his touch, but then you exhale, long and slow, and Dean's grip tightens approvingly. "There you go." His voice is quieter now, the sharp edges worn down to something warm and drowsy. His fingers skim your hipbone, tracing the faint marks he left earlier with a roughness that's absent now. "Hurts?"
You shake your head again, and Dean's exhale ruffles your hair. "Good." His hand drifts lower, palming the curve of your thigh where it's pressed against his, his touch lingering like he's relearning the shape of you. The silence stretches, comfortable in a way it hasn't been all night, no teasing, no demands, just the steady rhythm of his breath against your skin.
Dean shifts suddenly, rolling onto his back and dragging you with him until you’re sprawled across his chest. The abrupt movement makes you yelp, but his arm bands around your waist, locking you in place before you can squirm away. “Stay,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, his free hand carding through your hair like he’s petting a cat. The moonlight catches the sweat drying on his collarbones, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath you.
You press your ear to his heartbeat, listening to the steady thud gradually even out. His fingers trail absently down your spine, pausing to trace the crescent marks your nails left on his shoulders earlier. He huffs a quiet laugh. “You're like a cat” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, just a drowsy sort of fondness that makes your stomach flip.
A gust of wind rattles the window, and Dean’s arm tightens around you instinctively. His thumb brushes your hip where he knows you’re tender, his touch featherlight now compared to the bruising grip from before. “You good?” he asks again, quieter this time, his chin resting atop your head.
You nod against his chest, and he hums, satisfied. His fingers find yours where they’re splayed against his sternum, lacing together loosely. The calluses on his palm rasp against your knuckles, familiar in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse stutter, but it does.
Dean exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, his fingers tightening around yours in a silent challenge. You can feel the tension coiled in his body beneath you, the way his heartbeat kicks up when your nails scrape lightly over his ribs. "Still restless," he observes, voice rough with sleep and something darker. His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, pressing down on the pulse point there like he’s testing your reaction.
Dean Di Laurentis x Maxwell!Reader | word count: 5k
Summary: After Beau's death, Y/N Maxwell refused to leave the apartment they shared. It's the last place that still feels like him. But when she's forced out because the lease was in Beau's name, she finds herself packing up years of memories alongside the one person who misses Beau almost as much as she does: Dean.
Tropes: Established Relationship (platonic friends to lovers), Shared Grief, Emotional Slow-Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending.
Warnings: Heavy themes of grief, death of a sibling, emotional breakdowns.
NOTE: soooo sorry that this is long but i've been obsessed with Voicemails for Isabelle since it came out and thought of this idea. i couldnt stop once i started lol. pls if you haven't watched it DO IT RN 😭😩
Off Campus Masterlist
“Hey, Bug.”
It starts before I’m ready for it. I press play anyway. I can’t help myself.
Beau’s voice floods the room, loud and careless, coming through the speaker with that warmth he only used when he was completely comfortable.
“Mom says you’re ignoring her again, which is honestly impressive considering she’s been texting you like you’ve gone missing or something.”
A rustle. The heavy, familiar thud of his gym bag hitting the floor in the background.
“I told her you’re probably just being dramatic.” He laughs under his breath, knowing I’d roll my eyes at him for that.
And I do. Even now. Even when it doesn’t matter anymore.
"I swear you're worse than I am. And that's saying something." A pause follows. Not a clean one. It’s heavy, filled with the faint hum of his fan turning. He’s hesitating, weighing whether to actually say something real or just ruin the moment with a joke. "Call me back, yeah? Love you, Bug. Talk to you later."
Click. The voicemail ends.
I don’t move for a while. I just sit there with my phone pressed to my palm, waiting for it to miraculously bring him back. It never does.
But Beau is still everywhere anyway. He’s in the stupid couch cushion that’s permanently warped on the left because he never learned how to sit like a normal person. He’s in the crusty, half empty glass on the counter. I’ve left it there forever because washing it feels too much like scrubbing him out of existence. Sometimes, when the floorboards creak down the hall, I actually half turn, expecting him to stumble through the door late for dinner.
I finally force myself to stand up and wander into his room. I don’t go in here much anymore, mostly because everything reminds me that he’s not coming back. His football jersey is still draped over the desk chair and homework spread across his desk, untouched.
He just paused his life and forgot to unpause it.
That was always Beau. Everything half finished except the way he loved people. Especially me.
My eyes catch on the old, scuffed football sitting on his nightstand, the one we used to throw around in the backyard until the streetlights came on. Just looking at the worn leather pulls me right back into the past, making the memory rush in before I can stop it.
I’m eight again. Barefoot, the grass wet against my skin. My skinned knee stings in a way that feels like the end of the world, even though I know, even then, it isn’t. I’m crying before I fully understand why.
Beau was beside me before I could catch my breath.
“Hey,” he says immediately, dropping into the dirt beside me. He must have been running toward me before I even hit the ground. “Hey, look at me.”
“I fell,” I manage between hiccups.
“I see that,” he says, way too serious for twelve. Like this is a problem he can solve if he just focuses hard enough. “Okay. New rule.”
I sniff. “What rule?”
“If you’re gonna fall,” he says, reaching out to pull me closer, “you have to fall in my direction.”
“That’s not a rule,” I tell him through my tears.
“It is now.”
“And if I don’t?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. He just lifts me onto his back, his shoulders already broad and steady. “Then I carry you anyway.”
A sharp, aggressive vibration against my thigh violently yanks me out of it. The apartment suddenly feels twice as empty, the quiet settling in.
I glance down at the screen. I already know who it is without looking.
Dean.
He always checks in like this, quiet, careful, as if he’s afraid too much pressure will break whatever’s left of me.
Dean: just checking in. you don’t have to reply.
Dean: I’m here if you need anything.
I stare at the blue bubbles until the screen goes dark. Admitting I need something means admitting I’m drowning, and I can't say that out loud yet. I shove the phone into my pocket and turn to leave Beau’s room, but a flash of white under the front door catches my eye.
My name is printed across the front in rigid, typed letters. With a bright red ‘Notice’ tagged at the front. I don't even have to tear the envelope to know what it is, but my hands shake anyway as I pull out the paper.
I already know what it is before I even slide the paper out.
Lease termination. I’m forced to vacate within thirty days.
Property holder: Beau Maxwell.
I read his name three times. It doesn’t stop feeling wrong. It doesn’t stop feeling final.
The paper slips through my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft smack. I can't even bring myself to bend down and pick it up. Because it’s not just that my brother is gone. It’s that the world is actively clawing back every single thing that still holds his memory.
My knees give out slightly, and I find myself sliding down against the front door, staring at the white envelope. The panic locks tight around my throat. Thirty days to pack up his room. Thirty days to erase the last place he existed.
I can't call my mom, she’s already one bad day away from an absolute breakdown. I also, can't face the landlord alone.
With shaking fingers, I pull my phone back out and open the thread I've been avoiding. I don't type out a long explanation. I don't tell him I'm breaking down. I just send a text back to the only guy at Briar who doesn't look at me like a ghost.
Y/N: Can you come over?
The reply comes back almost instantly, before I can even regret sending it.
Dean: On my way.
I didn't sleep that night. Dean had shown up twenty minutes after my text, sitting with me on the entryway floor until the panic finally passed, but the rest of the night was a blur of tossing and turning. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Beau’s voicemail looping somewhere just out of reach. His voice didn't fade the way it should. It just lingered, as if he were waiting for me to answer him properly this time.
By morning, I’ve stopped pretending I can sleep.
The cardboard boxes arrive before I’ve even made coffee. Dean had slipped out at dawn to get them from a local hardware store, and he lets himself back into the apartment without knocking. He does that now, as if the locks were a mere suggestion.
“Thought you might need these,” he says, setting the heavy stack down carefully near the kitchen counter.
I don’t thank him. Not because I’m ungrateful, but because I know if I start talking, the tears will start again and I won't be able to stop.
Dean looks around the room. It isn't nosy or invasive. He is just aware, checking to see which parts of Beau are still intact today. His gaze catches on Beau’s bedroom door. The door is still closed, still untouched.
“You don’t have to do all of this today,” he says softly.
“I know,” I say, even though I don’t believe it myself.
Dean doesn’t argue. He just nods once, a slow, grounding movement. “Okay. I’ll stay then.”
He says it like that’s just what he does now. He stays.
The first box takes me too long. It’s just clothes, so it shouldn't feel heavy. Beau’s shirts still smell faintly like laundry detergent, outside air, and a life that used to feel normal. I start to fold a faded gray t shirt and completely forget what I’m doing halfway through. With the next one, I don’t even try to fold it. I just hold it against my chest.
Dean doesn’t interrupt. He just sits on the floor across from me, sorting through a stack of old sports magazines quietly, understanding that there’s no right way to do this. There is only a way to keep moving.
Eventually, a photograph slips out of a textbook on his desk. It’s Beau at fifteen in his junior varsity football gear, smiling like he already knows exactly where he’s going in life. He always did.
I don’t realize I’m crying until Dean shifts slightly on the hardwood.
“Hey,” he says softly.
I shake my head before he can say more, wiping my cheeks with the sleeve of Beau's shirt. “I’m fine.” The lie comes out automatically, pure muscle memory at this point.
Dean doesn’t push. He just says, “Okay,” letting me know he’s decided to let me have the lie.
The apartment gets more suffocating as the hours pass. Everything I touch turns into a reminder. A chipped coffee mug that Beau drank out of every single morning like it was the only cup in the kitchen. A stack of old mail that he tossed onto the counter without opening. A pair of muddy cleats shoved under the living room couch because he planned to deal with them later.
Later. That was always his favorite word. As if there was always going to be one.
By the time we’ve packed most of the kitchen, the apartment doesn’t feel like Beau anymore.
Dean is at the sink, rinsing dishes I know he doesn’t need to wash. He just needs something to do with his hands.
“So,” he says after a while, keeping his eyes on the running water. “Your brother was really bad at cleaning up after himself.”
A small laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. The sound surprises both of us. Dean glances over his shoulder, his expression softening as if he’s holding onto the sound of my laughter carefully.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
I look away immediately, because laughing feels entirely wrong here, even when it’s real.
I wander back into the living room to tackle the final drawer of the entertainment center, a spot I haven't opened in months. Inside, it’s mostly junk, old receipts and ticket stubs from his games. But as I clear out the papers, I notice a notification on my old tablet sitting at the bottom of the drawer.
My breath catches. It's a saved voicemail notification on the cloud account. The date is stamped three days before the accident. An unopened message from Beau that I somehow missed during the chaos of the funeral.
My thumb hovers over the screen, but I can't press play. I can't do it yet. It sits there like a question I don’t know how to answer, making my stomach twist.
Behind me, I hear Dean walk into the room. I quickly slide the tablet under my arm, but he notices the tension in my shoulders immediately.
“You okay?” he asks.
I don't answer, because I'm not.
Instead, I look down at his hands. He is holding his backup phone, the cracked one he usually keeps in his gym bag. He has headphones plugged into it, a single earbud dangling down, the audio paused on his screen. He catches me looking and pulls the other earbud out quickly, looking like he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn't.
I don’t ask what he was listening to. I already know. It has to be Beau, some old video or a recording from the locker room.
“You have more?” I ask quietly, my voice cracking. “More recordings of him?”
Dean hesitates, his jaw tightening as he looks at the phone in his hand. Then, he nods. “Yeah.”
Something in my chest shifts. I thought I was the only one doing this, holding onto pieces of a ghost in the middle of the night. Turns out I wasn't even close.
We don’t talk about it after that. We just keep packing, side by side, the quiet between us no longer feeling empty. It just feels shared. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm not the only one carrying him.
——
I didn’t realize how late it was until the light outside turned the wrong color, spilling long, amber shadows across the bare floorboards. Everything in the apartment looked different under it, softer and warmer. It looked almost like it used to when Beau would come home after a long practice and leave the front door wide open because he never liked how quiet the place felt when it was shut.
Now it was just quiet no matter what I did.
Dean was here. He never asked if he should come over anymore, he just did. I watched him move around the kitchen, stacking empty boxes like he was trying to force order out of a situation that completely refused to be organized. There was something incredibly steady about the way he did it, as if grief hadn't made him chaotic the way it had made me. Or maybe he just hid it better.
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” I said quietly when he started trying to fold a cardboard box that was already completely full.
He glanced up, blinking as if pulling himself out of a trance. “Doing what?”
“Helping.”
There was a long pause, the hum of the refrigerator filling the gap between us. Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, he said, “But I want to.”
I didn’t respond to that because I didn’t know how to.
We ended up sitting on the living room floor, our backs against the couch. The apartment was mostly emptied now, stripped down to its bare bones. For a while, neither of us talked.
Then Dean cleared his throat, his arms resting loosely on his knees. “He used to talk about you a lot, you know.”
My chest tightened. “I know.”
“No,” Dean said gently, finally turning his head to look at me. “I mean a lot. In the locker room, after his games, I’d sneak in and congratulate him. Him and his teammates would talk about families and he’d get that look, like he was pretending it wasn’t a big deal, but he was really bad at pretending.”
That made something ache deeply behind my ribs. “That sounds like him.”
“Yeah,” Dean said quietly, his eyes drifting back to the empty hallway. “He noticed everything about you.”
I didn’t know what to do with that, so I just sat with the heavy comfort of it.
Eventually, a restless energy pulled me up, and I found myself standing in Beau’s doorway. The room was almost empty now, just a bare bed frame and a few remaining things we hadn’t touched yet.
Dean noticed immediately, but he didn't follow me. He just waited in the living room, understanding that this part of the night wasn’t something you interrupt.
I stepped inside, my movements slow and careful, as if Beau might be here if I didn’t move too fast. My hand brushed the edge of his desk, and a layer of dust caught on my fingers.
“I used to think he’d just,” my voice broke before I could finish the sentence.
Dean didn’t make me finish it. From the hallway, he just murmured, “Yeah.”
Because he knew exactly what I meant. I used to think he’d just come back, as if his absence were temporary if I just waited long enough. It wasn't.
I knelt down to open his bottom desk drawer, and the moment the wood creaked, a memory hit me. Pulling me right back to the tailgate party outside the stadium last fall.
The air had been thick with barbecue smoke and loud music, the campus alive with the buzz of a game day. Beau had been standing too close to the grill, laughing with his teammates. I had been sitting on the steps of the team trailer, scrolling through my phone, when I noticed Dean across the quad. He was wearing his Briar hockey jersey, helping someone move heavy coolers, just talking and laughing. He looked different like that, not loud, not trying to be the center of attention. Just there.
Beau had dropped onto the step beside me, shoving a plate of food into my lap. “Stop staring,” he’d said immediately.
“I wasn’t staring.”
“You were absolutely staring.”
“I wasn’t, Beau.”
He leaned back, grinning. “Sure. You keep telling yourself that, Bug.” He let me steal a fry from his plate, always letting me get away with things. Then, his expression shifted, his eyes darting across the quad toward Dean before looking back at me. I didn’t fully understand the weight of his expression until much later, but I remembered his exact words. “Just saying, you’re both really bad at pretending.”
I hadn't asked what he meant then. I wasn’t ready to know yet.
Blinking back to the present, I realized I was still staring at the empty bottom drawer of his desk. Dean was standing in the doorway now, watching me closely but not stepping across the threshold.
I looked at him, and for the very first time, I noticed something I hadn’t before. He was holding himself together in the exact same fragile way I was, just doing it much quieter.
“I didn’t know you stayed in Hastings after the accident,” I said softly.
Dean huffed a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, well. Every time I left, it felt like I was leaving a part of him behind.”
That landed differently than I expected. It wasn’t about a sense of obligation to my family. It was about Beau.
——
A few nights later, we found ourselves back in the living room. It had become a habit without either of us agreeing to it.
Dean broke the silence first. “Do you ever think about calling him?”
I froze, my hand tightening in my lap.
He shook his head quickly, looking down at his boots. “Not like actually calling. Just,” he exhaled a long breath, “I still do it sometimes.”
My throat tightened so much it hurt. “Yeah,” I admitted.
Dean nodded, as if that confession were enough, as if he already knew. There was a long, heavy pause before he spoke again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, I thought of him as a brother before I even realized it. And now it just feels like I don’t know how to stop missing him in everything we used to do.”
That was the closest either of us had ever come to saying it out loud. What Beau was to both of us, and what he still was.
The apartment felt entirely different in the dead of night, the bare walls echoing the small sounds of our breathing. I had stepped away into the hallway under the pretense of going to the bathroom, needing a second to breathe away from the crushing weight of that unopened voicemail on my screen.
The front door was clicked shut, locking us into the quiet space, but as I walked back toward the kitchen, the sound of a voice stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Hey,” Dean said quietly.
There was a heavy pause, and then his voice dropped softer, completely stripped of the defensive, easygoing armor he wore on campus. “Beau.”
