Picture Me in the Trees- Part 4 || John Logan x reader
Warnings: (None for this part). SMUT (Explicit dreams), childhood trauma, parental addiction, lots of yearning, the slowest burn ever, basically angst, angst, and more angst.
Word Count: 3.2k
Note: English isn't my first language, but unfortunately angst still is. Please be KIND.
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)
Picture me in the trees- Part 4:
"So, are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?" Bailey asks while doing your makeup. After a long day of convincing, she agreed to come with you only on the condition that she got to pick what you'd wear and that you'd let her do your makeup.
"It's just you and me in the room, Bails, so it's kind of weird finding out one of us is an elephant," you answer, your eyes closed.
"Garrett Graham," she sighs.
"What about him?" you ask. "The lipstick is too much, Bails." Now it's your turn to sigh as you examine yourself in the mirror. The lipstick is burgundy and the dress is way too short for your liking.
"He's smoking hot and he doesn't have a girlfriend," she says. As if it's obvious you'd be interested in someone who's taken.
"He's out of my league and besides, there's a reason he doesn't have a girlfriend. Garrett Graham doesn't do relationships." You roll your eyes.
"Hey, don't ever say that. Everyone's in your league." There's no trace of amusement left in her voice. "Anyone who can't see your worth is the actual loser. It doesn't work the other way around, sweetie," she says dramatically, fixing the half-up hairstyle she did for you while the two of you examine the final result.
"This is way too much, Bailey." You can hear the defeat in your own voice because you both know she won this war, and that this is exactly how you're going to John Logan's birthday party.
.
.
.
He doesn't even know when you got here, and that pisses Logan off more than anything.
There are too many people in his house, so he missed you, and now you're sitting on the couch with Garrett.
He doesn't recognize that dress and wonders if it's yours. Apparently, he also missed the part where you started dressing like this.
You giggle, and your hand has brushed Garrett's shoulder four times already. Not that he's counting.
Is there a chance Garrett's actually fucking you? It's a disturbing thought. A thought that makes him drain the overly sweet drink in his cup in one gulp. A thought that makes the back of his neck burn.
It's his birthday, and you still haven't wished him a happy birthday. Logan thinks that's objectively rude. Which is disappointing because you're the most polite person he knows. You taught him how to be polite, when he really thinks about it.
"I'm gonna go offer Garrett a drink," he tells Grace with the kind of smile he hates. A fake smile that anyone who knows him even a little could spot. You'd spot it if you were looking his way. Grace doesn't ask questions, just nods and gives him a smile of her own. Logan doesn't stop to wonder if hers is as fake as his.
He sits down on the couch on your other side, like that's where he's supposed to be. Come to think of it, it is where he's supposed to be.
"The birthday boy," Garrett jokes, and Logan takes another sip of his drink and nods.
"You guys having fun?" he asks, looking at you. Only at you. That lipstick. That fucking lipstick.
"It's a good party. Grace knows what she's doing," Garrett says. And you nod.
You're definitely not having fun. He can tell immediately. You hate this moment and the one leading up to it. The people. The waves of heat and cold that make you sweat. If he knows you half as well as he thinks he does, you're looking for the most graceful way to get out of here.
"Rosie?" Logan asks, waiting for an answer even though he already knows it.
"Itâs fun." You smile without showing your teeth.
"I'm sure," he says, and his shoulder lightly bumps yours. Like a private joke right in front of Garrett's face.
A private joke only Logan understands right now. He wants to believe you do too.
He's not so sure anymore.
"Want something to drink?" he asks, even though they both know the answer.
"She's not drinking tonight," Garrett answers for you.
"Worth a shot." He means it. He doesn't think he'll ever stop asking if you want to be part of life without being afraid of the consequences of every step you take.
"Tucker made a ton of food," he says. "Don't be shy, Ros." He gets to his feet, suddenly feeling a little unwanted in the situation. Maybe even regretting forcing his way between the two of you.
"Happy birthday, Log." You give him another one of those fake smiles that tear him apart.
He wonders what's so happy about it.
.
.
.
John Logan is a hypocrite.
If there's one thing you're absolutely sure of, it's that John Logan is a hypocrite.
Your whole fight three months ago started because he told you that you're too scared to live your life, because you're afraid of turning into your parents, and then he called you crazy.
But here is John Logan, drinking, and you can see his face and behavior changing. He thinks too much. He's a clingy drunk. Always has been. He always knew how to find you to ground him before he started comparing himself to his mother. Before he started spiraling.
And now his head is on your shoulder, and you let him stay there because it's his birthday and you'll always be there to make him feel safe.
No matter how angry you are at him.
The people around you keep talking and laughing. You smile here and there, but the smell of his shampoo overwhelms you.
"You okay, Johnny?" you ask, and he lifts his head for a second and smiles at you with glazed eyes, a toothy smile.
"I like it when you call me Johnny," he says, resting his head back on your shoulder. As if looking at you for too long would make you pull away from him.
"Hey, birthday boy, wanna go to bed?" Dean says from above him.
"Absolutely not!" he declares, sitting up, but his hand lands on your thigh because he needs some kind of contact from you. You're so used to it that you don't even react.
"Come on, drink something." Tucker holds out a bottle of water, and John throws it toward the wall, aiming for the basket they attached to it. He misses so badly that the bottle nearly hits some poor freshman standing near it.
"Okay, Shaquille O'Neal, come on. Drink." You hold out your own bottle to him.
"Shaquille O'Neal," he mutters with a chuckle and starts drinking. As if every word you say to him borders on a command.
"Where's Grace?" you ask, trying to be practical about getting him to his room.
"Went back to her dorm," he says with a sigh. You know that's not the whole answer, but you don't want to push.
"Come on, superstar. You're done for tonight. Let's get you to your room," you say, standing up. Realizing this has somehow become your responsibility, because John isn't listening to anyone else.
"Hey, hey, Captain. Sorry, Captain, but Rosie's the captain tonight," he adds quickly in Garrett's direction, earning a tired snort from him.
"Can you walk?" you ask as he wraps an arm around you to lean his weight against you.
"Will you come with me even if I can?" he asks.
"Yes, Log, but I'm gonna fall down the stairs if you don't help me," you announce.
"I'm not gonna let you fall, Rosie. You know that," he says with a devastating seriousness.
You're almost certain you've already fallen.
.
.
.
"No, no, Log, get up, get up!" You try to sound firm as he lies down on the clean bed in his clothes. You try not to be overwhelmed by the fact that you haven't been in this room for three months and Logan is in every corner of this place. From the posters on the walls to the pictures on the dresser, the trophies on the shelf, the clothes on the floor. Everything in this room screams John Logan, and everything in your head screams that you don't belong here, but at the same time, there's nowhere you belong more.
"But my bed is so, so comfortable," he mumbles. "You have to try the mattress, Rosie. You won't believe it!" He sounds like a little kid, making you sigh for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
"Come on, Johnny. Up. We need to brush your teeth," you announce, knowing it's the thing that bothers him most when he wakes up hungover. "I'll help you, promise," you add, and he gets to his feet immediately.
"You're an angel, (Y/N)," he says, moving the hair out of your eyes, making you roll them at the gentle gesture.
You grab his toothbrush and put some toothpaste on it, then hand him a cup of water to rinse with.
He opens his mouth and looks at you with amusement. You start moving the toothbrush back and forth in his mouth, trying not to press too hard, but also not to miss any spots.
"Wash," you tell him when he doesn't move and just keeps staring at you.
He listens.
"You need to change, John," you tell him firmly as you look for a pair of pants he can sleep in. "Or at least take these clothes off. Your whole body is going to hurt if you sleep like this," you add.
"You worry too much," he sighs, sinking back onto the bed.
"I need you to help me take care of you, Johnny, okay?" You're practically pleading as he looks at you with an expression that makes you wonder if he's functioning properly. If he's practicing some kind of black magic.
Will you ever be able to resist that look on John Logan's face?
You suspect not.
"You'd be taking care of me if you let me keep lying here and if youâd stay for a while," he says stubbornly.
"You're not getting your present if you don't help me get you out of these clothes." You're much more determined than he is, seeing as you're the sober one in this room.
"You got me a present?" He looks surprised.
"It's your birthday," you reply as if it's no big deal.
"But you hate me," he says, completely confused.
"Johnny," you sigh again, "I don't hate you. Please, let's get you changed." You can feel your head starting to ache as he stands.
"You'll give me the present after?" he asks suspiciously.
"Promise." You nod at him.
He lifts his arms, and that mischievous smile returns as he waits for you to take off his shirt and put on a new one.
"Jonathan Logan," you say, your hands on your hips, but your voice lacks any real bite.
"You know my name isn't Jonathan," he says in the same playful tone. One that almost reminds you of when you were kids and he acted like the world belonged to him because he could smile and everyone would forget he'd done anything wrong.
"You can take your own shirt off." You roll your eyes.
"Prove it." He shrugs.
âItâs like you're two years old." You give in and step closer, slowly taking his shirt off, trying not to let your fingers brush over his overly defined muscles. The kind that belongs to an athlete who works himself too hard. Who demands more from himself than anyone else ever does. An athlete whose exhaustion is visible in every curve of his sculpted stomach.
You swallow and refuse to dwell on the act or the intense way he's looking at you.
"Do you want another shirt?" you ask, knowing he doesn't usually sleep in anything but his boxers. You kind of hate that you know things like that about his life.
He shakes his head no with the childishness that's defined him for the past hour. With an amusement that fills your stomach with butterflies that have no business being there.
"Pants by yourself, John," you say, and he nods, doesn't argue, and takes off his shoes and jeans.
"Present." He holds out his hand.
"Lie down first." You're trying to squeeze whatever you can out of your earlier threat.
He studies you intently, trying to figure out if it's a trick.
"I'll give you your present right away," you add, and he's convinced. He walks over to the bed and lies down, propped halfway up. You hand him a pill to help with the hangover and a glass of water, which, for once, he takes without arguing.
"It's nothing special," you begin your speech. "I walked by this store like a month ago and couldn't not buy it, and we weren't even talking, so it's really stupid. I just..." You take a deep breath. "I thought of you." You finally give in and pull out the paper bag with the gift you bought him.
John Logan opens presents carefully, as if tearing the wrapping would somehow make him unworthy of what's inside.
The beaded bracelet with the tiny shells looks silly in his large hand. Almost a perfect contrast to the man with the glazed eyes in front of you. He looks soberer now, completely focused on his gift.
"It looked so much like the bracelet you gave me back then that I had to buy it. It was completely automatic," you mumble, feeling foolish after seeing all the gifts he'd received throughout the night. Everyone had celebrated his existence, and your gift suddenly seemed small and almost ugly.
He pulls you into a hug that ends with you lying beside him on the bed, his chin resting on top of your head.
You hear him breathe heavily for a moment and wonder what's going through his mind.
"I missed you, Rosie," he whispers.
"I know." And you don't say it arrogantly. You say it because you know exactly what he felt. The experience was identical to losing a limb, you think. One you'd had your entire life but had to cut off so it wouldn't poison the rest of your body. And now you live with an absence that's too big, but complaining about it would feel ridiculous.
He moves back a little, giving you room to turn and face him.
"Can I say something?" you ask quietly.
"Always." He says it like he's trying to drink your thoughts before you've even dared to let them out.
"Be kind to yourself tomorrow, okay?" you ask. You know how John treats himself after drinking too much. "You get to be a twenty-one-year-old who got drunk on his birthday. It doesn't say anything about you, Log. It just means you had a birthday and people love you enough to want to celebrate you," you add when he stays quiet.
"I miss you so much," he says after several minutes of staring at each other, each of you, for your own reasons, trying not to blink.
"I miss you too. I just don't want to get in the way of the life you've built," you admit quietly.
"Nothing I ever build in my life is worth anything if you're not there to see it," he says, offering a confession of his own in a half-whisper, as though saying it quietly changes the weight of his words.
"But it can't be like that, Johnny. We have to let new people into our lives. You said so yourself." You sigh, reminding him of what he said when you fought. You can't be afraid of people all the time.
"Fuck what I said." He sounds angry. You suspect he's angrier at himself than at you.
"Why did Grace leave?" you ask after several minutes of silence during which he's opened and closed his eyes at least three times. Each time, he tightened his hold on your waist, like someone checking to make sure you're real.
"Because I didn't love her the way I was supposed to," he says, without elaborating, but you think you understand.
"Was she mad?" you ask.
"I don't think so. I think we both knew she deserved more," he answers without blinking. "That dress is ridiculous." He changes the subject.
"I actually liked it," you lie.
"Uh-huh. And the lipstick?" He rolls his eyes, and you know he can see right through you.
"I got compliments on the lipstick," you say with fake pride.
