summary: when your boyfriend abandons you on the side of a mountain you find solace in the form of a pink-haired mountaineer who comes to your rescue
word count: 11k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, modern au, mountaineering/hiking, reader is dating naoya :(, abusive bf, misogyny, injury, fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, cheating (kind of? reader's relationship with naoya is essentially done), semi-public sex (in a tent), piv, fingering, soft!sukuna
a/n: thinking about this scenario was the only thing that got me through my own miserable mountain experience and food poisoning last week :(
You’d joined the mountaineering club out of a desire to connect more with your boyfriend.
He was an experienced mountaineer - the type of person who’d been climbing peaks with his family since he was a kid, and you’d thought he’d be happy to be able to go on those adventures with you. You’d figured it could be one of those interests that you shared. Something you could do together.
Dismissal had been the emotion you’d been met with when you first told him you’d joined. It had been a scoff paired with an off-handed statement about how you weren’t cut out for all that.
Maybe, if you’d had more sense, you would’ve broken up with Naoya in that moment and saved yourself a whole lot of trouble. Instead, just like always, you made excuses for him. You figured he was just having a bad day - that you just needed to prove yourself to him and then he’d be happy to have you as a climbing buddy.
He was just concerned about your skill. That was all.
So you’d worked hard at the club - learned plenty of skills, did plenty of hours in the gym, made dozens of friends with the other club members to ensure you weren’t dependent on Naoya to teach you everything.
You tried to ignore how uninterested your boyfriend seemed in your progress, tried to ignore the way he’d flirt with the other women at the club - you were sure he’d be so impressed with you on your first major outing to Mount Hotaka that he’d forget about everything else and be pleased with you for once.
That was all you wanted, for him to be proud of you outside of the offhanded thanks he’d give whenever you’d make him dinner.
Your first trip out to the mountain had several people in attendance. Beyond you and Naoya there were a handful of women from the club who you’d grown close with: Shoko, Utahime and Yuki, and then a few men. There were a couple of older guys you didn’t know very well, and then a few in your age range who had been helping develop your skills - the most notable of that group being Sukuna, who had dedicated lots of time to teaching you knowledge that Naoya had brushed aside.
It had surprised you at first, that the hulking pink-haired man had any interest in helping you do anything. Others in the club had claimed that he tended to be aloof, harsh and generally unfriendly - and while he was harsh in his teachings, unfriendly was certainly not the word you’d use to describe him.
He’d gone out of his way to help you, chasing away others like Satoru with the claim that they were ‘too stupid to teach you right’. Spending hours at your side, he’d taught you all you needed to know about equipment, rope skills and climbing. He wouldn’t provide praise unless it was deserved, but once you’d finally started getting things right he’d always made sure you knew he was pleased with you.
It was praise you were desperately starved for, praise you’d love to receive from your boyfriend, and you were ashamed to admit that Sukuna’s simple compliments lingered in your mind for longer than they should have.
You’d grown rather fond of him since joining the mountaineering club, even despite his somewhat prickly demeanour to everyone else, you felt he was someone you could rely on, someone who wouldn’t call you stupid for asking him questions. Even if he’d sometimes tease you for getting upset or frustrated for not understanding something, he’d still take the time to help you understand.
Unlike Naoya, who would roll his eyes and once again point out how unfit you were for something as involved as mountain climbing.
The comparison between the two was something you found yourself making more and more often, eyes straying over to your pink-haired friend when he wasn’t looking, your stomach flipping when he’d speak to you, or when he’d place a large hand on your shoulder in congratulations at a task done well.
You knew it was wrong, chastising yourself whenever the thought of Sukuna would stray into your mind late at night while Naoya was snoring away next to you. Not only did you have a boyfriend, but you were certain Sukuna didn’t think of you in anything beyond a friendly manner anyway.
So you kept those feelings locked deep within your chest and tried to focus on why you were in the club in the first place - to prove to your boyfriend that you’d make a good partner for his mountain expeditions, to prove that you were worth more to him than being a glorified maid in his house.
The first few hours of the hike, starting in the early morning, had gone by fairly uneventfully. Your training had paid off and your legs felt good as you winded up through valleys and fields, trailing a little behind the group of boys, favouring a slightly slower pace and jovial conversation amongst the girls.
Despite Naoya’s reluctance for you to join the club, you felt like it was where you were supposed to be. You loved being out in nature - taking in the fresh air and drinking from mountain streams, wandering along with like-minded people and encouraging each other along through the gruelling uphills.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that things started to get more difficult, with the altitude creeping steadily up, and the group stumbling across snow fields that still hadn’t melted in the late spring air. It was nothing you weren’t prepared for, but with everyone feeling a great deal more tired than they had in the morning hours, the pace slowed considerably.
A group of the more experienced men ended up going on ahead at a quicker pace, saying they’d get the next big section of uphill completed and scout out a good camping spot for the night, since the plan was to make a summit push in the early morning to watch the sunrise.
You didn’t mind that so much - you didn’t like the feeling of slowing them down and that arrangement meant that you could keep going at a comfortable pace without feeling stressed about it. The girls you were with were perfectly experienced in their own right, and Naoya had chosen to hang behind with you anyway rather than going on ahead.
That was a decision that you’d convinced yourself was on account of him wanting to keep an eye on you, but a part of you believed it was really because he didn’t get along with any of the men at the club.
Or perhaps it was just so he could keep staring at Yuki’s ass like he had been for the entire hike up to that point.
The next couple of hours were difficult, and everyone grew more withdrawn under the effort of a constant uphill - facing switchback after switchback with no clarity on how far you had to go beneath a freshly settled blanket of fog lowering the visibility. Shoko had been struggling for a while, and after an extended rest on a rock decided that it was best if she turned back and camped somewhere lower in the valley.
She’d been having issues with her lungs and didn’t think it was wise to keep going.
At her decision, Utahime also suggested that she wanted to go back, mentioning that she also didn’t feel in the best physical condition, and Yuki insisted on going back with the two of them to make sure they got back down safely. You’d considered joining them, but you were still feeling good both physically and mentally and were keen to continue upwards towards the peak.
Considering Naoya’s experience, you were certain that the two of you would be fine even without the girls, so you waved them off and continued upwards into the mist, eager to reconnect with the other half of your group and get settled with Naoya in the tent for the night.
—
Sukuna had found a pretty good camping spot. He was pretty sure it was in a similar position to where he’d set up on his solo winter ascent a couple of years before - a location that should be downright comfy in the mild spring weather.
Assuming that weather stayed mild.
It was hard to tell through all the fog, but he was almost sure he could see dark clouds rolling high in the sky. He hoped he was wrong. There hadn’t been a storm on the forecast, and if one was to roll in that could make for a very harrowing evening, especially for people like you who’d had little experience of the mountains.
He hoped one bad night wouldn’t be enough to put you off entirely.
“Yuki just radioed.” Satoru called out to him. “She, Shoko and Utahime are all going back down. The others are still coming I think.”
Sukuna hummed in affirmation as he moved to set up his tent. He wished it could’ve just been you coming up, rather than you and your shithead boyfriend, but he supposed he’d rather you have a buddy in the mountains than be out there alone. If he’d had things his way, he would’ve hung back with you for the whole duration of the hike, but he didn’t need people casting suspicions on his actions.
He’d already received some strange looks over his eagerness to teach you - the last thing he needed was the rumor mill in full operation.
Even if the rumor mill was right in this case.
He liked you. He really liked you.
Feelings that he needed to keep to himself, because your boyfriend was one jealous asshole, and he was almost confident that any sign of flirting on Sukuna’s part would have Naoya taking out his anger and jealousy on you, which was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t sure what you saw in that guy, but god, Sukuna wanted to bash his teeth in.
He’d been watching it for months now - the depressing life you lived in which you’d excitedly bound over to Naoya to show him something you’d learned only for him to react with total disregard. Sukuna had watched the light in your eyes flicker and die each time, doing his best to control the rage boiling in his chest.
You deserved better than that fucker.
But he got the sense that you weren’t able to see that.
Almost everyone had set up their tents, laughing and joking and tearing into provisions by the time Naoya appeared from the mist. A couple of hours had passed since the group first found the camping spot, and Satoru welcomed him enthusiastically as he stepped into the clearing. He looked surprisingly exhausted for a man who was supposed to be experienced.
Sukuna’s red eyes scanned the fog, waiting for you to appear behind the man. His chest squeezed when only silence followed, no sign of your presence in the mist.
“Is it only you?” Satoru asked, voicing the very question that was on the tip of Sukuna’s tongue.
“Yeah, the girls went down,” Naoya responded nonchalantly, shrugging off his backpack. “Is there a good place for me to set up?” Satoru’s lips parted, as if to question the man’s statement, considering Yuki had relayed specific names, but he clearly thought better of it, nodding and pointing Naoya in the direction of a clear patch of dirt for him to pitch his tent.
Sukuna wasn’t so happy to shrug it off.
“Yuki only said she was going down with Utahime and Shoko,” he called out to Naoya. The man turned to look at him, irritation shining in his amber eyes. Sukuna was well aware that Naoya despised him just as much as he despised Naoya.
“They all went. Think I don’t know where my own girlfriend is?” Naoya snapped.
Sukuna stared him down for a moment before leaving him be, heading over to Satoru and asking for the radio. Speaking into it, he called out for Yuki, praying that they were still within a reasonable range to pick up his voice.
He was met with only silence, cursing under his breath at the realisation that they were probably all the way back in the valley by that point and likely impossible to reach. His crimson gaze fell to Naoya once more, watching him hum as he set up his tent without a care in the world.
Something in the pit of Sukuna’s stomach told him that there was something wrong. You hadn’t gone back with Yuki. You’d been so happy all day, so excited about your first major peak. Not only that, but you’d been in good condition - he’d been watching you whenever he could, he’d been proud at how well you were doing.
You wouldn’t have turned back. And if you had, Yuki would’ve listed your name when she was heading down. Yuki was no newcomer to the mountains - she was responsible and experienced and she always emphasised the importance of good communications. And if you’d have turned back any later, Naoya should’ve gone with you - it's what any sensible person would’ve done.
But he was here, and you weren’t. And you hadn’t gone with Yuki. So you were alone.
Sukuna’s first instinct was to bash Naoya’s head in. He wanted to walk over there and silence that bastard’s humming with a well placed rock to the head. What kind of a man - an experienced mountaineer, no less - would abandon their inexperienced girlfriend on the side of a mountain?
It wasn’t like Sukuna doubted your ability. He’d taught you all you needed to know, but putting those things into practice alone, at altitude, and in adverse weather was a whole other thing.
Instead of doing anything about Naoya, he parked that issue temporarily and quickly moved to dismantle his own tent. He wasn’t going to sit there and do nothing while your location was unaccounted for. Even if you had gone down shortly after Yuki, even if you’d made it back to the valley by yourself, he wasn’t going to roll the dice on your life.
He’d go back the way they’d come and he’d walk until he found you - even if that happened to be safe and sound at the bottom of the mountain.
“What’re you doing?” Satoru asked, hovering as Sukuna put his stuff back into his pack. Naoya had stopped to watch, a sneer on his already ugly face.
“I don’t think she went down with Yuki. I need to make sure the boyfriend of the year over there didn’t leave her in some bad situation,” Sukuna explained.
“Oh my god, she’s fine.” Naoya snapped from across the campsite. “Yuki just misspoke, she went down with them. Why is it your problem anyway? It's not like she’s your girlfriend.”
The defensive edge to the man’s voice told Sukuna all he needed to know, and he ignored the jabs in favour of packing up more quickly. He didn’t want it to get too dark - if something bad had happened and you didn’t have your headlamp on it would be impossible to find you at night.
Unfortunately, Naoya seemed to have no interest in letting up. “I mean seriously? You’re actually doing this? I know you wanna fuck her but she’s always been a loyal little thing - she ain’t gonna put out for you because of this. I think she’s realised that she isn’t cut out for this type of shit - she went back down to safety with the rest of the girls and I think she’ll probably quit the club. She can get back to what she’s good at.”
Sukuna’s hands stilled as he zipped his bag shut, his expression calm as he finally looked at the man before him. There was malice in his expression and a clear, guilty desire to keep Sukuna from trekking back down the mountain path.
“‘She can get back to what she’s good at’?” Sukuna asked, drawing himself up to his full height. “And what would that be?”
The smug grin Naoya shot him was sickening. “Making me dinner.”
Sukuna laughed, a deep unpleasant sound rumbling from his chest. “Right.” He took a step forward, towering over your boyfriend who he deeply hoped would be your ex-boyfriend after that expedition. Before Naoya could react, Sukuna grabbed him by the front of his raincoat. “Listen. I’m going back down that path. If I find her out there, abandoned and alone, be assured that I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll never climb another mountain again. Do you understand me?”
Fear flickered in Naoya’s amber eyes, but he pushed it down quickly, replacing it with a scowl. “Get the fuck off me.”
Sukuna let him go, revelling in the way he stumbled about off balance, barely keeping himself from careening onto the floor. If he was being honest with himself, the desire to enact justice on Naoya in that moment was tempting, but he could wait. Every moment he spent in that camp was another moment of peril for you.
And unlike Naoya, he wouldn’t leave you to a night alone on a mountain.
—
You weren’t sure when you’d lost Naoya.
He’d been picking up the pace significantly while you’d been getting slower and slower, and despite calling out for him to wait for you to catch up, eventually he just disappeared off into the fog - the sound of his footsteps fading entirely.
It had left you at a loss, unsure as to whether you should keep going or turn back. You were certain that the summit camp probably wasn’t too far off, but you had no real idea of how far that distance might actually be, and had a vague concern that you might take a wrong turn in the ever-thickening fog, leaving you stranded for the night. You and Naoya were sharing a tent which he’d been carrying, and subsequently ending up alone for the evening wasn’t ideal for you.
The most you’d be able to do is wrap yourself in your sleeping bag and find a sheltered place to hunker down for the night.
But it shouldn’t come to that.
Getting down to the valley would take too long, and you weren’t sure where Yuki and the gang would’ve settled anyway. Naoya had the radio. He had everything really, which meant that the only thing you could do was continue upwards and hope that you stumbled across the other half of your group.
It was a plan that was going okay until you’d carelessly stepped on a loose rock, sending you tumbling back down a hill of scree you’d spent the past half an hour climbing.
At first you’d thought only your morale was damaged, your mind exhausted at the prospect of having to get back up and reascend a slope you’d already climbed once. But as you struggled to get to your feet, you realised that it wasn’t only your mind that had undergone damage.
A hot pain spread through your ankle as you tried to stand, sending you straight back down to the floor with a yelp. Panic instantly overcame you, the sudden realisation of where you were hitting you like a tonne of bricks. Naoya, your boyfriend, had abandoned you on the side of a mountain. He’d left you in the fog, beneath the setting sun, without a tent and without a radio. And now you were injured.
If you didn’t know better, you would’ve said he was actively trying to kill you.
But what was more likely was that he was just proving the point he’d been trying to make all along - that you weren’t cut out for the life of a mountaineer.
And considering your condition, could you really disagree with him?
Soft sobs overtook you, and you began to spiral. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, shivering as the cold grew more intense, mumbling incoherently to yourself about how you should’ve gone back down to the valley with Yuki.
Perhaps you never should’ve tried facing the mountains in the first place.
Maybe Naoya was right.
They were thoughts that fled from your mind at the blessed sight of a headlamp cutting through the fog from above, footsteps crunching evenly on scree, picking up in speed the moment the light shone upon your sorry figure huddled on the ground.
“Fuck, are you okay?” Sukuna’s voice had a tremor of relief shooting through you, and more tears swelled at the corners of your eyes. He was crouching down in front of you, expression laden with concern as he scanned your cowering form. One of his hands reached for your face, wiping away tears carefully while he waited for you to answer him.
“My ankle…” You mumbled. Everything was too overwhelming for you to articulate any further, your words already coming out all choked and shaky. Sukuna didn’t need to hear any more, attention instantly shifting to your foot. His hands moved to prod gently at it, watching your face for a grimace which came quickly under his touch.
“Does that hurt?”
You nodded. He bit down on his lip and quickly moved to untie the lace of your boot. A soft whimper left your lips as he pulled it from your foot, but he was right to pay your reaction no mind since you were overcome with relief once your ankle was freed from those rigid confines pressing down too tightly upon it.
It had swollen up significantly in the time you’d been sitting there waiting for someone to come for you.
“Right. I’ll deal with the ankle soon but I want to get us to someplace better first before it gets fully dark.” It was only just occurring to you that the wind had started to pick up a little, your clothes ruffled by air rushing against you. It would be best to be in a less exposed place - Sukuna had taught you that exposure made all the difference when dealing with bad weather.
“There was a plateau back down at the bottom of this slope,” you mumbled, remembering the slight respite you’d had from the seemingly neverending onslaught of uphill.
Sukuna gave you a proud smile and it made your heart flutter. “Yeah, that would work. I’m gonna carry you down there, if that’s okay? I don’t think you should try walking on that ankle until we give it a proper look.”
You wanted to collapse into fresh tears at the suggestion. While your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to look after you, had abandoned you on the side of your first big mountain, Sukuna was here offering to carry you to safety. The feeling his offer was giving you had a risk of overwhelming you entirely, utterly grateful that he was the person who’d come back to look for you.
Naively, you wondered if Naoya had sent him down to look for you. It was a weak hope, a desperate, delusional belief that your boyfriend wasn’t as cruel as he truly was.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” you said, quietly. You tried to ignore how pleasant it felt when Sukuna crouched down to scoop you up into his arms. His touch felt warm against your body which had grown cold over the past few hours of inactivity. The arms holding you were strong and secure, building a feeling of safety knowing he was there with you.
Naoya would’ve taken issue with it, but you wished you’d asked Sukuna to stick with you throughout the whole trip. Things would’ve felt better if it was him you were relying on rather than your boyfriend. In his lessons he’d always emphasised the importance of matching your pace with a mountain buddy - always checking that they weren’t far behind.
Rules that a supposedly experienced mountaineer like Naoya should’ve been well aware of.
Sukuna strode down the rest of the hill with ease, keeping you tucked close against him in a princess carry. Considering that you had your pack still on your back you were surprised at how easy he made the whole thing look, because he wasn’t exactly carrying a light load between you in his arms and his own bag on his back. But he didn’t complain or demonstrate any signs of struggle.
Outside of the fact that he was largely silent until you reached your destination.
You didn’t mind that. It wasn’t like you were in the mood to talk either, your mind swimming with all kinds of things now that you were in safe hands. Naoya had left you behind to die. You could’ve died if no one had come back for you. Exposure could’ve gotten to you, or an animal, or some person with ill-intent prowling the mountainside.
He’d left you helpless and defenceless.
And, as rain started to drip from the sky above, you realised that if Sukuna hadn’t come for you, it would’ve been an evening out in the storm, at altitude, with nothing but your rain jacket and sleeping bag to huddle within.
You could’ve died.
Sukuna found a well sheltered area and placed you down while he set up the tent. You were in awe at how quickly he got it done - the same actions would’ve taken you three times the time it took his experienced hands to get it sorted. You were grateful for the speed, because it meant the two of you made it inside before the worst of the rain began to hammer down from the sky above.
“Okay. First the ankle. Then everything else.”
You tilted your head a little at his statement, not quite sure what he meant by everything else, but you assumed he was referring more to your mental condition and questions around how you’d ended up in your terrible position in the first place. You hoped he wouldn’t be mad at you for failing to make it up to the peak after how much time he’d spent teaching you things.
You thought maybe he’d chastise you for things like not having your own tent or radio, but Naoya had been insistent about carrying those items for you, assuring you that he’d stick at your side and claiming his actions were out of a desire to keep your pack as light as possible.
You were stupid to have believed him.
Sukuna knelt by your foot, removing your sock and inspecting the damage carefully. His fingers pressed delicately against the skin and you found yourself admiring his concentrated expression in the lamplight. “I don’t think it's broken,” he said. “Probably just twisted.”
Reaching into his first aid kit, he found a bandage which he wrapped around the problem area, before pulling out an ice pack and snapping to activate its effects. He placed the pack down on your ankle, earning a little hiss from you which pulled a small smile from his otherwise serious face.
He’d been really serious since he’d found you, his expression all irritated and stormy.
Was he angry with you? Frustrated that he’d had to come back down the mountain to your aid? You didn’t like the idea of being his burden.
“Endure the cold for a bit - it’ll make you feel much better.” he said, placing a warm hand on your calf. Your breath hitched involuntarily at the contact and Sukuna quickly withdrew from you, a tinge of guilt flickering across his handsome face. He instantly busied himself before you could question it, moving onto the next stage of tending to your injury.
He fumbled about in his pack and withdrew some clothing, bundling it up into a small pile and wedging it beneath your foot to elevate it a little. Nothing he was doing was particularly revolutionary - on the contrary, his actions were all things he’d taught you to do in the event of an injury.
You’d just been too panicked to do anything on that scree slope.
Perhaps he was mad at you for that too.
Sukuna laid out his sleeping mat next to you, his nose wrinkling at the revelation that you didn’t have one because it was in Naoya’s possession. He slid his mat beneath you, keen not to have you lying on the floor, before pulling out his sleeping bag and sitting on top of that for some amount of comfort.
“So, what happened?” Sukuna asked. His voice was a little clipped, as if he was holding himself back from saying what he really wanted to say.
“I was rushing and lost my footing on some scree-”
“No. I mean, why are you alone?”
“Oh.” You shrugged, taking a deep breath and avoiding his eyes. There was a sticky feeling building up in your throat, keeping your words down. If you said the truth aloud you were certain you’d burst into tears again. “I don’t know,” you mumbled finally.
“You don’t know?” He echoed.
“It just sort of happened. The girls went back down the mountain and Naoya kept going quicker and then we got separated somewhere in the fog. I imagine he was probably waiting somewhere up ahead for me but then I slipped.” You weren’t sure why you were trying to defend your boyfriend. You weren’t naive enough to truly believe he’d been waiting up ahead for you.
He’d left you.
But the idea of airing out just how stupid you were to be in that relationship in the first place felt humiliating. You wanted to at least pretend that Naoya didn’t leave you for dead - that you weren’t the fool who had stayed for years with an abusive boyfriend when you should’ve just left.
