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SUMMARY: george finds a way to entertain you, despite your introverted nature at a party
WARNINGS: fluff, underage drinking, language
George Weasley thought you looked sad. You sat nearest the wall in the Gryffindor common room, hands tucked between your thighs as you watched a few of your friends play a game of cup pong that included a bunch of unnecessary yelling and fistpumps. You were curled in on yourself, looking a little uncomfortable—or rather out of place, so George walked over.
He excused himself from Fred and the others, then sat beside you, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair lazily. He didn't say anything at first, just reveled in the simple silence between the two of you, but then he turned your way, "never seen someone look so out of place at a party."
You gave him a small grin, something in your face brightening as you turned to him, "didn't want to be a buzzkill and not go." He reached into his pocket and handed you a piece of candy, which you gladly took, cheeks red from the heat in the room and something else underlying.
You'd known George ever since you set foot into Hogwarts. He was the first person to calm the brewing storm of social anxiety, and he made you laugh, just a simple joke that took a few seconds to hit, then you laughed, shy but sure.
It was easy with him, and it always had been. He sat beside you in the Great Hall, threw food into his mouth to make you laugh, set off fireworks, but always looked at you first to make sure it was actually funny. All the classes you had, you sat beside George, obviously content in getting your work done, but also satisfied because George was there, muttering something goofy.
And as the years went on, you made other friends, and you and George slowly drifted apart, quietly, but noticeably. You sat beside your new friends, leaving George behind, but he wasn't upset, because he was joyful to see you happy. Joyful to see you break out of your shell and show the whole world your beautiful personality.
Moments like these—where the two of you went into your own little world—were rare, but cherished.
"Had any Firewhisky yet?" He questioned, standing, hand in yours as he tugged you towards the makeshift bar. You shook your head, squeezing his hand tighter as the two of you moved through the bodies in the common room.
George poured you a cup and handed it to you, "drink a little, you'll loosen up a bit." He crossed his arms, watching you politely as you took a sip, and when your eyes shot open widely and you hacked out a cough, he chuckled, hand rubbing up and down your back as he slipped the cup from your grip, "not that big of a sip."
You rolled your eyes, "you didn't say it would burn all the way down my fucking throat!" You slapped his arm playfully, but took the cup back, "it's good though."
George led you back over to the small nook you called your own, his legs stretched out in front of him while he drank his own Firewhisky. He reached up and pushed back his ginger hair, fingers slender and agile, hand blooming with veins and the strain of minuscule muscles.
"Want to know something crazy?" He questioned, leaning towards you, shoulder brushing yours, and you nodded, eyebrows quirked suspiciously, "what did you do?"
He scoffed at you, rolling his eyes delicately, "you know me too well—I hid some fireworks in that box over there. Told myself if things ever got too boring, I'd set them off." He watched your face contort into one of amusement, and you stood, "let's light them then." You pulled a lighter from your pocket, and George stared at you for a second, fascinated like you were an angel on Earth.
"Coming or what?" He nodded quickly, following you to the box, and you crouched beside it, pulling George down beside you, "we run after, right?"
George chuckled, "of course, we do." He set all the fireworks upright in the perfect configuration for you to light them, and as soon as you drifted the flame over the ends, sparks shot out. You and George couldn't keep your laughter at bay as the Gryffindor common room erupted into chaos and screams.
Fireworks lit the room heavily, smoke casting against the ceiling as students shot in every direction, but George held you close, shoving out of the common room and into the corridor. You and George leaned against each other as you laughed, wheezing, faces red.
"You're a genius, George." You muttered, finally calming down as you walked down the steps of Gryffindor Tower, George's footsteps pounding behind you. "And you're the perfect accomplice—besides Fred, of course."
The two of you slid behind the stairs, where a hidden alcove sat. You slipped onto the windowsill, while George sat against the wall underneath the window, Firewhisky bottle between his legs. He took a meaningful sip, groaning after, and then he handed it to you, " the fun doesn't have to stop."
You nodded in agreement, sipping the bottle too, and then you handed it back, sighing, "I've missed you, George." He smiled lightly at your words, "missed you too, but I'm happy for you. It seems you've been good."
You slipped off the windowsill and sat beside him, legs pulled up to your chest, "yes, but—it'd be better if you were there, indefinitely." He paused, turning to you, eyebrows raised, even as you leaned towards him and rested your head against his shoulder.
But he took the initiative to wrap his arm around you, fingers brushing your arm delicately, "you mean as a friend?" He couldn't deny the sort of sadness at the implication, but then you shook your head, "no, George, you fool!" You lifted your head, then planted a meaningful kiss against his cheek. It was gentle, but full of emotion, even when you pulled away a few inches, smiling as he blushed.
"I want you with me in all sorts of ways, past us being friends." You kissed his cheek once more, and George smiled bright and big, turning just as you pulled away, lips pressing against yours. He grasped your jaw, sliding above you as you laid on your back, chest vibrating with a cheerful laugh.
"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to hear that."
summary: A young rivalry blooms between you and the supposedly "quieter" twin of the Weasley family's sons. Despite the teeth-grating relationship you two had grown to have being quite new, things got heated up pretty quickly. Now stuck because of each other in detention with no real way out but getting through with it—burning down the classroom felt better than being stuck in a room with George Weasley.
c.w: enemies to slightly less enemies, characters are aged up so no minors, hogwarts university au, forced proximity, george the og rage-baiter, contains "colorful" language and harsh words, teasing, gets physical, angry kissing, a bit of blood, shorter in length, cute ending (?)
w/c: 4.4k
Click,
Clack,
Click,
Clack…
The sound of your shoes echoed throughout the blue-hued, cold, and empty hall—begrudgingly bearing the role of a clock that ticked hauntingly to your inevitable demise.
That demise being the hours you were about to spend in detention. One that wasn’t supposed to be yours, and one that was the fourth time this week.
Why you ask?
Simple.
You set fire to George Weasley’s robes.
On purpose.
“He deserved it,” you mentally justified.
The ginger prick knew better than to trick you into putting your hand in a Chinese Chomping Cabbage’s mouth earlier during Advanced Herbology, convincing you that you had missed a step during Professor Sprout’s briefing.
You may also be thinking: “Why the sudden hostility?”
Only, it wasn’t exactly sudden… A few months now to be exact. And though your rivalry with George was still quite young, things picked up pretty quickly.
He was relentless, and quite frankly, so were you.
You weren’t going down without a fight.
When you first took notice of the twins during your first year at Hogwarts, the person that stood out almost immediately to you was Fred Weasley.
Like a sore thumb, he always did.
Loud, obnoxious, witty, and undoubtedly a class act prankster. Who wouldn’t take notice of him first?
And there constantly hovering over beside him like a stray balloon (or a ghost, rather) of his own carbon copy—though not as loud and sharp-tongued—was his younger brother George.
You were well aware when people around the school say that mischief was embedded into the very core of the twins’ genetic make-up—but you observed George to be the quieter one of the two. Never really the type to make a grand entrance or finish things with a bang or snarky remark like his older twin, so you thought it safe to assume he’d stay out of your business despite the both of you being classmates, just because he felt a bit more reserved.
And boy how the stars proved you so wrong.
The consequences of your naive assumption now lay heavy on your shoulders as the large, dark, wooden door to The Dark Arts classroom loomed over your figure like death incarnate as you stood before it.
You knew another lonesome and boring night was ahead of you—sitting alone in your cool-to-the-arse table, listlessly fiddling with whatever was in your view just to pass the time.
With fingers delicately curled and hovering over the dense surface preparing to knock… you hesitated.
Why would you need to knock if you'd be spending your time alone, anyway? Professor Snape did say he had some urgent matters to attend to. No use being formal now.
A small sigh left your lips before your palm flattened itself against the old and polished wood—giving it a firm push to open the door.
The acquired smell of The Dark Arts room immediately hit your face, sending you into a montage of whether to cringe or find comfort in its notes of ink, something medicinal smelling, and dust.
Assuming you really were alone, you walked into the room with no real care. Body slumped, and face contorted in an unlady-like frown.
A slightly creepy, confusingly smelly classroom was the last thing your tired body needed for today.
But your internal conflict was unpleasantly cut short when a small—short, and grating voice from across the room caressed your ear.
“Great.”
You paused in your step, eyes widened just enough to stare back at the ones looking right through to your own.
He who was sitting at the farthest table, hunched over and looking back at you with an expression so utterly unreadable it was already infuriating.
George Weasley.
You guessed the bastard thought the same thing when he walked into detention. He thought he’d be alone too.
“Absolutely not,” you voiced your displeasure aloud, swiftly turning on your toes and pushed at the door again in your attempt to leave the room.
But only, the door wouldn’t budge. This had Snape’s doing written all over it. He knew one of you would try to leave before the allotted time eventually.
“Damn you, Snivellus!” You whispered sharply under your breath, sucking in a quick inhale before maneuvering your body back around to face the classroom.
“As if I weren’t claustrophobic enough already,” George professed as you pointedly decided to ignore his lame comment, stiffly walking over to your desired seat (the one farthest from him too, of course).
He let out a scoff, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips as he watched you sit as far away from him as physically possible.
Which really was only two desks down from his seat on the first row.
"Glad to know I'm such a delight to be around," he murmured sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest and regarded you with a condescending gaze. "What, afraid I might bite?"
You slammed your bag down with a little more force than necessary, the dull thud echoing through the quiet, chilled room. George didn’t flinch—just watched you from under his ginger fringe, one eyebrow arched like he was watching a particularly dramatic play.
“No, but you should be afraid of me putting a sock in it if you don’t shut your trap,” you responded lowly, keeping your gaze ahead of you.
George let out a low whistle.
“A little more pissy today than usual, eh? Aren’t you glad to be in here with your charmingly good ol’ matey, Georgie?”
Ugh, you could just feel him fluttering his eyelashes at you.
You didn’t look at him. Instead, you methodically pulled out a book and quill to finish up the last of your essay that was still due in two days—and Merlin’s beard, even your own handwriting looked angry.
“Please,” you snapped, “I’d rather serve detention with a Blast-Ended Skrewt than endure your brand of charm.”
George let out a mock gasp. “And here I thought we’d do a bit of bonding over our mutual hatred for Snape’s greasy hair.”
“Bonding?” You finally turned to give him a full glare. “The only thing we’re doing right now is being in the same space against our wills.”
He scoffed. “Oh believe me, princess, I don’t wanna be in here with you any more than you do me.”
“Don’t act so innocent now, you ignorant mutt” —you slammed your book shut— ”it’s almost as if you’re not the reason we’re in this bloody mess.”
A look of dumfoundedness crossed George’s face. With that, he straightened his posture and tilted his head mockingly at you.
“Alright, miss charming nicknames, you didn’t have to listen to me then though, did’ya?”
“You told me I missed a step Professor Sprout had instructed us to do…” you muttered through gritted teeth—the volume of your voice increasing with the growing irritation flaring up at his nonchalance.
“Your fault for being so gullible.”
That certainly tipped you over. You were already on edge the whole day.
A frustrated groan erupted from deep within your chest. Your eyebrows furrowed so deeply that your forehead nearly retained the creases from doing so. The veins on your neck felt like they were about to pop like freshly opened Whizzbees.
And it was all. because. of him.
Some prick who’d only decided to enter your life a few months ago and decided to turn it miserable.
With a quick flick of your wand, the book you had barely written anything in before he decided to tick you off for the nth time today, went flying over at lightning speed to George.
Specifically, the one thing he and his brother took pride in the most. The source of their, and you quote, “devilishly good looks.”
His face.
“That’ll shut him up,” said yourself inside your head.
Now, no victory should be celebrated too early as some may say, because what you’d forgotten, was that the man was a star player on the Quidditch team. A Beater, no less.
Certainly didn’t chase around much faster dodges like the Golden Snitch, but Bludgers both rogue and calculated, seen and unseen were always on his radar.
Sending them to and from players were his strong suit, so it would do you best not to doubt his skills at maneuvering himself away from a mere charmed book sent by some angry girl he seemed to get a knack out of by teasing.
“Woo! Temper, temper, darling!” He hooted, reeling his head upright after a close call with a potential concussion. “Wouldn’t want Snape docking more points from your house now, do you!”
“Go to hell, Weasley!” His name shot through your lips like an arrowhead laced with poison.
“You’re already in it though! With me!”
“Don’t be too kind to yourself now,” you sneered—twisting your body to face him. “Hell is much kinder than being stuck in a room with you in it!”
“Oh, ouch. Truly,” he flatly responded, batting his pretend-teary eyes at you.
George twirled his wand in between his fingers—casual, and very much vexing—flicking it with practiced ease just enough to send the book you sent flying over to his head back at you.
Not fast enough to actually cause harm, but more to catch you off guard.
And thankfully, you still had your wits about you. Dodging it just as quickly with one swift shift of your torso before shooting him another glare.
A glare he most definitely saw, and one he so adored egging out of you.
“Fucking arsewipe…” you cursed at the cocky bastard under your breath.
“Thought we were playing a bit of catch and throw,” says George, smirking at you from over his shoulder as he stared at you sideways. “Teamwork makes the dream work, love.”
Your eye twitched.
You flicked your wand again, this time levitating the inkwell on Snape’s desk. It wobbled unsteadily above George’s head, dark liquid sloshing like a storm cloud over his ginger pride and joy.
“Tell me, Weasley,” you purred, voice low and dangerous, “how do you feel about waterfalls? Specifically…one made of two-month-old frog bile ink?”
His smirk didn’t falter—it grew, like a year-long planned prank gone right. He knew you didn’t have the balls to actually do it.
“Ohhh, I’m shaking. Though I’ve got to say—you’re really selling the ‘feral’ aesthetic tonight.” He leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed over his stomach. “Adorable.”
“Know what else is adorable?” You tilted your head sweetly, turning the small glass container side-to-side as if threatening to spill. “You with frog spit in your hair.”
Realization hit George causing his grin to drop like a Bludger to the face. You might actually be serious.
“If you’ve got a brain in there somewhere, I suggest you use it,” he muttered. “Don’t.”
It wasn’t that you were actively seeking more trouble than you were already in—and being trapped in the same room as the man you weren’t exactly on good terms with hardly seemed ideal for pulling off something as risky as dyeing his infamous ginger hair black (and inevitably smelly).
But the way he looked while telling you not to was too tempting to pass up. It seemed like a good moment to royally piss him off this time around.
Let’s just call it…avenging your pride.
And with one gentle bend of your wrist, the inkwell tipped to the side fully—spilling its contents of dark, deathly smelly liquid onto George’s hair. The distinct ginger hue stood out in stark contrast to the gloominess of the writing ink, its vibrant color illuminating the otherwise dark fluid.
The thick liquid fell in slow streams over his head, running over the nape of his neck while a good chunk of it slid down his forehead and onto his face and uniform. Didn’t take long for the classroom to begin reeking of bile.
You stared triumphantly at him—but deep inside (though being too prideful to admit it), a smidgeon of fear settled within your gut at what you’d done.
That maybe—just maybe…you went a little too far…?
“Well, at least I'm not the one riddled with that God awful smell,” you mentally noted, seeing as you hated getting dirty.
Your eyes continued to observe him.
Head down. Unmoving. As if accepting his fate and allowing the ink to ruin what was left of his dignity.
After what felt like a bajillion hours (though really it was only a minute), George slowly reeled his head back up and immediately met his gaze with yours.
And as quickly as you’d hid your wand under your jumper’s sleeve to try and at least save that from his wrath, his eyes darkened just as fast.
“George—”
“Accio!” His angered voice thundered off the classroom walls like two rogue Bludgers colliding against one another.
Chairs and tables alike parted to make way for your own desk to clumsily be dragged right next to a fuming George Weasley.
The moment you found yourself suddenly so much closer to him, you had the fleeting notion that you really did make a grave mistake.
But you were stubborn. You were angry. You were pissed. It's why you'd hurled your book into the man's face and doused him in ink.
And it's why you found your chin raised defiantly and lips pressed into a firm line as you stared directly at his livid expression.
His nostrils flared with labored breaths through his nose as his dark, narrowed eyes pierced right back through yours—daring you to speak again.
“Didn’t know he was capable of expressing anything other than mockery,” you observed mentally.
The predicament scared you. Well—it should've scared you, but by some miracle or bravery given by Merlin or Godric Gryffindor himself, you felt unrepentant. The feeling of wanting to push George’s buttons more than he did yours was gnawing at your morals.
"Y’know," George drawled, leaning in so close you could count the flecks in his furious brown eyes. The ink was still dripping from his hair onto the desk with tiny plinks, but he didn’t seem to care. “You’re pushing your luck, you sodding brat.”
“Am I?” You countered, leaning back to slightly create some distance between you. “I’d say I’ve done you a bit of a service. You look good with smelly black hair. Takes the edge off of having to look at that blinding mess you called ginger.”
You didn’t fail to notice the slightest twitch in his eye.
“Yeah?” He asked—tone more threatening than inquisitive. “Best share my blessings then. After all, frog ink’s pretty valuable, and I’m always one for surprises.”
His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "For example—did you know if you vanish someone’s eyebrows, they grow back green? Or that frog bile ink stains lips worse than hair?" He twirled his wand between his fingers again—slow, deliberate. "Care to test those theories, darling? Because I do."
“I’d rather not,” you said, face contorting into a grimace at the pungent smell fuming off of George—pressing your index finger against his chest and pushed him away firmly. “Unlike you, I actually have a reputation to uphold. And I hate getting dirty, so.”
A wicked grin flashed on his lips as he leaned back and flicked a droplet of ink at your nose. "That count as dirty to you?"
You recoiled with a hiss, scrubbing at your nose with your sleeve as George's grin widened into something downright predatory.
"Absolutely filthy," you finally replied through gritted teeth, voice sharp. "In more ways than one."
"Oops," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Guess we’re both looking a little edgy now, aren’t we?" He flicked another droplet—this time aiming for your pristine robes.
"You—!" You leaped for his hand, but he jerked back just in time, laughing that infuriatingly rich laugh of his. The kind that made people turn heads in the Great Hall (and made you want to wear ear plugs for the rest of the day. Or week. Or school year).
"Oh c'mon," he teased, dodging another grab with the agility of a Seeker avoiding a Bludger. "Where’s that fire from earlier? Don't tell me you're scared of a little mess?" His eyes glittered as he paused just long enough to let you get dangerously close—before suddenly dipping two fingers into the ink puddle on his desk and swiping them down your cheek like war paint.
"There." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as you froze mid-reach, horrified. "Now we match."
You stayed frozen for another good five seconds before your eyes, wide with surprise at his audacity, slowly shifted to look at him.
“You’ve really done it now, Weasley..." you muttered, voice low and shaky before finally lunging at him with your whole body—throwing yourself over your desk which caused your seat to topple over from how aggressive you reached for his robes.
George wasn’t really the type to start throwing punches with a girl. And while he was occasionally one for brawls, he wouldn’t stoop that low. He’d probably earn a smack behind the head from his mother before he could even lift a hand directed towards a lady’s face.
But this was different. He pushed back that hesitance and made way for his indifference towards you.
He fought back.
Chaos erupted in the Dark Arts classroom as you both tumbled to the floor in a flurry of ink-stained robes and tangled limbs. George barely had time to yelp "Bloody hell—" before you were wrestling like a pair of feral kneazles, knocking over Snape's carefully organized potion cabinets with a spectacular crash.
"Oi! That’s my ear, you banshee—!" George wheezed, half-laughing as he tried (and failed) to pry your hands off his shirt collar.
"So now you’ve got manners!?" You snarled back, kneeing him squarely in the ribs—only for him to roll with it and flip you both over, pinning your wrists down with ink-smeared hands.
For one breathless second, panting and glaring up at him through the black streaks on your face, something electric crackled between you two—something that made his smirk soften into an odd little smile.
"...admit it," he murmured suddenly, thumbs tracing idle circles on your pulse points (to annoy or distract, who knows). "This is way more fun than homework."
You headbutted him square in the nose.
THUD.
George reeled back instantly clutching at his now-bleeding nose before squinting down at you, half impressed—but mostly furious.
"Oh yeah? That's how we're playing?"
“Good. You finally caught up,” you chuckled, bracing yourself as another round of amateur wrestling ensued.
Past grievances and other things you hated about the ginger prat came spewing out of your mouth like Puking Pastilles consumed by somebody mistaking them for snacking sweets.
Strained your vocal chords, and most definitely made George’s ears ring.
“You really are a banshee!” George struggled to exclaim through your palm mushed flat against his cheek as you attempted to keep him away while he continued wrestling you onto the table.
“Seize the moment, am I right, George?! Like how you kept seizing every chance at showing me and the rest of the school just how shallow-minded you are with your dirty, childish, tricks!”
“Says the oh-so-smart lassie who decided it was a good idea to jinx my broomstick into jelly during my Quidditch match!”
“You know you deserved it for transfiguring my school shoes into toads earlier that morning!!!”
“Always with the excuses with you!”
“Admit it!” You leaned a bit closer to his face. “Admit that you’re nothing more than a manchild!”
“SHUT UP!!!”
“GEORGE WEASLEY IS NOTHING MORE THAN A SPINELESS, MAN—”
But before any more profanities about what was left of George’s pride came rolling out your mouth, the most impossible scenario had managed to take place.
