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dad!john logan x fem!mom!reader

summary: while your son is undeniably a mini version of logan, your daughter is turning into a mini version of you

established relationship

warnings: literally just fluff

word count: 1.8k

a/n: 1K CELEBRATION FIC!!! YAYAYAYAY!! i hope you enjoy my loves<3 thank you all so so much for everything, i can’t believe i’ve hit 1k likeeee that’s so insane?!?!? i love and appreciate every single one of you

john logan masterlist off campus masterlist

── ᵎᵎ ✦

people always talked about how much your daughter looked like logan. from the moment she was born, nurses, relatives, strangers in grocery stores — everyone had something to say.

"she has his eyes." "that smile is all logan." "just wait. she's going to have him wrapped around her little finger."

you would smile every time, because they weren't wrong. she had his chocolate brown eyes, the same soft brown hair, the same dimple that only appeared when she smiled hard enough.

standing next to her eight-year-old brother, there was no denying they were siblings. your son had inherited more of you physically, while your daughter looked like someone had simply shrunk logan down into toddler form.

logan loved hearing it. he'd scoop her into his arms with a grin and say, "of course she's my kid."

your son, meanwhile, had never needed anyone to tell him he was his father's son.

by twelve, he was already all elbows and knees, forever smelling faintly of hockey gear, forever coming home with another bruise and another story that started with, "okay, but listen..."

he laughed too loudly, talked with his hands, couldn't sit still through an entire movie, and acted before thinking. he was logan in every possible way. you'd known it for years and logan wore it like a badge of honor.

nobody questioned that your daughter eventually also would grow into another version of her dad.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

you found her in the living room one chilly october evening. the television hummed quietly in the background, filling the house with soft voices while rain tapped steadily against the windows.

you'd only stepped into the kitchen to make tea, but when you came back, she wasn't where you'd left her, “sweetheart?"

"in here!" a tiny voice sounded, and when you rounded the couch you stopped.

your favorite knitted blanket, the oversized cream one logan always teased you about, was dragging halfway across the hardwood floor behind her.

it was far too big for her tiny body, so she'd clearly struggled to pull it off the armchair.

she tugged it with determined little huffs until she reached the couch. then, with complete seriousness, she climbed up, tucked both feet underneath herself, pulled the blanket over her lap, wrapped it around her shoulders, and disappeared beneath it until only her little face peeked out.

you smiled before you even realized you were smiling, “cozy?"

she nodded, “very."

you crossed the room, sat beside her, and without thinking reached for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch.

logan walked in just as you settled beneath it. he looked from from your daughter to you, and then back to you again.

the two of you were sitting in exactly the same position. knees tucked up, blankets wrapped around your shoulders, and cups of something warm balanced carefully in your hands. even the way she absentmindedly rubbed the edge of the blanket between her fingers looked familiar.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

by the time she turned seven, your son was fifteen and old enough to tower over you, complain about homework while inhaling enough food to feed three people, and to pretend he was too cool for family baking afternoons.

until chocolate chip cookies were involved, “i'm only helping because someone has to make sure dad doesn't burn them."

logan gasped dramatically, “i have never burned cookies."

your son raised an eyebrow, “mom?"

you looked up from measuring flour, “he burned them last christmas."

"traitor," logan muttered.

the kitchen filled with laughter. your daughter somehow ended up with chocolate on her cheek before a single cookie reached the oven, logan had flour in his hair, and your son kept stealing chocolate chips.

it was chaotic, yes, but also exactly the way your kitchen always seemed to be.

once the cookies had cooled enough to touch, you set the tray on the island, “okay," you said. “everyone gets one."

your daughter studied the tray with surprising concentration. she wasn't reaching, or grabbing whichever cookie happened to be closest. instead, she carefully looked over every single one.

finally, she picked up the most perfect cookie on the tray. it was perfectly round and golden, with the chocolate chips melted just enough.

logan smiled, “good choice, kiddo."

however, instead of biting into it, she walked straight over to your son, “here."

he looked up from his phone, “for me?"

she nodded, “it's the best one."

he showed her a small smile and took it without hesitation, “thanks."

logan watched her return to the tray and choose one of the slightly misshapen cookies for herself, “hang on.” everyone looked at him as he spoke, “why'd you give him the best one?"

your daughter frowned, “'cause i wanted him to have the best one."

"why?"

"because i love him." she shrugged as though that explained everything.

logan slowly turned toward you noticing you'd gone strangely quiet, “you do that."

you blinked, “do what?"

"that." he pointed toward the cookies, “you always give everyone the best one."

you opened your mouth to give a sassy response, but closed it again when you couldn’t come up with anything, “i don't think i do."

your son laughed, “yeah, you do."

you looked at him, “i do?"

