⌗ ⠀ jack abbot ⠀ ✗ ⠀𝒇 ! reader .⠀ ⠀ㅤ𓂅⠀ ⠀fluff ༝ smitten old man abbot ༝ younger ! senior resident ! reader ༝ age gap ༝ romance ✴︎ 𝒎𝓲𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 .
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⠀ 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 !
OO1 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀jack doesn’t realize at first bc he’s too focused on his side hobby & job to notice the way his body reacts to your presence .. until dana throws a comment at him invading personal space more than he should
OO2 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀once he realizes it , it causes a huge internal breakdown bc he thinks it’s way too inappropriate : you’re his resident ( the best one , but he would never say it ) . it’s strictly professional between the two of you . your relationship is pretty much based on reciprocal trust & the value you both have for each other’s competences . yet … the warmth in his stomach lingers and his thoughts always get confused between the need to praise you and praise your successful interventions with words that could been as inappropriate in a professional environment
OO3 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀it’s a very long process but once he admits it after weeks of contemplating your beauty from afar . that’s when it become more insufferable bc it becomes harder to interact with you without letting anything on about his crush on you . yeah , he hards a very hard time but he actually nails it .. until you’re robby who immediately spotted the change in his body language when you’re around
OO4 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀if you ever lose a patient ( yeah sadly , it happens ) he always make sure to check on you . most of the time you go isolate yourself somewhere — can be the break room , the roof .. no matter where you are he’ll come find you and gives you words of encouragement , even hug you if necessary .
“ it wasn’t your fault , okay ? you did what you could . ” he would way with a soft lower tones , which is apparently enough to make you feel better ( he hopes )
OO5 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀jack is .. a gentleman ( some people would say he is so he started to believe it himself ) . he would do more for you than he does to other people : holding doors for you when you enter or exit a room , always brings you food at random times of the night and he apparently always choose the perfect moment bc it’s always when your system needs a boost . he’s also very observant because he always brings you your favorites snacks ( he saw you eat some a few times during your short breaks and immediately took notes )
OO6 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀you ever have financial problems ? jack doesn’t mind paying things for you . got a little trouble to pay your bills ? he send you the money , tell you it’s not a big deal when you tell him it’s too much . don’t have money to go grocery shopping ? he’ll just send some delivery at your doorstep and when you ask him if it’s him he’ll just deny it
OO7 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀his stomach always flips whenever you say his last name . he’s just the way you say it , really . and he think it’d be worse if you ever called him by his first name .. he’s a teenage boy all over again
OO8 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀the first time he sees you without your scrubs and , it’s at some bar nearby the hospital where everyone is gathered to share a beer . he’s immediately in awe , as he never saw you in normal clothes before that night .
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
warnings: pure smut. threesome / sharing reader. unprotected. piv. oral. dirty talk. slight degrading. teasing. begging. etc.
read as a standalone, or read part one first. up to u!
you didn’t know how you could ever look logan in the eye. you couldn’t just ignore it, like you didn’t just have the best orgasm of your life at just the suggestion of both of them. garrett deep inside you, encouragingly whispering in your ear that logan was just a room over listening.
garrett didn’t mention it again for a few days. it was quiet, almost too quiet.
then it started with a text.
garrett: logan could use some help studying
this almost made you choke.
you: right because we do a lot of studying
garrett: mhm we do
garrett: what would you think about helping us both
garrett: at the same time
you: interesting
garrett: it is
garrett: but that’s too vague of an answer for me
you couldn’t believe he was going to make you admit this, but you knew he wouldn’t even consider it without being certain.
you: yes
garrett: yes what?
you: yes i want to
you: help you both
you: at the same time
garrett: good girl
garrett: i’ll think about it
now, it was officially impossible to stop thinking about it. the fact you didn’t know when made it so much harder. you already noticed the way logan looked at you and now, every little interaction was setting your body on fire. watching him chew on the back of his pen in class, crack his knuckles, lick his lips, everything made you ache.
and garrett… something about how open he was to this made you more desperate for him than ever.
the weekend finally came, so did your usual hang out at their house…
“garrett! this is a brand new top!” you complain at his drink that made its way spilled down your shirt.
“oh, please. it’ll come out. why don’t you head upstairs and dry yourself off? let me just help everyone else out and i’ll meet you in a minute.” garrett says with a wink.
the wink is the only thing that stops you from huffing. after all, you need him after this week so you’re more than happy to skip upstairs. except in his room, you find logan sitting on the bed.
“oh. h-hey. sorry– my shirt got a little wet.” you say caught off guard at finding him in here.
“i can see that.” logan says with a laugh, eyes darting away from your chest quickly even though you know he saw and have heard enough.
he pulls off the hockey tee he’s currently wearing, handing it to you without a word leaving him only in grey sweatpants. it takes so much strength not to eye him up and down for long.
“oh, thanks.” you say shyly, before turning around to take off the wet shirt. you hear him move, possibly to get out of your way and you can’t stop yourself. “actually, do you think you can help me get this off? the hooks are kinda tricky.”
“course.” he responds. he moves behind you before pulling all of your hair to one side, to expose the back hooks of your top. his warm fingers quickly brush your neck before finding the top button. at first you wonder if you’re overthinking every touch, until he starts to speak.
“y’know, you sounded really pretty the other night…” he mutters breathily in your ear. his bluntness catches you off guard.
he always seemed shy around you, but i guess that was technically before garrett gave permission. the first hook of the top opens with even just another inch of your back feeling exposed to him floods your stomach with butterflies.
“oh, right. sorry about that. i forget how thin the walls are.” you come up with nervously, holding your breath at how close he is. another hook comes undone.
“hm, really?” he asks playfully. “kinda sounded like you wanted to me to hear. i mean you’re always loud… trust me. fuck… especially when you beg– but something was different. wasn’t it?”
before you have to come up with a response, you’re interrupted by garrett who you almost didn’t hear sneak in. the sound of him locking the door behind you makes it click that this was a plan all along. if your face wasn’t already bright blushing red, it is now.
“there’s our favorite girl… god, you poor thing, got you so soaked. huh?” garrett mocks, chuckling at how your eyes look like a deer in headlights. he plays dumb at the play on words. “i mean the top, doll.”
as logan holds the last hook along your back closed, just two fingers holding it from showing your whole bare skin. he nods his head to the shirt in your hand now being gripped tight, “you still want to cover up?”
“or… we can show logan here what you’ve been thinking about… what all that noise is about.” garrett says, face to face with you now. he runs his hands through your hair looking into your eyes, his darkening with dominance.
“please.” you manage to get out.
“please what? gonna have to get specific if you really want it that bad.” logan teases, nipping down at your neck making you squeal.
“please, fuck me. both of you.” you admit. logan snaps the last hook of your top letting it drop to the floor with a cocky grin.
“atta girl. see, logan… look. when you want to keep her quiet, you just gotta keep her mouth full.” garrett says, gently pushing down on the top of your head to get you on your knees. you obey quickly turning around to face logan who’s already unbuckling his jeans.
“fuck. good idea. should’ve thought of that…” logan groans as you eagerly take his cock into your mouth. garrett’s hands grip your hair making you let out a choked moan around him.
you make eye contact with logan as you take him, heart fluttering as he lets out satisfied breath of relief. after all, you’ve been driving him crazy for weeks. “g-god. fuck yes” logan sighs in pleasure.
“she gets excited… not too much, sweetheart. didn’t show him the best part yet.” garrett taunts. you’re pulled away from his cock, making your own drool hang down your chin. you feel filthier than ever, and you love everything about it.
four strong hands on you all at once drives you crazy, to where you can’t even tell which is which as they pull you to the bed. one tugs your skirt down to the floor, another yanks down your panties.
you get on all fours on the bed, as both of their mouths explore your skin. garrett bites along your neck, certain to leave possessive hickeys. logan is much more gentle with his tongue tracing along your thigh until he reaches your pussy. his tongue pokes at your clit softly making you sigh in pleasure, until he quickly takes it away. “please,” you beg.
“nah. you teased me for weeks behind that damn wall. think i’m gonna give you everything you want that easy? garrett spoils you too much.” logan says, giving your folds one last teasing lick before backing off even though he probably punished himself more doing so. garrett’s laugh feels evil creating goosebumps along your skin.
laying your head down on the bed with your ass up in the air, you turn your head to catch eye contact with logan behind you. he’s right, garrett spoils you. if you want it, you’re going to have to show him how you always get your way. after all, he apparently already knows what your begging sounds like.
“please, logan… i’m sorry… sometimes it just feels so good. then i get loud on purpose because i want you to fuck me too. please… i won’t wake you up anymore, i promise. i’ll be so good.” you plead, letting your eyes flutter with desperation. you know you’re as exposed as you’ll ever get right now, spread out for two guys and begging like a whore. but you need it, and you’re not ashamed anymore.
“fuck— what do you think garrett? sincere?” logan asks, refusing to look away from your eyes. he doesn’t want to think about how hard it’s going to be to probably have to forget them after this, refusing to waste a second. garrett reaches his hand to feel how wet you are, before responding “very.”
logan wastes no time at that answer pushing in to your entrance, groaning and throwing his head back immediately at the feeling. “fuck. if i didn’t hear it every night, i wouldn’t believe you were fucking her. so tight.”
garrett cups your face with one hand roughly making you look up at him, now with his other hand on his cock just inches away from your face. “she’s such a good girl, isn’t she?”
you cry out at the feeling of logan’s cock filling you up, dripping wet now as he slams in and out of you. garrett holds eye contact with you as he watches you take it, letting you enjoy it for a moment before he puts you to work.
you can’t help but smile as you look up at him, mumbling a “thank you” as he lets his best friend rail you. he smirks back as he rubs his thumb kindly along your cheek.
garrett’s cock fills your mouth, as you let out muffled moans around it. he grips your hair hard to keep hold while logan’s thrusts rock the bed too. the sound of both of their grunts is enough to send you over the edge.
your ears ring and your vision blurs, as you’re sent into pure bliss. you could hear a faint “fuck, yeah she’s cumming.” from one of them but are too fucked out to focus on which one. logan’s lips encouragingly kiss along your back.
your orgasm sends both of theirs quickly behind. logan pulls out of you, shooting his warmth along your back. your mouth floods with the familiar taste of garrett’s cum, swallowing every drop in obedience. your body falls apart on the bed, feeling sensitive in every part of you.