He kissed you.
You finally got on his last nerve.
It wasn't gentle. It was payback. And revenge was never sweet with George Weasley.
A punishing kiss. No desperation—all teeth.
His fingers knotted into your ink-slick strands, yanking just enough to tilt your head where he wanted it while yours clawed at his robes like you still couldn’t decide between shoving him off or hauling him closer.
He managed to catch your bottom lip in-between his teeth with a sharp nip that made you gasp against him (the taste of iron bloomed on your tongue, but he didn’t pull back).
The teacher's desk behind you took a good amount of you and the Weasley’s blows as George half-lifted, half-shoved you onto its surface without breaking contact. Test sheets scattered onto the floor and under messy palms, gripping waist—hips—thighs—any leverage really—all while Snape's rarest ingredients rattled ominously nearby…
When he finally wrenched back and left your lungs burning, his smirk had regained its usual swagger despite ragged breaths.
"...told ya." A thumb swiped some blood off your split lip before offering it to you mockingly like some twisted trophy. "Way more fun than homework."
You didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.
I mean, how could you?
You just shared the most aggressive, most angriest kiss with the man you’d sworn to hate and keep any bodily contact from just a few seconds earlier.
Now your bottom lip’s bleeding from him practically gnawing on it too hard, and you reeked of frog fluids.
Stunned would be an understatement and putting a shame on whatever it was you were feeling at the moment.
Liking him wouldn’t be so simple as locking lips. You’d need at least a millenia to even form a good, coherent thought about George.
Remind yourself to keep a note to spend at least two hours in the bath, washing off and scrubbing all the remnants of tonight and any trace of him on your body—
“HEY!”
George’s frantic yell cut through your array of conflicting thoughts.
You flinched, blinking a few times before your gaze finally settled on his. Your mouth had been slightly ajar this whole time, so anyone would think something would come out sooner or later—which was what George had been anticipating after pulling away from the heated rendezvous you two had shared earlier.
An insult,
A snarky remark or comment telling him how much of a dick he is…
Instead he was met with silence and a girl that looked like she’d been kissed by a Dementor instead.
“You’re scary when you’re like that, y’know…” George drawled about your trance-like state, balancing his weight on one foot after stepping back a bit to give you some room.
And after what felt like forever, breath abruptly filled your lungs, snapping you back into reality with a small gasp which meant…
Remembering the kiss again.
Your body acted accordingly—forcefully shoving George away before attempting to get down from the teacher’s table, only to end up stumbling on your ragged, shoe-print robes like a newborn deer headed straight for floortown.
The back of your head and arse hit the cold, hard surface with a great and muffled thud. And if that wasn’t painful enough, the upside-down image of George looking down at you was the first thing you were met with when you opened your eyes after the impact.
A less-than-subtle cringe was painted on his face when he opened his mouth to speak.
“Comfortable?” He asked, tone slightly mocking.
You didn’t respond. Just stared at him.
“Sooo, you’re just gonna stay there…?” He inquired again, but with less bite.
“Yes, and you're about to be much colder than this floor if you say one more word,” you finally responded. Flatly, which was fitting to the darkening void starting to take up your already still heart.
More so now that you realize how much trouble you’re about to be in when Snape comes back. Look at the mess you and George made!
Rita Skeeter ought to write a draft about the fascinating amount of pauses that happened thus far between the two of you.
A beat passed—and then another, and George moved. Not away from you, but not too close either. It was quite immature of him really, to get down and lay just the opposite side of you.
Not next to you, but rather had his body positioned in a way where your eyes would meet as soon as you both decided to turn your heads toward one another.
None of you said anything. Maybe too tired now that the tension has somewhat rallied down.
Code-word: somewhat.
Your lips parted.
“Tosser.”
“Git," he shot back.
“Weaslebee.”
“Tramp.”
“You make a damn good case for birth control, you know that? One look at you and girls go drier than that desert you and your family went to on vacation in Egypt.”
He scoffed. "Aren't you one to bloody talk? Men's pricks shrivel up at the sight of you."
"Maybe that's a good thing," you retorted cockily. "Or are you trying to test whether your sad little thing would ever have a chance at shagging?"
George lurched his body upright—fully intent on tackling you again when—
BANG.
The classroom door slammed open revealing an absolutely livid Severus Snape standing rigidly by its entrance.
His dark eyes swept across your compromised positions, then the spilled potions ingredients that stained both the desks and wooden floors, and finally, your ink covered faces.
A muscle twitched violently beneath his eye.
"...get. out." The nearly middle-aged man managed to pull through gritted teeth, almost too angry to lash out the way he always did with unruly students.
George blinked once before promptly grabbing hold of your hand—pulling you up before hauling ass out of there faster than Firebolts could fly.
Both of you stumbled out into the deserted corridor, battered, dirty, and far from done.
"You absolute toerag—" you seethed, shoving at his chest as soon as you were clear of Snape’s wrath. "You got me expelled!"
George scoffed, wiping a smear of ink off his cheek with his thumb—only to smudge it further. "Expelled? Please. You’d have to murder someone in front of Dumbledore for that." His grip tightened on your wrist when you tried to pull away. "And stop screeching. Anyone would think I drowned your cat."
"You ruined my robes!" You hissed loudly. "And my hair! And—!"
George had exactly two functioning brain cells left after the brawl-and-escape ordeal. One was screaming about how annoying your voice was right now, and the other? Shut her up. So he did—by crashing his mouth onto yours with all the finesse of a Bludger to the face.
“If kissing you would be the only thing that'd shut you up, I'd be willing to put down my pride and silence you every chance I get,” he panted after pulling away. The lingering taste of dried blood from your bottom lip still dancing around his mouth. “So bloody loud.”
You kept eye contact with George as you swiped the back of your hand over your lips. Heart pounding with a little less hatred than before, and the corners of your mouth threatening to twitch into a smile.
“I will murder you one day, I swear.”
“I’ll be waiting patiently until then.”
(Then ironically you ended up becoming the longest lasting couple at Hogwarts 😭)
summary: in which dean notices the quiet, suspicious intimacy growing between beau and his sister.
pairing: beau maxwell x fem!dilaurentisreader
notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request. i hope i've done your idea justice <3 💌
ˋ°•*⁀➷ in other words, four times dean notices moments between beau and y/n that feel a little too intimate to ignore, and the one time he finally catches on.
ꪆৎ
the car ride
the thing about cape cod was that it had always felt like tradition.
same beach house, same salt-heavy air, same worn wooden deck that creaked under bare feet, same maxwells, same di laurentis family.
for as long as you could remember, summers were spent in cape cod. beach days, late-night bonfires, shared dinners, too many drinks, too much laughter.
it was familiar in the kind of way that felt permanent, except this summer, everything had changed. somehow, somewhere between classes at briar and now, beau maxwell had stopped being just your brother’s best friend and started becoming yours.
secretly, quietly, completely.
which meant one thing.
dean could absolutely never find out.
the first time dean nearly catches on, it happens before you even reach the holiday house, which in hindsight, should've been a clear warning. luckily, he brushes it off as nothing.
dean drives, claiming it’s because he knows the route better, but really, it’s because he has control issues, deeply mistrusting anyone else behind the wheel.
you sit in the backseat, legs tucked beneath you, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee.
beau sits in the passenger seat. too close, yet too far all at once.
he looks unfairly good for someone who’d been awake since six that morning, like he hadn’t spent half the night before in your dorm room, his hands warm against your waist as he kissed you breathless against the wall until you’d both lost track of time.
his hair is still damp from a shower, one arm resting against the open window, tanned skin catching the late morning light. every now and then, his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, meeting yours.
never long enough for dean to notice, but always long enough to make your pulse jump.
“so,” dean says, one hand loose on the wheel. “ground rules for the week.”
you immediately groan from the backseat. “oh my god.” beau’s mouth twitches in amusement.
dean glances at you in the mirror. “don’t start.”
“we haven’t even arrived and you’re already lecturing me.”
“because i know you.”
“you know nothing.”
“i know enough to know you make questionable decisions near large bodies of water.”
you sit forward slightly. “that was one time.”
“you fell off a paddleboard while it was still tied to the dock, y/n.”
"i was nine years old!"
beau coughs into his hand, attempting to hide his laughter. you narrow your eyes, gaze landing on the back of his head. “don’t laugh.”
he glances back at you, eyes warm. “i didn’t say anything.”
“your shoulders moved.”
beau turns to look out the window, still smiling, feigning innocence.
you hate him a little for how easily he can do that. how easily he can sit in the front seat, acting as though nothing is happening. like he hadn’t slipped his fingers around your waist for one fleeting second while dean loaded the cooler into the trunk. like he hadn’t whispered, “i miss you,” even though you had been standing two feet apart.
dean keeps talking. something about not getting lost, not swimming too far out, and not letting joanna convince you to jump off the dock after midnight.
you hear maybe half of it, because beau’s hand has shifted. casual, at first, resting near the centre console, then lower. closer to the gap between the seats.
your eyes drop instantly. his fingers hang loosely there, hidden from dean's direct line of sight.
an invitation.
you stare at his hand for a second too long before reaching forward, pretending to grab something from the cupholder. your fingers brush his gently. the action so brief, yet enough for beau to react.
you notice the smallest flex of his hand, like he wants to catch yours and hold it.
“you listening, y/n?” dean asks suddenly.
your head snaps up. “yes.”
your brother looks at you in the rearview mirror. “what did i just say?” you blink. beau turns his face towards the window once more.
traitor.
“you said...” you start slowly, buying time. “to make good choices.”
dean stares at you. “that is the vaguest answer you could’ve possibly given.”
beau loses the internal battle he must've been having with himself, laughing under his breath.
dean glances at him briefly, “what?”
beau shakes his head in response. “nothing.”
dean's eyebrows furrow temporarily, looking at his best friend for a few seconds more. not suspicious yet, just watching. you feel beau’s hand pull back instantly, and the absence of it makes your chest ache.
-
an hour later, somewhere after the second gas station stop, dean brings up a topic that almost ruins everything.
“oh y/n,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just lit a match in the middle of the car. “someone asked about you last week.”
you look up from your phone. “me?”
“yeah.”
beau’s body stills, not much, but enough that you notice. dean reaches for his drink. “a guy from hockey. matthews.”
your face blanks slightly. “who?”
“exactly,” dean says. “which is why i told him no chance.”
you frown. “you told him no chance?”
“obviously.”
“dean.”
“what?”
“you can’t just police every interaction that may come my way.”
“i absolutely can.”
beau stays facing forward, but you catch the way his jaw ticks, fingers tightening briefly where his arm rests against the window. it's subtle, small enough that dean misses it entirely, however you don’t, of course you don’t.
“he asked if you were seeing anyone,” dean continues, completely unaware of the way your pulse had started to climb. “i told him no, and that he should probably leave it there.”
you stare at him. “that’s insane.”
“that’s brotherly.”
“that’s overstepping, dean.”
“same thing.”
beau joins the conversation before he seems to think better of it. “you told him she wasn’t seeing anyone?”
the car goes quieter, not silent, but quieter.
dean glances sideways at him. “yeah.”
beau keeps his gaze on the road. “right.”
your fingers tighten around your phone, anxiety coursing throughout your body. dean’s brows pull together slightly. “why?”
beau shrugs, attempting to be casual. “just asking.”
“since when do you care who my sister’s dating?”
there it is, the first crack.
you feel yourself almost stop breathing. beau doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move, doesn’t panic. he just leans back against the seat and says, “i don’t.” a beat passes, then he adds. “i just think maybe y/n can answer for herself.”
your heart twists. dean’s eyes narrow slightly, caught somewhere between amused and confused. “wow,” he says. “that's very noble of you."
you kick the back of his seat. “shut up.”
dean laughs, and the tension breaks, barely, but not completely. beau looks in the rearview mirror a few seconds later, and this time, when your eyes meet, there’s something there.
something possessive, something frustrated, something almost apologetic.
dean sees just enough of that glance to go quiet, only for a second, but you notice, so does beau.
2. the annual di laurentis & maxwell beach volleyball match
the second time dean nearly catches on, it happens during the annual beach volleyball match, which is ridiculous, because the annual match is usually the least romantic event of the entire summer.
the teams change every year, mostly because dean insists on drafting like he’s building an olympic roster instead of playing barefoot volleyball with relatives and family friends on a beach. this year, you end up on a different team to beau. which is both a blessing and a curse.
a blessing because standing beside him would have been dangerous. a curse because standing across from him somehow turns out to be worse.
he's shirtless, which shouldn't matter, because you've seen him shirtless before, many times.
recently, privately.
with your hands against his chest, his mouth at your throat, his voice soft in your ear telling you to stay quiet. you should have been immune. unfortunately, you're not, not even close.
beau stands on the opposite side of the net beside joanna, sunlight catching on his shoulders, hair pushed back messily from the ocean.
you’re wearing a bikini you had almost talked yourself out of wearing. dean had barely glanced at you before immediately pointing at the sunscreen bottle, “don't make me remind you again.”
you had thrown a towel at his head.
beau, on the other hand, had looked once, only once, then very deliberately looked away, which told you everything.
the game starts messy.
dean is competitive in a way that makes everyone want to either laugh or throw something at him, joanna cheats shamelessly, and beau keeps failing at pretending he isn’t watching you, his attention drawn to you like instinct.
then the guys arrive. not your guys, not anyone’s guys.
just a group from a nearby beach house. loud, sunburnt, carrying beers they definitely should have finished slower. they linger too close to the edge of the game, watching. mostly you.
you feel it before you see it. that prickling awareness of eyes staying too long. one of them says something under his breath to another, and they both laugh.
you miss the ball, dean notices immediately. “you good?” he calls from beside you.
“yeah,” you say, shaking it off. “sun got in my eyes.”
beau’s gaze has already shifted. not to the ball, not to dean, to them.
his expression changes so subtly most people probably would have missed it. his shoulders square slightly, jaw tightening. the warmth in his face completely gone.
you feel your stomach dip, because beau can’t do anything, not really. not without making it obvious, not without stepping into a role nobody is supposed to know he has.
that might be the worst part of keeping something secret. it's not the sneaking around or the lying, it's the consistent restraint. the way love has to sit quietly inside your chest even when every instinct tells it otherwise.
the next serve comes hard, and you dive for it, sand scraping your knees as you manage to bump the ball up. dean shouts something triumphant, joanna yells that it doesn't count.
you laugh breathlessly, pushing yourself up onto your hands. following your action one of the guys whistles. low, obvious, clearly directed at you. your smile falters.
beau hears it, everyone hears it, but he reacts first.
“you wanna keep your eyes on the game?” he snaps.
the beach stills slightly. your head lifts, dean turns. the guy raises his hands, laughing. “relax, man.”
beau doesn’t smile. “then stop being fucking weird.”
beau is usually easy, relaxed, charming when he wants to be. this is different. this is sharp, personal.
dean looks between beau and the guys, then back to you. you can practically see the pieces moving in his head. you stand quickly, brushing sand from your thighs.
“beau,” you say softly, too softly. his eyes cut to you immediately, not like a family friend, not like someone who has known you forever. more like someone who belongs to you, like he forgot, for one second, that he wasn’t allowed to.
dean sees that too, his expression shifting, just slightly.
“you okay?” beau asks.
you swallow. “yeah.”
dean’s brows lift. “why wouldn’t she be okay?”
beau’s eyes flick towards your brother, and for one terrifying second, you think he might say something stupid. something honest. instead, he shrugs.
“because those guys are being assholes.”
dean stares at him, then slowly turns towards the guys. “he’s right,” dean says, and just like that, big brother dean takes over.
which should be helpful.
except now beau looks like he wants to murder someone, dean looks like he’s trying to understand why beau cares so much, and you're standing between them in a bikini, wishing the ocean would swallow you whole.
3. 'one double chocolate chip ice cream with sprinkles, please'
the third time dean nearly catches on, it happens because of double chocolate chip ice cream. by now, he knows he's not just simply imagining it
the afternoon starts on the boat. everyone spends hours out on the water. your skin feels warm from the sun, salt drying in your hair, laughter carried away by the wind.
beau looks incredibly good it almost feels painful.
he sits near the back of the boat, sunglasses on, one arm stretched along the seat behind him, t-shirt abandoned somewhere near the cooler. every time the boat cuts over a wave, his stomach tightens slightly, and you have to pretend very hard that you're looking out at the horizon.
you're of course not looking out at the horizon. you're looking at your boyfriend, from beneath your sunglasses, like a coward, like a girl undeniably in love.
later that evening, beau docks the boat. everyone wanders into town for ice cream.
the shop is crowded, sticky floors and bright menus, families packed shoulder to shoulder, kids running around with melting cones already dripping onto their hands. before you can order, joanna tugs you back outside, insisting she needs your opinion on a bracelet in the little store next door.
which leaves dean and beau inside, alone, with your order.
it should mean nothing.
however, when you and joanna finally meet them outside, beau is already holding two cones. one mint chocolate for himself, one double chocolate chip for you.
complete with rainbow sprinkles. your favourite order. exactly.
dean’s gaze drops to the cones in beau’s hands before settling on his best friend, an unreadable expression on his features.
“how’d you know that?”
beau looks at him. “know what?”
“y/n's order.”
you step forward quickly. “everyone knows my order.” dean turns to you. “no, i know your order.”
“congratulations?”
“why does he know your order?”
beau’s face remains calm, infuriatingly calm. “she gets it every year.”
dean points at him. “i do not like how reasonable that answer was.”
joanna laughs from behind you. “dean, you’re being insane.”
“am i?”
“yes.”
dean looks at you again as you take the cone from beau carefully.
your fingers brush his. a mistake, another one. beau’s thumb moves, not much, just a small, instinctive stroke over your knuckle before he lets go.
dean’s expression goes blank. not angry, not yet. just very, very still.
you immediately shove the ice cream toward your mouth like that can somehow undo the last three seconds.
“good?” beau asks quietly. too quietly.
you nod. “yeah.”
dean stares, his gaze moving between you and beau, something unreadable settling over his features.
for the rest of the afternoon, he watches, and once he starts noticing, he can’t seem to stop.
he notices the way beau instinctively walks behind you on the crowded sidewalk, one hand briefly brushing your back to steer you away from a cyclist. the way you pass him your water bottle without even looking, and he takes it without question, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times before.
dean isn’t entirely sure what he’s seeing yet, but he knows enough to realise this isn’t nothing.
4. jealousy, jealousy
the drinks night is supposed to be casual, which in hindsight, is exactly why it becomes a problem.
it’s just you, beau, dean and joanna at your favourite beachside bar in town, tucked around a small table beneath warm string lights, the air sticky with salt, and music low enough that everyone still has to lean in slightly to hear each other.
dean is, predictably, thriving.
he’s halfway through a beer, leaning against the back of his chair with that stupidly charming smile on his face while some girl at the next table over keeps glancing at him.
joanna notices first.
“oh my god dean" she mutters into her straw. “she’s been looking at you for ten minutes.”
dean’s brows lift. “has she?”
you snort. “don’t act humble. it doesn’t suit you.”
dean's gaze shifts to yours as a smirk graces his features. “what can i say...i’m naturally magnetic, y/n.”
“you’re naturally annoying.”
beau laughs quietly beside you, the sound brushing over you in the way it always does. low, familiar, private even when everyone else can hear it.
you don’t look at him. you can’t.
his knee is pressed lightly against yours beneath the table, hidden by the shadows and the angle of joanna's chair. it has taken every ounce of self-control in your body not to lean into him properly.
dean catches the girl’s eye and smiles. that’s all it takes, within five minutes, she’s at the table. pretty, confident, already laughing at something dean says before he’s even finished saying it.
then, because apparently the universe has decided to punish you personally, two of her friends follow suit.
one of them looks directly at beau and you feel your stomach drop.
she’s tall, sun-kissed, wearing a white linen dress. she has the kind of easy smile that comes from knowing it’s almost always returned.
“hi,” she says, leaning slightly towards him. “i’m natalie.”
beau glances at her politely, tipping his head in greeting. “beau.”
“beau,” she repeats, like she’s testing how it sounds. “that’s cute.”
your fingers tighten around your glass. joanna's eyes flick to you immediately. she knows, of course she does.
dean is too busy flirting to notice anything yet, but joanna sees the way your smile stills. the way you look down at your drink instead of across the table. the way beau’s knee presses a little more firmly against yours, like he feels the shift before you even say a word.
“are you here for the summer too?” natalie asks.
“just the week,” beau says.
polite, short, safe.
not rude enough to raise questions, not warm enough to invite anything. still, it burns.
she doesn’t know he’s yours.
she doesn’t know that his hand had been at your waist fifteen minutes ago in the hallway outside the bathrooms, thumb brushing beneath the hem of your shirt while he whispered that you looked beautiful.
she doesn’t know anything, and you hate that she’s allowed to look at him like she might.
“you should come by our place later,” natalie says, smile widening. “we’re having people over.”
beau pauses and you feel your throat tighten instinctively. dean, finally tuning back in, glances over with lazy amusement. “look at that, maxwell. making friends.”
your nails press lightly into your palm beneath the table.
beau doesn’t look at dean. he looks at you, just for half a second, too quick for anyone else, long enough for your heart to twist.
he turns back to natalie. “thanks, but we’ve already got plans.”
your chest loosens slightly. natalie tilts her head. “all of you?”
beau’s mouth lifts faintly, but his voice stays steady. “yeah.”
dean narrows his eyes slightly. “do we?”
joanna immediately kicks him under the table.
