~}•~{n•a•r•i•p}~•{~ @notarobotipromise - Tumblr Blog

you're laughing??? supernatural gave cas the brokeback mountain truck and dean the brokeback mountain jacket and you're laughing??????

Im not laughing. I'm crying actually

hopelessbrain

I imagined it like angst to worried fluff, but i trust you to do it anyway you feel like. Thx

based on this ask !!! a bit different from the usual version of sammy that i personally write, but i hope u still like it...

PROTECTIVE CUSTODY

wordcount: 1293 summary: Sam refuses to let you join a dangerous hunt, and when arguing doesn't work, he takes drastic measures to keep you safe– unfortunately for both of you, being left behind is almost as terrifying as facing the monsters. warnings: sam x reader, (think it’s gn!reader but let me know if it isn’t), established relationship, dean being an unfortunate third party, handcuffing, mentions of danger and hunting– think that’s all for now !!!

itslowkeyatthenightshift

quarantined

dr jack abbot x senior resident!reader

description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.

tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining

A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. It’s fun and it’s my fanfic I’ll cry if i want to and u know you’d quarantine in abbot’s house too if given the chance

AS OF 4/9/26 I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified

exposure || day 1 || day 2 || day 3 || day 4 || day 5 || day 6 || day 7 || day 8 || day 9 (12am) || day 9 || day 10 || day 11 || day 12 || day 13 || day 14 ||

bojackbaby

i need a man with grey hair and crows feet to tell me i'm doing a good job and he's proud of me and then fuck me until i can't walk >.<

sasaririri

hiii okay so i've had this sitting in my drafts for literal days and i finally decided to just say you know what, let it see the light of day. bad bunny + jack abbot?? god that's EVERYTHING to me, my writing playlist is genuinely unhinged and i pulled inspiration from like 5 different songs for this one.

quick disclaimer: i'm sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes!! english is not my first language, spanish is, so i always write everything in spanish first and then translate — bear with me 🙏 jack abbot has been consuming my entire brain for the past few weeks and i am NOT okay about it. also i desperately need more mel x langdon content on my feed PLEASE feed me. anyway, hope you guys enjoy, besosssss.

myb u should listen: chulo pt2 by Bad Gyal, tokischa and young miko, and that's my ted talk on dr. jack abbot.

Btw i would love be myrna and receive THAT look.

the quiet kind of wanting (or the cruel way tbh)

pairing: Jack Abbot x readernurse.

summary: you are, for all intents and purposes, a splinter under jack abbot's skin. that's what you've assumed for months, anyway. then your mom shows up at 7am, asks the one question you can't answer — and dr. abbot opens his mouth. one small lie. one parking lot. one kiss neither of you was ready for. turns out what looked like cold distance was something else entirely. it just needed someone to say it out loud first.

warnings: jack abbot being an idiot about his feelings (affectionate but also not) · yearning that has a PULSE · he literally treated her like furniture for months and we're supposed to root for him (we do, unfortunately) · angst if you squint and tilt your head · one (1) unhinged parking lot kiss · found-family coded coworkers doing the absolute most in the background · mom shows up unannounced (threat level: high) · mention of fake dating but he meant every word · soft ending that will live in my head rent-free

The problem with Jack Abbot isn't that he's difficult.

The problem is that he isn't. Not with everyone.

I've watched him be patient with residents asking questions they should already know the answers to. I've watched him stay ten minutes past what the job technically required, walking a family member through something nobody asked him to explain. I've watched him with Lena during handoffs — that cadence he has with her, something almost natural, almost human, like words don't cost him the same effort they cost when they're directed at me. I watched him this morning with Shen, who said something low that I couldn't catch, and Jack said something back that could almost pass for humor — effortless sarcasm, zero visible effort — and Shen half-smiled like it was normal.

With everyone else, Jack Abbot is a version of himself I've never been allowed to meet.

With me, it's different.

Fine.

Thanks.

Never my name. Months on the same shift, same floor, sometimes less than three feet apart — Jack Abbot has never said my name voluntarily. He's used it in clinical contexts, when a case required it, when he had to name an action to name a person. But not the way he says Lena's name. Not with that ease of someone who holds another person's name comfortably in their mouth.

In his, mine doesn't exist.

At first I told myself it was because he was new to the shift. Then that he was just like that with everyone. Then the months passed and I crossed off explanations one by one until only the one I didn't want was left.

I bother him. Not in the generic way where two people just don't vibe. Something more specific. Like there's something about me that produces in Jack Abbot a kind of active tolerance — like he has to endure me. Like my presence is an environmental condition he's learned to manage because the job requires it, but that he'd prefer, given the option, not to have to deal with.

I've known this for months.

And still I come back to the same shift, calibrate my presence to take up the least possible space, and do my job with the same precision as always.

What I hadn't done — until last Wednesday — was ask him directly.

It was a bad idea from the start.

I knew it while I was doing it. I knew it as I walked toward bay three where he was reviewing a patient chart with that posture of his, shoulders slightly forward, eyes on the screen, that kind of focus that makes the rest of the world stop existing for as long as it lasts.

I knew it and did it anyway, because I'd been carrying that question around for weeks and sometimes the only way to get rid of something is to get it out.

"Can I ask you something, Dr. Abbot?" I said.

He lifted his eyes from the screen. Looked at me.

"Go ahead," he said.

"Do I bother you? Like — is my presence here genuinely a problem for you?"

The silence that followed lasted exactly long enough to be uncomfortable.

Jack looked at me through that silence with the face that gives nothing away — the same face I've been trying to read from across the hall for months and getting nowhere. And then he said:

"No."

One word. Flat. Delivered with the same efficiency as every other word he's ever aimed in my direction, no added inflection, nothing to tell me whether it was true or just the shortest available answer to exit the moment.

"Are you sure?" I said.

He looked at me in that way of his. The way that could mean anything or nothing.

"Yes," he said.

And left.

He literally turned around and walked toward bay four with his usual stride and didn't look back, and I stood in the entrance to bay three processing what had just happened with the specific feeling of someone who had needed an answer and received two syllables.

Yes.

Like the question was so small it didn't deserve more than that. Like I was so small I didn't deserve more than that.

I ended up doing a quick breathing exercise and moving on.

That night the shift was long in the way shifts are long when nothing goes completely wrong but everything goes slightly sideways — that accumulation of small things, none of which individually would justify the exhaustion, but together they produce it anyway.

Dr. Ellis vanishing at the best possible moment. Shen spending half an hour hunting down his iced coffee with an energy I genuinely admired. Lena managing everything with that calm of hers that makes it look easy even when it isn't. And somewhere between one and two in the morning Jack found me in the break room wearing whatever expression I must have had on my face, and he sat down next to me without asking anything.

"The coffee from this machine," I said.

"Terrible," he said.

"But it's what there is."

"It's what there is," he echoed.

We sat there for five minutes without saying anything. Not the uncomfortable kind of silence. The kind that happens between people who've spent enough time in the same space that they don't need to fill it anymore.

"Better?" he said finally.

"Same," I said.

"Same works too," he said. And left.

Jack walked past the break room doorway at two fifteen.

He didn't come in. Just passed. But in the second he crossed the threshold his eyes moved inward — that involuntary thing eyes do when they register presence before the brain makes any conscious decisions about it — and he saw me sitting there with the terrible machine coffee.

His eyes were on me for exactly one second.

Then he kept walking.

I replayed it more times than I'm going to admit. That one second of his. Like I needed to find meaning in it that probably wasn't there.

Dana caught me in the exit hallway with my jacket on and my bag on my shoulder.

"Someone's looking for you at reception," she said without stopping, already mentally checked into the next shift. "A woman. Says she's your mom."

I stopped.

Not dramatically. Just the amount of time it takes a brain that's been running for twelve hours to process information it wasn't expecting.

My mother.

"Thanks," I said.

And redirected.

The day shift was spinning up with that seven-in-the-morning energy. Mateo and Princess crossing paths at the central station, Perlah with a tablet in her hand, that shift-change rhythm with its own noise and momentum. I was moving against it with twelve hours behind me and my body already on autopilot — that mode that kicks in when the brain knows rest is almost within reach.

I took the long hallway.

That's where I saw them.

Langdon and Mel coming in through the main doors for their shift. Mel still had her badge in her hand, saying something quietly, tilted slightly toward him with the ease of someone who stopped measuring how much space she takes up next to another person a long time ago. Langdon wasn't looking at her — scrolling his phone — but at the corner of his mouth there was something he clearly hadn't decided to show and was showing anyway. At some point between the door and the hallway their arms brushed. Just that. The casual, unconscious contact of two people who don't track the distance between them anymore because it stopped being necessary.

I looked away before either of them could catch me staring.

At least the day shift has more love than I do.