And not in the cute, sitcom kind of way people imagined when they watched shows New Girl. It was actually the exact opposite.
It was difficult on the inside and out. When people found out you lived in the hockey house with four Division I athletes, there was no ‘ooh, that must be so fun’ unless it came from some lust filled puck bunny that only had the nastiest of fantasies. To people with actual working brains, more questions always followed their judgmental looks. Thing like ‘why, ‘how long’, ‘are you dating any of them’, ‘is that allowed’. Which you understood, but could only answer with one phrase.
“It’s a long story.”
Because it was! Getting into the intricacies of how you started the schools, and first ever, collage hockey cheer squad was too much: it always sounded like you were bragging about something that you didn’t see as a big deal. Plus, no one wanted to hear about how you despised the concept of bunking with a complete and total stranger for the sake of the college experience, especially when they were doing the same thing.
On the inside of the home, however, living with boys was even more difficult because… well, you actually had to live with them.
Living with boys was hard in a deeply specific, deeply exhausting way no one warned you about.
First, it was because boys were disgusting.
Not always and sometimes not intentionally, but sometimes and for some reason, even maliciously. Like that one time Dean left a condom in the shower because Logan ate his leftovers that Tucker made. You didn’t know if it was a man thing, or a sports thing, but they moved through life with a level of casual recklessness that made you wonder how any of them had survived into adulthood.
And the house itself reflected that.
At first glance, it looked like any off-campus athlete house. Loud with the occasional party, sort of worn-in due to said parties. It also constantly smelled of detergent and sweat.
But there were traces of you.
Your pink throw blankets were draped over the couch because the you always got cold and the boys knew nothing about buying decent blankets themselves. Your Vogue magazines were spread across the coffee table beside their sports journals and empty Gatorade bottles. There were tiny decorative glass bowls full of hair ties and bobby pins sitting in random places throughout the place because you kept losing them.
There was a lemon blossom candle on the kitchen counter that Dean lit it more than you did. He eventually stole it to put in his room for his after shower activities, but the touch was yours nonetheless.
Your shoes by the front door mixed into piles of massive sneakers and hockey bags was a contrasting sight. Your colorful sandals, soft Ugg boots and fuzzy animal house slippers. Your skincare products that lined one side of the downstairs bathroom sink stuck out next to Logan’s beard trimmer that sat threateningly close to your toothbrush.
There was the small pros that you found cute as you passed through, looking at the way your vastly different lives were all intertwined this way. But with the pros, comes the cons. And some cons might be to your doing as well.
There were the packages. God, the packages. The delivery driver knew you by name and you knew his. It was Anthony.
Boxes of PR constantly showed up at the house, to the point where neither them nor you could keep up. PR packages from makeup brands, clothing collaborations from boutiques that used your Instagram for promotion. There were skincare launches, cheer gear, women’s protein bars with aesthetically pleasing packaging because apparently gut health had to not only be gendered for some reason but become your entire personality this semester.
Though you found it stupid, you were doing it for the cheque. And the products worked because Garrett seemed to love them.
Dean once opened the front door and stared at the stack of boxes awaiting outside.
“What the hell is all this?” He asked exasperatedly, looking over at you, who sat in the couch. You glanced up from your laptop, peeking over the couch as if you could see the packages on the porch. “Probably PR.” You shrugged before going back to your screen.
“There are, like, ten boxes here.”
“Yeah.” You muttered, still clicking away on your laptop, not even looking up this time.
“Why?” He questioned, absentmindedly moving to load the boxes of various sizes into the home and sit them by the door. He lifted them up, dressed in nothing out gym shorts and slides, and closed the door with his foot. “I mean, who needs this much stuff? What even if half of this?”
You let out a small sigh, leaning back in the couch as you looked up at the blonde man. “What can I say Dean, the brands love me.” You shrugged with a cocky smirk before chuckling.
Dean scoffed and cut his eyes towards Garrett. “I picked the wrong career.”
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Living with boys also meant your things slowly stopped becoming just yours.
Your blankets became communal blankets that barely covered you since you had to share with Logan’s huge body. Your expensive vanilla syrup for coffee was now used in Tuckers cocktail recipes. The fridge you so carefully organized slowly became demented into disarray as if it was ravaged by some beast, especially because Tucker cooked like a suburban mother feeding a family of seven.
Every Sunday, Tucker stood in the kitchen for hours meal prepping while music played low through a speaker. He moved around the kitchen with efficiency, his broad shoulders hovering over simmering pots. The place was warm as something baked in the oven and the entire home just smelled great when Tucker cooked.
The feeling almost made up for the rest of the boys existing.
Almost.
You had your own section in the fridge. Well, you were supposed to.
Tucker, the cute gentleman that he is and was raised to be, respected it. The others did not.
Your shelf was painfully recognizable compared to theirs. You had your glass jars filled with matcha or chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding. There was your coconut water, almond milk, and lemonade alongside your fresh fruit and sweet streets. In the door was your wellness shots that tasted like shit. And last but not least, your coconut cult probiotic yogurt.
Garrett liked called your grocery hauls ‘rich girl rabbit food’, which was ironic considering he ate enough food in a day to feed a small village. But you knew it was just a joke, especially since he’s seen your late night door dash orders.
Still, you bought those things for a reason. Whether it was your skin, your stomach health, your energy levels. It all went into your focus for cheer, which was important to you.
Being captain of the cheer team meant constant appearances, performances, uniforms, cameras, and social media posts. You couldn’t survive off frozen pizza and energy drinks, as much as you wanted to, the way the some boys somehow did. Trust though, you did indulge yourself whenever you seen fit.
Unfortunately, the boys viewed your food as fascinating, like zoo animals discovering their enrichment toys.
One afternoon, after your morning yoga session in the attic, you padded downstairs in green leggings and an oversized Briar U sweatshirt, water bottle dangling from your hand.
The house was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet for your liking, which caused you to narrow your eyes immediately.
You rounded the corner before turning into the kitchen, and that’s when you spotted them.
Dean and Garrett were standing in front of the open fridge, spoons in hand and substance in their mouths. They seemed to enjoy whatever they were eating, humming in content.
You furrowed your brows before your eyes dropped to the jar in Deans hands. He was holding your yogurt. Your Coconut Cult yogurt.
Dean was actively eating from the jar while Garrett slightly grimaced through another spoonful, mildly enjoying its taste.
You froze at threshold of the kitchen, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “Oh my God.” You said, hands coming up to cover your mouth.
Both boys looked up at you, frozen like they were caught red handed. Which they were.
Dean swallowed. “Hey.” The words got clogged in his throat, trying to speak and swallow what he thought was a dessert.
“That jar is forty dollars worth of yogurt.” You snipped, eyes bouncing between them.
Garrett blinked. “Forty—”
“You ate my Coconut Cult?!”
Dean frowned down at the small jar. “It’s yogurt.” He scoffed. “And it definitely shouldn’t be forty bucks.”
“It’s probiotic yogurt!”
Garrett took another bite and immediately regretted it. “Is that why it has that weird aftertaste?”
“Yes!”
“So you buy this spoiled tasting yogurt on purpose?”
You marched across the kitchen in disbelief, snatching the jar from Dean’s hand like a mother catching teenagers with alcohol. “I eat this for my gut health, you idiots! You know I’m lactose intolerant!”
Dean leaned against the counter lazily. “Okay, we’ll owe you.” He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t know the chocolate moose yogurt was special and forty fucking dollars.” He chuckled in disbelief.
“Like you can’t afford it.” Garett mumbled.
“You two are going to regret this later.” You hissed, throwing the jar and what’s left over, in the trash. It’s not like you could use the rest anyway with the way they were digging back and forth into the probiotic.
Garrett scoffed. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He questioned, watching as you rounded the counter to walk away from them.
You paused, turning to stare at them for a long moment.
Then you slowly smiled. “You’ll see.” You grinned before making your way back upstairs, confused in what you can down for in the first place.
Tucker walked in halfway through the silence you left, carrying grocery bags. His eyes moved between the two boys, who was left frozen in your wake.
“What happened?”
“They ate her Coconut Cult,” Logan called from the living room, where he was playing a Mario Kart on the television.
Tucker let out a small chuckle in disbelief as she placed the bags in the counter. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, you idiots.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“That stuff has like a billion probiotics in it.”
Garrett’s face slowly changed while Dean still didn’t seem to get the point yet.
“And that means?” He questioned, eyeing the pair in the kitchen.
“Oh no.” Garrett mumbled, placing his head in his hand, holding himself up in the kitchen island. Dean eyed him, while Tucker chuckled in amusement.
“Bro, what? Come on, tell me.” The blonde urged.
“If you took more than a spoonful of that, you’re gonna shit your brains out.” Tucker smiled, moving around them to load the fridge full of food.
Deans face dropped as Logan’s chuckles echoed into the kitchen.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Then there’s the bathroom situation, which somehow managed to be even worse than the food situation.
