[sydssvalntyne]

Welcome to my blog!

About Me:

• syd — she/her — leo — canadian — eky girlie

• concert junkie — book lover — music lover

• sharks & blackhawks fans

Socials:

• tiktok — pinterest — spotify — wattpad

❗️please do not copy any of my work without my consent

💟 Main Masterlist -> requests: open

💟 Other Masterlist -> requests: open

💟 Rules For Requests

💟 Who I Write For

[sydssvalntyne]

Pip & Ravi | Older - 5SOS

[sydssvalntyne]

Allie Hayes | Black Magic - little mix

[lovelytsunoda]

DANCING WITH MYSELF | Dean Di Laurentis

Summary: In danger of failing his music history class, Dean turns to the one person who can help- Briar University’s resident rock n roll nerd.

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Music Nerd!Reader

Warnings: I’m not kidding when I say reader is a massive nerd, awkward Dean, talk of depression and death of a grandparent,

Author’s Notes: I’m so sorry I’m about to unleash fourteen years worth of random music knowledge on the internet-

Dean didn’t know how he got there. If anybody had asked him, he knew he wouldn’t have an answer. He could see her behind the desk, flared jeans making her legs look long and majestic, the overhead lights bouncing off her glasses. Punk music played loudly in the background, something he recognized from Garrett’s training mix.

Logan’s words echoed in his head. He’d thought music history was going to be an easy credit. Something to keep his average up and keep him on the ice. Now, halfway through the semester and on the verge of failing, he was embarrassed to admit that he couldn’t tell the difference between Led Zepplin and The Rolling Stones. Logan, who had taken the same class one semester prior, had offered Dean the solution on a silver platter.

“You need to go down to Play It Twice and ask YN YLN for help. She was in that class with me last semester, and I’m telling you Dean, she’s a fucking genius. Aced every assignment. What that girl knows about Oasis could fill a bible.”

And so here he was, awkwardly flicking through a rack of seventies rock records while he tried to figure out what the hell it was he was doing here.

“Can I help you?”

Dean turned around, awkwardly holding a copy of Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols. The girl from behind the counter was standing next to him, thumbing through a stack of CD’s until she settled on something by a band called Smash Mouth.

Finally, a band name that Dean recognized.

“You work here?”

She chuckled. “I’m the manger. YN. So, what can I do to help the great Dean Di Laurentis?”

Dean sighed, slipping the vinyl back into the wooden crate he had gotten it from. “I need help with this music history paper. John Logan took the class with you last semester and told me you know more about this stuff than anybody else.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re failing music history? It’s not even a real course, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m desperate.” He pleaded. “If I fail this class, I can’t play. I’ll do anything.”

“Who wrote Interstate Love Song?”

Dean gaped, searching his brain for an answer. Not even the right answer, just something he could spit out so this beautiful girl in a Sex Pistols shirt didn’t think he was stupid.

“Led Zepplin?”

“Wrong, it’s the Stone Temple Pilots. What band was at the head of the British Invasion?”

This one, Dean thought he might know. “The Beatles?”

She sighed, tapping her fingers on the plastic CD case. “Technically, you got that one right. But I hate the Beatles. I consider The Who to be the leaders of that movement, but I was raised by a dad whose favourite song was Baba O’Riley. Name one Smash Mouth song that wasn’t in Shrek.”

“Accidentally In Love!”

“That’s by Counting Crows and it’s in Shrek 2.” She dropped the CD back into the pile, grabbing a lanyard from her back pocket. Dean expected her to be looking at him with disappointment, but instead she looked excited. “Follow me. You’ve got a lot to learn, Mr. Hockey Player.”

She unlocked a door with a massive poster of Debbie Harry on it, leading Dean down a flight of stairs and into a spacious room filled with floor to ceiling shelves lined with records.

“This is my personal collection. I live in student housing, so it’s hard to have a proper setup.”

Dean looked at the shelves in awe, all the vinyl sleeves perfectly alphabetized and organized be genre. The collection must have taken years to build. But what he noticed most was the way her eyes lit up as she grabbed a plastic step stool, reaching onto a top shelf to pull down a thick pink binder.

“What assignment are you guys on? It’s the independent study paper, right? I did mine on the life and death of Micheal Hutchence, and how he would still be alive if he had never broken up with Kylie Minogue.”

“How the hell are those two things connected?”

“If he had never broken up with Kylie, he wouldn’t have met Helena and then he wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and been knocked unconscious by a taxi driver causing irreversible brain damage.” She said matter of factly, dragging a bean and chair over to her stereo. “So, what’s your topic?”

Dean shrugged, lamely moving to sit next to her on the bean bag. “I don’t have one. I’m hopeless. I couldn’t tell you the difference between Robert Plant and Robert Palmer. I failed the paper on the cultural importance of the Britpop movement.”

YN smiled, leading through the binder. Dean could see that it was filled with old essays, each one brandishing a grade in the high nineties. “Ah, yes. My paper focused on the feud between Oasis and Blur. Fun times.”

“I thought Blur wrote Wonderwall.” Dean admitted.

“God, you need more help than I thought. What decade do you like the most? Seventies, eighties, nineties?”

“Nineties, I guess.” Dean shrugged. His listening mostly consisted of heavy workout playlists on Spotify. He knew AC/DC’s discography inside and out, but nothing about the people who wrote it or the time in which it was written.

“Good choice.” She got to her feet, moving towards a rack of CD cases. “We’ve got grunge: Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden.”

Dean perked up. “I know Pearl Jam! One of my housemates is always singing their songs when he’s in the shower.”

She smiled at him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Dean got a peek at a seductive streak of cherry red running through the back of her curls, and he felt the back of his neck go hot. “Good, so you can name some of their songs! You could do your paper on Eddie Vedder. Or, you have your stoner rock and ska: Sublime, Smash Mouth, Sugar Ray. There’s Britpop, and Madchester, and whatever the hell House of Pain had going on.”

At this point, Dean had zoned out, focusing less on what she was saying and more the passion in her voice, and the animated way in which she spoke about Chris Cornell as she placed albums down in front of him.

“Pick one, and we’ll go from there.”

He looked at the array of artwork placed in front of him, at a loss as he was forced to blindly pick something. He tried to remember the genres that she had sorted them into as he pointed at a record at random.

“This one. It speaks to me.”

“Superunknown. Soundgarden’s best work. If you like this, you’ll love Audioslave.” She picked up the CD, messing with a few buttons on the stereo as the familiar opening bars started to fill the room.

Dean smiled, bobbing his head. He recognized the song as something Tucker had played while he was washing his truck in the driveway, his booming voice carrying before Logan had doused him with water and told him to shut up. “I know this one!”

“Everybody knows Black Hole Sun. Most people think it’s an allegory for depression. Cornell wanted to keep the meaning vague, so that it could be whatever someone needed it to be. The song is all about mood and tension. Even without the lyrics, you’d still be able to paint that picture. He composed it by whistling into a dictophone.”

Dean was entranced. Not just but the ominous guitar music booming on behind him, but by the woman sitting next to him. She spoke with such passion and conviction, and it was clear that the subject meant a lot to her. Dean wasn’t stupid- he knew about what had happened to Chris Cornell, but somehow he hadn’t put the dots together that the same man had written the desperate ballad that he was listening to now.

He also knew that people who felt a connection to this kind of music usually had things they preferred to keep in their pasts. Things that music had helped them get through.

“What’s your favourite band?” Dean blurted as the song reached its climax. “Obviously all of this is important to you.”

She bit her lip, twisting one of the bracelets on her wrist before answering. “My Chemical Romance. One of their most famous songs, it’s called Helena, and Gerard Way wrote it after his grandmother died. I was really depressed after I lost my gran, and without that song, I don’t think I could have gotten through it. She had practically raised me since my parents both worked full time.” As the album transitioned to the next track, she rifled through her binder, unclipping a sheaf of notes. “Grunge was one of my favourite units to study. My oral presentation on the Death of Kurt Cobain got a standing ovation.”

She beamed when she passed Dean the notes, and Dean felt his chest constrict. He wanted to see that smile more often.

“Come back tomorrow and we can tackle the eighties: hair metal and new wave.”

Despite himself, Dean found that he was excited to go back to Play It Twice. So much so that he showed up early the next morning, before the shop had even opened. He stood outside like a weirdo, watching through the display case as YN danced behind the desk, the skirt of her dress swaying around her calves as she cleaned the records stacked next to her. He could hear the music rattling the windows- something with a heavy synthesizer beat.

He almost regretted knocking on the window and asking to be let in, but it was worth it for the cute little jump of surprise that she made at the sound.

“Di Laurentis.” She coughed as she opened the glass door. “You’re early.”

“What’s playing?” Dean asked, leaning in the doorway. He towered over her, and he hoped it was in a way that made him seem sexy and not intimidating. “I like the way it sounds.”

“New Order. Formed from the wreckage of Joy Division after Ian Curtis died.”

Dean grinned, stepping inside the store. “I bet it’s much more fun to dance to than Soundgarden.”

Her eyes widened as Dean reached for her hand, not giving her much choice as he pulled her into a dance.

He didn’t know if he had ever smiled as much as he had when he twirled her a few times, comically dipping her to the music that played in the background. Her smile and laughter were infectious, and he knew he needed more.

As Alanis Morissette would have said, Dean Di Laurentis was falling head over feet.

She stumbled, tripping over the toe of her tennis shoe and falling into the counter behind her. Dean rushed to catch her, his strong and athletic frame caging her against a bin of reggae records.

“You okay?” He asked, voice dropping a few octaves.

She nodded, swallowing before she answered “Yeah, I’m good.”

and yet neither of them moved. Dean was breathing heavily, his eyes searching hers for any hint of the same want that he felt.

Behind them, the door to the storeroom flew open.

“YN!” A voice called. “Can I get your help with something?”

The trance was broken, disappointment flicking across her face as she pushed Dean away. “Yeah! I’ll be there in a second!”

She bent down to grab a milk crate of discount vinyl, using he shoulder to push the storeroom door open. In spite of the large sign that read ‘employee’s only’, Dean followed her through to the back. “How do you know all this stuff about music? It’s impressive.”

She turned to face him, ponytail swinging with the motion. “I was a lonely kid.” She shrugged “learning this stuff made me feel like all the time I spent alone had a purpose.”

It was during their lesson on power ballads, which ended with both of them shouting Wanted Dead or Alive at the top of their lungs, that the idea for his paper finally came to him. He was more devoted to that paper than anyone in the hockey house had ever seen. He’d set up at the dining room table, and most of the guys hadn’t even realized that he was there until he blurted:

“Hey Tucker, why is Pearl Jam your favourite band?”

Three days later, he ran straight from class to Play It Twice, praying that she was working. Dean didn’t initially see her when he first burst through the front doors. The young man at the front desk raised his eyebrows at red-faced Dean, who was about to turn around and leave when he saw YN appear from behind the Debbie Harry poster.

“Dean?” She smiled softly. “You’re early. My lesson plan isn’t set up yet.”

Wordlessly, he reached into his backpack to grab the printed first draft of his paper. Two beers and four Red Bulls later, he’s certain that it’s the best, most heartfelt assignment he will ever complete. She took it from the hockey player, eyes widening when he reads the title.

Hard Rock Songs, and the Stories of the People Who Love Them.

“You finished your paper?” She looked up at him, chest tight as she knew that the hours spent in the record store basement with Dean Di Laurentis were almost over.