"every time,” he said as he started counting on his fingers, “the biggest cinnamon roll, the nicest pancake, the grilled cheese that's the least burnt, and you always switch plates when dad's looks worse."

your cheeks warmed. you honestly hadn't realized. it wasn't something you consciously decided. if one serving looked nicer than the others... someone else got it. you shrugged awkwardly, “i don't know"

"mom," your son interrupted, “last week you literally traded pizzas with me because mine had less cheese."

logan looked back at your daughter, and when he saw she'd already broken her own cookie in half, happily munching away without a second though, he smiled to himself.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

when your daughter was eight, your son had just turned sixteen. he was now old enough to drive, but also old enough to leave hockey gear absolutely everywhere in the house despite years of gentle reminders.

and logan... had somehow remained exactly the same. his hoodie landed over dining chairs. keys appeared on the kitchen counter. coffee mugs multiplied throughout the house as though reproducing on their own.

you had long ago accepted that cleaning up after him was simply part of loving him. you teased him about it, and he apologized. then he did it again three hours later.

one saturday morning, he'd left his sneakers in the hallway, his jacket over the banister, and his wallet on the kitchen island. however, by lunchtime everything had disappeared.

logan frowned, “where'd my jacket go?"

"closet," your daughter answered from the living room.

"my wallet?"

"nightstand."

"shoes?"

"shoe rack."

he found every single item exactly where she'd said before he returned to the living room, “did you move all my stuff?"

she looked up from her coloring book, “yeah."

"why?"

she tilted her head, “‘cause you forgot.”

he laughed, “i didn't forget."

she slowly looked toward the hallway, then back at him, “you did."

before he could answer, she climbed off the couch, walked into the kitchen, picked up the coffee mug he'd abandoned five minutes earlier, and carried it to the sink. all with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times. logan watched her go, “sweetheart?"

"yeah?"

"you don't have to clean up after me."

your daughter smiled, “i know."

"then why do you do it?"

"'cause you're messy,” she shrugged.

while listening in to their conversation from the kitchen, you let out a laugh. logan, however, looked horrified, “excuse me?"

she pointed toward the chair behind him. his hoodie. again, “you forgot."

he turned slowly toward you, pointing his finger at you from the livingroom, “this is your fault." you didn't even pretend to deny it, “i've been cleaning up after you since college."

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

your daughter turned ten, your son turned eighteen. life somehow became busier than either you or logan remembered agreeing to. college applications, travel hockey, dance rehearsals, late-night practices, and early mornings. the house never seemed completely quiet anymore.

one rainy friday evening, your son came through the front door looking exhausted. his hockey bag hit the floor with a heavy thud, and his shoulders sagged. he didn't even call out his usual, "i'm home."

you noticed immediately from the kitchen. you'd barely started drying your hands when your daughter beat you to him. she glanced up from the dining table where she'd been working on homework.

one look. that was all it took.

without saying anything, she stood, walked into the kitchen and filled his water bottle before opening the refrigerator to pull out the leftover pasta from the night before and slide it into the microwave.

she didn't ask if he was hungry, because she already knew.

after the microwave beeped, she carried the bowl over, “here."

your son blinked, “thanks."

"practice?"

he sighed, “long."

she nodded once before sitting down beside him. she didn’t talk or try to cheer him up. she just... kept him company while he ate.

logan watched the entire thing from the doorway in silence. you stepped beside him and his arm instinctively wrapped around your waist. neither of you interrupted.

after a minute, your son finally started talking. about a rough practice, a coach who'd been harder on everyone lately, and how tired he was.

your daughter listened; she didn't interrupt, didn't offer solutions, didn't tell him he'd be fine. she simply nodded every now and then, asking quiet little questions that kept him talking. by the time he'd finished eating, the heaviness in his shoulders had eased, and he smiled, “thanks, weirdo."

"you're welcome," she gathered the empty bowl before he could stand. “i'll put it away."

"i can—"

"i know,” she smiled. “i've got it."

logan looked toward the kitchen where your daughter quietly rinsed the bowl and placed it into the dishwasher before looking back at you. his expression had gone unexpectedly soft, “that's you."

your chest tightened at his words. you'd never sat your daughter down and explained those things. you'd never told her to notice when someone was tired, overwhelmed, or hurting. she'd simply watched you.

she'd watched you make logan coffee before he asked. watched you leave snacks outside your son’s room during exam week. watched you rub tired shoulders, remember favorite meals, notice little changes in people's moods before they said a word. she'd learned that love lived in ordinary things.

logan slipped his hand into yours, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles, “i used to think she'd grow up to be another me."

you smiled, “disappointed?"

he laughed quietly, “not even close."

across the room, your son leaned over to bump his shoulder against your daughter’s. she laughed, and without thinking, she reached over and brushed a stray curl out of his face before returning to her homework. it was another tiny habit. another thing she'd seen you do a thousand times.

logan watched them for a long moment: his loud, reckless son, and his quiet, observant daughter. he couldn't imagine a more perfect balance.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

₊  ֹ  ˖ DEAN DI LAURENTIS AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

he’s such a nickname abuser. ‘pretty girl’ and ‘sweetheart’ are his go-to, but sometimes he switches to more cheesier terms of endearment to call you in front of other people just to embarrass you—pookie, munchkin, shnookums? yes! and hes loud about it too! this is my official statement that in another universe dean would pair extremely well with a shy, quiet reader. he’d love pulling her out of her comfort zone with his silly antics.