My hand stopped mid motion against the drywall. I didn't move. I couldn't even breathe right.
Through the shadow of the doorway, I can see him leaning heavily against the counter, his phone pressed so hard to his ear his knuckles are white. He’s dialing the old number. The one that doesn't go anywhere anymore.
“Hey, man. I don't... I don't really know why I keep doing this. Just habit, I guess. Keep thinking you're gonna pick up and call me an idiot." He swallows hard, his jaw tight. "I know you're not going to. Obviously."
It doesn't sound like acceptance. It sounds raw and bitter.
I pressed my palm flat against the wall, only just realizing that my entire body was shaking.
"I'm with her right now," Dean goes on, his eyes fixed blindly on the floorboards. "Helping her pack up the apartment. I didn't really ask if it was okay, I just kind of showed up, which you'd probably lose your mind over. You were always weird about boundaries." He tries to laugh, but it catches in his throat, turning into something ragged. "She's losing it, Beau. She's really not okay."
The words landed heavy. He didn't say it like a casual observation. He said it like a confession, like admitting it cost him a piece of himself.
"And I don't know what to do," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. "I know, I know you'd tell me it's not my job to fix it. But I keep remembering you saying she was tougher than she looked. So I'm just... I'm trying to believe you. I'm trying to hold it together."
He pauses, rubbing a hand across his face, looking utterly exhausted under the dim kitchen bulb.
"And I miss you. God, man, I miss you so much it's stupid." Another long, suffocating silence stretches out. When he speaks again, it's barely a breath. "And, look... you were right. Even though you never told me this straight up… but I knew you had your thoughts and all that. And…. I think I'm falling in love with her."
The air leaves my lungs entirely. I take a blind step forward, stumbling right into the light of the kitchen doorway.
Dean was still facing away from me, the phone gripped tightly in his hand as if he hadn't decided if he was done speaking to the ghost between us. He hadn't seen me yet.
“I don’t think that’s something I planned,” he continued, his voice rough and uneven. “But I also don’t think you’re surprised. You always knew things before I did.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m just trying not to feel like I’m replacing you. And I can’t tell if I’m failing, or if I’m just still grieving you too much to tell the difference. I just wish you were here.”
The voicemail ended, cutting off with a sharp click. He didn't move after. For a long time, it was just Dean standing under the dim kitchen light, waiting for a response he knew would never come.
I didn't think before the sound left my mouth. “I–.”
His shoulders tensed instantly, locking up as the phone nearly slipped from his fingers. Slowly, he turned around to face me. There was absolutely nothing careful or guarded in his expression. There was just exhaustion, deep grief, and a vulnerability that looked a lot like fear.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he rasped, his eyes searching mine desperately.
“I know,” I said, stepping fully into the light. My voice came out much quieter than I expected, but it was steady enough to surprise both of us. “I know, Dean.”
A long silence stretched between us. I looked down at his phone, at the screen where the call log was still fading into black.
I pulled my own phone out of my pocket, looking at the unopened message from three days before the crash. “I still haven’t listened to it,” I admitted softly, holding it out between us.
Dean didn't say anything right away. He didn't try to make an excuse or smooth it over with a joke. He just walked across the small distance between us and nodded once, a grounding, solid presence in the middle of the empty apartment.
“We can listen to it whenever you're ready,” he whispered, his hand gently finding mine in the quiet. “Together.”
We didn’t move for a long time.
Not everything was fixed.
But neither of us let go of each other’s hand.
——
We didn’t talk much after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because there was simply too much.
The apartment felt entirely bare now. The walls were empty in places that used to hold pictures, and echoes completely replaced the sound of laughs. Even the moonlight spilling through the window felt temporary.
Dean and I were sitting on the hardwood floor again. My phone sat directly between us on the floor, the screen still glowing, still waiting. The unopened voicemail from three days before Beau died stared back at us.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath until Dean spoke up. “You don’t have to listen to it,” he said quietly, his shoulder brushing mine.
I let out a short laugh, though it didn't sound like real humor. “I know.” I paused, staring at the digital time stamp. “But I think I do.”
Dean didn’t argue. He just nodded once, a slow, grounding movement that let me know he’d been waiting for me to reach this point for a very long time.
I tapped the screen before I could change my mind. The audio file opened. For a second, there was nothing but a faint rustle of static. Then, Beau’s voice filled the empty room.
“Hey, Bug.”
My chest tightened instantly. It wasn't because his voice sounded different. It was because it sounded completely the same. It was warm, loud, and entirely untouched by time, as if the universe had trapped a piece of him right here before everything went dark.
“Okay, I know you’re probably gonna ignore this for a few days and then pretend you didn’t, so I’m just gonna say it now.” There was a brief pause on the line. I glanced at Dean out of the corner of my eye, but he wasn't looking at me. He was completely still, his eyes fixed on the floorboards, just listening.
“Dean’s been around the apartment a lot lately,” Beau continued, and I could hear the familiar, teasing smile in his voice. “Like a lot. I think Mom is starting to think he actually lives here. She literally asked me last night if I adopted him.”
That got a sound out of me before I could stop it, a broken, watery noise that was almost like a laugh. Beau kept going on the recording, completely oblivious of the grief that's taken over me.
“And before you get weird about it, don’t. You don’t see it yet, Bug, but I do. He’s good for you. Annoyingly so since he is my best friend. You’re gonna absolutely hate that I’m right about this one.”
Dean shifted slightly beside me, not interrupting, just letting me feel his presence.
Beau exhaled a long breath into the microphone, the sound of wind rustling. “Look, after I graduate and things get crazy with senior year wrapping up, I know I'm gonna be traveling a ton for scout days and training camp. When I'm wrapped up in all that football chaos, just promise me you won’t shut everything out, okay? Stop acting like you have to carry the whole world alone. You were never good at that anyway.”
My eyes blurred completely, the tears finally spilling over my lashes.
“And don’t give Dean too hard of a time while I'm busy,” Beau added, his voice softening in a rare moment of genuine, unfiltered honesty. “He’s trying. I’m serious, Bug. You deserve to be happy, even if things feel overwhelming or weird for a while.”
A long silence stretched through the line, full and heavy. Then, quietly, he delivered the final blow. “I love you. And I’m proud of you. Always.”
The voicemail ended with a sharp click. It was him, still completely himself, and still entirely gone.
The silence that rushed back into the room was unbearable for exactly one second. Then Dean let out a shaky breath, as if he had been holding it in since the voicemail started.
I didn't realize I was crying until the tears were dripping down my neck. It was a quiet release of the pressure that had been building in my chest for six months.
Dean shifted closer, slowly, asking for permission without using words. I didn't hesitate. I leaned right into him, burying my face against his shoulder before I could talk myself out of it. For the very first time since the accident, it didn't feel like I was falling apart when I leaned on someone. It felt like I was finally being held together.
We sat there on the floor for a long time, the shadows stretching across the room. The apartment around us didn't feel broken anymore. The grief was still there. It probably always would be. But it felt lighter somehow, like we weren’t carrying the weight all alone.
Dean broke the quiet eventually, his chin resting against the top of my head. “Of course he knew,” he muttered softly.
A small, broken laugh escaped my lips. “Yeah,” I whispered, squeezing his hand. “He always did.”
Outside the frosted window, life on campus kept moving forward like it always did. But inside, in the quiet space we had built together over the last several months, I finally let myself stop waiting for time to rewind.
(NOTE: i do overall fandom master taglists, not seperate ones for individual series/fics! Feel free to send me a message if you'd want to be added or removed)
summary: routine and everything else gets in the way of your relationship with Dean.
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: angst, drama, heartbreak, romance
inspiration: Close As Strangers by 5 seconds of summer (preview of the song at the end of the story)
N/A: I’ve been having lots of ideas lately and I just wanted to do something short after listening to 5sos on repeat, hope u guys like it <3
The hum of the tour bus tires against the asphalt felt like a slow, rhythmic drilling into your skull. Across the narrow aisle, Dean was sprawled on the faux-leather couch, his broad shoulders framing a space that felt miles away. A laptop was balanced on his thighs, footage of his last hockey game looping silently.
He was right there. You could reach out, brush your fingers against the sleeve of his hoodie, and feel the solid reality of him. But you didn't. Because lately, looking at Dean felt like looking at a photograph of someone you used to know.
"Dean?" your voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the low rumble of the engine.
He didn't look up, his eyes tracked the digital puck on the screen. "Yeah, babe? Hang on, just checking this defensive line."
Babe. It was a reflex now. A placeholder for a intimacy that was leaking out of the cracks of your lives. Ever since Dean had been scouted for the pros, his world had expanded into a whirlwind of press, training camps, and relentless travel. You had tagged along for this summer stretch, desperate to bridge the gap, but the road had only highlighted the chasm. You both were living in the same twenty-foot radius, yet you hadn't truly spoken in weeks.
Dean finally closed the laptop, rubbing his eyes. He caught you staring and offered a tired, handsome smile—the kind that used to melt you completely but now just felt heavy with exhaustion. "You okay?"
"We're stopping in Chicago tomorrow," You said softly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "We used to talk about living there. Remember?"
Dean blinked, a flicker of something passing over his face before it was replaced by professional distraction. "Right. Yeah. Hey, actually, my agent called. I’ve got a breakfast meeting there at eight. Then media drills." He reached over, squeezing your knee briefly before standing up. "I'm going to crash in the bunk. Long day tomorrow."
He left a kiss on the top of your head—fleeting, routine, and utterly devoid of the fire that used to define you two.
Chicago was cold, even for the tail end of the season. The wind whipped through the city streets, mirroring the turbulence brewing in your chest. You both had a rare three hours of downtime before Dean’s evening flight, and he had suggested a walk-through Millennium Park.
It felt like a date on paper, but the execution was tragic.
Dean walked a half-step ahead of you, his phone practically glued to his ear. He was arguing with his publicist about a brand endorsement, his tone sharp and decisive. He looked every bit the rising star—sharp jawline, impeccably styled, radiating a magnetic energy that drew glances from passersby.
You walked beside him like a ghost. You wore his old college sweater, the one that used to smell like him but now just smelled like hotel laundry detergent.
"Look," Dean snapped into the phone, "just schedule it for Tuesday. I don't care." He hung up with a heavy sigh, finally shoving the phone into his pocket. He looked at you, noticing the distance between you two on the sidewalk. "Sorry. It’s just crazy right now."
"It's always crazy now, Dean," you said, stopping by the railing overlooking the plaza.
Dean stopped too, his brow furrowing. "What is that supposed to mean? I'm doing this for us. For the future."
"Is it for us?" your voice cracked, the raw angst of the past few months finally bleeding through your composure. "Because I feel like I'm drowning in your shadow. We don't talk, Dean. We don't even look at each other. We’re just... running on autopilot."
Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. The casual, playful Dean Di Laurentis from Briar U was gone, replaced by a man carrying the weight of a multi-million-dollar career. "Babe, I’m tired. I’m doing my best here. You wanted to come on this trip."
"I came to be with my boyfriend," you whispered, tears pricking your eyes. "But I'm more alone here than I am when you're across the country. We’re standing right next to each other, and we're as close as strangers."
The words hung in the bitter air between them, sharp and undeniable. Dean flinched, the truth of it striking a nerve he had been trying hard to ignore.
The confrontation in the park followed them back to the hotel room. The tension was suffocating, a physical presence in the room as you began packing your bags.
"What are you doing?" Dean demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. He stood by the door, watching you fold your clothes with trembling hands.
"I'm going home, Dean. Back to Boston," you said, refusing to look at him because you knew if you did, you’d crumble. "I can't do this tour anymore. I can't watch you forget me in real-time."
"Forget you?" Dean strode across the room, grabbing your wrists gently but firmly to stop your pacing. The sudden proximity was dizzying. His blue eyes were fierce, cracked wide open with a vulnerability he hadn’t shown in months. "Do you have any idea how hard I'm working to keep my head above water? I'm trying to build a life so we can be secure, so we can have everything."
"I don't want everything! I want you!" you cried out, the dam finally breaking. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you pulled your hands from his grip to press them against his chest. "I want the guy who used to make me pancakes at 2 AM. I want the guy who listened to me talk about nothing for hours. I don't care about the contracts, Dean. I'm losing you, and you're letting it happen!"
Dean stared at you, the fight draining out of him all at once. He looked at your tear-stained face, at the suitcase open on the bed, and the reality of what he was sacrificing hit him like a body check on the ice. He had been so focused on the destination that he had completely abandoned the person riding beside him.
"Baby..." he breathed, reaching out to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. His touch was trembling. "Don't leave. Please."
"We're broken, Dean," you whispered, your heart aching at the desperation in his eyes. "We need to figure out who we are before we completely destroy what we were."
That night, you took a cab to O'Hare. Dean didn't stop you, because for the first time, he realized that keeping you close was the very thing tearing the both of you apart.
Six months later.
The Boston air was crisp, the leaves turning brilliant shades of amber and gold. You sat in a quiet corner of a local café, a warm mug of tea between your hands. You had spent the last half-year healing, focusing on your own career, and learning how to breathe without the suffocating weight of an unraveling relationship. You still thought of Dean every day. You still saw his face on sports networks, looking standardly brilliant, but you had stopped looking for the ghost of your past.
The bell above the café door jingled.
You didn't look up until a shadow fell across your table. When you raised your eyes, your breath caught in your throat.
It was Dean.
He wasn't wearing a designer suit or a team track jacket. He was wearing an old, faded Briar Hockey hoodie and jeans. He looked a little tired, but his eyes were clearer than you had seen them in years. There was no phone in his hand.
"Hey," Dean said, his voice a low, familiar rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.
"Dean," you breathed. "What are you doing here? Don't you have a game tomorrow?"
"I took a personal day," he said simply. He pointed to the empty chair opposite you. "Can I?"
You nodded slowly. He sat down, folding his large hands on the table. For a moment, the silence between you two was heavy, fraught with the memories of how you had parted. But it wasn't the suffocating silence of the tour bus; it was a simple pause, waiting for a spark.
"I've been going to therapy," Dean said bluntly, breaking the ice. "And I talked to my coach. I downsized my PR team. I realized... I was running so fast because I was terrified of failing. And in the process, I failed the only thing that actually mattered."
You kept your eyes on your mug, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Dean..."
"Just let me say it, please," he interrupted softly, reaching across the table. He didn't grab your hand, just left his open, an invitation. "I spent six months looking at pictures of us, wondering how we got so lost. We were strangers. And it was my fault. I let the noise drown you out."
He looked directly into your eyes, the familiar, devastatingly romantic intensity of Dean Di Laurentis returning in full force. "I don't want to go back to how we were on that bus. But I want to know you again. I want to learn your favorite coffee order now, what music you're listening to, what makes you laugh. I want to start over. If you'll let me."
You looked from his open hand up to his eyes. The hurt was still a memory, but the love—deep, enduring, and painfully real—was vibrating in the space between you two.
Slowly, you slid your hand into his. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours, warm and solid.
"Hi," you said, a small, tearful but genuine smile breaking across your face. "Nice to meet you."
Dean’s smile was breathtaking, relief washing over his features as he squeezed your hand. "Hi. I'm Dean. It's really, really good to meet you."
☄︎ Warnings: logan puts reader in a headlock (not during smut). smut. alcohol drinking. both being oblivious af. nipple play. reader needy af. missionary (legs on shoulders)
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut.
☄︎ Words: 6175
☄︎ Summary: Logan’s been your best friend for two years now. And it takes you way too long to realise that you both want more.
💭: john ‘closed cans are safer’ logan. i love you bad! i'll come back to readover this one again as it's a long one and i feel like i missed sth! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here. 〣 Logan Masterlist here.
If you were asked to explain your relationship with John Logan, you’d probably tell people that he’s your best friend. Your person. The Mark Sloan to your Callie Torres, without the sex and baby part, of course...
The point is; he was a true friend. You supported one another through messy breakups, study meltdowns, hockey losses, and family drama all throughout your Freshman and Sophomore years. Sure, there were a few alcohol-induced kisses scattered across the past 24-months, but you did that with all your friends. It was Briar culture. It didn’t mean anything.
You were just best friends.
You didn’t believe in blurring boundaries. However, tonight, the foundations you’d spent the last two years building felt like the were being held together by nothing more than scotch tape and silly string.
The Hawks’ house smelt like a mixture of sweaty men, cheap citrus air freshener, and the greasy takeout that you and Logan had half-eaten and left on the kitchen island hours ago. You were slouched down on the sofa, scrolling through TikTok on your phone. Sprawled out next to you, with his heavy head resting on your lap, was Logan.
It was a position you’d found yourselves in a thousand times before. He was exhausted from the last practice, and you were his designated safe zone. The hand that wasn’t holding your phone was buried in his thick curls, your fingers absentmindedly massaging his scalp in the way that always got him to relax. His legs were dangled off of the opposite armrest, his eyes closed and breathing slow.