Because the attic that you lived in only had a tiny half-bath. Just a toilet and sink squeezed beneath slanted ceilings. Meaning for showers, you had to use the downstairs bathroom. The shared house bathroom.
The one that you shared with four hockey players.
There were not enough candles or cleaning products in the world to emotionally prepare someone for sharing a bathroom with men.
You cleaned constantly.
Constantly.
You wiped the counters, refolded towels, reorganized the cabinet products, cleaned the floors. Anything to aid in stopping the place from delving into a yuck fest within hours.
One time Logan left a pair of compression undershorts hanging from the shower rod for three days.
Three. Days.
“You guys live like rats.” You complained, thudding down the stairs, gloves still on from scrubbing the bathroom counter. It was dark out, the soft sound of rain pelting the windows. “Logan, I’m throwing these shorts away.” You deadpanned, only gaining a shrug in response from the man.
Dean lounged against the archway of the living room, eating cereal straight from the box. “And yet you stay.” He grinned, eyes in the tv, where some rival team shame tape played.
“Unfortunately, I’ve grown attached.” You muttered, walking over to the kitchen trash can to rid yourself of the rubber gloves.
“Aww, to us?” Logan questioned with a smile, glancing over from the living room couch.
“To Tucker’s cooking.” You quipped, flashing him a large beam. His smile dropped, causing you to chuckle as you leaned against the wall opposite to Dean.
Speaking of, he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “How cruel, puck princess.” He chuffed, which instantly wiped the smile from your face. You reached over, slapping his arm.
“I told you about that name.” You said through clinched teeth. All while Dean just laughed, showing all of his pearly whites.
“Well, you hurt my feelings.” He shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
The problem with sharing a bathroom, though, was the complete destruction of privacy.
There was absolutely none. People, roommates and strangers alike, barged in constantly because apparently locks meant nothing nowadays. You were never in the habit of locking the bathroom door before you moved in with these people.
One night after practice, steam from the shower you just took was still clinging to your skin and you stood at the sink brushing your teeth while wrapped in your fluffy pink towel.
Dean stood beside you, half his faced covered in shaving cream and his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips while music played softly from his phone on the counter.
It was oddly domestic, but the usual after a few years living together. It was now your norm to do such things. And everything was fine, same as always.
Until you opened the drawer looking for floss. There, sitting very obviously amongst your hair ties and face masks was a hot pink vibrator.
You paused mid-brush, brows furrowed.
Dean noticed you stopping immediately, the chill vibe shifting to something else.
His eyes followed yours downward, and once they were placed onto what caught your attention, they widened in horror.
Painfully slowly, what you could see of his face started turning red.
You looked at him the same time he looked at you. I enter of you spoke for a while, just staring at each other like you were both caught in the middle of some compromising position.
Then the bathroom door opened and Tucker stepped inside holding folded towels before stopping dead in his tracks.
His eyes darted between the two of you, faces red and frozen in your half dressed states. He then glanced at the drawer, seeing the item, and then back up at you two.
A long silence followed, and his innocent stare gave nothing away.
Finally, Dean pointed aggressively.
“That’s not mine.” You both said at the same time.
“At all,” You added quickly.
Tucker blinked twice before he simply backed out of the bathrooms towels still in hand.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you two in silence again, though this time more charged than before.
You then burst into laughter, so hard toothpaste nearly came out of your nose. That broke the tension between you two, causing Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his half shaven face while still blushing violently. “Oh my God.”
Living with boys is hard. It’s exhausting and loud and invasive. It was a feat that meant never knowing peace.
But sometimes it also meant coming downstairs at two in the morning unable to sleep and finding Tucker making grilled cheese in the kitchen.
It meant Garrett silently carrying your PR packages upstairs because he knew they were heavy. Or Logan shoving vitamins toward you after practice because you “forgot your weird supplements this morning.”
And sometimes it meant Dean falling asleep on the couch under one of your pink blankets while a face mask on and a leopard print headband that sat on his forehead because you convinced him to do skincare with you.
The house was chaotic and messy. Sometimes a bit overcrowded. But somewhere between it all, it became home.
⌗ ┆𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 . ᐟ . . . garrett graham & dean di laurentis
SUMMARY, you and garrett had planned a steamy evening together, only to find out he invited Dean.
A/N, dean and garrett. how can it get any better than that? if you see any writing errors pls message me!
WARNINGS, threesome, p in v, 18+ smut.
The weight room smelled like sweat, rubber mats, and the faint sting of pre-workout powder hanging in the air.
Music blasted through the speakers while hockey players crowded every machine, yelling over each other between sets. Plates clanged against bars, sneakers squeaked against the floor, and somewhere near the treadmills somebody was aggressively failing a bench press.
Garrett Graham sat at the bench press station with his elbows resting on his knees, breathing hard after finishing a set. Sweat darkened the collar of his black compression shirt, curls damp and pushed messily off his forehead.
Dean stood beside the rack spotting him, one hand gripping his water bottle while the other rested lazily against the bar.
“One more rep,” Dean said with a grin. “Unless your muscles finally gave up.”
Garrett shot him an exhausted glare before sitting up straighter. “You talk too much.”
Dean smirked. “And yet you’re still here.”
Garrett ignored that completely, grabbing his towel and wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. But Dean noticed the distracted look on his face immediately.
Garrett kept staring off toward the mirrors like he was thinking too hard about something.
Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. “Alright, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie,” Dean replied instantly, taking a sip of water while watching him carefully. “You look like you’re about to ask me for emotional advice.”
Garrett let out a dry laugh under his breath before standing up from the bench. “Look Dean, you’ve been with a good amount of women”
Dean nearly dropped his bottle.
“Oh my God,” he said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “I always knew this day would come”
Garrett rolled his eyes and walked toward the dumbbell rack. “This doesn’t leave the weight room. We’re not having this conversation”
Dean followed closely behind him, grin growing wider. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Garrett grabbed two dumbbells harder than necessary. “It’s just that, I really want it to be good for her”
Dean shakes his head “If it’s her first time, she might not cum”
“Not an option. She has to cum” Dean’s eyebrows lifted instantly.
“Respect”
Dean leaned against the rack beside him, still grinning like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “Who is she?”
“No one.” Garrett shook his head in annoyance, but there was the faintest hint of embarrassment written across his face.
Dean noticed that too. Which only made this better.
“Alright,” Dean said finally, calming down slightly. “First of all, don’t be weird.”
Garrett looked offended immediately. “I’m not weird.”
“Well.. there’s one thing that helps a girl cum. The single, most effected, highly recommended, enjoyed by all tools at your disposal” he points at Garrett.
“Trust” he finally lets out.
Garrett opened his mouth to argue before stopping himself.
Dean shrugged casually, spinning his water bottle in his hand. “She’s got to feel completely safe. Relaxed.”
Garrett stayed quiet for a second before finally saying, “She’s your childhood best friend.”
Dean blinked. Then his entire expression changed.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Her.”
Garrett instantly looked annoyed. “Don’t start.”
Dean laughed softly under his breath, shaking his head. “This makes so much sense now.”
Garrett crossed his arms tightly. “I’m serious.”
Dean studied him for a moment before a knowing grin slowly appeared again.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I should probably come with you.”
Garrett frowned slightly. “Why?”
Dean looked at him like the answer was obvious. “Because she’s my childhood best friend.” Garrett stayed silent.
“She’ll be more comfortable if I’m there,” Dean continued casually, leaning one shoulder against the dumbbell rack. “And honestly? You clearly need guidance.”
Garrett scoffed. “I do not.”
Dean laughed immediately. “You absolutely do.” Garrett shook his head while trying not to smile.
Dean pointed at him confidently. “I’ll help you out. I’m doing you a favor.”
-
The knock at your dorm room door made you jump slightly.
You have had been sitting cross-legged on your bed surrounded by color-coded notes and open textbooks, quietly highlighting lines in your philosophy ethics reading when the sound interrupted the silence.
Your roommate was gone for the night, which meant you’d hadn’t been expecting anyone.
Especially not the both of them.
You pushed herself off the bed carefully and opened the door just enough to peek outside.
Garrett Graham was standing right in front of the door.
Your eyebrows lifted immediately.
Not because Garrett was there— but because Dean Di Laurentis stood beside him looking way too comfortable.
Your eyes widened instantly.
“Hey” Dean smiled brightly. “Missed us?”
You blinked at both of them, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. “Um…”
Your gaze flickered between them nervously before landing back on Garrett.
“You brought Dean?”
Garrett opened his mouth, but Dean answered first. “Okay, before you judge him,” Dean said while stepping inside casually, “he asked for my help.”
You moved aside automatically to let them in, though you still looked completely confused as she shut the door behind them.
The second both hockey players stood inside your tiny dorm room, the space suddenly felt painfully smaller.
Garrett’s broad shoulders nearly blocked part of your desk lamp light while Dean immediately made himself at home, tossing an energy drink onto her desk with an easy grin.
You stayed standing near the door awkwardly.
“What kind of help?” you asked quietly.
Garrett looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole already.
Dean, unfortunately, looked thrilled.
“Well,” Dean started proudly, dropping into your desk chair backward, “considering I’ve been with many women—”
Garrett groaned loudly. “Dean.”
“—I know a thing or two on how to pleasure a girl”Dean finished anyway, shrugging casually.
Your cheeks immediately warmed.
“Oh.”
You looked down at the floor for a second, clearly unsure how to respond to that.
Dean noticed instantly and laughed softly. “Relax, sweetheart. We’re gonna take good care of you.”
You watched nervously as both boys moved toward the bed.
Garrett sat first, leaving space between them intentionally. Dean sat on the other side a second later, stretching out comfortably like he’d been there a hundred times before.
