summary — when you admit you’ve never been on top before, dean decides there’s no better place to learn than his bed.
warnings — 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, insecurity, first time riding, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, boob play, clit stimulation, missionary, soft aftercare.
word count — 3,468.
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ORIGINAL MASTERLIST)
You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.
Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.
It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.
He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.
"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.
Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."
"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.
"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."
You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."
"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."
"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.
"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.
You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.
Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."
"Don't start."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were about to, and we both know it."
He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.
Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.
His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.
"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.
Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"
"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."
His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"
Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."
"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.
"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.
He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."
"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."
Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."
You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."
"I'm great at comfort."
"You're absolutely not."
"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."
You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.
Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"
You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.
His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."
"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.
"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.
The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.
"Don't do that," he murmured.
You blinked at him. "Do what?"
"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."
Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.
Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.
That helped more than anything else could have.
By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.
"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."
You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."
You froze immediately. "Bad?"
His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"
"You made a face."
"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."
Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.
"You're not just saying that?"
Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."
So you did, moving slowly at first.
Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.
"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.
Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"
"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.
His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."
Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.
Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."
"I'm trying."
"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."
The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.
You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.
Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.
His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.
"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.
Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."
That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.
Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.
"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.
"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."
Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."
His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.
Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"
Your stomach fluttered.
His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."
You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.
Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.
That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"
His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."
Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.
"Oh—Dean."
His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."
"You're distracting me."
"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."
You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.
"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."
You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."
"Yeah?"
"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."
You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."
Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.
Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.
"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.
The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.
Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.
"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."
"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.
Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.
"Come here," he murmured.
Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.
Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.
Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."
"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.
Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.
"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."
"Dean," you whimpered.
"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."
His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.
"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.
He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."
The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.
Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.
For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."
His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."
Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."
"And you were so loud."
"Dean."
"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."
You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.
"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.
"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."
You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.
For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.
"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"
You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.
Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."
💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist
DEAN DI LAURENTIS TAGLIST: @elixirandstars @ethanthequeefqueen @beebeechaos
minors do not interact with 18+ content.
do not repost, copy, translate, or feed my work into ai.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! econ! reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : tipsy! reader- but not during sexy time, established sober like 500 times, m!cum in pants, f!fingering, teasing!, m!praise, wet making out (is that a warning?), grinding.
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : It's the end of finals week! that means that John Logan's long time girlfriend can finally let loose at the first party post-exams, but letting loose, means a whole lot more for this man than he thought. OR you teasing Logan by calling him pretty alot.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 3.6k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : thank you so much for the love on my first fic of the blog!! 1.2k likes [as of now] is wild. I know this wasn't on the WIPs, but a Drabble turned into this and I thought it would be cruel to deprive the John Logan smut girlies for so long. gif credit: @firstprinced; divider credit : @digilatte
Finals week had reduced you to a concerning version of yourself. An intense, borderline doped up version of you that scared your roommates into hiding.
At some point over the last ten days, you had consecutively survived almost exclusively on iced coffee and protein bars, cried in the library stairwell over a statistics quiz worth five percent of your grade, accidentally highlighted an entire textbook chapter because you stopped processing colour properly around three in the morning, and fallen asleep sitting upright against Logan’s shoulder while trying to explain some bullshit economic theory to him.
Which meant two things.
One:
You were exhausted and so ready to finally dedicate more than ten minutes to washing your hair.
And two:
The entire hockey team had collectively decided about three days into you bear grylls level study marathon, that you would have to be, as they liked to call it, “reintroduced into society” the second said exams ended.
Which was how you ended up tipsy for the first time in months, tucked against Logan’s side in the middle of some overcrowded off-campus party while music rattled the walls hard enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your shoes.
“You alive over there?” Logan asked, leaning closer so you could hear him properly.
You looked up from where your cheek was half pressed against his shoulder.
“Barely.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“You know,” you informed him seriously, “I think I deserve financial compensation for finals week.”
Logan snorted softly.
“I’ll let the university know.”
“You should.”
His hand stayed warm at your waist while people moved around you in loud, blurry motion. The house smelled faintly like cheap alcohol and somebody’s burnt pizza rolls, humid from too many people crammed into too small a space, but tucked into the corner of the couch beside Logan, everything felt strangely soft around the edges instead of overwhelming.
Mostly because he kept checking on you every five seconds. In a quintessential John Logan way, that made you feel unreasonably fuzzy inside.
Especially when he remembered how much water you’d had, quietly traded your vodka mixer for a weaker one halfway through the night without making a thing of it, and kept rubbing his thumb against your hip absentmindedly every time he noticed your eyes drifting shut.
“You tired?” he asked eventually.
“A little.”
“You wanna head back?”
You considered it seriously for approximately half a second before nodding.
“Can we order cheesy fries on the way home?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How coherent you are right now.”
You gasped softly. “I’m incredibly coherent.”
“You tried to unlock the bathroom with your student ID .”
“That was one time.”
“It was four times.”
You laughed hard enough your forehead dropped briefly against his shoulder, and Logan’s mouth twitched immediately at the sound.
By the time Logan was steering you carefully out of the crowded basement party with one warm hand settled at your lower back, your brain felt pleasantly untangled for the first time in weeks, limbs loose and warm beneath your coat while cold night air hit your cheeks hard enough to make you laugh.
The walk back to the hockey house wasn’t far, cold night air cutting through the leftover warmth of the party enough to sober you steadily with every block. Logan kept his arm around your shoulders the entire time anyway, occasionally glancing down at you like he was recalculating your risk assessment every few minutes.
“You good?” he asked immediately, glancing down at you as you stumbled slightly against him on the sidewalk.
You grinned up at him.
“Perfect.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“It’s because I’m whimsical now.”
“You’re tipsy.”
“I’m whimsical and tipsy.”
“Mm.”
“And for the record,” you continued, poking lightly at his chest through his sweatshirt, “you also drank.”
“I had like two beers over four hours.”
“So you admit it.”
“I admit nothing.”
Logan tightened his arm around you automatically when you leaned more of your weight into him. The walk back blurred pleasantly around the edges, campus quieter now except for distant music and occasional bursts of laughter drifting from frat houses further down the street.
By the time the hockey house came into view, your head felt clearer than it had left the party, comfortably warm instead of blurry, thoughts slower around the edges but still fully there.
Your heels clicked unevenly against the pavement.
Logan slowed instinctively to match you, that stupid fond warmth settled in your chest again.
You stared at him for a second too long.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re very large.”
His eyebrows lifted immediately.
“…Thank you?”
“No like,” you continued seriously, squeezing his bicep, “you’re just kind of everywhere.”
He tapped your nose, “That’s usually how being six foot two works babe.”
“Crazy.”
The house itself was quieter than expected when you stepped inside, only faint light spilling from the kitchen and distant noise from somewhere upstairs, but most of the team had either passed out already or vanished with hookups hours ago. The bitterness of the alcohol had already started to fade, leaving a sweet taste in its wake. You weren’t dizzy anymore, just floaty in that magical post-party way that made everything feel so comforting.
“Miracle,” Logan muttered while gripping your wrist. Watching you carefully as you undid the straps of your heels while leaning on his shoulder for stability, “Nobody’s screaming.”
“Garrett’s probably dead.”
“One can hope.”
You laughed softly. Nudging your shoes, if they could be called that, into a semi-convenient space next to the door, but shrugged once they got stuck in the tangle of a thousand sports trainers.
You stayed over enough that nobody even questioned it anymore.
There were hair ties in Logan’s bathroom drawer. A skincare bottle next to his sink. Dean had once walked into the kitchen at eight in the morning, seen you wearing Logan’s shirt while making coffee, and simply said,
“Oh thank god, you live here now. Maybe you’ll stop him eating dry cereal for dinner.”
You’d stayed over enough times by now that his room already half-felt like yours anyway.
Logan guided you up the stairs and into his room, the quiet settled differently when the door clicked closed, the comforting kind of silence that greets you after a weeks long holiday away from home.
He tossed his keys onto the desk before turning toward you immediately.
“You need water.”
“You sound like my doctor.”
“You’ll thank me tomorrow morning.”
You smiled slightly while he crossed the room, “You’re really pretty tonight,” you murmur.
Logan laughs softly under his breath while digging through his dresser for one of his shirts to replace the dress you had on currently.
“Tonight specifically?”
“Mhm.”
“Good to know.”
“No, like-” your voice catches slightly around another laugh as you crawl onto the mattress behind him and grab one of his pillows, you bury into the clean scented cotton and angle your face towards him, moreso speaking to his back. “I mean it.”
He turns then, still holding the shirt loosely in one hand.
And something about the way you’re looking at him makes his expression shift. He had tugged his sweatshirt off sometime upstairs, leaving him in a dark grey t-shirt that stretched distractingly across his shoulders, curls messy from the cold outside air, cheeks still faintly flushed from alcohol and laughter.
Your chest squeezed unexpectedly.
“What?” he asked immediately.
“You’re just.. so pretty.” You breathe out, a tangled mix of a gasp and sigh, pushing yourself up slowly, hair messy and strewn across your face.
The corner of his mouth lifted automatically.
“Yeah?”
You crawled to the edge of the bed closest to him. “Like… genuinely.”
You could practically see the exact moment he realised you weren’t teasing him.
“You’re pretty all the time,” you continued quietly, reaching out toward him- fingertips outstretched and ghosting over the belt loop of his jeans. “I just don’t think I say it enough.”
He steps between your knees where you’re sitting, shirt still hanging forgotten from one hand while your palms slide slowly up his thighs.
“Pretty hands,” you whisper, mainly to yourself, tracing the calluses on his palm and the soft cuticles of his nails. You travel higher to his forearms, beckoning him to bend closer towards you- his knee coming up onto the comforter. Logan watches, his eyes still playful and face flushed.