You glanced down at him. His eyelashes were annoyingly long, “why are men always blessed with long eyelashes?” you thought to yourself. There were faint bags under his eyes from a week straight of college essays, early morning ice time, and his shifts at the garage.
Without thinking, your thumb brushed the edge of his cheekbone, sweeping away a stray eyelash.
He smiled faintly but didn’t open his eyes, his breathing still calm and measured and you turned back to your phone screen.
The next video on your for you page had you snorting. You took your fingers out of his hair to forward the video to your group chat with a message.
That had Logan’s eyes cracking open. He blinked against the dim light coming from the lamp in the corner, his dark eyes looking up at you from your lap. “What’s so funny?” he grumbled.
“Nothing,” you smiled, looking down at him. “Just a funny video.”
Logan grunted and reached up, his calloused hand gently wrapping around your wrist to pull the phone down closer to his face. “Let me see.”
Angling the phone so he could watch, you cringed internally. He was not going to get this. The text on the screen read: “When he knows how to handle you”. In the video, the guy had his massive forearm around a girl’s neck, trapping her into a headlock while she giggled. Logan watched the video loop twice, then he looked up at you, his brow furrowing before he looked back at the screen and watched it loop once more.
“What the fuck are you watching?” Logan asked, a genuine chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Don’t judge,” you said as you gave him a light slap on his shoulder. Your fingers then slid back into his hair, resuming their massage of his scalp. “It’s actually really hot.”
“Girls like being put in a headlock?” He scoffed.
“Yeah, it’s hot,” you retorted, standing your ground. “Especially when a man has like... thick arms.”
The sleepy look in Logan’s eye was completely gone. He slowly sat up and swung his legs around to face you.
“Why do I feel like you’re giving me dating advice that’s going to get me arrested?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t tell you to go and find a random girl on the street to tackle, Jonathon.”
It annoyed the hell out of him when you called him that, which is precisely why you called him that when he annoyed the hell out of you. you got the reaction that you were hoping for. His eyes squinted at you, his jaw clenching as his lips pressed together in a tight line.
“Anyway,” you continued as you tried to suppress your laugh. “It’s obviously only hot when you trust the man.”
“You trust me.”
It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer him. You turned back to your phone, suddenly hyper aware that he was still looking in your direction.
Logan just stared at you, a serious expression settling over his face as he contemplated your words. The gears were turning in his head, his gaze dropping briefly to your neck before snapping back to your eyes.
“Right,” he said, abruptly standing up from the couch. “I still think you’re weird, but okay.”
“It’s not nice to kink shame, Jonathon.”
He paused mid-step, turning back to look down at you. “If you call me that again, I’m going to pull you into a headlock.”
“I’ll run,” you challenged, shifting your weight to the edge of the cushion.
“I’ll chase you.”
“You are not going to chase me around this room.”
“Try me.”
He looked serious. Really serious. And you had no reason to believe he was bluffing. But, looking up at him and that challenging glint he had in his eyes, you found a reckless part of yourself desperate to test him.
You stood up slowly, backing away a step. “I don’t believe you ... Jonathon.”
The last syllable of the name had barely gotten out before he essentially pounced on you.
Your shriek dissolved into laughter as you bolted around the couch. But, as fast as you were, he was faster. He closed the distance with barely any effort. Before you could reach the edge of the living room, two pairs of heavy hands clamped around your waist.
He manhandled you with ease, pulling you back and flush against his chest.
In the next second, his forearm slid over your shoulder, hooking dominatingly around your neck. You could feel his chest rising and falling against your shoulder blades.
His face buried in the crook of your beck, his warm breath brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I told you I’d chase you.”
A sharp gasp caught in your throat. You were locked against him. Even if you wanted to move, which admittedly, you didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to.
The moment your body collided with his, Logan lost all sense of self. He had honestly expected this to be a joke, a stupid thing he did where you’d both laugh it off and you’d go back to scrolling on your phone as he napped. But, the second your back hit his chest, the second your hips pressed firmly against his crotch, his brain basically shut down.
You shifted against him slightly, trying to find your footing and get comfortable in his tight grip. The friction of the movement sent an aggressive jolt of heat right below his stomach.
‘Oh,’ Logan thought, a wave of panic flooding through his system even as his grip subconsciously pulled you closer against him. “This is bad. Really, really bad.’
Despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, he didn’t let you go. He couldn’t. in fact, he leant in slightly closer, taking a deep breath and inhaling the scent of you. It filled his lungs, making his chest ache with a wave of possessiveness that he had absolutely no right to feel over a ‘best friend’.
Underneath his arm, you were frozen.
You had hugged Logan a thousand times. You had leant on him during late night study sessions, had fallen asleep on his shoulder during road trips, you’d even shared a bed with him after varous movie marathons. It had never, ever felt like this.
You could feel his heart beating frantically against your back. It was racing. You hand went up to his forearm, your fingers wrapping it. You held onto him, not even attempting to pull his arm away, even though every rational bone in your body told you that you should.
In a normal friendship, this is the part where he would laugh, call you a loser, and let you go. But he was holding you for far too long for it to be a joke. His forearm was pressed firmly against your collarbone, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your shirt at your shoulder. He had zero intention of letting you go.
‘Since when were his arms THIS big?’ you thought, mind dizzy and overwhelmed.
A knot of heat coiled deep in your stomach. You felt an ache in between your thighs. The kind that was desperate and dizzying and you had no right to be feeling towards your ‘best friend’.
‘’Get it together!’ you screamed at yourself internally.
“Ummm, Logan,” you choked out, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathless. “You should probably let go now.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
Logan’s breath was ragged as he slowly, almost relucatantly, unraveled his arm from your neck. He immediately stepped back, clearing his throat roughly and refusing to meet you eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“I guess... I get the hype,” he muttered awkwardly.
“Ha! Awesome,” you replied, just as awkwardly.
You practically sank back down onto the couch, your knees feeling like jelly, while Logan moved toward the kitchen island. He began aggressively clearing up the food containers, his back turned to you as his shoulders tensed.
The silence that was in the living room now was no longer comfortable. It was heavy, dripping with something you were too scared to contemplate about now. the invisible boundary had been crossed and you weren’t sure if you could even go back now. or, if you wanted to.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧
The shift was almost immediate. For the next two weeks, even being in the same room as him sent you into a panic. It was made much worse by the fact that that was also his reaction. You tried to be normal, chilling in the hockey house as you usually did. But, when you both reached for the remote at the same time and your fingers brushed, Logan pulled his hand back as if he’d been brunt.
When you sat on the coach, Logan stayed on the opposite end. When you turned to speak, Logan kept his eyes on his book, even though you’d noticed that he hadn’t turned a page in almost 30 minutes.
But then, there were times where you’d catch him staring, watching your mouth as you spoke. When you caught him, he would look away immediately.
You felt like you were losing your mind. You couldn’t tell if he was acting like this because he felt awkward, or if he was just reacting to your awkwardness.
You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, trying get the imagines of him that kept flashing up out of your mind. It mostly involved his biceps wrapping around you as he fucked-.
“Okay, no, I’m obviously just sexually oppressed,” you muttered to yourself. It had been a while since you’d last been with someone, longer than you realised until this moment. “Logan is objectively hot and my brain is just playing tricks on me.”
That was the lie you told yourself. And, to prove it, you finally said yes to Lyle.
He was... nice. He had bright blonde hair, played lacrosse, and had been asking you out at nearly every party you went to for the last few months. You never really turned him down, and he took that as encouragement to keep asking. Truthfully, you hadn’t much minded the attention, even if you had previously never planned to do anything with it. But now, he was the perfect, and safe, distraction you needed from your newfound fixation on your best friend.
The following Thursday afternoon, you walked into the hockey house to drop off a textbook that you had borrowed from Tucker. You weren’t even sure if Logan would be there, as he hadn’t exactly been texting you much.
When you turned the corner, Logan was sitting at the kitchen island, shaking a protein shake in one hand as he scrolled through something on his iPad.
“Hey,” you said, making an effort to keep your voice casual. You tossed the textbook onto the counter.
Logan’s head snapped up instantly. The second his eyes took you in, his posture straightened. At least he was looking at you now. “Hey. You’re dressed up.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in your ‘dressed-up’ clothes. “Yeah. Um. I actually have a date in like, twenty minutes so I need to go–.”
“A what?” Logan froze; the protein shake in his hand stopping halfway to his mouth. “A date? What do you mean a date? With who? Sorry, what?”
Logan’s voice didn’t even sound like him.
“It’s just with Lyle. From class,” you said. Despite how your heart was currently doing backflips in your chest, your voice was steady. “We’re just getting drinks downtown. It’s no big deal.”
Slowly setting the shake on the island, Logan stood up. You blinked in surprise as you realised, he looked... angry?
“Lyle?” Logan scoffed, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. He stepped around the island and walked over to you, the closest he’s willingly come in months. “The lacrosse guy? The one that wears his cap backwards on his head like an absolute douche.”
You wanted to respond that Logan also wore his cap backwards on his head, but now didn’t seem like the right time to bring that up.
“He’s not a douche, Logan!” you defended instead. You weren’t even sure why you felt the need to defend Lyle this hard. But you did. “He’s nice, and I’m allowed to go on dates. You’re supposed to be happy for me, as my friend.” You emphasised the last word. He was being incredibly selfish right now.
“Well, I’m not. I’m not fucking happy, okay?” he snapped.
“Why?” Your voice trembled, your eyes watching him take deep breaths. “Why are you not happy for me?” you pressed.
Logan closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling sharply. When he opened them again, you saw the old Logan, your best friend who had beautifully brown doe eyes. But then, it’s like he pulled the walls back up.
“Because he’s... an idiot.” Logan deflected. “He’s just trying to get you into bed.”
“Okay, and who says I’m not trying to get him into bed?” You fired back in a tone you weren’t proud of, the frustration boiling over inside of you.
Logan flinched, jaw tightening. “I just think you deserve better.”
“Well, that’s not your call to make.”
“Yeah. Clearly it isn’t,” Logan growled. “Go have fun.”
You stood there for longer than you should have, before you turned and practically bolted out of the door.
The date with Lyle was a, for lack of a better word, disaster.
It wasn’t even his fault. He was funny and charming. He listened to you when you spoke, and actually asked you questions. But, every time Lyle smiled, you wondered why his eyes didn’t shine like Logan’s did. Every time he laughed, you missed the sound of Logan’s.
He did nothing wrong, except not be Logan.
The date forced you to face that fact that you were becoming hopelessly in love with your best friend. and that it was ruining your life.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧
By the time the next hockey party came around, you still hadn’t spoken a word to Logan. Nor had he reached out to you. you were too stubborn, too deeply afraid of your own feelings, to break the silence first.
When you walked through the front door of the crowded house, your hand casually looped through Lyle’s arm, your eyes instinctively scanned the room for Logan anyway. You hated yourself for it. Hated how looking for Logan in any crowded room was still your default.
It took you an embarrassingly short amount of time to find him.
He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, a red cup in his hand. He wore a flannel shirt with the first few buttons left undone, the parted fabric showing some the top of his toned chest. His thick curls were framing his face in a way that made him look effortlessly, infuriatingly, handsome.
He was locked into a conversation with a notorious puck bunny who was practically throwing herself at him. And he was eating it up. Logan was listening to her, his head tilted down, his dark eyes locked onto her face with a focused stare that made your stomach violently turn over.
You froze, watching as the girl leant further into him. Her manicured hand slid up his bicep, her fingers scratching lightly against his arm as she whispered something into his ear. Her lips inches from his neck.
It infuriated you that Logan didn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes began to scan the room, clearly searching for something, or someone. His eyes stopped on you when he spotted you, still stood by the front door. The smile on his face vanished instantly. He pulled back from the puck bunny, his posture freezing as he took in the sight of you standing beside Lyle.
You gave him the coldest look you could muster before turning away. You pulled Lyle over to the makeshift bar, immediately pouring you both a heavy drink.
For the next two hours, you put on the performance of a lifetime.
You dragged Lyle to the living room floor and danced on him. You laughed way too loudly at a stupid joke that Garrett had made. You let Tucker convince you to line up a row of tequila shots, intentionally standing directly in Logan’s line of sight so he could see how much fun you could have without him.
But it was a miserable victory. He still didn’t approach you and he didn’t even look that bothered.
Eventually the heat of the house was too much. Ditching Lyle on the sofa, you slipped out into the cooler air of the backyard, heading toward the secondary bar area. You grabbed a bottle of water, pouring yourself a fresh drink, trying to stop your hands from shaking.
The sound of deep laughter had your shoulders squaring. You knew that laugh better than you knew your own name.
Logan and Dean walked over to where you were standing. The moment Logan noticed you there, alone, his laughter died. While he went silent, Dean got louder, shouting your name and pulling you into a hug.
Dean looked between the two of you. “So,” he drew out. “I take it we’re still going this miserable silent-pining thing then?”
Both you and Logan snapped your heads toward him, glares locking onto him.
“God, even your reactions are the same,” he laughed. “I don’t know why you guys are looking at me like that.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Logan mumbled.
“Look, you two either need to fuck and get it out of your system or just confess how you feel about each other. It’s painfully obvious at this point.”
“Dean. Shut. Up,” Logan practically begged.
It wasn’t lost on you that he didn’t deny anything to Dean.
“You’ll thank me for that later,” Dean laughed, patting Logan’s shoulder before turning on his heel and walking back inside, leaving the two of you there.
You stared at Logan, waiting for him to say something, anything. to apologise. To clear the air. But, he didn’t. he just stood there, his eyes burning into yours.
You let out an annoyed sigh and turned to walk past him, done with the games.
His hand shot out, his finger clamping around your wrist. “Wait, don’t go. Can we walk?”
“About what, Logan?” you snapped, trying to pull your hand back.
“Don’t be like that.”
“If you don’t like the way I’m ‘being’, you can go back to your girl.” You gestured toward the house. “You seemed real interested in her.”
Logan looked down at you. You were stubbornly looking away, your jaw set, and you probably would have had your arms crossed if he didn’t have a vice grip on your wrist.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” He asked suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“I saw you at the kitchen island with Tucker,” he said, his grip firm but careful. “I saw the tequila. How much have you had?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
At this point, you weren’t even being purposely defiant, you were just genuinely confused at the sudden shift in conversation.
“Please, it’s important.” For the first time in a long time, he really looked at you. You saw the plea in his eyes.
“Fine, if you must know. I had like one drink, plus those shots.”
“So, how do you feel? Tipsy? Drunk?” his eyes scanned your face, checking the focus of your pupils, needing to be absolutely sure.
“I’m not drunk, Logan. Why are you asking me this?”
A visible wave of relief washed over him, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Good, come with me.”
Without waiting for your response, his grip slid down from your wrist to capture your fingers. His palm felt cold against your warm one. He dragged you back toward the back door of the house, navigating the way through the crowd, and all the way up to his room.
Logan let go of your hand and stepped back, running a frustrated hand through his curls. He began to pace the length of his floor. “I need to say something and I just... I want you to hear me out.”
“Okay...” you said softly, going to take a seat on the edge of his mattress.
“I need to... I want to apologise to you.” Logan stopped pacing to look down at you. “I didn’t realise I was hurting you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Well, you did know. You knew exactly how he’d hurt you, but you couldn’t admit that.
“With Sarah,” Logan explained, stepping closer to you. “I was flirting with her because I was trying to get over you. I wasn’t purposely trying to make you jealous. Although, I won’t lie and say I’m not enjoying it just a little.”
“I wasn’t jealous,” you lied.
Your brain was choosing to ignore all the other things he said. While you weren’t drunk, you also didn’t have the brain capacity to try decipher what he was saying. What he really meant by ‘trying to get over you’.
He laughed, and God you’d missed that sound.
“I think you were jealous,” he said. “And that’s good cause it might mean you’ll hate me a little less when I say this.”
“Logan, I–.”
“Please, just let me finish,” he interrupted softly, taking another step until he was towering over where you sat on the edge of his bed. “Remember in freshman year, you told me that story about the guy who got close to you in high school only cause he wanted to sleep with you?”
You nodded, not a pleasant memory.
“I swear to you on my life, that’s not what this is,” Logan whispered. He sank down to his knees on the floor directly in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. “You’re my best friend. The most important person in my life. I didn’t plan for this, it just happened. I just–.”
“You what?” You asked as he trailed off.
“I didn’t plan to fall for you,” he confessed. “It was so easy. Too easy, actually.”
When you were silent, he continued rambling, “And I’ve been thinking about what I would do to you if I had the chance. Every single night, I think about it. So... that’s why I was with Sarah. I’m trying to block it out so I can be there for you how you need me to. I’m sorry I couldn’t just be the friend you needed.”
There was too much to process, your mind scrambled. It felt too good, too terrifying, too much like a fantasy you’d conjured up in the middle of a touch-starved night.
