i could never handle immortality not because of any existential reasons but because i know itd make my procrastination so much worse. catch me putting off tasks for decades. catch me putting off tasks for centuries. what do you mean that movie ive been meaning to get around to became lost media 40 years ago. what do you mean that landmark ive been meaning to visit has been eroded. oooh i got PLANY of time..............
could I ask for a Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader- where the reader is on team black and he is obviously on green, And he sees her on dragon back during one of the battles he’s apart of ?
back to you | g.h
Pairings: Gwayne Hightower x Wife!Reader
Summary: at Rock’s Rest you find more than battle
WARNINGS: angst, hurt to comfort, reader is team black, reader is Rhaenyra’s sister, reader is mentioned to have silver hair, my man is desperate in this one
A/n: bring back men yearning pls
masterlist | wc: 6.3k
THE ROAR of dragons tore violently through the sky, and you felt it vibrate in your bones even before Cannibal spread his immense black wings over the battlefield of Rook's Rest. The air was so thick with smoke it burned your lungs with every breath, heavy with the acrid stench of ash, freshly spilled blood, and the metallic tang of clashing weapons. Beneath you, the battle stretched to the edge of the forest like a vast open wound carved into the earth: thousands of men fought amid agonized screams and frantic neighing, tattered banners whipped through the flames, while shattered catapults and overturned wagons littered the ground with splintered wood and lifeless bodies. From the sky everything seemed small, and yet you could make out every detail, every knight struck down, every blade sinking into flesh. Cannibal let out a low, rumbling growl, his massive body trembling beneath you, eager to descend into what, for him, was nothing more than a feast.
Your eyes were fixed on Rhaenys Targaryen. She had fought like a queen, like a legend destined to be remembered for centuries, and even from that distance you could see the fierce elegance with which she guided Meleys through smoke and fire. You had arrived too late. Fate had already chosen for her. You watched the enormous jaws of Vhagar close around the red dragon's neck with a brutality that stole your breath, the sound of bones breaking blending with Meleys' desperate roar, and for a moment time seemed to slow to a halt. Then the dragon fell. It dropped like a star devoured by the sky, crashing into the castle walls below in an explosion of stone, fire, and dust. The impact made even Cannibal shudder, and a towering column of flames surged upward, swallowing everything. You gripped the saddle so tightly your fingers ached, as a dull, savage pain tore through your chest.
Cannibal roared, and his cry echoed across the mountains and over the battlefield, forcing men and horses alike to pause for a fleeting instant. Even Vhagar seemed to stiffen. Atop the oldest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond Targaryen slowly turned his head toward you. His single eye narrowed, immediately recognizing the dark shape of Cannibal emerging from the clouds like an omen of death. A faint, almost amused smile touched his lips. He knew you. He could read the fury consuming you better than anyone, because that same fury ran in his blood as well. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Brother and sister remained suspended above an army that continued slaughtering itself, watching one another like two predators deciding which would devour the other.
Below, Gwayne Hightower, the man who had become your husband only a few years earlier, found himself unable to breathe. He saw you emerge from the sea of smoke with a determination he had never forgotten, Cannibal's vast wings spread like a shadow capable of blotting out the sun itself. For a moment, the clash of swords, the cries of the wounded, the noise of armor, and the crackle of flames all vanished. The world seemed to shrink until it held only you. You, who had once shared his bed in the silent chambers of Oldtown. You, who in rare moments of peace had spoken his name with softness. You, who laughed so quietly that he had to lean closer just to hear you. You, who now rode toward death. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He had spent the past weeks trying to convince himself he had forgotten you, that he had buried every feeling along with your broken marriage. He had told himself the war had erased everything, that oaths mattered more than love, that you now belonged to different worlds. And yet one glimpse of you was enough to shatter every lie he had so carefully built.
He still loved you. He understood it with brutal clarity as he watched you lean forward in the saddle, completely fused with your dragon. He could still remember the warmth of your skin against his, the scent of your hair when you fell asleep on his chest, the way you would look away whenever he tried to kiss you first, only to make him chase you with a laugh. In truth, he had always been the desperate one. He was the one who sought your lips with impatience, who chased every small gesture of affection as though it were a privilege. You never denied him, but you always made him earn it, and that was what he missed most. Not the caresses, not the kisses, but the constant need you had created within him, that hunger for your presence that no other woman had ever been able to satisfy. He looked at you now, smeared with ash, infinitely different from the girl he had married and yet exactly the same. Still capable of breaking his heart with a single glance. He wanted to meet you in the ashes of your yesterdays when life was easier, waiting where the light used to fall, recalling what you had when present felt empty. Learning how to miss you.
He understood it completely the moment Cannibal lowered his head and plunged into a dive toward Vhagar. The sky itself seemed to crack under the force of the impending collision. Gwayne stepped forward without even realizing it, as though reaching out a hand might somehow touch you up there. "Don't do it..." he whispered, but his words were swallowed by the chaos of battle, lost to the wind and the thunder of dragons. No one heard him, not even you. Perhaps that was for the best, because he knew you well enough to understand that you would not have stopped anyway.
You faced your brother without the slightest hesitation. There was no fear in your movements, no doubt, not even the faintest trace of mercy. Only fury, fueled by the grief of Rhaenys's death and years of smoldering resentment. Cannibal opened his jaws, revealing rows of enormous, jagged teeth, and his roar made the air tremble before a torrent of black and red flame engulfed Vhagar. Aemond's dragon answered at once, unleashing a blaze so vast it resembled a burning wall. The two infernos collided in the sky, creating a storm of sparks and ash that rained down upon the battlefield like fire. Below them, men screamed and scrambled for cover, while terrified horses broke ranks, trampling friend and foe alike. Aemond guided Vhagar with precision, every command delivered through the slightest shift of his body, while you responded with equal instinct, as if Cannibal were an extension of your own will. The two dragons crashed into each other with devastating force, claw against claw, wing against wing, locking together in a violent dance that seemed to shake the very air.
It was an impossible battle. Gwayne knew it. Everyone did. Vhagar was the oldest, the largest, the most powerful of the living dragons. Every battle she had fought had carved scars into her immense body, shaping her into a creature that seemed made for war. Cannibal, for all his ferocity and wildness, was still younger, smaller, forced to make up with speed what he lacked in strength. And yet he did not yield an inch. He continued to assault Vhagar with relentless determination, forcing even the colossal dragon to recoil beneath the violence of his attacks. Gwayne followed every movement, his heart clenched in a vice. He saw you lean from the saddle as the wind lashed your ash-streaked hair, saw blood running down your temple without you seeming to notice, saw your eyes burning with rage. It was the same expression you had worn the day of your separation, the day he had spoken the words that destroyed you both, confessing that he would fight for Aegon. He still remembered the silence that followed, far more painful than any scream. In that moment, you had understood that something between you had broken forever.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. Cannibal seized a fleeting opening in Vhagar's guard and lunged at the massive dragon's neck with savage ferocity. His jaws snapped shut with a terrifying crack, sinking his teeth into the ancient armored scales until they pierced through. The roar that erupted from Vhagar's throat was so powerful it made the sky tremble, a sound filled with pain and fury that echoed for miles and brought the battle to a stunned, fleeting halt. Dark blood streamed down the old dragon's neck, evaporating almost instantly in the heat of the flames. Vhagar writhed violently, trying to break free from the grip, while Aemond pulled hard on the reins, shouting commands in the tongue of Old Valyria. Cannibal did not let go. He tightened his hold with relentless determination, intent on tearing flesh down to the bone. Below, Gwayne held his breath, unable even to blink.
Vhagar crashed to the ground with brutal force. Her enormous claws sank into the blood-soaked earth, shattering stone, wagons, and bodies alike without distinction, while a wave of dust and debris rose all around her, forcing men and horses to retreat in panic. The thunderous beat of her wings swept away already-tattered banners, feeding the fires that devoured Rook's Rest, and her roar echoed through the broken castle walls. You did not hesitate for even a moment. You pulled sharply on Cannibal's reins, guiding him with the weight of your body, and the dragon understood your command before you spoke a single word. With a powerful beat of his wings, he soared back into the sky, leaving behind the black smoke and flames that reflected across his dark scales. You were finally satisfied.
Below, Gwayne Hightower followed your every movement without even noticing what was happening around him. The screams of soldiers, the clash of steel, the shouted orders, all of it reached him as though muffled and distant, as if he were submerged underwater. Only you existed. His eyes could not leave your figure as you slowly pulled away above the battlefield, higher and higher, closer to the smoke-blackened clouds. That was when something caught his attention. A short distance away, among the charred remains of a collapsed tower, an archer stood as still as a statue. He was filthy with dirt and blood, his face smeared with soot, his hands trembling so badly it seemed impossible that he could still draw a bow. And yet his gaze was steady, fixed on you. The arrow was already nocked, ready to fly. For one terrible instant, Gwayne saw clearly the path it would take. His body made the decision long before his mind did.
It was as if he moved on instinct alone, adrenaline suddenly surging through his veins. In a few strides he reached the man, slamming into him hard enough to make him stagger. But the archer's fingers had already released the string. The arrow flew regardless, slicing through the air with a thin, deadly whistle, so fast it was almost invisible. Gwayne lifted his gaze at once, unable even to breathe. He felt his heart pounding so violently it hurt, as he followed that slender line of death climbing into the sky.
The arrow that would have surely struck your heart hit your shoulder instead. Even from that distance, he saw your body jolt from the impact. Blood splattered across Cannibal's black scales, staining the already dirtied fabric of your clothing, while your face twisted in a sudden grimace of pain that made his stomach tighten. Your body wavered dangerously on the dragon's back. One hand reached desperately for purchase on the saddle, the other instinctively grasped the wound. For a long, endless moment, it truly seemed as though you might fall.
Gwayne felt a scream rise in his chest, but he could not release it. It remained trapped there, choked into nothing more than a broken breath. "No..." he managed to whisper, his voice so weak it was swallowed instantly by the wind.
Then he saw you react. With sheer stubbornness, you clenched your teeth and slowly straightened in the saddle. Your hand trembled as it grasped the shaft of the arrow lodged in your flesh, but you did not try to pull it free. You simply pressed your palm against the wound in a desperate attempt to slow the blood that continued to run down your arm. Cannibal, sensing your pain, let out a low, uneasy growl, but continued to climb, obedient to your commands. Gwayne released a trembling breath he had not even realized he was holding. He had saved you. He had changed the course of that arrow. He had betrayed his men, his oath, his very house. He had done it for you. He had chosen you. He watched you grow smaller and smaller against the gray sky, his chest rising in uneven, ragged breaths, unable to find a rhythm.
And then he saw you fall.
Your hand slipped. Your fingers, weakened by blood loss, slowly lost their grip on the saddle. Gwayne's eyes widened. For a moment, he convinced himself you would recover once more, that you would seize the reins again, that Cannibal would correct his flight. You were strong, the strongest woman he ever knew. But it did not happen. He watched you slip from the dragon's back in slow motion. Your body separated from the saddle and hung suspended in the void for a fraction of a second before being swallowed by the sky.
"No." This time the word left his lips with more force, but it was still too small, too fragile to reach you.
His heart seemed to stop. Gwayne took a step forward, then another, without even knowing where he was going. He kept staring at the sky like a madman, reaching out a hand in your direction, as though the distance between you might suddenly vanish, as though wanting it enough could make it so. But you were too far away, too high above him. And he was only a man, with a sword too heavy in his hands and too much love in his heart, bound to a ground that would never let him reach you. He watched you fall, powerless to do anything at all. Your hair scattered in the air, and from that distance your face seemed strangely serene. At peace, as if the war and all its suffering had suddenly been stripped away from you. Then your body disappeared beyond the veil of smoke and low clouds, swallowed by a void Gwayne could not see.
The noise of battle returned all at once, crashing over him with unbearable force. Everything felt too loud, too close. Gwayne stood frozen in the chaos, his eyes still fixed on the place where you had vanished. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his sword nearly slipped from his grasp, held only by a strength that was no longer there. He could not move. He could not even think. He saw the moment again and again in his mind. He had tried to save you. He had seen the arrow. He had acted without hesitation. If he had not struck that archer, the shaft would have pierced your heart and killed you instantly. And yet it had not been enough. He had only changed where the wound landed. Only delayed the inevitable.
A cold, unbearable emptiness began to consume his chest, hollowing him out from within, stealing the breath from his lungs. His knees nearly gave way beneath him, and he had to drive the tip of his sword into the ground to keep from collapsing. He felt his heart tightening more and more, as though an invisible hand were crushing it without mercy. All his life, he had tried to be the man others expected him to be, a good knight, a worthy son of his house, a man faithful to his oaths. And he had failed. He had tried to be a good husband too, when he had still had the chance, but he had failed at that as well. Every choice he had made, every sacrifice he had endured, seemed to have led him inevitably to this exact moment. You had fallen anyway. The arrow had reached you anyway. And he had not been able to stop it.
He slowly raised a hand to his face, brushing at his eyes as though wiping away the tears threatening to fall might also erase the image of what he had just seen. But the memory of your body falling into the void remained etched behind his eyelids with brutal clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vivid it became, the heavier the weight of guilt pressed against his chest. Perhaps this was his punishment. For the selfishness that was planted in the human body. Perhaps the gods were punishing him for his greed. He had wanted both, had demanded to keep the honor of his house and, at the same time, the love of the woman he had lost. He had believed he could serve two masters without losing anything. And the gods, as they always did, had claimed the price of that illusion.
Night fell slowly over Crow's Rest, swallowing everything in its darkness, erasing every trace of the battle. The last cries of the wounded had faded one by one, replaced by the low crackling of fires lit among the ranks of the victorious army. Tongues of flame flickered in the night wind, casting brief light upon exhausted faces smeared with dried blood, soot, and dirt, eyes reddened by fatigue and war, hands still unable to stop trembling after hours spent gripping a sword. The acrid smell of smoke lingered everywhere, mingling with that of burned flesh, worn leather, and blood soaking into the ground. Here and there someone laughed; others drank in silence, staring into the void with hollow gazes, too drained even to speak. The crows had already begun gathering in the trees at the edges of the battlefield, patient and still, waiting for morning to claim their feast.
Among the soldiers, the same words passed from mouth to mouth, whispered beside the fires. They said the battle was over, at least for that day. They said Vhagar had survived, though gravely wounded, and that Cannibal had vanished into the sky, never to return. But above all, they said that you were dead. That after falling from your dragon's back, you had plunged into the lake beyond the forest, swallowed by the black waters without leaving a trace. Some even claimed they had seen your body disappear beneath the surface. Others swore no one could survive such a fall. Each time your name was spoken, it was followed by a satisfied laugh. To many, you had been nothing more than a traitorous princess who had met the fate she deserved.
Gwayne Hightower, however, could not believe a single word of it. He simply could not. Sitting a short distance from the others, his back resting against the rough trunk of a great oak at the edge of the encampment, he stared straight ahead without truly seeing anything. His cloak was still stained with mud and dried blood, his armor scratched in several places, barely reflecting the flickering light of the nearest fire. His hands lay motionless on his knees, as still as those of a statue. Around him, the camp slowly drifted to sleep. Some soldiers continued recounting moments from the battle, their voices thick with exhaustion and wine. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else wept, believing no one was watching. The blacksmiths gradually extinguished their makeshift forges, the stablehands checked on the last surviving horses, and little by little every sound seemed to fade, becoming muffled and distant. Gwayne had the distinct sensation of standing behind an invisible barrier that separated him from the rest of the world. His body was present, but his mind remained suspended in the sky, in the exact moment he had seen you fall.
No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, it took only the briefest closing of his eyes for it all to begin again. He saw the archer. The arrow leaving the bowstring. The moment he struck the soldier in a desperate attempt to deflect the shot. Then he saw the bolt reach you anyway, burying itself in your shoulder with a violence that stole his breath. He saw the blood staining your dress. Your hand clutching desperately at the wound. Your fingers slowly losing their grip on the saddle. Your body tilting ever so slightly. And finally, the fall. Again, and again, and again. Each time, his stomach twisted painfully, forcing him to bend forward. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his eyelids until it nearly hurt, as if physical pain might erase what tormented his mind. But it did not work. The image remained there, seared behind his eyes with unbearable clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vividly it returned, as though the Gods liked the way it devoured him from within. All he could do was relive it and hope, somehow, to earn forgiveness for his sins.
A long, trembling breath slipped from his lips as he slowly ran a hand over his weary face. Beneath his fingers he felt skin caked with dirt and dried blood, and the cut he had taken across his cheek during the fight. He was exhausted, but he knew he would not sleep. Around the fires, some soldiers drank to their victory. They had accepted your death with a readiness that made him sick. They called you a traitor. They laughed, imagining your body dragged to the bottom of the lake. Someone even claimed that Cannibal had abandoned you, unable to save his own rider. Gwayne had clenched his jaw until he tasted blood, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to tear it, just to keep himself from rising and striking the first man who dared speak your name with such contempt.
Dragons fell, and their riders died. It had always been so. Ever since the Dance of the Dragons had begun, every battle had claimed its toll of fire and blood. It was the fate of those who rode such creatures, everyone knew it. Everyone accepted it. But that simple truth did nothing to comfort him. Because to him, you had never been merely a rider. You were not just a Targaryen princess. You were not simply a name destined to appear in the songs of bards.
You were his wife. The woman before whom he had spoken vows he believed eternal. The girl he had learned to love long before politics, war, and the duties of your respective houses forced you apart. You had been his home, his refuge, his greatest weakness and even greater undoing. Even after your separation, even after finding yourselves on opposing sides, he had never stopped thinking of you. He had tried to convince himself otherwise, of course. He had told himself that time would heal every wound, that distance would extinguish that feeling that picked at his chest. But every attempt had failed miserably. You had remained his greatest regret. His ruin. And, despite everything, you were still his only love.
When the last fire in the camp dwindled to a bed of reddish embers and even the final conversations faded into silence, broken only by the snores of sleeping soldiers, Gwayne knew he could not remain still a moment longer. He rose slowly, careful not to make a sound. His joints protested from the strain of the day, but he did not notice. He adjusted his cloak over his shoulders, left his sword sheathed, and walked away without looking back. He moved between the tents like a silent shadow, avoiding the sleeping men and the sentries who watched the forest with heavy eyes. Each step carried him farther from the camp and closer to the place where you had vanished. He did not truly know what he was searching for, perhaps only a body to mourn, a grave before which he could kneel. Perhaps he needed to see with his own eyes the final proof of your death, because a part of him stubbornly refused to believe it.
