[galileacosette]

Two, one party won't kill her

Short Summary A cat controller case, an unwanted party invitation, and two very persistent bestfriends were enough to drag her out of her comfort zone. The plan was simple: Show up, survive an hour, and leave. Meeting John Logan was never part of it.

Note Thankyou to everyone who read chapter one! I'm excited (and slightly terrified) to finally share this story. I hope you enjoyed meeting the homebody!reader and please feed me your thoughts, i love to reading it. Also... No proofreading this time, I'm sorry. I finished this chapter while running on pure exhaustion and was honestly too tired to go back and edit it. So if you spot any typos or mistakes, please be kind 🥲❤️

Word Count 5.682

Booked and Blindsided Masterlist

By the time you returned to your dorm, the sky outside had turned dark. Daphne was sprawled across her bed, half buried beneath a blanket while you sat in your desk chair, examining the unopened controller case for what was probably the tenth time.

"What's that?" Daphne asked without looking up from her phone, though her eyes kept darting over the top of it toward you.

You looked down at the controller case in your hands before deciding there was no point keeping the story to yourself. So you told Daphne everything.

From Hannah's and Allie's surprise visit to your part time job, to their relentless persuasion, and finally the controller case currently sitting on your desk.

Somewhere in the middle of the story, Daphne abandoned whatever she had been doing on her phone. She was no longer sprawled across her bed, she was sitting upright now.

Daphne barked out a laugh, "You're telling me Wells and Hayes bought you a controller case just to get you to go to a party?"

"In their defense, it was for our friendship."

Daphne snorted, "And you fell for it."

"I didn't."

Daphne glanced between you and the unopened controller case in your hands, "And yet you're holding that thing like it was handcrafted by angels."

Heat crept up your neck, "I'm allowed to appreciate a gift, Daph. It's... Cute. It's a cat."

Daphne pointed at you immediately, "See? That's exactly what I'm talking about."

You rolled your eyes and tried to keep your expression neutral. Unfortunately, the smile creeping onto your face had another plans, "I'm going to put it on."

"Knew it," Daphne sang, sounding far too pleased with herself. You only huffed in response. The packaging came off with a satisfying tear before you settled onto the carpet in front of the TV. The PlayStation sat neatly on the stand just ahead of you, close enough to reach without getting up.

You reached for the controller and laid everything out on the carpet. The protective shell came first, clicking neatly into place around the controller. Once it was secure, you carefully lined up the sticker, smoothing it down with your thumb before stretching the thumb grips over each analog stick.

Once you finished, you turned the controller over in your hands, inspecting every corner to make sure everything was perfectly in place. The shell fit seamlessly, the sticker sat without a single bubble, and the thumb grips felt just right. A smile found its way onto your face despite yourself. Maybe Hannah and Allie really did know you better than you gave them credit for.

"Look at the cat," You whispered, "Look at the tiny paws. Everytime I play, I'll be holding its paws."

"Do you hear yourself right now?" Daphne said with amusement. Despite her teasing, she climbed off her bed and joined you on the carpet, lying beside you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You lay there on your stomach, admiring the cat case from every possible angle while Daphne rested beside you. Eventually, she turned her head toward you.

"So you're actually doing it?"

You didn't need to ask what she meant. With a sigh, you gave the controller a rest and set it down in front of you before dropping your chin onto your folded arms.

"Looks like it."

Daphne was quiet for a moment.

"You know," She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, "It might not be as bad as you're imagining."

"That's exactly what people say before something is as bad as I'm imagining."

Daphne laughed softly, but it faded after a moment, "My point is you're not obligated to stay," She shifted onto her side, resting her head against her arm.

You frowned, "Hannah and Allie bribed me with a controller case. I kind of owe them, Daph."

"You owe them an appearance. Not your entire night. You don't have to force yourself to enjoy things just because everyone else does."

"Besides," Daphne added, "I don't think you hate parties as much as you think you do."

You immediately frowned, "I absolutely do."

"No. I think the problem isn't the party. You hate crowds, loud and constant noises, and having to talk to fifty people in one night."

"That's a very long way of saying I hate parties."

"It's a very long way of saying your social battery dies after three conversations. And i think part of the reason you hate parties is because you've already decided you do," Daphne propped herself up on one elbow.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've never actually been to one," Daphne began, "You built this whole image of what parties are supposed to be, decided you wouldn't like it, and then treated that as a fact."

You pouted, "Because it sounds terrible."

"Maybe," Daphne smiled, "But maybe not. Maybe you will go and end up liking it. Or maybe you will go, spend an hour there, decide it's not your thing, and leave. The decision's yours. Don't overthink it."

You sighed, again. Fuck. At this rate, your excessive sighing was probably a clear sign of some kind of mental and physical crisis.

With one last dramatic sigh, you finally pushed yourself off the floor. Maybe a shower would help. Or maybe it wouldn't. Either way, it's more productive than lying on the ground and contemplating your impending social doom. You were halfway to the bathroom when you heard Daphne's voice from behind.

"We're still playing Overcooked later, right?"

"Yeah!"

Saturdays were supposed to be your favorite. Sleeping until noon. Spending hours yelling at a video game. Reading a few chapters of whatever book was currently occupying your nightstand. Enjoying the rare luxury of doing absolutely nothing.

A quiet day with no classes, no work, and preferably, no people. Daphne, fortunately stopped counting as people a long time ago.

Today had all of those things. But somehow, you still couldn't relax. The feeling followed you through lunch, your afternoon jog, and even into your afop session.

"Can you stop that?"

"Stop what?"

Daphne glanced at the TV from where she was sprawled across her bed. Your character in afop had been running in circles around the same big tree for the past two minutes. With a sigh, you dropped the controller onto your desk. Ignoring Daphne's knowing look, you crossed the room and flopped onto your bed. For a moment, you simply stared at the ceiling. The familiar comfort of your dorm room surrounded you.

"You're really overthinking this, huh?" Daphne asked quietly.

You let out a slow breath, "Maybe."

Daphne waited.

You stared at the ceiling for another moment before speaking again, "I don't know how to do this. Going out, being spontaneous, doing things just because they're supposed to be fun. I feel like I've spent so much time doing things I had to do. Classes, work, responsibilities," You huffed out a laugh, "And now i'm supposed to have fun, and somehow that feels harder."

Daphne was quiet for a moment. When you glanced over, she was staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked beneath her head, "You want me to be honest?"

"Go on," You said.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before it faded, "You are too busy."

"I'm not that busy."

Daphne turned her head to look at you. The look she gave you said otherwise, "You work," She raised a finger, "You have classes," Another finger, "You're a research assistant for, what? Three different professors at this point?"

"Two."

"That wasn't the point."

You sank lower into your pillow.

Daphne continued anyway, "You follow them everywhere. Courts. Clinics. Research sites. Police departments. Half the time you're observing people for some project or helping with research," Her voice softened, "And when you're not doing any of that, you're working. Your whole life revolves around responsibilities. Then... By the time you're done, you're exhausted."

"So you come back here," She gestured vaguely toward the room, "Read a book, play a game, watch something, sleep. Repeat. I know you enjoy those things. I just think you've gotten so used to surviving your schedule that you forgot you're allowed to do things just because you want to."

The room fell quiet. You stared at the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns across it. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed shut in the hallway. Neither of you spoke for a moment. Then Daphne sighed.

"Look."

You turned your head slightly, she was already looking at you, "I'm not saying you need to become Hayes overnight."

A laugh escaped you, that earned a grin from her, "What I'm saying is..." She paused, searching for the right words, "Just give yourself a break for one night."

"Daphneㅡ"

"No, seriously," She sat up slightly, hugging a pillow against her chest, "I'm begging you," Her expression softened, "Please stop treating tonight like an assignment you need to pass. Just... Go. Talk to people, eat free food, make fun of everything weird happen there. For once, stop worrying about doing everything right," She pointed at you, "Just enjoy yourself."

Before you could come up with a response, a sharp knock echoed through the room. And another knocked followed. Then a familiar voice.

"Open up!" Hannah.

"It's four already, open up!" Allie.

Groaning, you dragged a hand over your face, "Already?"

Reaching for your phone on the nightstand, you checked the screen.

4:03 PM.

Right.

Hannah and Allie had said they would come by around four. Somehow, between playing afop, overthinking your life choices, and getting psychoanalyzed by Daphne, the entire afternoon had disappeared.

Daphne was already grinning, "Your ride is here."

"You traitor."

Laughing, Daphne hopped off the bed and headed for the door before you could stop her. The moment she opened it, Hannah swept into the room like she owned the building. Allie followed behind her, carrying a large tote bag.

"Why do you have that?" You asked.

Hannah waved a dismissive hand before looking around the room, "Okay, ladies," A grin spread across her face.

"Let's get this girl ready."

By the time Hannah, Allie, and Daphne were finished with you, there was nothing left to fix. Not that they hadn't tried. Between Hannah's relentless opinions, Allie's attention to detail, and Daphne's occasional intervention whenever things got too ridiculous, getting ready had somehow become a team effort.

Unfortunately for Daphne, she had plans of her own that night. Which meant she was forced to leave before she could spend another hour making fun of your nervous breakdown.

The result was surprisingly simple. A plain black dress that fell to mid-thigh. A pair of heeled boots. Light makeup. Nothing too dramatic.

Yet somehow, it was enough to make you feel like a completely different person. Which was exactly why you were trying very hard not to look at your reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Stop overthinking," Hannah said from the driver's seat.

"I'm not overthinking."

Before Hannah could continue teasing you, Allie turned around in her seat. She looked strangely pleased with herself, her gaze moving over your outfit like she was admiring the final result of a project. "You know," She said, "I think you forget you're actually pretty."

You turned your head toward Allie, searching her face for any sign that she was joking. There wasn't one. No teasing smile. No laughter. Just the same sincere expression that somehow made you want to sink into the seat and disappear.

"I don't feel like it."

She shrugged lightly, "Good thing this isn't about your opinion then," A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, "You look pretty. The dress is pretty. The boots are pretty. End of discussion."

You groaned softly, suddenly finding the view outside far more interesting than the conversation. Trees, buildings, cars. Anything but Hannah and Allie.

Hannah glanced at you through the rearview mirror, "She's right, you know."

"Of course you'd say that," You huffed.

"Because she's right," Hannah repeated.

You let out a quiet sigh. The conversation eventually died down, leaving only the sound of the engine and whatever song Hannah had playing through the speakers. For a moment, you watched the streetlights pass by outside the window. Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, "Were you nervous?"

Hannah's eyes briefly met yours in the mirror, "About what?"

"The first time you went to one of these," You gestured vaguely, "A hockey party, a Briar party, whatever is this."

For a moment, the only response was the soft hum of the engine. Then Hannah laughed, "God, yes," A smile spread across her face as if the memory had caught her off guard.

"My first real party was Dean and Beau's birthday party in Cape Cod. And to make things worse, there was a dress code."

"A weird costume party," Allie corrected, already smiling.

"Exactly," Hannah shook her head, "I barely knew anyone, I was convinced everyone would think I was weird, and somehow the solution was to throw me into a house full of people while dressed in a costume."

You laughed, "That does sound terrible."

"Thankyou," She laughed too, tightening her grip on the steering wheel for a moment before continuing, "I spent days stressing about it. Not because of the party itself, but because apparently showing up wasn't enough. I had to show up in costume."

Allie laughed beside her, "She's leaving out an important detail."

Hannah groaned immediately, "Don't."

"She spent three days asking for costume advice, and eventually I got tired of listening to her panic about every possible outfit choice, so I picked one for her myself."

"And by picked something, she means she decided I should be a bunny," Hannah said.

"A puck bunny," Allie corrected, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Your laughter slipped out before you could stop it. Hannah glanced toward the road ahead, though the smile never left her face, "My point is, I was nervous. Way more nervous than I should've been. And looking back now, none of the things I worried about actually mattered," Her voice softened slightly, "Everyone was too busy having fun to care."

The words lingered in the car for a moment, "So trust me," She added, "You're doing better than I was. And you have us."

"And honestly," Allie said, "You're giving this party way too much power. You've already survived your psychology classes, work, research projects, and whatever terrifying forensic thing your professors keep dragging you into."

Hannah laughed, "She's got a point."

"You spend your free time interviewing people for research and observing court cases for your projects," Allie looked entirely unimpressed, "I think you can handle a bunch of college students eating chips and making bad decisions."

You rolled your eyes, but some of the tension in your shoulders eased. Maybe they were right. Maybe you overthinking it. For the first time that evening, the knot in your stomach loosened. Not completely. But enough.

Outside the window, the familiar streets gradually gave way to larger houses and crowded driveways. More cars lined the curb than you'd ever seen in one place, and even with the windows rolled up, you could already hear faint music in the distance.

Your stomach immediately tightened again.

Hannah noticed before you said a word, a laugh escaped her, "Okay..." She pulled into the driveway and shifted the car into park, "We're here."

Before you could rethink every decision that had led to this moment, Hannah and Allie were already climbing out of the car.

You looked up, the house was bigger than you expected. Music spilled from the open windows, blending with the sound of laughter and conversations drifting from every direction. People crowded the front porch, lingered near parked cars, and moved in and out through the front door as if the night had been going on for hours.

And somehow, that was before you had even stepped inside.

Hannah must have noticed the way you slowed beside her because she nudged your shoulder lightly, "You're fine."

You weren't entirely convinced. But a moment later, the front door opened, and the three of you stepped inside.

The second you stepped inside, the noise doubled. Music thumped through the house, blending with dozens of conversations happening at once. The living room was already packed. People occupied every available couch, stood in small groups near the walls, or wandered between rooms carrying drinks. Before you could get your bearings, Hannah and Allie were already leading you deeper into the house. Apparently, they actually knew where they were going.

The kitchen was somehow even busier. A group of guys occupied one side of the room as if they owned it. Which, judging by the house they probably did.

Garrett was leaning against the counter with a beer in hand, looking entirely too comfortable for someone hosting a house full of college students.

Dean stood near the kitchen island, in the middle of what appeared to be a very serious complaint, "I'm serious," He was saying, "How does a shower break twice in month?"

"Because you keep breaking it," Another guy replied. His brown hair fell in loose waves around his face as he glanced up from his phone.

Near the stove, another guy barely looked up from whatever he was cooking.

The moment Hannah, Allie, and you stepped into the kitchen, several heads turned.

Garrett was the first to notice, "Well, look at that." He lifted his beer slightly in greeting, "She actually came."

Before you could answer, Hannah had already crossed the few steps between them. Garrett wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, "Took you long enough."

"I was busy dragging her here," Hannah shot back.

On the other side of the kitchen island, Dean immediately held out a hand toward Allie, "Hey, babe."

Allie slipped her hand into his without hesitation, "Missed me already?"

"Terribly. The last four hours were brutal."

"Liar."

"Can't prove that."

Then Garrett's attention shifted back to you, "I'm serious," A grin spread across his face, "I was fully expecting you to find an excuse at the last minute."

"So was I," Dean admitted.

"Wow, thanks," You said with sarcasm.

"Hey, I'm glad you proved us wrong," Unlike Garrett's teasing, Dean's welcome sounded genuine. Which somehow made it worse because now you felt bad for spending the entire drive convincing yourself this had been a terrible idea.

Hannah snorted, "See, I told you she'd come."

"Eventually," Garrett said.

"Only after we bribed her," Allie added.

A round of laughter followed immediately. You groaned and looked away, already regretting every decision that had led you here.

"Anyway," Hannah nodded toward the guy standing by the stove, "You haven't met Tucker yet."

The guy looked up from whatever he was cooking, "Hi, I'm Tucker."

You say your own name.

"Nice to meet you," Tucker said with smile.

"Nice to meet you too, Tucker."

"Wait," Hannah's eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced toward the guy who had already started backing away from the kitchen island, "Don't think you're escaping."

The guy paused mid step, "I'm fixing a shower, Hannah."

"You can spare ten seconds," Hannah said.

A resigned laugh left him before he finally turned around. Up close, his dark brown hair fell slightly over his forehead, curling at the ends in that effortlessly messy way that looked entirely unintentional and probably wasn't. Then his gaze landed on you. And he smiled, like he'd just recognised someone.

"So you're the friend," The familiarity in his tone caught you off guard.

"You know me?"

"Not personally," His grin widened, "But I feel like I do. Anyway, I'm Logan. Nice to finally meet you."

"Nice to finally meet you too, Logan," You smiled.

"Alright," He pointed a thumb toward the staircase, "As much as I'd love to stay and make Hannah and Allie regret introducing us, I apparently have a shower to save."

"You mean the shower you broke?" Dean called after him.

Logan immediately lifted his middle finger over his shoulder, "Not me."

Dean barket out a laugh.

Once Logan dissapeared upstairs, the conversation naturally shifted to something else. Dean resumed complaining about the shower, Garrett immediately took the opposite side purely to annoy him, and Tucker kept cooking as if none of it concerned him. And somehow, without really noticing when it happened, you stopped standing awkwardly by the kitchen island.

The next hour passed surprisingly fast. Hannah and Allie refused to let you hide in a corner. They dragged you from conversation, introduced you to people whose names you immediately forgot, and insisted you at least try everything Tucker had made.

At some point, a drink appeared in your hand. At another, you found yourself laughing at a story Dean was telling. The music grew louder as the house filled with more people. Someone started dancing in the living room, someone else nearly knocked over a lamp. Normal college party behavior, apparently.

Every now and then, Hannah and Allie would check on you. And everytime, the answer became a little easier. You were good. The food was good. The people were surprisingly normal. Nobody seemed to care that you were quieter than most people there. Nobody was paying nearly as much as attention to you as you'd convinced yourself they would.

Maybe this wasn't so bad. Maybe you'd spent the entire week worrying about the absolutely nothing.

By the time midnight rolled around, the party had somehow grown even louder. The living room was still packed. Music echoed through the house. People continued drifting in and out of the kitchen as Tucker somehow kept finding more food to put on the counter.

You, however, were running out of social battery. After spending the last hour convincing yourself you were still fine, you finally admitted defeat. You found Hannah and Allie near the kitchen island, Dean and Garrett standing nearby.

"I think I'm gonna head home."

Allie frowned immediately, "Already?"

"It's midnight."

"Exactly. The night is young," She added.

"For you," You said, "For me, it's bed time."

"We will take you home," Hannah offered.

Allie nodded, "Yeah, give us five minutes."

"Guys, it's fine," You laughed, "I'm getting an Uber."

"Absolutely not," Garrett said, Dean nodded in agreement.

Before you could argue, a voice drifted down from the staircase, "Good news, the shower survived."

Several heads turned at once. You looked up just as Logan came down the last few steps. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, dark brown hair slightly messier than it had been earlier, as if he'd spent the last hour fighting with pipes instead of attending a party.

"It's fixed," He said, grabbing a set of keys from a ceramic bowl sitting on the counter beside the coffee maker.

"Look at that," Garrett lifted his beer, "Our hero."

"Shut up, G," The response came automatically, but there was a grin tugging at the corner of Logan's mouth. He slipped his keys into his pocket before looking around the kitchen, "Hey, I gotta head out," An apologetic smile crossed his face, "Sorry, guys."

Garrett frowned, "Everything okay?"

Logan nodded, "Yeah," He rubbed the back of his neck, "Just some family stuff. Jeff called, and I need to get back to Munsen tonight."

The kitchen fell quiet for a brief moment.

"Damn," Dean said, "Drive safe."

"Yeah," Tucker agreed, "Hope everything works out."

"Drive safe, man," Garrett said.

Logan gave them a small nod, "Thanks."

Then Allie's eyes flickered between you and Logan, "Wait a second. Would you mind dropping her off? She was just about to call an Uber."

Logan's gaze found yours. A smile spread easily across his face, "Yeah, of course. I don't mind at all."

"Perfect," Allie said, sounding far more relieved than she probably should have.

You opened your mouth to protest one last time, but the look the two of them gave you made it abundantly clear the discussion was already over.

"... Fine."

"Good," Hannah smiled, pulling you into a quick hug, "Text us the second you get back."

"The second," Allie repeated, pointing a finger at you for emphasis.

Satisfied, Hannah finally let you go before turning to Logan, "Drive safe and don't speed," She said.

Logan chuckled, "Wasn't planning to."

Side by side, you and Logan headed toward the front door, leaving behind the warmth, laughter, and music that continued to spill through the house.

The party carried on behind you.

Even after the front door closed, the music still drifted into the cool night air, accompanied by the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere inside. You followed Logan down the porch steps, the gravel crunching softly beneath your boots.

The driveway was still crowded. Cars lined both sides of the street, and clusters of people lingered outside, talking loudly with red cups in their hands as if the night had only just begun.

"Logan!"

A voice called from somewhere to your left. A small group of girls stood near one of the parked cars. The one who'd called his name smiled the second he looked over, "You're leaving already?"

Logan slowed his pace but didn't stop, "Yeah," He answered with that easy smile you'd already noticed he seemed to wear effortlessly, "Not tonight."

"Aw, come on," Another girl teased, "Stay for one drink?"

He laughed quietly, shaking his head, "Rain check."

"You're no fun."

"Usually I am," His grin widened, "Just not tonight," With one last wave, he continued walking, leaving the girls laughing behind him.

You continued beside him in silence. Somehow, it explained a lot. The stories. The reputation. Even the effortless way he'd handled the conversation. You wondered how many conversations like that he'd had. Probably more than he could remember.

The thought lingered as the two of you continued down the driveway until Logan stopped beside a black pickup truck parked beneath one of the streetlights. He pressed the unlock button on his key fob, and the headlights flashed once in response. Walking around to the passenger side, he pulled the door open before stepping aside, "Here you go."

"Thanks," You smiled and grabbed the handle above the doorframe and climbed into the passenger seat.

A second later, Logan closed the door gently before making his way around the front of the truck. The driver's door opened with a familiar creak, followed by the dull thud of it shutting.

For a brief moment, neither of you said anything. Logan slipped the key into the ignition, but before turning it, he glanced your way. His eyes dropped briefly toward your shoulder, "Seatbelt."

You blinked before following his gaze, "... Right," Heat crapped into your cheeks as you reached for it. The buckle clicked into place.

Logan nodded once, satisfied.

Logan started the engine, and a moment later the truck rolled away from the house. For the first few minutes, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't awkward. Just... Quiet. Streetlights slipped past the windows one by one while the music from the party gradually dissapeared behind you. Logan rested one hand loosely on the steering wheel, his attention fixed on the road ahead. After another minute, he glanced at you briefly.

"So," He said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "Hannah and Allie have to bribe you to get you to the party?"

You let out a quiet laugh, "Yeah."

A small smile appeared as he kept his eyes on the road, "Was the controller case worth it?"

You pretended to consider the question for a moment, looking thoughtfully out the windshield, "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Ask me again tomorrow."

That earned another laugh from him, "Fair enough."

Another comfortable silence settled between you before he spoke again, "So... You play games. What do you play?"

"Afop and Hogwarts Legacy," You said.

"Afop?" He frowned ever so slightly.

"Avatar: Frontiers of Pandora."

Logan nodded, "I've heard good things about that one."

You shifted slightly in your seat, "What about you? I noticed the PlayStation in the living room earlier. I was wondering if it actually got used, or if it was just decoration."

A laugh escaped him, "Trust me, it gets used. Just mostly by me and Tuck. Garrett jumps on every now and then, and Dean's a senior now. He's usually buried in classes or trying to graduate, so he doesn't really have much time. I'm probably the one who uses it the most with Tuck."

"What you play?"

"Honestly? Mostly hockey game."

"That's very on brand."

"I know," He grinned, "Not exactly the most exciting answer. FIFA once in a while if someone talks me into it, but ninety percent of the time it's NHL."

"You really don't get enough hockey during the day?"

Logan laughed again, "Apparently not. I spent enough time around hockey. Might as well be good at it on a console too."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Logan smiled when he heard of it, "There it is."

You blinked, "What?"

"Your first real laugh tonight, I guess."

Heat crept into your cheeks as you looked back out the window, "Don't get used to it."

His grin only widened, "I will take that as a challenge."

The conversation faded naturally as Logan pulled into the parking lot outside your dorm building. The truck slowed to a stop beneath one of the streetlights, its headlights washing over the quiet entrance.

"So..." You reached for the door handle, "Thanks for the ride."

"Anytime."

You smiled, "Drive safe back... To Munsen."

"I will."

You had barely pushed the handle when a warm hand closed gently around your wrist. Not enough to stop you, but just enough to make you pause. You looked back at him with confused, and Logan was already smiling. Logan hadn't let go yet, though his grip was light enough that you could've pulled away if you'd wanted to.

"One question."

"Okay...?"

"Any chance you will stop ghosting me?" He looked genuinely thoughtful for a second before the corner of his mouth twitched, "Because I've been sitting in your follow request for months."

You stared at him, "You're kidding."

"I wish I was," His smile widened, "At some point I become a little more convinced you're ignoring me on purpose."

Your brows pulled together in confusion, "Wait..."

Instinctively, you reached for your phone in your purse and opened Instagram. Your thumb hovered for a second before tapping into your follow requests. The list loaded almost immediately. And there it was.

logan.john22

You stared at the screen for a long second. Then at Logan. Then back at your phone. "Oh..." Realization hit you all at once. An embarrassed laugh escaped your lips, "I'm sorry. I genuinely never saw it."

without another word you tapped accept. His profile disappeared from your follow requests, "There," You held up your phone as if presenting evidence, "Officialy accepted."

Logan leaned over just enough to glance at the screen before looking back at you, "I was starting to think I'd have to ask Hannah to put in a good word for me."

You laughed, "You were actually considering that?"

"Absolutely," He shrugged without the slightest hint of embarassment, "Desperate times."

"Over an Instagram follow?" You asked playfully.

"Hey," He tugged your wrist, "It's the principle."

Logan's gaze flickered briefly to your phone before returning to you, "While we're fixing things... Mind if I get your number too? Last time I relied on Instagram, I spent months in your follow requests," His grin was effortless, "I'd rather not take those odds again."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Great. Now you were laughing at nearly everything he said. This was getting embarrassing, "What do you need my number for?"

Logan tilted his head, looking almost offended by the question, "I don't know," His smile softened into something warmer, "I've got a feeling we're going to run into each othe again," His eyes met yours for a second longer, "Might as well save us both the trouble of pretending we're strangers every time it happens."

You looked down at your phone, then back at him. Somehow, saying no felt unnecessarily difficult, "Okay."

Logan handed you his phone without another word, though the satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth made it obvious he'd expected that answer.

You typed in your number before handing it back.

He glanced at the screen, tapped save, then set his phone down on the center console, "See?" He said lightly, "That was a lot easier than waiting another months."