"I'm sure you did," he replies, and you hate that you can't read him because he's shutting you out completely. "You didn't wear that dress for me. You wore it for Garrett Graham." He sighs tiredly, like saying those words is physically painful.
"Why would I wear it for you, Log?" you whisper, afraid of where this conversation is heading.
"Go to sleep, Rosie. Tomorrow's a new day," he says, as though it's obvious to both of you that you're staying here tonight.
"I need to go to my room." You try to free yourself from his hold, which only tightens around you.
"Shhh." His other hand brushes gently over your eyes in a way you're afraid to admit you've always hoped was reserved only for you.
You close them, realizing that even at your most stubborn, John Logan always wins.
.
.
.
John wakes up with the aftertaste of alcohol mixed with mint and a painkiller.
He spends the first few moments, while the sunlight blinds him, trying to remember how he ended up in his bed.
Your pretty face, with the screaming lipstick and playful eyes, on his pillow, at eye level with him.
Warmth floods his body until he realizes you're not next to him. You were his for a few moments and then disappeared. Like his dreams, dissolving in the morning.
Your concern, your humor. The promise that he's not like his mother because he drank a little too much. The realization that you miss him just as much as he misses you. Though he suspects there's not a person in the world who misses someone the way Logan misses you.
On his nightstand, he spots the bracelet you gave him last night, and a smile spreads across his face on its own.
The hangover is almost forgotten. The fact that his girlfriend broke up with him in the middle of his birthday slips his mind too.
His heart is beating so fast that, for a moment, he's afraid he's about to have a heart attack.
He looks at the chunky beads, the kind that are a little childish and remind him of the ocean. You saw this thing two months into your fight. A fight with no hope of becoming friends again. A fight that made you stop talking. A fight that made you lower your eyes whenever you passed him in the hallway. You walked past this bracelet and bought it. Bought it because it reminded you of Logan. Bought it because you thought of him.
You thought of him.
Through all the anger and silence, you thought of him.
And just like he promised you, today is a new day.
A day where he refuses to keep fighting with you.
A day where he doesn't go back to being your best friend either.
A new day.
And Logan's done wasting days.
.
.
First of all, Iâm really sorry it took me so long to write this. I hope it was worth the wait.
You woke up with your face half-buried in your pillow, one leg outside the sheets, one earring still in, and the very distinct feeling that something catastrophic had happened.
Catastrophic in the way that meant your life had shifted slightly to the left while you were busy wearing Betty Boop red lipstick and making choices on a porch.
You blinked at the sliver of sunlight cutting through your curtains.
Your head softly throbbed once, a polite warning from your liver- in response, slowly, you lifted your face from the pillow and immediately regretted it because the room tilted just enough to remind you of two things.
One, you had beaten Dean at shots. Again.Â
Two, you had kissed Logan.
Not just kissed him.
That would have been misleading. That would have been the polite, edited version you could tell your mother if your mother were not your mother, and therefore not already spiritually aware that something had happened.Â
You had kissed him first, yes, which you considered important for the record, but then Logan had bundled you against the porch banister, pushed his thigh between yours, kissed you like restraint had become offensive, and left you with smudged lipstick, ruined pin curls, and the kind of memory that made your entire body go warm before breakfast.
You groaned into the pillow, then smiled into the plush case and groaned again because smiling meant it had actually happened.
Your phone buzzed on the bedside table.
You reached blindly for it, knocked over a scrunchie, nearly dropped the phone on your face, then finally unlocked it with one eye half-open.
There were messages.
So many messages.
Mama đœâ€ïž
Drink water, baby. Ginger tea if your stomach is upset. Eat something salty. Your aunt says pickle juice but she is wrong. x
Daddy đ
Hope you had fun, princess. Be kind to your liver today. â€ïž
Mama đœâ€ïž
Also your father says he is joking but he is not. Eat something.
You smiled despite yourself, warmth blooming through the hangover haze. Of course Mama knew. Not specifics, hopefully. Please God, not specifics. But she knew enough to send hangover instructions and pre-emptive emotional support to your liver.
There were also messages from the group chat.
đâ⏠[Allie]
soooooooooooooo
Betty Boop disappeared last night
with a bird
interesting migratory behaviour
personal play boy bunny đ° [Hannah]
Are you alive? Also please tell us everything.
Also, you changed everyone's names in your phone- I managed to identify half of them and included names in their contact card.
I would've changed them back, but then you insisted on using your phone to show beau some curtains for the beach house.
đâ⏠[Allie]
I AM NOT BEING ANNOYING I AM BEING A WOMAN IN STEM
AND Beau's beach house would benefit from new curtains, after he set half of them on fire with a tequila molatov
personal play boy bunny đ° [Hannah]
You are majoring in theatre.
đâ⏠[Allie]
Exactly. The science of human disaster.
Bee-man đ [Tucker]
You got home safe. I walked you back. You tried to explain why bees are unfairly marketed as less romantic than butterflies. Youâre welcome.
Bee-man đ [Tucker]
Also you said Winston would understand me. And a cow named Geraldine.
You pressed the heel of your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly.
Then you saw Loganâs messages.
Mechanic đ§
You up?
Then ten minutes later,
Mechanic đ§
Coffee?
That was it.
No awkward âabout last night.â No over-explained paragraph pretending he had not kissed the taste of your own lipstick out of your mouth.Â
Just, âcoffee?â
As if the answer to whatever had happened between you on the porch was simple.
Mechanic đ§
I want to see you.
Your stomach flipped so suddenly you sat upright, which was a mistake.
âOh,â you whispered to your room, pressing a hand to your forehead. âBad choice.â
Your phone buzzed again.
Mechanic đ§
Alive?
You typed back too quickly.
cherry đ
yes alive!! sorry. mildly haunted by vodka but otherwise functional.
Mechanic đ§
Dean said you beat him at shots.
cherry đ
Dean should be ashamed.
Mechanic đ§
He is. Loudly.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Mechanic đ§
Coffee?
You stared at the word.
Then at yourself in the mirror across the room, hair flattened on one side, one earring, smudged mascara you had apparently missed despite washing your face, sweatshirt twisted around one shoulder.
A vision of what could happen after your friend group and alcohol.Â
cherry đ
give me 35 minutes.
Mechanic đ§
Iâll give you 45.
cherry đ
that was both compassionate and offensive.
Mechanic đ§
Drink water, Cherry.
You looked at the phone for one long second.
Then flew out of bed.
Getting ready took forty-two minutes.
You knew because you checked twice, once while brushing your teeth and once while standing in a towel in front of your wardrobe trying to decide whether looking nice for coffee the morning after a porch makeout was too eager, not eager enough, or simply a normal response to being asked for coffee by a man who had learned the exact shape of your mouth less than twelve hours ago.
You showered. Washed your hair. Reapplied moisturiser and depuffed your face with cold spoons because Mama had taught you many things and one of them was that swelling respected temperature. You drank a full glass of water. Ate half a banana because Hannahâs emergency snack doctrine had finally reached you.
Then came the outfit.
Coffee was not a date.
Unless it was.
But he had not said date.
He had said coffee.
After kissing you.
After asking if you were alive.
After telling you to drink water like a man with either compassion or dangerous boyfriend potential.
You chose denim shorts, a deep red fitted top with a little wrap detail at the front and the red ballet flats that always made you feel like you had escaped from a French film with good lighting. Gold jewellery. Cherry gloss instead of lipstick because morning lipstick felt aggressive unless one was attending brunch with enemies. Hair brushed out, loose and shiny, clipped back with a small red bow.
You looked in the mirror.
Casual.
Pretty.
Not insane. Possibly insane if someone knew the internal labour behind it, but externally normal.
Your phone buzzed.
Mechanic đ§
Here.
! cherry đ reacted â„ïž to the message
Your heart did something that should have required medical attention.
You grabbed your bag, paused, added mints, lip balm, tissues, and painkillers because being kissed did not cancel out a hangover, then hurried downstairs.
Logan was leaning against his truck when you stepped outside.
He looked unfairly awake.
Jeans, a dark shirt, open plaid overshirt rolled at the sleeves, hair still slightly damp like he had showered not long ago. He had one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a coffee he must have brought for himself on the way, though the cup was untouched. His eyes lifted when the door closed behind you.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
The morning seemed too bright for what you remembered from the porch. Too normal. Too crisp and public. Birds chirped somewhere like they had not been raised properly. A neighbourâs dog barked. A cyclist passed at the end of the street.
Logan looked at you, focussed entirely on your form as you continued your way up to him.
âMorning.â
You walked down the steps, trying very hard not to smile like an idiot, âMorning.â
âYou alive?â
âBarely. Tucker walked me home and apparently I lectured him on bee representation.â
âHe told me.â
âDid you also tell him he was very polite after catching us?â
Loganâs smile deepened, âYeah.â
âGood. He deserves public recognition.â
âIâll get him a plaque.â
âYou should.â
You reached the truck but did not immediately move to open the door. Logan stayed where he was, close enough that the space between you felt like it remembered things.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, eyes catching on the glint of your cherry gloss.
Your stomach flipped.
âHi,â he said again, softer.
You laughed under your breath, âYou said that already.â
âYeah.â
âAre we being strange?â
âA little.â
âGood. I thought it was just me.â
His hand came out of his pocket, fingers barely brushing yours once. Then, he did it again, more purposefully. You looked down as he took your hand.
Sliding his fingers through yours beside his truck in the middle of the morning, like it was the natural next step after kissing you breathless on a porch at Beauâs beach house.
Your fingers curled around his automatically but your brain took a few moments to catch up.
Oh.
Public street.
His hand. Your hand.
Happening.
You looked around, not because you were embarrassed of him, but the world had suddenly gained witnesses it had no business having.
Logan noticed, âYou okay?â
âYes.â You nodded quickly, âYes. I just-â
âPeople?â
âNot in a bad way.â
âI know.â
âYou do?â
âYeah.â His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, âThis is.. still new.â
Your chest softened so quickly it was almost embarrassing.
âYes,â you nodded, âExactly.â
He opened the passenger door for you, then hesitated before you climbed in, âYou free this weekend?â
You looked back at him. âFor what?â
His thumb tapped once against the top of the door, he glanced around the two of you and pressed his lips together, âA date.â
Your mouth parted.
âWith me,â he added, âIn case that needed clarifying.â
You stared at him.
He waited.
âA date,â you repeated.
âYeah.â
âThis weekend.â
âYeah.â
âWith you.â
His mouth twitched, âThat part I covered.â
You swallowed, trying to manage the ridiculous swell of happiness in your chest before it rearranged your face into something too obvious, âYes.â
His expression shifted, relief, then innocent pleasure in the form of warmth that he tried, and failed, to make casual.Â
âYeah?â
âYes,â you said, smiling now because you could not stop it, âI would like to go on a date with you.â
His eyes dropped to your smile, then back up to your gaze.Â
âGood.â
âGood.â
Neither of you moved.
Then someoneâs car door slammed down the street, and you both blinked back into the morning.
âCoffee first?â he asked.
âYes. Before my liver writes a letter to Congress.â
He laughed and helped you into the truck.
The coffee shop was busy enough to make the whole thing feel more real.
Students with laptops. A woman reading at the window. Two guys in Briar hoodies arguing quietly over a group project. The smell of espresso, sugar, toasted bread, and cinnamon wrapped around you the second you stepped inside, and your hangover, mild though it was, responded with deep gratitude.
You stood in line beside Logan, your shoulder brushing his arm. Every time it happened, you had to remind yourself that touching him was allowed now.
Last night had taken all the little almosts - the waist touches, the hovered hands, the glances that lasted too long - and weaved them into something undeniable. Now when Loganâs fingers brushed your lower back as the line moved forward, it did not have to be explained by crowd movement or practical safety. He could just touch you because he wanted to.
You could lean into it because you wanted to.
This was going to be a problem.
A very good problem.
When it was your turn, you ordered your usual, iced coffee, cherry syrup, oat milk, extra ice, and a pastry because Mama had commanded salt and your body had negotiated sugar. Logan ordered a hot coffee and a breakfast sandwich.
You reached for your card. Logan was faster and had already tapped his before it had emerged from your wallet.
You looked at him, âI can buy my own coffee.â
âI know.â
âThen why did you do that?â
âWanted to.â
âThat is not economically logical.â
âItâs coffee.â
âItâs symbolic.â
He took the receipt from the barista, âThen let me be symbolic.â
You stared at him and he met your eyes with a calm smile.Â
Your stomach gave up its last remaining dignity. While you waited near the end of the counter, Logan took your hand again. It was easier this time. Still shocking you enough that sparks flew through your fingertips. His fingers slid between yours, warm and sure, thumb moving lightly over the side of your hand. You looked down at your joined hands, then up at him.