I thought it without drama. Just thought it, and the thought stayed there with nowhere useful to go, like all those thoughts you learn to carry quietly because making noise about them doesn't change anything.

"Hey, good night?" said Mel as she passed me, with that smile of hers that has something genuinely warm in it even at seven in the morning, the kind of person who just radiates something good without trying.

"Long," I said.

She made the understanding face of someone who's had her own long nights and kept moving. I kept moving too, the thought still sitting there, quiet and present, that small persistent thing you learn to ignore because there's nowhere for it to go.

My mother was at reception.

I saw her before she saw me, which gave me exactly a second and a half to prepare — not enough, but it was what I had.

Standing. Black bag. Beige scarf. That posture she has everywhere, like every room she walks into is hers by natural right. Neurosurgeon, seventeen years at the same university hospital, two association awards, the kind of presence that rearranges the air in a room when she enters. That's my mother anywhere. In this place specifically — surrounded by ER staff moving around her with no idea who she was — she was still exactly that.

She saw me.

"I thought I'd come down before I left," she said, instead of hello. "I had a consult upstairs with Dr. Shamsi."

She kissed my cheek, quick, then looked at me. That inventory of hers — head to toe, three seconds, completely involuntary at this point in both our lives.

"You have dark circles."

"It's seven in the morning and I just finished a night shift."

"Still," she said, like my argument hadn't changed anything.

There it was. That word of hers. Still. Like context is irrelevant to the diagnosis.

Her eyes moved over my face another second, then traveled slowly downward.

"Did you lose weight?"

"No."

"Your face looks thinner," she said, tilting her head.

"Mom."

"I'm telling you because I love you. Not to make you feel bad."

I breathed.

"I'm fine," I said. "Really."

She nodded once. Not believing me — filing me away. Then she looked around, that habit of hers of scanning every space she's in without thinking about it, and when her eyes came back to mine they were carrying something I recognized immediately.

Something was coming.

"Are you eating properly?" she said, crossing her arms. "And don't just say yes. Tell me what you ate yesterday."

"I ate."

"That's not an answer."

"Mom, I ate, I'm fine, I sleep, I work, everything is in order."

"Then why do you have that look on your face."

"What look?"

"That one," she said, pointing at me with two fingers. "The same one you had when you were sixteen and carrying something you didn't want to tell me. You thought if you didn't say it out loud I wouldn't figure it out."

I said nothing. There was no useful response to that and we both knew it.

My mother let three seconds pass. Then something in her softened — arms loosening slightly — and she took one step toward me. Just one.

"Thirty," she said. In Spanish. Always in Spanish when she wants it to land without cushioning. She tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear with false sympathy. "At your age I'd already been married two years and you were already on the way. I'm not saying that to pressure you, I'm saying it because I worry. Because I look at you and I see someone who works hard, who's good at what she does, but who comes home alone and never mentions anyone. Your sister says you've been like this for months."

My mother was from one of those families. The ones who still believe love is something you build after someone else makes the decision for you. Her mother had done it with her, and she'd done it with my sister, who was twenty-seven when she showed up one Sunday at the family lunch sitting next to a politician her same age with a smile that was clearly diplomatic commitment and not genuine enthusiasm. My sister texted me that night: i don't even know the name of his dog and I replied run and she said it's too late.

I had to admit the guy was good-looking. That kind of good-looking that's almost inconvenient — the kind that makes you understand why people compare certain men to celebrities without it sounding exaggerated. My sister told me once, in a tone of grievance, that it was hard to be genuinely angry at someone with a face like that, and I told her that was exactly what he wanted her to think, and she said i know and i still can't.

The strange thing is she didn't run. And a year later she texted me: i think i actually love him and that feels like a betrayal of myself somehow.

So my mother's method had an irregular but not entirely disastrous track record, which was somehow worse, because it meant she had real arguments and we both knew it.

"I have a life," I said.

"Like what?" she said, tilting her head.

"Friends. Things. People."

"Things?" she repeated, and in her mouth that word sounded small. Almost sad. "You can't live on work alone. You need more than that. Someone to talk to when you get home, someone who knows how your day went. That's not a luxury, that's basic."

"I'm fine like this," I said.

She looked at me a moment and lowered her voice.

"That's what worries me. That you're fine like this. That you've gotten used to something smaller than what you deserve and you can't even see it anymore because it just feels normal."

I looked around desperately, praying I wasn't about to become the shift gossip. Thankfully the day team was entirely indifferent — except, naturally, for the Princess-and-Perlah situation unfolding in the corner.

My mother straightened her shoulders slightly.

"Are you seeing someone?" she said, looking at me directly. "And don't say it's private because I'm your mother and we've been having this conversation for months. Is there someone or is there no one?"

I opened my mouth.

I closed my mouth.

Because from somewhere to my right, without any warning:

"She's my girlfriend."

I turned around slowly.

Jack was standing a meter and a half away, jacket on, keys in hand, also on his way out after the shift. Looking at my mother with a completely flat expression, like he'd just read a data point out loud that simply existed and required no further elaboration — no inflection, no indication whatsoever that he had just reorganized the next ten minutes of my life. Like he'd said something completely mundane. A lab value. A patient's temperature.

She's my girlfriend.

Just like that. No hesitation. No asking permission.

The silence that followed was the kind you replay afterward, more times than you'll ever admit.

My mother looked at him. Three seconds, head to toe. I watched the exact moment something in her expression shifted — that reorganization I know well, and that this time, for the first time in the entire conversation, wasn't directed at pointing out something I'd done wrong.

She walked toward him with her hand extended and a smile I hadn't seen all morning.

"Nice to meet you," she said.

"Jack Abbot," he said, and shook it. Firm. Not a second of hesitation.

"How long have you two been together?" she asked.

"A while," said Jack.

My mother processed that. Then looked at me, then at him, then back at me, with an expression it took me a moment to place because I don't receive it often.

Approval. Genuine approval, no asterisk, no condition.

"Perfect — when were you going to tell me?" she said. In Spanish, but different. Without the edge from two minutes ago. Just clean and direct — perfect — like it was the simplest thing in the world.

And I said nothing.

I said nothing because there was nothing available that wasn't an error of variable magnitude. I was standing there processing the fact that Jack Abbot — the same Jack Abbot who hadn't said my name voluntarily in months — had just told my mother he was my boyfriend with the same energy he used to read lab results. No hesitation. No inflection. Like it was an established fact that simply hadn't had an opportunity to come up yet.

My mother talked to him. Asked how long he'd been in the ER, whether he liked the work, what the night shift was like — those questions of hers that look small and aren't. Dr. Abbot answered everything with his usual economy and my mother listened with the attention she normally reserves for cases she genuinely finds interesting, nodding here and there, with the expression of someone confirming a suspicion they already had and finding it satisfactory.

At some point in that conversation I became completely peripheral.

My mother and Dr. Abbot talking like they'd met before, or like my mother had decided in the first thirty seconds that she approved and had simply acted accordingly from that point — which was exactly how she operated in every context.

When she left, she shook his hand first.

She kissed me goodbye — longer than the one when she arrived — and looked at me with something that in anyone else I would have called warmth without reservation. That specific warmth of someone who's finally been given news they'd been waiting a long time to hear.

"Take care of yourself," she said. "Eat. Sleep. And call me this weekend, we need to actually talk."

Actually talk. Which meant she wanted details and this lobby conversation had been the appetizer.

"Yes," I said.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," she told Jack.

"Likewise, doctor," said Jack.

And she disappeared through the main doors.

The hospital kept going.

I stood where I was with my jacket on and my bag on my shoulder and the specific sensation of something having happened that I didn't yet have anywhere to put. Like when you receive too much information in too little time and your brain simply decides to process it later, when more resources are available.

Dr. Abbot was still a meter and a half away. He said nothing. Just looked at me, with that patience of his, waiting.

"I'm going to the parking garage," I said finally.

"Me too," he said.

We walked the whole way without saying anything. Not exactly uncomfortable — more like too much sitting inside both of us and neither of us had found the way to get it out yet. I had my bag on my shoulder and the lobby conversation replaying somewhere in the back of my head with that quality specific to things you can't quite believe happened even though you lived them firsthand. I walked slightly ahead, half a step, without having decided to — my feet just moving faster than usual and I wasn't bothering to slow them down. Keys in my hand, gripped harder than necessary. Jaw a little tight.

She's my girlfriend.

Just like that. No hesitation.

We reached the garage. Our cars on opposite sides, which meant the path split at some point and that point was right now, and I knew it and still kept walking until I reached it and stopped.

"Dr. Abbot."

He stopped. Turned.

Something about having him like this — face to face, outside the shift, technically outside the hospital, no patients or protocols or any structural reason to maintain any particular distance — made everything I'd been holding since the beginning of the shift run out of places to hide.