You stayed frozen near the desk for a second.
Garrett looked up at you. “Don’t be shy. This is why you asked for my help, remember?”
Your stomach flipped a little at the way he said it so gently.
You climbed onto the bed carefully, sitting stiffly between them.
Garrett’s arm brushing lightly against yours. Dean leaning close enough for you to smell his cologne.
The warmth radiating from both sides of you. It made you nervous in a way you didn’t know how to handle.
“You’re nervous,” he said gently this time. Placing his hands between your thighs.
Your eyes widened instantly. “No—I’m not.”
Garrett glanced sideways at you. clearly unconvinced.
“You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable,” he said quietly. “Seriously.” You shook her head instantly. You wanted this.
Garrett’s eyes dart back to you, a flash of anxious anticipation darting beneath his composed facade. He appears somewhat taken aback for a moment, as if he's questioning whether this is actually happening.
He immediately recognizes the change, and as you lean in and put your lips to his, he smiles confidently and sweetly once more.
Garrett’s eyebrows flare up in shock, and then he's all in, his hand finding the small of your back and drawing you a little closer as the spark between you crackles.
Dean clears his throat, but a grudging smile appears at the corners of his mouth.
As soon as you bite your lip, Garrettt kisses your shoulder and Dean kisses your neck simultaneously. You catch your breath as you feel Garrett’s lips, which are light and warm like a teather. Your breath catches, shallow and irregular. Dean, on the other hand, silently and steadily plants soft kisses along your neck as if he's trying to commit the moment to memory.
With your eyes virtually rolling back, you appreciate the intimacy as you lean into the sensation. Warm fingertips gently rest on Dean’s arm as your other hand strands Garrett’s hair, tense around it, and holds his head against your skin.
A shudder runs down your spine when Garrett’s breath lightly touches your collarbone.
As if to reassure you that you are still here with him, his hand lightly touches your thigh.
You move just enough to slide your top off, causing a gentle rustle of fabric as it falls next to the bed. "Oh my" Garrett pants, his voice low and raspy, heavy with surprise and something desperate, as the breeze brushes over your bare shoulders, cooler than expected and giving you goosebumps.
Dean leans in slowly, his lips meeting yours with a tenderness that quickens your heartbeat.
Garrett’s hands gently touch your breasts as his mouth follows, planting brief, gentle kisses along the sensitive skin that are light enough to send a chill down your spine. His breath caught, and the heat from his palms and the breeze from the ceiling fan caused your nipples to tighten to the point of agony as they strained against your bra's lace.
With his eyes meeting yours, Dean pulls back, breathing in long, deliberate gasps. He maintains eye contact with you for a little while, perhaps requesting permission in silence. The air between you is electric, full of desire and expectation.
You give him the go-ahead with a little nod.
After observing Dean for a while, Garrett chuckles quietly to himself as if he's not going to be outdone. In one fluid action, he pulls his own shirt over his head and tosses it carelessly next to the bed.
Your fingers slowly find the zipper at your hip as you reach lower. The skirt pools at your feet as it slips down with a whisper of cloth against skin.
Unable to resist, Dean moved closer and ran his hand up your thigh, giving you chills. He grabs the lace panties that are on your knees, jerks them off entirely, and puts them in his pocket as you groan softly at his warm fingertips.
As Garrett fully removes your bra, exposing your breasts, you shudder. His mouth clamps onto a nipple. He is hot and eager. One of her hands was flowing through Garrett’s curls, drawing him further to your breasts, while the other was on Dean’s head, whose face was buried between your hips, tending to the aching desire deep within you.
Dean’s tongue licked the stripes between your pussy lips while his warm fingertips caressed your swollen clit with slow, careful circles. "Oh fuck" your hips twitch against his mouth, your back arching off the bed and into Garrett’s heated flesh as you moan as if he were the one getting all the pleasure. Dean raises his head, his chin glistening with your fluids and his own saliva.
They swiftly rise their hips and take off their boxers and pants all at once as your fingers find their waistbands and tug at the cloth.
They were swinging their cocks freely. Hard and pulsating with desire. You take Dean’s in your mouth and down your throat. Meanwhile, your hand goes out to caress Garrett’s cock, using your thin fingers to explore it and your thumb to tease its slippery, sensitive tip.
You alternate between them several times, taking Garrett’s whole length in your mouth, all the way down your throat. Your lips separate around him, hollowing your cheeks so that his hips buck. Dean, meantime, pants and groans while he watches you with Garrett.
Dean eventually positions himself over you, his thighs on either side of your hips, his intense eyes fixed on yours.
He moves, using your heat as lube mixed with his pre-cum, pressing the head of his cock against your folds as your thighs tighten into his sides. He also maintains eye contact.
Fuck.
The feelings were nearly overpowering. You are unable to concentrate on either Garrett’s gentle lips and tongue trailing kisses over your skin or the fire of his hazel eyes blazing through yours.
With a long, steady thrust, Dean’s cock vanishes within your body, causing your head to collapse onto the bed.
"Don't stop" as your hips rise uncontrollably in an attempt to draw Dean closer to you. Your head rolls back as Garrett reaches between your bodies to stroke your swollen clit while kissing your mouth while you groan.
"You're perfect" Dean pants in your ear, causing your face to heat up as he pushes his cock in and out of your sliding pussy.
“Good girl”
Dean’s moaning noises are nearly your downfall as you lick your lip and swallow. You attempt to cling to anything—a strong arm, anything. Dean, engrossed in his own orgasm, pulls you in closer by tightening your legs around his waist.
He hits the sweet spot dip between your hips and you arch off the bed. A broken moan escapes your mouth as you reach your climax. Dean is already spilling deep inside of you, painting your walls white with his cum. "My turn, man. Get off" Garrett spoke.
You were left feeling empty as Dean pulled out, but it didn't take long for you to be stretched out once more, this time with Garrett’s cock and Dean’s come making it easier to reach and move, causing your already delicate body to tremble.
"Harder" you gasp squeezing your thighs around. Garrett’s , eyes rolling back.
"Harder?"
"Yeah" you moaned urging him.
"Shit you like that huh?" He asks, his balls hitting your ass cheeks as he thrusts deeper inside of you in a mocking manner.
You groan, "I love it," as Dean’s tongue marks his territory once more on your neck and his hot, tingly breath touches your skin.
Garrett’s thrusts are slow and deliberate. They had their hands all over the place. Garrett is on your breasts, cupping and squeezing your skin as his breath tickles your ear, while Dean is nibbling on your neck. 
Garrett reaches his climax rapidly.
His raspy "Jesus" is enough to send a chill down your spine and push you over the brink.
After a few minutes, “She’s out,” he said quietly.
Dean stopped immediately, glancing over.
You we’re curled slightly onto your side now, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, and your breathing had slowed enough that it was obvious you’d been asleep for at least a few minutes.
Garrett looked down at you for a second before brushing a few strands of hair carefully away from her face.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said softly, pressing a light kiss against your forehead.
Then Dean leaned down beside him, quieter and more hesitant, like he was still figuring out how to be gentle with someone like you.
“Sleep well,” he murmured before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead too.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ PAIRING. garrett graham x inexperienced! reader
SYNOPSIS. you lose your virginity to the Garrett Graham.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ WARNINGS. 18+ smut
⤷ ˎˊ˗ authors note, my obsession for garrett and off campus is growing every second. i need s2 so bad. ALSO this is one of my fav things i’ve written so far so i hope you guys enjoy! leave reqs in my inbox! i love hearing your thoughts :)
Garrett hovered above you, his hazel eyes full of laughter and want, while you lay on the mattress, breathing quickly and trembling. "Still sure about this, baby?" he murmured in a low, husky voice as his fingertips brushed your naked side. His hands were on either side of your head, imprisoning you and making you feel small and owned. "Because once I'm inside you- there's no going back."
Biting your lip, you nodded. "Garrett, I want you. I want it to be you.”
He grinned darkly and contentedly at that. His tongue glided into your mouth as he moved in to give you a slow, deep kiss. Even if you hadn't said it yet, he owned every aspect of you.
You gasped as he proceeded slowly and deliberately down your body, pressing kisses to your throat, down your chest, and sucking at the skin just above your breast. Beneath him, you were shivering, nude, and softly squeezed your thighs together. However, he had already tasted everything. touched every single thing. "You're fuckin' perfect," he whispered as he ran his fingers over your hips after tasting it. “I’ve been waiting to fuck this tight little virgin pussy."
Your heart was pounding as you writhed. You said, "I need you, G”
He begins kissing your collar bone, which is visible through your shirt. He began putting small kisses on top of dark, bruised hickies that were all over your neck and chest. Garrett was able to comprehend what you needed since you continued to tighten your thighs. He kissed all the way down your stomach until he reached the top of your pajamas. When he gazed directly into your eyes, you nodded and pulled him in the direction of your tender spot.
Your underwear was still on when he took off your shorts. He dropped to his knees, moved your legs to either side of his shoulders, and looked directly into your eyes. He moved in closer and began kissing the inside of your thighs. When you made a quiet sound, he looked down and noticed the wet spot on your panties, which motivated him to assist you in solving your issue more quickly.
He began caressing your underpants in gentle circles. You muttered, "More please." He smiled at your condition; you're already drenched and he hasn't done much. "Whatever you need, baby." As he began to pull off your underwear, he said.
Garrett didn't spend any time. He took one hand away from you long enough to fumble at his belt, his fingers sloppy with urgency as he pulled it free. “I promise i’m going to take care of you. I’ll be gentle” he reassures you.
He didn't ease you into it or give you the typical easy slide in. As soon as he set himself free, he began to draw you in, aligning himself more out of need than patience. His breath caught as soon as he saw you, then he suddenly pushed in.