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your smile, "You will never letting that go, are you?"

"Probably not."

You climbed out of the truck and adjusted the strap of your purse over your shoulder, "Thanks again for the ride. And safe drive to Munsen."

Logan looked up to you through the open driver's window, an easy smile already waiting on his face, "I will."

His gaze shifted past you toward the entrance of the dorm building, "Go on. I'm not driving off until you're inside."

There wasn't anything dramatic about the way he said it. If anything, it sounded matter of fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked, again, "You don't have to do that."

Logan shrugged, "Humor me."

A small smile found its way onto your face despite yourself, "Okay," You stepped away from the truck, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you made your way toward the entrance building. Halfway there, curiosity got the better of you. You glanced back.

The truck hadn't moved. Logan was still there, one arm resting casually against the window frame, watching to make sure you got inside safely. The moment your eyes met again, he lifted a hand in a small wave, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Logan."

Only after you pulled open the glass door and stepped into the lobby, you hear the quiet rumble of the engine grow louder. Through the glass, you caught one last glimpse of the truck easing away from the parking lot before disappearing into the empty street.

Maybe Hannah, Allie, and Daphne had been right. Maybe saying yes to one party hadn't been such a terrible idea after all.

TAGLIST

@ilovebadremake @papichulomacy @florie1 @wolfieolive @theosbbggirl @keijikunn @notsosweetcreature @lunalovemore @parker-barnes-af @instantplaiddream @onomatopoetic101999 @lunadi1una @urlocalbeaner5 @aunicornmademedoit @pinknjm

[galileacosette]

One, a quiet little life

Short Summary You preferred books, video games, and quiet weekends. Hannah and Allie preferred parties, crowds, and socializing. With a little bribery and a lot of persuasion, you found yourself agreeing to go to the party.

Note Hi, welcome to the first chapter! This is my first time writing this story, so I'd love to hear your thoughts about it! Let me know if you enjoyed it 😆

Booked and Blinsided Masterlist

"Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate." ㅡCarl Jung.

You stared at the quote projected on the screen through sleepy eyes, tuning in and out of Professor Bennett psychology lecture. You wondered if Carl Jung had ever felt the same way, fighting off sleep during a lecture, of if he would have been completely fascinated by the subject. But you doubted he ever had.

After all, someone who devoted his life to understanding the human mind must have found comfort in the very ideas that were nearly putting you to sleep.

You let out a quiet huff, remembering your poor decision to stay up until three a.m. playing games. You had just bought Avatar: Frontiers of Pandora and in your defense, the game was far too captivating to simply put down and go to sleep.

And this was what you got.

Daphne, who had been one of your friends since freshman, leaned closer and whispered, "There are no accidents, you know? Only fate."

"Shut up, you tarot freak," You whispered back.

She shot you a look, "And who was the one who read your cards when you fell in love and got your heart broken? That's right. It's me. And i was right both times."

"It was just a moment of weakness. You put those ideas in my head."

She pouted, "Fine. Don't come crying to me when you need another tarot reading. I'm never reading your cards again."

"Not even if i pay you?"

"That's... A different conversation."

"You there."

Your head snapped up. Professor Bennett was looking directly at you.

"Answer my question."

Shit.

"Sorry, Professor," You said quickly, "Could you repeat the question?"

Professor Bennett looked at you for a moment before repeating his question, "To what extent can unresolved unconscious conflicts manifest as emotional avoidance in close relationships?"

You stared at the projected quote for a second, a thoughtful hum escaping you as you considered the question.

"Unconscious motivations often influence behavior in ways individuals aren't fully aware of," You began, "In the context of emotional intimacy, unresolved fears of internal conflicts can lead people to avoid vulnerability and close relationships. Because those motivations remain unconscious, individual may interpret their actions as personal reference or rational decision making rather than recognizing the underlying fear driving them."

"Interesting," Professor Bennett nodded, "If those fears remain unconscious, how can an individual begin to recognize them?"

You continued, "Through self reflection, therapy, or recurring patterns in their relationships. People may not recognize the underlying cause at first, but repeated experiences often reveal behaviors they weren't consciously aware of."

Professor Bennett gave a small, approving nod before reaching his laptop.

"Good answer."

The projector screen went dark as he closed the lid, "That's all for today. I'll see you all on Friday next week. And don't forget the essay, the deadline is one month from today."

Almost immediately, the lecture hall erupted with the sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and students gathering their belongings.

You let out a quite sigh of relief.

"Lucky you," Daphne said with a grin.

You rolled your eyes as you slipped your notebook into your bag, "Remind me not to talk about tarot ever again. Pretty sure it's cursed."

"Hey!"

ㅡ☀️.

The corridor buzzed with the usual post lecture chaos as students streamed out of classrooms, conversations overlapping with the sound of footsteps. Walking beside you through the crowd, Daphne adjusted the strap of her bag and said, "Professor Bennett was surprisingly nice today. He never repeats his question. He practically handed you a second chance."

"Didn't feel like it," You muttered, "He still put me on the spot though."

"Hey, count yourself lucky."

You were about to argue when your phone buzzed in your pocket. Pulled out your phone and immediately regretted it when Allie's name appeared on the screen.

Allie:

you already decided?

Letting out a soft groan, you locked your phone and slipped it back into your pocket.

"Hayes again?" Daphne guessed.

You nodded.

"She still not giving up?"

"Apparently not."

"Just tell her no."

"I did," You shot her a look, "Several times. And she's still insisting."

Daphne snorted, "Well, then maybe you should just go."

"Daphne."

"I'm serious," She raised her hands in surrender, "One party won't kill you. If Wells and Hayes are still begging this hard, you might as well give in."

"I'll think about it," You said.

Daphne looked pleased enough with that answer.

A glance on your watch however wiped the expression right off your face, "Oh shit, i'm gonna late for my shift."

Without another word, you turned your heel and started jogging toward the bicycle parking area.

"See you at the dorm!"

You lifted a hand in acknowledgment without looking back and picked up your pace.

You:

i remember i told you no

Allie glanced down at her phone, read the message before dropping her head onto the table.

The reaction immediately caught the attention of everyone gathered around the booth at Malone's. Hannah sat beside her, while Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker occupied the seats across from them.

"She said no again?" Dean asked.

"For the fifth time this week," She groaned.

"Just give up this time, babe."

"No, i won't give up," Allie straightened in her seat. An amused smile tugged at Dean's lips for her effort.

Hannah took a sip of her drink, "She's always been hard to convince."

"Exactly," Allie pointed a finger at Hannah, "Which is why giving up isn't an option."

Logan, who had spent the last few minutes focusing on his burger rather than the conversation, finally glanced up, "Who are we talking about?"

Before either Hannah or Allie could answer, Tucked leaned back in his chair and groaned, "Man, why are the four of us crammed onto one side of the table?"

"G, move," Tucked pointed to the empty seat beside Hannah.

Garrett sighed dramatically, "Fine."

He got to his feet and slid to the empty seat beside his girlfriend, draping an arm around her shoulders, Hannah couldn't help but smile.

"Anyway," Logan said, returning to his earlier question, "Who are we talking about?"

Allie said your name.

The name was immediately familiar to Logan. He'd never actually spoken to you, but he'd seen enough of Hannah's and Allie's Instagram stories to put a face to the name. More often than not, you stood between Hannah and Allie, just half a step behind them whenever they took a pic or video for their stories.

You also appeared in some of their posts. And if you weren't in the pic, there was a good chance you'd be somewhere in the comments.

At some point, he'd sent you a friendly follow request to your private account and it remained unaccepted. Logan figured you either hadn't notice it or simply weren't on Instagram enough to care.

"Oh, the one who's always with you two?"

"That's the one," Allie confirmed.

Tucker glanced between Hannah and Allie, "How do you guys know her, anyway?"

"We used to be roommates back in freshman. Three of us," Hannah explained, "Then she ditched us and move to another room. At the start of sophomore."

"Ditched is a quite strong word, Wellsy," Dean teased.

"I'm kidding," Hannah laughed, "But we're still close. It's just harder to see each other as often now."

"She didn't ditch us," Allie added, "She just upgraded to a quieter roommate."

Logan nodded and smiled at their exchange, finally putting together how the three of you knew each other.

"That makes sense," He took a sip of his drink, "Maybe she just doesn't like that kind of things. I mean, from what you've told us she doesn't seem like someone who enjoys being pushed into stuff she doesn't want to do. That's why she keeps saying no," He smiled, "No point forcing her, right?"

Allie pouted, "I just want her to have some fun for once. She spends most of her time in the dorm, studying, and working."

Logan shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Maybe that's just what she enjoys doing."

Dean reached over and nudged Logan's hair back with a finger, earning a grin from him, "Babe, Logan's talking. You might wanna listen to this."

Logan laughed, pushing Dean's hand away.

Garrett, who had been quietly listening, nodded, "Logan's right. If she doesn't want to go, don't force her," Logan flicked a finger toward Garrett, grinning as if to say exactly.

Hannah turned to her boyfriend, narrowing her eyes slightly, "You're supposed to be on my side."

"Han," Garrett smile at her reaction. He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek before she could complain, "You know I'm right."

"If you really want her to come, just talk to her in person this time. Ask her one more time. If she stills says no, then let it go," Tucker said.

The conversation about convincing you eventually died down, replaced by their usual banter.

Logan leaned back, listening to them talk while finishing his drink. When he finally glanced at his phone, his eyebrows lifted slightly.

He had lost track of time. He had a few repair jobs lined up for the evening.

"I gotta go," He pushed himself up from the booth, grabbing his phone and keys.

"Already?" Dean asked.

Logan tossed the keys lightly in his hand, "Jobs aren't gonna do themselves. See you guys later."

The bookstore was quiet for once. Working at Hastings Books & Co. had it's perks. Nobody asked why you spent most of your shifts surrounded by books.

You were halfway through restocking a shelf when your phone buzzed in your pocket. Pulling out your phone, you weren't surprised to see Allie's name on the screen.

Allie:

where are you? your part time place?

With a sigh, you typed back.

You:

please don't come

Allie:

too late

The message appeared on your screen at the exact moment the bell above the door rang, announcing a customer's arrival.

Your stomach sank.

With a sigh, you set the book in your hand back onto the restocking cart and made your way toward the cashier counter.

Sure enough, standing by the entrance were Hannah and Allie. Hannah offered you an apologetic smile. Allie, on the other hand looked intirely too pleased with herself. The two of them made their way over to you.

"You're going to the party!" Allie announced, holding up a shopping bag from your usual game store like she had just won a lottery.

"I already told you no."

"We know. And that's why we're here," Allie said.

Allie's grin widened. Without another word, she thrust the shopping bag into your hands. You looked between her and Hannah suspiciously before peering inside. Your eyes immediately landed on the cat PS5 controller case you'd been wanting to buy for weeks.

You stared at the controller case for a long moment before looking at the two of them.

"You bought this to get me to go to the party."

"Correct," Allie admitted.

"That's bribery."

"That's friendship," Allie argued.

"That's literally bribery."

Hannah let out a laugh, shaking her head.

"Okay, i won't defend the controller case," She began, "But we really do want you there. We barely see you anymore. You're always studying, working, or hiding in your room."

"I don't hide in my roomㅡ"

"You absolutely do," Allie cut in.

Hannah ignored Allie.

"I'm serious. It feels like we have to always schedule an appointment just to hangout with you," Hannah said.

"We literally had lunch together three days agoㅡ"

"For twenty seven minutes," Allie cut in again.

You sighed and crossed your arms, "But it's a party, Han. And you know i don't like parties."

"It's not that kind of party," hannah said immediately.

"... And?"

"It's not some huge frat party with a hundred people packed into a house," She gestured with her hand, "It's mostly just friends, only a handful of people are invited."

"But i'm not friends with your friends."

Hannah pointed at you as if presenting evidence in court, "You're friends with Garrett. And Dean."

"That doesn't count."

"How does that not count?" Allie demanded, "You literally have their numbers."

"That still doesn't count."

Hannah let out a sigh, "Okay, fine. Forget Garrett and Dean," She looked at you for a moment before softening her tone, "Just come. And if you're uncomfortable, you can go home whenever you want. No questions asked."

You looked between the two of them. Hannah was giving you that hopeful look. Allie looked one second away from climbing over the counter.

With a sigh, again, you rubbed a hand over your face, "Okay. I'll go then."

Hannah blinked, "Okay?"

"Wait, seriously?" Allie added.

"Don't make me take it back."

Allie's face immediately lit up. Before you could react, she pulled you into an awkward, quick hug, the register and countertop very much in the way, "I knew you'd come around."

With a sigh, again and again, you accepted your fate. After all, it was just one party.

What could possibly go wrong?

For reference, this is the controller case Hannah and Allie bought for her 😆

TAGLIST

@ilovebadremake @papichulomacy @florie1 @wolfieolive @theosbbggirl

[twofacedsnake]

Out of My League - John Logan pt. 4

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt.3

blurb: Logan shares a casual past with Dean’s twin sister, at least that’s what they both think. He lets his insecurities about his upbringing get to him, she lets her cool girl, “man eater” persona get the better of her, and neither of them ever share how deep their feelings actually are (despite everyone else knowing)

A good slow burn, a lil fluffy, a bit of smut at the end if you squint, smoking & being drunk mentioned, sweet baby angel yearning Logan, au where instead of Summer, Dean has a twin sister

🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈🐈

The party didn’t end. It simply dwindled.

By one in the morning, strangers had filtered out the front door in loud groups, promising to text each other tomorrow. Familiar faces remained.

The music had been turned low enough to talk over, switched to Y/N’s postgame playlist. Empty pizza boxes littered the coffee table. Someone had started a game of cards that nobody was actually paying attention to. Garrett sat sprawled across one couch with Hannah tucked against his side, absentmindedly playing with the ends of her hair while she flipped through songs on Y/N’s phone.

Tucker had somehow convinced Dean to play Mario Kart. Allie laid her legs across Dean’s lap under the controller. The two of them were yelling loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“You cheated!”

“I drifted!”

“You weaponized the banana!”

“It’s literally part of the game!”

“Cheating.”

“Skill issue.”

Y/N laughed so hard she nearly spilled the last of her gin. “You’re both twelve.”

“Twelve and winning,” Dean called back.

“You’re in fourth place.”

“I’m always winning spiritually.”

Logan watched her from the opposite end of the couch. She looked happy. Not polished. Not Harvard perfect.

She caught him looking. “What?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been staring.”

“Just observing.” He repeated.

She rolled her eyes. “Creep.” She laughed again. God. He loves that laugh.

⸻

Around two she’d migrated closer to him without either of them noticing. Their knees brushed. Then their shoulders. Eventually she nudged him with her elbow. “Move.”

“I was here first.”

“I need room.”

“For?”

“My blanket.”

“You don’t have one.”

“I will.”

Logan sighed dramatically before reaching behind the couch and grabbing one of the old fleece blankets they’d stolen from Tucker sophomore year, knowing her all too well. Without a word he unfolded it and draped it across her legs. “There.”

“Thanks Johnny.”

It was such a small thing. The boys were used to this by now. Hannah caught Allie’s eye across the room. Allie followed her gaze just in time to see Logan tuck the edge of the blanket around Y/N’s bare feet before leaning back like it was the most natural thing in the world. Allie smiled into her drink.

⸻

Around three, Y/N stretched. “I’m getting some air.”

Logan stood before he’d even thought about it. “I’ll come.”

She smiled. “I was hoping you would.”

The back porch was quiet.

The sliding door clicked shut behind them, muting the music until all that remained was the distant bass and the occasional burst of laughter from inside. She reached under the ratty cushion that sat on their hand me down backyard furniture Dean and Tucker scored on Facebook marketplace last year. Logan shook his head, and when her hand emerged it held a box of Vogue cigarettes and a silver zippo. “Still here!” Another secret of Miss Universe that few knew about. She put one in between her teeth and held one out to Logan in between her manicured fingers, just to taunt him already knowing his answer. “I’m an athlete you know, we can’t all get by on our good looks and freakishly high IQ.”

“Aw, you think I’m good looking?” Their little routine.

Late March in Hastings carried the promise of spring, but winter hadn’t quite let go. The air was crisp enough that her bare shoulders prickled.

“You forgot your jacket.”

“I forgot it was still Massachusetts.”

He laughed quietly. “You’ve gone soft at Harvard.”

“I have central heating.”

She leaned against the porch railing, blowing small puffs of smoke and looking out over the dark backyard. “I forgot how much I missed this.”

“The house?”

“The boys. The girls.” A small smile. “…You.”

The word was so quiet he almost wondered if he’d imagined it. He wanted to kiss her right there, taste the smoke from her mouth. A breeze swept across the porch and shivered. Without saying anything, Logan slipped off the gray Briar hockey hoodie he’d thrown on earlier and held it out to her.

“You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll survive.”

She hesitated only a second before slipping it over her head. The sleeves swallowed her hands. The hem fell almost to mid-thigh. It smelled like soft laundry detergent, Irish Spring Soap, and a tiny bit of motor oil. Like him.

She pulled the hood up against the cold and put her cigarette out on the ledge. She couldn’t waste the smell of him on her.

He smiled. “There she is.”

“What?”

“This is how I think of you when you’re gone.” Silence settled comfortably between them.

She looked out over the backyard again. “I hate Harvard sometimes.”

His head turned. “You do?”

“I love school. I hate leaving here.”

She wrapped both hands around the porch railing. “It feels like every time I come back here…” She smiled sadly. “…I remember what home feels like.”

Logan swallowed. “Because you don’t have to perform with us. With me.”

She looked over. “Don’t I?”

“No.”

“You’ve never expected anything from me.” It was almost a question. Their time alone wasn’t the hard part, they both could shed their inhibitions, more than just their clothes. Find complete comfort in each other. The issue was the performance afterward, the farce that it was casual. He was the typical college boy, moving without consequence and she was the perfect cool girl, unbothered until she saw him again. Could they shed that?

“There’s no need.”

Their eyes met. The distance between them suddenly felt very small. A strand of blonde hair blew across her face. Without thinking, Logan reached over and tucked it gently behind her ear. She didn’t move, didn’t joke, didn’t break eye contact.

She almost whispered “What happened earlier tonight?”

He exhaled slowly. “I got tired.”

“Tired?”

“Of the performance. The pretending.”

Her heartbeat stumbled. “Pretending what?”

The sliding door slammed open. “There you are!” Dean leaned halfway outside. “We DoorDashed Taco Bell.” He looked between them and paused. A grin spread across his face. “…I interrupted something.”

“No.” They answered at exactly the same time.

Dean burst out laughing and disappeared back inside.

Y/N groaned. For another minute neither of them moved. Neither wanted to be the first one back inside.

⸻

The house finally surrendered around four.

Garrett and Hannah took Garrett’s room.

Dean disappeared upstairs with Allie.

Tucker was still unconscious in the recliner.

Logan found Y/N curled up at one end of the couch, blanket pulled to her chin.

“Hey,” Logan murmured. Nothing. “Angel girl.” A sleepy hum was all he got in return. He smiled to himself. As carefully as he could, he slid one arm beneath her knees and another around her back. The second he lifted her, she instinctively curled closer, her cheek settling against his chest. His heart nearly gave out. She’d always trusted him, that had never changed. That’s what got them into this mess in the first place. He carried her down the hallway, careful to avoid the squeaky board outside Dean’s room. This wasn’t the first and hopefully not the last time he’d carried her to bed. The guest room sat empty. He nudged the door open with his shoulder. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting silver across the comforter. He lowered her onto the mattress as though she were something impossibly fragile.

She frowned in her half sleep and sighed, not even opening her eyes. “My jeans. Help.” He knew her, she wasn’t drunk, just wanted to be babied when she was tired and nobody else could see her, like always. Only he saw her this way. Logan gently unzipped and helped her out of the denim pants, Y/N lightly lifting her hips to assist. She was left in nothing but her usual choice, a g string and his oversized Briar hoodie. His heart swelled looking at her. It wasn’t even sexual in this moment. He always felt an overwhelming surge to care for her, which is why she always felt overwhelmingly safe with him. Logan pulled the comforter over her before taking a step back. He should leave. He knew he should. Instead he stood there, just looking at her. Golden strands fanned across the pillow. He reached out before he could stop himself, his fingers carefully tucking one behind her ear.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered. The words slipped out without permission. He laughed quietly at himself. “You’ve always been pretty.”

He remembered freshman year. The first time she’d walked into their freshman dorm hallways like she owned the place, unfazed by the hoards of boys leaning out their door to gawk at her and carrying Dean’s laundry because someone around here has to be responsible. She was all of 18 then. She’d smiled at him, still the same. He’d been finished from that moment on.

She shifted again. Brows knitting together. “Hey, don’t go.” Barely louder than a breath. He froze. She wasn’t really awake. She probably wouldn’t remember saying it. But it landed squarely in the center of his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, removing his jeans to strip just to his tee shirt and boxers.

Almost immediately, her hand found his. She interlocked her fingers loosely through his, like she’d been searching for him without realizing it. His throat tightened.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m here.” He figured he’d stay another minute. Just until she settled. Just until he knew she was comfortable. Like he thought earlier, it wouldn’t be the first time. Instead, he found himself watching her breathe. Listening to the quiet rhythm of it.

Everything Allie had said downstairs replayed in his head.

Dean has known since freshman year.

Everyone has.

Then Her voice.

There hasn’t been anyone.

Ever.

He looked down at her hand still loosely holding onto him. His mind kept trying to reject it. It didn’t make sense.

This woman, the one everyone looked at when she walked into a room. The one who could’ve had anyone. The one he’d convinced himself would someday marry a senator or a CEO because that seemed like the sort of life waiting for someone like her. He resigned to the idea of watching her be happy with someone else.

She’d spent four years coming back to him.

His thumb brushed gently across the back of her hand. “You should’ve told me.” His voice cracked around the words. “I would’ve…” He stopped. Would’ve what? Asked her out? Believed her? Been brave enough? He wasn’t sure. He only knew one thing. He was done pretending he didn’t love her.

He leaned back against the headboard with a quiet sigh. She shifted again, this time closer. Her head found the crook between his neck and shoulder almost instinctively, one hand resting lightly against the center of his chest. The quiet weight of the woman he’d loved for years sleeping against him as though there was nowhere else she’d rather be. His pulse hammered and he smiled to himself. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me tonight.”

Carefully, so carefully he wasn’t even sure he actually touched her, he brushed a kiss against the crown of her head. Not hungry. Not desperate. Reverent. Like a promise she’d never hear. She smiled in her sleep. His own answered it before he could stop himself.

He closed his eyes. Still holding her hand. Wondering how he’d ever convinced himself this was all he was allowed to have. The last thought John Logan had before sleep finally claimed him was one he’d spent four years refusing to let himself believe.

⸻

Morning arrived quietly.

The room glowed with pale March sunlight filtering through the curtains, soft enough that it barely disturbed the silence.

Logan woke first. For a moment he didn’t move. He simply blinked at the ceiling, disoriented. Then he felt the weight against his chest. His heart slowed as the memories of last night resurfaced. Y/N. She’d somehow migrated even closer in her sleep.

One arm was tucked beneath her cheek, the other loosely draped across his ribs as though she’d decided sometime during the night that he made a perfectly acceptable pillow. His hoodie still swallowed her frame, one of the sleeves covered half her hand. A strand of blonde hair lay across her lips, moving ever so slightly with each slow breath. Logan smiled.

God. He would never get tired of this. He studied her face the way someone might study a favorite photograph. Every little detail he’d spent years pretending not to memorize. The tiny freckle near her jaw. The way her nose sloped and how it scrunched just a little when she slept. The faint crease between her brows that formed only when she was dreaming or unraveling for him.

She looked peaceful. Barefaced. Hair a complete mess. This was his favorite version of her, more so now that he knows no one else has experienced it.

Carefully, so carefully he was almost afraid to breathe, he reached up and smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips barely grazed her skin. She made the tiniest sleepy sound and burrowed another inch closer. He laughed quietly through his nose. “Hi, pretty girl,” he whispered. No answer, still asleep.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him. Maybe it was everything she’d told him the night before. Maybe it was the realization that he’d spent four years trying to detach during moments exactly like this. He leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss to her forehead. When he started to pull away, she stirred. Her eyelashes fluttered. “Hmm…”

Her voice was rough with sleep.

“You awake?”

“Barely.” She didn’t even open her eyes all the way. Instead, she smiled, a tiny, sleepy smile that looked completely unguarded “You kissed me.”

“I did.”

“I was asleep.”

“I noticed, Angel.”

A beat.

“You can do it again.”

His heart gave an embarrassing little stumble. He brushed another kiss to her temple.

This time she tilted her face toward him without thinking. Their noses bumped. She laughed softly.

“Terrible aim, is that why you have a hard time scoring?”

All he could do was let out a low chuckle. There it was, her cutting humor. Her eyes finally opened, still hazy with sleep. Those big blue eyes, like being in this bed together was the most innocent thing in the world. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. She reached up, her fingers lazily finding the back of his neck. “You missed.”

“So help me.” She did. Closing the last little bit of space between them, she kissed him.

Slowly. Sleepily. Sober. No urgency. Almost sloppily, open mouths just molding together. The kind of kiss that belonged to lazy Sunday mornings instead of stolen weekends. He turned his hips slightly so they could grind against each other, both in the throes of a boost in circulation from just waking up. Thin fabric of their underwear barely guarded him from feeling her leaking for him, and nothing was stopping her from feeling him grow against her. When they pulled back, she rested her forehead against his.

“I like waking up with you.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her eyes widened just slightly. The weekend was getting to her. “…Forget I said that.”

He smiled. “I don’t think I can.”

She groaned, hiding her face against his shoulder. “I was half asleep. I wasn’t thinking.”

He wrapped an arm around her almost instinctively, holding her just a little closer beneath the blankets. “Good,” he murmured against her hair.

“What?”

“I like it better when you don’t think.”

She laughed into his chest, the sound muffled by his T-shirt. “You know you’re awfully affectionate this weekend. Could give a girl the wrong idea.”

“Maybe the right one.”

“Suspicious.” She still couldn’t let her guard down, she couldn’t bring herself to discern what was playful, friends with benefits flirting and what wasn’t. Where the game began and ended.

“You gonna file a complaint?”

She tipped her head back just enough to look at him. “Not yet.”

He smiled. “Good.”

Neither of them spoke again. There was nothing left to say. She settled back against him with a content little sigh, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the fabric of his T-shirt. Logan closed his eyes for just a second, letting himself imagine, dangerously, that this could be ordinary. That waking up with her could become part of their routine. That she wouldn’t be driving back to Harvard tomorrow.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the quiet. The handle turned. Dean stepped halfway into the room, coffee mug in hand and stopped dead. His eyes landed on Logan, then on his sister, still curled comfortably against him beneath the blankets, then back to Logan. A slow grin spread across his face. “…Well.”