He was already watching you.
âWhat?â you asked.
âNothing.â
âYou are doing a nothing face.â
âI like your shoes.â
You looked down at the red ballet flats, âThank you. I think they are appropriate for coffee.â
âGood to know.â
âAnd your shirt is nice.â
His brows lifted, âYeah?â
âYes.â
âYou always this formal when flirting?â
âI am not flirting formally.â
âYou complimented my shirt like I submitted an application.â
You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but Logan interrupted you, he glanced around the coffee shop quickly, then leaned in and kissed you. He tasted faintly like his first coffee and toothpaste.Â
You blinked when he pulled back,âWhat was that for?â
He wiped cherry gloss from his lower lip with his thumb, âDunno. You look pretty.â
The sentence arrived casually enough that it took your nervous system a second to register the damage.
âYou canât just say things like that in the morning.â
âWhy?â
âSome of us have nervous systems.â
His grin came slow. Thankfully before a violent blush could overtake your face, the barista had called your name.Â
You grabbed the coffees too quickly, nearly fumbled the pastry bag, and Logan took it from you with a quiet laugh that made you want to either kiss him again or file a complaint.
You ended up sitting in a corner booth by the window, knees brushing under the table, hands wrapped around your drinks. At first, conversation came in starts and stops because every silence seemed to hold the echo of the night before. Then, slowly, it returned to what it always had been between you, odd, easy, full of small arguments and too much sincerity.
You told him about your course, about a lecture that had made you question whether one professor had ever met an actual animal or only read about them in an aggressive book. Logan asked questions in that focused way he had, elbows on the table, coffee forgotten near his hand. You told him about Nana moving between the orchard and animal farm, about Winstonâs escapades, about Mamaâs hangover cure and Daddyâs liver warning.
Logan told you Dean had tried to pretend he was not hungover and then stared at a glass of water for ten minutes like it contained answers. Tucker had made breakfast for everyone who stayed over. Garrett and Hannah had disappeared to get coffee and returned looking disgustingly well-rested. Allie had apparently threatened to expose Deanâs âMaverick hangoverâ to the public if he didnât help her find her bra.Â
You laughed until your head hurt, then winced when it did.Â
Logan immediately slid his water glass toward you, âHydrate.â
âYou sound like Mama.â
âGood.â
âShe will like that.â
âIâm counting on it.â
Your gaze lifted.
His did too.
The words sat there, soft and too future-shaped for a coffee shop booth.
He did not take them back and instead of prodding at his intentions, you took a sip of water trying not to smile into the glass.Â
The date was set for Friday.
And by Friday afternoon, you had built an outfit, a snack plan, and a full relationship with your picnic basket.
The drive-in was showing Grease as part of a summer throwback series, and you had chosen it with the seriousness of a woman selecting a diplomatic venue. It was fun, romantic, not too serious, not too abstract, familiar enough to make talking over it acceptable, and musical enough that Logan could complain while secretly knowing half the lyrics.
You wore the white eyelet dress with the red ribbon details.
It was objectively one of the prettiest things you owned. Strapless, with delicate embroidered flowers, tiny red bows threaded through the bodice and tied along the skirt, the fabric falling soft and bright around your legs. You paired it with red heels, a glossy pair that made your calves look nice and your confidence slightly dangerous. A red cardigan went over your arm in case it got cold. Gold necklace. Cherry gloss. Hair down, soft and shiny, with one small red ribbon clipped near the side because you were not fighting your nature tonight.
You looked at yourself in the mirror and decided, with only mild panic, that you looked like someone going on a first date.
Which was accurate, so you let the panic die. Somewhat.Â
When Logan pulled up, you watched through the window for two seconds before going downstairs.
He got out of the truck, then paused when you came outside.
Jeans, with a Cream henley tucked in and a Carhartt-style jacket in a worn olive shade draped over his shoulders. His hair was slightly messy, like he had run a hand through it one too many times. God had favourites, and apparently one of them owned work jackets.
Loganâs eyes moved over you once as you pushed open the door of your building and started towards him.Â
âYou ready?â
You lifted the picnic basket, âI have supplies.â
His mouth curved, âOf course you do.â
âOutdoor cinema is a hostile environment.â
âYeah?â
âYes. There are temperature changes, unpredictable snack quality, and public bathrooms. One must prepare.â
He took the basket from you, âYou look beautiful.â
You froze. He said it so casually, like a fact. Like the weather. Like something he had noticed and therefore reported.Â
You swallowed, âThank you.â
His smile softened.
You walked to Cherry together, because you had a theme tonight, and were prepared to commit crimes to keep it intact.Â
Cherry the Chevy had been washed that morning and polished enough to gleam under the late afternoon light. You opened the back door to put the picnic basket inside, arranging it carefully on the blanket you had already laid across the seat. When you shut the door, Logan was suddenly closer.
Your back touched the car.
He planted one hand on the roof beside your head, the other lightly at your waist, boxing you in without trapping you.
âHi,â he said.
You tilted your head and smiled up at him, âHi.â
His head dipped toward your shoulder, and for one warm, dizzy second, he tucked his face against the side of your neck and inhaled.
You went still, âLogan.â
âHm?â
âAre you smelling me?â
âYeah.â
âThat is very forward.â
âYou always smell good.â
You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your nose into his shoulder as he rubbed placatingly along your waist. You attempted to look stern when he pulled away slightly, but failed.Â
Then he retreated just enough to reach into his jacket pocket.
âSpeaking of.â
He held out a tiny perfume tester and your eyes widened.Â
âOh my God.â
His mouth twitched.
âWhere on earth was this?â
âMy room.â
âSince when?â
âWhen you came back to return the rental.â
You stared at him, âLogan. That was a month ago.â
He paused, blinking down at you as you crossed your arms. Youâd been living on other perfumes for the past month, settling for anything but your favourite perfume that lived in your purse. Until you lost it indefinitely. Or so you thought.Â
Then he said, âMy bad.â
Your mouth fell open, âYou kept my perfume tester for a month?â
âI forgot I had it.â
âYou forgot?â
âMostly.â
âMostly?â
He looked away for one second, suddenly interested in the pavement in front of you. A slow smile spread across your face when you noticed the blush on his cheekbones.
âYouâre obsessed with me. Lowkey.â
His eyes returned to yours, âLowkey?â
âHighkey, but I was being gracious.â
He scoffed, but you were already leaning up to kiss him. It was meant to be quick, more of a reward for being ridiculous.
It became less chaste when his hand tightened at your waist and your fingers curled around the front of his jacket. He kissed you against Cherryâs door with the picnic basket behind you, the perfume tester caught between your hands, and the evening sun warm over the street.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was shiny with your gloss.
He looked down at you,âKeys.â
You blinked, âWhat?â
He plucked them neatly from the open top of your purse.
âIâm driving.â
âCherry is my car.â
âCherry likes me.â
âYou cannot use my carâs affection against me.â
âShe told me.â
âShe did not.â
âShe starts first try for me.â
Your eyes narrowed, âThat is manipulative.â
He opened the passenger door with a grin, âGet in.â
You did. Because you were apparently going on a date with a man who could steal both your keys and your common sense.
The drive-in sat just outside town, tucked behind a field with a big white screen at the far end and rows of parked cars facing it like worshippers at a very specific automobile cult. The sun was sinking when you arrived, sky turning peach and gold, the air warm enough to have the windows down. Someone directed Logan toward a spot near the back, which he chose with suspicious competence.
âYouâve been here before?â you asked.
âCouple times.â
âWith who?â
He glanced at you and you worked hard to keep your face innocently curious.Â
His mouth curved, âJealous?â
âNo.â
âNo?â
âI am asking for general purposes.â
âSure.â
You opened the picnic basket with great dignity and began setting things out while he laughed. Popcorn. Cherry cola. Crisps. Sweets. Napkins. A tiny container of strawberries because you had panicked in the shop and decided fruit made the basket balanced. A folded blanket. Hand wipes. Two bottles of water.
Logan watched as you arranged everything, âYou always bring a full household to the movies?â
âYes.â
âGood.â
âGood?â
He reached for the popcorn, âMeans I donât have to.â
You smiled, pleased.
The movie began as the sky darkened fully.
Grease filled the screen, bright and familiar, all summer heat and old-school drama. You settled in with your legs tucked under you, cardigan over your lap, popcorn between you and Logan. For the first ten minutes, you watched properly. Maybe fifteen. You sang under your breath at the first song and elbowed Logan when he pretended not to know the words despite mouthing them half a second later.
âI saw that.â
âSaw what?â
âYou know the lyrics.â
âEveryone knows those lyrics.â
âYou said you tolerate this musical.â
âI tolerate it with knowledge.â
âThat is a very male sentence.â
He threw one piece of popcorn at you.
You gasped, âAssault.â
âYouâll live.â
âI may not.â
âWant me to call Nana?â
âShe would side with me.â
âShe would like me.â
âShe probably would, which is only because youâre handsome and she isnât blind.â
He smiled and held the popcorn out to you as a peace offering. You accepted. Five minutes later, his arm was along the back of the seat, and your shoulder had somehow found its way against his side.
It should have felt strange.
Sitting beside Logan on an actual date after weeks of pretending neither of you were slowly becoming the first person the other looked for in a room. After Winston. The garage. The game. The costume party. After his hand at your waist and your lipstick on his mouth.
Instead, it felt terrifyingly natural.
Like the date had been waiting underneath the friendship all along, and now that someone had finally said the word, nothing had to rearrange itself.Â
You were halfway through telling him why Rizzo was emotionally the strongest person in the film when you realised Logan was not watching the screen. He was watching you.
You stopped mid-sentence, âWhat?â
âNothing.â
âIs there something on my face?â
âNo.â
âThen why are you looking at me like that?â
His eyes moved over your face in the flicker of movie light, âYouâre just really pretty Cherryâ
Your breath caught.
It was the same thing he had done at the coffee shop. A casual sentence delivered like it had not just pulled the floor out from under you.
âYouâre a terrible flirt,â you said.
His grin rose slowly, âYeah?â
âYes.â
âYouâre into it though.â
You turned toward him, heartbeat already changing, âYeah,â you admitted softly, âI am.â
The first kiss was gentle. Smiling.
A little sweet because both of you were still half-laughing, because Grease was playing loudly through the little speaker and the popcorn bag crinkled between you when you shifted closer. Loganâs hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing near your ear, and you leaned into him with the easy, dizzy relief of being allowed.
The second kiss lasted longer.
The third opened.
By the fourth, you had forgotten the movie entirely.
Logan kissed differently on a date than he had on the porch. There, he had been pushed to the edge by jealousy and red lipstick and your tiny pecks finally breaking him. Here, he had time. Privacy, almost. Soft darkness, a car that smelled like old leather and cherry cola, movie light slipping over his face, his hand cupping your jaw like he could hold the whole moment there if he was careful enough.
You shifted closer and his hand slid to your waist.
Your breath came faster, âThe movie,â you whispered against his mouth.
He pulled back immediately, just enough to look at you, âWe can stop right now.â
Your fingers tightened in his jacket.
âIâll watch the movie if you want,â he said, voice rough but steady. Then, after half a second, because he was Logan and apparently incapable of lying when it mattered, âBut Iâm not gonna lie to you, Cherry. I do not give a fuck about the movie.â
A laugh broke out of you, breathless and bright.
âIâve seen it five hundred times.â
His eyes darkened, âYeah?â
âYes.â
That was all the permission either of you needed.
You climbed over the console badly.
Your heel caught on the edge of the blanket, the popcorn nearly tipped, and you muttered an apology to the cup holder before Logan caught you by the waist and pulled you into his lap with a laugh that turned into a groan when you settled over him.
âYou apologise to objects a lot.â
âThey get caught in the crossfire.â
âYou okay?â
âYes.â
âSure?â
âYes.â You adjusted the skirt of your dress over your thighs, suddenly aware of the fact that you were in his lap at a drive-in with movie light flickering over the windshield and his hands steady at your waist. âAre you?â
His eyes dropped to where you sat over him. Then back up.
âNo.â
Your face heated, âLogan.â
âWhat? You asked.â
You kissed him before he could say anything worse.
The car became very small.
His hands moved over your waist, your back, the bare skin at your shoulders where the dress sat low, and yours slipped beneath his jacket, feeling the warmth of his henley and the shape of him underneath. You kissed him until your mouth felt swollen, until the windows had begun to fog faintly at the edges, until the movie was only sound and colour somewhere beyond the glass.
At first, it was just kissing.
Then it became your hips shifting over him, slowly just barely enough for you to notice.Â
His hands tightened at your waist, âCherry.â
You froze,âWhat?â
âYou know youâre doing it again?â
Your face burned, âBalancing?â
His mouth curved, âDonât.â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou were about to.â
âYou feel good.â
Your hips moved again, this time on purpose.