You didn’t want Sukuna to think you were completely pathetic.
“Naoya arrived at the camp hours ago,” Sukuna said, his tone detached, as if he wanted to avoid projecting any of his own emotion onto you. “He said you’d gone back down with the rest of the girls.”
The horrified expression on your face must’ve said it all, because Sukuna’s impartiality quickly faded, rage burning within those crimson eyes. Naoya really had abandoned you. And not only that, he’d also attempted to sabotage any retrieval attempt that might be made for you. He’d outright claimed you were safe when he knew no such thing.
It was a thought that made you sick, and once again the tears started to flow, dripping down your cheeks. You’d spent years with that man, feeling like you were less than good enough. You’d let him break you down, put up with his endless bullying and tormenting, all because he’d been sweet to you at the start.
You’d always thought you weren’t good enough, always thought that it was your fault he was so unpleasant with you.
Now it felt like your eyes were open for the first time.
He’d left you on the side of a mountain. He couldn’t care less about your wellbeing. He couldn’t care less about you unless you were making him dinner.
And you’d put up with it.
You were a fool.
“I knew that fucker was lying,” Sukuna hissed. “Yuki didn’t say your name when she radioed in to say she was heading back. She’s always good with that sort of thing. Fuck, I’m glad I came down to check, who knows what would’ve happened if-”
He cut himself off, faltering before he could finish the sentence. It was clear that he didn’t want to scare or upset you further, not when you’d already reduced yourself to a puddle of tears. You didn’t want to imagine what fate the night would’ve brought if not for Sukuna arriving as your saviour.
Falling silent, he shuffled a little closer to you. Reaching out delicately he began to wipe away your tears with his thumb. The touch of his skin against yours felt pleasant, and you found your sobs faltering at the new found comfort he was providing. A deeply loyal part of you urged you to pull away, reminding you of your boyfriend. You immediately pushed the thought aside.
Naoya wasn’t your boyfriend.
Not after what he’d done.
“Don’t cry. You’re okay. I found you and we’ll make it through the night together. I’m not going anywhere.” Sukuna’s words were soothing, and you found yourself nodding between sniffles, your tears gradually drying up. You hadn’t realised you were shivering until Sukuna tentatively wrapped an arm around you, pulling you up and close to him.
The storm had worsened outside, and you huddled down in your jacket, letting yourself lean into Sukuna’s chest to keep the shivering at bay. If this was how you felt inside a tent with another human to warm you, you hated to think how you would’ve felt still stuck all alone on the scree.
It didn’t bear considering.
“You should report that asshole to the police once we get down. Nothing will come of it because it's hard to prove intent, but this was an active attempt on your life. He had a duty of care he ignored, stripped you of shelter and then tried to prevent a rescue. I have half a mind to kill him myself.” Sukuna’s voice rumbled through his body.
No one had ever really stood up for you before. Naoya was always good at being charming when it mattered. Your parents and the rest of your family had always seen him as a good prospect - a polite and handsome man from a well off family. With your friends, you’d done the damage on your own, always defending him, manipulated by him to act like the perfect picture of an abused girlfriend.
“I’m so stupid,” you whispered.
“What?” Sukuna asked, pulling back ever so slightly so he could look at you properly. You hadn’t spoken at all since the reveal, and your quiet words clearly caught him off guard.
“I’ve wasted so much of my life with him. Spent so much time defending him like he was some good guy. I only joined this club to impress him and all he ever did was tell me how useless I was at stuff like this - at everything. Did you know that he spent most of this hike staring at Yuki’s ass? And yet, when I’d tell him about how much stuff you’d taught me he’d get all mad about me talking to another guy and verbally berate me until I cried. And I just let it all happen. You must think I’m an idiot.”
Sukuna hesitated, searching for the right words. It made you smile in a twisted sort of way, because he was definitely trying to find something to say that wouldn’t indirectly call you stupid - an impossibility considering the circumstances. Now that your eyes were open you could finally see how foolish you’d been.
You just wanted to go home. Forget mountaineering or anything else you’d tried in an attempt to bond with that asshole.
“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he said finally. “I think guys like that are very good at getting their way, and you happened to be his victim.” The words were uncannily gentle, and at a glance at Sukuna’s face you could tell he was out of his comfort zone, but trying his best. He tightened his grip on you as a sudden gust of wind battered the tent.
The touch had your heart fluttering, and you wondered how Sukuna felt about your current position. It was probably just a necessity in his eyes - a bid to warm up a tired and stressed woman, nothing more than that.
With your loyalty to Naoya stranded somewhere on the mountain never to be recovered, you found yourself wishing the contact was something more than that.
But considering your woefully pathetic attempt at summiting this relatively easy peak, you doubted Sukuna held you in high regard at all. His type was probably some strong, confident girl who already knew all her outdoor skills without Sukuna’s input. The type of woman he could rely on to partner with for dangerous and difficult peaks.
That wasn’t you.
You weren’t sure you’d step foot on a mountain again after this.
“Maybe you don’t think I’m an idiot for that, but you probably think I am for all this.” You gestured in the general direction of your foot, still humiliated at the thought of Sukuna having to rush down the mountain to your rescue, like you couldn’t be left unsupervised for a single moment without finding yourself in need of rescue.
Much to your chagrin, Sukuna laughed. “An idiot for getting injured? No, that’s practically a rite of passage. You were doing great through most of the hike - I was keeping an eye on you before the group split in half. We’ll get you down the mountain and get your ankle sorted, and then you can try this peak again another time.”
Sukuna’s optimism had butterflies swarming in your stomach, but years of insults and abuse weren’t so easily displaced. You lowered your gaze, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I don’t know. I just wonder if Naoya was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”
Sukuna pulled a face, clearly displeased by that statement.
“Do you like being in the mountains?” He asked simply.
He made no statement on your skill, no attack on anything your boyfriend had told you. Asked nothing more than whether you liked being out in the fresh air, doing what you’d been doing before your ankle had been injured.
And you did.
You really did like it.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Then you are cut out for this. Enjoyment is literally the only requirement,” he said earnestly. “Besides, that guy’s full of shit. I taught you everything you needed to know and I have faith in your abilities. If you need to listen to someone else’s opinion to determine your value, how about you consider mine instead of his.”
A flush appeared across your cheeks. Those were the kind of compliments Sukuna would always pay you. Nothing particularly special or flowery, but deeply genuine in a way that had your whole body bursting with pride, pushing the rot of Naoya’s insults from your veins and replacing it with Sukuna’s approval.
“We’ll come back here together in a few weeks, just the two of us, and we’ll do this peak. I can promise you it’ll be better. I won’t abandon you in the fog.” You believed him, nodding a little in agreement. Even in your fragile mental state that evening, you couldn’t help the excited flip of your stomach at the thought of Sukuna wanting to do something alone with you.
The mountaineering club had been a means for you to learn your skills to climb alone with Naoya. You hadn’t expected that it would leave you excited at the prospect of climbing with another man.
Still, you tried not to get ahead of yourself. Your little crush on Sukuna, which had been present for several months more than you were really willing to admit, seemed to have finally found the freedom to really take over your thoughts. Your heart was practically in your throat at your current proximity to him, a desire coursing through your whole body.
You needed to push it back down even with Naoya out of the picture, because you were certain Sukuna was just being friendly, just being a better person than Naoya was. You couldn’t afford to let your mind run wild with fantasies.
At least, that’s what you’d told yourself.
The two of you had sat in silence for a while after Sukuna’s offer of climbing alone together, still huddled together and listening to the wind and rain outside the tent. You found yourself calmed by the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat, basking in the warmth of his body which took your mind off the cold compress burning at your ankle.
“Do you mind if we share the sleeping mat? It's okay if not, but it would be warmer for you and more comfy for me that way.” Considering that the two of you had been cuddling for a while, you didn’t see the issue. Anything was fine in matters of survival and you were more than happy to remain close to Sukuna.
“Yeah, sure. We can zip our sleeping bags together.”
Sukuna’s lashes fluttered and you swore you could see a dusting of pink on his cheeks, but you were quick to disregard it. It had been a long and exhausting day, and you were likely just seeing what you wanted to see.
The cold compress had started to lose its effect, and Sukuna removed it from your ankle while the two of you shuffled about to get ready for bed. Your ankle was feeling much better after a period of rest and elevation, and you found you could move it again without excruciating pain. Getting back down the mountain might still be an issue, but it was one you could leave to figure out in the morning.
Zipping your sleeping bags together and settling down on the sleeping mat, Sukuna made space for you beside him. You had to half lay on him for you both to stay on the padding, but with how warm his body seemed to run, you really didn’t mind. He wrapped his arm around you, nestling you close against him under the guise of conserving space - an action that had your whole body thrumming with electricity.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt that way. For months, maybe even years, the only thing you’d felt under Naoya’s touch was mild dread. This was something nicer, something more exciting - a feeling you wanted to experience over and over again.
“Warm enough?” Sukuna asked, giving you a reassuring squeeze. The tent was relatively cool, the fabric being battered by the storm outside, all of which seemed distant as you lay there in Sukuna’s grip. It was a safe and warm place to be, one where you could take your mind off troubles and anxieties knowing he was there to keep anything and everything at bay.
Troubles which Naoya had actively brought upon your life, were effectively chased away by Sukuna.
How you wished you’d met the pink-haired man earlier in your life.
“Warm enough,” you echoed, your voice coming out muffled as you buried your face into his chest.
Again, the two of you fell into comfortable silence, listening to the whistling of wind and basking in the feeling of your bodies pressed close together. You were half asleep and almost convinced that Sukuna was already asleep, when his deep voice cut through the darkness and silence.
“I don’t usually go on these things, you know,” he confessed quietly. “This is my first one. I’m only in the club because it gives you connections for exhibition funding and learning new skills. Usually I do mountains solo and usually I do stuff much harder than this.” He waved his hand in the direction of the tent’s exit.
A guilt blossomed in your gut at the speech, recalling similar words from your boyfriend when you’d brought up the trip. He’d said that climbs in the Japanese Alps outside of wintertime were nothing special, and that the whole thing would likely be so easy that he could do it in his sleep. He’d only agreed to go after you’d begged him, reminding him that you didn’t have the experience he did.
“I’m only here because of you,” Sukuna continued. The guilt within you only grew sharper. Was Sukuna trying to imply that he was only present out of concern for your inexperience? Had you forced him along because he knew something like this would happen? Had he known he’d need to come to your rescue?
“Sorry. I must be such a burden,” you mumbled quietly, burying your face in your sleeping bag.
Did Sukuna really want to commit to climbing alone with you knowing that you were so much less experienced than he was? Or was he just doing it because he felt bad for you? You were likely a pitiful sight with your messed up ankle and an abusive boyfriend who had abandoned you.
Sukuna blinked rapidly, astute enough to swiftly connect the dots. “What? No, that’s not- I was trying to say something nice. I was saying I only came along because I enjoy spending time with you. I don’t like these group things and I prefer to do harder stuff but I’m here because you’re here, and I like you.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears, completely drowning out the sound of any thoughts on how you were supposed to reply to that. You were too caught up on the word ‘like’, on the way Sukuna shifted ever so slightly against you, pulling you more firmly against his body.
“What?” You asked, dumbly.
“I like you,” he repeated. “I think you’re so cute and I love how happy you get whenever you learn something new and I’m so fucking exhausted of watching your boyfriend ignore you and take you for granted when I’d cherish you.”
Again, your stomach flipped, your ears growing warm.
“And when that fucker showed up at the top of the mountain without you, I wanted to kill him. When I found you all cold and alone on the slope I just- fuck. I want to keep you safe. I want to be the person who looks out for you, I want to take care of you in a way that guy seems unwilling to. He has no idea what he has- had, while I understand exactly what you’re worth. I want to take you to the mountains at my side because unlike him, I’d be thrilled to have you as my hiking partner.”
Before you knew what was happening, you were crying again, wetting his clothes immediately with your tears. Your shoulders were shuddering and you could feel Sukuna’s heartrate picking up. It seemed like he was starting to panic - concerned that you were upset by his words when the reality was the total opposite.
You’d never heard something so romantic from Naoya and you never would. To have someone speak such beautiful words to you felt surreal and your body had no idea how to react beyond sobbing from being so overwhelmed with love and affection.
“Sorry,” Sukuna said quickly. “I know it's been a long day, now probably wasn’t the time to say anything. You don’t have to respond-”
He faltered as you peered up at him, your face wet with tears. He usually looked so confident, and even then there was still some atmosphere of certainty about him, but he couldn’t fully hide the glimmer of anxiety in his lovely red eyes. There was a fear of rejection buried within him, a fate that he seemed almost certain he was going to face.
If only he could step into your shoes for a moment and feel all the emotion rushing over you at his confession
You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t think of anything that would suffice as a response to his outpouring of desire. Instead you tilted your face upwards, lips parting softly in a clear signal - one that Sukuna caught onto immediately. He closed the gap swiftly, lips slotting perfectly against yours with a warmth you’d never experienced before.
Naoya’s kiss had always been domineering - a wet and unpleasant experience. Sukuna’s kiss was gentle and exploratory. His lips took the time to appreciate yours, to linger on that lovely shared warmth and soak in the feeling of being connected so intimately for the first time.
His tongue ran along your lips carefully, requesting for you to open your mouth. You complied easily, letting him hold you ever closer as his tongue pressed into yours, deepening the kiss in a way that felt so natural despite the fact that you’d never kissed each other before.
A rumble of thunder overhead had the two of you parting for a second, and you found your shivering renewed as a particularly cold wind blew through the tent. Sukuna’s red eyes went to the entryway, the space illuminating for a second as another flash of lightning ripped through the sky above. His hands rubbed your back soothingly at a louder rumble overhead.
“I’m so glad I came down to find you,” he whispered.
“Thank you for coming to find me,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on his handsome face, your mind still struggling to catch up to all that had transpired in the past few minutes. Thoughts of Naoya and all the suffering he’d put you through seemed distant in the intimacy of that tent. “I feel so lucky. Injured ankle aside.” You giggled softly, heart jumping at the way Sukuna grinned back at you, pressing another soft kiss to your lips.
There was a gratefulness to his expression, a soft affection in his gaze which made you feel seen and special in a way you’d never felt with Naoya. It had you sinking deep into another kiss, your lips locked against his in a deeply intoxicating manner. All the stress and the anxiety of the day seemed to wash away beneath his grip.
Even with the storm raging outside, you felt safe and warm with him there beside you.
You should’ve known about his feelings for you - should’ve understood the moment Yuki had made a comment about how Sukuna never usually spoke to anyone. He’d spent so much time on you, being so gentle in his teachings, making sure you knew what you were doing, making sure you were praised.
He’d liked you from the start and you’d been too blind to see it.
Too beaten down by your own experiences in relationships to believe that any affection directed towards you would be legitimate.
You wished you could’ve puzzled it out sooner. You wished you could’ve noticed the soft look that always sparkled in Sukuna’s eyes whenever he looked at you. You wished you’d dumped Naoya several years ago, because it shouldn’t have taken an abandonment on the side of the mountain for you to realise how truly awful your ex-boyfriend was.
But what was done was done. Sukuna’s hands were on you now, and that was all that mattered. You’d made it in the end, even if it had taken you a little longer to get there than you would’ve ideally liked.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered as the two of you broke apart for breath, red eyes scanning your face like he was committing your features to memory. “How Naoya could be so stupid, I have no idea.”
“He’s not a smart man.”
“No. He really isn’t.” Sukuna agreed. “But his loss is my gain.”
You hummed, leaning against Sukuna’s chest once more, listening to his heartbeat beneath you. Despite the excitement, you were suddenly aware of how tired you were, and how much the cold was still seeping in through your clothes and down into your bones. Altitude was no joke, and the pleasant spring warmth was nowhere to be found on the mountainside that evening.
“Are you still cold? You’re shivering.” It wasn’t possible for Sukuna to physically pull you closer to him than you already were, but he gave it an attempt all the same, practically crushing you in his grip.
“A little, yeah.”
“Shit. Once sec.” Moving away from you for a moment, he reached out of the sleeping bag and rummaged about in his bag, withdrawing his down jacket and draping it around your shoulders like an additional blanket. You were grateful for the added warmth, coccooned in between that and Sukuna’s warm body.
For a few moments you lay there, your shivering finally subsiding, only for all the hairs on your neck to raise at the feeling of Sukuna’s voice vibrating against the top of your head. “There is another way I could keep you warm.”
His tone was suggestive and perhaps a little amused. The comment had heat billowing throughout your body, your gut tightening at the suggestion of something you’d never allowed yourself to think of before. Sukuna was very attractive, and sometimes your mind had drifted in his direction when your hand had been caught between your thighs. But you’d always scolded yourself for it, had always driven away the idea of picturing a man you actually knew when you had a boyfriend.
Now the suggestion was right there on the table as something real and tangible, and your mind was conjuring all sorts of exciting imagery.
“O-oh. Yeah, that could be nice,” you said with a sudden rush of confidence. It was Sukuna’s turn to falter, red eyes suddenly wide with surprise, as if you’d called some bluff without even realising it.
“I don’t have a condom,” he murmured, pushing you back ever so slightly so he could look properly at your face. “Sorry, I wasn’t actually expecting…this.”
“I am on the pill,” you offered a little bashfully, embarrassed to have reacted so enthusiastically to what you were now realising was a joke. “But we can wait if you’d rather use a-”
“No, no-,” his face was definitely a little red this time, seemingly caught off by your willingness. “If you want to, I’d like to. I just…” He rubbed his neck a little awkwardly. “I was just teasing and you surprised me, I guess. You’re always surprising me.”
Before you could backtrack or come up with some witty response, Sukuna recovered himself and his lips were on your neck. You let out a soft whimper at the sensation of his teeth dragging against your sensitive skin, his lips latching onto you and sucking purple marks onto you with no concern for who might see them the next day.
As far as he was concerned you were his. Naoya could rage all he wanted. If he wanted to keep his girlfriend he shouldn’t have discarded her on the mountainside. Bitterly, you hoped Naoya found out exactly what you and Sukuna had done that night. Let him seethe. Let him reflect on all that he’d lost.
The bastard deserved all that misery and more.
Sukuna’s hands found their way beneath your clothes, calloused fingers pressing against your skin with care. You hadn’t realised how much your whole body was aching until he was touching you like that, your muscles flexing at the new contact.
You took his actions as a sign to do the same, sliding your own fingers beneath his shirt and pressing them against his abs. You knew he was well built - on hotter days he’d been shirtless when working on teaching you to lead climb, and you’d pretty shamelessly stared at him until your mind had reminded you of your boyfriend.
It would be nice for him to be shirtless now, but neither of you felt like removing any layers of clothing in the cold, so for the time being your touch would have to suffice. That was a freedom that Sukuna seemed to be taking full advantage of, mapping out your body with his hands, his fingers moving to your breasts and squeezing, red eyes lighting up at the little moan it earned him.
“Really shouldn’t be doing this now,” he whispered huskily against your ear. “Had the whole thing planned out. Figured once you’d broken up with Naoya that I’d take you out on a nice date and then bring you back to my place so we could do this properly. But here we are.”
You giggled softly at the dismay in his tone. “We can still stop.”
“No. I want this now. You aren’t so easily resisted. But mark my words, once we’re back home, I’m going to take my time with you. I want to look at you properly beyond just fumbling about in a dark tent - as hot as this is.”
Giggling again, you nodded, in total agreement with his sentiment. Doing things like this, while a little limited, did feel exciting in its own way. It felt like you were keeping some secret with each other, doing whatever you could in the dark without anyone else knowing about it. There was an allure to it that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
With Sukuna’s attention on your breasts, you were the one that ended up making a major move first. Your hand slid down beneath the waistband of his trousers, finding its way into his briefs. He let out a groan at the feeling of your hand brushing against his cock, which twitched erratically at the slightest touch.
It felt big beneath your fingers, and you hadn’t realised that your breath had hitched until Sukuna was letting out a chuckle.
“Impressed?”
“Maybe,” you mumbled shyly. You didn’t have much of a point of reference for such things. Naoya was the only man you’d ever been with, and you imagined that he wasn’t packing anything particularly unique down there. Not if Sukuna’s size was anything to go by. You wrapped your fingers around the shaft, enjoying the way Sukuna shivered in pleasure.
Meanwhile, Sukuna mirrored your actions, his fingers moving down your body until they were grazing against your panties. It was a little embarrassing how damp the fabric had grown, your pussy desperately slick from the events of the evening. Your body wanted Sukuna just as much as your heart and mind did, and it was making that fact glaringly obvious.
“So wet,” he said with a chuckle. “There I was all nervous that you wouldn’t feel the same. Shows what I know, huh?”
You flushed, glancing away from him in embarrassment as his fingers pushed your panties to the side, giving him free access to your pussy beneath. His fingers moved deftly through your folds, moving the slick around before rubbing at your clit, leaving you whining his name and squeezing his cock a little tighter.
“Cute,” he hummed, his nose brushing against yours. One of his fingers prodded at your opening, pushing in with a little effort. He took a few minutes opening you up with two of his fingers, languidly stuffing you full with them to prepare you. You didn’t want to admit to how emotional the whole thing made you feel, because Naoya had always said that foreplay was a myth.
Never before had you been prepared for anything, and Sukuna taking so much time to do so had your heart fluttering.
You tried your best to return the favour, stroking his cock as best as you could while it was still confined beneath his clothes, but he didn’t seem to pay that too much attention - completely fixed on making you cum around his fingers before moving onto anything else. That was another thing that Naoya had never done. Cumming with him was so infrequent that you’d almost grown certain that you couldn’t do it with another person.
And yet, Sukuna had you doing it in a matter of minutes - your toes curling in desperate pleasure as you gushed over his fingers with a sweet little gasp.
There was no time for you to catch your breath before he was pushing your trousers and panties down ever so slightly to give him access whilst still keeping you dressed and warm. He did the same for his own clothes, gently displacing your hand from his cock and repositioning the two of you so that he was on top.