Logan looked up with the expression of a man caught red-handed. “…Morning.”

Dean took a sip of coffee. “You two decent?”

Y/N’s sleepy voice floated out from where she’d buried her face against Logan “Barely.”

Dean laughed. “I’m making bacon.” He started backing out of the room. “Don’t take too long.” The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. “…He’s never going to let this go.”

Logan laughed. He debated whether to tell her their little secret was not so secret, but for right now he just wanted to soak in the last few minutes of this moment.

He looked down at her with a smile he couldn’t quite hide.

[itsaintmebabe]

just like heaven

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: a quiet night alone in the dorm turns into an unforgettable first meeting for you and john logan.

pairing: john logan x fem! reader

warnings: not much honestly, a bit of nudity (reader is in a bralette), cussing

notes: here's my first ever john logan fic!!! pretty short but very cute and i def wanna write more for him the future so feel free to send a message with a request!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist

Honestly, having the dorm to yourself for the night was kind of amazing.

You loved Hannah and Allie, you really did, but sometimes you desperately needed a little alone time. Especially because your apartment had somehow become the designated "Allie Freakout Headquarters." Midterms? Allie panicked here. Relationship problems? Here. Hockey drama? Somehow also here.

Peace and quiet had become a rare luxury. 

So you took full advantage of it.

You finally tackled the mountain of clothes that had been steadily growing on your bedroom floor because, honestly, between classes and work, you hadn't had the energy to care. The laundry still wasn't folded, but at least everything was off the floor.

Then, after staring at the stack for weeks, you finally caved and organized the massive record collection you, Hannah, and Allie had accumulated. Alphabetical order. Artist first, then album. It was weirdly satisfying.

By the time you finished, the apartment actually looked...clean.

For once, there weren't any assignments hanging over your head. No papers due at midnight. No readings you'd procrastinated until the last second. You could finally breathe.

Headphones settled comfortably over your ears, you cranked up Just Like Heaven by The Cure until it drowned out everything else. Within minutes, you were dancing around the apartment.

Barefoot. Baggy gray sweatpants hanging low on your hips. A black lace bralette that was comfortable enough to lounge in.

Not another soul around to judge you.

You wandered from room to room with your eyes closed, singing every lyric from memory, using a wooden spoon as a microphone before eventually swapping it for your hairbrush. You spun dramatically through the living room before launching yourself onto your bed, performing for an audience that definitely did not exist.

Completely lost in your own little concert, you never heard the knock at the front door. Or the second one. Or the sound of someone trying the doorknob.

Outside, John Logan frowned.

"Hello?" he called through the door, hearing movement somewhere inside.

He knocked again.

"Hannah?" he called louder. "Garrett said to grab his jersey! He left it here!"

Nothing.

He waited another few seconds before sighing.

Garrett's text was still open on his phone.

If they're not there, spare key's under the mat. The one that says "Go Away Please."

John had been hoping someone would answer. Breaking into his friend's girlfriend's apartment, even with permission, felt a little weird. But Garrett had practice, wanted his jersey back, and apparently trusted the girls enough to leave a spare key outside.

John shrugged.

"If I get murdered," he muttered to himself, fishing the key out from under the mat, "I'm haunting him."

The lock clicked open. He stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him. The apartment was empty.

Well...

Mostly.

He could hear footsteps somewhere down the hallway.

And...

Was that singing?

"Hannah?" he called cautiously.

Nothing.

"Allie?"

Still nothing.

The singing only got louder. John stood awkwardly in the entryway for another second before taking a few hesitant steps farther inside. Then someone came spinning out of the hallway.

You.

Eyes closed.

Hands running dramatically through your hair as you belted out the chorus with absolutely zero concern for the outside world.

John froze. He should probably say something.

Instead...

He watched.

Not in a creepy way.

Just...

You looked so genuinely happy. You were dancing around like no one was watching, which, until about ten seconds ago, had been completely true.

A grin slowly spread across his face. He'd never seen you before, but judging by how comfortable you looked, you obviously lived here.

And...

You were really pretty.

Like...

Really pretty.

Then your eyes opened. You froze mid-spin.

Your brain took approximately half a second to register the fact that there was an unfamiliar six-foot hockey player standing in your living room.

You screamed. "What the fuck?!"

John nearly jumped out of his skin.

"It's okay!" he said immediately, throwing both hands into the air. "I'm not robbing you!"

You stared at him. He stared back.

Neither of you moved.

"I—"

"You literally broke into our apartment!"

"I used the key!"

"That's somehow worse!"

"No, wait—"

You grabbed the nearest object you could find, a throw pillow, and pointed it at him like it was a weapon.

"Explain."

John couldn't help the nervous laugh that escaped him.

"Garrett sent me."

Your eyebrows pulled together.

"...Garrett?"

"Yeah." He nodded quickly. "Garrett Graham. Hannah's boyfriend?"

You blinked. "I know who Garrett is."

"Right. Good. That would've been awkward."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"He left his hockey jersey here and texted me to come grab it because he's already at the rink. Said there was a spare key under the mat."

You stared at him for another few seconds.

Then...

Very slowly...

Your shoulders relaxed. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"...I almost hit you with a pillow."

"I've taken body checks harder than that."

A reluctant laugh escaped you. "Don't get cocky."

"Oh, I absolutely am."

You rolled your eyes despite yourself.

Silence settled between you for a second.

Then John smiled. "I'm John, by the way."

"The John Logan?"

"The one and only."

You couldn't help smiling. "I'm Y/N."

"Nice to officially meet you."

You smiled politely before noticing his eyes flick downward for the briefest second. Following his gaze, you looked down. Black lace bralette. Bare shoulders. Barefoot. Hair sticking out in every direction from your one-woman concert.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it actually made your ears burn. You immediately folded your arms across yourself.

"I—"

John's own face turned red almost instantly. "I wasn't—"

"Nope."

"I wasn't trying to—"

"I know."

"I swear."

"I know!"

He looked genuinely horrified with himself. Which somehow made the situation even funnier. Trying to recover what little dignity you had left, you cleared your throat.

"Hannah's room."

John blinked. "What?"

"The jersey."

You pointed toward the hallway.

"It's probably in Hannah's room."

"Oh."

Right. The reason he'd come over.

"Thanks."

He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you enough time to dramatically bury your face in your hands.

"Oh my God..."

Of all days...

Five minutes later, John reappeared holding Garrett's jersey triumphantly. "Found it."

"Nice."

Neither of you seemed entirely sure how to end the conversation.

John scratched the back of his neck. "Well..."

"I should probably..."

"Yeah."

He reached for the doorknob before pausing.

Turning back toward you, that signature Logan grin spread across his face.

"Oh."

You looked up.

"Great song, by the way."

Your eyes widened.

"You could hear that?"

"You were kinda killing your eardrums with those headphones."

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "Oh my God."

"And," he continued, clearly enjoying himself now, "your air guitar technique?"

"No."

"Pretty impressive."

"No."

"Eight out of ten."

"You need to leave."

John laughed. "Fair."

He opened the door. "See you around, Y/N."

Before you could think of anything remotely clever to say back, the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment fell silent again. You stood there for several long seconds.

Then slowly slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor. "...Shit."

[johnloganswife]

guilty pleasure

john logan x female reader x dean di laurentis

summary: reader has been having casual sex with logan and dean separately for some time. the knowledge that one of them is in a room nearby while she’s with the other has started to make her want…both? unbeknownst to her, they’ve been considering the same thing. (this is just pure menage a trois filth) warnings: 18+, threesome, fingers in mouth (briefly), (m) hand on (f) neck, tits in mouth, dry humping, hand job, unprotected piv, oral sex (m receiving), a little fingering, pet names ('doll', 'baby', 'good girl') word count: 3.3k an: these are my two favourite off campus boys so i just had to do it 🫪 i've never written anything like this before so i hope it turned out good 😓

I’ve been fucking Logan for a couple weeks now.

I’ve also been fucking Dean (every now and then) for a couple months.

Neither of them knows I’ve been messing around with the other. It’s not like I’m cheating on them—both agreed that the relationship is strictly sex, no strings attached.

I know Dean has been with other girls for a fact, so I don’t feel guilty on his side of things.

Logan’s newer, though. I haven’t seen him with someone else, but I’m still sure he’d be fine with me being with others.

But, I do have one problem.

I’ve started thinking about Logan every time I’m with Dean. And I’ve started thinking about Dean every time I’m with Logan. Recently, the two of them have started occupying all of my thoughts.

I know it’s wrong. I know I can’t want both. But that’s doesn’t mean I don’t.

The thought has my thumbs tapping my car’s steering wheel nervously as I look at the hockey house next to me. I’ve been parked outside for five minutes, guilt gnawing at me about my feelings.

I’m supposed to be ‘hanging out’ with Logan today, but I can’t help thinking about how I wish Dean would be there too.

Finally, I force the thoughts to the back of my mind, shaking my head as I let out a deep exhale. I am going to go in there and just have fun with Logan. Nothing else.

No one else.

I make my way to the door, straightening out the baggy leather jacket the covers what my thin tank top doesn’t. After months of visiting this house, I know better than to knock, so I let myself in and make my way to Logan’s room. I breathed a sigh of relief at the empty space, grateful that Dean isn’t here to see me—it feels too awkward to explain I’m not here for him.

Outside Logan’s room, I knock on the door, nervously surveying my surroundings.

“Come in,” he called out in response.

I enter his room and he sits up from where he was lying on his bed.

“Hey!” He beams at me, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late,” I apologised, thinking back to my momentary nervous breakdown in the car.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

After kicking off my shoes in the corner of his room, I take off my jacket and throw it on the back of his desk chair. The way Logan’s eyes travel over my bare shoulders and the lace of my bra peeking out from beneath my tank isn’t lost on me. My breath hitches in anticipation of what we’ll no doubt be doing later.

I plop down onto Logan’s bed, lying across it horizontally while he remains sitting near me. Cold air brushes against my midriff and I can tell that my tank top has ridden up enough to catch Logan’s attention. His eyes search over my body before meeting my gaze again.

“You’re annoyingly beautiful, you know?” His deep voice is like music to my ears.

The compliment makes me blush despite myself.

Forcing a cool expression, I reply, “Show me just how annoyed you are, then.”

Logan moves to hover over me, one hand resting next to my head, the other grazing the bare skin of my waist. His eyes pierce into mine, a mischievous glint dancing in them. Slowly, he begins to move his hand up from my waist, brushing past my chest before gently holding my neck.

He’s never done this before but, boy do I love it.

Settling on his knees between my spread legs, he shifts his weight so that he can use his spare hand instead of resting on the mattress. The lust in his gaze intensifies, clear in the way his pupils dilate. One hand still on my neck, he uses the other to caress my face, pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

“Open your mouth,” his voice is low, almost a whisper.

I look up at him, slightly intimidated, and take in the sight of his chain dangling near my face, his hair falling into his eyes. He looks so good, I’m willing to do whatever he wants.

Unsure of exactly what he wants to do, I part my lips, slightly opening my mouth. Logan’s thumb moves to trace a line along my lower lip.

Pulling my lip down slightly with the pad of his thumb, he begins to move the finger into my mouth, “Just a little more.”

With the help of his thumb, I open my mouth more, allowing him to enter it fully. Instinctively, I begin sucking at him slightly, feeling encouraged by the way his lips curve into a small smirk.

“You’re gonna be a good girl for me, okay?”

I nod slightly, constricted by his thumb in my mouth and hand on my neck.

He pulls his thumb out of my mouth, replacing it with his lips as he begins to kiss me passionately. My neck remains underneath his hand and I bring my own hand to his wrist, hoping to keep him close.

His tongue slips into my mouth, desperate to deepen the kiss. Bringing a hand to clutch the hair at the nape of his neck, a small sound escapes my lips as our tongues begin to move against one another.

I feel my eyes rolling back slightly, the heat of the kiss dampening my panties. Before I can help it, my mind drifts to Dean and I’m suddenly yearning for his hands on me, too.

The sound of Logan’s bedroom door opening snaps me out my thoughts, and Logan quickly pulls back. Out of breath, I turn to the doorway and feel my heart fall out of my ass. Dean stands there, an amused smirk on his face as he takes in the compromising positions of me in Logan.

I open my mouth, hoping to come up with something to say, but Dean beats me to it.

“Hot makeout sessions without me? I’m wounded,” he pouts teasingly.

Logan chuckles, looking entirely too amused about this. “What do you want, Di?”

“Well, I came looking for duct tape, but now I think my plans have changed,” he says, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him.

Dean and Logan share a knowing look while I look back and forth between the two of them, bewildered. I’m still almost lying down, propped up slightly by my elbows. I can’t decide if I’m living in my wildest fantasy or my worst nightmare right now.

Logan meets my eyes again, registering my confused expression.

“Oh, I know you guys have been fucking,” he admits casually.

Dean chimes in from where he stands. “Yeah, I also know about you two,” he says, gesturing between me and Logan.

“Uh,” I pause, madly confused by what’s happening right now, before managing, “…how?”

Dean chuckles at my disorientation, crossing his arms over his chest as he begins explaining, “Doll, me and Logan live in the same house. It didn’t take long for us to realise your visits weren’t just for one of us.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I move to sit upright.

“Not that that’s a bad thing,” Logan cuts in, his hand reaching to caress my leg comfortingly. “We’ve actually talked about it, you know. About you.”

His gaze flicks to Dean’s. My heart rate picks up.

“What he’s trying to say is: if you want both of us at the same time, we’re down,” Dean says nonchalantly.

My stomach flips intensely and I can feel my cheeks turning bright red.

“I could also just leave, if you want,” he continues, aware of my flustered expression.

“No!” I blurted out. “Sorry— I just… I mean— I don’t think you guys know how badly I want this,” I forced myself to speak, suddenly feeling very out of breath.

“Seriously?” Logan asks, looking pleasantly surprised.

“Fuck yes, I’ve dreamed about this.” I laugh nervously.

“What can I say, I make dreams come true,” Dean drawls sarcastically, now walking over to the bed.

Rolling my eyes, I respond, “Shut up, Dean.”

He leans in, his face inches from mine. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he smirks, “Make me.”

I crash my lips onto his, pulling him close by his shirt. He stumbles next to me, sitting on the edge of the bed while my hands find his neck. Suddenly remembering Logan sitting nearby, I pull away from Dean, heavy pants filling the space between us. Moving over to Logan, I push him back to lean against the headboard then straddle him as my lips find his.

This opportunity to have both of them has me riled up. I’m kissing Logan with a newfound vigour, my lips moving hard against his while my hands slide up to the back of his neck, pulling at his hair. He lets out a groan, tilting his head back and releasing my lips as a result of my grip. His eyes are glinting with hunger as his lips crash back onto mine, biting my lower lip before slipping his tongue into my mouth. I welcome the familiar feeling, deepening the kiss further until it’s sloppy and wet.

I can feel my soaking panties, and my hips start to grind against Logan instinctively. Dean’s hands meet my hips from behind, slipping up underneath my tank before drawing lazy circles on my skin. Once me and Logan pull back to catch our breath, Dean begins to roll my shirt up in an attempt to take it off. I help him, grabbing the hem and ripping it over my head leaving me in my white lacy bralette. The fabric does little to cover me up, basically giving Logan a full view of my tits. His lips part slightly when his eyes meet mine, his gaze darker than before.

Still straddling Logan, I turn slightly and pull Dean in, resuming our kiss from before. He’s moved closer to sit on his knees next to me and Logan, and I notice how the fabric of his pants strains over his thighs. I move my hands down to tease him, lightly grazing his crotch before moving my hands underneath his shirt to trace the lines of his abs.

Meanwhile, Logan reached behind my back to unhook my bra, then began kneading my breasts between his fingers. He presses a few kisses to my sternum and my stomach before focusing his attention back on my chest. Eagerly, he takes one tit in his mouth, swirling his tongue around my nipple while I help Dean take his shirt off.

The feeling of Logan’s mouth on me makes my head lean back and a sigh escape my mouth. Dean moves impossibly closer and begins kissing my neck, nipping at the skin until he finds the spot that makes me squirm in pleasure. He continues to suck at the sensitive skin and I bring a hand up to clutch the back of his head, encouraging him to keep going.

Pushing Logan away from my tits, I start tugging at his shirt, eager to feel more of his skin. He obliges, swiftly pulling his shirt off before his hand finds my neck again. The action releases my neck from Dean’s mouth, but Logan continues to pull me close as his lips find mine again.

Dean lets out a disappointed sound, and I can hear the pout on his face. His hands grip at my waist in an attempt to have more of me and I can’t help but giggle. Moving my legs off from on top of Logan, I turn to Dean smiling.

“You’re so spoiled,” I scolded mockingly, pushing him to lie down.

I begin kissing from his neck down his chest, spending as much time on his abs as possible (even using my tongue in the way I know drives him crazy) before reaching the bulge in his jeans. My mouth hovers over him, intent on teasing him as much as possible, before pressing a kiss to the fabric. His eyes never once leave mine, entranced by me doing as I please.

Sitting up on to my knees, I start to unbuckle Dean’s belt, before undoing his jean button and zip. Lifting his hips, he helps me pull off the clothing, leaving him in his boxers. From behind, Logan is pressing kisses to my back, his hands roaming my torso freely. I begin taking off my own jeans when an idea pops into my head.

Keeping my panties on, I shuffle over to straddle Dean, pressing my hands to his abs for support. I give no warning before dropping my hips to brush my covered clit and against Dean’s clothed erection. His reaction is immediate, a whimper leaving his lips before he regains his senses.

“Fuck, are you seriously gonna dry hump me?”

“Maybe,” I tease, knowing that is exactly what I’m planning on doing.

“You filthy woman,” Dean mumbled as my hips lowered again, making his head tilt back.

I begin rolling my hips, slowly creating friction between me and Dean’s underwear. Sparing a glance to Logan, I meet his eyes as he stands and begins undoing his belt. At first, he just takes off his jeans and leaves his boxers on. Continuing to grind against Dean, I gesture to Logan’s boxer with one hand.

“Off,” my voice is breathless.

Logan tilts his head with intrigue but happily obeys, leaving him completely naked.

“Come here,” I demanded, curling my finger.

Logan crawls onto the bed, stopping to sit on his knees a little behind me, to the side of Dean’s legs. He reaches his hand to squeeze my ass before continue to draw patterns on my bare skin. Keeping one hand on Dean while I move my hips against him, I move my spare hand back to hold Logan’s erection.

He freezes for a split second before leaning in to press a kiss on my shoulder. I start to move my hand on Logan, stroking him softly while his kisses travel all over my back. With my attention divided, my efforts with Dean slow, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He simply grips my hips, keeping me where I am on top of him and assisting my movements.

My grip around Logan becomes firmer as I begin to pump my fist on him. A strained groan escapes his throat, dampening me more in response. I slow my hips further, settling for a slight roll on Dean as I focus on Logan. His breathing deepens as he desperately grips onto my waist for support.

“I’m close,” he mumbles, breathing erratic.

I immediately stop and release Logan from my grip.

Letting go of my waist, he drops to lie down and groans in frustration, “Fuck, why did you do that?”

“Well, we can’t have you making a mess, can we?” I shrug, suppressing an amused smile.

Growing impatient, Dean grabs my waist and flips himself on top of me.

“Okay, doll, you’ve had your fun. Now, you’re gonna be a good girl and do as I say.”

Nodding, I gulp, nervous about where this might go.

“Get on all fours.”

Obeying Dean’s demand, I get up onto all fours, my ass lining up with his crotch. Logan leans over to kiss me before moving in front of me, leaving his hard dick in front of my face. Dean pulls down my underwear, before pulling off his own, releasing his erection to tease my entrance.

This time it’s Logan’s gravelly voice that makes a demand, his hand tilting my chin up so we make eye contact. “Open up, beautiful.”

My lips part as I bring a hand up to graze his skin, guiding him into my mouth. A small sound escapes him while his head begins to tilt back in pleasure.

Strong hands gripping my hips tightly, Dean speaks from behind me. “You ready?”

“Mhm,” I hum, making Logan shiver.

Slowly, Dean slides into me from behind, stretching me out with his width. My moan is muffled by Logan’s dick in my mouth. One of his hands still holds my chin, the other is now gripping my hair.

“Just tap me twice if you want out, okay?” Logan says, stroking my face with his thumb.

I hum around him again, but his consideration just makes me want him more. I start to swirl my tongue along him, moving my head back and forth to build friction. Dean has started to pound into me from behind and I clutch at the sheets beneath me.

Unable to focus on my mouth’s movement anymore, Logan begins to roll his hips instead, grazing my throat. My back quickly begins to arch, my body and senses overwhelmed. The sound of Dean’s hips meeting my ass echoes around the room. His pace begins to quicken, and my eyes start rolling back in my head.

Logan’s voice pulls me out of my daze. “Eyes on me, baby.”

I force my eyes open, eyelids fluttering with the effort it takes. Dean starts to move deeper and harder, and I can feel the coil tightening deep in my core. Logan continues to clutch at my hair, speeding up his movements in my mouth, making me whimper.

“You’re taking this like such a good girl,” Dean coos from behind me.

Logan hums in agreement. “You look so beautiful with your mouth around me.”

His breathing grows more ragged, and soon enough, he’s coming in my mouth. I’m slightly surprised at the sensation but then Logan orders, “Swallow.” and I immediately listen. Taking himself out of my mouth, he moves to lie down, clearly feeling spent.

Now with more freedom to move, I press my head into the mattress, titling my ass higher into the air. The shift in angle allows Dean to thrust impossibly deeper into me. A loud moan begins to slip from my mouth, so I turn into the sheets to muffle it. Dean releases one hand from my hips to grip my hair and tilt my head back to the side.

“Let me hear you.”

His dick continues to drive into me and I make no attempt to suppress the sounds that come from deep in my throat. After getting a chance to catch his breath, Logan’s hands begin to wander over me again. His fingers tease my nipple before he reaches down to graze my clit. I gasp, the extra sensation perfectly inching me closer to my climax.

Logan continues to rub my clit, making me scream in pleasure.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” I whine, my knuckles turning white with how hard I’m gripping the sheets.

Dean forces himself to push deep into me one more time, but his movement grow sloppy and he comes inside of me, groaning loudly. Logan’s rough stroking on my clit continues, making me orgasm soon after. Dean moves to lie down on the opposite side of me to Logan, and after Logan moves his hand away from me, I fall flat on my stomach.

Our heavy pants fill the room as I move to rest my head on my folded arms. My eyes meet Logan’s and I can’t suppress my smile.

“What?” he chuckles softly.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, moving to kiss him.

Dean’s playful whining ends the moment. “Don’t I deserve a kiss, too?”

I turn to him and press a begrudging kiss to his lips. “You really make me wonder why I even entertained you in the first place.”

Glancing down briefly, he retorts, “You know why, doll.”

I scoff, shoving his shoulder teasingly before lying flat on my back. As I stare at the ceiling, I can only think one thing.

“We should go again.”

[roughpenalty]

put in your place | john logan x reader (smut)

18+ details: enemies, unspoken tension, bickering, dirty talk, rough & filthy but sweet aspects leaving them confused about where they stand, party bathroom hookup, consent is discussed, no specification of protection method so reader can mental insert preference!

usually in stories, the conversation goes… “is he always an asshole?” “it’s not just you! he’s misunderstood. you need to get to know him!” but with john logan, it’s just you.

everyone treats him like the angel of the jocks, as if he’s any different. maybe because he doesn’t parade his hookups on display like dean or that he wears that bright smile instead of garrett’s moody demeanor but whatever the reason, you see right through it.

he’s always been cold to you especially in comparison to the girls that flock to him. anytime you were around it’s almost like he’s too stressed to pay you any mind. you question if it’s because you don’t bow down to the hockey players the way the puck bunnies do, but his reason seems deeper than that.

so the last person you thought you’d end up hooking up with in this party bathroom would be him. truthfully it didn’t take much from either of you tonight. the usual sarcastic banter, a couple eye rolls, him blocking your way to the fridge on purpose with his ridiculously large body just to make you say please…

eventually he came up behind you placing his warm hand gently placed on your lower back whispering “meet me in the bathroom in five minutes… or don’t. up to you.” he says. you originally scoff at the insane suggestion, but when glancing up at his face and seeing nothing but seriousness for a change– your body betrayed you.

now sat on the bathroom sink in a rough makeout session and your legs spread apart… he’s pressed up against you between your thighs. the rough material of his jeans still holding in his hard on and despite your best efforts at grinding forward, his mean grip on your hips controls the pace. he’s determined to make you take it achingly slow and is cruelly amused by the mess he’s making out of you.

he told himself he wouldn’t even kiss you, that maybe that will help him justify this. but when he first felt your tempting lips mumble your first bitchy remark that close to his in a private room now with no one else to talk about it, he needed to devour you and couldn’t stop. he knew you’d tease him about your lipstick all over his as soon you were done but he didn’t care. if anything, that drove him further.

for two people fully dressed still, the room sounded like a desperate mess. thank god the music outside was so loud that nobody could ever hear the breathy gasps caused by the bucking of your hips against him both fighting for friction and control of the other. his gripped in your hair yanking every time you tried to take over, keeping you in your place.

if you didn’t know any better, you swore you heard a “beautiful” slip as he nibbled down your neck but the feeling was too intense to process right now. his teeth surely leaving marks, clear payment for all the talking back you do to him around his friends, but his lips graze soothingly for forgiveness over the aching skin quickly after– a confusing feeling that made you shiver.

he laughs at you desperately working to unlock his belt “you need it that bad, huh?”

“god– shut up and hurry up before i change my mind.”

to this comment, he grabs both of your hands and pins them firmly above your head making you go silent and bright red. staring deep into your eyes with his forehead against yours, you feel more naked than ever despite being covered.

“cute… well, this is how this is going to work. if you want me to stop, you say stop. and-”

“i don’t need the sex lecture.”

“well considering your bratty mouth, i’m not expecting you to say anything nice so i need to know you know the real word to stop. fuck you, shut up, your usual miscellaneous insults i won’t let phase me. are we clear?”

you huff nodding quickly wanting the intense eye contact to be over, even though you know he’s doing the right thing. you can’t even think for half of a second that he’s a good person or that he’s doing this for any reason other than boredom, it’ll ruin all of this. so bare minimum thought at best. he raises an eyebrow at you unsatisfied by the lack of words in response which makes you finally say “stop means stop… now can you please fuck me?”