His eyes fluttered half shut, âOh, fuck.â
The curse went through you like heat.
You leaned into him, mouth near his ear now, suddenly braver because you could feel what you were doing to him, âStill donât care about the movie?â
His hands flexed at your waist, âI donât even know what movie weâre at.â
You laughed softly.
Then his hand slid under the skirt of your dress.
To your thigh, warm palm against skin, thumb stroking once as he waited. Your body went still for a second, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of the next step. The fact that you were not on a porch anymore. Not being interrupted by a bee-costumed Tucker. Not stumbling into a first kiss. You were here, on a date, choosing this with him.
Logan felt the stillness, âHey,â you looked at him,âWe donât have to do anything.â
âI know.â
âI mean it.â
âI know you do.â
His hand stayed still against your thigh, you swallowed then lifted your hand to his mouth- his eyes followed your movements and furrowed slightly in confusion when you paused against his lips.Â
For one second, you wondered if you should say it. Then his lips parted slightly, and the thought disappeared.
You touched your fingertips to his lower lip, âCan youâŠâ
His eyes flicked to yours, âWhat, baby?â
The word baby nearly made your brain empty out.
You pressed your fingers lightly against his mouth, and he understood before you had to finish. His tongue touched your fingertips, warm and slow, wetting them while his eyes stayed on yours. The intimacy of it made your chest tighten, made your breath tremble, made every inch of your body suddenly too aware of itself.
When he took your hand gently and guided it down, you let him.
His fingers replaced yours a second later.
Slow. Careful. Testing over your underwear while the movie played bright and forgotten beyond the windshield. Your head fell forward against his shoulder, one hand gripping the front of his jacket.
âLike that?â he murmured.
You nodded.
His hand paused, âWords, Cherry.â
âYes,â you breathed, âLike that.â
âGood girl.â Your hips jerked.
His mouth brushed your temple, âYeah? You like that?â
âLogan.â
âI know.â
His fingers moved again, slow strokes that made your breath come apart in small pieces. There was nothing rushed about it, nothing frantic, though he was hard beneath you and breathing like restraint was something he had to keep rebuilding.Â
He touched you like he was learning the shape of your reactions. Like the soft gasp you made when he pressed slightly firmer was information he intended to keep.
You clung to him, face tucked against his neck, moving into his hand in helpless little motions.
The car smelled like cherry cola, warm skin, popcorn, and the faint clean edge of his cologne. Outside, someone laughed several cars away. On screen, people sang and danced, completely ignored.
âCherry,â he murmured.
âMhm?â
âYou with me?â
âYes.â
âYou sure?â
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His face was close, eyes dark, mouth still shiny from your gloss and from where you had touched him. His expression was hungry, yes, but careful too.
You kissed him.
âYes,â you whispered against his mouth, âIâm with you.â
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and your mouth opened on a silent gasp.
âThere?â he asked.
âYes.â
He touched you properly then, and the world narrowed to his hand, his voice, his mouth at your jaw. You were already so worked up from kissing, from grinding against him, from the entire awful sweetness of the date, that it took very little to make you shake. His fingers moved in slow circles, then firmer when you whispered more, his other hand holding your waist to keep you steady when your thighs began to tremble.
âYouâre so gorgeous like this,â he said, voice low against your skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut, âDonât.â
âDonât what?â
âSay things.â
His mouth curved at your neck, âYou like when I say things.â
âI like it too much when you say things.â
âYeah?â
Your hand tightened on his shoulder, âYes.â
Logan brushed his mouth up from your neck to your cheek and pressed a kiss to your dewy skin, âMy honest girl.â
The praise made your body shudder and your breath break around his name. Logan kissed you through it, fingers never rushing, never stopping, drawing you closer with each stroke.
When you came, it was quiet.
A soft, broken sound into his mouth, your body tightening in his lap, nails pressing into his shoulder while he held you steady. He murmured something against your lips - good girl, thatâs it, Iâve got you - and the words followed you down until you were boneless against him, face tucked into his neck.
For a while, he only held you.
His hand moved carefully away. His other arm wrapped around your back. You breathed against him, warm and dazed and slightly embarrassed by the fact that the movie was still going like nothing had happened.
Then you felt him beneath you.
Still hard beneath your thigh and breathing carefully, his chest rising steadily as he tried to be good and respectful.Â
You lifted your head.
His eyes opened, like he had known from the change in your breathing, âWhat?â he asked.
You looked at him, then drummed your fingers gently in their place, you glanced down at his jeans and met his gaze once more.
His jaw flexed, âYou donât have to.â
âI know.â
âIâm serious.â
âI know you are.â
Your voice was soft but steadier now, âCan I?â
His eyes darkened, âYeah.â
You glanced down between you, suddenly shy enough to make him soften.
âCherry.â
âWhat?â
âYou can tell me what you want.â
âI know.â
âYou donât have to be perfect.â
Your eyes lifted, âIâm not trying to be perfect.â
His thumb brushed your waist, âNo?â
âIâm trying to be good.â
His expression changed, âOh, baby.â
Your face warmed fiercely. âNot like- I mean-â
âI know what you mean.â
You swallowed, âCan youâŠâ You glanced at his mouth, then at your hand.
He understood. This time when you held your hand toward him, Logan caught your wrist and brought your palm to his mouth. The gesture was slower than yours had been, his eyes on you as he spat lightly into your palm. Heat rushed through you so fast you almost forgot to breathe.
âThere,â he murmured, âlike that.â
Your fingers curled.
Then your hand moved to him.
The first touch dragged a sound from his chest that you felt more than heard. His head tipped back against the seat, jaw tight, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before he forced them open again, like he did not want to miss you.
You watched his face. The way his mouth parted, the way his breath punched out when your thumb moved the way he quietly told you to, the way his hand tightened at your waist when you found a rhythm that made his hips shift beneath you.
âLike this?â you whispered.
His laugh came out wrecked, âYeah.â
âYouâre sure?â
âFuck, Cherry. Yes.â
The curse made you clench around nothing.
His eyes sharpened through the haze, âYou like hearing me?â
Your face went hot and you tried to look down, but he caught your chin with two fingers.
âHey,â you met his eyes, âYou do?â
You swallowed and nodded, âYes.â
His mouth curved, strained and devastating, âGood to know.â
âDonât use that irresponsibly.â
âNo promises.â
You would have scolded him if he had not groaned then, low and rough, because your hand had tightened exactly where he had shown you. The sound went through you like his praise. You leaned in and kissed him again, swallowing the next broken breath he gave you, feeling the way his body fought for control under yours.
It was intimate in a way you had not expected.
You had thought it would feel bold. Maybe even dirty and thrilling because of the drive-in and the darkness and the fact that neither of you cared about the movie.Â
It was all of those things.Â
But more than that, it felt like learning. Like Logan letting you see him undone in pieces. Like the instructions he whispered into your mouth were not just commands but him trusting you, trusting whatever you had turned into.
âGood,â he breathed, âJust like that.â
Your hand moved and his hips jerked once.
âSorry,â he muttered.
You smiled against his mouth, âDonât be.â
His hand tightened at your waist, âCherry.â
âWhat?â
âIâm close.â
âOh,â Your stomach fluttered.
He laughed breathlessly. âYeah. Oh.â
You kissed him again, softer now, and kept going the way he had told you. His forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven, lips brushing yours between curses and praise that made your whole body hum.Â
When he came, he held your wrist gently but firmly, guiding you through it, his mouth open against yours, the sound of your name breaking low in his throat.
Afterward, both of you were silent and the movie continued in the background. The car windows were fogged enough now that the world outside had blurred into colour and sound.
You looked down at the napkins sticking out of the picnic basket.
Then at Logan.
He followed your gaze.
A laugh broke out of him.
You covered your face with your clean hand. âDonât laugh.â
âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
âYou packed napkins,â he said, like this was both the funniest and most devastating thing that had ever happened to him.
âOutdoor cinema is an unknown environment. I like being preparedâ
âThank God.â
You laughed too then, soft and helpless, but the sound faded when you looked down again and saw the mess still warm and glossy across your fingers. Loganâs laughter thinned with it. You felt him go still beneath you, felt the whole car shrink around the two of you while the movie kept flickering uselessly across the windshield.
You tilted your head, considering him with a sweetness that did not quite match the way your pulse had started to beat.
âI mean,â you said lightly, âif you want to laugh at my tissuesâŠâ
Loganâs eyes lifted to yours.
Your stomach flipped at the look on his face.
You brought your hand to your mouth before you could overthink it, tongue slipping over your fingers in a slow, careful drag that turned his expression from amused to ruined in the space of a breath.Â
He did not blink. He barely moved. His lips parted, his chest rising like he had forgotten what air was supposed to do, and the sight of him watching you like that made something warm and reckless bloom beneath your ribs.
âCherry,â he said, voice rough.
You hummed, far too innocently for what you were doing, and leaned closer.
There was still a little of him on his stomach, a pearly streak that had slipped down the flushed length of him while he was too busy laughing at your emergency napkins to notice. But you noticed and you had been raised to clean up after yourself.
Loganâs hand shot to the back of the seat when you bent over him.
âJesus,â he breathed.
You glanced up at him through your lashes, lips hovering just above his skin, âStill funny?â
He shook his head once, too fast, âNo.â
âGood.â
Then you lowered your mouth and licked him clean, slow enough that his whole body jerked under you, slow enough that the breath he dragged in sounded almost pained. The taste of him lingered on your tongue. Salt, heat, skin. Logan made a strangled sound and one hand came to your hair holding on like he needed somewhere to put the shock of you.
You sat back with your mouth glossy and your cheeks hot and your eyes much too bright.
Logan stared at you.
For once, he had absolutely nothing to say.
You reached for a napkin with exaggerated dignity and dabbed delicately at the corner of your mouth, âSee? Useful.â
A broken laugh left him, more disbelief than humour, and then he was pulling you back toward him, kissing you hard enough that the napkin crumpled between your fingers.
âYou,â he murmured against your mouth, still breathless, still half-laughing like he could not decide whether to worship you or accuse you of attempted murder, âare going to kill me.â
You smiled into the kiss.
âHopefully, it's very practical.â
Eventually, you settled back beside him, no longer in his lap but tucked under his arm, dress smoothed, heels off now, red flats-less feet tucked beneath the blanket because you had complained about temperature changes and then been proven correct. Logan kissed the top of your head once as the movie moved toward its ending.
You watched for approximately three minutes.
Then whispered, âDo you know whatâs happening?â
âNo.â
âMe neither.â
âGood movie.â
âExcellent.â
His chest shook under your cheek.
The final number played bright and loud across the screen. You watched it with the solemnity of people who had absolutely not missed half the plot due to mutual orgasmic collapse. When the credits rolled, cars began starting around you, headlights blinking on, people laughing and packing up blankets.
You did not move immediately.
Neither did Logan.
His hand traced slow, idle lines over your shoulder.
You looked at the screen, then at the darkening field around it, then down at the picnic basket half-empty on the floor.
âThat was a good first date,â you said softly.
Logan looked at you, âMovie or after?â
âLogan.â
âBoth?â
You tried to glare and failed, your unimpressed pout shifting into a begrudging smile, ââŠboth.â
His smile was so warm it made your chest ache.
He leaned in and kissed you once, gentle and lingering, nothing like the frantic heat from earlier and somehow it still made your stomach flip dangerously.
When he pulled back, you looked at him for a long second.
There was one more place.
You had known before the movie even started, though you had not admitted it to yourself fully. One more place you wanted him to see. One more piece of your world, older and quieter and more private than the barn with Winston or the garage with Daddy.Â
A place that felt like summer evenings, sticky fingers, childhood games, Nanaâs laughter, Granddad pretending not to know where the good cherries were hidden.
A place that made sense after Grease, after the car, after his hands, after the softness that had settled between you like it had always belonged there.
âI have one more place I want to show you,â you said.
Loganâs gaze sharpened slightly, âNow?â
âItâs not far.â
âCherry.â
âIt has an orchard.â
He stared at you.
Then laughed under his breath, shaking his head, âOf course it does.â
You smiled, reaching for your heels and slipping them back on, âAnd a very good view.â
âOf course it does.â
âAnd possibly the best cherries in the state.â
âPossibly?â
âIâm being humble.â
âThatâs new.â
You swatted his arm lightly.
He caught your hand before you could pull away and kissed your knuckles, one by one, because apparently Logan had decided public flirtation was not enough and private tenderness needed to become your new problem.
Your breath caught.
âYou okay?â he asked.
You nodded.
âYeah?â
âYes.â Your smile softened, âI just like when you do that.â
His thumb brushed over your fingers, âGood to know.â
You narrowed your eyes, âAgain, not information to be used irresponsibly."
