˗ˏˋ jam with me ˎˊ˗

brain rot specialist 23. she/her. call me berry! 🍓

[raspberriesnwine]

hi sweets! first of all your theme is to DIE for, it reminds me of raspberry jam from strawberry shortcake. i actually don’t have a second ask, that was all <3

ohMYGOD!?!?! saw ur username pop up in my inbox @jalenspuckbunny and had to take a lap around the house to self regulate.

i'm genuinely so obsessed with your fics (certified lurker guilty as charged). whimsy!reader x hannah stan till i die 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

thank u sm for the sweet comment 🥹 i luv miss raspberry. the early 2000s strawberry shortcake aesthetic has definitely been inspo for this blog!! adshfgasdhjkhfg

thank u for stopping by!!!!!!!!!!!

[iceyngi]

Just Tonight

☄︎ Warnings: Open-ended / Cliff-hanger / Sadish ending (but they will be happy in the future) ☄︎ Pairing: MediaManager!Reader x John Logan ☄︎ Rating/Genre: Second-Chance Romance. Light Angst. Light Smut (not explicit). ☄︎ Words: 5455 ☄︎ Summary: You see Logan again for the first time in two years.

💭: it's a while that i wrote sth that wasn't requested, so i think that's why i'm super self-concious about it. but i loved writing this. i really wanted to try a second-chance romance and thought it could fit w them. i hope you enjoy but it's okay if not xx

Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Logan Masterlist here.

The adults in your life always went on about how time went faster as you grew up. It was something that younger you could never fathom. The months until the summer holidays always felt like years were passing by.   

Lately, the days had a habit of slipping through your fingers like water, vanishing before you could grab hold of them. Sometimes, if you closed your eyes and breathed in the scent of cold ice, you could convince yourself that you were still standing behind the glass at Briar U. The memories were so sharp that it felt like only hours ago, but it wasn’t.

The reality was that it had been almost two years since you’d said goodbye to the Hawks and ventured out to a new city.

Today, however, it was as if time had literally slowed down, the seconds stretching out in an almost painful way.

The air in the reception hall was thick, almost suffocating. It was filled with a heavy mixture of expensive perfumes, fading floral arrangements, the warm August heat, and the sharp burn of men’s aftershave. The smells were so overwhelmingly strong that it left a dull ache behind your temples.

You suspected the smell wasn’t the only reason why your head was swimming.

You and Logan had broken up not long after you’d gotten together. It was fun at first, the sneaking around, but the pressure built up quickly the few months that you were together until it suffocated you. When it ended, you didn’t just leave him; you’d left Massachusetts all together. You hadn’t been back since. You hadn’t let yourself go back to the hockey crowd. They were his friends, after all. Even though you had grown close to them during your time as their media manager, it wasn’t close enough to excuse your presence in their lives.

So, when the cream envelope arrived in your mailbox, your heart had clenched so violently it physically hurt. You hadn’t been a forgotten piece of their story; you were wanted at one of their weddings. More importantly, it gave you a perfect excuse.  

An excuse to see him again. To simply in the same room, breathing the same air, if only for an afternoon.

It had taken you months of agonising over the invitation, months of late-night arguments with your own reflection, to convince yourself that showing up was the right move.

You’d told yourself it would be a quick fix, a brief desperate glimpse to quiet the ache behind your ribs before you buried yourself back in your work.

Lying to yourself came so easy the more you told it.

From your seat near the back, you watched Logan on the altar, his broad shoulders filling out his tuxedo, nodding along as the pastor spoke of forever and happy endings. But every so often, his eyes would drift, sweeping over the crowd in slow motion, taking in every face.

You wondered if there were women in the crowd who sat up a little straighter when his eyes passed over them, hoping the handsome, rising NHL star was looking for them. You knew he wasn't.

He was looking for you.

But still, every time his gaze drifted near your section, your stomach flipped. You wanted to see him, not have him see you. You moved, hiding behind the broad shoulder of the stranger in front of you.

The ceremony itself was mercifully short, ending in an eruption of applause as Garrett dipped Hannah and kissed her as if they were in a romcom.

As the newlyweds and the wedding party began to filter out, Logan remained on the stage for a moment longer. He stepped up to the microphone, his voice vibrating through the chapel speakers as he made a brief announcement about what was next on the agenda.

But when his announcement concluded, he didn't move.

He stood there just a beat too long, the silence stretching until it became awkward. His eyes scanned the remaining crowd one last time, a heavy sigh moving his chest before he finally turned and followed the rest of the party out.

Once he was truly gone, the tight band around your ribs loosened slightly. You were finally able to breathe. That should have been the moment you took to take your leave. You’d seen the vows, you’d seen him. That was enough, anything longer was tempting fate, playing a dangerous game with a heart you had spent two years trying to rebuild.

But instead of turning towards the exit, your legs betrayed you. You walked as if on auto-pilot out into the humid evening air with the other guests.

For a while, you let yourself get lost in the white noise of polite conversation. You caught up with old, but familiar, faces from Briar, trying to draw out the conversations so you had an excuse as to why you were still there.

Eventually the chatter died down as the guests were invited into the reception hall. You chose a seat near the very back of the reception hall, intentionally hiding behind a massive floral arrangement. It was a cowardly move and you knew it.

Keeping your fingers wrapped tightly around your glass, you focused your eyes on the way the bubbles popped, doing everything in your power to avoid looking at the head table.

It was a foolish task. You knew you wouldn’t be able to keep from looking. You were already sneaking glances, your eyes betraying your mind. Trying to protect your heart was never going to work. Not when Logan was, and always will be, your heart. How do you protect your heart from the person it belonged to?

With a gentle clicking of silverware against the glass, came the toasts. Garrett’s arm was looped tightly around Hannah’s waist, both of them beaming, enveloped in the kind of radiant love that you used to dream about.

Logan stood up, and the breath caught in your throat. You finally allowed yourself your first real, uninterrupted look at him.

The past two years had done devastatingly good things for him. The boyish charm you were used to seeing through the screen capture during his junior year had hardened into something broader, sharper, and intensely magnetic. In a tailored black tuxedo that clung to his broad shoulders, his dark hair pushed back, he looked every bit the professional NHL star he had become. He gripped the microphone, a rare flash of nerves crossing his face before he looked out at the room.

You nearly jumped in your seat when he looked directly at you. He didn't search. He had known exactly where you were this whole time.