as his girlfriend, you’re entitled to receive random pecks and kisses all the time. i’m talking all the time. if you’re watching a movie together and he’s feeling a little neglected, he’ll grab your arm and kiss the entire length of it, not missing an inch, until you cuddle him. if you’re standing in line for something, he’ll be reading instructions while leaving kisses on your temple and in your hair. if you’re hanging out with friends and you’re on the couch while he’s sitting between your legs, he’ll be kissing your thighs the whole time until you gently kick him to stop.

he finds a random mic and sings you cheesy love songs when you’re having bad days, and him being so bad at it makes you laugh. dean makes it his mission not to stop until you’re laughing your ribs off and feeling better. sometimes it ends with him pulling you in to dance, or just holding you in his arms. those cuddles are your favorite because there’s so much love and safety in them. he’s genuinely the only person who can lighten your mood immediately with his stupid jokes, stupid kisses, and stupid big arms.

he’s a sniffer, and he would die and come back for the scent of your body. he perks up immediately, gorgeous green eyes finding yours the second he smells that coconut and vanilla scent in a packed room. he has a dramatic habit of randomly sniffing all over you and pretending like he’s high off it. it doesn’t matter if you’re alone or with other people. if you’re laying down together or hugging, his nose is immediately buried in your hair.

he cherishes your routines together. morning routines where he lets you shower first while he stays in bed for a couple extra minutes, then he goes after, and you brush your teeth together while he gets dressed and fixes his hair, and you do the same in front of the counter you’ve definitely used for more than just getting ready. eating breakfast together. post-dinner walks where he tangles your hands together. cooking dinner on friday nights—well, you do most of the cooking while he cleans and does basic prep, because if he’s in charge, you’re definitely eating burnt food. and the nightly gossip sessions, both of you with face masks on, leaning on your elbows facing each other. he makes you smile so much with all the locker room gossip your cheeks hurt, and you tell him campus rumors while he lets out theatric gasps.

besides physical touch and quality time, his love language is definitely gift giving. mention one thing one time, and boom—you have it next day or for a special occasion. he never runs out of gift ideas. it ranges from material things to more meaningful ones, like love letters he gets embarrassed about giving you.

to conclude, dean would be an amazing boyfriend. he’d be loyal and fully devoted to you. in his eyes, you would be the girl for him.

TEXTS BETWEEN BF!DEAN DI LAURENTIS X READER PART 2 PREVIOUS

ANGEL (💭) : some inspo for the texts were taken from pinterest. suggestive language && swearing ahead.

𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐘𝐘𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 — est. 2026 © do not copy, claim or take inspo of my work anywhere.

TEXTS BETWEEN BF!DEAN DI LAURENTIS X READER PART 1 NEXT

ANGEL (💭) : some inspo for the texts were taken from pinterest. suggestive language && swearing ahead.

𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐘𝐘𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 — est. 2026 © do not copy, claim or take inspo of my work anywhere.

₊  ֹ  ˖  DEAN’S BIGGEST WEAKNESS IS YOU TUGGING ONTO HIS CHAIN ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

dean likes being told what to do by his girl. getting bossed around. getting lectures. getting walked around like a dog.

he just can’t help it. It’s a tiny, teeny secret kink of his that he’s buried deep in his heart and never admits to anyone. not even to you.

perhaps he’s a little embarrassed in this matter? (so unlike him)

but with the way he’s so goddamn compliant around you all the time, answering 99.8% of all your requests and wishes with a simple “yes ma’am,” it gives it all away.

his roommates who lived with him for years and have gotten the opportunity to witness this every day called him things that pretty much consisted of “a whipped motherfucker” or “a goddamn rubber that bends his ass out with a simple push” and much more.

but dean didn’t mind that though. he just thought they were too single and bitter to get it.

so it was no surprise that you finally open your eyes properly and discover this secret little kink too when he was on top of you, his cock buried inside you to the hilt while you moan and writhe beneath him, begging him to move. begging him to stop with the pity pecks and kiss you properly like he always does. messy and all tongue.

and him being the teasing asshole he is just grins while shaking his head as if to punish you.

which leaves you no choice but to latch your teeth into his silver chain he has on all the time, pulling it harshly which brings his head closer to yours, and grab the nape of his neck, kissing him while arching your back, squirming underneath him anything just to get him to move.

“fuck,” he abruptly stops and slumps on top of you, his head buried into your chest. just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, you feel the warm sticky liquid slowly running down your thighs.

as if he knows you too well and knows you’re about to tease the shit out of him, he whines out a “don’t. I’ll make it up to you all night long, baby please.”

fine. you would just have to bring it up against him during an argument.

“get to work, di laurentis.”