Your body clamped around him as the sudden, full stretch hit, causing you to cry out. Garrett’s head dipped forward as if the sensation had pushed the rest of him loose, and he moaned at the feel of it.
"Shi-"
The phrase cracked into something rougher in your throat.
Before your body could adjust or catch up, his hands grabbed your hips and began moving you once more. As he brought you into action, his hands clamped onto you, fingers digging in.
Garrett pulled out and in once more, barely an inch, but the blow was as forceful as the first. Your body tightened around him as if it couldn't decide whether to push him out or take him, and your hands shot to his shoulders, squeezing in as another cry escaped you.
He sensed it right away.
His hands gripped you more firmly, stabilizing, grounding, and preventing you from pushing away. "You're doing so good for me," he continued, his words harsh with admiration, his head lowering slightly so that his voice didn't have to travel far when he spoke. "You can take it. I'm sure you can. Just be relaxed, i’m right here with you”
You were aware that Garrett's comments were intended to be helpful, but that didn't stop the thoughts from hitting where it hurt the most.
No matter how tight the stretch grew, he continued to push in, inch by inch, never actually pausing or giving any of it back—just that constant pressure that kept growing. As your body struggled to take him, to open around something that still felt too much, you bit your lip and dug your fingernails into his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered against your skin, the words slipping out even as he continued. His mouth found your neck and stayed there, kissing, sucking, working at the same spot as if he knew exactly what it took to get you through this part and was doing it without letting you think too hard about anything else. "I'm almost there... you're taking me just right, just like that.."
At last, he pushed himself all the way in.
The stretch flared and calmed, and the sound that emerged from both of you followed. His sound was deeper and rougher, drawn directly from his chest as he fully filled you, while yours was intense and breathless.
At first, Garrett moved slowly, barely pulling out before pushing back in, as if he was allowing your body to acclimate to him while he remained heavy and deep. However, it was short-lived.
His hips drove into yours with greater power and intent as his rhythm quickened, each thrust coming a bit faster and harder.
It couldn't be anything else because of his size.
Your body drew in as if it didn't want to give up any of him; every push drove all the way in, and every time he pulled out, you immediately felt the loss of it, that abrupt, too obvious emptiness. Then he was within you once more, deep enough to cause the pain to resurface. It didn't end.
Every time he drove into you, his body moved over yours with only heat and weight, pushing you further into the sheets. The harsh sound of it filled the room next to you, and its intensity never lessened, each movement landing hard enough to keep your breath catching and shattering.
Your body was absorbing every inch of him as if it didn't know how to handle it, and the stretch and fullness were still too intense.
Even so, he felt incredibly amazing.
The sounds you were making no longer even attempted to make sense. Every time he pushed into you, they emerged uneven and strangled, catching somewhere between his name and something rougher and more broken that was pulled out of you repeatedly.
"That's it," he uttered in a low, strained voice, pausing between breaths as he observed you disintegrate beneath him. "Feels so good... you feel so good for me."
He moved onto one forearm, getting nearer and positioning himself just enough to grab your hand.
His fingers encircled it and then guided it lower, pressing your hand into your stomach at the exact spot where each of his thrusts struck.
Without warning, your body constricted around him, and as the pressure continued to rise, your breath caught again as it became heavier, sharper, and too much to ignore.
"Perfect for me," Garrett said, pressing your palm farther into it as he held you against it.
The words quickly overwhelmed you, causing your body to collapse around them. Your voice broke as it tore from you, and it was loud and unsteady. At the sensation, Garrett let out a low groan. His pace faltered for a brief moment before he continued to push through and drive into you as you broke apart beneath him.
Garrett leaned in and kissed you once more. His own breathing was harsh against your lips as his body pursued it, and he kissed you through every sound and aftershock that tore through you.
It struck all at once, a strong pulse that pushed him deeper into you, instantly warming you from the inside out.
All of it was felt by you.
The warmth. The weight of it. The way he remained there with it.
"You're perfect," he whispered against your lips, planting another kiss there as if he truly meant it. "You did so good, baby..." he said, his mouth sliding against yours as his voice became low and steady once more.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ PAIRING. garrett graham x childhood bsf! reader
SYNOPSIS. garrett finally confesses he’s been in love with his childhood bestfriend for years.
⤷ ˎˊ˗ authors note. childhood bestfriends are one of my fav tropes. i hope you guys enjoy!
Garrett Graham had spent most of his life loving her quietly.
Not in the dramatic, instant way people talked about in movies. It was slower than that. Softer. Built over years of bike rides at sunset, scraped knees, shared secrets, and knowing each other so completely that sometimes words weren’t even necessary anymore.
She had been seven years old the first time they met, standing on his porch with tangled curls from the humidity and glitter sneakers lighting up every time she moved.
“You live here?” she’d asked, clutching a soccer ball against her hip while squinting up at him suspiciously.
“Obviously,” Garrett had replied, rolling his eyes even though his mouth twitched like he was already trying not to laugh.
She narrowed her eyes before kicking the soccer ball directly at his chest.
Garrett stumbled backward with a loud grunt, staring at her in disbelief while she burst into laughter right there on his porch.
And somehow, that was it.
From then on, they belonged in each other’s lives.
By thirteen, she was stealing his hoodies without asking.
By Sixteen, Garrett was driving her home after every choir rehearsal because he “didn’t trust other drivers,” even though he barely trusted himself behind the wheel.
By seventeen, everyone assumed they were dating. But they never were.
They existed in this strange, fragile in-between.
Too close to be ordinary friends.
Too scared to become something more.
Because what if they ruined it?
What if one kiss destroyed the only constant thing either of them had ever known?
So Garrett stayed quiet.
Even when she looked breathtaking at prom.
Even when she fell asleep on his shoulder during late-night movie marathons. He stayed quiet because losing her would destroy him.
And she stayed quiet too.
College only made everything worse. Or maybe better. Garrett couldn’t tell anymore.
Because now she goes to the same college as him, which meant she was everywhere. In his dorm. At hockey games. In the library stealing bites of his food while pretending she didn’t want her own.
And Garrett noticed everything.
He noticed how her laugh changed depending on who she was with.
How she tucked her hands into the sleeves of his hoodies when she was tired.
How she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.
It drove him insane.
One night, she sat on Garrett’s dorm floor surrounded by textbooks while rain hammered against the windows outside. The room smelled faintly like coffee and laundry detergent, and Garrett kept catching himself staring at her instead of studying.
“You’ve read the same sentence four times,” she said softly, not looking up from her notebook while she twirled a pen between her fingers.
Garrett blinked. “What?”
“That paragraph.” She pointed lazily toward his laptop before finally glancing up at him. “You’re not even pretending to focus anymore.”
He leaned back in his chair slowly, eyes fixed on her face. “Maybe you’re distracting.”
A smile tugged at her lips instantly, but she ducked her head like she was trying to hide it.
“That’s not my fault.”
Garrett watched her for another second too long.
And she felt it.
He knew she did because her movements slowed slightly, and suddenly the air in the room felt heavier.
More aware. Neither of them said anything after that.
But Garrett barely slept that night.
The breaking point came at a hockey party a month later.
The house was packed wall-to-wall with people, music blasting so loudly the floor vibrated beneath their shoes. Garrett was halfway through a conversation with Dean when he spotted her across the room.
And immediately forgot everything Dean was saying.
She stood near the kitchen counter talking to some guy Garrett had never seen before. Tall. Dark hair. One hand braced against the wall behind her while he leaned in too close.
Garrett’s jaw clenched instantly.
“She’s literally just talking,” Dean muttered beside him after following Garrett’s line of sight.
Garrett grabbed his drink harder. “I know.”
Dean snorted. “You look like you’re about to commit a felony.”
Garrett ignored him because she laughed softly at something the guy said.
Not a real laugh.
Garrett knew the difference.
This one was polite.
And then she started twisting the rings on her fingers.
Nervous habit. Garrett was moving before he even realized it.
He crossed the room quickly, weaving through people until he reached her side.
“There you are,” Garrett said, his voice low and tight while his hand instinctively brushed against the small of her back.
She looked up immediately, surprise flashing across her face. “Garrett?”
“We’re leaving.”
The guy frowned. “Uh, we were talking.”
Garrett finally looked at him, expression unreadable. “Not anymore.”
Her eyes widened slightly. She knew that tone.
It was the one Garrett used during hockey games right before fights.
“Garrett,” she said carefully, grabbing his wrist before things escalated. “Can we go outside?”
He nodded once.
Too angry to trust himself speaking.
Cold air hit them the second they stepped outside.
She crossed her arms over herself immediately. “What was that about?”
Garrett shoved his hands into his pockets roughly, pacing once across the porch before turning back toward her. “That guy was flirting with you.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t like it,” he admitted, frustration bleeding into his voice while he ran a hand through his hair.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “You didn’t like it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Garrett opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Because suddenly every excuse sounded pathetic.
She stared at him quietly, her breath visible in the cold air while snowflakes settled into her hair.
Then she spoke again, softer this time.
“Garrett…” She stepped closer slowly, searching his face. “What’s really going on with you lately?”
His chest tightened painfully at the question.
Because he knew exactly what was going on.
He was in love with her.
Had been for years.
And he was exhausted from pretending otherwise.
“You really wanna know?” Garrett asked quietly, his voice rougher now while his eyes locked onto hers.
“Yes,” she whispered immediately.
Garrett looked away for a second, jaw flexing like he was physically fighting himself.
Then he laughed softly under his breath, but there was no humor in it.
“I think I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t even remember what it feels like not to.”
The words hung between them.