“atta girl… see she does have manners.” he snickers rewarding you with his fingers teasing along your wet folds, making you sigh in both pleasure and relief hearing him finally undo his belt buckle.

“stay like this. i want to see you take it.” he says, wrapping your legs around his back and lining himself up. this surprised you as you expected him to turn you around without needing to even look at each other.

his large hands cup around your face persistent to watch your expression as he sinks deep into you, eyes fixated on your mouth parting, unable to hold back his cocky smirk as you whine out at his length. he pushes fully inside and remains still making you sink into the feeling of him for a minute. “that’s it… take it all.”

“m-move. fuck. aren’t you taking a break from being an asshole?” you plead at his stillness.

“never said all that, but you’d think you’d watch your mouth considering… well…” he taunts, before moving one rough thrust at a time between his words “who’s– in– charge.”

you try to cover your squeal with your hand, but he quickly removes it and holds it back yet again. he keeps the grip on you to help his now relentless thrusts pick up the pace. “what’s the matter? worried someone’s gonna find out you’re letting me fuck you like this?”

his arm wraps around your back where it meets the mirror to soften the banging from his thrusting, at least spare you from a couple marks after the number he did on your neck. he does his best to position himself to where he can cause the least discomfort for you, but still get deep enough to make you squirm. “r-right there, fuck.” you cry at his angle.

“yeah? you like getting fucked like this? such a good girl.” he says picking up the pace, fighting his own moans. he moves one hand to your clit rubbing in small circles, pulling you closer to your orgasm.

“you drive me so fucking crazy…” he mutters breathily, leaving a warm kiss on your forehead. you were already close, but this ruins you. you know his ego is going to do something ridiculous like pull out if you cum without telling him and right now the feeling is too euphoric to care about looking desperate anymore.

“logan–”

he’s almost startled by how gently you say his name for once. “…yes?”

“m’so close.”

“and?”

“please let me cum.”

“see you can be so good. just needed to get put in your place, yeah? cum for me. make a mess all over me.” he coos in your ear, bringing your orgasm rushing.

watching you cum around him with your walls clenching tight is enough, but the harsh tug on his hair from your fingers curled tight in the strands is what does it… this sends him quickly over the edge. watching his eyes flutter shut in pleasure before hiding his head in the crook of your neck.

before either of you can catch your breath, the sound of your phone vibrating on the counter makes you jump. you realize immediately it’s your friends looking for you. reality sinks in that you have to go downstairs and forget that john logan just ruined you on a random stranger’s sink. expecting a smug comment and preparing yourself for the rumors you’re about to hear when he flaunts the fact he managed this out of you, all he says is “i won’t tell anyone… just go enjoy your night.”

[woodelf-writing]

The Coyote and The Hawk.

Author Note: firstly, apologises it's been so long, life has been a little crazy at the moment! Secondly, this chapter dives more into your main character, not to spoil anything but, if you had an issue with the LGBTQIA+ community, this story may not be for you - this is your only "warning."

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Masterlist

Part Two / Part Four.

Part Three.

True to her word, Allie had given you a literal, metric tonne of hair products paired with a written set of washing instructions; however, Allie soon realised that you wouldn’t follow her directions to the letter, which is how you found yourself naked in your shower, which doubled as a bathtub and Allie perched on the ledge, peaking around the cheap shower curtain to make sure you were doing it correctly.

“I didn’t realise you had a tattoo on your ass.” She notes casually, staring directly at the small, black outlined heart on the upper portion of your left butt cheek.

Turning to wash out the second lot of shampoo from your curls, you chuckle, “The result of being able to legally drink and get tattoos at the ripe age of eighteen.”

Allie chuckles, “Okay, now conditioner.” She orders, holding out a bottle and gesturing for your hand, which you  give her willingly, and she places a calculated amount into your pal, before instructing you how to apply it to your hair, because there is apparently a right and wrong way. “So, this Kat girl has caught your attention.” She speaks.

Stepping out of the stream of water, “Yeah, she cute.” You respond applying the conditioner as instructed.

“Cute as in you might pursue it, or cute like you appreciate from a distance.” Allie asks, her eyebrow cocked.

You shrug again, “I don’t know, new job and all, I don’t tend to date where I work.”

Allie laughs, actually she scoffs, “Yeah sure, didn’t you and Henry hook up at your last job?”

You smile slyly, “I’ve learnt my lesson after Henry.”

“And yet you still keep his dick pics in your phone.” Hannah says, entering the bathroom after clearly listening to your conversation and taking a seat on the, thankfully, closed toilet lid.

You roll your eyes at your friends as they giggle; despite their teasing, your sexuality had never been a topic of discussion; it was just who you are, and everyone accepted that. You still remember when the conversation had come up with the hockey boys, ironically you and Dean had been looking at the same girl one night at Malone’s which sparked the conversation between you all; and it was Tucker, who you would never admit to anyone – through fear of hurting the other boys feelings, was your favourite when he quoted David Rose – she likes the wine, not the label.

And regarding the casual sex, let’s be realistic, it would be hypocritical if any of the boys were to comment, which again, none of them did whilst Allie and Hannah always wanted to make sure you are safe and secretly enjoyed the stories and living through you.

After some time of gossiping, Allie informs you its time to wash out the condition, whilst turned to face away from the girls, Allie had the opportunity to motion for Hannah to have a peak at your ass tattoo, which she gasped at and stifled her amusement behind her hand in time for you to turn off the water and step out, taking the towel from Hannah’s hands and wrapping it around yourself.

The next forty-five minutes, yes you counted, consisted of your own personal version of hell – towel drying, various oils, scrunching and twisting before eventually drying with precise movements and angles, you let yourself exhale the breath you weren’t aware you were holding, until you realised that Allie wasn’t finished, applying mousse to the roots of volume.

“Okay, let me see.” You say as you go to stand up from the chair that had been dragged into the bathroom.

Allie’s hands clasp your shoulders, pushing you back down into the chair, “Nope, make up first.”

You groan but give in because it’s easier than trying to fight Allie once she’s on a roll but thankfully, make up takes considerably less time than you hair, she applies a very light foundation, brushes something on your eyelids, applies eyeliner then mascara and finally, lip stick.

“Okay, get dressed, the whole look needs to be seen together.” Allie orders.

Hannah covers the mirrors in your bedroom as you entire and slip into your uniform which consists of ass hugging stretchy jeans which were looser towards your feet and a slight cropped top embroidered with the word “coyote” and a pair of cowboy boots.

“Ready.” You announce turning to face your friends.

Hannah lets out an uncontrolled, or unexpected gasp, whilst Allie’s eyes go wide.

“Holy shit, we might have made you too hot.” She mutters, taking out her phone and getting a picture, without taking her eyes off you.

You find yourself rolling your eyes for the millionth time that evening, but as you turned to look at your mirror, now uncovered, it took a few seconds for your brain to realise that the reflection was in fact you – for years you had hidden your hair, hated it but you were absolutely speechless, your curls were defined not frizzy, it was controlled, small side sections were pinned up which helped the swooping fringe frame your face perfectly whilst your make up made your eyes shine and your lip stick looked perfect.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, lifting your hair to touch your hair but so worried you would ruin Allies hard work you stop yourself, Allie chuckles, standing up from your bed and lifts your hands to your hair, it’s soft and silky.

“See, true hotness is accepting who you are, just as you are.” She smiles.

You want to cry but the fear of ruining Allie’s work of art stops you, instead you turn to her and snatch her in the biggest hug you ever given anyone, she chuckles softly, rubbing your back tenderly, you pull Hannah in and for a moment you three stand there in silence.

“You need to go to work.” Hannah mumbles into your hair.

Reluctantly, you let go, “Right.” You say, with a real smile.

“But first, a picture!” Allie grins, pulling out her phone and taking a selfie of you all.

You release your friends from your grip, “Right I have to go, thank you, I owe you both one!” she grin as you snatch your leather jacket off the bed, also picked out by Hannah and gently put it on, terrified to ruin your hair for the first time.

“Don’t worry about your hair, it won’t get messed up easily.” Allie smiles as you pull on your shoes, snatching your phone, purse and keys shoving them in your pocket.

“Send me those pictures!” she shout as you leave the dorm room.

Behind the closed door, Allie and Hannah squeal in delight and high-five.

Thankfully your walk to work was short, a bounce in your step as you stare down at your phone.

Allie had sent you the picture the moment you’d left the building, and you haven’t stopped staring at it since, which in hindsight wasn’t the best idea as you slam, full force into a large figure, causing you to stumble backwards, dropping your phone to the concrete below and almost losing your footing.

A large hand grasps your arm, halting your fall.

“I’m so sorry!” you say, flustered.

The figure chuckles, “What’s got you so distracted?” the voice speaks.

You look up to find non-other than Dean staring down at you, a playful smirk on his lips as his steely blue eyes look down at you, his face takes on a few expressions before landing on realisation mixed with confusion.

“Dove?” he asks, his eyes widening as he takes in your face and hair.

Your only response was a nervous chuckle.

Dean doesn’t speak, in fact he’s not even sure he could string a sentence together if he tried; his brain completely stops working as his chest constricts in a odd unfamiliar way, “Your hair…” he stammers, unable to finish his sentence – unable to find the words, but when he watches your face morph into worry, he forces out words he’d never said to you before, “You look beautiful.”

Now it was your turn to be speechless, did Dean Di Laurentis just call you beautiful?

“Thank you.” You respond, your voice no more than a whisper as a dark blush threatens to make its way onto your cheeks, which you curse yourself because you were not a girl flustered by Dean, you drop your head low in an attempt to hind your face within your curls.

Dean grabs your chin gently, lifting your head to look up at him.

“I knew you were hiding some curls but, wow, is this your natural hair?” he asks, his voice low, you can only nod which causes him to smile slyly at you. “Where are you heading off too looking like this?”

Oh shit! Work! You think, your eyes go wide as you move yourself out of Dean’s touch, “Oh, just work.” You say, looking around for your phone which typically had disappeared from your sight.

Dean looks suspiciously at you before locating your phone quickly, dropping down to pick it up but not before he has a chance to peak at the picture on your lock-screen, the picture Allie had taken no more than fifteen minutes ago lighting up on the screen, you quickly snatch the phone from his grasp.

“I’ve got to go,” she say flushed, shoving the phone into your pocket and brushing past Dean, “I’ll see you later, have a good night!” you call over your shoulder, not daring to look back at Dean.

Dean watched as you left him stood on the street, his eyebrows furrowed as you walked, very quickly off into the night, eventually he stops watching as you disappear and turns to head back towards campus, a small smile on his lips as he thinks back to you; you really were beautiful, and from now on, he’d never think of you any other way than he did now, bouncy, wild curly hair and bright eyes.

As Dean made his way back to the Hockey House, Hannah once again was sat in Garretts lap in the armchair, Allie was now sandwiched between Logan and Tucker whilst a horror film played on the TV, everyone jumped as he entered which made him chuckle, but he wasn’t able to rid the smile off his face which prompted the question from his teammate:

“What’s got you smiling?” Garrett asks, peaking out from behind Hannah’s arm.

Dean looked at Hannah, and then Allie before replying, “Just bumped into Dove, did you guys know she’s naturally curly hair?”

He watched like a hawk, noticing the expression Hannah desperately tried to hide, curling up into Garrett even more whilst Allie’s shoulders tensed under the watchful eye of Dean who stared at the back of her head.

“I can imagine it,” Logan turned to look at Dean, “She’s always had those ringlet baby hairs.”

Dean simply nodded, whilst he shrugged off his jacket and without another word, headed upstairs, ignoring the questioning whispers of every downstairs, he closed the door to his bedroom once he was on the other side and sat himself down on his bed, pulling his laptop into his lap as he leant his back against the headboard and opened his browser.

In the past, he might have been tempted to open one of his more scandalous browser tabs, but instead he typed into the search bar:

Coyote, cowboy boots logo.

The coyote saloon was a different world once you stepped inside.

The dimly lit, open planned room was created of dark red walls, covered floor to ceiling in wester and country style décor, the wooden tablets and chairs were placed throughout the room but often moved to allow large groups to sit together, not that anyone cared, a dancefloor was placed to the far right of the room and a small corridor on the left which led to the toilets, but the main focus of the saloon was the bar and of course, it was directly in front of you when you first walk in.

It was tall in height, and wide to ensure dancing was safe, created of dark, aged wood with matching bar stools available for customers to sit; the wall behind the bar was full of shelves which the higher ones held all types of decorative trinkets including small animal skulls, cowboy hats and long-emptied bottles of whiskey and scotch, as well as some framed photos of staff but current and past.

The lower shelves sat above the workstation, filled with bottles of spirits, mixers, glasses of all shapes and sizes with fridges lining beneath the workstation filled with beer, soft drinks, other mixers and fruit; taps which supplied draft beers decorate the customer facing area with freezes full of ice and a long till to hold all the earnings.

But, the main focus of any coyote saloon was the large, old-school sign which read “Coyote Ugly” with the skull of – you’re assuming – some breed of large horned cow, and the small sign that made you really laugh was beneath it all which was written in seductive, cursive hand-writing; come for the drinks, stay for the girls.

You’re stood behind the bar, your jacket long discarded in the staff room lockers, a bar rag hung over your shoulder as you flitter from customer to customer, sharing warm smiles, laughs and exchanging drinks for money. It was busy tonight; girls of all ages filtered through the doors; bachelorette parties and birthdays being the highlight of tonight’s cliental.

The air was filled with laughter, love and an ease which was unfamiliar; you felt confident, sexy even which was only enhanced by the compliments from your co-workers and the punters tonight, your uniform was comfortable enough to work long hours if required but still flattering and extenuated your curves in all the right places – the joy of a uniform being made for women, by women hey?

Allie had also told you the truth, your hair – despite the humidity, sweat and movement, stayed pretty much perfect, a few odd pieces had gained extra volume that’s to the heat but all-in-all, it was still perfect in your eyes.

You glance up at the clock, hidden within the depts of the décor behind the bar, the first of three dances of the night was due to begin in five minutes, which mean you needed to rush to clear the bar top, ensuring the surface was dry and free of clutter and the props were ready if needed, thankfully your time-management skill had been honed through years of anxiety and a little OCD.

The song starts; a low, seductive beat fills the room as the lights dim brining attention to the stage in front of you; thankful for the break, you lean against the work top, the hard wood cutting into your back just below your shoulder-blades as you tilt your head upwards to watch as the dancers throw – literally, themselves from the ground and up onto the bar top to start their routine.

The bar team gather together, Kat fills the space beside you whilst Poppy and Erin stand shoulder to shoulder on the other side of you; the music echoes through your body, settling comfortably in your chest as you move your body to the music, the other girls are dancing also so you don’t feel awkward letting yourself sway to the music, but when you drag yourself from ogling the dancers, you notice the other girls aren’t just swaying to the music, they are full-on dancing and singing along to the music.

Suddenly feeling out of place, you halt your movements abruptly.

“You can dance, you know,” Kats voice speaks, her breath ticking against the shell of your ear.

When did she get so close? You ask yourself.

Kat doesn’t give you a chance to crawl back into your brain as she takes your hand in hers and begins to dance, pulling you close and encouraging you gently, her breath tickles your neck and smells of spearmint; Poppy and Erin move into your space, and eventually their encouragement works, you begin to dance with your co-workers.

Eventually, the bar team jump, sing and dance – mostly on each other – throughout the performance, occasionally you glance over the bar to see some of the crowd watching the four of you instead if the dancers, which causes heat to flood your face but that doesn’t stop you; your hands are in your hair as you dance, moving your hips daringly.

Eventually, the performance ends which sadly, brings an end to your personal party; Poppy and Erin are breathing heavily and so are you, your brain takes a minute to reset before you realise Kats hands are on your waist, your chest lingering against hers and your eyes meet.

“You know, you’ve got some moves,” She winks, releasing you from her grip before handing you a bottle of water and encouraging you to drink, “You could be a dancing coyote.”

You stutter out a laugh, “No way, those girls… I mean you can see them.”

“And I can see you,” Kat responds without hesitation, “And if you dance up there, the way you do down here, you won’t have an issue.”

“I’m perfectly happy down here on the ground.” You say, a little defensively as you begin serving the waiting crowd.

Kat chuckles, throwing a look at Erin and Poppy who seem to be wearing matching, knowing looks.

She makes her way over to you; your eyes can’t help but take in the way her hips move with confidence, she stops at the side of you, leaning in once again, this time her lips brush the shell of your ear, “Judging by Charlise’s face, you might find yourself with a promotion soon than you think.” She whispers.

Your eyes widen in horror as your head whips round to meet the waiting eyes of your manager, who unbeknownst to you, had been watching your little show the entire time.

Taglist:

@purplerainx1 @moonlight-girls-posts @shadytheoristtimetravel @jayjsbaby @spooky-librarian-ghost @wiltedpetalzz @lightdragonrayne @dumbasscorn @b1u3c10ud @skepvids @liss2709-blog @girlmeetsworl @justkeepingitpeachy @missbmc94 @roseios @plk-18 @sisterslytherinog

[incorrectara]

Hold It | John Logan

Summary: Logan and the reader had a massive fight a week ago and haven't spoken to each other since. They cross paths at a party in the hockey house and Logan loses his shit watching you talk to someone else.

Pairings: john logan x gf!reader

Word Count: 5.4k (not proof-read)

Warnings: filth. absolute porn with some plot, MDNI (stay away children) little bit of angst. angry sex turned mushy. edging.

💌: I watched a video of angry logan and it made me lose my shit y'all. This is based on what i think angry logan would be like. This might have some plot holes pls ignore i was in the pits. (If y'all wanna watch the video, i reblogged it right before this post 😋) Also might write a short prequel to this, like what exactly happened in the fight, angst central station babayyy

The music from the off-campus hockey house wasn’t just simply filling the room, it was pulsing through the walls, rattling the windows, and vibrating through Logan's boots, the bassline matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. The bass was loud enough to blur conversations into background noise, but somehow every laugh, every shout, every burst of drunken cheering only seemed to increase his irritation.

The hockey house was packed full of drunk students, who were definitely going to regret the decisions made under the influence.

Someone was winning a beer pong game in the kitchen, their teammates erupting into cheers loud enough to make Logan lose his mind; another group was singing terribly to music that wasn't even playing. Couples squeezed past one another in narrow hallways, red cups spilling onto hardwood floors that had long since become sticky with alcohol.

The entire hockey team was there.

Garrett had his arm lazily slung around Hannah while Dean argued with Allie over some ridiculous card game. Tucker was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his drink, and Birdie was already halfway to being completely hammered. To everyone else, it was another Briar party.

But for John Logan, it was pure torture.

He stood near the kitchen island, one hand shoved into his jeans pocket while the other loosely held a sweating beer bottle he had long forgotten, opened twenty minutes ago. His beer was warm and untouched. His jaw had been clenched for so long it physically hurt.

He had plans to get absolutely hammered tonight, a small break after a whole week of extra practice, but all that went down the drain the moment he entered his living room.

Garrett noticed before anyone else did. Every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward Logan with increasing concern. He knew the expression that Logan had written all over his face. Logan wasn't just quiet, he was dangerously quiet, his shoulders completely locked and his jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the beer bottle so hard his knuckles were turning whiter by the second. It meant he was on a warpath.

Eyes fixed on one thing, he wasn’t listening to the music or whatever bullshit Dean was spewing in a drunken haze, his eyes were focused towards the corner of the living room, refusing to look away.

Garrett followed his gaze. ‘Oh, shit.’

His entire universe had narrowed down to a single corner of the living room.

To you.

You looked beautiful without even trying, a simple outfit that somehow made every other girl at the party disappear. Your hair was slightly messy from dancing; your cheeks were flushed with the light pink colour he loved.

For the first time in the past seven days, you looked happy, carefree, and peaceful.

A whole week.

Seven days since your fight.

Seven days since you both screamed until neither of you had anything left to say.

Seven days since he convinced himself that walking away was the mature thing to do.

For one brutal, agonizing week, Logan was trying to do the right thing. He was staying away. After that massive, exhausting fight about his erratic training schedule, the constant media pressure of the upcoming NHL draft, and the heavy cloud of your own insecurities, he convinced himself that you needed space. He thought he was being unselfish. He thought he was protecting you from the chaotic vortex of his life.

He repeated those excuses so many times that he almost started believing in them.

Almost, almost being the key word.

As he stared down at you, he was getting more and more pissed, not at you, rather, at the guy standing next to you.

He was some guy from a fraternity, probably rich, Logan could tell by the perfectly styled hair, the pearly white sneakers, and the expensive casual jacket. He was leaning in way too close, his mouth practically brushing your ear, to be heard over the speakers. He said something to you, flashing a dazzling practiced smile, and you giggled. Not the polite little laugh you gave to strangers. This was a real laugh, your head tilting back, your smile actually reaching your eyes.

The insides of Logan’s stomach twisted violently.

The guy smiled wider, looking at your lips. He said something else. You playfully rolled your eyes before nudging his shoulder slightly. It was innocent, most probably, but Logan couldn’t tell, he was already raging because jealousy had already painted everything in him red.

It felt like a physical blow to his chest. A toxic, overwhelming wave of pure, unadulterated jealousy flooded his veins, turning his blood to fire.

Watching another man step into the vacuum he had left behind, watching someone else try to make you laugh, try to catch your eye, try to charm his way into your life.

‘Who the fuck is he?’ the question echoed inside him.

‘Get the fuck away from her.’ The thought screamed through Logan’s head, obliterating every shred of his logic, his patience, and his self-control.

Garrett quietly appeared beside him, ‘You okay?’

Logan didn't answer.

‘Logan.’

Still nothing.

And then, the frat guy reached out. It was a casual, fleeting movement where he just had his hand resting on the bare skin of your forearm to emphasize a point, but to Logan, it was no less than a declaration of war.

It was gasoline thrown onto an open flame. His breathing had gone frighteningly slow.

The kind of calm that always came right before he lost every ounce of self-control.

Garrett looked from Logan to you, then back again. ‘Oh no, don't do it, Logan.’ Garrett muttered, trying to get him to stop.

He set the beer bottle down on the counter with a heavy clink and started moving.

He didn't politely navigate the crowded room, he cut through it. People instinctively stepped aside as the 6’2 hockey player cut a straight line across the living room, his broad shoulders forcing a path through laughing strangers who suddenly stopped laughing the moment they saw his face. He bumped a freshman out of the way without looking, his eyes locked entirely on the target.

His eyes never left yours. Never leaving the man standing far too close.

Before the guy could slide his hand down to your wrist, Logan stepped directly into the space between you and him, physically blocking the guy from your line of sight, his broad shoulders creating an impenetrable wall. A solid wall of muscle, anger, and barely restrained jealousy, his shadow falling over you.

The conversation around you died instantly.

‘Hey,’ Logan's voice cut through the noise like a blade; it was low, dangerous, and deep with an intensity that made the air feel suddenly thin. ‘We need to talk. Right now.’

Not a request. A demand.

You gasped, stumbling back half a step as the sudden, overwhelming scent of cedar cologne, and familiar warmth filled your nostrils. Your eyes traveled up his chest, past the silver chain resting on his tense collarbone, only to find Logan staring down at you. His dark eyes were flashing, wide and wild with a possessive anger that made your stomach do a violent flip. You knew that look very well, ‘Logan?’, you breathed, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. Then, your own defensive walls flew up, ‘What the fuck? What are you doing? I'm in the middle of a conversation.’

‘I don't care,’ Logan breathed, not breaking eye contact with you for even a fraction of a second. He tilted his head just enough to address the guy behind him, his tone dropping into a lethal, quiet growl, ‘Walk away, man, right now. Unless you want a problem.’

And every person standing close enough to witness it immediately understood one thing, the party was about to become the least interesting thing happening in the house.

You stared at him in disbelief. Every muscle in his body looked coiled so tightly you thought he might actually snap.

The guy beside you awkwardly cleared his throat, looked at Logan’s rigid posture, the clenched fists at his sides, and the terrifying look of the massive hockey player ready to tear someone apart. He raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, ‘Uh man, I was just- easy man, no trouble,’ he muttered, quickly melting back into the safety of the crowded living room. He disappeared into the crowd so quickly it almost looked like he had been swallowed by it.

You rounded on Logan immediately, ‘Are you completely insane?’, you yelled, the words hitting hard as the sheer audacity of what he just did hit you. ‘You don't get to do that Logan. You can’t just march over here, act like a caveman, and scare off people who I'm talking to! We are on a "break" Logan! Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘A break does not mean you let some idiot frat guy put his hands on you, in MY house!’, Logan yelled back, his voice thick with a mixture of rage, desperation, and suffocating jealousy.

Garrett leaned against the kitchen doorway with Hannah beside him, both of them watching carefully. Dean muttered something under his breath. Allie stood there with a hand on her mouth. Tucker was in the backyard, tending to a puking Birdie.

The room suddenly felt far too aware of the two of you. Logan noticed it too. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

‘We are not doing this out here’, he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. ‘Come with me.’

Before you could fire back another retort, ‘I'm not asking.’

‘And I'm not agreeing.’

His hand found your wrist, his fingers curling loosely around it. His palm was warm against your skin, his grip firm enough to stop you from storming off but loose enough that you could've pulled away if you'd really wanted to.

‘Come on,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. You rolled your eyes, giving an exaggerated tug against his hold.

‘Logan.’

‘Five minutes.’

‘You don't get to-’

‘I'm asking for five damn minutes.’

‘John.’

‘Please.’

The word stopped you. Not because it was loud. Because it was broken. He sounded broken and he never sounded like that before.

‘I'll walk.’ you said quietly.

He yanked you forward, turning on his heel and pulling you up the stairs of the hockey house.

He reached the end of the hall, kicked his bedroom door open with the heel of his boot, pulled you inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. He threw the lock with a sharp, definitive click, instantly silencing the outside world in the safety of his room.

The sudden silence in the bedroom was heavy; it felt as if you would explode any given moment, charged with electricity.

‘Don't you dare touch me when you're acting like a lunatic,’ you breathed, pulling your arm back the moment he released his grip. You backed away until the edge of his wooden desk pressed against your lower back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. You were trembling, a mix of adrenaline, anger, and a deep, agonizing hurt threatening to spill over. ‘You don't own me, Logan. You don't get to dictate who I talk to, who I smile at, who I want.’

‘You think I want to feel like this?’ Logan exploded. He couldn't stay still. He began pacing the length of the hardwood floor like a man losing his bearing, his fingers aggressively gripping and dragging through his dark hair, disheveling it.