“yes ma’am”

₊  ֹ  ˖ BF!DEAN WHEN HE’S JEALOUS ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

he’s staring at you from across the overcrowded frat party, sipping on his drink and smiling like a fool.

your in your usual element, bubbly and laughing while you’re dancing with your girls, looking utterly beautiful in the short mini skirt that’s so short you could flash the whole party with a slight bend, and a skimpy top that’s tied at your back, and dean’s pretty sure he could untie it with a tug of his teeth.

the outfit is beyond dangerous and scandalous, but that’s why your boyfriend’s here, right? and he can fight too, so that’s a bonus.

eventually that smile on dean’s face turns into an annoyed look when you move around all sweaty, trying to get a drink from logan, and that gives the perfect opportunity to some short frat guy making his way towards you, flashing you his cheap boy‑next‑door smile and trying to make small conversation while you look him up and down, answering his questions in boredom.

and dean’s teammate logan has the audacity to leave you alone as he makes his way towards his own girl. the conversation looks innocent, but not until shorty has the audacity to put a hand on your hip, whispering something in your ear, pretending like it’s sooo loud and you just can’t hear him!!

and that’s what motivates dean to leave his drink nearby on a table and strut his way towards you as he rounds a large hand over your tummy, pulling you into his hard chest and making you relax.

the guy you’re talking to falters slightly, letting go as he gapes at him.

“hey man, saw your game last night—” he blabbers, but dean could not care less, using his free hand as he tilts your chin to his smirking face while you grin at him.

not long before he brands his lips and tongue on you, you struggle to kiss him back.

the frat guy is long forgotten, melting away into the background as dean deepens the kiss. your hands find purchase on his shoulders, gripping the firm muscle through his shirt as you press closer.

you’re drunk on his scent.

he’s drunk on your mouth.

shamelessly, he takes full advantage, pressing open‑mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. his hand continues its journey upward until he reaches the knot of your top, his fingers toying with the strings.

“dean,” you whisper, a half‑hearted protest as your body arches into his touch.

he smirks against your skin. “what? just making sure it’s secure. can’t have you flashing everyone now, can we?” but his fingers continue to tease the knot, not quite untying it but definitely testing its strength.

you hear a loud “get a room!” and you both know it’s one of his idiot friends, but he doesn’t even care as he grins into you.

your own hands begin to explore, sliding down his chest to the hem of his shirt. you slip beneath it, your fingers tracing the ridges of his abs while balancing your drink on the other hand.

dean groans into your mouth at your touch, his hips pressing forward instinctively.

“maybe we should find somewhere more private hmm,” he suggests between kisses, though he makes no move to pull away.

you’re about to agree when someone bumps into you, breaking the moment. you both look up to find a drunk girl apologizing profusely before stumbling away. the spell broken, dean takes your hand.

“come on,” he says, his eyes gleaming with desire. “we’re getting outta here.”

who knew dean di laurentis. famous party boy was so desperate to leave a party.

₊  ֹ  ˖  FWB!DEAN FINDING YOUR CALENDAR ? ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

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).

₊  ֹ  ˖ JOHN LOGAN AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

mr. handyman. literally every single thing that falls apart in your life, logan’s there to fix it. kitchen cabinets coming loose? great, he’s fixing them. doors squeaky? he’s already on it. something wrong with your car? perfect—he’s taking his shirt off (for your eye candy) and getting to work. and he’s not one of those sexist assholes who thinks men have to fix things while women just stand there and yelp when things fall apart. he actually makes a habit of fixing things with you there, showing you how to do it so next time you can handle it yourself in case he’s not around.

this sweet, sweet man with those pretty doe eyes cannot stay mad at you for more than a day. if he has to go to sleep without fixing things with you, he feels like he might actually die. he just can’t do it. so when you two argue, like normal couples do, he always gives you both time to cool down before coming back to you to offer your favorite takeout, lots of kisses and cuddles, a movie night, and his heart practically in his hands just so you could forgive him. anything. he’ll do anything. just don’t stay mad at him.

as much as he’s a homebody, he actually loves going out—especially with you. restaurants, new cafés, movie theaters, hiking spots, even loud busy bars he’s not usually a fan off. and he’s always patient, giving you all the time you need to get ready without rushing you. and when you’re finally done and looking pretty, he’ll have you leave a bright lipstick kiss on his jaw, visible for everyone to see he’s taken, before you head out together. his favorite part about this whole thing is walking with your hands intertwined and sharing food.

again, he’s big on acts of service. waking up a little earlier to make you breakfast because you’re too lazy to make something yourself and usually skip it. taking the time to draw you a bath after a long day. making your drinks exactly how you like them—no ice, because you hate the watery taste when it melts, buying you things you’ve run out of, whether it’s your favorite snacks or products. taking your makeup off for you when you’re too tired. giving you massages, filling your gas tank—he’s all about it.

he’s so starved for you, so don’t expect him to leave you alone when you’re both home with nothing to do. he constantly has you laying on top of him, just lazing the day away. cooking simple meals together, which he’s surprisingly good at. he believes staying practically glued to you the entire time is good for his mental health and it’d be cruel to deny him.

this man figured out your weakness long before you even started dating that you can never keep your hands to yourself when he’s sweaty, fresh out of the gym. so when you move in together, he starts timing it, leaving the gym just a little after you get home. the second he walks through the door, your eyes snap to him, the sight of him making your knees weak, heat pooling in all the right places. and you don’t even try to fight it. you just walk up to him, grab him, and kiss him deep, fully intending to have those sweaty, ripped biceps wrapped around you in a tight headlock.