“Pretty arms,” fingertips tracing over the veins in his forearms before guiding his large palms to lay flat on your hips, he exhales heavily, a crack in his breath punctuating the shift in his gaze from loving to lustfully curious.
“Baby,” he said softly, “How tipsy are you right now?”
You looked up at him properly, “Enough to say this,” then smiled slightly, “But not enough to not mean it.”
You watched his throat move when he swallowed, eyes flicking down to your parted lips.
“Promise?” he asked quietly.
You nodded immediately.
“Promise.”
The tension in his shoulders eased after that.
And then you touched his face again.
“Pretty eyes,” you murmured softly, fingertips barely grazing the edge of his lashes in a way that makes his breath stall for half a second before he steadies it again.
“Pretty cheeks.”
Your hand cups his face now properly, softer than your words sound, thumb resting near his jaw like you’re holding him still just to admire. Your fingers graze his stubble and you itch to rub your face against his, like a cat, arching for attention.
He exhales again, slower this time, eyes fixed on yours- watching as your mind filters through every possibility, a dark, dirty loop.
You can feel the shift before anything else changes - the room, the air, the space between you narrowing without either of you daring to move away, too transfixed on your next move.
“And pretty hair.” You almost moan out, the memories of how you’d bury your hands in his hair and tug and scratch appreciatively in response to his actions.
Your fingers slid into his curls, nails dragging lightly against his scalp.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered quietly
You bit your lip, teasing it between your teeth to hide the way your mouth watered at the blush that stained his cheeks.
“Are you done?” he asks, somehow leaning even closer to you whilst not brushing his lips against yours. You almost snicker at the wrecked expression he has, but instead you let out a shaky breath when he uses his thumb to pry your bottom lip out from the grips of your teeth.
“No,” you say immediately, you gulp thickly and continue your appreciation, “m'taking my time baby.”
A shiver travels down your spine when his fingers move, dangerously slow to the hem of your dress that is already so far up your thighs that you aren’t sure there's a point in still having it on. But you lose most of your coherent thought train when his fingertips breach below the tight sequined fabric.
You quickly stand, twist Logan into your space and push him down on the bed. He wipes a hand down his face and lets out a growl from the bottom of his throat, eyes raking up your debauched appearance,
“Is this how you feel when I manhandle you?”
“Little bit, but you normally do that after I’ve come twice, so I’m not complaining."
You take one of his wrists and pull him up so you can climb into his lap, knees settling carefully on either side of his thighs while Logan looks up at you like he couldn’t decide whether he’s overwhelmed or completely gone already.
Probably both.
“You know what your problem is?” you asked softly, wrapping his arms around you as you shuffle further up against him.
“What?”
“You don’t realise how hot you are.”
That finally got a real laugh out of him, breathless around the edges.
“Baby, I play hockey. Unfortunately that’s like ninety percent of my personality.”
“No,” you insisted, leaning closer. “I mean it.”
Your fingers drifted down his throat slowly, tracing the shape of his Adam's apple, before you brush your mouth against his jaw, he groaned at your featherlight touch, eyes screwed shut and control fraying at the edges.
“You’re stupidly pretty.”
Logan’s hands flexed harder against your waist, fingers digging into the swell of your hips.
“You cannot say shit like that and then not kiss me,” he muttered.
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to behave.” That made you scoff out a chuckle against the corner of his lips.
“Baby,” he whispers, his voice serious as he holds your face in his hands, prying you away from his neck, “You’re not tipsy right now, right?”
You pull away and look at him carefully for a second, eyes softening as he studies your face.
“Positive,” The hand that you had resting on his neck comes up to spread against his jaw, guiding his gaze to focus on yours, “I'm completely sober right now.”
Logan’s silent for what seems like hours, watching, analysing you. How your once slightly tangy breath is now coming out in fresh puffs against his nose and the tipsy giddiness in your eyes is replaced with something calmer.
“Okay.” He finally whispers, threading his fingers into your hair and pressing your forehead against his.
“I love you,” You whisper, giggling when he scoffs and kisses your cheek, “Where was I?”
He lets out a small breath when his hands finally slide up your back properly, warm palms flattening on your ass while he tips his head back to let you kiss along his throat.
You grip the bottom of his shirt, “Can I take this off?”
Logan nods, moving back so he can remove it in one fluid tug. You lean into his hands when they return to your back, pushing your weight into him so you can take in his bare skin, the healed over hockey scars and bruises hidden in the shadows of the room, the dips and slants of his muscles contracting which each deep breath- clearly visible in the glow of his lamp.
“Really pretty shoulders,” You grip the thick muscle in question, nails digging in slightly as you grind down experimentally, “And chest, god, I really hit the jackpot here.”
You ignore the flustered heat radiating off of him and begin to kiss down his neck, wet open mouth kisses that leave glistening stamps on his tanned skin. They make a path of their own, winding around his throat and down to his clavicle, where you begin to lose composure, sucking and biting the skin, whimpers bleeding out in between each new lovebite; they continue to twist onto his chest, spiralling each pec until you can’t comfortably continue. That’s when you push him down and adjust his hands on your body, pulling up your dress to your waist so he can grip you harder.
“Are you still behaving?” you whispered, punctuating the question with a bite to his abs.
“Barely.”
You smile against his stomach, your lips meeting the line of brown hair that starts as a splattering at his abdomen.
Logan swallowed hard from above you, one arm resting on his forehead- his hand balled into a loose fist, the other rested on your head, lightly scratching your scalp, fingers buried into your hair.
His thighs flex beneath you and you sit up once again, “And your thighs baby, you have such pretty thighs”. You grind against the prominent bulge in his jeans, “So strong too.” You press your palms behind into his legs, arching your back into his chest as he sat up once more.
“Baby-” He gasped, “You can’t just- shit” You ripped off your dress, or whatever rolled up and wrinkled version you had on, “You can’t just say shit like that.”
“But it's true Logan.” You let him pull down the cups of your bra, mouthing messily at your breasts as he slowly guides your hips against him.
At this point, Logan’s lips were swollen and spit-slick from biting them and wetting them with his tongue. They were warm against your nipples, teeth a dull ache against the hardening buds as he rolled them, alternating between gentle kisses and tugs with his fingers to sharp sucks and pinches.
You moan out loudly, pulling at his hair as your hips begin to quicken. Your hands shake from the pleasure coursing through your entire body, but your grip on his jaw is steady as you kiss him. Mouth engulfing him in an open mouth kiss, tongue plunging into his mouth slowly, he matches your desire, his own tongue tangling with yours, hot puffs of air bursting from each millisecond you take to breathe.
Logan made this sound low in his throat that went straight through you, and suddenly you wanted more of it.
Your fingers tightened in his curls.
His grip on your waist sharpened.
The room felt warmer now, heavier somehow, every breath pulling slower than before while his mouth moved against yours with growing urgency.
“Baby,” he breathed quietly when you shifted in his lap without thinking.
“Your’e so pretty baby,” you whimpered softly before you could stop yourself, a mix of your saliva dripping from your lips.
Logan exhaled sharply against your mouth.
“fuck,” he panted, “What has gotten into you”
You shrug, thighs burning as he picks up the pace of the messy grinds against you, hands digging into your waist, “Just wanna appreciate my beautiful boyfriend, hah, my hot,” You kiss his neck and roughly thrust your hips, “sexy,” You switch sides, “amazing boyfriend.”
His head tips back as he laughs.
“Jesus Christ.”
His mouth crashed back into yours harder this time, one hand diving into your underwear to press your clit whilst the other ran his nails up your spine, fingertips pressing into soft skin hard enough to make your breath catch.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered roughly against your mouth, “You’re so fucki-”
You kissed him again before he could finish the sentence, desperate to feel his lips against yours, to feel his tongue slip into your mouth and invade your taste buds.
Your fingers gripped his neck, digging into the sensitive skin as you whimpered, “I forgot,” You lifted up suddenly, looking down to where your bodies were feverishly rubbing, his fingers still teasing your folds and rolling your clit beneath his thumb, “Your cock,” the lewd words were breathed against his ear, as your briefly slowed to press your fingers against the spot where his dick seemed to be straining against the zipper of his jeans, you were met with a damp patch, fingertips tracing the exact area, feeling it out since the darkness of the room wasn’t helpful in identifying just how badly he wanted you, “Your cock is so pretty baby.”
Logan shuddered against you and you gasp coyly, “yeah? I knew you had a praise kink. You are really liking this.”
You begin rolling your hips once more, this time directly on the mound that is throbbing against your cunt, warmth radiating through your ruined panties. Logan kisses you and smiles against your mouth, “Good thing I know just what you like,”
His fingers shifted, two digits now circling your hole, in response you arch your chest into him, “So pretty baby.” He snickers against your chest, slowly entering you, mouth parting in parallel with yours whilst a broken moan escapes your throat as he curls his fingers messily.
The irony isn’t lost on you, his cheeky smile makes you slow your hips, rocking deeply instead of short and snappy movements- languidly drawing out low moans from your boyfriend, who is heavily groaning into your parted mouth.
Both of you breathing into one another, wetness slipping down from your tongues into a messy, filthy mix against your chins.
His eyes roll back, as do yours when you find the perfect angle at which his fingers can firmly plunge against the spongy place inside of you whilst you catch the tip of his bulge with each slow rock.
You know he’s about to cum when short, barely audible whimpers leave his lips, his dark eyebrows pulled together in concentration as his mouth puckers to a shaky pout,
“You gonna cum baby?” You tease the coils of hair at the nape of his neck and watch him bite his lip hard, glancing down to where his hand disappears beneath the waistband of your panties, his fingers mutilating the soft lace in an obscene way.