The sleeping bag was still wrapped snugly around the two of you, keeping the warmth in effectively while he lined himself up over you, his muscular body keeping you pinned down beneath him in a position you’d be more than happy to remain in for the rest of your days. It was so nice to be under him like that, to be so surrounded by his body and heat and scent.
It was where you were supposed to be. In some uncomfortable tent on the side of the mountain feeling happier than ever because he was there with you.
You’d gone to the mountaineering club for Naoya, but you couldn’t help but think fate had guided your actions and really led you there for Sukuna.
“All good?” He asked, hot breath brushing against your ear. The tip of his cock was pressed up against your opening, and you realised that he was giving you a chance to back out - showing you a level of consideration that Naoya never would.
“Yeah,” you breathed, lashes fluttering as you peered up into lovely red eyes, letting out a whine when he finally pushed into you.
You hadn’t been prepared for just how big he was, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your skull as he pressed his way into your tight pussy. Your nails dug into his arms and a whimper left you at the intensity of the feeling. You felt like you were aware of every ridge and vein on his cock, your pussy squeezing around him each time he’d involuntarily twitch within you.
It didn’t take long for the uncomfortable fullness to give way to pleasure once he bottomed out inside you. It had a pleasantly warm buzz running through your body once he started to thrust within you, the weight of his body keeping you still and secure, keeping you warm even as the storm picked up outside.
Any fears of the thunder and lightning were pushed aside in favour of focusing on the feeling of being split in two. Sukuna’s lips found your neck once more, overstimulating you as he bit and sucked on the juncture between your neck and shoulder, bringing tears to your eyes beneath all the pleasure he was giving you.
Even through the stretch it felt right to have him inside you, and it was downright heavenly each time one of his long strokes hit that one specific spot inside you, bringing stars and light to your vision each time.
This was where you were meant to be.
Neither of you lasted particularly long. Not after the day you’d just had, and certainly not after months of mutual crushing. You’d cum first - your body already sensitive from the previous orgasm and totally overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. Sukuna had reached down to play with your clit while he fucked you, and that set you on a high unlike any other.
If Naoya had known where the clit was, he’d certainly never touched it.
And yet, there Sukuna was utilising it. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d cum from penetrative sex, but Sukuna had pulled an orgasm from you like it was easy.
And maybe it was easy.
Maybe Naoya just fucking sucked.
Sukuna wasn’t far behind you in reaching his release. When you’d cum you’d clamped down around him tightly, locked in a spiral of pure pleasure unlike that which you’d experienced before. It felt better than anything you could achieve with your own hands - infinitely more intimate and lovely.
The way you’d squeezed him so tight had sent Sukuna over the edge, prompting him to groan your name in that low tone of his as he filled you with his seed, riding out his own release to the point where you were growing overstimulated and begging him for mercy.
Mercy which he gave you with a gentle smile and a kiss planted atop your sweaty forehead.
The two of you lay then in the darkness, soft pants drowned beneath the howling of wind. Sukuna was holding you tightly, keeping you secure in his grip like you might vanish if he didn’t cling to you with all his might. He was still inside you, softening but present in a way that felt blissfully intimate. Whenever you’d laid with Naoya, you couldn’t wait to escape his grip and get cleaned up.
With Sukuna, it was different.
You could stay there with him sheathed inside you for hours - connected in a way that just felt right.
His lips were ghosting against your hair, soothing you with kisses, running his hands over you repetitively in a bid to ensure you stayed warm at his side. Your ankle was throbbing a little from all the movement, but with Sukuna’s legs intertwined with yours you found yourself able to ignore it. All thoughts and discomforts overridden by how happy you felt in that moment.
“Try and get some sleep,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll look after you.”
“I know,” you whispered.
He smiled softly. “Just making sure you know it. Apparently you can’t take for granted that everyone will look out for you.” His tone came out a little bitter, but instead of feeling anger at the reminder of Naoya’s actions, you felt a warmth blossom across your chest at Sukuna’s display of care.
You liked that he was angry about it. It was nice to have someone care about you for once.
In hindsight, it was a blessing that you never made it out into the mountains alone with Naoya like you’d intended to at the start of your mountaineering training. If you had, perhaps you would’ve ended up left for dead - freezing on the side of the mountain while Naoya summoned some crocodile tears and dismissed your fate altogether.
You were lucky to have Sukuna. Lucky to be able to continue going into the mountains with someone who actually wanted you there. Someone who would really take care of you.
“I’m glad you’re here to look after me.” Your hand reached for his face, tracing his tattoos with great care. As pleasant as your evening with him had been, you were looking forward to making it down the mountain - to spending time with him outside of that tent. It would be nice to see just where those tattoos disappeared off to beneath his clothes.
But that would have to wait.
You knew that the next day would be long. An arduous trek back down the mountain was ahead of you, along with a no doubt vicious confrontation with your ex. One that you were sure Sukuna would take the lead on, but still not something you were looking forward to experiencing.
Either way, you wouldn’t dwell on it that evening.
Because for the time being, there was nothing you needed to worry about. The storm could rage on outside for as long as it needed to. You were safe in your tent, in the arms of a man who would never leave you alone on the side of a mountain.
And it was possibly the happiest you’d been in a very long time.
a/n: after getting down to the bottom of the mountain the next day I promise reader slapped naoya and sukuna beat the hell out of him :)
had such a fun time writing this its literally the most self-indulgent fic I've ever written as I love being in the mountains hehe
hope you enjoyed! reblogs and comments are appreciated as always!
looking through an x reader tag when you’re in a fanfic reading mood only to find out you’ve read all the fanfics that could possibly appeal to you has got to be one of the most devastating experiences. like damn i’m RAN THROUGH😭
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: after an embarrassing first meeting, your new job as briar hockey's team photographer keeps bringing you and john logan together, and what starts as playful teasing quickly turns into effortless flirting, shared laughs, and an invitation she can't quite bring herself to turn down.
pairing: john logan x fem! reader
warnings: not much honestly, cussing, probably inaccurate descriptions of both hockey and photography
notes: okay here's the second part!!! i'm enjoying writing john logan fics sm already AND once again if you have an requests always feel free to ask!!
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / pervious / next
"So..." Allie began slowly, folding her arms across her chest. "Logan was here while we were gone last night... and he caught you dancing around in a bra?"
You groaned. You honestly regretted opening your mouth. Normally you couldn't keep anything from Hannah or Allie, but maybe, just maybe, you should've made this your first secret.
"For the thousandth time," you sighed, rubbing your temples, "yes."
Allie exchanged a look with Hannah.
"So..." Hannah started.
"No."
"He walked in—"
"Yes."
"You screamed?"
"Yes."
"He saw the whole concert?"
You dropped your head into your hands. "Yes."
"Hairbrush microphone and everything?"
"Especially the hairbrush microphone."
Both girls dissolved into laughter.
"Oh my God," Allie wheezed, leaning against your desk for support. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry but that is objectively hilarious."
"It wasn't hilarious," you mumbled into your pillow.
"It kind of was."
"It was traumatic."
"It'll be funny in, like, three days."
"Maybe thirty years."
Allie crossed the room before sitting beside you on the bed, gently cupping your cheeks between her hands.
"Babe."
You looked up reluctantly.
"It really isn't that bad."
You stared at her. "It absolutely is."
"No, listen." She smiled reassuringly. "At least he didn't walk in during that skincare phase where you looked like you were auditioning for a horror movie."
Hannah gasped dramatically. "The charcoal face mask!"
"And the coconut hair mask at the same time," Allie added.
"You looked... moist."
"I hate both of you."
"We're just saying," Hannah laughed as she plopped down beside you, "it could've been way worse."
You flopped backward dramatically onto the bed. "I'm never showing my face again."
"Oh my God," Allie laughed. "You're so dramatic."
"No, I'm realistic."
"You are absolutely dramatic."
You hugged one of your throw pillows tightly against your chest with a defeated groan. "That was literally the hottest guy I've ever seen, and I was jumping around my room pretending a hairbrush was a microphone."
"You also screamed at him."
"I accused him of breaking in."
"He technically did break in."
"With permission!"
You buried your face deeper into the pillow. "I've ruined my life."
There was a brief silence.
Then Allie's eyes widened. "Wait."
You looked up cautiously.
"You think John Logan is hot?"
You pointed a finger at her. "That is completely beside the point."
"No, no, no." Hannah sat up straighter, grinning from ear to ear. "That is absolutely the point."
"It is not."
"Y/N." Hannah grabbed your shoulders dramatically. "We’ve gone to Briar for three years?"
"Yeah?"
"And have you shown any interest in literally any hockey player?"
"...No."
"Any football player?"
"No."
"Any lacrosse player?"
"No."
"Any guy?"
You hesitated. "...Not really."
Hannah looked triumphantly at Allie. "Exactly!"
"You think John Logan is hot!" Allie practically squealed.
"Oh my God."
"This is huge."
"It is not huge."
"It is for you!"
You sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter."
Both girls stopped smiling.
"It really doesn't," you continued quietly. "He probably thinks I'm a complete weirdo."
"He doesn't."
"You don't know that."
"We kind of do."
"You guys have seen me dance."
"Yeah?"
"It's... not exactly graceful."
"It has personality," Hannah offered.
"It has enthusiasm," Allie corrected.
"It has something."
"It has embarrassment."
Allie nudged your shoulder. "Okay, but what if he doesn't care?"
You blinked.
"What if," she continued, "he thought it was cute?"
You gave her the flattest look imaginable. "You're delusional."
"No, I'm optimistic."
"I vote delusional," Hannah chimed in.
"Traitor."
You sighed again. "You two seriously need to let this go. I'm not getting a boyfriend anytime soon, so we can all just move on."
Allie stared at you. Then rolled her eyes so dramatically you thought they might actually get stuck.
"Y/N, you are being so self-deprecating that it's starting to annoy me."
You frowned.
"You're gorgeous."
"Allie—"
"No, let me finish."
She pointed directly at you.
"You're funny, you're smart, and honestly?" She shrugged matter-of-factly. "You have amazing boobs."
Hannah immediately burst out laughing.
"That is... definitely one of your stronger selling points."
"Oh my God."
"I'm just being honest!"
"What if he's an ass guy?" Hannah asked thoughtfully.
Allie gasped. "Impossible."
"There are ass guys."
"There are, but Logan?"
"Hmm..."
The two of them immediately launched into a full-blown debate about whether John Logan was an ass guy or a boobs guy, pulling in increasingly ridiculous pieces of "evidence" based on absolutely nothing.
You decided it was healthier not to participate. Instead, you reached into your pocket for your phone. The screen lit up. Your eyes widened.
"...Oh my God."
"What?" Hannah asked, still halfway through arguing that hockey players appreciated athletic thighs.
You stared at the time again. "...Oh my God."
Without another word, you practically launched yourself off the bed.
"What are you doing?" Allie asked as you hurried to your closet.
"I completely forgot!"
You yanked on a pair of low-rise jeans before pulling a fitted black long-sleeve shirt over your head. It stopped just above your waistband, leaving a thin strip of skin visible. You shoved your feet into your Uggs before rushing over to the vanity, quickly twisting your hair into a messy bun.
Not perfect. Good enough.
"Uh..." Hannah watched you sprint around the room. "Should we be concerned?"
"I have to be at the rink in fifteen minutes!"
Both girls blinked.
"The rink?" Allie repeated.
"My photography internship starts today!"
"Oh!"
You hurried over to your camera equipment, breathing a sigh of relief when you remembered charging everything the night before. One camera body. Backup batteries. Memory cards. Lenses. Laptop. Everything was quickly stuffed into your oversized tote bag.
"Wait," Hannah said. "Today's your first day?"
"Yep!"
"And you forgot?"
"I was a little distracted!"
You slung the bag over your shoulder before grabbing your keys. "I'll see you guys later!"
Before either of them could respond, you were already halfway out the door.
A second later, the front door shut behind you. Silence settled over the apartment.
Hannah slowly turned toward Allie. "...Maybe we should've told her."
Allie grinned mischievously. "Nah."
She leaned back against the couch with a smirk. "It's way more fun this way."
Hannah laughed. "Poor Y/N has absolutely no idea."
"And neither does Logan."
Something told them this was going to be very entertaining.
—
Coach Jensen had been talking for what felt like an eternity.
Five minutes in, Logan had completely checked out, and judging by the glazed-over expressions on most of his teammates' faces, he wasn't the only one. The entire team stood on the ice in full practice gear, sticks resting against the surface as Coach Jensen continued pacing along the bench.
"I need every single one of you to keep your heads in the game this season," Jensen continued. "I can't have anyone slacking off, and I definitely can't have anyone assuming talent alone is enough to win hockey games."
Logan absentmindedly shifted his weight from one skate to the other. Beside him, Garrett let out the quietest sigh imaginable. Tucker was twirling his stick. Dean was looking everywhere except at Coach.
Nobody was listening anymore.
"I expect every one of you to—"
Coach Jensen stopped mid-sentence.
The sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the otherwise quiet rink. Nearly every player instinctively turned toward the entrance.
Logan did too.
A girl hurried down the stairs leading to the bench, an oversized tote bag bouncing against her side and a camera hanging around her neck. She looked like she'd sprinted across campus to get there, strands of hair already escaping the messy bun she'd clearly thrown together in a rush.
Logan recognized her immediately. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Well...
This was unexpected.
You slowed to a stop beside Coach Jensen, still catching your breath.
"Hi, Coach Jensen," you said with an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I promise it won't happen again."
Jensen waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. We were just about to get started."
You let out a quiet breath of relief. "Thank you."
Coach Jensen turned back toward the team.
"Alright, listen up for a second."
The players' attention shifted from him... to you.
"This is Y/N," he announced. "She'll be our team photographer for the rest of the season. She'll be covering games, events, and she'll also be around for practices every now and then."
Every set of eyes landed on you.
You offered an awkward little wave. "Hi."
A few of the guys nodded politely.
Someone in the back gave you a quiet, "Hey."
Trying not to feel intimidated by the twenty-something hockey players staring at you, your eyes drifted across the lineup.
One face. Then another. Then—
Oh.
Your stomach dropped.
John Logan.
Your eyes widened ever so slightly.
Of course. How could you forget that?
Your smile faltered for the briefest second before you quickly looked back toward Coach Jensen.
Maybe if you pretended not to notice him—
Curiosity got the better of you. You glanced back.
Big mistake.
Logan was already looking at you. And smiling. Not laughing. Not smirking. Just smiling. Like he was just as amused by the coincidence as you were horrified.
Heat immediately crept into your cheeks. It definitely wasn't because of the cold air inside the rink.
Logan noticed. Of course he noticed. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning even wider.
She remembered him.
Cute. Very cute.
You, on the other hand, were seriously considering whether it was too late to quit your internship.
"Alright," Coach Jensen called, clapping his hands together. "Let's get to work. First drill."
That finally pulled Logan's attention away from you.
Beside him, Garrett gave his shoulder a playful shove. "Quit staring and get moving."
Logan scoffed. "I wasn't staring."
Garrett gave him a look that very clearly said sure you weren't before skating off toward the shooting drill that had already been set up.
With a small shake of his head, Logan pushed off after him, skating backward across the ice while casually glancing over toward the bench. He watched as you spoke quietly with Coach Jensen for another minute, nodding along while he pointed out a few things around the rink.
Then you hurried over to one of the seats in the front row, right against the glass.
Setting your oversized tote bag down beside you, you carefully pulled out your camera body and lenses, double-checking your settings before attaching the zoom lens. After a quick test shot of the empty net, you frowned slightly.
The glass. It was going to cause reflections.
Thinking it over for a second, you picked everything back up and walked down toward the players' bench instead, where you'd have a much clearer view of the ice.
Much better.
You adjusted the camera strap around your neck before lifting the camera to your eye, testing the framing as the team got into position for drills.
Then, almost without thinking, you looked up.
Logan was already looking at you. Again.
This time, though...
You didn't immediately look away. You held his gaze for a second. Long enough to feel the familiar warmth creeping into your cheeks.
Long enough for him to notice.
The corner of Logan's mouth lifted into an easy smile.
He raised one gloved hand in a small wave.
A simple, almost teasing little hi.
You couldn't help it. You smiled back before giving him an equally small wave with the hand that wasn't holding your camera.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
Then—
Clack!
Garrett smacked the blade of his stick against Logan's.
"Hey, Romeo."
Logan looked over.
"The puck," Garrett said, nodding toward the drill. "It's over here."
A few of the guys nearby chuckled.
Logan rolled his eyes. "Relax."
"I'm perfectly relaxed."
"Mhm."
Garrett skated ahead with a grin. "You've looked at the photographer more than you've looked at Coach all morning."
Logan simply shoved Garrett's shoulder as he caught up to him.
"Shut up."
Garrett only laughed harder.
—
The two-hour practice flew by. To your surprise, you actually had a lot of fun.
By the end of it, you'd filled multiple memory cards with photos. Hockey was so much faster than anything you'd photographed before, and while you'd definitely missed a few shots early on, you'd started getting the hang of tracking the players through your lens.
By the final drill, you were actually proud of some of the photos you'd captured.
As Coach Jensen blew the whistle to end practice, the players quickly skated toward the tunnel, chatting amongst themselves as they headed for the locker room.
You stayed behind on the bench, carefully packing away your equipment. Camera body. Extra lens. Memory cards. Batteries. Everything had its place.
You had just slung your oversized tote bag over your shoulder when a familiar voice spoke up.
"Get any good shots?"
You looked up.
John Logan was leaning casually against the boards, one arm resting across the top as he looked down at you.
You blinked. You hadn't even noticed he'd stayed behind. Your face warmed almost instantly.
Get it together, Y/N.
You forced yourself to smile. "I think so."
"You think so?"
"I won't really know until I look through all of them."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Fair."
You adjusted the strap of your camera bag.
"But yeah," you added. "I think I got some good ones."
"Good." He smiled. "Would've been a shame if you froze your ass off in here for nothing."
You let out a small laugh. "I wasn't freezing."
"You weren't?"
"No."
You shifted your tote bag higher onto your shoulder, trying your best to sound convincing. "Not at all."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"Really."
He looked you up and down for a second. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. More like he was gathering evidence.
Finally, he smiled. "You spent the entire practice hiding your hands inside your sleeves."
You instinctively looked down.
Sure enough...
Your hands had disappeared into the sleeves of your sweatshirt again.
You immediately tugged them back out.
"I..."
Logan laughed.
"I wasn't cold."
"Mhm."
"I wasn't!"
"You absolutely were."
"I just like oversized sleeves."
"Oh, that's what it was?"
"Exactly."
He nodded slowly, pretending to believe you. "Totally unrelated to the fact that it's, like, twenty-five degrees in here."
You crossed your arms. "It's called fashion."
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Right. My mistake."
"It was."
"You know..." he said, pushing himself off the boards, "for someone who claims she wasn't cold..."
"What?"
"...your nose got red."
You instinctively reached up and covered it. "It did not."
"It did."
"It absolutely did not."
He grinned. "I've got pretty good eyesight."
"You're making that up."
"I play hockey."
"Congratulations?"
"My vision's great."
You couldn't help laughing. "You are unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
There it was again. That stupidly charming grin. The one that made it incredibly difficult to stay embarrassed around him.
You rolled your eyes, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "I should probably go edit these."
"You probably should."
You took a few steps toward the exit before turning back.
"...Thanks."
"For what?"
"For not making the whole..." You awkwardly gestured between the two of you. "...apartment thing even more embarrassing than it already was."
Logan's expression softened just a little. "I thought it was kind of funny."
You groaned. "Please don't remind me."
"I'm serious."He shrugged. "It was cute."
You stared at him. "...Cute?"
"Yeah." He smiled. "I've definitely seen people embarrass themselves in worse ways."
Your heart did an annoyingly dramatic little flip.
"Besides," he added, taking a few steps backward toward the locker room, "you've got good taste in music."
You laughed, shaking your head. "I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better."
"It should."
He flashed you one last grin. "See you around, photographer."
Before you could think of a witty response, he disappeared through the tunnel toward the locker room.
You stood there for another few seconds. Then let out a slow breath. He somehow managed to be even more attractive when you actually talked to him.
—
"These are really impressive for your first time shooting hockey, Y/N."
A genuine smile spread across your face as your photography professor clicked through the photos from yesterday's practice on your laptop.
"I mean it," he continued, pausing on a shot of Logan taking a slap shot. "Sports photography has a steep learning curve. The pace is fast, the lighting isn't always great, and hockey is one of the harder sports to shoot."
You smiled proudly. "I definitely figured that out."
He chuckled. "But you've got a good eye. You know where to be, and you're already anticipating the action instead of reacting to it."
He closed the laptop before handing it back to you. "I think with a little more experience, you're going to be very good at this."
"Thank you."
You carefully slid the laptop back into your backpack.
"I struggled a little at the beginning of practice, but I think I started figuring it out toward the end."
Your professor nodded. "It shows."
"And there's a game tonight," you added excitedly. "Hopefully I'll come back with even better photos."
"I'll be looking forward to seeing them next week."
"Thanks, Professor."
With one last smile, he moved on to another student's work.
You packed the rest of your things, still smiling to yourself. It felt good. Really good.
You'd been nervous about taking on the internship. Sports photography wasn't something you'd ever done before, and walking into that rink yesterday had been intimidating enough without realizing John Logan played for Briar.
But hearing your professor praise your work...
Maybe you really could do this. The thought stayed with you as you left the building and stepped outside.
The bitter winter air hit your face immediately. You instinctively hunched your shoulders and buried your chin deeper into your hoodie as fresh snow crunched beneath your Uggs with every step.
"I hate winter," you muttered to yourself.
Still...
You couldn't stop smiling. You kept replaying your professor's comments in your head as you made your way across campus, so caught up in your thoughts that you didn't notice the three hockey players walking toward you from the opposite direction.
Garrett was in the middle of telling some story that had Tucker laughing so hard he nearly walked into a snowbank.
Logan, however, wasn't paying much attention.
"...and then the professor actually believed him," Garrett finished with a laugh.
"No way," Tucker said, shaking his head.
"Swear."
Logan wasn't really listening anymore. His attention had drifted across the crowded sidewalk.
Then he spotted you. Walking by yourself. Head down. Smiling to yourself.