“ow.”
“yes,” she says brightly. “we do.”
you take a sip of your drink to hide your smile. natalie lingers for another second, clearly not used to being dismissed that gently, then shrugs and lets one of her friends pull her back towards the bar.
the moment she’s gone, dean looks between all of you.
“why are you guys being so weird?”
joanna rolls her eyes. “because you make everything weird.”
you stand suddenly, grabbing your drink. “i’ll be back, i'm going to grab some water.”
you slip through the crowd towards the bar, heart beating too fast for something so small, because it is small. you know it’s small. beau didn’t flirt back, he barely even smiled, but secrecy makes everything feel sharper.
every glance someone gives him feels like a reminder that the world still thinks he’s available.
you’re waiting at the bar when he appears beside you. not touching, not close enough to be obvious, but there.
“y/n,” he says quietly.
you keep your eyes on the counter. “you didn’t have to follow me.”
“yeah,” he says softly. “i did.”
you swallow. for a second, neither of you speak.
beau leans one elbow against the bar, studying your expression. “talk to me.”
your grip tightens slightly around your drink. “it’s silly, beau.”
his voice stays gentle. “i don’t think it is.”
you exhale slowly, trying to put words to the feeling. “it’s not even about her.”
beau stays quiet, letting you speak.
your voice softens, “it’s just… hard sometimes.” finally, you look at him. “having to sit there and act like i don’t care.”
something in his expression shifts immediately. understanding, softness, guilt.
he glances down briefly, then back at you. “i’m sorry, y/n.”
you blink. “for what?”
“for putting you in that position.” his voice is low, steady. “for making you feel like you have to pretend none of this matters.”
your chest tightens, “beau-”
“because it does matter.”
his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “you matter.”
your expression softens. his hand shifts on the bar, close enough that his fingers brush yours for half a second. quick. hidden.
“she didn’t matter.”
your breath catches.
his voice stays quiet. “i knew exactly who i was leaving with tonight.”
emotion lodges somewhere in your throat. you look down, a small smile finally pulling at your lips once more.
“i’m sorry.”
beau’s brows pull together slightly. “don’t apologise.”
“i know she didn’t mean anything,” you say softly. “i just… had a moment.”
his expression turns impossibly gentle. “you’re allowed to.” silence settles between you again, but it feels softer now, steadier. “are we okay?” he asks quietly.
this time, your smile comes easier. small. warm.
“yeah.”
some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “okay.”
he says it so softly it almost sounds like relief.
back at the table, dean watches the two of you standing side by side at the counter, not touching, not too close, nothing obvious.
yet, something about it feels strangely intense, serious. your expressions are soft but focused, like you’re having a conversation that matters.
beau says something quietly. you look down, then back up. dean narrows his eyes slightly. he can’t hear a word, can’t see anything concrete, but something about the whole thing feels… off.
a series of tiny moments that finally stop feeling explainable.
nothing obvious, nothing he can actually point to.
yet, enough to leave dean with the quiet, unsettling feeling that he’s missing something.
5. uh oh...
back at the house, you find beau in the kitchen, alone. finally.
the whole house is loud around you, music plays from the living room, parents drink wine on the deck, dean somewhere outside arguing with joanna about whether he cheated at cards.
beau stands by the sink, sleeves pushed up, rinsing sand out of a cooler. you pause in the doorway, he looks up. everything in his face softens, quietly, instantly.
“hi,” he says.
your heart aches. “hi.”
for a moment, neither of you move. “dean’s watching us” you whisper.
beau huffs softly, turning off the tap. “yeah.”
“you noticed?”
“it's pretty hard not to.”
you lean back against the counter, a small smirk gracing your features. “you were the one who knew my ice cream order.”
“i do know your ice cream order.”
“that’s the problem.”
his mouth curves faintly. “i'm sorry for paying attention to you.”
you give him a look. he steps closer, not touching, not yet, but close enough that the air shifts.
“i’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”
your gaze lifts to his. the bar, about how hard this had become.
beau’s jaw tightens slightly. “i hate that you feel like you have to sit there pretending none of this matters.”
your chest tightens. “beau-”
“i mean it.” his voice is calm, steady. “watching you walk away earlier because you felt like you couldn’t react… it sucked.”
your expression softens. "it did for me too.”
“not being able to just…” he exhales, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “be normal with you.”
your chest pulls tight. “beau.”
his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “i know why we’re doing this,” he says quietly. “i do. dean’s your brother. he’s my best friend. i understand why this is complicated.”
his voice drops. “but i’m starting to hate pretending.”
your throat tightens, you look down. “dean’s already noticing.”
“yeah.”
“he’s smart.”
a faint smile touches beau’s mouth. “unfortunately.”
you let out a small laugh, your face softening once more. “that’s what scares me.”
the words sit between you, honest, fragile. beau’s hand lifts slowly, giving you enough time to pull away. you don’t. his fingers brush your wrist, then settle there gently, hidden below the counter.
beau goes quiet. when he speaks again, his voice is gentler.
“dean finding out doesn’t scare me.”
your brows lift slightly. “it doesn’t?”
he shakes his head. “no.”
you laugh softly despite the seriousness of the conversation. “it should."
he stifles a small laugh before shaking his head. “what scares me is losing this.”
your breath catches, his eyes lock on yours.
“losing you, y/n.”
everything in you stills. beau’s expression shifts, suddenly more vulnerable than before, like the words came out before he could stop them.
he swallows. “i’m serious, baby i-”
dean’s voice sounds down the hallway, growing louder as he nears the kitchen. beau steps back quickly, the action alone looking suspicious. dean appears in the doorway two seconds later, his eyes move from you to beau, then to the space between you, then back again.
“what’s going on?”
you grab the nearest object off the counter. a spoon, for no reason.
“nothing.”
dean looks at the spoon in your hand, then at you. “why are you holding that like a weapon?”
you look down. “because you scared me.”
dean's eyebrows furrow. “by entering a kitchen?”
“aggressively.”
beau coughs. dean’s eyes flick to him.
“something funny?”
beau shakes his head. “nope.”
dean stares at him for one long second. then points between you. “you two are being weird.”
your stomach drops. “we’re not.”
“you are.”
“you think everyone is weird.”
“because lately everyone is being weird.”
he holds your gaze for another moment, and for a second, you think that’s it. that he knows, that he’s about to say it.
but then joanna yells from outside, accusing dean of hiding the cards, and he backs out of the doorway with one last suspicious glance. “this conversation isn’t over.”
you wait until he disappears. then exhale. beau looks at you.
“we’re terrible at this.”
-
the following day
the time dean actually catches you, it’s the last night, which feels unfair and inevitable at the same time.
the kind of thing summer had been building towards all week.
the house is full of noise behind you. music, laughter, screen doors opening and shutting, someone yelling about missing marshmallows, the distant clink of bottles being moved across the deck.
you slip away after dinner, simply needing some fresh air.
the dock is quiet when you get there, the water black and silver beneath the moon, the old wood still warm from the day’s heat beneath your bare feet. you sit at the edge with your knees pulled up, chin resting against them.
for a few minutes, you're alone, then the dock creaks behind you.
you don’t turn around, already knowing who had come to join you. beau sits beside you without speaking, shoulder brushing yours.
for a moment, neither of you say anything. tomorrow everyone goes home, and cape cod becomes another distant memory, until next year.
“you disappeared,” he says quietly.
“so did you.”
his mouth curves faintly. “followed you.”
you look at him then, bad idea. the moonlight softens him. his hair is messy from the wind, sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, eyes fixed on you like the rest of the world had become background noise.
“dean’s inside,” you whisper.
“i know.”
“someone could come out.”
“i know.”
you should move away, you don’t. instead, beau’s hand finds yours, his fingers threading slowly through yours like he’s giving you every chance to pull away.
not rushed, not hidden this time.
“i’m tired of pretending i don’t want to do that,” he says.
your eyes sting suddenly. “beau.”
“i don’t want to spend the whole year only looking at you when no one else is paying attention, y/n.”
your fingers tighten around his. “i don’t either.”
he turns more fully toward you. “then we tell him.”
you laugh once, nervous and soft. “you say that like it’s easy.”
“it won’t be.”
“he might kill you.”
“probably.”
you huff a small laugh in response. he smiles faintly, but his eyes stay serious. “i’d rather deal with him than keep making you feel like something i’m hiding.”
that gets you, completely. this is exactly what you had been too afraid to say out loud.
you look down at your joined hands. “you don’t make me feel like that.”
“sometimes this does though, y/n”
you hate that he’s right. you hate that you love him for noticing. the word arrives in your chest before you can stop it.
love.
maybe it had been there for longer than you realised, waiting patiently for you to stop looking away. beau reaches up slowly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. you close your eyes for half a second, savouring the moment.
“we should go back,” you whisper.
“yeah.”
neither of you moves. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes open, and then he kisses you. softly at first, careful, like even now, even after everything, he’s giving you the chance to change your mind.
you don’t.
you lean into him, one hand curling into the front of his sweatshirt. beau makes a quiet sound into the kiss like the week had finally caught up with him all at once.
his arm slides around your waist, yours around his neck. for once, there is no pretending, no careful distance, no stolen almost-touch hidden behind towels or car seats or kitchen counters.
just beau.
warm and solid and yours beneath the summer night.
“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
you tear apart so fast you nearly lose your balance. beau’s hand catches your waist instinctively, which, unfortunately, does not help your case.
dean stands at the start of the dock. still, silent. your heart drops through your stomach.
“dean,” you breathe.
he doesn’t look at you first, he looks at beau.
to his credit, he doesn’t move away from you completely. beau lets go of your waist, but he stays close. close enough that dean notices. close enough that you do too.
“how long?” dean asks, his voice calm, too calm.
you stand slowly. “dean-”
“how long?”
beau answers. “a few months.”
dean’s jaw tightens. “months,” dean repeats.
you wrap your arms around yourself. “we were going to tell you.”
he laughs once, humourless. “when? at your wedding?”
“that’s not fair.”
“isn’t it?”
his eyes finally move to you, and the anger cracks just enough for hurt to show underneath. that is worse, so much worse. “you lied to me.”
your throat tightens. “i know.”
“both of you.”
beau’s voice stays low. “that’s on me.”
dean turns on him instantly. “do not do that.”
beau stills.
“don’t stand there and try to take all of it like that fixes the fact that you’ve been sneaking around with my sister behind my back.”
“i’m not trying to fix it.”
“good, because it doesn’t.”
you step forward. “dean, please.”
his face softens for half a second at your voice, then he looks away, dragging a hand through his hair. for a while, nobody says anything. the water moves quietly beneath the dock. the house hums behind you, distant and unaware.
finally, dean exhales, long, tired.
“i kind of figured.”
you blink. beau’s head lifts slightly. dean looks at you both like you’ve personally exhausted him. “i’m not an idiot.”
you say nothing. he points towards the house. “the car ride? weird.”
“the volleyball thing? very weird.”
beau looks down.
“the ice cream?” dean continues. “please. beau knew about the rainbow sprinkles, y/n.”
“lots of people know i like rainbow sprinkles,” you mutter weakly. dean gives you a flat look, you take it as a sign to stop talking.
“and the kitchen,” he adds. “you were holding a spoon like you’d been caught redhanded”
beau presses his lips together. wrong time to laugh, dangerously wrong.
“something funny, maxwell?”
beau shakes his head. “no.”
“good.” silence again. dean’s shoulders drop slightly, not forgiveness, not completely, but something less sharp.
“i’m not mad because it’s you,” he says, looking at beau. that surprises you, it seems to surprise beau too.
dean’s jaw works once. “honestly, if it had to be someone…” he stops, annoyed with himself for even saying it. “whatever. that’s not the point.”
your voice comes out small. “what is the point?”
dean looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly he’s not angry in the loud way anymore.
he’s your brother.
the boy who used to carry your beach bag because he said you packed like you were fleeing the country. the boy who scared off guys before you even knew they were interested. the boy who pretended he wasn’t protective while being the most protective person alive.
“the point is you’re my sister, y/n” he says, softer now. “and he’s my best friend. and both of you decided i was the last person who got to know.”
your chest aches. “we were scared.”
“of me?”
you hesitate. dean’s expression shifts, that hurts him too.
“not like that,” you say quickly. “not because we thought you’d be horrible. just because it mattered. because you matter. because beau matters. and i didn’t want everything to change before we even knew what this was.”
dean looks at you for a long moment, then his gaze flicks to beau. “do you know what this is?”
beau doesn’t look away. “yeah.”
your breath catches. dean studies him carefully. “yeah?”
beau nods once. “i love her.”
everything stops. you turn towards him. for a second you forget dean is there, forget the dock, forget the entire summer sitting around you.
beau’s eyes meet yours, steady despite the nerves in his face. “i didn’t want to say it like this,” he says quietly.
your eyes burn. a small, helpless laugh escapes you. “on a dock while my brother plots your murder?”
beau’s mouth lifts faintly. “yeah. not exactly how i pictured it.” dean makes a strangled sound. “i’m literally standing right here.” you look back at him, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“sorry.”
dean stares at you, then at beau. he sighs like the universe has personally wronged him.
“unbelievable.”
his voice is different now. still annoyed, still protective, but not furious. not anymore.
he steps closer, pointing directly at beau’s chest. “you.” beau straightens immediately. “don’t fuck this up.”
“i won’t.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.”
dean’s eyes narrow. “she’s my sister. don’t forget that.” beau’s face softens, but his voice stays firm.
“i never have.”
dean looks away, jaw tight, before pointing vaguely between you both.
“and no more sneaking around.”
you nod quickly. “okay.”
“no more lying.”
“okay.”
“and absolutely no making out on docks while everyone else is inside eating dessert.”
you frown. “that feels very specific.”
“because it just happened.”
beau looks down, hiding another smile. dean points at him again. “wipe that look off your face.”
beau immediately does, you bite your lip. dean turns to you, eyes narrowing. “and you. don’t think you’re getting out of this because you look emotional.”
you blink up at him. he lasts three seconds, maybe four, then his expression breaks. “come here,” he mutters. you step into him immediately.
dean wraps his arms around you, tight and familiar, one hand pressing briefly to the back of your head the way he used to when you were younger, crying over things you didn’t want to explain.
your throat closes. “i’m sorry,” you whisper.
he sighs into your hair. “yeah. you should be.”
his arms tighten. “i just didn’t want to lose you,” you admit quietly.
dean stills, pulling back enough to look at you. “you’re not losing me because you fell for my idiot best friend, y/n.”
beau mutters, “fair.”
dean doesn’t look away from you. “you’re stuck with me.”
your mouth trembles into a smile. “unfortunately.”
“watch it.”
you laugh softly, and dean’s face eases a little at the sound.
he looks over your shoulder at beau. “you can walk her back.”
beau blinks. “i can?”
“don’t make me regret saying it.”
“i won’t.”
dean starts walking backward towards the house, still pointing.
“door stays open.”
“dean.”
“i don’t care if we’re outside right now, the door stays open.”
you groan. “you’re so annoying.”
he turns finally, heading back toward the house, but stops halfway. for a second, he looks back. not at beau this time, at you.
his expression softens. “for what it’s worth,” he says, quieter. “i’m glad it’s him.” he disappears into the noise of the house before either of you can answer.
you stand there for a moment, stunned. beau steps closer beside you. careful now. respectful of the fact that everything has changed, and yet nothing at all.
“you okay?” he asks. you look at him, really look at him. the boy you had spent the whole summer loving in glances, in almost-touches, in quiet corners and stolen seconds. the boy who had just told your brother he loved you without flinching.
you nod slowly. “you love me?”
his face softens. “yeah.”
your heart turns over. “that’s inconvenient.”
beau laughs quietly, stepping close enough for his fingers to brush yours. “very.”
you slip your hand into his, openly, for the first time. “i love you too,” you whisper.
beau’s entire expression changes. he leans down, then stops, glancing towards the house.
you laugh softly. “dean said no sneaking around.”
“this isn’t sneaking.”
“no?”
his thumb brushes over your hand. “not anymore.”
so you kiss him again, softly, briefly. smiling against his mouth when someone from the deck yells, “door stays open!”
dean, obviously.
beau drops his forehead to yours, laughing under his breath. for the first time all summer, you don’t pull away.
“Please, babe, you’re literally the only believable candidate.” Dean’s tone was begging and you refused to look up at him because you knew first hand that it was all too easy to give into him when he gave you that look, and it’s that look that you just know he was currently pulling.
So instead rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.
“I’m trying to study.” You tell him impatiently tapping on your keyboard.
“And I’m trying to win back the girl of my literal dreams. We all have our struggles.” He argues back dramatically.
Across the library table from you, Dean Di Laurentis had just asked you to pretend to be his girlfriend. He sat down, all charm and offered you his most enticing smile that usually he knew worked on women.
But unfortunately for him, you had been seemingly immune to said charm for years. It was why you were friends in the first place.
Most people met Dean and immediately fell victim to the whole thing, the jaw line, the dimples, the effortless flirting that seemed second nature. You however, had seen straight through it when he sat beside you in Economics 101 all the way back in Freshman year and told him he wasn’t nearly as charming as he thinks he is. But that was that, he decided there and then that if you weren’t going to hook up with him he’ll keep you anyway as a friend.
A late night study partner.
An after class coffee date.
Occasionally, you would even find yourself at a hockey party or at a Sig Tau frat party and he’d get you a drink or keep you tucked under his arm until a leggy blonde would make her intentions clear and the poof, off he went.
It was easier to just pretend that none of it bothered you, and the whole reason you were friends was because he found it refreshing not having to try to hard around you. He knew you weren’t interested in his reputation so he found you freeing to be around.
He could be unapologetically himself with you.
So, when you so predictably and annoyingly started having feelings for him around the end of that year and then realised you were full blown in love with his at the start of Junior year - you knew you’d have to bury those feelings so far deep down that they’d never see the light of day.
Because Dean wants to be your friend, that’s it.
Which is why this whole thing was so dangerous.
“I told you last year that hooking up with her was a bad idea.” You told him finally looking over at him, he was wearing a white t-shirt and maroon cardigan that probably cost more than you’d like to think about.
God why did he have to be so stupidly attractive.
“I don’t need ‘I told you so’s’ babe, I need help! Come on please, you’re the only girl she would believe I’ve chosen to settle down with and it’ll eat her alive.” He really did look desperate.
“Dean-“
“No, please? Look, how about this, just come to Drunk Shakespeare with me tonight. Wellsy wants us to go support Allie, it’s just a show, we don’t have to tell anyone anything yet. Just show up together.” He was convincing. “A night out will be good for you, god forbid you actually enjoy yourself for once.” He added making you glare.
Only because you found it hard to say no to him. And also maybe he was right, you hadn’t been out in a while.
You lifted a manicured hand and held up one finger to him.
“One outing, that’s all I’m committing to right now.” You tell him firmly and he grinned in success.
“I knew you couldn’t say no to me.” He bragged instantly ruining it and you scoffed.
“I just want you to leave me alone so I can finish this assignment.” You gave him a look, a serious one that he knew meant you were serious. “You probably should too you know, it’s due on Tuesday.” You urge and he shrugs leaning back in the chair.
“I already wrote it.” He tells you and you’re not surprised.
Because thing about Dean that you knew for sure was that he was smart, like really smart. And he took his work seriously.
“Well then, can you proofread mine for me?” You ask with a cheeky smile, one Dean never admitted to out loud that was his favourite smile of yours.
“I guess I do owe you.” He sighed heavily as if you’d asked him to rewrite the whole thing, but then you grinned happily like a kid that just got it’s own way and he couldn’t stop the matching grin that fell onto his own face.
“Yay! Thank you!” You squealed spinning your laptop for him to read your screen, he made a few amendments as he went and gave you an amused shake of his head when he saw you filing your nails.
They were painted a pretty pale pink this week, and he wasn’t sure at what point it was when he started noticing that small detail about you but he did always know when you changed your nails. Maybe it was because you were always typing your notes beside him in class, slender tanned fingers tapping away at the keyboard, nails clicking and a gold Cartier love ring always on your right ring finger. A distraction he realised he didn’t find annoying, and he found his eyes just looked to whatever colour they were naturally now.
And today he liked the pink.
It was 7PM by the time he picked you up for Drunk Shakespeare and when you walked out of your building to his car he noticed a few things.
Now, you always looked put together. He hadn’t ever seen you without your hair at least straightened, or without makeup even if it’s just mascara and lipgloss, so you always looked good. Always polished and clean. But as you walked towards him tonight there was a bounce in the curls that looped around your shoulders, you had blush on your cheeks and when you got into his passenger seat you were definitely wearing perfume.
After an hour or so of antagonising over what you thought you should wear, what someone who was dating Dean Di Laurentis would wear, you had settled on a pair of blue jeans, black flip flop mule heels and a black tank. It was a simple but effective outfit. And you were hoping that he didn’t think you put too much thought into, that this is just what you looked like on your Friday nights.
Back in the car he imagined that it maybe would be something you’d wear on a real date and that did something stupid to his chest.