The forest welcomed him with silence. The trees towered high above his head, turning the moonlight into thin blades of silver that barely pierced the dense weave of branches. The ground was damp, covered in leaves and moss that muffled his steps, while the wind stirred the treetops, producing a constant rustling like an incomprehensible whisper. Now and then a broken branch cracked beneath his boots, or a nocturnal creature fled through the underbrush, but otherwise the forest seemed to hold its breath with him. The air was far colder than in the camp, damp and heavy. Each breath filled his lungs with a painful sensation, yet he kept walking without slowing. His heart beat faster with every step, feeding a hope he desperately tried to smother, for fear it would destroy him.
When at last the trees began to thin and the lake appeared before his eyes, Gwayne stopped instinctively. The water lay still as a black mirror, so dark it seemed bottomless. The moon reflected upon its surface in trembling fragments, barely disturbed by the wind, while a thin mist began to rise from the shore. No sound came from the water. No ripple. No sign to tell what had happened only hours before.
Gwayne swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. "Please..." he whispered hoarsely, not knowing whether he was praying to the gods, to the lake, or to you. It was a desperate plea, spoken without even realizing it.
He began to walk slowly along the shore, his eyes darting frantically from one point to another. He searched every reflection, every log carried by the water, every dark shape lying among the stones and reeds. His hands trembled so violently that he had to clench them repeatedly to keep from losing all control. The farther he went, the more despair grew within him. He was ready to throw himself into the lake without a second thought if only he glimpsed a fragment of your cloak beneath the water. He did not care about the depth, nor the cold. He did not even care about dying. He only kept searching for you, with the same stubborn determination he had always had when it came to you.
Then, suddenly, his gaze stopped. You were there, lying on the shore, motionless, just a few steps from the dark water. Your hair, still wet, spread in disarray over the damp grass like threads of silver in the moonlight. Your clothes were soaked with water and blood, clinging heavily to your body, while one of your arms lay abandoned at your side. For a long, endless moment, Gwayne stood completely still. His heart nearly stopped, and terror seized his throat so tightly he could not even breathe. From that distance he could not see the rise and fall of your chest. He could not tell whether you were breathing. And his greatest fear, the one that had driven every step he had taken toward the lake, rose up once more to devour him. He feared he had arrived too late. He feared the gods had made a mockery of him.
Gwayne lunged forward, breathless, running along the uneven shore of the lake without regard for the slippery stones, the low branches that scratched his face, or the mud that slowed his steps. The only thing he could see was you. Every beat of his heart felt like a blow struck directly against his ribs, so fast it stole his breath. When he finally reached you, he dropped to his knees beside you, splashing water and mud across his cloak. For a moment he remained completely still, unable to convince himself that you were truly there. He stared at you with a terrified expression, as if a single wrong movement might make you vanish before his eyes. Then his hands, trembling uncontrollably, moved slowly toward your face. He brushed your forehead gently, as though he feared even the pressure of his own fingers. He caressed your cold cheeks, still damp with lake water, tracing the line of your jaw down to your neck in a desperate attempt to feel a pulse. A strand of silver hair, stuck to your skin, covered part of your face. He moved it aside with infinite care, letting his fingers linger briefly in your hair in a gesture so familiar it almost hurt him. How many times had he done the same in your chambers in Oldtown, when you fell asleep beside him with your face hidden against his chest? How many times had he watched those strands spread across the pillow, convincing himself that such happiness would last forever? Now that same hand trembled too violently to even touch you.
He was already sinking into the abyss of despair when it happened.
A faint breath, barely perceptible, slipped from your parted lips, breaking the silence of the lake. It was the slightest whisper, so weak that another man might not even have noticed it. But Gwayne felt it, felt it with every fiber of his being. His eyes flew open in disbelief as the world seemed to halt around him once more. He remained motionless for a few seconds, almost afraid he had imagined it. Then your chest rose slightly, in a slow, labored movement, but enough to shatter, in a single instant, all the pain that had suffocated him until then.
A broken sound escaped his lips before he could stop it, something between an incredulous laugh and a choked sob. Tears stung his eyes, but he made no attempt to hide them. "You're alive..." he murmured softly, as though he feared that speaking the words too loudly might frighten the gods into taking back what they had just spared him. He was definitely a selfish, selfish man. "You're alive..." he repeated, this time with his face bent close to yours, as if he needed to hear the words from his own lips to truly believe they were real.
Urgency immediately replaced his astonishment. Gwayne roused himself, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and without wasting another moment he seized the edge of his cloak. With a sharp tear, he ripped a long strip of fabric from it, ignoring the sound of the cloth splitting. His fingers were clumsy, made awkward by fear and cold, yet he tried to press the makeshift bandage gently against the wound still bleeding on your shoulder. The arrow was gone, likely broken during the fall or lost in the waters of the lake, but the blood continued to seep slowly, soaking your already drenched clothes. Each time the fabric darkened with red, Gwayne's heart seemed to tighten further. He lifted you with the utmost care, slipping one arm behind your back and the other beneath your legs just enough to move you away from the shore. He drew you against his chest, trying to shield you from the cold night and the damp ground. At once he felt the weight of your body yield against him as he had never felt before. Your breathing, weak but present, broke against his armor and passed through the fabric of his tunic to reach his skin. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
"Stay with me..." he whispered, his voice breaking as he lowered his head until it brushed against your forehead. "Please... stay. Don't leave me now."
For several endless moments, he feared you had not heard him at all. Then your lashes began to tremble softly. Your eyelids lifted with agonizing slowness, as if even that simple movement required immense effort. Your eyes, still clouded with confusion and pain, wandered aimlessly before finally settling on his face. You looked at him for a long time in silence, your expression lost and distant. It was as if you were trying to remember where you were, or perhaps simply trying to understand whether he was real. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Gwayne held even his breath, terrified that this fragile connection might shatter.
You continued to stare at him. Your lips parted slightly and, in a voice so faint it nearly blended with the wind through the trees, you asked: "Am I dead?"
Those words pierced his heart. Gwayne shook his head immediately, leaning closer to you. One hand remained firm behind your back, the other still cradled your face as if he feared you might vanish at any moment. "No." The answer came too quickly, broken by emotion. "No... you're here. You're alive." He swallowed hard, but the words poured out of him uncontrollably, dragged forth by weeks of silence and a guilt he could no longer contain. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, lowering his gaze briefly before searching for yours again. "I'm so sorry. I... I didn't mean— I saw that man. I thought that if I could stop him..." His voice broke. He drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to steady the tremor in his chest. "If I hadn't intervened, maybe... maybe the arrow would have taken a different path. Maybe you wouldn't have fallen. I—" He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to continue. "I can't stop thinking about it."
His hands instinctively sought yours. They always sought your. When he finally managed to lace his fingers with yours, he was almost startled by the contrast between the warmth of his own skin and the cold that had overtaken yours. They were freezing, so cold it frightened him. He held them with the utmost care, as though afraid of hurting you, then slowly brought them to his lips. He pressed a long, trembling kiss upon them, just as he had done countless times during your marriage. It was a gesture that had become an involuntary reflex of his love. Every time you were sad, every time you were afraid, every time he returned from a long ride and found you waiting for him, he would take your hands and kiss them in that exact same way. Now he did it again, his eyes shining with unshed tears, his heart in pieces.
You were so pretty even like this. His pretty girl.
"It's my fault..." he whispered against your skin, almost unable to look at you. "You fell because of me. I made you fall. I don't even know how to ask for your forgiveness, my love."
You watched him for a long time without interrupting. There was no anger in your eyes, only an infinite weariness, made deeper still by the pain of your wound. Slowly, with an effort that broke his heart just to witness, you freed one hand from his grasp and lifted it toward his face. Your fingers trembled visibly as they reached his cheek. You touched him lightly, with a caress so gentle it felt like the brush of a feather. Gwayne remained completely still, holding even his breath. It had been so long since you had last sought his face. "You need not to apologize..." you murmured, your voice barely audible. A faint smile appeared on your chapped lips. "You were only protecting your family. Just as I do."
He lowered his gaze slowly, letting his forehead rest against yours. What an angel you were, he thought not even the fairest maiden could ever hope to be like you. What monster he was to ruining you like this, rotting you until your core. "It shouldn't be this way..." he whispered bitterly, gently stroking your still-damp hair. His fingers moved through those strands with the same tenderness as before, as if every gesture might carry you back to when you had been happy. "We shouldn't be on opposite sides. We shouldn't be forced to choose." He lifted his eyes again to meet yours. "You too are my family."
His hand lingered on your face for a few moments more, caressing you hesitantly. It was as though he were touching you for the first time, and yet as if his body remembered perfectly every line of your face. His fingers traced slowly along your cheek, the curve of your jaw, until they came to rest near your lips. The most beautiful lips he so loved kissing. For a moment, it felt to him as though he were back in your chamber in Oldtown, he could almost hear the rain against the windows, smell the burnt candles and the warmth of the sheets. For a few heartbeats, the war ceased to exist. There was only the two of you.
He leaned down toward your face, and finally he kissed you. That kiss carried every unspoken word, every night spent longing for you, every wrong choice that had led you both to that lake. His lips trembled slightly against yours, as though he feared it might truly be the last time he would ever be able to do so. They were soft despite being chapped by cold and exhaustion. And you, despite the pain coursing through every part of your body, let yourself fall into him, into his arms, against his chest. That was where you belonged, in his arms. Gwayne held you a little tighter, one hand finding your waist, careful not to touch your wound.
How he loved kissing you. How he loved when you clung to him as he was your savior. His heart always exploded in an hundreds of sparkles, making him dizzy with your taste. He felt so drunk of you, feeling you everywhere. Yet Gwayne wanted to feel you even more, merge his body into yours, flesh into flesh. He wanted to burn into you. He wanted you to kiss him forever.
He wanted. He wanted. He wanted. Why he wanted so much? Is he allowed to wanting?
It’s was so hard not to when you touched him so, looking like the prettiest dream.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches. Your breaths still mingled in the cold night air, your foreheads nearly resting against each other, lips still chasing. His eyes could not leave yours, as though he feared that looking away might cause him to lose you again. He remained there, motionless, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. He could not let you go. After believing you dead, after watching you fall from the sky, after thinking he would never hear your breathing again, separating from you now felt simply impossible.
summary: over the years, you notice your son picking up more and more of logan’s habits, never realizing just how closely he’s been watching his dad
warnings: this genuinely is just pure fluff, if you’re not into parenthood fics i suggest skipping this one :)
word count: 2.5k
a/n: based on this request by @memedin4 ! i hope you enjoy it<3
john logan masterlist off campus masterlist
── ᵎᵎ ✦
logan had been home from a training camp for less than twelve hours when you walked into the kitchen and found a smaller version of him sitting at the table.
not physically, obviously. your son was three years old, barely tall enough to climb onto the dining chairs without using his knees, and currently wearing dinosaur pajamas with one sock missing. logan, meanwhile, looked every bit like a man who had landed in boston sometime after midnight and been woken before seven by a child who had apparently spent the last four days saving every thought he’d ever had for his father’s return.
they had already been downstairs for nearly an hour.
you knew this because you’d heard your son talking through the floorboards while you were still in bed. the conversation appeared to have been largely one-sided, punctuated every so often by logan’s lower, sleep-roughened voice. eventually, the smell of coffee had convinced you to join them.
logan sat slouched in his chair, one hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through his phone. his hair was still flattened on one side from sleep, and the exhaustion around his eyes suggested he was only technically awake.
beside him, your son sat in almost exactly the same position. his small body was slumped against the back of the chair, one hand wrapped around his plastic cup of milk while he stared down at the unopened coloring book in front of him with an expression of deep contemplation.
logan lifted his coffee, your son lifted his milk. logan took a sip, so did he.
you remained by the doorway, watching as logan lowered his mug and scratched absently at the stubble along his jaw. a few seconds later, your son raised one small hand and dragged his fingers thoughtfully across his own smooth chin.
your mouth twitched slightly at the utterly adorable sight. logan noticed you then, his eyes lifting from his phone, “morning.”
“morning.” you crossed the kitchen, placing a quick kiss against your husband’s lips before reaching for the coffee pot, and glancing toward the table again as you filled your mug.
logan leaned farther back in his chair, your son did the same. this time, you laughed.
both of them looked at you, and the resemblance in their equally confused expressions only made it worse. “what?” logan asked.
you shook your head and turned back toward the counter, “nothing.”
you heard logan mutter something to your son behind you, followed by a quiet little laugh.
at three, imitation was hardly unusual. your son copied plenty of things. he tried to use your hairbrush, repeated words he had no business knowing, and had recently spent an entire afternoon pretending to talk on a television remote after watching you take a work call.
by four, your son had worked out what it meant when logan left with a suitcase.
before, his father’s absences had existed without much explanation. dad went away sometimes. dad appeared on the television. dad eventually came home, usually with something small from whichever city he’d been in and enough guilt about missing bedtime to make him incapable of saying no for at least twenty-four hours.
now, your son understood that logan played hockey for the bruins and this information had completely changed his life.
he had a miniature jersey with his father’s name across the back and insisted on wearing it during games. on nights when logan was away, you let him stay up later than usual to watch, although he rarely made it through all three periods.
more than once, logan had called after a game only for you to turn the phone toward the couch, where his son was asleep beneath a blanket with one hand still loosely holding a plastic hockey stick.
when logan was home, things weren’t much different. your son followed him everywhere.
if logan went into the garage, the back door opened thirty seconds later and a small voice asked what he was doing. if logan went upstairs to change, your son waited outside the bedroom and resumed whatever story he’d been telling the moment his father reappeared. if logan sat down to watch something, there was usually a small body pressed against his side within minutes.
logan seemed entirely unaware of the fact that he had acquired a shadow. you, however, had noticed it most one saturday afternoon.
you had walked into the kitchen to find logan crouched in front of an open cabinet. a screwdriver rested between his fingers as he worked on one of the hinges, while your son sat cross-legged on the floor beside him.
his eyes followed logan’s hands as they moved. whenever logan paused to inspect the hinge, your son leaned forward slightly too. when logan frowned at something, a smaller crease appeared between your son’s eyebrows.
you leaned against the counter, “is he helping?”
logan glanced over his shoulder, “apparently.”
your son looked mildly offended, “i am.”
you looked at his empty hands with a small smile, “alright, love.”
logan continued working, explaining what he was doing whenever another question came from beside him. most of the answers were probably going over your son’s head, but that didn’t seem to matter. he listened with the solemn attention usually reserved for bedtime stories.
eventually, logan handed him the screwdriver and placed his own hand over the smaller one to help him tighten the final screw.
as your son looked ridiculously pleased with himself you smiled and left them to it.
later that evening, you found him sitting in front of one of his toy trucks with a plastic screwdriver in his hand. when you asked what he was doing, he barely looked up, “fixing it.”
you didn’t need to ask where he’d gotten the idea.
you discovered this at dinner when you noticed every cherry tomato from his salad arranged in a neat pile at the edge of his plate.
you stared at them for a moment, “what’s wrong with those?”
your son shrugged, “don’t like them.”
“you ate them yesterday.” you said with your brows knitted in confusion, but another shrug followed.
when you glanced across the table you noticed logan eating with the determined concentration of someone who knew better than to make eye contact. you looked at his plate, and sure enough, a small pile of tomatoes sat near the edge.
your eyes moved from him to your son, and back to your husband, “seriously?”
logan finally glanced up, “what?”
you gestured toward their plates. he looked down at his own and then toward your son’s. understanding dawned slowly causing his mouth to twitch.
“don’t,” you pointed your fork at him.
“i didn’t do anything,” he shrugged.
“you’re enjoying this.”
“a little.”
your son looked between you, clearly uninterested in whatever argument was taking place. he pushed another tomato into the pile and continued eating. you watched him glance briefly at logan’s plate before doing it.
the tomatoes were only the beginning.
your son began asking for eggs the same way logan ate them, despite previously insisting that the yolk was disgusting. he started sitting beside his father during breakfast instead of in his usual seat across the table. when logan came home from practice and dropped onto the couch with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, it wasn’t unusual to find your son sitting the same way twenty minutes later.
the expressions were the funniest part.
logan had a particular look whenever he thought you were being unreasonable. it wasn’t dramatic. one eyebrow lifted slightly while his mouth flattened at one corner, and after years of marriage, you knew exactly what it meant.
apparently, your son did too.
the first time he used it on you after being told he couldn’t have ice cream before dinner, you nearly called logan into the room to deal with the consequences of his own genetics.
by six, hockey had become more than something your son watched because his father was on television.
he wanted to play.
you knew logan had been secretly thrilled the first time your son asked for skates, but he tried hard not to show too much of it. hockey had been part of his life for so long that he seemed almost wary of accidentally making it an obligation for his son.
he didn’t have to worry, though, because your son loved it.
you spent more mornings than you could count sitting in cold rinks with coffee between your hands, watching him on the ice. whenever logan’s schedule allowed, he came along.
you could tell those were your son’s favorite mornings.
he listened differently when logan spoke. not because he ignored his coaches, he didn’t, but because anything his father said seemed to carry additional weight.
logan would demonstrate something once, skating slowly enough for him to follow and your son would try. usually, the first attempt wasn’t particularly successful, but logan never made a big deal out of it. he would skate over, say something you couldn’t hear through the glass, and show him again.
there was something about the concentration on your son’s face that felt familiar. his brows drew together the same way logan’s did before a faceoff, his mouth tightening slightly as he tried to remember where to put his feet.
when he finally got something right, he looked for logan immediately. every single time. and no matter how small the improvement was, logan always noticed.
you wondered if either of them understood just how much they watched each other.
at seven, your son announced that he would play for the bruins.
the declaration came over breakfast with such certainty that neither you nor logan questioned whether he’d meant it. logan looked up from his coffee, “that’s the plan?”
your son nodded and continued eating his cereal. logan glanced at you as you tried to hide your smile behind your mug. there was no point arguing. only a week earlier, your son had also informed you that he intended to become a marine biologist despite refusing to swim anywhere he couldn’t touch the bottom.
that evening, you sat with him during one of logan’s home games. your son had been to plenty by then, but his excitement never seemed to fade. he sat forward in his seat throughout warmups, tracking his father across the ice.
once the game started, his attention remained fixed. you occasionally had trouble following logan among the movement of jerseys and helmets, but your son never did.
he knew exactly when his father stepped onto the ice. he recognized the shape of his skating, the way he moved, the number on his back. whenever logan had the puck, your son became completely still.
you had seen him watch games hundreds of times, but for some reason, you really noticed it that night. there was admiration in the way he watched his father, but there was something else too. concentration, maybe. as though he weren’t only watching the game. he was learning.
logan finally noticed on a rainy sunday afternoon.
he was home for the day, which had become increasingly rare as the season grew busier. the three of you had spent most of it doing very little.
logan was stretched across one end of the couch, one arm resting behind you while a game played on television. your son had turned the space between the couch and coffee table into a makeshift rink, using a miniature stick and foam ball despite being told several times to watch the lamp.
you were reading a book while logan was half watching the game and half scrolling through his phone.
a bad call on the television made logan look up. he frowned at the screen and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “come on.”
it was a sentence you’d heard him say plenty of times, so you barely registered it.
a few minutes later, your son lost control of the foam ball. it bounced off the coffee table and disappeared beneath the couch. he stopped for a second as his eyes followed it, then, with a frustrated breath, he leaned on his stick and dropped his head, “come on.”
logan went still and you looked up from your book. his attention was fixed on your son, who had already dropped onto his stomach and was attempting to retrieve the ball from beneath the couch, “did you hear that?”
you followed his gaze, “hear what?”