"I didn't ask for that," I said. My voice came out quieter than I wanted but with more edge, and I didn't do anything to soften it. "I didn't ask for anything. I've spent months on that shift calibrating every single thing I say and every inch of space I take up, months thinking I bothered you and learning to function around that, and you just — you reached into something that's mine in thirty seconds without anyone asking you to. And the worst part, the actual worst part, is that it worked. She left happy. Which hadn't happened once in the entire conversation before you showed up, which says something about my life that I'd rather not examine right now in a parking garage at seven in the morning, but here we are."

Jack looked at me. Not interrupting. Not moving. With that calm of his that in this specific moment irritated me more than anything else he could have done.

"I thought I bothered you," I kept going, and I hit the keys against my palm without thinking — that nervous, useless gesture. "I asked you directly and you said no, and I believed you, or I tried to, but everything you did said something else and I sat with that alone for months. And now it turns out you can just show up and tell my mother you're my boyfriend like it's the most normal thing in the world and I don't understand what that was, I don't understand why you did it, I don't understand what I'm supposed to —"

I didn't finish the sentence.

He took two steps toward me.

I didn't see it coming. Or I saw it and didn't process it in time, which is different. His hand found my face before I finished talking, fingers barely grazing my cheek, and he kissed me.

I went quiet.

Not a decision. It was just that his words, mine, everything I was about to say — it all stopped feeling urgent for however long that kiss lasted, which was brief, very brief, the kind that lasts exactly long enough to be completely real and not long enough to know what to do with it afterward.

When Jack pulled back he didn't go far. He stayed inches away, and I saw in his eyes that second before they fully opened — that second you can't fake.

The parking garage in silence.

"I've wanted to do that since the first time I saw you," he said. In that voice of his, no decoration, no inflection, like he was reading a data point out loud that had been sitting there for a while and it was simply time to say it. "When you came onto the shift. First day. You walked through the door like you owned the place and I thought it was going to be a problem."

I looked at him.

"A problem?" I said.

"For me," he said. And didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.

Me with my keys gripped in my hand and something in my chest that I couldn't tell anymore was anger or something else entirely that looked too much like it.

"That doesn't explain why you treated me like I was invisible for months," I said, and it came out quieter than before, without the edge from a moment ago — because the edge takes energy and something in me had just spent all of it.

"No," said Jack. "It doesn't."

And he didn't add anything.

He just stood there looking at me, with that honesty of his that doesn't give more than it has but doesn't hide what's there either, and I stood there processing that Jack Abbot had just told me he'd wanted to kiss me since the first day he watched me walk through that door — said like that, no drama, like someone finally reading out loud something that had been written for months.

Then he raised his hand slowly and moved the strand of hair that had fallen across my face, fingers grazing my temple, and said in that voice of his — but with something different underneath it:

"And it's Jack. Call me Jack. We're supposed to be dating."

I felt my cheeks get warm.

You wouldn't be able to see it, I know, you wouldn't be able to see it — but I felt it completely, that heat that rises from somewhere inside without asking permission, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.

I said nothing.

I literally could not find anything to say and that hadn't happened to me in a long time.

Jack looked at me one more second, with that expression that never gives information but that this morning had something different in it — something I didn't have time to fully read before he nodded once, slowly, and turned toward his car.

I stayed where I was.

Ten seconds. Maybe more. Bag on my shoulder, keys in my hand, cheeks warm, brain trying to do something useful with everything that had just happened and finding absolutely no idea where to start.

She's my girlfriend.

Call me Jack.

We're supposed to be dating.

I got to my car. Put the key in. Sat down.

And I laughed.

Not a laugh that made any sense. It was that short, disbelieving laugh that comes out when something has no tidy explanation available and your body just picks that because it can't find another mechanism. I covered my mouth with my hand like that was going to help, then put it on my chest, where my heart had been doing something that was definitely not its normal rate for a while now.

Jack.

I started the car.

Jack Abbot got to his car and didn't start it.

Hands on the steering wheel. Engine off. Mind replaying what he'd done without a single trace of shame.

He'd seen a woman at reception who looked like her in a way that left no room for interpretation. The same honey-colored eyes, the same warm skin, a presence that in her was learned restraint and in the mother was something sharper, more natural — like she'd never needed to learn it. He'd watched her talk and watched the way she stood while listening, that specific posture of hers when she's receiving something that costs her and would prefer it not to show — shoulders slightly tense, gaze held at a fixed point — and something in him had responded before any reasonable part of his brain could.

She's my girlfriend.

And then he'd kissed her.

That had also happened before any reasonable part of him could intervene. She was standing there with that voice she'd been keeping controlled for months and that in the parking garage had stopped being controlled, telling him what she'd been holding since the start of the shift, and he had closed that distance before he could explain why he was doing it.

It had lasted nothing.

It had lasted enough for him to know exactly what he'd been managing from the careful distance of the same shift, same hallway, same space — where it was possible to keep things in their place if you were disciplined enough.

This morning he hadn't been disciplined.

He moved his hand slowly across his chest. That place. That weight that was sometimes his shoulder radiating and sometimes something else, and that this morning hadn't been his shoulder in a while. He noticed his own pulse against his ribs — high, persistently high, the kind of rate that in a patient would have made him ask what was going on.

He knew exactly what was going on.

He'd known for months and he'd managed it with the same discipline he applied to everything else — keep it in its place, don't look at it too directly, do the work because the work continues and that's enough.

This morning that had stopped being enough at seven in the morning in front of a car that wasn't his.

He leaned his head back against the seat. The concrete ceiling. The water stain in the top right corner that had probably been there for years and that he'd looked at enough times to recognize it.

You're her fake boyfriend now, he thought, with the clarity that comes from things without an immediate solution. You kissed her in the parking garage. You moved the hair out of her face. You told her to call you Jack. And the only true part of everything you did this morning is the one part you can't say out loud. Unbelievable. I should have asked her out before I spent months ignoring her like she was a recurring inconvenience.

He held his palm flat against his sternum for a moment — his own pulse pushing back against it, steady, completely useless as information and completely impossible to ignore.

A short, disbelieving smile escaped him at his own thoughts. Jack Abbot had broken routine today. Today he had done what he'd been thinking about for months.

What a day, he thought.

And started the car.

me rn

sasaririri

Masterlist (mostly angst jeje)

Steve Harrington.

Not his problem.

I won't let you go, please don't ask me to.

Panic Frequency.

My Moon and My Man. My Moon, My man and My sun.

The Weight of Air.

Jack Abbot.

Things you learn without meaning to.

The quiet kind of wanting (or the cruel way tbh)

still yours.

You are not the exception.

Dean Di Laurentis.

She Always Won. --- Intervention.

Sharp Edges

John Logan.

Please stop the music. Don't dare stop the music.

Request are open!

#jack abbot #dean di laurentis fanfic #john logan fanfic #steve harrington #jack abbot x reader #steve harrington x reader #john logan x reader #dean di laurentis x reader #john logan #dean di laurentis #john logan fluff

sasaririri

heyy i haven't written in a while but i had to do something with Dean and Logan no matter what, requests are open!! hope you enjoy xoxo

She Always Won.

summary: you dressed like a princess for him. turns out the kingdom was never yours to begin with.

warnings: cheating, unrequited love, heartbreak, crying, emotional pain

a/n: dean di laurentis really said "i'll be the perfect boyfriend except for the part where i'm still in love with someone else" and i had to write about it

I never meant to cause you any sorrow

I never meant to cause you any pain

I only wanted to see you laughing

I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain

— Prince, “Purple Rain”

(Because nothing says “true love” like handing your whole heart to a guy who’s still mentally fucking his ex while you play dress-up as his emotional rebound.)

The dress weighed on me like a damn sentence. Dark red velvet that fell in heavy cascades all the way to the floor, with gold and blue embroidery that sparkled under the dim lights of the hall. The corset squeezed my ribs, reminding me with every breath that I was here, dressed up like a princess at a party that didn’t feel like mine. The bell sleeves swayed with every step, and the pearl necklace Dean had put on me that afternoon kept brushing against my collarbone like a constant reminder of his warm fingers.

“You look gorgeous. Like you were born to wear that,” he’d told me in front of the mirror, with that crooked smile that always melted me. His blue eyes had lingered on me a second longer than usual, and I, like an idiot, had taken it as a promise.

Dean was dressed as a knight. The deep red wine doublet hugged his broad chest and strong shoulders, with those gold details tracing the lines of his body like they were made for him. The white shirt underneath puffed out at the sleeves, and the leather belt cinched his waist. He looked… imposing. Dangerously hot. The kind of guy that would make anyone lose their mind. And I was. Crazy about him.

