#grace ivers

summary: in which nobody realises how much of the group's heart y/n holds until she's the one lying in a hospital bed instead of taking care of everyone else.

notes: thank you so much for this very sweet request, i loved writing it! seriously this group owns my whole heart. i love them. i love them. i love them <3

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

ꪆৎ

the first sign that something was wrong was the fact that you didn't answer your phone. normally, that wouldn't mean much. people missed calls all the time.

except you always answered your phone, or at the very least, sent a text.

especially when it was allie calling, which was why the third unanswered call made something uncomfortable settle low in her stomach, a feeling she couldn't quite explain.

"that's weird."

grace glanced up from where she was sitting across the table at the coffee shop, "what?"

"y/n isn't answering her phone."

sabrina frowned, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "maybe she's taking a nap?"

allie was already shaking her head. "she texted me forty minutes ago."

allie tries calling you again, however to her dismay it goes straight to voicemail, and the knot in her stomach tightens.

twenty minutes later she's outside your shared dorm, digging through her purse for the keys. the door has barely opened before allie's stomach sinks.

you hadn't even made it to your room. you were curled up on the couch in the common area, one of the throw blankets dragged haphazardly over your legs.

for a second you don't even seem to notice she's there. your head is tipped back against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut, one arm wrapped tightly around your stomach. every instinct in allie's body starts screaming.

she knew instantly that something was wrong. you looked awful. completely, genuinely awful.

pale enough to make allie's chest tighten, your face pinched with pain, your breathing shallow and uneven. one hand was pressed so tightly against your stomach that your knuckles had gone white, like letting go for even a second might somehow make it worse.

"jesus christ," allie breathes, dropping her bag by the door. "y/n?"

your eyes crack open slightly at the sound of her voice, and somehow, seeing the tears already gathering in your eyes makes allie feel even worse.

you try to smile, but the minimal action looks painful, like even moving the muscles in your face takes effort.

"hi."

the greeting comes out weak, barely above a whisper and allie's stomach drops even further, because this isn't you.

you're the person who talks with your hands, who fills every silence, who somehow manages to find something funny in every situation.

even when you're sick, especially when you're sick.

right now you sound exhausted.

drained.

like simply getting that one word out had cost you energy you didn't have to spare. "oh my god," allie says immediately, crossing the room.

"you look terrible."

a breath that might have been a laugh leaves you, or maybe a wince, it's hard to tell.

"thank you."

"i'm serious." she drops into a crouch beside the couch, one hand immediately finding your forehead.

"jesus, you're burning up."

your eyes close again. "i don't feel very good."

the understatement is so ridiculous that it would almost be funny if you didn't look like you were about thirty seconds away from passing out.

"what happened?"

"nothing."

"y/n."

you let out a slow breath. "my stomach hurts."

allie stares. you stare back for approximately two seconds before abruptly folding forward, one hand shooting toward the edge of the couch as your eyes squeeze shut.

the sound that leaves you isn't quite a gasp, isn't quite a groan, just pain.

raw and immediate.

allie's heart practically stops, she'd never seen you like this before.

you were the girl who powered through migraines, the girl who submitted assignments with fevers, the girl who insisted she was fine when she very clearly wasn't. seeing you unable to sit upright feels wrong. incredibly, undeniably wrong.

"we're going to the hospital."

"allie-"

"hospital."

"it's probably nothing."

"you literally can't sit up."

"that's dramatic."

allie gestures toward your current position. "you're folded in half, y/n."

you glance down at yourself, consider it, before nodding once. "okay."

a pause.

"maybe only a little dramatic."

-

twenty minutes later the pair were sitting in emergency. allie was drafting out a text to garrett, her fingers shaking.

allie

something's wrong with y/n

i'm taking her to the hospital

don't panic but maybe panic a little

the response came back in less than ten seconds.

garrett

fuck

which hospital

i'm coming

garrett had been halfway through lunch with the boys when the message from allie arrived. one second he was listening to logan argue with dean about something completely ridiculous and the next he was on his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

everyone immediately stopped talking.

dean frowned.

"what?"

garrett was already reaching for his keys.

"y/n is in the hospital."

silence. absolute silence.

"what?"

"why?"

"what happened?"

"which hospital?"

