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

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Music Nerd!Reader

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

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

WILDEST DREAMS || DEAN DI LAURENTIS X GRAHAM!READER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean blinked.

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

Garrett stared at him.

Dean sighed.

“Oh. Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

Garrett didn’t look reassured.

“If I hear you even looked at her—”

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

“I’m serious.”

“You mean I can’t even look at her?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“That’s psychotic, man.”

Suddenly Dean wasn’t laughing anymore.

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

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

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

Dean frowned.

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

This felt personal.

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

“Fine. I’ll stay away from her.”

“Fine?”

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

“No fuckin’ jokes.”

“Garrett, come on.”

“Dean.” Then he walked away.

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

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

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

—

Y/N Graham hated college parties.

Not because she disliked people.

Not because she disliked drinking.

And definitely not because she disliked fun.

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

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

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

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

Music blasted from inside and laughter spilled through open windows.

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

Tonight was about Garrett.

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

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

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

He’d called her antisocial.

She’d called him obnoxious as hell.

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

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

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

“Holy shit,” a guy exclaimed.

Y/N recognized him instantly.

Beau Maxwell. Birthday boy number two.

“Garrett’s sister?”

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

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

“Good to know?” She says playfully.

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

“I’ll do my best.”

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

People danced.

Shouted.

Laughed.

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

“There you are.”

She smiled immediately.

Garrett.

“Happy now?” she asked.

His answering grin was quick.

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

“You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.”

His gaze swept over her.

Checking. Making sure she was okay.

Y/N pretended not to notice.

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

Garrett’s expression shifted. Just slightly.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Good.”

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

His teammates.

Garrett groaned.

“Duty calls.”

“Go.”

“You sure?”

She snorted.

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Then he disappeared into the crowd.

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

Their eyes met. Only for a second.

Meaningless.

But not to him.

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

Because he remembered exactly what he’d promised Garrett.

The problem was that he found himself looking back.

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

—

That was just the beginning.

A few weeks became a month.

A month became two.

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

The deception grew easier with time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bell of Malone’s door dings.

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N: can’t wait <3

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

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

“Hey guys, how was the game?”

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

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

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

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

Dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes furrowed before sending her another text.

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

The hardest part wasn’t fooling her brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N obliterated every single one.

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

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

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

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

The problem was that none of it changed reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Like she was worth choosing.

“Will you come to the game again tomorrow?”

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

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

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

“Well.. what did you say?”

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

“It is comfortable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*⁀➷john logan x fem!reader

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

➷ word count: 5464

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

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or good.

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

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

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

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

The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.

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

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

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

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

That was no good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their libero isn’t fast enough. 

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

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

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

All you needed now was one point.

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

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

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

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

Like now.

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

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

But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?

It couldn’t be out.

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

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

It had gone in.

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

Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.

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

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

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

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

But tonight was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t–”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” Dean drawls out.

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

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

“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.

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

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

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

It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a fucking idiot.

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”

“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”

“Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”

“John Tucker?”

“The guy I ran into?”

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

“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”

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

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

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

And not caring when finding out who he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What– dude, stop– give it back–” 

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

And, oh, if looks could kill.

“Are you fucking–”

“Shhhh, thank me later.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“No way.”

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

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

John Logan has requested to follow you.

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

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

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

“I hate you,” you groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You groan, “They already posted it?”

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

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

“How do you know all this?”

“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”

“Okay, whatever.”

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

“No, he doesn’t.”

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

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

Fuck, it was kinda hot.

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

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

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

“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”

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

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

“You guys are disgusting.”

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

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

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

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

“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”

It was too late, though.

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

The sixth being John Logan.

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

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

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

“Oh my–”

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

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

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

“My victim.”

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

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

“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, he was fun to banter with.

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

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

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

Which is where you found yourself now.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”

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

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

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

He grins. 

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

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

masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

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

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

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

That’s you.

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

‘Rough day?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It’s more me begging.’

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

Not the sexual aspect.

More the intimacy.

He feels closer to you that way.

Washing your hair, you washing his.

Admiring the way you stick to your routine.

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

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

‘Yes sir.’

That makes him smile a little.

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

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

‘No dinner?’

‘You can be my dinner.’

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

‘Can’t a guy make a joke?’

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

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

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

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

‘Mmh.’

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

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

‘No you don’t.’

‘You’re lucky.’ You say sarcastically.

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

He’s talking about you.

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

And hungry, apparently.

The rest of the night happens as planned.

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

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

The shitty practices.

The pain of the sport.

The love for it.

The love for you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

pairing: John Logan x readerfem

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

Some lines were never meant to be crossed.

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

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

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

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

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

I hated parties.  

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

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

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

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

And then he appeared.  

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

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

“No,” I murmured.  

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

“What?”  

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

I blinked, feeling completely out of place.  

“Janis. It’s a 2009 Civic.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me, apparently.  

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

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

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

Dean burst out laughing.  

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

“Go to hell, Dean.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hannah Wells. 

Garrett’s girlfriend.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You lie terribly.”  

“Tucker.”  

“What?”  

“Shut up.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a cosmic injustice.  

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

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

Shit. Silence.  

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

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

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.  

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

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

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

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

“More alcohol?” I answered, half joking.  

“To dance.”  

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

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

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

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

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

It was a mistake.  

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

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

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

Your hands around my waist…

oh shiiiiit.

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

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

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

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

It’s Logan.  

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

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

“Hi,” I replied.  

Completely useless as a response.  

Perfectly honest as a response.  

And then he kissed me.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I laughed, resting my forehead against the cold wood.  

“Logan, you’re a mess…”  

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

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

“Logan!”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I reached out my hand. Cold.  