He was a good boyfriend. Fuck, he really was. He brought me coffee exactly how I liked it—two sugars and a splash of vanilla. He’d fuck me against the wall of his room when I came back stressed from class, his big hands gripping my hips while he whispered in my ear how tight and hot I was. He’d hug me from behind while we cooked and Tucker bitched about us ruining his kitchen, kissing my neck until I laughed. He listened to me complain about my professors, sent me stupid memes in the middle of the night just to make me smile. Charming. Attentive. Real.

But Allie Hayes was the ghost that never left.

Every time her name came up in conversation, even casually, Dean would shut down. His eyes would go glassy, his jaw would tighten, and he’d get this dark look, like part of him had gone somewhere else. Somewhere I didn’t exist.

And I knew it. I’d seen it a thousand times.

The Drama Department party was in full swing. Warm lights, music with lutes and drums, people in costumes dancing in the middle of the floor. The air smelled like cheap wine, sweat, and sweet perfume. I was standing on the edge with a cup in my hand that I’d barely touched, scanning the room for Dean. He’d walked off about ten minutes ago to “get more drinks.” Ten minutes that felt like forever.

And then the stares started.

I felt the eyes on me. Pity. Straight-up sympathy. A girl dressed as a maiden whispered something to her friend and they both gave me that “poor thing” look. My stomach twisted. The pressure in my chest grew, like an invisible hand squeezing tighter.

I turned my head toward the dance floor.

There they were.

Dean and Allie.

Him in his red knight’s doublet, the dark cape falling down his back. Her… fuck, she was stunning. A fairy dress in burgundy and gold tones that clung to her body like a second skin, translucent shimmering wings that caught the light, her hair loose over her shoulders. Beautiful. Magical. Unreal.

They were dancing.

Dean’s hand was on her waist, firm, possessive. Allie’s rested on his chest, right over his heart. They were looking into each other’s eyes and laughing. That intimate laugh, the kind shared by people with a thousand memories I’d never have. Dean’s eyes were shining in a way that tore me apart inside. Like Allie was the most precious thing in the world, the one he’d lost and finally had back in his arms. He’d never looked at me like that. Not once. He looked at me with affection, with desire, with tenderness… but never with that absolute devotion.

I felt ridiculous. Pathetic. A fake-ass princess standing there in my red dress and pearls while the real queen of his story danced with him.

Allie stepped closer. Their bodies pressed together. They looked at each other for one more second, loaded with everything they used to be. Then she rose onto her tiptoes, grabbed the back of his neck with that familiarity only people who’ve kissed a thousand times have, and kissed him.

Their lips met.

Dean froze… and then kissed her back. Just for a second, but I saw it. His mouth moving against hers, his hand tightening on her waist. The world dropped out from under me. The noise disappeared. All that existed was that kiss, that moment when my heart shattered.

Suddenly Dean pulled away like he’d been electrocuted. He blinked fast, looked around with wild panic in his eyes, searching the crowd… until he found me.

Our eyes met across the dance floor.

I saw the guilt. The horror. The instant regret. But it was already done. He’d already destroyed me.

I took a step back. Tears burned my eyes. People were staring. Someone whispered my name. I didn’t care. I turned around and started shoving through bodies, the dress tangling between my legs, making me stumble, the corset suffocating me. I made it out into the cold hallway, then outside.

The night air hit me like a slap.

With shaking hands, I started ripping off the pearl necklace. The clasp resisted and I yanked hard; the pearls scattered across the ground like white tears. I pulled the pins out of my hair, letting the curls fall wild and messy. I felt suffocated. I wanted to rip off my skin, the dress, everything that reminded me of this night.

“Wait! Please, baby!”

His voice. Desperate. I heard his boots running after me.

He grabbed my arm. Hard. His fingers dug into my skin.

“Let go of me,” I hissed, yanking with everything I had.

I broke free. I kept walking toward the parking lot, tears already falling freely down my cheeks. Dean followed. He didn’t say anything else. Just his heavy, ragged breathing.

We got to the car. He opened the passenger door. I got in. He walked around and sat in the driver’s seat. The silence was a dead weight between us.

He started the engine.

The streetlights blurred past the window. I stared outside, silent tears rolling down one after another. I wasn’t making any noise. I was just crying. Inside, I was dying. My chest hurt so bad I thought it was going to split in half.

I thought about that night a few weeks ago.

We were in his bed, curled up after fucking. His warm body against mine, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The room smelled like sex and his cologne. I felt safe. Loved. And the words slipped out in a whisper against his skin:

“I love you, Dean.”

I felt his body go rigid instantly. His muscles tensed under my cheek. His breathing cut off for a second. He didn’t say anything. Absolutely nothing. He just stayed there, breathing into my hair, his hand still on my back. I pretended to fall asleep. Pretended his silence hadn’t stabbed me in the soul. But that night I knew the truth: he was never going to say it back. Because his heart still belonged to someone else.

And now, in this car, with the silence screaming between us, it all came rushing back.

We got to my dorm. He parked. Turned off the engine.

“I’ll walk you up,” he murmured, his voice broken.

He tried to get out. I raised my hand.

“No.”

I got out. He did too, desperate. He caught up in two strides and grabbed my shoulders, turning me around. His eyes were red, shiny. He looked destroyed. Good. Let him suffer a little.

“Please… let me explain. It was a mistake, I didn’t… she—”

I looked him straight in the eyes. Those eyes I’d loved so much.

“You never loved me, did you?”

The question came out like a croak. My voice was wrecked.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” I continued, the words spilling out in a broken rush. “Because I knew, Dean. I always knew. The way you’d shut down every time someone mentioned her name. The way you looked at her tonight… like she was the fucking air you breathe. Like I never even existed. You never looked at me like that. Not when you were fucking me, not when you held me, not when I told you I loved you and you froze like a damn statue.”

The tears fell faster. I wiped my face angrily, but they wouldn’t stop.

“I’m so fucking pathetic… I dressed up like a princess for you. I thought this time, maybe, you’d choose me. That I could compete. But there was never a competition. She always won. Even when she wasn’t there, she won. She was in your head all the time. In your heart. I was just… the replacement. The one who helped you forget, but never enough.”

Dean had his eyes closed. A tear escaped down his cheek. I’d never seen him cry. Seeing it now only made everything worse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His voice was shaking. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby…”

That was it.

Two empty words.

I looked at him one last time. I saw the guy who made me laugh until my stomach hurt. The one who held me when I had nightmares. The one who kissed my forehead in the mornings. And I also saw the one who was never really mine. The one who always looked at Allie like she was his home.

“Take care, Di Laurentis.”

I turned around. I walked toward the dorm entrance. I heard him shout my name once, twice, his voice cracked and desperate. I didn’t stop. I opened the door and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

The sound of his car door slamming behind me felt like the end of a story that should’ve never started.

I climbed the stairs like a ghost. Every step was agony. The red dress dragging, the pearls lost, my hair a total mess. I got to my room, closed the door, and slid down to the floor, hugging my knees.

And there I cried. I cried like my soul was being ripped out. Gut-wrenching sobs that left me gasping for air, my chest heaving, my face swollen and wet. I rocked back and forth, feeling the huge emptiness where love used to be. An emptiness that hurt more than anything.

Dean Di Laurentis had never loved me.

And I’d been stupid enough to believe he someday would.

Prince · Purple Rain · Song · 1984

sasaririri

Don't you dare stop the music.

pairing: John Logan x readerfem

summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward… only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.

warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.

a/n: hey guys, I’m back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss — I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo

part one.

'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello" And your eyes look like comin' home All I know is a simple name And everything has changed

(Guys, you lost me.)

I don’t know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I don’t know where to put it now.

The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.

Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesn’t disappear just because you want it to. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.

When was the last time I actually slept?

I couldn’t remember.

I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.

I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldn’t look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.

Today I finally decided to leave my cave—my incredible, comfortable bed—to dignify myself with going to work. One of the perks of your mom being the owner is that she really doesn’t care if you miss work. I think she’s even at peace when I’m not at the café. It must be exhausting to see me moving around like a ghost in an apron.

The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didn’t mind walking, but now I couldn’t stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, I’d spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Logan’s messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasn’t.

I’d been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like he’d been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.

And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.

“I fucked everything up.”

“I need you to leave.”

I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.

“The only thing I learned that night,” I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, “was that I should’ve stayed home.”

We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.

Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.

“What if he’s gay and just hasn’t realized it yet?” she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.

Alison let out a short, dry laugh.

“Men,” she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. “Tell them you love them and you’ll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.”

“God, my life sucks,” I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.

The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.

“For God’s sake! You’re twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?” she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. “You’re beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?”

I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a man’s ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.

“Besides,” Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, “if John ‘Eat Me’ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.”

I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.

“Who needs therapy when I have you guys? Hooray…” I said in a tired but sincere voice.

But then I saw him.

Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heart—not too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.