Logan shook his head sharply, “Need- fuck- need you to cum first.” His other hand that had been kneading your ass, now went to your waist, guiding your hips in tandem with his fingers that now grinded into you, the heel of his palm pressing into your pubic hair with enough pressure to make your body jerk.
“Oh,” you bit into his shoulder, teeth digging into the muscle, surely going to leave a mark, “I will, Logan, i’m cumming, fuck oh my god.”
The way you moan his name made his hips buck and chest seize up, stuttering whilst you felt the denim beneath you warm considerably. You cup his face, thumb just below his bottom lip as you kiss him slowly, perversely, all slow strokes of your tongue and drool smacking against both of your teeth.
When Logan is able to control his body once again, he kisses you back, his fingers that never stopped, only slowed- picked up the pace. Making you jump, and gasp, “Logan,” you babble out obscenities:
“Yes, fuck right there, please dont stop.”
“So good, baby- need it so bad.”
His chest heaves when you do break around his digits, spasming wildly as wetness coats his knuckles and dribbles down into his palm, he croons at your blissed out expression, face glowing with sweat. He pushes your hips back slightly to pull out his hand, an empty feeling replacing them but soon it disappears when you watch him through hooded eyes, lips parting to welcome his glistening fingers into his mouth.
Logan groans, smacking his lips, eyes never leaving yours, “So fucking glad your exams are over babe.”
☄︎ Warnings: oral (f!receiving), ridin’, sweaty logan, not proofread (it's 3am i'm sorry)
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut.
☄︎ Words: 2800
☄︎ Summary: You and Logan semi-make up in the locker room after an argument.
💭: am I toxic? lol🧍🏾♀️you all are making my logan obsession become so much worse!! i’m supposed to be a loyal dean girlie pls! but... i have some more logan fics to get to which i am very excited about hehe... if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Logan Masterlist here.
You paced the length of the Hawk’s arena hallway, trying your best not to let your impatience show. The muffled sound of celebratory music thumping from the main arena doors down the hallway doing nothing but making you even more antsy.
Under your impatience, you were furious. You had been furious since last night, when you and Logan argued over something so miniscule that you couldn’t even remember what it was about. While you don’t remember the cause of it, you do remember that you’re furious about it.
It didn’t help that the two of you hadn’t spoken to one another from since he had said, “I love you, but I’m not doing this right now.” and walked out of your dorm, slamming the door on his way out. Okay, he hadn’t actually slammed the door but, to you, he basically did. And that made you furious.
Despite your stubborn vow to ignore him until he came crawling back to you, you still found yourself sitting in the stands with Hannah and Allie to watch the game. You had, childishly, planned to look unbothered and uninterested in the game. You had even practised your yawn. But, from the moment that Logan took to the ice to the time he got off it, you were on the edge of your seat.
He played like a man possessed. Obviously, he was just as furious as you were and he had channelled all of that into the game. He was checking the Harvard guys into the plexiglass with such a force that you swear you saw it wobble. He threw his head back and roared when he scored, it took all of your dignity to not start moaning right there and then.
Every time he skated past your section, chest heaving under the padding, you became a little less angry with him. And, somehow, a whole lot more furious with him.
And this wait was making it worse.
The double doors of the locker room finally clicked open; the team flooding out in chaotic chatter. You watched as the partners gravitated towards their boyfriends. That should be you and Logan, but it’s not because you’re ‘fighting’. You stayed with your back against the wall, waiting for the hallway to clear. You knew that Logan wouldn’t be coming out with them.
Once the hallway cleared and the voices faded, you pushed open the door and stepped into the way-too-brightly lit locker room.
Logan was sitting in his stall, his forearms resting heavily on his knees as he stared blankly at the Hawks logo on the carpeted floor. His thick, dark curls fell over his eyes, soaked with sweat. He was still in his uniform, only his skates and helmet were off, discarded somewhere on the floor.
Even from across the room, you could feel the pent-up aggression vibrating off of him in waves.
When the door clicked shut behind you, his head snapped up. You leant back against the it, refusing to come in any further. You’d already taken the first step towards him. Now he had to come to you. His eyes narrowed on you, dark and intense.
“You’re still here,” he rasped. It wasn’t a question, but you answered it anyway.
“Yes,” you said, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. And, because you were being petty, added, “and, I’m still mad at you.”
Logan snorted, running a tense hand through his damp hair. He slowly stood up and walked over to you, stopping inches away from you.
Without his skates, he didn’t tower over like he would have done on the ice, but he was tall enough and wide enough to make you feel surrounded as you stood up straighter against the door.
His jaw clenched as he looked down at you and you felt a sudden heat pooling between your legs.
“I’m still mad at you,” he fired back.
“Mhm,” you murmured.
Your eyes greedily looked over him. The way his brow was furrowed. The sharpness of his jawline. The way he watched you looking all dark and serious. He looked rugged, undone, and it was so attractive to you that it made your heart ache and pussy clench.
His jaw clenched under your scrutiny, his gaze dropping to your lips as his breathing became shallower, more uneven.
“Have you come to pick another fight?” Logan asked.
“Maybe,” you countered, your voice steady despite your racing pulse. “Why? Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“Well, then I’m not here for that.”
“Then why are you here?”
He knew why you were here, the asshole. He could see your eyes travelling his body. He could see you watching the sweat roll down his neck. There’s no way he didn’t notice your chest rising or the way your eyes had dilated. He just wanted to hear you say it.
He leant forward slightly, hands slamming against the wall on either side of your head, trapping you there.
God, the smell of him. From this close, it was overwhelming. The smell of his sweat shouldn’t have pulled you in the way it did. But there was something so him and so masculine about the way he smelt.
That’s how you knew you were down bad.
You looked up at him, your stubbornness and pride pushed aside by the unadulterated need. “Are you going to kiss me or what?”
He didn’t answer and worse, he didn’t kiss you. Instead, the motherfucker smirked at you. He slipped his hands under your thighs, grabbing a hold of your ass and effortlessly lifted you up. He pressed you back against the door and you instinctively wrapped your legs around him.
The padding under his jersey prevented you from being chest to chest, forcing him to lean forward and tilt his face towards yours.
He hovered there, his lips a fraction away from yours, so close that you could feel the rapid puff of his warm breath on you, but he still wouldn’t kiss you. He stared down at your lips, then looked back up at you. You looked into his eyes, seeing the intensity of last night’s anger, tonight’s victory, and his raw desire for you. It was one of the things you loved most about him, he couldn’t hide anything in his eyes.
You felt a vein in your neck throb. You tilted your chin up, expecting him to crash his lips against yours now that you’ve made the first move. But Logan deliberately pulled his head back just an inch further. Teasing you. Letting you ache for it.
“Asshole,” you muttered, your fingers digging tightly into the damp fabric of his padded shoulders.
“Say that again.”
Instead of answering, you tried to pull his head down, but he held his ground. Keeping his eyes locked on yours, he shifted his weight, deliberately grinding his hips forward to press the hardness in his pants right against you.
“Ass. Hole.” You punctuate each syllable, if that’s what he wanted, you would give it to him.
His eyes flared as heat ran through his body. He ground into you again, making your breath hitch.
Lifting you higher in his arms, he pressed himself against you. His dick was twitching in his pants, and he so desperately needed relief.
“What am I going to do with you?” He let out an exasperated laugh as he tilted his head and leant into you.
The first touch of his lips was just a soft brush, but it still sent a ripple down your spine. You hadn’t expected him to be so delicate after the way he’d been looking at you and teasing you. He lingered there, brushing his lips across yours.
He brushed his lips against yours once more, before capturing your lower lip between his teeth, biting and tugging slightly.
You moaned.
The second the sound left your throat; Logan released your lip and kissed you for real. It was bruising and desperate and exactly what you needed to get out the frustrations of the last 24 hours. His hands were suddenly all over you in a frantic blue, sliding up the hem of your shirt, cupping your ass to lift you higher, caressing your face to tilt your mouth deeper into his.
Clinging to his neck, you were only faintly aware that he had begun moving. He kept his lips on yours, carrying you across the room as he stumbled to his locker.
He didn’t break the kiss until he was in front of his locker. As his hands slid from your ass, to your waist, he pulled back, eyes locking onto yours as his chest heaved.
“Pants off,” he said, voice gruff.
The moment you unwrapped your legs from him and stood up, he was there to help you with your jeans. His fingers were trembling as he frantically tried to undo the button.
Once your jeans slid down, you sat back on the black cushion of his locker bench, looking up at him with your heart hammering in your chest.
Logan dropped to his knees, settling right between your legs. His hands gripped your knees, spreading your legs open to look at the wet patch on your panties.
He stayed there for a beat, thinking about exactly how he wanted to devour you first. He settled on your thighs first.
His hands stayed gripped on your knees as he leant forward, pressing kisses and sucking on the sensitive skin along your inner thigh, travelling up. He got unbearably close to where you were waiting for him, already soaked, before trailing back down again.
You let out a frustrated whimper, your fingers clawing at his scalp.
On his third journey up, a heavy hand came to your stomach as he gently guided you to lean back against the wooden cubby. At the same time, his other hand slid around your lower back.
With an effortless tug, he pulled you forward until your ass was right at the edge of the bench. You rested one leg over his shoulder, completely opening you up to him.
It had only been a day and a half since he last had his face buried between your legs, but to him, it might as well have been an eternity.
“Fuck, baby, I missed this,” he said as he buried his face between your legs, inhaling you in.
With one hand, he slid your panties to the side and parted one of your folds so he could lick a fat stripe up your pussy. He did it again, and again, and again, lapping up the juices there before moving to focus on your clit.
Your hips bucked into his mouth as he flicked his tongue against you. He had no more intentions to tease you; he wanted you to cum on his face.
He used his nose to rub against your clit and you shamelessly rolled your hips over it. The friction feeling so good.