"was there an accident?"

the questions came all at once and garrett didn't have any answers. somehow that was the worst part, because if he knew what was wrong maybe he could handle it.

instead all he had was a text message.

something's wrong.

hospital.

don't panic.

which was exactly the sort of message guaranteed to make him panic.

"i'm driving."

dean was already standing, “we're all coming"

-

by the time they arrived at the hospital sabrina and grace had too, sitting beside allie, waiting.

nobody looked relaxed, nobody looked okay.

the harsh fluorescent lights washed everyone out. the waiting room smelled faintly of coffee, antiseptic and exhaustion. people came and went, televisions murmured quietly overhead, time seemed to move strangely.

too slow, and yet too fast all at once.

dean had started pacing approximately fourteen seconds after arriving.

he hadn't stopped since.

back and forth. back and forth. wearing an invisible path into the hospital floor.

at some point he'd walked such a precise route between the reception desk and the vending machines that the nurse behind reception had started glancing up automatically every time he passed.

every now and then he'd drag a hand through his hair, ask if there were any updates, receive the same answer, before starting to pace again.

logan had bought six coffees, nobody drank them. they sat untouched on a nearby table, slowly going cold.

tucker had six different tabs open on his phone, every single one worse than the last.

"apparently if it ruptures-"

"tucker."

"what?"

"shut up."

"okay."

thirty seconds later.

"apparently recovery time-"

"tucker."

"right. i've got it, sorry"

garrett hadn't said much, which somehow worried everyone more.

he sat with his elbows on his knees and a folded information sheet in his hands. the nurse had given it to him forty minutes ago, he'd read it immediately, then read it again, and again, and again.

by now the edges had started to crease beneath his fingers while tiny white lines appeared where he'd folded and unfolded the paper too many times.

not because he was learning anything new, but because reading it felt better than doing nothing.

because doing nothing, and sitting in the waiting room helpless felt impossible, because every second he wasn't sitting right by your side looking at you felt wrong.

-

the thing nobody talks about later is the surgery.

or the diagnosis.

or even the fact that it had been appendicitis.

what everyone remembers is seeing you in the hospital room. that was the moment it became real.

the moment they finally saw you, hospital blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fact it wasn't cold.

hair messy, face pale.

hospital bracelet hanging loosely around your wrist, eyes glassy from exhaustion and pain medication.

small. you looked impossibly small.

for a second nobody moved. they'd all been imagining it, the hospital was abstract when it existed in a text message.

in updates from allie, in worried phone calls, in unanswered questions.

it was something happening somewhere else, something they couldn't quite picture.

but now, it wasn't abstract anymore.

there you were. curled beneath a blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around your stomach. you looked exhausted, fragile. smaller than any of them had ever seen you and suddenly it became terrifying, because this wasn't right.

this wasn't you.

you were supposed to be the person carrying snacks in your handbag for everyone else, the person forcing garrett to eat breakfast before practice, the person who somehow always noticed when somebody's smile looked a little forced.

the person who checked in, constantly, who remembered things, who took care of people. you were never supposed to be the person sitting in a hospital bed trying not to cry.

allie sat beside you, one hand wrapped tightly around yours. garrett was on the other side, not sitting, standing, like if he sat down something bad might happen.

every few seconds his eyes would scan your features.

checking. still there, still breathing, still okay.

or as okay as you could be.

he hadn't let go of your hand once, not once. his thumb moved absently over your knuckles, like he needed the physical confirmation that you were still next to him.

the automatic doors slid open behind him. nurses came and went, phones rang, doctors crossed the corridor.

you winced, barely. just slightly, the sort of movement most people would've missed. seven heads however immediately turned towards you, the reaction so automatic it would've been funny under any other circumstance.

"you okay?"

the words come from four different people at once. you blinked, mildly startled by the attention.

"yeah."

you weren't, everyone knew you weren't. your hand remained pressed protectively against your stomach. your face still tightened every few minutes when another wave of pain rolled through, and every single time it happened somebody in the group visibly tensed with you, as though they could somehow absorb part of it if they worried hard enough.

somehow you still managed a tired smile. "you guys don't have to stay."

logan looked genuinely offended, grace scoffed, sabrina stared, tucker looked like you'd personally insulted him and dean actually stopped pacing.

which might have been the most alarming thing he'd done all night.