“that.”
“you’ll have to be more specific.”
logan frowned, still watching him, “he sounded like me.”
you stared at your husband for several seconds before letting out a laugh. not because it wasn’t true, but because it had taken him seven years to notice.
logan looked at you, “what?”
“nothing.”
his eyes narrowed. the expression was so familiar that your amusement only grew, “he copies you all the time.”
logan looked genuinely doubtful, “since when?”
you smiled as you closed your book, because where were you supposed to begin?
you reminded him of the mornings when your son was three and copied the way he drank from his cup. the afternoon with the cabinet hinge. the tomatoes. the expressions. the way he rubbed his chin when he was thinking despite having no stubble to scratch.
logan listened quietly and his attention gradually moved back toward the floor. your son had retrieved the ball and was standing again, adjusting his grip on the stick. after a moment, he glanced toward logan, “dad, watch.”
logan did as your son tried the same little move he’d been practicing for the last ten minutes. the ball rolled wide. he frowned, but before he could try again, logan stood from the couch, “move your bottom hand down a little.”
your son immediately adjusted it. logan stepped around the coffee table and crouched beside him, correcting his grip before moving back, “try now.”
the second attempt was better and your son’s face changed immediately, looking at logan for his reaction, who smiled.
you watched something shift in your husband’s expression. it was subtle, but you knew him well enough to see it. the realization that this wasn’t new. that the little boy standing in front of him had been paying attention for years.
later, after your son had gone to bed, you found logan standing in the kitchen. he was looking through something on his phone. when you came closer, you realized it was an old video.
your son was four in it, pushing a plastic lawn mower across the backyard several feet behind logan, carefully following every turn he made.
you leaned back against the counter next to him and watched him as he rewinded the video and pressed play again, “you really never noticed?”
he shook his head slightly. for a few seconds, he didn’t say anything. his thumb moved across the screen, replaying the beginning of the video once more, “he was tiny.”
you smiled, “he still is.”
“not that tiny.”
there was something in his voice that made your chest tighten a little. you rested your head briefly against his shoulder.
on the screen, a four-year-old version of your son followed directly behind his father, pushing his plastic mower through grass that wasn’t being cut and occasionally looking up to make sure logan was still there.
logan watched until the video ended, then he played it again.
(9) Bitch to Me Briar: Love it when you look at me baby
John Logan x fem!reader
Summary: Finally you and Logan get to see what the two have been avoiding for the past few weeks. Safe to say it was always going to be you two together.
Warnings: FLUFFFF
Seires Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Previous Part | Next Part
Logan kept his promise in taking things slow.
Your first date was him taking you to an art exhibit you had mentioned on the off hand during your carpooling to Hastings Elementary. He picked you up from your dorm which had Allie and Hannah being annoyingly happy about the situation. Even though he was dressed the same, leaning against the same truck that drove you around Hastings, seeing him outside your dorm knowing he was here for a date with you made your heart flutter.
“You look nice,” he smiled, giving you a polite side hug greeting which you appreciated.
“Thanks,” you said, as he jogged around to open up your door.
The gallery was everything you imagined and more. It had been awhile since you’ve been to a museum with someone, normally opting for solo trips, but Logan was good company.
“The colors are beautiful,” you sighed, getting as close to the paintings as you could without getting yelled at by the security.
“Yeah I really like this style,” Logan smiled, shoulder brushing yours as he leaned close.
You missed him sneaking a few photos of you looking at the art, but he saw those images for himself as a reminder how lucky he got.
You felt a bit shy making him walk around a gallery but he followed you with patience and let you explain to him all the history and techniques behind each article. If he seemed bored he didn’t show it at all.
When he dropped you back off at your dorm and walked you to your dorm, you both stood in front of each other for a moment. For the first time you realized he was nervous, hands shoved into his pockets.
“Thank you for giving me a chance,” he smiled, “I had a lot of fun.”
“Me too,” you said, fiddling with your hair.
It was actually one of the most thoughtful date you ever been on but you still felt like you need to keep him on his toes.
“Would you be interested in going out with me again?”
You pretended to think about it which had Logan press his lips into a thin line waiting for your answer.
“Yeah I think I would like that,” you said.
“You think?” he teased.
You gave him a playful shrug which made him chuckle. Before he could say anything else, you leaned to give him a kiss on the cheek. If he was disappointed not scoring an actual kiss on the first date he didn’t show it. Instead he looked more than happy just knowing that he was spending time with you.
“I’ll text you about this second date we will be having,” he sighed, “Good night.”
“Good night Logan,” you smiled.
He watched you walk into the building and you waited until you were safely in the walls of your dorm let your face morph into the biggest grin that you were trying to hide.
–
Your second date was technically a studying one in the library which was spent doing absolutely no studying. Logan kept distracting you by playing with your hair and telling you about all the things he had seen in the past few days that reminded him of you.
“There was a bird that flew into the rink yesterday,” he said, arm draped across the back of your chair, “Definitely wasn’t a boring sparrow but I didn’t get a photo.”
“Well that’s very helpful,” you sighed, scrolling through the latest articles you needed to read for class.
“Oh also we have a game on Friday,” he said.
His voice trailed off as you looked up at him from your notes. You found it kind of adorable how nervous he got. You knew it was because he didn’t want to mess up but you were so used to seeing a cocky John Logan that it made you feel a bit prideful that you were the one making him into a mess.
“I know,” you said teasingly.
“Umm you should come,” he said, “I mean you normally do anyways but I thought I’d ask just to make sure.”
You giggled at his rambling as he scratched the back of his neck.
“Yeah I’ll be there,” you said.
That bright smile flashed across his face which made your heart flutter. Feeling a bit more confident you grabbed your chair to pull closer to his own so that your thighs were pressed against each other. He reached out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear which had your face grow hot.
“Look out for the goal I score,” he said with a grin.
–
The next time you went out on a proper date was a simple dinner and it was genuinely the best meal you ever had in Hastings. You had been busy with your midterms which Logan made a point to accompany you in the library whenever he could. You could feel yourself starting to opening up to him more, less afraid of what could happen and enjoying the moment.
"You're a very good listener," you said, ranting about how awful your midterm went.
"Thanks you just happened to be a very interesting talker," he smiled, bumping your knee from underneath the table, “But I don't think you did bad."
"You didn't see the test Logan," you sighed, "I fucking hate philosophy."
"Rest in power Socrates," Logan joked which made you roll your eyes.
"If it makes you feel any better I have an econ paper up and I haven't started," Logan said.
"Why would that make me feel better?" you scoffed jokingly.
"Knowing that you're definitely the smarter one in the relationship," he grinned.
The word relationship made your heart stutter. Even though you both agreed to take it slow there was no denying where the two of you were heading. You thought about Amy’s advice about being willing to accept love and she was right. You could’ve easily avoided seeing Logan again after the first date but after his confession in the bookstore, seeing him so vulnerable, it made you feel okay with exposing a bit of yourself to him as well.
Neither of you mentioned it as you continued your conversation about everything and nothing. You both talked about the fundraiser and fashion show coming up in a couple weeks.
“How intense is this leopard situation?” Logan asked, pushing his plate of fries towards you. You were previously upset that your own meal hadn’t come with a side so Logan ordered your favorite sweet potato fries to share. You didn’t know he hated sweet potatoes. You didn’t need to know.
“Very. You’ve met Katie, she doesn’t do anything halfway.”
“As long as it’s not spandex,” Logan sighed, “And none of the hockey guys are allowed to have their phones.”
“You’re no fun,” you groaned as Logan grinned at you. However you were still in the mood to tease.
“I guess this is our last date. Such a shame I was starting to like you,” you sighed, purposely turning away from Logan.
A quick look of hurt flashed across his face as he said, “Aww come on,” but you just crossed your arms.
“Fine I’ll allow photos. No videos though. And Jules cannot post about it.”
You laughed at how easy he folded which made him narrow his eyes at you.
“That was quick,” you giggled, “I bet I can make you do anything now.”
“I thought that was clear when you got me willingly coaching middle schoolers on the weekends,” Logan said.
“You didn’t even know that was me,” you said.
“Still even when I didn't know I still knew to listen,” he shrugged, “By the way how is that going?”
“The account?”
“Yeah. Jules post didn’t mess anything up right?” he said, his hand creeping across the table to brush against your fingers, “They are sorry I think. I still don’t really know their obsession with the account.”
“It’s fine,” you shrugged, over it, “The account is under new management anyways.”
“Really?” Logan said in shock, “Don’t tell me it was because of me?”
“It was a number of things,” you said honestly, “It just didn’t feel the same running when I first started. I think it was slowly starting to eat me up inside and I realized there’s probably better outlets for me.”
Logan gave a supportive nod, reaching out to squeeze your hand. He had already paid for the check when you went to the bathroom earlier so he guided the two of you out of the restaurant. The night was cool but your hands were still intertwined as you walked to the car.
You gave him a smile and a shiver ran down your spine. Logan instantly shrugged off his jacket and put it around your shoulders. Now you both were inches apart so that you could smell his cologne.
“You wanna know now who runs it don’t you?” you teased at his silence since the previous conversation.
“Hey, can you blame a guy for being curious?” Logan exclaimed, “It might be nice to know who’s behind the screen now in case I need help planning our next date. Or maybe even an anniversary down the line.”
“Wow you’re really thinking ahead now,” you laughed, but your heart still skipped a beat realizing Logan was really serious about his future with you.
“I told you I was gonna do it right,” Logan said, “You look really pretty by the way. You always look pretty. I should tell you that more often.”
“You really know how to lay it on thick,” you joked.
“Can’t a guy admire his girl?”
“I’m your girl now?”
“Well in due time yes. I see it in the very near future but for now I’ll just be your man.”
“My man?” you chuckled, “You make it sound like I have a new toy.”
“I’m all yours. Even if after tonight you decide to stop going out with me I’ll be yours,” he said with a small sigh, “You’re it for me.”
“Well we haven’t even kissed. What if I’m a horrible kisser and you decide I can’t be your girl.”
“Then we should figure that out sooner rather than later,” he grinned, hands around your waist already pulling you closer.
You leaned in to press your lips to his. The short stubble on his chin tickled your face as his hands came up to cup your jaw. Your own hands tangled in his hair, pulling your bodies flushed against each other. You kept kissing in the moonlight until eventually you needed to come up for air.
Best kiss ever.
“Yeah I didn’t have any doubt,” he grinned before kissing you again.
–
Despite Logan being 90 percent sure that you were his, he was still nervous about the situation. His mind kept thinking about the kiss from two nights ago, how soft your lips were and that he could taste the vanilla gloss you had just applied. Man he was obsessed. And lucky. So fucking lucky.
Which is why he needed to make sure tonight was great. The Hawks win and he finally asks you to be his girlfriend. He brought over an extra jersey to your dorm earlier but you weren’t home. Allie teased him before promising to pass along the message. But there was no set way in knowing you would actually wear it.
His legs bounced nervously in the locker room as Coach Jenson gave their final pep talk before the game. It shouldn’t be a hard game but Logan did promise you a goal which would be embarrassing if he didn’t deliver.
“Hey there lover boy,” Dean teased, patting his back as they walked out the locker room, “Heard you got a special fan wearing your jersey in the crowd tonight.”
Logan looked over with a confused look, “How do you know that?”
Dean’s face dropped as he quickly said, “Thought I might’ve seen her walking in.”
Logan didn’t think much of Dean’s statement as he was now excited to see you in his jersey.
The noise of the arena was loud as he followed his teammates onto the ice. His eyes scanned the crowd for another 22. After a few minutes of head swiveling he spotted your face in between Allie and Amy with a big smile. Sure enough your body was engulfed by the large jersey with his number plastered on the front.
You gave him a shy wave before continuing your clapping with the crowd. Logan couldn’t stop smiling as he skated past where you were sitting to give you a quick wink. Garrett did yell at him to get into position after but it was so worth it.
It wasn’t a difficult game but Logan still hadn’t scored as they moved into the final period. He knew that you didn’t really care but there could be a chance you’d tease him to death after so he needed to eradicate that possibility. He was a man of his word.
Thankfully the third period began to pick up with only a few minutes left on the clock. Logan skated down the rink looking for an opening so Garrett could pass. In a quick turn, Logan blurred past his defender and Garrett shot the puck right in his direction. Like all the times in practice, Logan swung at the puck with a loud crack. The black object flew straight past the goalie straight into the net, the sound of the buzzer confirmed the goal.
Garrett engulfed Logan into a celebratory hug but Logan’s attention was somewhere else. Not focused on the goal, his team, or even the crowd chanting his name. His eyes narrowed in on where you had jumped to your feet cheering so loud your cheeks were bright red.
He pointed his glove right at you, confirming that he followed through on all his promises.
–
After the game, Hannah, Allie, Amy, and you were waiting behind to meet up with the guys to go to Malone’s. The team slowly trickled out as you said your polite congrats to the other members and promised to see them later at the bar.
Dean and Tucker emerged first which you and girls gave them high fives and hugs before Garrett came out making Hannah sprint to him. You looked over their shoulders in search of the person you wanted to see. His jersey clung to your frame as the smell of his cologne was wrapped around you.
John Logan emerged from the tunnel, his hair damp and duffel bad in hand. He looked a little short of breath but his eyes lit up when he met your gaze. You couldn’t help but smile as he approached you, stopping just inches away from you to take in you in his jersey.
“Cute outfit,” he hummed, arm gripping your waist through the thick fabric.
“Thanks,” you said, “Found it on my bed today. Very weird. I don't remember buying it.”
“So weird,” he murmured before pressing a kiss to your lips cause he couldn't help himself.
You reacted immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck. Logan was trying to deepen the kiss until an awkward cough cut through the tension.
“So we’re gonna go to Malone’s,” Tucker said, “Go ahead and continue sucking face.”
The whole group was staring at you with knowing grins and wide eyes. You felt your cheeks heat up, always a bit shy, mumbling an apology.
“Don’t apologize,” Logan said, squeezing your side, guiding the two of you to follow your friends, “Let them be jealous.”
“Can’t believe I’ve become someone who does PDA,” you groaned, trying to hide your face in his side.
“Oh this is just the beginning baby,” he grinned, wrapping his arm around your shoulders feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.
Next Part
A/N: Hiiiii here's a cute fluffy part before the last chapter!! Omg that's so crazy to think I'm basically done with this series. I'll save my thank yous for the next chapter but enjoy!!!!
The second born, A bastard, a dreamer with fire in her veins, and a girl forced into the dance of dragons
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
After the night in the brothel Rhaenyra finds her self with child, A girl who will forever change the history of westeros
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
25.) “I’d go to war for her, but she’d be mad about it, so I’ll probably just get her coffee instead.”
Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
AN: Reader plays tennis in this! Also, I don’t know much about college tennis, I only played high school so I’m not sure if the teams work the same or not but yes lol.
To say you were upset would be an understatement. But, realistically you couldn’t be too upset. Getting bumped from 1st singles to 2nd wasn’t exactly how you expected to start your Junior season of tennis. Objectively, the freshman girl who took your spot as number one was just as good as you. But still, ouch.
You’d called Dean on your way home from practice, where your coach had broke the news to you. Explaining that playing you as in second singles would basically guarantee a win and allow for the new girl to be baptized by fire. At this point you were just playing because you were practically birthed with a tennis racket in your hand and you had a full ride to Briar U to play tennis.
“I’m just so freaking done, I know my dad would flip out if I quit. It’s not like I don’t like tennis, I love it but like recreationally, matches make me so nervous.” You ramble to your boyfriend over the phone as you drive back to his place.
“I know, babe.” Dean says with a sigh trying to comfort you. “You shouldn’t be nervous though, you’re insanely good.” He says. You laugh, you knew you were good but still.
“I’m almost to the house, I’ll see you soon.” You say.
“Love you baby, drive safe.” Dean says.
“Love you too, be there in a few.” You say before hanging up. Little do you know your boyfriend is debriefing his friends and warning them not to ask about practice.
“No one ask her about practice, her coach did something shitty.” Dean says, running a hand through his blonde hair. Garrett frowns.
“What happened?” Garrett asks. Dean explains the situation to the group.
“That sucks.” Logan says.
“Yeah, I hate that for her.” Tucker agrees. Dean sighs dramatically taking a seat on the couch.
“I just don’t want her to be upset or feel like the whole family pressure thing.” Dean says.
“Family pressure? Her parents play tennis or something?” Garrett asks. Dean gives him a look, wondering if he should divulge his girlfriend’s parental lore.
“Um, her dad is a tennis coach, he played in college. Then like started giving private lessons, that’s how he met her mom.” Dean says with a grimace, you were pretty open about how you were convinced but he felt wrong telling them without you.
“Oh so like her mom is a tennis player too?” Logan asks. Dean grimaces once again.
“Uh no, her mom was 40 when she met her dad. She describes it as her mother’s mid life crisis, I guess they had an affair, her mom divorced her husband and married the tennis coach aka her dad.” Dean says.
“Wait, wait…” Tucker says. “How old is her dad?” He asks. Dean shrugs.
“Like 45?” Dean says. Garrett’s eyebrows raise.
“Damn.” Logan says. Dean nods.
“So like tennis is quite literally the means of her conception, so I think she feels a little connected to it.” Dean explains. Just then you walk in the door, the guys try to act natural, like they’re not busting at the seams to ask about your practice.
“You told them didn’t you.” You say deadpanning at Dean. He grins sheepishly.
“I just didn’t want them to say something and make you upset.” Dean reasons, you press a kiss to his cheek.