And then he looked up.

I don’t know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.

His brown eyes locked onto mine.

And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I had and just didn’t know what it meant at the time.

Now I did.

He stopped dead.

Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situation—his eyes going from Logan to me and back to Logan—and something in his face closed off with an expression that wasn’t exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didn’t dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.

Logan didn’t even look at him.

His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.

He didn’t even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?

His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.

Give me something. Anything.

I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that I’m sure showed on my face.

No. I’m not going to be the one who does it this time.

I can’t be the one again.

I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.

“I’m not taking the first step,” I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.

“Bravo girl, Bravo” Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. “Let him crawl this time.”

----

J.L

I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.

Like I was something she could no longer stand.

The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean would’ve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didn’t dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me… with a lot of pity.

How fucked up was I?

“…I ruined everything,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.

Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.

“Yeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?”

I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.

“I’m in love with her,” I admitted almost angrily. “I love her eyes… fuck, I love the way she looks at me like I’m someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when she’s focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth… like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. “She confessed everything to me… and I told her I couldn’t. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?”

Dean, for the first time in a long time, didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.

“Bro… you’re really fucked.”

Garrett moved.

He’d been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.

He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.

“So what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isn’t working.” He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. “Listen to me, Logan. You’re a mess, I know. But you can’t go dump all of this on her at once.” He paused, choosing his words. “She’s hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything you’re feeling, she’s going to think it’s pity or that you’re confused. You have to take it slow… but don’t drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.”

Garrett continued:

“You know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down… and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.”

Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.

“Fast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasn’t a mistake.” His voice was calmer than Garrett’s, quieter, but just as firm. “That she wasn’t a mistake.”

I stood in front of the café door for almost ten minutes, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out. The smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread reached me from inside, but it didn’t calm me. It did the opposite. It reminded me of her. Of her hands moving with that calm motion behind the counter, of how she bit her lower lip when she focused on making a latte.

Breathe, Logan. Don’t fuck this up again.

I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There weren’t many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God… she looked beautiful.

I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.

Ouch. I deserve that.

“A black coffee, please,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.

Say something, John. Now.

“…I need to talk to you,” I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Alone. Please.”

She didn’t respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadn’t said a word.

“That’ll be four fifty,” she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.

“Hey… please,” I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. “Just five minutes. I know I don’t deserve even that, but…”

She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didn’t meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.

She’s hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.

“I understand that you don’t want to see me,” I continued, almost in a whisper. “But I can’t keep going like this. What I did… was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explain…”

“Here’s your change,” she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.

The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done to her.

I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasn’t moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.

I’m not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. I’m going to prove to you that you weren’t a mistake. That you never were. That you’re the only thing I want in this fucking life.

“Hey, kid!”

A strong, decisive voice snapped me out of my sleep. I blinked, confused, my cheek stuck to the table and a trail of drool that didn’t even embarrass me. The café was empty. The chairs were already up on the tables and the main lights were off. Only the dim light from the counter remained.

In front of me was her mom. And fuck… she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.

“What, you think this is a hotel?” she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. “You’ve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.”

I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.

“Did she… already leave?” I asked, my voice thick.

She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.

“My daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.” She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth she’d always had toward me. “You okay? You look… tired.”

Ma’am, I’m trying to prove to your daughter that I’m not a complete son of a bitch.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. “I just wanted… to talk to her for a bit.”

She pointed at the door with the mop. “Come on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and I’m not leaving you here as decoration.”

I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.

She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didn’t want to leave.

“Ma’am, I just—”

“Out, out,” she cut me off playfully, opening the door. “I open early tomorrow and I’m not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.”

The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.

I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.

How pathetic. Ugh.

---

“Hi…” The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.

Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.

“Fuck… you scared me,” he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. “Got a minute?”

I didn’t answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.

“It’s not your fault, Tucker,” I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. “Really. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your responsibility.”

He frowned slightly, like he didn’t fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:

“It’s okay,” I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone carrying this. Not you… not anyone.”

What a huge lie. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?

Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Crack.

I couldn’t hold it anymore.

The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.

“I really… I really didn’t want to like him,” I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. “I didn’t want to, Tucker. I tried not to… but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me… I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldn’t and… and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay when everything reminds me of him. He’s been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I haven’t even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus… I’m drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only… if only I’d held back a little.”

The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldn’t stop.

Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. “Cry as much as you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t hold it back anymore.

When will this suffering end?

I had to rip it out by the roots.

Maybe not right now. When I’m ready.

“Eight days!?”

They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.

“Shh, lower your voices.” I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. “Eight days in a row,” I confirmed, lowering my voice.

Alison and Sarah were sitting on the high stools in front of the counter, their half-finished milkshakes in front of them and that look on both their faces that meant they weren’t letting me out of this conversation easily. The café was quiet at that hour, only four tables occupied and my mom in the kitchen making muffled clattering noises from the back. It was the kind of afternoon I normally liked. Calm. Manageable.

Until they showed up.

“And what does he do?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Logan’s table with her straw.

“He writes.”

“He writes?” Alison repeated, like the word didn’t quite fit, looking at me with a “Seriously?” face.

“He sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.” I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarah’s straw had left. “But then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.”

Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.

“In the tip jar?” Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.

“In the tip jar.”

“Why there?”

“Because I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.” I folded the rag. Unfolded it. “So he stopped trying and found another way.”

Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.

“And what do the letters say?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didn’t add up.

“That I haven’t opened them.”

“None of them?”

“None.”

Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.

“How many letters total?” she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.

I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.

“Twenty-two.”

The silence lasted exactly two seconds.

“Twenty-two,” Alison repeated, toneless.

“Sometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.”

“But why?” Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “I mean, what’s the point of him writing you letters if he’s the one who told you no?”

“Exactly what I keep asking myself.”

“And you have no idea what they might say?”

“None.” I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. “Maybe it’s an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesn’t know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how he’s dealing with it. I don’t know.”

“Or maybe,” Alison said finally, measuring her words, “they say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?”

“Alison.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t say it.” I grabbed the rag again. “He made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I don’t need to read, and when I get the courage I’ll open them and that’s it.”

Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.

“Do you have them on you?” she asked.

Of course I had them on me. I’d been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.

Alison and Sarah looked at them.

“Can we take a look?” Alison asked.

I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins they’d ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.

I shrugged.

“Whatever you want,” I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. “They’re probably just apologies or something. I don’t think they’re a big deal.”

I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.

Silence. More silence.

The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isn’t. There should’ve been an “aw how sweet” or “look at his handwriting” or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.

I turned around.

Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression I’d never seen on her. It wasn’t exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadn’t moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.

“Oh,” she said.

Just that.

Oh.

Oh?

She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to “oh, sweetie.”

“This…” she started.

“What?” I said.

“This is pretty…”

I leaned over the counter without realizing it.

“Pretty what?”

The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.

“Give it to me,” I said.

Alison picked up the letter from Sarah’s hands.

“No.”

“Alison.”

“Nope.”

“Come on, it’s probably just a long apology—”

“It’s not an apology.” She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like she’d said too much. Sarah pinched her.

I stayed still for a moment.

“What do you mean it’s not an apology?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

“Alison, if it’s not an apology then what—”

“When you’re ready you’ll read it and that’s it.” She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “And don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.”

“But I didn’t even want to know—”

“And now you do, right?”

I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didn’t need to read them to know they’d hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said “it’s not an apology” in that voice and—

A shadow fell over the counter.

The three of us looked up at the same time.

Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.

I looked at him.

He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like he’d just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.

And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.

And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.

The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.

Sarah and I looked at each other.

Alison’s cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years I’d known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.

She had flushed cheeks.

She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.

“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered.

Sarah opened her mouth.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didn’t match someone with cheeks that color.

Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.

I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: it’s not an apology.

If it wasn’t an apology, then what was it?

I didn’t want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.

It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didn’t count.

I’d taken them out of the drawer where I’d been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didn’t make much sense if you analyzed it. I’d organized them. I’d been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them I’d find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.

It’s not an apology.

Damn Alison.

I picked up the first letter.

I held it for a moment without opening it, fingers on the fold of the paper, staring at it like I could read through it. Logan had spent eight days sitting in the café writing things I didn’t understand why he needed to write.

He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.

No reason.

I unfolded it.

Logan’s handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.

I read the first line.

I froze completely. This can’t be real.

“Oh, shit,” I said out loud.

Hockey.

I wasn’t really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didn’t get the appeal.

Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lot—and nothing good—about what John Fucking Logan does to a person’s critical judgment.

I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.

The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldn’t lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, I just couldn’t stop looking at player number twenty-two.

You’re an idiot.

My conscience scolded me. We’ve hurt each other and I’m still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why can’t feelings have an off button? What’s the point of loving him if he doesn’t feel the same about me?