“Logan... how much have you had to drink?” It was like you were trying to find a loophole, a reason to protect yourself just in case this was all a joke.
He smiled up at you. “Unfortunately, I am extremely sober. I could do with a drink, honestly.”
You let out a deep breath. So, this was real?
“I think you should lock the door,” you said, your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. “Quickly.”
He scrambled up from the floor and practically ran to lock the door. When he turned back around, his breath caught in his throat.
You were sitting on the edge of his bed, your eyes locked onto his as your fingers slowly slipped the straps of your dress down over your shoulders, letting the fabric pool around your waist.
“Show me,” you commanded softly. “You have the chance, show me what you’ve been thinking about.”
Standing up, you stepped out of your dress and shoes, the fabric pooling on the floor. You were about to take your bra off when Logan stopped you.
“No,” he said, voice thick with need. “I want to do that. Lie back on the bed.”
Doing as you were told you, you got comfortable on the bed. You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth in anticipation as you watched him strip down to his boxers, his eyes never leaving yours.
Once bare, he climbed onto the bed and sat between your open legs. He leant over you, his palms resting flat on the mattress on either side of you. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with lust and adoration.
“I’ve thought about this for so long,” Logan whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “There are so many things I want to do to you.”
You reached up to rest your hands against his shoulders. It should have felt weird, the shift from being his friend, to thinking about him, to being here, under him. It didn’t. He looked down at you with the same expression he had been for a while, and you were sure your expression mirrored his. Maybe Dean was right, it was painfully obvious.
“Can I kiss you?” Logan asked.
“Yes, please,” you plead.
He leant down slowly, so slowly that you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down into you. While his every movement so far was dripping with patience, his kiss was anything but. The transition from his gentle hesitation to starved desperation was instantaneous.
As soon as your lips parted, he groaned deep in his chest as he swept his tongue along with yours. He caught your tongue between his lips, sucking on it heavily. His tongue slid back into your mouth, tangling with yours over and over as he demanded more from you.
Logan’s hand found your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
Your fingers knotted deep into his curls, pulling him down closer, matching his desperate pace as a spark ignited deep in your stomach.
“Shit,” he shuddered, as you wrapped your legs around his waist and ground up into him, desperate for the friction.
You whined as he sat up and unwrapped your legs from him. “If you keep grinding into me, I’m going to cum in my boxers. Is that what you want?”
Too dazed on the feeling of him, you couldn’t even tease him for the confession. “No.”
“Right,” he said, “then be patient.”
“Yes, Jonathon.”
You giggled softly under him as he leant down again. His nose brushed slowly against your neck, inhaling deeply as he found the exact spot where you were the most sensitive. He parted his lips and bit down on the soft slope of your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough.
A loud whine was dragged from your throat, your fingers digging into his thick biceps, as he bit down on you. his tongue swept over the bite before his lips locked onto the skin, sucking deeply enough to leave a semi-permanent mark.
Your head fell back against the pillow as he moved to the other side of your neck, feeling happily helpless against the marks he was bruising into your skin.
With one last kiss to the marks he’d etched into your skin, his kisses drifted downward. Logan took his time, his jawline grazing your collarbone as he pressed a kiss to the base of your throat. He used every touch, every kiss, to show you how badly he wanted you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured between the trail of wet kisses he was leaving across your chest. “How lucky am I, that I get to learn exactly how you like to be touched?”
“Logan,” you said breathily. You raised your chest slightly, a silent and desperate plea for him to keep going.
His hands slid up from beneath your waist. His palms were no longer cold; they blazed against your skin as he traced up your ribs, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands then moved to your back, his fingers finding the clasp of your bra.
Logan stopped, he kept his eyes on yours as he asked, “Is this okay?”
When you nodded, he moved to unhook the clasp. It took him a few attempts to get it, not helped by the awkward angle with your back flat against the mattress and the way his fingers were shaking with anticipation. His nervousness only made this hotter for you. Once undone, he pulled the straps down over your shoulders, peeling the fabric off of you and throwing it onto the floor.
His gaze raked down your torso, taking you in completely.
For a split second, you wanted to wrap your arm over yourself, a sudden wave of vulnerability hitting you when you remembered that Logan’s never seen you like this before. But the way he looked down at you with breathless awe filled you with an intoxicating confidence.
With your bra out of the way, he leant down, this time his warm mouth closed over one of your erect nipples. He sucked softly at first, his tongue swirling in a slow and deliberate circle. Your nails dug into his back, scratching at the skin there as he rolled your other nipple between his fingers.
He hummed in satisfaction, encouraged by your reaction. He increased the pressure, his lips pulling at your nipple in tight suction as his thumb grazed over your other nipple in synch with his mouth.
“Logan, I’m so wet.” You loved this, loved the attention, but he was talking his time and, between your legs, you were aching for him. “I need you now, Logan. Please.”
“Oh, but there’s so much more I need to do with you.” Logan would be lying if he said he wasn’t right there with you, his dick was painfully throbbing between his legs, straining against the constraint of his boxers. He had ignored it, wanting to give you the attention you deserved.
“Next time,” you whimpered.
“Okay, baby, whatever you need.” Logan shifted slightly so he was straddling one of your legs. He kept his mouth on your nipple as he pressed his thumb to your clit through the cotton of your panties. He dragged his thumb down over your clothed folds, earning a loud moan from you.
“Fuck, you are soaked.”
Reaching down, you tugged at the waistband of his boxers. He helped you pull them down, wiggling out of them before he helped you wiggle out of your panties.
A thick lump in his throat formed as he spread your legs. “You’re even more beautiful here than I imagined.”
You felt your cheeks heat at the compliment, but he didn’t give you much time to think about it as his dick edged at your hole. He eased himself into you, only giving you a bit more once you fully stretched to accommodate him.
“Is this still okay?” He said through clenched teeth as he bottomed out.
You hadn’t ever been stretched like this, the burn so good. “Yes, Loge, feels so good.”
With your confirmation, he began to move. He pulled out just as slowly as he went in, then drove his hips back into you. he did that a few times, relishing in the feel of your walls around his dick as he moved.
He manoeuvred you so that both of your legs were resting against his shoulders. The new angle had him reaching deeper into you with every thrust. Pulling back slowly, he watched your face as he thrust back in. his dick twitched within you as he watched you sharply inhale, your mouth falling partly open.
“Talk to me,” he rasped. He could see you were enjoying it, but he needed to hear how wrecked the words were when they came out of your mouth. “Keep telling me what feels good.”
There was so much you wanted to say, but instead you settled on, “This. You. Everything.”
He let out a dry chuckle as his thrusts increased in pace. His hand slipped between your legs, coating his fingers in your arousal before moving to your clit. Your hips bucked into his touch.
“Yeah? You like that?”
“I do,” you sobbed.
All you could hear was the sound of your heart pounding in your ears as your vision faded to black. Every thrust now was hitting that soft spongy wall within you.
“Yes! Right there~ don’t stop, Loge,” you begged.
It felt like too much and not enough at the same time. He gasped, feeling you slowly expand and then tightly contract around his length.
You felt his hips falter, his orgasm quickly approaching. “Your pussy is perfect, baby. I’m gonna–.”
“Fill me up, Loge,” you begged, interrupting him so he didn’t even think about pulling out. “Cum in me, please.”
He let your legs drop from his shoulders as he pressed himself onto you so that you were chest to chest. He kissed you as he came into you, his thrusts turning into slow grinds of his hips.
As he came down from his high, he wiggled his hand between your bodies to circle at your clit again.
“I’m so close,” you muffled into his shoulder. “Keep doing exactly that.”
He listened, keeping the same pressure and intensity. You bit into his shoulder, nails digging into his back as you became a mess under the force of your orgasm. Your entire body buzzed as pleasure rippled through you.
Logan groaned against your neck as you squeezed around his softening dick. He lifted his head, eyes still dark and heavy, and pressed a quick kiss to your lips before he slowly slid out of you.
He rolled over, lying flat on his back with a deep exhale. Your body mourned the loss of him, already feeling cold without him surrounding you. a second later, he reached out and pulled you flush against his side.
“As first time’s together go... that was pretty...” you trailed off, tracing a lazy circle on his chest.
“Mind-blowing?” He finished for you, a smug smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
You both laughed then. The sound was bright and easy. it felt so good to just laugh with him again.
“Yes, mind-blowing. Round of applause to you.”
You laughed again as you both started clapping in synch.
“We can never let Dean know he was right by the way,” Logan said as he turned his head to look at you.
“I mean, he probably knows. Knowing him, he was listening through the door the whole time,” you retorted.
You were only half-being serious, but the thought made you both freeze. You simultaneously held your breath, eyes darting to the locked bedroom door, listening to see if you could hear the creak of the floorboards over the bass of the music.
When you heard nothing, you laid your head back on his chest, you knew you should get up and go to the bathroom, but you just wanted to be in this moment for a bit longer.
“We should probably talk about this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his hand moving to rest on your waist. “Like... what this means. For us. For our friendship. Are you okay with everything that just happened?”
“I’m more than okay, Logan,” you whispered. “And we will talk about all of it. I promise. But can we do that tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, “tomorrow is fine. I just want to say that I’ve been your best friend for two years, and I’m going to keep being your best friend if you’ll have me. I’ll just also be the guy who loves you.”
You lay in his arms for a little while longer, wanting to just stay in a world where John Logan loved you.
pairing: john logan x ex!girlfriend reader
words: 7.1k 👺🤘
summary: Logan realises that he has made a terrible mistake
warnings: language, logan calls you baby like a bajillion times, implied smut, angst, surprisingly a lot of fluff (there's flashbacks), happy ending <3
a/n: overwhelming response for pt 1 so i am posting this much earlier than planned, i love all of you so, so much, hope you like it.
About eleven minutes after you stormed off the porch, your phone buzzed. Text from Logan.
Hockey Nerd 🤓: i know im the last person you wanna hear from rn, but can you pls text me when you get home?
You read it twice. Your thumb hovered over the screen the entire walk back, the cursor blinking in an empty reply box you never filled. You thought about how he was probably waiting for you to say something, three dots flashing across the screen, but there was nothing to say that wouldn't come out as either a scream or a sob, and you didn't trust yourself with either out here, in the open, where anyone could see.
When you got home, Allie was already waiting for you, doors open, arms open. You didn't think about how she knew, or how much. All you remember was walking into her arms, resting your head on her shoulder and sobbing quietly. She held you for a while, no questions asked.
"Can you—" Your voice came out wrecked, unrecognizable. "Can you tell him I'm home. Logan. Tell him I'm home, please, I can't—"
"I've got it," she said, already reaching for your phone before you could fumble it any further. "I've got it. Go. I'll come check on you in a minute."
You nodded into her shoulder and let go.
You walked into your room and shut the door, and that was the last thing John Logan heard from you for a while. You would think that would've stopped him, but no. He texted. Every single day.
After about the 23rd call in four days, he realised this was going nowhere, and resorted to texting you instead. They came every day like clockwork. And you ignored all of them.
John Logan was a miserable wreck. The bench was not a place Logan was used to occupying.
Coach Jensen hadn't said much when he pulled him aside after the third practice in a row where Logan had whiffed an easy pass, lost an edge on a drill he could do half-asleep, and generally skated around looking like a man underwater. He didn't need to say much. The look said it— get it together, or I find someone else to wear the C.
Garrett tried first. Showed up at his room with beer and bad jokes and the kind of forced normalcy that fooled exactly no one. Logan sat through twenty minutes of it before Garrett gave up trying to talk hockey and just said, quietly, "You gonna tell me what happened, man?"
He didn't say anything. Of course, he didn't. How could he? I might be in love with your girlfriend, and my girlfriend found out and we broke up? Jesus. It sounded wrong just thinking about it.
Dean tried differently— dragged him to the gym, like sweating it out might shake something loose. It didn't. Logan put up weight he should've been able to handle in his sleep and missed three reps in a row, and Dean just quietly took the bar off him and said, "Okay. We're done for today."
Tucker just straight-up sat him down and asked him what was wrong, no bullshit.
"Alright. Out with it. What happened?"
"What do you want me to say, Tuck?"
Tucker just waved his hand as if to say let it all out. Logan sighed and leaned back on the couch, running his hand over his face. He was sitting in the same place as he was that day.
"She broke up with me," he said, in a tone that would've sounded matter-of-fact if it wasn't laced with that hint of devastation he tried so hard to hide. Tucker waited for a follow-up that would never come.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"I know you guys broke up, man, I'm asking why!"
Logan didn't have an answer that would make him look like a half-decent guy. He just hung his head and stared at the floorboards. He was reminiscing before he even realised.
You were at the rink. He was teaching you how to skate, slowly guiding you, holding your hands. Your legs wobbled, and he caught you, one hand immediately shooting to your waist, steadying you. Instinctively, you caught his bicep.
"Eyes on me, baby. I got you."
"Yeah, somehow I am having trouble believing that, John", you laughed. He gasped and feigned offence.
"John, huh? Wow. I thought we were past that." His hand was still on your waist, his eyes never leaving yours. He started to slowly guide towards the centre of the rink.
"I have a feeling you are so going to let me fall on my ass."
"The important part is getting back up."
"You're not even going to assure me that I'm not going to fall?"
"Baby, you are so going to fall. Your legs are like Bambi's."
You gasped and hit him lightly on his chest as he doubled down laughing. He noticed the way your pout never quite reached your eyes. He noticed how they caught the low light of the rink. He noticed your cheeks, flushed from the cold, a faint blush coating your skin and the tip of your nose. He could feel your hand tighten in his bicep every time you moved, unsure and mildly sceptical.
"I love you," he blurted out, not thinking about it twice. He didn't have to. If there's anything he was sure of in his life, it was this. John Logan loved you deeply, irrevocably.
You stilled immediately. This was the first time either of you had said it out loud. Before you could process, your knees gave out. You fell down on the rink flat with a thud, a faint 'ow' leaving you. Logan winced and immediately got down on his knees.
"Shit, baby, you okay? I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have sprung that on you out of nowhere, I just—"
Whatever he expected you to do, he didn't expect that you'd start laughing. Hard. You were in tears, shaking. Logan was very confused.
"Babe? Are you concussed? How many fingers am I holding up?"
Unfortunately, this made you laugh harder.
"I just bared my soul to you, and you are laughing in my face. This relationship is so one-sided," he complained while pouting, clearly trying to ease the situation.
You sat up, hands reaching out to hold his face. You looked him in his eyes as your laughter died down. "I'm sorry, baby, I couldn't help it."
"Help what?"
"I think I just fell for you."
He looked away as he laughed, suddenly very aware of your hands on his face. John Logan felt shy for the first time in his life. He looked back at you and placed his hands on yours, pulling them down from his face to hold them. He leaned in slowly, tentatively, like he was unsure if you'll change your mind at the last minute. You didn't.
Your lips met his halfway. The tip of your nose was very cold. Your hand left his to tangle in his hair and tug lightly, which pulled a sound out of him you wanted to tattoo in your brain forever. You deepened the kiss, turning your head for better leverage. His hand found your cheek, thumb slowly brushing against where your blush darkened. He could never get enough of you. Unfortunately for biology, oxygen was a necessity. He pulled away reluctantly. Damn science and damn the puny human anatomy.
You looked at him, hand on his cheek now. You looked at him like he had answers to questions that he didn't even know. You pressed a small kiss to his lips.
"I love you too, dork."
"Tucker, I have made a terrible mistake."
Fortunately for Logan, he knew your schedule by heart. It was tuesday, meaning he knew exactly where to find you. He was in his truck in record time, driving to the quad where he knew you'd be at your favourite spot— bench by the fountain where you liked to study.
It was at an angle from the fountain that didn't get you wet from the splash, but was reasonably cool as a result of the water, and at an acceptable distance from the cafeteria in case you got hungry. It wasn't too crowded, and it wasn't deserted enough to be a safety concern. It was the perfect place, and nothing can take that away from you.
Predictably, he found you with your headphones in, laptop and iPad open in front of you. Okay, clearly you were busy. Maybe he should come back another time. He didn't want to disturb you. Wait. No. This had to be done. Now.
He parked the truck and walked over to you. He stood in front of you, not knowing how to start. He waited for you to look up. When you didn't, he froze, only then realising how impulsive he had been. Why was he even there? What was he going to say that he hadn't already said before? He started to panic.
You looked up now. You did not expect to see him. You took your headphones off, letting them rest around your neck as you slowly got up. You didn't know what to say. You went with—
"Why are you here, John?"
He hesitated. He didn't know. He just looked at you, not quite meeting your eyes.
"I... I don't know," he answered, honestly for the first time in a while.
"Well, can you go not know why you're here somewhere else? Cause I got a paper due that is not going to write itself," you replied as you sat back down, casually cruel in a way he wasn't used to. He called you as he sat on the bench facing you, and you hated that your entire body reacted when he said your name.