The air was instantly sucked from your lungs, leaving your chest hollow and cold. For a terrifying, beautiful second, the background noise of the hall faded.  

Logan cleared his throat, his gaze lingering on your face for one heartbeat too long before he spoke into the mic. His voice was deep, rough, and so achingly familiar it memories of it whispering against your skin come flooding back.

 “We all know Garrett,” Logan started, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. “We know he’s stubborn, we know he’s competitive, and we know he doesn’t like to lose. But the smartest thing he ever did was recognise what he had with Hannah when he found it. He didn’t let stupid fears or bad timing get in the way for too long. He fought for her.”

“Some people,” Logan continued, “some people are stupid. They let fear of the future dictate their choices, and they end up letting the best thing that ever happened to them slip right through their fingers.”

A few people in the crowd laughed softly, probably assuming he was making a joke about the fact that he was single. But you knew better.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. He was bleeding out his deepest regrets into a microphone in front of a hundred people, just so you would hear them.

Logan’s speech continued, but the words became a blur, drowned out by the deafening ringing in your ears. Playing the part of an attentive guest, you forced a smile and laughed as if on cue when the rest of the table did. Hoping nobody noticed how you were always a fraction behind.

The moment the room finally erupted into applause, you quietly slid your chair back.

It was still warm when you slipped through the side exit, the late August sun still shining through the trees, painting the estate in a golden light. You took a deep breath to steady yourself, pulling out your phone to open the Uber app.

Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely type your hotel's address. Your vision blurred around the edges. You just needed to get to your room, needed to escape before the memories of what you lost consumed you.

“You’re leaving already?”

Thumb hovering over your phone screen, you froze. For a cowardly second, you contemplated pretending you hadn’t heard him. But then the gravel crunched behind you as he moved closer. Logan’s hand gently brushed the bare skin of your arm, leaving goosebumps behind.

“Are you leaving already?”

Slowly, you turned around.

Logan had ditched his jacket somewhere back inside the hall. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the thick muscles of his forearms, those had grown nicely. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as if he’d run out the very second he’d put the mic down.

Seeing his face this close, it was like the mental block in your mind just crumbled. Stronger memories rushed in, the ones that you could physically feel. They were muddy and chaotic; the dark corners of the Briar arena, the weight of him pressing you against a wall, and the long nights that always bled into lazy mornings.

“I’m tired. It’s a long drive back to my hotel,” you said finally. Your voice was remarkably steady despite the fact that every blink was blurred with a new memory with him.

“I haven’t seen you in two years... I haven’t heard your voice in two years.”

“We made one another a promise, John,” you whispered, the use of his government name making your heart squeeze. “We can’t go ba–.”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. He stepped closer anyway, the clean scent of him and the expensive cologne he only wore for special occasions wrapping around you. “I remember everything about our breakup, and I remember the promises we made. You don’t need to remind me.”

There was no right way for you to respond to that. So, you didn’t.

Your eyes traced over him, helpless to stop themselves. He looked devastatingly good. Tucked beneath his unbuttoned collar, the chain of the silver necklace you had bought him for his birthday gleamed against his tanned skin. His hair was styled in the exact messy, pushed-back look he knew you loved. He still looked like he was yours, like he was dressing just for you, even though he hadn’t been yours in so long.

And as you took him in, he did the same to you. His eyes ran over your body in a way that was somehow disrespectfully respectful.

“You look incredible. You are so beautiful,” he murmured. The words slipped out of him on autopilot, a reflex he couldn't control, sounding as comfortable as if no time had passed at all.

The compliment pierced straight through your fragile walls, “you don’t look so bad yourself, Loge. the look suits you.”

“Yeah?” A tiny, painfully hopeful, smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished the moment he noticed your posture and the way your eyes darted to your phone. “Please stay for just one dance,” he pleaded. “Just give me tonight, and if you tell me tomorrow to never call you again, I swear to God, I’ll leave you alone. Just... don’t leave yet.”

“Why would that be a good idea?” you asked, the question meant more for yourself than him. You so desperately wanted him to convince you. You wanted him to give you permission to break your own rules, and he knew you well enough to know exactly what you needed to hear.

“Why don’t you tell me why you ran when you heard my speech?” he countered softly.

You blinked, that wasn’t the answer you’d expected. “You know why.”

When he just watched you, a single dark eyebrow raised in quiet challenge, you let out a breath. “It’s a wedding, Logan. It’s romantic, it’s emotional, and you’re up there with your loaded speech... I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“No one knew what I meant except you,” he argued. “I just needed you to know.”

“Know what? That you have regrets?” Your laugh was small and humourless as you looked away from him. “That’s not a surprise. You know the choice we made wasn’t because we didn’t love each other. But we did make a choice, and we can’t go back. I can’t afford to get pulled backward into... whatever this is.”

“Backward?” Logan repeated, the word sounding as though it physically pained him. He closed his eyes for a split second, his jaw tight. When he opened them, his doe eyes were wide. “Is that how you would see being with me? A step backward?”

“Maybe,” you said, though the word tasted like ash on your tongue. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, defying every instinct that begged you to soften. “Maybe a massive one. I’ve spent years making sure my name is respected in this industry because of my work, not because of who I’m dating. If anyone saw us–.”

“There’s no one here,” he cut in, “there are no cameras. No one is watching us. I’m not asking you to jeopardise anything. I’m just begging for a dance with my girl.”

My girl.

It was probably pathetic that, deep down, you had never really stopped being his girl. But, evidently, he hadn’t stopped being your Logan.

“Please,” he whispered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Let me make new memories of you that I can carry with me.”

You felt faint, your legs suddenly warm and unsteady. You wanted so badly to step forward, to let your forehead rest against his chest, to just let him hold you. But your fears stopped you.

“I– I really can’t,” you stammered, the excuses tripping over your tongue in a panicked rush. “My Uber is... the driver is already five minutes away, and I have an early flight tomorrow, and...”

“You’re lying,” Logan said softly. There was no accusation in his voice, only certainty. “I know you.”

‘Walk away,’ your brain demanded. ‘You worked too hard to get over him. If you step back into his orbit, even for a night, you’ll ruin the peace you built.’

But your heart, the secret romantic you tried so hard to suppress, was screaming louder. He was right there. He was standing in front of you, looking at you as if you were the only person left in the world.

‘Just tonight,’ you thought. ‘Just let yourself have tonight.’

“Just one dance,” you whispered, the surrender tasting sweet and terrifying all at once. “Just one, Logan.”