“That’s sweet, I promise I’m fine. I’m gonna go shower.” You say heading up the stairs to your boyfriend’s room, it might as well been your room too.
“Man I just don’t want her to be upset, she’s very good at hiding that shit.” Dean says, running a hand through his hair again.
“Dude, I think she’d tell you if she had a problem. She probably is afraid you’re gonna go convince her coach to swap the lineup.” Garrett says with a laugh. Dean glares at him.
“I’d go to war for her, but she’d be mad about it, so I’ll probably just get her coffee instead.” Dean says whipping out his phone to DoorDash your favorite iced coffee.
“You’re so whipped man.” Logan says. Dean flips him off, placing the order and setting his phone down.
“Trust me man, you would be too.” Dean says with a smirk. Logan rolls his eyes. Garrett stays quiet, knowing that he too is absolutely whipped for his girlfriend.
-{ꨄ︎} found family hockey groupchat leaked, ‘dean’s children’; texting au! garrett graham, dean di laurentis, john logan, john tucker, y/n, allie hayes, grace ivers & sabrina james
-{✩} found family fics!
-{𐙚} found family blurbs; coming soon
-{⋆˙⟡} found family social media; instagram
*requests are open for fic ideas, blurbs, thoughts, social media requests and anything else related to this au series!
In a city built on shadows and legacy, Luna Wayne stands at the centre of it all, brilliant, composed, and carrying the weight of a name that shaped Gotham itself. As the head of Wayne Enterprises and the quiet force holding her family together, Luna has mastered control, responsibility… and sacrifice.
But beneath her calm exterior lies a woman who has spent her life fighting for everyone except herself.
When a chance encounter brings her face-to-face with Clark Kent, everything begins to shift. What starts as mutual respect grows into something deeper, something dangerous in a world where vulnerability is a weakness and love is a risk few can afford.
As Luna navigates corporate power, family expectations, and threats that reach far beyond Gotham’s borders, she must confront a truth she’s spent years avoiding:
Who is she when she’s not holding everyone else together?
And more importantly,
What happens when someone finally sees her… and refuses to let her carry it all alone?
The rain poured heavily over Gotham, a rhythmic stream of sound that drowned out the usual chaos of the city. For once, the streets were quiet, and the towering silhouette of Wayne Manor stood undisturbed against the storm. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the faint scent of old wood and freshly brewed tea.
Luna Wayne sat at her desk in the sprawling study, illuminated by the flickering glow of the fireplace. The room, much like her, was a mixture of the past and present, a legacy carried forward with a modern twist. Family portraits adorned the walls, her grandfather’s brooding gaze frozen forever in time beside her grandmother's and father's softer smiles. Luna glanced at them as she worked, her fingers flying over the keyboard of her sleek laptop.
Her focus was sharp, yet her heart felt heavy tonight. It always did when she stared too long at her father’s picture. Bruce Wayne had left a permanent mark on her, one she carried with her in everything she did, in the way she handled Wayne Enterprises, the way she protected her family, and the way she approached every challenge with unrelenting determination. But there were moments, especially late at night, when she longed for the chance to ask him if he would be proud of her. Or if he could tell her how to handle things. Or simply just hug her.
A soft knock on the door broke her thoughts.
“Miss Luna,” Alfred’s familiar voice called, his tone as calm and composed as ever.
“Come in,” she replied, her voice steady but warm.
The door opened, and Alfred stepped in, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea. He placed it gently beside her laptop, glancing at the screen filled with schematics and financial reports.
“You’ve been at this all evening. Might I suggest a short break before you exhaust yourself entirely?” he said, his words a careful blend of concern and subtle reprimand.
Luna gave him a small smile, reaching for the tea. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll stop soon, I promise.”
“Forgive me if I don’t entirely believe that,” Alfred replied, raising an eyebrow.
Before Luna could respond, there was a sudden commotion from the hallway. Footsteps, loud and uneven, accompanied by a familiar voices grumbling in frustration.
“Jason,” Luna muttered under her breath, already standing.
The door swung open, and Jason Todd burst in, his leather jacket dripping rain onto the polished floor. Behind him, Tim Drake appeared, looking both exasperated and amused.
“She’s not going to like this,” Tim said, leaning casually against the doorframe.
“I didn’t ask for your commentary, replacement,” Jason shot back before turning to Luna. “Look, before you say anything, I had it handled.”
Luna crossed her arms, her brow arching in that quiet, authoritative way she’d perfected over the years. “Jason, you’re soaking wet, tracking mud through the house, and I’m guessing this has something to do with the ‘incident’ I saw on the news an hour ago?”
Jason hesitated, his bravado faltering. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said, though the guilt in his voice suggested otherwise.
Luna sighed, walking over to him. “Let’s get you cleaned up first, then you can tell me what happened.” She turned to Tim. “Make sure Alfred doesn’t need to see the floor before you clean it up.”
Tim saluted with mock seriousness. “Yes, ma’am.”
As Jason followed Luna down the hall, muttering about how he didn’t need babysitting, Tim crouched down to inspect the muddy trail. “You owe me for this,” he called after Jason, though his tone was light.
Later that evening, the family gathered in the dining room for what had become a cherished tradition: dinner together. It was a stark contrast to the isolated meals Luna remembered from her childhood, when Bruce would eat quickly before retreating to the Batcave. Now, the table was alive with conversation and laughter.
Dick Grayson was telling an animated story about a mishap at the circus he’d recently visited with some young trainees, gesturing wildly with his fork. Jason, now clean and dry, chimed in with sarcastic remarks, earning a few playful jabs from Tim.
Luna sat quietly, watching her brothers with a soft smile. Her eyes occasionally flickered to Damian, who sat at the edge of the table, observing the chaos with a sceptical expression.
“Damian,” she said gently, drawing his attention. “How was training today?”
He hesitated, his fork hovering over his plate. “It was… adequate,” he said, his tone guarded.
Luna’s smile widened. “Just adequate? That doesn’t sound like you.”
Jason snorted. “Translation: he’s mad he didn’t completely destroy the dummy.”
Damian shot him a glare, but Luna intervened before the teasing could escalate. “I’m sure you did great, Damian. And remember, it’s not always about being perfect. It’s about learning.”
Her words seemed to soften him, though he tried to hide it. “I’ll do better next time,” he mumbled.
Luna reached over, placing a gentle hand on his. “You’re already doing great. I’m proud of you.”
Damian blinked, looking down at her hand for a moment before giving a small nod.
As the night wore on, the rain outside began to let up, leaving the manor wrapped in a serene silence. Luna found herself alone in the study once again, tidying up some paperwork. She didn’t notice Clark enter until she felt the familiar warmth of his presence behind her.
“You’re working late,” he said softly, stepping closer.
Luna glanced over her shoulder, her lips curving into a subtle smile. “And you’re sneaking into the study. What does that say about you?”
Clark chuckled, his deep voice resonating through the room. “That I know where to find you.”
He moved beside her, his gaze flicking to the papers on her desk. “Anything I can help with?”
“Not tonight,” she said, turning to face him fully. “But I did fix something for you.”
Clark tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his blue eyes. “Oh?”
Luna reached into a drawer, pulling out a sleek device. “You’ve been complaining about the signal interference with your communicator for months. I designed a new one. Stronger frequency, no interruptions.”
Clark stared at the device for a moment, then at her, his expression softening. “Luna… you didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” she said simply, holding it out to him.
He took it, his fingers brushing against hers. For a moment, he said nothing, just looking at her with an intensity that made her shift under his gaze.
“What?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
Clark smiled, slipping the communicator into his pocket. “Nothing. Just… I love you.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “I love you too,” she said, her voice steady despite the shyness in her eyes.
He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into a gentle embrace. His other hand rested lightly against her back as he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmured against her hair.
Luna closed her eyes, leaning into him. “You’d manage. You’re Superman, after all.”
Clark chuckled, his chest vibrating against hers. “Maybe. But you make everything better, Luna. You always do.”
They stood there for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth as the storm outside faded into the night.
Collection of My Works for Characters from The Pitt, including: Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch, Jack Abbot, Brendon 'Shark' Park, Dennis Whitaker, Mateo Diaz & Jesse Van Horn 💗
Ranging from one shots to series. Happy Reading!
Main Masterlist Here!
DR MICHAEL 'ROBBY' ROBINAVITCH
Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist Here🩺
The Pitt x Reader x Batfam, Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader
The reader is the sister of Bruce Wayne, she works in the ER, wading through the slough of patients. But maybe she finds a little bit of balance in the form of her attending. The catch is, no one at the Pitt knows who she really is? how long will that last? (It's been really special and fun to write this ✨personal favourite of mine!) 🌟(Completed 💖 )
Paging Dr Daisy 🌼: Dr Robby x Paediatrician!Reader. Robby makes one last stop to check on Baby Jane Doe. Just to find you already there. The paediatric doctor known for your cheery demeanour...and right now that is the last thing Robby wants to be smothered by. Turns out you're not so pleased by him either. (personal favourite of mine!) 🌟
→ Bright Like Buttercups 🌷: Dr Robby x Paediatrician!Reader. (Paging Dr Daisy Part 2) Robby finds his motorcycle spirit quest less and less appealing with each passing day. Leading him to your door in your moment of need as you juggle looking after Baby Jane Doe and your work.
Through Your Eyes: Dr Robby x Reader. Robby notes all the ways you make his life better, fuller. How you never failed to notice all the ways life could be beautiful. And your endless desire to share it with him. He is simply, undoubtedly, infatuatedly, in love with you.
Life Is Sweeter When It's Shared: Dr Robby x Reader. Domaystic 2026, Day 12: Sharing. You slip on Robby’s hoodie whilst at his home for a little comfort. Shoving your hands into the pockets you discover little packets of…Werther's originals? 🌟
In Sickness & In Health: Dr Robby x Reader. Domaystic 2026, Day 17: Bedridden. Robby falls sick. So you are insistent on making him stay in bed. To rest. Something he's not used to. But for you. He'd do anything you'd ask of him.
My Door Is Always Open: Dr Robby x Reader. Domaystic 2026, Day 29: The Next Step. Strained and feeling hopeless. Robby's final day in the ED before his sabbatical has everyone on edge. You will yourself to make one final gesture. Taking the next step as you enclose a set of keys into the palm of his hand. Hoping to simply extend just a little bit of peace.
DR JACK ABBOT
Who Would've Thought? Series: Jack Abbot x Reader, In the most unlikeliest of places. You and Jack meet. Among the blaring music and blinding lights. You're intrigued by the roguishly handsome man who decides to spend his time with you. (Completed 💖 )
Who Would've Thought?...(Part 1)
...I'd See You Again (Part 2)
...In Here Of All Places (Part 3)
...We'd Be Here Now (Part 4)
...I'd End Up With You (Part 5)
…That My Future Would Be You (Part 6)
I Know You're Hurting Mini Series: Jack Abbot x Widower!Reader, Inspired by the music of Raye; I Know You're Hurting, Life Boat and Happier Times Ahead. Jack's direction in life spun on its head as he met you. A fellow widower. Someone who understood the pain of his losses. Who had understood him. Unfortunately you had understood him all too well. Recognising patterns that reopened old wounds. And yet...Jack still loved you... (Completed 💖 )
I Know You're Hurting (Part 1)
Life Boat (Part 2)
Happier Times Ahead (Part 3)
Sugar, Butter, Flour Series: Jack Abbot x Waitress!Pregnant!Reader, Heavily based upon Waitress the Musical. It's amazing what a little sugar, butter and flour can do. How it can convey a number of emotions, of words left unsaid, all for someone else to enjoy. None the wiser of the weight of your world. Just perhaps. You find someone who alters the definition of love for you in a way you never knew was possible... (Completed 💖 )
What Baking Can Do / It Only Takes A Taste (Part 1)
You Will Still Be Mine / A Soft Place To Land (Part 2)
Bad Idea / You Matter To Me / Dear Baby (Part 3)
She Used To Be Mine / Everything Changes (Part 4)
Opening Up / Lulu's Pie Song (Part 5)
With All Due Respect: Jack Abbot x Reader, "I can practically feel your eyes on me" ... "I am looking respectfully" ... "You are absolutely not" ... "No I am not" The moment where Abbot falls for the biomedical equipment technician that works nights at PTMC. And exploring where it all leads. With an impromptu breakfast date to something so much more. (personal favourite of mine!) 🌟
Thanks, But No Thanks: Jack Abbot x Reader, Domaystic 2026, Day 22: Being Overheard. A long shift. A nosy woman. A failed attempted set up. Leads to Jack feeling soothed by just how much you love him. He makes sure to show you just how much you mean to him. 🌟
Tough Luck, Love: Jack Abbot x Reader, Domaystic 2026, Day 25: Laughter. "you walk like it's heavy >:3" "baby i walk like that because i have one leg." "you never let me have any fun :(" Using Quote which can be found here! Jack simply loves to hear you laugh.
Real Smooth: Jack Abbot x Reader, An accidental meeting. A dog named Bailey. Who soothes the soul, just like a glass of Irish cream liqueur. Leads to something neither of you expected. Hopefully its more than just friendship...
Maybe It Was You & Maybe It Was Me: Jack Abbot x Reader, Dennis Whitaker x Reader, WIP love triangle.
DR BRENDON PARK : 'THE SHARK' 🦈
Sugar & Spice Series: Brendon Park x Wife!Pregnant!Reader, Dana Evans x Daughter!Reader, You may not have followed your Mama’s footsteps into the medical profession. But you did inherit her cheeky wit, and devotion to caring for those closest to her…raised with a deep understanding and respect for those working in the hospital. You make an effort to drop off little treats from your bakery. With each appearance you grow closer and closer to everyone. Leading to the pittlings to wonder just who your husband is…safe to say it’s the last person they expected. (Ongoing!)
Who Knew That Sharks Could Be Nice? (Part 1)
Gentle Hands & Gentle Hearts (Part 2)
What's Mine Is Yours (Part 3)
(Part 4)
Take The Bait: Brendon Park x Wife!Reader. Based off of an idea from @lunamoonbby blog which you can check out here Brendon Park's wife is a marine biologist that specialises in Sharks. One day she pops in to drop off some lunch for him. The real question remains however is, just what kind of Shark is he? (personal favourite of mine!) 🌟
Swim With Sharks, Expect To Get Bit: Brendon Park x Curvy Wife!Reader. Based off of an idea from @libbyqypu which you can check out here Early mornings in the gym before starting work. The one problem is the jerks who think they have a right to demean you. And your husband, Brendon is not ok with anyone who thinks it's fine to mess with you...he might have to teach this guy a few lessons. ⭐️
Lured By The Light: Brendon Park x Reader. Brendon never anticipated falling so effortlessly in love. But with you. With all the consideration and care that you hold for him. How could he do anything but love you. In which each evening, as Brendon comes home late from work, you never fail to leave a light on for him. A symbol of your burning love for him. ⭐️
Hook, Line & Sinker: Brendon Park x Wife!Reader, Everyone swore that you and PTMC's Shark were sworn enemies. As you shoot him biting quips and retorts each time your paths crossed...Turns out Park isn't quite the lone Shark everyone assumed him to be. His sharpness, softened by your affections. (personal favourite of mine!) 🌟
-> Hooked On A Feeling: Brendon Park x Wife!Reader, (Hook, Line & Sinker Part 2) Knowing what they know now. Everyone is completely stumped each time they see you and Brendon in a room together. Now all that's left to know is. How the hell did you manage to fall in love with Shark?
Comes In Waves: Brendon Park x Curvy!Reader, Even the most confident of people can succumb to the festering insecurities that lie in wait at the bottom beneath the ocean of your thoughts. You are endlessly grateful to Brendon for loving you through it all. Even if you don't always love yourself.
Dazed & Confused: Brendon Park x Reader, Domaystic 2026, Day 14: Startled by Sudden Appearance. The only one able to break your concentration. Is the very Shark of the hospital. Though he might strike fear into the hearts of the other staff, as they steer clear. In your eyes, it is a sweet and welcomed distraction. ⭐️
Bite Me: Brendon Park x Reader, Domaystic 2026, Based on day 24: New Pyjamas. You had a little habit of buying nautical themed items. And now that included Shark themed pyjamas. And Brendon can't help but love you for it. Softening day by day from your presence. It certainly shocks a few of his colleagues to discover this new development in his personal life. ⭐️
Diving In: Brendon Park x Reader, Domaystic 2026, Based on day 31: Going Home Early. You and Brendon simply needed a little push. A little nudge for your relationship to shift into something softer. Both unable to approach the idea of that. Who knew all it would take was a cold plunge to make you both see, perhaps there was a home to be found within each other's arms.
Of Sirens & Sharks: Brendon Park x Police Officer!Reader, Dr Robby x Sister!Reader, A broken arm. An overprotective brother. Who simply wants to make sure everything’s in order. Who demands the best of care for you. Happens to lead you to a very handsome orthopaedic specialist… Who on any other occasion would have been annoyed with such a minor case.…but just perhaps. His annoyance dims when he meets you. The trouble is. Neither of you know how to tell Robby…
SHIVER COLLECTION: Fics ft.Park The Shark's Sister
*Shiver: A collective term for a group of sharks swimming or congregating together 🦈
Jaws: Dennis Whitaker x Paramedic!Reader, You were bold. Blunt. You spoke your mind. And you had made Dennis absolutely smitten for you. Falling steadily until you ask him out. There was just one thing you never told him...you're the sister of PTMC's Shark. All of that comes to the forefront as you're caught in the crossfires of a violent patient.
Natural Habitat: Dr Robby x Attending!Reader, Quick witted, level headed and calm. Your favourite past times include; loving your husband (and making sure everyone was aware of this), making people laugh and of course, relentlessly teasing PTMC's Shark until he cracks a smile.
Before You Ask...It Was A Shark: Jack Abbot x Firefighter!Reader. Jack could be relentless when it came to stirring up trouble. Especially when it came to poking a little fun at PTMC's Shark. What no one could quite understand was why? Or how Jack managed to get away with it. Not until you, Jack's fearless firefighter of a wife, comes rushing into the ER. Turns out your presence worries more than just Jack. (personal favourite of mine!) 🌟
-> Surviving The Shark: (Before You Ask...It Was A Shark Part 2) What's a girl gotta do to entertain herself when her leg's broken? Forced to be benched for the next few months. Until an idea sparks. One that leads you to hang out in PTMC's ER. Under the ruse that you're simply bringing in some food for some of Pittsburgh's hardest workers...When really, you're just there to gossip.