A whine caught in your throat as he dove back in with his tongue, flicking from left to right.
“Logan~~.”
He looked up at you, spit and arousal shining on the lower half of his face. “Feel good, baby?”
“So, good, you always make me feel so good.” You curled your fingers in his dark curls, pushing him back between your legs.
Chuckling at your impatience, he went right back to work. His hand slipped under the hem of your top again so he could squeeze and knead your breast, the other still holding your panties so he could get at you.
You tugged at his hair as he pressed his tongue against you and swirled it in uncontrolled circles.
When he was between your legs, all he cared about was giving you exactly what you wanted. What your body needed. You needed, he obliged, tongue continuing to flick and swirl against you.
“Don’t stop– I’ll...” Your thought died on a moan.
The locker room was filled with the wet sounds of him moving his mouth against you, and the loud lewd moans that you freely let out. You didn’t care if anybody was around to hear you. In fact, you wanted them to hear just how good Logan was to you.
He could feel himself getting drunk off of the taste of you, his body was warm and buzzing. He was starting to feel delirious as your hips rolled on him.
The pressure of his tongue on you was perfect, you could feel the pleasure build steadily within you.
“Your tongue feels so good, Loge,” you praised. You were close. So close.
“Then come for me,” he said as he slid two fingers inside of you, curving and caressing your walls.
Shockwaves of pleasure ran over you as you came, clenching on his fingers. He kept his mouth on you through it, humming and moaning at the taste of you.
When your body finally settled, he sat back on his knees, panting heavily as his lips glistened in the harsh fluorescent blue lighting. You reached over, pulling him in for another kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.
“Wanna ride you, Loge,” you mumbled against his lips.
Logan didn’t need to be told twice; he was already thumbling with his pants when you pulled back to take your panties off.
The pants were barely down past his knees when you gently pushed him to lie flat on the carpet and straddled him.
“Just lay back, let me take care of you now,” you soothed as you ground against him, leaving a trail of slick arousal on his aching dick.
He practically whimpered as you continued to slide over him.
“B-baby.” His hands came to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin through your top. “Let me fuck you.”
Looking down at him, his eyes were half-lidded as they pleaded you. Who were you to argue with those beautiful brown eyes.
Lifting your hips up slightly, you held his dick to guide it into your pussy.
As your hole stretched around his tip, he let out a strangled moan. You watched him as you slowly lowered yourself onto him, coming to a full seat.
He throbbed and twitched within you, his thick head leaking pre-cum. You circled your hips, relishing in the feeling of him rubbing against your walls.
You hadn’t even really moved yet and he already looked wrecked. His mouth was hung slightly open, eyes squeezed shut. You craved more, to see him absolutely shattered by you.
Bracing your hands on his on the still damp fabric of his Briar U jersey, you began to move. You don’t raise your hips high, choosing smaller bounces and grinds of your hips.
For a few minutes of bounces, he let you set your pace, grunting and groaning as you sensually moved over him.
Each bounce brought him to the brink of desperation, his restraint wearing thin.
The hands on your waist tightened as he helped guide your rhythm in desperation. He needed you faster, he needed you to slam back down onto him harder.
“You were so hot out there.” Your voice was breathy, bouncing on him the way you were had you exhausted. “I wanted to touch myself just watching you play.”
The praise made him grip you impossibly tighter, made him slam you back down even harder.
His dick curved just the right way to hit your g-spot, causing you to see stars as you clenched around him. You moaned in tandem, his head thrown back as a result of your vice grip.
You didn’t care that if anyone opened the door right now, they’d come face to face with you bouncing on it. He didn’t care that the carpet rubbed at his ass as he tried to thrust up into you, limited by his pants around his ankles.
All you both cared about was the way you were wrapped around him, and the sounds that tumbled from his mouth as he got close.
It took a few more harsh bounces from you for him to unload into you. The hands on your waist held you in place as he filled you up. You purposely clenched, milking him for all he had.
“Fucking hell.”
You collapsed against his padded chest, your forehead resting against his shoulder as your breathing slowed. You turned to inhale the fresh sweat on his neck. “You need a shower.”
Logan wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tighter against him. An exhausted smirk tugging at his lips. “So do you, coach is going to be pissed if you drip cum onto his floor.”
You were still furious with him, and his stupidly hot face. You knew the fight wasn’t actually over. But, if this is what being angry with Logan brought you, then you were more than happy to pick another fight tomorrow.
summary: the four times your friend group tried to set you up with logan, and the one time they find out you’ve been dating the entire time
established relationship
warnings: just pure sappy fluff, usage of y/n
word count: 4.2k
a/n: based on this request! i hope you like it :))
john logan masterlist off campus masterlist
── ᵎᵎ ✦
the funny thing about keeping your relationship with logan a secret was that neither of you had ever actually decided to.
if someone had asked during those first few weeks, you probably would’ve told them. there wasn’t anything scandalous about it. no reason to hide. nobody in your friend group would’ve cared beyond teasing the two of you for a while before eventually moving on.
it just… never came up.
the relationship itself had arrived so quietly that, looking back, neither of you could really pinpoint where friendship had ended and something else had begun.
after hockey season, you’d simply started spending more time together. study sessions that always seemed to run too late to justify walking back to your own dorm straight away. dinners that lasted twice as long as either of you intended because conversation came so easily with him. evenings spent wandering across campus without much destination in mind, filling the silence with the sort of conversations that only happened when neither person felt any pressure to keep talking.
somewhere between spring arriving and final exams looming over campus, he’d walked you back to your dorm after one of your study sessions like he always did.
the conversation had drifted off several minutes earlier, leaving only the sound of your footsteps against the pavement and the distant buzz of students enjoying one of the first genuinely warm evenings of the year.
you’d stopped outside your building. he’d looked at you for a moment before kissing you.
it hadn’t been particularly dramatic. there hadn’t been fireworks or declarations or some overwhelming certainty that everything had changed. it had simply felt… right.
afterward, logan had rubbed the back of his neck with the slightest hint of uncertainty before quietly asking if that had been okay. you’d kissed him again instead of answering.
that had been four months ago.
the next morning, you’d still met everyone for breakfast. logan had still sat beside you because he always did. you’d stolen fries from his plate because you always did. he’d walked you back to your dorm after classes because he always did.
the only real difference was that now, when nobody was looking, he’d steal a quick kiss before heading back across campus.
for a while, having something that belonged only to the two of you had been… nice.
your relationship existed outside everyone else’s opinions. there were no questions, no teasing, no constant interruptions every time one of you sat beside the other. it was just yours, tucked quietly into the spaces between lectures and late-night walks and evenings spent curled up together in your dorm.
eventually, though, the novelty faded.
more than once, one of you would look at the other and say, we should probably tell everyone.
the other would agree, but then someone would change the subject, or dinner would arrive, or you’d both forget. the conversation kept being postponed until it somehow became stranger to announce it than not to.
neither of you worried about it, because you assumed everyone would find out eventually. you just hadn’t anticipated it to take so long.
by the time coach finally called it, the sun had already started dipping behind the campus buildings, painting long shadows across the parking lot outside the arena. everyone was tired in that familiar, satisfying sort of way that followed a good skate. conversation came easier once helmets were off and sticks had been tossed carelessly into the back of trucks, the intensity of practice gradually giving way to the comfortable rhythm the team always seemed to settle into afterward.
logan adjusted the strap of his hockey bag higher on his shoulder as he stepped out of the rink. he’d texted you nearly an hour earlier.
logan: running late don’t wait if you’re hungry
you: too late already ordered enough fries for both of us x
he’d smiled to himself without really thinking about it.
logan: good
the parking lot had begun emptying by the time he started walking toward campus. several of the guys peeled off in different directions, climbing into cars or heading toward the hockey house, until eventually only garrett remained beside him since they had decided to carpool.
for a while, neither of them spoke. garrett, however, lasted about three more minutes until he felt the need to break the silence, “you know…”
logan glanced over. garrett shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, looking ahead as though the conversation wasn’t particularly important, “y/n’s cool.”
logan nodded once, “yeah.”
garrett continued walking, “i mean it.”
“i know.”
“she’s funny.”
another nod from logan, “she is.”he wasn’t entirely sure where the conversation was going yet.
people complimented their friends all the time. it didn’t seem especially noteworthy. garrett kept talking anyway, “she actually knows hockey.”
“yeah.”
“which is rare.”
logan thought about the number of times you’d sat through games you hadn’t understood at first, asking quiet questions until the rules gradually began making sense. now you caught missed penalties before half the people around you did. you’d been strangely pleased with yourself the first time that happened. he’d been pleased too, though.
“she’s easy to be around,” garrett said.
logan looked at him, “…she is.”
there wasn’t much point pretending otherwise; you were. conversation with you never felt forced, and silence didn’t either. most evenings, the two of you could spend hours together without either of you feeling the need to constantly fill the space between you. logan had never realised how rare that was until he’d found it.
garrett slowed slightly as they reached the crosswalk outside the arena and looked sideways at logan, “you should ask her out.”
the traffic light changed. logan waited for a car to pass before stepping off the curb, “oh, i already did.”
garrett laughed. not the polite sort of laugh people gave when they weren’t sure whether someone was joking. it was a genuine laugh, “yeah?”
logan frowned faintly, “yeah.”