Dena nodded. “I wanted you to be the first one to read it.”

She read through the first page, entranced at Dean’s use of words. The way he recounted a story from John Tucker’s childhood about singing Better Man while working on the farm with his dad.

A story about how Garrett Graham always thinks about the very first game he ever won at Briar when he hears Nothing But A Good Time.

And about how New Order always makes him think about dancing with the most beautiful girl that Dean Di Laurentis has ever seen, even though New Order isn’t considered hard rock, and shouldn’t be even mentioned in his paper.

“Dean,” she laughed, handing the paper back. “This is fantastic. You’re going to do amazing. You’ll be back on the ice in no time.”

For the first time since he’d started talking to girls, Dean found himself almost too shy to speak. He scratched the back of his neck, staring down at his feet.

“I was wondering.” He began. “You did such a fantastic job tutoring me for this class, and I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to let me take you out to dinner?”

she laughed, crossing her arms across her chest. “You mean like a date?”

“Do you want it to be a date?” Dean scrambled to cover up his mistake. “It doesn’t need to be-“

“Yes. I’ll go on a date with you. Pick me up at seven?”

Dean’s smile absolutely glowed, his cheeks reddening. “Yeah, sounds like a date.”

[misswarmsoul]

WILDEST DREAMS || DEAN DI LAURENTIS X GRAHAM!READER

“no one has to know what we do.. his hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room” 𐔌❤︎ ͡𐦯

໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ PAIRING: graham!reader x brothersbsf!dean

໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ BLURB: Dean Di Laurentis was never supposed to want her.

Not when she’s Garrett Graham’s little sister. Not when crossing that line could cost him one of the most important friendships he’s ever had.

But some people become impossible to resist. Hidden away in whispered moments and carefully kept secrets, what exists between them grows into something neither of them knows how to name. Something real.

The only problem is that Dean can’t give her what she truly wants. And no matter how desperately they reach for one another, some things were never meant to be held without breaking.

໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ CONTAINS: swearing, arguing, angst, mentions of sexual acts and drinking, garrett graham’s sister, abuse, violence

AUTHOR NOTE: first off campus fic! i hope i did the characters justice.. but pleaaase feel free to request anything & everything!!!

- also written mainly for mai&sami <3 also sami i took pins from u to make this.. sorry i love u

Dean Di Laurentis should have known Garrett Graham was up to something the second he walked into the hockey house kitchen and found his friend waiting for him with folded arms.

“Uh-oh,” Dean said, reaching into the fridge for a beer. “That look usually means I clogged the shower with a condom again.”

He winked at a puck bunny who was in his bed a couple hours prior to the party.

Garrett didn’t smile. That should’ve been the first warning sign.

The second came when Garrett followed him out onto the back deck, where Beau Maxwell was currently arguing with several teammates about whether birthday shots counted if he had taken some the day before as well.

The house was already packed. Music rattled the walls. People streamed through the front door in clusters, carrying cases of beer and cheap liquor. Tonight was Dean and Beau’s shared birthday party, which meant the entire campus had apparently received an invitation.

Dean twisted the cap off his beer. “What the hell is going on?”

Garrett’s jaw flexed. “My sister’s coming tonight.”

Dean blinked.

“Okay, and why are you telling me that like it’s a fucking threat?”

Garrett stared at him.

Dean sighed.

“Oh. Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Dean lifted his hands. “G, I have no interest in your sister.”

The statement came easily enough. Mostly because it was true. At least for now.

Dean had a slight idea of what Garrett’s sister looked like based on how he would describe her. But his little sister existed firmly inside the category labeled Absolutely Not.

The same category that included dating teammates’ exes and sleeping with professors.

Garrett didn’t look reassured.

“If I hear you even looked at her—”

Dean barked out a laugh. “You cannot be fucking serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“You mean I can’t even look at her?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“That’s psychotic, man.”

Suddenly Dean wasn’t laughing anymore.

Because underneath the irritation in Garrett’s voice sat something else. Something sharper.

The expression crossed Garrett’s face so quickly Dean almost missed it.

“She’s been through enough,” Garrett said quietly.

Dean frowned.

Garrett wasn’t usually the overprotective brother type. Annoying? Yes. Bossy? Absolutely. But this felt different.

This felt personal.

The problem was that Garrett’s expression made it abundantly clear that further questions would not be welcome.

“Fine. I’ll stay away from her.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine. I said I’d stay away from her. I swear on my incredible fucking good looks.”

“No fuckin’ jokes.”

“Garrett, come on.”

“Dean.” Then he walked away.

Leaving Dean standing on the deck with a beer in his hand and a strange feeling lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.

Because Garrett hadn’t sounded protective. He’d sounded afraid.

And Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Garrett Graham afraid of anything.

—

Y/N Graham hated college parties.

Not because she disliked people.

Not because she disliked drinking.

And definitely not because she disliked fun.

She hated them because they reminded her that everyone else seemed to understand how to exist effortlessly.

Meanwhile, she spent most of her life feeling like she was constantly waiting for something bad to happen.

Old habits died hard. Especially the ones carved into you during childhood.

The thought surfaced uninvited as she climbed the porch steps of the hockey house.

Music blasted from inside and laughter spilled through open windows.

Some drunk idiot was already butchering a song at the top of his lungs.

Tonight was about Garrett.

Her brother had been pestering her for weeks to attend the birthday party.

His exact words had been: You spend too much time hiding in your apartment.

She’d informed him that reading books and avoiding idiots wasn’t hiding.

He’d called her antisocial.

She’d called him obnoxious as hell.

The argument had ended with Garrett threatening to physically carry her to the party.

Which, unfortunately, sounded like something he’d actually do.

The front door opened before she could reach for the handle.

“Holy shit,” a guy exclaimed.

Y/N recognized him instantly.

Beau Maxwell. Birthday boy number two.

“Garrett’s sister?”

She laughed. “Is that my official title now?”

“Pretty much. I don’t think anybody knows your actual name.”

“Good to know?” She says playfully.

Beau stepped aside dramatically. “Welcome to the party. Try not to die.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The music intensified the second she stepped inside. Bodies crowded every available inch of space.

People danced.

Shouted.

Laughed.

Someone nearly ran into her carrying a bottle of vodka. A familiar hand landed on her shoulder.

“There you are.”

She smiled immediately.

Garrett.

“Happy now?” she asked.

His answering grin was quick.

“Ecstatic. I was about five minutes away from sending out a search party.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.”

His gaze swept over her.

Checking. Making sure she was okay.

Y/N pretended not to notice.

“I’m fine,” she said softly. “You can stop looking at me like I’m about to get attacked. He’s not here, G.

Garrett’s expression shifted. Just slightly.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Good.”

Before Y/N could respond, somebody shouted Garrett’s name from across the room.

His teammates.

Garrett groaned.

“Duty calls.”

“Go.”

“You sure?”

She snorted.

“I’m twenty years old, Garrett. I think I can survive a damn party.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Then he disappeared into the crowd.

And from across the room, Dean Di Laurentis looked up from the girl that was currently kissing down his neck.

Their eyes met. Only for a second.

Meaningless.

But not to him.

Dean immediately looked away and immediately turned back towards the puck bunny.

Because he remembered exactly what he’d promised Garrett.

The problem was that he found himself looking back.

Just once. Or maybe twice. He’s lost count by the end of the night.

—

That was just the beginning.

A few weeks became a month.

A month became two.

And somehow, despite every reason they had to stay away from each other, neither of them ever did.

The deception grew easier with time.

Or perhaps they simply grew accustomed to carrying it, letting the weight of the lie settle onto their shoulders until it felt like something they could no longer put down.

There were countless nights spent in Dean’s room, hidden from the rest of the world. Times where they’d both attend a party and spend the entire time wishing they were alone together rather than pretending to hate one another.

Nights filled with laughter, arguments over ridiculous movies, and conversations that stretched far beyond midnight. Moments that felt perilously close to normal, close enough that they could almost pretend none of the complications existed.

Normal people didn’t have to pretend they hated each other in public.

Normal people didn’t have to carefully monitor every glance across a crowded room.

Normal people certainly didn’t have to worry about one of their closest friends discovering a secret capable of detonating their entire lives.

“Y/N, could you help with table six? I’ve got my hands full!” Hannah asks, holding three plates.

Y/N is pulled out of her thoughts immediately. She nods toward Hannah and begins to help clean up table six.

The bell of Malone’s door dings.

She looks up and her eyes meet another pair that she has recently begun to memorize.

Dean pulls his phone out and without hesitation, Y/N does as well. She already knew he was about to send her a text.

Mr. Six Flags: want me 2 tell the guys to sit at one of ur tables?

Y/N: im cleaning table six. come sit here and i’ll serve u guys in a second!

Mr. Six Flags: got it, babydoll. come over tonight? u don’t need to sneak in since the guys are gonna stay out late tonight ;)

Y/N: can’t wait <3

After Y/N sends her text, they both look up and make eye contact. She catches herself before smiling.

She walks over to the table she had secretly told Dean to sit at.

“Hey guys, how was the game?”

She tries her hardest not to glance at Dean, who is doing an awful job at pretending he hates her. She can feel his gaze burning into her skin.

“We won! You should’ve been there, Graham!” Logan exclaims.

She laughs softly. “Next time, I guess. I can’t miss any more of my brother’s wins or else he’ll murder my ass.”

After taking their order, she walks over to put it in, but she pauses when she notices her phone vibrating.

Dad.

She hangs up immediately, but that doesn’t stop him from texting.

Dad: you can’t ignore me forever, Y/N.

Her face drops and she puts her phone on silent. Her breathing becomes heavier as she can feel panic seeping through her bones.

Out of instinct, her eyes try to find Dean’s immediately.

Of course, his were already on her, but his expression was now covered by worry.

Dean was aware of her past with her dad before moving out for college, but she never told him details. He knew she could come to him whenever she was ready.

In only two months, Y/N had become his number one priority. She’d become under his radar 24/7. She was under his protection now whether he wanted it or not. But he knew he wanted it.

His eyes furrowed before sending her another text.

Mr. Six Flags: you ok?? you need me?? we can go outside

The hardest part wasn’t fooling her brother.

For her, it was fooling Dean. It was pretending that she was alright with only hooking up.

For the first time in a while, there had been one person in her life that truly understood what was underneath the act she put up for everyone else. He saw the true nature of her.

Because somewhere along the way, Y/N Graham had ceased being Garrett's little sister.

She had eventually became his favorite part of his day and the realization should’ve terrified him.

Instead, it ruined him in ways he hadn't anticipated, unraveling carefully guarded pieces of himself he had spent years keeping under control.

Dean had spent years constructing his life around certainty. Hockey. His future. Everything existed in neat, manageable compartments.

Y/N obliterated every single one.

She slipped beneath his defenses with alarming ease, settling herself into places he hadn't realized were empty until she occupied them.

The sound of her laugh lingered in his thoughts long after she'd gone home.

And God help him, he was beginning to crave her presence with a dependence that bordered on pathetic.

Dean Di Laurentis, Briar U’s well-known fuck-boy had officially been tied down by one girl who hadn’t even been his girlfriend yet.

The problem was that none of it changed reality.

No matter how badly he wanted her, no matter how much of himself seemed to belong to her now, reality remained stubbornly unchanged.

He knew what she truly wanted. What she truly needed.