Tricky Fish: Mateo Diaz x Radiology Tech!Reader. You were cool. Calm. Collected. The night shift's very own Shark, as you strolled through the ED. You had also become the fascination of a certain nurse. Mateo tried his very hardest to make you crack. Until eventually you smiled. Your cool facade shifting ever so slightly. Before shifting into something a little more... But not everything can be that simple - not when Park the Shark was your brother.
Just Keep Swimming: Jesse Van Horn x Paediatrician!Reader, You and Brendon Park could be deemed as two sides of the same coin. Day and night between you two. And yet. So very similar. This was a well known fact amongst those at PTMC. What wasn't quite as well known. Was that you. Were in fact the long time sweetheart of one Jesse Van Horn...All of which is brought out into the open as he comes in with his sick daughter, and his son clasping his hand.
Nocturnal: John Shen x Reader, You and John were quite a pair. Deadpanned and unserious. A rhythm developed after years of friendship, deepened once you'd fallen in love. Both with a love for iced caramel macchiatos. Everyone thought they knew all there was to know about you both...Turned out they were mistaken, as a rolled ankle leads to a new revelation…
DR DENNIS WHITAKER
Tread Lightly Series: Dennis Whitaker x Former Army Medic!Reader. Dennis unwittingly becomes enamoured by the sweet young woman that comes in each week with batches of snacks for everyone to enjoy. It seems your sweetness has him stumbling over his words. With your heart racing at the thought of him. It's strange how these things can happen, in the most unpredictable of ways. (Completed 💖 )
You Got Me Tripping, Stumbling... (Part 1) ⭐️
Flipping, Fumbling... (Part 2)
Clumsy Cause I'm Falling In Love... (Part 3)
You Got Me Slipping, Tumbling.... (Part 4)
Sinking, Crumbling...(Part 5)
So In Love With You (Mini Part) / Domaystic 2026
Bewitched ✨: Dennis Whitaker x Actress! Famous!Reader, Based on a request from @c-est-comme-ca found here! Dennis has always been unassuming to his colleagues. Quiet and diligent with his work. And with a girlfriend that no one's ever met or seen before. His colleagues are left wondering who it might be. Turns out you are not what they had in mind...⭐️
I Love You From My Head, To-Ma-Toes: Dennis Whitaker x Reader, Based on a request from @love-dove-noora found here! You loved the simple things in life...And only the freshest of eggs straight from the farm. And it just so happened that at the farm you visited regularly, has a new helping hand...Who just so happens to fit into your life, just as much as you fit into his. Neatly, softly and ever so sweetly.
As The Sun Rises: Dennis Whitaker x Reader, Domaystic 2026, Day 16: Cleaning The Gutters. It appears that your friend Amy has decided on your behalf. That you and Dennis would both suit each other nicely. A broken gutter and a few more chores around the farm. You find yourself working alongside Dennis Whitaker.
Perfectly Imperfect: Dennis Whitaker x Reader, Domaystic 2026, Day 27: Holding Hands. Dennis tries his very best to flirt with you. Failing miserably with each attempt. Brushed off as mere friendliness. Until finally he gets through to you. Turns out it was worth the wait. "I really like my hand holding yours" "I really like it too"
Sweetheart: Dennis Whitaker x Reader, Jesse Van Horn x Sister!Reader, Domaystic 2026, Day 28: Asking For Advice. Dennis is hopelessly in love with you. You're hopelessly in love with him. Unfortunately neither of you are able to come to terms with what to do next. Not until Dennis asks for a little advice. Without even realising that the advice, is coming from your brother.
Maybe It Was You & Maybe It Was Me: Jack Abbot x Reader, Dennis Whitaker x Reader, WIP love triangle.
NURSE JESSE VAN HORN
I Owe You One: Jesse Van Horn x Neighbour!Reader, Domaystic 2026, Day 23: Stuck Lock. Found leant against your door. Stuck in despair. Jesse offers you to come inside his apartment. Turns out you really shouldn't have tried to avoid him for so long. As just maybe he has a sweet spot for you too.
Reblogs, comments and likes on my fics are really appreciated 🥰
And if there's something you'd like to see written for any of these characters feel free to send me a request with the character and idea in mind (I can't guarantee I'd do them all, but it never hurts to try 🤷♀️) 💗
(It is honestly one of the purest joys knowing that people like and enjoy my random little writings and stories 💕 Thank you!) I have cross posted some/most of these fics to my ao3 (RedSakura101) (Mainly the series)
sorry if anything feels a little OOC or whatever...it's just me and my delulu brain working out whatever I've got rolling around in my mind 😮💨
Taglists are open for most of these so feel free to let me know if you'd like to be tagged 😊 whether it's character specific or series specific
Please do not post or translate this elsewhere under the guise that it is your own work.
*All images used in my work in the headers are sourced from Pinterest. Dividers are from @saradika-graphics (who has an amazing of collection to choose from!) I don't post NSFW content in my works fyi.
Full time party girl, part time daughter. MASTERLIST
In which: Bruce Waynes daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.
But when Bruce Wayne finds his daughter in an alleyway, half dead and delirious, he decides something has to change.
Part One- The party
Prologue: Before the party
Chapter one: Club classics
Chapter two: Miss world
Chapter three: Sympathy is a knife
Chapter four: Awful
Chapter five: Talk Talk
Chapter six : Petals
Chapter seven: Stay Away
Chapter eight: Heaven Tonight
Chapter nine: I might say something stupid.
Chapter ten: Reasons to be beautiful.
Part Two- The After Party
Chapter eleven: If I get high
Moodboard: info on reader/ second moodboard
Playlist: Music/ little more info on each chapter / playlist submission 1 / playlist submission 2/ playlist submission 3 / playlist submission 4/ playlist submission 5/ playlist submission 6
Fanart: By MeowingMalleus/ By Princessceebee/ By Princessceebee (2)/ By 77sleepyfeline/ By itzamor/ By Nighttwink/ By Moosilala/ yourfavfae/ By cjshimlyn / By spookess/ By Justafank / Picrew from advline/ By Justafank (2) / By Letrainbowsremindyou
Summary: Y/n transfers to Briar to play on the women's soccer team and reunite with her childhood best friend— Hannah Wells. Overly protective and convinced that John Logan is in love with Hannah, Y/n is determined to keep him away. Logan is intrigued, and mildly annoyed at the new girl that keeps scaring women away from him.
TW: allusions to SA (not really), cursing
a/n: thanks for all the support for my random story idea <3 <3!! i'm definitely a little rusty, so bare with me pls! also, i haven't read the books (sorry sorry), so this is based off of the show. comment or send me a dm to be added to the tag list!
previous | part 1 | next
Y/n stared at the acceptance email on her laptop screen for the third time that hour, the Briar University logo gleaming at the top like a beacon. Her finger hovered over Hannah's contact in her phone. She'd been sitting on this for exactly thirty-seven minutes— a record for her, if she was being honest. But the words full athletic scholarship and women's soccer team kept blurring together with the single thought that mattered most. Hannah.
She hit the call button before she could overthink it anymore.
Hannah picked up on the second ring. "Hey! What's up?"
"So," Y/n started, unable to keep the smile from seeping into her voice, "hypothetically speaking, how would you feel if your most favorite person in the world happened to be transferring to a certain school in Hastings?"
There was a beat of silence. Then, "Wait. Wait. Are you—"
"I got an offer," Y/n said, her words tumbling out faster as the anticipation grew. "Full ride. They want me on the team as their main center mid. I'd start in January. I literally just finished all the paperwork."
The scream that erupted from the other end of the line was so loud Y/n had to pull the phone away from her ear. She was laughing now, the kind of uncontrollable, childish giggle that only Hannah could pull out of her.
"Oh my god, oh my god!" Hannah was practically shrieking. "Are you serious right now? Please tell me you're serious, because if this is a joke I will literally kill you."
"No, Han, I made up this elaborate story just to get you excited over nothing," Y/n joked, still grinning like an idiot. "Of course I'm serious. I mean, unless you don't want me there. Which would be a bit awkward, 'cause I already signed the—"
"Shut up! Of course I want you here! This is—" Hannah's voice cracked slightly, and Y/n felt her chest tighten. "This is the best news I've gotten in like ever. When are you coming?"
"January. I'll have to sit out fall season, obviously, but spring training starts right after winter break." Y/n paused, biting back a smile. "I know it's kind of last minute, and I don't even have housing sorted yet, but—"
"Oh my god, housing," Hannah interrupted, her voice suddenly intense. "Wait, Allie and I have that extra bedroom in our suite. We've just been using it for storage and random shit because our assigned roommate switched last minute. You have to move in with us."
Y/n felt something warm unravel in her chest. "I'd love to. Only if it's okay with Allie, though."
"Are you kidding? She's going to lose her mind. Remember when you visited last year? She literally nagged me for a week asking when you were coming back." Hannah laughed. "Okay, I'm at Garrett's with everyone right now, I have to go tell them! But we're going to plan everything. I'm talking room setup, class schedules, where to get actually good coffee—"
"Han," Y/n cut her off softly, her voice catching just slightly. "I'm really excited."
"Me too," Hannah said, quieter now, and Y/n could hear the smile in her voice. "I've gotta go tell everyone! I'll call you later, okay? I love you."
"Love you too."
The line went dead, and Y/n sat back in her desk chair, staring up at the ceiling. She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Briar. She was actually doing this. She was leaving, and she was going to be with her best friend again.
Hannah had always seen her. Had always chosen her.
And now, finally, Y/n was choosing herself.
Hannah stood in the hallway of the hockey house, phone still in hand, trying to process what had just happened. Y/n was transferring to Briar. Her Y/n. Her best friend since kindergarten, the person who knew her better than anyone, who'd been there during the worst time of her life.
She was coming here.
Hannah didn't realize she was crying until she felt wetness on her cheeks. Happy tears. The kind that made her chest feel too full.
She took a deep breath, wiped her face, and then ran back into the living room.
"ALLIE!"
The entire room jumped at the noise. Tucker, who'd been half asleep on the recliner, nearly fell backwards out of the chair. Logan looked up from his phone with raised eyebrows. Garrett, who'd been leaning against the arm of the couch next to Hannah's empty spot, straightened immediately.
"Jesus Christ, Wellsy," Dean muttered, though he was grinning. "Little warning next time?"
Allie, who'd been tucked into Dean's side on the couch, sat up with wide eyes. "What? Did Dexter finally break up with that piece of shit from the musical theatre department?!"
"Y/n's transferring to Briar!" Hannah practically shouted, bouncing on her toes.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Allie screamed.
"OH MY GOD!" She jumped off the couch, almost elbowing her boyfriend in the face. "Wait—wait." Her eyes went wider, if that was even possible. "We have an extra room! Tell her she has to move in with us!"
Hannah was already nodding, beaming so hard her cheeks hurt. "I already did. She said yes."
The two girls grabbed each other's hands and started jumping up and down like they were thirteen, neither caring how ridiculous they looked.
"Okay, what the hell just happened?" Tucker asked groggily, looking between them in utter confusion. "Who's Y/n?"
"And why are you two literally jumping for joy?" Logan added, clearly amused.
Hannah finally stopped bouncing and turned to face the guys, still grinning. "Y/n is my best friend from back home. We've known each other since we were kids. She just got offered a full ride to play on Briar's women's soccer team, and she's starting in the spring semester!"
"That's awesome, babe," Garrett said, standing up to wrap an arm around her shoulders. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I know you've missed her."
Hannah leaned into him, grateful. Garrett had heard plenty about Y/n over the past few months, but had never actually met her. "She's amazing," Hannah said. "Like, seriously. Best soccer player I've ever seen."
"Cool," Logan said, turning back to his phone. "When does she get here?"
"January," Hannah said. "She'll be here in January."
Allie was already pulling out her phone, making a Pinterest board. "I already have ideas for her room. And we should throw her a welcome party or something!"
"Alright," Hannah nodded, clapping her hands together. "Who wants to help me plan the best 'welcome to Briar' surprise ever?"
Allie grinned. "I'm already on it."
The boys exchanged casual glances, but Hannah didn't care.
The suite was chaos in the best way possible.
Y/n stood in the doorway of her new room, taking it in. The empty walls, the bare desk, the twin bed with its plastic mattress cover still on. It was small and slightly falling apart, but it was perfect.
"Okay, so we cleared out the closet," Hannah was saying, already moving around the room with the kind of purpose that Y/n had come to appreciate. "And Allie and I keep the common area neutral so you could add whatever decorations to it."
"We're thinking of adding string lights," Allie smiled brightly, appearing in the doorway with a box of Y/n's belongings balanced on her hip. "Make it more homey."
Y/n felt something in her chest loosen.
"Hey," Allie said, setting the box down and pulling Y/n into a tight hug before she could respond. "Welcome home."
It was such a simple thing to say. Such a small gesture. But Y/n found herself holding on for a beat longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar vanilla scent of Allie's perfume.
Before they could pull apart, Hannah was already wrapping her arms around both of them, sandwiching Y/n between them.
"I can't believe you're actually here," Hannah whispered into Y/n's shoulder.
"God, me neither," Y/n said, and she meant it.
They stood like that for a moment. The three of them huddled together in the small dorm room, the bright afternoon light filtering through the window.
Allie pulled back with a clap of her hands. "Alright, let's get you unpacked before dinner. I'm thinking we order pizza, blast some music, and make this room actually livable."
The next two hours passed in a blur. Y/n's small Honda Civic had been packed strategically— clothes on one side, school supplies and soccer gear in another, and the few personal items she'd bothered to bring in a separate box up front. It wasn't much. She'd never been one to hold onto things.
Hannah and Allie, however, seemed determined to fill the space with life.
"This poster should definitely go above the bed," Allie declared, holding up a print of some rock band Y/n had picked up a few years ago. "And we have to get you some plants! Plants make everything better, even the fake ones."
Y/n hung her clothes in the closet while Hannah organized her books on the small shelf beside the desk, arranging them by color in a way that made Y/n roll her eyes affectionately.
"Your soccer trophies go here," Hannah said, pointing to the shelf space beside the books. "So everyone knows what's up."
"No one's going to care about my trophies," Y/n said, but she was already pulling them out of the box.
"I care," Hannah said simply. "And Allie cares."
Allie nodded enthusiastically from where she was now arranging Y/n's bedding. "Damn right. You're a badass athlete. Own it."
Y/n set the trophies on the shelf, feeling more seen than she had in a long time.
By the time they finished, the room had transformed. It still looked like a shitty dorm room, but it was hers. The walls were still bare, but Allie had a plan for that. Her books were organized, clothes were hung up. Her soccer stuff was tucked neatly in the corner. The string lights Allie had mentioned were already strung up around the window, casting everything in a warm glow.
"You like it?" Hannah asked, standing in the small doorway with Allie.
Y/n looked around and felt something in her chest loosen. Something that had been wound tight for so long it had become normal.
"Yeah," she said quietly, smiling to herself. "It's great."
"Pizza's here!" Allie called, already heading toward the common area. "And I may have splurged on garlic knots."
Hannah grabbed Y/n's hand and pulled her along, and Y/n let herself be led out of her room. The three of them settled onto the worn couch in the suite's living area, pizza box open on the coffee table, music playing softly from a speaker.
Hannah tucked her feet underneath her, leaning against Y/n's shoulder in that easy, comfortable way she had. Allie was already halfway through her first slice, talking animatedly about her classes and the drama filled theater department.
Y/n listened, ate, and felt that knot continue to loosen.
This was what she'd been missing. Not just Hannah— though that was a big part of it— but this. The feeling of being wanted, of being chosen, of being home with people who actually care.
"So," Allie said, turning to Y/n with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Tell us everything. How was the drive? Are you ready to absolutely destroy the women's soccer team?"
Y/n smiled. A real one, not the polished version she'd perfected over the years. "The drive was fine. Stopped for coffee somewhere in Pennsylvania. And yeah, I'm ready."
"That's my girl," Hannah said, squeezing her hand.
Y/n squeezed back, letting herself sink into the couch. Everything finally felt right for once.
➷ summary: after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist.
pt.2 of plowed down
➷ word count: 5919
➷ warnings: cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).
omg also guys thank you so fucking much for the love that i received on plowed down!!! like it was genuinely bonkers waking up to all those notifications, so thank you so much!!!!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You weren’t exactly sure what you had going on with John Logan.
It had been two weeks since you plowed the man down– two weeks since you made out against your apartment door, since you told him you didn’t do casual; that you didn’t do hook-ups.
Two weeks since the guy started practically worshipping the ground you walked on.
You aren’t sure what you did to warrant this; you had quite honestly been playing hard to get after making out with him. Partly because you were maybe a little bit embarrassed by how easily you gave into his charm, but also partly because you knew how guys like John Logan worked. They were athletes who had sex with different girls every few days, who were texting multiple girls at once. Guys like John Logan were players, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when they were honest about it.
But you didn’t like to engage with players more than once, because, again, casual didn’t work for you. It was just something you swore off on in your sophomore year of college because for you, flings and hook-ups came with too much emotional baggage.
It was your own fault, quite honestly.
To you, intimacy was much more than a quick fuck. It always meant more to you. It had to be with someone you trusted, someone you had gotten to know over a certain amount of time. You learned that through a messy situationship, which is what created your personal rules.
That is why you tried to let John Logan down the easy way. With a playful grin, you had whispered the words, “I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
And John Logan had fucking grinned.
Like he understood– like he was on the same page, which you knew he wasn’t.
Or, at least, you thought you knew.
But apparently you didn’t, because after you had said those words, he backed off you, his fingers lingering on your hips. He had still been smiling as he looked at you with gentle eyes and nodded, “Okay. Nothing casual, no hooking up. I can do that.”
“What?”
You blurted out the question, and you’re positive your face revealed how fucking shocked and baffled you were, because John had laughed, the sound warming your chest in the scariest way for a man you had only known for a few hours. He was dangerous, and yet you still felt the urge to dip your fingers into his flames.
He shrugged, and then said, “I can do that.”
“Okay, no.”
“No?”
“No! Isn't it your thing, to like, hook up with girls at parties?”
“I haven’t done that for weeks now–”
“Oh, how tragic,” you drawl, but you’re still smiling despite yourself. You let your hands trail up his arms and to his shoulders. You give them a quick squeeze, and then nod, “Well, this was fun.”
Now he looks baffled.
“So we’re done?”
“I don’t do hook-ups.”
“I won’t either.”
“That’s a lot of commitment for a girl you just met.”
He sighs, and he looks down at you, as if he’s searching your eyes for something, anything– and, you don’t know how, but the motherfucker seems to find what he’s looking for, because he nods, grins, and says, “Can I get your number, then? You should get to know me before you decide to get rid of me completely.”