“good one,” garrett laughed again.
for a second, logan wondered whether he’d said something wrong. then he realised garrett thought he was kidding, but before he could explain, garrett was already talking again, “seriously, though, i think you’d really like her.”
you discovered hannah’s theory by the middle of the semester over afternoon coffee.
the two of you had escaped campus between lectures, ducking into della’s diner. it had become something of an unspoken tradition over the past year. whenever your schedules lined up, you’d spend an hour there together before heading back to class, talking about everything and absolutely nothing until one of you inevitably glanced at the time and realised you were already running late.
that afternoon was no different. hannah was halfway through describing one of garrett’s increasingly questionable cooking experiments when she paused.
her expression shifted ever so slightly. not dramatically, just enough that you’d learned to recognise she was about to say something she’d clearly been thinking about for a while.
she stirred her coffee absentmindedly before looking up, “can i ask you something?”
you nodded, “always.”
her spoon clinked softly against the side of her mug, “have you ever thought about logan?”
thankfully, your coffee was already back on the table, otherwise, you suspected you might’ve dropped it. you blinked as you did your best to keep your expression neutral, “in what way?”
hannah shrugged one shoulder, “in a dating way.”
you hummed thoughtfully, lowering your eyes to your drink before she could read your face too closely, “why are you asking?”
she smiled to herself, “i don’t know.” which, coming from hannah, almost certainly meant she knew exactly why. she tucked one leg beneath herself in the booth before continuing, “i’ve just been watching you two.”
your heart gave the smallest, traitorous little skip. not because you thought she’d figured it out, but because she was far more observant than most people gave her credit for.
you’d spent the last four months being careful. never sitting too close when everyone else was around. never holding hands unless nobody could see. keeping kisses to empty hallways, quiet walks back to your dorm, and the brief moments before one of you inevitably headed home for the night.
you’d convinced yourself nobody had noticed and, for the first time, you wondered if maybe someone had.
hannah rested both hands around her mug, “he always ends up sitting beside you.”
you smiled faintly, “there’s usually a free seat.”
“maybe.” she shrugged, but she looked unconvinced, “but he always notices when you leave the room.”
you hadn’t realised anyone else had noticed that. it happened almost unconsciously; whether you were getting another drink, answering your phone, or stepping away to use the bathroom, his eyes almost always followed you for a second before returning to whatever conversation he’d been having.
he didn’t seem aware he was doing it and neither had you. until now.
hannah continued, counting quietly on her fingers, “he remembers everything you tell him.”
you opened your mouth to answer, but immediately closed it again. she wasn’t wrong.
logan remembered things. all sorts of things. the name of your favourite author after you’d mentioned it once in passing. which professor insisted on surprise quizzes every friday. how you always ordered extra fries but never ate the last one. the way you preferred your coffee. the fact that you hated walking across campus with wet socks after it rained.
he carried little pieces of information about you as though remembering them required no effort at all.
“and,” hannah added, smiling into her coffee now, “he always makes sure someone walks you home after group nights.”
this time, you couldn’t help smiling. not because she was wrong, but because she thought it was someone. she had no idea that, more often than not, the someone was logan himself.
you looked back at her, “you’ve thought about this a lot.”
she laughed softly, “a little.”
“a little?”
“okay.”she grinned, “more than a little.”
you shook your head, laughing under your breath, “so…”
hannah leaned forward just enough to rest her elbows on the table, “i think he likes you.”
you let the silence linger for a second. eventually, you took another sip of your coffee, “you think?”
she nodded immediately, “i’m almost certain.”
you traced absentminded circles around the rim of your mug, “i’ll keep that in mind.”
hannah smiled, clearly satisfied she’d done her part.
malone’s was busier than it had been when you’d first arrived; conversations overlapping beneath the steady hum of music drifting through the speakers. pool balls cracked together somewhere behind you every few minutes, punctuated by the occasional cheer whenever someone managed an unexpectedly good shot. every booth seemed occupied, and the warm scent of fried food lingered in the air long after the plates had been cleared away.
the eight of you had claimed the same corner booth you always seemed to end up in.
tucker and dean were arguing over something that had happened during practice earlier that afternoon. allie was attempting to convince hannah that dean had, in fact, exaggerated the entire story. garrett kept interrupting to make things objectively less accurate, while beau looked increasingly entertained the longer the argument continued.
logan sat quietly beside you, only contributing every now and then with the sort of dry comment that somehow made everyone laugh harder than the original story had.
the first round of drinks disappeared into a second. someone ordered fries for the table, garrett immediately claiming most of them.
eventually, dean pushed himself upright, “pool.”
nobody seemed particularly invested one way or the other, but everyone followed him toward the tables anyway.
there was a brief discussion about teams. mostly because dean insisted there needed to be strategy involved despite nobody else caring very much who they played with.
he looked around the group for a moment before pointing at you and logan, “you two, you’re together.”
a silent looked passed between the two of you, but neither of you questioned it, “alright.”
dean looked absurdly pleased with himself and you caught the expression immediately. logan, apparently, did not. he’d already reached for one of the cues leaning against the wall, turning it over once in his hands before offering it to you instead, “this one’s straighter.”
you accepted it automatically, “thanks.”
the game started. calling it competitive would’ve been generous. beau insisted dean wasn’t keeping score properly. dean insisted beau simply couldn’t count. garrett somehow managed to sink the cue ball twice within five minutes. allie laughed so hard she almost missed her own turn.
you weren’t especially good at pool. you’d played often enough to understand the rules, but accuracy remained … inconsistent. halfway through the game, you leaned over the table, squinting down the cue as you tried to line up a shot that looked considerably easier in theory than it did in practice.
you adjusted your grip. then adjusted it again, but something still felt wrong.
before you had the chance to rethink it a third time, logan stepped quietly beside you. he didn’t say anything straight away. instead, he looked from the cue to the angle of your arm before gently reaching for your hand, “here.” his voice stayed low enough that only you heard it. his fingers shifted yours slightly higher along the cue, “you’re holding it too tight.”
his hand was warm and steady against yours. he moved your wrist barely half an inch before stepping back again, his attention returning to the table as though nothing particularly noteworthy had happened, “try that.”
you did and suddenly the ball rolled neatly across the felt. two seconds later, it disappeared cleanly into the corner pocket. you stared after it, “huh.”
logan’s mouth lifted at one corner, “better.”
“little bit,” you smiled despite yourself.
across the room, dean noticed the entire interaction. he leaned sideways toward allie, “see?”
allie followed his gaze, “what?”
“chemistry.”
she looked back toward the two of you. logan was already focused on the table again while you circled around the opposite side, trying to decide which shot came next.
“i think he just helped her,” she knitted her brows as she looked back at the blonde.
“exactly.”
“you’ve become weirdly invested in this.”
“i just think they’d be good together,” he shrugged.
she smiled to herself, “they would.”
by the time the game ended, nobody seemed entirely sure who had actually won. dean claimed it had been your team, but beau disagreed loudly, and garrett insisted the score had become irrelevant after someone accidentally knocked two balls off the table.
eventually, everyone gave up trying to work it out.
chairs scraped against the wooden floor as people stood, conversations overlapped while jackets were pulled on, and someone inevitably realised they’d forgotten to close their tab just as everyone else reached the door. after a few hours, the evening had settled into the comfortable kind of tiredness that came from spending too long laughing with people you genuinely enjoyed being around.
outside, the air had cooled considerably.
the streets were quieter than they’d been when you’d arrived, most of the foot traffic now made up of students wandering back toward campus in small groups. the lights from the bars spilled across the sidewalks, catching against puddles left behind by an afternoon shower and turning them gold.
everyone lingered outside for a minute or two, deciding who was walking where.
dean and allie had parked across the street, garrett and hannah were already arguing over whether they had enough food left at the hockey house to avoid another late-night grocery run, and beau and tucker had somehow wandered into an entirely separate conversation before anyone else had finished saying goodbye.
you slipped your arms into your jacket, only half paying attention.
“i’ve got to head this way,” you said absentmindedly, nodding toward the opposite side of campus, “my dorm’s clear across the other end.”
before anyone could answer, allie looked toward logan who was stood beside you, “logan, can walk you back, right?”
the suggestion landed so naturally that nobody questioned it. logan didn’t hesitate, “yeah.”
you caught the smile dean tried, and failed, to hide. it lasted barely a second before he looked away, but you’d seen it. you knew exactly what he thought had just happened.
allie, on the other hand, looked entirely unconcerned. if she had any ulterior motive, she hid it considerably better than dean ever could. she simply smiled at you, wished you both goodnight, and climbed into the passenger seat of dean’s truck.
one by one, everyone drifted away. before long, only you and logan remained standing beneath the glow of the streetlights outside malone’s, “ready?”
you nodded, “ready.”
the walk back toward campus began in easy silence. you’d discovered early on that neither of you felt any pressure to speak simply because there was empty space to fill. sometimes one of you started talking after a few minutes. sometimes neither of you did. either way, it never felt awkward.
the sidewalks were damp beneath your feet, carrying the faint scent of rain and warm pavement. somewhere across campus, music drifted lazily through the night air before disappearing again as you turned down a quieter path lined with trees.
logan matched his pace to yours without seeming to think about it. he always walked slightly slower when he was with you. not enough that anyone else would notice, but just enough that you never had to hurry to keep up.
you’d made it halfway across campus before you finally smiled to yourself. logan glanced over, “what?”
you shook your head, “i think everyone’s trying to set us up.”
he blinked, “what?”
“garrett, hannah, dean, and now allie,” you gestured vaguely behind you, toward the direction of malone’s, “they’re trying to get us together.”
logan was quiet. you watched him think, his gaze dropping briefly toward the pavement as he replayed the last few weeks in his head. you almost saw the moment everything clicked into place, “oh.”
you smiled, “there it is.”
he looked back at you, “they are trying to set us up.” another few steps passed before he spoke again, “i didn’t notice.”
“i know.”
he rubbed absently at the back of his neck as he chuckled, “i thought garrett was just being friendly.”
you returned the laugh, “he was.”
“…and dean?”
“less subtle.”
“huh.”his expression settled somewhere between thoughtful and faintly amused. for another minute, neither of you said anything. then, quietly— “that’s kind of nice.”
you looked at him, “what is?”