The only problem? He also knew he couldn’t give her it.

Every time that thought surfaced, a bitter taste settled in the back of his throat.

Because for the first time in his life, Dean wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be the guy who walked away first.

But the idea of losing the girl he now couldn’t imagine his life without or one of his best friends is what terrified him.

—

Y/n’s fingers traced along Dean’s bicep. Lately, it didn’t take sex to get them to spend time together. Hookups turned into hangouts, but she had no complaints.

She'd spent years building walls sturdy enough to survive anything life threw at her. Years teaching herself that dependence was dangerous and expectations were even worse.

Then Dean Di Laurentis looked at her like she was something worth protecting.

Like she was worth choosing.

“Will you come to the game again tomorrow?”

She smiled softly. “I can’t wear your jersey number again. Garrett almost caught us last time.”

Dean groaned. “Too bad. You looked fuckin’ marvelous in it. I can’t imagine you wearing anyone else’s.”

“Not the point! He spent ten minutes interrogating me!”

“Well.. what did you say?”

“That your jersey was comfortable and I found it in his laundry”

“It is comfortable.”

“Whatever. Moral of the story, I can’t go tomorrow.”

He lifts a brow. “What, because you can’t wear my number? Come anyway. You know I always play better when you’re there, baby.”

A blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I guess, but you can’t point at me after scoring again. You have the survive instincts of a rock.”

He scoffs, but still grinning widely. He pushes the hair out of her face slowly and grips her face with both hands, then placing a kiss on her forehead.

“I have the best survival instincts, for your information.”

She roll my eyes playfully. “You’re secretly dating Garrett Graham’s little sister. He’d beat your ass”

Dean was smiling until he realized what she had said. “Dating?”

The idea of dating her warms his soul more than he’d like to admit, but the more he feels himself fall for her, the more he thinks about Garrett. Girlfriends are a distraction from his future. They never work out and he always ends up accidentally hurting their feelings.

What’s worse than Garrett finding out that Dean’s hooking up with his sister? Garrett finding out he had hurt his sister. He can’t risk that because it would hurt his own heart more than a physical punch from her brother would.

“Are we not?” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her nervousness is shown through her eyes instead.

“I spend more nights in your bed than my own, Dean. I know you’re opposed to telling Garrett, but—“

“You.. you know I don’t have much I can offer right now, Y/N”

“Well, yeah. I genuinely like you, Dean. I just thought maybe—“

A noise causes me to pause and Dean to look up.

The door pushes open.

[sydssvalntyne]

I’m currently writing something for Connor Bédard but idk if i should post it or not. Hears a little sneak peak so you guys can let me know if i should post it or not once i’m done.

should i post?

yes

no

for me

Voting ended onJun 2

[belli5]

I LOVE YOU WHEN YOU SMILEᵎᵎ MC⁷¹

╰ Synopsis You’re blessed and obsessed with Macklin’s smile and lips.

tags/contains Macklin Celebrini x fem!reader. Fluff, established relationship, reader obsessed with Macklin’s lips and smile(duh), 0.9k words, requested.

➺ from Sera, to you📨. This is short, forgive me. But the name of this fic and the end of the story, is inspired by one of my favourite songs: Daggers.

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!

If there were a top three things you loved most about Macklin, his smile and his lips would easily take the first two spots.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on what made them so addicting, maybe it was how his bottom lip looked so soft and full it practically begged to be kissed.

You didn’t know why they held your attention like this, but you knew for certain that kissing them was one of your favorite things in the world. Either it was soft and slow kisses or hungry ones, breathless ones and the ones that left you dizzy and wanting more.

Sometimes when Macklin yapped about his day, you tried to listen, but really the way his lips moved around every syllable was mesmerizing. They parted and pressed together, the faint sheen of moisture catching the lamplight whenever he paused to think.

When he smiled at a joke he’d just made about one of his teammates, those straight white teeth flashed, the slight sharpness of his canines catching your eye. Even his teeth were perfect.

You knew it was normal, couples in love stared at each other’s lips. It was attraction and biology, but with Macklin, it felt like more. You were drawn to them in a way that went beyond simple want. Sometimes you’d catch yourself zoning out completely, replaying the memory of how they felt against yours, how they tasted and how they curved so beautifully when he laughed.

You’d seen how perfect Macklin’s smile was from the very beginning. It was only a couple of weeks into dating when you met his mom for the first time.

She had welcomed you into their family home with warm hugs and endless stories, clearly thrilled that her son had found someone. After dinner, the three of you settled on the couch with old photo albums spread across the coffee table. Macklin had groaned in embarrassment, but his mom insisted.

She pointed to a picture of tiny Macklin, maybe three years old, grinning ear to ear in a little hockey jersey. His smile was already so bright, his chubby cheeks framing a toothy grin that showed his straight little teeth.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. You teased present Macklin, who was sitting next to you right now, about how he was the cutest.

It wasn’t just that you loved his smile. It was everything those lips could do. Especially after a long day, when the two of you finally have time to unwind together.

Nothing felt better than collapsing onto the couch or bed with Macklin, trading soft little pecks that slowly turned into something deeper. His lips were incredibly soft, dare you say unfairly so. Every gentle press against yours reminded you why you could never get enough.

Macklin could come over after a tough practice, and you’d have a draining day yourself. The second he walked through the door, you pulled him close. He smiled and you rose onto your tiptoes to give him a sweet peck, then another, and another.

He’d guide you toward the bedroom, where you both fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. What started as innocent pecks becomes more. Macklin hovered over you, his lips tracing a slow path down your body. He kissed along your jaw, pressing open mouthed kisses to your neck that made your breath hitch. You loved the way his full bottom lip dragged gently against your skin teasingly.

His lips brushing over your collarbone, your chest, your stomach, each kiss affectionate. Every now and then his teeth would graze lightly, sending tiny sparks through you. Then he worked his way back up, kissing your neck again, with playful little breaths that tickled your sensitive skin.

You couldn’t help but giggle, squirming beneath him. “Macklin, that tickles!”

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your throat, before capturing your lips once more. The kiss was slower, his mouth moving against yours with a perfect rhythm. His bottom lip felt plush between yours, and when he smiled into the kiss, you felt the curve of it and the flash of his teeth.

These intimate moments after long days were truly the best part of your life with him. It somehow made you feel cherished and desired all at once. And you were lucky enough to have them all to yourself.

That night you two fell asleep tangled together. The next morning, you woke up slowly to the feeling of Macklin’s chest pressed warmly against your back, his strong arm draped securely around your waist, holding you close.

Carefully, you turned over, trying not to wake him. Macklin stirred slightly, moving onto his back with a quiet sigh, one arm falling loosely beside his head. You rolled onto your stomach, propping yourself up on one elbow. In the soft morning light, he looked peaceful and unfairly handsome.

You reached out gently, tracing his face with your fingertips. First along his jaw, then up to the curve of his cheek. “I love you when you smile,” you said quietly not to wake him up.

Leaning down, you pressed the lightest kiss to his chest, right over his heart. His skin was warm, and you could feel the faint beat beneath your lips. Then you settled back down, resting your head on his chest again, ear pressed comfortably against him.

The rhythmic thump of his heartbeat filled your ears like the sweetest lullaby, pulling you into a light, peaceful sleep.

TAGLIST: @bouncedatahhh @cheerymints @lynsdigitaljournal @ill-uminati7 @behindthescreenobsessed @lemsies25 @definitelynotdomanique @lcvlyhughesy @sh1ft1ng1234 @willsmiths2 @mintbrini98 @kazansky-slxt @siennaluvshcky @wherethezoes-at @macka @carlottawllms @Blankenbirks @mcelebrini @probably--possessed @celebrinigf @postgamevibes @icetimedreamer @misslivinglegend @alexxavicry @sohhh09 @goaldengay @umm-ok-fine @idkwhatthisis2009 @luckylzclerc @miyasfatass @0717luv @downtownjulie @feellikeimphoebe @lilfreakjez @astrolatrism @asteria33 @cccassiopeia @mrsbedard @Ponyboygirl1234 @vivireichs @itzlexa @hyunjinvoid @sxphmarny

Join the taglist here.

[sydssvalntyne]

Fraser Minten x Clark Kent

[seafoammm]

plowed down!

*⁀➷john logan x fem!reader

➷ summary: you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now

➷ word count: 5464

➷ warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvard’s girl’s volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two points– the points that both teams desperately needed– would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.

And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.

Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppy– or at least, it felt like you had– and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts. 

But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.

And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.

It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball. 

It didn’t help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made sense– since your freshman year, you’d been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldn’t stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadn’t left since.

And that’s because you– to be totally, completely humble– were a really fucking amazing libero. 

Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didn’t let it get to your head, of course. You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You weren’t like that– you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.

So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.

And, to be honest, right now, you didn’t feel great.

Or good.

You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this set– despite it being in the beginning– you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldn’t get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.

You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didn’t help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was ‘Briar Blackout’ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?

This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.

And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally ‘got this’.

The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.

In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.

You’re pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.

But you couldn’t be thinking about the hockey boys right now– you couldn’t be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.

It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind. 

That was no good.

You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make it– not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.

And, fuck, you really couldn’t have that.

So you did what you always did– you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb. 

You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your head– and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.

However, you were not where you were supposed to be.

No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.

In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken to– hell, you didn’t even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadn’t flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.

To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, “Oh, shit!”

You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.

As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.

You only get a quick glance of the guy’s baffled– but heavily amused– eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, it’s lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court. 

Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammates– Liliana Amato– bumps it up and over to Louisa.

Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvard’s side of the net. 

Their libero isn’t fast enough. 

No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.

You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadn’t actually saved the ball. 

This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the ‘big three’. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.

All you needed now was one point.

One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then you’d win.

If you guys got this point, you’d make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasn’t been to in over ten years.

The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.

And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God you’ve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to work– the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, you’ve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.

Like now.

You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvard’s middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didn’t even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second you’re on your back, and the next you’re on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.

You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.

But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?

It couldn’t be out.

There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.

Everyone’s eyes are on the ref, who’s talking to the other referees. They’re huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like it’s in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.

It had gone in.

The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.

Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.

In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coaches– who have yelled at you more times than you could count this game– joining in. You’re so ecstatic that you don’t even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.

The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadn’t done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Malone’s for a late night meal with three of your teammates– your best friends– and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.

Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Malone’s with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner. 

You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.

“Holy shit, it’s her!” Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. “She’s literally right there–”

“Yeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,” Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, “Can you be quiet?”

“Why?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. “You’ve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and it’s obvious you already have a massive crush on her.”

“I don’t–”

“You’ve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,” Garrett interrupted with a snort. “I’m pretty sure you’ve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.”

Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group. 

Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, “She’s interesting.”

“Yeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,” Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter. 

Logan glared harshly at Tucker, “That’s not why I find her interesting.”

“Sure,” Dean drawls out.

“Dude, I’m serious,” Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blonde’s head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, “She’s good at her sport. It's fun to watch."

“I think he’s so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,” Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. “And that’s new for any Briar hockey boy.”

“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.

Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it. He can’t deny it, because it’s true. 

Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briar’s sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.

Now, one thing about you was, you didn’t do hockey. Like, at all. You’ve never been to a game before. You didn’t understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.

It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.

The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didn’t know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didn’t do hockey.

“Alright,” the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. “Now, kinda venturing off… we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.”