₊  ֹ  ˖  JOHN LOGAN MAKES YOU WANNA CRY . . IN A GOOD WAY ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

he’s got like ten tabs full of assignments waiting for him at home. a comfy bed that’s screaming his name. a hungry stomach he’s forgotten to feed after having a granola bar in the morning. in deep need of a shower post a really long and hard practice.

but there he is in his brother’s garage at eleven at night, shirtless, so goddamn patient, bent over the hood of your car, dealing with a fizzy, angry battery that could explode and kill him, while you stand in the corner biting your lip, so fucking guilty for calling him to help because your car was producing a really weird smell after you came back from driving a friend home from one of those frat parties.

you had to stop by the curb and wait for thirty minutes, the soonest he could come get you after you called, and he picked up after one ring, worried.

without a single complaint. oh god, your boyfriend was too selfless for his own good when it came to you.

your week had already been really emotional for no reason, and seeing logan just being his sweet self doesn’t help but let fat drops of tears run down your face silently as you stare at him.

ten minutes have passed, and logan has to move to clean something quickly with a rag he has over his shoulder, and while discarding it to grab another one, he can’t help but see his pretty girl crying.

“woah, woah, woah, what’s wrong, gorgeous?” he frowns, leaving his work behind, quickly striding over to you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, hands curling around your neck.

his sweaty chest be damned.

“i’m sorry i ruined your night,” you sniffle as you pull away, looking up at him, your hands by your side, not knowing what to do with them.

“oh baby, you didn’t ruin anything. that thought didn’t even occur to me when i rushed to come get you,” he gently moves his hands to cradle your face, kissing your tears away. “i was actually kinda giddy that you called me for help.” he flashes you that pretty smile that makes you melt, trying to make you feel better.

“but you’re—you’re all tired from practice and you need a shower.” he chuckles, and even despite that, you lay your face into his chest as he holds onto your waist, gently rocking both of you side by side. “and you need to eat.”

logan thinks he could genuinely marry you right now.

“how about this,” he says gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek, wiping the last of your tears. “give me ten more minutes to finish this—it’s basically done anyway.”

his tone is light, reassuring, like he’s easing you back down piece by piece.

“and then we go home,” he continues, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than necessary. “and you help me do all that, yeah?”

his nose nudges yours slightly when he pulls back, his smile small but warm.

“does that sound good?” he knows he’s satisfied when you nod and wipe your eyes with the back of your hands.

“there she is,” he murmurs, softer now, leaning in to press one last gentle kiss to your lips—slow, reassuring, meant to settle you more than anything else.

he shakes his head with a small smile as he turns back to the car, grabbing his rag again, finishing up the last few things.

like you didn’t just cry over something so stupid.

john logan really bagged a girl way too sweet for his own good.

₊  ֹ  ˖ WHAT ITS LIKE LIVING WITH BF!GARRETT ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

this man knows that you find his body attractive, so clothes absolutely do not exist in his vocabulary. he’s walking around in his boxers, whoring himself out. if you’re busy doing work around the apartment or studying, he’ll be walking right in front of your face, and you just can’t help but abandon everything and jump his bones. same thing goes for you: he loves it when you walk around in his shirts and nothing else. this is more his preference because we all know he’s possessive as fuck, and seeing you strut around in his shit turns him on big time. it’s one of the reasons he wanted you to leave your dorm and move in with him during your last year after he graduated.

everything is a date to him. grocery shopping? he’s tagging along, pushing the cart, being so goddamn touchy and clingy, making sure to get all your favorites, and then getting you both treats afterwards. browsing bookstores? he’s there with your favorite coffee in hand, pointing out diabolical book titles to crack you up. having to go clothing shopping for himself for an event? he’s forcing you to come along while he tries on stuff, making you compliment him because, again, he’s a whore for your attention. going to the gym? he’s tagging along with his hand on your waist, forcing himself into your orbit. you have to shoo him away every single time to make him do his own thing, because best believe he’ll stand there the whole time and and ogle you. doing laundry? he’s helping, and surprise it’s a date! finally, he’s spent enough time living with tuck to know how to cook, so he’ll be in charge of the cooking, but he’ll absolutely make sure you’re always there with him, distracting him, clinging onto his naked back while he stirs stuff.

he loves leaving cute little notes around the apartment for you to find, and it makes you smile every single time. he does this a lot if he’s gone for a game, so he’ll leave little messages around. garrett’s the type of boyfriend to get worried when you’re stressing yourself out with school, so some nights when he comes home late from a game and sees you in the living room, head bent over work, lights all low, he just quietly leaves his bags near the door and, without a word, lays down on the couch, pulling you into his chest, holding you down while you squirm against him. he’ll turns his ear deaf to your complaints about needing to finish work, and at some point you’ll give up and lay on his chest, quietly listening to his breathing pattern as you fall asleep there, and you can feel his lips on your temple the whole time.