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

I opened my eyes.  

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

I sat up slowly.  

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

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

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

Simple. Executable. One foot after the other.  

I reached the landing of the stairs.  

And then I heard Logan’s voice.  

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

I should have kept going down.  

I know.  

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

But I heard my name.  

And I froze.  

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

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

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

I didn’t hear the rest.  

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

I need her to leave.  

I fucked everything up.  

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

I didn’t let him.  

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

“Hey,” Logan called behind me.  

I stopped.  

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

I turned around.  

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

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

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

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

I felt my face burning, but I continued:  

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

“Don’t do that.”  

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

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

Logan ran a hand through his hair, visibly lost.  

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

You can’t. Of course you can’t.  

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat.  

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

I turned around and started walking.  

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader 

Word count: 3.5k

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

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

the divider

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

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

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

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

“I’m okay. I have a paper to write.”

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

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

“Sure. Good luck with your hard launch.”

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

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

LIKE A HEARTBEAT DRIVES YOU MAD

IN THE STILLNESS OF REMEMBERING

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

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

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

Dean Di Laurentis x virgin!reader

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

Word count: 2.7k+

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

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

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

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

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

Main masterlist | Off Campus masterlist

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Fandom: Off Campus

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

Hurt/Comfort

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

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

Words: 2.6k

Requested here!

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

Not that he was complaining.

Pairings: connor bedard x reader!gf

Prompt: telling connor about how easily you faint was not your favorite thing you’ve done ever. but now as you feel it coming at the end of the season dinner, you are grateful to have such an amazing boyfriend at your side

Warning: fainting

A/N: guys I’m mourning not seeing him play like you wouldn’t believe, so send me all your Bedsy requests

requested!

If both you and Connor had to pick the perfect Saturday night, it wouldn’t be dressing up and going out. It would be dressing down and being tangled together on Connor’s couch in his apartment which is basically both of yours at this point.

But, he also never passes up the opportunity to see you dressed up. And every time he catches glimpses of your glowing skin or your lip gloss reflecting the sparkling lights, Connor forgets everything he thinks he knows.

He forgets that you guys are at the end of the season event, he forgets he’s around team mates and important staples in the Blackhawks franchise. All he knows, all he sees, all he cares about, is you.

Connor was a goner from the first moment he laid his eyes on you, and you weren’t any better.

late night

Exhaustion settled deep into your bones the second your bag hit the floor. The floral shop had been chaos from the moment you clocked in—summer weddings piling up faster than you could wrap ribbon around stems. Fifty bridesmaid bouquets. Ten separate rose arrangements. Too many hydrangeas to count. Your hands still smelled like eucalyptus and fresh-cut peonies.

All you wanted was Will.

You kicked off your shoes near the door, shrugged out of your coat, and practically collapsed onto the white couch cushions. The apartment was dim except for the warm kitchen light left on over the stove. Usually it felt cozy.

Tonight, it just felt empty.

Your eyes fluttered shut before you even realized it. The exhaustion dragged you under fast, heavy and warm.

Then the sound of the front door unlocking startled you awake.

You jolted upright, heart jumping before you registered the familiar shuffle of sneakers against hardwood.

“Will?” your voice came out sleepy and quiet.

“Yeah, baby. It’s me.”

Relief instantly softened your shoulders.

He appeared in the doorway a second later, fresh from practice and a shower, dark hair still damp around the edges. A gray hoodie hung loose over his broad shoulders, duffel bag slipping from his hand onto the floor.

The second he saw you half-curled on the couch, his expression melted.

“Tired?” he asked softly, already walking toward you.

You let out a laugh that sounded more pathetic than amused. “I think I died three weddings ago.”

He grinned and crouched in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. His lips brushed your forehead gently.

“You smell like flowers.”

“I am flowers at this point,” you mumbled. “I swear there’s dirt permanently under my nails.”

He chuckled under his breath, thumb rubbing absentmindedly along your leg. “C’mere.”

The second he sat beside you, you folded into him automatically. His arms wrapped around your waist, warm and familiar, and suddenly the entire awful day felt lighter.

“Want wine and a movie?” he asked.

Your eyes opened a little wider. “You trying to save my life right now?”

“Maybe.”

He disappeared into the kitchen while you listened to cabinets opening and glasses clinking. A minute later he came back balancing a plate of crackers, strawberries he’d probably stolen from your work fridge earlier that week, and a glass of wine.

“You remembered the good crackers,” you said quietly.

“Obviously.”

The movie barely held your attention. You spent most of it tucked against his chest while his fingers traced lazy circles against your arm. Every so often he’d press a kiss into your hair without even thinking about it.

By the time the credits rolled, the clock on the cable box blinked 11:43 PM.

You were already asleep.

Will smiled to himself when he noticed the untouched wine glass sitting on the coffee table.

“Poor thing,” he murmured.

Carefully, he slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly from the couch. You stirred slightly, face pressing against the warmth of his neck.

“Will…”

“I got you,” he whispered.

Half-asleep, you tightened your arms around him.

The bedroom was dark except for the small bedside lamp he switched on. He laid you down gently against the sheets before pulling the blankets over you. But the second he tried to move away, your sleepy hand caught the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Stay.”

The word came out barely above a whisper.

Will’s chest tightened a little at that.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

He changed quickly, climbing into bed beside you moments later. The mattress dipped under his weight, and instinctively you moved closer, tucking yourself against his chest.

His hand settled at your waist.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly, eyes still closed, you murmured, “I missed you today.”

Will pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Missed you more.”

authors note- i don’t know how the layout looks so im sorry if its weird.