He stopped abruptly, pivoting to face you, his chest heaving violently under his shirt. ‘I’ve been going out of my mind for the goddamn week! I haven't slept a full night. I can't focus on the ice, Jensen chewed my ass out twice today because I'm completely checked out. And why? Because every time I close my eyes, I wonder what you're doing. And then I walk into my own living room and see you smiling at some guy who doesn't know a single real thing about you? Some guy who looks at you like you're some prize he can just casually win for the night?’

‘He is my classmate, Logan! We were literally talking about the syllabus for a group project!’, you shouted back, tears of frustration and hurt stinging the backs of your eyes. ‘But you wouldn't know that, because instead of talking to me like a normal human being, you just explode! You panic, you push me out, you tell me you need to focus on your future, walk out on me and then you get mad when I try to just exist in the same room as you!’

‘Because the thought of you not being in my life is killing me,’ Logan bellowed, his voice cracking on the last word. His admission hung in the air, raw and bleeding.

In two long strides, Logan closed the distance between the two of you. He didn't stop until he was looming over you, his shadow completely enveloping you. He was so close you could feel the radiating heat of his body, could see the tiny amber flecks in his dark eyes, wild with an agonizing vulnerability.

‘Even the thought of it makes me physically sick to my stomach,’ he whispered, his jaw trembling, ‘I saw him touch your arm, and I lost my shit, I wanted to destroy everything in sight. I'm sorry I'm a mess. I'm sorry I don't know how to handle this perfectly or calmly. But don't you dare stand there and act like what we have is just some casual thing you can walk away from.’

God, he looked so hot. Jealousy was such a good look on him, it practically made your mouth water. It was as if he sensed you being turned on by his outburst, or maybe he just saw the way you squeezed your legs together when he came closer to you; nothing went past this man.

‘You're mine,’ he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, turning rough and gravelly. ‘I don't share, baby. You know that very well.’

Oh, this motherfucker knew all right. He knew what he was doing; he knew what this was doing to you.

Your breath hitched. The anger in his eyes wasn't a turn-off for you, not even close, and he knew that. The raw, possessive intensity of it sent a thrill straight down your spine, going places that made you want to jump his bones. Your eyes dropped to his chest, focusing on the way the silver chain rose and fell with his heavy breathing. Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers hooking around the cold metal of the chain, tugging him just a fraction of an inch closer.

‘Then do something about it, John,’ you challenged, your voice a sultry whisper, ‘Stop pacing and show me. Prove it to me. Prove that I’m yours.’

The anger was still there, buzzing like a live wire between your bodies, but it was twisting, morphing into a desperate, passionate hunger that neither of you could fight anymore.

Logan’s eyes darkened to black. He clenched his jaw so hard, you could see the muscle tense, and for a split second, the room went entirely still. And then, he snapped.

In one fluid motion, his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your supple bottom. He didn't just pull you in, he lifted you completely off your feet from the table, your legs wrapping around his waist like clockwork, and crowded you back onto the mattress. The impact wasn't enough to hurt, cushioned by the heavy blankets, but it was authoritative enough to make you gasp. Before you could even blink, Logan was hovering over you, pinning your wrists on either side of your head with a grip like iron.

‘You want me to do something about it?’ he growled, his face inches from yours. His chest was pressed flush against yours, the ribbed cotton of his tank top hot against your skin. ‘You think this is a game, baby?’

‘I think you're all talk right now,’ you rasped out, intentionally baiting him.

Logan let out a low whisper, ‘Yeah, baby?’ that vibrated directly against your ribs. He released one of your wrists, only to slide his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek to tilt your head back. He stared at your cheeks squished between his fingers, and suddenly he came down on your mouth with a ferocity that stole the oxygen right out of your lungs.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was punishing and demanding. He tasted so good. Oh! How much you had missed him.

His tongue parted your lips with zero hesitation, claiming your mouth with a rough dominance that made your toes curl. You tried to arch up into him, but his weight was like a heavy anchor pinning you down. The feeling of his tongue exploring the crevices of your mouth made you unbelievably down bad for him, you moaned against his mouth.

When he finally pulled back for air, his lips were wet and his breathing ragged. The silver chain dangled down, the cold metal brushing against your collarbone, creating a shocking contrast to the burning heat of his skin. Fuck, him looking like this was doing things to you. ‘Logan, off’, you whimpered, your fingers instantly finding the hem of his black tank, wanting it off, wanting to feel him against you.

‘No honey’ he muttered, grabbing your hands and pinning them back above your head. He looked down at you, a wicked smirk playing on his lips despite the lingering tension in his shoulders. ‘I'm still mad at you. You don't get to dictate the pace tonight, you're going to be a good girl tonight and you're going to listen.’

He shifted his weight, his knee forcing your legs apart as he wedged himself between them. The friction of his jeans against you felt unbearable. Logan reached down, his fingers working the button and zipper of your skort with a rough impatience. He didn't bother being gentle as he tugged the fabric down your legs and tossed it carelessly onto the floor, along with your revealing top.

You were left in your underwear, completely exposed to his burning gaze. Logan took a moment to look at you, his eyes sweeping over your body with an intensity that made you flush from head to toe. ‘Beautiful,’ he muttered, though his voice was still rough around the edges, ‘So fucking beautiful and all mine.’ His lips find your neck, finding your sweet spot almost instantaneously, sucking softly which unravels you even more as you wither under him, trying to get a semblance of relief.

‘John, please’

‘You drive me insane, you know that?’, his mouth crashes onto yours as you gasp into him, fingers curling into his black tank which is fitting him so well that it makes your mouth water. You tugged on his hair, eliciting a guttural groan from his throat, his mouth moving from your now swollen lips to your neck, then chest , leaving a string of deep red marks, his hands feeling up your body once more, your nerves heightened with every grab and squeeze. You're whining, teeth clashing as he's biting at your bottom lip.

Your hips moving against him, grinding softly against him and he pulls away, ‘What did I tell you baby? It sure is a shame that you acted out today, you could've gotten my mouth or my fingers, I know how much you love those’ he begins, crawling on top of you, the dip of his weight pushing you back down.

‘But you're just going to get my cock, deep and rough until I make sure you aren't able to walk for a week straight.’

With that, your legs are pulled apart, panties practically ripped from your lower half as he throws them to the side like he's tearing open a christmas present.

Your bra is gone in what feels like seconds, making things easier and a lot more satisfying for him. His hands on your body feel hot and rough, but so right in so many ways. His aggressiveness only turns you on more, you're soaked and practically leaking down your thighs, moving and clamping your legs together to get some sort of relief from the emptiness you've felt all week.

His hands grip your tits vicariously as he starts to knead them, suck and bite them, making you whimper out as he runs his hands down your hips. He is latched onto your chest as if it's something he has been craving for so long, leaving red harsh hickeys all over.

‘Such a pretty body baby. I'm going to prove just how much you're mine, can't wait to ruin you.’ Your heart is hammering in your chest so loud you can hear it beating in your ears, and suddenly he's leaning up, one hand cupping your cheek, covering the side of your face as his lips harshly connect back to yours.

‘Will you let me?’ he almost whispers, eyes darkened with desire and hunger. You can't help but to feel warmth wash over your entire body as you look up at him. You know that he's asking for your permission, your consent king. Only John can make angry sex consensual, and the thought makes you giggle a little.

‘Yes john, I want you.’ He didn't waste any more time. He stripped off his own sweatpants, leaving him in all his glory. The sight of him, broad, muscular, clad only in that black tank and the damn silver chain, was enough to make your mouth go dry. He looked completely feral. As he took off his boxers, you saw his cock spring up, looking so hard, all red, angry and delicious.

And in an instant, your legs are being wrapped around his muscular torso, heels digging into his tailbone as he places one arm to your side and the other gripping the swell of your soft hip as teases your clit with it, you arched into his touch, a choked sob escaping you as his dick found your clit, rubbing softly, making you wither under him with a soft string of curses leaving your mouth.

‘John, please,’ you begged, your hips moving instinctively.

He hooked his hands under your knees, pushing them back toward your chest, opening you up completely to him. Taking his cock into his hands, he positioned himself, eyes locking onto yours. There was no hesitation, no slow teasing anymore as Logan pushed forward, driving himself deep inside you in one heavy thrust; he slammed into you.

A loud gasp tore from your throat, your fingers instantly flying up to grip his shoulders as your fingernails dug into the taut muscles of his back, but he didn't even flinch from it. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his chest heaving against yours. The silver chain swung gently, resting against your throat. You wrapped one hand around the metal links, holding him close, his cock stretching you out and filling you up with a sweet stinging sensation as you got used to the feeling.

‘Fuck, you're so tight,’ Logan groaned, his eyes closing for a brief second as he fought for control, pulling himself out and glancing down at the glistening wetness that is coating his dick before pushing himself back in, your hand clawing his back and holding him even closer by the chain.

The only thing you can focus on is the gorgeous man on top of you, his sturdy body hovering over yours as he begins to pound into you. ‘John, oh god fuck’, you cry out, feeling so full of him. The pace he set was punishingly fast and rough, a brutal, driving rhythm, his hips slamming against yours with a raw force that had the bed creaking loudly against the wall. Every thrust was deep, hitting the exact spot that sent electric shocks of pleasure through your entire body. You were completely at his mercy as he gripped your waist, his large fingers digging into your skin to hold you as he hammered into you. He was taking all his frustration, all his jealousy, and pouring it into you.

‘Look at me baby, I bet you talked with him on purpose huh baby? Just to feel my cock? Just to get me riled up into fucking you till you're shaking like a mess under me? Sneaky princess, ’ he coos, reaching up to stroke your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb as he looks at you as if you're the best meal he's had all week.

You can't even muster any words, not when he's fucking you like this, so hard that the bed is practically moving off its hinges and if you tried to speak, all that came out was whimpers and moans. Your eyes are rolled back as you arch your back, feeling him even deeper inside. He then glances down, slowing his pace as he takes one of your hands off his shoulder and places it on your lower abdomen. He looks back up at you with cocky, treacherous eyes, his large hand placed up on yours as he presses down against your belly, resuming his pace fucking you into the mattress. ‘You feel that baby? I’m all the way up there, princess. Pussy is made for me, isn't it?’

You can't contain the whimper that spills out from your throat as he lets you grip his shoulder again. He takes full pride in seeing you quiver and shake under him, cheeks all red and flustered, eyebrows pulled together as your eyes roll back in pleasure. ‘Please, please don't stop baby, fuck’, you beg, needing to feel full of him for as long as possible. You felt him hit the soft spot inside you and let out a hard whimper, crying out his name.

‘Am I gonna make you cum, baby? Are you gonna make a mess around my cock?’ He's kissing your neck now, warm wet lips on your skin as he nips and sucks at your sweet spot.

‘Yes, y-yes! Fuck, Lo, please let me cum.’, you whimper, trying to hold on to him as best as possible as he fucks you exactly how you like.

‘If you can hold out, I'll let you cum the second.’, he says back, voice husky and rough as his forehead gleams with the layer of sweat making him look ethereal, as his painfully handsome face hovers only inches away from yours. You squeeze out a small yes, one of his hands moving in between the two of you. You suddenly become hyper aware of what he's about to do.

Two fingers are placed on your sensitive clit, before he begins rubbing in harsh, sharp circles. ‘Fuck, Logan, I can't last when you, oh fuck’, you moan, nails digging into his bulging biceps as he holds himself up, one arm between your bodies as he continues to make your mind melt into a puddle.

‘Hold it.’ his voice is demanding and serious, eyes looking into yours with such intensity. Your bottom lip is between your teeth as you struggle to hold in your orgasm. ‘That's it, baby, hold it for me, ’ he encourages, taking his hand off and watching you come back down from the edge.

He dips down, taking your breasts in his mouth to keep you preoccupied before he denies you another orgasm. You moan out, hands flying to his dark array of curls. You nearly cry as he takes his mouth off and brings his hand back down between your legs, taking a hold of your clit. ‘Logan, please, I can't-’ He interrupts you with a rough kiss. You can't help but nod as you look at him, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, pupils blown out in a feral state as his heavy body ruts against yours, hips working at an impossibly fast pace.

Even with how rough he's being, you can still feel warm on the inside from the closeness between the two of you. You can feel every muscle flexing underneath his skin, his tummy pressed up against yours and his thighs rubbing up against the outside of your own. Your walls stretch around him, and wetness makes his movement so utterly smooth, coaxing his cock deeper. He wont admit but he has needed you this whole meek. It felt as if it had been ages since he had you under him like this, a quivering mess. He needed to let out some of the anger, and hell, even the fear.

You are the only thing that makes him feel better, nothing else will ever or could ever put him at ease like you do.

‘Logie fuck, please let me cum.’ you were so wet and incoherent, your wetness leaking all over him, making it so slick and easy.

He clenched his jaw, trying to stay focused as the effects of his own pleasure were getting the best of him. You simply have something no one else does, the feeling of you is not only one of a kind, but something he won't ever be able to get enough of.

‘Hold it baby, just a little bit longer.’ and you did, you tried your best to hold it together, your lower abdomen screaming for release, the build up was such a euphoric high, that everything around you felt unreal, especially Logan, until he stopped for the second time. Leaving you with an empty feeling as his pace shifted once again. You whine at the feeling of another edge that he left incomplete.

He slings your legs over his wide shoulders, the new position allowing his cock to hit the bundle of nerves resting deep within you.

‘Oh, yes Loge- fuck.’, you cry out, his massive hands gripping your thighs as he looks down watching himself disappear in you.

‘Look at how beautiful you are baby, can't even stay mad at you, can I?’ he coos, kissing right above your left knee as he fucks you into oblivion. At this point he couldn't even hold up his act.

You feel that burning pressure in your abdomen again, tingling prickling you in your oversensitive areas. You can tell he's close too, just by the way his face pouts, and his cheeks get sucked in. He gets this look in his eyes and starts making some noises which are music to your ears. The sight of him fucking you with such relentlessness and rigour does something to you, you start to unravel, the buildup becoming too much to handle.

‘I cant- please Logie please- please-’ he cuts you off, rubbing up and down your thighs softly, still fucking you at a pace too hot to handle, ‘Come for me, my sweet girl’

And you're completely done for, your legs attempting to clamp together as the blissful feeling washes over you, hitting you so so hard after two denied orgasms, radiating up your spine as your walls convulse around him. Looking at you unraveling under him, he can't hold it in any longer either, not with moans escaping your lips and his name rolling off your tongue in such a sweet way.

He holds you tight as his chest heaves up and down, body stiffening and breath halting for a moment as his hips bucket into you, filling you up.

‘Oh fuck- Oh fuck baby’, he groans his eyes squeezing shut and lips parting with laboured breaths as his voice becomes shaky.

He slowly pulls out of you, leaning down, taking your body into his arms as he lays down on the bed, as soft kisses are pressed to your shoulder and neck.

‘Baby, you okay? Was that too much?’ he coos in your ear as you pull up to reality, your face cupped in his hands.

‘I'm okay Logie, just a little spent.’ you nuzzle your face in his neck, taking in his warmth.

‘I missed you so much,’ he whispered as his fingers intertwined with yours.

‘I saw him making you laugh,’ he admitted. ‘And I realized something.’

‘What?’

‘I would rather fight with you for the rest of my life than spend another day pretending I don't love you.’

You looked down at your joined hands and then looked back up at him, ‘You don't get to fix this overnight. I'm still very mad at you y’know’

‘I know, you should be.’

‘No disappearing, No deciding what's best for me without talking to me.’

‘Never again baby.’

Outside, the party carried on.

Inside, neither of you cared.

For the first time in a whole week, the silence between you wasn't filled with anger.

It was filled with the promise that this time, neither of you was walking away.

[townsendbaby]

The Damn Party Part 2

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader (y/n)

Summary: The aftermath of the party. Mixed feelings overwhelm Dean and y/n. Dean walks y/n home to ensure she gets there safely.

Word Count: 2.4K

Part 1 can be found here

The sun carefully rose and brightened Dean’s room. The soft morning light brightened the room bringing the notice of the beginning of a new day. It’s not like Dean cared about the news the daylight brought. He cared about the girl who was sleeping in bed. The previous day still didn’t end for Dean; he still replayed the knock and y/n’s words in his mind. Whatever good news this new day was bringing with it didn’t matter if it wasn’t about y/n’s well-being. So Dean sat on his chair and let the rays of the sun brighten his room hoping they’d awaken y/n and he’ll find her healthy and steady.

The first thing Y/N noticed when she opened her eyes was the ceiling.

It wasn't hers.

For one disoriented second, she simply stared at it, her mind slow and heavy, trying to place the unfamiliar room around her. Gray walls. A dresser across from the bed. Hockey posters. A desk chair near the window.

Then panic hit.

Y/N jolted upright too quickly, breath catching in her throat. The room tilted sharply, and she pressed a hand to her forehead.

"What-"

Her other hand flew to the blanket, clutching it tightly against her chest. She looked down.

Her dress was still on.

Her shoes were gone, but she was clothed.

Completely clothed.

Relief crashed through her so suddenly it almost made her dizzy again.

A quiet voice came from the corner of the room.

"Hey. Easy."

Y/N's head snapped toward it.

Dean was sitting in the desk chair beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees. He looked awful. His dark shirt was wrinkled, his hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it all night, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

The second she saw him, everything came flooding back.

The party. The drink. The dizziness. The stairs.

His door.

Heat rushed to her face.

Dean noticed immediately. His expression tightened, but his voice stayed careful.

"Nothing happened."

Y/N swallowed.

"You came to my room, and you collapsed outside the door. I caught you before you hit your head." He looked away for a second, then back at her. "I put you on the bed, covered you up, and stayed here."

Y/N stared at him.

For once, there was no smirk. No teasing. No sarcastic edge.

Just exhaustion.

"I remember…" she whispered.

Silence settled between them.

Y/N looked down at the blanket still clenched in her hands. The panic from waking up slowly gave way to something heavier: embarrassment, confusion, and the lingering fog of last night.

Then she noticed the hoodie draped over the blanket.

It was black, oversized, and unmistakably his.

Her fingers brushed the sleeve. "Is this yours?"

Dean glanced at it and nodded once. "Yeah."

A memory flickered across his face before he added, quieter, "You were shivering."

Y/N's chest tightened.

"Oh."

Another silence.

Dean stood slowly, like he didn't want to startle her, and grabbed the water bottle from his desk. "Drink some water."

Y/N accepted it with slightly shaky hands.

"Thanks."

"You should sip it slowly."

She listened, taking a careful drink. Her throat felt dry, and the water helped clear some of the haze from her head.

When she lowered the bottle, she looked at him again.

"You look tired."

Dean huffed a small laugh. "I'm fine."

"Did you sleep?"

He shrugged, too casually. "Not really."

"Why?"

Dean looked at the floor for a second before answering. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

The words were simple. Almost careless. But the way he said them made Y/N believe he had been far more worried than he was admitting.

"You stayed in the chair all night?"

Dean leaned back against the desk. "The bed was occupied."

Y/N glanced at the neatly made side of the bed he clearly hadn't touched.

"You could've slept there," she said softly.

"And wake you up every time I moved?" Dean shook his head. "You needed space."

That hurt more than it should have.

Not because of anything cruel.

Because Dean Di Laurentis, who usually filled every room with noise and arrogance, had chosen the chair so she would feel safe.

Y/N looked down at the water bottle. "I'm sorry."

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"For worrying you."

His expression changed immediately, like the apology caught him off guard.

"You don't apologize for that."

"I still worried you."

Dean let out a quiet breath. "Yeah. Well. Don't do it again."

The attempt at casualness almost made her smile.

Almost.

Y/N shifted, and the room tilted slightly. Dean moved toward her instinctively, one hand half-reaching out before stopping himself.

"You okay?"

"Just dizzy."

"Then don't stand up yet."

"I wasn't going to."

Dean nodded once, then stepped back, giving her space again.

Y/N studied him carefully. He looked different this morning. Softer around the edges. Less certain of himself.

And suddenly, the insults from last night felt strangely distant. Not erased. Not forgiven. Just... smaller compared to the realization that someone had drugged her drink.

A shiver ran through her.

Dean noticed immediately. "Hey."

She looked up.

"You're safe now."

The words settled somewhere deep in her chest.

Y/N swallowed. "I remember some of it."

Dean's jaw tightened. "What do you remember?"

"The kitchen with drinks. Feeling dizzy. The stairs." Her voice dropped. "Your door."

Dean didn't speak.

Dean looked at her carefully. "You were scared."

Y/N looked away. "I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

Dean was silent for a long moment.

Then he said, very carefully, "I'm glad you came here."

Y/N didn't know what to do with that. Both of them remembered the exact words from yesterday: “I know you hate me enough not to try anything.” And the words just lingered around the room, making every interaction more heavy and intense than it should be. Every word seemed to reference last night’s events and it seemed to bother both of them.

Dean cleared his throat. "I can take you home."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"I’ll call someone."

Dean's mouth tightened. "You can. But I'm still taking you home."

Y/N blinked. "Dean..”

"You're still dizzy."

"I'll be fine."

"Maybe." He crossed his arms lightly, though there was no arrogance in it. "I'd rather not risk it."

Y/N hesitated.

Part of her wanted to refuse out of principle.

Another part remembered the stairs, the dizziness, and the fact that Dean had stayed awake all night to make sure she was okay.

Finally, she sighed. "Fine."

Dean nodded once, almost relieved. "Good."

"But I'm not letting you make a big deal out of it."

"I never make a big deal out of anything."

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

Dean looked offended. "Okay, rude."

For the first time that morning, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Dean noticed.

And for one brief second, despite the exhaustion and the guilt and everything hanging awkwardly between them, the room felt a little less heavy.

—

As they headed outside Dean stopped mid tracks and ran back to his room.

Y/n stopped mid walk and started at the direction Dean went. Confusion was written all around her face.

Seconds later Dean returned with another hoodie in his hands.

He held the hoodie out toward her.

“Wear it.”

She blinked.

“…Dean.”

“It’s freezing.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He looked at her for exactly two seconds before raising an eyebrow.

“You’re literally shivering and we haven’t left the house yet.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Poorly.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

Dean took one small step closer and gently nudged the hoodie into her hands.

“It’s just until you get home.”

She looked between him and the sweatshirt.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You really don’t give up, do you?”

“No.”

“Noted.”

She slipped the oversized hoodie over her head.

The sleeves swallowed her hands almost completely. The hem reached halfway down her thighs, covering most of the elegant dress beneath it.

Dean looked at her for a second. Then another.

Y/N narrowed her eyes.

“…What?”

He pressed his lips together.

“I’m deciding.”

“About?”

“If that’s the strangest outfit I’ve ever seen.”

She looked down.

The elegant emerald dress peeked out beneath the oversized black hoodie.

She sighed dramatically.

“I look ridiculous.”

Dean’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh.

“…A little.”

She pointed at him.

“I knew it.”

“But…” His smile softened. “It works.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

—

The morning air carried the kind of chill that only existed just after sunrise.

The campus looked almost unfamiliar without the usual crowds. Sidewalks that had been packed only hours earlier now sat nearly empty, scattered with a few students heading home after long nights and the occasional jogger making an early start.

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans as they stepped out of the apartment building.

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, thankful she had Dean’s hoodie on.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It simply felt… new.

Birds chirped somewhere overhead. The breeze rustled through rows of trees lining the sidewalk. Dean glanced toward her every few moments without meaning to.

She looked tired. Not exhausted. Just quieter than usual.

After several minutes, he broke the silence.

“Do you remember much from last night?”

Y/N looked ahead.

“Bits and pieces.”

She frowned thoughtfully.

“I remember feeling fine.”

Then she stopped herself. Dean slowed his pace to match hers.

“What is it?”

She shook her head.

“I keep trying to remember everything exactly.”

Her eyebrows pinched together.

“And every time I think I’ve got it…” Her voice trailed off. “…it slips away.”

Dean nodded once.

“You don’t have to figure it out today.”

“I know. It’s just that damn party…” She looked down at the sidewalk. “I just…” A sigh escaped her. “I keep thinking maybe I should’ve paid more attention.”

Dean frowned.

“To what?”

“My drink, to whoever was around me...” She gave a humorless little laugh. “I probably should’ve kept a closer eye on it.”

Dean stopped walking. Completely.

Y/N turned toward him. “What?”

His expression had hardened. “No.”

She blinked.

“No?”

“You don’t get to blame yourself.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were.”

His voice stayed calm.

“It should’ve been a place where you didn’t have to think about that.”

She stared at him.

Dean continued more quietly.

“If somebody acts like an idiot…” He shook his head. “That’s on them.”

“Dean…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The certainty in his voice left no room for argument.

Y/N looked away.

For some reason, hearing him say it made something inside her loosen. She hadn’t realized she’d been carrying that thought around since waking up.

“…Thanks.”

Dean simply nodded.

They resumed walking.

After another minute, Y/N drifted back into her thoughts. Her eyebrows knitted together. Almost unconsciously, the nail of her thumb found the side of her index finger.

She began picking at the skin. A habit she’d had since high school. She didn’t even notice she was doing it.

Dean did.

He watched her for several seconds.

Then, without really thinking he reached over. His fingers gently wrapped around her hand. Stopping hers completely.

“…Don’t.”

Y/N froze.

Dean froze.

Both of them looked down.

Dean’s hand covered hers completely.

Warm.

Steady.

For one very awkward second, neither of them moved. Dean’s brain finally caught up with what he’d done.

Why did he…?

He almost let go.

Instead, he cleared his throat.

“You’ll make it bleed.”

His explanation sounded surprisingly reasonable.

Y/N looked at their hands again.

“…I always do that when I’m nervous.”

“I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“You’ve done it before.”

She hadn’t realized. Neither had he. A tiny silence settled between them. Dean was still holding her hand.

He really should let go.

Probably.

Instead…

His thumb brushed lightly across the back of her hand. Almost absentmindedly.

“You don’t have to figure everything out today,” he said quietly. “You’ve got time.”

She looked at him. Something about his expression had changed. The usual confidence wasn’t there. Just sincerity. She felt herself relax a little.

“…Okay.”

Neither of them mentioned their hands. Neither of them pulled away. Eventually they started walking again. Still side by side. Still hand in hand.

It somehow felt… natural. As if letting go would be stranger than continuing. Thankfully, the conversation drifted somewhere much lighter.

Dean glanced sideways.

“So.”

“So?”

“I learned something.”

“Oh?”

“You apparently judge people’s hoodies.”

“I judge everyone’s hoodies.”

He looked offended.

“This one’s high quality.”

“It’s three sizes too big.”

“That’s the point.”

“It makes me look like I got dressed in the dark.”

He grinned.

“You kind of did.”

She laughed.

A real laugh this time.

Dean smiled without realizing it.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“You laughed.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve also been told that.”