“Hey.” You said breathlessly as if the walk to his car was effort. And in those heels it kind of was.
“Well hello.” He drawls suggestively and you scoff with an eye roll.
“Eww Dean save the dramatics for in front of your girlfriend.” You dismissed quickly and he felt guilty for a second.
Right, Allie.
This was all to get her back.
Or at least to get her to see that he can do serious, that he is capable of holding down a relationship, which is weird because this was fake.
Even if you were his longest standing friend outside of the hockey boys and Beau.
“What?” He said innocently as he started the car back up. “You look good babe, it’s a compliment. You’re getting me all hot and bothered.” He told you with a flirty glance and shooting you a wink, but you knew better.
He flirts with everyone, and he jokes with you.
That’s how he’s wired.
When they arrive to the venue there’s already loads of people packed into the lobby, you both meet up with Garrett and Hannah at the bar, Logan and his girlfriend Grace are there too. You didn’t know Grace well but you’d seen her around.
You knew Hannah already, you’d spoken with her a few times but despite your friendship with Dean your social lives never really overlapped that much.
A hopeful part of you wondered if he wanted to keep you to himself, another more logical part of you knew he just kept things separate. The only friend of his you had your own genuine friendship with was Beau Maxwell.
“Is Beau coming?” You ask Dean as you settle beside him on a couch in front of the stage. It was just off centre and gave you a view of the whole production set up.
“You know asking about another guy when you’re on a date is kind of frowned upon.” He teases as he moves his arm along the back of the couch behind your shoulders. and you cross your legs towards him reaching for the bottle of beer he’d bought you.
“Not a real date Di Laurentis.” You chimed the reminder before taking a swig of the beer.
“But babe.” He whines playfully wrapping a strand of your hair around his finger, “you did your hair all pretty for me.” He purred and you shook your head in disbelief.
The arrogance of this man.
Or was it confidence? Because he wasn’t wrong.
“Did you want this to be believable or not?” You retorted but he took note of the blush that crawled up your cheeks, stored it away and his heart swelled with the knowledge that you did actually do your hair for him.
Interesting.
And then the lights dimmed, a spot light hit the stage and the show began. You were actually enjoying yourself and the show, and when you were on your third shot it was during Allie’s monologue that you suddenly wanted another twelve to be brave enough to handle Dean looking at her all fond.
She was amazing, beautiful in her dainty fairy outfit and flawless in her delivery but as her eyes scanned the audience, she stuttered, a minute almost unnoticeable falter in her performance as she spotted Dean, and then, tucked into his side, legs crossed with his hand rested on your thigh was you.
And as you watched, forcing your face to be neutral, Dean wasn’t looking at Allie at all. He was currently looking at your hands wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle. Nails shimmering slightly under the dim lighting.
“Lemme see?” He asks quietly surprising you and softly beckoning for your hand.
Then, he takes your fingers under his, thumb running over the colour as if he could memorise the texture.
“They were pink earlier.” He mumbles and you frown looking down, they were now a buttery yellow with a chrome top coat.
You’d gotten pretty good and manicures, the gel polish almost looks professional.
“I redid them.” You tell him whispering now watching his face and he just hums his approval before lacing his finger through yours and staying that way.
“Pretty.” And then there was a blast of loud music and flashing lights forcing you to both look up to the stage just as the interval was announced.
There was twenty minutes until Act 2 started, and your beer was finished, the shots you’d taken had given you a nice buzz. Tipsy enough to be a little more confident, not tipsy enough to feel drunk.
Just an easy flow state.
Dean of course seemed completely unaffected and honestly you’re not surprised, he’s six foot two, it’ll take more than a few shots to take him down.
“Another beer?” He asks suddenly pulling his hand from yours and you nod as he stands up.
“Sure, please.” And then he’s gone from the couch and grabbing Garrett to go to the bar, you pull out your phone to scroll so you didn’t think too hard about him holding your hand, or the way he’d said ‘pretty’ and before you know it Hannah is dropping down next to you with an ooof.
“Hey!” You say brightly giving her a smile that she returns instantly.
“Are you drunk yet?” She asks giggling and you grin.
“Not yet, but Dean’s just gone to get me another beer and that might do it.” You admit making her lean into your side with a sigh.
“Dean is so obsessed with you.” She tells you rolling her eyes, as if it’s old news and boring and as if it didn’t make your heart sore. “You should have heard him, he was so excited you agreed to come with him tonight.” She continued and then your heart sank.
Of course, he was acting.
Because tonight was a performance.
Probably for Hannah’s benefit so that she would tell that information to Allie and not you.
“Oh he’s just dramatic.” You try and dismiss but she laughs.
“Well duh it’s Dean obviously he’s dramatic! But we all had bets on how long it would take for him to realise he’s in love with you and-“
“Wellsy, move it or lose it that’s my seat.” Dean interrupts before she can finish and holding two beers, Garrett behind him smiling fondly at his obviously drunk girlfriend.
“Shut up Dean we’re talking about you.” She waved a hand at him and he grinned, smug.
“Oh yeah? Babe, don’t be shy tell her how sexy you think I am.” He urged making you roll your eyes.
“Actually Hannah was just telling me how obsessed you are with me, so Han, pray tell - just how down bad is he?” You tease and for a second you think you see panic fleet through his eyes.
Like he’s been caught out for something.
But then that confidence is back, nonchalance sparkling in his blue eyes and expertly masking whatever real emotion he might feel.
“Oh he’s insufferable!” Hannah says playfully, loudly, and Garrett pats Dean’s shoulder.
“Sorry man, she’s had more than a few pinã coladas tonight, Wellsy, come on let’s leave these two oblivious idiots to their date.” Garrett coaxes his girlfriend to her feet and she plants a kiss right on his lips that makes him laugh.
Cute.
For second you miss that feeling, having someone who’s so in love with you that you can just kiss them and it be okay.
Dean’s warmth surrounds you again as he gets back into his seat. His cologne overwhelming you as he hands you your drink just as a guy dressed as a fairy puts a tray of shots on the little table in front of you.
“Wellsy is drunk, I’m not obsessed with you.” He states making you hum still slightly amused by the whole thing.
“Okay.” Your tone is sarcastic and disbelieving, if you were completely sober you’d of backed down by now.
You would have put your feelings and your heart back in that little box you keep locked.
“It’s true!” He exclaims amused shock written on his face.
“You’re only human Di Laurentis, I’m easy to fall in love with.” You tease leaning up to face him.
He’s already looking at you.
Well not you.
Your lips.
He’s never experienced you like this, confidence oozing off of you, dare he say, flirting with him?
You’d deny it if he ever accused you of it.
“Is that right?” He asks, voice softer, less teasing but still playing along.
“Oh yeah, why do you think you’ve hung around for so long?” You continue playfully. “It was bound to happen at some point-“ he cuts you off by digging his fingers into your ribs. In response you giggle and squeal into his side to get him to stop.
“Stop being cute.” He warns endearingly as the lights dim and the show starts again, you were so engrossed in the performance that when his arm snaked along the back of the couch again you didn’t even flinch when his fingers wormed underneath your hair and rested on the back of your neck.
By the time the show had ended everyone was a little more than tipsy, Dean you realised had stopped drinking completely and when you took a closer look the beers he was drinking were non-alcoholic. You didn’t question it figuring that he was driving, and he didn’t want to leave his car here overnight.
Everyone crowded back into the lobby, the queue at the bar longer than it was earlier and music thumping softly. Dean had you beside him as he spoke with Logan and Grace, you were chiming in every now and then but you spin when you hear your name.
It was Nate.
He was in your Global Political Economy seminars and you were pretty sure he was also in Beau’s frat.
“I thought I saw you here.” He greets looking over you appreciatively before looking at Dean, who’s hand had wound itself around your waist.
“Hi! I didn’t think this would be your scene!” You say hugging him in greeting.
“Dean, hey man.” He greeted next looking between the two of you. “You here together?” He asks and before you can get a word in Dean speaks.
“Obviously.” He deadpans and you give him a look he ignores.
“Cool, well, I’ll find you in a bit, we can have a drink.” Nate says to you boldly before touching your arm and breezing away.
“Fuckin’ jerk.” Dean huffs as if he couldn’t believe it. “The front of that guy, you’re not getting a drink with him.” He says and you scoff.
“Excuse me?” You ask shocked.
“You’re here with me, you can’t go off having drinks with other guys! How do you think that looks?!” He argues.
“Oh but as soon as Allie miraculously comes to her senses and wants to hook up with you backstage that’ll be alright?” You snap affronted and your words make him frown.
“I wouldn’t hook up with someone else while I’m with you, fake or not, even if it is Allie.” He seems hurt at your accusation but you’re mad that he thinks he can tell you who you can and can’t talk to just because you’re on a date.
That’s FAKE.
Not that you want to have a drink with Nate either.
But it’s the principle of the fact that Dean doesn’t even want you but he’s dictating who can.
Huffing in annoyance you cross your arms angrily and just stand next to him grumpy just as Hannah, Garrett and Allie join you.
“Great.” You mutter under your breath.
You know this is really where Dean would want to be obvious, touchy, put on a show with Allie right here but he’s not doing any of that.
Actually he looks like he’d also rather you both not be interrupted right now. Next thing you know he’s sighing and wrapping his arm around your shoulders.
“C’mon don’t be mad at me, please?” He begs and you glance up at him. “I can’t take the pouting, it’s breaking my heart.” His words make you glare but smile all at once and he grins. “Perfect.” He finalises and you stop feeling so frustrated.
That is until a new voice enters the chat.
“Hey, do you think maybe he can talk?” You hear Allie ask him, he drops his arm and looks down at you, you aren’t sure if it’s for permission or reassurance but you nod anyway.
They’re gone for longer than you’d like, considering the whole performance of ‘I’d never hook up with someone else while with you’ ugh he can be such an asshole. You’re half listening to something that Dexter is saying when another hand finds your back, settling between your shoulder blades.
Unwanted.
“How about that drink?” Nate asks and for a second you almost say no flat out, but you scan the crowds for the familiar head of blonde hair and you come up empty.
“Uh, okay sure.” You say giving in and letting yourself think for a second that maybe you need to at least try and move on from Dean Di Laurentis and follow Nate to the bar.
Dean watches the whole thing happen from his spot on the balcony as Allie talks to him. His fists ball as he takes in the smug bastard smirking at you as he orders you a wine.
You don’t even fucking like wine.
That prick waited for him to walk away, waited until you were alone to talk to you.
“I was right you know.” He hears Allie say and looks back to her remembering that why he was up here in the first place.
“About what?” He asks and she looks down at where you’re stood uncomfortably next to Nate.
“That you’re not capable of a serious relationship with me.” She tells him, and for a second he thinks it’s because he came here to talk to her, that he can’t possibly be serious about you.
He’s offended, and mostly because that isn’t what’s happening here.
“I can do serious.” He tells her frustrated.
“Yeah, I know, I just mean that you’re not capable of a serious relationship with me Dean.” Her eyes go back to you at the bar. “Because for as long as I’ve known you you’ve always been in love with her.” She tells him plainly and he wants to scoff.
To make a joke about how you’re the only girl at Briar that doesn’t want him.
But.
He doesn’t for a second think to say ‘I’m not in love with her’ he just doesn’t say anything at all as realisation crashing down on him hard and fast.
“She loves you too you know, you’re both just too scared to give into it.” And with that bombshell, Allie walks away leaving Dean with a pounding heart and an overwhelming sense of relief.
Relief because the words had finally been said out loud.
Maybe not by him, or by you but there they were.
Obvious and blaring.
“Fuck.” He blows out, hands running down his face.
He’s needs to talk to you.
But then there was a commotion, gasps and yelling, he looks down just in time to see that you’re pulling your arm out of Nate’s grip, Hannah pulling you beside her quickly as Garrett lunges at Nate punching him square in the jaw.
What the fuck.
By the time Dean gets to you you’re shaking.
“What the fuck happened?” He demands now trying to pull Garrett off of Nate.
“G, man come on!” He yells, and it takes both him and now Logan to get him off. Nate’s friends take him out and security are pushing them through the door.
“What happened?” Dean asks again as Garrett looks at you first.
“Y’okay?” He asks and you nod, barely but you manage.
Dean leaves Garrett’s side to come to yours but you flinch away from him, he holds his hands out as if approaching a wild animal but you can’t look at him.
You’re mad.
And something obviously happened with Nate.
“That fucking prick, he called her slut and put his hands on her- where the fuck were you?!” Garrett asks him suddenly and Dean doesn’t want to admit that he was with Allie.
“I want to go home.” You say next, voice small and sad.
“I’ll drive-“
“No.” She says cutting him off and looking at Garrett who just nods.
“Let’s go.” And then Dean is left standing in the aftermath of feeling like he’s fucked everything up.
The next time you see Dean it’s on the following Tuesday in your theory class, he sits down right beside you like the shit show of Friday night didn’t even happen.
You’d ignored every single one of his texts over the weekend and thought you might have been clear in that you don’t want to talk to him right now but he’s Dean.
He will do as he pleases and most of the time have the confidence that will somehow mean he get his own way.
“Hey.” He says as the room fills up with students.
“Hey.” You say back not looking up from your screen, he can see your nails are still yellow and he smiles remembering what your hand had felt like in his.
All soft skin and warm.
“We need to talk about Friday.” He tells you firmly, no room for bullshit or small talk.
“No we don’t, you got what you wanted from it, I had a shitty night and that’s it. There’s nothing else we need to say.” You say back equally as firmly and he shakes his head.
“No.”
“No?” You hiss outraged.
“I didn’t get what I wanted from it.” He tells you simply and you gawk at him in utter disbelief.
“If you’re about to ask me to do it again I swear I will-“
“Relax babe, I just mean maybe I got what I thought I wanted but now I know that what I actually want is you.” He tells you boldly, quickly as if he needed you to hear his words and you just frown in confusion.
“Sorry what?” You blurt out adorably and he grins.
It’s like muscle memory, he can’t not smile when you do something cute like that.
“You heard me, it’s you. It’s been you this whole time and we’ve wasted enough time pretending that what we have isn’t worth exploring, don’t you think?” He asks with a knowing smile making you really look at him as if you’re trying to catch the lie.
Is he pranking you?
“I’m confused.” You say slowly bracing yourself for him to laugh and say ‘gotcha’ but instead he sighs as if you really should be on the same page as him now.
“No you’re not. You just don’t want me to be right. I just haven’t been brave enough to see it but, on Friday you were right.” He watches as you listen, frown in thought at what you could have said. “I guess you really are just too easy to fall in love with.” He says making you gasp.
“Dean-“ you say glancing around in warning, people were listening now.
Whispering.
Your cheeks were turning pink.
“Look you don’t have to say it back right now because I know eventually you’ll come to the same conclusion in your own time- ooomf” you cut him off by throwing your arms around his neck and pushing a kiss onto his lips.
He catches you easily and laughs into the kiss.
The lecture hall erupting in cheers.
You pull back and the pink embarrassed twinge on your cheeks is now a burning red as you realise you have an audience.
“You mean it?” You ask smiling and he nods pressing one more peck to your lips.
“More than anything I’ve ever meant in my life.” He confirms.
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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).
masterlist was rewatching off campus and allie cats calendar inspired this lol
You and John have spent every summer together since high school, but something about this one feels different.
warnings: 18+ fluff, flirting, tension, yearning — so much yearning, mentions of past trauma (john), making out, dry humping :), a little mixture or book and show Logan.
wc: 5.3k
authors note: Hi! this is my first John Logan fic. I’ve been working on it for a few weeks now, and it helped me get out of a month of writers block. I’m pretty proud of the way it turned out. I hope you enjoy. 💕 I comment and follow from my main @loveshotzz
The diner was quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that only happens when the weather outside demands the small population of Munsen to spend a day at the lake. You watch the tiny hand on the black kit-cat clock that hangs half hazardly on the wall slowly land over the bold number seven. With a loud click its eyes open and shift from side to side. The early evening rays shine golden through the glass paint on the front windows that rattle off this week's specials in sloppy cursive. Small specks of lint dance in the air from wiping down every possible surface, the faint smell of lemon cleaning solution lingering in the empty restaurant.
Leaning against the cream colored linoleum counter top, you prop your chin in your hand, gaze dropping back down to the book you’ve been reading to pass the time. You only get two sentences in before the bells hanging over the front door interrupt you with their familiar chime. Tearing your attention away from the dog eared page, the steady beating of your heart stutters meeting the deep brown eyes that belong to your favorite part about summer break.
John Logan.
The smile that he greets you with pushes up his dark stubble covered cheeks, crinkling the soft tan skin under his big round eyes. Their deep chestnut is brighter in the daylight, amber swimming inside illuminating the dark edges. His tall frame takes up the small space next to the host stand, broad shoulders exposed under his white grease stained tank top. The sleeves of his brown jumpsuit are tied around his narrow hips, the baggy legs of it framing his black work boots. He runs a big hand through his dark hair that’s gone curly at the ends from the heat, the faded caramel tips standing out more from his time in the sun.
“I’m interrupting a very busy day, I see.” He grins, one side of his mouth ticking up.
“Yeah, I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to get you a table.” You shrug, biting your bottom lip to hide your own growing smile, stomach flipping catching the way his eyes track the movement.
“Not even for a Briar U athlete?” He presses, slowly closing the space between you. “You know I’m a forward, right?”
“Actually, hockey players have to wait extra. Right hand forwards specifically.” Straightening your posture, you tilt your head up to meet John’s eyes that sparkle with amusement.
Summer, grease, and the leftover spice of his cologne invade your senses when he stops right in front of you, the tips of your white keds brushing the steel toe of his boots. Leaning his elbow against the counter with a blinding flash of teeth, your fingers itch to push back his hair that flops back down, framing his face.
“Is that so?” He asks with a hum, eyes trailing over your face before dragging your book closer with the pads of his fingers. Logan reads the cover, the corners of his lips twitching before bringing the full weight of his attention back to you.
“But what if this hockey player isn’t trying to get a table? What if he’s trying to see if he puts in a to-go order at the new burger spot, that maybe a certain waitress might want to have dinner with him on top of the water tower after work?”
Warmth spreads across every inch of your skin at the hidden intention behind his question. There’s always been a subtle attraction between the two of you that started a few years ago, or at least when you noticed it existed, but last summer something shifted. You’re not sure when it happened or what specific moment changed everything. All you know is that this summer feels so much different than all of the rest.
“Oh really? Is that why you’re here?” You tease, jutting out your hip with a raise of your eyebrow.
“Yes, really.” He rolls his eyes playfully, pushing himself back up, moving one foot between yours. Black stained finger tips reach down, straightening out one of your rings before bringing his dark eyes back to yours. “So, what do you say?”
Fingers curling softly around his, there’s an electric current sparking inside the light touch. You give them a gentle tug and John’s pink lips stretch over perfect white teeth. He leans closer, turning your heart beat into a jackhammer, thrumming in your ears so loud that you wonder if he can hear it. Licking your lips, heat blooms across your body watching his gaze follow the bob of your throat.
You both know the answer before it even leaves your mouth.
“Pick me up at 8:00.”
Sherbet pink kisses the edges of the dark violet, swallowing up the rest of the sky by the time John’s truck chugs into the diner’s parking lot. He leans over the cabin, pushing open the driver side door before you have a chance to do it yourself. Syrupy eyes trail over the curves of your body no longer covered by a work uniform causing butterflies to migrate, fluttering along your rib cage at the look on his face that can only be described as enamored. Half way through the summer, these nightly rendezvous have become a regular thing, and the change of clothes you always stuff inside your duffle started to get picked from your closet with more and more care.
“Hey.” He breathes pushing his freshly washed hair back, the humidity keeping his curls still thick at the ends.
“Hi.” You reply shyly, eyes raking over his change of clothes, setting your bag down in the empty bed of his truck.
A short sleeve brown button up sits open, revealing the black tank top underneath. His silver chain hangs loose off his neck shining against his tan skin, landing just over the dip of his pecs. Dark wash denim fits snug to his thighs, stretching across the trained muscles in a way that dries up your throat, the cuffed ends framing the white tips of his converse. John’s always been handsome, but the past two years at college have turned him broad and lean. Jaw line a little sharper, facial hair a little thicker.
“I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.” You tease, fingers wrapping around the handle lifting yourself into the truck.
He looks confused for a moment, before his gaze lands on the bright green numbers on the dashboard.
8:03pm
“Wow, I didn’t realize I had you waiting for so long.” He says with the kind of disappointment that almost feels real, jutting out his bottom lip. “Can you forgive me?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” Buckling yourself in with the smallest twist of your lips, you pretend to be nonchalant with a roll of your eyes.
“Ah, I forgot. You looove to hold a grudge.” John laughs, shifting the truck into drive, clearly remembering the one you still hold against the boy you’ve both known since high school.
“If you’re talking about Joey Buckingham. Yes, I still hate him.” You beam proudly, meeting his eyes from over the to go order sitting on top of the familiar plaid blanket he brings every time.
“I am very aware.” He grins, something a lot like adoration flickering behind his gaze as he pulls out of the parking lot. “I’ll give that one to you though, that dude was always such an asshole.”