“they like you,” his mouth twitched and the smile that appeared was small enough that most people would’ve missed it entirely.
you didn’t, though. you never did.
the path narrowed as you approached your dorm, forcing the two of you a little closer together. your shoulder brushed his once, then again a few steps later.
the building came into view not long afterward, its windows glowing softly against the dark campus.
you stopped near the entrance and for a moment, neither of you spoke. the night had settled comfortably around you, carrying the distant sounds of laughter from somewhere across campus. “thanks,” you said.
logan looked at you, “for what?”
“walking me home.”
he seemed almost surprised by the question, “always, you know that”
the answer came so simply. as though there had never been another possibility.
something warm settled quietly in your chest. you stepped a little closer, close enough that nobody looking out from the dorm windows would’ve noticed anything unusual. your fingers briefly caught the sleeve of his hoodie, “i know.”
his hands found yours for the smallest moment, hidden between the two of you. he gave them one gentle squeeze before slowly leaning closer to place a soft kiss against your lips, “night.”
the hockey house was unusually quiet that evening. someone had left a hockey game playing on the television more out of habit than genuine interest, and dean and garrett were arguing half-heartedly over something that had happened during practice while tucker scrolled aimlessly through his phone.
allie and hannah occupied opposite ends of the couch, comparing notes for a class neither of you had been unfortunate enough to take.
logan had disappeared upstairs twenty minutes earlier to shower after practice.
you’d made yourself comfortable in the corner of the couch with one of your textbooks balanced across your knees, though you’d spent considerably longer reading the same paragraph than actually understanding it.
your attention drifted every few minutes. sometimes toward the television. sometimes toward whatever dean was complaining about now. sometimes… toward the staircase.
you heard footsteps before you looked up and logan appeared a second later, still rubbing a towel absently through his damp hair. he’d changed into gray sweats and a faded briar hoodie, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. his hair was still slightly damp around the edges, curling faintly where it hadn’t quite dried yet.
your eyes lifted from the textbook almost automatically.
the smallest smile appeared the moment he noticed you. he wandered into the living room, only half paying attention to whatever dean was saying.
as he drew closer, you noticed one of the hoodie strings had twisted itself awkwardly beneath the collar.
without thinking—
completely, utterly without thinking—
you held out your hand, “logan.”
he stopped beside the couch, “hm?”
“come here.”
he stepped closer immediately. not because you’d sounded particularly serious. simply because you’d asked.
you reached up, gently tugging the twisted drawstring free before smoothing the collar flat against his chest. the fabric had folded awkwardly beneath the hood, so you fixed that too, “there.”
logan glanced down briefly, “thanks.”
you brushed one last damp strand of hair away from his forehead before letting your hand fall. the movement had become so instinctive over the past few months that neither of you gave it a second thought.
logan certainly didn’t, because he leaned down to press a brief kiss against your forehead before dropping onto the couch beside you. his hand found yours beneath the blanket draped across your lap with the same unconscious ease he’d done it a hundred times before.
it took several more seconds before you realised the room had gone completely silent.
you looked up to find that dean had stopped talking mid-sentence, garrett still held an unopened bag of chips in one hand, hannah was looking between the two of you with an expression that suggested several months’ worth of observations had suddenly rearranged themselves into one very obvious conclusion, allie blinked only once, and beau looked at each face in turn, then at you, then at logan. the corners of his mouth started twitching.
logan followed your gaze around the room, “oh.”
you looked at him, “shit, we forgot.”
dean found his voice first, “what.”
neither of you answered immediately. mostly because there didn’t seem to be much else to say.
you and logan looked at each other before you finally closed your textbook and set it carefully on the coffee table, “we’re dating.”
silence. dean blinked, again, “what.”
“logan and i are dating.”
another pause and garrett frowned, “since when?”
this time, logan answered, “about four months.”
garrett slowly lowered the bag of chips onto the coffee table as though any sudden movement might somehow change what he’d just heard, “four months.”
logan nodded, “yeah.”
garrett looked genuinely wounded, “i told you to ask her out.”
“i know.”
“you were already dating.”
“yeah.”
garrett stared at him, “why didn’t you tell me?”
logan frowned slightly, considering the question with complete sincerity, “well, you didn’t ask.”
beau made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough. dean ignored him completely as he looked between you and logan, “hold on.”he pointed accusingly between the two of you, “the pool game.”
you looked at him, “what about it?”
“i put you two together.”
“you did.”
“because i was trying to set you up,” he voice raised slightly as he spoke, obviously in complete disbelief.
“we know.”
“you knew?”
you nodded and dean looked personally offended, “the walk home from malone’s.”he turned toward allie, “you literally asked him to walk her home.”
allie slowly covered her face with one hand, “oh my god.”
you smiled apologetically, “he’d actually been walking me home for months.”
allie let out a quiet groan, “we spent an entire semester trying to get these two together.”
another beat of silence passed. then beau finally gave up trying to hold it in. his laugh echoed through the living room, loud enough that dean shot him an unimpressed look before the sound became contagious.
garrett started laughing next. then tucker. even hannah eventually shook her head, smiling into her coffee, “to be fair,” she said, “i did tell her i thought logan liked her.”
you laughed, “you did.”
hannah looked at you, “you could’ve said something.”
“…probably.”
dean threw both hands into the air, “probably?!”
you couldn’t help but smiling, “it was kind of funny.”
dean stared, “funny??”
then beau laughed even harder. dean dropped backward onto the couch with the sort of dramatic resignation usually reserved for championship losses, “i cannot believe,” he muttered, rubbing both hands over his face, “i spent four months accidentally rooting for a relationship that already existed.”
logan gave him a sarcastic smile, “hey, thanks.”
dean groaned loud enough for the entire house to hear, which only made everyone laugh harder.
through the middle of it all, unnoticed by everyone except you, logan’s fingers tightened gently around yours beneath the blanket, and when you looked around the room and found everyone still laughing at dean’s expense, you realized there wasn’t any reason to hide it anymore.
summary: what happens when the mom and dad of the group become, well, mom and dad?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, hints to smut if you squint, pregnancy.
word count: 2.63k
authors note: this was actually a lot of fun to write because the idea was like all mapped out in my head before I wrote it tbh after our last piece John Logan I figured we needed to give him something more cutesy so here it is.
series masterlist | next part
The joke started the same way they always did with the group.
Casually, then completely unavoidable.
It was Dean who said this one first.
You were reorganising the boys fridge one night after he turned the takeout containers into a game of tetris “relax mom.” It made Logan laugh as he didn’t look up from his phone while he sat at the kitchen counter.
He claimed he was there as moral support, but it was really because he just wanted to be near you “don’t encourage her.” He warned “she gets worse when shes stressed.”
His words were met with a gasp “excuse me?” You scowled letting your mouth fall open when you turned to glare at him.
Tucker grinned as he stole the chicken wings from your hands “careful dad, mom might get ya.” And somehow it just stuck.
Mom and Dad. You and Logan.
It wasn’t even meant to be the case at first but somewhere along the way, the two of you became the glue that kept everyone together.
Logan kept track of the practice schedule and ensured that everyone ate the food that Tucker cooked.
You kept a list of everyone’s birthdays, deadlines, arguments, and who wasn’t talking to whom.
Logan calmed the chaos, and you seemed to organise it. And somehow the two of you worked perfectly together.
So of course, the jokes kept on coming.
“Ask mom if I can go out.” Dean would say as he peered into the living room where you read a book, “Logan said no.” You knew all about the house arrest Logan had Dean on because he needed to study for a major midterm.
Your brother huffed as he sprawled out on the couch, resting his feet on your lap “hey!” You scoffed, watching him grab a carrot stick from your plate, “your boyfriend is being dramatic again.” His words came as he stuck his tongue out at you.
The sound of Logan complaining about the blocked shower drain travelled down the stairs. And Garrett was surprisingly calm about it, which was saying something as he’d once sworn that Logan wouldn’t live long enough to graduate if he dated you.
Now he just complained like Logan was already a part of the family.
Which in a way, now that your dad didn’t totally hate the idea, he was.
Except lately, you couldn’t laugh at it the same way.
Because something had shifted and only you knew why.
It all happened three weeks ago.
You were standing in your bathroom, staring at the sink as if it had personally betrayed you.
Two pink lines and those words you hated so much to see.
You were pregnant.
And the world did not stop. That was the most terrifying part. It just kept on going.
Outside of that room, Hannah was laughing at something on her laptop while Allie was humming as she got ready for class. Someone could even be heard yelling in the hallway about how they needed coffee.
Normal life kept on going on, while yours had just split into two.
You pressed your hand to your stomach instinctively; it was still flat and still normal.
Nothing looked different about you, yet everything was.
You were meant to see the boys later that day for lunch and you had no clue how to tell them.
Garrett took so long to accept that Logan was your boyfriend, but this was a different ballpark.
And Logan loved you like you were something delicate that he had to protect.
You were terrified that this would break that.
Logan on the other hand, was feeling like an idiot.
He was ready to marry you, as if you asked him to go to Vegas tomorrow to do it he would.
But it felt like you were ready to break up with him.
So rather than talking about it, he picked up whatever he could. Odd jobs to fill the time that he wasn’t spending with you.
And for the most part, that really did work. He was able to make himself so busy that there wasn’t time during the day to think about what you might have been doing that didn’t involve him.
But at night?”
That was a whole different story.
He’d park his truck outside your building and send you a text begging to let him come up. He knew he could ask Allie or Hannah to let him in, but he wasn’t going to go against your boundaries like that. If you didn’t want to talk to him, well, he was convincing himself that he was okay with that.
So instead, he would hide away in his room, scrolling through the album on his phone of the two of you that you organised one day while he studied.