The relief that washed over his face was almost palpable, his shoulders dropping. “Just tonight,” he promised.

He reached out to take your hand, and you let your fingers slide into his. Your hand still git into his perfectly, as if it had been carved specifically for him.

When you stepped back into the ballroom, the reception was in full swing. The free-flowing alcohol had made the crowd loud, warm, and loose, the air thick with laughter and the sweet, dizzying scent of champagne.

Before you could fully adjust to the sensory overload, Dean Di Laurentis was sliding into view.

You pulled your hand from Logan’s grasp in a sudden, panicked blur, muscle memory kicking in.

“You’re here!” Dean grinned; a half-empty drink cradled in his hand and a wicked, appreciative smirk instantly spreading across his face. Beside him, Tucker and several of the other old Briar hockey guys turned at the sound of your name.

“Jesus,” Dean whistled softly, his eyes scanning down the length of your dress. “The years have been incredibly kind to you, sweetheart. You look absolutely stunning. Doesn’t she, Logan?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek as his chest puffed out instinctively. He took a subtle step forward, placing his shoulder slightly in front of yours as if to shield you from Dean's gaze. His eyes narrowed at his friend and former teammate.

“Back off, Di Laurentis,” Logan grumbled.

Dean only laughed, unbothered by the sudden territorial display. He stepped closer, raising his glass in a mock toast to you. “Come on, Logan, don’t be greedy. You can’t keep the prettiest girl in the room to yourself all night.”

Turning his attention back to you, Dean’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You owe me a dance, sweetheart. For old time’s sake.”

Beside you, you could feel Logan practically vibrating with tension.

It was a physical sensation you hadn’t realised you’d missed so desperately. The fierce and entirely primitive way he staked his claim on you was intoxicating. In the two years since the breakup, you had assumed he must have told at the guys, probably at least Garrett, about what you two had been.

You weren’t sure if Dean actually knew and was playing games, or was just genuinely being his flirty self. Back in the Briar days, Dean had loved to flirt, and you had mastered how to flirt back whilst keeping your professional boundaries. Logan had spent his entire junior and senior years practising how to subdue his burning jealousy in front of his team. It was a fun game you liked to play.

And technically, tonight, you were single. There was absolutely no reason for you to play the pining, loyal ex-girlfriend.

“I’ll save a dance for you,” you said smoothly, trying not to smile as you caught the sharp inhale Logan took beside you.

The second Dean and the guys drifted out of earshot, Logan turned on you.

His hand made contact with the small of your back, pressing you forward to the dancefloor.

“You’re not dancing with him,” he muttered, his voice tight with a childish jealousy. “You’re not dancing with anyone else.”

“Oh? And who decided that?” you teased, tilting your head back to look up at him. The foundation of your walls were breaking further with every passing second.

 “You did,” Logan said, turning you to face him, his chest nearly brushing yours. “You told me in the garden. Just one dance.”

You gave him a familiar smirk; the exact one you used to give him in the Briar locker room when he’d try to negotiate for extra media coverage.

“I agreed to just one dance with you,” you pointed out. “I never said anything about my plans for the rest of the night. A girl has to network, after all.”

Logan’s jaw dropped slightly, a frustrated groan escaping his throat. “You are unbelievable,” he mumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

He spun you around the crowded dancefloor. When the one song you’d agreed to dance with him for ended, his grip on your waist tightened just enough to let you know he had absolutely zero intention of letting you go.

“I’m not letting you anywhere near Di Laurentis,” he muttered.

“You can’t watch me all night.” What were you saying, you didn’t plan to be there all night. you were supposed to be leaving now.

“Can’t i?” he responded, eyebrow raised.

“What if I need to go to the bathroom?” you asked, ignoring the fact that you had fallen back into old conversation patterns all too easily. “Are you going to follow me there, too?”

Logan paused and looked down at you. you realised the stupidity of your words as you’d said them. Of course he would. It was something he’d done before. When you’d first started dating at Briar, you had been so all over each other that you’d ended up locked in Malone’s bathroom as Justin’s band played on stage. It hadn’t been your proudest moment, but it certainly hadn't been your worst.

Before you could dwell on the memory, Logan pulled you flush against him as another slow song came on. You swayed in his arms, naturally following his lead.

It was terrifying how easily, how seamlessly, the two of you fell back into the old rhythm. Within seconds, the music, the lights, and the crowd faded into a blur.

Slowly, carefully, his hands slid lower down, while your arms found their familiar place around his shoulders. You leant into him, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in. He smelt like home.

A half-hour later, you spotted Dean scanning the crowd, likely looking to cash in on his promised dance. You caught his eye across the room, but before Dean could take a step towards you, you pointedly wrapped your arms tighter around Logan's neck, burying your face into his shirt.

When the DJ transitioned into faster tracks, you laughed as Logan tried to show off, spinning you out only to pull you back against his chest a little too fast.

A wedding was the absolute worst place for this reunion, you thought. The atmosphere was already thick with romance, practically begging you to make a mistake. But the feelings and the energy floating in the thin space between your bodies was electric. The way he looked down at you, his eyes dark and heavy, made your mouth water. You craved a kiss so badly.

Before you even realised it, the crowd had thinned to a lingering few. The DJ’s songs were practically echoing off of the walls of the empty room, even Hannah and Garrett had left. The staff were quietly clearing half-empty champagne flutes from the tables. Around you, people were whispering their final goodbyes, slipping into coats, and heading out into the quiet August night.

Yet, you and Logan were still in the centre of the floor, moving in a slow sway.

"Hey," Logan whispered, his breath fanning your face.

"Hmm?" you murmured, not wanting to open your eyes and face reality.

"We should go; they're turning the lights up soon...” When you finally looked up at him, he was watching you. “Don’t go back to your hotel.”

Your heart almost stopped beating. "Logan…"

"I'm not asking for a promise," he said. "I'm not asking you to change your mind about your career, or us, or anything else tomorrow. But tonight... just let me hold you. Let me wake up next to you, just once. Please."

“You’ve asked for a lot today.”

“I know,” he said, “I know, I’m being greedy. And I’m not sorry about it.”

The danger with Logan was that no matter how much of yourself you gave him, no matter how many of your boundaries and walls you broke down, you always wanted to give him more. You wanted to give him all of you. and that made it hard when you were trying to build a name and be independent the male-dominated world of the NHL.