Without even thinking about it, he slowed to a stop.
Garrett and Tucker took another few steps before realizing Logan wasn't beside them anymore.
"Uh..." He gave them a quick pat on Garrett's shoulder as he started backing away. "Yeah, I'll catch you guys later."
Garrett frowned. "What?"
"I'll see you guys at the rink."
Before either of them could ask another question, Logan turned and jogged across the snow-covered path toward you.
The two of them watched him disappear into the crowd.
Garrett blinked. "...What was that about?"
Tucker followed the direction Logan had run. A few seconds later, he spotted you.
"...Oh."
Garrett looked where Tucker was looking. "Oh."
The corners of Garrett's mouth slowly lifted into a grin.
Tucker snorted. "I give him two days before he's asking Hannah for her number."
Garret shook his head. "I'll give him until after tonight's game."
"Hey, photographer!"
The familiar voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
You turned around to see John Logan jogging to catch up, a crooked grin already spread across his face. Despite yourself, you smiled back.
He finally came to a stop in front of you, letting out a small breath as if he'd run just enough to catch you before you got too far ahead.
You shoved your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, partly because of the cold and partly because you suddenly didn't know what to do with them.
"I do have a name, you know."
"I know." He nodded thoughtfully. "But photographer is more fun."
You raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"
"I think so."
"I disagree."
"Well..." He shrugged, that annoyingly charming smile never leaving his face. "Good thing I'm the one saying it."
You rolled your eyes. "Okay, sure."
The two of you started walking again, falling into step beside each other as you made your way across the snowy campus.
After a moment, Logan glanced over at you. "I see you finally dressed for the weather today."
You looked over at him, confused. "What?"
He motioned toward your outfit.
"Hoodie. Jacket." His eyes flicked down to your Uggs before looking back up at you. "Actual winter clothes."
You laughed. "I was wearing winter clothes yesterday."
"Were you?"
"Yes."
He gave you a look. "You spent two hours at the rink trying to make that long sleeve feel like it was warm."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I just like oversized sleeves."
"Mhm."
"And for the record," you added, trying to defend yourself, "I survived."
"Barely."
You gasped. "I did not barely survive."
Logan laughed. "You had your hands hidden inside your sleeves the entire practice."
"They were comfortable."
"They were freezing."
"They were not."
He shook his head, smiling. "I don't know... I think today's outfit is a much better strategy."
You nudged his arm lightly with yours. "Are you always this annoying?"
"Only when people lie to me."
"I wasn't lying."
"You were."
"I was being... optimistic."
He grinned. "Well, I'm glad to see our team photographer is appropriately dressed today."
You smiled despite yourself. "How thoughtful of you."
"I have my moments."
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you continued walking.
Then Logan glanced over again.
"So," he asked, "how'd the photos turn out?"
A smile immediately returned to your face. "My professor actually loved them."
"He did?"
You nodded, your smile growing bigger as you talked. "He said they're really good for my first time shooting hockey. He said I have a good eye for where the action is going to happen."
Logan watched the way your entire expression changed.
Yesterday, you'd been so embarrassed around him that you could barely look at him for more than a few seconds.
But now...
You were completely different. Your eyes lit up when you talked about photography, and there was this excitement in your voice that he couldn't help noticing.
She's cute when she's happy.
The thought came so easily that it almost caught him off guard.
Actually...
She was cute all the time. But seeing you talk about something you clearly loved?
Yeah. That was something else.
"I told you they'd be good," he said, a small smile pulling at his lips.
You glanced over at him. "...You literally never saw them."
"I didn't have to."
"Oh?"
"Nope."
He shrugged. "You cared enough to stand out in a freezing rink for two hours taking pictures. I figured they'd turn out pretty good."
The confidence in his answer made you laugh before you could stop yourself.
"There it is," Logan said, pointing at you triumphantly.
You looked over. "What?"
"You laughed."
"So?"
"So..." He grinned. "Yesterday you looked like you wanted to crawl under the ice every time I talked to you."
Your cheeks warmed. "I did not."
"You kinda did."
"I was just embarrassed."
"I noticed."
You groaned. "Thanks for reminding me."
"Anytime."
You nudged his shoulder again. "You're the worst."
"Nah."
He looked over at you, smiling. "If I was the worst, you wouldn't be laughing."
Another laugh escaped you.
"There it is again."
"Oh my God."
"Twice in one conversation."
"You've been counting?"
"I've got to keep track of my victories somehow."
"You call making me laugh a victory?"
"Absolutely."
You shook your head, smiling. "You are unbelievable."
"I've been told."
The two of you walked a little farther, the conversation feeling surprisingly easy.
And maybe that was the weirdest part. Yesterday, you'd been convinced John Logan walking into your dorm was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to you.
Now...
You were walking across campus with him, laughing like you'd known him longer than a day.
"Don't let this go to your head," you finally said.
His grin only widened. "Too late."
The two of you eventually reached the building where your next class was located.
You slowed to a stop outside the entrance, motioning toward the doors. "My class is here."
A small blush crept onto your face as you said it, mostly because you suddenly felt weirdly aware that this was the end of your little walk together.
Logan noticed. Of course he noticed. But instead of pointing it out, he just smiled down at you.
"Well..." he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'll see you later then."
You nodded. "Yeah. See you."
You turned toward the steps, starting to walk toward the entrance.
You'd barely made it a few steps before—
"Hey, Y/N!"
Your entire body froze. You slowly turned around.
A few students nearby had already looked over at the sound of Logan's voice. Of course they had. Because apparently John Logan had no concept of speaking at a normal volume.
You looked back at him, trying not to laugh. "Yeah?"
This time, your voice was noticeably quieter.
Logan's grin widened. He absolutely knew what he was doing.
"You coming to the game later?"
The question was much less dramatic this time, his voice finally at a normal volume.
You smiled. "Yeah. I'll be there."
His face lit up slightly. "Good."
He started walking backward, still facing you.
"See you there then!"
You stared at him for a second. Then, because you didn't know what else to do, you gave him a thumbs up.
A thumbs up.
Out of every possible response...
A thumbs up. You immediately regretted it.
The people nearby were definitely looking now.
Logan noticed too. And judging by the laugh that escaped him, he found your embarrassment incredibly entertaining.
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "Bye, Logan."
"Bye, photographer."
You shook your head but couldn't stop yourself from smiling as you quickly turned and walked into the building.
The second the doors closed behind you, you let out a quiet breath. You had no idea why your heart was beating a little faster.
It was just John Logan.
That was it.
Nothing more.
At least that was what you told yourself as you walked toward class, desperately trying not to think about the warm feeling settling in your chest.
—
"Are you serious?"
Allie stared at you in disbelief.
"...What?"
You instinctively looked down at yourself, trying to figure out what she was talking about.
You'd gotten to the rink early so you could get settled before warmups started, making sure all your camera gear was ready to go. A few minutes later, Allie had texted asking you to meet her and Hannah in the lobby before they headed to the stands.
You looked down at the oversized blue long-sleeve Briar Hockey shirt you were wearing.
Okay. It wasn't exactly fashionable. It hung almost halfway down your thighs, the sleeves were far too long, and it looked like someone had handed you the first shirt they found in the equipment room.
But...
"Coach Jensen told me to wear something with Briar Hockey on it."
"So you picked the least flattering thing they own?"
"I didn't pick it."
"Babe." Allie stepped closer, grabbing the excess fabric around your waist. "You're gorgeous. We can work with this."
She tugged the material back, trying to see what it would look like tied. "There."
"Allie."
"It has potential."
You laughed, gently swatting her hands away. "I'm working."
"I know."
"So I'm not tying hockey merch into a crop top."
"You could."
"I won't."
"It'd be cute."
"It'd get me fired."
Allie rolled her eyes dramatically before throwing her hands into the air. "Fine."
She sighed. "But I'm finding you something cuter for next game."
Before you could answer, another voice joined the conversation.
"What is that?"
You turned just in time to see Hannah walking over.
She took one look at your shirt.
"...Oh."
You groaned. "Not you too."
Allie pointed triumphantly. "See? She gets it!"
Hannah tilted her head. "...Why is it so big?"
"I don't know," you defended. "I didn't exactly spend twenty minutes looking through all the options. Jensen just told me to wear Briar Hockey stuff, and this was clean."
"But..."
You crossed your arms. "It's warm."
Hannah nodded thoughtfully. "Fair."
Then she frowned again.
"But why not a hoodie?"
You sighed. "Because the hood gets in the way when I've got my camera strapped around my neck."
"...Okay, that's actually a good point."
"Thank you."
You looked between the two of them.
"Besides, it doesn't matter."
Both of them raised an eyebrow.
"I'm just taking pictures."
"So?"
"No one's going to be looking at me."
Allie snorted. "You've met hockey players, right?"
You ignored her.
"You two, on the other hand..." You pointed between them with a smile. "Actually look cute."
Allie grinned.
"Aww."
"Thanks."
Then she immediately pointed back at your shirt.
"But I'm still finding you something less hideous."
"What exactly is less hideous?"
The familiar voice made all three of you turn around. John Logan stood a few feet away, hockey bag slung over one shoulder as he made his way toward the locker room.
He'd clearly caught the end of the conversation.
"Noth—"
"Oh, nothing," Allie interrupted before you could finish.
She smiled far too innocently. "We were just telling Y/N that Coach Jensen made her wear Briar Hockey merch, and Hannah and I think the long-sleeve is... well..."
"Horrendous," Hannah supplied.
"A little tragic," Allie corrected.
"And she'll probably freeze in the rink."
You shot Allie a look that practically screamed, Are you serious?
She pretended not to notice.
Logan's eyes shifted from Allie...
...to Hannah...
...before finally settling on you.
A slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, is that right?"
You immediately shook your head. "I'm fine."
"She's not," Allie answered for you.
"I'm literally standing right here."
"And I'm literally helping."
Logan chuckled.
"I wasn't cold yesterday either," you muttered.
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Oh, don't start."
"I distinctly remember someone insisting they weren't freezing."
You pointed at him. "I knew bringing that up would come back to haunt me."
"It absolutely was."
Before you could come up with another comeback, Logan quietly set his hockey bag on the floor. Without saying another word, he shrugged off his tan Carhartt jacket.
You frowned. "...What are you doing?"
He held it out toward you. "Wear this."
Your eyes widened. "What?"
"You said the shirt's warm."
"It is."
"But the lobby isn't and neither is the rink."
You looked between him and the jacket. "I can't take your jacket."
"Sure you can."
"I'll give it back before the game."
He shrugged.
"I've got about twenty pounds of hockey gear to keep me warm."
You still hesitated. "I don't know..."
Logan smiled. "Humor me."
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then, with an exaggerated sigh, you reached out and took the jacket.
It was warm from where he'd been wearing it. "...Thanks."
"You're welcome."
He picked his hockey bag back up before taking a few steps toward the locker room.
Halfway there, he looked back over his shoulder.
"See you in there."
You smiled despite yourself. "See you."
The second he disappeared down the hallway, the silence lasted all of three seconds. Then Allie slowly turned toward you with the biggest grin you'd ever seen.
"Oh..."
Hannah was grinning just as much.
"My..."
You closed your eyes. "...Don't."
"God," Allie finished anyway.
"You are never hearing the end of this."
You groaned, pulling Logan's jacket on as the sleeves swallowed your hands. "...I hate both of you."
"No, you don't," Hannah laughed.
You looked down at the jacket, unable to stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips.
"...Yeah," you admitted quietly.
"I really don't."
—
The game had gone surprisingly well for Briar.
By the start of the third period, they were already up by three goals, and the energy inside the arena was electric.
You'd quickly realized one thing, though. You definitely did not understand hockey as well as you thought you did.
Every few minutes the crowd would suddenly erupt around you, whistles would blow, or everyone would start booing for reasons you couldn't quite figure out.
More than once, you found yourself looking over at Hannah with a confused expression.
"What happened?" you'd mouthed through the glass.
She'd either yell, "Offside!" or "Penalty!" while making some gesture that honestly didn't clear anything up.
You'd just nodded like you understood. Truthfully, it didn't really matter. You weren't there to analyze the game. You were there to capture it. And judging by the thousands of photos sitting on your camera's memory card already, you were doing exactly that.
You'd managed to catch huge saves, hard checks along the boards, celebrations after goals, and even a couple of shots of Coach Jensen yelling from the bench that you were pretty sure he'd either love... or absolutely hate.
The guys had also figured out pretty quickly where you were stationed. Every now and then, someone would skate past the bench, notice your camera pointed in their direction, and shamelessly pose before rejoining the play.
Tucker had pointed dramatically at the camera after scoring. Garrett had flashed an exaggerated thumbs-up while waiting for a faceoff. Even Dean had somehow managed to wink at your camera before skating away.
You couldn't help laughing every single time.
They really were impossible.
But your favorite photo so far...
That belonged to Logan.
After scoring his first goal of the night, he'd skated toward the glass with a huge grin, throwing one fist into the air before pointing toward the Briar student section as his teammates swarmed him.
You'd managed to catch the exact moment.
His smile. The excitement. The spray of ice beneath his skates.
It was easily your favorite shot of the night. You couldn't wait to edit it later.
As the third and final period got underway, you lifted your camera back to your eye, adjusting your settings one last time before the referee's whistle echoed through the arena.
The game only got better from there. Briar came out flying, adding three more goals to the scoreboard before the final buzzer sounded.
6–3.
A pretty successful first game, if you did say so yourself.
You stayed focused even after the clock hit zero, snapping photos of the team celebrating at center ice before they broke apart to skate around the rink.
A few players tossed pucks over the glass to kids in the front rows. Others waved to family and friends in the stands. Garrett somehow managed to get Coach Jensen laughing. Dean was pretending to sign an imaginary autograph for one of the freshmen in the student section.
The whole atmosphere felt lighter now that the pressure of the game was gone.
Once you were sure you'd gotten everything you needed, you finally lowered your camera.
Time to pack up.
You settled onto the front-row bench behind the glass, setting your camera in your lap as you carefully detached the lens before placing both back into your padded camera bag. Extra batteries. Memory cards. Lens cloth. Everything had its place.
You were so focused on packing that you barely noticed the players still skating around the ice.
Tap.
You looked up. Logan was standing on the other side of the glass.
He had one glove off and was tapping the glass lightly with his knuckles, his helmet tucked under one arm and his hockey stick resting against his shoulder. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction after taking his helmet off, and despite looking exhausted, he still wore that same easy grin.
You couldn't help smiling back. Still holding your camera, you continued packing while looking up at him.
"Good game!" you called through the glass.
He leaned in slightly so he could hear you better. "Yeah?"
You laughed. "I mean it."
You pointed toward him. "You okay? You got hit pretty hard a couple times."
Logan looked down at himself before shrugging. "Nothing I can't handle."
You smiled. "I figured."
He nodded toward the camera sitting in your lap.
"You get some good shots?"
Your face immediately brightened.
"Some really good ones."
His eyes lingered on you for a second.
There it was again. That smile. The one that always seemed to appear whenever you started talking about photography. It made him smile too. He liked seeing you excited.
Before he could say anything else—
"Logan!"
Garrett's voice echoed from near the tunnel.
"Hurry up!"
Logan glanced over his shoulder.
"One sec!" he called back.
Garrett groaned dramatically before disappearing toward the locker room.
Logan looked back at you.
"So..."
He rested his forearms on the top of his stick.
"We have a party at the off-campus house every time we win."
You tilted your head. "Oh?"
He nodded. "You gonna come?"
A teasing smile spread across your face. "Is that an invitation?"
Logan laughed softly. "If you want it to be."
You pretended to think about it for a second.
"Hmm..."
He pushed away from the glass, beginning to skate backward toward the tunnel. For a second, you thought that was the end of the conversation.
Then he called back across the ice.
"Come!"
A few nearby teammates looked over at the sound of his voice.
Logan either didn't notice or didn't care. "I want you there!"
The smile that spread across your face was impossible to hide.
"I guess I have to go then!"
"You do!" He flashed you one last grin before turning toward the tunnel.
Just before disappearing inside, he glanced back over his shoulder.
You were still standing exactly where he'd left you. Still smiling.
He smiled to himself before finally heading into the locker room.
You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head as you zipped your camera bag shut. Maybe Allie and Hannah had been onto something after all.
꣑ৎ you, effortlessly sucking him off while you’re typing out your sociology essays across his exposed, sensitive, soaked lap.
꣑ৎ dean treating you with eating you out for a looooong time, when you get an answer correct when he’s using your flash cards.
꣑ৎ dean bending you over the back of the sofa in his penthouse, with the blinds wide open in the mornings.
꣑ৎ dean fingering you while you're all fours, sucking him off in the shower.
꣑ৎ dean eating you out in the bath, both of you guys trying not to get caught by anyone in the frat house... (this is before you guys called it official...)
꣑ৎ you and dean definitely having sex with his bedroom door open, he doesn’t give a fuuuuuck 😵💫
꣑ৎ dean fingering you while he’s driving, because you couldn’t wait any longer.
꣑ৎ dean sultry saying “smile at the camera, baby” while he lightly holds your chin, before your face is smothered with his cum.
꣑ৎ dry humping him while you’re beside the fire pit, sharing a joint together.
꣑ৎ dean becoming insanely submissive when your walking him like a dog… telling him to be harder, softer, rougher or gentle when you’re telling him how to fuck you right.
꣑ৎ dean being insanely obsessive with making you squirt or cream for the time, wether that’s literally at a party or in his messy bed after having sex for the 15th time that week…
꣑ৎ you and dean sleeping in each other’s wet spots because why not, also he’s gonna want to fuck even more the next day.
꣑ৎ dean clearly has a size kink, comparing his dick against your stomach, throat and hands!!!!
꣑ৎ dean is for sure fucking you until his bed breaks, since then he doesn’t bother buying another bed frame…
꣑ৎ dean is definitely into creampie, he’s making sure that you’re full of him.
꣑ৎ and lastly… dean can definitely last for hours. you better pick up with what he’s putting dooooown ma’am!!!! 🫡
summary: you invite your girls over to the hockey house, since you agreed to move in with your boyfriend Dean. but an uninvited guest shows up to your not so anymore “girls night”.
warnings: none
Dean masterlist
we all sat in the living room “and I tried to tell her that her literal boyfriend was with Ari at the party. and she went on saying I was a jealous lying homewrecking whore.” I explained, my friends jaws dropped. “she said that?” Hannah asked, surprised by the bullshit that came out of my mouth, except it was true. “yes!” I almost yelled. “I mean, y/n, why would you be jealous? Dean takes such good care of you it makes me wanna cave my face in.” Allie added. I just smiled and nodded, raising my eyebrows while I took a sip of my wine.
“and I get why she’d think that, but if u were her, I’d ask or confront Tyler first. like why get mad at me if you have no proof im lying?” I continued. they all nodded and agreed. we kept gossiping and laughing until I heard the stairs creek. “y/n, I think I hear your stage 5 clinger who’s about to reach stage 6.” Grace said, smirking.
“oh no.”
there Dean stood. looking neglected by the stairs. he tried to avoid us and ruining our night, but he looked so sad. I looked at the girls. signaling if i should let him join. It was only Allie, Hannah, Grace, Sabrina, and I, so we all got along and they liked Dean. “just let him. you’ll feel guilty as fuck if you don’t.” Sabrina shook her head meaning yes. I turned back around.
“come here, baby.” I called. he immediately looked back at me and smiled. he didn’t pass up the opportunity to check if I was sure, he just hopped over the couch on my lap.
“I missed you.” he said, cuddling into my stomach. “it was 2 hours.” I replied, running my fingers through his hair. “2 hours my ass. felt like 3 days.” he added. I shook my head.
we kept taking, knowing Dean who runs his mouth didn’t give a fuck about telling whatever we were talking about. he was interested, just not his stuff to tell considering it was all girly shit.
“okay well, I thought Ari was gonna come. but I brought an extra face mask.” Allie said while looking down at her drink and taking breaks to smirk at me. “wait i thought we didn’t like her.” Dean blurted. we laughed. “damn you were paying attention? well we were cool, not anymore.” Hannah added.
“well i hate to see allies super great face mask go to waste…” I sighed. Dean looked up at me.
“no.”
“yes.”
“not happening.”
“Dean.”
“y/n.”
“please.”
he thought for a few good seconds.
“baby.” I pouted with puppy eyes. the girls watched, more than entertained. “fine.” he gave in. we cheered. “I love you.” I kissed his lips and sat him up.
we put the masks on and Dean was clearly struggling with his. “you good, baby?” I asked, smiling at him. “it’s so fucking sticky and my fingers don’t fit.” he complained with a confused and annoyed look on his face. “that’s what she said.” he added.
“Dean shut up. give me it.” he handed it to me laughing while i shook my head at his immaturity. I used my finger to spread it on his face. I booped his nose obviously a few times. “stop,” he said in his smiling voice. the way he does when he does really want me to stop but he liked it. “okay you’re done. wasn’t so hard, huh?” I asked. throwing the package out. “easy for you to say.” he whined. “mm, come on big baby.”
we went back to the living room, where the girls had a mix of hyping him up and giggles. he laid his head back on my lap while I scratched his head. we gossiped more, talked about how much we love Hailey Bieber, Sephora’s new sales and products, and complained about Love Island.
Dean kept stretching his face. “you okay?” I asked, looking down at him. “my nose tickles.” he responded with a frustrated expression. I smiled softly and used my nail to scratch his nose.
“good?”
“yes.”
once the masks came off, we kept talking and Dean was out on my lap from the constant back and head scratches. his arms wrapped tightly around my waist and his head was covered in my stomach. we all eventually went to sleep in the living room. and the next morning? the guys were obviously calling Dean clingy and gay. which made no sense whatsoever, since I lived there because he was dating me. he was definitely a fun little add to our “girls night”.
𝗢𝗥 𓈒 𓈒 taking care of your boyfriend after a night out celebrating his teams win
contains : established relationship smut sub dean ! unprotected sex soft dom reader ! gif credits to @pomspurin 𝘄 ｡ 3.1k
“Look at you baby,” you coo as your lips leave a wet trail up his bare stomach and chest, his muscles flexing under your touch. Dean tilted his head back, his eyes shut as heavy breaths passed through his lips, trying to calm down from the orgasm you just gave him.