“Exactly!” You exclaim with a giggle and a loud vindicated clap. Secretly relishing in the way it makes his face light up. “And it’s not past tense, he still is.”
”Oh, you guys are still close friends?” John’s goading is obvious despite his perfected serious expression, but you take the bait every time. Mostly just to hear his laugh.
”Shut up Logan, or I’ll put you on my list right next to him.” You huff with a cross of your arms, earning you the exact sound you wanted to hear.
Rolling to a stop at the red light, he flips his turn signal just in time for it to change green. His hand moves back to the stick shift, adjusting it into the next gear, lurching the truck forward down the dirt path that leads to the tower. He keeps his hand resting on it, so close that his fingertips brush softly against your knee with every bump in the road. Digging your teeth into the fat of your bottom lip, you try subtly scooting yourself closer, searching for more of his touch. Selfishly, you consider tossing the food separating you right out of the window because it would be worth it to go hungry.
John seems to pick up on it, studying you like he’s not sure if he imagined it or not from the corner of his eye. You swallow the butterflies trying to flutter out of your throat, meeting his gaze a little shy — a little unsure. A silent exchange floats in the thickened air of the cabin, a quiet reassurance that he did not imagine anything. Licking his lips, one side of his mouth pulls up bringing his attention back to the road.
There’s a brief moment of panic like maybe you’ve been reading this wrong all summer. The thought tightens in your chest, but before you have a chance to fully spiral, the rough warmth of John’s palm covers the soft skin of your thigh. Right below the cotton hem of your shorts. Goosebumps pebble under his touch, even more sprouting under the gentle brush of his thumb that dips under the fabric with every swipe.
“Are you going back to the hockey house tonight?” You ask, cutting through the tension with a shaky voice, nerves threatening to get the best of you as you desperately try playing it cool.
”Tonight? Oh — uh no. I’ve got some stuff to do in the shop tomorrow morning. And um -“ Logan’s eyebrows furrow, keeping his gaze focused through the windshield, the swipe of his thumb never faltering. “I’ve also got to get some things to get in order at home. Mom’s getting discharged out of rehab in a few days.”
There’s a heaviness that fills the small space that you can see the weight of in the way his shoulders slouch and jaw clench because this is the fifth time that sentence has left his mouth since you’ve known him. Reaching down, you thread your fingers with his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“I didn’t realize it’s been three months already.” You whisper, running the pad of your thumb over his knuckles. “How are you feeling about it?”
John lets out a sigh that’s laced with years of instability and exhaustion. The sound has you desperately wanting to take it from him, absolve him of the responsibility even just for one night.
“I want to say I’m happy. I know Jules is.” He pauses for a moment, squeezing your hand back before letting it go to shift gears, as you get closer to the tall metal structure.
“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ in there.” You smile weakly, already missing the happy boy from just a few minutes ago.
“Buuut,” he starts, appeasing you, the corners of his mouth tugging up gingerly as he pulls into your usual spot behind the trees. “I just can’t go into this again without wondering how long she’s going to last this time.”
His quiet confession has you reaching for him again, bringing those big brown eyes to yours. So much swirls around inside of them, darkening the gold just like the sky, but even in the blanket of black, there’s still the hint of stars shining through. A small part of him clinging to the hope that always seems to find its way back in, that maybe it will be different this time.
“She’s lucky to have you. All three of you.” You add, including the brother that seems to only come around when John’s gone, only getting a small nod in return.
“Y-yeah.” He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair trying to shake the unwanted feelings off, giving you a toothy smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I don’t know about you but I’m hungry. Should we start heading up?”
John gestures towards the rusted white tower next to you, the dim lights shining below it adding to the structure's intimidating height.
“Yeah, let’s go.” You grin, fingers wrapping around the plastic loops of the small to-go bag you snuck inside. “I also may or may not have snuck you a slice of apple pie.”
The heaviness that weighed down his features lightens its load, brightening his handsome face.
“You buttering me up for something?” He asks with a suspicious grin.
“What? Me? I would never.” Scoffing, you refuse to meet his eyes grabbing the rest of the food to hide your smile.
“Oh yeah?” John laughs, raising his thick brows in playful disbelief.
All you want to do is bottle up the sound, this version of him, so you can listen to it on bad days after you both leave to go back to your separate lives after summer ends.
“I’ll get the reason out of you, I always do.” The edges of his lips curve as he swipes the blanket off the seat climbing out of his truck. “Regardless of the ultimatum, thank you, gorgeous.”
That’s…new.
Walking ahead of him, you tug your bottom lip between your teeth working up the courage to try something new too. Tossing him a flirtatious look over your shoulder, you make sure to look at him from under your lashes.
“Anytime.”
It’s impossible not to hear his sharp intake of breath, or how close he trails behind you with every crunching step of his converse. Heat spreads across your body like a wildfire because of it, crawling up your neck to your cheeks only getting worse when you feel his hands wrap around your waist once you reach the ladder. His long fingers flex around your hips, giving them a squeeze before stopping you from going any further.
That’s also new.
”Give me the food. You’re too clumsy not to use both hands.” He chuckles softly next to your ear.
”Doesn’t feel like you have a lot of faith in me, Logan.” You tut, craning your neck to meet his eyes.
”I’ve seen you trip on air. I’m not taking any chances.”
Pulling you close enough for your back to hit his chest, the tip of his nose brushes against your ear sending a shiver down up your spine. One of his hands leaves your hip, calloused fingertips ghosting down your arm sending goosebumps pebbling in their wake. He takes his time, like he’s taking full advantage of this moment in case it doesn’t happen again. The quick beating of his heart thumps against your back matching the one inside your chest, pulling at the edges of your lips. He softly tugs the bags from your grasp, giving your hip another squeeze before taking a step back.
”Alright, let’s get you up.”
It takes you a few seconds to snap out of the haze of being so close to him, your lungs slowly waking up, remembering how to work.
“I want you to know that I would’ve carried it up there perfectly fine.” Turning around to face him, you cross your arms over your chest.
”Just a safety precaution, that’s all.” He appeases with a shrug, but you know he’s doing exactly that, so your stare narrows.
”Mmhm.” You hum shortly, fighting the smile that's threatening to give you away. John sees it though, something knowing his eyes when he clocks it. “So how are you going to climb up there with both the blanket and the food then?”
All he does is grin before slinging the blanket over his shoulder, and sticking the handles of the bags between his perfectly white teeth.
”Like this.” He argues with a full mouth, opening his arms as if it proves his point.
”Yeah, cause that’s safe.” You snort with a roll of your eyes that just makes his sparkle. “If you drop our dinner, I’ll make sure you never hear the end of it.”
John salutes you sarcastically, gesturing towards the ladder like he’s impatient, trying his best to rile you up more. You shoot him a glare that doesn’t hold any venom before turning around. Wrapping your hands around the first bar that hangs over your head, John’s find their way back to your hips, giving you a gentle boost. You try not to overthink it, despite the way your skin seems to pulse where he touched. Making your way up the chipped painted metal, you can feel the heavy weight of his stare the whole way up to the top.
The wind whips wildly around you once you reach the landing, that familiar swoop in your stomach making itself known at the realization of just how high up you are. Gripping the railing, you focus on the small town glowing below trying to settle your growing feelings for John that don’t have anywhere real to go. Stars shimmer above you, sparkling inside the midnight blue contrasting with the warm golden light of the houses not nearly bright enough to pollute the sky like the city does. Inhaling a deep breath of what feels like a perfect summer night, you close your eyes and let it sit in your chest, willing your brain to commit this moment to memory.
Commit John to memory.
“As much as I can’t stand this place.” He sighs quietly, coming up next to you, interrupting your thoughts that only seem to be about him. “It’s really fucking pretty from up here.”
A gust of wind blows the spiced amber of his cologne in your direction, and the sweet bitterness of grease from the day that's still hidden underneath his nails.
”Careful John, I might think you’re going soft for Munsen.” You tease with a grin, finally looking up at him from the corner of your eye.
“Some parts of it.” He admits, holding your gaze as his pinky wraps around yours.
Heat blooms on your cheeks and crawls up to the tips of your ears at what he’s insinuating. Swallowing hard, you curl yours around his too, holding him tight for just a moment.
“Yeah, me too.”
Licking his lips, that same smile he greeted you with diner earlier breaks out across his face, shining bright just like the moon above you. Once he realizes that he’s just starting, he clears his throat, straightening his posture before gesturing to your usual spot on the landing.
“Shall we?”
It doesn’t take long for the two of you to devour the burgers and fries that were still somehow warm. Or the slice of apple pie that John insisted you share, feeding you every other bite with hooded eyes that made you squirm. Sitting with full belly’s and your backs against the warm metal of the tank, every inch of your body is pressed to his, turning your skin electric. John’s hand rests on his thigh, close enough to feel whatever has been bursting at the seams begging you to let it flourish. But the nerves of misreading whatever this is and the impending end of summer, has hesitation revealing itself in the light tap of his fingers against the denim of his jeans instead of lacing with yours.
“I’m off tomorrow.” You start, tearing your gaze from the sky to meet his eyes, only to find they're already fixated on you. Roses bloom on his cheeks getting caught, a sheepish smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
“Well, I’m very happy for you.” He laughs quietly, with a supportive squeeze of your thigh that drips in sarcasm.
“Shut up, you didn’t let me finish my thought.” You giggle shoving his shoulder playfully, and when he bounces back he’s somehow closer.
“I just — you know, in case you —.”
Suddenly all the confidence about what you’re about to offer disappears. A new fear that maybe you’re over stepping takes its place, but it’s too late back down now. You’ve always been a shit liar.
“I just mean, if you want some help tomorrow. I’m free.”
The silence that falls between you feels quieter than most, tightening your chest with anxiety. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, you try to read the series of emotions that flash across his face, noticing that anger isn’t one of them.
“That’s um — that’s really nice of you.” He finally says with a soft voice.
His brows knit together, staring down at his lap, he loses himself in his thoughts for a moment before bringing his eyes back to yours. The depths of them swirl with all the selfless excuses to do this on his own just like he’s done his whole life.
“But, I wouldn’t want you to spend your day off like that.” John stubbornly tries to wave off the idea, but you stop it before it even has a chance to start.
“I want to.” You cut him off quickly with the kind of unmistakable sureness in your voice that it seems to knock down a little more of the brick wall he’s built around his family dynamics.
“Yeah?” He asks like he can’t really believe it, like help has never been an option before.
“Yeah.”
Smiling, you decide to be bold and do what you’ve both been tiptoeing around since finishing dinner. You lace your fingers with his. Leaning his head back against the tank, he turns his face towards yours. He’s so close that the heat of his breath fans against your lips that want him even closer. It would be so easy too, just the slightest tilt of your chin.
“So when are you gonna transfer to Briar?” He grins, a little starry eyed pulling your hand on his lap, letting the calloused pad of his thumb brush over your knuckles. “We could hang out all the time.”
“Oh my god.” You try to laugh off the question he’s asked almost every week this summer. A question you won’t tell him you’ve started to think about a little more seriously. “When are you gonna let that go?”
“Never.” He winks, licking his lips, gaze dropping down to yours, making you feel fizzy and light, the air shifting turning it thick in your lungs. Leaning your head towards him with a shy smile, the whites of his teeth peek out just for you.
“You wouldn’t have time to hang out with me, mr. hockey man.” You whisper, eyes sweeping across his face, lingering longer on his mouth.
“I’d make time. For you.”
His insistence feels like firecrackers, heart skipping two beats.
“John —“
“Just think about it.” He murmurs, so close now that the tip of his nose runs up the bridge of yours. Feather light and barely there, it has you forgetting how to breathe.
“I will.” You say reluctantly, trying not to show just how close you are to giving into the fantasy that maybe you two could be like this all the time.
Licking his lips with swelling pupils, his gaze stays trained on your mouth, chestnut eyes flicking up asking silent permission from under the thick hood of his lashes.
“That’s all I want.”
There’s a new air of confidence about him that hasn’t been directed towards you like this before. His other hand reaches towards your cheek, fingertips gliding along the warmed skin before cupping the apple of it. Your breath hitches at the new contact, lashes fluttering as your body leans into him all on its own. He lets go of your hand to find purchase on the metal landing behind you, angling his body towards yours he becomes the only thing in your line of vision, blocking out the rest of the world. You tilt your chin up at the same time he bends down, closing what little space is left.
Plush pink lips cover yours, soft and tentative, moving with the kind of care that tells you he wants this to be good. Like he’s been thinking about this moment, desperate to get it right. Your fingers bury themselves into the thick locks at the nape of his neck, weaving through the curls twisting the ends. It’s all he needs to take control of the kiss, turning it into something deeper. Licking at your bottom lip, he begs you to let him do it.
There’s no hesitation in the way you grant him access, the tension that’s done nothing but build over the course of the last two summers breaking free from the restraints you’ve kept it in when your tongues finally meet in the middle. John groans at the new contact, exploring your mouth with an eagerness that’s contagious. You tug at his roots doing the same thing, massaging his muscle with your own, languid and slow, tasting every inch of him.
“Fuck.” He breathes, breaking away for just a moment to collect himself. Chest heaving just like yours.
His hand leaves your cheek to tenderly grip your chin, holding your heavy lidded gaze inside the darkness of his, letting everything linger in the middle of your parted mouths.
“Come here.” His request is gentle but firm, guiding you without much effort onto his lap.
Your knees bracket his narrow hips, the cotton of your shorts riding further up your thighs, squirming at the way John’s eyes track the movement. His hand squeezes the soft fat of one on its way up to curl around your hip using it as leverage to tug you even closer. The other hand that grips your chin, pulls you back down towards his lips, while your palms slide up his broad chest, settling on the hard muscles of his shoulders. His kiss bitten lips stretch, showing his white teeth in a way that shouldn’t be so charming.
“What?” You breathe, nudging his cheek with the tip of your nose.
“Nothing.” He hums, letting his full top lip catch against the soft pout of your bottom one. “You’re just really pretty, that’s all.”
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
You dismiss him with a teasing edge to your voice, fingers finding their way back into the thick silk of his hair, fully aware of the puck bunnies at Briar U.
”It’s different with you.” He confesses, the deep pools of his eyes giving all his secrets away like they always do.
”Yeah?”
The one word question comes out shyer than it should perched on his lap like this. But it’s hard to ignore how everything feels as if it’s on the precipice of changing into something new. Something unknown.
“Yeah.”
Letting go of your chin, John takes that as all the permission he needs to collect your lips again. His big hand splaying across your cheek, the pad of his thumb coaxing the corner of your mouth open so he can taste you. This kiss is assertive, completely sure, almost claiming, doing his best to prove it to you.
Tugging at his roots, you use him as leverage to pull yourself close enough for your chests to touch, John’s arm loops around your waist in an iron clad hold, keeping you there. His mouth moves like he’s trying to devour you, like he has to take it all so no one else can have it. Your teeth nip at his bottom lip before soothing it with your tongue, earning a groan from the back of his throat that only spurs you on. With a subtle roll of your hips your body persuades another one out of him, and you decide right there and now that this is your favorite sound.
A gust of wind hits the side of the tower, a slight chill hidden inside of it that sends goosebumps pebbling along your skin, only getting worse when John’s hands slip up the back of your shirt. It’s his turn to shift his hips, lifting them up, he smiles into the surprised gasp that leaves your mouth at the feel of him. He doesn’t hesitate to do it again, desperate to see if the next one might be his name. It is.
You grind against the length of him with the kind of pressure that makes his kisses stutter, the blunt ends of his nails digging into the soft curve of your back. Warmth spreads between your legs, thighs squeezing his hips feeling the way he shudders underneath you. It makes you wonder what he’d look like doing that from above you, that silver chain hanging in your face.
“John.” You whimper, fingers gripping his curls, lips searching for him.
“Baby.” He breathes with a smile, pressing a wet kiss to your mouth, pulling away only after stealing two more. “As much as I want to keep going — and god, do I want to keep going. We should get back to solid ground first.”
As if on queue, another gust of wind rattles the metal railing and you swear you feel the tower sway this time. Dropping your forehead against his, John laughs at your irritated groan, hand curling around the back of your neck pulling you in for another kiss, letting this one linger.
“Fine.” you grumble against his mouth, nudging your nose with his before climbing off his lap in a huff.
His hands refuse to leave you until they have to, finger tips dragging along your skin till you’re standing up. Those big brown eyes stare up at you from under the thick hood of his lashes, drinking you in like it’s the first time today, admiring the way you’re all wrinkled and mussed because of him. Standing up, he grows another foot or so above you, wasting no time to pull you in by your hips. Your hands fall easily on his chest, feeling the way his muscles still dance with nerves underneath your palms.
“Tomorrow, after we do all that boring stuff. Let me take you out?” There’s apprehension laced inside of his question, like there’s a world where you’d actually say no.
“So you are going to let me help you then?” You smirk, raising a brow, relishing in the playful roll of his eyes you get in return.
“I mean, what else screams romance besides figuratively and literally unpacking family trauma.” He shrugs, squeezing your sides before letting you go to pick up the blanket and trash off the ground.
“Maybe, if you’re lucky. I’ll unpack some of mine too.” You wink with a wiggle of your eyebrows.
John laughs that deep bellied one you don’t get as often as the others, draping the blanket back over his broad shoulder.
“Sounds like a date to me.”
Lacing his fingers with yours leading you to the ladder, he insists on going first as a safety precaution, ignoring your protests on how he shouldn’t be so willing to use his body to break your imaginary fall all the way back down. His hands find your hips again once you reach the last step, helping you the rest of the way, shushing you with a kiss on your flushed cheek.
John’s affection comes easy all the way back to his truck, his touch always finding you like it’s natural. As if it’s always been this way. The familiar flutter of butterflies return deep in your gut when he grabs your hand over his console, pressing his lips to your knuckles before shifting his truck to drive. It’s here, next to him, windows down driving home that you decide to just enjoy the last month of summer. You’ll worry about the end of August when you have to.
Maybe transferring to Briar wouldn’t be the worst idea.
Warnings: car accident, drunk driving, graphic description of accident/wreckage, overall intense angst tones
Summary: When you borrow Logan's truck for a late-night rehearsal, a drunk driver changes everything - and Logan spends the worst hours of his life learning exactly how it feels to almost lose someone he loves.
Author's Note: I read the Garrett version of this fic (linked here) and LOVED it, so I had to take a shot at writing a John Logan one. I am almost done reading The Mistake and it has seriously confused me on my stance between Garrett or Logan. Perhaps both? Perhaps even at the same time... lol...
"Are you sureeee it's okay if I borrow your car?" You drew the word out, hovering by the door with your bag slung over one shoulder and Logan's keys dangling from two fingers like you were holding a live wire instead of a key ring. "I know it's like your baby."
Logan didn't even look up from where he was crouched in front of the TV, untangling a controller cord that didn't need untangling. "Take the truck, Y/N."
"I'm serious. If I so much as scratch it, I feel like you'd actually leave me."
That got him to look up. He grinned at you, that lazy, lopsided grin that still did something stupid to your stomach even after you'd seen it approximately four thousand times. "Babe. I built that engine with my own two hands. I've replaced the transmission. I know that truck better than I know most people." He stood, crossed the room, and looped his arms around your waist. "And I'd still rather you have it than take the bus in this weather."
"The bus isn't that bad."
"The bus is practically a crime and you know it."
You laughed, leaning into him. "Okay, fine, the bus is pretty nasty. But you love that truck more than you love Garrett."
"Hard to say," Garrett called from the couch, not looking away from the screen where he was loading up whatever game they'd decided was going to eat their Thursday night. "I'd say it's close."
"It's not close," Logan said. "But Y/N's not taking the bus to rehearsal in the snow, so." He shrugged like it settled the matter, because to him, it did. He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Me and Garrett are staying in tonight anyway. Full video game lineup. Garrett bought snacks that are concerning in quality."
"They're concerning in quantity," Garrett corrected. "I only bought the good kind."
You rolled your eyes, smiling softly. The kind of smile that came easy around him these days, easier than it used to come around anyone. Six months in and John Logan still looked at you like you'd personally hung the moon, like letting you borrow the one material possession he actually cared about was the simplest decision in the world.
"You're a sap," you told him, grabbing your bag again.
"I'm aware."
You kissed him on your way to the door. Quick, easy, the kind of kiss you don't think twice about because you assume there will be a thousand more just like it. He caught your wrist before you could pull all the way back.
"Drive safe," he said.
"Yes, dad," you said, smirking, and ducked out before he could swat at you.
He laughed, shaking his head as the door shut behind you, and turned back to Garrett and the controllers and the concerning amount of snacks, already thinking about absolutely nothing important at all.
---
It was snowing harder than the forecast had promised, the kind of fat, fast snow that turned headlights into smears and made every taillight ahead look like it was floating. You drove careful. Drove the way you always drove when it wasn't your car. Slow on the turns, hands at ten and two, radio low enough that you could hear road noise change under the tires.
You did everything right.
You just couldn't control the truck that came through the intersection against the light, going twice the speed the weather allowed, driven by someone who'd had more to drink than they should have before they got behind the wheel.
It happened too fast to be anything but a blur. A blur of headlights where there shouldn't have been headlights. A blur of sound, metal folding, glass giving way all at once.
Then there was nothing.