“We’re following each other on Instagram now.”
“This is different.”
You’re slightly shocked by his words, but you’re watching his face, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk up. But you don’t nod, and you don’t give in. You smile and watch as his eyes glimmer when you respond.
“You’ve gotta earn it, Logan.”
As you said those words, you figured he’d get bored of you within a couple days. Forget about you completely, be a failed sexual encounter in the back of his mind, who he would forget about in a few months time.
Yeah, that absolutely did not happen.
Not even two days later the man somehow found your practice schedule– you had deep suspicion Jade was his source– where he had waited outside for you to finish up, standing on the cold with not even an ounce of exasperation.
“... You waited for me to finish practice?” You question, your practice bag slung over your shoulder. You stared at John Logan, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the Briar gymnasium where your practice was held, hands shoved in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, a happy smile on his face.
“You said if I wanted your number, I’d need to earn it. Here I am, earning it.”
“You’re being serious?” You question, and you look back to your teammates, all of whom had stopped in their tracks, watching the scene with a mixture of expressions. Some shocked, some giddy. The only part of the expressions that stayed consistent was how everyone was smiling from ear to ear.
“Yes.”
You falter– stammer, quite honestly– and you feel like your head is about to explode, because you never expected that John Logan would take you to your word. You stand there for about thirty seconds, baffled into silence, when Louisa finally nudges you in the ribs, knocking your thoughts back into your head.
“I mean, a deal’s a deal,” you say after leaving the poor guy standing in silence for far longer than necessary. You don’t miss the way his face lights up, and you watch as he hurries over to you, digging out his phone from his pocket.
He unlocks it, passing you the phone, and you go to his contacts, creating your own.
You look back up at him, face held with faux seriousness, “What number should I be? Girl thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Number one works.”
You snort, “Number one? Be serious.”
“I am,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m not a total player. Anymore, at least.”
“Mhm,” you nod. “Well, you’re number fourty-seven in my phone, so–”
He snorts at that, a loud laugh escaping him, and his smile is still wide on his face as you hand him his phone back. He looks down at the screen, clicking onto your contact. You’ve written your name and put a little volleyball emoji next to it, which has him looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Just so I won’t get lost in your sea of girls,” you elaborate.
“It’s more like a plastic fair bag now, but okay.”
For whatever reason, that had you seeing hearts because holy shit he was funny. But you compose yourself enough to not tackle him to the floor with a frenzied kiss.
In fact, ever since that encounter, you’ve learned to compose yourself in many ways. Basically whenever you guys hang out. Because, despite wanting to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him every time you guys were together, you had composed yourself with major difficulty. In the two weeks he’d had your number– the two weeks that you guys had been doing random, stupid shit together– you had only made out with John Logan three times. And each time, it had only been making out. Nothing more.
As it turned out, John Logan really was a man of his word. He had no expectations for whatever the fuck was going on between you two. During the three times you two had made out, it had caught him by surprise each time. Not that he wasn’t into it; he was extremely into it. He just hadn’t been expecting any kissing.
You had been the one to initiate it each time, and he was there to happily oblige.
Which, unfortunately for you, only made him hotter.
Still, most of your hangouts would be what many would deem as boring. He’d pick you up from your practice most nights, and then you guys would get food; always your choice, even when you tried to make him choose. You’d sit in his car and talk about whatever– you had even gone on a rant one time on how a block of cheese was technically a loaf of milk, and the guy had nodded along with full seriousness as if you had just said the most logical thing he’d ever heard.
You’d also gone over to his house a few times, gotten to know the teammates that he lives with (his best friends). And their girlfriends, of course. As it turn outs, Allie and Hannah were fun as fuck. The number of times you guys had played Just Dance on the guys’ TV was astronomical for the limited amount of time you’d known the group; you had become fluent with the Rasputin dance. And, God, you didn’t even want to calculate the number of late nights you had stayed at the house, beating the absolute shit out of Tucker and Dean in Mario Kart with Allie.
You swore sometimes you had more fun with John’s friends than him.
You had even told John that to his face once; his response was to give you the most dramatic pout he could muster, which, in turn, caused you to make out with him for the third time. He was smiling after that.
Out of all your hangouts, though, most of them were dedicated to you doing something of importance while he just sat beside you and watched.
Such as right now.
You were in the Briar U library, flipping through one of your textbooks as you took notes for an upcoming midterm. You weren’t all that worried about it since the class was relatively easy, but you still wanted to study. Just in case.
You would’ve been nearly done with studying had a little leech not been bothering you the entire time.
You side-eyed Logan as he flipped through your stack of notecards, watching as he let out a bored breath of air. He then reached over, grabbing your pencil pouch, where he opened it, grabbing an orange sparkly pen from inside.
Instantly, you snatch it from his grip.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” He asks, eyes wide in a playful manner. His boredom was swept away in a matter of seconds, and he straightened up, leaning closer to you.
“That’s my lucky pen, and I swear to everything if you took away its luck with your grubby hands–”
“Grubby?”
“– I will kill you.”
He smiles, something he can’t seem to stop doing around you, and sinks back into his chair. “Fine.”
“Good,” you say, returning to your notes. But not before you lift your eyes to look at him, where you mutter, “Just sit there and look pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Why else would I have kept you around?”
He laughs quietly, “So my looks are all I’m good for?”
“That and your friends.”
“Wow.”
This time it’s you who smiles and you can’t stop yourself as you lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
You’re quick to get back to the task at hand– studying– because if you don’t, you know you’ll see the dopey expression on John’s face. If you see that, you know that three make-out sessions will immediately turn into four. And you know that can’t happen in the middle of a fucking library where people are studying, so you distract yourself instantly, flipping back through the pages of your textbook.
It’s silent for a couple minutes as he watches you, completely content with where he’s at. But he sits up suddenly, seemingly remembering something, and then he says, “You should come over tonight.” His fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as he spoke, his eyes watching your hands as you paused on a page, a flash of confusion corrupting your expression. His eyes soften as a result, “Tucker said he’s trying out a new dish. You’d like it.”
“I can’t,” you respond without much thought, furrowing your brows as you flip back a few pages in your textbooks, and then in your notes. You’re trying to find a specific concept that you remember reading, but for some reason, you can’t find it anywhere; it’s the pure source of your confusion and it will stay that way until you find what you’re looking for. “The fuck?” You mumble, and then you look at John when he lets out a little snort, “Sorry– what’d you say?”
“You should come over,” he repeated, this time with a soft grin as he watched you. His eyes flickered over your face, scanning. It was something he always did when you spoke, like even the tiniest change in your facial expression was a portal to something holy.
“Oh, right,” you nod. You shake your head immediately after. “Can’t.”
“I heard.”
“Sorry,” you apologize, but your tone isn’t very sincere. Not as you flip a few more pages in your textbook, looking for the concept that seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. John doesn’t seem to care, his pretty smile still on full display.
“Why can’t you?”
“Late practice tonight,” you say, and then you turn to look at him, finally smiling at the softness in his eyes. “Y’know, for the championship in a couple days.”
“After, then. Come over. I’ll pick you up.”
“I won’t get out of practice until after 9. I’ve been sloppy with my saves these past few practices, and Coach Peters is really getting worried, so–”
“God, I love it when you talk volleyball to me,” he interrupts, to which you lose your smile and shoot him a harsh look because he knows what that does to you.
It was the reason for the other two times you had made out with him. And, fuck, it was about to be the fourth, because the man was unreasonably hot. You shake your head, deciding to scoot your chair away from his. Your self-restraint is quickly wavering, especially after you glance him over, allowing you to really absorb how good he looks in the sweatshirt he’s wearing. And, watching as you scoot away from him, he lets out a small sigh, scooting his chair closer. You give him a look, and he grins, scooting even closer, the side of his knee pressing against yours. Your eyes turn annoyed, and he innocently asks, “What?”
“You’re distracting me, and you know it,” you answer. “You do this on purpose.”
He hums, “So you’ll come over?”
“Yeah,” you say, as if it was the most obvious answer. When he smiles, you quickly add on, “only for the meal, though.”
“Obviously,” he nods with fake seriousness. “Why else would you?”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“No ideas are coming to mind.”
“Good. Because I’m just coming over to eat.”
“Yep.”
“So no kissing.”
“No kissing?” He whines, completely dramatic and not at all serious. You can see him fighting to keep the smile from his face, “Why not?”
“Keep it in your pants, Logan.”
“Oh, it hasn’t left my pants. My pants have remained perfectly intact, thank you.”
You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand before you piss off the librarian. You shake your head, and you look at him with a level of affection that is far stronger than it should be with how little time you have known the hockey boy.
“You’re insufferable,” you whisper with a big smile.
“I think you love it.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You get out of practice at 9:34 p.m.
It’s later than you had been expecting, and you’re absolutely exhausted as you trudge over to John’s truck. You pull open the passenger side door, and he looks up from his phone with a soft smile as you toss your back to the floor, pulling yourself into your seat with a long sigh.
“You okay?”
“Sleepy,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes before turning your head to look over at him.
“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” He asks, his tone gentle as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You don’t need to come back to mine if you’re too tired. We can hang out another time–”
You shake your head, “No, I’m starving, and all I’ve been imagining for the past two hours is Tucker’s food.”
He laughs softly and nods, “Okay.”
When you finally get to the house that’s situated off campus, John cuts his engine, exits the vehicle, and walks around the front of his truck. He opens the passenger side door before you can even unbuckle, and you smile softly as he reaches over you, unbuckling the seatbelt for you.
“I could’ve done that myself, y’know?” You say, taking the hand that he held out for you. “I’m perfectly capable.”
He gave your hand a short squeeze as you hopped out of his truck, and he nodded, “I know. But you’re tired.”
Your eyes follow as he grabs your practice bag and slings it over his shoulder, using his foot to shut the passenger. His hand remains threaded with yours, and you him softly, “You’re playing gentleman tonight?”
“I’m always a gentleman. Get it straight.”
You laugh softly, giving him a slight nudge with your shoulder as you guys reach the front door. John opens it, and you walk in alongside him, instantly greeted with the delicious smell of whatever the hell Tucker cooked. Your stomach growled as a result, and your hand– still linked with John’s– squeezed his as you tugged him along to the kitchen, where his entire friend group was gathered, hanging out casually as they usually did.
Hannah notices you first, and she smiles softly, “How was practice?”
“Tiring,” you respond, finally releasing John’s hand. You slip into one of the island chairs next to Allie, and you thank Tucker quietly as he slips a bowl of fancy looking pasta in front of you. You grab your fork, twirl some pasta onto the prongs, and bite into it with a satisfied hum, “This is so fucking good, Tuck.”
He grins happily, “Logan said you would like it. It has parsley!”
“It’s delicious,” you nod, taking another bite. And as you do, you feel Logan come up behind you, his arms snaking around your front, his chin resting on the top of your head. You promptly ignore the warm feeling that flutters in your chest, eating more of the amazing pasta dish.
After finishing up the food, you and the rest of the group somehow migrate to the living room. You’re sitting on the couch beside Logan, tucked beneath his arm, your head resting against the crook of his shoulder as you watch Dean and Garrett play the worst game of silent charades that you had ever seen. Allie seemed borderline aggravated as she yelled out words that she thought aligned with the movements of the men only to then be pissed off because ‘Dean, what the fuck even was that?’.
You had to admit, it had been the funniest thing you’d witnessed in awhile.
And, you’re not sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that you’re woken sometime later in the evening by the soft touch of Logan, his eyes gentle as he carefully shifts you awake. You blink your eyes open, only to realize that all the others are heading to bed, and reach over Logan, grabbing his phone from his lap. You tap on the screen, checking the time; 12:17 a.m.
“Want me to drive you home?” He asks, using his thumb to swipe an eyelash from your cheek.
You groan in response.
“No?” He laughs, the hand that’s around your shoulders rubbing up and down your arm.
“Can I just stay here tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
He says the words immediately, and you’re caught entirely off guard as he stands from the couch, scooping you up in his arms with a scary amount of ease. Your eyes widen, arms scrambling to latch around his shoulders as you let out a quiet sound of panic, voice rushed as you breathe out, “John, what the fuck–”
“You’re tired.”
“Yeah, but I can still walk, you idiot. Oh my God, put me down–”
“We’re half way up the stairs and you want me to drop you?”
“If you drop me I’m never speaking to you again.”
He laughs again, this time filled with pure amusement as he continues scaling the stairs with you in his arms. Your arms stay hooked around his shoulders as he walks in the direction of his room, and carefully opens the door, stepping inside. Still, he doesn’t bother to put you down just yet. He holds you as he shuts the door behind him, his grip on you steady while he walks over to his desk, switching on the lamp.
When he finally sets you down, he plops you onto his mattress, not giving you much time before he’s draping himself over you with a satisfied sigh, and you can’t help the smallest giggle that leaves your chest, your hands pressing against his front.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Whoops.”
He makes no attempt to move, and again, you push against his shoulders, “You’re comfy, but I’m still in my volleyball clothes, and I want to change–” You stop suddenly, groaning with dismay.
Instantly, he pushes himself off you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“I have no clothes to change into.”
“Just wear my stuff,” he says, pulling himself from you completely. He stands with a stretch, and you watch as the bottom of his sweatshirt rises just enough for you to see a sliver of his stomach. Fuck, you were going to go feral.
You clear your throat, and clap your hands once, “Then chop chop, hockey boy.”
It only takes him a few seconds to grab you something to wear; he comes up with a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a Briar hockey sweatshirt with the number 22 on the back. As you take the clothing, you raise your eyebrow, “No other sweatshirts?”
“Nope, that’s my only clean one. Sorry.”
And the man’s a fucking liar because behind him, where is closet is just partially open, you can see at least four more regular sweatshirts hanging, completely clean.
“Huh,” you mutter. “You must be blind.”
“That’s the only clean one,” he repeats. “So, better go ahead and change into it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. Standing, you clutch the clothing in your hands, and as you pass him, you press a soft kiss to his lips– which, holy shit, it’s the first time you’ve ever done that as if it were second nature– and you mumble, “You really are insufferable, Logan.”
He hums against your lips, his hand going to your jaw as he presses a couple more soft kisses to you. You can’t help but smile, and you lean back, gazing up at him. You don’t say anything, just run a hand through his hair, and your smile turns giddy as you pull back fully, your bottom lip tucking beneath your teeth as you try to bite back your grin.
You point to the bathroom that’s connected to his room, “I’m gonna go change.”
He nods with a happy smile, responding in that soft voice that you realized he only uses with you, “Okay.”
Once changed, you exit the bathroom, finding John already in his bed, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You walk over to his bed, not saying a thing as you plop down on his mattress, stretching out across his mattress.
“Cozy?” He asks as he turns on his side to face you.
“Yeah. It’d be better if we were cuddling, though.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Not that I expect you to do that, though,” you say the words playfully. “I mean, I’ve never watched you play, but I assume you’re the same on and off the ice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not good at taking the shot, if you get what I mean–”
“Shut up,” he laughs, and he grabs your arm, gently tugging you to him. You grin, getting situated against his body, one of your legs draped across his while your arm rests over his torso, your head settled comfortably on his chest with your ear pressed right over the beating of his heart.
And you stay like this for a while, just until you’re on the brink of falling asleep. But before you can slip into that peaceful state of bliss, a question you had been meaning to ask– a question you had been too nervous to ask– comes to mind.
You’re not able to stop yourself from asking it.
“You wanna come to the championship and watch me play?” You question from where your head is still tucked against his chest, your voice whispers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and against his skin that lies beneath it. “It’s a three hour drive away.”
You feel him let out a soft breath of air, his fingers dancing gently along the fabric of his sweatshirt that covers the dip of your back. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks, coated with a layer of sleepiness, “I want to, and I tried to find tickets, but they’re all sold out. Even Allie tried to find some and she couldn’t, which means I’m shit out of luck.”
“I’ve got tickets,” you say. “My teammates and I each got six tickets. Thought you might want them. You and your friends can go. They’re good seats.”
You can practically feel the frown in John’s expression as he asks quietly, “You’re not gonna give them to your family?”
“No,” You swallow thickly and do your best to keep your eyes shut because you know John’s looking at you now. His fingers stopped trailing along your spine as a result of the change in your tone and your body language, and you sigh against him. Might as well get it out of the way. “I just– I did everything I could to get out of my house as a teenager. To get away from my parents and the rest of my family. I don’t really feel like giving them a straight ticket back into my life, y’know?”
He’s quiet for a second before he nods, speaking softly, “Yeah, I know. I get it.”
“I’ve never had anyone in any of the seats during my games,” you continue. “I just thought it would be kinda nice to have that for once. You don’t need to, though. I know it’s really last minute, and–”
“No, I’ll go,” John interrupts you before you can finish. “We all will. Me and the guys. And Hannah and Allie. The six of us will go.”
“You sure?”
He laughs softly, tiredly, and nods, “Yeah, baby, I’m sure.”
Oh my God, you were going to fucking implode. But you hold in the desperate need to squeal like a dumbass, and instead bite the inside of your cheek to fight against the wide grin that wants to break out on your face.
After composing yourself enough to not make a complete and utter fool of yourself, you nod, and tilt your head up, pressing the softest kiss to his jaw.
He smiles as a result, the smallest shade of pink flushing his cheeks.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m excited.”
“Me too.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
John Logan was your goodluck charm.
The guy had to be, because this was the best fucking game you had ever played in your life. Sure, the first set wasn’t the best for Briar U, but that was okay given you guys were playing against Penn State. The team had won every single game so far this season, so, in short words, they were good as hell. They’d also won the NCAA Championship for the past five years, which was devastatingly nerve wracking knowing you were against the best team D1 volleyball currently had.
Still, tonight, you and your teammates came with a mission; you were going to win.
And, fuck, was it looking promising.
Despite Penn State winning the first set, Briar U had won the other two.
They weren’t wipeouts, but that didn’t matter, because you had won them.
That meant that if you and your teammates somehow managed to win this fourth set, you’d place Briar as the fucking NCAA Women’s Volleyball Champions for the first time in over ten years. It’d be an insane feat, and you had to fight from getting too excited about the possibility, especially because right now, it was looking very likely.
So far, you’ve saved every stray ball, hitting it back to your teammates or over the net with ease. As you played, your smile never left your face. Not even as you dove for the ball, saving it as you slid across the polished wood floor.
That didn’t mean Penn wasn’t doing good, though. Because they absolutely were.