“You okay?” Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years I’ve known her, had never once fooled me.

“Perfect.”

“Sure,” Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. “That’s why you have that face.”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t have a response that didn’t incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though “unfinished business” was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldn’t, he had told me he simply couldn’t (or didn’t want to) be with me, and since then I’d been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.

I shouldn’t have come.

I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found “Briar Game — 8pm” marked in red. I’d written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.

Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.

And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.

The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.

I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.

Instead here I was, in the stands at Briar’s stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretending—not very effectively—not to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldn’t keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.

Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches I’d given myself and the times I’d repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.

Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problem—that he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.

I looked away.

The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.

And then it happened.

Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.

Score.

The stadium exploded.

I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldn’t hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.

Then Logan raised his hockey stick.

He turned toward the stands with a smile—that smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no name—and I saw it before I could prepare myself.

He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.

Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there weren’t three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.

The stands made that collective sound. That “oooh” people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didn’t miss the moment:

“Looks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t cry all at once, girls—there are still more players on the ice—”

Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.

Alison let go of my arm.

Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.

They both looked at me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. And thank God they didn’t.

“No,” I said.

I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I lied.

“Sure,” Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.

Neither of them made a move to follow me.

I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.

He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.

I’m overthinking this.

I shouldn’t let it affect me. I shouldn’t let it break my decision to stay away from him.

I closed my eyes for a second and the commentator’s voice came back like a horrible echo: “Looks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, don’t cry ladies—”

I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.

I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.

Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.

Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasn’t humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.

I kept walking.

I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me no—when he simply told me he couldn’t give me what I wanted—it was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.

And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.

“Wait!”

I stopped.

I didn’t want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.

I turned slowly.

Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyes—God, his eyes—searching for me with an urgency I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand.

Wait.

Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?

“Stop,” he said when he reached me, breathing hard. “Please, stop.”

I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.

“Logan.” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, and—” I swallowed. “And when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside and—”

“For God’s sake, shut up.”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up.” He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didn’t exist. “Don’t regret anything. Please. Don’t.”

“Logan, I just—”

“I realized too late that she wasn’t you.” His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:

“I ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. “I didn’t want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didn’t realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.”

“Logan, stop—”

“It’s you.”

Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.

“Stop—”

“And if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right now—” his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rain—“right now I’m telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.”

The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didn’t know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didn’t matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.

“Don’t pity me,” I said, and my voice was no longer calm. “Don’t. You don’t have to—” I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.

“Every single one,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. “No exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that you’re the only thing that has made constant sense, I’m going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.”

“Stop, Logan, seriously, stop—”

“And I’m not going to let you give this story that ending.”

He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.

“Nor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.” His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didn’t understand how those two things could coexist. “A story that hasn’t even begun and that I’m already anxious to know the next chapter of. I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it would’ve been like to be with you.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“Even it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in pieces—” he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these months—“my heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.”

My hands were shaking.

“I’ve always been a better person when I’m near you.” He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. “And that’s something I haven’t told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.”

He closed the last few feet between us.

“Forgive me. I’m asking you please.”

I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.

“Don’t… don’t do this to me.” It came out broken, fuck. “Don’t do this to me now that I had already… that I had already…”

“What do you want me to do?” he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. “Do you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? I’ll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

The rain pounded my shoulders.

“But I love you,” he said. “And that’s not going to change.”

I don’t know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.

It was still there.

Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesn’t listen. Damn it.

I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didn’t.

Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.

But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.

John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kiss—wild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.

John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didn’t come back to reality.

“Huh?”

I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.

Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.

They were. God, how much they were worth.

“Your name,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I was calling you by your name.”

“Yeah.” I blinked. “I know. It’s just…”

“What?”

I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldn’t stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesn’t distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not… I mean, I’m not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that really…” I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. “You just told me a bunch of really big things and I’ve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didn’t… that there was nothing and…” I breathed. “And right now my brain is completely fried and the words aren’t coming out in the right order.”

Logan didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.

“But I love you,” I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. “I mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out I’m pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being and—”

“Hey,” Logan said.

“What?

“Shut up.”

And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.

@itzzgillianj27 @thewiselionesss @solapeachtea @itmekelpy @pinkpantheris @matt-murdockk @elyntiasblog @ilovesharry @historygeekqueen @itsalltaken @stilinskisensation @brianna28483 @royialsls @sweeetscandal @dina2223 @hteusefam @uwannalovemern @ch3ska0 @girlbossforever

sasaririri

Please Stop The Music.

pairing: John Logan x readerfem

Summary: She's been in love with her best friend for longer than she'd like to admit. He's been hung up on someone he can't have. One Halloween party later — everything falls apart in the best and worst way possible.

Some lines were never meant to be crossed.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, mutual pining, angst with no immediate resolution, best friends to lovers, and a staircase scene that will genuinely mess you up.

a/n: Hey guys!! I really hope you enjoy this 🤍 I wrote this originally in Spanish and honestly it just hits different in Spanish, but I hope the English version does it justice anyway.

Also John Logan lives in my head rent free and has for a very long time. He is one of my obsessions and I will be taking request!

part two.

"You know I'm such a fool for you..."

( Oh sure, because nothing screams self-respect like still being hung up on someone who looks at you like a mistake he already regrets by morning)

I hated parties.

I always thought of them as dreadful, dark, and horrible… College parties.

Well, actually, the problem wasn’t the party itself. The problem had brown eyes, had a smile —fuck, it made your panties slide off like butter— and was labeled as my best friend, which made him a problem on most days of the year.

John Logan was, with complete objectivity, the worst thing that had happened to me since Janis —my little and beloved 2009 Civic, named that way for the pure chaotic energy of her personality— decided that a pole was her archenemy and crashed into it at twelve kilometers per hour.

It had been an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. I was coming from my shift at my mom’s café with cinnamon flour still on my cheeks and a carton of whole milk in the passenger seat, and suddenly, bam. Janis against the world, the world winning as always.

And then he appeared.

I don’t really know how it happened. I guess he was parked on the same block, or walking by, or emerging dramatically out of nowhere like he usually did. The only thing I remember is that a very tall guy in a hockey team hoodie planted himself in front of Janis, crouched down to inspect the damage, and said, with a voice that sounded like honey spilled over hot asphalt:

“Hey, that’s fixable. Do you know anyone at Mike’s ?” He looked at me quite attentively, his brown eyes scanning me up and down a second longer than necessary. I felt my cheeks burn. I didn’t know if it was Janis that was slightly steaming from the radiator or if it was me who was about to melt right there.

“No,” I murmured.

“I do.” He took out his phone as if he already knew he was going to solve the problem. “What’s the model?”

“What?”

“The car.” —“The car,” he repeated, pointing at Janis with his chin.

I blinked, feeling completely out of place.

“Janis. It’s a 2009 Civic.”

He looked up from the phone he had just taken out and stared at me for a long second, as if he were evaluating whether I was very weird or the kind of weird he found entertaining. Then he let out a soft, genuine laugh, shaking his head.

“Janis,” he repeated, savoring the name. “Well chosen.”

His smile tilted only on one side, but it was enough. A direct hit to my cardiovascular system. Something in that arrogant and amused expression made my stomach do a dangerous flip.

That’s how it all started. That stupid, that insignificant, that definitive.

It had been his idea to dress up as Snoopy and Charlie Brown.

Mine, I mean. My idea. Which, in retrospect, should have given me a clue of how completely gone I was, because who voluntarily suggests spending Halloween stuffed into a black and white dog costume when I could have been, I don’t know, a sexy witch like any mentally stable person?

Me, apparently.

And now I was standing on the threshold of a Halloween party in a Snoopy costume that made me look like a white sausage with ears. Logan had gotten lost in the crowd a while ago; right now he was on the other side of the room. There he was, leaning against the back wall in his yellow zigzag shirt that should have made him look ridiculous but somehow made him look like the most attractive guy in the room.

“Snoopy, what the fuck?” Dean appeared beside me with his typical shit-eating grin, dressed as something that looked like a sexy demon, quite sexy. “Was that your idea or did Logan force you? Because if it was your idea, I need to know how drunk you were when you had it.”

“It was my idea,” I admitted, falling under the Di Laurentis effect.

Dean burst out laughing.

“Poor Logan… having to put up with a best friend with such bad taste in costumes.” He winked at me. “Though the snout looks good on you.”

“Go to hell, Dean.”

“With pleasure, but first I’m going to find someone who wants to sin tonight.” He patted me on the head as if I were a real dog and disappeared into the crowd. Tucker followed behind him, shaking his head.

“Hey, Snoopy.” Tucker leaned against me with a beer in each hand, looking me up and down with a little smirk that meant he was about to say something awful. “Great costume, wrong place.”

“Thanks, Tucker. What would I do without your insightful observation.”