"seriously?"

you blinked.

"what?"

"we're obviously staying."

"dean-"

"we're staying."

simple, final.

because there had never been any other option on the table.

you looked down. "i'm okay."

the shared expression around the room suggested absolutely nobody believed you.

"you've cried four times in the last hour," sabrina said gently.

"five," grace corrected.

allie lifted her hand, "six."

"guys."

"you cried because the nurse asked if you had allergies", grace states gently.

"that wasn't why i was crying."

"baby, you cried because they brought you apple juice," garrett said softly.

your face immediately flushed. “i was overwhelmed."

"exactly. that's not helping your argument."

the tiny smile that followed was enough to make the entire group visibly relax, which seemed ridiculous.

you had noticed it. the way they were watching you, the way dean kept pacing, the way garrett wouldn't let go, the way logan's jokes had completely disappeared, the way tucker kept looking up from his phone every thirty seconds just to make sure you were still okay. for the first time all day the brave smile slipped, just slightly.

fear replacing it. raw, honest, small.

everyone noticed and suddenly the room felt quieter, because they'd never seen that expression on your face before.

not once, not ever.

you were the strong one, the steady one, the safe place. seeing fear in your eyes felt wrong in a way none of them could explain.

garrett swallowed hard, dean looked away, grace squeezed allie's shoulder and logan stared at the floor. somehow the scariest part wasn't the surgery to come. it wasn’t the hospital or appendicitis itself.

it was seeing the person who always made everybody else feel safe looking like she needed someone to make her feel safe instead, and none of them were prepared for how much that would hurt.

summary: you hated the guy. he wanted to prove you wrong.

author’s note: i think it needs a second part

"I just don't understand. Why is it that all athletes think the whole world revolves around them?"

You glance over at Allie as you walk across campus. She is completely glued to her phone, thumbs flying across the keyboard with a faint, amused smile playing on her lips. She lets out a vague, rhythmic hum, entirely tuned out but pretending to listen to your rant.

"Tell you what," you continue anyway, pointing a dramatic finger in her direction to demand some semblance of attention. "We should start giving them real-life penalties to stop them. Seriously, put them in a literal timeout."

part 1

pairing: john logan x f!reader

summary: You and John Logan are childhood best friends. You share the kind of emotional intimacy only two people who have seen each other grow up can have, but now you’re no longer kids, you’re college students and trying to navigate the complex time between childhood and adulthood. Before joining John at Briar U a year after him, you were convinced your silly crush had faded, but now that you’re back in his orbit, you’re no longer so sure. You try your best to remain just friends, but watching him turn from the boy down the street to the big man on campus is harder than you thought. And you’re not sure how much more you can take of watching him overlook you time and time again.

contains: friends to enemies (sort of) to lovers, unrequited love, talk of childhood trauma (abandonment, addiction), no use of y/n, Logan calls reader by nickname (Birdie), cursing, kissing, angst, logan being a dummy

author’s note: inspired by one of my favorite songs :) this was stupid long, i got kinda carried away but i love writing about nostalgia <3 this was just the intro so we’ll get into the actual plot/current day next chapter! also, this is gonna be a series :))) i’m not exactly sure how many parts yet, but i’ll keep u guys updated! lmk what you think 💕

series playlist

You remember the exact day that John Logan moved in a few houses down.

It was a seemingly unremarkable afternoon on an uncharacteristically hot Monday in June. You were only about a week into summer vacation and had already grown bored of the monotonous routine of your day without school.

The windows were open and blowing a warm breeze onto your wet toenails where the white-out you had painted on was still drying. You had positioned yourself on the window bench seat in your bedroom to be able to see down the street to where the moving truck currently was and were watching while the new neighbors slowly moved things in.

Your older sister suddenly whirled into your shared bedroom and flopped onto her bed on the other side of your space with a huff, her swimsuit likely still wet from swim practice and making the comforter beneath damp.

“Are they still unpacking?” She asked without looking.

“Mhmm,” you hummed.

In your small community, it was rare when something happened that the whole neighborhood didn’t know about, and the new neighbors who would be moving into the beloved Kershaw house were a hot topic. Especially for your oldest sister who’d had her first kiss with the oldest Kershaw boy, Josh.