"Please, just... hear me out."
"Hmm, yeah, let me think." You thought about it for a second. Literally just a second. "I think I'm gonna pass."
"Five minutes, that's all I ask."
You considered it. You stared into the distance while you did, your eyes landing on a spot on the lawn. A place that held one of your fondest memories.
You were having a picnic date on the lawn in the quad. You were sitting on the blanket he had laid out. His head was on your lap as you played with his hair, stroking and twirling the strands. He looked gorgeous. Sunkissed, relaxed, eyes looking up at you with adoration you would never get used to, no matter how much you tried.
You bent down and kissed his nose. Heat quickly rose to his cheeks. You noticed, of course, you did, which made you smirk.
"John Logan, are you blushing right now?"
He laughed like he was offended. "No?"
"Oh my god, you are!"
"Am not!" he argued. Solid rebuttal, buddy.
"Are too! You look so adorable right now."
"Baby, I am a grown man, I am not adorable."
"The cutest, prettiest little boy in the entire world," you laughed as you fumbled at your side for your phone to take a picture of this moment. The more you teased, the more he blushed.
"Are you taking a pictu— absolutely not. Gimme that—" you had already taken a picture before he could grab your phone. He opened your gallery to delete it, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He looked so in love. "Okay, I'm letting you win this time because I love you."
"That is very generous of you, thank you, baby," you played along, knowing he didn't do jack shit.
"No 'love you, too'? Is that all I am? A pretty face?"
"No, you're a pretty face, and you have a great ass."
"And they say romance is dead," he teased, as he pulled you lower by your neck to kiss you.
That picture was still your image for him in your phone. He had taken this away from you. Every memory of him was now tainted by the voice in your head saying maybe he never loved you. Nothing he was going to say would fix anything. What was the point?
He doesn't get to waltz into your life whenever it is convenient for him. No, you decided. He was not getting his five minutes. Because every time you heard the word love, you didn't think of him anymore. You thought of Hannah, how he probably thought of her too. You couldn't keep doing this to yourself. If you had to get over him, it had to be on your terms.
"Logan. I'm sorry."
"Baby," it slipped out before he could stop it. He regretted it immediately, more so when your eyes filled with tears.
"This is not something we can go back from. I need you to understand that."
He just nodded, dejected, like he was not really sure what he was agreeing to. He decided to respect your wishes, whatever that meant.
"For what it's worth, I do love you."
You laughed incredulously, like there wasn't a part of you that believed that in the slightest. He made the decision to leave before he said something you will both regret.
"Don't call me baby."
The entire ride back, your words kept echoing in his head. This is not something we can go back from. What the hell? Why did he agree to that? Why didn't he fight? He had to respect your wishes, sure, but he loved you. Of course he did. Right? This was the person he planned his future with. You were going to move in together. You were going to get married. You picked out baby names sitting right there in his truck.
You were at a drive-in theatre with Logan. Your shoes were off, legs on his lap, eating cheap popcorn. The movie was long forgotten. You were mid-conversation about whether or not Garrett was a ridiculous name.
"It's a pretty normal name, baby."
"Yes, Logan, in the 1900s." He laughed at that, grabbing a fistful of popcorn. "I'm just saying, if I looked at a man twice as handsome as he was and his name was fucking Garrett, I would not go out with him."
"Baby, that is ridiculous."
You just shrugged like you knew you were right and weren't taking no for an answer.
"Also, let's circle back for a second, you think Garrett's handsome?"
"Eat your damn popcorn, 22."
"Yes, ma'am. Good thing my name is Logan, I guess."
"Your name is John. Literally the most generic boy name ever."
"You wound me."
"Remind me to not let you name our babies."
His hand paused midway, popcorn still in hand. Baby? Wait. Babies? Plural?
"Babies?"
"Yes, Logan. Babies. You know? Tiny humans."
"Our babies? As in, you and me—"
"Logan, you see, when two people really like each other and are very horny—"
"Don't birds-and-bees me, that's not what I meant," he laughed. "It's just— you think about that stuff? Kids, marriage, us and all that jazz?"
"All that jazz? Jesus, what year is this?"
"Baby," he pressed, like he could see right through your stalling.
"Alright, fine. Yes, I think about that stuff. Hard not to, with you."
He smiled at that. You couldn't meet his eyes. You were very shy, he could tell. His hand came to rest on your knee.
"Yeah? Tell me more."
"What? And scare you away? No, thanks."
"Baby, you will not scare me away. I think about that stuff too," he assured you.
"Yeah?"
"Hard not to, with you."
You looked away, trying your best not to smile and failing. You were head over heels in love with him.
"I know you may want to continue the Logan 'J' names tradition, but if you name our baby Jerusha or something, I swear to god—"
"What's wrong with Jerusha Logan?"
"Oh, sweet Jesus."
He didn't understand what to do now. Does this mean you wanted to move on? And what, he was supposed to move on, too? Find someone new? Start over? Literally less than two weeks ago, he was having dinner with the love of his life, and now he had to just, what, find someone else, get to know them? Remember their favourite colour? None of that will matter. Because no one was going to be you. Not even Hannah.
Oh, shit.
Hannah.
That's what this was about.
Obviously, he didn't love Hannah, right? God, no. Not nearly as much as he loved you. Then what was it? Why did he stall when you asked him if he loved you? What exactly did he feel about Hannah that made him so stupid that he lost you? He had way too many questions and not nearly enough answers. His mind was running way too fast for him to catch up. He parked his truck on the side of the road and got out.
He paced the area in front of his truck.
He was very, very confused. What was wrong with him? He loved you. Of course, he did. How did he fuck up like this? He got busy, you got busy. Sure. But that didn't mean you loved each other any less. Certainly didn't mean he loved Hannah. Then why?
Did he stop putting in efforts?
He thought about the last couple of months. All the calls, all the texts, you had initiated. Every time the two of you went out, you had insisted. Every time you had been intimate, you had made the first move. Jesus, of course, you thought he didn't love you. He'd been a complete douchebag. He was just overwhelmed with life. You would have understood if he had just talked to you.
Instead, well, he is now a loser with his car parked to the side of the road, sitting on the hood of his car, head in his hands, and a whole lot of regrets.
He still wanted answers. Before he could prove to you that he did indeed love you, he had to prove it to himself. He did not love Hannah. He loved you.
He got back in his truck and decided to drive to a place where he knew he could find some answers. Or closure, at the very least. Malone's.
He could just talk to Hannah, confirm once and for all that he felt nothing, and then profess his undying love for you. Simple, yeah?
Luckily, it was Hannah's shift, which should've made it easy. Unfortunately, shit would hit the fan in about five minutes. He walked up to her around the same time she noticed him.
"Logan, hey! The usual?"
Before he could answer, the door opened, and you walked in with Allie. You waved at Hannah and looked at him, your expression completely unreadable. You didn't acknowledge him. Logan felt like he was swallowing fire. Allie led you to the table where, apparently, everybody else was already there. Great. The whole gang was there. This should be easy.
Logan couldn't decide whether he was supposed to follow you. Does he sit somewhere else? No, that's weird. He should probably just leave now, right? No, he just got here, that's weird too. Everyone already knows he was here. There was no going back now. He had to go sit at the table now. Fuck.
He walked up to the booth where you were all sitting, and everyone became silent immediately. Allie's shift had started, so it was just you, Garrett, Dean, Tucker, and Logan. Sitting at the table, saying absolutely nothing. Great, now he felt awful. After a painfully awkward minute, which felt like ages, Dean decided to break the silence.
"So, the weather, huh?"
No one said anything again.
"Okay. I tried," he got up and left the table.
Garrett and Tucker exchanged looks. You and Logan were looking anywhere but each other.
"Hey, Tuck, do you hear that?" Garrett asked extremely casually.
"Hear what, Garrett?" Tucker, god bless his soul, was genuinely confused.
"That sound? Don't you hear it?" he warned this time, which was borderline a threat.
"G, I don't hear anything, man."
"Oh, for God's sake," Garrett dragged Tucker away by his collar.
It was just you and Logan now. He decided to try again.
"Can we please just talk?"
"I said no, Logan."
Well, that crashed and burned splendidly. Time to leave. Just as he was about to get up, he noticed that your wrist still carried the bracelet he had gotten you for your six-month anniversary. He couldn't give up on you that easily. He had to try.
"I love you—"
"Yeah, somehow, I am having trouble believing that, John," you spat, your voice laced with anger this time.
Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Dean wince and Tucker flinch. He looked at them, and they turned away immediately, like the ceiling was suddenly very interesting.
"Baby—"
"Call me baby one more time," you warned.
"I'm sorry. I know I hurt you. Please just tell me how to make it up to you."
"You think you can just treat me however you want and make it up to me, and we'll be okay again? Hurt me is an understatement, John. You ruined my life."
Logan was taken aback. He looked like he had seen a ghost. He did not expect that. It felt like a door had slammed in his face. You laughed, and it came out humourless and tired.
"Every single night I go to bed, and I cannot sleep because you are not next to me. I cannot open my phone without a text from you, or a picture of us from a memory from months ago, and I spiral again. I spent the last couple of months thinking I was a horrible girlfriend, only to find out that you didn't even love me."
"I love you, please, just—"
"Let me finish, Logan. People fall out of love. I can make my peace with that. It would be selfish of me if I made you stay. But you cannot keep barging into my life and lying to me again and again, just so you can have a clear conscience."
"I am not lying to you. I love you, Jesus, please, just believe me. Let me explain."
"Logan, there's no need to explain anything."
"Is there anything I can do," Logan said finally, quieter now, almost desperate, "for you to forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive."
He blinked. "What?"
"There's nothing between us, Logan. There's nothing left to forgive."
Logan felt like you had taken an axe and thrown it right at his heart. That's it? What do you mean, nothing left?
"Is that—" His voice cracked slightly. "Is that all this meant to you?"
You laughed incredulously. "Well, if you must know, John, it meant a whole lot more before you made it perfectly clear where your priorities lie."
"It's not like that. I miss you. I miss us."
"Well, that's too fucking bad, John." You were already standing, already reaching for your bag, your hands steadier than your voice. "You made a choice. Grow up."
You stormed out of his life for the second time, and this time, Logan could feel his stomach drop. He felt like his throat was closing up, like the room was getting smaller. He just sat there after you left, not knowing what to do with himself. What now?
Dean caught up with you outside, jogging a little to match your pace, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them.
"Hey. I'm not gonna pry," he said, falling into step beside you. "I genuinely don't know what happened, and that's not what this is. I just want to make sure you get home okay."
You nodded, grateful, mostly, for the lack of questions.
You walked in silence for a block before he spoke again.
"For what it's worth," Dean said, "and no offence to either of you— you're both kind of sucking the energy out of every room you walk into right now."
A laugh startled out of you before you could stop it. "Wow. Tell me what you really think."
"I'm just saying, I kinda miss when the only thing insufferable about you guys was the PDA."
"You and me both, buddy."
"And amen to his magic dick."
You paused, completely taken aback. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
"Honey, I am literally in the next room. I hear everything."
You just sighed. Might as well. "Amen indeed. And his great ass. I am going to miss his ass."
"Can confirm. He does have a nice ass, yes."
"And his shoulders—"
"We don't have to go through the whole thing."
You were at your dorm before you realised. You hugged him as a thank you. Logan may have broken your heart, but you'll always be thankful you got to meet the gang. They were family at this point.
"Alright," He glanced over. "I need to say it, I'm sorry, but if there's even a small part of you that wants to fix this— and I mean any part, even a stupid, stubborn, two-percent part— please consider it. Because the guy's a wreck, and so are you, and honestly, Tucker is starting to bald from all the stress."
You laughed at that. "Tucker or you?"
"Whatever you heard, it's hearsay."
Meanwhile, at Malone's, Hannah sat at the booth opposite Logan.
"We need to talk."
Logan looked confused, but he nodded. He let out a short, humourless laugh before she'd even said anything.
"You're, unfortunately, the last person I should be talking to about this."
"Yeah, well, I don't give a fuck, Logan." Her voice was steady, but there was real heat under it. "My best friend just stormed out of here looking like she wanted to commit a homicide, and I held her while she cried for weeks, so you're going to tell me what is actually going on."
He sighed, scrubbed a hand down his face. "Okay. This isn't a reflection of how I feel about you right now, or technically ever, I guess, and I don't want this to make things weird— between you and Garrett, or you and me, or Garrett and me. I just need you to know that going in."
"Logan."
"I think I might've had a crush on you."
She stared at him. "...That's it?"
"What do you mean, that's it? It sort of fucked my entire relationship in the a—"
"Logan, you did not have a crush on me."
"I'm pretty sure I—"
"No." She said it firmly, almost gently, cutting him off before he could finish digging. "No, you did not. Think about it. You guys were already going through a rough patch and pulling away from each other before any of this. And then you watched me and Garrett be all coupley and stupid in front of you, and you missed it. You missed having that. You don't want me, Logan. You miss her. You're not in love with me."
He opened his mouth to argue and then just stopped.
"You love her," Hannah said, quieter now. "You've always loved her. You just got so used to missing her that you forgot what it felt like to actually have her, and somewhere along the way you mistook wanting that feeling back for wanting it with someone new."
Logan sat very still for a long moment.
"Oh, my god."
"Yeah."
"Oh, my god." He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over the table, pulled Hannah into a side hug and then gave her a couple of pats on her head. Hannah scrunched her face in confusion. He winced in regret.
"Thank you. I have to go."
"Go," she said, already pushing him toward the door. "Go, idiot. Run."
At your dorm, you were going through your gallery. The plan was to get rid of all the pictures and videos. Completely erase him from your life. But he had taken up every inch and crevice of your being. Your entire gallery was just him and you. You put your phone down. Your room was full of his clothes, his pictures, and gifts he had gotten you.
You opened your laptop to get some work done. Your lock screen was a picture of the two of you together. You closed it immediately. You went into the bathroom to wash your face. His toothbrush was next to yours. You ran back to your living room, threw yourself on the couch, hugged a pillow and started sobbing.
The throw pillow was a gift from him.
Fuck.
Despite everything he had done, you still loved him more than anything in the world. You opened your phone and started going through the gallery again. You stopped at a video from around six months ago.
You were in the kitchen of the hockey house. The two of you were cooking. You didn't remember what. You were stirring the pot on the stove. He sneaked up behind you, hands on your waist as he kissed your neck. You smiled at the contact as he backed away and pointed at the camera.
"Kids, don't let the video fool you. I did all of the work; your mom has been stirring the pot for less than thirty seconds."
"Logan, who are you talking to right now?"
"Someday, little Jerusha Logan and the other little Logans are going to see this. I'm just keeping them informed, baby."
"Oh, well, in that case. Sweetie, it was your dad's idea to call you Jerusha. Sorry you get bullied in school every day!"
He laughed and hugged you from behind again. You turned your neck to face him, giving him a chaste kiss, risotto on the stove be damned.
"Eugh. Our kids are going to think we're disgusting," you admitted.
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
The tears started streaming down your face before you could help it. You swiped to the next video. Why were you doing this to yourself?
The arena was loud. The video was shaky. You could hear yourself screaming in the background. Briar U Hawks vs Penn State, the Hawks were demolishing Penn State. Your hands shook as they tried their best to keep up with Logan skating around the rink. He hits the puck, and.... It's a goal! He skates a victory lap around the rink. He points at you and does the arrow thing he does every time he scores.
You swiped again. You always told him that he had the voice of an angel. He had sung Elvis' Can't Help Falling in Love, just for you. You used to listen to it almost every day.
Next was a video that he had taken with your phone.
"Babe, do you smell that?"
"Smell what, Logan?"
"Really? Doesn't it smell like updog in here?"
"What's updog?"
"Nothing much, boo, what's up with you?"
"I am breaking up with you."
You laughed at the memory of how you refused to talk to him for an entire hour. And then you were crying again.
You closed the gallery. Opened your messages. You'd been ignoring him for weeks.
Logan: hey, good morning, can we talk
Logan: baby, please
Logan: can we talk? i'm sorry
Logan: i miss you, i'm sorry
Logan: please
Logan: i fucked up
Logan: look, im not going to force you to talk to me but pls just hear me out
Logan: i am so, so sorry
Logan: baby
Logan: talk to me
It was weeks of this. The begging slowly turned into random check-ins.
Logan: saw this dog, thought of you today
Logan: they had blueberry muffins in the cafeteria
Logan: you were right btw prof groff is NOT STRAIGHT
Logan: good for him tho his boyfriend's hot
And every single day, at some point, without fail, was this—
Logan: Baby. I love you. so much.
You didn't know what to do anymore. You put your phone down and held your head in your hands. You played the memory of the first time he stayed over at your place.