“I’m just saying that if you’re trying to get someone to see you as something more than the best friend, going dressed as a pet might not be the best strategy—”

“Can I?” I interrupted him, taking one of the cold beers from his hand without waiting for an answer.

“That was Logan’s,” Tucker replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” I took a long, deep swig, feeling the icy liquid go down my throat. “Perfect.”

Tucker watched me in silence for a few seconds, with that look of his between worried and resigned that he had been perfecting for months. That look that said “I know you’re about to do something stupid and I don’t know how to stop it.”

It had all started one night of absolute weakness, after seeing Logan flirting with a girl at the café. In a drunken attack of honesty, I confessed to Tucker that I was in love with his best friend. To Tucker. Of all the people in the world, I told one of John’s best friends that I was dying for him. I still regretted it every time I remembered.

The Hannah Wells thing was the reason Logan needed this party.

He never mentioned it to me, of course. Logan didn’t say things like that; he already felt like shit for liking his best friend’s girl. And he carried it all in silence, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. What he said was: “I need to get drunk and forget about everything for a few hours,” which translated from Logan language meant exactly the same.

Hannah Wells.

Garrett’s girlfriend.

She was pretty, smart, and had a quiet sweetness that made Logan look like a lost puppy every time she was around. I couldn’t hate her. Hannah wasn’t to blame for anything. The problem was him, who had fallen in love with the wrong girl without being able to help it, and now he punished himself for feeling something he never planned to act on.

He told me while I was decorating pumpkin cupcakes. His voice came out low, almost defeated.

“She loves Garrett, I’m really very happy for my friend but… I’m still here, feeling like a son of a bitch for not being able to get her out of my head.”

I continued spreading the frosting in perfect circles, swallowing the bitter knot that had formed in my throat. And I thought, with a shame that burned me alive: maybe if I were enough… maybe if he looked at me that way.

God. What a disgusting thought. What a disgusting me.

“Are you okay?” Tucker asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. His voice sounded softer than usual, as if he already knew the answer.

“I’m fantastic,” I answered automatically, with a smile so forced my cheeks hurt.

Tucker looked at me a second longer than necessary and let out a sigh.

“You lie terribly.”

“Tucker.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

I said it without force, almost in a murmur. I didn’t have the energy to argue. He just shook his head, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to me, watching me as if he feared I was going to break at any moment.

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” he murmured after a while, giving me a comforting pat on the arm before leaving.

The problem with getting drunk at a Halloween party while trying to forget your crush is that it requires an alcohol consumption that no sensible liver would approve. And the additional problem with doing that next to your best friend who is secretly in love with you is that it generates a level of built-up tension that no sensible nervous system would approve either.

We were somewhere in the second hour when the situation got complicated.

Not suddenly. It’s never sudden. It’s gradual, like the temperature of the water when you raise it little by little: you don’t realize you’re boiling until it’s too late to jump.

“Hey,” Logan said, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to me. His glass was almost empty and his cheeks had that typical red. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly,” I answered, and took a long sip of my drink. It was too sweet, it had too much alcohol… and it was too good.

Logan studied me for a second. His hair was slightly messy, his face sweaty from the heat of the party, and yet —and yet, which was the central problem of my existence— he was still the most ridiculously handsome guy in the room.

It was a cosmic injustice.

“You don’t look perfectly,” he said.

“And you look very interested in my emotional state for someone who’s been avoiding looking toward where Garrett is for two hours.”

Shit. Silence.

Too direct. I knew it the moment I said it, but alcohol has this horrible thing of removing my filter and well, it wasn’t like I was doing great either.

Very bad idea coming. I shouldn’t have come.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

“God…” I murmured, closing my eyes for a second. “That was wrong. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m sorry,” I added quickly, feeling the annoyance with myself rising in my chest. “It wasn’t for me to throw it in your face. You told me in confidence and I…”

“No,” he cut me off softly, running a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re right.”

We both stood looking at the same wall in front in an uncomfortable silence. On the other side, two girls dressed as cats were arguing about something the music wouldn’t let us hear. The plastic spiderwebs on the ceiling had started to come loose and hung crooked, just as pathetic as I was in that moment.

“You know what I need?” he said, cutting the tension, and turned with that crooked smile that always disarmed me.

“More alcohol?” I answered, half joking.

“To dance.”

I looked at him, surprised. I had barely opened my mouth to respond when a guy walked past us with a tray full of shots. Logan didn’t think twice: he reached out, grabbed two glasses and handed me one without saying anything.

“Cheers,” he said, and downed it in one gulp.

I hesitated for half a second, but the alcohol had already won the battle. I drank it in one go too. The liquid burned my throat and warmed my chest instantly.

Without waiting for a response, Logan closed his fingers firmly around mine. His hand was warm, a little rough, and that simple contact accelerated my pulse more than the shot I had just taken.

“Come on, we’re the most ridiculous duo at this party.” He extended his hand. “Perfectly matched.” he murmured, and pulled me toward the center of the room without giving me a chance to protest.

It was a mistake.

Let me say it clearly: it was a big mistake, and I should have seen it coming from the first note of the song. Because the universe, that son of a bitch, has an absolutely incredible sense of humor and decided to play Don’t Stop the Music right at that moment.

We were already quite drunk. The shot we had taken in one gulp had hit us fast, and the heat of the party made everything feel more intense, closer, more dangerous.

Logan pulled me to the center of the makeshift dance floor and started moving with me. At first it was something clumsy and fun, laughing at how badly we danced. But when the chorus came and Rihanna sang that part…

Your hands around my waist…

oh shiiiiit.

He didn’t think about it. Or maybe he did. His hands slid down naturally and closed around my fluffy waist, pulling me toward him until our bodies were pressed together. The contact was electric. His fingers pressed gently against the fabric of my costume, firm, hot.

I looked up and found him staring at me. There was no laughter in his eyes anymore. Just that drunk intensity that makes everything blurry and too sharp at the same time.

Without realizing it, my hands went up to his chest, feeling how it moved under the shirt. We swayed together, slow and sensual, as if the music were giving us permission to cross a line we had never crossed. His breath brushed my temple. My hips responded against his almost by instinct, following the rhythm and the heat growing between us.

This is wrong, I thought, even though my body said the complete opposite.

It’s Logan.

But in that moment, with his hands around my waist and his body pressed against mine, none of those reasons seemed to matter.

“Hey,” Logan murmured, his voice hoarse and low, almost lost in the music.

“Hi,” I replied.

Completely useless as a response.

Perfectly honest as a response.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a soft or sweet kiss. It was hot, desperate, as if he had been holding it in for years and the alcohol had broken all the barriers. His hands moved from my waist to my back, pulling me hard against his body while his mouth claimed mine. He tasted like alcohol and something sweeter, more dangerous. His lips were demanding, almost aggressive, and I responded with the same intensity, tangling my fingers in his messy hair.

The world disappeared. There was only the heat of his mouth, the way his tongue brushed mine, the low moan that escaped his throat and vibrated against my lips. We kissed as if we were drowning and the other was the air. His hands moved a little lower, pressing me against him, and I melted into that kiss, completely forgetting that this was a line we shouldn’t cross.

He pulled away for barely a second, just the time for a ragged breath. His forehead stayed pressed against mine, eyes closed, and he murmured something that sounded like my name halfway, like a question he didn’t dare finish.

I responded by standing on my tiptoes and kissing him again, harder.

Logan let out a low sound, almost a growl, and pulled me against his body with more force. His lips became slower, more deliberate, as if now he wanted to learn every detail of my mouth. As if he had all the time in the world to do it.

I don’t even know how we got to his room.

I remember laughter in the hallway, his clumsy hands searching for the keys while I laughed against his neck, and then the door slamming shut behind us. The world was still spinning a bit, but it didn’t matter anymore. Only we mattered.

Logan gently pushed me against the door as soon as we entered, kissing me again with that drunk desperation that had consumed us on the dance floor. Our mouths crashed between laughter and ragged breaths. We kissed badly, with teeth, with tongue, with desire. Every time one laughed, the other silenced them with a deeper kiss.

“Turn around,” he murmured against my lips, his voice hoarse and amused.

I obeyed between laughs, still with the Snoopy ears crooked on my head. I turned, placing my hands against the door. I felt his clumsy fingers struggling with the zipper and buttons of my costume. He was too drunk. We both were.

“Shit… how the fuck does this open?” he growled, frustrated, while pulling without success.

I laughed, resting my forehead against the cold wood.

“Logan, you’re a mess…”

“Shut up,” he said, laughing too, and gave another harder tug.

A clear and satisfying riiiiiip was heard. The costume tore down the back from the shoulder almost to the waist. The cold air hit my exposed skin and I let out a surprised laugh.

“Logan!”