You should have told him no. You should have reminded him that you had promised exactly one dance, but you’d already given him hours. However, you couldn’t. It wasn’t enough for you and you understood all too clearly why it wasn’t enough for him, either.

Looking up at him, you took in the anxious crease between his brows, the desperate hope shining in his eyes, and the way his hands were trembling slightly against your hips. You tried to conjure up the rational part of your brain, but your mind was silent.

All you could feel was the phantom ache of the last two years without him, and the desperate need to soothe it.

"Okay," you whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

Logan’s eyes widened slightly before he let out the breath he’d been holding. "Okay," he repeated.

He took your hand, his fingers instantly slotting perfectly between yours as he led you off the dancefloor and out of the venue.

The hotel the wedding party were staying at was only a short walk across the estate’s grounds, but there wasn’t a word uttered between you. it was as if you were both too afraid that speaking would shatter the fragility of where the night was going. His grip on your hand only tightened as you crossed the quiet, marble-floored lobby, riding the elevator up in silence.

Logan guided you down the hallway, his keycard clutched tightly in his palm. When you finally reached his door, his hand was shaking so badly it took him two tries to get the lock to flash green.

He pushed the door open, stepping aside to let you enter the room first.

The first thing, the only thing, you noticed was the sheer size of it; the Grahams had obviously splurged on the hotel block for their wedding party.

"Do you want water? Or... I can order something?" Logan asked, he looked almost nervous.

"I'm okay," you whispered, even as your mouth went dry.

You walked over to the sofa in the corner of the room. Through a half-open sliding door, you could see the plush king-sized bed and you looked away immediately. You didn’t need those thoughts running through your mind.

Logan watched you move, his eyes tracking the sway of your hips. He slowly unclasped his heavy watch, placing it on the glass coffee table, before sitting down on the opposite end of the sofa. He turned his body toward you.

For a long time, you just talked.

You updated each other on all the things you’d missed in each other’s lives; about the transition from Briar to a professional hockey team, the endless travel, the pressure, the loneliness of a new city.

Both of you deliberately danced around the subject of other people. You didn’t want to ask if he had been with someone else. He had every right to, it had been two years, after all, but the mere thought of another woman holding him, of him giving her his smiles, felt like a slow-turning knife in your stomach.

As it went past two in the morning, the conversation became more unrestricted, turning into the kind of raw truths that were only meant to be whispered in the dark. He asked you which city you’d moved to and you hesitated to answer. You knew he would follow you to the ends of the Earth if you gave him even a sliver of hope, and perhaps, in some selfish corner of your mind, that was exactly what you wanted.

So, you told him.

"I looked for you," Logan confessed quietly, his eyes fixed on his hands, "In every arena. Every time we played a road game. I kept looking, hoping I’d see you with your camera. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I just missed you.”

You swallowed the thick lump in your throat, drawing your knees up to your chest on the cushions and wrapping your arms tightly around them.

"It was hard for me, too," you confessed. “Do you know how hard it is to be in the NHL and not see your face? I had to mute your name on my personal accounts. Because every time you scored and did that silly arrow thing you do or every time you did a post-game interview looking tired and so fucking hot... I felt weak.”

It was as if your words was the permission he needed to crowd your space. He slid across the sofa and pulled you forward so he could manoeuvre you into his lap. You let him easily, dress bunching up around your thighs as you straddled him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours. “I’m so sorry I let you go.”

Your chest tightened. The truth was, he had only respected your needs. You couldn’t fault him for that. You weren’t sorry he let you go; you were sorry you had been fragile enough to ask him to.

“Can you just kiss me now?” You breathed, and then he was kissing you.

He kissed you like he was trying to apologise for every single day he had spent away from you. It wasn’t slow, he wasn’t savouring you, he was showing you what two years of bottled-up longing felt like. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer. Fingers tangling in his dark hair as he groaned deep in his throat, lifting you slightly to press you deeper against his lap. You kissed long enough that your lips begun to ache, spit collecting in the corners of your mouth.

On shaky legs, you climbed off of his lap and stood up. Reaching to the side, you pulled the zipper and let your dress fall, pooling on the floor.

Logan’s breath hitched, his eyes sweeping over your body, tracing every familiar curve. He then stood up too, his fingers frantically unbuttoning his shirt, throwing it to the side before he stepped out of his trousers.

You took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

The second you laid down; Logan was all over you. he remembered your body, where you were most sensitive, and exactly how to angle himself in a way that had you seeing stars. Every touch came through pure muscle memory, a loud reclamation of what had always been his.

He acted as if he knew he was on borrowed time, letting an overwhelming and frantic passion take over. It was all consuming, leaving you sensitive to the lightest touches like your nerve endings had light up. Even the words whispered in the dark rang loudly in your ears.

The room was filled with soft, undone gasps, desperate confessions murmured against damp, sweaty skin, and the sounds of your bodies meeting. Every desperate drive of his hips felt like he was branding himself back onto your skin.

“I love you,” Logan murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm and ragged against your lips. His fingers were with yours on the pillow, his body still buried deep inside you. “I never stopped.”

You couldn't answer with words; it was too heavy to speak aloud. Instead, you pulled him down into another kiss, arching your hips to meet him, letting him take all your space and air until both of you finally collapsed into an exhausted sleep, a tangled mess of limbs.

You woke up disorientated, the backout curtains in the hotel room had kept the morning light at bay, though the bedside lamp that you’d forgotten to turn off was still casting a glow over the room.

An involuntary smile hit your lips as you turned your head to watch Logan sleep next to you. He still twitched in his sleep, a boyish habit you had forgotten.

You laid still for a moment, letting the reality of the night crash over you. the dull ache between your legs and the faint bruise where Logan had gripped you tightly serving as physical reminders of what you’d done.

But as your heart swelled with a dangerous warmth, a cold dread settled deep in your stomach.

The real world was waiting outside of the door.

If you stayed until he woke up, you knew exactly what would happen. He would look at you with those pleading brown eyes, he would beg you to stay, and you would lose the battle again. You couldn't let yourself slide back. You couldn't risk your heart breaking a second time.

Very slowly, you slid out from under the covers.

Logan stirred, letting out a discontented mumble in his sleep, but he didn't wake.

You stood by the edge of the mattress, shivering slightly in the cool draft of the air conditioning, and looked down at him. He looked unbelievably good, his dark hair messy against the white pillow, his bare chest rising and falling.

It took every ounce of your willpower to turn away.