âNo promises.â
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling when he started Cherryâs engine.
The drive-in emptied slowly behind you. The road ahead stretched dark and warm, lined with trees and late-summer air, and you sat beside Logan in your white dress and red heels, your picnic basket in the backseat, your heart still beating a little too fast.
âOne more place,â you promised.
Logan looked at you, then at the road, âLead the way, Cherry.â
summary: just because his dick doesnât work anymore doesnât mean he canât please you.
warnings: established relationship, age gap (40s!leon|25+!reader), older man with ed, oral (f!receiving), fingering, minor embarrassment involved angst
w/c: >1k
author notes: little blurb, more leon soon.
If you had a dime for every time someone openly judged you for being married to a significantly older man, youâd have enough money to buy two porches and four ninja creamis. At some point the comments didnât really affect you anymore, it became natural to see some reaction when you mentioned it to a new person.
Your marriage with Leon was relatively new, being shy of just four years, most of your friends made sure you knew good and well how they felt about the relationship. Of course, many of your friends were supportive, because if you were happy and he treated you well nothing else mattered. They knew he was older, knew he had a job, spoiled you and cared for you like no oneâs business.
But in every conversation where your friends would talk about their own boyfriends or their relationships, there would always be one person to remind you of the obvious.
It was painful, honestly. You knew the age thing would be controversial to some, and you knew the complications of it all. Hell, Leon was the one that kept rejecting you despite your adamance to be with him.
But you saw past the age difference and more at the man he was.
And being the doting, caring husband he was, he always put you before him. It didnât matter the case, the situation or the scenario, if it benefitted you and made you happy, it was done. Which is why you were currently sprawled out naked on the warmth of the messy bed, legs spread apart as he propped himself between the softness of your thighs.
The two of you tried, key word: tried, to enjoy each otherâs presences. A natural, soft kind of intimacy saved for nights where he wasnât tired and felt particularly eager on pleasing you. And he so desperately wanted to please you. To soak in the warmth of your body against his, to press his lips against your neck and hear your soft little moans as he nudged his cock against the wetness of your walls.
Except that plan, that thought in his mind was evaporated about as quickly as steam from a pan. By the time he fished out his cock between slow mouth kisses and gentle squeezes of your ass, the damn thing just flopped out. Not hard, not even a half chub. It was like looking at deflated balloon, just soft and embarrassingly so.
The embarrassment had crawled up his spine and rushed to his neck so fast he nearly got dizzy. Of course, now was one of the times his dick decided to stop working. It wasnât like he didnât want to fuck you. How could he not when you were looking up at him so pretty and expectantly, glossy lips and wide eyes watching his every move.
It was terrible. Worse than anything heâs ever dealt with or any person heâs ever fought.
The arousal was there, the want was there. You were right there. But it was like his mind and body were disconnected, unplugged from the port. He tried giving himself a few strokes, busying himself with the smell of you and the taste of your skin hoping (and praying) that he would just get hard.
For a moment, he couldnât even meet your eye. He was terrified. Would you take it the wrong way? Would you be disappointed? God, what would you think?
He tried to busy your eyes from anything but him, peeled off your shorts and guided you against him as he tried to work with what he had. The last thing he wanted was for you to see and immediately think the worse; the disappointment, the rejection, the dissatisfaction, the unattractiveness. Throughout all his inner thoughts and the waves of worries, he only thought about you.
And thatâs how you suddenly wound up with a pillow under your hips and one leg pulled over his shoulder. He didnât care for himself anymore, and despite the lack of warmth from your bodies pressed together just five minutes ago, he was more than happy to focus on the pretty wetness of your pussy.
His mouth was placed sloppily against your cunt, eyes glued onto your face to soak in every little gasp and reaction you had. His tongue dragged up in long almost frantic slides, moving up and down, then side to side. Your hips jerked forward, feet digging into the mattress below you as you moaned softly.
His lips were swollen and glossy with the thin sheen of your own juices, mouth inching further and further up to suck at your clit. Two of his thick fingers were shoved knuckle deep into the weeping mess of your cunt, pumping in and out in slow squelches. His digits turned, scissoring and curling against your walls as he flicked the tip of his tongue against your clit.
His other hand gripped tightly around your thigh, squeezing the flesh and guiding your hips against his face to literally smother himself in the taste of you. He let out a low, vibrating groan into your pussy, eyes fluttering slightly as you ran a hand through his hair.
Your fingers curled into his hair, back arching as his mouth latched around your clit again. His nose buried against the dampness of your skin, fingers pulling out with a quiet, wet pop. You let out a whiny moan at the loss of his fingers, pussy clenching around the cold air. âW-what, whyâd you stop?â
You can feel his grin against your folds, eyes shifting up from the slick in front of him to the verbal disappointment on your face. âPatience, baby. Just getting a better angle, âs all.â
You huffed impatiently, shifting back as he gently tucked the pillow further under your hips. He planted his lips against your inner thighs in teasing, soft kisses as he angled your hips up just another fraction or two. Staring down at him, you let out another little noise of impatience only to be met with a smug grin from your husband.
âGod, baby. Donât get all worked up now.â
âLeon. Hurry up.â
He laughs, warm and muffled against your thigh before giving you a slow nod. He nips at your inner thigh, enjoying the way you squealed and squirmed against the bed. âOkay, okay. âM sorry.â
He gives you approximately two seconds to prepare yourself before immediately diving back into your pussy. He presses a firm hand against the soft of your stomach, forcing you still as he mouthed open kisses to your slit. Whimpering shakily as he firmly pressed a calloused fingertip against your clit, he dragged the base of his tongue along the slick of your arousal.
He peppers your folds in kisses, spreading your lips apart to gently slide the tip of his tongue against your fluttering entrance. Heâs met with momentary resistance, before gently pressing his tongue an inch further.
âOh, fuck.â You gasp heavily, fingers digging into his scalp as you subconsciously buck your pussy against his face. He sloppily slides just the tip of his tongue inside, curling the pink muscle and rotating it slightly. His thumb presses firmly against your throbbing clit, rubbing quick, tight circles against the nub.
Between your frantic squirms, moany gasps and the audible sounds of your pussy, Leonâs subtle sounds of approval are barely heard. A growing warmth spreads from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes. Tugging mindlessly on Leonâs hair, though he doesnât seem to mind, his eyes are entirely fixated on you. He watches as your body tenses, hips stuttering forward at the heavy pinch of your clit.
Your orgasm washes over you abruptly between airy moans, an intense heat sprouting in your gut before breaking off into a long simmering buzz. Your thighs twitch against his head, his large, calloused palms wrapped around the flesh of your thighs to soothe you. He pulls back slightly, watching your chest rise and fall in labored breaths as he laps at the mess of juices against your slit. He licks the gloss from his lips, splattered with your own arousal and juices before hesitating.
Youâre completely oblivious to the moment, slowly coming down from your high as he strokes your thigh. His eyes dart down momentarily towards the growing tent in his boxers and the persistent throb of his cock finally coming to life. Without thinking twice, he lets out a small chuckle, gaining your attention as he moved to wrap an arm around your waist.
âWhatâs so funny?â You asked between labored breaths, shimmying against him as he gave your hip a small squeeze. You ran a hand up to his forearm, glancing down as his other hand moved to free himself for the second time tonight.
âNo nothing, honâ.â He rubs his thumb up and down the expanse of your waist, looking down at you as he allowed his hand to roam. âJust thinking.â
You smiled slightly, a bit dazed and confused as you tilt your head at him. âAbout what?â
âHow many times I can stuff that pretty pussy full.â
You were never mine- Part 1 || John Logan x reader
Warnings: SMUT (Oral- both F&M receiving), lots of yearning, kinda angsty, Logan is a bit of an asshole.
Word Count: 5.1k
Note: English isn't my first language, Please be KIND.
You were never mine
Hooking up with John Logan is fun.
He knows what he's doing. He never leaves you unsatisfied. And that's what it's all about, right? Ending up in his bed when you're horny, or a little drunk, or a little drunk and a little horny, and then he helps you with what you need.
And helping? That's John Logan's specialty.Â
You usually run into each other by accident. At some party you got dragged to and he's there, after one of his games, a random run-in at Malone's, the usual. You don't text during the day. It's not one of those situationships where something undefined is going on. There are no romantic gestures involved. There's a means and an end here, and sometimes you're the means and sometimes you're the end, and that's perfectly fine.
Because if you're being honest with yourself, and your therapist says you should always be honest with yourself, you're not one of those girls this happens to all the time.
If you're being even more honest with yourself, it's never happened to you before.
You ended up at the party where all of this started by accident, too. Your roommate convinced you to go because she wanted to make out with Dean Di Laurentis. You don't even like parties. You only go to them now because sometimes, when he's free, you get to make out with Logan.
Most of the time, you wonder if it's pathetic.
Because he's said so many times that he doesn't have time for anything serious, because you've watched him flirt with every possible girl in the cafeteria so many times, every girl who isn't you, while sitting right across from you. Making his point. Explaining without words that whatever is happening between you isn't going to change, so you'd better not start thinking it might.
You hate being honest with yourself. You suspect it leads to self-destruction.
Something in you, the side that's embarrassed by the whole thing, the side that hasn't even told your best friend you're hooking up with John Logan, knows you probably deserve more.
It's not like you've done anything terrible in this lifetime. You didn't shove an old lady into traffic, and you didn't beat up the kids who were screaming on the bus. You've had opportunities to be mean and never even considered it, so maybe you don't deserve to feel like you have nothing to offer someone like John Logan.
But there's something pure about the look in his eyes when he's looking down at you while you're on your knees in front of him, your eyes watery from the effort. His hand brushes over your cheek with a gentleness that's almost unsettling, as if your tears are made of gold. Even when he pushes a little deeper because he wants to get off faster, you don't really feel like you're just a tool for his pleasure. You feel like you're a part of his life.
Maybe that's where your mistake begins.
Because hooking up with John Logan is fun.
Until it isn't.
.
.
.
Logan's life is a fucking shitshow.
His mom checks in and out of rehab facilities like they're book clubs that only read her favorite books, probably something heartwarming like Little Women or the one she relates to the most, How to Ruin My Kids' Lives. He hates the look of hope in Jules's eyes every time the woman who gave birth to them checks herself into rehab and makes another round of promises she won't keep.
He hates the fact that the Bruins passed on him in the draft again this year, that he only has one year left to impress them, and if he doesn't, he's going to spend the rest of his life in their mother's shitty garage. His future will probably consist of changing the oil in cars that are way too fancy and cleaning up her puke from places he forgot even existed in their house.
Between practice, whatever little handyman gigs he manages to find around campus, and puck bunnies he has the privilege of fucking, Logan doesn't have much time to spend inside his own head.
Right now, though? He'd do just about anything to have practice.
They'd just come back from a game. A brutal one against Yale. They lost because their team just can't seem to click, and Hunter and Dean are constantly at each other's throats. Dean's pissed at him for bringing Hunter in. Everyone is always yelling at everyone. Itâs a fucking mess.
So now Logan hates being in his own house, too.
Because everyone's looking at him like he's a war criminal over that situation with Hunter. But what was he supposed to do? Their team was in trouble, and Hunter was the best free agent he could think of. How was he supposed to know the history between him and Dean was a hell of a lot more complicated than some stupid rich-kid feud? You could've listened to Dean. The voice in his head that he's trying to shut up whispers. You could've listened to Dean and not reached out to Hunter at all, but John Logan made a decision, and it was a shitty one, so now he has to take the ricochets from the consequences.
He wonders if Dean will ever forgive him.
Not out loud. He won't be wondering that out loud. But he's a little worried by the thought that it won't happen anytime soon.
Because if there's one thing in his life that hasn't gone catastrophically to shit, it's the Hockey House. And lately, John's been spending more nights in other people's beds than his own. A few days ago, Garrett texted him just to make sure he hadn't fallen into a ditch and died.
Garrett.
Another friend John feels like he's close to losing.
Garrett, who already got drafted by the Bruins. Garrett, who's dating Hannah. Garrett, whose girlfriend is in love with him.
Hannah, whose car Logan fixed during their freshman year and who didn't even know his name. Hannah, who waited on them at Malone's so many times that Logan knew exactly what she smelled like. Hannah, who chose Garrett without ever knowing Logan had been an option at all.
What a fucking shitshow.
.
.
.
The next time you see Logan, it's weird.
To say the least.
He shows up at the movie theater you work at for what looks like a double date with Garrett Graham. You try to hint to Thomas, the idiot you work with, that he should be the one helping them with the popcorn, but Thomas has the social awareness of a raccoon, and you're forced to put on the most convincing smile you can manage and ask them what they'd like.