A sense of pride warms your chest at the whimper that escapes your boyfriend's pretty lips when he feels you teasingly swirl your tongue around his sensitive nipple. You crooned with a smile, “Always so responsive.”
“Princess, please,” Dean begged, his tone so whiny that it made you smirk. You placed your hands on his bare thighs, feeling them twitch under your touch as you used them to help you sit up on your knees between his spread legs. You look down at your boyfriend, who was leaning back on his hands, his face contorted as he still felt the tingling aftershocks of his orgasm.
You bring one of your hands up to grab his chin with your pointer finger and thumb; your grip isn’t rough, but it also wasn’t gentle. You smirked, “What is it, baby? Come on, look at me.”
“Please, I need more.” Dean pleads after he flutters his eyes open to look up at you. The sight of you nearly took his breath away. You were so enchanting. The way you looked down at him made him even more desperate for more of your touch, for your lips. His eyes wander down your body, and he feels his mouth water at the sight of you in his favorite-colored lace lingerie that’s been driving him wild since he saw it.
“So needy, was what I have given you already not enough?” you dramatically pout, your tone condescending and teasing. Your hand that was gripping his chin moves to his shoulder while your other hand that was resting on his thigh slowly moves up his chest to rest on his other shoulder, using his shoulders as leverage to straddle his lap.
A small hiss left your boyfriend's lips at the feeling of his throbbing tip brushing against your lace panties when you lean down to whisper in his ear, tauntingly to ask again, “It wasn't good enough?”
“No, no, it was so good…please.” Dean stutters over his words, finding it hard to form words at the feeling of you placing soft kisses on his shoulder and collarbone. You so desperately wanted to give him what he wanted, the wet spot on your panties was almost dripping with your desire…but you couldn't give in so quickly.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” You whispered seductively between the kisses you littered across his neck, his skin burning under the soft but relentless touch of your lips. Dean nearly whimpers at your words, squeezing the sheets in his hands to stop himself from grabbing your hips, his mind running with thoughts of what he wanted
“I wanna feel you wrapped around me,” Dean whined, cutting himself off with a gasp at the feeling of you sucking under his jaw, hissing when you teasingly blow onto it after and nip at his skin. Dean knows that he is going to have to beg if you are really going to give him what he wants. “Please, please, I've been so good.”
“Hmm, you have,” You hummed as you moved your face from his neck to get a look at your boyfriend's pretty face; his eyes were already on you. You can see the pleading look in his eyes; your poor boy was so desperate. You move some of his hair from his forehead and give him a small smile. You couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you like that. “I’ll give you what you want, baby.”
A breath of relief leaves Dean’s lips, and you let out a small giggle at the look that appears on his face. You lean back on his thighs, and you keep your eyes on his as you move your hand behind your back, unclipping your bra in one quick movement and dropping it somewhere on the bed. A small smirk appears on your lips at the sight of your boyfriend's eyes immediately dropping to your naked chest; he always did have a weakness for your boobs. Dean licks his lips and has to stop himself from cupping your boobs into his hands.
You lean back down, a big smile on your lips at the way he looks up at you with his pretty eyes. You would never get over the way he looked at you; you loved him so much. You place your hand on his cheek before closing your eyes and pulling him into a kiss, Dean moaning as your tongues meet. You kissed him until you felt him pull away to catch his breath. He was quick to lean forward to continue the kiss, but you pulled away and shook your head no.
You smirked when he whined at your rejection. You whisper sweetly, but with an underlying sternness in your tone, “Lay back.”
Your boyfriend was quick to listen to you, lying back and resting his head on the soft pillow. He was pretty sure he would do anything you said just so he could feel you wrapped around him; he couldn't handle any more of your teasing tonight. It all started when you went out with some of his teammates and their girlfriends to celebrate the game. You had dressed up in his favorite dress, and the way you danced against him at the party, and the way you rested your hand on his thigh when you sat, got him all worked up. That was 2 hours ago.
You reached down between the two of you and took him into your hands, a soft moan leaving his lips immediately at your touch. You could feel him throbbing in your hands, and for a second, you felt a little bad for teasing him for so long, but that quickly disappeared as you slowly started to stroke him. The spit and leftover cum from the head you gave him made it easy to move your hand up and down. Dean turns his head to the side, his eyes shutting as moans pass through his parted lips.
You rub your thumb over his tip, watching his reaction as his breath hitches and a sweet whine leaves his lips along with a desperate ‘please’. You decide that that's enough teasing, so you move your hand from his dick and move it between your thighs. A small gasp escaped your lips at the feeling of your fingers brushing against your clit as you move your panties to the side. God, you were sopping.
You hold your panties to the side while your other hand grips onto the base of his dick, teasingly rubbing his tip up and down against your slit, coating his cock in your slick. A whine leaving your boyfriend's lips at the feeling. Once you were content with how wet his cock was, you lined his tip up with your entrance. You look down at your boyfriend and see that he's already looking up at you, and before you can open your mouth to ask, he’s nodding his head yes and whispering “please.”
You guide his cock into you and slowly sink down, the thick head of his cock stretching your velvety walls, your eyes fluttering close at the stretch. Dean’s thighs clench, and a groan leaves his lips at how prettily your walls stretch around his cock. Sweet and loud moans escape your lips as your cunt struggles to take him in, your walls so tight around his thick cock that you can feel every inch and vein. Both of you moaning in unison at the feeling of him being buried to the hilt in your sweet, warm pussy.
You open your eyes and rest your hands on his abdomen, feeling his chest rise and fall with his heavy breaths, still trying to get used to how tight you feel around him. You smile and lean down, one of your hands coming up to cup his cheek. Dean’s eyes flutter open at the feeling of your naked tits against his chest, and before he could let out a moan at the feeling of your fluttering around his dick, you lock his lips in a slow and sensual kiss.
“You feel so good, Dean,” you whisper against his lips after you pull away from the kiss. You watch through your eyelashes as a cocky smile appears on your boyfriend's lips. You caress his cheek with your thumb for a few seconds before you sit up, adjusting your knees at his side. You place both your hands back on his chest, watching his face as you slowly start to move up and down.
“God Dean!” you whined in pleasure as you continued your motions. Bouncing up and down at a slow pace, the stretch was big but felt so good. Dean’s moans become louder as your rhythm starts to pick up. The feeling of your warm, wet walls squeezing him was too much; he didn't know how long he would last.
“You can touch my baby, it's okay,” You coo seductively, you could feel the way he was throbbing in you and the way he was squeezing the sheets, whimpers and pretty moans leaving his parted lips. As soon as those words left your mouth, he quickly stopped squeezing the linen and eagerly moved his hands to your chest, softly groping your tits.
You would have teased him because of his eagerness, but instead, a loud moan came out. Your nipples were always so sensitive, and Dean loved using that to his advantage.
Dean smirked cheekily at the sound, but you were quick to shut down his own teasing when you purposely clenched around him. He drops his hands from your nipples and down to squeeze onto your waist, closing his eyes as a loud groan leaves his lips and his hips jerk up. You rock your hips faster against his, your nails digging into the skin of his chest as you tilt your head back in pleasure.
“Princess, I don't know how much longer I’ll last,” Dean moans out, his thighs were clenching, he was so close. The way your pussy gripped him, and the way he could feel your arousal start to make a mess on his thighs and drip down his balls, was too much.
Don't get him started on the hypnotic sight of your tits bouncing in unison with your fast pace. And he knew you so well that he could tell you were close too. Your movements became more frantic, and the way you fluttered around him proved him right.
“Me to baby—feels so good,” you whimpered, you felt that tight rope in your stomach, and you knew your peak was close. It was almost overwhelming how good it felt; his pelvic bone was hitting your clit every time you came down, and his pretty moans were too much for you.
Dean looks away from your chest and up to your face, and he swore that he could have cummed just at the sight of you. Your mouth was agape, your face twisted in pleasure, your skin glistening beautifully in sweat.
Dean lifts his legs, his feet planted on the bed, and his grip on your hips tightens. Both of you are moaning in unison at the new position. You keep one of your hands on his chest while the other moves behind you to squeeze his knee in pleasure, the new position causing him to go inside you deeper. Dean moves one of his hands from your hips and moves it to his chest, softly squeezing your hand.
Your eyes flutter open, and your movements still, you look down at your boyfriend and see the blissed out look on his face. He was looking up at you with hooded eyes, and his mouth parted as heavy breaths passed through his lips. You could see it in his eyes and the way his hands were clinging to you; he was so close. You smirk and lean down so your chests are almost touching, moving your hand that was now interlocked with his, by the side of his head.
“What? gonna cum already?” you whispered tauntingly in his ear, tangling your hand that was on his chest, in his hair that was at his nape. You continued to rock your hips against his, your ass slapping against his thighs, creating a lewd sound. A loud and embarrassing whine escaped his red and puffy lips, the coil in his stomach only tightening, and so did his grip on your hand and hip.
You knew the more you talked to him like that, the faster he would come undone.
“Gonna fill me up?—Hmm? Make a mess?” You continued to taunt him, your movements becoming more frantic, chasing his and your release. Dean was too fucked out to properly respond; the only sounds leaving his mouth were moans and a pitiful ‘yes’. You move your hand from his nape and softly pat his bottom lip with your pointer and middle finger. Dean knows what it means, and he eagerly opens his mouth for you.
You smile big and bite on your bottom lip, sliding your two fingers into his mouth, his mouth closing around your fingers.
“So good for me,” you coo between your own moans, your eyes not leaving your boyfriend's pretty face. Dean twirled his tongue around your fingers to get them wet, his eyes closed as he couldn't help but moan around them. You pull your wet fingers out of his mouth, smirking at the small whine that leaves his now parted lips. You move your hand between the two of you, your wet fingers making contact with your even wetter clit. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you start rubbing it.
“I’m so close—please can I cum?” Dean begged as he let out a choked-out moan, tilting his head back in pleasure, blinking away the tears that were stored in his waterline. You can feel him pant against your mouth, the tip of his nose bumping into yours. The pleasure he was feeling was something he's never felt before, the coil in his stomach becoming too much. Your eyes went down to his, and the way he looked nearly brought you over the edge.
“Please, baby, I wanna feel you.” You almost begged, you were so close. The way your thighs clenched and ached at the fast rhythm you had as you rocked against his cock, and your fingers were sopping and ached at how fast you moved them against your clit; but you cherish the ache.
You move to sit up, but a surprised moan leaves your lips as he wraps his arms around your waist, holding you down to his chest. An even louder moan leaves your lips at the feeling of him thrusting up into you.
“Fuuuck.” You whine loudly, your eyes squeezing shut and your fingers moving from your clit to squeeze onto the white linen. The sound of skin slapping was so lewd and echoed across his room, you were thankful that the bed didn't start hitting against the wall from Dean’s movements.
The angle wrenches a sling of moans leaving yours and his lips, his pace becoming delirious, and his grip on you tightens as he cries out, “fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”
“Oh my god, Dean!” you cried out in pleasure as he held you down on his cock. The feeling of his thick head of his cock hitting deep against the sensitive spot of your slick cunt and the feeling of warmth as he spills himself deep inside you with a desperate, choked-out moan of your name, brings you to your own peak. The tight rope rips, and you feel yourself fall into your desire, feeling your walls throb around his cock as you come undone.
A pleasure that left you lightheaded.
It was silent for a long while as you simply held each other, finding comfort in each other's soft touch and the feeling of their beating heartbeat against one another's chests. You moved your hand away from squeezing the linen, a small sting in your fingers from how hard you squeezed, and you moved it up to his cheek. You tilted your head up towards him and watched as his eyes fluttered open at your touch, a tired smile forming on your lips at the beautiful sight of his eyes.
You caress his cheek softly with your thumb before whispering, “You did so good.”
“Tonight, and at the game, I'm so proud” You continue to whisper. You were insanely proud of your boyfriend. The love and trust that you had for each other made tonight even more special for the two of you. Dean felt a little emotional at your words; no matter what, he always knew that you were by his side.
You were the only one who ever made him feel like this; he never knew love could feel like this.
“I love you,” you finally heard his voice; it was quiet and scratchy from all the loud moans that he let out tonight. Your smile gets bigger, and you lean your face closer to his, placing a gentle and slow kiss on his lips. Dean eagerly kissed you back, his hands slowly moving up and down your sides.
You pull away to whisper against his lips, “I love you more.”
“Tucker’s leftovers?” Dean asked in a hopeful tone as he broke the few moments of silence the two of you had shared as you stared into each other's eyes. The two of you didn't have to say anything else; your eyes told each other everything already. You laugh loudly at his words, of course he was thinking about food.
Dean smiles big at the sound of your laugh, bringing one of his hands up to softly play with your hair.
You place a soft kiss on the corner of his lips before you fully sit up, your eyes going down where the two of you meet. You raise your hips and watch as his now soft cock slips out of you, a groan leaving both of your lips at the feeling. A sigh escapes your lips at the feeling of your mixed cum dripping down your thighs. You look up at your boyfriend to see his eyes trained down at your messy cunt, softly biting his lip.
You scoff playfully and nudge him with your knee, his eyes shooting up to yours with a cocky smirk, not shy at all that he got caught. You rolled your eyes in faux annoyance as you playfully corrected him, trying to sound stern, but your big smile betrayed your words.
“Bath and then leftovers.”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Ი𐑼 sub dean ! save meeee …. guys I’m actually so down bad for him and this fucking showww I’ve rewatched it so many times 😭 please tell me your thoughts and opinions , feedback means everything mwah 💖 comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!
᧔᧓ if this seems familiar it’s because I’ve taken it from my old blog and rewrote it with someone new !
summary: You know Dean Di Laurentis to be loud, a player, and a bit of a meathead. Basically your exact opposite. So why is he talking to you all of a sudden? Why is he dramatically inserting himself into your life? He can’t be interested in you romantically. Right?
contains: mostly fluff, smooching, jealous dean, no use of y/n, pet names (baby, sweetheart), reader is alluded to being on the spectrum <3
author’s note: I have returned from my retirement to write about my latest obsessions! idk if this will be my only off campus thing but i wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more to come :p i kinda have no idea what this is, but just a cute idea i had idk
You don’t really remember exactly when it started.
All you do know is that one day you were sitting in the front row of your English Lit class with the seats on either side of you vacant, and the next Dean Di Laurentis appeared.
You thought maybe it was a one time thing. Sure, there were plenty of seats for him to choose, but your location did happen to be superior to the rest. The window provided ample light, but the afternoon sun didn’t shine directly at you or cause a glare to appear on the white board ahead. The air conditioning vent blew the slightest breeze, which insured you were cool but not cold. And your professor preferred to stand to the right of her desk as opposed to the left which was closer to you, so you weren’t subjected to her voice at full volume, but you in no way had to strain to hear her.
You thought maybe he just caught on to the brilliance of your seating choice. But then he started talking.
At first, it was during class, which you absolutely did not tolerate. How were you meant to hear your professor and take adequate notes if he was speaking—albeit quietly, but speaking nonetheless—over her?
He caught on quickly that you would not entertain him when he attempted that, so he pivoted to trying to speak with you before and after class. You assumed he wanted to compare notes, perhaps even engage in extracurricular activities such as a weekend study group. This was not the case either.
He just asked you questions about yourself. He wanted to know what your name was, if you liked the class, if you wanted to come to the party he was throwing tonight. You actually laughed at him when he proposed that. He did not seem to like that very much.
You thought to ignore him and he would go away, but that only seemed to make him try harder, which was really confusing.
You didn’t completely live under a rock, you knew who he was. Everyone at Briar U did, even the kids who did not participate in the rowdier parts of college life. You didn’t really watch hockey, but you knew what it was. You knew the hockey team was a big deal here. Your dad had even attended a game or two with you.
So it didn’t really make much sense to you why Dean—hockey playing, sexually proficient, could get any girl he wants—Di Laurentis was making such an effort to speak with you.
One day, you finally broke and asked him.
“Look,” you began. “I’m not very good at picking up on things like sarcasm. I can’t always read between the lines, so I’d like it if you could be completely honest with me here. Do you want something? Are you failing the class and need help?”
He laughed in response, full and loud, which made everyone who remained in the room after class had ended look over to you two in curiosity, which undoubtedly turned your cheeks pink. If you hadn’t been so embarrassed, you might had been more affected by the dimples carving into his cheeks or the way his broad shoulders shook with laughter. Objectively, he was handsome. You understood why other women, and some men, had been so drawn to him. Was he bored? Was that it?
“Geez, I guess I’ve lost some of my game.” Your eyebrows furrow at this, not really sure his meaning. You were beginning to feel frustrated, with yourself and him. “Do you not want me to talk to you?”
You thought about it. “No, I don’t mind. I just don’t really know why you want to.”
“Well, for starters, you’re smart. You’re beautiful.” If your cheeks weren’t red already, they sure are now. “And you’re honest.” He shrugs like it makes all the sense in the world. He made it sound so simple, he just thought you were interesting. Which, you guess you could understand. Sort of.
So you shrugged too and said, “okay.” And turned to walk away.
-
The next place you started noticing Dean was in the cafeteria.
You usually sat in the courtyard or in a quieter corner on days when the weather was bad. He usually sat in the center of everything, at a table filled with other people.
You had been talking with your friends Anya and Lily when he waltzed over and took the seat just beside you. He greeted you briefly, a soft smile tilting the corners of his mouth before he began eating. You stared at him for a minute or two before turning to your friends, who were doing the same. After a few beats of silence, you just resumed your conversation with each other as if he weren’t there at all.
One day, he started contributing toward conversations. And he was actually very eloquent. His opinions were well thought out, his conclusions succinct. You were very pleasantly surprised. And before long, his friends started migrating from their table, to yours.
It was overwhelming at first, the chaos of his friend group and the energy they seemed to have. You never in a million years would have thought you could have fit in with a group like that, but occasionally, Dean would cut in and asked what you thought, and his friends would immediately get quiet and listen with rapt attention. They were always kind. It was, once again, surprising.
And then, Dean would find your hand under the table and give it a reassuring squeeze, like he was proud, or just reminding you he was there. And when exactly his presence became a comfort, you were not sure.
-
Then came the library.
You had gotten assigned a particularly difficult project in one of your courses and were spending the majority of your days tucked between the tall bookshelves and nestled in the pages of your textbooks. You hadn’t even considered telling Dean. You didn’t think he would notice, quite honestly. But then he appeared one afternoon with two coffee cups in hand and placed one in front of you with a, “there you are.”
You looked between him and the cup a few times before he explained it was tea, your favorite. When exactly he had managed to learn your favorite drink, you were once again unsure, but sometime in the past few weeks he had.
The two of you spent the rest of the day in the library together, him helping you with your project some of the time while also working on some of his own. Mostly you didn’t even talk, you would just exist in the quiet space together, occasionally brushing hands or feet beneath the table. He had this gentle side to him you hadn’t thought would be there.
Especially when he convinced you to start coming to his games, it was hard for you to see the Dean from the library as the same one who was shoving opponents into the sides of the hockey arena. But surprisingly, you really didn’t hate it. It was loud and the floors were littered with peanut shells which were constantly crunching under your feet, but the excitement was thrilling, and in between plays Dean would turn and find you in the crowd to offer a small wave with his big glove.
Somewhere, somehow, you had become friends.
-
And then there was the kiss.
You were sitting out back at his house, the both of you laying in the grass, his head resting on your legs. You tried hard not to be distracted by how his soft hair tickled your bare thighs, or how his eyes crinkled when he laughed really hard, but you were finding it increasingly difficult not to be distracted by Dean.
You could not think of another time when you had felt this way. Being around him excited you; made you feel warm and fuzzy like being swaddled in the softest blanket. You didn’t feel this way around your other friends, though you hadn’t ever really had any guy friends before, not close ones anyway. You decided to treat your interactions like experiments. If you introduced a new component, what was the outcome?
He had been telling some story about him and his sister, his hands gesturing animatedly above him, and you suddenly got the overwhelming urge to kiss him. You had never felt that way before. Yes, you had been kissed, but you had never kissed someone. You hadn’t ever wanted to. Not until now.
“I’d like to try something,” you cut him off. His blue eyes flicked up to you, his hands coming down to rest on his stomach.
“Okay,” he replied calmly, though curiously.
You leaned down, the angle a bit awkward but not uncomfortable, and pressed your lips to his. They were soft and plaint beneath your own, the mere press of them underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time. His mouth had just begun to move when you suddenly pulled away.
“Huh,” you said. He looked up at you with an astonished sort of look, and then he sat up, slipped his hand behind your neck and pulled you in for another kiss.
This time, it was not just a mere press of flesh on flesh, this was movement and passion and heat. For the sake of the experiment, you decided to follow your instincts, so you walked on your knees to get closer without breaking the kiss to straddle his lap and press yourself more firmly to him. His hands were in your hair, his tongue was stroking the seam of your mouth, and you felt as though you were drowning in Dean, in the most positive way.
When you finally broke apart, the both of you were slightly out of breath and had goofy sort of smiles on your faces.
“That wasn’t…unpleasant,” you decided. Dean laughed and pressed his forehead against your own and you thought that if this is what guy friends were, you liked them quite a lot.
-
It was at a party that things finally came together.
Dean had convinced you to come over to the house for a party. He promised it was small—or at least smaller than usual—and guaranteed fun. You knew that was highly improbable, but you had agreed because…well, because he asked you.
You had grown closer with his friends over the months, though there were plenty of moments where you were still quite shy around them, you had gotten much more comfortable in their company, especially with Dean there.
When you arrived, he immediately took your hand in his and guided you through the house. He hadn’t lied, the party was not huge, but it wasn’t as small as you had been hoping. The music was loud and really the only thing you could hear was the bass, which you didn’t enjoy very much.
The kitchen was even more crowded than the living room with everyone gathered around the island where—you were assuming—Tucker had made food. Logan stood on the opposite side and offered you a small smile and tipped his beer bottle in your direction in lieu of a wave. You smiled back and found yourself sinking further into Dean’s side.