Her breath caught instantly.
Garrett looked back at her slowly, vulnerability written all over his face now.
“I tried so hard not to,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly while emotion thickened his voice. “Because you’re my best friend. You’re… you’re the most important person in my life.”
She stared at him silently, eyes already beginning to shine.
“And I kept thinking maybe it’d go away,” Garrett continued, his voice quieter now. “Like maybe one day I’d wake up and you’d just be my friend again.”
“But then you’d smile at me…” He swallowed hard before meeting her eyes again. “Or you’d fall asleep on my shoulder, or call me when something good happened because I’m the first person you wanted to tell, and suddenly I was fourteen again feeling sick over you in math class.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Garrett noticed immediately.
His expression softened.
“I remember every version of you,” he whispered. “I remember your braces phase when you cried because you thought you looked ugly, and I wanted to punch every kid who made you feel that way.” He smiled faintly through the emotion. “I remember teaching you how to drive even though you almost crashed my car into a mailbox.”
She laughed shakily through tears, covering her mouth.
“And every single important moment in my life…” Garrett’s voice cracked slightly. “You were there. Every one.”
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Garrett looked at her like she held his entire heart in her hands.
“I think somewhere along the way,” he said quietly, “you stopped feeling like just part of my life.” His eyes glistened now too. “You became the person I wanted every part of my life with.”
Her face crumpled completely after that.
“Oh my God,” she whispered tearfully.
Garrett’s breathing turned uneven immediately. “I’m sorry. I know this is a lot, I just—I couldn’t keep pretending—”
“No.” She grabbed his jacket quickly, shaking her head while tears streamed down her cheeks. “No, Garrett, don’t apologize.”
He froze.
Because she was smiling through the tears.
“I’ve loved you too,” she admitted shakily, her voice trembling while she looked up at him like she couldn’t believe she was finally saying it. “For years.”
Garrett stared at her like the world had stopped spinning.
“What?”
“I tried not to,” she laughed weakly through tears. “God, I tried so hard because I didn’t wanna ruin us either.”
His eyes shut briefly like he physically felt the words.
“You’re my home,” she whispered. “You always have been.”
Garrett looked wrecked after that.
Completely wrecked.
She reached up slowly, touching his face carefully like she was afraid he’d disappear.
“I think I fell in love with you little by little,” she admitted softly. “And then all at once.”
Garrett let out the smallest broken laugh before pulling her against him instantly.
She wrapped her arms around his neck while he held her like he’d waited his entire life to finally do it.
And maybe he had.
When he kissed her, it wasn’t rushed.
It was emotional.
Deep.
Years worth of longing poured into one moment.
His hand trembled slightly against her cheek while she melted into him completely, and Garrett swore he had never felt anything more right in his entire life.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Garrett rested his forehead against hers while snow fell around them quietly.
“You know what kills me?” he murmured softly, thumb brushing beneath her eye to wipe away a tear.
“What?” she whispered.
“We could’ve had this years ago.”
She smiled through watery eyes, fingers intertwining with his.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “But maybe we needed all those years to realize this wasn’t just a crush.”
Garrett looked at her for a long moment before smiling in that soft, genuine way only she ever got to see.
a/n. Can’t say much, this is just how you and Dean roll.
warnings & tags. Established relationship. Headcanon. Petnames. No use of y/n. Kissing. English isn’t my first language. masterlist
❪ ⭑ ❫ Everyone thought they knew every side of Dean Di Laurentis, or at least his closest friends and family did, but they all had to take it back once they realized there was a completely unknown side of him. The side of Dean Di Laurentis in love.
❪ ⭑ ❫ At first, he thought it wouldn’t be obvious, but let’s be honest, since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever come home alone with a smile bigger than usual? Definitely since he met you.
❪ ⭑ ❫ It was impossible for Dean not to want you by his side every single day. From going together to Briar University every morning, to having you at every one of his hockey games.
❪ ⭑ ❫ He introduces you to everyone as “my girl” even in situations where it’s absolutely unnecessary. Delivery guy? “Thanks, man, my girl’s starving” Random freshman asking for directions? “Yeah, my girl and I can show you” Someone complimenting your outfit? “Yeah, my girlfriend has great taste” Nobody asked him if you were his girlfriend, but he’ll say it anyway with a big smile that could feel almost fake.
❪ ⭑ ❫ How could anyone forget the day you decided to play a small prank on Dean by wearing the team jersey with John Logan’s name on it. You had never seen Dean so serious in your life, in fact, you didn’t think anyone could look that serious. It’s also impossible to forget how he tossed the jersey aside, took off the one he was wearing, and put it on you without listening to a single word. “I could actually throw away every single one of his jersey’s if I ever see you again with one” he said that day rolling his eyes, but a smile appeared when he saw you smiling.
❪ ⭑ ❫ Dean is always there for you, so when it came to chasing your dreams, he was the one sitting in the front row, watching you with a smile that gave you confidence and made you feel safe.
❪ ⭑ ❫ You probably don’t know anyone more intense than Dean when it comes to hair caresses. It became a habit that every time you were lying down together, he’d rest his head on your chest and you had to run your fingers through his hair. It was impossible to stop until he was fully asleep, because otherwise a confused whisper like “Baby, don’t stop” followed with a pout.
❪ ⭑ ❫ You had never stepped foot on a rink in your life until Dean decided it would be fun. However, after several falls and endless teasing from the blond, he decided it was better to stay home watching your favorite movies, even though neither of you were actually watching the TV.
❪ ⭑ ❫ Dean is definitely not a morning person, but he becomes one if it means waking up with you tangled in his arms. He’ll bury his face in your neck, your head resting on his arm, and the other one on your waist pushing you against him, then mumble something like “Five more minutes, babe” and refuse to let you go even if you’re already an hour late. It was totally normal now to arrive late to places thanks to his bad habits and your lack of strength to refuse.
❪ ⭑ ❫ He pretends he doesn’t care when you steal his hoodies, but the truth is he loves it. He’ll tease you about hiding them, but the moment he sees you in your apartment wearing one, he gets that smug little grin that gives him away. Let’s not even talk about how he bites his lower lip and looks you up and down every time you show up at the University with one of his hoddies.
❪ ⭑ ❫ Dean isn’t subtle at all when it comes to PDA. If you’re out with friends, he’ll sit behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, rest his chin on your head (thanks to the height difference), and kiss your cheek every few minutes. Tucker calls it “gross” but Dean just flips him off, completely ignoring him.
❪ ⭑ ❫ After every game, even if he wins or loses, he searches for you first. The second he spots you, his whole expression softens in a way only you ever get to see, because he only feels this safe with you. He pulls you into his arms being all sweaty and catching his breath, to then bury his face in your neck for a moment longer than necessary, like he needs it to keep going. His voice always drops a little when he whispers “Thank you for coming, baby. I love you”
Chubs is having a hard time accepting herself for being an empath, but don't worry, big brother Sam is here to comfort her. (I'm not gonna lie to you, I'm lowkey projecting in this fic. If you relate to this, you are seen bebe, and I love you so much, I hope someone can hold you the way you wanted)
Sam frowned from the doorway of the bar as he looked out at the Impala sitting under the dim parking lot lights. The music inside thumped faintly behind him, laughter spilling out every time the door opened—but out there, it was quiet. Too quiet.
And she was still in the backseat.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes since she said she’d be right behind them.
Sam’s chest tightened.
He glanced back over his shoulder, catching sight of Dean leaning against the bar, grinning at something a waitress said, a beer already in his hand. Normal. Easy. Like the night had already moved on.
Sam didn’t.
He pushed the door open and stepped out, letting it swing shut behind him as the noise dulled again. The night air was cooler than he expected, brushing against his skin as he crossed the lot, eyes fixed on the car.
She hadn’t moved.
Still curled up in the backseat.
Still small.
“Hey,” he called softly as he approached, tapping lightly on the glass so he wouldn’t scare her.
No reaction.
He frowned deeper, then opened the door and slid into the seat beside her, the familiar smell of leather and old cologne wrapping around him.
“…You planning on living in here now, or—?” he tried lightly, nudging her knee with his.
She didn’t smile.
Didn’t even look at him right away.
That’s what did it.
Sam’s expression softened immediately, all the teasing gone in an instant as he turned toward her fully.
God.
He hated that look on her face.
“You know,” he said gently, glancing back toward the bar for a second before looking at her again, “fake IDs are kinda our thing. You can get a drink if you really want one.”
It’s stupid.
A small attempt.
But it’s all he’s got at first.
Chubs finally shifts, her eyes flicking up to him—but they’re glassy. Heavy. Like she’s been sitting in her own head for way too long.
“…I don’t want a drink,” she mutters.
Sam nods slowly.
“Okay.”
A beat.
“…Then what do you want, baby?”
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers pick at the sleeve of her jacket instead, tugging at a loose thread like it might unravel something bigger.
Sam watches her quietly, and he waits. Because he knows better than to push too fast.
“…You don’t have to go in there,” he adds after a moment, softer now. “We can just sit here. Or we can leave. Up to you.”
Her jaw tightens slightly.
“…I don’t wanna ruin it for you guys.”
Sam lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head.
“Hey—no. None of that.”
“You guys finally get a break,” she continues, voice small. “You should enjoy it.”
“Chubs,” he says gently, reaching out and stilling her hand where it’s picking at her sleeve. “You’re not ruining anything.”
She laughs weakly.
“…Feels like I ruin a lot of things lately.”
That hits something in his chest. “…Where’s that coming from?” he asks carefully.
She shrugs, eyes dropping again.
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Sam is met with a thick, heavy silence again. Before his baby sister starts to open up
“…I’m tired, Sam.”