Logan looks at you and has the decency to seem embarrassed for a few seconds.
"I didn't know you worked here," he says.
"The big bucks," you reply sarcastically. The big bucks? What the hell are you talking about? Why don't you know how to shut up?
"You guys know each other?" Garrett Graham asks.
"Not really. We have a class together," Logan answers a little too quickly. You wonder if anyone bought that.
"So, what can I get you?" you ask again, this time not even trying to smile or look at him. Luckily, there are three other people standing there that you can direct this conversation at instead.
John Logan on a date. You're basically John Logan's waitress on his date.
You fucking hate your life.
"If you say one more word, Thomas, I swear to God I'll pull your intestines out," you mumble, dragging your gaze away from the door to the guy standing in front of you, hoping you sound firm enough, but knowing you don't.
The theater door opens, and you're a little surprised to see John. You're even annoyed by the smirk on his face when he catches you staring at the door, which you promised yourself you wouldn't do.
"You have a uniform," he points out as he stops in front of you.
"Aren't you the modern-day Sherlock Holmes?" Thomas's sarcasm comes out in a mumble while he doesn't look up from his phone, and you wonder if you want to kill him or kiss him on the forehead.
"I have a uniform," you say. Great. Riveting conversation. "Do you need a refill?" you add.
"Actually, I was looking for an excuse to get out of there for a minute," he says.
"Not a good movie?" you ask.
"I have no idea," Logan replies.
"That sounds..." You don't know what to say to that.
"Like a waste of time?" Thomas finishes for you, still not looking at either of you.
"I'm Logan," John introduces himself, because the interaction between the two of them is uncomfortable, to say the least.
"I know, superstar." Thomas doesn't introduce himself back.
"This is Thomas. He's also a Briar student, and we both work here, clearly. Shouldn't you be getting back to your movie?" You're talking so fast. You hate the amused smile on his face.
"I probably should." He shrugs and doesn't move. "I haven't seen you in forever. When was the last time I saw you?" he asks suddenly, looking like he's actually trying to remember.
"You know how it is," you mumble, thinking that neither of you actually knows how it is.
And that's okay. It has to be okay.
"Seriously, though. It's been a while." His brows pull together as he looks at you this time, making you look anywhere else. The carpet is suddenly so interesting.
"Yeah? You know how it is," you say again. Why are you repeating yourself?!
"So you keep saying." Are you imagining it, or did he chuckle? "What've you been up to this past month?" he asks, leaning against the counter in front of you.
"School, work, the usual. And you're probably busy with... hockey and dates and... you know... how it is." Dates? Fucking fuck. You seriously need to learn how to shut up.
"Hmm." His tone is so amused that you're almost sure if you look at his face, you'll find the most smug smile John Logan has to offer, but the theater door opens, and it's the tall blonde he came with, looking like she just stepped out of a Victoria's Secret catalog.
"The movie's about to start again," she says softly to him as she loops her arm through his.
"Do you guys want more popcorn? It's on me," you reply. Anything to turn away from this scene as you fill a bucket with popcorn.
For once, Thomas looks up from his phone, raising an eyebrow in the most obvious display of disapproval you've ever seen, not even trying to hide how much he hates this entire situation.
"Enjoy." The fake smile from earlier is plastered back on your face again, and you hope your hand isn't shaking too much as you hold the bucket out to them.
"Thanks, sweetie," the girl says, and Logan nods, no longer looking amused as they head back into the theater.
"Girl, I need to call your self-respect and see if it's answering-" Thomas cuts himself off at the look you give him. "I'm just saying, you know how it is," he finishes, repeating what you've said to John Logan five times during this conversation and making both of you burst into exaggerated laughter.
It was either laugh or cry.
You considered option B, too.
.
.
.
Garrett basically forced him to go on that weird double date with some random puck bunny Logan did end up fucking afterward, but his mind was elsewhere.
He's wondering now when the last time was that he, well...fucked you?
It's not like there were a lot of girls he'd slept with more than once. It happened rarely, and only when it was obvious to the girl in front of him that it wasn't serious and that he wasn't looking for a girlfriend. But you were cute, and every interaction with you was entertaining in a way he didn't know what to do with except take you back to his bed. Your sexual chemistry was good, so he'd ended up sleeping with you, what, three, four times? Five times? How many times has Logan slept with you? Why can't he put his finger on it?
There were a few more times at parties where he'd suddenly run into you.
The conversations were always on point, not too long but full of funny moments because you genuinely don't know how to be quiet. And then, without him noticing, he stopped seeing you around. A month? Two weeks? When was the last time Logan fucked you? It's bothering him.
Almost as much as it bothered him that you were there to see him on that double date.
He doesn't know if he'd want to see you on a date. Not because you're exclusive or anything. It's just weird seeing a girl you're still fucking every now and then on a date.
No wonder you were so embarrassed. God, he loves making you embarrassed. Just not under these circumstances.
Maybe he should see if you're coming to the party they're throwing after tomorrow's game.
Dean started talking to him here and there again.
It's still not his best friend talking to him again, but it's something. So maybe they won't lose and there'll be something to celebrate.
And if there's something to celebrate, maybe you'll come and he can celebrate with you.
When was the last time you went down on him?
Why the hell can't he remember? It's officially bothering him.
.
.
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Bob, are you coming to the game tomorrow?(John Logan)
You're forced to stare at that text for half an hour. Even while working on your paper, your eyes keep drifting back to it just to make sure you're not imagining it. Because this isn't something Logan does. He doesn't invite you to his games. Or text you in general. The last time he texted you was two months ago after you ran into him in the hallway.
Not really my thing (Y/N)
You reply because you don't see the point in lying. Besides, who would even go to a hockey game with you? You refuse to tell Millie that you occasionally sleep with John Logan and that yesterday you accidentally gave him and his date the free popcorn you're entitled to once per shift. It's humiliating enough that Thomas knows. He definitely wouldn't go with you. He hates the cold and he hates sports. Something about high school and bullies.
That's a little insulting, Bob. Don't you think?(J. L.)
It's not supposed to be(Y/N)
What's not your thing? Be specific.(J. L.)
Hockey?(Y/N)
You wound me and don't even hesitate. I don't know how much more I can take.(J. L.)
Are you coming to the party afterward, or is having fun in general not your thing?(J. L.)
There's a party afterward?(Y/N)
My ego is bruised, Bob. You have to be considerate of my feelings.(J. L.)
But seriously, come. Bring whoever you want. We haven't done a tequila shot together in forever.(J. L.)
You owe me a tequila shot if I win.(J. L.)
I don't drink tequila anymore.(Y/N)
Since when?(J. L.)
Since I went to a party that only had tequila and walked into a pole on my way back to the dorms.(Y/N)
Delete that text and never repeat that story, even if the FBI interrogates you, John Logan. You're under oath.
(Y/N)
If you don't come to the party tomorrow, I'll print this out and hang it all over campus.(J. L.)Goodnight. Dream about the tequila shots we're doing tomorrow ;)(J. L.)
John Logan is going to be the death of you.
.
.
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Millie jumped at the chance to go to the party. You didn't tell her Logan invited you. You just told her you'd heard from a friend that if the team won, there'd be a party at their ridiculous house off-campus. That satisfied her. Thomas said he'd rather walk around naked in minus forty degrees than go to another athlete party. Fair enough.
They won. After two losses. Someone said Logan scored both of the critical goals. It filled you with a sense of pride you had absolutely no reason to feel. Pride that doesn't belong to you in any way because Logan doesn't belong to you in any way.
"You're in my Lit class, right?" a blond guy asks while you're waiting in line for a keg of beer that's probably way too warm.
You try to remember his name, but you're so bad with names that it feels rude to play the guessing game, and luckily, he saves you.
"Liam. I sit two rows behind you. You're always the first one out of class," he says with a chuckle.
"Because my class after Lit is always on the other side of campus," you explain. "(Y/N)." You introduce yourself and hold your hand out to shake his.
"You shake hands?" he laughs, but he reaches for your hand anyway. Then he does something weird and doesn't let go right away. It makes you vaguely uncomfortable for a second, but you smile anyway.
"There you are!" Logan's familiar voice comes from behind you. "Why are you waiting for Tucker's beer? You owe me tequila anyway." He pulls you out of the ridiculously long line, putting some distance between you and Liam. Distance you can't help but be grateful for.
"It was nice seeing you, Liam." You smile at him, but Logan doesn't wait for him to answer before giving your hand another tug.
It's the most public you've ever been with each other. Not that there's anything public about it. He's just dragging you around his kitchen from one corner to another.
"You looked like you needed saving," he says, smiling as he looks you over.
"It's the look I do best." You shrug, not knowing what to say about it because Liam didn't actually do anything. It's not his fault you're bad at small talk.
"You missed a good game," Logan says. You can see it on his face that he's proud of himself.
"So I heard." You nod. "Rumor has it you're the hero of Briar U," you add.
"Does the rumor also say I'm handsome and have the personality of an angel?" He bats his eyes rapidly with an exaggerated smile, and you can't help laughing, which makes him grin for real for a second. "Did you get here a while ago?" he asks.
"A few minutes ago. That line is so ridiculous I lost Millie, my friend." You can feel the critical moment beginning, the one where you lose control of your mouth.
"I'm about to tell you a secret that'll change your life, Bob." He looks at you with such seriousness that your eyes widen in concern. "You have to swear this doesn't leave this room. Not to... Millie?" He's briefly unsure of the name you mentioned two seconds ago. "Not even to your coworker who clearly doesn't like me." His seriousness is genuinely concerning.
"John, are you okay?" You raise an eyebrow, and he drags you into a room you don't recognize that's relatively quiet compared to the chaos outside.
"Hey," he says softly, stepping close to you after he shuts the door.
"Hey?" You laugh a little, making him laugh too, the air from his mouth hitting yours in a way that's somehow a little intimate even though nothing particularly intimate is happening. "Why are we here?" you ask.
"Because I'm about to reveal the most important secret in this house, and you have to take it to the grave." He doesn't move an inch, and every word out of his mouth sends a shiver through you that has absolutely no place in a conversation that's supposedly completely normal.
"Well?" You try to pull yourself together as you ask.
"This is the room where we keep the alcohol that's actually worth drinking." He whispers it into your ear, making you burst out laughing right into his shoulder.
"You're so weird," you mumble after you've calmed down.
"I'm about to make you the drink of your life, Bob. You're gonna fall in love with me." He flashes a mischievous smile, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to say. As if this is the kind of conversation the two of you are supposed to have. He clears his throat, realizing within a second what just came out of his mouth, and turns toward the impressive liquor cabinet behind him. For college students, these particular hockey players know their alcohol.
He makes the fanciest drink in the world and hands it to you in a red plastic cup that looks like every other red plastic cup. You also do the tequila shot he demanded from you over text yesterday. He makes sure to hold eye contact while you drink it.
"When you get tired of the party, come find me, okay?" he asks as you walk out of the room. "And you can come in here whenever you want for a refill. Mi casa es su casa." He does an exaggerated bow while you roll your eyes but smile, and each of you heads in a different direction.
.
.
.
Logan doesn't know how to explain it, but at any given moment, he knew where you were.
It didn't matter who he was talking to, how loud the music was, or how many people were currently in his house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw who you were talking to and where you went.
He didn't like it when the person you were talking to was the guy he'd seen you with at the beginning of the party. He didn't like the feeling in his stomach. He wondered if that's what you'd felt when he showed up on a date at your workplace.
If he'd only known you worked there, he wouldn't have done it.
He sees you heading upstairs.
Nobody else notices you heading upstairs, but he does. The only reason you'd go upstairs is to get to his room and wait for him to get to his room and-
"I think I'm done for tonight," he mumbles toward Garrett and the rest of the people standing around him, not waiting for their response.
"I wonder who he's going to fuck," he hears from behind him, and all he does in response is raise his middle finger in the air. It's none of their business. You're none of their business.
He wasn't wrong.
Fuck, he's so happy he wasn't wrong.
Because you're in his room, wearing nothing but his jacket and sitting on his bed, and it's way too pretty of a sight to take for granted. It's been way too long since you've been in his room. He has to make sure it happens more often.
"How much have you had to drink?" he asks, because Logan may be a horny asshole most of the time, but he won't touch you if you've had too much to drink.
"The drink you made me and the shot we did together," you say, and he doesn't know why, but he thinks it's hot that you've both had an amount of alcohol that won't make either of you skip this part of the evening.
"I've been thinking about you since I saw you at the movie theater," he says as he walks closer, moving your hair away from your face.
"What were you thinking?" you ask.
"That it's been way too long since I fucked you," he says in a half-whisper right into your ear. He likes seeing the shivers his voice sends through you. You're so easy. It's so easy when he already knows some of your weak spots.