---
Back at the house, the TV glowed blue against the dark living room, gunfire and explosions filling the silence between Logan and Garrett's trash talk. It was a good night. An easy night. The kind of night where nothing was supposed to happen.
Logan's phone had been buzzing on the couch cushion for almost a full minute before he even registered it.
"You gonna get that?" Garrett asked, eyes still on the screen.
"It's not important." Logan glanced at it without picking it up. Couldn't be Y/N. You'd be deep in rehearsal by now, phone shoved in your bag.
But the phone didn't stop. It rang out, went silent for three seconds, and started right back up again.
"Dude," Garrett said, finally looking over. "That's like the third time."
Logan sighed, paused the game, and grabbed the phone off the cushion, already annoyed at whoever was about to ruin the one quiet night he'd had in weeks.
DEAN.
Logan answered. "Dude, what-"
The sound that came through the line wasn't words at first. It was breath. A long, shaking exhale, the kind you make when something terrible almost happened and didn't, the relief so big it comes out sounding like it hurts.
"Logan. Oh my god. Logan, you're okay. You're actually-" Dean's voice cracked, words tripping over each other. "Tucker and I were driving back from the rink, man, and there was this accident, this horrible accident, the one car was wrapped around the pole, it was - I swear to god it looked exactly like your truck. I thought - I genuinely thought it was you, I've been calling for like five minutes straight, I thought-"
The words were coming too fast, tumbling over one another, but Logan's brain had already snagged on one phrase and gone perfectly, horribly still.
Your truck.
"What," Logan said. His voice didn't sound like his own voice. "What car. What - Dean, where."
Something in his tone must have shifted, because Dean's rambling cut off mid-sentence. "Logan?"
He couldn't answer. His chest had gone tight in a way that didn't make sense, in a way his body understood a full beat before his brain caught up, because Y/N had the truck. Y/N had taken his truck to rehearsal tonight. Y/N was somewhere out on those roads, in the snow, in his car, and Dean was talking about an accident, an accident that looked exactly like-
"Logan?" Garrett's voice this time, closer. He'd set down his own controller, was watching Logan's face do something he'd clearly never seen it do before. "Logan, what's wrong?"
Logan couldn't speak. The phone was still pressed to his ear, Dean saying his name over and over on the other end, and Logan's vision had gone strange and tunneled, like the room had tilted three degrees to the left.
Garrett pulled the phone gently out of his hand. "Dean, it's Garrett. What's going on."
Logan watched his best friend's face change as Dean explained. Watched it go from confused to alarmed to something carefully, deliberately calm, the kind of calm Garrett only put on when something was actually, seriously wrong.
"Where," Garrett said. A pause. "Okay. Okay, listen to me. Y/N had the truck tonight. She took it to rehearsal." Another pause. Logan watched Garrett's jaw tighten, watched him glance over with an expression he was clearly trying to keep from cracking. "Yeah. Yeah, man, I know. We're coming, we're coming right now."
He hung up. Looked at Logan, who hadn't moved from the couch, who was staring at nothing with his hands shaking in his lap.
"Logan. Hey. We have to go right now."
Logan didn't remember standing up. Didn't remember his shoes, or the door, or Garrett's hand wrapped around his arm steering him toward the car because Logan's legs weren't entirely cooperating, weren't entirely sure how walking worked anymore. There was a roaring in his ears that wouldn't quit, a single thought looping over and over with nowhere to go and no way to make it stop:
You could be gone. You could already be gone and he let you take the truck and he told you to drive safe like that would be enough, like saying it would actually protect you.
He didn't know what to do with that thought. He'd never had to know what to do with a thought like that before.
The drive to the accident site took eleven minutes. It felt like eleven years.
When they pulled up, the scene was lit up in flashing red and blue, snow falling sideways through the lights, and Logan's whole body went cold the second he saw it.
The truck, his truck, crumpled in on the driver's side like a soda can, the front end accordioned around a light pole, glass scattered across the asphalt in a wide glittering fan. The driver's door was completely caved. The roof had buckled on one side.
He was out of the car before Garrett had even put it in park.
"Logan-!"
He didn't hear him. He was walking toward it, faster, then running, some animal part of his brain refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him until he was close enough to see every detail. The caved door. The spiderwebbed windshield. The dark stain on the snow beneath the wreckage that he refused to let himself look at directly.
His knees gave out.
He didn't decide to fall. The ground just came up to meet him, and then he was on his knees in the snow and the cold and the wreckage of the only thing in his life he'd ever built with his own hands, and the sound that came out of him didn't feel like it belonged to him at all. Something raw and wrecked, a sob ripped loose from somewhere underneath every other feeling he'd ever had.
"Logan." Garrett was there, hands under his arms, hauling him half-upright even as Logan's whole body shook. "Logan, hey. Look at me. You gotta breathe, man."
"That's my car," Logan said, and it didn't come out as words so much as a gasp, splintered and wet. "That's - Garrett, that's my car, she was in my car, Y/N was-"
"I know. I know." Garrett's voice cracked too now, holding him up even as his own eyes went glassy. "We don't know anything yet. You gotta breathe."
Headlights swung in behind them. Dean and Tucker, out of the car before it had fully stopped, and then there were four of them in the snow, the boys flanking Garrett, all three of them holding Logan up like he might shatter if they let go, because he might.
He genuinely might.
Tucker peeled off toward one of the officers standing near the wreckage. Logan watched him through a blur of tears and snowfall, watched him talking, gesturing, watched the officer's expression shift when he glanced over at Logan.
Tucker came back. His face was pale and carefully empty.
"They took her to Hastings General," he said quietly. "That's all they'd tell me."
"We have to go," Logan said, except his voice barely worked. "We have to go, we have to-"
"We're going," Garrett said. "Right now. Come on."
Logan didn't remember the drive to the hospital. Not really. He remembered being in the back seat, wedged between Garrett and Dean like they thought he might try to climb out at a red light, like he was something fragile that needed containing. He remembered staring at his own hands and not recognizing them. He remembered Tucker driving too fast and nobody telling him to slow down.
He felt like a shell. Like someone had scooped everything out of him and left the outline standing.
The waiting room was too bright. Fluorescent and humming and smelling like antiseptic, every chair the same shade of blue. Logan sat in one of them with his hands clasped so tight between his knees his knuckles had gone white, staring at a spot on the floor like it might tell him something.
Allie and Hannah arrived not long after. Garrett had texted them from the car, hands shaking too badly to call. Hannah went straight to Garrett, and Allie crouched in front of Logan's chair and took both of his hands in hers without saying anything at all, because there wasn't anything to say yet.
Your family was three states away, too far to do anything but wait by a phone for updates Allie had promised to send the second there was something to send. Which meant in that waiting room, in that moment, Allie's hands wrapped around Logan's were the closest thing to family in the building.
Nobody spoke much after that. There wasn't anything to fill the silence with that didn't sound stupid. So they just sat.
Hours passed in the kind of slow, syrupy way that only happens in hospital waiting rooms. Someone got coffee at some point. Nobody drank it. Garrett had his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Dean kept checking his phone and then putting it face-down. Tucker stared at the wall across from him like it was the most captivating thing in the world.
Logan didn't cry again during any of it. He didn't have anything left. He just sat there, hollowed out, running the same loop: drive safe, drive safe, I told her drive safe, like the words had failed some sacred duty he hadn't known he'd given them.
It was well past midnight, everyone's eyes red-rimmed and swollen, when a doctor finally pushed through the double doors and scanned the room.
"Family of Y/N L/N?"
Every single one of them stood up at once.
The doctor's eyes found Allie. "You're listed as her emergency contact?"
Logan watched them step aside. Watched the doctor talk low and measured. Watched Allie's hand fly up to cover her mouth. Every second felt like a year. He didn't breathe the entire time.
When Allie came back, her face was wet and streaked with mascara.
"She's-" Allie's voice broke immediately. She tried again. "She's in pretty bad shape. Broken wrist, broken leg, some internal bruising, a lot of cuts from the glass. She's still not conscious. But-" she pressed a hand flat to her own chest like she needed to hold something in, "-the doctor said given how bad it looked, she's going to be okay. She's going to be okay."
Logan's knees buckled for the second time that night. Garrett and Dean both caught him, lowering him back into the chair, and his whole body shook with something that wasn't quite crying and wasn't quite laughing and was somehow both at once.
The relief was so enormous it felt indistinguishable from grief.
"They said we can go back, a couple at a time," Allie said, wiping her face. She looked at Garrett, then at Logan. "Take him first."
The hallway felt impossibly long. Logan's legs barely worked, Garrett's hand steady against his back the entire way. When they reached the door and the nurse pointed them inside, Logan stopped in the doorway.
You looked so small in the bed.
Smaller than he'd ever seen you look. Swallowed by white sheets and the soft mechanical beeping of monitors, a cast running up your left leg, another cast cradling your left wrist. Cuts crossed your face and neck in thin red lines, some of them stitched, all of them stark against skin gone pale from blood loss and shock. There was a bruise blooming dark along your jaw.
The sob came up out of him before he could stop it.
"Hey." Garrett's hand tightened on his shoulder. "She's okay. She's right here."
Logan crossed the room and sank into the chair beside the bed. He took your right hand, the unbroken one, as carefully as if it might shatter too, and held it. He ran his thumb slowly over your knuckles, over and over.
Some old animal instinct: if he just kept touching you, kept feeling the warmth of your skin and the faint pulse under his fingers, his body might finally believe that you were still here. Still real.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, even though you couldn't hear him. Even though there was nothing for him to apologize for and he still needed to say it. "I should've driven you. I should've never let you take it in the snow."
His breathing started to even out eventually. Slow and ragged, then steadier. Grounded in the feel of your hand in his. Garrett stood quiet in the corner and didn't say anything because there wasn't anything that needed saying.
It was almost an hour later when your fingers twitched.
Logan's head snapped up. "Y/N?"
Your eyes moved first, slow and heavy, fighting against whatever they'd given you for the pain. When they finally found him, hazy at first and then sharpening, something in Logan's chest cracked open all over again.
"Logan?" Your voice came out wrecked, barely there. Confusion clouded your face as you took in the room, the machines, the cast on your arm. "What - where am I, what happened-"
"You were in an accident." He barely got the words out. His free hand came up to brush hair gently back from one of the cuts on your forehead. "Someone ran the light. You're at the hospital. You're okay."
Your eyes filled. Tears slipped down over the cuts on your cheeks, and your grip on his hand tightened as much as it could.
"Your car," you whispered. The horror dawned across your face almost immediately, cutting right through the fog of painkillers and shock. "Logan, your car. I wrecked your car. I'm so sorry. You built that whole engine, I-"
And Logan, despite everything, despite every awful hour of that night, laughed. An actual laugh, involuntary, and completely disbelieving. Because of course. Of course that was the first thing out of your mouth. Half-conscious, covered in stitches, and already worried about the truck.
"Are you serious right now," he said.
"It was your baby," you mumbled, fresh tears slipping free, which only made it worse somehow.
"Yeah." He exhaled, shook his head. Looked at you. At the cuts and the bruises and the cast, and at the fact that you were awake and looking back at him, which was the only thing that actually mattered. "It's also just a truck, Y/N."
"That you built."
"That I can rebuild." He said it flatly, like it was obvious, because to him it was. "I know how to fix the truck. I had no idea what I was gonna do about the other thing."
You stared at him for a second. "The other thing."
"You. The other thing is you."
You let out a short, wet laugh and immediately winced. "That's the most you've ever said about your feelings in six months."
"Don't push it. You're on drugs."
"I'm retaining every word of this."
"You're really not," he said. "Go back to sleep."
"I just woke up."
"Go back to sleep anyway."
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Outside the door, Garrett slipped out into the hallway to tell the others. Down toward the waiting room, the group of exhausted friends with red-rimmed eyes would fall apart all over again, this time in relief. But Logan didn't think about any of that. He just sat there holding your hand, listening to the monitors beep their steady, boring rhythm.
"Drive safe," Logan murmured, "really does mean something, you know."
"I'll remember that," you whispered back, "next time I steal your truck."
"There's not gonna be a next time."
"There's absolutely gonna be a next time."
And despite everything, Logan laughed again, soft and full and real, because you were here, and as long as that stayed true, he figured he could survive just about anything else.
logan’s best friend (reader) gets drunk at the boys house party… he helps you to his bed & ends up struggling with his feelings for you more than he anticipated tonight.
details: not smut, but sex is discussed. alcohol intoxication. unspoken feelings. overhearing a conversation about you. best friend trope. yearning. physical affection. sharing one bed.
warmth from tequila floods through your body, making the sound of house music feels much louder to you at the moment even though the night is calming down.
you’ve found yourself drunk rambling to dean, fully convinced nobody would even notice you drank. logan puts a gentle hand on your shoulder to let you know he’s back.
“logan! where have you been? i missed you! dean, say hi to logan! i was just telling dean how… i was telling him something.” you ramble, wrapping your arms around him like you’re scared you’ll lose him again in the crowd. meanwhile, all he did was leave to to the bathroom for 60 seconds.
“oh yeah, hey man. you missed out on such a great story.” dean tells him with sarcasm that flies over your head, mouthing a (she’s so gone) to him when you’re not looking.
“damn. well hopefully i’ll catch the next one.…” logan amuses you, mouthing a (thanks for watching her) back. “well you are cut off for the night, and we are going to bed.”
before you can protest, he lifts you up into his arms. it’s hard to fight back when you can’t stop drunkenly giggling but you do your best at hitting his back. “you’re evil. i was finishing my drink… and i don’t want to go to bed. my bed isn’t even here.”
“yeah, well lucky for you i have one.” logan teases, doing his best to not look at your pouting face and pay attention to the stairs. he’s certainly not wasted like you, but that last tequila shot garrett poured in his mouth definitely has him tipsy.
too tired to push anymore, you nuzzle your head comfortably on his warm shoulder while everything starts to spin and his hold around you tightens. all you hear his soft mumble of “i got you. c’mon.”
when you open your eyes back up, you’re in the familiar feeling of his bed. you’ve laid here more than friends probably should. you slip on a shirt he gives you, then curl up under the comforter like it’s your own.
he sits down next to you with a wet washcloth and motions for you to turn your head towards him so he could wash your face.
“you’re treating me like a baby.” you huff, still tilting your head obediently so he can get it all. “and washclothes are bad for your skin.”
“forgive me for my lack of makeup remover on hand. and maybe if you didn’t want to get treated like a baby, you wouldn’t of drank so much.” he says, deeply focused on getting everything off your face.
even though it’s a rough cloth, it somehow feels gentle with how careful he takes his time. he swallows heavy when moving it along your lip to get off the lipstick. it doesn’t help you’re looking at him with such bright eyes, and keep glancing at his lips not even thinking straight.
“are you mad at me for drinking?” you gulp. he stops in his tracks for a second, knowing how much you know about his family history.
“never. i want you to drink with us. tucker on the other hand, will be hearing from me for giving you that last shot.” he says trying to make you laugh which he succeeds.
“why don’t you have a girlfriend?” you randomly ask thinking out loud. he almost chokes taken back by the question.
“you sound just like my grandmother…” he deflects. “you think there would be space in this bed for another girl?”
“maybe but i don’t really like to cuddle people, logan.” you say obliviously, missing the point taking his phrasing literally.
“you love to cuddle me though.” he says.
“you’re not people. you’re my best friend. that doesn’t count.” you say, making him swallow. he didn’t drink enough for this.
“mhm.” he manages with a half effort smile. he locks his door hearing people still lingering downstairs, trusting nobody when it comes to you. he’s not in the mood to kill anyone tonight for even accidentally opening the wrong door.
“why don’t you want to fuck me?” you ask abruptly, deep in thought.
“jesus christ–” he reacts startled.
“i heard you tell the boys you don’t want to fuck me.” you sigh. he can’t handle you saying fuck me again and starts to panic.
“do… what, did you want me to? wait, don’t fucking answer that– fuck. that’s not even what i said.” he rambles, making you giggle. you’re too drunk to take this conversation seriously, even though before you drank it was burning deep inside you and still is underneath all the nausea.
“you did! you said i don’t want to fuck her.” you insist.
“i said i don’t want to just fuck her. besides, boys say stupid shit. please, don’t even think about that right now.”
“that’s the same exact thing. i don’t understand…” you groan, too nauseous to think about words.
“you don’t have to. you weren’t even supposed to hear that. just get some rest, okay? worry about… that. tomorrow.” he tries to convince you in your current state of mind.
“you fucking me?” you raise an eyebrow at what that means and he can’t take it anymore.
he playfully covers your mouth with his hand while laughing, “you need saying that– fuck. ow?! did you just bite me?”
“how else was i supposed to breathe?” you ask. before he can try to reason with your dramatics, you cut him off again. “wait you said tomorrow. so you’ll fuck me tomorrow?”
“if it will make you stop saying that then sure.” he sighs, unable to hear you talk about him fucking you any longer. he knows he’s not going to be able to fall asleep anymore, already spiraling at the thought of you basically just said fuck me just put differently a hundred times.
he knows when tomorrow comes, you will wake up to an empty bed while he’s at practice.
you’ll take the advil & water he left for you on the nightstand.
you’ll fold up the shirt you’re wearing neatly on the bed when he wishes you would just take it home with you.
you’ll steal your favorite snack of his mini fridge and still won’t put together he hates those but only keeps buying them for you.
you’ll text him “home. thanks for letting me sleep in ur bed :)” when you get back, and all he will be able to cowardly reply is “np :)” then suffer in his own guilt that all he’s capable of doing is acting like he doesn’t care.
lucky for you, you’ll have no memory of saying any of this including the conversation you overheard.
unlucky for him, it’ll be the only thing on his mind all week.
he crawls into the bed next to you, giving you enough space to lay on your side but you still lean towards him instinctively. he runs his fingers through your hair while his mind races, not sure if he’s doing it to soothe you or himself.
you fall asleep pretty quickly. he kisses your forehead gently, appreciating the soft hum you let out when he does it. “m’love you. fuck you tomorrow.” you mumble into pillow falling asleep.
✮ Logan is never letting you alone at a party again !
you’re stuck near the drinks.
again.
the same guy who you somehow managed to evade twenty three minutes ago is back yet again. the guy’s going strong – cocky grin, hand bracing the table near you, hand shooting out over and over and over to brush your hand and give you ‘signals’.
logan spots you across the room again. only this time? you can see his jaw clench the second he notices the dude’s hand brushing your arm for the millionth time.
without a word, he cuts through the crowd, dodging people and even ignoring a weird ass comment from dean until he’s right behind you. you have barely half a second to react before his arms wrap tight around your waist, dragging you back into his chest before his lips find yours.
your quiet sound of….protest? hell no.
surprise? yeah, that,
gets muffled right against his lips while his tongue slides in and he kisses you deep and you forget about the absolute dick of the guy in front of you.
it drags on and on until your lungs start to burn and a surprised laugh bubbles up against his lips because you literally cannot breathe and are pulling away.
only then does he let you pull away, but mostly only to shoot the other guy a flat, warning look while you’re busy catching your breath and laughing.
said guys’ face foes red. logan narrows his eyes again. said guy dips with a huff and a murmured insult.
logan doesn’t bother with words, just dips down and kisses you again, slower this time, teeth grazing your bottom lip like he’s making a point. when he pulls back his voice is low against your ear.
“sorry i left you alone. won’t happen ever again.”
you laugh, the sound soft and breathless, then twist in logan’s hold until your arms loop around his neck, looking up at him with a smirk.
“jealous much?” you tease, fingers playing with the hair at his nape like you own him. which you probably do.
his mouth curves but you know the faint hint of heat behind it.
“maybe.” he admits, hands finding home on your hips, guiding you backwards towards the stairs carefully.
“guy was looking at you like he had a chance. had to remind him whose girl you are.”
the moment you reach the landing he’s tugging you along straight into his room, ignoring your laugh and letting the party’s noise fade off into the background.
the next second? he’s pulling you into his room, shutting and locking the door with a click and then your back is flush against the wood while his mouth finds your neck and your hands curl around his shoulders.
“been wanting to get you up here all damn night.” he murmurs, hands sliding under your shirt, pushing the fabric up while a devilish smirk.
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✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
blurb: pt. 2 to jealou$y. lingering feelings of jealousy bubble up into desire inside logan. it certainly doesn’t help that you look so good in your costume.
warnings: fem!reader, smut, established relationship, alcohol (not under the influence), CONSENT KING JOHN LOGAN, oral (f!receiving), john logan tits guy CONFIRMED, fingering, riding, lots of praise because it’s john logan i don’t make the rules
You stopped having drinks after that incident. If you were getting lucky tonight, you needed to be sober and ready to pounce on Logan in the right state of mind.
Logan seemed to have the same idea, for you noticed he switched out his bottles of beer for cans of Sprite for the remainder of the night. Neither of you addressed it.
“Bro, don’t be so fucking boring!” Dean clapped him on the back and tried to hand him a suspicious-looking green concoction.
“Not boring, just responsible,” Logan replied, but his eyes were on you when he said it.
He also kept a heavy hand on the small of your back any moment his hand was free. You put on a good act, pretending it didn’t get to you every time his fingers drew small shapes over your top, or whenever his digits slipped beneath the fabric when the boys were too busy laughing, leaving you with a hitched breath and a warm feeling between your legs.