know that your ass is not safe around this man. if you’re both moving around in the kitchen making dinner or cleaning, that little cloth on his shoulder is being used to swat your ass every single time you’re within reach. and when you whip your head to glare at him, he’ll give you a sweet kiss and you have no choice but to forgive him. in a rush getting ready for an event and you’re all pissy because you both might be late? he’s slapping your ass just to aggravate you further. he can’t help it; his girl looks so hot when she’s all mad and has her claws out at him.

speaking of claws, garrett fucking loves it when you claw up his back when he’s fucking you. he’ll proudly show it off in the locker room too, gets real smug (with a little flush creeping onto his neck) when the guys around him hoot and holler. he also loves it when you leave hickeys all over him. he doesn’t care if it makes him look like a fuckboy; he proudly wants to tell people how possessive his girl is. how taken he is. oh, and if you’re kissing him with your lip combo and it’s all over his face and mouth, he’s not wiping that shit off no matter how much you insist.

₊  ֹ  ˖  BF!GARRETT ABSOLUTELY LOVES SEEING HIS JERSEY ON HIS GIRL ﹙ even if he’s mad at her ﹚ ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

there were three things in the world that got garrett going the most. first was hockey. second was when you put him in his place. third was discovered recently.

a newfound interest: you in his jersey.

he’s had lots of girls wear his color and number in the stands, cheering for him during games, but he’s never ever had an actual girlfriend put one on.

until you.

in his eyes, it’s basically like walking around in lingerie, so what happens when you put the said jersey on, that’s reaching your knees almost, as a trump card when you’re both fighting?

tonight was supposed to be a get together between you and allie and the guys, a movie night she and dean insisted on to get some quality time.

and you were excited for it; you’d be lying if the idea of cuddling up with garrett throughout the night didn’t get you all warm and fuzzy.

but the asshole just had to ruin it by starting an argument (he started and you dragged it out for no reason but we’ll just ignore this bit) this morning over something stupid you don’t even remember.

you didn’t talk for the whole day because, well, you’re both stubborn as hell; neither of you was willing to be the first one to apologize.

so hence you pulling the card on him, strutting into the living room where everyone’s sprawled on the couch, logan and grace—the only ones on the floor because it “keeps them grounded”—logan’s philosophical bullshit.

garrett’s eyes heat up, a warm feeling spreading all over his body as he tracks your movement. just as he thinks, for the sake of his friends, you’ll sit next to him, you go right next to allie instead, separating her from a very much annoyed dean and cuddling up with her the whole time, glaring at garrett.

he glares right back.

for fuck’s sake, he can see your black panties from where he’s sitting. he’s glad tuck and dean are closer to you so they don’t get the view.

graham <3 : that an invitation?

he’s still eyeing up your legs as he pulls out his phone, sending you a quick text. you know damn well what he mean. overall you were the one to put them on. his favorite pair on you.

you: get fucked <3

you answer right back.

graham <3 : i admire the enthusiasm. should we go to my room to follow through?

you: boringggg

from all the time that you’ve been with him you damn well sex is never boring with him, but you text back anyways , annoyed at him and his dirty mouth that always paints your cheeks red and your panties a little too wet, you make a show of putting your phone away, further pissing him off.

but he knows he can't stay mad for long when he has you bent over his bed later, while your shake and writhe with his name on your back as he fucks you so good you can't remember what you were even fighting about.

₊  ֹ  ˖  GARRETT WITH A BLUNT GIRLFRIEND THAT LIKES MAKING HIM BLUSH ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

one thing about you was that you were loud, a bit too carefree, and with absolutely no filter. while your boyfriend, garret was no introvert or virgin bride, he was still not used to being with someone just so—so blunt and brash.

and that came with some consequences, because there would be times where you would tease the shit out of him or make explicit comments so causally at all times, it made him flush like a schoolgirl.

that has never happened to him before you. like ever.

before, he was the one making girls blush, making their panties melt, and then came your hurricane self, with an obnoxious smirk making him shy as fuck.

sometimes he’d be left speechless because he always thought he’d be the one doing all that in a relationship.

sometimes he’d be too embarrassed at the fact that he was blushing, so he wouldn’t even know how to respond.

he was a hockey player who shoved people out of the way for a living, for fuck’s sake—why was he so weak for you?

see, and that’s why he tried to resist it, but the more he did, the worse it got

for example, if he just came out of the shower with his naked chest on display and you were there to witness, the first thing you’d do would be let out a whistle

“the things i’d do to lick those water drops off of you clean”

you never missed the deep patch of red flashing across his body as he quickly grabbed a towel, drying himself off before throwing on a shirt and shorts like that would somehow make it better.

then he’d walk over to you, pressing a deep kiss to your lips, trying to regain some sort of composure.

or again, if he was suited up for an event in which he looked so sinfully hot in, and you’d walk up to him as he fumbled with his tie, pulling him by his opened tie and fixing it as you tighten it, making him all red. pressing a gentle kiss to his lips

“what are you thinking about” he’d clear his throat before asking as you gazed at him with dilated pupils.

“how long it’d take for me to take this thing off you, pretty boy” and boom, here goes his willpower.