You hadn’t kissed again since your experiment a few days ago, though you would be lying if you said you didn’t want to. But you reminded yourself that Dean was your friend, and if he wanted to be more he surely would have told you by now.
The two of you stayed close almost the entire party, his hand either in yours or at the small of your back, like a warm anchor. He only left you when his friend had called him out back to look at something, and even then he promised you he would be right back before planting a kiss to your head.
You stood leaning against the counter behind you, looking out at the party—the people playing video games on the couch and the beer pong being played out back. You had been watching Dean so intently through the glass sliding door that you hadn’t noticed the guy approach you from the side.
You jumped a little when he said, “hey.”
He must have noticed you startle because he apologized quickly with a small laugh. “It’s okay,” you assured him. “Sorry. I’m not usually a big party person.”
“Yeah? I was just thinking I hadn’t seen you here before.” He was a taller guy with dark hair and dark eyes, wearing a letterman jacket that suggested he played football. You hadn’t recognized him either, though you and athletes didn’t often cross paths.
“Not really big into…crowds.” He steps a little closer, not much, but enough that you notice. You find yourself crossing your arms and hugging them to you like that might create some extra distance, though he seems undeterred.
“Do you want to find a quieter place?” He asks, not sounding disingenuous in the slightest. You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, an arm is sliding around your waist. You turn around quickly to find Dean there.
“No, she’s good.” His voice is different, not as soft as you’re used to. It’s got teeth to it, an edge, and you wonder if perhaps he doesn’t like this person. You look back to the stranger in front of you and watch him back away from you both.
“Sorry man, I didn’t know you guys were together.”
“Oh, we’re not—“
“Yeah. We are.” You look up at Dean startled, confused and surprised at his statement. Maybe he really did not like this person and just needed to make him go away?
Dean waits for the other guy to disappear back into the crowd before his posture relaxes again and he takes your hand in his and leads you through the house. You try to ask him what is wrong, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at you, not until you’re both in his bedroom with the door closed and locked.
“Dean?” You venture. “Are you okay?”
“Why did you say we weren’t together?” You stare at him for a moment, completely at a loss for words. You aren’t sure what you’re meant to say.
“I…I didn’t think…” Your voice is small, even in the quiet of the room.
He laughs bitterly, beginning to pace again. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Dean, please just tell me what is going on. You know I don’t do this well.”
“I thought we were together. When you kissed me, I thought that meant—“ he cuts himself off, running his hands through his hair and tugging slightly. “I’m obsessed with you. I can’t get you out of my head, and you couldn’t care less.”
“That’s not true,” you rush to say.
“How are you so unaffected?” He raises his voice slightly and you flinch a minuscule amount, though he notices and moves to sit on his bed with a tired sigh.
You slowly move to sit next to him, reaching over to bring his hand into your lap, tracing the veins there and the lines on his palm. “I thought…you wanted to be my friend. I didn’t think you saw me like that.”
You feel you can’t look at him after your confession, but out of the corner of your eye you can see him staring at you with his mouth open. “You thought…” he trails off and then huffs out a laugh. “Baby. I don’t look at my friends the way I look at you. I don’t pretend to like talking about the mystery of eel reproduction because I want to be your friend.”
You’re momentarily distracted. “What’s not to like? It’s one of the greatest mysteries of our world and you—“
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, lightly gripping your chin between his fingers. “That’s not my point.” He’s looking at you with that soft expression again, the one that now translates to a quiet fondness with a small smile curving his lips.
“I’m sorry. I think I tend to see things as very black and white, it’s hard for me to see the grey. And you’re grey.”
“I’m grey?” He repeats, clearly amused.
“Yes. You don’t really make sense. I mean, we’re complete opposites. You just randomly decided to sit next to me out of the blue a few weeks ago and never went away, how was I supposed to know you were flirting?”
“Oh my god.” He rubs his free hand that isn’t being held in my lap over his face in frustration, though he’s still smiling. “I had been trying to get your attention for months. I had to resort to sitting next to you because you didn’t see me otherwise.”
“I saw you,” you grumble stubbornly. “It’s impossible not to see you.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” He has a sort of morose, reserved expression on his face, so you stand and move between his knees, running your fingers through his hair to get him to look up at you.
“Dean. Do you like me?” You want to make sure there is no miscommunication this time.
“I think that’s an understatement.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“Yes.” You smile.
“Good. Because I really like you too. I may even describe how I’m feeling as obsessed with you, I just didn’t know what to call it before.” His smile is blinding and you find yourself unable to hide your own.
You bend down to press your mouth to his, pressing your palms into his shoulders as you move to straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress while his hands come up to hold your hips.
“But we are gonna have to talk about the eels thing,” you pull away suddenly, his mouth trying to follow yours.
“Anything you say, baby.” And he kisses you again.
Summary: You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.
Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: not proofread yet, probably shitty because I haven't written anything in months, mentions of toxic/controlling relationships, stalking, anxiety, graphic violence, Protective!Dean in full force
A/N: I don't know how good it is because it's been a while since i've last written something and tbh I didn't finish the first season, only read the books 5 times. But I hope you like it and after my finals I will be back with more fics. You can totally spam my box with requests if you's like. But I won't be writing anything for like 3 whole weeks. I am so stressed I can't even exist. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love! What do we think of a part 2?
Words: 2.6k
Requested here!
The booth at Malone’s was designed to comfortably fit six people. Currently, it held four massive hockey players, Hannah, and you. Which meant you were practically sitting in Dean Di Laurentis’s lap.
Not that he was complaining.
"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."
"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"
Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."
You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.
When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.
Twice.
The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.
You’d drawn a hard line.
Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.
"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."
"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.
"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."
"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.
"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.
"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."
"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."
He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."
You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.
"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"
You frowned. "No. Why?"
"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."
The buzz from the vodka evaporated.
Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.
He’s here.
You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.
Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.
"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."
The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.
You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.
Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.
Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.
You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.
You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.
"Move," you choked out.
Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"
"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.
A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.
The night was officially over.
The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.
Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.
"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.
Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.
You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.
Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.
Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"I’m an ass," Dean said.
His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.
"Dean—"
"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."
You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.
"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."
His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."
"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."
Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"
"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."
Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"
You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."
Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.
"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."
You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."
The air in the kitchen completely changed.
The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.
Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.
"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"
You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."
"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."
Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.
You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.
"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."
He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.
"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."
The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.
A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"
A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."
It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.
You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.
The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.
A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.
One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.
He had actually enrolled at Briar.
Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"
You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.
Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.
Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.
"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.
The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.
But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.
That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.
Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.
Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."
Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.
Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."
Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.
The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.
The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.
Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.
"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"
Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.
"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.
Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.
Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.
His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.
"Come on," Dean murmured, his voice warm and perfectly calm, acting as if he hadn't just committed assault in front of a dozen witnesses. "Let's go get some lunch."
you’re flat on your back, legs hiked up, hands gripping the sheets like you’re about to be launched into orbit. dean is between your thighs, hovering on his elbows, his chest still heaving from the five minutes of frantic kissing that got you here. he’s golden all over—tanned skin, sweat-slick shoulders, that stupidly perfect hair already falling into his eyes. and his dick. hard. thick. pressing against your entrance like it’s trying to negotiate entry.
you haven’t done this in a week. not ‘cause anything’s wrong. he just had a match, a week long one. and now he’s here. saturday morning, sun bleeding through the curtains just right and he’s got that look in his eyes. the one that says:
“did you get bigger?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
he blinks down at you. “what, like my dick went to the gym while i was gone?”
you smack his shoulder. “i’m serious! it never felt like a fucking pillar before.”
“maybe your pussy got shy. it missed me. it’s clamping up like a clam.”
“maybe your ego expanded so much it pushed all the blood flow south.”
he grins, slow and lazy, and kisses your collarbone. “god i missed you.”
you soften,smile curling your lips again. “i missed you too. just not...like this. impaled on a pillar.”
he snorts, then drops his forehead to your chest, groaning dramatically.
“this is tragic. my girl can’t take my dick anymore. how will we survive.”
“we could just cuddle. like normal people.”
he lifts his head, scandalised. “cuddle? baby. fuck no. i literally flew nine hours. i ate airplane pasta for you. you can’t take this from me.”
you burst out laughing. “what? what does airplane pasta have to do with anything?”
“everything. it was ass. i suffered. now i need my reward.”
you wipe your eyes, still laughing softly. “you’re so dramatic.”
but then you look at him proper – messy hair, pink cheeks, that sharp jawline, the way his eyes are soft even when he’s teasing. and you want him. even if it hurts a little. even if you’re tight and out of practice and your body forgot how to relax around him.
you bite your lip. “what if...we just leave it in. for a bit.”
his eyebrows shoot up. “you mean cockwarming?”
you roll your eyes. “don’t make it weird.”
“you want to sit on my dick like a lil’ space heater. say it.”
“dean.”
“fine, fine.”
he laughs, but he obliges. slowly – agonisingly slowly – he pushes in just the tip. then a little more. you hiss, and he stops immediately, his voice dropping soft.
“you okay?”
you nod, breathless. “just....thick. too thick. you’re like a freaking light post.”
he snickers. “and you’re a stale croissant. tight and unyielding.”
“that’s not sexy.”
“you’re not sexy.”
“take it back.”
“no.”
but then he leans down and kisses your forehead with a loud smooch. his hand comes up to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the tangles. and he doesn’t move – not a single thrust – just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, his weight a warm, solid pressure.
“this is kinda nice,” you whisper.
“i know. you’re warm. like a little oven.”
you flick his forehead, but you’re smiling. his eyes are closed, his breathing evening out. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he hums, content.
you fall asleep like that – him still inside, you curled around him, both of you finally still. and when you wake up the next morning?
SUMMARY: The five times Dean realizes you're more than just his childhood best friend, and the one time he finally does something about it.
WARNINGS: Friends to eventual lovers, idiots in love, slow burn romance, psychology!student, fluff, slight angst, non-graphic descriptions of an injury, cursing, jealousy, sexual innuendos, domestic bliss (Dean is down bad), rushed ending sorry!
A/N: Happy Fourth of July!! 🇺🇸 I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write one of these fics and inspiration finally struck! Let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ dean di laurentis masterlist
1. Garrett’s not so secret feelings
After a brutal Friday in the weight room with Beau, Dean wanted nothing more than to demolish whatever leftovers Tucker had most likely abandoned in the fridge, scrub the sweat and soreness off his skin, and disappear in his room until Monday. The workout had been relentless. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like concrete, and he was fairly certain Beau got some sick enjoyment out of making him suffer.
As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.
Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."
Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.
One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."
Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.
In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.
His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.
For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.
Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.
2. Self-Care Day with Summer
Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.
All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.
As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.
Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.
Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.
"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.
The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."
"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.
"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.
But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...
Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.
3. The Injury
"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.
"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.
"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.
A dangerous one.
Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."
That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.
His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.
"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.
The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.
The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.
Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.
Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.
You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.
Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.
Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.
But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
4. Tucker’s Deathbed
Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.
Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.
He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.
Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.
"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.
Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.
You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.
It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.
Oh how you loved being right.
You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.
Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.
It was simply woven into who you were.
"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.
Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.
Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.
Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.
You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.
Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.
5. The Male Gaze
"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.
Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.
Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.
Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."
Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.
"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.
Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.
His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.
"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.
"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.
Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.
One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.
They'd all noticed. Of course they did.
Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.
Jealousy.
Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.
He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.
You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."
Silence.
Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.
"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.
"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.
Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.
He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.
+1 The Hat Trick
The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.
The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.
He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.
How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.
Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.
Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.
Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.
By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.
Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.
Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.
Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.
One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.
He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.
When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.
Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.
With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.
Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.
Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.
The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.
Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.
You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.
Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.
A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.
You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.
His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.
It looked right. Far too right.
"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.
The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.
Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.
"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.
Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"
A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.
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an: word vomit, brain salad drabble. short little meet cute. exercising my creative writing muscles. no ai here :) — berry
john logan lost all his inhibitions the first time he saw you.
in the sticky july heat, he found you lounging on your tummy — sprawled out across a picnic blanket. wearing nothing but a cami and cut off shorts. frilly white socks bouncing in the air as you mindlessly kicked your feet.
you were sucked into a well-loved copy of some book logan didn’t have the mind to take note of. by any means, you were much too busy to pay mind to the lingering stares of students passing by. least of all, logan’s.
and if he wasn’t so busy salivating over you, he wouldn’t have been knocked clean in the jaw with the football dean had thrown at him.
“fucking christ, dean!” he yelled, nursing his jaw with his hand. “are you trying to knock me off the starting line this season?”
“it’s not my fault you’re fawning. if anything, you should be thanking me,” dean chuckled. “fawning during the playoffs won’t get you anywhere except the bench.”
“i won’t even see the bench if my fucking jaw is broken,” logan laughed in disbelief.
just his fucking luck. he sees a pretty girl and gets his jaw smashed in.
even better — the sound must’ve reverberated to your quiet corner of the quad, because logan sees your brow furrow as you set your book down.
great. now you were really watching. how fucking humiliating.
but if there’s anything logan knew how to do, it was cleaning up messes.
side-eyeing dean, he jogged over to you. and fuck, you look like a dream, looking up at him with this candy-coated look in your eyes that makes his heart sink down into the depths of his self-loathing. he shouldn’t be anywhere near someone like you.
despite himself, he persists.
“enjoying the show?” he winks, rolling his hour-old gum around in his mouth.
but as soon as he starts talking, your eyes are downturned. your fingers comb through your glossy locks, twisting the ends into knots. its hypnotizing.
and unfair.
“wasn’t staring,” your voice is soft and honeyed, but nonetheless wavers as you grumble at him. moving to sit up, you cross your arms over your knees.
logan throws his hands up in defense. “didn’t say you were. but hey,” he’s crouching now. getting to your level as he picks up the strand of hair you’re toying with and tucks it behind your ear.
“don’t go telling anyone about my athletic inadequacies, alright?” he hums. “our secret.”
Summary: Everybody knew about you and Logan. After a messy breakup, moving on should've been simple. Instead, every song sounds familiar, every memory lingers a little too long, and every path somehow leads back to each other. Maybe some people are impossible to forget.
Warnings: Exes to lovers • mutual pining • angst • emotional slow burn • yearning • unresolved feelings • hurt/comfort • mentions of alcohol • jealousy • miscommunication • eventual fluff • found family • and Tucker deciding he's qualified to fix everyone's love life.
Pairing: John Logan x Fem!Reader
Chapters:
⋆Part One — Your Favorite Flowers
⋆Part Two — Want you back
⋆Part Three — Nevermind, you were never mine
⋆Part Four — Coming soon...
Synopsis: At Briar University’s winter masquerade, the quiet, bookish girl John Logan barely notices becomes the mysterious stranger he can’t forget. Hidden behind a borrowed dress and silver mask, she finally lets him see the parts of herself she usually keeps guarded, only to disappear before midnight. As Logan searches for the girl from the ball, familiar feelings leads him toward someone who may have been right in front of him all along.
John Logan Masterlist: here.
--
The first time John Logan asked what I was reading, I assumed he was making fun of me.
It wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion.
The tutoring center was almost empty that afternoon, the quiet was only broken by the occasional turn of a textbook page or the low hum of the vending machines near the elevators.
Rain hit the windows in thin sheets, leaving the campus outside blurred and gray. Most students had already abandoned their afternoon classes in favor of staying in their dorm rooms.
Logan had arrived twelve minutes late to our tutoring session, his damp, dark hair curling at the ends, and a dark blue Briar Hockey sweatshirt stretched across his shoulders. He dropped into the chair opposite of mine with a muttered apology and spent the next forty minutes working on economics, periodically stopping to ask me questions.
I’d been waiting for him to finish working through another practice worksheet when his attention drifted to the paperback book sitting on top of my things.
“What’s that?” he asked.
I glanced up, and he nodded toward the book. The cover featured a woman wielding a silver sword while a dragon burned an entire kingdom behind her. It was not subtle.
“A book,” I said.
The corner of his mouth lifted, “Yeah, I got that.”
I closed my fingers around the edge of it, resisting the instinct to slide it beneath my notebook.
“It’s a romantasy book.”
“Is it good?”
That was when I became suspicious. John Logan did not look like someone who wanted to discuss fictional kingdoms with me.
He was John Logan. Part of the famed ‘Briar University Hockey’ Four, consisting of him, Garrett Graham, Dean Di Laurentis and John Tucker. They were four of the most recognizable students on campus.
Even seated beneath the hall’s aggressive fluorescent lights, he seemed to occupy more space than everyone else. He was too tall for the chair, one long leg stretched beneath the table. His eyes were a soft brown with flecks of gold, and burned into your soul anytime he made eye contact with you.
I’d known enough about the hockey team (thanks to Fifth Line, the school’s gossip account) to recognize him before he’d introduced himself at our first session. Everyone recognized him.
Girls whispered when he passed them in the hallways, professors knew his name. Half of the campus seemed to have a story about him, though the details varied depending on who was telling it and how recently they’d been invited upstairs at one of their famous hockey parties.
I, meanwhile, was the girl stationed behind the tutoring desk three afternoons a week. People remembered me when they needed help calculating a grade or rewriting a paper. Otherwise, I tended to blend neatly into the background.
“It’s the fourth book in a series,” I told him.
He leaned back in his chair, “That didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes. It’s good.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I’m trying to decide why you’re asking about my book.”
“Maybe I’m looking for recommendations.”
“You haven’t even opened the economics textbook voluntarily since you got here.”
“That’s different. Your book has dragons.”
I laughed before I could stop myself, looking down at my notes quickly, a little embarrassed. Logan smiled, but he didn’t point out my embarrassment. He only tapped the pencil against his worksheet and said, “All right, Dragon Girl. Tell me why my answer’s wrong.”
That should have been the end of it; a passing moment. A joke that he likely forgot as soon as he left the building.
Instead, it became a pattern. He started arriving on time… mostly. He asked about the book series. He remembered when I told him I’d stayed awake too late finishing one and asked the next week whether the ending had been worth the exhaustion. He complained about economics, stole gummy bears from my bag, and once spent a full five minutes trying to convince me that hockey players should receive extra credit because they sustained regular hits to the head.
He was easy to talk to when there wasn’t an audience. That was the dangerous part.
It would have been simpler if he’d been arrogant, or if he’d treated me like an employee whose name he couldn’t quite remember. It would have been simpler if he’d spent our sessions texting girls beneath the table or bragging about whatever party the hockey house was throwing that weekend.
Instead, he thanked me every time. He held the door open when we left at the same time. He noticed when I cut my hair, even though I’d only taken off an inch. Somewhere between the worksheets and the gummy bears, I developed the kind of hopeless crush that belonged in one of the novels that I spent my weekends reading.
I never did anything about it; I wasn’t delusional. Logan might have liked talking to me for an hour during our sessions, but there was a difference between liking someone beneath the fluorescent lights of the tutoring center and choosing them when the rest of the world was watching.
We were from different worlds. Different social standings. I understood the difference better than most.
Which was why, when my roommate dropped a gold-edged invitation onto my comforter one Thursday evening in January, I barely glanced at it.
“No,” I said.
Amber planted both hands on her hips, “You haven’t even read it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Maybe it’s a summons from a faraway prince.”
“Then he should’ve emailed it.”
She snatched the invitation and held it directly in front of my face.
THE BRIAR WINTER MASQUERADE, the card announced in looping navy script. Beneath the title, smaller print explained that proceeds from the annual event would benefit a local children’s hockey program – The Hurricanes. The masquerade would be held in the ballroom of an old hotel near campus, with dinner, dancing, a silent auction, and a ceremonial unmasking at midnight.
I pushed the invitation away, “Still no.”
“You love masquerades.”
“I love them in books. Real-life formal events involve uncomfortable shoes and conversations with people pretending not to look over your shoulder for someone more interesting.”
“You’re exhausting,” Amber said, exasperated.
“So I’ve been told.”
Amber dropped onto the edge of my bed, “I won two tickets through the campus radio givway.”
“Take someone else,” I said.
“I want to take you.”
“You know I own exactly one dress, and it has tiny strawberries on it.”
“I have dresses.”
“You’re four inches taller than me.”
“I have safety pins.”
“Amber.”
She leaned in closer, “Everyone wears masks.”
“I gathered that from the word masquerade.”
“That means no one knows who anyone is. You can be whoever you want for one night.”
The words struck somewhere more tender than they should have. Amber must have seen it in my face, because her teasing expression softened.
“You don’t have to be the tutor girl,” she continued, “Or the book girl. You don’t have to worry about whether anyone expects you to say something clever. You can put on a dress, wear a mask, eat expensive food we didn’t pay for, and leave whenever you want.”
“I have to work early Saturday morning.”
“Then we’ll be hope by one.”
I looked at the invitation again. A masquerade. A night in which no one would know that I spent evenings shelving textbooks and my afternoons explaining academics to students who made more friends in a single weekend than I had accumulated throughout college.
It sounded ridiculous; it sounded dangerous. However, despite my better judgement, it sounded a little like magic.
“Fine,” I said.
Amber shrieked loudly enough that someone in the room above us stomped on the floor.
“But,” I added, raising my voice over her celebration, “we leave before midnight.”
Her excitement faltered, “That’s when everyone takes off their masks.”
“Exactly.”
She narrowed her eyes, “You know this is a fundraiser, not an actual fairy tale, right?”
“I’m serious. I don’t want to get stuck in the crowd and I have to work.”
“11:45.”
“11:30.”
“11:45.”
“11:40.”
She held out her hand, “Deal.” I shook it.
At the time, I thought leaving before midnight would keep the evening safely contained. One borrowed dress, one anonymous night. No consequences.
--
No one warned me that midnight only mattered when you were pretending that the spell had ended.
The dress Amber chose for me was dark blue. Not navy, exactly. It was more the color of the sky after sunset, when daylight had disappeared but the stars hadn’t yet emerged. The fabric skimmed my waist before falling in soft folds toward the floor, and the neckline rested slightly off my shoulders.
It was nothing I would have selected for myself. It was too elegant, too noticeable. When I told Amber that, she rolled her eyes, and continued pinning my hair into loose waves.
“You don’t have to apologize for taking up visual space.”
“I wasn’t apologizing.”
“You were thinking it. Loudly.”
She fastened a silver comb near the back of my head and stepped back. The mask was silver as well, decorated with delicate blue stones and tied behind my head with narrow ribbons. It covered my forehead, the tops of my cheeks, and enough of my nose to make my reflection appear unfamiliar.