You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, “Oh yeah?”

“John Logan. How are you feeling about that?” The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldn’t for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.

“Sorry, who?”

Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a worse fucking response.

But, in John Logan’s eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Malone’s after the game– because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reason– he couldn’t help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.

The reporter’s smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the school’s media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, “Uh… John Logan?”

“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry, I have no clue who that is.”

“The guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.”

“Oh,” you respond. And because for some fucking reason you can’t help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, “Hockey boy.”

Like a fucking idiot.

Or, in John Logan’s eyes, like a fucking angel.

“...Right. He plays right wing for Briar men’s hockey,” she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, “You didn’t know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?”

And, of course, because for some reason your brain’s goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.

But, no, you weren’t a fool in Logan’s eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.

“I knew they were here. I just don’t have a clue who they are.”

“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”

“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”

“Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”

“John Tucker?”

“The guy I ran into?”

Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.

“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”

“Right.” You shake your head and you laugh, “Too many John’s, am I right?”

The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.

Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. He’d played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.

And not caring when finding out who he was.

Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.

“Just go talk to her, dude,” Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. “She’s two tables down.”

Logan followed Garrett’s gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.

God, he hadn’t even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.

“No,” he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.

“Okay, this is painful,” Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. “Give me that–”

Dean had reached forward, plucking Logan’s phone from his loose grip.

“What– dude, stop– give it back–” 

But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Logan’s phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.

And, oh, if looks could kill.

“Are you fucking–”

“Shhhh, thank me later.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“No way.”

“What?” Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, “What’s up?”

You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.

John Logan has requested to follow you.

“Holy fuck,” Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, she’s already leaning far away from you, “Oh, we are accepting this right now–”

“No! No, we are not,” you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. “He literally just followed me. If I accept now, he’ll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so give–”

“And, accepted! Alrightly, follow back… and look at that, he already approved it!”

“I hate you,” you groan.

“Bro,” Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, “he was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.”

“You guys are all delusional,” you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know it’s because Malone’s is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.

“I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of this situation.”

“‘The severity of the situation’?” You repeat Jade’s words. “The hell does that mean?’

“That you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled him–”

You feel your face burn, “I did not straddle him.”

“Babe,” Louisa interjects, “you absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?”

You groan, “They already posted it?”

“Girl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,” Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulder– you only hadn’t because he had held you against him. 

“Oh,” Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. “So that’s Garrett Graham,” she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, “and that’s Dean Di Laurentis,” and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, “That’s John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”

“Okay, whatever.”

Jade groans loudly, “Can we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks you’re hot.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Girl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.”

Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guy’s face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.

Fuck, it was kinda hot.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you choose to say instead.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jade groans. “Look, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?”

You shrug, lying, “I dunno. Didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘the edit’?” You question, absolutely baffled. “This guy has edits made for him?”

“He’s a college hockey player, and he’s fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, he’s got edits– but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I mean–”

“You guys are disgusting.”

“Here,” Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.

“Okay,” you say once the edit finishes, “he’s hot. I get it.”

“See!” Jade grins, “He’s hot, and he’s definitely interested in you after tonight, which means that–”

But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someone’s phone. It’s you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.

“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”

It was too late, though.

You and your friends’ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six others– five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.

The sixth being John Logan.

You can’t even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group that’s only two tables away, “Holy shit, he’s right there, oh my God–”

“I can see that, Louisa,” you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, he’s making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, “Where the fuck are you guys going?”

“To a different table so we don’t block his cock.”

“Oh my–”

You can’t even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Logan’s friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.

Logan’s friends didn’t seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.

You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really don’t know what’s with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth aren’t something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.

“My victim.”

You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?

But you don’t leave, not when John’s smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, “My attacker.”

“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”

“What would you call it?” He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.

“A collision on the playing field,” you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. “I’m sure you’re used to those. With hockey and everything.”

“So you know who I am now?” He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.

“Hard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. He’s got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. He’s still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. “You tackling me, me catching you–”

“Straight out of a sports romcom,” you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, “What a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we would’ve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. “We’ve been snubbed.”

Fuck, he was fun to banter with.

All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.

You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didn’t even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Malone’s, except for the staff.

And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Malone’s until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you can’t help but agree.

Which is where you found yourself now.

Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache. 

He presses more kisses to your lips. They’re firmer, eager, and it’s now that you know you have to break the news to him.

“Wanna know another thing about me, John?” You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.

He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, “What?”

“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”

You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured that’s what would happen, but you didn’t necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you weren’t going to change your rules for a guy you had just met. 

But, no, Logan doesn’t react how you were expecting at all.

No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.

He grins. 

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆ NEXT TO YOU, BEAU MAXWELL

summary. After Beau’s hard day at practice, he only wants two things. A hot shower and your arms to crawl right into. Thankfully, you’re not one to complain when he gets clingy.

⭑.ᐟ thanks for the request :) this is super short but super sweet. Let’s pretend this doesn’t make me sad Kay?

masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

Beau’s pretty sure his body is about to give out.

His legs feel like jelly, his hands hurt right underneath his bones, his heart hasn’t stopped beating out of his chest and his rib is starting to bruise.

He just wants a hot shower and warm arms to crawl right into.

That’s you.

His face is more sunken than usual—you can tell by the way he stands in the doorway after you respond to his signature three knocks.

‘Rough day?’

‘You can’t even imagine.’ He sighs dropping his bag onto the floor, and doesn’t waste a second before hugging you the way he’s thought about it all day.

‘I missed you.’ He mumbles in your neck.

‘I saw you at breakfast.’ You laugh lightly.

‘Too long. Don’t like it.’ His voice is barely a whisper.

‘You need a shower, Beau. You’ll feel better.’

‘Gee thanks. I thought you’d be nice to me after seeing my state, guess not.’ He jokes with a soft tone pulling his head away from your neck.

‘Ah-ah. I mean it- you’re exhausted. It’ll help.’

‘Can you be my guest of honor?’ He takes your hands in his and sways them together.

‘Is that an invitation Mr.Maxwell?’ You tease.

‘It’s more me begging.’

Beau’s favorite time with you might just be showering together.

Not the sexual aspect.

More the intimacy.

He feels closer to you that way.

Washing your hair, you washing his.

Admiring the way you stick to your routine.

The bed creeks under his tired body as he jumps on it.

‘Come here.’ He says with his eyes close.

‘Yes sir.’

That makes him smile a little.

‘What do you want to do?’ You ask because it’s still early.

‘I just want you.’ He snuggles closer, pulls the covers over you both and his head finds its place between your shoulder and your jaw.

‘No dinner?’

‘You can be my dinner.’

‘Jesus. Now you’ve lost it.’ You laugh and beau’s heart swells as he feels the rumble from your laugh under his head.

‘Can’t a guy make a joke?’

‘Baby you do a lot of things, but this is not something you joke about. Unless you hit your head?’ You tease.

‘Nope. Conscious and very, very hungry.’ His hand travels up to lay under your left breast.

‘Very tired, too.’ One of your hands travels to his hair, slightly pulling.

‘You’re dangerous.’ He mumbles leaving a kiss on your collarbone, very grateful for the tank top with very thin straps you decided to wear.

‘Mmh.’

‘So… dinner?’ His head perks up with a smile while asking the question.

‘I hate you.’ You roll your eyes with a laugh.

‘No you don’t.’

‘You’re lucky.’ You say sarcastically.

‘Yeah- i am.’ He’s not referring to what you’re referring to.

He’s talking about you.

You know him too well to know that he gets sappy when he’s tired.

And hungry, apparently.

The rest of the night happens as planned.

‘Dinner’, cuddles, movie, actual food, warmth at his side he needed so badly.

And he’d do it all over again, every day for the rest of his life.

The shitty practices.

The pain of the sport.

The love for it.

The love for you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Please let me know if you want to be tagged on my off campus fics for the future 🤍

[sydssvalntyne]

Macklin x Scott McCall | Daylight - 5sos

[sasaririri]

Please Stop The Music.

pairing: John Logan x readerfem

Summary: She's been in love with her best friend for longer than she'd like to admit. He's been hung up on someone he can't have. One Halloween party later — everything falls apart in the best and worst way possible.

Some lines were never meant to be crossed.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, mutual pining, angst with no immediate resolution, best friends to lovers, and a staircase scene that will genuinely mess you up.

a/n: Hey guys!! I really hope you enjoy this 🤍 I wrote this originally in Spanish and honestly it just hits different in Spanish, but I hope the English version does it justice anyway.

Also John Logan lives in my head rent free and has for a very long time. He is one of my obsessions and I will be taking request!

"You know I'm such a fool for you..."

( Oh sure, because nothing screams self-respect like still being hung up on someone who looks at you like a mistake he already regrets by morning)

I hated parties.  

I always thought of them as dreadful, dark, and horrible… College parties.  

Well, actually, the problem wasn’t the party itself. The problem had brown eyes, had a smile —fuck, it made your panties slide off like butter— and was labeled as my best friend, which made him a problem on most days of the year.  

John Logan was, with complete objectivity, the worst thing that had happened to me since Janis —my little and beloved 2009 Civic, named that way for the pure chaotic energy of her personality— decided that a pole was her archenemy and crashed into it at twelve kilometers per hour. 

It had been an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. I was coming from my shift at my mom’s café with cinnamon flour still on my cheeks and a carton of whole milk in the passenger seat, and suddenly, bam. Janis against the world, the world winning as always.  

And then he appeared.  

I don’t really know how it happened. I guess he was parked on the same block, or walking by, or emerging dramatically out of nowhere like he usually did. The only thing I remember is that a very tall guy in a hockey team hoodie planted himself in front of Janis, crouched down to inspect the damage, and said, with a voice that sounded like honey spilled over hot asphalt:  

“Hey, that’s fixable. Do you know anyone at Mike’s ?” He looked at me quite attentively, his brown eyes scanning me up and down a second longer than necessary. I felt my cheeks burn. I didn’t know if it was Janis that was slightly steaming from the radiator or if it was me who was about to melt right there.  

“No,” I murmured.  

“I do.” He took out his phone as if he already knew he was going to solve the problem. “What’s the model?”  

“What?”  

“The car.”  —“The car,” he repeated, pointing at Janis with his chin.  

I blinked, feeling completely out of place.  

“Janis. It’s a 2009 Civic.”  

He looked up from the phone he had just taken out and stared at me for a long second, as if he were evaluating whether I was very weird or the kind of weird he found entertaining. Then he let out a soft, genuine laugh, shaking his head.  

“Janis,” he repeated, savoring the name. “Well chosen.”  

His smile tilted only on one side, but it was enough. A direct hit to my cardiovascular system. Something in that arrogant and amused expression made my stomach do a dangerous flip.  

That’s how it all started. That stupid, that insignificant, that definitive. 

It had been his idea to dress up as Snoopy and Charlie Brown.  

Mine, I mean. My idea. Which, in retrospect, should have given me a clue of how completely gone I was, because who voluntarily suggests spending Halloween stuffed into a black and white dog costume when I could have been, I don’t know, a sexy witch like any mentally stable person?  

Me, apparently.  

And now I was standing on the threshold of a Halloween party in a Snoopy costume that made me look like a white sausage with ears. Logan had gotten lost in the crowd a while ago; right now he was on the other side of the room. There he was, leaning against the back wall in his yellow zigzag shirt that should have made him look ridiculous but somehow made him look like the most attractive guy in the room.  