“Oops,” he murmured, not sounding sorry at all.

Instead of apologizing, he leaned in and started kissing my bare back, moving down my spine with hot, wet kisses. His big hands slipped through the opening he had just created, circling my waist and moving up my ribs. His mouth returned to my neck, biting gently while I sighed and arched against him.

“I’ll buy you another one,” he whispered against my skin, his voice thick. “Tomorrow… or next week… I don’t know.”

I turned in his arms, still laughing, and kissed him with the same urgency. My hands pulled at his shirt while he kept touching me as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. The torn costume hung ridiculously from my body, but neither of us had the coordination or desire to take it off properly.

Logan pulled away just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, glassy from alcohol and desire. Without saying anything else, he slowly knelt in front of me, his hands sliding down my hips, dragging what was left of the costume to the floor.

He looked at me from below for a second, with that expression of pure desperation, as if he had been waiting for this all night… or all his life. His hands trembled slightly when he opened my legs.

“John…” I whispered, not knowing if it was a warning or a plea.

He didn’t respond with words. He just let out a low moan and buried his face between my thighs, kissing me with the same desperate urgency he had had in my mouth seconds before.

The next morning, the sun was a crime against humanity.

I woke up with my eyes still closed, on that threshold of consciousness where you know exactly where you are but still have the fraction of a second to pretend you don’t. The sheets were thick cotton. The smell was different: wood, something that was only from this room, him.

I reached out my hand. Cold.

The side of the bed where he should have been was cold.

I opened my eyes.

Logan’s room, which I knew from being here at his desk helping him review papers, from being here on his floor watching hockey games, felt completely different with the morning light coming through the blinds. The Snoopy costume was on the floor, perfectly ironic in its abandonment. My shoes by the door, very neat for the result of something so messy.

I sat up slowly.

There were no immediate noises. Just the party that still echoed downstairs, muted, the sound of people who hadn’t left yet or had decided to sleep where they fell.

I dressed in one of his hoodies. I tied up my hair as best I could. I grabbed my shoes, the Snoopy costume folded under my arm because it was the only thing I had to carry, and opened the door.

I told myself: go out, go down the stairs, open the front door, leave.

Simple. Executable. One foot after the other.

I reached the landing of the stairs.

And then I heard Logan’s voice.

It came from the kitchen. Clear under the muted murmur of the party, with that tone of someone speaking in a low voice but too agitated to control it completely.

I should have kept going down.

I know.

I knew it then too, on the landing, with my hand on the railing and my feet on the first step. I should have gone down the sixteen steps that separated Logan’s bedroom from the ground floor, crossed without looking and gone out into the November morning without hearing anything else.

But I heard my name.

And I froze.

“I don’t know what the fuck happened, Tucker.” Logan’s voice, tense, low. “I woke up and… God. I fucked up. I fucked everything up.”

A pause. Tucker responding something I couldn’t hear.

“Yes. I know I was drunk, but that doesn’t…” A dull sound, as if he had leaned something against the counter. “If she comes down, tell her I went for a run or something. That I won’t be here. I need her to… I need her to leave before I have to—”

I didn’t hear the rest.

Not because it stopped. But because something in my chest made a noise that wasn’t literally audible but should have been. Like something giving way in an orderly manner: one line first, then another, then another, like the structure of something that had been held up for too long with too little.

I need her to leave.

I fucked everything up.

Sixteen steps. I counted them one by one because it was the only thing I could make my brain focus on without slipping toward the rest. Tucker was with his back to me when I reached the kitchen, and he turned when he heard me. His face said an entire paragraph: the beginning of an apology, something he wanted to tell me and didn’t know how to start.

I didn’t let him.

I went down the last steps, crossed the house without looking at Tucker and walked out the front door.

“Hey,” Logan called behind me.

I stopped.

“Wait,” he said, approaching. “Please.”

I turned around.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I said. “We were drunk, I was drunk, something happened that neither of us planned and we both know it.”

Logan stayed silent. And that silence hurt me more than any words.

“I’m in love with you,” I blurted out suddenly. The words came out without permission, but I couldn’t stop them anymore. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. And I know this is the worst possible moment to tell you, I’m really sorry if it sounds weird to you,” I kept my voice steady out of pure stubbornness. “But I needed you to know.”

I saw how his eyes widened, confused, almost scared. He opened his mouth. Closed it. “What? Well, I… I… I can’t.”

I felt my face burning, but I continued:

“I’m not asking you to feel the same. I just… needed you to know. Because after last night I can’t go back and you have no idea,” I started.

“Don’t do that.”

“…of what your friendship means to me,” I said anyway. “I’m sorry for misinterpreting things. I’m very grateful to have met you. But I can’t do this.”

The November cold got into my bones. I felt everything we had built falling apart in front of me and I had just accelerated it.

Logan ran a hand through his hair, visibly lost.

“I… I can’t,” he murmured. “I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t give you what you want.”

You can’t. Of course you can’t.

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat.

“I understand,” I said quietly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to force you into anything. It’s just… I can’t lose you, Logan. But I also can’t keep destroying myself pretending I’m fine.”

I turned around and started walking.

“Wait,” he called, following me. “Please, just a second.”

“No,” I answered without stopping. “Don’t ask me to stay so you can give me explanations you don’t feel. I don’t need your pity.”

I left him there, in the middle of the sidewalk, with my heart in pieces and the feeling that I had just lost my best friend and the boy I loved in a single morning.

The Cranberries · Stars: The Best Of The Cranberries 1992-2002 · Song · 2002

presley4president

Me core:

hucklerabbot-and-rock

Shawn's Pope Cody was showing this episode and I ATE. IT. UP.

sargeant-bxrnes

pope cody, glad to see you’re alive and well

r0mantasywh0re

off campus fics please please now that the show is out 🤞🏻😭

barnesonfilm

“it’s a story about letting someone treat you badly, because at least they’re treating you at all.”

★ part one

★ part two

★ part three

★ part four

★ part five

ladyybridgerton

Off-Campus Headers

pileofboneswrites

COMMISSION. vol. 2

SUMMARY — rhett fixes the back door while you try to watch his parent's wedding video... mostly you space out. then, reality smacks you in the face... a couple times. PAIRING — rhett abbott x fem!tillerson!reader WORD COUNT — 8.1k WARNINGS — swearing, allusions to reader being shorter than rhett, ivy is a hardcore shipper, drinking, mentions of past use of marijuana, familial fighting, no use of y/n — is referred to as ms. tillerson, little sister & warlord, rhett being a tease gentleman, crying, fear of disownment, ivy being the best hypewoman & friend, writing this made me realize how much i use em dashes,,, i am okay with that (there's a lot of them), kissing, trevor, luke & billy being good brothers—but also bastards, arguing, angst, soft!rhett near the end A/N — i came to the realization that i don't think i've actually written any kissing scenes in like 2-3 years so i'm sorry if it's cringe. but thank you for all the love on part one!! i really appreciate it and all of you <3 i hope y'all like this part, and hopefully i'll have part 3 up next week sometime!!

MASTERLIST

"alright, i want details and i want them two hours ago," ivy says, settling in the chair rhett had occupied just a few short hours ago.

luke had literally just left, he'd stuck around to grill you about rhett's visit, and then promptly reminded you who your loyalty should be to. the totally shocking (not at all shocking), impromptu verbal power point concluded with a pointed glare and a grunted, "you're a tillerson—act like it."

pileofboneswrites

COMMISSION. vol. 1

SUMMARY — you're the weird tillerson girl, your brother's joke that you make billy look normal by comparison, but you don't really care. you enjoy life off the ranch, living in town and contributing to the community. your art studio is your sanctuary, and the day that rhett abbott walks in asking to commission a painting for his parents anniversary, your world flips upside down.

PAIRING — rhett abbott x fem!tillerson!reader

WORD COUNT — 3.4k

WARNINGS — swearing, tillersons?, pining, reader is extremely embarrassed, no mentions of y/n — is referred to as "my girls" (by luke) & tillerson (by rhett), bearly proofread (we die like men)

A/N — i am on episode three of outer range, please be kind to me, ALSO LEWIS PULLMAN,, THE MAN YOU ARE.

MASTERLIST

shock doesn't even begin to cover what flashes through your chest when you see rhett abbott sitting in the front waiting area of your studio. you're sitting in the main office, sifting through paperwork when you feel eyes on the side of your face. you're alone, or you should be. your assistant is out running errands, and you weren't running any art classes today. so, feeling eyes on you, set you on edge. then, you look up, eyes catching on a familiar face. not necessarily an unwelcome one—your brothers might not feel the same—by your standards at least. just, rhett is the last person you'd ever expect to be here.

endlesstrashcycle

So a couple of weeks ago I saw Waitress 2023 as one does and

And I havent been able to take this out of my mind :

So I made this:

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