It had everything from the time the two of you used to sneak around before anyone knew you were seeing each other. All the way to when Dean and Tucker would crash your couple pictures, swearing that ‘your kids’ have to be in them too.
It made him laugh, honestly remembering how you’d shoo the boys away so that Allie could get a decent picture. Then Logan got to the one that Hannah took.
It was from a party after a big win when the couples were playing each other in beer pong, despite the fact that Garrett swore he should be the one to play with his sister.
Logan’s arm was wrapped around your waist as you had your tongue out, trying to focus on the throw. All the boy was focused on, both now and then, was you.
Hannah couldn’t help it when her eyes stayed glued to the sight “I know Wellsy, he loves her more than he loves hockey.” Garrett’s voice was louder than he intended it to be as he spoke.
The words made your cheeks redden as Logan tightened his grip on you “no I don’t.” He shook his head, convincing nobody, as his eyes were still on you.
Garrett let out a dry laugh “I’m pretty sure she could ask you to drop hockey and move to Vermont to become tree farmers, and you’d do it.” Logan couldn’t argue with that because it was actually true.
That boy was ready to move to the end of the world for you if you asked him to.
You furrowed your eyebrows “that's not true.” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to your boyfriend. Your eyes settle onto his lips “we’d totally farm goats.” Your words made everyone laugh as you kissed Logan.
It earned a groan from Garrett with a complaint for you to just throw the ball. And all you did was flip him off in response.
The day when you knew you could no longer hide it from Logan came; it was gameday and also your one-year anniversary.
After the game, the two of you had plans to go out, but with the way you had been acting. Logan honestly wondered if you were even going to be at the game.
That was how Garrett ended up at your door.
Well more like in your room.
Because that’s where you found your brother sat, comfortably on your bed when you came back from getting a smoothie with Allie “oh please make yourself at home.” You grumbled letting your bag drop to the floor.
Your brother couldn’t help it when he let out a soft laugh “look are you okay?” The question made your eyes widen.
Because you were so clearly not okay “I’m perfect Gar.” You forced the lie out as you sat on your chair.
“No you’re not.”
You rolled your eyes “why’d you ask me if you already knew the answer?” You sucked at your teeth crossing your arms in the process “you’ve been avoiding your boyfriend.” The point made you feel nauseous all over again.
Garrett saw your reaction. It was like his little twinstinct to know exactly when your slight movement meant something so much worse “if he did something-” he was already getting up ready to march back to the house.
You were quick to press your hand into his chest, stopping him from leaving your room “he didn’t do anything I swear.” As much as you loved your brother, you knew that if he could. You’d be wrapped in bubble wrap and hidden away from the world. And even then he’d still worry himself sick over protecting you.
Garrett leaned against your table “then what is going on with you?” He knew that your dad had been blowing up both of your phones to meet his fiance but Garrett knew you ignored him in the best of times, so why would this affect you now.
Staring at the ground, you frowned, “I need to tell Logan first.” If you could have it your way you’d never tell your brother, and just say you fund your child on the street.
You couldn’t help it when you sighed, pulling your brother into a hug that usually made you feel better “I just need to find the right time.” You knew your answer didn’t make sense but when you were going with it.
Garrett nodded, not because he wanted to believe you but because he knew he had no choice in the matter “but please tell him before he eats himself up over something that isn’t his fault.” You wanted to point out that your boyfriend was in fact the exact reason why you were in this position.
But you couldn’t so instead you nodded “I promise I’ll tell him after the game tonight.” You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips when your brother kissed your head.
The game should have been an easy win. A game where they could have put up a B team and still won by 3 goals. But instead, it was an utter shitshow.
Logan spotted you in the crowd immediately; he always did the moment he stepped onto the ice. But tonight it seemed that once he knew you were there, he actually didn’t want to see you. He got into a fight, was thrown against the boards and spent more time in the penalty box than actual time on the ice as the coach pulled him off, seeing that his head wasn’t in the right place.
Garrett actually pitied his teammate; he never thought there’d be a day when he thought you were in the wrong and that whatever issues you two were having would be your doing.
So when you saw the look your brother gave you at the end of the game, you knew you were to stand by Logan’s truck waiting for him as the game ended. Or else Garrett would get involved, and quite frankly, nothing ever went well when he did.
And that was exactly where Logan found you after the game “I’ll see you guys later.” He announced, no longer looking at Dean or Tucker; instead, his eyes had settled on you.
You sent him a soft smile as the boys waved at you “hey.” Your voice was quiet as your boyfriend threw his bag into the back of his truck.
He remained silent, “look we need to talk.” Your announcement almost made him laugh.
Because how was it that you got to decide that tonight was when you’d finally talk “nice to know that my girlfriend still knows how to do that.” The comment came off harsher than it was intended to.
The boy sucked at his teeth when you reached for him “look I know I have been an ass-“ Logan had to admit he was glad you had more emotional awareness than your brother “it’s our one-year anniversary and I didn’t even know if I still had a girlfriend!”
You wanted to respond, you really did. But you felt your stomach churn, and suddenly you were bent over in the direction of the nearest bushes.
Instinctively, he reached for your hair, pulling it out of your face as he rubbed your back “you eat something bad today?” Logan cocked his head, knowing that it wasn’t like you to throw up.
You spat out a glob of spit as you shook your head “it’s what I wanted to tell you about.” You groaned, feeling your stomach churn again.
To his credit, Logan didn’t push until you were standing upright again “I wanted to have some speech, but that clearly isn’t gonna happen.” you brought your sleeve up to wipe your mouth, not caring that you’d regret it later.
“I’m pregnant.”
Your words made him freeze as his eyes went wide “we’ve been careful.” He spoke as if his word was gospel.
Your cheeks reddened at the memory, “not always.” Your eyes trailed back to the truck. It was a night where both your place and his were busy and the two of you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. So you figured that his car was the best place for the two of you to be.
Logan frowned as he furrowed his eyebrows “this is what you’ve been avoiding me for?” He realised as he shoved his hands into his pockets, “did you think I’d leave you?”
He wasn’t angry.
He was hurt.
Hurt that you would think that he’d leave you, and especially hurt that you thought he’d make you deal with this alone.
But you shook your head as tears welled in your eyes, “i thought you’d hate me.” Your voice broke as it broke something in him.
He hated seeing you sad “hate you?” His voice broke as his hands cupped your cheeks “are you actually insane?” He would have laughed if you weren’t upset.
That was the thing that broke you. Finally, tears streamed down your cheeks and Logan didn’t think twice about pulling you into his embrace “I’m scared.” Your confession made his heart break as he could only think about how long you had been dealing with that emotion alone.
His fingers ran through your hair, immediately soothing you “we will figure this out together, okay.” His words made you nod as you looked up at him.
His eyes didn’t hesitate to meet yours.
He was still him.
He was still yours.
And just like that Logan let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding “I thought you were leaving me.” It made your heart hurt that he could have thought that it was the issue.
You shook your head “I thought I was ruining your life.” You whispered back.
Just like that, his expression changed. It changed into something solid, yet protective in a way that made your knees weak “you are not ruining my life.” He said firmly, “you’re my life.” His words were easy to roll off his tongue as if he hadn’t said the one thing that finally made the last few weeks feel like they were nothing.
So the two of you stood there in silence as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back before his tired laugh finally broke it “I’m gonna be a dad.” You nodded, matching his tone “we’re gonna be parents.” He grabbed your hand, giving it a solid squeeze.
Before his face dropped, “your brother is actually going to kill me.” His words made you really laugh now, that was something you realised a while ago.
Logan guided you into the passenger seat of his car before he made his way to his own “you know,” you trailed off when he put the key into the ignition.
You leaned over to kiss his lips “we could always just become goat farmers in Vermont.”
He looked as if he was genuinely considering it “yeah but then our kid is gonna relate to Noah Kahan, and do we really want that?”
author's note — this is my first time writing for Off Campus, let me know if you'd like to see more <3
"Baby," Garrett practically croons when he sees you, leaning his elbows on the railing of the staircase. "Where've you been?"
You try and fail the urge to let your eyes travel downwards, the trail of hair from his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants, the ridges of muscles very much evident, especially because he isn't wearing a shirt.
"Studying," you reply, in a duh tone of voice, taking the steps one at a time to reach him. He winds his arms around your waist, fingers splaying on the exposed skin of your abdomen, brushing your hip bone.
You melt at the soft touch, and he leans down to press a kiss to the tip of your earlobe. "Do you have no shirts?" You tease quietly, letting out a soft gasp when his kiss grows fervent. "... I should buy you some."
Your boyfriend lets out a little scoff, tugging you closer to his front. "I have enough shirts, honey," he breathes, lips moving up to the underside of your jaw. "C'mon," he coaxes, pulling away much to your chagrin; to you letting out a soft, irritated whine. "Upstairs. Don't you wanna get comfy?"
How can you possibly resist, especially when his hands are on you, and he's using that tone, which begs to be listened to? You let out a little hum of affirmation.
Garrett grins, the corners of his lips tugging up in what looks to be a mix of amusement and pleasure at your easy obedience. "Good girl," he murmurs, fingers slipping off your waist, only to intertwine with your loose ones by your side. "Up," he says in the softest voice possible.
You blink up at him through your lashes. He tilts his head at you, resembling a bit of a golden retriever with those brown eyes fixed on you, solely on you. You're warm under his attention.
"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to stare, baby?" Garrett says softly, a teasing chide to his words.
It's your turn to let out a scoff now, mirroring his, and his eyebrows soften in appreciation of the soft sound from your lips. "You're my boyfriend, I think I'm allowed to admire you."
His grin widens. "Oh, is that what you're doing? Admiring me?"
"Mhm."