You gathered your discarded clothes from the carpet, dressing quickly in the bathroom. When you walked back out, you grabbed your shoes and your purse, taking one last look at his face.

Then, you turned to leave. You didn't write a note. You didn't leave any reminder that you were there minus the scratches down his back. You just quietly opened the heavy door and slipped out of the hotel room.

AN: i legit have another 3000 already drafted (but unedited) where the happy ending was but i had to stop bc it felt so right to end it here so sorry

[raspberriesnwine]

dean panicking because he thinks was too rough with softy fem reader, just for them both to realize she likes it rough? pls pls pls i lovee ur writing 🫶

hi, sweet anon!!!

you can find your completed request here.

this was such a blast to write! thank you so much for taking the time to interact with my blog, and for liking my writing enough to request something 🙈🙈🙈

it means the world 🩷🩷🩷

[raspberriesnwine]

puppy dog eyes [dean di laurentis]

you get in trouble with dean, and the bedroom turns much less vanilla than usual.

warnings: MDNI, mean!dean, hard dom!dean, a lil bit of bdsm, dub con, oral fixations, hints of puppy play, dumbification, degradation, reader rides dean’s boot…, confused!reader is facing a moral dilemma

word count: 2.3k

a/n: whew!!! here it is! my first ever completed request!!! shoutout anon. this idea was so much fun,,, kinda sorta ran wild with it idk something came over me. lmk if u like it :) — berry

dean was a puck bunny magnet.

it didn’t matter where he was — class, the rink, malone’s, hell, even his own house. one was always just around the corner. batting their long pretty lashes at him. clawing at his biceps with their french manicures just to grab his attention.

to dean’s credit, he never gave in.

well– not since he met you. 

you’d seen the performance a hundred times over. he’d flash them a practiced smile and a polite ‘thank you,’ before parting the crowd in search of something (or someone) actually worth his time.

your heart still turned a tinge sour every time. plagued by age old insecurities and infinite what ifs. usually, you swallowed all of those icky feelings down. 

but tonight the girl begging for dean’s attention looks a little too much like you. the chatter of the party is a few notches too loud. and the beer you drank earlier is currently curdling in your stomach. 

so tonight, you decide to try something new.

you scan the backyard, and lock eyes with your target.

reclined on a deck chair, he’s pretending to listen to beau’s teammate bitch about how fucking terrible their offensive line has been playing. 

he’s got a half-drank bottle of miller high life dangling from his hand. the condensation of it is a steady drip, drip, drip onto his levis. 

hunter davenport. 

bingo.

you knew it was a fucking stupid idea. the kind of idea your brain only conjures up after taking a shot of room temperature tequila. 

but just because you know what’s good for you doesn’t mean you turn your ass around. 

no, dean deserves this, some deep dark part of you thinks. he deserves to know how shitty you feel every time you see a puck bunny feening for his attention. 

you march up to hunter. plaster a bright a smile on your face, and convince yourself you’re making the right call. ignoring that rotten feeling in your gut screaming at you to find dean. it’s your body betraying you, you decide. you pull the trigger anyway. 

“hunter! it’s so great to see you. you’re usually never at these things.”

you cringe at the truth hidden beneath your words. he’s usually not at these things because these things are at your boyfriend’s house off campus. your boyfriend who wishes hunter davenport was buried six-feet under. your boyfriend who stays up at night plotting how to do it himself.

you squeeze your eyelids shut, bracing for the retort you’re expecting to be slapped in the face with. some mean, cruel comment that hunter is somehow always armed with. 

you pray for a portal to open up, and spit you out into an alien dimension where you have a shred of confidence. 

you really thought you could flirt to hunter davenport. what a fucking stupid idea.

you’re about to raise the white flag, to be noble and walk away, when hunter’s face breaks out in a wide-toothed grin. 

“hey, trouble.”

oh?

he flashes his canines at you, and you swear his teeth glimmer. his eyes trace the outline of your silhouette, figure accentuated by your mesh mini dress. his gaze lands on your breasts. 

you look down. your nipples are pebbled from the cold air. standing at attention through the mesh fabric. 

you’re quick to cross your arms and shield him from the view he thinks he’s so privy to. the view he sees as an invitation. 

“i didn’t realize dean would let you off your leash with so many people around. must be my lucky day.”

oh. right. 

this is why you didn’t talk to hunter davenport. he was a pretentious fucking asshole.

“i’m not–” you sputter at the comment.

“dean doesn’t.. i’m not on a leash," huffing, you set a hand on your hip.

you can see hunter wracking his brain for some quippy comeback. but the smug look is wiped clean off his face the second a shadow overtakes it. 

you feel someone breathing down your neck, and a heavy arm wraps itself snugly against your middle.

dean.

“what the fuck is going on here, davenport? what are you playing at?” dean’s gaze is hard-set on hunter. 

“dean, chill out. it's fi–” hunter is practically cowering under the weight of dean's stare.

“actually, no. y’know what? get the fuck out of my house. i’ll deal with you later.” dean’s voice is steady and cold. he doesn’t yell. he doesn't need to. he points to the back gate, and hunter has already left with his tail between his legs. 

“upstairs. now.” 

you don’t need to hear another word before you’re sprinting through the crowd of strangers. 

your heart is beating in your throat. the lace trim of your dress is itchy on your skin as you take the stairs two steps at a time. you almost trip over the last one on your way up. 

when you get to dean’s bedroom, you’re blurting out apologies before he even gets the chance to shut the door. 

“i’m so so sorry, dean. i didn’t– didn’t think he’d be like that. i didn’t think it through, i swear,” you hiccup as you plead, throat tight and scratchy — straining just to get the words out.

“please, please don’t be mad.”

dean’s got that unimpressed look on his face. massive arms crossed cooly over his chest. his large frame kicked back with one boot against the door. 

he looks so handsome tonight in a creamy white henley and faded jeans. the mean, unforgiving look in his eyes doesn’t suit him. it makes you burst into tears. this is all your fault. 

“you’re un-fucking-believable, you know that? running off to fucking davenport in my house. didn’t realize you were such a little attention whore. can’t handle not having my eyes on you for two seconds, can you?”

a loud sob escapes you. you wanna scream and plead and promise him you want nothing to do with hunter. you were just being stupid.

but you keep your mouth shut and hang your head. try and convince yourself his words are empty. devoid of any real meaning. you’re jumping through hoops trying to tell yourself your boyfriend doesn’t think you’re a whore.

you sniffle and wipe at the flood of tears pouring from your bloodshot eyes. you look like a wreck, you’re sure of it.

maybe dean’s right. none of this would’ve happened if you’d just been good. 