They were playing with a fierceness of a team who wanted this win just as badly as you did; it felt like an even playing field, and while that could be fun, tonight it was terrifying.
Right now, the score was 22 to 23. The set was almost over, and it was in Briar’s favor. If you guys got two more points, you were winning the match. If you won, you’d be the first captain in over ten years to lead Briar to a volleyball victory and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing.
No way did you fight this hard only to lose.
You were hovering near the back of the court, watching as Jade surged forward, tapping the ball over to the right of the court. Instantly, your teammates rallied toward the ball, leaving the left side of the court completely unguarded, and your eyes lingered on the ball, watching as Louisa sprinted forward, feet fast as she jumped up, spiking it over the net.
The middle hitter on the Penn State team hurried forward, blocking the spike with a bump of her arms, and you watched as the ball practically hovered over the net.
Right to the spot that was unguarded.
You’re not sure how you moved as fast as you did– one second, you were at the back right of the court, and the next, you were flying in the upper left, body in the air as you threw yourself forward, your right hand bumping the ball back to your teammates just before it hit the ground on your side of the net.
Your body hit the floor with a thud, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because the moment you had successfully executed the move, your side of the room erupted in loud cheers. It shook the floor as you stood up, and you didn’t waste any time as you sprinted back to the center of the court.
Just in time, too, because the setter of Penn State sent a lethal spike in your direction, and you dropped to a knee, forearms out as the ball bounced from your skin and back over the net. Two saves in a matter of seconds, and you could literally see your coaches losing it from pure happiness in the corner.
You probably looked like a cocky motherfucker, your lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as you shuffled backward, and then dove sideways, saving yet another ball from being spiked into the ground.
And yeah, you were definitely right– John Logan was totally your lucky charm tonight because holy fuck, you were even impressing yourself.
More cheers sounded throughout your side of the room, increasing tenfold as Liliana jumped, spiking the ball down to the back corner of Penn State’s side, earning Briar U their 24th point of the fourth set.
It was an exhilarating sound, and you laughed with pure joy as you ran over to Liliana, the rest of the girls on your side of the court meeting halfway. You huddled with pure glee; one more point, and you guys were winning.
All you needed was one more point.
Leaving the huddle, you guys got back into your positions. You watched as Macey served the ball, starting what would hopefully be the final round of the night.
The Penn girls were quick to rally on the ball; they moved it over the net with ease, and you watched as Jade ran, hitting it back over the net. It went back and forth for a bit, the round intense. It felt like it was purely silent save for the cheers from supporters that erupted when either side had a good save or hit.
You watched as the libero for Penn bump the ball with her wrist, causing it to go over the net. And then you see as the entire team moves away, going near the back of the court, like they knew what the next play was going to be; a spike ball.
Except it wasn’t that at all.
No, it’s the complete opposite, because you’re in the exact spot that you’re meant to be in for this current play. You’re close enough that the ball clearly belongs to you at this moment, and you run up, arms carefully bumping the ball over the net.
It barely catches the top before it topples over to Penn State’s side.
The girls hadn’t been expecting it; they’re unable to move fast enough from where they had migrated to the back of the court with the expectation that Liliana or Louisa were going to spike the ball over the net, a move that had earned you guys many wins this season.
They hadn’t been expecting you to run up and hit the ball with your forearms in such a way that it only just made it over the net.
You watched as the volleyball hit the floor on Penn’s side.
Holy fuck.
You’d scored the winning point.
You can’t even process the fucking thing, because you’re instantly bombarded by your teammates– ones both on and off the court– as they swarm into a pile around you, the deafening cheers of the crowd blocking out the cheers from your own teammates who stood around you.
You guys are jumping up and down, and you’re not even sure when you stop, because one moment you’re celebrating with your teammates and coaches, and the next you’re following after your teammates, running towards the people who had come to watch you in the stands.
And you find him instantly.
John Logan is standing in the front row– because, yes, the seats were great– with his friends next to him, all of them grinning ear to ear as they cheered for you.
Your feet moved like they had a mind of their own; you’re sprinting to John like he’s the only thing you’re even capable of thinking about at the moment, and that’s because he is.
When you finally reach him, you practically leap into John’s arms, your hands threading around the back of his neck with a tight grip, and you have the widest smile on your face as you press your lips firmly against his.
He reciprocates the kiss instantly, hands clutching your waste as he leans down to match your lips.
It’s soft, not anything over the top, but fuck does it have you wanting more.
As you pull away, you stare up at John with an excited spark in your eye.
“So kissing’s a thing we do regularly now?” He asked, the happiest grin you’d ever seen on his face. “That’s okay now?”
“Yeah,” you nod, your grin matching his. “I’d say so.”
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”
WARNING: SMUT AHEAD CONTENT RELATED TO SEX, RELATIONSHIPS, AND DISORDERS CONTENT CONTAINS FACTS, BUT REMEMBER THIS IS FANFICTION, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, LEAVE!
MASTERLIST
0.5 Hurricane
Slowly opening my eyes, I looked around the room, my vision still unfocused at the edges, and let out a quiet groan. Large hands rested against my body, one fallen beside where my left hand lay near my face, while the other rested between my stomach and chest as his arms wrapped perfectly around me.
I was fully aware of everything that had happened last night. Every stupid thing I’d had the courage to say out loud because apparently my brain only filtered thoughts after I spoke them.
But honestly, I believed it would be easier to pretend I remembered nothing. So yes, when I denied remembering anything, I was going to do it with the straightest face possible.
I took another deep breath, my senses finally waking as I inhaled the scent of John’s cologne. A name I vividly remembered dreaming about. He made me dizzy, incoherent, and I felt ridiculous for letting a single kiss affect me like that.
No wonder I’d never allowed myself to date many guys. I had always hated getting attached, and that was exactly what I avoided.
I tried moving slowly to understand the situation I was in, but the most I managed was glancing over my shoulder, where Logan’s head rested near the back of my neck and his hair brushed against my shoulder.
The moment I became aware of my other senses, discomfort hit me. The oversized shirt I was wearing had ridden up around my waist, leaving the black lace thong I had on fully exposed like some kind of feast for John Logan. His hard morning erection pressed hot and firm against my skin in a way that made me want to moan, whimper, act like a bitch in heat. Which made no sense because my head was pounding and my stomach still felt awful. The second I fully registered my condition, bile rose in my throat and I shot out of bed, throwing myself out of the sheets and running toward the bathroom in the hallway. Completely ready to throw up.
I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet and emptied everything that had entered my system the night before. The bitter taste burned my throat as I gripped the edge of the toilet tightly, breathing hard between waves of nausea. My whole body trembled lightly—weak, sensitive—and my head felt like it was about to split open with every heartbeat.
“Shit…”
I muttered hoarsely, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand before shutting my eyes for a few seconds. I hated drinking. I hated even more remembering why I’d drunk that much.
I inhaled through my nose and exhaled through my mouth, trying to keep the nausea under control. I heard heavy footsteps approaching before I could even lift my head, and though I didn’t see him, I felt him stop in the doorway.
“How are you feeling?”
His voice came out rough and fuck me, if I hadn’t felt so terrible, I probably would’ve soaked the bathroom floor right then.
“Like shit.”
“Well, you look hot in that position, if that helps.”
He joked, and I glanced over my shoulder. Huge mistake. Because all I found was a messy-haired John Logan, shirtless, wearing nothing but boxers, with a hard-on clearly visible in my line of sight while he watched me through half-lidded eyes like he was trying to decide whether I was about to pass out or not.
And honestly? Maybe I was.
The thought alone made my stomach churn again, so I bent back over the toilet as another wave of nausea hit. Logan approached slowly until he stopped beside me, crouching down before pulling my hair back with one hand. The gesture caught me off guard. Simple. Natural. Far too intimate.
My stomach twisted again, but this time it had nothing to do with alcohol. Still, it was enough to make me throw up once more.
“Easy, easy…”
His hand kept my hair back while the other slowly moved up and down my back in firm, slow strokes. That didn’t help. Actually, it helped way too much. Because Logan had this infuriating way of touching me like he knew exactly what to do with me without even trying.
I spit into the toilet again before taking a shaky breath, tears burning in my eyes from the effort.
“This is fucking humiliating.”
My voice came out rough.
“Nah,” he answered calmly behind me. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Liar.”
“One time Carter threw up inside his own helmet.”
A weak laugh escaped me despite the disaster.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Agreed.”
I stayed silent for a few seconds while I caught my breath, still kneeling on the cold bathroom floor. My whole body felt weak, heavy, overly sensitive.
Especially with Logan still so close.
Too close.
I felt his fingers carefully brushing a few strands of hair away from the side of my face before his warm palm pressed against my forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
“Hangover.”
“Or maybe you’re dying.”
“Stop trying to manifest that.”
He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, and I hated how that sound made my stomach flip in a completely different way now. I slowly lifted my eyes.
Terrible mistake.
Because he was still crouched beside me wearing only boxers, absurdly big inside that tiny bathroom. His bare chest rose slowly as he watched me with a level of calm attention that felt unfair for someone who had very clearly woken up with a hard-on pressed against me five minutes ago.
My brain kindly reminded me of that immediately. My throat dried and I wanted to cry again.
“Stop looking at me right after I threw up.”
I grumbled, turning my face away.
His low laugh came almost instantly.
“Hard to when you still look pretty even completely wrecked.”
“You clearly have some psychological issue.”
“Possible.”
I rolled my eyes, but I still felt my face heat up despite the humiliating situation. Logan stayed way too close. One hand still held my hair while the other lazily moved along my back in slow, absentminded strokes, like he didn’t even realize he was slowly ruining me. Or worse. Maybe he did realize.
I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the unbearable tension filling that tiny bathroom.
Bad idea....again.
Because his scent was everywhere. On the shirt I wore. On my skin. In the air. And I remembered exactly why.
“I’ll be fine. That was enough.”
I nodded to reassure him while pushing myself up from the floor. "And man, let me tell you, I kept making terrible decisions because the room started spinning violently the moment I stood up.
“Hey...”
Logan’s hand caught my waist far too quickly for someone who supposedly had just woken up. My body crashed against his before my legs could fully give out. A frustrated little groan slipped from me as I grabbed his shoulders on instinct.
Shit.
Way too many mistakes at once. Because now I could feel everything. The warmth of his chest against mine. His large hands gripping my waist. His scent. His skin. The fact that he was practically naked. And worse: the fact that my body still reacted to it even though I felt like a walking corpse.
“I’m okay,” I murmured automatically, resting my forehead against Logan’s bare chest and shutting my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all good,” he said, bringing one hand to the back of my neck and gently stroking my hair.
“Do you remember anything?”
I kept my forehead pressed against his chest, breathing slowly while Logan’s fingers moved against the back of my neck in lazy circles.
That was dangerous.
Dangerously comfortable. Because it made everything feel easy. Natural. Like I could simply stay there. I squeezed my eyes shut before answering:
“Not much.”
I felt Logan’s chest vibrate with a low chuckle. He knew. That asshole knew I was lying.
“Hm.” That was all he said.
I slowly lifted my head, only to find his eyes already fixed on mine. Mistake.
Huge mistake.
Because he was too close. Too attractive. And looking at me in that way that slowly shut my brain down.
“I need to go.”
I pulled away from him quickly and turned my back, splashing water onto my face and rinsing my mouth with mouthwash. The words came out too fast. Almost desperate. I untangled myself from him before my brain decided to make another catastrophic mistake and immediately turned away, opening the bathroom cabinet just to look busy with literally anything other than the fact that Logan was still behind me, half naked and dangerously quiet. My hands shook too much when I grabbed the mouthwash.
Ridiculous.
I swished the liquid around my mouth while trying to ignore his presence behind me. It didn’t work because I could feel his eyes on my back. I dried my face and left the bathroom quickly enough to avoid questions.
“Do you at least remember the guy who gave you the drink?”
He asked, and I looked over my shoulder while pulling on my jeans from the night before.
“Evan… Ethan? That’s all I remember.”
I finished zipping my jeans. When I looked at my bodysuit, I blinked twice before turning toward Logan, who stood in the doorway with his jaw clenched and dark brown eyes fixed on me.
“Can I keep your shirt and give it back later?”
“Sure. You know you have to be careful accepting drinks from random guys.”
His voice turned hard, and I straightened slightly at the seriousness on his face.
“I know.”
“No, apparently you don’t.”
I narrowed my eyes and searched the room for my shoes.
“I do know. I’m careful. I have friends who’ve gone through that. I am careful.”
He laughed bitterly, and I looked back at him.
“Oh yeah, so careful that you literally got drugged last night. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you if I hadn’t come get you away from that guy?”
My body instantly stiffened at the harshness in his voice. I clenched my teeth immediately. Because he was angry and I understood why. But the way he spoke made it sound like I was completely irresponsible.
“I knew what I was doing.”
Logan let out an incredulous laugh.
“You literally blacked out.”
“Because someone put something in my drink, Logan. Not because I’m stupid.”
“Taking a drink from a stranger at a packed party is stupid.”
The sentence hit me like a slap. I looked up instantly.
“Oh, so now this is my fault?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s exactly what it sounded like.”
He dragged a hand over his face in frustration before stepping closer.
“I’m saying you needed to be careful.”
“And I was.”
“Clearly not.”
“I knew you were there.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
“And if I hadn’t been?”
His voice rose slightly, and I blinked twice.
“Well, you were.”
I answered in the same tone. Logan’s jaw locked tightly. His brown eyes stayed fixed on mine like he was trying to decide whether he wanted to shake me or kiss me again.
Maybe both.
“That’s not an excuse.” His voice dropped this time. Too controlled. I crossed my arms immediately in a pathetic attempt to hide how much his words affected me.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Then stop acting like it’s normal to trust someone will always show up to save you.”
That irritated me instantly.
“I didn’t ask you to save me.”
That wasn’t entirely a lie, but I had blindly trusted his presence. The second I saw Logan at that party, I relaxed. I accepted the drink because I knew he was nearby. I wanted him to see me.
“Fuck that.”
Logan answered immediately, irritation thick in his voice.
“Fuck you,” I shouted back, throwing my arms out in frustration. “Why are you fighting with me over this?”
“Because it’s you!” he practically exploded, taking another step toward me. “And you acting reckless just because you saw something you didn’t want to see is fucking stupid. You could’ve been raped!”
The word landed in the room like a slap. My entire body froze for a second. Because he sounded furious. I swallowed hard, my chest rising too fast while I tried to hold onto my pride.
“Fine!” My voice rose too. “I fucked everything up, okay? But don’t call me stupid. You don’t get to act like my boyfriend because you’re not!”
His eyes darkened instantly. His jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscle flex.
“No. I’m not.” His voice dropped lower now. Worse. Colder. “That’s why I can fuck whoever I want and still have to deal with the consequences of a spoiled girl who thinks we have something.”
That hit me directly in the chest. It tightened so painfully I almost couldn’t breathe.
“Great, thank you so fucking much, John Logan. So now I’m a spoiled brat because I got drugged? This is my fault?” I let out a disbelieving laugh before jabbing a finger against his chest. “I don’t think a fucking thing about us!”
Logan looked down at my hand pressed against him before lifting his eyes back to mine. And that was a mistake. Because there was anger there. But there was much more than that too.
“Oh really?” He laughed humorlessly. “Then why did you spend the whole night asleep calling my name?” I stared at him wide-eyed before looking away with an exasperated laugh. “Why were you mumbling nonstop about how the neighbor’s grass looked greener because I wanted to fuck her?” His voice grew louder with every sentence. “Don’t act like a hypocrite now.”
My face burned instantly.
“I’m not being hypocritical. I know exactly what I am to you, and I always knew what I’d be. But you’re fucking with my head.” I growled, feeling tears threatening to spill. “Then maybe we should stop, whatever that is.”
That seemed to hit him just as hard as every previous word had hit me. The anger on his face faltered for a second.
Just one second.
But I saw it.
And that was exactly what made my eyes burn even more. Because I didn’t want that conversation. Didn’t want that fight. Didn’t want to like him that much in that ridiculous way.
I took a deep breath, trying to stop myself from crying. I failed miserably.
The silence in the room became immediate.
Heavy.
Painful.
I didn’t even wait for an answer. I pulled his shirt off my body too quickly, completely ignoring the scent of him soaked into the fabric before tossing it onto the bed. Cold air hit my skin immediately as I pulled my top from the night before back over my body. It still smelled like alcohol, perfume, and cigarette smoke. But it was better than walking around wearing LOGAN across my back like some lovesick idiot.
Logan didn’t move.
Didn’t say anything.
And somehow that hurt even more. I grabbed my purse with frantic movements while trying to wipe away the tears before they could fully fall.
“I hope you get every girl you fuck pregnant, Logan.”
The words came out bitter. Childish. But in that moment, I wanted to hurt him too. His eyes widened slightly. But I was already leaving. I yanked the bedroom door open and slammed it behind me hard enough to shake the wall. And it was only the second I found myself alone in the hallway that the first tear fell. A broken breath escaped me along with a small, humiliating sob.
Shit. I wiped my face quickly and hurried down the stairs before he decided to come after me.
But the voices downstairs died immediately the second I appeared. Silence swallowed the living room. And I realized too late why. Everyone was staring at me.
“Hey… do you want me to call Hannah…”
Garrett started asking, but I was already at the door, shaking my head.
“No, I’ll walk. Thanks, Garrett.”
I sighed and left the house completely shaken and nauseous.
At practice later that day, I gave everything I had despite the headache, despite the nausea, despite the overwhelming urge to cry. For the first time since I’d been here, I didn’t miss a single movement on the ice. It felt like I was anchoring myself to it, and for the first time in four years, I skated the way I used to when I was fifteen.
When the music stopped, the trance I’d been completely absorbed in broke at the sound of applause—not only from my coach, but from someone else too. Someone who appeared at the worst possible moment. At my most vulnerable.
My mother stood there with her impeccable blonde hair falling over narrow shoulders so perfectly straight they looked like they’d never relaxed a single day in her life—which they probably hadn’t.
Alicia used to be Centauri’s best figure skater. She and my father, Luke, met on the ice, fell in love on the ice, had me—though probably not on the ice—but my mother’s heart turned cold when my father drowned while skating across unstable ice on a frozen lake in Hungary. After that, she no longer had time to skate because she couldn’t bear it, but she decided to blame her lack of time on me instead. From then on, skating stopped being passion and became an obligation to impress Alicia Ivens.
I swallowed hard while looking at her and vaguely heard Will mumble something to me, but I only answered with an absent-minded “Mm-hm.”