"Fuck, Log," you whisper back.
"That your lips haven't warmed my cock in way too long," he goes on, saying the filthiest things in his vocabulary. He doesn't even know why it's so urgent for him to embarrass you. To see your cheeks flushed before he's even touched you.
"Yeah?" you ask, slowly dropping to your knees as if you've been given a command, as if he's magnetizing you to the floor.
You look up at him from below, and his hand brushes over your face with that gentleness you've caught yourself dreaming about at night since the last time you were in this exact position.
"God, you're art that belongs in the Louvre," he murmurs, not taking his eyes off you, trying to preserve the memory of you- your lips slightly parted while youâre on your knees in front of him.
"Like this? On my knees in the Louvre?" you try to gather your confidence and somehow manage it from the glazed-over look he sends your way. You feel like you have so much power, even though he's the one in control right now.
You press a soft kiss to his jean-covered thigh, and he lets out a quiet groan.
"Don't be a tease, (Y/N). I need you. All fucking evening you've been walking around me like I'm a stranger." He undoes the buttons of his jeans quickly, freeing his erection from his boxers too.
"Already? I haven't even touched you yet, Log." You're not laughing. You're mesmerized. You're always mesmerized by his size, by the kind of aesthetics that make Logan so uniquely Logan.
"Then start touching me already." He doesn't order you, but it's another quiet command you'll probably obey forever because your mouth is kissing the tip of him within seconds. As if you're worshipping him, with your hands behind your back, wet open-mouthed kisses that say, without words, thank you for the privilege. The kind that makes you feel pathetic at the end of the night but forces you to admit that's who you are for Logan.
"Open up, (Y/N)." He's done playing. You know he's done playing from the look on his face.
You open your mouth as wide as you can, and he fills it within seconds. One hand holds your head like a stand, the other brushes over your cheek to wipe away tears that only turn him on more. He likes watching you gag around him. It satisfies him and makes him come faster than he'd like to last.
"Such a good girl, (Y/N)," he manages to mumble through low groans that only make you want to take him deeper into your throat. You moan at his words, which makes him groan again. "No wonder I want to fuck you over and over again. Look at you." He keeps going. "You were made for this," he murmurs, maybe to you, maybe to himself. You don't stop. You add your hand to play with the base of him that won't fit in your mouth. "Fuck, baby, I'm not gonna last like this. You trying to embarrass me?" he mumbles, rolling his hips in a punishing way. "You'll swallow?" he asks, and you nod around him, making him smile that satisfied smile of his.
A few minutes later, he finishes, and even though you choke a little, youâre used to his taste by now, so you swallow as much as I can and stick my tongue out to prove you did what he asked.
"Such a good girl. Don't you think you deserve a reward?" he asks, and without waiting for an answer, he starts taking your clothes off. Some of them gently and some with such aggression that you're afraid they'll rip.
He's between your legs so quickly. Chuckling at how wet you are as if it's supposed to embarrass you, even though you both know it turns him on more than anything else. Knowing you're enjoying yourself and want to be exactly where you are.
"You're so good," he murmurs against you as he runs his tongue over your clit, gently at first, listening to your little moans. Restrained just in case someone walks down the hallway.
"God, if I could, I'd eat your pussy all day. Wouldn't give you a second to recover," he murmurs, and two fingers find their way to your entrance, pumping while his mouth moves over you, perfectly controlling every motion. Switching between licks and sucking and circles.
When you come, it's always sudden, and you never manage to warn him in time. When you apologize, he just chuckles and says it's the hottest thing in the world and that you never have to apologize for coming. Not with him.
"I don't think we should do this anymore," you mumble while you're both panting on his bed.
Exactly what a man wants to hear after a perfect orgasm.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Never Have I Ever (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Paxton Hall-Yoshida/Devi Vishwakumar
Characters: Devi Vishwakumar, Paxton Hall-Yoshida, Trent Harrison
Additional Tags: iâve played pretty fast and loose with canon for this little ditty, goes divergent after season two though i imagine season three took a similar shape in this universe to canon, the one thing thatâs for sure is that season four is not canon to whatever this fic is
Summary:Â The first time Devi sees Paxton Hall-Yoshida emerge from the water looking like freaking Poseidonâpowerful, commanding, and dripping wetâit awakens something in her.
or, three times Devi finds a soaking wet Paxton compelling only to be disappointed + the one time Paxton finds a soaking wet Devi compelling
A lot, in fact. About crazy late nights and careless mistakes. These regrets dug deep, clinging to his subconscious.
He sometimes lay awake at night thinking about who heâd been â who he might still be: the selfish kid who thought the world owed him.
He liked to think heâd grown. That he was better now. Maybe. But he couldnât forgive himself.
Not for her.
The regret of loving the wrong person, or perhaps not loving her enough, lingered with him.
What he did wasnât loud or malicious. There was no public blow-up, no screaming fight. It was quiet, subtle, cruel in the way only indifference can be.
He kissed her, hooked up with her, let her fall, just a little. Well, a lot. Then left like it had never happened. Never meant a thing to him.
And as the summer heat pressed against his window and seeped into his room like a second skin, Paxton lay half naked across his bed, sweat-slicked and restless. His hair clung to his forehead, the fan whirred uselessly above him.
She was all he could think about.
The faint buzzing of the light overhead, that hum, reminded him of her laugh. It was soft, low like the kind she made when she was trying not to smile.
The perfume she once wore lingered in his room. His pillow still held the faint ghost of her.
Everything reminded him of her.
Every night was hers.
And maybe thatâs why his feet carried him there, barefoot on still warm pavement, heart thudding like it knew better.
Maybe thatâs why, against every rational thought, he found himself under her window again after all this time.
Something he hadnât grown out of.
Something he didnât want to.
He tapped lightly â a sound so familiar it almost felt like muscle memory â and waited.
Every second made his head race more.
Then, taking a breath, he pushed it open the way he always used to and crawled inside.
The room was dim, hushed, the same as heâd remembered, save for a new plushie added to her collection that lined the bed.
For a moment, all he could do was stand there, breath held, eyes adjusting.
Thenâ
Click. Light flooded the room.
There she was, eyes wide, a bat in her hand like she meant it.
She wore little; just shorts and a tank top, her hair tossed up into a messy ponytail, strands clung to her sweaty neck. Clearly, the heat hadnât spared her either.
The concern dropped from her face, replaced by the flat, exasperated look of someone realizing this wasnât a break-in â just a boy being incredibly stupid.
Then she was angry.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?!â the air around them was thick and humid.
He froze.
âSeriously, Paxton? What the hell are you doing here? What gives you the right to climb through my fucking window? Do you know what time it is? Or do you really think you're just that special?â
Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, more fury than fear. But beneath it, something stirred.
Feelings she thought sheâd buried started clawing their way back to the surface, crawling under her skin like theyâd never really left.
âYou donât get to show up like this. Like itâs nothing. Like Iâm nothing.â
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
âY/n, Iââ
He stepped towards the girl.
âNo. No, Paxton. This is insane.â She pushed past him towards the window, unable to look him in the eyes anymore. âYouâre insane. How the hell did you even think this was okay? Itâs the middle of the night!"
âAnd shut the damn windowâ the A/C is on!â
She slammed the window shut, signalling the end of her furious rambling, and they both just⊠stood there. Breathing heavy in the heat of her room.
She exhaled, then turned on her heel to face Paxton again. Her face was steady and unreadable like she hadnât just snapped.
Then their eyes met.
For a second, neither moved.
Then they crashed together and into the very window heâd entered through time and time again â sweat mingling as they pressed closer.
It wasnât soft, nor was it slow. It was desperate and clumsy and everything theyâd been choking back for months.
Her bat dropped to the floor with a dull thud as his hands found her waist. Her fingers tangled in his sweat dampened hair, and he lifted her into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist and clinging to him like her life depended on it.
They couldnât get close enough.
Couldnât breathe enough.
He carried her to the bed without breaking the kiss, his hands steady but desperate.
She barely had time to catch her breath before he gently lowered her onto the mattress, his body hovering over hers, eyes dark with something more than just want.
Apologies fell from his lips between kisses and sharp breaths, broken things like:
âIâm sorryâ and âI didnât mean toâ and âI never stoppedââ
But none of it mattered; they were already too far gone.
âI cant stand when you look at me like that..â Y/n breathed after an extra long kiss, lips still parted.
Paxton blinked, his eyes too soft, too open.
âLike what?â
She huffed, trying to pull away, but not really. âLike youâre some.. kicked puppy hoping iâll forget you bit me..â
His breath caught, all words slipping from his brain, he was stuck like a deer caught in headlights: he didnt know how to explain himself, didnât know if he could.
âAnd maybe I wouldâve,â she added, voice low now, âif you hadnât come crawling back like this. If you hadnât looked at me like.. like im still yours..â
A beat passed. The standing fan whirred like it was trying to drown out the silence.
âAre you?â He asked, barely above a whisper, his hot breath hit her equally hot face.
Y/n swallowed, heart in her throat.
âPaxton..â
She breathed out a laugh, not because it was funny, but because she didnât know what else to do.
Her gaze lowered from his, âitâs not fair..â she muttered, eyes stinging. âyou get to look at me like that, like youâre not the reason I cant sleep at night.â
He didnât say anything at first.
Just sat up so he could focus on what he wanted to say and not her lips.
Then quietly, like the words hurt his throat as they came up,
âI thought i wasnât good enough for you.â
She blinked, âwhat?â
âYouâre..â He exhaled, eyes darting around, âYouâre smart. Youâre kind. You care about stuff. People.â His gaze dropped for a second. A breathy laugh slipped out, soft, a little nervous, like he was remembering something that snuck up on him. âYou cared about me.â
There was a pause. Then he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. âYou saw me as more than just my abs.. or whatever.â
âOr whatever?â a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips despite herself.
He looked at her â really looked at her âI didnât know how to be with someone like you. I thought if you got any closer youâd realize I wasnât who you thought i was.. youâd realize i wasnât worth it..â
âSo, i left first.â He said â any quieter and no sound wouldâve come out of his mouth at all. âbefore you could.â
âOh, Paxton..â She tsked, her voice soft now.
For the first time that night since heâd seen her, her eyes shiftedâ no more anger or sadness. just understanding.
She didnât owe him forgiveness. She knew that.
But she couldnât stand that look in his eyes, like he hated himself more than she ever could.
He let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, looking down like he was ashamed.
She brushed a damp curl from his face.
Then she kissed him.
Not desperate or frantic this time, just full of everything unsaid.
Content warnings: brief mention of alcohol, panic attack
Requested?: nop
Everyone is unique; no two people are exactly the same. Some people can fall asleep in complete silence, while others need background noise. Some love the chaos of crowds, and others find them unbearable.
And Y/n?
Y/n didnât do well with overstimulation; too much noise, too many people, too many things happening at once sent her into sensory overload, or in worse cases a panic attack.
She wasnât fragile or dramatic, she just needed space sometimes.
Breathing room.
Quiet.
But there was none of that inside the party â just pounding bass that felt like it was trying to break through her skull, voices layered over voices, and flashing lights made it hard to focus on anything at all. Her skin felt too tight, her thoughts too loud, head buzzing.
Her hands moved to the hem of her sleeves, twisting it between her fingers. Everything itched. It was like her clothes were part of the noise
Sheâd been to louder, rowdier parties before. But tonight it was all pressing in at once. Her hands trembled and she just wanted out.
She wished she hadnât touched the alcohol.
Just one drink, but it fuzzed the edges of her already-spinning head. Sheâd only wanted to feel a little looser, to not seem uptight or weird. Instead, she felt out of control.
So she made her way to the back door, hands trembling, heart racing, not from excitement or fun, but from something that felt an awful lot like drowning on dry land.
Paxton looked up from his game, beer in hand and halfway to his lips, just in time to see Y/n rush quickly out the back door, panic written all over her face, tight shoulders, unfocused eyes, like her body was trying to outrun something inside her.
She didnât even glance around, just shoved past a group near the door and disappeared into the night.
No one else noticed, no one moved.
No one except Paxton.
He didnât think â just followed.
The air on the back porch was cool.
The quiet was a jarring contrast to the noise inside. He spotted her immediately, curled up on the steps like she was trying to fold herself small enough to disappear.
She didnât even hear his footsteps, didnât even realize heâd noticed and she wasn't alone anymore.
But then a cold water bottle nudged her hand and her quiet, but noticeable, cries ceased.
âY/n, right?â Paxtonâs voice was low, almost careful.
She didnât respond â barely even moved. But he kept going, crouching down to hand her a water bottle.
âYou okay?â
She could have lied.
Should have, maybe. But instead she managed to mutter, âjust.. overwhelmed.â she sniffled
He nodded, like it made total sense. Like it wasnât weird or broken or something to apologize for.