“you can’t say shit like that to me when i’m about to leave in like five,” he’d groan loudly, putting his forehead on you, adjusting his slacks while you giggled, feeling proud of yourself for getting him so weak.

or the last straw—when he walked into his room after another tiring practice, not knowing you’re in his bed, quickly taking his shirt off, leaving him in only loose sweats that show his boxers band, with a dark happy trail leading to a happy place.

you eyes drag up and down his body from your position in his bed as he moves around in his room before his eyes snap towards you and his whole composure softens realizing your there.

but you’re still staring. still tracking every movement which makes him a bit confused. does he have something on him?

“what?”

“you walk like it’s big” you blurt out, licking your very much dry lips.

“what’s that supposed to—“ he’s midway into his question when dean passes by garret’s room, still in his jersey, and yells out “it means you’re walking around like you’re being weighted down by something and that something is your dick! you’re welcome!” before moving into his room, shutting his door.

your boyfriend, per usual, flushes at the crude words

it was true, he just had a natural sway in his hips and that confident, lazy walk—it exceeded big dick energy.

or when he sat, he took space, thick hockey thighs spreading to make room for himself and his heaviness, it was so obvious that he had to make room for something big to sit like that.

“you get what i mean now?” you mutter, eyes glued onto his crotch as the familiar bulge forms

“baby i’m feeling very objectified at the moment” he murmurs as he closes his door before walking over to you, as he lowers himself on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck

he was a mess, and it was better if you didn’t look into his face right now.

you just grab his curls as you push his head off of you, before pushing him onto his bed as you straddle him.

“awh poor baby you want me to stop?” you coo as your fingers find his chain resting on his chest, gently tugging onto it

he’s so mesmerized right now, so he shakes his head side to side as you lean back, keeping eye contact as you lean back before slipping a finger into the waistband of his sweats, slowly pushing them off his legs

“that’s what i thought, big boy” he raises his hips, helping you take his sweats off

you know what, garret decided he liked the fact that he turned putty at the hands of his girlfriend. it was a humbling reality check that he wasn’t the one with all the charm, and his usual tricks didn’t always come to play.

he needed that once in a while.

₊  ֹ  ˖ GARRETT GRAHAM HATES LEAVING HIS GIRL FOR PRACTICE ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

you’re lying on garrett’s bed like a starfish, staring at the ceiling and genuinely questioning your life choices.

school is taking a toll on you and you just can’t stay focused.

this morning, when garrett left for practice, you’d sat at his table and tried to get work done. you did get some work done, but then you thought about him, his pretty curls and his pretty face, and you couldn’t help but get a little lazy thinking about him.

missing him.

that, of course, led to an hour of scrolling on your phone on his bed—aka procrastination.

after a couple more minutes, you hear footsteps and shouts downstairs, indicating that garrett and the guys are back, which explains the craziness and kitchen drawers being opened. they must be famished.

you wait upstairs; better for your boyfriend to get something to eat before you smother him with affection. you seriously miss him today—and as if the devil himself summoned him, you hear footsteps upstairs, toward garrett’s room, and you’re 110% sure it’s him.

the door opens gently as he leaves his stuff on the floor, quickly undressing, eyeing you up with his big grin, per usual.

it’s his trademark look when he sees his girl.

“hey,” you mumble, tossing your phone to the edge of the bed, watching him lose his pants. he’s only in his boxers as he walks around the bedroom, tossing his clothes away.

“hi, pretty,” he mumbles back.

“on a scale from one to ten, how sweaty are you?” you ask, staring at him with heart eyes.

“zero. took a shower already.” he’s already moving toward you, crawling on top of you, leaving kisses on your thighs before moving to your face.

“then c’mere. missed you,” you whisper, gripping his face, running your hands through his curls you adore so much.

“mhm, missed you too,” he says, already kissing you.

the soft glow of the sun outside casts a warm light across your faces as he gently cups your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. your eyes flutter closed as he leans in, your lips meeting in a soft, tentative press.

the kiss is gentle at first, a simple connection of lips that sends a spark through your entire body. you respond by parting your lips slightly, a silent invitation that he accepts with a soft sigh. his lips move against yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, a slow, deliberate exploration that speaks volumes without words.

“hate leaving you for practice,” he murmurs against your mouth.

your hands come to rest on his shoulders, fingers curling into them as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss just slightly. your tongues meet in a gentle dance, tasting each other without urgency. there is nothing frantic about your embrace—just a sweet, unhurried connection that feels both intimate and profound.

when you finally part, your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing softly in the quiet room. he keeps his hand on your cheek, thumb still stroking your skin as he opens his eyes to look at you. a soft smile plays on your lips as you gaze back at him, your eyes shining with emotion.

and lust.

noticing how hot he looks with his slightly damp hair and all those muscles, you just have to push him onto his back, straddling him as you kiss all over his neck.

“did you already eat?”

he laughs breathlessly, hands settling on your hips as he lolls his head to the side, letting you leave hickies.

“not yet. that’s why i’m here,” he says, voice low.

you pull back just enough to meet his eyes, a smile tugging at your lips.

yeah he’s about to walk out of this room limping.