“Snoopy, what the fuck?” Dean appeared beside me with his typical shit-eating grin, dressed as something that looked like a sexy demon, quite sexy. “Was that your idea or did Logan force you? Because if it was your idea, I need to know how drunk you were when you had it.”  

“It was my idea,” I admitted, falling under the Di Laurentis effect.  

Dean burst out laughing.  

“Poor Logan… having to put up with a best friend with such bad taste in costumes.” He winked at me. “Though the snout looks good on you.”  

“Go to hell, Dean.”  

“With pleasure, but first I’m going to find someone who wants to sin tonight.” He patted me on the head as if I were a real dog and disappeared into the crowd. Tucker followed behind him, shaking his head.  

“Hey, Snoopy.” Tucker leaned against me with a beer in each hand, looking me up and down with a little smirk that meant he was about to say something awful. “Great costume, wrong place.”  

“Thanks, Tucker. What would I do without your insightful observation.”  

“I’m just saying that if you’re trying to get someone to see you as something more than the best friend, going dressed as a pet might not be the best strategy—”  

“Can I?” I interrupted him, taking one of the cold beers from his hand without waiting for an answer.  

“That was Logan’s,” Tucker replied, raising an eyebrow.  

“Yeah.” I took a long, deep swig, feeling the icy liquid go down my throat. “Perfect.”  

Tucker watched me in silence for a few seconds, with that look of his between worried and resigned that he had been perfecting for months. That look that said “I know you’re about to do something stupid and I don’t know how to stop it.”  

It had all started one night of absolute weakness, after seeing Logan flirting with a girl at the café. In a drunken attack of honesty, I confessed to Tucker that I was in love with his best friend. To Tucker. Of all the people in the world, I told one of John’s best friends that I was dying for him. I still regretted it every time I remembered.  

The Hannah Wells thing was the reason Logan needed this party.  

He never mentioned it to me, of course. Logan didn’t say things like that; he already felt like shit for liking his best friend’s girl. And he carried it all in silence, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. What he said was: “I need to get drunk and forget about everything for a few hours,” which translated from Logan language meant exactly the same.  

Hannah Wells. 

Garrett’s girlfriend.  

She was pretty, smart, and had a quiet sweetness that made Logan look like a lost puppy every time she was around. I couldn’t hate her. Hannah wasn’t to blame for anything. The problem was him, who had fallen in love with the wrong girl without being able to help it, and now he punished himself for feeling something he never planned to act on.  

He told me while I was decorating pumpkin cupcakes. His voice came out low, almost defeated.  

“She loves Garrett, I’m really very happy for my friend but… I’m still here, feeling like a son of a bitch for not being able to get her out of my head.”  

I continued spreading the frosting in perfect circles, swallowing the bitter knot that had formed in my throat. And I thought, with a shame that burned me alive: maybe if I were enough… maybe if he looked at me that way.  

God. What a disgusting thought. What a disgusting me.  

“Are you okay?” Tucker asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. His voice sounded softer than usual, as if he already knew the answer.  

“I’m fantastic,” I answered automatically, with a smile so forced my cheeks hurt.  

Tucker looked at me a second longer than necessary and let out a sigh.  

“You lie terribly.”  

“Tucker.”  

“What?”  

“Shut up.”  

I said it without force, almost in a murmur. I didn’t have the energy to argue. He just shook his head, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to me, watching me as if he feared I was going to break at any moment.  

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” he murmured after a while, giving me a comforting pat on the arm before leaving.  

The problem with getting drunk at a Halloween party while trying to forget your crush is that it requires an alcohol consumption that no sensible liver would approve. And the additional problem with doing that next to your best friend who is secretly in love with you is that it generates a level of built-up tension that no sensible nervous system would approve either.  

We were somewhere in the second hour when the situation got complicated.  

Not suddenly. It’s never sudden. It’s gradual, like the temperature of the water when you raise it little by little: you don’t realize you’re boiling until it’s too late to jump.  

“Hey,” Logan said, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to me. His glass was almost empty and his cheeks had that typical red. “Are you okay?”  

“Perfectly,” I answered, and took a long sip of my drink. It was too sweet, it had too much alcohol… and it was too good.  

Logan studied me for a second. His hair was slightly messy, his face sweaty from the heat of the party, and yet —and yet, which was the central problem of my existence— he was still the most ridiculously handsome guy in the room.  

It was a cosmic injustice.  

“You don’t look perfectly,” he said.  

“And you look very interested in my emotional state for someone who’s been avoiding looking toward where Garrett is for two hours.”  

Shit. Silence.  

Too direct. I knew it the moment I said it, but alcohol has this horrible thing of removing my filter and well, it wasn’t like I was doing great either.  

Very bad idea coming. I shouldn’t have come.  

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.  

“God…” I murmured, closing my eyes for a second. “That was wrong. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m sorry,” I added quickly, feeling the annoyance with myself rising in my chest. “It wasn’t for me to throw it in your face. You told me in confidence and I…”  

“No,” he cut me off softly, running a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re right.”  

We both stood looking at the same wall in front in an uncomfortable silence. On the other side, two girls dressed as cats were arguing about something the music wouldn’t let us hear. The plastic spiderwebs on the ceiling had started to come loose and hung crooked, just as pathetic as I was in that moment.  

“You know what I need?” he said, cutting the tension, and turned with that crooked smile that always disarmed me.  

“More alcohol?” I answered, half joking.  

“To dance.”  

I looked at him, surprised. I had barely opened my mouth to respond when a guy walked past us with a tray full of shots. Logan didn’t think twice: he reached out, grabbed two glasses and handed me one without saying anything.  

“Cheers,” he said, and downed it in one gulp.  

I hesitated for half a second, but the alcohol had already won the battle. I drank it in one go too. The liquid burned my throat and warmed my chest instantly.  

Without waiting for a response, Logan closed his fingers firmly around mine. His hand was warm, a little rough, and that simple contact accelerated my pulse more than the shot I had just taken.  

“Come on, we’re the most ridiculous duo at this party.” He extended his hand. “Perfectly matched.” he murmured, and pulled me toward the center of the room without giving me a chance to protest.  

It was a mistake.  

Let me say it clearly: it was a big mistake, and I should have seen it coming from the first note of the song. Because the universe, that son of a bitch, has an absolutely incredible sense of humor and decided to play Don’t Stop the Music right at that moment.  

We were already quite drunk. The shot we had taken in one gulp had hit us fast, and the heat of the party made everything feel more intense, closer, more dangerous.  

Logan pulled me to the center of the makeshift dance floor and started moving with me. At first it was something clumsy and fun, laughing at how badly we danced. But when the chorus came and Rihanna sang that part…  

Your hands around my waist…

oh shiiiiit.

He didn’t think about it. Or maybe he did. His hands slid down naturally and closed around my fluffy waist, pulling me toward him until our bodies were pressed together. The contact was electric. His fingers pressed gently against the fabric of my costume, firm, hot.  

I looked up and found him staring at me. There was no laughter in his eyes anymore. Just that drunk intensity that makes everything blurry and too sharp at the same time.  

Without realizing it, my hands went up to his chest, feeling how it moved under the shirt. We swayed together, slow and sensual, as if the music were giving us permission to cross a line we had never crossed. His breath brushed my temple. My hips responded against his almost by instinct, following the rhythm and the heat growing between us.  

This is wrong, I thought, even though my body said the complete opposite.  

It’s Logan.  

But in that moment, with his hands around my waist and his body pressed against mine, none of those reasons seemed to matter.  

“Hey,” Logan murmured, his voice hoarse and low, almost lost in the music.  

“Hi,” I replied.  

Completely useless as a response.  

Perfectly honest as a response.  

And then he kissed me.  

It wasn’t a soft or sweet kiss. It was hot, desperate, as if he had been holding it in for years and the alcohol had broken all the barriers. His hands moved from my waist to my back, pulling me hard against his body while his mouth claimed mine. He tasted like alcohol and something sweeter, more dangerous. His lips were demanding, almost aggressive, and I responded with the same intensity, tangling my fingers in his messy hair.  

The world disappeared. There was only the heat of his mouth, the way his tongue brushed mine, the low moan that escaped his throat and vibrated against my lips. We kissed as if we were drowning and the other was the air. His hands moved a little lower, pressing me against him, and I melted into that kiss, completely forgetting that this was a line we shouldn’t cross.  

He pulled away for barely a second, just the time for a ragged breath. His forehead stayed pressed against mine, eyes closed, and he murmured something that sounded like my name halfway, like a question he didn’t dare finish.  

I responded by standing on my tiptoes and kissing him again, harder.  

Logan let out a low sound, almost a growl, and pulled me against his body with more force. His lips became slower, more deliberate, as if now he wanted to learn every detail of my mouth. As if he had all the time in the world to do it.  

I don’t even know how we got to his room.  

I remember laughter in the hallway, his clumsy hands searching for the keys while I laughed against his neck, and then the door slamming shut behind us. The world was still spinning a bit, but it didn’t matter anymore. Only we mattered.  

Logan gently pushed me against the door as soon as we entered, kissing me again with that drunk desperation that had consumed us on the dance floor. Our mouths crashed between laughter and ragged breaths. We kissed badly, with teeth, with tongue, with desire. Every time one laughed, the other silenced them with a deeper kiss.  

“Turn around,” he murmured against my lips, his voice hoarse and amused.  

I obeyed between laughs, still with the Snoopy ears crooked on my head. I turned, placing my hands against the door. I felt his clumsy fingers struggling with the zipper and buttons of my costume. He was too drunk. We both were.  

“Shit… how the fuck does this open?” he growled, frustrated, while pulling without success.  

I laughed, resting my forehead against the cold wood.  

“Logan, you’re a mess…”  

“Shut up,” he said, laughing too, and gave another harder tug.  

A clear and satisfying riiiiiip was heard.   The costume tore down the back from the shoulder almost to the waist. The cold air hit my exposed skin and I let out a surprised laugh.  

“Logan!”  

“Oops,” he murmured, not sounding sorry at all.  

Instead of apologizing, he leaned in and started kissing my bare back, moving down my spine with hot, wet kisses. His big hands slipped through the opening he had just created, circling my waist and moving up my ribs. His mouth returned to my neck, biting gently while I sighed and arched against him.  

“I’ll buy you another one,” he whispered against my skin, his voice thick. “Tomorrow… or next week… I don’t know.”  

I turned in his arms, still laughing, and kissed him with the same urgency. My hands pulled at his shirt while he kept touching me as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. The torn costume hung ridiculously from my body, but neither of us had the coordination or desire to take it off properly.  

Logan pulled away just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, glassy from alcohol and desire. Without saying anything else, he slowly knelt in front of me, his hands sliding down my hips, dragging what was left of the costume to the floor.  

He looked at me from below for a second, with that expression of pure desperation, as if he had been waiting for this all night… or all his life. His hands trembled slightly when he opened my legs.  

“John…” I whispered, not knowing if it was a warning or a plea.  

He didn’t respond with words. He just let out a low moan and buried his face between my thighs, kissing me with the same desperate urgency he had had in my mouth seconds before.

The next morning, the sun was a crime against humanity.  

I woke up with my eyes still closed, on that threshold of consciousness where you know exactly where you are but still have the fraction of a second to pretend you don’t. The sheets were thick cotton. The smell was different: wood, something that was only from this room, him.  