You were lying on his chest, hand thrown across him, the only thing protecting your dignity your blanket. He had one arm under his head, the other drawing circles in the back of your hand that was on him. Your head was close enough to his chest that you could hear his heartbeat.
"Baby? You okay?"
"Uh-huh. Peachy."
"You're unusually quiet," he clarified.
"What, I can't be quiet in my own house?"
"Not that, it's just, you weren't exactly the picture of silence five minutes ago, so—"
You reached behind you and threw a pillow on his face, muffling his laughter.
"Seriously, though, you're okay?"
"I'm perfect. I'm just... thinking."
"Oh, no," he teased.
"Shut up," you laughed. "I just... Okay, I know how cheesy this sounds, but I just—I have never felt this way about anyone before."
He looked at you with something in his eyes you wouldn't name until later. "I've never felt this way about anyone either. Does that... scare you?"
"That's the thing. Not even a little bit."
"Good. Because I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
He looked into your eyes, like he was about to risk it all. He used his hand to lift your chin up and caught your lips with his, tender and sincere. He deepened the kiss torturously slow, like he had nowhere else to be other than here. He pulled back to properly look at you. A stray hair had fallen loose on your face. He tucked it behind your ears before looking back into your eyes.
"I think I'm—"
His phone rang, loudly, at a very, very inopportune moment. Something about Garrett's car and a flat tyre. He had to go. He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead and stared at you for a second longer, which made you feel some type of way.
Alright. Maybe. Maybe. And that is a very tiny maybe, there was a minuscule chance that you could fix this. You weren't letting him off the hook easy, no, but he wanted to explain? Then the least you could do was hear him out. You were not going to give up on the love of your life because you were stubborn.
Your thumb hovered over his contact. You pressed call before you could think it through. One ring, Two rings, Three. He picked up. You could hear him breathing raggedly on the other side, like he'd been running for a while. Jesus, was he alright? You decided to say something.
"Hey."
Three knocks on your door. You walked over to see who it was. You opened the door. Both of you said at the same time —
"We need to talk."
You just stood there, phone still connected, the absurdity of it hanging in the air between you like something almost funny, if either of you had the energy left for funny.
You lowered the phone first. He took that as permission to keep going.
"I'm not here to ask for your forgiveness," he said quickly, like he'd practised it the whole way over and needed to get it out before he lost his nerve. "I'm not asking for that. I just need you to hear something, and then I'll go, if that's what you want."
You stepped aside, making way for him to come in.
You were both sitting on the couch, facing each other. Clearly, neither of you thought it through as much as you had assumed. You both started at the same time.
"You said—" "I want—"
Both of you became silent again. Logan decided to start before it was too late.
"I'm not in love with Hannah."
That's it? What, you were just supposed to take his word for it?
"Good for you? What do you want me to say?"
"Just give me a second, I'm finding the words."
"Find them faster."
"They're here. They're here. Jesus. Alright. I know I have been a complete ass the last couple of months," he paused.
"If you're waiting for me to disagree with you, that's not going to happen."
He laughed like you had stated something obvious. "I knew that. Anyways. It is completely my fault, and I take full accountability for that. But it's not because of Hannah. I am not giving you any excuses for my behaviour, absolutely not, but I have been going through something, and I need to tell you. You're the only person I talk to about this stuff."
You waited while he thought of what to say next. Whatever it was, clearly it wasn't easy for him to say, so you didn't push.
"I have had a rough couple of months. With Hunter and Dean in the team, it's been sort of a nightmare, and with Birdie and Garrett both gone, it's been hard. I know I'm the interim captain, and that means this won't stick, but I feel like I'm letting Garrett and the entire team down."
You looked at him with something in your eyes dangerously close to pity.
"So, I've been spending way too much time at the rink to have time for anything else, and it was sort of eating at me. I thought the only way to make up was to throw myself into hockey 24/7. I thought if I didn't have any distractions, and trust me, baby, you are very distracting," he laughed, which pulled a very reluctant smile out of you.
"Get to the point, Logan."
"Right. I thought if I was dedicated enough, it would fix everything."
"Did it?"
"Oh, not even a little bit. In fact, we suck more now."
"That's a shame," you answered, not meaning a single word.
"No, it's not. I just— in between all this, I completely lost sight of what's important, and well, when Garrett and Hannah started dating, right when we started growing apart, and they were all close and happy and in love..." he trailed off, like you would understand where he was going.
"You missed how we used to be," you finished his thought for him.
"I guess so, yeah."
You sat in silence for a while, absorbing everything. Alright, so, good news, he still loved you. Bad news, he still hurt you.
"Okay, Logan, firstly, stop doubting yourself, okay? You're the captain for a reason. And don't give me that interim captain bullshit, hockey players are annoyingly full of themselves, you know how good you are."
It pulled a laugh out of him.
"I'm sorry you had to go through all that alone, and I really wish you'd let me in earlier, but you need to remember who you are. You are this close to getting drafted. You need to get your head in the game, sure, but pushing me away was not going to fix that."
"I know," he admitted.
"Second, it's been terrible for you, I understand, completely, and I feel for you, but it doesn't undo how you treated me. I gave you the benefit of the doubt for so long, I started doubting myself instead."
"I know," he said again, quieter. "And I don't have a version of this where I get to fix that tonight. I'm not going to stand here and tell you I can undo months of damage in one conversation, because that's not fair to you, and it's not even true." He moved a bit closer to you, and you didn't move away. He took that as a win.
"I'm here because I needed you to know that I do love you, always have, always will. And there was never any version of me where that changed, ever. I will always deeply regret how I made you feel, and I will spend the rest of my life making up for— I'm sorry— there's a strand of hair falling on your face, it's been there the whole time, and it's kinda bothering me."
A piece of hair had, in fact, fallen loose in front of your eyes— it had been there the whole conversation, and for once you hadn't even noticed.
His hand came up, slower than it ever had before, stopping just shy of your face. "Can I?"
You felt your eyes burn. Your heart was beating hard in your chest. Your breathing was uneven, and you hoped to God he wouldn't notice.
"Yeah," you whispered. "You can."
His fingers brushed your temple, tucked the strands carefully behind your ear, the same way he'd done a hundred times before— except this time it didn't feel like habit. You felt vindicated. Cathartic.
"Yeah, so, I was saying, I will spend the rest of my life making up for—"
"Logan?"
"Yes, babe—hmm." he stopped. He knew better at this point.
"Tell me you love me."
He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. He let his hands hover close to yours, waiting for permission to hold them. When you nodded, he took them in his, so reverently it made your heart ache just a little bit.
"I, John Logan, love you unconditionally, deeply, irrevocably, and I cannot live without you. You make my winters warm and summers... tolerable. You're it for me, baby."
You knew he meant it with his entire being this time. You had scared him enough at this point, you decided to put him out of his misery. He was already very close to you; you didn't even have to try.
You closed the last few inches yourself, and the second your lips met his, every ounce of restraint he'd been holding onto dissolved. His hand slid from your hand to your jaw, then into your hair, fingers curling against your scalp, and he kissed you like he'd been drowning for weeks and had just remembered how to breathe. You felt the small, broken sound he made against your mouth more than you heard it— something between relief and apology, and it went straight through you.
"I missed you," he breathed against your lips, not quite pulling away, like he couldn't stand to put even an inch of space between you. "God, baby, I missed you so much."
His other hand found your waist as he kissed you deeper this time, hand splayed wide, pulling you flush against him like he needed the proof that you were really there, really letting him do this. You fisted a hand in the front of his shirt, partly to steady yourself, partly because some petty, hurting part of you wanted him to feel exactly how much you'd missed this too. He slowly tested the waters, hand on your waist, almost sliding under your shirt. You caught him by the wrist and stopped him.
pairing: john logan x girlfriend!reader
words: 2.6k words
synopsis: You and Logan's relationship slowly falls apart at the seams, until a quiet night in leads to a revelation that changes everything.
a/n: angst, emotional cheating kinda, not a happy ending (yet. maybe there will be a part 2 ;) edit: there is!!!
You didn't believe in jinxes or curses. Always believed whatever made the most sense to you by logic. Until, of course, the only possible explanation you could muster for whatever happened between you and Logan was evil eyes. That's what it had to be, right? Because everything was perfect. Perfect. How did it go so wrong?
It's hard to place the exact moment when you started to pull away from each other. You got busy with classes and working part-time; he got busy with hockey now that he was the interim captain.
Meeting whenever you could find time every single day became barely seeing each other four times a week. Phone calls started to grow shorter, messages started to sound less enthusiastic, and it felt like all the colour in your life was slowly draining.
The fights started shortly after.
They were never about anything in particular, really. Sometimes it was a simple comment that one of you blew out of proportion, someone mad that the other cannot magically read minds and understand what they were thinking, and other times it was misplaced grief at losing someone who was right in front of you.
It was fucking exhausting. And it always ended the same way. One of you at the other's doorstep, begging, apologising, making up, and starting all over again in a couple of days. You were getting tired. So was he.
The breaking point came after the most mundane thing ever.
Despite going through the roughest of rough patches, you still loved him. Of course, you did. You didn't think twice before agreeing to have a movie night at his place. Part of you hoped this would smooth things over with him. To your credit, so did he; that was his intention when he invited you, anyway.
You couldn't have been more wrong.
The movie might as well have been a plain screen with brown noise, the way you were not paying attention to it. The guy on the screen could've been Logan himself, and you wouldn't know. Your focus was completely elsewhere.
You were curled up on the couch against him, his arm around your shoulder. His eyes were on the screen, but you could tell he wasn't listening to a word either. You'd steal glances when he wasn't looking, and other times, you could feel his eyes on you.
Sad part was, this didn't feel like the times you'd look at each other and turn away before the other did and smile to yourselves at the close call, eyes full of love, nerves, and adrenaline. This time, it felt loaded and sorrowful, almost like pity even. Like you were both hesitant.
About halfway through the movie, the door to the house opened, and Garrett and Hannah stumbled in, laughing. They looked at each other and shushed each other at the same time. They were tipsy, evidently, and suddenly the entire world was hilarious to them. His arms wrapped around her, trying to drag her upstairs to his room the best he could, but she had spotted you on the couch with Logan, and her eyes lit up with excitement. She had to come say hi.
Even if a million things go wrong in your life, you would always be grateful you got to meet Hannah. She was a ray of sunshine, a breath of fresh air when you needed it the most. You, Hannah, and Allie had been inseparable from freshman year, but you'd always had more of a soft spot for Hannah. You had told her this once, drunk out of your mind, and made her pinky swear not to tell Allie. This was two days after you had met.
Eventually she made it to the couch, only tripped twice in the process, and threw her hands around you from behind, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. She slurred your name and gave you a huge smile before kissing you again.
"Good to see you too, Han," you laughed, holding her bicep that was still around your neck with your hand. She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to yours and swayed.
"Garrett, look who's here!" She waved him over, and he was just as excited to see you. He gasped when he saw you and pointed a finger at you, like he couldn't believe his eyes. He clapped Logan on the shoulder before hopping over the couch to sit next to you.
"What are we watching?" he asked as he grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the coffee table.
You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. You genuinely had no idea. Garrett looked at you. Then at Logan. Then back at you.
"...Seriously?"
You glanced at Logan, expecting him to answer. He didn't, obviously. It's not like he knew either.
"You know... the one with the guy," Logan finally said.
Garrett barked out a laugh. "Solid answer, buddy."
"Oh my God," Hannah whispered, sounding horrified. "They're having a date night." Garrett's grin immediately dropped.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh," she hissed, trying and failing to be discreet.
"Hey, so uh, we're just gonna go upstairs to uh," she started, clearly having no idea where the rest of that sentence was going. She just waited for words to find her. They didn't.
"Yeah, we're just gonna go."
She dragged Garrett this time, who was hot on her trail, filled with minor embarrassment from having committed a social blunder. Hannah nearly missed a step. Garrett caught her. Both of them dissolved into another fit of laughter. You watched them until they reached the landing.
Then your attention shifted back to the couch.
Back to Logan.
The entire time Hannah had been wrapped around you, messing up your hair and smearing lipstick onto your cheek, you'd barely noticed. Strands had fallen loose, hanging in front of your eyes now.
Normally, Logan would've fixed it without thinking. He always did. A hand against your jaw. Fingers brushing your temple. Your hair tucked carefully behind your ear.
Such a stupid little thing.
But it was one of those habits he'd picked up early in your relationship and never stopped doing. If you were talking, he'd do it. If you were studying together, he'd do it. If you woke up beside him with your hair in your face, he'd do it before saying good morning.
He always wanted to see you.
And maybe it was ridiculous, but some desperate part of you was waiting for it now. Waiting for proof. Proof that underneath all the arguments and frustration and distance, he still looked at you and saw the person he loved.
The strands kept falling into your eyes every time you moved. They brushed against your cheek and caught on your lashes, and still, you left them there.
You waited for his hand to find your face. For his fingers to brush your temple. For him to tuck them away like he'd done hundreds of times before.
He didn't.
Your eyes drifted to him. His weren't on you at all. They were fixed on the staircase. On the spot that Garrett and Hannah had disappeared from just moments ago.
You followed his gaze without really thinking about it. Maybe he was annoyed they interrupted the movie. Maybe he was wondering if Garrett would let Hannah fall down the stairs before they made it to his room. Maybe he wasn't thinking anything at all.
You tried not to think about it.
Logan let out a long sigh and leaned back into the couch. His attention returned to the television.
You looked away before he could catch you staring.
Something unpleasant settled in your chest. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even sadness, really. It felt more like the sinking realisation that you'd been waiting for something that wasn't coming.
The movie continued to play in front of you. Someone on screen was talking. Another person answered. There was dramatic music somewhere in the background.
You couldn't hear any of it.
The lump in your throat appeared so suddenly it caught you off guard. The room was closing in. Everything was warm. The ceiling was getting lower and lower. Breathing felt manual. You could feel the clothes on your skin.
You sat up fast. Immediately, Logan glanced over.
"You okay?"
You grabbed your bag from where you'd dropped it beside the couch.
"I don't feel very good."
"What do you mean?" His eyebrows pulled together.
"I think I'm gonna go home."
"What?" He turned toward you completely now. "You were fine two seconds ago."
"I know."
"Did something happen?" The concern in his voice almost made it worse.
You shook your head and stood.
"No. I just..." You swallowed hard. "I can't do this right now."
A look flashed across his face. Confusion, mostly.
"Can't do what?" he asked, turning his head slightly.
You didn't answer. Because how were you supposed to explain it without sounding insane? You just shook your head in defeat.
"I just can't."
You were already moving away from him, past the front door, onto the porch. Your cheeks were already damp with tears, but you didn't make an effort to wipe them away. The cool night air hit your face.
A second later, the door opened behind you.
"Baby."
That was the last straw.
You stopped in your tracks and let out an incredulous laugh. You dropped your bag on the ground. You were doing this now.
"You have some nerve, John Logan. Calling me baby like you did nothing wrong," you spat, all your sorrow now taken over by rage.
His face immediately twisted in confusion.
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, no, no, don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like you don't know."
"I genuinely don't."
You laughed. The sound was ugly.
"Oh, you don't know?"
"No."
"Then let's start there."
Logan stared at you from the porch. You stared right back at him. Months of frustration, distance, apologising and pretending were threatening to explode. You were so tired. You let it.
"You don't call me anymore."
His brows furrowed like he wasn't expecting that to be the reason for your anger.
"What?"
"You. Don't. Call," you enunciated each syllable like you were explaining how to pronounce something complicated.
"You're one to talk, you don't call me either."
"Oh, honey, that's because every time I do, you're busy."
"I am busy," he argued.
"As opposed to me, who is fucking free all the time? Is that what you're saying?"
His jaw clenched.
"Jesus, that is not what I said!"
"Well, then, give me one good reason why you never call me, Logan."
"You think you're the only one making sacrifices here?"
The question caught you off guard.
"What?"
"I said, do you think you're the only one making sacrifices?"
Something in your chest cracked. You hoped it wouldn't get to this point, but unfortunately, there it was. The resentment.
"You know what?" you laughed bitterly. "Maybe you're right."
"Don't."
"No, no, maybe you're right."
You wiped your face angrily.
"Maybe I should've just accepted seeing my boyfriend three times a week. Maybe I should've accepted the fact that every conversation feels like I'm inconveniencing you."
His expression darkened.
"That's not fair."
"Fair?"
You couldn't believe what you were hearing.
"You want to talk about fair, Logan?"
"Yeah."
"Fair would've been you telling me when you stopped loving me."
Logan looked like you'd slapped him. You didn't mean to say that. You really didn't. He looked down at the ground like it had answers that he was looking for. Neither of you said anything for a while.
For the first time in a while, he called your name.
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
"Jesus Christ." He ran a hand through his face, exasperated and done.
"What the fuck does that even mean?" He got off the porch to stand closer to you. You immediately took a step back. Neither of you acknowledged it.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"I assure you, I don't."