“i’m just so so sorry, dean. i just– i missed you. you were busy and i–”

he gives you an accusatory look that shuts you right up. he’s not interested in excuses right now, obviously.

you try again.

“i wanna make it better. please, let me make it better. i’ll do anything.”

his ears perk up at that. he cocks his head. “you’d do anything, huh?”

you nod furiously. it’s true. you’d do whatever he asked if it meant he’d stop looking at you like this. like you'd disappointed him. 

“anything you want,” you promise.

dean’s toying with you. pretending to weigh his options. maybe he’ll granting you forgiveness. or maybe he’s planning how to make sure you regret ever going up to davenport in the first place.

he pushes his body off the door. walks a few steps over to the end on his bed and slowly lowers himself down. he sits and stares at you. 

you’re standing in front of him, pulling at the mesh fabric of your dress. tracing the pretty cheetah print pattern of it. distracting yourself by thinking of a happier time — last weekend, when dean had bought you this dress at a boutique downtown. he'd chanted sweet nothings to you in the dressing room.

“crawl.”

“w–what?” your eyes pop open.

he’s got his hand beckoning you forward in a come hither motion. his legs are spread wide and you feel yourself start salivating at the bulge in his jeans. 

“crawl to me.”

you weigh it in your brain.

you and dean definitely weren’t vanilla by any means. he was prone to settling a rough hand around your throat every now and then. slapping your ass in doggy. but you’d never delved into anything teetering on bdsm.

you decide dean knows best. 

you gulp in anticipation, legs shaky as you lower yourself onto your knees. 

it feels so primal, having his eyes on you as you bring yourself to all fours. a natural submission. feeling any sense of power slip through your fingers as the fibers of the rug eat at the skin on your palms. knees scraping against the fabric. your bones aching against the wooden floorboards. 

you move toward him, and you see his hand slip under his waistband. lazily playing with his cock. and, god, you want it so bad. 

the heady smell of him hits you when you arrive at his feet, eye-level with his crotch. it’s a woody musk mixed with the denim fabric of his jeans. you want to bury your face in it. 

“sit.”

you immediately obey. panties completely soaked through. slippery arousal dripping down your thighs.

you’re wet. 

the realization is a sucker punch. you pause. the anxious, flighty feeling bubbling up is like dark storm clouds over your head. 

you like this. 

maybe you shouldn’t. 

you’re reeling. navigating the ocean of your brain a million thoughts per second. thinking that you’re dirty. that this is wrong. thinking why the fuck do you like being treated this? 

and the worst one of all — oh god. dean’s really going to think you’re a whore now. 

“hey, where’d you go baby?” dean’s voice is so soft and shaky it makes your guts tangle into something poisonous. he’s touching your face so lightly, dragging his thumb up and down your jaw. 

“you need to stop? shit. baby, i shouldn’t have pushed you that hard.” 

if it weren’t for the panic attack you were on the brink of, you would’ve laughed.

“no, no, dean i–” you take a deep breath in and muster up the courage. “i don’t– i don’t think the punishment is working.”

“god, baby, i’m so sorry. had a feeling that was too far. smack the shit out of me next time i–” 

“dean, i–,” you sigh. “you don’t understand. i liked it.”

god, what were you even saying? how are you supposed to tell your boyrfiend that you like being punished. that you like it when he’s mean to you.

“sorry, what?” dean stops in his tracks. 

fuck it. 

“i think i like it when you.. um– get mean? how terrible is that. god, you probably think i’m disg–”

“oh, baby.” 

he lifts your chin up. looks deep into your eyes.

you hope he doesn’t see the deep rooted humiliation you feel.

no, it seems like he doesn’t. or maybe he’s putting it to the side for now. because he’d got this fond look in his eye. readjusting himself to lean in closer to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

you preen at that, nuzzling your head further  into his hand.

“my girl likes being roughed up a little? likes being on her knees for me?” his thumb forces its way into your mouth and you latch on. swirling your tongue around the digit instinctively.  

“jesus, baby, you’re so fucking hot. just wanna be told what to do, yeah? c’mon then, baby. show me how bad you want me.”

you hear his boot tap against the floorboards, and look down at the laces swinging side to side.

“c'mon. be a good girl for me, baby,” he coaxes. it’s a warm invitation. one you really can’t refuse. you lick your lips at the thought of it. 

taking a shaky breath, you lift your hips, and he’s quick to fill in the gap with his boot. you carefully settle yourself down onto it. wince at the feel of the hard leather against your heat. it’s so much pressure so quickly. it has your pussy throbbing against the laces as you start grinding against it. 

“oh fuck– dean,” you choke out, grasping at his jeans and twisting the denim fabric in your fist. trying to ground yourself.

he leans back with a smirk on his face. 

“ride out your feelings for me, angel. show me what a good puppy you can be.”

you suppose you asked for this. and god it feels so fucking good, riding his boot with his hand tangled up in your hair. your clit snagging between the laces. pussy juices leaking onto the leather. it's probably fucking stain.

dean’s always been a dirty talker. and you’re lucky it drowns out that little voice inside your head telling you how wrong people would think this is. 

“you wanted to be my puppy this whole time, didn’t you? just needed a little guidance, babydoll. fuck– keep rolling your hips like that. make a fucking mess on me, pup. i’ve gotcha.”

you know you’ve never been this wet before. then dean starts bouncing his leg up and down, and a white hot heat burns in you as the leather vibrates against your core. the coil in your tummy is about to snap.

“dean– can’t. i’m gonna, fuck– dean!” you squeal, pain searing deep in your bones and throttling you headfirst into an orgasm. 

a soft command, let go f’me, puppy, is all you need before you’re squirting all over the black leather of his boot. body convulsing and pretty tears welling up in your eyes.

“you’re such a good girl,” he coos, lightly tapping your damp cheek. “you liked that? making a mess on me?”

you nod dumbly, still grinding out the aftershocks. 

“since you liked it so much, you can clean it up too.”

he raises a brow, daring you. seeing just how far you’ll push yourself for him. 

if he only knew.

you inch yourself backwards. arch your back till your ass is wagging in the air, and you’re eye level with your slick pooling on his boot.

it doesn’t take long before you’re practically making out with it. tongue threading between the laces.

it’s so mindless and oh so fucking hot. you can’t help yourself when you reach down, pushing your panties to the side and rub circles on your raw clit. 

it’s heaven, until you feel the sharp sting of dean smacking your ass and you pout, pulling your hand away from your core. 