“You’ve been told a lot of things.”

“Most of them are true.”

“I’m sure.”

By the time they reached her apartment building, the walk had felt far shorter than either of them expected.

Dean slowed to a stop.

“…Well.”

“Well.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Y/N looked down at the oversized hoodie.

“I’ll wash it.”

Dean looked at her.

“And I’ll bring it back.” She added.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to rush.”

She smiled too.

“I wasn’t planning on stealing it.”

“I wasn’t accusing you.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were.”

Dean laughed.

“I guess now I’ll have to see you again.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

For a heartbeat, both of them went quiet.

Y/N’s smile softened. “I guess you will.”

She reached for the apartment door. Before stepping inside, she looked back.

“…Thanks.”

This time she wasn’t talking about the hoodie.

Dean understood anyway.

He gave a small nod.

“Get some rest.”

“I will.”

She disappeared inside the building.

Dean stood there for another few seconds, staring at the closed door.

The walk had taken maybe twenty minutes.

It hadn’t been nearly long enough.

Eventually, he turned toward campus.

His hands instinctively slid into the pockets of his jeans.

One pocket felt strangely empty.

Then he remembered.

His hoodie.

A small smile spread across his face.

He’d be getting it back eventually.

And, for the first time in a long while, he found himself looking forward to the excuse.

tag list: @purplerainx1 @starinisstuff @redvelvetcupcke1 @tinyceasarsalad @hnnhbananananana @niceskyler @simp4f1 @4ria790 @lightdragonrayne @asoiafloverrr @blueberrylemontea-fanfic @moonlitparagraphs @fixationfiles @blippyturtles23 @mariahoedt @thecraziestcrayon @shesareader @obxobsessedbitch1 @devildoll769 @ariahlilp @lvstqrs @hnnhbananananana @niceskyler @falloutdunes @itmekelpy @white-mans-whore14

[rhi-blogging]

big dog energy

pairing – john logan x fem!reader

wc: 1.1k

synopsis – Logan learns very quick to not make assumptions when you ask him to dog sit for you

based on this request!

warnings – language, established/new relationship, reader is described as small/petite

note – obsessed with this idea, if you want to request something, you can submit it by clicking the ‘♡’ button on my page or commenting under this post! enjoy ♡

masterlist

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

“Yeah, no I totally understand, thanks anyway,” you say, hanging up the phone before rolling your eyes, sighing at yet another person being unavailable when you needed them. Your options kept getting slimmer and slimmer, trying to find a dog sitter for the week you’d be out of town. Family, close friends, everyone you could possibly think of not available.

Except your boyfriend.

You haven’t been dating for too long and Logan had never met your dog, the timing always working out where someone was watching your dog while you guys hung out at your place. You definitely weren’t hiding it either – food and water bowls in your kitchen, a leash hanging on the hook by your front door and the dog bed in the living room all being dead giveaways.

Logan never questioned it, just chalking it up to your family and friends loving your baby just as much as you do and you wanting no distractions while you hung out. But you knew you couldn’t keep your dog from him for forever. Just because the relationship was new doesn’t mean he should be deprived of the cuteness that is your dog.

Still, you find yourself hesitating, not wanting your dog to scare him off. Looking at you, one would assume you’d have a cute little dog – a chihuahua, a mini schnauzer, a dachshund – something small and demure, like you.

But everyone knows, when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.

A phone call shakes you out of your thoughts, pulling your phone out of your pocket, a smile growing on your face seeing Logan calling you. ‘Practice must’ve ended early,’ you thought before answering the phone.

“Hey babe,” you say, running a hand through your hand, trying not to sound stressed.

“Hey gorgeous, how are you?” he asks, as you can hear his truck running in the background. You chuckle, shaking your head knowing you can’t ever hide your emotions from him.

“Little stressed,” you start, “I’ve called like five people and no one can watch my dog this week. I leave in two days Logan, I gotta find someone,” you finish, sighing again.

The other line goes quiet for a few moments, you pull the phone away from your ear, checking to make sure the call didn’t disconnect before putting it back up to your ear. The silence lasts a few seconds longer before you hear a soft chuckle over the other line.

“You do know you could’ve asked me, right? Between practice and classes, I wouldn’t be gone for more than three hours at a time,” he says, trying not to laugh at the fact that him being an option flew right over your head. Unbeknownst to him, he was your top choice, but you still were worried about him changing his mind or not being able to handle it.

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna burden you, or the guys” you say, a timidness hinting in your voice.

“You’re never a burden to me, with or without your dog, so get that out of your head. The guys won’t care either, I’m sure they’d love having a little ball of energy running around for a bit,” he says.

There it is. Little ball of energy.

“I’m sure I can handle it,” he reassures, the words making your heart warm.

You smile softly, “If you insist,” you give in, knowing his kind and caring nature wouldn’t end this phone call until he helped you come up with a solution.

“I do,” he says intently.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you sooner, I just… worry,” you trail off.

“About…?”

“You. With my dog,” you say, another few seconds of silence occurring, feeling very loud.

“What, you think your dog’s gonna scare me?” he asks, chuckling.

“You’ll see,” the teasing tone in your voice making Logan laugh, you half joking, half being serious.

“You can even bring ‘em by tonight so you can take tomorrow to finish packing and chill before you leave,” he offers, your heart warming once again at his kindness and consideration.

“Really?” you ask once more.

“I got you, baby,” he affirms. You smile, wiping a hand over your face, looking around your place.

“Okay, I’ll text when I’m on the way,” you reply.

“See you soon, gorgeous,” he says before he hangs up. You chuckle to yourself at his confidence, him clearly having no clue what he was getting himself into.

After gathering all of your dog’s favorite toys and treats, food and any other important essentials, you began to load your car up with the bags, followed by your dog and then you. Starting the car, you send a quick text to Logan before heading over to the hockey house.

Logan meets you outside, your bright headlights making it impossible for him to see anything inside the car. You put the car in park, stepping out, greeting him with a quick kiss before walking around to the passenger side back seat. Before opening the door, you glance at Logan, him meeting your eyes with raised eyebrows. 

You say nothing, fighting back a smile, opening the door, a ‘come on baby’ leaving your lips as your dog hops out of the car. You shut the door as Logan’s nearly eyes bulge out of his head.

“That’s a big ass dog,” he says, the words leaving his lips before he can stop them.

Laughing at him, you say, “Now you see why I was hesitant,” with an ‘I told you so’ tone in your voice.

“I mean, I guess…but look at this cutie, harmless and adorable as ever,” he says, crouching down as your dog runs up to him, kissing him all over his face and panting with excitement, tail wagging a mile a minute. "I don't know why, I expected your dog to be... smaller I guess," he trails off.

“You know what they say about assuming?” you say, a grin on your face.

“What?” he looks up at you.

“Nevermind,” you chuckle.

He stands up as your dog explores the yard of the hockey house. You hand him your spare key, “Just in case you run out of food, there’s extra in the pantry,” you say.

“Thank you so much for this, really,” you sincerely say, leaning in for a hug, wrapping your arms around his torso as his arms wrap around your small frame, hugging you tight.

“I’d do anything for you,” he replies, a smile growing on your face, you both looking over, watching your dog roll around in the grass, soaking up the new environment. The moment was so calm, you holding each other, the sun setting, watching your dog roam around, before Dean’s voice echoes down the block.

“Holy shit, is that a dog??!”

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

note – had to put a mini schnauzer in there as a reference to my sweet girl who passed away a few years ago, love you my baby🩷

[townsendbaby]

The Damn Party

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader (y/n)

Summary: When y/n finds out that her drink has been spiked she has no one to turn to but Dean, her enemy. Dean finding y/n knocking at his door in her barely conscious state brings up clashing feelings.

TW: having a drugged drink at a party

Word Count: 4.8K

The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.

Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."

"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.

She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.

Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."

"I'm mentally preparing."

"For Dean?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."

Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.

Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.

"Go," Y/N said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."

"You might if Dean starts talking."

"I'll survive."

"I sure hope you do."

Y/N shoved her lightly.

"Go."

Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.

She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.

"You look hot," Hannah had declared.

"I look dressed."

"You look hot."

"I look like someone attending a party."

"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."

Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."

Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.

"Dude."

Dean barely looked at him.

"What?"

Logan nodded toward the front hall.

Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.

"...Oh."

Logan smirked.

"Oh?"

Dean recovered almost instantly.

"So?"

"So…?" Logan echoed.

Dean shrugged.

"She cleans up okay."

Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."

"I absolutely have not."

"You absolutely have."

Dean tore his eyes away.

"I was observing."

Logan’s grin widened.

"Observing."

"Shut up."

He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.

It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.

Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.

There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."

Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."

"I almost didn't recognize you."

"No?"

"Nah."

He tilted his head.

"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."

She smiled sweetly.

"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."

A couple of people nearby chuckled.

Dean nodded once.

"Fair."

Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."

Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."

"I know I am."

"Hm."

He folded his arms.

"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."

The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.

Dean did.

"So does your personality," she replied evenly.

He smiled again.

"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."

She stared at him.

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."

"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."

"So do people invite me."

He looked around theatrically.

"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."

There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.

She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not."

"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."

Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."

"Must've been exhausting."

He stepped just a little closer.

"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."

Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."

Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."

Dean chuckled.

"There she is."

"What?"

"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."

Y/N held his gaze.

"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."

"No?"

She smiled.

"Just you."

The surrounding group burst into laughter.

Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.

So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”

Silence.

This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”

The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.

"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."

She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."

She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.

Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"

Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.

"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”

Dean frowned.

"What?"

Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."

Dean scoffed.

"I always act like an ass."

Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."

He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.

"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."

—

To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.

Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.

Shit…

What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.

Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.

Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.

She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.

She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.

So why had that one landed?

She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.

It had just been... Mean.

Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."

She closed her eyes. Of course.

Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"

Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."

He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.

Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.

Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.

She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.

"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."

She gave a small shrug.

"Good for Logan."

"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"

"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."

That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.

"What?"

She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.

"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"

Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.

"You know what your problem is?"

She sighed.

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."

A tiny laugh escaped her.

"No."

"No?"

"I walk around trying not to care what people think."

He scoffed.

"That's adorable."

"It works most days."

"Clearly not tonight."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.

He should've left it there. Instead….

"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"

She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.

"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.

"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."

For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.

She always had one. Always.

Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.

"Okay."

No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.

"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."

Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.

Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.

Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.

"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"

A couple of people laughed.

Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.

Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.

—

Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.

Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.

"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.

Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.

But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.

He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.

"Dean." A familiar voice.

He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.

"I've been trying to find you."

"Have you?"

"Mhm."

She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.

"I thought maybe you disappeared."

Dean looked down at her hand.

Then back up.

"Huh."

She laughed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."

Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.

She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.

Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."

For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.

It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.

A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”

He blinked. "Maybe later."

The girl looked surprised.

"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."

She disappeared back into the crowd.

Dean watched her go.

That was… weird.

He took another sip.

Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

"Dean!" Another voice.

This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.

"You owe me a rematch in pong."

"Do I?"

"You destroyed me last weekend."

"I probably did."

She laughed, looping an arm through his.

"You sound thrilled to see me."

Dean looked at her.

She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.

One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.

She squeezed his arm playfully.

"So?"

"So?"

"The rematch."

Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.

Then looked back at her.

"I think I'll pass."

Her smile faltered.

"You... don't want to play beer pong?"

"Not really."

She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.

"Okay..."

She walked away looking thoroughly confused.

Dean was, too.

What the hell?

He never turned down beer pong.

He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.

He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.

He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.

Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"

He waved without looking.

Another voice.

"Dean, come dance!"

He ignored it.

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

"Sorry."

She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."

Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.

Not even annoyance.

Just... Nothing.

"I'm actually heading upstairs."

Her smile slipped.

"Oh."

He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.

Halfway up, he stopped.

He looked down.

The entire house stretched beneath him.

Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.

Tonight it wasn't.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.

He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.

Silence.

Dean leaned back against the door.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.

"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."

He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.

He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.

All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"

—

Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.

Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.

Y/N stood in the middle of it all.

She couldn't hear herself think.

At first, she assumed it was the music.

Then she realized the room itself had started to move.

She frowned.

The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.

"Weird." She blinked hard.

Maybe she'd stood up too fast.

She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.

No.

Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.

The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.

Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.

Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.

"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."

Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Okay.

Okay, breathe.

When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

Too little air.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.

"Oh, shit."

Her voice trembled.

"Oh, shit..."

She looked down at the drink in her hand.

Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.

She needed Hannah.

That thought came immediately.

Hannah.

She'd know what to do.

Y/N turned toward the hallway.

Then remembered.

Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.

Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.

Privacy.

Right.

Y/N swallowed.

She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.

Absolutely not.

Her breathing grew uneven.

The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.

Think.

Who else?

Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.

An ambulance?

No.

That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?

No, no...

She wasn't even sure what was wrong.

She just... She just needed someone.

Someone she knew.

Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.

Dean.

She almost laughed.

It would've been funny under different circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis.

The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.

She hated him.

He was an ass.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Meaner than he realized.

But...

He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.

Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.

She knew that with complete certainty.

Her feet were already moving.

The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.

Come on.

One more.

She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.

"No..."

She squeezed the railing harder.

"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.

Another breath.

Another step.

Then another.

By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.

Dean's door.

End of the hallway.

So close.

She took one step. Then another.

Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."

Everything suddenly felt so far away.

She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.

—

Inside, Dean didn't move.

He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.

A knock sounded.

Dean sighed.

Without getting up, he called toward the door.

"Occupied."

Silence.

Good.

Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.

Not happening.

He leaned back against the headboard again.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I said go away."

Nothing.

Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.

Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.

He yanked the door open. And froze.

Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.

"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"

She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.

Was he angry? No.

Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.

"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”

Her eyes began slipping shut.

Dean's expression shattered.

Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.

"Y/N!"

He caught her before she could hit her head.

Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.

"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.

"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."

Nothing.

"Come on."

Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.

"There you are."

His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.

"What happened?"

She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.

Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.

"What did you have to drink?"

She frowned.

"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."

"Did you hit your head?"

A tiny shake. "No."

"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.

"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.

Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.

"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."

He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.

"I've got you."

He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.

She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.

The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.

She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.

"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm trying."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."

She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.

"I'm here."

Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.

Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.

She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.

A lump settled painfully in his throat.

Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.

"I'm here." Dean whispered.

Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.

"No, no."

Dean gently squeezed her hand.

"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."

"Tired."

"I know."

"Just..." Her words were fading.

He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."

She tried.

God, she tried.

He could see it.

The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.

Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.

"Y/N?"

No answer.

Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

Dean stayed exactly where he was.

Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.

Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.

[newobsessionweekly]

Terms and Conditions

Main Masterlist | Off Campus Masterlist

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Fandom: Off Campus

Summary: You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long game—you were just warming the bench.

Angst / Hurt-Comfort

Warnings: not proofread, angst, explicit language, sexual references, heartbreak.

A/N: I am so, so sorry it took me over a month to post this request! My finals lasted for almost a whole month and I was so stressed I couldn't even exist. And then right after that, I went to visit my parents in my hometown, and then I had to move apartments and it was absolute chaos. I feel so bad for making you guys wait this long. But I really hope you enjoy this fic! Now that the chaos is over, I will be back with more fics. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love!

Words:

Playing with fire is for amateurs. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis? That was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.

Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.

Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.

He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.

But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.

It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.

But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.

When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.

It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.

The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.

He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".

In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.

That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.

You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.

To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.

You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.

I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.

God, you were a fucking idiot.

You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.

You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.

You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.

You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.

The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.

She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.

You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.

But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?

For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.

But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.

You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.

And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.

"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."

Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"

"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".

He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.

Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.

The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.

You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.

The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.

So you just... faded out.

You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.

You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.

But you forgot who you were dealing with.

"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.

"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."

"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.

You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.

Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.

A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.

It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.

He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.

"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.

"No."

"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."

He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.

The boys knew.

They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.

It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.

Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.

You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.

Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.

"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.

Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.

"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.

He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.

"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"

The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.

"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."

"Bullshit."

He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.

"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."

"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."

"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"

The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.

"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"

The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.

Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.

Dean froze.

The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.

His green eyes widened as he stared at you.

You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.

"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."

"Don't," you choked out.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.

"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."

"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."

It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.

The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.

His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.

As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.

"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.

His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.

"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."

"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."

Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.

"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."

You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.

Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.

The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.

"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.

Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.

He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.

"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.

"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."

The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.

Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.

"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."

A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."

"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."

You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.

It was over.

Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.

It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.

But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.

You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.

But looking at the two massive, fiercely protective hockey players guarding your front seat, you realized you hadn't lost everything. You had played with fire, and yeah, you'd gotten burned. But you had walked out of the ashes with a family.

[solbaby7]

hi!! I have this little idea (if you’re okay with that) of reader being cassian or azriel’s sister who has a thing for rhysand, and growing up she would always want to spend time with them but they would always just leave her chasing behind them because they’re doing “boy stuff”. Fast forward, they’re all grown up and Rhysand sees that her friend group treated her badly and they keep making plans without her and he goes all protective over her and realizes he has feelings for her

Background Noise

pairing: rhysand x reader

warnings: angst but there’s plenty of fluff sprinkled in too for my softies, swearing, mean!az :( but it’s okay bc we have rhys to comfort us, bullying, drama, takes place before UTM, left the ending open for potential for a pt.2 but who knows

—

Solitude and you had become fast friends.

You were used to being left alone.

Familiar with being the one waving goodbye as your brother and his friends disappeared off for hours and days and weeks at a time to explore—to live.

They’d always return with scrapes and bruises, new tattoos and tales to tell, bright smiles and inside jokes shared amongst each other while you silently tended to their wounds. Surviving vicariously through their thorough reenactments and the occasional mental projection from the heir of the Night Court. “Sounds like quite the adventure,” You’d murmur softly, carefully stitching the gash on Rhysand’s calf. “I’m almost jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” Cassian questions as if they were the most absurd words you’d ever spoken. “You have plenty of friends.”

“Right.” You can’t find the courage to delve any further for if they’d bothered to prod a little more; to actually ask for details about these so called ‘friends’, they’d realize you’d been lying through your teeth. Any attempts made always leaves you feeling dejected. Too used to being the butt of all their jokes. The object used as their punching bag on bad days; pushing you in mud, the horrible names, the awful rumors they spread at your expense.

No one wants to be friends with a dud.

A bastard born, rejected from not only her father and hometown but your brother too. You couldn’t even recall the last time Azriel had regarded you as anything more than a nuisance—his face morphing into a sneer at the very sight of you, all happiness suddenly leeched from his features the second you come into frame.

You learn to adapt.

Squeezing your presence down into the tiniest of boxes. Making hushed promises to whoever will listen that you’ll be good. Swearing in every language you know that no one will even notice you’re there as long as they just allow you to be around them. Praying to the God above for forgiveness of your faults, to cleanse you of whatever stains your soul so profoundly that not a single person dares enter your orbit.

“Speaking of which, why aren’t you out with them?” Azriel questions, his voice void of warmth and you freeze like a doe under a hunters stare.

“If she leaves then who else is going to play nurse?” Rhys’ leg is crossed over his knee, his teasing just as casual as his body language and gratefulness seeps from every pore when you quickly glance up at him, muscles unlocking from their rigidity.

“I’d rather suffer.”

Cassian lets out a noise, displeasure evident in the cutting glare he throws Azriel’s way but he remains sat, spine sinking into the soft couch cushions as he waits in line for you to dress his wounds. “Speak for yourself, asshole.” Wings rustle behind him, raised tall and taut against his back. “She’s got the softest hands around.”

“Can’t imagine where she got it from—certainly not her father that’s for sure.”

Another verbal assault thrown your way with no mercy for the fact that you were unarmed. No armor or weapons to defend yourself with; constantly bashed for inheriting the features of a male too cruel to croon soothing words to his offspring.

You try to understand, attempt to relate to the anger Azriel harbors; reasoning with yourself that his ire is warranted because he’d been burned, his scars visible—a permanent reminder of the endless cruelties of his childhood. From half-brothers raised with hate in their hearts and plenty of hurt to spread around.

Perhaps, that’s why he ignores your trauma for it’s not as obvious as his own.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Running a bit low on that, aren’t you?” Rhysand’s cadence cuts through the fog of your brain, saving the day yet again and giving you an out. An opening to run away from the verbal onslaught Azriel rains down like hellfire.

The healing salve you hold is filled to the brim, the safety seal still stamped in place but you nod along anyway. Rhys takes in your every move, watches how you eat every hit Az throws as if you truly believe you deserve it. Your steps are silent, ghostly, reminiscent of an out of body experience. Distantly nodding. The sequestered way you gather your medical kit and all but disappear like a puff of smoke in the breeze.

He waits until he’s sure you’re gone, the front door closing so silently he wouldn’t have noticed you’d left if it weren’t for the click of the lock sliding in place. “Your mother never taught you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”

“Oh, get over your stupid crush already,” Azriel grumbles. “She doesn’t need you running to her rescue everytime someone says anything you don’t agree with.”

Rhys doesn’t deny it, never tries to hide it—his infatuation with you. The lingering glances. Always including you in conversations. Trinkets and gifts collected on outings with your bashful face in mind. Anything to get you to smile. To break you out of your shell and sometimes it works. Until Azriel opens his stupid mouth and your shoulders cave in, snuffing out the embers of light within until it has your head bowing and mouth pursed into a firm line. “You’re right,” Rhysand stands at attention, a distant throb aching in one leg from his newly tended injury. “That should be your job.”

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t.” His octave raises, anger urging the slip on his restraint to loosen. To release some of that power he always keeps a leash on. “She’s your sister, she lived through the same awful things that you did—if not worse and while you got to be freed of your anguish, you subject her to more.”

“Seriously Rhys, shut up.”

He doesn’t, refuses to even. Flame has touched gas and the reaction is explosive. “You blame her for looking like her father but by the Mother—one could say you act like him.”

The room goes still. Azriel’s face morphing from annoyance to anger. Fists ball up at his sides, nose twitching with rage as Rhys’ words hit their target with expert-level accuracy. “Take that back.”

“No, I won’t. It’s the truth.”

Shadows fill the room, expanding and growing. Blocking out the light from the windows and covering the walls in a thick layer of sentient obsidian. Power crackles with life, tensions so strong it emits its own oud.

It’s no surprise when the fight breaks out. Glowing blue combatting against a magic so violent it sends the skies rumbling.

Cassian doesn’t even bother intervening, simply moving valuables within reach out of the way before settling further into the couch as the throb of his wound aches as it waits for his turn of your healing touch. He watches almost bored-like, humming when Rhysand lands a perfect punch or cheering when Azriel dodges in a stealthy maneuver they’d been practicing for weeks.

It’s never taken too seriously, males being males. Their testosterone being burned through with physical violence and blood spilled but something seems more serious than normal when Rhys actually uses the power he usually keeps leached, his reach bending Az to his will, shoving him down to his knees. An arm is bracketed around the shadowsingers neck, blood dripping down his nose and staining a straight set of teeth as Rhys sneers in his ear. “Stop being such a prick to her. She’s hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Azriel struggled against the hold, shadows tugging at Rhys’ shoulders, wrapping around his neck, binding around limbs until both of them are red in the face with veins popping from the thin skin of their necks. “Yeah, nothing except for existing.”

“Stupid, foolish, cruel male you are. It’s like he’s standing right before me.”

Another sensitive nerve plucked and a renewed sense of urgency surges through Azriel’s body. Syphons glow as he breaks free from the hold, punches and kicks are thrown, bodies tossed into walls and tables until wood splinters and plaster crumbles to dust. “I am nothing like him.”

“With all that hate in your heart?” Rhys’s words come out heavy, teeth gritted and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Even then, he refuses to back down. “Might as well be twins.”

“Alright,” Cassian interjects, refusing to stand between them and their quarrel to avoid catching stray knuckles but the way Azriel’s face crumples as the hostilities is enough to initiate a ceisefire. “Maybe it’s time to calm down, she’ll be back any second.”

His hands are still clenched at his sides, knuckles split and blood already crusting over thanks to fae’s advanced healing but the rage doesn’t dissipate from Rhysand’s body—it only transforms. Locks itself away at the mention of you in order to spare you of getting singed by the aftermath of his burning ire.

He and Azriel dance around the other, this odd tension existing between them as they attempt to let this go; to diffuse the conflict—to pretend like nothing ever happened in the first place.

It doesn’t work.

Especially when rage bleeds into worry when you don’t return for an hour. Two. Three. The time tick, tick, ticks away without a single inclination on when you’d come sneaking through the entrance.

“Maybe we should go look for her?”

“Maybe she’s finally getting the hint and following her own friends around instead of mine.”

Cassian rolls his eyes, Rhys scoffs, but neither of them get to say anything more when the front door opens and slams shut.

It’s so unlike you, drawing such attention to yourself and all three heads snap in your direction just for eyes to widen and mouths to gape open like fishes out of water because you don’t return the way you left.

“What the fuck?” Azriel’s usual contempt fades instantly at the sight of you. An unfamiliar protectiveness blooms when acknowledging the tears streaming down your face and the soaking wet hair dripping fat drops onto the hardwood floor. Every inch of you is covered in goosebumps and if it weren’t for the arms crossed over your chest, you’d have flashed the whole room. “Where the hell are your clothes?”

You can’t even form a single word as you stand there in nothing but your underwear, shaking like a flag in the wind, chest heaving as the panic amplifies; embarrassment growing even deeper and your brothers heart absolutely drops to his stomach at the sob that cleaves through you. Turning on the ball of your heels, you’re off; bare feet smacking against polished floors in your hurry to run away.

To find safety.

Rhys is the first to take action, taking the stairs two—three at a time until he’s going so fast he slips against the imported rugs that run through the length of the hallway. He’s just barely reached the door to your room when it slams shut in his face, rich mahogany holding sturdy against his fists when the lock twists with a distinctive click. “Who did this?” He demands, knocking and smacking the palms of his hands against it so hard it rattles. “Did they touch you?”

“Leave me alone.” The words are like a whine, drawn out and laced in agony. Every syllable trembles, wet with raw anguish and utter humiliation.

It makes him sick, curdles the food in his belly. Triggers instincts deep rooted in his Illyrian blood until every inch of him vibrates with the need to avenge. To cause equal or greater torment upon whoever dared lay their hands on you and rob you of the little security you’d had. “I swear I will the second you just tell me who did this to you. Darling, please just let me in.”

Azriel and Cassian are steps behind him, certain that if anyone could lure the truth from you it’s Rhysand but the door doesn’t budge. Minutes pass and you can’t be heard anymore, harsh sobs shifting to thick sniffles until complete silence fills the space.

Somehow, that’s more unsettling than hearing you cry.