"Don't fucking lie to me, John," you laughed.
He sighed loudly and stepped closer.
"I don't know what is going on in your head right now, but clearly you are not in the right headspace for this conversa—"
"Tell me you love me."
"What?"
"Either you love me, and I'm wrong, or you're a hypocrite. Let's settle this. Tell me that you love me."
You stared at him. Waiting.
When he didn't answer, something clicked.
You thought about the staircase. You thought about the way his eyes followed her. You thought about every strange feeling you'd been trying to ignore for months. Every instinct you'd convinced yourself was insecurity. Every moment you'd told yourself you were imagining things.
Suddenly, you weren't so sure.
"No."
The word left your mouth before you could stop it. Logan looked terrified. He wasn't angry or confused, just in shock and pure horror.
"No way."
"Don't."
Your heart started pounding.
"Logan."
"Please don't," this time, he begged.
"Oh my God."
His eyes squeezed shut. Somehow that was worse than anything he could've said. You took a shaky step backward.
"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't like Hannah."
YOu watched him and waited as the colour drained from his face.
"Tell me."
"It's not like that."
You laughed, and it sounded more defeated than you wanted it to be.
"Logan."
He looked away and you felt your stomach drop physically. Like you were geting down the stairs in the dark and missed a step.
"Look me in my eyes."
His jaw tightened. He averted his gaze, but never quite met yours. He couldn't. The silence stretched long enough until it became an answer of its own.
"Wow."
His head snapped up.
"Baby—"
"No."
You took another step back. The tears were falling so hard now you could barely see him.
"Stop right there, Logan."
"It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?"
"I...," he couldn't find any words that would make this okay. He decided not to say anything. You just watched him.
Despite his height and stature, he looked small right now. And even though you were impossibly mad at him right now, it broke your heart. Unfortunately, not even falling in love with your best friend can make you hate John Logan.
"You know, Logan? For the longest time, I thought it was my fault. That there was something wrong with me." He didn't say a word. He just listened.
"I thought I was insecure. I thought I was needy. I thought I was asking for too much. Turns out, I was just naïve and miserable!" you laughed, humourless and tired.
"You are not naï—"
"Then why am I standing here begging for scraps from someone who's in love with somebody else?"
"I'm not in love with her."
You laughed through your tears, because for the first time all night, he sounded unsure, and it hurt you like daggers.
It was getting harder by the minute to be composed. You bent down and grabbed your bag. You looked at him one last time. At the boy you loved so much it scared you.
"Please don't do this."
Your eyes burned.
"Do what, Logan?"
"Leave."
You laughed at the irony.
"You left long before I did."
Before he could answer, or apologize, or make you some promise that you know would break your heart eventually, you started to walk away.
You stopped for a second like you remembered something.
Dean's long distance girlfriend is at Briar for a game
Another little blurb
Summary: Dean's New York girlfriend is at Briar to see a Hawks game
When you and Dean became official over the summer, his friends didn’t believe he was in a relationship. To their eyes, it was impossible that Dean Di Laurentis, the man who never hooked up with the same girl twice, the man who once had twin sisters coming out of his room at 3am, had settled for a girl. One girl.
They had one hell of a surprise when they walked inside Malone’s one Thursday night and saw their defenseman sitting at a booth with a girl that visibly didn’t go to Briar. You stood out like a sore thumb in your luxury sweater and Dior handbag.
Living hours away in New York, you didn’t get to watch Dean play very often, which made nights like this all the more special. No matter how many games you streamed from your dorm room, nothing compared to seeing him on the ice. He moved with a speed that seemed effortless, weaving through defenders as if they were standing still. And then there was the confidence. Dean loved showing off and shoving people against the boards. Players hated to see him coming their way.
‘’Go Dean!’’ you shouted beside Hannah, following him with your eyes as he stole the puck from the opposing team, his skates carving sharp lines into the ice as he charged straight toward the net.
Dean crossed the blue line, keeping the puck just out of reach of a desperate stick check. The goalie squared up in the crease, knees bent and glove raised, tracking his every movement.
Your heart pounded against your ribs.
‘’Come on, baby. Come on.’’
He pulled the puck to his backhand, forcing the goalie to commit, then snapped it back to his forehand in one fluid motion. For a split second, the top corner of the net was wide open.
He fired.
The puck rocketed off his stick.
The red light flashed — goal.
You jumped from your seat with a proud grin, nearly spilling your drink as Hannah grabbed your arm and shook it excitedly.
On the ice, Dean disappeared beneath a pile of teammates near the boards, their gloves pounding against his helmet and shoulder as they celebrated. Then, as the noise continued to roar around you, he lifted his head and looked toward the crowd — toward you — and winked.
You blew him a kiss in return, the dainty gold bracelet he had gifted you glimmering in the light. It had a small ‘D’ pendant that matched the one around his neck with your initial. A simple, yet meaningful jewelry.
A few seats below you, some of the puck bunnies were squealing and jumping, thinking he had winked at them. You chose to ignore them. After all, you were the one who got to kiss him at the end of the day.
The game ended 5 to 2, adding another win to the Hawks’ streak.
You and Hannah gathered your things, making sure you had your bag and jacket, and went down the stands as the players were stepping out of the rink and leaving down the tunnel. Dean was impossible to miss, taller than everyone…and causing a little chaos. He tapped gloves with teammates, giving a playful shove to Tucker — as always — and laughed at something Birdie said.
When his eyes found you waiting by the boards, he made his way over. His cheeks were flushed from the game, blond hair damp beneath his helmet. He lifted the cage up, a lazy smile spread across his face.
‘’Good game,’’ you congratulated, leaning in for a kiss.
You intended to make it quick, but Dean had other plans.
He slipped his tongue in and cupped your face, standing a little over a foot above you in his skates. He kissed you slow and unhurried, not caring that you were being watched by people. Behind him, some guys from the team wolf-whistled, but Dean didn't care.
‘’You’re blocking the way, Di Laurentis!’’ someone called at him.
Instead of stepping away, he lifted you clean off your feet with one arm, causing a startled laugh to escape you, and headed down the tunnel.
‘’Dean, put me down,’’ you demanded, clinging to his neck despite knowing he would never drop you. As you did, you noticed the matching pendant around his neck peeking out from beneath his gear, making you smile.
pairing: Dark!John Logan x Housewife!Reader x Dark!Dean Di Laurentis
synopsis: As the foundation of your marriage continues to crack, the two hockey players next door become harder to ignore, and they're determined to not deny their feelings for you.
warnings: MxFxM, infidelity, emotional affair, married FMC, obsessive MMCs, love triangle, dual POV, voyeuristic themes, emotional manipulation, sexual content 18+ PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
word count: 5.8k
off campus masterlist
You had so many hobbies, so many skills you’d mastered, and yet you found yourself staring at the wall all the time. Literally, you were watching paint dry. The Bob Ross video you’d watched as a tutorial for your newest painting had ended, and another had started playing on your laptop. The seaside cabin you’d painted was nice, although not nearly as skilled as Bob’s. It was only ten in the morning, and you were being lulled into an early nap already, thanks to his soothing voice.
Breakfast was the same as usual. Avocado toast and an overeasy egg. You ate by yourself at the wooden dining table in the nook of the kitchen. The last time you’d had breakfast with another human might’ve been when you first moved into this house eight months ago with your husband. There was a short week before he started his new job at Briar, conducting marine science research for Briar’s College of Life Sciences. It was a celebratory breakfast for buying your first house and the new life you were starting.
Now that he had a tenured position, things would be different. He would have more control over the classes he taught and the places he would travel for research. No more busywork or covering topics he didn’t care about. He’d be able to make more time for you. He promised it would be a matter of time before you were pregnant, and that would finally give you something more to focus on. Except, he chose research expeditions further away than he promised, and the two of you hadn’t had enough sex in the past eight months to make a baby.
There were a few other housewives on the street you lived on. A lot of them still seemed to be warming up to you, but you did everything in your power to get close to them. You attended the Pilates classes, you brought homemade pasta salads to their barbecues, and you were even in the process of joining the local Rotary club chapter. Most of them wanted to talk about their marriages and seemed to dislike that you had little to offer on that topic of conversation. Your husband never attended their parties, he didn’t make friends with their spouses, and he was never home longer than a weekend.
You’d married him because he was smart and passionate about his career. These days, you wonder why exactly he married you.
Besides the housewives, a lot of college students lived on your road. Houses bought by rich parents that they either rented out or let their kids stay in.
Your doorbell wakes you out of your daydream. The floor of your 19th-century cottage creaked under your bare feet as you made your way through the kitchen, past the living room, and towards your front door. You’re not expecting a package, and your first instinct tells you that it’s another door-to-door salesman. You peek through the cream curtains that cover the door’s sidelights. He’s a little younger than you, his skin tanned, his hair long and dark. He’s wearing a Carhartt sweatshirt, work jeans, and a toolbox hangs at his side.
You debate opening the door for a moment, until he catches a glimpse of you peeking at him. Mentally cursing, you take a step back, take a deep breath, and then open your front door.
“Hey, I’m Logan.” He smiles, teeth white, and you fully get to take in how handsome he is. It’s almost comical. Like you’re in a cheesy porno where he’s a handsome stranger, and you’re a lonely, bored housewife. Not far off, actually. “Your husband said I could come by around this time and take a look at your bathroom sink upstairs.”
“Oh,” You realize then how crazy you must look. Looking down at your hands, you realize you have paint splattered all over your arms and your apron. You smile politely back at him, as if to appear less insane, but you’re almost sure it has the opposite effect: “He didn’t mention…”
Before you can even finish that sentence, your phone pings in your pocket. You reach into the pockets of your house dress and fish out your phone.
Rick: Handyman coming at 11:30.
Your husband sends you that text at approximately 11:35. You try not to let the frustration you feel instantly show on your face. Logan seems kind, and you trust your husband enough to find a decent, non-serial-killer handyman. “I’m Y/N,” You introduce yourself. “Come in. Sorry, I was painting this morning …I don’t usually look like this.”
Unfortunately, you realize too late that you’ve invited him to look you over. Your dress shows entirely too much of your chest and arms because you prefer to be comfortable when you’re home. And you had exactly no warning that you’d be meeting a stranger. You let him inside, closing the door behind him.
“No, no, don’t worry about it. You look …” He coughs awkwardly, and you cringe, assuming he was holding back a lie, “I live right next door, actually, so I’ve seen you…”
“More put together than this,” You finish. “That’s good, at least. So you’re one of the hockey players.”
His face starts to feel more familiar, although, from your perspective, there’s usually a million college kids coming and going from that house.
“Yup, one of them. Hope we’re not too loud for you.”
“Oh, no. I’m asleep by eight and a heavy sleeper.” You answer honestly, a little too genuinely, and worry for a moment that he’ll find your response strange.
“A great combination.” He chuckles, and you don’t expect to feel so weird about someone else thinking you’re funny. You don’t get much out of Rick, usually, probably because he’s so tired when you see him. “That’s what I look for in a neighbor.”
You laugh together for that short moment until you realize you’re probably holding him up: “Anyways, um, let me show you upstairs.” Logan follows you up the staircase to the second floor. Your house is smaller than the hockey boys’, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms in total. Still, much too big for you and your husband. If things turned around soon, you’d be making one of these rooms a nursery.
You lead him to the upstairs bathroom, which thankfully isn’t too messy. You had so much free time on your hands that it wasn’t hard to keep your house clean. You grab a bra and a pair of Rick’s underwear that’s strewn haphazardly on the floor and tuck the items behind your back.
Logan sets down his toolkit on the bathroom counter as you start to explain, “It seems like it’s getting clogged almost every week. We’ll snake the drain, and it’ll get better for a few days, and then it happens again.”
“Hmm, clog is probably deeper than you think,” He says, wheels seemingly turning in his mind, “I got it. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Great, um, I’ll be downstairs. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.” He smiles at you, and it genuinely makes your body feel warm. You have to force your feet to move past him.
You clean up the paint on your hands in the kitchen sink, scrubbing a little too hard, as if that will get rid of that warm feeling.
“Goddamn, man.” Dean groans as he looks out the dining room window. Logan is doing his best to concentrate on fixing a wobbly dining room chair. Well, it’s more than wobbly given the fact that Beau had attempted to use it as a weapon against Dean after an intense game of chess. “You have to see this. I think she’s about to get into downward dog. That’s it, baby …a little further …just like that.”
Dean’s nose is practically against the glass now as he spies on you working out in your backyard. Logan doesn’t blame him for looking; he himself had gotten a look at that butter-yellow matching set you were wearing, but he knew better than to look longer than a few seconds.
So he attempts and fails to ignore Dean.
“Oh fuck,” Dean continues, and Logan rolls his eyes. “Her ass is perfect. Genuinely. And she’s pretty flexible. Oh yeah, I gotta have that.”
“Dean, please,” Logan warns.
“Maybe I can go over and give her some tips. You can be the handyman. I’ll be the personal trainer.”
“You’re being creepier than usual,” Logan says, tightening the leg on the chair before he flips it back over. “You don’t have a puck bunny you can call or something?”
“I get it. You think you’ve got some sort of claim on her,” Dean surmises. “You’d tell me if you got any action, right?”
“You’d be the last person to know, actually.” Dean turns around in response to Logan’s remark, and his face turns into a pout.
He walks over, plants his hands on the table, and leans closer. “Don’t joke, dude. What was she like? Does she sound as sexy as she looks?”
Logan keeps his face straight, pretending as if your voice hadn’t been on replay in his mind, and that most of his thoughts weren’t consumed by you. “She sounded, I don’t know, cute.”
“Cute, not sexy, hmm …I like that more for some reason. Did she seem into you?”
“She’s married.”
Dean laughs, “Ha! Who gives a fuck?”
“I do, and she definitely gives a fuck,” Logan answers, his head shaking in disapproval. “Why would she hook up with one of us? We’re her neighbors. And we attend the same college her husband works at.”
“Because she’s so obviously touch-starved. A woman needs her release, John. I can see it in her eyes; he’s not fucking her. And if he is fucking her, she’s not finishing.”
“There’s no way–”
“You saw her up close. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Logan’s lips open to argue back, but he closes them after only a short moment. Dean claimed to be a “sex whisperer,” and Logan was nowhere close to that level of delusional, but thinking back on it, you did seem kind of …lonely.
“Exactly,” Dean smirks, turning back around and walking over to the window, “She barely leaves the house, and he’s never there. His very own angel on earth, and he doesn’t give a shit. It’s a shame.”
Logan doesn’t disagree with Dean. It’s the first thing he’s said today that makes sense.
“I can’t see her tits as well from this far. If you were to describe them in terms of size, how many handfuls would you say?”
Tucker’s voice is the one that responds this time, appearing from the kitchen, a tray of mini sandwiches in his hands: “Dean, what the fuck are you talking about?”
A motivational speaker talks to you in your earbuds as you finish your post-dinner walk around the neighborhood. The podcast is focused on increasing your confidence and independence. The middle-aged woman tells an inspirational story about how she found herself again after raising her children. How she turned her life around, got healthy, and started her own small business. It’s not the first of these podcasts that you’ve listened to. Based on your previous history, you often let yourself get motivated for days at a time before you fall back into your old habits.
You were more determined this time; that’s what made it different. The past weekend set your new mission in motion. Rick got home from a trip to a laboratory in New Jersey, and you’d spent almost the entire weekend together. You planned two home-cooked meals to make him each day and picked a local restaurant to go out to every night. He promised you that the two of you would actually explore this new town months ago, but when it came time again to be a man of his word, he failed again.
He was too tired to do any of it. You’d even planned a hiking trip with a huge lake and lovely scenery, but he’d made an excuse about wanting to lie in bed with you all day.
It was time for you to find some more satisfaction in doing things by yourself.
“If you want to change your life, you have to speak that new life into existence. Say it to yourself. I am going to change my life.”
Whispering to yourself, you repeated, “I am going to change my life.”
“I do not live for other people. I live for myself.”
“I live for myself–” You took a step off the sidewalk, a couple of blocks from your house, when a speeding car decided to blow through a stop sign. You’re a split second from a painful death when strong arms suddenly wrap around your torso and lift you off the ground.
Your back against their chest, you go from being scared for your life to being frightened that you’d been grabbed by a predator. Luckily, the possible predator sets you back down on your feet. You whip around, panicked, to find yourself staring back at a sweaty, sculpted chest.
“Jesus,” You whisper, reaching to take out one of your earbuds, as your eyes trail up to meet Thor’s himself because that’s exactly who grabbed you. Blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and sweat dripping down his brow that somehow still makes him look better.
“Your music might be a little too loud.” He pops out his own earbuds, and you realize you’ve interrupted his run.
“Right,” You stare at him, breathless, and then realize his hand is still on your waist, “I’m sorry, um, thank you.”