His grip on her hand tightens slightly.
“I know, baby. We all are.”
She shakes her head.
“No. Not like that.”
He stills, “…Then what?”
Her breath wavers, “…I’m tired of being me.”
Sam’s stomach drops.
“Hey—”
“I am,” she insists, her voice breaking just a little now. “I’m tired of being the one who gets overwhelmed. The one who cries over everything. The one who can’t just… handle things like you and Dean do.”
Sam’s chest tightens painfully.
“Chubs—”
“I hate that I feel everything so much,” she continues, words spilling out now like she’s been holding them in for too long. “Every hunt, every loss, every stupid little thing—it just sticks. And you guys just… move on.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” she cuts in, shaking her head. “You’re strong, Sam. Both of you are. You push through. You fight. You don’t sit in the backseat of a car because you’re too overwhelmed to walk into a bar.”
Her voice cracks.
“I’m just… too much. Too sensitive. A crybaby.”
Sam goes very still. Because that’s not how he sees her, not even close.
“…Hey,” he says softly, shifting closer to her. “Look at me.”
She hesitates. Then slowly lifts her gaze, and there are tears there now. Of course there are.
Sam hates that. Hates that she thinks this is something to be ashamed of.
“…You think I don’t feel things?” he asks quietly.
She swallows.
“…Not like this.”
He lets out a small breath, shaking his head.
“Yeah, I do.”
She frowns slightly.
“You don’t cry like I do.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it,” he says gently. “I just… deal with it differently.”
She looks unconvinced.
“…Do you ever hate yourself?” she asks suddenly, voice small but steady.
The question catches him off guard.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Because it’s not a simple question.
“…Sometimes,” he admits finally.
She watches him closely.
“…Yeah?”
He nods.
“Sometimes,” he repeats. Then his expression softens, something warmer breaking through. “But not for long.”
She blinks.
“…Why?”
And that’s when he says it.
Soft.
Certain.
“Because I’m too busy loving you to hate myself.”
The words settle between them.
Heavy.
But not in a bad way.
Chubs’ breath catches sharply, like something in her chest just cracked open.
“…Sammy,” she whispers.
He shrugs slightly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“It’s kinda hard to sit there and tear myself apart when I’ve got you to worry about,” he says. “When I’ve got you to take care of. To love.”
Her eyes well up again. But this time, it’s different.
“…I don’t feel very lovable,” she admits quietly.
Sam’s expression softens even more.
“Yeah, well,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush a tear off her cheek with his thumb, “good thing that’s not up to you.”
A shaky breath leaves her.
“…You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy,” he says honestly. “But it’s real.”
She looks at him for a long moment.
“…What if I never get stronger?” she asks.
Sam tilts his head slightly.
“Who says you’re not already strong?”
She lets out a small, humorless laugh.
“Sam—”
“No, I’m serious,” he insists, his voice steady now. “You think strength is not crying? Not feeling things?”
“…Isn’t it?”
He shakes his head immediately.
“No. Strength is feeling all of that—and still showing up. Still caring. Still choosing to stay soft in a world that keeps trying to harden you.”
Her lips tremble.
“That doesn’t feel like strength.”
“Yeah,” he says gently. “It rarely does.”
Silence settles again.
But it’s softer now.
Less suffocating.
Sam squeezes her hand lightly.
“You’re not too much, Chubs,” he says quietly. “You’re just… a lot of heart in a life that doesn’t make room for it.”
That one breaks her.
She leans forward suddenly, burying her face into his shoulder as a quiet sob escapes her.
Sam doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around her immediately, holding her close, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head.
“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek lightly against her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”
She clings to him, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like she might fall apart if she lets go.
“I’m sorry,” she hiccups.
“For what?”
“For being like this.”
Sam pulls back just enough to look at her, his hands still steady on her shoulders.
“Don’t apologize for feeling things,” he says firmly. “Don’t ever do that.”
She sniffles, wiping at her face.
“…Dean doesn’t—”
“Dean feels too,” Sam cuts in gently. “He just hides it better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.”
That earns the smallest, weakest huff of a laugh.
“…He’s gonna tease me if he sees me like this.”
Sam smiles faintly.
“Yeah,” he admits. “He probably will.”
She groans softly.
“But,” Sam adds, nudging her lightly, “he’ll also sit next to you, shove a drink in your hand, and pretend he didn’t just spend ten minutes making sure you were okay.”
She glances at him.
“…He would?”
Sam huffs.
“Bubba, he was watching you from inside the bar for five minutes before I came out here.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“…He was?”
“Yeah,” Sam nods. “He just didn’t wanna spook you.”
“…You think I can go in there?” she asks quietly.
Sam studies her for a second, then smiles.
“Yeah,” he says. “But only if you want to.”
She takes a slow breath.
Then another.
“…Will you stay with me?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Always.”
She nods faintly.
“…Okay.”
Sam squeezes her hand, then nudges the door open.
“C’mon, baby.”
She hesitates for just a second, then takes his hand. She steps out with him. Not because she’s suddenly fixed. Not because everything’s okay. But because she’s not alone, she's sure her brothers will know how to hold her big heart. They will try their hardest to see things the way she does, to see the world from her point of view. Chubs believes that her brothers are her solace to be who she really is.
i’m on all 6s (hands, knees, and cheeks) for a sequel of the shauna ultra violence fic u wrote a while ago … follow ur heart but also maybe natalie gets involved………
⠀ ࣪ ִ⠀⠀⠀⠀ultraviolence ( pt 1 )⠀⠀⠀ ⠀🪽 ㅤ ꫂ
⠀⠀⠀⠀꒰ pairing ꒱ ⠀⠀᭪⠀⠀fem!reader 𝒙 shauna shipman
𐔌 ⠀ ࣪ ִ⠀⠀c.w⠀⠀⠀.⠀𐦯⠀ㅤㅤromanticized toxicityㅤㅤdown bad readerㅤㅤvulgar languageㅤㅤset in season 3ㅤㅤjealousyㅤㅤself indulgentㅤㅤbloodㅤㅤmentioned physical violenceㅤㅤanimal killingㅤㅤtravnat mentionㅤ⠀ 2,7k words.
⠀⠀⠀𖩩᩠⠀⠀ talk : hi there anon dont worry i got yuouuuu (a bit late sorry)
Another fight, and once again her knuckles are bleeding — and it’s up to you to tend to them.
As always, it was with Mari. One moment she’s looking at you from across the table, and the next, when you refocus your gaze, she’s punching Mari on the cheek. Taissa stepped in, and Nat yelled at Shauna to stay in her hut — understanding her, you nodded and said you’d take care of her.
There is something so satisfying, so familiar about patching Shauna up. The way she sits with that tough expression, eyes narrow as she watches the way your fingers gently press bandages to her knuckles. There is something almost tender about the way she lets you take care of her — the way your touch is the only thing that keeps her from coming undone at the seams.
You wrap her knuckles carefully, bandaging each one tightly, a soothing ritual you’ve done so many times you can practically do it with your eyes closed. The scowl has not faded from Shauna’s face.
Her gaze is distant and unreadable, even as you finish up the last of the bandages. Her eyes lift to meet yours briefly — a flicker of something that might be guilt, followed so quickly by her usual scowl. She’s trying to hold on to her tough-girl demeanor, but you know that underneath, she’s a mess.
With a dismissive gesture, she turns her gaze down to the makeshift bed, avoiding your own eyes. Your fingers still lingering on her knuckles, a brief moment of vulnerability. Her voice is rough when she speaks.
“Stop staring at me.”
For some reason, you don’t listen. Her tough girl facade is a lie — a mask that’s slipping, and one you know well. The Shauna underneath is someone soft, someone who needs someone to look after her. Someone to care about her.
“Not a chance,” you murmur. You know she’ll hate the way you’re looking at her so softly.
You can see right to the girl who’s always wanted someone to stay. The blankets rustle with her movement, and you watch as the dim glow from the small wood burning in the corner of the room casts shadows across her face.
“I can leave.”
“No.” She breathes. “Stay… if you want.” Her words are quiet, almost a murmur as she glances away from you once more. She doesn’t want you to see the vulnerability in her eyes; she’d rather let herself look like a mean, heartless girl.
But you know the truth, she is a mother who lost her kid, a teenager who lost the girl who was part of most years of her life — and so, you climb into bed beside her.
Her back is to you, her face turned away as you slide under the covers. Despite the angry, sarcastic words she’d spoken moments before, she reaches back and her fingers grasp at a lock of your hair. A soft motion that seems to betray the fragility of her facade.
For a few moments there is nothing but the low crackle of the woodfire before she speaks again, her voice a near-whisper.
“Don’t leave me alone tonight.”
She’s begging without actually using the words — and it’s such a foreign concept for the Shauna you know she’s tried so hard to pretend to be. Vulnerability isn’t something she shows, yet here she is, silently begging you to stay.
With a soft sigh, you slide closer, your arms slipping around her waist. She doesn’t resist, leaning back against you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Ever since the plane crashed, everyone has been pitching in — the only one who was a little slow to get the hang of it was Jackie, and you still feel her presence inside you. Maybe that’s why Shauna kissed you once — because she felt her presence, too.
Today is no exception.
Today, even though Nat is still queen, she never stops helping out — she joins in too. Everyone scatters to do their chores. She looks at you and points. “Come with me?”
You give a quick glance over to where the others are, some tending the fire, others gathering kindling and food while Mari and Taissa are in deep discussion near the cabins. Everyone is busy. Shauna is nowhere to be seen.
It’s time for hunting — one of the most important jobs in camp since food isn’t just given to them anymore. You follow without question, grabbing your makeshift weapon — a sharpened stick wrapped with sinew and leather. The air outside is crisp with morning frost still clinging to leaves and branches.