The spymaster steps forward, allowing his sentient shadows to slink ahead, teasing at the seam of your door until they slip through like a cool breeze seeping through the gaps of windowpanes. What they find is heartbreaking, at first all they detect is a seemingly empty room before they catch onto a slight crack on the closet door. You’re curled inside, knees tucked to your chin with a robe secured around your body and silent tears drawing silver tracks down the curve of your cheeks.

You’re stuck in your own world, a victim of constant torment; eyes distant as you rock and rock in attempts to self soothe.

Shadows creep closer, their cool touch just barely grazing your ankle before you detect their presence. Fingers angrily wipe away the evidence of your sorrow, limbs curling further into yourself as you sneer at the extension of the brother that makes it his life’s mission to make you smaller—to prove you have no worth. “If you’re here to humiliate me some more, don’t bother. I’ve had enough for one day so you can go find someone else to use as your personal punching bag.”

They flinch at the truth, recoiling back at a tone you never take with them—with anyone. Perhaps that’s Azriel’s fault too and that guilt weighs heavy in his chest to the point where he can’t even utter a word to his hovering friends, only mustering up the ability to unlock the door as his shadows quietly retreat.

Your brother doesn’t enter though. Instead, he urges Rhysand along, pleading with his eyes for him to fix the things that Azriel broke.

Rhys jumps at the opportunity, entering without hesitation and closing the door behind him. Every step is measured, calculated; carefully intruding into your space and taking up surveillance until he finds you curled inside your wardrobe. It makes him ache in the worst way, reminds him of the little boy he’d first befriended who’d been used to being shoved into darkness, locked away from light for hours and days and weeks until their cruel father deigned him access to a sliver of sunshine. Rhys has to swallow down the emotion that clogs his throat, the closet door opening with a little squeak, the final stages of sunsets copper glow providing just enough warm light to cast over your form. “Oh darling,” He croons ever so softly, brows knitted in sadness when violet eyes rest on you.

He moves slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. Fingers brush hair from your face, tucking damp strands behind your ear and coaxing the length of it behind your shoulder. Your gaze is downcast, eyes red-rimmed and nose pink from the constant rubbing and sniffling.

You don’t fight his touch, barely register it, head subconsciously tucking into the safety of his neck when he lifts you from your hiding space with ease. He smells of outside, lingering traces of wind and earth, faint touches of his body wash and that light, citrusy cologne he refuses to admit he enjoys over the more manly options loitered on his desk. “I don’t need your pity.” The words crack on their way out, your breath tickling the line of his collarbone and yet you still don’t shuffle away when Rhys kicks off his shoes and sits on your bed. He tucks you both under the covers, keeps his arms wrapped around you and begins running his fingers through your hair, tracing lines down the slope of your shoulder and the length of your back. Slow, soothing motions that send shivers along your spine and goosebumps along your flesh.

“I have no pity to give you.” He holds you close, desperately grasping onto every second he can in your bed—your space. Smelling your sheets. Sinking into the girlish softness of your pillows and silently cataloging the books you keep stacked on your bedside table. “Only rage for whoever dared put their hands on you in the first place.”

“It’s not a good look for a High Lord to take out personal vendettas out on his citizens.”

“I’m more than willing to desecrate my image for your sake. You deserve to feel safe. You’re entitled to take up space.”

The frown that creases the corner of your mouth broadcasts the physical way you deny his words. Fresh tears well in your waterline, eyes pinching shut as you attempt to hide your hurt. Rhys doesn’t let you, a thumb swiping along the thin skin under your eye to collect salty saline. “That’s not true. All I seem to do is make things worse. My presence—my existence. Even when I attempt to blend in, to be quiet, to not be seen or heard; I mean, don’t think I don’t notice the strain between you and my brother every time you stand up for me. Each kind thing you’ve ever done for me, you’ve been given such grief over and that’s not fair to you.” You suck in a deep breath, knees tucking in closer, nudging against the strong bone of Rhysand’s ribs. “I’ve been thinking of moving back home with my mom.”

“What? No. This is your home.”

“Yeah, right.” You fiddle with the hem of his shirt, nail running over the stitching, stopping yourself before you snag a fray free. Knuckles graze at the bare skin of his abdomen, muscles tensing and flexing at the touch and you’re quick to retract your touch, a blush heating up the length of your neck. “No one here likes me. I have no friends. No family. No love to tie me to this town—leaving before it’s too late is the most logical choice.”

The High Lord goes quiet, teeth clenching, jaw ticking as he fights a battle within. Confess his feelings or scare you off.

Confess.

Or watch you flee.

His heart hammers against his chest, loud enough for you to hear the steady rhythm pressed against your ear. His tongue wets his lips, gaze dipping down to memorize the slope of your nose and the dip of your cupids bow. For too long he remains silent, contemplating; memorizing the softness of your cheeks and the smell of your perfume that clings to the sheets—to you. “Sleep on it.” Rhys tucks you in closer, buries his nose in the crown of your hair and forces the notes of dates and vanilla to permanently fuse themselves in his sinuses. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning.”

You hum in agreement, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavy on your bones and coupled with the unconditional comfort that Rhysand provides, you’re asleep in no time.

He lingers longer than he should, long enough to miss dinner and for the clock to chime at midnight.

You don’t even flinch when he shifts away, too deep in sleep to notice him softly leaving you to your own sheets and the phantom warmth he provided.

He exits like smoke but the moment your door closes Rhys can’t hide his panic, can’t conceal the anger when he charges through the hallway like a bull on a mission until he finds Azriel lurking in the shadows. He barely realizes he’s gripped him by the fabric of his shirt and shoved him against the wall until the thud of weights impact reaches his eardrums. “You fix this,” He commands, hazel battling a deep violet. “Say or do whatever you need to in order to make things right with you and your sister. I swear to the Mother, if she does this, if she leaves because of you,” The syllables seethe through gritted teeth, nose scrunched in a snarl so sharp it borders on animalistic—beastly. “If she leaves because of you, considered yourself fired from your post. Banished from your duties. Exiled from the city you love so much. If she leaves, be prepared to leave with her.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me, brother.” Rhys shoves him further into the wall, so hard the wood paneling creaks under the strain, so hard that cracks form along the very foundation. “I love her more than I care to coddle your fragile ego. Do the right thing or find a new home—find a new family.”

“Rhys.”

“I will choose her,” He confesses, his heart pouring out on a platter and seeping into the rug below. “She belongs to me, brother. If you don’t fix this, I will choose her over you.”

[woodelf-writing]

The Coyote and The Hawk

Author Note: thank you so much for all the love on my first post, I'm going to make this into a series but in full honesty, I have no idea how this story will unfold but I'm excited to see how it goes and I hope you are too.

Now I have and will mess with the timeline a little because there are so many fun bits and pieces I want to include throughout this series.

This is a re-upload as I wasn't 100% happy with the original post so I hope you like it!

Masterlist

Part One / Next Part

Part Two

At first, you’d stupidly allowed yourself to live in the delusion that the boys would forget about your little dieting lie, but unfortunately, much like the animal their team is named after, the boys paid more attention that you thought, that was evident by the fact once in passing conversation with Hannah in the library you’d mentioned that during your period you were feral for Oreos, you had not noticed any of the boys were even in the library, because lets be honest, why would you, let alone paying attention to your conversation, but now you find that every month, the Hockey House was full of them, and you’d even caught the last time you’d gotten your period, Logan keeping a snack packet in his jacket pocket and Dean kept a packet in his gym bag, although you had made yourself promise that no matter how desperate you get, you will never eat those.

More than once, the three musketeers had searched through the house whilst the boys were at practice, searching for the secret calendar or folder that they kept on you all, because for a home that was filled with a shocking amount of dirty clothes, discarded equipment such as hockey sticks and a small, but rotund racoon that lived in the bins outside you had named Paco, the bathroom upstairs had a draw filled with period products, extra pain relief and heat pads were stored in the first aid kit under the kitchen sink and the solo cupboard situation above the fridge was kept stocked with Hannah, yours and Allie’s favourite period snacks.

Due to a small evacuation in your building thanks to a student trying to dry their socks using a hot-plate, you girls ended up at the Hockey House early this morning, arriving before the boys you’d made yourself at home, you sat at the kitchen island, back facing the living room with a zoology textbook resting in front of you, your notebook open and a pen resting in your hand.

“How did you guys get in?” Dean’s voice rang out as the front door slammed open, adding to the already present door handle shaped hole in the wall.

“Door was unlocked.” You respond, not looking up.

There was a few minutes of mindless bickering about who was the last person to leave, therefore responsible for not locking the front door as they filtered through the living room, throwing gym bags in various places and into the kitchen, Garrett patted you on the shoulder as a hello, doing the same as he passed Allie then sweeping Hannah up in a hug, Logan kissed your temple, Tucker waved and Dean, being Dean plonked his sweaty chin on your shoulder.

“You work too hard.” He whispered in your ear.

Ignoring the heat that rises up your neck, you roll your eyes before moving your shoulder in an attempt to shake him off, Dean chuckled lowly before placing a kiss behind your ear and standing upright, “Why are you guys here?”

“Some idiot designed a hotplate was for drying socks, they evacuated the building and we were hungry so.” Allie responds, shoving a handful of peanut M&M in her mouth.

Most of the boys nodded, seeming to understand the situation with an understanding which makes you question some pasts, the kitchen hummed with conversation mainly focusing on what needed to improve before the next hockey match before eventually the subject of food was brought up, and eventually everyone except you had agreed on a meal which led to Tucker sliding a bowl of cut up fruit, yoghurt and granola in your direction as pizza arrived.

“Theres chocolate in the granola.” Tucker whispers, sending you a cheeky wink.

You smile at him, mouthing a thank you.

The house was usually quiet at mealtimes, the boys all lounged in their designated seats on the sofa and armchairs available, watching a movie on the TV instead of their usual hockey-based entertainment which resulted in a lot less shouting whilst Allie and Hannah stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island staring at you whilst making dramatic yummy noises.

Your shoulders tense as you watch them, an unimpressed expression plastered on your face as you wonder how much trouble you’d be in with Garrett if you launched yourself over the counter to rugby tackle the slice of pizza out of his girlfriend’s grip – the cons outweighed the pros in that scenario so you settled with eating the meal prepared by Tucker, which admittedly was very good.

“This could all be over if you told the truth.” Hannah whispered in a sing-songy voice, waving her pizza around.

Tucker’s voice echoes from the living room, “Don’t be mean!”

Your eyes crinkle with amusement, Allie and Hannah both give him a fake, sympathetic looks, mumbling sorry as you smile softly, looking back down at your notes and continue eating the bowl prepared for you, overall Tucker was the most supportive of your “diet” so far, still offering you food but ones he seemed healthy and making a list of food items – with a little help from his saint of a mother – but would keep you full, you felt awful lying to him, especially since he makes the most effort to keep you included, but then again, later on when you’re going to be eating enough cheese fries to make your stomach hurt, you suspect you’ll feel better.

“How did your first shift go?” Allie asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Thankfully, the testosterone filled living room was too engrossed watching Scarlett Johansson in a black catsuit fighting aliens, which honestly you couldn’t blame them.

Oh yes, your first shift as a coyote.

Thankfully, it wasn’t awful, although you felt like a new character joining a tv series with all the original characters, but everyone was friendly and welcoming, you had met your direct manage, Charlise, who was super friendly and sweet, she talked you through the bar set up, routine of the dances and thankfully, the drinks were simple due to limited options and thankfully, the patrons preferred to stick to primarily shots, spirts and mixtures with the occasional beer and simple cocktails.

And despite the expectations of a coyote ugly saloon, the customers were nice, just wanting a goodnight in a safe environment and to watch some pretty girls dance, and thankfully Charlise took safety very seriously therefore any assholes were removed swiftly by the security team and to top it off, Charlise had paired you with a girl named Kat to train you for your first couple of shifts; she was kind, funny and annoyingly, utterly stunning.

“It was good, the team is nice and the atmosphere is amazing, plus the security team are just as hot as the girls so double bonus.” You say curtly.

Hannah raises her eyebrows suspiciously, “Okay, well that’s clearly not all of it.”

You shrug, picking up a bit of strawberry and throwing it into the air, catching it in your mouth with ease, earning a whoop from Dean who you hadn’t realised was watching the three of you whisper like a group of school children with an unusual level of interest, you throw him a smile before turning back to Allie and Hannah.

You sign, “They’re all just so hot, when I said before that they’d make me look like a potato, I didn’t realise it would be so true! They’ve got me paired with this girl; Kat and she is just so... perfect!”

Allie puts down her pizza and moves around the island to stand beside you, “Okay, so you’re not feeling confident, how did you show up? How did you do your hair and make-up?”

Picking up your phone from beside your textbook, you open your photo album, “Like how I am now, hair up with a little bit of make-up.” You explain whilst finding the mandatory first shift picture you’d taken.

Allie took your phone, examining the picture with extreme focus before making a face similar to one you’d make when a young kid has tried their best to draw a picture of you, with your phone still grasped in her hand, she motions for Hannah who meets her halfway as they mauver around the island.

Your remaining confidence slowly vanishes when Hannah makes an identical face to Allie’s.

“Okay…” she starts, eyes looking from the photo, to you and back again, “Your hair and make-up are exactly the same now as they are in this photo… why are you wearing your hair like that?”

You motion to the low bun your hair is currently sitting in, “To keep it out of my face.” You explain.

Allie and Hannah hum before placing your phone down gently on the counter, Hannah speaks first after a few moments, “Okay, what I’m going to say is filled with love, but –”

“You look like a librarian.” Allie interrupts.

They both watch as your face falls, you know you didn’t look mega hot but a librarian – seriously? And not even a sexy one?!

Allie immediately feels terrible and so does Hannah as she grabs your phone again, unlocks it and scrolls through your photos as Allie watches over your shoulder, neither choosing to comment on the various pictures which are less than pure in nature, which reminds you to turn off the setting in which photos from your messaging are saved to your photo album, Allie raises an eyebrow, amused and impressed by the collection.

“Here, now this is the Dove we know on a night out.” Hannah says, turning your phone around to face you, on the screen you see a picture of the last karaoke night at Malone’s, you wore your hair in a half updo, light foundation, dark red lipstick and glittery eyeshadow.

“But I’m not on a night out, I’m working.” You say, softly.

“It’s exactly that, Dove! You’re there to sell an experience!” Allie exclaims quietly but still managing to attract the attention of most of the boys in the living room, Logan furrowed his brows and Dean looks confused, but all ultimately decide to ignore you all as Iron Man appears again on the TV screen.

“There are very few jobs where you get paid to look and feel sexy.” Hannah says with a knowing shrug.

“What am I meant to do?” you ask, confused by the idea.

“Embrace the fact you’re hot and dress like it.” Allie grins.

You furrow your eyebrows playfully and put on a dramatic pout, desperate for this line of conversation to stop, “Are you saying I’m not hot now? I expected more from you two.”

Hannah laughs, clearly catching onto the game, “No baby,” she says in a tone you’d heard Dean use a thousand times, you cross your arms dramatically and turn away from her, avoiding eye contact, Hannah signs, “You’re the hottest.”

You turn back to her, uncrossing your arms to bring your fingertips together beneath your chin, palms down and resting your chin on them, smiling widely and battering your eyelashes whilst pretending to be embarrassed.

“But seriously,” Allie says, breaking up the silly moment and bringing you back to reality, “Maybe the reason you aren’t feeling confident around these girls because you’re not joining in with the aesthetic of being a coyote,” she says, which annoyingly makes a lot of sense, “So, for your next shift, do your make up a little more and, wear your hair natural.”

Your stomach drops an inch lower as the last words leave her mouth, you watch as Allie bounces on the balls of her feet, ever since you were little you’ve always heard the phrase, “you always want what you don’t have” and if that weighed any significance to you, it was your hair.

Like Allie Hayes, you had been given a head of curly hair, but unlike Allie, you had never learnt how to take care of it, or how to embrace it, which typically resulted in you either straightening it or wearing it up. In fact, you had never shown any of the boys your natural hair and had only shown Allie and Hannah by accident during a girls night when you’d forgotten to sort it once you’d gotten out of the shower.

“But Allie I don’t know how to do my hair.” You admitted, completely embarrassed.

Allie’s smile only widened, “Well, lucky for you, I can teach you.”

Fuck.

About an hour later, Logan wrestled your textbook from your grasp, moving you from the kitchen island to the sofa where everyone else had situated.

Hannah, naturally was scooped in Garrett's lap, head resting on his shoulders, Tucker was curled up with Allie next to him, a blanket across the pair, Logan plonked you down next to him which meant you were sat between him and Dean.

Pulling you feet up tucking your toes under Logan's legs and lean instinctively into Dean who without thought drapes an arm over you shoulder, his hand resting on your pulled up knee.

The movie finishes and the next in the saga starts, everyone settled into a comfortable silence, the smell of popcorn fills the Hockey House, Dean sneaks you a few pieces thankfully avoiding the watchful eye of Tucker, eventually people start to fall asleep, it starts with Dean, followed by Hannah and Garrett then Tucker.

After some time, you look over at Allie who mercifully is still awake, gently guestering with your head towards the door signally you need to leave, she nods in agreement before standing.

"I have to get going." You say as you gently unwrap yourself from Dean's arm, hugging Logan before standing to head into the kitchen, Allie looks confused, blinking at you, you silently mouth "work" in response.

Allie nods, tip-toes over Tuckers legs and towards Hannah, gently nudging her awake, whispering that we needed to go, Hannah nods sleepily before waking Garrett, "I'm going to head out with Allie and Dove." She whispers.

"But you're staying here tonight?" Garrett asks, stretching his arms.

Dean stirs from his position on the sofa, "What's happening?"

"The girls are leaving." Logan says.

Dean furrows his brows, both sleepy and confused, standing up and plodding into the kitchen where you collected your textbook, notebooks and various colour pens, filling a glass with water, Dean watched you carefully, "Do you need a lift?"

"No." Allie calls from the living room, too quickly and too certain, startling Tucker awake.

You chuckle, "Thank you though."

Dean smiles at you before nodding, "Okay, where are you all going?"

You freeze for a minute, "Just back to the dorm, the groupchat says the building is clear." You shrug.

Dean hums, "Alright then."

Quickly, and before more questions can be asked, you, Allie and Hannah hussell out the front door and into the cooling afternoon air.

Frustrated, Dean gulped the last of his water before putting the glass into the sink, he will deal with the scolding from Tucker later about not cleaning up after himself.

What was so important that all three of you needed to rush out now?

Why wouldn't any of you give an explanation?

What was all the hushed conversation about earlier?

The Hockey House had fallen silent, Tucker had fallen back to sleep within seconds, Logan being as chill as he is, didn't think much about what had just happened and simple refocused on the TV and Garrett just pouted at the fact his girlfriend has abandoned him abruptly without a valid explanation.

Dean however stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, eyes fixated on the front door he had watched you all disappear through, questions circulating in his head, maybe you had a girl thing? Maybe a paper due - no you'd written your paper last week. He really disliked having more questions than answers, walking over to the front door, he snatches his jacket from the hanger and shoves it on

"And where are you going?" Garrett asks, swiveling the armchair round to face Dean.

Logan threw his head back with a sign, clearly irritated by the interruption and Tucker huffed in annoyance for having his nap interrupted once again.

"Just out, that okay, dad?" Dean snips in response, deciding not to wait for a response as he grips the door handle and exits the house.

For the third time that night, the door to the house shuts quickly, Garrett looked over at Logan, leaning forwards in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Hey," he whispers trying to get Logan's attention, it works as he turns to face his friend, "Is it just me, or is Dean on edge recently?"

Logan let out a soft chuckle, "Yeah, I've noticed, I think Dove is getting under his skin a little."

Garrett purses his lips, and nods because he knows you get under Dean's skin, you had softened him since you'd become friends, Dean was already a care-free guy but since meeting you, he'd changed, become considerate and grossly thoughtful, he is the reason why one week a month, the Hockey House was filled with Oreos after all.

Taglist:

@purplerainx1 @moonlight-girls-posts @shadytheoristtimetravel @jayjsbaby @spooky-librarian-ghost @wiltedpetalzz @lightdragonrayne @dumbasscorn

[girlontheruin]

- Fall into you - Part three -

Summary: after a nasty fall on the ice, you return many months later to find out a certain hockey player’s stolen your usual slot.

Where in Garrett Graham collides with you and your whole world falls down.

Warnings: shitty mother. slut shaming, bullying, complicated family relationships, over controlling parent. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Competitive sports environment. Reader hates hockey players. Skating inaccuracies most probably.

- Series masterlist - Previous part -

**no longer doing taglists**

The tight pull of your muscles does well to distract you from the pain tingling through your left hip. You’d fallen three times during practice this morning, your mother’s gaze burning the back of your head as she watched over you in the broadcasters booth. The closest place she’s allowed to you in the sports centre. You’re lucky she’s doesn’t know how to navigate the control panel and shout through the speakers at your pathetic attempt of jumps. She’s banned for a reason, but even your coach Alina can’t stop the ice queen showing up. They think you’re cold, they haven’t met your mother. Not like you know her. In public, in practice her words are softened and come across as strict. In private, the ice queen’s tongue is sharper than a blade and it cuts deep.

You know why she’s appeared after weeks of silence. She’s seen the gossip page, left you numerous messages and voicemails about her opinions on the source and you. There’s only so much dodging you can do, ignoring her just manifests her quicker. You might have managed to sneak through a side exit, but you can’t escape your mother who waits outside of your dorm room later on. Her head turns to you as soon as you round the corner, there’s no way out now. The corridor narrows, walls pressing in as you walk towards her. You’re convinced the temperature drops and the lights dim the closer you get. She’s good at snuffing out the light. Her gaze weighs heavy on you, dark eyes raking up and down your form, settling on your hip. You straighten up, chin lifting as you try not to seem like you’re falling apart. The visible raised patch of a bandage showing beneath your leggings. Weak.

Her silence stretches out time and space. The clink of your key rings and the lock clicking open has you holding your breath. Waiting for your mother to raise her voice as soon as she steps over the threshold of your safe space. Not so comforting right now though. She dumps her handbag on the coffee table, thud of leather falling to the hard surface. You’re waiting, back pressed against the closed door, keys clutched in your hand, metal biting into your palm. The strap of your sports duffle bag digs into your shoulder, but you’re too focussed on minimising your mother’s anger. It’s best to let her speak first, instead of digging yourself a deeper hole.

“How could you be so fucking reckless,” she snaps, flinging a stack of papers in your direction. They hit your chest and scatter on the floor around your scuffed sneakers. “I taught you better than, this.” She jabs a pointed nail to the ground in your eye-line and you flinch at the sudden movement.

Your tongue heavy, mouth dry as you stare at the photos and comments your mother’s printed out. Slut underlined with red ink. Your vision blurs, eyes stinging and you can’t stop staring at the ink bleeding below that word.

“I knew this would be a mistake. You should be training with me like I planned.” You hear her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, her shadow pacing up and down.

“No,” you shake your head, meeting your mother’s narrowed gaze. “I’m seeing this through, it’s just gossip. People trying to tear me down. I can handle it,” you say, crouching down and collecting the papers. If you could deal with the ice queen, this was nothing.

She scoffs. “What whoring around with some meathead hockey player?” She raises an arched brow, flicking the handle of her bag over the zipper. “His father’s not much better, don’t want to get involved with them Grahams.” Her lip curls at the mention of them.

You want to think her last statements a way to smooth over her brandishing you a whore, but she’s never been one to soften her judgement of you. Too weak, too lazy. Whatever she thought of you, she said it. You need thicker skin when dealing with judges and spectators.

“End it now or I will,” she says and you don’t doubt that she will follow up the warning. “That coach in Russia’s still chasing me, don’t make me answer their call.”

The same academy your mother trained, a shiver crawls up your spine at the thought of being shipped off to Russia and your mother breathing down your neck. Her eyes wander to the scar in your hairline, you don’t know how, but she manages to make your injury feel like a weakness too. A foolish mistake that could have been fixed if you were more dedicated to your craft. You’d drowned her out during your time in the hospital, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wondering if it’d cave in on you and knock you out again. Anything to stop her picking you apart.

There’s still moments you don’t remember from the fall. You’ve seen the photos, lived through the consistent burn of pain clinging to the scar. The tightness of your flesh stapled together till a scab formed over the gash. Headaches come and go, a side effect of a traumatic head injury. Your mother cannot be erased though, least she can’t hurt you anymore than usual. You’re used to it, whether you deserve it or not.

“That hit to the head should have knocked some sense into you to make better choices,” she says, walking to the kitchenette and peering into the half empty fridge. “Maybe a check up will help.”

“I don’t need a checkup, I need to focus on practice,” you say, closing the fridge before she can reprimand you on the contents inside, which were not yours, but your roommates. Your mother would probs end up making you go through some rehabilitation centre and think that time there would lead you back to her.

“I have a double ballet class, so you need to leave,” you lie. You’ve got a couple of hours to kill before the hockey game and you’re hoping for a soak in the bath before you squeeze in some studying.

She stops in front of you, hand grasping your chin and tilting your head up to meet her gaze. “I’m only trying to do what’s best for you, you understand right?” Her thumb presses harder to your jaw.

You curl your fists by your side, key digging into your palm again. The papers falling to the ground, the photo of Garrett carrying you through the corridor is all you can see as you avoid your mother’s glare. You nod unable to summon to a simple yes.

“That’s my girl,” she says, hands slipping from your face and she pats your cheek. “Work on that form, getting sloppy with those jumps.”

The door slams in your face, your bag dropping off your shoulder and hanging from your elbow. You stumble to the side, placing your duffle in your designated spot by the entrance. You toe off your sneakers, sliding them onto your labeled shelf.

…

Two hours later and the skating rink is more akin to a wrestling ring, there’s no escaping the earsplitting speakers of the broadcasting booth. The commentator you’re only source of help in trying to understand the game and the sport. Half you can’t hear though, the buzz in your ears muffling the noise around you. You’ve never done well in crowded spaces or loud ones for that matter. It’s not the same as figure skating, no silence awaiting the music setting the scene or your routine. You love the last few seconds after the songs cut off, nothing but your heavy breaths and rise of your chest grounding you in the moment. For a moment you’re aware of your whole body, arms softening their hard edges as you let them fall down. Just you and the ice. Which is snapped away with a round of applause and the scratch of your blades cutting through the ice. The judges scores are watched from the screen in whatever waiting area you’re guided to. You might share the same rink, but it’s nothing like hockey.

Another player slams against the barrier, boos erupting through the stands. You’re balanced on the edge of the plastic chair, the person behind you hitting their hand on the back of your seat in protest. Garrett’s escorted to the benches, his helmet still on, but he looks over his shoulder and you’re convinced he’s searching the crowds for you.