I reached out my hand. Cold.  

The side of the bed where he should have been was cold.  

I opened my eyes.  

Logan’s room, which I knew from being here at his desk helping him review papers, from being here on his floor watching hockey games, felt completely different with the morning light coming through the blinds. The Snoopy costume was on the floor, perfectly ironic in its abandonment. My shoes by the door, very neat for the result of something so messy.  

I sat up slowly.  

There were no immediate noises. Just the party that still echoed downstairs, muted, the sound of people who hadn’t left yet or had decided to sleep where they fell.  

I dressed in one of his hoodies. I tied up my hair as best I could. I grabbed my shoes, the Snoopy costume folded under my arm because it was the only thing I had to carry, and opened the door.  

I told myself: go out, go down the stairs, open the front door, leave.  

Simple. Executable. One foot after the other.  

I reached the landing of the stairs.  

And then I heard Logan’s voice.  

It came from the kitchen. Clear under the muted murmur of the party, with that tone of someone speaking in a low voice but too agitated to control it completely.  

I should have kept going down.  

I know.  

I knew it then too, on the landing, with my hand on the railing and my feet on the first step. I should have gone down the sixteen steps that separated Logan’s bedroom from the ground floor, crossed without looking and gone out into the November morning without hearing anything else.  

But I heard my name.  

And I froze.  

“I don’t know what the fuck happened, Tucker.” Logan’s voice, tense, low. “I woke up and… God. I fucked up. I fucked everything up.”  

A pause. Tucker responding something I couldn’t hear.  

“Yes. I know I was drunk, but that doesn’t…” A dull sound, as if he had leaned something against the counter. “If she comes down, tell her I went for a run or something. That I won’t be here. I need her to… I need her to leave before I have to—”  

I didn’t hear the rest.  

Not because it stopped. But because something in my chest made a noise that wasn’t literally audible but should have been. Like something giving way in an orderly manner: one line first, then another, then another, like the structure of something that had been held up for too long with too little.  

I need her to leave.  

I fucked everything up.  

Sixteen steps. I counted them one by one because it was the only thing I could make my brain focus on without slipping toward the rest. Tucker was with his back to me when I reached the kitchen, and he turned when he heard me. His face said an entire paragraph: the beginning of an apology, something he wanted to tell me and didn’t know how to start.  

I didn’t let him.  

I went down the last steps, crossed the house without looking at Tucker and walked out the front door.  

“Hey,” Logan called behind me.  

I stopped.  

“Wait,” he said, approaching. “Please.”  

I turned around.  

“You don’t have to say anything,” I said. “We were drunk, I was drunk, something happened that neither of us planned and we both know it.”  

Logan stayed silent. And that silence hurt me more than any words.  

“I’m in love with you,” I blurted out suddenly. The words came out without permission, but I couldn’t stop them anymore. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. And I know this is the worst possible moment to tell you, I’m really sorry if it sounds weird to you,” I kept my voice steady out of pure stubbornness. “But I needed you to know.”  

I saw how his eyes widened, confused, almost scared. He opened his mouth. Closed it. “What? Well, I… I… I can’t.”  

I felt my face burning, but I continued:  

“I’m not asking you to feel the same. I just… needed you to know. Because after last night I can’t go back and you have no idea,” I started.  

“Don’t do that.”  

“…of what your friendship means to me,” I said anyway. “I’m sorry for misinterpreting things. I’m very grateful to have met you. But I can’t do this.”  

The November cold got into my bones. I felt everything we had built falling apart in front of me and I had just accelerated it.  

Logan ran a hand through his hair, visibly lost.  

“I… I can’t,” he murmured. “I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t give you what you want.”  

You can’t. Of course you can’t.  

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat.  

“I understand,” I said quietly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to force you into anything. It’s just… I can’t lose you, Logan. But I also can’t keep destroying myself pretending I’m fine.”  

I turned around and started walking.  

“Wait,” he called, following me. “Please, just a second.”  

“No,” I answered without stopping. “Don’t ask me to stay so you can give me explanations you don’t feel. I don’t need your pity.”  

I left him there, in the middle of the sidewalk, with my heart in pieces and the feeling that I had just lost my best friend and the boy I loved in a single morning.

.

.

.

Linger

The Cranberries · Stars: The Best Of The Cranberries 1992-2002 · Song · 2002

[sanguineterrain]

noise | john logan

Summary: John Logan smells like apples and lends you pencils and tells you it's okay to wear your headphones in his car. He brings you to Dean and Beau's party after you misunderstand who's invited. He's your friend now, apparently. You're starting to think that maybe you don't just want him as your friend, though.

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader 

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings/tags: drinking, a guy harasses reader. reader being a little weird (affectionate). maybe a little ND coded <3 misunderstandings. reader is friends w/ hannah. logan being a sweetie pie.

Notes: hi hello i am writing for off campus apparently (?) we'll see. i love u john logan

the divider

“That was so good!” Hannah says in your ear, her arm around you. “Wasn’t it?”

“It was,” you say, your smile a little strained.

She’s flushed from the excitement of the game. She cheered and clapped almost the whole time. You did a little. It’s not that Briar didn’t do well—they crushed Eastwood, in fact, 6-2. But you’re a little overwhelmed by all the noise. You’d like to leave as soon as you can.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna come?” Hannah asks as you go down the bleachers.

“I’m okay. I have a paper to write.”

She pouts. You don’t know why—after all, you weren’t invited. You couldn’t attend Dean and Beau’s birthday party even if you wanted to.

“Okay,” she says, finally acquiescing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. Good luck with your hard launch.”

Hannah bites her lip, her eyes shining. “Yeah, we’ll see what Garrett has planned. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the dorm?”

“I’m alright, really. I can take the shuttle.”

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of games?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”

Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”

You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.

You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight. 

“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”

“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”

You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”

“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly. 

You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”

You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”

“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. 

You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”

“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”

“Because she didn't kiss him?”

Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”

He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.

“I'm hungry, actually,” you say. 

He hums. “Good.”

“How is that good?”

“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”

“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”

****

“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”

The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.

“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.

“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.

“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”

It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”

“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.

“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”

“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”

“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”

“What did you do?”

“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you want?”

It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.

Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend. 

Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood. 

“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”

“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”

You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.

“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it. 

It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.

“So do you.”

He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.

“You played really well,” you say.

Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it. 

“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.

“Goodnight,” he says after you.

It’s only after you get to your room that you realize that you’re still wearing Logan’s wings.

[abilouwrites]

Maybe Reader x Fraser. They've been together for a year or more, and their relationship is mostly online because Reader lives in another country or just very far away, and because of this, they see each other very rarely. Christmas is near, and even though Reader told Fraser she couldn't fly to see him because of her family, Is she really planning a surprise for him to come visit him?

LIKE A HEARTBEAT DRIVES YOU MAD

IN THE STILLNESS OF REMEMBERING

We’re not gonna talk about when this was sent in cool awsome thx

Fraser doesn’t mind the fact you live so far away, that you’d been admitted to a exchange student program in Germany. How difficult the choice to leave Boston was. How much he supported your choice to pursue this advanced degree.

But it’s Christmas in Berlin. The first one alone. The first one without Fraser, or family, your university friends have their own families they’re celebrating the holiday break with.

It’s why Fraser books the flight to Berlin from Boston. You’d called him two nights before. Slumped against your pillow with the covers pulled tight, “it’s weird, I’ll miss not having someone to kiss for new year. Did you get your present? Should’ve arrived today” You tuck your hair behind an ear; flashing off the shiny piercings he’d filled with diamonds and jewels.

“I did. I opened it early I hope you don’t mind” He admits, pausing momentarily to put his contacts in, “did you get yours?”

You nod, “I also opened it early… how’d you know I wanted a heated blanket?”

He shrugs, “ah you liked a post with a girl using it, showed up on my feed. Then you put it in your Amazon wish list” Fraser strokes his hair, “you goin to bed?”

You hum, “yeah. I’ll call you when I’m up” Fraser watches as you roll over, blowing a soft kiss before he hangs up the phone to let you sleep.

He doesn’t go to practice like he’d told you, instead- he gets in Charlie Macavoys car and lets him drive him to the car to the airport.

Heading through the international terminal, first class because it’s an all day flight; and he’ll arrive sometime in the afternoon.

He hasn’t thought too deeply about how he’s going to get to your apartment. Or make sure that you’re there to let him in.

Fraser decides to think about that later.

It’s eight am when you finally stir, weekend slouch. Doing nothing but lay in bed and miss your boyfriend. You text Fraser, the message doesn’t go through; you assume it’s the bad service at the rink.

You roll and stretch in your big king sized bed; the apartment that you do not pay for, everything inside is Fraser’s. His desire to let you solely focus on school, nothing else. You needed the best bed; to rest properly. And you do think it’s too much. That your scholarships cover it, but he’ll say he can cover the rest.

There’s not a point in arguing with him. You’d learned that fight long ago.

You kick your feet against the other side of the bed; trying to picture what it would feel like to wake up in Fraser’s arms. Have him heat you up instead of the blanket.

It’s Christmas Eve, you text your mother and father. Aunts and uncles. Wishing them a happy Christmas. That you miss them. You’re having fun in Germany.

The knock at your door makes you get out of the kitchen, pulling the bruins hoodie tight around you as you peep through the peephole.

Fraser.

Fraser minten is at your door. Awkwardly standing with suitcases by his sides.

You open the door, staring at him before you jump into his arms. He steps back to catch you throwing yourself at him.

“Come in some in” you cheer, pulling his suitcases into the entryway of your apartment. You leave them there, abandoning your cooking breakfast. Holding your warm boyfriend, “are you for reals?”

Fraser nods, “I am”

You pull him tighter, and he pulls you tighter, “you’re my Christmas present” You whisper into his ear. You stand back slightly, taking him in with the soft light.

The stupid hoodie he’s in, the dumb smile on his face. The fact he looks so good after an all day flight. And that he’s here. And you can touch him, and cherish that your boyfriend is here. With you.

He leans in, grinning as he smells the scent of your perfume, the shampoo and conditioner, laundry detergent you use. Everything about you. That he finally gets to wake up next to a warm body. Not the pillow he’s stuffed into your side of the bed so when he tosses his arm over in his sleep it feels like you. That it doesn’t drop onto the cool mattress, “I missed you” He whispers. You walk him over to the couch, only leaving him to turn the stove off.

You crawl back over to him, lying in his chest, soaking in the warmth. The smell of airplane and airport only a soft reminder of the lengths Fraser would go just to see his girl smile

[munsonsmixtapes]

Just Trust Me

Dean Di Laurentis x virgin!reader

Summary: Dean invites you over to hookup and you let him take your virginity.

Word count: 2.7k+

CW: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) fingering, reader’s first time, aftercare

The light above the front door is on as you head up the steps of the porch. It casts an orangey glow across the wood panels which is oddly comforting to you in this foreign situation. The exterior of the house looks very well kept with the freshly mowed lawn and what looks like a fresh coat of white paint along the railing which you just know they hired people to do.

You're so out of your element-both in being here as well as why you're here. You're not the kind of girl who gets invited over by boys-or anyone for that matter, so when Dean Di Laurentis chatted you up at a party the other night, you were nothing but surprised.

You hesitantly knock on the door, feeling your heart race in your chest. Your mind is swirling with all of the possibilities of what could go wrong and the corset you impulsively bought feels like it's getting tighter against your body, making you feel like you can't breathe.