When the other half to your dynamic duo, Kendall, stepped between the two of you and grabbed your hand, spluttering something about dancing to her favorite song, Logan’s grip tightened on you for a moment before he loosened up and plastered a pursed smile on his face.
“As long as you bring her back to me,” he said. Kendall laughed at his joke as she dragged you away. But one look between you and Logan and you knew he wasn’t trying to be funny.
“He’s so down bad for you, it’s hilarious,” Kendall giggled to you with a roll of her eyes. “He needs to lighten up.”
The pair of you danced to an ABBA song, laughing and belting out the lyrics. You closed your eyes and let loose, submitting to the tingle of whatever alcohol remained in your system.
John watched like a hawk. The irony wasn’t lost on him considering his bird costume. You looked so good. He wanted to hold you from behind and make you feel how heavy his—
“Any more staring and she’ll burst into flames.”
Logan snapped out of it and turned to Garrett, who wore a knowing smirk and offered him another can of Sprite.
“Thanks, man,” Logan said gratefully, taking the refill.
Garrett looked at your dancing figure. “Freshmen on the team were asking about her.”
“Yeah? What’d they say?” Logan replied almost absentmindedly, sipping his drink and staring at you.
Garrett sighed. “Rather not say. I’m supposed to be Hannah’s ‘boyfriend’ and all.”
Logan peered at him from the corner of his eyes, feeling his protective instincts start to wake. Garrett noticed and gently bumped their shoulders together.
“Not like that. Wasn’t bad. Just…” Garrett hummed into his red solo cup. “Horny.” He settled on that word.
That was enough.
Logan chugged down whatever was left in the can of soda before making his way over to you. He crossed the room in quick strides, ignoring Kendall’s amused voice when she cooed, “Uh oh, return to sender already?”
Logan took your hand and pulled you away; away from the dance floor, away from the party, and most importantly—away from the lingering gazes so many guys sent your way.
“Logan?” You queried as he brought you up the stairs.
He didn’t respond, just kept tugging you along.
“Logan.”
Nothing.
“Baby—”
He finally stopped and turned to look at you. His stature towered over you and you suddenly felt small with the way he was staring down at your face.
He exhaled a heavy breath. “Fuck, baby, I’m trying really hard to be respectful.”
You cupped his cheek. His skin was hot to the touch. He subconsciously burrowed closer into the palm of your hand.
“You don’t have to be,” you murmured.
He closed his eyes for a moment. “How many drinks have you had?”
“A can and a half of beer,” you answered.
He opened his eyes to make sure you were being honest. You stood unwavering.
“You’re sober?” He asked.
“Mhm.”
“You’re sure?”
“100%. Are you?”
He sighed, turning away. “Yeah. Yeah, I made sure not to…” his words trailed off.
You smiled. “You made sure not to drink too much so we could fuck?”
He looked at you again. “Don’t say it like that.”
You giggled, pushing away a strand of fallen hair from his forehead. “I’m saying it as it is.”
“I made sure not to drink too much to be responsible,” he corrected.
You nodded along, “Oh, yeah. Responsible. My responsible and respectful boyfriend.” You teased. He did not appreciate that.
“Okay,” he let out an amused sound as if he were faced with a challenge. He leaned in and whispered, “Let’s see who’s laughing when I stop respecting you and start doing all the things I plan to do to you.”
You gulped.
+
He led you to the nearest vacant bedroom in the Maxwell family home before pushing you inside and locking the door behind him. You thought he’d pin you against the door and makeout with you.
Instead, he said, “Sit on the bed,” in that husky voice you rarely hear so you knew you had to listen.
You sat down. The covers were soft and cool. You watched and waited for his next words, but Logan was too busy pacing in front of the door and running his hands through his hair. He looked so yummy.
“Take your clothes off. Let me see you.”
You blinked. You weren’t used to Logan being like this. He usually did all the work. But this new side of him was hot, so very hot.
You slowly unzipped your boots and kicked them off along with your socks. Next, your headpiece with the sprinkles. Then, your tube top, revealing your bare breasts, and lastly, your skirt, leaving you in nothing but underwear.
You felt exposed, just sitting there on the bed as Logan stared at you without a word. His eyes were nearly black from how blown out his pupils were, his bottom lip chewed and slightly pink from how much he dragged it beneath his teeth.
“Pretty,” he finally commented. “That’s new.”
You glanced down to where he gestured, looking at the lace thong you wore. He was right; it was new. You and Kendall bought matching ones for the costumes, but you didn’t need to tell him that bit right now.
“Yeah,” you confirmed.
“Was it expensive?” He asked.
“Not…really…”
“Good,” he nodded to himself. He pushed off the wings he wore for his costume and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.
He knelt down in front of you and spread your legs apart. “So I can ruin it, right?”
That shot up your spine. Your thighs wanted to rub against one another at his remark, but he held your knees firmly. “Answer.”
You nodded without thinking. “Yes.”
He smiled at your obedience and nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get to that. But for now…” his words died down as his lips attached to yours.
It was all tongue and messy. Logan pinned your wrists to the mattress as he kissed you. He grunted against your lips every time you bit his lip teasingly. Eventually, his kisses trailed downwards. To your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. He made sure to give all your sensitive spots an abundance of attention.
Then? His favorite bit. Your tits. John Logan was a tits guy, through and through. Doesn’t matter what size or shape, he was enamored with them.
“Missed my girls,” he murmured before he took one of your breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue over your pebbled nipple and sucking softly, then switching to the other boob and giving it the same treatment.
Your head tilted back and let out soft sighs. The comfort of him mouthing at your breasts left you aching and squirming on the bed. “Oh, baby…”
He pulled away at your voice and left a sloppy kiss between your tits. He peppered a few more kisses on your abdomen—nipping an especially ticklish spot below your rib—before diving in and licking you over the fabric of your lace thong. You gasped, your hand flying to his hair like second instinct.
He groaned against you, the sound muffled but the vibrations sending sparks to your core. “Already so wet for me. I hardly did anything.”
“Logan, please…”
He kept licking up your slit through your panties. He could feel your juices seep through the delicate material. The friction was doing wonders for your pleasure, but you grew impatient. “Logan…”
He finally pulled your thong to the side and resumed his ministrations with extra fervor. The direct contact had you jumping in your seat, but Logan’s strong arms held your hips down.
He groaned again, pulling away just to mutter, “Fuck, gorgeous, maybe he was right to call you cupcake. You taste so fucking sweet.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before his words fully registered in your head. “James?” You asked, breathlessly.
He pulled away and looked at you with a deadpan expression. He crawled up your body until he was face-to-face with you and said, “Please don’t ever say another man’s name when my tongue is inside you.”
That had your hole clenching around nothing.
“Got that?” He asked.
You nodded right away, “Mhm.”
“Words,” he demanded.
“Yes. Got it.” You responded quietly.
“Good,” he murmured before smoothing your hair down and admiring you for a moment. Then, his head was back between your thighs.
“Ah, Logan!” You breathed out, digging your nails into his scalp.
He raised up two fingers to your lips without stopping. You blinked back bleary eyed at that. “Open,” he said.
Immediately, you parted your lips. He shoved his ring and middle fingers inside your mouth and you sucked on them diligently, running your tongue over his calluses earned from hockey and various handyman jobs. Once they were appropriately wet, he pulled his fingers out and into your pussy.
You keeled over with a loud cry, “John!”
He raised his head up, letting his fingers do all the work now. “You like that? Yeah?”
You bobbed your head up and down, unable to find any words left in you from how nicely Logan scissored his fingers inside you, all whilst keeping his thumb on your clit in steady motions.
“Look at you. So pretty and whiny for me,” he murmured, voice smooth as honey. “Letting me wreck you like this and I haven’t even used my cock yet.”
You whimpered, hand gripping onto his bicep. You were sure you’d see nail marks on his skin even tomorrow morning.
“Oh, you like that?” He asked, tilting his head. “You want me to fuck you stupid with my cock?” The pace of his fingers increased.
Your eyes screwed shut. “Yes! Please, I want that.” You tugged him closer so you could bury your face in his neck, feeling so overwhelmed by pleasure.
He let out an airy chuckle. “Such a good girl. Just for that? I’ll reward you.”
He made you cum on his fingers. The heel of his hand applied pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves until you seized and melted against him with a moan.
“Shhh, that’s it. Come down from it, you’re okay,” he kissed the top of your head.
You mumbled incoherent sentences into his neck and he merely smiled and rubbed your back.
After a minute of breathing, he pulled back slightly to look at your face. “You okay?” He asked, pushing a lock of hair away from your face.
You nodded, still buzzing from what had happened. “Yeah,” you exhaled.
He nodded, watching you carefully in the vulnerable afterglow. Your hands trailed down to his jeans, tugging at his belt, silently asking for it to come off.
Logan chuckled softly before helping you remove his belt and jeans. He reached into the pocket then chucked them on the floor and you instantly started palming his eager boner through his boxers.
He hissed, tossing his head back. “Fuck, baby.”
“Please tell me you have a condom,” you said.
He held the small foil up in his fingers.
At that, you rid him of his boxers and watched in tense awe as he teared the packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom on. You settled back against the bed pillows as you waited in hot anticipation.
“Uh uh,” he wagged his finger before curling it in a come hither gesture.
You sat up, letting out a surprised squeal when he lifted you by your thighs and settled on the bed before placing you above him. Your hands scrambled until they settled on his abs.
He looked up at you with hooded eyes, “Look good for me, gorgeous. I want a show.”
You leaned down and peppered kisses over his face. He let out a relaxed sigh and rubbed up and down your sides lazily. You nibbled on a spot right below his ear, earning you a delicious whimper from him.
“Tease,” he muttered and you grinned.
“Thought you wanted a show,” you remarked.
He hummed, “Mm, yeah. But just for me. No one else.”
You looked down at him, realizing he’s still a bit hung up from the incident earlier that night. Your finger slid sensually from his adam’s apple to his naval. “No one else. Only you.”
“Yeah?” His voice got deeper. “Show me.”
Sir, yes, sir. You held his dick from the base and slowly sank down on him. Logan groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. The stretch of him filling you up was deliriously good. You bit your lip as you took him in, inch by inch.
Finally, you both let out a sigh in unison. You planted your palms flat on his abdomen and started rocking back and forth.
The room succumbed to the sounds of soft moans and the subtle creak from the bed. The party downstairs was long forgotten. Here, it was just you and Logan.
“Just like that, baby, hah,” he breathed out, moving you back and forth. Even if he put you on top, Logan would always end up doing the work for you. You were his pampered princess.
You threw your head back, feeling the pleasure build up in your tummy once again. You took one of Logan’s hands and guided him through rubbing circles on your clit.
“Do you like that, sweetheart?” He asked.
You nodded fervently. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Logan. Keep doing that, baby, I’m so close.”
He held you firmly and started bucking up into you. You cried out, slumping against his chest as he thrusted in and out of you, reaching so deep inside, hitting that spongy part that left you seeing stars.
“Cum for me, baby. I know you can do it,” he said.
The coil snapped and you released, letting out a long moan. Your body shook, the pleasure and adrenaline rushing through you like a live wire meeting water. You collapsed against him, your bones feeling like putty.
He took your chin in his hand and tilted your head up to meet his face. He was still rocking into you. “Need to see you, baby. Need to see your pretty face when I cum.”
You were so out of it, barely processing his words. You simply nodded and chewed on your bottom lip. He looked so hot all sweaty and breathing heavily.
His eyes squeezed shut when he came, letting out a guttural groan. You felt his hips falter as he bucked up into you, rhythm sloppy and erratic. He let out a shuddering breath and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
The room was quiet now. The hum of electrical circuits and the distant noise of the party below filling up the space. You traced shapes onto his ribs, your touch barely skimming his skin. His hands caressed your back slowly, giving a small squeeze every now and then.
“Not jealous anymore?” You murmured, looking at him with an amused smirk.
He scoffed. “I wasn’t jealous.”
You hummed, “Ohhh, okay. Not jealous. Just possessive.”
He rolled his eyes fondly, a smile threatening to tear his lips wide. “Just…want you to be mine. All the time.”
You smiled, “I am.”
“I know you are.”
mr. i get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy fr
blurb: john logan claims that he doesn’t do jealousy. he thinks he’s above such petty feelings. but what happens when his girlfriend gets hit on at a house party?
warnings: fem!reader, suggestive, established relationship, alcohol
note: smut pt. 2 here
“Cupcake?”
You turned around at the voice, meeting the face of a 6’2” football player you didn’t know personally but recognized from the Briar sports Instagram account.
He was staring at your headpiece; a frosting top with colorful sprinkles. You realized what he was trying to say.
“Oh, no. I’m chocolate,” you said.
He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”
You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”
The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”
You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.
From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.
Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”
Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.
Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”
Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.
You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.
“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.
He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”
“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”
He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”
You shook his hand and told him your name.
“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”
Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.
“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.
“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.
The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”
“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.
“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”
“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.
James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.
Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.
You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”
“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.
“That whole thing,” you responded.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” You repeated.
Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”
“He was flirting with me before that.”
“Oh so you’re aware.”
Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—
“Logan.”
“Hm.”
“Logan.”
“Hm?”
You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”
“I know,” he replied.
“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”
“I know.”
“I want to make sure you know that.”
“And I know that.”
You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.
“You’re still upset,” you observed.
“I’m not upset,” he answered.
“So what are you feeling?” You asked.
“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.
“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
“Y/n.”
You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”
Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.
“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”
“I hope so.”
“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress
His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.
“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.
“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.
He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.
You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”
He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.
As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.
He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”
“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.
“Like how I look at you.”
You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.
He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”
Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.
You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.
When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.
“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.
You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.
Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.
𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: where you decide to prank logan by pretending to be excited for a date he never planned. unfortunately, your boyfriend's response to being pranked is to take you on the most thoughtful, romantic date of your life.
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.8k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: pure fluff, established relationship, prank gone wrong (or right?), logan being aggressively boyfriend-shaped, excessive sweetness, reader trying and failing to outsmart her boyfriend, garrett graham being a surprisingly useful best friend, bookstore dates, flowers, lots of hand-holding, kissing, logan remembering every little thing about reader, weaponized thoughtfulness, excessive use of "babe", use of she/her pronouns, reader is explicitly referred to as "girl", emotional damage via acts of service, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
𝐀/𝐍: alt title: john "whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets" logan. dedicated to the wonderful anon who brought to my attention that using the small font on here made fics hard to read—thank you for helping me get better <3
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎: so high school by taylor swift.
18+; mdni.
The plan had seemed significantly funnier about three hours ago.
The idea started with Hannah—which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign.
"Hear me out," she'd said, abandoning her Philosophy textbook entirely to lean across the table toward you and Allie. "You should tell Logan you're excited for the date he planned."
You had frowned. "What date?"
"Exactly."
Across from you, Allie had immediately burst out laughing. For a long moment, you simply stared at the two of them, confused. Then, the realization dawned on you. "Oh, that's evil."
Hannah leaned back in her chair, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Why, thank you."
Now, as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, half your closet scattered across the room, you were beginning to realize that there was a very real possibility that Logan would simply smile and nod. The man was impossible to prank—partly because he was so observant, partly because he was so annoyingly nice.
You lifted your favourite dress to your chest, studying it with a critical eye, just as the bedroom door creaked open.
Speak of the devil.
Logan stepped inside, hair still damp around the ends from his shower after practice. He was dressed in a Bruins t-shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Your eyes met his brown ones, the corner of his mouth tipped upward into that gorgeous smile.
You watched his face as gaze shifted from your face to the mess covering the bed and half of the floor space of the room, then landed right back to you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His smile widened at the sight of you with that dress. "What happened in here, babe?"
Game time, you thought to yourself, turning to him. "Oh good, you're here."
"Yeah?" confusion flickered across his face as you held up the dress, raising your eyebrows at him in question.
"What do you think of this?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.
Logan dropped his duffel back beside the bedside table, kicking off his shoes. He walked over to you, placing a hand on your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You know I love you in everything, babe. But yeah, that dress always looks incredible on you."
You smiled, turning back to the mirror. In the reflection, you could see the mattress dip beneath his weight as Logan perched on the edge of the bed, still studying you with that smile on his face.
You met his stare in the mirror, your mind playing the opening notes of your master plan. "God, I'm so excited for tomorrow."
Logan blinked. "What's tomorrow?"
You almost laughed—almost. But you were determined not to break character, so instead, you forced your face into a look of utter confusion. "What do you mean, what's tomorrow? Its the date you planned for us."
A long pause stretched out between the two of you. Then, Logan's brow creased into a tiny frown. "The... date. Right."
The words coming out of his mouth were perfectly calm, which immediately threw you off, because other than the little crease on his brow, there was no evidence of panic, or confusion—not even concern. You narrowed your eyes.
Interesting.
Logan reached for the TV remote, casually crossing his legs as he leaned back. Your suspicion deepened, because there was no way he was this calm, this collected. There was no date. No reservation, no plans, nothing.
You would've known. He would've told you... unless. A horrible possibility entered your mind, because John Logan was the kindest, most thoughtful man ever, and more importantly, he knew how much you loved surprises. So maybe, just maybe... he'd actually planned something, and you'd accidentally stumbled right into it?
The thought almost made your confidence waver, until you caught the look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but you knew the expression in his eyes. You'd seen it before—during games, while the two of you studied for finals, before presentations. John Logan was thinking.
You bit back your smile, trying not to completely ruin your own prank, especially as Logan, in the most faux-casual voice you'd ever heard, asked: "So, babe, what're you most excited about?"
Oh, he was fishing—you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out exactly what you were talking about. The realization nearly made you giddy, even as you fought to keep a straight face, shrugging. "Oh, you know what I'm most excited about."
"No, I don't know." The innocence in his voice was almost convincing—almost.
"No?" you asked, fighting to keep a straight face. The two of you stared at each other for a minute, and then—then, Logan's face split into a smile. A beautiful, Logan smile.
Suddenly, your faith in the plan working out wavered, because somehow, against all logic, it suddenly felt like he wasn't the one being set up—you were.
The second the bedroom door snapped shut behind him, Logan knew he was fucked.
Not because there was definitely a date, but because there might be. Which was, somehow, infinitely worse.
"You're pacing, man."
Logan looked up from where he'd been wearing a path into the carpet of his friend's bedroom. Garrett was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head as he watched Logan with growing amusement.
Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Garret raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Logan's feet.
Right. He was, in fact, pacing.
Garrett sat up. "Come on, man. What's wrong."
Logan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, contemplating whether or not he should keep the thoughts plaguing his mind to himself... then immediately abandoned that plan—because Garrett was his best friend, and he was rapidly losing his mind. "She says she's really excited for our date tomorrow."
Garrett blinked. "Is there a reason she should not be?"
"I don't even know if there's a date tomorrow," Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"What the fuck?" Garrett ran a hand over his face. "How could you not know?"
Logan shrugged. "There's a possibility she might be messing with me."
Garrett nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Or," Logan sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the foot of Garrett's bed. "I forgot."
"You forgot a date?" Garrett burst out laughing, and for a moment, Logan genuinely looked around the room for something to throw at his head.
"This isn't funny."
Garrett only laughed harder. "Sorry, man. It kinda is, though."
Logan burrowed his face into the mattress, groaning. "She's picking out dresses and shit, dude."
"Huh."
Logan lifted his head. "What?"
"No idea," Garrett shrugged. "But... if she's trying to prank you, that's hilarious."
Logan narrowed his eyes at Garrett, but his grin only widened. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "Okay, worst-case scenario: you forgot a date with your girlfriend."
Logan winced. "Jesus."
Garrett leaned forward. "No, listen. This is simple. You just need to take her on the greatest date of all time."
Logan blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, man. It's the only way. You gotta plan the date to end all dates."
"Come on, man. This is serious."
"I'm being serious." Garret sat up, his brow furrowing, deep in thought. "Think about it."
Logan usually hated when Garrett said that—because it meant that his friend was about to make an annoyingly good point. And it stood true this time too. Because either way, regardless of whether he was being pranked, or if he'd actually fucked up and forgotten, his girl deserved a date. Heck, his girl deserved everything. "Fuck."
Garrett leaned, back against the headboard, smug smile on his face. "Exactly."
If there really was a date he'd somehow forgotten, this fixed the problem. And if there wasn't—well, he still got to spend a day with you. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Garrett smirked. "There's that face again."
"What face?"
"The one you make whenever she's involved."
Logan rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
Garrett ignored him, grabbing Logan's phone. "Okay, let's plan the greatest date ever."
An hour later, what had somehow started as a joke had somehow turned into a full-scale operation.
Logan's notebook was open between the two of them, Garrett's laptop balanced on the edge of the bed.
"What's her favorite restaurant?" Garrett asked, frowning at the listings on the screen.
"The sushi place downtown."
The keys on Garrett's keyboard clacked as he wrote it down. "Favorite dessert?"
"Cheesecake from the bakery near campus."
"Favorite flowers?"
Logan didn't even take a moment. "Pink lillies."
Garrett paused, slowly turning his head to look at Logan. "Dude, you answered that way too quickly."
Logan frowned. "I know my girlfriend."
"You know your girlfriend's favorite flower. I don't even know my favorite flower."