I skated off the ice toward Coach Hayes and my mother and silently clipped the blade guards onto my skates. I kept my eyes lowered while securing the guards onto the blades, trying to completely ignore my mother standing directly in front of me.
It didn’t work.
It never worked.
Because Alicia Ivens had the kind of presence that dominated every room without ever raising her voice. Everything about her was too perfect. The flawless posture. The perfectly tailored clothes.
Her impeccable Christian Louboutin heels.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were always the worst part.
Coldly analytical. As if she were never really looking at me, only evaluating a performance.
“That was different.”
Her voice cut through the silence, and I slowly lifted my eyes.
“I’m sure it’s hard to make assumptions from a single practice.”
I answered—not rudely, but coldly.
“And it’s a good thing I didn’t see the others, because according to your coach, you’ve been awful.”
Her arms crossed, and I looked toward Hayes with eyes that weren’t angry, but clearly resentful. Hayes cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable with the tension that instantly filled the rink.
“I just meant she seemed more… connected today.”
My mother kept her eyes fixed on me for a few more seconds before slowly nodding.
“Connected doesn’t win medals. Consistency does.”
Of course. Always that. Consistency. Discipline. Control. As if emotion were some kind of technical flaw. I tightened my fingers around the blade guard while trying to ignore the pain throbbing through my head and the bitter taste still lingering at the back of my throat.
“I’m training.” My voice came out short.
“Are you?” She arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Because your performance over the last few weeks suggests the exact opposite.”I swallowed hard. Hayes immediately looked away. “Coach Hayes, your opinion matters. What do you think has been causing Y/n’s inconsistency in practice?”
“Honestly? You told us you were almost dating someone, Y/n. Don’t you think that inconsistency in your relationship could be causing inconsistency on the ice?”
“Absolutely!”
My mother agreed instantly, uncrossing her arms and placing her hands on her hips as she looked at me more seriously now.
“You’re dating someone?”
My stomach dropped immediately. Of course. Because out of all the things that could’ve caught my mother’s attention, it had to be that. Hayes realized his mistake too late.
“I didn’t mean that...”
“You’re dating someone?”
My mother repeated, completely ignoring him. Her pale eyes stayed fixed on me in a suffocating way.
Analytical.
Calculating.
Like she was already reorganizing my entire schedule in her head. More training. More control. Fewer distractions.
I took a slow breath.
“No.”
The answer came out too quickly. She narrowed her eyes immediately.
“So your coach is making things up?”
Hayes looked like he wanted the ice rink to swallow him whole.
“I only meant that maybe there’s some… emotional situation affecting her lately.”
“Emotional situation.” My mother repeated the words like they were ridiculous. “Interesting.”
I crossed my arms instantly.
“Can you stop talking about me like I’m not standing right here?”
Her eyes slowly returned to mine.
“I can when you start acting like a professional athlete.”
That irritated me instantly. Because I was tired. Tired from the hangover. Tired from the fight with Logan. Tired of her.
“I literally just had the best practice of my season.”
“And yet you still left the performance emotionally unstable.”
My jaw tightened and she noticed. Of course she noticed. My mother noticed everything when it came to flaws.
“Can we talk somewhere else?”
“Why? It would be good for you to stay here while I point out exactly where you’re failing.”
“The hockey team is having issues at the other rink, so while the renovations are happening they’re practicing here after us.”
Coach Hayes explained.
My mother’s expression shifted immediately. Small and subtle.
But I knew Alicia Ivens too well not to notice the look of disapproval on her face.
“Hockey?”
The word left her mouth almost like a personal insult. I closed my eyes for half a second, already feeling my headache worsen. Of course. Because apparently this day still hadn’t humiliated me enough. Hayes nodded quickly.
“Yes, the cooling system at the other rink broke, so we’re temporarily sharing the space.”
“Charming.”
Her sarcasm came sharp as her eyes swept across the rink like hockey players were wild animals about to invade the building.
“Mom...”
“Honestly, that explains quite a lot.”
My blood boiled instantly.
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
She crossed her arms again.
“It means perhaps it’s difficult to maintain discipline in an environment like this.”
Hayes was clearly reconsidering every life decision he’d ever made.
“Alicia, hockey athletes are extremely disciplined too...”
“Oh, please. They slide around on ice smashing into each other like animals while a drunk crowd screams. Don’t compare that to figure skating.”
My jaw locked so tightly it hurt. Because of course she’d say that. And of course my brain immediately thought of Logan. The way he held me in the bathroom. The way he yelled at me. The way he looked at me when I said maybe we should stop.
“You really can turn absolutely anything into an unbearable criticism.”
Her cold eyes snapped back to me instantly. “And you seem particularly defensive about hockey. Interesting.”
Shit.
Hayes cleared his throat quickly.
“Maybe it’s better if we continue this conversation another time…”
The sound of the Briar University Men's Hockey Team echoed through the hallway as they entered the rink, and while the team spread across the ice, I bit the inside of my cheek, anxiety twisting in my stomach at the thought of seeing him. Seeing Logan. When Garrett Graham passed behind my mother, he instantly slowed his pace.
His eyes flicked between me and my mother twice before his expression shifted into badly disguised shock.
And honestly? I understood. Because Alicia and I looked absurdly alike.
Same light hair.
Same eye shape.
Same nose.
But everything about her looked too refined. Too polished. Like she’d been designed by someone obsessed with perfection. While I looked like the exhausted, emotionally unstable version of her. He stepped onto the ice, followed by Tucker, Dean Di Laurentis, Birdie, Joe Rogers, and then the terrifying man who made my heart race, my panties wet, and my eyes sting with tears.
John Logan walked past us with his head lowered, but the second he stepped onto the ice, he skated backward and looked at me.
My chest tightened the moment his eyes found mine. It was quick. So quick maybe nobody else noticed.
But I noticed.
Because Logan always looked at me like he was trying to pull some kind of reaction out of me.
Like he wanted inside my head so he could tear down every wall I built.
And in that moment?
I wished he wouldn’t look at me.
I wanted him angry. I wanted him ignoring me. I wanted him gone.
But not like that.
Because there was something wrong in his eyes now.
Something heavy.
Exhausted.
His jaw tight as he looked away again when Dean bumped his shoulder and said something I couldn’t hear. I looked away quickly, trying to move fast enough not to get caught by Alicia Ivens. Which obviously didn’t work. Because my mother let out a low, cynical laugh as she crossed her arms again, her eyes following the rink until they landed directly on the number printed across Logan’s jersey.
“Oh,” she murmured slowly. “So it’s number twenty-two.”
My stomach dropped instantly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I swallowed hard, crossing my arms tighter and avoiding her gaze.
My mother hummed in amusement. The worst possible reaction. Because Alicia Ivens never made accusations unless she was certain.
“Interesting,” she commented calmly. “Because you looked at him like the rest of the rink disappeared for a few seconds.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“No. You just inherited your father’s terrible habit of thinking emotions don’t show on your face.”
That irritated me instantly.
“Can you not do this?” My voice came out sharper than I intended as I looked away from her and directly at Coach Hayes, who looked desperate to vanish from the rink entirely. “You can go, Coach. Thanks.”
Hayes blinked twice, clearly caught in the crossfire, before awkwardly pointing the clipboard toward his chest.
“Oh… right. Yes. Of course.”
Coward. He cast one last cautious glance between me and my mother before practically fleeing toward the side exit of the rink. The silence became worse the second he left. Because now it was just the two of us. Like always. My mother watched Hayes leave before slowly turning back to me. Far too calm.
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Sending away anyone who might soften your emotional reactions before you explode.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You turn absolutely everything into some unbearable psychological analysis. Don’t you think you should’ve gone into psychology instead?”
“And you turn every comment into a personal attack and childish sarcasm.”
“Maybe because everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like criticism.”
She tilted her head slightly. Elegant. Controlled. Frustratingly perfect.
“Do you know the difference between you and me?”
I tensed my jaw and prepared myself for another perfectly sharpened blade aimed directly at my chest. Because talking to Alicia Ivens had always been like this.
A competition I entered already knowing I’d lose.
My mother kept her eyes fixed on mine for a few long seconds before speaking.
“The difference between us is that I never let emotions interfere with what needed to be done.”
Ah. Of course. There it was. The perfect sentence. Cold. Surgical. I let out a humorless laugh and looked toward the rink where the boys were already warming up.
“Really? Because you definitely didn’t let Dad’s death interfere with who you are now, right? You’re so righteous.”
Silence dropped heavily between us. It was subtle. But I saw it. The way her fingers tightened around her leather purse. The way her jaw locked. The way her cold eyes blinked once, slower than usual. Alicia Ivens hated losing control. And I had just hit the exact place that hurt.
“Don’t speak about things you don’t understand.”
Her voice came out low. Which was worse. Because my mother never yelled. She destroyed people calmly.
“I understand perfectly.”
I shot back immediately, my chest rising too quickly now. “I spent my entire life watching you turn grief into cruelty.” Her eyes darkened slightly. “Emotions aren’t weakness.” I continued, breathing harder now. “You just decided to act like they are because feeling anything reminds you of him.”
That hit.
This time it really hit.
Because her expression faltered. Only for a second. But it did.
And somehow that only made me angrier.
“You think I don’t see it?” My voice dropped lower now. Worse. Shaking. “You look at me and get angry because I remind you of him. Because I skate like him. Because I feel things the way he did.”
“Your father was disciplined.”
“My father was kind.”
The answer came too quickly and instinctive.
“He may have been kind, but he knew exactly what it took to reach the top, and that’s what made him special. Resilience. Your father never stopped skating well because he had to skate pairs, or gain muscle to lift me, or lose weight to glide better. He searched for balance because he was good. And you are nothing like him.”
That shattered my heart into a thousand sharp pieces, and bile rose in my throat for the second time that day. A knot formed painfully in my throat and I wanted to throw up again.
“Logan, number twenty-two, come here.”
I heard my mother call from the edge of the rink, and my eyes—already shining with tears desperate to fall—widened in panic.
“Alicia, we’re not even dating or anything, stop!”
I said it low but desperately, begging her to stop. I warned her, and then I heard her call again, louder this time, making Logan stop and turn toward us. Logan slowed immediately on the ice the second he heard my mother’s voice. My heart dropped.
No.
No, no, no. He turned toward us, still holding his hockey stick against his hip, clearly confused by the sharp, commanding tone she’d used. And then he saw my face. The trapped tears. My trembling jaw. The ruined expression I hadn’t managed to hide in time.
His posture changed instantly.
“Is there a problem?”
Yes!
Logan’s voice turned serious the second he stopped beside the barrier. His stick still rested against his hip while his chest rose slowly from practice. But his eyes weren’t on my mother. They were on me. On the tears I was trying to hold back. On my shaking jaw. On the miserable expression I clearly hadn’t hidden fast enough.
And worse?
He noticed immediately. His posture changed on the spot. My mother smiled slightly. The kind of smile she used in interviews and charity events while destroying people beneath perfectly polished words.
“What’s your name?”
I wanted to die right there.
I immediately dropped my gaze, my face burning as I prepared myself for whatever was coming next. My fingers dug into my crossed arms. Alicia had always had a talent for humiliating me in front of the people who mattered to me—friends, boyfriends, it didn't matter. When Dad was alive, he always managed to stop her before she crossed the line. But after he was gone, her cutting comments became far more frequent.
“John Logan.”
His voice came out steady now, but cautious. Because he understood too. Understood this wasn’t a normal conversation. It was an interrogation.
“Well, John Logan…” my mother began smoothly. “I’ve been trying to get some information out of my daughter, but apparently she prefers hiding certain things. So I’d like to ask you directly…are you two dating?”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Logan’s answer came too quickly. Instinctive.
But there was hesitation, because his eyes stayed fixed on mine while he answered, like he was trying to figure out which response was correct, and I looked away, completely exhausted. My mother nodded slowly, like she was arranging puzzle pieces in her mind.
“Excellent.”
Her smile widened slightly.
“So you’re sleeping together?” My entire body burned with humiliation. “Are you trying to ruin her life, John Logan?” she continued like I hadn’t spoken. “Because do you know the biggest problem with talented girls?”
The silence turned heavy and for the first time, Logan looked away from me to look directly at her. And something in his expression hardened instantly.
“Ma’am...”
“They confuse emotional distraction with love,” my mother interrupted coldly. “And men adore that. Especially college athletes.”
“Are you done?”
I asked, staring directly at her while my eyes burned. My mother finally looked back at me. Calm. Precise. Cruel in that elegant way only Alicia Ivens could manage.
“No. Not yet.”
I let out a short laugh completely devoid of humor, dragging a hand over my face in a useless attempt to stop the tears.
“Of course not.”
“You want to act like an adult? Then start accepting adult conversations.”
“This isn’t a conversation.” My voice cracked slightly. “You’re just feeding your ego.”
Her smile slowly faded. Not entirely. But enough.
I swallowed the knot lodged in my throat and wrapped my arms around myself in a pathetic attempt to stay together. My head still throbbed from the hangover, my chest still burned from the fight with Logan, and now this.
This.
The horrible feeling of being dismantled in front of dozens of people. I looked away for a second and found Logan still standing beside the barrier. His eyes fixed on me in that intense way that only made everything worse.
“You can go back to practice, Logan.” My voice came out smaller now. Tired. “Sorry about this.”
I could barely look at him after saying it. Because humiliation was suffocating me. The silence lasted one second too long. Then I heard the sound of his stick being slowly rested against the barrier.
“Are you sur...”
He started, but I cut him off immediately with a quick glance. A tired look. Silently begging him not to make this worse.
“Go back to practice please.”
My voice came out low. Broken. His eyes stayed locked on mine for a few more seconds.
And I realized the exact moment Logan understood what I was truly asking. Not distance. Dignity. Because I was already shattered enough without having to watch him defend me like I was too fragile to do it myself. His jaw tightened. I saw his fingers clench around the stick before he finally nodded once.
But before he could skate away, my mother opened her mouth again.
As always.
“Impressive,” she commented coldly. “You give orders and he obeys.” Logan stopped immediately.
My stomach dropped.
No. Don’t provoke him.
Slowly, Logan turned toward her. And for the first time since the conversation began, there was something genuinely dangerous in his expression. Not explosive anger. Worse. Control.
“With all due respect, ma’am…” His voice came out far too calm. “I think Y/n already made it clear this conversation is over.”
My mother held his gaze without hesitation.
“And you think you have the authority to decide that?”
“No,” he answered immediately. His jaw tightened before he continued. “But she does.” His eyes flicked briefly toward me before returning to Alicia. “And honestly? I’ve heard a lot about performance, discipline, and results… but I haven’t heard a single genuinely good piece of advice come out of your mouth for her.” The silence became unbearable. Logan rested the stick against the ice with a sharp sound before continuing. “So maybe we need to reconsider who exactly should be pointing out flaws here.”
My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
My mother stood completely and her fingers slowly tightened around her own arm before she let out a quiet laugh.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “So in addition to being emotionally distracted, my daughter also chooses arrogant men.”
I watched Logan smile slowly. Sarcastically. Then he ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair in a way that was simultaneously irritating and devastatingly attractive. The kind of gesture that made half the girls on campus lose their train of thought. Unfortunately, myself included.
“Funny…” he replied calmly. “She usually says the exact same thing to me.” My heart skipped painfully. Because the look he threw me afterward was quick. Almost invisible. But filled with something dangerously intimate. “Honestly?” Logan continued, finally looking back at Alicia. “I don’t think emotional distraction is the biggest problem here.” My mother’s smile disappeared completely.
“And what would that be?”
He tilted his head slightly. Far too calm.
“The way she looks like she has to survive every time you open your mouth.”
That completely knocked the remaining air out of my lungs. Because nobody had ever said that out loud before.
Nobody.
And the worst part?
He was right.
Logan skated away from us, leaving us standing there.
My mother turned toward me with a sarcastic smile and slowly shook her head in disapproval before walking away, her heels echoing sharply across the rink floor. But before she fully left, she turned back, looked me up and down, and said the sentence that shattered my heart even more.
“Your father would be disappointed in what you’ve become, Y/n. He would hate this unfocused person you turned into.”
My entire body froze instantly as the sound of her heels echoed across the rink again. The air vanished from my lungs. My vision blurred immediately, and for one second I genuinely thought I might throw up right there on the ice.
Because she knew.
She knew exactly where to hurt me.
She always had.
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening painfully as I watched my mother walk away like she hadn’t just ripped something living out of me.
And the worst part?
Part of me believed her.
The worst part.
That cruel voice in my head that sounded exactly like hers.
You’re distracted. Weak. Emotional. Pathetic.
My chest rose too quickly now, and I wrapped my arms tighter around myself in a ridiculous attempt to stay whole.
But the moment she left…I disappeared too.
Disappeared from the rink. Disappeared from myself. Disappeared from the version of me that could still breathe without feeling my chest cave in. I barely even remember how I got home...I only remember kicking my shoes off in the hallway, ignoring every message vibrating on my phone, and crawling under the blankets like they could somehow hide me from the entire world.
Or from her.
Or from myself.
The room was dark, stuffy, far too quiet.
And even then, my mother’s voice still echoed inside my head, repeating every word like a curse.
Your father must be disappointed.
Your father would hate who you’ve become.
Bile burned the back of my throat again as I pressed the pillow against my face, trying to muffle the pathetic sobs that escaped anyway.
My pillowcases became soaked far too quickly.
The crying came in violent waves that made my head pound even harder, feeding the horrible migraine that already felt like it was splitting my skull in half.
Then I cried harder.
And the pain got worse.
And then I cried again.
A miserable, endless cycle. At some point my nails started scratching against my own arm beneath the blankets in a desperate attempt to keep myself grounded.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
But even breathing hurt. Because everything hurt. My head. My chest. My pride. My stupid heart.
Logan.
The fight. The way he looked at me in the bathroom. The way he defended me at the rink even after everything. The way my mother destroyed every part of me that was still trying to stay standing.
I never would’ve imagined everything could turn into such a complete disaster in less than twenty-four hours. Yesterday I was drunk at a party trying to pretend I didn’t care about John Logan. Now I was crying in the dark like a broken child while my mother’s voice made me question whether my own father would still be proud of me. And honestly? That was the thing that destroyed me the most. Because for the first time in a very long time…I didn’t know how to answer.
English isn't my first language, so pls forgive any grammar mistakes.
This chapter was a bit dramatic, and I'm sorry abt that, but I'll be honest—our couple's relationship is kinda complicated bc I made them both emotionally stubborn and complicated.
I'll try to post 2 more chapters for u guys tomorrow. Hope you're all doing well. xoxo
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