The porch is getting smaller as bile climbs up your throat, you chest feeling even tighter. You're about to make a run for it when the door opens. Your eyes widen as you take Dean in, almost like you weren't expecting him to be at his own house. He's in a t-shirt and basketball shorts which make you feel even more out of place. Clearly this was supposed to be a casual thing and you missed the memo.

He's all smiles as you come into view and you feel everything stop, your heart rate slowing down. You feel more at ease now that he's here, noticing a sense of calm that you felt at the party. He's just so…easy to be around which can't be said for a lot of the guys on campus.

"Come on in, I know it's cold out there," He says, moving to the side so you can step into the house. "Can I take your coat?"

"Oh, sure." You turn your back to him as you take in the main level. It's just as nice as the outside and it looks surprisingly clean for a bunch of college-aged boys. Not a single thing is out of place and you're honestly baffled by how much it seems to sparkle.

You're so distracted that you don't even notice Dean checking you out, admiring the outfit your roommates helped you pick out. It hugs you in all the right places and all he can think about is getting you out of it so he can see what you've got going on underneath.

It's nothing like anything you've worn, but that's the point. Since you transferred to Briar, you've been trying to reinvent yourself. Out with the staying in your room and reading and in with the parties and now, apparently, going to boys' houses and sleeping with them.

You're so unlike the usual girls that Dean sleeps with. You're much more reserved and you captivated him by being the only person reading at the party. He was so mesmerized by the way you managed to not hear anyone who was talking to you because you were so invested in your book. In that moment, he just knew that he had to talk to you.

"Can I get you something to drink? I think I have some beer in the fridge."

"I'm okay, thanks." You move further into the house and realize that the two of you are all alone which would make sense for a Saturday night. You're honestly surprised that Dean didn't have plans of his own-that he wasn't going and fucking someone else, saving tonight for you and you alone.

He's honestly embarrassed by how excited he's been, constantly checking his phone to see if you've texted him. You haven't been blowing it up like the others and he has to admit that it's intrigued him. You don't tell him your every thought and he likes that he's able to wonder about you.

"Do you want to head to my room?" You're starting to feel sick again but you push it down, letting your excitement take over.

"Sure." He takes you by the hand and leads you up the stairs and down the hallway. His hand is soft and gentle and you hate that he's the only guy you've ever held hands with.

The hall is dimly lit, the two light bulbs out, but there's a lamp on the table in between two of the doors on the left side. It makes it feel much more cozy and doesn't seem nearly as overstimulating.

Dean stops in front of the first door on the right and opens it, gently pulling you inside. It's oddly exactly what you expect. It's barely even decorated with a bed, a desk, a bookcase, a dresser, and few posters of famous hockey players. He's clearly dedicated to his sport and you admire that.

You hesitantly sit on the end of his bed, already taking off your shoes as you feel your-Allie's-heels start to hurt. You knew the risk you were taking with them being high, but they just looked so good with the rest of the outfit.

You begin to rub your feet and all the sudden, Dean is kneeling in front of you, taking over. You didn't expect him to be such a gentleman, but who are you to deny him the honor?

He takes hold of one of your feet and begins to massage it, looking to you for approval. You let out a moan at the feeling of his fingers pressing against the arch, which seems to give him the approval.

"Can I be honest with you?" You ask, feeling your heart rate pick up again. You've never told anyone the truth and you're honestly afraid to. It's not that big of a deal and if Dean is going to judge you, then he's clearly not the guy you thought he was.

"Of course you can," he says softly, and you almost melt at the sweet look he gives you. His features are soft and he waits patiently for you to say whatever you need to.

"I'm a virgin." The silence is so deafening that you could hear a pin drop. You expect him to let go of your foot but he doesn't, still rubbing like the gentleman you know he is.

"Okay," he nods, giving you a look as if he's wondering why you're telling him this. "That's not exactly a deal breaker."

"It's not?" He doesn't like that you thought it would be. He's slept with plenty of virgins and you're no different. Well, not for that reason, anyway. He's wondering who are you feel bad about yourself for not having slept with anyone and how he can give them a little talking to.

"Not at all." He lets go of your foot and comes to see next to you. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to. I don't want you to feel forced."

"I don't." Your hand moves to rest on his thigh. "I fully trust you, Dean." The way his name rolls of your lips makes his heart flutter and he doesn't exactly know what to do with that. All he knows is that he likes it and spending time with you even though this only his second time seeing you outside of class. If he plays his cards right, he's pretty sure that he'll be seeing more of you.

"You don't even know me."

"And you don't know me, but you still invited me over." You lean forward, a flirty smirk playing on your pretty lips. Dean doesn't know where this confidence is coming from but he's loving it. "Kiss me," you whisper and he does so without hesitation.

It's soft and sweet which is so unlike other kisses he's shared. You're unsure and nervous so he takes the reins, taking your face in his hands as he tilts your head back. He's going slower than he normally would, wanting to ease you into things as well as selfishly savoring the way your lips feel on his because he's not sure that he'll ever get the chance again.

Your hands slide into his hair as his move lower, resting against the zipper of your corset. He was so caught up in kissing you that for a second, he completely forgot the whole reason why you came in the first place.

"Can I take this off?" He whispers against your lips, holding the zipper between his pointer and middle fingers.

"Yes," you whisper, keeping your eyes shut as he pulls the zipper down painfully slow. You feel him pull it away from your body and hear it be tossed onto the floor, eyes shut tight at just how quiet he is as he takes in your now bare chest.

"Fuck," he whispers after a beat passes. You don't know if that's good or bad but you honestly don't want to. "Baby," he chuckles. "Open your eyes." You do as he says and come to find that he's also now shirtless, eyes immediately traveling down to his pecks.

You both find yourselves leaning in again, meeting in the middle for yet another kiss, a little more hungry this time. One of his hands reaches up to cup the back of your head as the other wraps around your waist as he slowly lays you down onto the bed.

He slowly moves his hands out from under you, placing a hand on the bed on either side of your head as he hovers over you. He's got that twinkle in his eye that tells you he's up to no good, but you think that that's always there.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asks, wanting to be positive. "You can always change your mind but I just want to be sure."

"Positive. I want you." Your sweet eyes are darker now, filled with nothing but want and Dean lets out a surprised yelp when you pull him down onto you. You both let out groans of pain that quickly turn into laughs. "Too much?"

"Nah," he shakes his head. "I thought it was cute. Now c'mere." His lips find yours again, testing the waters as his tongue pushes your lips apart. You instantly let him in, his tongue meeting yours as you wrap your arms around his neck, wanting him even closer to you than he already is.

His hands grab hold of the waistband of your pants, giving them a tug, pulling away so he can get them off, tossing them to the side along with your panties. He's back on you in seconds once he's in underwear, kissing you again and again until you're dizzy.

"Gonna stretch you out 'kay?"

"Okay."

His hand slowly moves down towards your pussy. You spread your legs for him as his fingers slide inside, pumping slowly and gently. If you're already this wet just from kissing, he wonders how wet he can get you when he finally fucks you.

"So fucking wet," he whispers as he pulls away. He wants to watch you come apart, wants to see how good he makes you feel.

It feels strange having fingers that aren't your own inside you but you think you like this better. His are much longer so he's able to reach places that you never could, making you feel things you never have before. And when you let out your first moan, Dean knows that he's done for. He already knows that it'll be playing in the back of his mind for a while. He will never be able to unsee the way you throw your head back, eyes shut tight. And he doesn't think he wants to.

"Yeah, baby," he encourages. "Just like that."

"More," you whine and he gives you exactly what you want, picking up the pace just a little bit as he pushes his fingers deeper. You grab hold of the comforter underneath you, holding onto it for dear life as another moan falls from your lips. You're embarrassed as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge because it doesn't seem like it's been long enough.

"C'mon, just let yourself go. I've got you." And that's when you reach your peak, letting go of your nervousness and just letting yourself feel everything. You're always so tightly wound and as you orgasm, you feel the tension in your shoulders release which makes you feel like you can finally breathe.

Dean watches as he hovers over you, getting harder with each moan that falls from your lips. He doesn't think he's ever been so turned on and before he can even think about what he's doing, he's out of his underwear and rolling on a condom, so eager to finally get inside you.

You're so needy, aching with want as he lowers himself down onto you once again. His hands reach for yours, placing a kiss on each one before interlacing your fingers and resting them on the bed.

"Tell me if I do something you don't like, okay?" He asks and you nod. You both watches as he lines himself up with you, slowly pushing inside. You're not expecting it to hurt but it does as he gets deeper and deeper. But once he's pumped a few times, you find that it gets better but there's something missing.

Dean doesn't think he's ever been this gentle during sex and he can tell that you're not comfortable so he picks up the pace, your moans an indication that he's doing something right. You're coming even more undone as he goes even faster, even harder, your moans getting louder and louder. You're getting more confident and he's loving that he gets to see this side of you.

"Should have known you'd like it like this. The quiet ones always do. Now c'mon. Buck your hips for me." You listen, bucking your hips against his, matching his pace, which gets a moan from him, the hottest sound you think you've ever heard. "There you go. Just like that. Give me some more. You're almost there."

You pick up your back, bucking harder and harder even though you're already so tired. But you keep going, not wanting it to end, especially because it means that you'll have to go back to your life, the fantasy coming to a close. You knew it'd be a one time thing but you had no idea you'd like it this much and you're not so sure you'd have this much fun with anyone else.

"I'm getting close," you whine as he continues to thrust and a wide grin breaks out onto his face.

"That's it, come on, I know you can do it."

"I think I'm gonna-" Your moan comes out like a scream and Dean continues to talk you through it, being nothing but encouraging, even as you come down, pulling one of his hands from yours so he can wipe the sweat from your forehead.

"You did so good," he smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. He throws on a pair of boxers and hurries down the hall, coming back with a damp wash cloth. He clean you up, no questions asked and your heart flutters even though you know that this is the standards.

"Wow, the girls never told me that you did aftercare," you tease and Dean pauses to look up at you. "What? You really think the girls you sleep with don't talk about you? I've heard them all over campus and they always talk about how they leave immediately afterwards. Guess I'm special," you shrug and Dean can't help but shake his head as he disposes of the wash cloth then heads over to his dresser and pulls out a t-shirt and tosses it to you.

He doesn't know why he's letting you stay the night but he just can't let you go yet. You just look so cute sitting on his bed in his t-shirt and he can't help think about how natural it feels to go to bed with you.

"Guess you are," he shrugs back as he turns out his lamp before you both crawl into bed, scooting closer until you're in the middle, your chest against his back as he pulls you close, his hand snaking around your waist.

"So, was it everything you hoped it would be?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good. Well, goodnight."

"Goodnight, Dean." He can hear you snoring softly but he lies awake, wondering what the hell he's just done by letting you stay. He's getting this feeling in his chest and he's worried that maybe, just maybe he's got a little crush.

welcome to the deanverse! Part two coming very soon!

if you’d like to be added to my Dean taglist as well as any of my others, feel free to fill out the form pinned on my blog! (Must be 20+! Teens/ageless blogs will be blocked!

[newobsessionweekly]

Three times is a pattern

Main masterlist | Off Campus masterlist

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Fandom: Off Campus

Summary: You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.

Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: not proofread yet, probably shitty because I haven't written anything in months, mentions of toxic/controlling relationships, stalking, anxiety, graphic violence, Protective!Dean in full force

A/N: I don't know how good it is because it's been a while since i've last written something and tbh I didn't finish the first season, only read the books 5 times. But I hope you like it and after my finals I will be back with more fics. You can totally spam my box with requests if you's like. But I won't be writing anything for like 3 whole weeks. I am so stressed I can't even exist. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love! What do we think of a part 2?

Words: 2.6k

Requested here!

The booth at Malone’s was designed to comfortably fit six people. Currently, it held four massive hockey players, Hannah, and you. Which meant you were practically sitting in Dean Di Laurentis’s lap.

Not that he was complaining.

"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."

"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"

Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."

You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.

When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.

Twice.

The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.

You’d drawn a hard line.

Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.

"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."

"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.

"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."

"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.

"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."

"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."

He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."

You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.

"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"

You frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."

The buzz from the vodka evaporated.

Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

He’s here.

You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.

Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.

"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."

The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.

You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.

Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.

You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.

You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.

"Move," you choked out.

Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"

"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.

A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.

The night was officially over.

The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.

Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.

"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.

Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.

You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.

Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.

Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"I’m an ass," Dean said.

His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.

"Dean—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."

You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.

"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."

His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."

"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."

Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"

"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."

Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"

You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."

Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.

"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."

You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."

The air in the kitchen completely changed.

The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.

Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.

"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"

You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."

"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."

Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.

You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.

"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."

He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.

"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."

The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.

A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"

A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."

It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.

You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.

The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.

One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.

He had actually enrolled at Briar.

Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"

You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.

Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.

Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.

"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.

The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.

But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.

That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.

Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.

Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."

Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.

Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."

Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.

The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.

The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.

Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.

"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"

Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.

"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.

Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.

Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.

His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.

"Come on," Dean murmured, his voice warm and perfectly calm, acting as if he hadn't just committed assault in front of a dozen witnesses. "Let's go get some lunch."

[cattyb2]

come back to me | connor bedard

Pairings: connor bedard x reader!gf

Prompt: telling connor about how easily you faint was not your favorite thing you’ve done ever. but now as you feel it coming at the end of the season dinner, you are grateful to have such an amazing boyfriend at your side

Warning: fainting

A/N: guys I’m mourning not seeing him play like you wouldn’t believe, so send me all your Bedsy requests

requested!

If both you and Connor had to pick the perfect Saturday night, it wouldn’t be dressing up and going out. It would be dressing down and being tangled together on Connor’s couch in his apartment which is basically both of yours at this point.

But, he also never passes up the opportunity to see you dressed up. And every time he catches glimpses of your glowing skin or your lip gloss reflecting the sparkling lights, Connor forgets everything he thinks he knows.

He forgets that you guys are at the end of the season event, he forgets he’s around team mates and important staples in the Blackhawks franchise. All he knows, all he sees, all he cares about, is you.

Connor was a goner from the first moment he laid his eyes on you, and you weren’t any better.

And now here you both are, at a dinner after the ceremony. The team and their significant others dressed to the nines. You’re sitting at the long table reserved in the back room of some stunning restaurant in Chicago. Connor to your right, his hand ghosting your shoulder every once in a while as you’re leaned to the left talking to Frank Nazar’s girlfriend.

Everything was good, everything was light and easy and fun. Until it wasn’t. You recognize immediately that sickly warmth spreading down your spine. The way your heart rate picks up, the way your eyes start to feel watery but dry at the same time.

But you push it off, laughing at the story she is telling you. You reach out for your water glass, leaving the large glass of red wine untouched.

It’s then that Connor’s hand ghosts across your back again. It grounds you, which at the beginning of your relationship you hated. At the beginning of your relationship, telling Connor about your condition had felt impossible.

You had sat on the edge of his couch, twisting your fingers together, cheeks hot with embarrassment as you explained that you fainted easily. Sometimes too easily. Sometimes from heat, from standing too long, from stress, low blood sugar, dehydration, pain, or no obvious reason at all. And while telling him you had braced yourself for awkwardness, or concern, maybe for him to treat you like glass afterward.

But instead, Connor had listened carefully, brows drawn together as he asked, “What do you need me to do when it happens?”

It’s that reaction that made you aware that this was it for you. That Connor was your entire world and your entire future. That’s also why it’s not surprise that he turns to you when your shaking hand reaches again for the water glass.

“You okay?” Frank’s girlfriend asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say, because the lie is automatic. “I’m just gonna run to the bathroom real quick.” You smile as you stand up, your feet feeling like cement as you make your way to the bathroom. Connor’s hand slips from the back of your chair as soon as you move, and you feel his eyes on you. You don’t spare a glance, because if you do, he will know. But it’s Connor after all, he already knows.

You walk carefully away from the table, heels clicking against the floor. Every sound feels too sharp and too muffled at the same time. But you make it to the bathroom, barely. It’s a single person one, thank god. Dark walls, black marble counter, and warm light. The second the door shuts behind you, you grip the edge of the sink and lower your head.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay, you’re okay.” But your reflection does not look convinced. You are pale, eyes too wide as your lips part as you try to breathe slowly, the way you have practiced.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Then again.

A knock sounds at the door, and he doesn’t even have to announce himself, you already know.

“Baby?” Connor’s voice comes through, low enough that no one outside the little hallway would hear. “It’s me.”

Your throat tightens as you go to unlock the door. Connor steps inside immediately, broad shoulders filling the small space in his dark suit. His hair is slightly messy from where he has probably run a hand through it, and his eyes sweep over you in one quick, practiced check before he closes the door behind him and locks it.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentle. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” you say, and even you can hear how weak it sounds. “I just got hot all of a sudden, and-“ you try to keep talking. But all of a sudden it is like someone has sucked all the air out of your body. “And-“ you try to say again. But Connor is already moving.

The floor dips, and all of your words vanish. For one second, it feels like you are underwater. Connor’s face moves farther away and closer at the same time, and your ears fill with a low roaring sound.

“Con-“ you wheeze out, and then your knees go. Connor catches you before you can hit the floor. He lowers with you, controlled and fast, one arm locked around your waist, the other reaching for your head. Your body goes limp against him, and the last thing you remember is the smell of his cologne. Then everything turns dark.

Connor does not panic, at least not visibly. His heart however, is a completely different story. It slams so hard against his chest that it hurts, but his body moves on memory. He knows how to work through fainting episodes.

He gets his back against the bathroom wall and carefully pulls you between his legs, your back pressed to his chest. The skirt of your dress pools over his thighs and across the tile.

“I’ve got you,” he says, even though you cannot hear him. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He supports your head against him and reaches for your wrist. His fingers hover over your pulse, it’s there but faint. He checks the time on his watch immediately. Feeling how slow your breathing is. Slow, slow and shallow.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his voice strained for the first time. “Come on.” He says as he glances down, taking in your dress that is tight across your chest and ribs, the bodice unforgiving. He knows the dress did not cause this, but he also knows anything restricting your breathing is not helping.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’m just gonna help you breathe.” He leans you forward carefully, keeping one arm across your front so you do not tip too far. His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, and of course, it catches.

“Come on,” he mutters, pulling again before it gives. He eases it down your back a few inches. And almost immediately he sees your chest expands more fully. He closes his eyes for half a second in relief. “There you go,” he whispers, pulling you back gently against him. “That’s it. Good girl, just breathe.”

He keeps two fingers against your pulse, which is still weak, but stronger the before. He watches the minutes pass on his watch. Every moment passing where you’re frozen still against, is a moment his heart beats faster.

“Hey,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth near your ear. “Hey, baby, I’m right here.” But still you’re unresponsive, and the minutes keep passing. “Gonna be honest with you, sweetheart, this is not my favorite one we’ve done.”

He tries to make his voice light, but it comes out shaking anyway. He looks at his watch again.

“Okay,” he says, a little firmer now. “Okay, it’s time to come back to me now.” His thumb is rubbing circles on the inside of your wrist, but still time ticks by. “Come on,” he whispers. “I know you’re tired, but you gotta wake up for me, baby. Please.” He whispers.

Your eyes still remain closed. And Connor can feel his throat going completely dry. He knows the plan, knows what to do and knows when too long becomes… too long. And right now, Connor is starting to fucking panic. He’s not the stoic hockey player, he is just your boyfriend, on a bathroom floor, holding the girl he loves while she is frozen in his arms.

“Baby,” he whispers, and this time the fear slips through. “This one too long, okay? You’re scaring me.”

And then it happens, your fingers twitch and Connor freezes.

“There,” he says immediately. “There you are.” He chokes out as he cups the side of your face. “That’s it baby, come on. Follow my voice.”

Your eyelids flutter once, brows pinching together as you take your first deep breath in minutes.

Connor bends his head closer.

“Careful. Careful.” He says, trying to ground you. “Come back slow, no rush baby. It’s just you and me.”

As your eyes finally open, watery and squinting from the bathroom sconces, Connor nearly crumbles in relief.

“Hi,” he says softly. “Hi, baby. There you go.” He comforts as your head shifts against his shoulder. “Don’t move yet,” he tells you immediately. “Just breathe, I’ve got you.”

“Connor?” Your voice is tiny when it comes out, but Connor swears he’s never heard anything more perfect. “Oh my god.” You state, like you’re realizing the reality of the situation. “I’m so sorry-“ you start, but he cuts you off.

“No.” He says firmly, planting a kiss on your temple. “Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong, okay?”

“I hate this.” You whisper, your hand finding his thigh and squeezing with as much force as you could muster. “I hate that you have to do this.”

“I’m so sorry you have to go through it. But taking care of you? That is not something I hate.” He confesses, and for a while you both just sit there. Finally, when your breathing is steadier and the roaring in your ears has gone, Connor shifts carefully.

“I’m gonna put you on the counter, okay?”

You nod, and you feel weightless as he gathers you up and slowly sets you down on the marble. You blink slowly at him, and he grabs a small towel and wets it, setting it on the back of your neck. You close your eyes, sighing at the coolness.

“That feels good.” You whisper, letting your eyes fall shut.

“I know.”

“You’re cocky.”

“I’m experienced.” He corrects, causing your eyes open. Because he is experienced, experienced at loving you through something you once thought would make you unlovable.

But here he is, standing between your knees, close enough that your dress brushes his suit pants. Loving you just as much as he did the day before.

“What do you say we get out of here, yeah?” He asks, and your eyes shift to his. You nod as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest.

His arms go around you immediately. And for a while, neither of you say anything.

Outside the bathroom, the restaurant and the team continue on without you, you’re sure they are all wrapping up by now, you’re feeling a bit lucky to have had this happen near the end of the evening versus the beginning. But inside the bathroom, Connor holds you like there is nowhere else he needs to be.

“Take me home, Con.” You whisper, pulling your head away from his chest. Away from the smell of his cologne. Away from his warmth and comfort.

“Can you stand?” He asks, and you just nod. Too drained to respond. Connor lifts you off of the counter, slowly placing you down so you’re facing the mirror, your back to his chest. He watches you in the mirror, and he smiles softly at what he sees. “I just have to zip you back up, okay?”

You place your palms on the counter, and take a breath as he zips the dress back up your back, taking the towel and resting it near the sink.

You watch him as he does it, and if you weren’t already in love with him, you would have been falling head over foot right now. You close your eyes, leaning back into his solid chest.

“Take all the time you need.” He whispers in your ear, holding you up. “It’s only me and you.”