"Huh," Garrett murmurs, lifting his free hand to cup your cheek, watching the way you melt in real time with adoring eyes. "When did you get so smooth?"
You smile prettily up at him, your best smile, and his breath catches in his throat. "Learned from the best."
"Did you?" he brushes your cheek with a calloused thumb, so gentle it makes something in your heart splinter and crack in two.
"Come on, sweetheart," he gentles his voice even further, giving your cheek a gentle pat. "Let's take a nap. You look exhausted."
You frown up at him, lips jutting out in a pout. "That's so mean, do I not look pretty?"
Garrett curls his arms around you, picking you up with an ease that still surprises you. Your legs naturally wind around his waist, head lolling forward to find rest on his shoulder. "You always look pretty, baby," he hums, kissing the side of your head. "My gorgeous girl, hm?"
Letting out a pleased sound of acknowledgement, you let Garrett climb the rest of the stairs and make his way down the hallway. You pass Dean's room on the way, and the door is wide open.
You don't bother lifting your head from Garrett's shoulder, you're already sure what's going on in there. Your boyfriend wrinkles his nose above you. "Dean, how many fucking times! Close the door, yeah?"
Dean lets out a sound to the affirmative, but makes no move to get up from where he's got a pretty girl perched on top of him.
Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out an annoyed sigh, shifting you on his hip to close the door with one hand. "Idiot," he mutters under his breath. He hitches you higher against his chest, and you go willingly, boneless and warm under his affections.
The floorboards creak under Garrett's weight as he moves to cover the distance from Dean's room to his. "Tired, sweetheart?" He asks, voice soft again, a low rumble to the timbre of his words.
"No," you mumble against his neck, pressing your nose against the space between his jaw and shoulder.
He lets out a laugh, opening his door with his foot, shifting you in his arms a little so he can flop onto his bed, back against the headrest, with you in his lap. "You're lying."
"Am not."
"Are too," he grins, watching you peer up at him with half-lidded, obviously sleepy eyes. "You're barely awake, pretty."
You let out an annoyed whine, hands finding home on his chest. "I'm awake, thank you very much. And I want a kiss."
Garrett's smile widens. "Do you now?"
"Don't be a jerk," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. "I'm allowed to ask for a kiss."
"You are," he hums, tugging you closer, one big hand lifting from your waist for your neck, brushing idly at the tender skin of your jaw. "You do have to say please, though, honey. Manners."
Groaning frustratedly, you add, "please can I have kiss?"
Your boyfriend smiles, thumbing at your cheekbone. "You can, baby," he murmurs, leaning down to meet you halfway. Your hand slides up to the nape of his neck, thumbing at the baby hairs there, and he sighs against your mouth, deepening the kiss.
It's lazy, the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere, and doesn't need to, either. His tongue brushes your lower lip, seeking entry, and you open for him. He tastes like mint, the gum he's always chewing.
"Garrett," you breathe when he pulls away for a second to get air.
"Shh." His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft spot below your ear. "Just relax, sweetheart."
ᰋ. ✉️ : dean di-laurentis x reader 𝄞 blurb . fluff . suggestive content . was rewatching off campus and allie cat’s calendar inspired this lol . ᰍ .
one thing about dean di laurentis was that this man had no sense of privacy when it came to you.
pussy so good he wanted to know everything about you, see everything there was.
changing? he’s there looking you up and down appreciatively with a glint in his eyes.
showering? great, he’s bringing a chair and keeping you company.
on an important phone call? he’s begging and promising to behave and be good and not bother, only if you keep sitting in his lap and don’t leave.
a busybody, nosy parker is what he is. an annoying one.
he’s in his usual element, post-practice, with his naked chest and blond hair all wet, moving around your room trying to keep himself busy because you need to finish your essay that’s due tomorrow, and you threatened that if he came near you or even touched pinkies, he would be on a sex ban for three whole weeks.
that got him to sober up real quick and leave you alone.
he’s moving his snooping onto your dresser, touching all your photos in there, some trinkets, books you’ve stacked, your jewelry, opening your pajama drawer but your quick to whip your head and glare at him because you could feel his evil amusement at the sight of your panties in there, from afar.
and seeing that look, he innocently smiles at you before shutting the drawer and moving on to checking out the top one.
was it mentioned that you told him he’s also not allowed to speak?
you just have so much to do, you’re stressed and you’re grouchy, and if he even utters a word your gonna take it out on him.
shit, this was real productive and you’re actually almost done. maybe you should threaten him like this more often—
you stop typing when you hear his overdramatic gasp at the sight of something he’s holding as he flops onto your bed—the said something is the fucking calendar you’ve shoved at the bottom of your mess-you-need-to-get-rid-of pile.
“shit, give that back,” you groan as you leave whatever you were doing behind and lunge on top of him onto your bed, desperately trying to grasp it from his hands, but the idiot just shoves it under his fat ass.
it was a funny, diabolical inside joke between you and one of your closest friends, hence the calendar was gifted to you on your birthday as a joke.
“i thought we weren’t allowed to speak?” he teases, with a hand protectively on your hip keeping you from squirming in his lap, the other folded behind his head like he’s laying on a beach.
“dean—”
“baby—”
“dean!” you slap his chest, trying to pull on his blonde strands.
“ow, ow, fuck—fine, if you want it, get it yourself.” he pulls his head back from your grabby hands. jesus, that hurt.
you groan and curse him as you try to move his bum aside to grab the calendar from underneath him.
massive fail.
moving your tactic to wanting to shove your hand to get it, but just by looking at his overly smug face you know he’s gonna make it weird.
you’re left with no choice but to roll him to the side of your bed with as much force as you can, which makes him actually get you down as well, putting his whole weight on top of you, blocking your body from any movement, but not before taking your calendar with him before you can even grab it.
“why are you the way you are. lord.” you try to shove him off you, but with two hands holding both your wrists in one, he laughs while opening the calendar page by page with the other hand.
“now what do we have here, hm?” he says way too cheerfully, completely ignoring your “i wanna bury you alive at the moment” face.
he reads out crazy, diabolical positions for all the twelve months, giggling like a schoolgirl when he sees your fuming expression, and then having the audacity to add an “oooh, we could try that?” in between just because it makes you thrash against him like crazy.
“are you done?” you deadpan, completely unimpressed.
dean flips one more page like he’s conducting serious research, then hums thoughtfully. “mm. no, actually, i think i’ve just found our summer schedule.”
you stare at him in disbelief. your one hundred percent sure he was dropped as a baby.
he beams in return.
you try like really try to stay annoyed, but the sheer stupidity of him sprawled on top of you, soaking your bedsheets with his delicious smell, holding a ridiculous calendar like it’s a sacred book. . it cracks something.
he’s so stupid.
a small snort slips out before you can stop it.
dean freezes before pressing knowing he’s accomplished his goal of distracting you. “wait—was that—” his eyes light up, “—was that a laugh?”
“shut up,” you mumble, turning your face away, but now your shoulders are shaking.
“oh my god, it was,” he gasps, delighted, dropping the calendar somewhere behind him like it no longer matters. “i did it. i fixed her. i cured the grumpiness.”
“you bring out the grumpiness in me, there is no way that could be fixed in your presence,” you mutter, still smiling, the stress of your essay long forgotten as you stare at his sparkly eyes and flushed cheeks as he leans in for a kiss, laughing into it, making you full-on laugh now.
you kiss him messily, with your teeth clinking, totally uncoordinated, giggling like you’re drunk, and he’s just happy you’re giving him that.
he’s just happy you’re giving him even an ounce of your attention.
jesus, that sounds pathetic, but this boy has been gone for you since day one—sue him if he just wants to soak in all the moments with the love of his life (even if she might not know that).
SUMMARY: The five times Dean realizes you're more than just his childhood best friend, and the one time he finally does something about it.
WARNINGS: Friends to eventual lovers, idiots in love, slow burn romance, psychology!student, fluff, slight angst, non-graphic descriptions of an injury, cursing, jealousy, sexual innuendos, domestic bliss (Dean is down bad), rushed ending sorry!
A/N: Happy Fourth of July!! 🇺🇸 I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write one of these fics and inspiration finally struck! Let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ dean di laurentis masterlist
1. Garrett’s not so secret feelings
After a brutal Friday in the weight room with Beau, Dean wanted nothing more than to demolish whatever leftovers Tucker had most likely abandoned in the fridge, scrub the sweat and soreness off his skin, and disappear in his room until Monday. The workout had been relentless. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like concrete, and he was fairly certain Beau got some sick enjoyment out of making him suffer.
As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.
Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."
Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.
One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."
Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.
In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.
His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.
For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.
Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.
2. Self-Care Day with Summer
Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.
All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.
As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.
Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.
Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.
"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.
The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."
"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.
"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.
But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...
Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.
3. The Injury
"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.
"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.
"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.
A dangerous one.
Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."
That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.
His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.
"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.
The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.
The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.
Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.
Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.
You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.
Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.
Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.
But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
4. Tucker’s Deathbed
Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.
Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.
He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.
Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.
"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.
Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.
You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.
It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.
Oh how you loved being right.
You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.
Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.
It was simply woven into who you were.
"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.
Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.
Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.
Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.
You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.
Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.
5. The Male Gaze
"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.
Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.
Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.
Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."
Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.
"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.
Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.
His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.
"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.
"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.
Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.
One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.
They'd all noticed. Of course they did.
Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.
Jealousy.
Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.
He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.
You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."
Silence.
Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.
"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.
"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.
Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.
He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.
+1 The Hat Trick
The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.
The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.
He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.
How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.
Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.
Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.
Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.
By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.
Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.
Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.
Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.
One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.
He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.
When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.
Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.
With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.
Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.
Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.
The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.
Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.
You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.
Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.
A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.
You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.
His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.
It looked right. Far too right.
"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.
The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.
Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.
"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.
Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"
A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.
Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!