“did i say you could play with yourself, pup? maybe davenport was right. should keep you on a fucking leash next time.”

[raspberriesnwine]

lemon meringue [garrett graham]

garrett doesn't want to be possessive. really, he doesn't. your soft edges bring out the worst in him.

tw: dumbification, dirty talk, fingering, oral, bondage, daddy kink, probably not a very healthy relationship, toxic!garrett....

wc: 733

an: mdni pls!!! unedited and posting from drafts!! really like this concept. lmk if you guys are into it and i will explore it more! tysm to everyone who has sent in requests. so grateful and excited to work on them. i will do my best to do your marvelous ideas justice! pinky promise. — berry

garrett hated the word possessive. it made him feel like some insecure loser harboring a complex bigger than his daddy issues. 

it’s something he didn’t want to be. something he was working on. fuck, it was something he had gone to therapy for. 

he’d spent countless hours processing why he felt insecure in his relationships. unpacking the destructive behaviors he was so prone to. 

and then you showed up. little, unassuming you. 

you — who styled your hair with lacy bows, smelled like a freshly baked lemon meringue pie, and smiled at him so sweetly your cheeks would turn bubblegum pink. 

he was fucked. 

had been since the first time he saw you on the quad. you’d been handing out flyers to join your volunteer group at the hastings animal shelter. 

he knew there was no going back. he was irrevocably fucked. 

that was months ago. now that he has you, old habits are bubbling up to the surface. 

he really doesn’t mean to be like this. he knows he shouldn’t be caging you in. keeping you all to himself. shutting others out. 

he shouldn’t always ‘forget’ to charge your phone when you’re over, or shove it between the couch cushions when you’re not looking. 

shouldn’t delete the dinners you’d planned with friends from your calendar when you’re in the bathroom. 

and he really shouldn’t have your wrists tied up to his bedframe when you’re supposed to be halfway across campus taking lecture notes on kafka’s the metamorphosis. 

but he can’t help how pretty you look pouting down at him while he stuffs his tongue up your tight cunt. watching you bite down on your glossy bottom lip. he can’t find it in himself to care one fucking bit. 

you’re rubbing your wrists together against the leather of his belt. wriggling against his grip to get more friction than he’s giving you.

“such a brat sometimes,” he mutters, only half-meaning it. really just meaning to rile you up.

he pulls his mouth away from your heat and you can see the pearly sheen of your last orgasm on his stubble. “sit pretty and take what i’m giving you, baby. know you can be a good girl f’me.” 

“i am a good girl,” you huff. you jostle the makeshift cuffs, and garrett’s bedroom echoes with the sound of the buckle clattering against his bedframe. 

garrett raises a brow, and your face goes pale. “not gonna tell you again, baby.” 

he decides maybe you need a little more guidance today. he sprawls his palm against your warm belly and pushes lightly on the soft skin of it. “stay.”

you sigh contently at that, and garrett knows he’s won. he knows sometimes you just like to test his limits. make him prove that he should be in charge. that he knows best. 

but when you melt under him so easily, what you’re really after is so obvious. 

“like being told what to do, don’t you baby? just turn your brain off and be a good little fucktoy.” 

he leaves a trail of kisses up your thigh, and inserts two fingers into your weeping cunt. your soft pink walls flutter as they open up for him.

“you like being used, huh? is that it? like it when i use this pretty cunt?”

he gets his mouth back on your clit, and sucks hard. 

“yes! love it so much…wanna come so bad, daddy!”

you’re a squealing mess. heart beating out of your chest like a jackrabbit. pretty manicured hands balled up into little fists above you. he can see your brain whirring, trying to get a hold of yourself. 

you know better than that, garrett thinks. 

“tell me you love it when daddy uses you,” he hums, and the vibration of it shocks your eyes wide open. he looks up at you and marvels at how fucked out you look. pupils dilated, and drops of sweat dripping down the valley of your breasts. 

your throat bobs as you gulp, wracking your brain. trying to find your voice

“c’mon, baby.”

“love it when you use my pussy, daddy.”

you look absolutely pathetic, hiccuping and whining as he inserts a third finger.

you’re usually all soft pleads and sweet moans in the bedroom. garrett never makes you talk dirty. but you want to make him happy. always such a good girl for him.

“such a perfect little fucktoy for me, aren’t you?”

[iceyngi]

Hiii!

So I’m pretty sure you just rewired my brain with your Dean dumbification blurb/fic and so I can’t get the idea of a full fic with hard/mean dom!Dean with a soft sub!reader where Dean spends the day leading up to yk… doing small things like behaviour corrections or fixing reader’s posture or like grabbing things for her i.e grabbing a bowl off the top shelf for her, so basically all things that kinda put her in that sub mindset and then BAM! During yk…. She’s extremely subby and Dean just goes IN on the dumbification and everything else you can think of tbh!

(If you choose to write) I’ll be patiently waiting for this 😍

hiiii dear anon 🤎

i am so honoured you think i wrote something that good but i only reblogged it! the actual author is @raspberriesnwine :D

i don't know if their requests are open, but please send this love to them.

have a lovely day x

[raspberriesnwine]

tysm for all of the kind words anon and @iceyngi <3 this request is so hottttt 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 makes me wanna put pen to paper 🙂‍↕️

this is my first time writing on tumblr in years so idk how much i will follow thru on requests, but consider them open! ✍️

— berry

[raspberriesnwine]

you wish [dean di laurentis]

tw: degradation, dumbification, exhibitionism, huge cock!dean, messy sex, crybaby!reader tehe, fucking in the malone’s bathroom gulp

wc: 514

an: dean makes my brain go brrrrrrrr — berry

dean had been patiently waiting for you to indulge in his exhibitionist tendencies.

he’d never done more than send you a flirty wink when the opportunity arose. would never ever force you. always put your wants first. he was a saint, really, he thought.

but no, this had been entirely your idea. his innocent little girlfriend had begged him to fuck her brains out, pretty please at malone’s.

now, he’s got his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, one hand on the back of your neck and the other braced against the wall.