You step back from him, “Anytime. Dean, I live next door.”
Another handsome hockey player, obviously. The hockey gods had been smiling upon you lately.
“Y/N.” You introduced yourself. “You’re one of Logan’s roommates.”
“Yeah, best friend, teammate, practically brothers, taught him everything he knows.”
You smile awkwardly, “I should let you finish your run.”
“I was just about to cool down, actually; let me walk you home.”
You figure that he’s already held you tonight; walking you home wouldn’t be much more intimate.
As you accept the polite offer from Dean, you wonder if Logan talked about you to him. Maybe they collectively felt bad for you. Like you might care for an elderly neighbor. You weren’t much older than them, having married Rick young, but marriage makes you feel like you’ve lived a longer life.
“Your husband gone already?”
“Uh, yeah, there’s a big conference in New York. He goes every year.”
“Cool,” He says, although he sounds completely bored, and you find yourself wanting to be more interesting for him, “You ever go with him?”
“No, not really.” He’s never actually asked you to come, you realize. “I’m such a homebody.”
“When did you meet him?”
“Four years ago. I was in undergrad for veterinary science, and he was finishing his doctorate at the time.”
“You graduated?”
“Yeah,” You say, “Then we got married, and we had to move a few times so he could get a good position as a researcher.”
“But you wanted to be a veterinarian, right? When are you gonna go back to school?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve been trying for a ….” You pause when you realize you’re sharing a little too much information. “I’m just still figuring things out.
“Gotcha,” Dean replies, his voice seemingly free of judgement. You come upon the hockey house a few moments later. There are several cars parked out front, and you can hear rock music flowing from an open window and out onto the street. “I mean, I hear Briar’s veterinary program is pretty good.”
“There’s always time.” You hear Rick’s voice in your head as the words leave your lips. “What about you? Logan is obviously good at fixing things. What’s your talent? I mean, other than hockey.”
“I mean, I’m pretty good with my hands too.” You look up to see Dean has a devilish smirk on his lips. You get that warm feeling again. This time, there’s a bit of fear inside of you too: “I could show you some time. Maybe tonight?”
You laugh nervously, and you don’t want to assume his meaning, but he continues to stare down at you before he licks his lips. You should be offended, you should feel angry and tell him off, but all you can feel is nervous.
“I think that …you should get to your party, Dean.”
“We can have a party of our own.”
He reaches to touch your hip again, and on instinct you place your hand on top of his, to remove it. Except you don’t move his hand. You feel how large his hand is, and then your mind starts to wander to bad, bad things.
“I have to go.” You turn and almost trip as you start to skitter away. “Um, thanks for walking me.”
“I’ll see you around, honey,” He calls after you, but you don’t dare turn around.
What the fuck was that?
The power went out last night after a big thunderstorm. Which is great; you’re already a ball of anxiety, and you weren’t getting any sleep anyway. You tossed and turned in your bed, thinking about Dean and how he was obviously flirting with you last night.
By the time early morning comes, you start to worry, because you can look out your window and see the hockey house has power. You decide to text Rick.
Y/N: Power went out last night. Still not back on.
You wait for a reply for an hour and a half.
Y/N: Hello?
You start to worry all the food in your fridge will start to spoil, and now your phone is close to dying.
Another hour passes; you’ve called Rick three times to no avail, and your battery is at five percent.
You finally get a text back.
Rick: I’m in a meeting. Something wrong?
Did he even read your message?
At that point, you know what you have to do.
Unfortunately, a shirtless Dean is the one who answers the door when you show up at the hockey house.
“I knew you’d be back for me.”
“I’m looking for Logan.”
“Ouch,” Dean feigns jealousy, “And you’re pissed about something.”
“I’m not!” You raise your voice higher than you have in maybe…years. That only seems to make Dean smile harder, “Is Logan here?”
Dean debates something in his head that doesn’t allow him to answer your question. Moments later, Logan appears, bandana holding back his curls and his clothes giving you the impression that he’d been working out. “Dude, go away.” He pushes at Dean’s muscular chest, and Dean finally relents. He winks at you before he walks away, which again gives you that scared, warm feeling. “What’s wrong?”
The look of concern that Logan has for you is new. “My power’s still out. I tried flipping the breaker. I don’t know what’s wrong. Rick’s not answering his phone; he’s busy, and I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay, I got you.” He steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder, and you hadn’t realized how bad you wanted to be comforted. “Let me go grab my tools. I’ll take a look.”
You nod and let out a breath. “Thank you.”
Unbeknownst to you, your house has a backup generator in the backyard.
It takes approximately ten minutes for Logan to fix your issue. You’re waiting in the kitchen, lights starting to flicker back on, when he comes through the back door. “Good news, powers on. Bad news, how long have your gutters looked like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like completely detached from your roof. You’ve got rainwater pouring down on the foundation.”
You sigh, a little defeated, “Shoot, I hadn't noticed. I’ll text Rick.”
“No worries, I’ll fix it. You shouldn’t have to worry about this stuff, anyway.”
“I seriously can’t ask you to do that.”
He only grins in response, as if it’s no big deal. “I like fixing things. And this place needs some work.”
For a long moment, you consider it. You’re not sure how Rick would feel about you getting a bunch of work on the house done and him inevitably having to foot the bill. It needed to be done, though, and he was never here enough to notice anything was wrong.
“Now that the power's back on, I’m gonna make you lunch. And cookies. Do you like chocolate chip?”
He’s gorgeous, you think, when he looks kindly at you, “I love chocolate chip.”
It starts with the gutters and spirals into much more. There are lights on the exterior of the house that need replacing.
“I’ve been meaning to go to the hardware store.”
You hate going into places like that alone.
The chains that hold up your porch swing are rusting. “These would’ve snapped soon,” Logan says.
“Rick’s been meaning to replace those.”
All of your trees in the backyard are overgrown.
Your smoke detector has been chirping for so long that you’ve been tuning it out for at least a month.
You spend most of the day in the kitchen, cooking food from your fridge that had thawed to prevent any of it from spoiling. The bay windows in your kitchen allow you a great view of Logan’s handiwork. You take special notice of his exposed biceps and how the muscle flexes with his heavy lifting. By the late afternoon, Logan had completed several projects and he’d laid out plans for fixing about ten other things.
You insist he stop for the day and take a break to try your chocolate chip cookies. You sit next to him at your kitchen table, a spread of food before him, and wait patiently as he takes a bite.
“Wow, that’s good.” He compliments your baking, which you’re also not used to. “You really didn’t have to make all of this.”
“It’s my way of saying thank you. I mean, I’ll have Rick send you money for everything, but until then. And you can share with your roommates, of course.”
“Where’d you learn how to cook?”
You shrug, “Just practice, I guess. I’ve had to cook for myself since I was little.”
He nods, a shared understanding in his eyes: “Well, I appreciate it.”
He reaches out to touch your hand, and the two of you seem to have a conversation with your eyes. You feel like you’re in high school again with butterflies in your stomach. Even if the feeling is temporary, you’re relishing it. He must feel so bad for you. How desperate did you look right now?
Then, like a magnet, something pulls you together. You both feel it at the same time. You lean in. Logan leans in further until your lips are together.
Fuck.
Your chair skids across the tile, loudly, as you force yourself up and away.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Logan, wordlessly, stands up after you. His eyes are intently focused on your lips. He closes the distance between you, arms wrapping around your back, and his head dipping low to kiss you again.
“Don’t be sorry,” He says huskily, your lips vibrating from the timbre of his voice.
Pushing you against the counter, he kisses you harder. His hand grabs hold of your neck, pulling your face into his. He kisses down your chin, and then he tilts your head to have better access to your neck. Passionate kisses against the sensitive skin of your neck leave you trying to suppress your moans.
“We can’t. Please stop.”
He lifts you onto the counter in response. With a grunt, he roughly pulls at your dress, lifting until he can feel the seam of your underwear. You reach forward, trying to grab your panties, to keep him from pulling them down.
“Logan, please–”
His determined brown eyes stare back at yours. “You need this. I know you do, baby.”
One thing leads to another. Just how a quick house call led to a whole day being spent together. Your panties end up on the kitchen floor, your thighs are spread wide, and Logan’s head is between your legs.
“I’ll take care of you,” He moans against your center, “Don’t worry.”
Your head tilts back, and your chest heaves as Logan leads you to the first orgasm you’ve had from oral sex. And the first orgasm you’ve had in months.
It’s now Logan’s turn to stare out the window. This time, it’s his bedroom window that faces out towards your garage. He catches a glimpse of your husband returning. You greet him barefoot, lavender colored dress flowing as he lifts you into his arms and spins you around.
You’ve been radio silent since he left your house last week. You said you’d text him the next time he could come over to help you with the house. That text never came and now your husband was back now for who knows how long. And you looked excited to see him.
“If your goal was to make her hornier for her husband, I think you’ve succeeded.”
Dean says from Logan’s doorway.
“Shut up.”
“You still haven’t told me the details.”
“Because I’m not an asshole, unlike you.”
Dean walks in, shuts the door, and then makes himself comfortable on Logan’s bed.
“Whatever you did, it obviously wasn’t enough. So let’s brainstorm together on how we’re gonna fix this problem.”
“We?” Logan scoffs, “Fuck off.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to hear my idea?”
Logan goes quiet as he watches you again from the window. You wrap your legs around Rick and let him carry you inside.
“I don’t get it,” Logan whispers.
“Tell me, I can’t help unless you tell me.”
Fist hitting the wall in frustration, Logan groans. “Dean, I’m serious; this has to stay between us.”
“I promise.” Dean says, holding out his pink, “Pinky promise?"
Coming towards the bed, Logan pushes his hand away. “Okay …um, we hooked up. After I did all that shit for her house, we made out and then I … uh…I ate her out.”
“She came?”
“Yes, she came. And then she felt horrible for cheating on her husband, and it kind of killed the mood, to be honest. I just thought if she let me in a little bit more, then we could move past that.”
Dean nods his head, taking in the information. “This is going to stay between us, I promise. But I need you to hear me out.”
Logan takes a seat beside Dean on the bed, elbows against his knees, as the weight of the situation starts to press down on him.
“What’s your big idea?”
“After her husband leaves again, you go back over there again. Seduce her again, but this time you’re gonna fuck her. No gentleman shit. Caveman sex.”
“She doesn’t seem like the type.” Logan starts to brush the idea off immediately.
“Oh, she’s definitely the type. She just needs coaxing. And, of course, I can come for moral support.”
“Dean–”
“Hear me out. You said you would hear me out. Imagine you go over there and just lay all your cards out on the table. She loves her husband, but it’s so goddamn obvious he’s not right for her. She wants you; she’s already shown you that. Then she has to face the fact that you know how she really feels.”
Logan hates when Dean makes a good point. Maybe he really does know more about relationships than he lets on.
“Think about what you want, Logan. If you want to run into the sunset with her, that might not be what she’s ready for. Take the situation for what it is. Our beautiful, sexy fucking neighbor wants you, Logan. So take her.”
The Briar U Hawks win their game Saturday night, which leads to a huge party at the hockey house. The largest of the entire semester. The starting line is drinking beers on the back porch when Logan catches a glimpse through his neighbor's window.
You're alone, eating dinner at your dining table. Logan downs the rest of the beer before he decides, “I’m gonna go over there.”
“You got this, man.” Dean taps his shoulder, “No gentleman shit.”
Dean watches from the porch as the whole scene plays out. For moral support, of course. You’re wearing one of those cute dresses you always wear. This one is floral printed and milkmaid style. God, Logan’s a lucky man, Dean thinks. He’d give anything to lift that dress and fuck you as you deserve.
Logan knocks on your back door, and Dean brushes off a few puck bunnies before he leans against the wooden porch railing.
You open the door for him, and Logan doesn’t make it past the threshold. Dean imagines the conversation in his head, taking hints from your body language.
Logan probably says something lame like I can’t stop thinking about you.
You have to stop thinking about me. I’m married.
That’s not what you said the last time I was here.
I was lonely, and I wasn’t thinking straight.
Logan stuffs his hands in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket. He’s being quiet now.
He’s fumbling. What kind of wingman would Dean be if he let that happen?
The rowdy party fades into the background of his mind, and he decides to slip out while no one's watching. He walks around the hockey house towards the fence line that separates the two properties.
Sneaking through your gate, Dean slowly walks towards the back of your house. He can hear your conversation now.
“I think you should go. I took advantage of you. You should be someone more like you.”
“You didn’t. I like you. Like a lot.”
“I’m married, Logan. I’m sorry if I got your hopes up.”
“Logan!” Dean appears, interrupting your conversation. Beer swinging in his hands, he walks up the back porch. Up close, he can see that slutty fucking dress. You’re begging to be fucked wearing that. “You disappeared, man. Now I can see why, though. Holy fuck, you look good, honey.”
“What are you doing?” You and Logan seem to ask simultaneously.
“Came to check on you guys. I’m thoughtful like that.” Wrapping his arm around Logan’s shoulder, Dean fills your back doorway, “So, Y/N, Logan tells me your husband fucking sucks.”
“Logan?” She shoots him an accusing look, “Why would you–”
“It’s pretty fucking obvious to like the entire neighborhood. And my friend here has so kindly stepped up and taken care of business for you. You’ve been nice to him up until this point, and I think he deserves better.”
“Dean–”
“I’m serious. Why don’t you show him a little more fucking gratitude?”
You stare back at Dean with wide eyes. Part of you seems to genuinely understand his point. Why were you, all of a sudden, you were acting like Logan was nothing to you? “And do what?”
“You can start by getting on your knees.”
Your eyes swirl emotion, lust, and fear, mixing.
“Dean–” You interrupt Logan’s protest.
Something has clearly shifted inside of you because you say, “Both of you, come in and close the door.”
Dean and Logan exchange glances. It’s a quick- are we doing this? They nod at each other before following your instructions. Dean enters your house for the first time and follows your lead as you walk towards the living room.
“I am grateful, Logan.” You don’t turn to face them as you say this. Dean’s eyes are busy raking over you, “I feel like I don’t know what I need sometimes. But I really needed you last week. I haven’t felt like that …ever.”
You're hugging yourself, hands making comforting strokes down your upper arms. Dean urges Logan forward, finishing off his beer before he makes himself comfortable in the armchair that sits perpendicular to the couch.
Dean’s length is already hard and struggling against the fabric of his jeans. Your voice is so desperate. Dean was right all along, of course, and you were clearly touch-starved. Pleasure starved. When you finally turn around to face Logan, he dips his head down to kiss you.
The two of you push and pull, hungry, before Logan falls against the couch, you on top of him. Logan lifts the fabric of your dress, grabbing your ass, which Dean is grateful for. He’s more than happy to be the onlooker in the corner. It’s like his favorite porno is playing right in front of him.
Much to Dean's surprise, Logan groans out the words, “Get on your knees.”
It takes you back, but not enough for you to ignore his command. You climb down between his knees and your eyes wander over to Dean’s. Dean leans forward, his jeans straining even more, “Show him how grateful you are, honey. Show him how much of a dirty girl you are.”
Dean can’t help it; the look you give him in response pushes him to free himself from his jeans. You’re much better at sucking Logan off than Dean expects. Grabbing a handful of your hair in his hands, Logan forces your mouth up and down.
“Lift that dress up, honey,” Dean requests, and you oblige even though you’re struggling for air. “Fuck.”
Dean enjoys how messy it makes you. Your hair is tangled, your eyes are watering, and spit is dripping down your face. “You can’t come in her mouth, John. I bet she’s so grateful she’ll let you come somewhere else.”
“Crawl over to Dean, baby. I’m gonna take you from behind.”
And crawl you do. Dean swears he hears angels singing above.
“Messy girl,” Dean breathes heavily, happy to take Logan’s sloppy seconds, “You wanna make me feel good too?”
You nod, teary-eyed, “Please?”
“So polite,” Dean pulls you forward, “Of course you can, honey.”
Logan fully takes off his jeans and kneels behind you. Palming himself, he feels how wet you are. He doesn’t even need to spit. You’re starting to take Dean in your mouth when he pushes inside of you.
“She can handle it. She hasn’t been fucked hard in so long. Even if it hurts, she’s so grateful; she won't mind.”
After the first few strokes, Logan doesn’t waste time easing you into it.
The grip on your hips is tight and unforgiving. The deeper Logan goes, the deeper you have to take Dean. You’re choking and moaning at the same time.
Dean finishes first, down your throat, but he doesn’t let you rest. Logan isn’t done, and the last thing Dean wants is for you to lay your head down in his lap. Grabbing your face, he forces you to keep looking forward. “Almost there. You’re doing so well. Dirty fucking girl.” You reach your peak with Logan behind you and Dean’s fingers in your mouth.
Logan grabs onto your shoulder, pulling you back towards him, as he makes his final and deepest thrusts.
“Fuck, honey.”
“Fuck, baby.”
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