You didn’t meet him before the game or wish him good luck, which he asked you to do. No, you waited till the hoards of supporters were in their seats before you even entered the sports centre. The nearest space at the back of the stands and a concrete column that restricts your view. You see Garrett, crystal clear through the scratched plexiglass. How can you not? Everyone’s looking at him pacing the small space, his hockey stick thrown to the ground as he finally takes a seat.

A losing game, the hockey match. Hopefully not your forced relationship with the captain of the team. Garrett’s gonna be pissed and you’re not sure you want to be around him whilst he’s moody. You’ve heard of the team’s losing traditions, party hard and drink to forget it for the night. Let loose, sleep with the first girl that gravitates towards them.

You smell the stale hotdog stand before it wheels around the back of the elevated stands. The greasy food you’ve caved into once or twice, the first semester you were no longer under your mother’s controlling hand. You’d done many firsts, maybe a few lasts too. Garrett would need to be a first and a last. No hanging around, clean cut from him as soon as your reputations were good.

Long after the final buzzer and the crowds dispersed, you’re still in your seat. Fingers curled over the plastic seat, your canvas bag slumped against the back of your legs and you watch the resurfacing machine go back and forth. You wave back as the rinks caretaker notices you in the stands, the flashing orange lights oddly calming after the roar of disappointed supporters shook your core. So much noice, you can hear the echoes of bodies crashing with the wall and you trace the scar in your hairline. You wonder how Garrett can even survive the high contact sport when you can barely pick yourself up after a fall. You wonder if he’s tearing apart the dressing room or drinking his frustrations away. He’s probably back at the house with the boys, doing what they do best. Partying.

You still can’t believe you’re doing this. So you reach under your seat and pull out your bag, remove the worn skates as you rise from the stands and walk towards the players bench. You linger as if Garrett’s still sitting there with you as you shove your black leg warmers on, some sort of lucky charm you wear for practice. You lace up your boots, slipping the guards off your blade and setting them with your bag on the bench.

The silence amplifies the pump of blood in your ears and the trembling breath you exhale as you step onto the. No one to watch you, no one to judge and you skate. You tap the button on the side of your earphones and let the music flow through you. No routine, no expectations.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The tension slides away as Garrett re-enters the stands, his shoulders dropping and jaw relaxing at the sight of you landing some sort of jump. He’s never seen you this focussed, it’s not forced or rigid like you’re shared practices. Like you’re performing for yourself and no one else. He remains on the edges, leaning against the opening of the aisles of seats his hands shoved in his pocket. The duffle bag slung over his shoulder weighs heavy on him, but he doesn’t want to move let alone breath. As if his sudden movement will spook you. You’re breath taking. The fluttering fabric of your skirt merges with your fluid movements. You’re the complete opposite of him, full of grace and light. Garrett’s sure he’s full poison, a darkness he doesn’t want to latch on to others. That itching beneath his skin he can’t quite scratch away, it remains and he tries not to acknowledge it.

You’ve got that same cropped athletic black jacket, the stand up collar zipped all the way up and curling against the column of your throat. And then he realises it’s eight, your usual practice time. He waits around, half hidden in the low light entrance, you’re either moving too fast or too entranced to notice his presence. He wonders what you think of his game or if you even turned up. His phone vibrates in his pocket and peeks at the chain of texts pinging through the group chat. Mostly the guys telling him not to fuck you in their stalls in the dressing room and hurry up to party once you finish, because that’s more important. Garrett tries not to think of you like that, it’s not in the contract and he’d never force nor expect that of you. That and he’s never once heard of you being in a relationship. You seem to be more interested in skating than finding a partner.

It’s nearing nine when he approaches you on the ice. Garrett calls out your name, his steps slow and measured on the slippery surface, but you don’t react. You’re halfway across the rink, gaze flitting to your boots before you’re close to him again and bending your knees to jump. He knows that stance, he’s watched you do this one move four times this past hour.

“Hey!” Garrett yells, your blades hit the ice too soon and you fall. Hip slamming to the ground and your forearm and elbow along with it. “Shit, I’m sorry.” His voice trembles, his knees sinking to the ice beside you. He notice the earphones, the sharp intake of breath as you sit up too quickly.

Garrett puts his palm on your back, you lean into the gesture and tear the earphone from one ear. Your mouth opens and then closes, eyes roaming his face as if you’re searching for something you can’t quite place.

“Did you hit your head?” His other hand reaches for your head, but you shove him away. It happened so fast, a blink of an eye and you were down. He’s not sure if your head took a hit.

“No, did you?” You snap, smoothing the sheer skirt over your leggings. So you did watch the game. He didn’t think you would since you didn’t show up in the dressing room earlier.

He can’t help, but chuckle. Looks like it’ll take a while to thaw out that ice heart of yours. “Yeah, that’s what the helmets for,” he says, pushing the wet curls out his face. Your eyes follow the movement, a sheen of sweat on your forehead and you wipe it off with the cuff your sleeve.

“Surprised you’ve still got your teeth, Puckhead.” You flash him smile, brows raising as his lips twitch at the edges. He’s growing to like the nickname you think is an insult.

“Okay ice princess,” Garrett says, standing up and offering you a hand. “We’ve got a party to go to.”

You hesitate, glancing to his outstretched hand and his face. The walls of ice you build around you, thick and he’s trying to pick away at it a little each time he’s around you. Your palm meets his and he pulls you up, a hovering hand at you back as you find some balance. He stays half a step behind you, splinters of ices clinging to your leggings and sleeve on your left side. There’s a slight edge to your presence today, words cutting like blades on ice. Somethings bothering you and he sees it in the raised shoulders and straight spine. He’s spent a lifetime reading Phil’s body language and anticipating his mood swings. Garrett’s not sure how hard he can push, doesn’t think he has the right to interfere in your life, but he knows that long held mask is beginning to slip. There’s only so much you can withstand.

Garrett waits at the bench as you unlace your skates, sliding the guards back over your blades like a ritual. You’re gentle, particular as you stuff your black leg warmers inside the boots followed by the laces. The large canvas bag holds a boot bag, your name stitched on the soft leather like liquid mercury, it shines in the light. He picks up your bag as you slip on your heeled boots. Your gloves stay on and by the looks of the contents in your bag you’re going to this party in your practice clothes. Your purse, phone and earphones resting on top of your boots bag.

“I can carry that.” You reach for your bag, but he swerves out of the way and you huff. “Is this what dedicated boyfriends do then? Do girlfriends do this?” You link your arm with his, tugging him back to match your steps and he sways into you.

Have you never let in anyone in? Never trusted someone enough to let them do these simple acts for you?

He leans down, voice lowering. “Ohh yeah, you wanna know what else they do?” He waits a beat for you to shake your head. “They give you a ride after practice.”

“I’m not sleeping with you Graham.”

Garrett doesn’t laugh, he’s made it obvious that he doesn’t expect that of you, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to say no if you ask him to.

“Well it’s not part of the contract,” Garrett says, his gaze watching you in the reflection of the exit door. He holds it open so you can step out first, your arm falling from his.

The car ride to off campus is quiet, the mumble of the radio not holding either of your attentions. You’re staring out the window, your bag clutched in your lap and he can’t stop glancing to you every now and then. Your knees pointed to the passenger door as if you’re ready to escape as soon as the car stops. Garrett’s never seen you off campus or any other house parties. He knows your friend, Senna. She’s hard to miss and she frequents the parties like she’s networking. Nothing like you. No you’re a mystery.

Garrett pulls up by the house, he leans on the steering wheel and angles his body to you giving you a moment to take it in. He’s glad the guys cleared all the stuff off the lawn and the porch. It’s too early for the party to begin, an opportunity to let you settle in with all the guys and hang about during the actual crowds after. The perfect time to act like a couple and convince every one you are together.

“Ready, Puckhead?” You don’t glance back at him as you open the car door. As if he’s the one that needed a moment and not you. The mask readjusted, you’re sizing up the house and plotting.

“An hour to meet guys before the real party starts and another to play the part for everyone else,” Garret says, slipping the strap off your bag off your shoulder and carrying it for you. He leads you up the stairs and to the porch, the front door ajar and he kicks it open gently.

The guys cheer at your arrival, Dean lifting a bottle of beer in the air. Logan pausing mid bite and Tucker nearly dropping the baking tray in his hands on the floor, but he catches it and the contents on top. Your chin lifts and your shoulders push back, Garrett calls it your armour. Slightly unapproachable, but the smile pulling your lips softens your harsh features. He thinks you should smile at him more often.

“Gonna go put our bags upstairs,” Garrett says, kissing your temple and giving you a reassuring nudge to his friends. He hears Tucker’s voice first as he’s half way up the stairs, thankful that he’s the one to greet you first.

When he returns to the living room he’s surprised, you’re helping Tucker plate up some of his food for party. He keeps his distance watching you talk to his friend with an ease he’s not familiar with. You even touch his arm as you laugh at a joke, an arm curls around Garrett’s shoulder and he knows it’s Dean.

“Took you long enough, G,” Dean says, releasing him from his hold and taking a sip of his beer. He doesn’t stick around long, a girl leading him to the sofa.

Logan throws him a can of beer and he catches it, popping it open and taking a gulp. He mouths a “good catch.” And Garrett’s not sure if he means you or the beer or both.

A few more people arrive and Garrett finds himself gravitating towards the kitchen and you. You’ve stuck to the same alcohol free beer, not once putting it down. If he’s not got his arm around you, his arms brushing against yours. The gloves you wore earlier are sticking out your jacket pocket and the zipper of your jacket is lowered, offering a slither of skin of your chest. Your palm runs up and down his back unprompted whenever he’s lost in his head. The game loss still hanging over him as captain. He’s sure you realise it too, he doesn’t question you guiding him through the crowd and into the free space on the sofa. Your hands land on his shoulders and he looks up at you as you sit on his lap. This is not how expected the evening to go, your lips tracing the side of his face, hot breath fanning against the shell of his ear.

“Shall we seal this contract with a kiss Captain?” You whisper, pulling back to look at him once again. Your hands slide over his shoulders and up to his face, he almost shivers at your light feathery touch. He reminds himself it’s all an act, a role to play, but the way you spoke to him drew him in.

Maybe this deal wouldn’t be so bad.

It didn’t matter what else was going on around him, Garrett edged closer and nudged his nose to yours. His lips pressing against yours and one of his hands finds your cheek, the other slipping up the outer side of your thigh, his finger tracing the raised patch beneath your legging on your hip. You pull away, gaze darting around his face as if warning him not to ask. He pats your thigh, his hands guiding you off his lap and you stand, stumbling back as he rises from the sofa.

“Wanna go upstairs?” Garrett shouts over the thumping music, a few people turn to watch the two of you wade through the crowd. His hand in yours, the people part out of his way and he stops at the stairs, his fingers catching the raised skin on your palm as you let get of his hand. Maybe that’s why you’ve been wearing gloves and standing to one particular side of him all night. He’d felt the rough scratch of your palm against his cheek, but was too distracted with the kiss to get a look at it.

You stop at the top of the landing, moving aside as Garrett shows you his room. The door clicks shut, but you’re inspecting the band poster on his wall near his desk. Not many girls look beyond him in his room, but you’re trying to piece together who is.

“Are you hurt?” Garrett asks, eyeing the cooling bandage on your hip. He knows, he’s used them too on himself after bad games. Could feel the cold gel beneath the padded bandage.

You nod, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Yeah, I’ll be alright. Nothing I can’t handle. Just need to stop falling,” you say, a sharp intake of air furrowing your brows and wrinkling your nose as you shifted your weight on the bed. Garrett’s a master of passing off pain as not a big deal, they’re bruises to him and they will fade. Athletes try not to get hurt, but being careful gets in the way of the game, the routine. Sometimes risks are better, no matter the pain.

Garrett hums, sitting down beside you and taking your hand in his and turning your palm up. “What about this?” He traces the fresh cut on the curve of your palm, you flinch and he instantly lets go. He doesn’t push, he’s done the same each time someone added any pressure on his injuries and why they sometimes seem to never fade before a fresh one blossoms.

“Says the one that got beat up on ice, huh Puckhead. Bet you’re in more pain than I am,” you say, snatching your hand away and cradling it in your lap.

He scoffs. “Didn’t realise we were competing,” he says, wondering if you’re the type to deflect your own pain because others have it worse.

“Oh you’re definitely winning that one,” you half laugh, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your face away from him. “Sorry, heads a little tender,” you add, massaging that one spot by your hairline.

Garrett moves off the bed and rifles through his chest of drawers, throwing you a pair of his shorts and baggy band tee. He opens his closet door, half hidden behind it as he gives you privacy to change and he does the same. His jeans shoved down to this ankles, he steps out of them and kicks them into the bottom of the closet. He drapes his hoody over the rail and tugs the back of his T-shirt over his head.

“Garrett,” you gasp, he likes the way you say his name, but all he can focus on is your cold touch on his back. The pads of your fingers ghosting over his grazed skin. “Is it always like this after a game? Why would you do this?”

He shrugs regretting it, the tight pull of his skin stopping the movement. His flesh feels like it’s on fire, but you’re gentle with your inspection. Hands mapping out each curve of the muscles on his back, the hard to reach injuries he usually leaves to heal themselves. Sure girls noticed after a game, but they wanted something else, not that Garrett would complain. Sex was a welcome distraction from the pain.

“Used to it,” Garrett mumbles, he’s endured much worse.

You wave your hand at his reply, digging through your boot bag and the small compartment to pull out a small pouch. The numbing cream he’d given you placed on the floor where you crouched. You popped a couple pain pills into your palm and chased it with a bottled water from your bag, something about helping with your headache, but Garrett doesn’t question it.

The caps discarded and a blob of creams already on your fingertips before Garrett can persuade you he’s fine. “Let me at least help you like you did for me. This stuff did wonders for my ankle, plus you can’t reach half of these on your back.”

Garrett doesn’t say anything and you don’t either. He leans away from your touch as you add a little pressure, a gentle apology falling from your lips like a chant as you repeat it a few times. He’s never been treated with such softness and he doesn’t think he deserves it either, not from you anyways. He’s the reason you hurt your ankle in the first place.

“Better?”

He hears the cap snap back onto the tube of cream, his breath falters as he turns round and catches a glimpse of his baggy tee skimming your mid thighs. All he can do is nod, smile mirroring yours in thanks.

“We can share the bed,” you say, rolling the duvet back and kneeling in the mattress. “Stick to your side, Puckhead.” You point to his half, the slight dip of where he usually takes up space.

“You keep your hands to yourself,” he says, settling down in bed. He sleeps on his front, the duvet rolled back leaving his bare back exposed. His skin tingling as the numbing cream finally kicks in.

“In your dreams, Puckhead.”

Thanks for reading :) and all the lovely comments/reblogs on previous part I hoped you like it. I am dyslexic so there might be mistakes I miss when editing - Rowan

[flwr-princ3ss]

if the skate fits - masterlist

summary: In which Dean and Beau's party was actually a masquerade party and that night, one fateful encounter between one of Briar U's most infamous hockey boys, John Logan, and a mystery masked girl leaves a sleepless Logan pining over the eyes he just can't seem to forget as well as a charm bracelet he doesn't know who the owner is. Logan then finds himself conflicted as he can't forget the masked girl, but he is also intrigued by the figure skater that sneaks onto the ice after they assume all the hockey players have left for the night.

warnings: a bit of angst, cinderella trope, alcohol, partying, toxic family dynamics, themes around parental death

pairing: John Logan x figureskater!reader

part one - dancing on my own (coming soon)

part two - ?

part three - ?

part four - ?

part five - ?

-----

A/N: let's get into this :)

[broodingboysimp]

I Can't Have You Around Me Anymore - pt. 3

John Logan x Female!Reader

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating, hurt/comfort sortaaaaa

Summary: You love your boyfriend, Dean Di Laurentis, and you have nothing to feel guilty about. So why does it feel like you do every time John Logan is in the room?

Part 1, Part 2

Author's Note: Yayyy part 3. I'm gonna be so honest guys I see you asking me to tag you in the fic but I am horrendous at this platform and don't know how to do/organize that whole ordeal. I am so so sorry I really appreciate and love all of your support and I am not trying to let anyone down I just genuinely do not understand the functionality of this platform....

Hannah texts you on a Tuesday.

hey, just wanted to check in. garrett told me what happened at the house. are you doing okay?

You stare at it for a long time before you respond.

I'm okay, you type back. how's the house?

The three dots appear and disappear twice before her response comes through.

honestly? tense. like really tense. garrett says it feels like everyone's just waiting for someone to explode. dean and logan aren't talking at all. practice has been rough.

You set your phone face down on your desk and stare at the ceiling.

The guilt settles heavily on your chest.

The hockey house is fractured and everyone in it is walking on eggshells and the reason, the central unmovable reason sitting at the middle of all of it, is you.

Not entirely. You know that, logically. Dean made his own choices. Logan made his. But logic has never been particularly good at talking down guilt.

You pick your phone back up.

I'm sorry, you type. I hate that it's like that because of me.

Hannah's response is immediate. it's not because of you. it's because dean is an idiot.

You smile despite yourself. Then you put your phone away and open your laptop, because the alternative is sitting here feeling terrible about something you cannot fix, and you have a final project due in eleven days that is not going to write itself.

Distraction. You are getting very good at distraction.

---

The project is for your literature seminar, a twenty-page critical analysis that counts for forty percent of your grade and requires sources, plural, the kind that live in physical books in the basement level of the library where the fluorescent lights flicker slightly and there is never anyone else there after ten PM.

Which is exactly why you go after ten PM.

It's quiet in the library, broken only by the occasional hum of the heating system and the sound of your own pen moving across paper. You spread your books out across the table and you work, actually work, with a focused tunnel-vision.

It's almost peaceful. It's the closest thing to peaceful you've had in weeks.

You don't notice him for almost an hour.

A shape in your peripheral vision, someone at a table on the far side of the room, far enough away that you register the presence without registering the person. You go back to your notes. Five minutes later you look up for a different reason, reaching for a different book, and your eyes cross the room and land on him and stay there for a second too long before you can stop them.

Logan.

He's got his head down over something, a textbook open in front of him, pen moving in the margin. His jacket is draped over the back of his chair. He looks tired, shoulders slumped just slightly.

You look away. You go back to your notes.

You are very focused on your notes.

You look up again four minutes later. He's not looking at you.

You look up again eight minutes after that and he is, just briefly, and you both look away at the same time, and the silence of the library takes on a different quality entirely, charged in a way that has nothing to do with anything being said.

This goes on for forty-five minutes.

You are on your third page of notes and you have retained approximately none of it, and you are seriously considering packing up and going home except that it's eleven PM and cold and you need these sources, when you hear the chair legs on the other side of the room scrape against the floor.

Footsteps.

You keep your eyes on your notes with the concentrated effort of someone defusing a bomb.

Logan stops at the edge of your table.

You look up.

He looks the same as he has every time you've seen him for three months, which is to say he looks like himself, which has always been the problem. The bruise along his jaw has faded to a yellowish shadow. He's got a pen tucked behind his ear. He looks at you with that expression you have never been able to fully classify and he says, "I can't keep doing this."

You set your pen down.

"The avoiding thing," he says. "I can't keep sitting twenty feet away from you pretending I don't see you. It's-" He stops. Exhales. "I can't do it."

"Logan-"

"I'm not trying to start anything," he says. "I just couldn't sit over there anymore."

The library hums around you. Fluorescent lights flicker.

"Okay," you say.

He pulls out the chair across from you and sits down, and the ghost of every other time he's done exactly that moves through the room. Logan sits down across from you like it's the most natural thing in the world, like it has always been this easy, like none of the last three months happened.

"How's your project?" he asks.

"Terrible," you say honestly. "Yours?"

"Econ final." He glances back at his abandoned table. "Also terrible."

"Great," you say. "We're both terrible."

Something almost like a smile crosses his face.

You go back to your notes. He goes back to his table, collects his things, and comes back to yours without asking, spreading out across the other half of the table, and you work in silence for another hour and a half that feels nothing like the silence you had before he sat down.

At twelve-thirty you close your last book and rub your eyes and say, "I have to go home."

"Yeah." Logan is already capping his pen. "I'll drive you."

You look at him.

"It's late," he says simply. "And cold."

You should say no. You know you should say no, you know what the inside of his truck feels like and what it does to your ability to maintain any kind of reasonable emotional distance, and you should absolutely say no.

"Okay," you say.

---

The drive starts the same way the last one did.

Silence. The heat coming on. The radio low. Hastings moving past the windows in the dark.

Only this time nobody has just caught their boyfriend cheating. This time there is no crisis to manage, no immediate wound to navigate around.

This time it's just you and Logan in the dark of his truck and the specific charged quality of all the things neither of you has said sitting in the space between you, and it is somehow so much worse.

Logan pulls onto your street. The familiar buildings, the familiar parking spots, the familiar route you've walked a hundred times. He slows down. He doesn't stop.

He drives past your building.

You look at him.

"Sorry," he says, and turns around at the next block. "Sorry, I just-" He stops. His jaw is tight. He pulls back onto your street and this time he pulls to the curb in front of your building and puts it in park and the engine idles and neither of you moves.

The clock on his dash reads 12:47.

"Y/n." His voice has changed. Something in it that was under the surface the whole drive has come up to the top, and when you look at him his hands are gripping the steering wheel and he's staring straight ahead and he looks like someone standing at the edge of something very high. "I need to say something."

"Logan..."

"I've been holding this in for months." He says it to the windshield. "I held it in when you started dating Dean because he's my best friend and that's what you do. I held it in at the Sig Tau party and in the kitchen that night and every single time I sat next to you and it was - easy, in a way that things aren't supposed to be that easy, and I told myself it didn't mean anything." He exhales, sharp. "I held it in in this truck a few weeks ago when you told me we couldn't be friends anymore and I drove you home anyway because I didn't know what else to do."

You are very still.

"And I have been so careful," he says, and there is something raw in his voice now, something that doesn't belong to the Logan who is always composed. "I have been so unbelievably careful for so long, and I took a punch to the face last week and I sat in that library tonight for an hour pretending I didn't see you, and I just-" He finally turns to look at you and the expression on his face knocks the breath out of you completely, because it's the unguarded version, the one he keeps under all the steadiness. "I can't keep being careful. I don't have anything left to be careful about."

"Logan...." you say, and your voice comes out very small.

"I know the timing is a disaster," he says. "I know Dean is- I know what this looks like. I know you just got out of something and I know I'm the last person you should be sitting in a truck with at one in the morning, and I'm not asking you for anything, I just-" He stops. "I needed you to know. That it's not nothing. For me, it has never been nothing."

The heater runs. The clock ticks over to 12:48.

You think about three weeks ago in this exact truck on a different street, telling him it was his fault, telling him you couldn't be his friend, and the way he said okay and drove you home anyway.

"I don't know what it is," you say. Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I told you that in the truck that night. I don't know what to call it or where it came from and I-" You stop. Breathe. "But I think- I think maybe there's something there. I think maybe there has been for a while and I didn't let myself-" The words stick in your throat. "I didn't let myself look at it."

Logan is watching you.

"I don't know what that means," you say. "I don't know what to do with it."

"I'm not asking you to do anything with it," he says quietly. "I just needed to say it out loud."

You look at him. He looks at you. The truck is very small and very warm and outside the winter night is very dark and very cold and there is something happening in the space between you that has been building for awhile.

And you are so tired of pretending it isn't there.

You don't decide to close the distance. You're not sure either of you decides anything. It just happens the way things happen when the pressure gets too high and the walls come down -slowly, and then all at once, his hand coming up to your jaw so carefully it makes your chest ache, and then his mouth on yours.

It's not what you expected.

You don't know exactly what you expected. Maybe something charged, something desperate, something that matches the weeks of tension and unspoken things.

But it's not like that. It's soft. Tentative. Like a question being asked very carefully, like he's giving you every possible opportunity to answer differently.

And it gives you butterflies.

Stupid, simple, devastating butterflies, the kind you haven't felt since the very beginning of something, the kind that live in the chest and make you feel seventeen and irrational and completely undone, and you understand in this moment with sudden and terrible clarity why the last three months have been so impossible.

Then the logic comes back.

It always does. Annoyingly, it always does.

Dean's best friend. The hockey house already in pieces. Weeks since the party. The team walking on eggshells. Garrett's face in that room when he pulled Dean back. You at the center of all of it, you always at the center of all of it, and here you are in a truck at one in the morning making it worse, making it so much worse-

You pull back.

Not far. There's not much room to pull back.

"We can't," you say.

Your voice comes out breathless, which is embarrassing, and Logan's eyes are open and very dark and very close and the expression in them is the most honest thing you have ever seen on his face.

"Logan." His name in your mouth like a full sentence. "We can't. You know we can't."

He doesn't say anything for a moment. His hand is still at your jaw, very lightly, and he looks at you with that wanting expression that you feel in the center of your chest where the butterflies are still stupidly, pointlessly going, and you watch him work through something behind his eyes.

Then he nods.

He drops his hand. He sits back. He looks at the steering wheel.

"Okay," he says.

Okay. The same word he said a few weeks ago on a different quiet street when you told him you couldn't be his friend anymore.

You hate it.

"I'm sorry," you say.

"Don't be." His voice is rough at the edges but even. "Go inside, Y/n."

You reach for the door handle. Your hand is not entirely steady.

"Logan."

He looks at you.

You want to say something that covers all of it, the months, the kitchen table, the slow song, the truck, the punch he took without throwing one back, the way he just said okay like it didn't cost him anything when you can see on his face that it cost him everything.

You want to say something that does justice to the size of all of it.

You don't have the words. You're not sure the words exist.

"Thank you," you say instead. "For tonight. For... all of it."

He nods once. Doesn't look away.

You get out of the truck.

The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clarifying, and you walk to your building door and let yourself in and you don't look back.

You make it up the stairs and into your room and your roommate is asleep and the room is dark and you sit on the edge of your bed and press your fingers to your mouth and you sit there for a long time.

You kissed John Logan.

John Logan told you it has never been nothing, and you told him maybe there was something there, and then you kissed him in his truck at one in the morning and then you told him you couldn't and he said okay and let you go.

Because that is who he is. That is exactly and completely who he is, and you are sitting on the edge of your bed at one in the morning with butterflies that won't quit and guilt that won't quit and the memory of his hand against your jaw so careful it made your chest ache, and you do not know what you're supposed to do next.

You lie back on your bed and stare at the ceiling.

Down the street, in a truck that is probably still idling at your curb, John Logan is sitting with his hands on the wheel and everything you just said and didn't say, and you have no idea what his face looks like right now, and that, somehow, is the thing that finally makes your eyes sting.

You let them.