₊  ֹ  ˖ LATE NIGHT SNACKING WITH BF!GARRETT ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

he’s fucked you so good it feels like you’ve just gone through a three hour workout session. you’re sprawled on his bed, his whole weight pressed on top of you, when your stomach clearly didn’t get the memo and lets out a loud grumble.

“you hungry?”

“a little.” you nod, a little breathless. his expression softens instantly, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “say less. your favorite, yeah?”

which is what brings you both into the kitchen at one in the morning.

he’s quietly whipping up the ingredients for your favorite cinnamon pancakes, trying not to wake the others, while you sit on the counter beside him, a bowl of strawberries balanced between your legs. you bite into one, watching—no, openly admiring—your very attractive boyfriend.

soon-to-be husband, if he keeps this gentleman act up.

the whole “being quiet” thing fails miserably because garrett can’t help cracking dumb jokes and throwing in terrible pickup lines. you laugh way too loud, and he uses it as an excuse to kiss you just to shut you up.

“can you get me the chocolate chips, please?” he mumbles, focused adorably on mixing the dry with the wet ingredients.

you reach into the drawer next to you and hand them over. he leans in to peck your lips in return. “thank you, baby.”

“mhm.”

while waiting for the pancakes to cook, he stands between your legs as you feed him strawberries, rewarding you each time with a soft kiss.

who knew garret “i-don’t-do-girlfriends” graham would be standing in a dimly lit kitchen, hand-feeding his girl pancakes he made from scratch at one in the morning without a single complaint—kissing the syrup off her lips after every bite, making her giggle hysterically. the kind of giggle that makes him grin so wide, looking at her like she’s the only girl in the world.

𑣲 ✉️ DIARY OF A SHORT PERSON ᰋ garrett graham x !reader 𝄞 blurb . fluffy. #shittiest thing i’ve written in a while but i need to empty out my drafts.

its not that your short, its the fact that garrett is way too damn tall.

and so it started when he began leaving the shared mugs on the highest shelves in the kitchen because obviously his tall frame is face to face with them, so to him it’s completely normal. conveniently ignoring the fact that you cannot reach them without climbing onto the counter just to grab your everyday dishes.

you’d be standing on the counter at eight in the morning, one hand braced against the cabinet, muttering curses under your breath while stretching for your own damn coffee mug.

and he’d walk in, scratching his jaw, watching you like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.

“need help?” he’d ask, just to be annoying, already knowing the answer.

“no.”

or whenever he used your car for a quick trip to the store and changed the rearview mirror and seat positioning, completely ignoring the fact that you weren’t built the same way. every single time you got in afterward, you’d have to scoot the seat forward inch by inch, adjusting everything with a glare he wasn’t even there to witness.

the cherry on top was the shower head.

you let out an annoyed groan, your neck craning awkwardly under the spray, and shoved a towel around yourself before storming out of the shared bathroom. steam followed behind you, curling dramatically into the bedroom.

garrett looked up from where he was stretched out on the bed, scrolling on his phone before he looks up.

sometimes he genuinely thought he might meet god when he angered you.

because there you were with crazy damp hair, flushed skin, furious expression and somehow that only made you look more breathtaking.

“you changed it again,” you snapped.

to say he had the audacity to blink innocently. “changed what?”

“fucking everything. my car, the shower head—” your hands gestured wildly, punctuating every word. you were on a roll now, a full-blown rant about his complete and utter disregard for your spatial existence.

he, on the other hand, had let the phone fall beside him. he was hearing approximately none of it.

he was mesmerized.

watching the way your cherry lips formed each furious word. the way your cheeks flushed deeper the more worked up you got. the way you stood there, wrapped in a towel, glaring at him

he felt the primal urge to grab you and swallow you whole with kisses. to shut you up in the best way possible.

shit, there was something wrong with him. finding this attractive when he should be at least slightly concerned for his life.

“—and i swear to god, gar, if you leave one more mug that fucking high, i’m going to—”

he didn’t let you finish.

he stood, crossed the small distance between you, and framed your face with both hands before pressing a firm, deliberate kiss to your mouth, cutting you off mid sentence.

for a second, you were too stunned to react, hands still frozen mid gesture.

then you melted against him, like you do every single time, your anger dissolving into the warmth of his mouth.

he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks.

you blinked, breath still uneven, eyes still blazing. “you can’t just kiss me when i’m mad at you.”

“why not?” he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “it works.”

he leaned in again, slower this time, brushing a kiss at the corner of your mouth.

“i’ll fix everything,” he continued grinning. “starting right now.”

his hand drifted to your side, poking you lightly. you jolted with a soft squeak.

“focus,” you muttered, swatting him away, but there was no real heat left in your voice.

“i am focused,” he replied, not looking away from you once. his gaze softened. “completely focused on you.”

he kissed you again, slower, softer this time just enough to make your knees weaken, before pulling away and heading toward the bathroom.

“gonna go fixing your shower,” he called over his shoulder as he passed you, giving your ass a light pat, leaving you standing there in the lingering steam, trying to regain whatever composure you had left.

you were supposed to be mad at him.

Soon you will be mine, oh, but I want you now

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