“when were you gonna tell me how fucking naughty you are, huh? how fucking slutty you’d get for me?” he snarled in your ear.

he takes it in. the bathroom stall is cramped, but your body contorts so prettily to make room for him.

your cheek is pressed against the cold checkered tile of the stall. your once perfectly styled hair now roused and frizzy, damp with sweat.

and you’d spent so much time on your makeup tonight. been so cheeky about it. it’s too bad that what’s left of your glittery eyeshadow is scattered like freckles across the apples of your cheeks. the black skirt you wore is wrinkled, hiked up against the globe of your ass, and your panties are pushed to the side. it’s sinful.

and you look fucking delicious.

“such a pretty mess. what if someone walked in, baby? saw you falling apart on my cock?” he feels the gooey walls of your pussy clench around him. gripping onto him so fucking tight he’s dizzy. “wouldn’t do a fucking thing, would you?”

“you’d make ‘em sit here and watch you fucking take it,” he punctuates each word with a devastating thrust into your heat.

you’re whining and babbling nonsense on his cock, pushing your ass into him to meet every piston of his hips. he thinks he can make out a couple watery so big, deans and a please, please, please.

you’ve always been a crier when things just felt too good.

“can barely understand you, sweetheart. what’s wrong? already fucked you dumb?” he mocks, squeezing his index and thumb tighter against the nape of your neck. it’s fucking predatory, the way he growls. “you wanted this. fucking begged for it.”

“s-so good! feels so good,” you pant, and dean knows you're close by the hitches in your breath. you’re such a good girl for him, wriggling against his body, too high off the feeling of him to even know you’re about to cream on his cock.

“give it to me, baby. c’mon,” dean whispers, fucking into you even faster. you’ve got that far-off look in your eyes, and your legs are shaking so viciously it looks like you’re about to collapse in your five inch heels.

“fucking come for me,” he murmurs and buries himself to the hilt. your eyes pop open and you let out a choked out cry.

spacey and riding the high of your orgasm, dean is already cleaning you up. readjusting your skirt and thumbing glittery tears off your cheeks.

“everything you wished for, baby?”

[raspberriesnwine]

cherry red [dean di laurentis]

tw: fem!reader, dumbification, dirty talk, overstimulation, prone bone, doggy, dub con if you squint?

wc: 398

an: not edited! just for fun!!! mdni <3 — berry

dean loved getting you off. 

watching your lips form that pretty little ‘o’ shape and your brows furrow as you come undone underneath him — because of him. he was fucking addicted to it.

so here you were. in his bed. needy and compliant for him. riding out your fifth orgasm of the night, and sobbing into his pillow as he pounded into you from behind. 

“you like feeling me all up in your guts, baby?” he groans, slamming into your bruised cunt and smacking your ass cherry red. “turns you on?”

fuck yes, you wanna say. yes, yes, yes. but your brain is teetering off the edge of a cliff, and the only thing grounding you to reality is dean’s huge cock splitting you open. 

“you were fucking made to take my cock, baby,” he groans, reaching his hand under you to toy with your puffy, aching clit. 

you wail, and before you even realize it you’re cumming again. hard. 

“fuuuuuck yeah,” he smirks, pushing you down into prone bone. almost his entire weight is on you now, and all you can feel is dean.

his huge arms caging you in. the musky, heady smell of sex and his cologne. it overpowers you. 

“you’re such a dirty girl, letting me fuck you like this. fucking impaling you on my cock,” he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, one hand splayed across your back to keep you down. 

“you with me, baby?” he hums, brushing his lips between your shoulder blades. 

“uh huh,” you choke out, fisting his comforter in a white-knuckled grip. 

“you gonna be good and cum again for me?” he nips at your ear and you're squealing.

it’s a pretty, breathy sound that feels out of so body. you’re nodding furiously into his pillow, soaked through from pearly tears and drool. 

“use your words for me,” he’s nothing if not a sweet talker. nothing if not a man who wants you to feel good.

“yes! yes, i’ll be good,” you’re pleading now, forcing your head back to look at him.

big, fat tears well up in the corners of your doe eyes, and dean swears they twinkle like little stars as they drop down your cheeks. you're beautiful like this.

he slides his palm under your ribs and pushes you up against his chest, arching your back into him.

“thought so.”

[raspberriesnwine]

sticky sweet [john logan]

john logan x shy!reader

wc: 413

an: word vomit, brain salad drabble. short little meet cute. exercising my creative writing muscles. no ai here :) — berry

john logan lost all his inhibitions the first time he saw you. 

in the sticky july heat, he found you lounging on your tummy — sprawled out across a picnic blanket. wearing nothing but a cami and cut off shorts. frilly white socks bouncing in the air as you mindlessly kicked your feet. 

you were sucked into a well-loved copy of some book logan didn’t have the mind to take note of. by any means, you were much too busy to pay mind to the lingering stares of students passing by. least of all, logan’s. 

and if he wasn’t so busy salivating over you, he wouldn’t have been knocked clean in the jaw with the football dean had thrown at him. 

“fucking christ, dean!” he yelled, nursing his jaw with his hand. “are you trying to knock me off the starting line this season?”

“it’s not my fault you’re fawning. if anything, you should be thanking me,” dean chuckled. “fawning during the playoffs won’t get you anywhere except the bench.” 

“i won’t even see the bench if my fucking jaw is broken,” logan laughed in disbelief. 

just his fucking luck. he sees a pretty girl and gets his jaw smashed in. 

even better — the sound must’ve reverberated to your quiet corner of the quad, because logan sees your brow furrow as you set your book down. 

great. now you were really watching. how fucking humiliating. 

but if there’s anything logan knew how to do, it was cleaning up messes. 

side-eyeing dean, he jogged over to you. and fuck, you look like a dream, looking up at him with this candy-coated look in your eyes that makes his heart sink down into the depths of his self-loathing. he shouldn’t be anywhere near someone like you. 

despite himself, he persists. 

“enjoying the show?” he winks, rolling his hour-old gum around in his mouth. 

but as soon as he starts talking, your eyes are downturned. your fingers comb through your glossy locks, twisting the ends into knots. its hypnotizing. 

and unfair. 

“wasn’t staring,” your voice is soft and honeyed, but nonetheless wavers as you grumble at him. moving to sit up, you cross your arms over your knees. 

logan throws his hands up in defense. “didn’t say you were. but hey,” he’s crouching now. getting to your level as he picks up the strand of hair you’re toying with and tucks it behind your ear. 

“don’t go telling anyone about my athletic inadequacies, alright?” he hums. “our secret.”