Logan couldn't help but let out a laugh at the genuinely offended look on Garrett's face, because it made sense. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, and he wasn't about to let anything—anything—get in the way of making you happy, not even himself.
He could already feel the tension he'd been carrying since leaving the bedroom easing slightly, because now, he had a plan.
Actually, he had several plans—dinner, dessert, a walk afterward, maybe the bookstore you'd been talking about for months. Things that might not look like grand, extravagant gestures on the outside, but things he knew you'd love anyway. Things he knew would make you smile.
He could feel Garrett's watchful eyes on him and the realization settled warmly in his chest. "You know she's probably fucking with you, right?"
Logan could feel his face splitting into a slow, soft smile, "I know."
Garrett froze, the room enveloped in silence for a moment. Then: "What do you mean, you know? You spent an hour freaking out."
"I wasn't freaking out."
"You absolutely were."
Logan ignored him—because the truth was, he'd known almost immediately. The second you said it, the second he'd seen that look in your eyes—the one you got whenever you were trying not to laugh, he knew.
But that wasn't the point, it was never going to be. Because whether there had been a date or not, now there was. If his girlfriend wanted to spend a entire day together, Logan wasn't going to complain.
Garrett groaned. "Oh, my God."
"What?
"You're so disgustingly in love with her."
Logan considered arguing but instead, he just smiled. "Yeah, man. I am."
For once, Garrett didn't make fun of him for it.
By the time Logan picked you up the next evening, you were beginning to regret everything.
Not because the prank wasn't funny—it was downright hilarious. Or at least, it had been, right until a gorgeous bouquet of pink lillies had appeared on your bedside table with a note in Logan's handwriting.
Fuck, you loved them. They were your favorite flower.
The note read, Pick you up at 8. Wear the blue dress.
Now, standing in front of your mirror, smoothing down the skirt of the blue dress you loved so much, you were beginning to suspect that somewhere along the way, things had gotten out of hand.
A knock sounded from the other side of the door, making your stomach flutter. It was ridiculous—you'd been dating Logan for three years, and yet, as you opened the door, you immediately forgot every coherent thought you'd ever had.
Logan stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of dark jeans, navy button-down rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, his brown eyes softening the second they found you— like they always did. Every. Single. Time.
No matter how many years passed, they always softened. "Hi, babe."
A smile spread across your face automatically. "Hi."
For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Logan's gaze landed on the vase of flowers sitting on your bedside table. "You got the flowers I sent you?"
Your heart squeezed. "They're beautiful, Logan."
"I know."
You blinked, and Logan immediately cringed. "Oh, fuck. That sounded terrible.""
A laugh escaped you. "It really did."
He groaned. "I meant you're beautiful."
Your laugh grew louder, and Logan pressed his forehead against the doorframe, hiding his face and the shy, pink flush that was creeping up his cheeks. "I somehow made it worse."
"You absolutely did."
His answering grin was sheepish, beautiful. You slipped your hand into his, softly closing the door behind you. "Ready?"
Logan squeezed your fingers. "Always."
The date was perfect.
Not because of where he took you— though the restaurant was lovely. The bookstore afterward was also lovely. And the bakery where he insisted on buying three different desserts "for research purposes" was lovely.
Not because of any of it. The date was perfect because every stop felt intentional, like Logan had built the entire evening out of tiny pieces of you.
At dinner, he'd ordered an appetizer while you ducked into the restroom right after the two of you arrived, because he knew you always got hungry while looking at menus. At the bookstore, he somehow remembered the title of a novel you'd mentioned wanting to read six months ago. At the bakery, he'd walked directly to your favorite cheesecake without even glancing at the display.
By the time the two of you found yourselves walking along the Charles River, the city lights glittering across the water, you were fairly certain you'd accidentally created the best date of your life.
The realization was mildly infuriating.
Logan glanced at you. "What?"
"What do you mean, what?" you frowned.
"You've got your thinking face on."
You rolled your eyes. "I do not."
Logan laughed, the sound settling warmly in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The night air was cool, your hand fit perfectly in his. The city hummed around you—comfortable, easy.
Eventually Logan guided you toward a quiet bench overlooking the water. You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You could smell his cologne, could feel your heart beginning to stutter like it always did around him.
"You know," you said, carefully. "I had a really good time tonight."
Logan smiled. "I'm glad, babe. I did too."
You sighed, because you could feel the guilt winning. "I have to tell you something."
Immediately, Logan looked concerned. Your stomach twisted at the look on his face. God, he was too nice. "I kinda feel bad."
His eyebrows lifted. "About?"
You looked away, suddenly fascinated by the water. "The date thing."
"What about it?"
"Okay," you sucked in a deep breath. "I made it up. There wasn't actually a date."
The silence stretched out between the two of you—unbearable, suffocating, until you couldn't take it anymore. A groan escaped your lips. "Oh, my God, please stop looking at me like that."
Logan laughed. You froze, because it wasn't a surprised laugh, or even a confused one. No, he sounded... amused?
Slowly, you turned toward him, meeting his eyes. He was smiling.
Your eyes narrowed. "John Logan."
His grin widened. "Yeah, babe?"
"Oh, fuck off." The pieces clicked together all at once—the confidence, the calmness, the complete lack of panic. Your jaw slacked. "You knew."
Logan laughed. "I knew."
You stared at him, horrified, offended and impressed. Mostly offended. "When did you know?"
"The moment you said it."
Your mouth fully fell open this time. "You fucking liar."
Logan's shoulders shook with laughter. "You were picking out dresses, way too excited."
"I was acting," you gasped.
"Babe, come on." The words carried approximately zero belief.
You slapped his arm, and Logan caught your wrist immediately, still laughing. "You are unbelievable. You let me think I was winning!"
His grin softened. "You looked so excited." The words came out quietly, simply, like they explained everything.
And maybe, they did.
Logan continued, like it was obvious, like anyone else would've done the same thing. "You were excited, and I like taking you on dates."
You chest tightened. "So you planned all of this?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
The answer left his lips immediately, without hesitation, without uncertainty. "Because I love you."
The words settled softly between the two of you, warm and certain.
You groaned. "Fuck off, Logan. You can't be cute when I'm being mean and trying to prank you."
Logan chuckled, leaning forward, his forehead brushing yours. "You're not mean. You're perfect. And, you're so, so impressed by the fact that I pulled this off."
"I'm not," you scoffed, but you both knew you were lying.
His grin widened knowingly. You hated it—and you hated it even more when he kissed you, slow and sweet, smiling against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair.
When he finally pulled away, your heart was somewhere around your ankles. "You know what?"
"What?"
You jammed a finger in his chest. "This still counts as me pranking you."
Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench—and somehow, that felt like victory enough.
☄︎ Warnings: None, fluffy fluff
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 1362
☄︎ AN: written for this request. this was so cute ahhhhhh. disclaimer! i have not played the game so all of my knowledge is from watching others play through tiktok and youtube shorts!! So, i’m so sorry about any inaccuracies in gameplay. i hope you enjoy, comments and feedback are always appreciated xx
☄︎ Summary: Your boyfriend’s experiencing a severe attention drought because, digitally, you’re too busy falling for another...
The hours had stretched lazily across the afternoon and bled into the evening. While Dean had come and gone and come back again, you had barely moved from your position on the sofa. Usually, neither of you would mind that too much, your relationship had gotten to the point where you were able to exist in the same space with no words needed to be spoken.
However, ever since he brought you a new game for your Nintendo Switch, a purchase he now sorely regretted, you’ve barely paid him any attention.
Outside, the world was dark and quiet. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the colourful glow of your Switch, and the harsh white glare from Dean’s phone. The soft click-clack of your thumbs pressing buttons and moving the joysticks was the only sound breaking the silence.
“Alight,” Dean sighs, “explain this game to me again.”
The cushions shifted as Dean tossed his phone aside and got up. He walked over to your side of the sofa, scooting in right behind you. Without a word, you wiggled back into the warm space between his legs, leaning back against his broad chest. You lifted the Switch up, propping your elbows on his knees just high enough so you could both see the screen.
“Tell me about this thing you’ve been running for three days straight,” he whispered, his voice tickling your neck. He wrapped his arms loosely around you, trapping you against him in the best way possible. “I’m starting to get jealous of the attention your villagers, or whatever they’re called, are getting.”
When you didn’t respond immediately, too focused on the drama happening with two of your Miis, he leant in and blew a warm puff of air directly into your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, and you laughed, turning your head to look at him.
Dean was already smiling, but his smile grew when you looked up at him. His blue eyes bright in the dark room. He smelt faintly like the cologne he always wore and the shampoo he’d used from his shower after his afternoon practice.
Before you could lean in to smell him, he leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.
“Hey,” you smiled, your heart doing that familiar little flutter it always did when he focused all his attention on you.
“Hey,” he said back.
You turned your attention back to the glowing screen. Dean hooked his chin over your shoulder, the stubble on his jaw scratching lightly against your skin as he leant in to peer at the game you were playing.
On the screen, you were hovering over the apartment complex. Around the town, chaos was happening. Dean let out an amused huff against your neck, his chest vibrating against your back. “What the hell is going on?”
“The game is just random like that,” you laughed, tapping the joystick to pan to the other side of the island. “They have a life of their own when you’re not directly influencing it.”
You showed him a few more things on the island, a fight had now broken out between Tucker and a random Mii and you were separating them.
“I made us all,” you grinned.
Dean’s arms tightened slightly around you, his interest fully piqued. “Oh really? What are we doing? Are we fucking?”
You snorted, nearly dropping the console. “Dean! No, it’s a Nintendo game please.”
“Lameeee,” he mumbled in your ear. “Fine. Am I at least as smooth and handsome as I am in real life?”
“You can judge that for yourself,” you chuckled, scrolling until the camera was over his apartment building. “Let’s check on you first. You live on the top floor, obviously. I gave you boyband hair, do you like it?”
Dean’s Mii, with perfectly styled swoopy hair and wearing a fancy robe, was in the corner of his room, hands slamming on the piano keys. You had customised his apartment with a load of expensive looking items, it was for Dean after all.
Humming proudly, Dean pressed a sloppy kiss to your neck. “I’m GLORIOUS!”
“I knew you’d like it,” you said.
“Now show me your Mii, I want to see what my gorgeous girlfriend is up to.”
Zooming back out, you scrolled until you saw your apartment. You clicked onto yourself, your Mii was sat on the floor with a pink bubble.
“What does that mean?” Dean asked.
You giggled to yourself, knowing that Dean was about to be in for the shock of his life.
“Let’s find out together.”
You clicked on the bubble and turned your head to watch Dean’s face drop as a speech bubble appeared over your Mii:
“I can’t hold back my feelings for Garrett Graham. I need to tell him how I feel.”
Dean went completely rigid against you. You could see his eyes widening as he stared at the screen, trying to process this betrayal.
Slowly, his jaw dropped.
“Urmmm, what the FUCK.” He lifted his head off of your shoulder, leaning back so he could look you dead in the eye. “Who the fuck is Garrett Graham?”
Your body jerked as you tried to suppress your laughter. “Well, it’s this kinda hot guy, he’s the captain of the hockey team and-.”
“No,” Dean interrupted, “I know who he is but, we’ll circle back to that kinda hot comment later, who is he to you there.” He emphasised that with an accusatory point to your Switch screen.
You turned back to the screen and tapped the bottom right corner. “He’s my crush, silly.”
Mii you was in the far right, with a pink arrow pointing to Garrett’s Mii with the words ‘ready to risk it all’ written inside. Above your digital head, was the word ‘crush’ in bold. Garrett’s Mii mirrored yours, his arrow having ‘head over heels’ written inside.
“Oh, so you’re ready to risk it all, are you?”
He pinched your sides and then moved his hands to where he knew you were most ticklish. You shrieked, finally letting out the laugh you’d been swallowing. Your entire body shook against his as he launched into a full tickle assault.
The Switch fell out of your hands, tumbling somewhere between your bodies, but you were too busy twisting and squirming in an attempt to escape him to care.
“Dean! Stop it,” you gasped, face flushing warm as tears of laughter pricked at the corners of your eyes.
You twisted a bit too far and tumbled right off the edge of the sofa. Dean followed you down without breaking his hold, his body instantly hovering over yours on the floor.
“This is the price of infidelity,” he said. He leant in and bit at the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a deliberate and possessive hickey there. “My girl.”
You swatted at his chest. “Yes, you caveman.”
“Who is your favourite?” Dean threatened, his fingers hovering over your ribs again. “Answer quickly and correctly.”
“You! It’s you, obviously!” You laughed, your hands clutching at his shoulders to hold him back.
Dean finally stopped his attack, though, he didn’t move away. He stayed hovering over you, his eyes sparkling with amusement as you took in deep, ragged breaths, your chest heaving against his.
He dropped down to his forearms, trapping you beneath him, his face just inches from yours.
“Good answer,” he murmured, slamming his lips against yours in a rough kiss. You sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, but he pulled back with a smug grin. “I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”
Right then, a chime echoed. Dean looked down at you, a single eyebrow lifting, while your eyes widened in pure horror. You were going to get in so much trouble for this.
Dean reached blindly up to the sofa, patting around until he found the Switch. He held it so you could both see what was happening.
On the screen, the game was still running, the Mii having made the decision as you took too long to choose an option.
Your Mii was officially heading out to meet Garrett’s Mii to confess her love.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
☄︎ Warnings: None
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 1000
☄︎ AN: written for this request and i incorporated this comment too. gave myself a good little giggle writing this so i hope everyone thinks i am as funny as i think i am. hope you enjoy, comments and feedback are always appreciated xoxo
☄︎ Summary: Logan retells the story of your meet cute (a lil follow up to Falling for You (Literally) and the guys think Logan has lost his mind.
It takes Logan 20 minutes longer to get home than it should. His tailbone is still sore from hitting the ice, and he’s doesn’t want to make the injury worse. He has to be able to play on Friday, you said you’d consider coming.
Despite the ache radiating from his lower back, he limps home with a wide grin on his face, replaying the images of you that he had committed to his memory. Every now and then, he hears the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears. He doesn’t even notice the extra time that it takes to get back to the house.
Logan swings the front door open and goes straight for the sofa, collapsing on top of Tucker’s bare legs. Tucker, who was mindlessly scrolling on his phone, immediately yelps. “Ew! Logan, what the fuck man. Why are you wet?”
Tucker pulls his legs out from under the wet fabric of Logan’s jeans. Garrett, who is sitting at the kitchen island with his laptop open, and Dean, who’s raiding the fridge with a girl on his arm, both look over to see what the commotion is.
Logan turns to look over at them, a dazed, loopy, smile plastered across his face. “I met her,” he grins, completely ignoring Tucker’s protest. “The love of my life.”
Over by the fridge, Dean turns to exchange a look with Garrett who just shrugs and mouths, ‘No idea.’
Garrett shuts his laptop halfway and turns to Logan. “Okay, sure...” he says slowly.
“Seriously, why are you wet!” Tucker demands again, wiping his legs with his hands.
“Oh. I was chasing after her and I slipped on some black ice,” Logan says, his smile never fading.
Everyone in the room pauses to look at Logan. Dean is the first one to speak. “You were chasing after a girl... at midnight... in the dark?”
Logan sits up, wincing and rubbing his aching tailbone. “It wasn’t like that. It was romantic.” Dean snorts and Logan ignores him. “I hit the ground so hard I thought I died. But when I opened my eyes, she was leaning over me. She literally had a golden halo around her head. The snow was falling in slow motion. I thought she was an angel and asked her if I was in heaven.”
Dean full on belly laughs now. “You did not use that line on her, did you?”
“I mean it worked, so whatever. You can’t ruin this for me, bro.”
That makes Dean laugh harder.
Tucker looks at Logan, squinting at him with deep concern. “Logan,” he says slowly, “Did you hit your head on the ice?”
“No! Well, maybe a little, but that’s not the point.”
Tucker turns his head to look at Garrett, who turns to look at Dean.
“Well, I wish you and your imaginary girlfriend many years of happiness. I’ve got business with a real girl to attend to,” Dean chuckles as he pulls his girl back up the stairs.
Logan looks over and watches Dean disappear around the corner of the staircase, scowling. “She is not imaginary. She’s real. And she’s witty. And she’s beautiful. And real.”
Garrett bursts out laughing, shutting his laptop completely. “The more you say she’s real, the less real she sounds.”
“No,” Logan whines. He can’t understand why the existence of your perfectly realistic meet-cute is being denied.
“She’s real, she took my hand.” He raises the hand that you held to help him stand in the snow, as if that proves your existence. “And she said she’ll consider coming to the game on Friday.”
Garrett and Tucker look at Logan’s outstretched hand.
“Look, if she actually comes to the game on Friday, I’ll pay for your first date,” Garrett laughs. “In the meantime, go get some ice for your head... and ass.”
Logan drops his hand, glaring at them both.
“You’ll see,” he mutters, wincing as he stands and limps down the hallway to his room. The dazed, loopy, smile returns the second his door is closed. He doesn’t care what they say. He knows you’re real.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆
As usual, the arena is completely packed and the energy is electric as they take to the ice. Logan plays like a man possessed, every time he has a free moment, his eyes scan the rows of the crowd, searching for you.
By the third period, he still hasn’t found you and the boys are giving him shit for it.
“See your imaginary girlfriend yet, Logan?” Dean teases, squirting water into his mouth.
Logan ignores him, hopping over the boards as the whistle blows. He still has time to spot you, he knows you’re in the room. That “I’ll consider it.” was basically a promise.
With two minutes left on the clock, Logan scores a blinder and the crowd erupts. He lets out a triumphant shout, skating towards the corner to celebrate. But, as he nears the boards, his eyes lock onto a face in the second row.
It’s you.
You’re in the crowd, clapping and cheering as the fans around you go wild. Your eyes meet his through the glass and you give him a little wave.
He slows his skate towards you, lifting up his right knee and balancing on one leg, he mimics shooting off an invisible arrow aimed right at your heart.
Just as he puts his leg back down, Dean and Tucker crash into him, wrapping him into a tight hug. They slap his pads and helmet, celebrating the game winning shot, but Logan completely ignores them, his gaze still locked on to you.
He breaks away from their grip just enough to shoot you a wave. Dean looks confused and follows the direction of Logan’s wave.
In the second row of the stands, you’re blushing as you laugh and wave back again.
“No fucking way,” Dean mutters, his jaw dropping as he looks between you and Logan. “Is that...?”
Tucker looks over too, eyes wide. “Holy shit. Halo girl is actually real.”
Okay but picture this meet cute: John Logan falls hard (on the ice, on the street, your choice) and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is reader very softly asking him if he's okay (for sure he thinks he went to heaven)
OMGOMGOMG THIS IS SO CUTE YES. YOU ATE W THIS.
Falling for You (Literally)
☄︎ Pairing: Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 553
It’s nearly midnight when Logan bursts out of the library doors and into the freezing night. He shivers slightly as he scans the courtyard looking for you.
You had been sitting a few tables over from him all evening. He had spent three hours of distracted studying, trying to build up the courage to walk over to you and say hello. When he finally had the perfect opening line, you had gotten up, packed your bags, and was already walking out. He knew he couldn’t just let you disappear so he ran out after you, not thinking to put on his jacket.
He spots you, about 30 meters ahead, walking like you were in a hurry to get where you were going. It looks like a scene from a movie. The path ahead is lit by nothing but a row of glowing golden street lamps, the white of the snow reflecting the warm hue.
“Hey! Wait up!” He calls out, his boots crunching loudly as he jogs down the snow-covered library steps to catch up to you.
He moves faster once he’s down the stairs. Not looking where he’s going, he doesn’t see the sheet of black ice peeking out from the snow. His right foot lands directly on it, causing his legs to fly out from under him. A split second later, he hits the frozen floor with a thud that knocks the wind out of him.
He groans, eyes squeezing shut as his bruised tailbone throbs. He doesn’t hear you run over and kneel beside him in the slush. So, when he blinks his eyes open, he’s convinced that fall took him out.
The world around you is a blur. The only thing that’s clear is your face, full of worry as you lean over him. You’re positioned perfectly to block the glare of the lamp behind you. It creates a golden halo around your face as the white snow continues to fall around you.
Your voice is soft, almost like a melody drifting through the air. “Hey… are you okay?”
“Am I in heaven?” It isn’t the opening line he had planned to use on you, but under the glowing lights and snow, it seems fitting.
Realising he’s not seriously hurt, you let out a soft laugh. It’s breathless and light, and the sound wraps around Logan like a warm hug. “Not quite.”
The fog in his brain clears, but he doesn’t take your outstretched gloved hand. Instead, his dark eyes imprint your features to his memory, utterly captivated. Looking down at him, your eyes catch the giant Briar U Hawks logo across his chest.
“Not so good on the ice, are you?” You tease, a playful smile pulling at your lips. “And here I thought the Hawks were a decent ice hockey team.”
Logan slaps his hand over his chest. “Ouch,” he groans dramatically. “And here I thought angels were supposed to be nice.”
“Only to people who need it.” Your eyes sparkle with amusement.
He chuckles, finally reaching up to take your hand. He doesn’t pull himself up right away though, instead choosing to look up at you with as much of a charming smile that he can muster through the pain.
“Well,” Logan starts, his voice dropping into a low hum. “I did just fall.” (for you)
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