I still recognized my mouth, and chin, but I looked like a version of myself that I had never met.
Amber appeared beside me in the mirror, dressed in green velvet with a matching mask covered in black feathers.
“See?” she said.
I laughed nervously.
--
The ballroom was already crowded when we arrived. Winter garlands wound around the columns, threaded in tiny white lights. Chandeliers cast golden patterns over the polished floor. A string quartet played near the front of the room, though the musicians had apparently agreed to perform orchestral versions of popular songs rather than traditional waltzes.
Everywhere I looked, I saw intricate costumes and people in masks. Gold. Black. White. Crimson.
Some were small enough to reveal most of the wearer’s face. Others were elaborate constructions of lace and feathers that nearly hid everything. Without familiar faces, the usual campus hierarchies became harder to recognize.
For once, I couldn’t separate the athletes from the honor students, the puck bunnies from the people who ate lunch alone hear the windows. The effect was disorienting, but liberating, too.
Amber linked her arm through mine, “Food first.”
We made our way toward the buffet tables lining once wall. I’d just taken a miniature pastry from a silver tray when Amber grabbed my wrist.
“The hockey team is here.”
My stomach tightened before I could stop it.
“Where?” I asked.
She subtly tilted her head toward the opposite side of the ballroom. It should have been impossible to recognize them beneath the masks, but it wasn’t.
Garrett Graham stood beside the silent-auction tables, tall and broad shouldered, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to someone in a black suit. Dean Di Laurentis was identifiable through posture and his blonde hair alone, leaning against the wall as though the building had been constructed solely to give him something attractive to pose beside. John Tucker stood next to Dean, his curly hair a dead giveaway.
Logan stood several feet away from them. His mask was black, edged with dark silver. It obscured the upper half of his face, but did nothing to hide his signature swooping hair, the line of his jaw, or the familiar shape of his mouth.
I looked away before he could catch me staring.
Amber’s fingers tightened around my wrist, “Is that your tutoring crush?”
“He’s not my tutoring crush.”
“Sure.”
“Please stop talking,” I begged.
“Are you going to say hello?”
“Not a chance.”
“He won’t know it’s you,” she said.
“That does not make it any less horrifying,” I added.
“It should.”
I reached for another pastry on the table, mostly so my hands would have something to do.
“I came here to eat free food and support the local youth team.”
“You came because I wore you down over a few hours.”
“That too.”
Amber opened her mouth to argue, but a man in a red mask appeared beside us and asked her to dance. She hesitated, looking at me.
“Go,” I said, “I’ll survive.”
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
“Don’t hide in the bathroom.”
“That I can’t promise.”
She pointed at me threateningly before allowing the stranger to lead her toward the dance floor. I watched until they disappeared into the crowd, and then let out a breath.
Being anonymous was easier with Amber beside me. Alone, I became aware of every movement, like where to place my hands, or whether I looked strange standing by myself next to the dessert table. I wondered whether the people around me could somehow sense that I didn’t belong in a ballroom wearing an elegant dress and shoes that pinched my toes.
I took a glass of sparkling cider from a passing waiter and moved toward the edge of the room.
The balcony doors of the ballroom had been opened despite the cold, allowing guests to step outside for air. I slipped through them and stepped out on the balcony, it overlooking gardens powdered with a light dusting of snow.
The music dulled behind me, and I rested my hands on the railing.
“You know,” a voice said behind me, “it’s like thirty degrees out here. Are you trying to get hypothermia?”
I knew the voice before I turned around. Logan stood in the doorway, holding a drink.
My heart lurched so sharply it almost hurt. Up close, the mask made him look older somehow. More mysterious. There was no mistaking him, though. He had the same crooked smile. The same unruly dark hair. The same broad shoulders.
I reminded myself that he didn’t know who I was. That was the entire point.
“I like the cold,” I said.
He stepped out onto the balcony.
“That sounds like something people say when they don’t want to admit they just wanted to escape,” he said.
The answer was so perceptive that I almost laughed. Instead, I lifted my glass.
“Maybe I’m both.”
“Fair.”
He moved to the railing beside me, leaving enough space between us that I didn’t feel crowded. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Snow clung to the hedges below. In the distance, lights glowed through the trees.
“Are you drinking champagne or cider?” he asked.
“Cider, for sure.”
He smiled, taking a sip of his own drink, “Me too. I can’t stand the taste of champagne.”
A laugh escaped me, because I thought the exact same thing. The sound made something shift in his expression. Not recognition, I think, but interest, maybe.
The mask helped. Without my face attached to the tutoring center, and the weight of every previous interaction between us, I didn’t have to measure each word before I said it. I didn’t have to worry he would compare this version of me to the quiet girl who wore old sweatshirts and corrected his practice quizzes.
To him, I was no one. For once, no one felt like freedom.
“Did you come here with someone?” he asked.
“A friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Very subtle,” I laughed.
“I’m wearing a mask, I figured subtlety was optional.”
“No boyfriend,” I said.
He nodded, though the answer seemed to please him more than it should have.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Came with teammates.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“A date?”
“Also no.”
“Entourage of devoted admirers?” I asked, teasingly.
He considered it. “They were unavailable.”
“Tragic.”
“I’m coping,” he said, smiling at me.
I smiled into my glass.
He turned slightly, studying me through the narrow openings of his mask. “Have we met?” he asked.
The question made my heart skip. I forced myself to not look away.
“This is a university event,” I said, “Statistically, probably.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” I asked.
“You seem familiar,” he said, like he was trying to figure it out.
The safest response would have been to find an excuse to excuse myself. Instead, some reckless part of me said something else.
“Is that one of your usual lines?”
His mouth curved, “Do you think I need lines?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“You asked,” you said, laughing as you took another sip of your drink.
“I’m beginning to regret it.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I don’t know, my ego’s pretty delicate.”
“That must make playing hockey difficult.”
His eyes narrowed behind the mask, and I realized my mistake a second too late.
“You know I play hockey,” he said.
You panicked a little.
“The entire team arrived together,” I said, “You’re not difficult to identify.”
“Is it the shoulders?”
“It’s the humility,” you quipped back.
He laughed, and the tension eased.
“You know who I am,” he said, “That hardly seems fair.”
“Fairness is overrated.”
“Tell me something about you, then,” he said.
“No.”
“One thing,” he begged.
“You don’t even know my name.”
“Exactly, give me something else.”
I looked out over the garden. The obvious answers felt dangerous; my major, my job, the tutoring center. Any detail that could lead him too close to the truth.
“I like books,” I said.
“That’s vague.”
“You asked for one thing.”
“What kind?”
“Fantasy, mostly.”
His head tilted, and for one wild moment, I thought he figured it out.
Then he said, “The ones with dragons?”
I stared at him. He laughed.
“Lucky guess.”
My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass. He couldn’t remember a simple conversation about my book; there were dozens of girls on campus who read fantasy novels. It was one of the most popular genres.
Probably.
“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “Dragons. Curses. Impossible kingdoms. People who spend four hundred pages refusing to admit they’re in love.”
“That sounds frustrating.”
“It is.”
“So why read it?”
“Because eventually they admit it.”
The smile faded slightly from his face, but not in a bad way. He simply looked at me more closely.
“Worth the wait?” he asked.
“When it’s well written.”
The quartet inside shifted songs, the melody floating onto the balcony. Logan glanced through the doors.
“Do you dance?” he asked.
“Not voluntarily.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re at a ball.”
“So are you.”
“I’m here to support a good cause,” you said.
“I’m here because I helped throw this fundraiser.”
My eyebrows raised.
“That’s really nice of you.”
He nodded and smiled slightly.
“Not really what someone would expect me to do, right?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to imply—”
He shook his head.
“It’s okay. I know I have a reputation.”
“I don’t really judge a book by its cover,” you said quietly.
You both sat there for a minute.
“Sometimes,” he said, “it’s nice talking to someone who doesn’t want anything from you.”
“I’m fairly certain everyone wants something.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
The answer came with embarrassing speed. You.
Not the version of him that people whispered about. Not the hockey player beneath the arena lights or the name everyone recognized. I wanted the man who complained about economics and stole my gummy bears.
I could never say that.
“Dessert,” I said.
Logan laughed, “That I can help with.”
He led me back inside. I expected the conversation to end there. For Garrett or Dean or Tucker to wave him over. For someone prettier and bolder to take my place the moment we crossed the threshold.
Instead, Logan stayed.
We sampled tiny slices of cake from the dessert table, rating each one with an absurd seriousness. We wandered through the silent-auction displays, Logan explaining each one, and trying to convince me that a signed hockey stick would look sophisticated mounted above my bed.
“Absolutely not,” I told him.
“You lack vision.”
“I have a framed map of a fictional kingdom above my desk, isn’t that enough?”
“The stick would balance it out.”
He didn’t ask for my name, and I didn’t ask him to pretend I didn’t know his. The absence of names created a strange intimacy. We could tell each other things without having to imagine what happened tomorrow.
He told me he didn’t know what he wanted to do after college, which surprised me. I thought it would be the NHL. Not exactly.
He spoke vaguely about obligations waiting for him at home, responsibilities he didn’t know how to escape without abandoning someone he loved. I knew enough from campus gossip to understand pieces of it, but I didn’t interrupt.
It was the most honest I had ever heard him sound.
“Everyone assumes I’ve got it figured out,” he said as we stood near the edge of the dance floor, “Hockey, graduation, everything after. But half the time I feel like I’m walking toward a life I didn’t pick.”
The ballroom lights moved across his mask as dancers passed.
“What would you pick?” I asked.
“Probably the NHL with Garrett,” he said, “But I’m not sure if that’s feasible. But I’m not sure. That’s the problem.”
“It’s not a problem to go after what you want.”
“It feels like one.”
“Maybe you’re unsure because you’re trying to figure out what everyone else needs from you.”
His gaze lifted to mine, and I was worried I’d crossed a line.
Then he quietly said, “You do that a lot?”
“What?”
“Make people like you can see through them?”
“I don’t think most people feel seen by me at all.”
Something in his expression softened.
“You’re wrong.”
I smiled, but it was sadder than intended.
“You’ve known me for an hour,” I said.
“Maybe that makes it easier.”
“Maybe.”
A faster song ended, replaced by something softer and slower. Couples moved toward the center of the ballroom.
Logan moved in front of me, bowing and making me laugh, before holding out his hand. I looked at it.
“You said you didn’t dance,” I questioned.
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you didn’t dance.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you said.
“I didn’t want you to think I was asking.”
“But you’re asking now?”
“I changed my mind.”
My heart beat harder. Dancing with him would make the evening feel too real. It would become a memory I carried long after he forgot the anonymous girl in the silver mask.
But, midnight was coming. The magic had an ending. I placed my hand in his, and Logan drew me onto the dance floor.
He wasn’t an especially polished dancer, but he was confident enough to compensate. One hand rested carefully at my waist while the other held my hand between us. I focused on his tie because looking directly at him felt impossible.
“You can look up,” he whispered.
“I’m watching my feet,” I said lamely.
“You’re wearing a floor-length dress.”
“Yep, just making sure I don’t trip.”
His hand tightened slightly around mine. “Relax.”
“That is universally terrible advice,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because no one in the history of being told to relax has ever relaxed.”
He laughed softly. I eventually lifted my gaze, and the room seemed to narrow around us.
Beyond his shoulder, masks and lights blurred together. The music vibrated beneath my feet. I became aware of every place we touched; the warmth of his hand in mine, the steady pressure of his hand at my waist, and the occasional brush of his leg against mine as we moved.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“I’m following you.”
For one song, I allowed myself to pretend. The mask and dress had allowed me to stop apologizing for wanting things. I wanted his attention. I wanted his hand at my waist. I wanted him to look at me as though the rest of the ballroom had disappeared.
And for one song, he did. When the song ended, neither of us immediately stepped apart. Logan’s thumb brushed once over the fabric at my waist.
“Come to dinner with me,” he said.
My breath caught, “We already ate dessert.”
“Not tonight.”
The answer I wanted hovered at the back of my throat. He didn’t know who he was asking.
Tomorrow, when the mask was gone, he might walk past me outside of the bookstore I worked at without looking twice. He might sit across from me at the tutoring center and mention the mysterious girl from the masquerade, not realizing I was in front of him.
“You can’t ask me that,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m trying to.”
“You don’t know my name,” I said.
“Then tell me.”
The clock displayed near the stage read 11:37. My stomach dropped. I had lost track of time.
Across the ballroom, Amber caught my eye. Her expression shifted from delight at finding me with Logan to alarm as the pointed at the clock.
“I have to go,” I said.
Logan’s face became concerned, “Right now?”
“Yes.”
“You said you came with a friend. Is she leaving too?”
“Yes.”
“Wait,” he said, his hand closing gently around mine before I could step away, “At least tell me your name.”
The DJ appeared on stage and tapped the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re only twenty minutes away from midnight!”
Applause rose from the crowd as my pulse thudded in my ears. Logan looked at me, waiting.
I imagined telling him. I imagined recognition spreading across his face, followed by surprise, and maybe even disappointment. Maybe polite confusion as he connected the woman he’d danced with to the girl who reminded him to explain his answers thoroughly on his exams.
The courage the mask had given me evaporated.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I slipped my hand from his.
Then I left.
I didn’t run.
Real life rarely allowed for graceful escapes, and sprinting in Amber’s shoes would have probably ended with an ambulance ride. But, I moved quickly through the crowd, ignoring Logan when he called after me.
Amber followed me as we rushed through the hallway.
“What happened?”
“We have to go,” I said.
“But—” she started.
“Please.”
Something in my face convinced her. We collected our coats from coat check and stepped into the cold before midnight.
There was no lost slipper, no forgotten earring. There was nothing left behind except the girl I had been brave enough to become for a few hours.
--
Logan missed our tutoring session on Tuesday.
I told myself I was relieved, but the lie lasted approximately five minutes. I spent the empty hour reorganizing my notes and imagining every possible explanation.
At 4:55, while I was placing my books in my bag, he appeared in the doorway. His hair was damp from the snow, and his breathing was slightly uneven, as though he had hurried across campus.
“Sorry,” he said, “Practice ran late.”
“You could’ve emailed.”
“I did.”
I checked my phone, and there was a message waiting from ten minutes earlier.
Logan: Practice disaster. Still coming. Please don’t abandon me.
“I didn’t see it,” I said.
“Clearly.”
He dropped into the chair across from me. For one terrifying second, I thought he was studying my face. I resisted the urge to hide my face. Then, he looked away.
“You go to the masquerade?” he asked.
My heart stopped.
I slowly pulled the economics textbook back out of my bag and onto the table.
“Why?”
“Just asking.”
“Were you there?” I asked.
His mouth twitched, “Everyone knows I was there.”
“Right.”
He twirled a pen between his fingers. Normally, Logan filled every silence. He complained about the assignment, or told me something ridiculous that had happened during practice.
That afternoon, he seemed distracted.
I opened to the assigned work, “Did you read the text for the assignment?”
“No.”
“Logan.”
“I had a weird weekend.”
“Did the weirdness destroy your textbook?”
“No.”
“Then I’m struggling to understand the connection.”
He smiled faintly.
For the next half hour, I guided him through the material while pretending not to notice how often his attention drifted toward me. Each time I looked up, he seemed to be studying something; the way I held my pen, or the book protruding from my bag.
Finally, he nodded toward it.
“Another dragon book?”
I looked down.
“Same series.”
His pen stopped moving.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I knew what was happening. He was noticing similarities. Not enough to recognize me. The knowledge filled me with equal parts hope and dread.
A foolish part of my heart wanted him to know. The rest of me remembered how quickly I fled.
At the end of the session, I gathered my things. Logan remained seated.
“Do people ever surprise you?” he suddenly asked.
I glanced at him. “Constantly.”
“No, I mean…” he dragged a hand over the back of his neck, “Do you ever realize you’ve made assumptions about someone without knowing them.”
The question landed too close.
“I think everyone does.”
“Does that make you a bad person?” he asked.
“Depends on the assumption.”
“What if you didn’t think anything bad? You just didn’t think… enough.”
I held his gaze. For one suspended moment, the room felt like the balcony again.
“What happened at the masquerade?” I asked quietly.
His expression changed. He leaned back in his chair, looking almost embarrassed.
“I met someone.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know who she was,” he continued.
“You didn’t ask?” I said.
“I asked.”
“And?”
“She left.”
“Maybe she had somewhere to be,” I said.
“She was gone before midnight.”
I nodded. “What did she seem like?”
The question was a mistake. I knew that before he answered.
Logan looked out toward the windows, where snow had begun to softly gather against the glass.
“Real,” he said.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.
“She was wearing a mask,” I said.
“I know.”
“You spoke to her for one evening.”
“I know that too.”
“Then how do you know she was real?” I added.
He looked back at me.
“Because she didn’t care who I was.”
The words should have made me happy, but instead, guilt pressed against my chest. I had carried every private detail that I’d learned during tutoring onto that balcony and let him believe we were strangers meeting on equal ground.
“She might have cared,” I said, “Maybe she just didn’t show it.”
“Maybe.”
His gaze fell to the fantasy novel in my bag again.
I forced a smile, “Good luck finding her.”
I left before he could see that I wasn’t sure I had meant it.
--
Over the next two weeks, Logan began appearing everywhere. At first , I assumed it was coincidence. Briar was a large campus, but routines created overlap. Students used the same pathways, got lunch from the same mess halls, and studied in the same buildings.
Still, I had never previously encountered Logan three times in four days.
He came into the bookstore during my afternoon shift on a Thursday and spent twenty minutes browsing a fantasy display that he clearly had no intention of purchasing from.
“You lost?” I asked from behind the register.
He picked up a hardcover and examined the back.
“Expanding my interests.”
“That’s the third book in a trilogy,” I said.
“So?”
“You should start with the first one,” I said, smirking.
“Which is?”
I stepped from behind the counter and selected another book from the display.
“This one.”
He accepted it, glancing between the cover and me.
“You’ve read it?”
“Yes.”
“Dragons?”
“Only one.”
“That’s disappointing.”
He bought the book anyway.
The following Monday, he was outside of the academic hall after the tutoring center closed and offered to walk me toward the dorms. He claimed he was heading in the same direction, though he lived off campus.
On Tuesday, he brought hot chocolate, which in passing I had mentioned I liked better than coffee, to tutoring.
“They gave me an extra,” he said.
“They accidentally gave you two separate cups?” I asked, my eyebrows raised.
“Call it a customer service miracle.”
I accepted it anyway.
Each interaction left me more and more confused. He was searching for the girl from the masquerade, that much was obvious. Somewhere during that search, he seemed to be discovering me. Not recognizing me, I thought. Not quite.
He asked questions he’d never asked before, like why I worked at the bookstore, why I was a tutor, what I wanted to do after graduation, and whether I had always been quiet.
“I’m not quiet,” I told him as we crossed the snowy quad after a late tutoring center.
“You are in groups.”
“That’s because groups are exhausting.”
“You talked to me,” he said.
“That’s because you were failing economics and you came to the tutoring center.”
He laughed. Our breath clouded in the cold between us.
“What are you like when no one knows you?” he asked.
I nearly stumbled. The snow crunched beneath our shoes.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A real one,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve never thought about it?”
“Have you?” I quipped back.
“All the time.”
I glanced over at him. His hands were buried in the pockets of his tan coat, shoulders a little hunched against the wind. Without the hockey crowd around him, or the constant awareness of other people watching, he looked almost like the man from the balcony.
Not Logan. Just… John.
“I think,” I said slowly, “I’m probably more brave when no one knows me.”
He stopped walking. I took another step before realizing he was no longer beside me. When I turned, he was staring at me. Snow was catching in his hair.
“What?” I asked.
His expression was unreadable.
“Nothing.”
“That’s clearly not true.”
He started walking again.
“You ever feel like people only notice you when they want something?”
My heartbeat thudded in my chest. The words were close to what I had told him at the masquerade. It wasn’t exact, but it was close to the same sentiment.
I looked out toward the dorm buildings ahead of us.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Like when they need homework help?” he asked.
I forced a laugh, “That’s oddly specific.”
“Is it wrong?”
“No.”
He waited. I understood he was giving me an opportunity to tell him, to admit I was the girl from the masquerade. I couldn’t do it.
“It’s not that I’d need everyone to notice me,” I said instead, “I just think It would be nice if one person did without being told.”
Logan’s footsteps slowed. For several moments, only the wind moved between us.
Then, he said almost too quietly to hear, “Yeah.”
We reached my dorm. I turned toward the entrance, desperate to escape before I revealed anything.
“Thanks for walking me,” I said to him.
“Anytime.”
I started to walk, before he spoke again.
“Hey.”
I looked back. His eyes were burning into me.
“Did I walk past you at the masquerade?” he asked.
The truth pressed hard against my throat.
“You probably walked past a lot of people,” I said to him.
“That’s not what I asked.”
His gaze moved across my face, searching for something hidden in plain sight.
“I should go,” I whispered.
He didn’t stop me.
--
The following Friday, I worked the closing shift at the bookstore. By nine, campus had emptied into bars, parties, and the hockey arena. Briar had a home game tonight, which meant most students had abandoned any stores or buildings hours earlier.
I listened to the game through one earbud while shelving returns.
Not because of Logan.
That was clearly a lie.
The announcer’s voice rose and fell as I climbed the small ladder near the back of the store. Briar was tied in the third period. Garrett had scored with four minutes remaining, and Logan added a goal near the end.
I smiled before I could stop myself. The final buzzer sounded as I finished locking the register.
The store manager had already left, trusting me to close up. I cleaned up around the store for about forty minutes, making sure everything was clean and ready for the opener. I switched off the front display lights, and pulled my coat from the staff office.
When I stepped outside, making sure to lock the door, snow had started gently falling again. Not heavily, but just enough to give a light dusting.
As I turned around, Logan stood on the sidewalk in front of the bookstore.
I froze.
He wore Briar hockey sweats underneath his coat. His hair was still damp, though I wasn’t sure if it was from being freshly showered or from the snow.
I took a second to collect myself.
“Nice game. You won,” I said.