Nat leads the way through the dense trees, her steps sure and quiet. She’s a natural hunter — always has been. The forest is eerily silent this morning, save for birds chirping in distant treetops.
Every now and then, Nat pauses to listen or sniff the air like an animal tracking prey. Her eyes are sharp as she scans ahead for movement. You both move together in perfect sync — years of soccer team drills making you attuned to each other’s rhythm without needing words.
“I didn’t know you liked Shauna — you barely talked to her back at home,” starts Nat.
Those words hang in the air, casual but loaded. You don’t answer right away — because what is your answer?
That you barely knew Shauna back then? That she was just Jackie Taylor’s shadow, quiet and unremarkable beside her bright best friend? Or that now — now she’s this volatile storm of anger and grief that somehow pulls at you like gravity? Nat side-eyes you as if waiting for a response. The trees grow thicker here; sunlight struggles to break through the canopy.
“She was busy with Jackie,” is all you say finally.
Nat nods, her expression thoughtful. She knows the dynamic — everyone did. Jackie and Shauna were inseparable before the crash, a duo that ruled Wiskayok High with an iron fist.
“She’s fucked up now,” Nat says bluntly after a moment, kicking aside a fallen branch as you both trudge forward through the underbrush. “Not like… not like herself.” You don’t argue because it’s true — Shauna isn’t that same girl anymore; she doesn’t joke around or laugh easily like she used to when Jackie was alive.
“Yeah.” You hesitate, thinking about Shauna’s biting words. “You’re doing a good job as a leader.”
Nat snorts, clearly not used to compliments — especially about her leadership. She’s the one who keeps this ragtag group of traumatized girls from falling apart entirely. “Thanks,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of pride in it too.
The woods grow quieter as you press deeper, the only sounds being your footsteps and occasional rustling of leaves. Nat slows her pace, holding up a fist to signal silence — she’s spotted something.
A few yards ahead, a fat rabbit nibbles on clumps of grass near the base of an oak tree. Its ears twitch occasionally as it grazes obliviously. Nat draws the rifle back, muscles tense as she aims. Her breathing is slow and controlled — you can see her focus in the set of her jaw, in how still she holds.
Hunting is a necessity here, something that keeps everyone fed. The rabbit hasn’t noticed the threat yet; it keeps chewing on the grass like nothing in this world could harm it.
Nat’s finger hovers over the trigger.
Click.
The rifle fires with a sharp crack that echoes through the trees — birds scatter instantly from branches above. The rabbit jerks violently before collapsing to its side, blood already pooling beneath its small body.
For a second there’s silence again… then Nat exhales and lowers her weapon. “Good one.” You tell her.
Nodding, Nat slips the rifle back over her shoulder. Without hesitation, she moves toward the fallen rabbit — efficient and methodical. The kill was clean; a single shot to the head. She crouches down, quickly checking for signs of life before confirming it’s dead. Then she stands up and starts walking again.
For some reason, you don’t want to go back to the camp — this is a nice distraction from Shauna. That girl who occupies most of your thoughts, more than usual — but you don’t want to be like that because you never were. Yet she’s slowly driving you crazy, feeding you a few crumbs every now and then just to keep you around so you won’t leave.
So yeah, Nat is a good distraction.
Nat picks up the rabbit, its body limp in her grip. Blood drips onto the leaves below as she carries it back toward camp. The hunt is over — for now. You both walk in comfortable silence, only interrupted by distant bird calls and wind rustling through trees.
“How things are going with Travis?” You ask. It shouldn’t be any of your business, but curiosity always got the better of you — plus, you were chatting with Mari and coming up with theories, when you were both bored, about what happened; since they didn’t stay together after Javi died. You really do understand.
Nat’s face darkens at the mention of Travis. She stiffens slightly, grip tightening on the rabbit carcass. “It’s… nothing,” she mutters after a beat too long — which means it is something, but not in a good way.
You remember how close they were after the crash — how protective Nat had been over him when Coach Martinez died. But then everything fell apart when she confessed about Bobby Farleigh months before all this happened.
Now? They barely speak unless absolutely necessary.
She doesn’t elaborate — she never does when it comes to Travis. The subject is clearly a sore spot, and you can tell by the way her jaw clenches that she’s not in the mood to talk about it.
“You know, um, it seems that you guys don’t really get along.” Nat tells you. “You and Shauna, I mean.” That’s it. No explanation, no justification. Just her perspective.
You shrug, keeping your tone neutral. “I don’t know. She’s… complicated.”
Complicated is an understatement — Shauna is a storm of anger and grief, pushing everyone away while simultaneously needing someone close enough to touch her. The contradiction would be frustrating if it weren’t so damn intriguing.
For a second, Nat studies you — her dark eyes always seeing more than they should. She doesn’t push, but the look on her face says she knows something is going on between you and Shauna. “If you’re happy with her.” She shrugs, accepting your vague answer. She doesn’t press further — not her style anyway. The two of you keep walking in silence, the rabbit’s corpse swinging slightly in her grip.
“I always thought you were really interesting,” you confess. “Like, really cool.”
Nat actually laughs at that — a short, surprised sound. She doesn’t seem used to compliments, especially not from you. Her cheeks go slightly pink under the grime and dirt of survival life. “Thanks.” She shakes her head with a smirk. “You’re cool too.”
The compliment lingers between you — simple, genuine. It feels nice to say it out loud. Nat isn’t the kind of girl who gets flustered easily, but there’s something soft in her expression now as she walks beside you.
Once you reach camp, Mari spots you first and waves from where she’s kneeling by a firepit tending to an early dinner — probably stew or something simple with what Akilah has grown so far.
As you approach with Nat carrying the rabbit carcass, heads turn briefly before returning to their tasks. Shauna isn’t in sight yet — probably still holed up somewhere brooding or cleaning weapons.
Mari stands up, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Good haul,” she says, eyeing the rabbit in Nat’s grip. Without being asked, she takes it from Nat and heads over to where Melissa is sitting — likely to start preparing the meat for dinner.
The camp is quiet today; no bickering or loud arguments yet. Just work being done steadily as dusk begins creeping closer through the trees. Even if you wonder where Shauna is, you stick to Nat’s side, she doesn’t to mind anyway.
Both of you drop onto a log near the fire, Nat is stretching her arms above her head with a tired sigh. The hunt had been quick but taxing — always is when you’re out in the wilderness for hours. You lean back, watching Mari and Melissa work on skinning and cleaning the rabbit.
“You could’ve just... talk to me, y’know?” Nat breaks the silence between you. You glance at her, surprised. Nat isn’t usually the type to initiate conversations — especially not about feelings. She keeps her eyes on the fire as she speaks, stirring a stick through the embers absently. “In Wiskayok,” she clarifies quietly. “I wanted talk to you but you were always with Mari — so I just kept away.”
That makes you pause.
Nat had wanted to talk to you? Back in Wiskayok, when all of this was just a distant nightmare? You never would’ve guessed — she always seemed so detached, focused on her grunge girl aesthetic and soccer practice. You weren’t close with her at all before the crash.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” The question slips out before you can stop it — curious now. What changed between then and now that made Nat want your attention back then too?
Nat shrugs, her fingers still poking at the fire. “I don’t know,” she admits after a moment. “Didn’t really have a reason to.” Her voice is quiet — not cold, just… neutral. Like it didn’t matter then and maybe still doesn’t.
But the fact that she wanted to say something means there was something. You wonder if Nat liked you back in Wiskayok — or if it was just friendly curiosity.
Everything’s fine until your fucking brain betrays you and drags you back to Shauna — you really hate yourself for this. It’s like cocaine; you’re hooked on it as if it were the only thing that exists in the universe. It’s obsessive, really.
Speak of the devil.
As if she’d materialized straight from your thoughts, she appears. Her eyes darken when she sees you with Nat, someone she’s come to hate lately. Not as much as Mari, but it’s hard to tell if Shauna still has any empathy left.
Shauna strides over, her boots heavy against the dirt. Her arms are crossed — a defensive posture you’ve come to recognize means she’s pissed.
Without even looking at Nat, she reaches for your wrist and yanks you up with surprising strength. “You’re coming with me.” Her tone is flat — no room for argument.
You don’t resist as Shauna pulls you away from the fire, her steps quick and purposeful toward one of the huts — likely hers. The other girls watch discreetly; Mari raises an eyebrow while Melissa just keeps cooking like nothing is happening.
The space is small — a cot, a chest for storage, and a single oil lamp on the table casting dim light. The moment when the curtain used as a door closes behind you both, she spins around and kisses you — hard. It’s not sweet; it’s aggressive, possessive even. Like she was staking her claim after seeing you with Nat for too long.
Her hands are rough as they grip your face, her lips crashing against yours with a fierceness that steals your breath. There’s no tenderness — just raw emotion, jealousy burning under the surface. She tastes like salt and anger, and you kiss her back just as desperately.
For someone who acts like she hates you most of the time… Shauna kisses you a lot.
She breaks the kiss only to shove you backward — not violently, but firmly enough that your shoulders hit the wooden wall of the hut. Her breathing is uneven, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she stares at you with those intense brown eyes.
For a second, she just looks at you — like she’s trying to memorize every detail of your face. Then without warning, her lips are on yours again.
This kiss is slower, deeper — less frantic and more hungry. Her hands slide from your face down to your shoulders, then lower still. One grips the fabric of your shirt while the other presses against the small of your back, pulling you flush against her.
The hut feels too small suddenly — air thick with tension. Shauna doesn’t speak; she never does when it comes to this. Actions over words has always been her thing anyway.