Still, something about the way her shoulders curled inward, the way her whole body shook and her â honestly, sweaty â fingers clutched the hem of her sleeve as if to anchor herself, it seemed deeper than just overwhelmed.
Heâd never really been around someone having a panic attack before. Not up close, not like this.
He wasnât even sure if that was what was happening, but something in his chest tightened, and for once, he didnât trust his usual instinct to just say something casual and hope for the best.
He didnt know why he felt so..
protective wasnt even the right word.
Something in him had clicked without warning or permission.
Y/n wasnt a friend. In all honesty she wasnt even a person in his life, not in the way most people are. They shared one class together. That was it.
The only reason he even knew her name was because of the seating chart.
Their only interactions had been fleeting â usually her bumping into him accidentally in the hallway or while trying to scurry out of class.
Her face would flush, eyes low, whispering apologies like they were a reflex.
She never made eye contact. Never lingered. Always gone just as fast as she was there, like she could shrink herself out of existence.
She was quiet, probably thought no one noticed her â or at least hoped.
But he had.
He noticed the way she was always on edge, the way she flinched like noise and raised voices physically hurt her.
The way she fidgeted with her clothes â tugging at sleeves, adjusting collars, pulling at hems like nothing ever sat quite right against her skin.
He never thought much of it at the time. Just little things. Barely-there details.
But now, sitting next to her, watching as she tried to disappear into herself, it all made sense in a way he disliked.
âWanna talk, or want me to just shut up?â
She actually laughed. Just a little. And for the first time that night, she could finally breathe again.
He was now sitting next to her on the step, his hand going up to rub gentle circles on her back, âDeep breaths, okay?â
Her breathing steadied; his presence was oddly calming her, something unfamiliar, since people usually only made her more anxious.
She took the water bottle with both hands, holding it close and squeezing until it crinkled into the still night air, âSorry.. I'm okay.. didn't mean to worry youâ
Her eyes met his, glossy and red faced, âyou can go back inside.â she did her best at giving a reassuring smile.
She didnât expect him to stay.
But Paxton didnt move.
âI could,â he shrugged, âBut Iâd be thinking about you all night.â
She winced, biting her lip, âI didn't mean to freak out- just a little too loud for me.â she was unable to hold his stare, eyes drifting to her fidgeting hands
There was a silence â not awkward, but still.
Safe.
âParties arent for everyoneâ he hummed. âim not that great either, just good at hiding it betterâ
That earned another giggle, more genuine than the first.
Her eyes met his soft gaze.
âYou wanna sit out here with me a little longer?â He asked, leaning back on his palms, the concern on his face replaced by an admittedly cute smile.
She hesitated.
Then she nodded.
He tugged her gently into his side, squeezing her shoulder with quiet reassurance.
Her head rested against his shoulder, and for the first time all night, she felt like she could breathe.
summary: what do you mean you donât like the idea of spending a month on the road with your boyfriend?
warnings: established relationship, fluff borderline car camping, groping, kissing, corny couple stuff, kinda spoiled!reader
w/c: >2k
author notes: little blurb. Iâm deeming this summer as michael summer, Iâll be using mj songs up until early September (only because I havenât been posting as much for the month of may and the start of this month). thank the michael movie for this. also I changed up the layouts of current and future works, and this is lowkey a remaster of my old dean ff.
The car was surrounded in a blanket of rain, warm rays of orange and red blending against the wet asphalt. You and Dean had been on the road for four days. Four days of cramped motels, Metallica, and endless open states of land. Granted, this wasnât how you wanted to travel, but how could you complain when Dean looked so good behind the wheel?
His hand rested loosely against your thigh, fingers inching towards your inner thigh through the fabric of your jeans. His thumb mindlessly traced the seams of the stitching to your pants, occasionally giving the soft flesh underneath a gentle squeeze.
Between Blue Ăyster Cult and Bon Jovi songs, the two of you have traveled through the infinite horizons of Kansas and the skylines of Illinois. The sun was dipping towards the ground, pushing out the darkness of the night as it got ready for its daily rest. Deanâs fingers tapped against the wheel in time with the beat of the current AC/DC song, eyes darting along the road as you seemed content in drinking the gas station lemonade he got you six miles back.
There was a comfortable, relaxing stretch of silence between the two of you, attentions split between the sight of the dark sun set and the comfort of one another. He glanced your way, a silent double check of a gesture to ensure you were okay before darting his eyes back to the road.
âIllinois is nice, right?â
âMuch better than the corn fields of Kansas.â
Dean lets out a small laugh through his nose at your words, windshield wiper nosily swiping across the window as the car turned a sharp right into the warmth of a small town. The car passes a large catsup bottle tower, a bright red and blue striped bottle that read OLD ORIGINAL CATSUP in white font. The two of you look at each other at the sight of the tower before sharing a quick laugh.
âFrom the sight of corn to the love of ketchup. Cute.â He raises his eyebrows quickly, shaking his head slightly as the impala drives past a small family exiting a nearby diner. You glance at the large upside down horseshoe sign, quickly turning to Dean.
âOh look how cute! The horseshoe, maybe they have pie.â Dean looks your way as you point towards the building, leaning forward to get a better view of the exterior.
âYou know if they have good pie, youâll never hear the end of it.â You snickered slightly as he gave your thigh another long squeeze.
The impala passes by the small parking lot that held the cozy, simple looking diner, moving down the street towards a stretch that revealed a gas station on one side and a short motel on the other. From the corner of your eye, you can see Dean checking the layouts of the town, his hand moving against your thigh to reach for your hand.
You reached down to allow his hand to engulf yours, fingers intertwining one another as he pulled up into the motelâs parking lot. You stretched your legs out slightly, watching the town bustle alive as people walked to and fro. You smiled at the sight of two kids running back and forth the motelâs sidewalk, tossing a soft football between each other. It was a cute sight that connected the relationship of the town and the soothing environments of a ketchup loving Collinsville.
Dean reaches for the keys, killing the engine with a low rumble as it cools beneath the hood. âAlright baby, Iâll be right back.â You turn to him as he opens the driver side door, quickly leaning towards him.
âDonât you want me to come with you?â He hesitates, one foot out the door just hovering over the concrete ground before turning to look at you. He gently cups the back of your neck, brushing a few fly away strands of hair from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
âIâll be quick. You just sit here and look pretty.â
You roll your eyes with a little laugh, shifting forward to meet his lips in another quick peck before he pulls back to file out the car. Your eyes follow him as he closes the door behind him, turning around to look at you through the windshield before giving you a cute little finger wave as he makes his way towards the motel office. You watch him for just a bit longer before turning to look out the window at the growing coolness of the sunâs absence. The sky paints itself in a light blend of greys and blues, the duo of kids rush around against the sidewalk screaming at each other as the smaller child throws the football into the roofâs gutter.
You nosily study the interaction, watching as the seemingly older child smacks the smaller one in the back of the head. A nearby motel door opens in a rush, and a woman who looks to be their mother comes out to scold them. You press your lips together, not wanting to laugh at the demise of the children before turning back to the familiar sight of your boyfriend.
He greets you with a smug grin, a dangle of a small set of keys in between his fingers and a quick jog through the lot to open the door for you. You hope out with a small groan, stretching the tightness of your muscles before looking down at his extended palm. You read the yellowed printed numbers on the small card dangling from the keychain, forcing out a deliberate stretch. âOur roomâs downstairs. Hopefully we donât have loud upstairs neighbors.â You hum quietly at his words, mindlessly running a hand up and down his leather sleeve before leaning closer to him.
âThereâs also that food place we saw, but thereâs a restaurant three minutes away if you wantââ He stops as you gently tap his shoulder, glancing your way as you look towards where the two children were playing.
âThese little kids dropped their ball.â
âOh, really? Thatâs some bad luck. Iâm sure the manager will help.â
He slowly turns back to you, falling silent at the look on your face. His eyes dart along your face, letting out a dramatic sigh as you gave him a sweet little smile and a quick bat of your eyelashes. âAw, câmon, Deanie. They were so sad.â
âYeah? Well, Iâll be sad if I donât get something to eat in two minutes,â your smile immediately fell, a blank look filling your face as you moved back to cross your arms over your chest. âBaby. Stop that, donât sulk.â
âIf you donât help those kids get their football, an empty stomach is gonna be the least of your worries.â Dean immediately shuts up, the key jingling in between his fingers as he glanced over to the roof again before letting out a quick tsk of his teeth.
âAlright,â he looked back at you, handing you the key as he shrugged off his leather jacket. You grabbed the jacket before he could fully take it off, a bright smile slipping onto your lips. âAlright. Iâll get the ball.â
You hummed simply, closing the car door as you watched your boyfriend rather hesitantly, make his way around the back of the building. You folded the jacket over your arm, lingering by the car for a moment before mindlessly moving towards the sidewalk. You squint your eyes as he hops onto a garbage bin, awkwardly climbing up onto the roof with a heavy grunt. You enjoy the show of your boyfriend pulling himself up, eyeing the tight expanse of his muscles as he pulls himself up.
You can faintly see the flash of dirty orange hiding comfortably in gutter, craning your neck as Dean (not so) quietly makes his way towards the football. He makes a show of grabbing the ball and tossing it onto the floor before returning to safely hop down the roof.
You waited until he got down safely before quickly giving him a few golf claps, walking up to him as he moved to where the ball now rested on the asphalt. He turned to you as you wrapped a hand around his bicep, leaning up to press a soft kiss on his cheek. He smiled softly, quickly looking away as if he wasnât practically puffing his chest out in pride.
âThank you, baby. That was really kind of you.â He hums lowly, eyes following you as you walked past him to knock on the motel door where the mother and her two kids were. He quickly steps beside you, football in one hand as the mother swings the door open.
The kids curiously look around her, one of them immediately spotting the football in Deanâs hand. Before anyone can speak, the kid pushes past his mother with a broad grin. âMy football! Thank you so much!â He doesnât even wait for Dean to extend his arm out to give him the ball. He all but snatches the ball from his hand, eagerly pumping his fist as he shows his mom, whoâs looking a bit shy.
âThank you. The manager wouldnât even pick up the phone.â You turn to look at Dean who just rolls his eyes before giving the mother a friendly grin.
âNo problem, just reel back that arm in the future.â The younger brother shies away with a red face as his brother glares at him, but instantly seems to forget the situation as they toss the ball back and forth.
The door closes after the mother offers another tired smile and about ten more âthank youâs. You beam at Dean, moving to offer his jacket back to him before hesitating. âNo offense, but Iâm not going anywhere with you smelling like rain water.â
He lets out a gasp of fake offense, bringing a hand up to his chest as he steps closer to you. âYou donât like my natural scent?â Your nose wrinkles at the smell of rubber, rain gutter muck and roof tiles emitting from him as he steps closer.
âI think you need a bubble bath.â
âWhat about the pie?â You roll your eyes, shoving the keys into his hand as the two of you turn to walk towards the room.
âThe pie can wait.â Dean groans dramatically but follows close beside you anyways. The two of you walk down the sidewalk, stopping at the end of the building to your room. He unlocks the door, pushing it open before stepping in after you.
His eyes are glued onto your every move, tossing the keys on the bed as he awkwardly clears his throat. âDâyou like it? The bed is big, huh?â Your eyes dart to the yellow floral queen sized bed arranged strategically in front of a large square TV.
âItâs cute.â You agree simply, to which he quickly lifts a finger, approaching the bathroom with fast strides. You follow after him, peeking into the bathroom as he dramatically showcases the room like he was at a house opening.
The bathroom was actually pretty decent for a motel bathroom. Big, spacious, quaint little towel rack and a bathtub with a shower head attached. You nodded slowly with a pleased grin on your face, turning back to Dean with a happy smile. âItâs nice.â
âYeah?â He breathes out a sigh of relief, shoulders dropping slightly as you nod at him. He steps to the side, moving towards the door but you catch him before he can make it to the doorframe.
âWhere are you going?â He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, glancing towards the bed before looking at you again. âCome take a bath with me.â
âOh, you were serious?â You give him a quick look to which he immediately steps closer, wrapping a hand around your hip. âLike right now?â
âOr you could watch me.â Youâre squirming out of his grip, moving towards the bathtub as you kick off your shoes. Heâs physically caught between the urge of joining you and the thought of stuffing his face. He watches you shimmy out of your shirt and quickly steps behind you, hands fumbling with the buttons of his jeans.
âOkay, but pie after?â You laugh loudly at his question, turning around to face him as you cup his face in your hands.
âI promise you, pretty boy. Youâll get all the pie you want.â
[dividers by @uzmacchiato , just quick little fluffy before I lock in for these other drafts.]
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