“So you were listening.”
“The bookstore was empty, I had to do something to pass the time,” I said.
His mouth lifted slightly.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He held something in one hand that I hadn’t noticed. It was a black mask edged in silver.
My breath caught.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, Logan stepped closer.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what I remembered,” he said.
I looked at him carefully.
“About her,” he said, “the girl from the masquerade.”
Snow gathered on the shoulders of his coat as he stepped closer.
“I kept thinking it would be something obvious. Her voice. Her eyes. Maybe she had left something behind on her way out.”
I looked away.
“But it wasn’t.”
His voice softened.
“It was how I felt when she talked.”
My throat tightened.
“Logan…”
“She made me feel like she understood what I was trying to say, even when I didn’t know how to say it. It felt like she saw me.”
He stopped in front of me.
“And then you kept doing the same thing.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes. There was no accusation in them, only certainty.
“You don’t know that it was me,” I said.
“Yes, I do.”
“She was wearing a mask. You never saw her face.”
“I didn’t need to.”
A trembling breath left me. He looked almost nervous, an expression I had never expected to see on John Logan.
“You talked about seeing people,” he said, “At the ball, you said almost the exact same thing.”
The exact words I had said were different, but I knew then that it was similar. The feeling and intention was the same.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“I’m sure a lot of people feel that way.”
“Probably.”
“Other people read fantasy novels, I’m sure,” he said.
“Definitely.”
“It’s a popular genre, right?” he said, anticipating what I was going to say next.
A small laugh escaped me.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Your laugh.”
The smile faded from me.
“I knew it before I knew anything else,” he said, “I just didn’t trust myself.”
I stared at the mask in his hand.
“You were looking for someone else.”
“I thought I was.”
“That night wasn’t real.”
“It was to me,” he said.
“You didn’t know who I was,” I reiterated.
“I knew more than you think.”
“You knew a version of me who was wearing someone else’s dress and hiding under a mask.”
“No,” he said quickly, “I knew the version of you who wasn’t scared I’d decide you weren’t worth listening to.”
The truth of it hurt. I looked toward the empty pathway behind him.
“I left because I didn’t want anyone to know who I was.”
Logan went still.
“I knew that masks would come off at midnight. And then when we talked, I knew it was even more important I left before then. I thought you’d see me and realize I was just the tutor girl.”
“Just the tutor girl?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.”
I laughed once, without humor, “You’re John Logan.”
“So?”
“So everyone knows you. Everyone wants you. Girls go to hockey games carrying signs with your name on them.”
“Some of those are for my teammates.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that girls like me don’t get chosen by men like you.”
His expression changed, and I wished I could pull the words back. They sounded childish and insecure spoken out loud. They were like the kind of belief that I should have outgrown years ago. But, the feeling beneath them had roots too deep to remove with logic.
Logan stepped closer.
“What does ‘girls like me’ mean?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Quiet girls. Girls who work on Friday nights and own more books than shoes. Girls people call when they need something from them, not when they want them beside them at a party.”
“I don’t want you beside me at a party.”
The words landed like a slap. I flinched. Logan swore under his breath.
“That came out wrong,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t. I don’t mean I wouldn’t want you there. I mean it’s not the part I care about.”
I said nothing.
“I want you at the diner after a big game,” he said, “I want you making fun of me when I order the same thing every time. I want you tutoring me even after I pass the class. I want to know why you always carry three books when you can only read one at a time.”
“They’re for different moods.”
“I want to know what the moods are,” he said.
My eyes burned as he continued.
“I want to walk you home. I want to bring you hot chocolate and have you insult my taste in books. I want the version of you in the dress that night, and I want the version of you wearing that sweatshirt you’ve had for years.”
I looked down at myself. The faded Briar sweatshirt that had a small ink stain near the sleeve.
“I was afraid,” I whispered.
“What?”
“That you’d find out it was me and be disappointed.”
He stared at me as though the possibility had never occurred to him. Then, his shoulders lowered.
“You think I fell for the dress?”
“I think it helped.”
“It didn’t.”
“You didn’t notice me before.”
The words hung between us, and that was the part he couldn’t deny. Logan looked away briefly, jaw tightening.
“No,” he admitted, “Not enough.”
The honesty hurt me. He looked back at me.
“I knew your name. I knew you were funny. I knew you were smarter than me.”
“That’s a low bar.”
His mouth twitched, “See? That.”
I tried not to smile.
“I knew you were beautiful,” he continued, “But I only knew the pieces that you showed me during tutoring. I never stopped to wonder what else there was, and that’s on me.”
Snow continued to softly fall around us.
“The mask didn’t turn you into someone else,” he said, “It only made me shut up long enough to listen.”
My chest ached.
“What happens now?”
“Now, you stop trying to convince me I found the wrong girl.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“You are.”
He placed the mask on the windowsill of the bookstore beside us.
Then, he held out his hand. I looked at it.
“What are you doing?”
“Asking you to dinner.”
“It’s after nine.”
“Late dinner.”
“You just played a game,” I said.
“Exactly. I’m hungry.”
His hand remained extended between us. I stared at the familiar lines of his palm. At the masquerade, taking his hand had felt safe because the night had an ending. I could walk away and preserve the memory before reality interfered.
This was different. There was no mask, no borrowed dress. There was no promise that I could disappear without being known.
“What if this is different?” I asked.
“It will be.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
He moved closer, lowering his hand.
“It’ll be different because this time, I know your name.”
“And tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’ll still know it.”
“When the whole team is around?”
“Yes.”
“When people ask why you’re with me?”
His face hardened slightly, “They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I mean, they won’t ask why. Garrett already knows.”
I blinked, “Garrett knows?”
“He figured it out, too.”
“How?”
“I was talking about the books.”
I nodded.
“I’m not embarrassed by you,” he said, “I need you to believe that.”
“I’m trying.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t demand more. He simply stood with me beneath the awning while snow drifted through the darkness.
Logan’s gaze dropped to my mouth, and the world grew quieter. Or, perhaps, I only stopped hearing anything beyond the beat of my own pulse.
He stepped closer, leaving enough distance for me to move away. I didn’t.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
The question felt more intimate than if he had simply done it.
I nodded.
His hand rose to my cheek, warm against my skin that was chilled by the snow.
The first brush of his mouth was gentle, almost cautious. Then I curled my fingers into the front of his coat, and he kissed me again.
The second kiss held everything that the first had restrained. His hand settled at my waist, pulling me closer. I felt the warmth of his breath, and the way he smiled when I rose onto my toes to deepen the kiss.
There was no ballroom. No music or dress or masks. There was only us, the snow, and the darkened bookstore behind us.
This was so much better.
When we separated, Logan rested his forehead against mine.
His thumb brushed my cheek.
“Dinner?” he asked again, stretching his hand out again.
This time, when he offered it, I took it.
--
Three weeks later, Briar’s hockey team was back at home for an important game.
Amber sat on my left, and Garrett’s girlfriend, Hannah, sat on my right, patiently explaining penalties that I pretended I needed to hear explained.
The game, similar to the one she had listened to that night at the bookstore, was tied in the third period. Garrett stole the puck and slid it over to Logan, who was racing down the ice. With a flick of the wrist, Logan landed the puck in the top corner of the net.
The arena erupted.
I stood with everyone else, shouting and hugging Amber and Hannah.
After Logan celebrated with his teammates, his gaze swept the crowd, and found me. Even from several rows away, I saw the smile.
After the game, we waited near the tunnel while the stands emptied. The players eventually emerged, carrying equipment bags and talking over one another.
Dean spotted us first and called something to Logan that I couldn’t hear. Logan shoved him with one hand and kept walking. People greeted him as he walked, girls glancing up and someone calling his name from down the tunnel.
He didn’t slow down until he reached me.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You wore my number.”
I glanced down at the jersey he’d given me, “Pure coincidence.”
“Obviously.”
He dropped his bag and leaned down to kiss me. There was nothing dramatic about it; no one gasped. His hand settled at the back of my neck, and I smiled against his mouth while Tucker groaned beside us about public displays of affection.
When Logan pulled away, he kept his arm around my shoulders.
“Malone’s?” he asked.
“Malone’s,” I nodded.
We walked toward the exit together. Outside, the campus was covered in snow, the sidewalks shining beneath the streetlights. Logan kept my hand in his as we passed groups of students leaving the arena.
No mask. No borrowed dress. No reason to disappear before midnight.
I didnt realize how others also realized how much AI is in the Off Campus tag 😭 I can’t tell 100% but some of the writings, not just in that tag, are just sooo emotionless? It’s happening in alot of popular show or movie tags— it’s alarming as it follows the AI pattern
I might be fully wrong but I think it has a lot to do with how fast the show blew up, there was high demand for more content and very little time to respond to it because everyone was rushing to be first on the hype train.
I can't say I fully understand it either, I'm speaking from quite a privileged position. Writing is just what I do, in university and out of it. I'm unemployed at the moment too, meaning I can easily put in 7 hours of writing a day. I have the time and the training to just write and I don't feel that immediate need to constantly put content out without depth just to live in you guys' timelines.
I'm lowkey a big fat hater of immediately popular shows 😭 like I didn't get into Stranger Things until after season 3 aired, I didn't watch Off Campus the day it came out either. I started noticing the edits, the fics (the good ones and the bad ones) got a free Amazon Prime trial about a week later, watched it in one sitting and to my surprise ended up very invested in Allie and Dean's relationship. I creatively become very immersed in media so I told myself I'd enjoy it casually FOR ONCE and then days later I still couldn't get it out of my head, so I sat down and wrote something very surface level, just a "quick fuck". I even wrote a few more things before ever posting Terms and conditions just to see if I could sustain it and if I'd even be interested in finding more out about these characters.
Writing doesn't have to be deep but it shouldn't just be a means to an end either. I might put out some quick smut one day and the next serve you guys a piece of my heart. Writing is SO much about finding a reason to speak and the only reason I still find stories in these worlds is because I have something to say.
I absolutely love your writing! Could you maybe do one where Dean is sick and clingy and reader looks after him?
STAGE FIVE CLINGER
Dean Di Laurentis X Graham!reader || WC: 1.8K
SUMMARY: A simple cold turns Dean Di Laurentis into Briar's most dramatic patient, leaving his teammates desperate enough to call the only person he'll listen to.
WARNINGS: Established relationship, so much fluff, witty banter, slight angst, cursing, hurt/comfort, brief mention of parental abuse and an injury,
A/N: I’m such a sucker for a sick!fic! Literally had this half-written in my drafts already, so thank you to whoever requested this!! Hope I did it justice and that y’all enjoy! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ dean di laurentis masterlist
Favorite Brother: 911. Get to the hockey house ASAP!
Garrett Graham had only ever used 911 twice in the twenty-one years you'd been his little sister. The first had been Thanksgiving. You could still picture him standing on the doorstep to your dorm, shoulders rigid and face completely drained of color, as though cutting your father out of his life had taken every ounce of strength he had left. The two of you had spent the rest of the night curled together on your couch, crying until there were no tears left to shed.
Hannah had silently wrapped blankets around your shoulders while Logan ordered enough takeout to feed an army, neither of them asking questions because they already knew the truth. They were two of the very few people who knew exactly what kind of man Phil Graham really was. The second time had come during Garrett's sophomore season during a game against Saint Anthony's after he took a brutal hit into the boards and broke his ankle.
So, now, whenever your phone lit up with another 911, every horrifying possibility imaginable crashed into your mind. You didn't remember grabbing your keys. You barely remembered sprinting out of your dorm. The drive to the Briar hockey house became a blur of red lights you definitely should've stopped for and speed limits you absolutely ignored. Your pulse pounded so violently against your ribs that it drowned out the music blasting through your speakers.
Please be okay.
Please let everyone be okay.
By some miracle, or sheer reckless determination, your Jeep screeched into the hockey house driveway in under five minutes. The engine hadn't even finished rumbling before you were out of the car. You bounded up the porch steps two at a time, shoved the front door open without knocking. Your breathing came in short, uneven bursts as your eyes swept frantically across the first floor, searching for blood, paramedics... anything.
Instead you were met with silence. Garrett, Beau, Logan, and Tucker stood shoulder to shoulder around the kitchen island, all four wearing expressions that ranged from concerned to thoroughly exasperated. Not a single one of them looked injured. They all looked far too relaxed. What the hell was happening? "Oh, thank God, she's here." Logan dragged a hand down his face, relief washing over his features.
Before you could demand an explanation, Garrett and Beau crossed the room. You reached your brother first, immediately grabbing both of his forearms. "I got your text," Your voice came out higher than you intended, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as your gaze traveled from his face to his shoulders, down his arms and legs, cataloging every inch of him for any kind of injuries. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He shook his head, making you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.
"I'm fine," Garrett assured gently, giving your elbows a reassuring squeeze to still your frantic inspection. "Promise." Releasing your wrists he gestured toward the staircase with the exhausted resignation of a man who'd reached his breaking point. "It's your knucklehead boyfriend." That alone was enough to make you wary. Ever since Garrett had become captain of the Briar hockey team, he'd made one rule abundantly clear, none of his teammates were to date his little sister.
He'd delivered the threat with the same intensity he reserved for playoff games, and every guy in the locker room had been smart enough not to test him. Well, everyone except Dean Di Laurentis. By the time the two of you had finally stopped pretending the feelings between you didn't exist, Garrett had nearly blown a gasket. It had taken months of Dean shamelessly kissing his ass, both on and off the ice, before Garrett reluctantly accepted that this wasn't another one of Dean's flings.
Dean had retired his infamous manwhore reputation without a second thought the moment you'd become his girlfriend, and somehow he'd managed to do the impossible: convincing your overprotective brother that he genuinely loved you. That however, still hadn't stopped him from finding new and creative ways to irritate Garrett. Nearly two years later, Dean could still get under Garrett's skin without even trying, especially if it involved anything to do with you.
"Is he hurt?"
"No."
"Did he get into a fight?"
"No."
"Did he piss you off?"
"Yes!"
All four guys answered in perfect unison which made a laugh escape you before you could stop it. Then a raspy coughing fit echoed from upstairs, followed by an aggressively dramatic sniffle that was somehow even louder than the coughing. Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle in his jaw flexing. "Dean has a cold." Silence settled over the room. After a few moments, you looked from Garrett to Logan. Then Tucker. Then Beau. None of them looked like they were joking.
"You texted me 911 because Dean has a cold?" Beau let out a sharp bark of laughter at your words before scrubbing a hand down his face, frustration evident in his features. "Normally I'd think it's adorable. You know I love you two together, but, Christ…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking every bit as exhausted as Garrett. "He's being so fucking stubborn."
Logan nodded before jumping in. "He won't take his medicine unless you're the one handing it to him. Barely touched any food because apparently it doesn't count unless you bring it to him." You had to practically bite your lip in order to stop another laugh that threatened to escape. "He has been like this all day," Garrett grumbled, you could have sworn you saw his eye twitch. "Every five minutes it's 'Where's my girlfriend?' 'Can someone call my girlfriend?' 'I think I'm dying. My girlfriend should know.'"
"I never realized someone could weaponize the common cold." Tucker admitted shaking his head as he stirred what you assumed was chicken noddle soup from the delicious smell. "You should've heard him this morning," Beau added with a dramatic sigh. "'Beau, if I don't make it, tell her I loved her.'" Your heart, traitor that it was, performed a full somersault inside your chest. Even stuffed up, feverish, and completely delirious, Dean still wanted you. Only you.
Garrett pointed toward the stairs. "Please, go deal with your idiot boyfriend." You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing outright knowing it would infuriate Garrett even more. Without another thought, you headed for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. As you reached Dean's bedroom, you knocked gently with the back of your knuckles. "Go away, G!" His voice carried through the wood, deep and rough from congestion, ending in a wet cough that sounded painful enough to make you wince.
A teasing smile tugged at your lips as you eased the door open, peeking your head inside. "I sure hope you mean my brother and not me," You teased softly. "I'd hate to have come all this way for nothing." Dean, who'd been curled into an impressive mound of blankets, turned sluggishly toward the sound of your voice. The transformation was immediate. His glassy, fever-heavy eyes widened before melting with unmistakable relief, exhaustion giving way to pure adoration.
"Babydoll." The nickname came out as little more than a dreamy sigh. Every ounce of misery on his face seemed to disappear the second he saw you. Well, almost every ounce. Your heart clenched painfully as you stepped fully into the room. Dean looked awful. His usually perfectly styled hair stuck out in every direction, flattened with sweat where it clung to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink from the fever, while the tip of his nose had been rubbed so raw it was nearly the same shade.
Dark circles rested beneath bloodshot hazel eyes that struggled to stay open. He was shirtless despite being cocooned beneath two comforters, a sheen of sweat covering the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. A half-empty bottle of water, several packets of cough drops, a digital thermometer cluttered his nightstand. Used tissues surrounded the bed in messy little piles, some tossed toward the trash can with embarrassingly poor aim, others simply abandoned wherever they'd landed.
"Oh baby, you look absolutely miserable." You coaxed, gently shutting the door behind you. "I am miserable." His lower lip actually jutted out. Then, without the slightest hint of shame, he lifted both arms toward you. "Come here." Not a request, a demand. Or perhaps even a plea. Grabby hands opened and closed impatiently in your direction and your smile grew despite yourself. "Big, tough, hockey player, yet here you are being a big baby."
"Don't be mean, I have the plague."
"You have a cold."
A cough interrupted whatever dramatic speech he'd been preparing, forcing him to curl forward and cough into the crook of his elbow. By the time it subsided, he looked even more exhausted. You kicked off your shoes before crossing the room. The instant you were within reach, Dean's hands found your waist. With surprising strength for someone who'd apparently been on death's doorstep all day, he tugged you forward until you stumbled against the side of the mattress.
"There you are, missed you so much." He mumbled, sounding infinitely more content as he placed a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder. Your chest warmed at the affection, as he buried his face against your stomach with a relieved sigh, wrapping both arms around your waist like he was afraid someone might steal you away. His warm cheek pressed against your shirt, and despite the fever radiating from him, he melted into your touch the moment your fingers threaded through his damp hair.
"Everything already feels better." He whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "You've been giving the guys a hard time, haven't you?" You felt him shrug against you, his face showcasing the perfect picture of innocence. "I've been perfectly pleasant." A loud, disbelieving snort drifted up from downstairs, followed immediately by Garrett's voice. "FUCKING LIAR!" Dean didn't even bother lifting his head. "They're exaggerating." You laughed so hard you had to bite your lip.
"Beau told me you refused your medicine."
"I was waiting for you."
"Logan offered you soup."
"It wasn't your soup."
"Tucker made grilled cheese."
"Grilled cheese isn't Tuck's strong suit."
That was a complete and total lie and you knew he knew it.
"You are unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
His arms tightened around your waist, followed by another sleepy sigh that sounded almost blissful.
"I missed you, babydoll."
"I've only been gone since this morning."
"Longest day of my life."
His voice had gone quieter now, rough with exhaustion rather than theatrics. "I just wanted my girl." The confession, so simple and so genuinely vulnerable, melted of whatever amusement remained. You leaned down to press a lingering kiss against his warm forehead before brushing another across the bridge of his reddened nose. "I'm here now." Dean hummed happily, his entire body relaxing. "Yeah, you are." He murmured, already sounding sleepier than before.
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you’re flat on your back, legs hiked up, hands gripping the sheets like you’re about to be launched into orbit. dean is between your thighs, hovering on his elbows, his chest still heaving from the five minutes of frantic kissing that got you here. he’s golden all over—tanned skin, sweat-slick shoulders, that stupidly perfect hair already falling into his eyes. and his dick. hard. thick. pressing against your entrance like it’s trying to negotiate entry.
you haven’t done this in a week. not ‘cause anything’s wrong. he just had a match, a week long one. and now he’s here. saturday morning, sun bleeding through the curtains just right and he’s got that look in his eyes. the one that says:
“did you get bigger?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
he blinks down at you. “what, like my dick went to the gym while i was gone?”
you smack his shoulder. “i’m serious! it never felt like a fucking pillar before.”
“maybe your pussy got shy. it missed me. it’s clamping up like a clam.”
“maybe your ego expanded so much it pushed all the blood flow south.”
he grins, slow and lazy, and kisses your collarbone. “god i missed you.”
you soften,smile curling your lips again. “i missed you too. just not...like this. impaled on a pillar.”
he snorts, then drops his forehead to your chest, groaning dramatically.
“this is tragic. my girl can’t take my dick anymore. how will we survive.”
“we could just cuddle. like normal people.”
he lifts his head, scandalised. “cuddle? baby. fuck no. i literally flew nine hours. i ate airplane pasta for you. you can’t take this from me.”
you burst out laughing. “what? what does airplane pasta have to do with anything?”
“everything. it was ass. i suffered. now i need my reward.”
you wipe your eyes, still laughing softly. “you’re so dramatic.”
but then you look at him proper – messy hair, pink cheeks, that sharp jawline, the way his eyes are soft even when he’s teasing. and you want him. even if it hurts a little. even if you’re tight and out of practice and your body forgot how to relax around him.
you bite your lip. “what if...we just leave it in. for a bit.”
his eyebrows shoot up. “you mean cockwarming?”
you roll your eyes. “don’t make it weird.”
“you want to sit on my dick like a lil’ space heater. say it.”
“dean.”
“fine, fine.”
he laughs, but he obliges. slowly – agonisingly slowly – he pushes in just the tip. then a little more. you hiss, and he stops immediately, his voice dropping soft.
“you okay?”
you nod, breathless. “just....thick. too thick. you’re like a freaking light post.”
he snickers. “and you’re a stale croissant. tight and unyielding.”
“that’s not sexy.”
“you’re not sexy.”
“take it back.”
“no.”
but then he leans down and kisses your forehead with a loud smooch. his hand comes up to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the tangles. and he doesn’t move – not a single thrust – just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, his weight a warm, solid pressure.
“this is kinda nice,” you whisper.
“i know. you’re warm. like a little oven.”
you flick his forehead, but you’re smiling. his eyes are closed, his breathing evening out. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he hums, content.
you fall asleep like that – him still inside, you curled around him, both of you finally still. and when you wake up the next morning?
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