She’d been devastated when Josh told her they were moving to Florida, hence her being shut away in her room all day. Apparently it didn’t matter that she and Josh hadn’t hung out in quite some time, she had explained to you that she and Josh shared a connection that transcended time.

She threw a pillow at you when you laughed.

And then, when your mom told you to go knock on her door afterwards and check to see if she wanted lunch, you tentatively obeyed, knocking the softest you could, though the eldest of you still screamed to go away through the door like you had banged on it.

You could faintly hear her strumming her guitar behind the chipped, white wood, only minor chords ringing out as her soft voice sung some heartbroken melody. You were tempted to sit outside and listen, but you knew if she caught you, you’d likely get kicked in the face.

“Did you catch what they look like?” Your other sister was now leaning over you to get a look for herself, her wet hair flopping onto your shoulder and you swatted at her to get her chlorine soaked body away.

“You’re dripping on me,” you complained instead of answering, wiping the droplets of moisture off your arms.

“Sorry,” she muttered distractedly, still staring out the window. You bent down to gently touch your freshly painted nails to check if they were dry and cringed when the white out stuck to your finger like glue and created a gap where the white liquid previously was. “I don’t know why you do that,” your sister commented. “We have white nail polish.”

“I saw it in a movie once,” you grumbled, leaning over to grab a tissue to wipe your finger off.

“Ooh, there’s a boy.” The both of you immediately stood up and squished together to be able to see out the window. And there he was, a boy likely somewhere between your ages carrying a large cardboard box into his new house. “Dibs.”

You groaned in protest. “C’mon, no fair.”

“Sorry, you snooze, you lose.”

“How do you even know he’s your age?” You questioned. Though there wasn’t that big of an age difference between you two, a few years felt like decades. You were a good bit younger than both of your sisters and it felt like it. While they were getting their first phones and having their first kisses, you were still playing with Barbie dolls.

While you were painting your nails with white-out, your eldest sister was writing sad love songs in her room about a real experience she had. You had yet to have any.

Unless you were to count Connor Gregory confessing his love for you on the playground in first grade before picking a cicada off the mulch and eating it.

So no, you didn’t count that.

And if either of your sisters continued to keep calling dibs before you, it would likely be a while before you had any.

“I guess we’ll see.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you before running from the room, still in only her swimsuit, and leaves you there sputtering and scrambling to follow.

You both run outside barefoot, the rough concrete of the sidewalk feeling familiar under your feet as you make your way toward the house with the moving truck and various cardboard boxes lying in the yard out front.

The boy you saw from your window was now carrying a box labeled ‘kitchen stuff’ and paused on the sidewalk as he watched you and your sister approach. A woman, who you assumed was his mother, passed by while carrying another box, and began shouting to someone inside to “help your brother.”

His smile warm and kind, his brown hair a little curly and flopping a bit in his eyes. You watched his attention flick back and forth between the two of you before landing on your sister who wasted no time greeting him in her usual fearlessness.

“Hi. What’s your name?”

“John.” You heard it echo in your head like he had shouted it into a tunnel and you let the word reverberate around you. “What’s yours?”

She told him and then introduced you, and when his gaze landed on you once again, you could feel your cheeks heating as you raised your hand in a shy wave. He returned it kindly, his brown eyes soft and curious.

“We live just a few doors down,” your sister explained. “The one with the yellow door if you ever wanna hangout.” She shrugged like she didn’t care either way and then left before hearing John’s response.

The two of you stood there in silence for a beat, the both of you a little struck by your sisters abrupt departure, your eyes looking anywhere but each other.

“Bye,” you blurted suddenly and turned to leave just as quickly as your sister had.

“Bye,” you heard John gently murmur from behind you, and you struggled not to turn back and look at him once again.

You didn’t see John again until a few days later, when the moving trucks were gone and the boxes were off of their lawn and finally inside of their new house.

It was in the evening, the street lights had just come on with a crackle and buzz to paint the street in an orange sort of glow to match the setting sun. You were sitting in one of your favorite pine trees; one that was easiest to climb and had the least amount of sticky sap drooling from its branches.

The rest of the kids had gone inside for dinner, including both of your sisters, but since your dad usually worked late, you wouldn’t actually eat until he got home, which wasn’t until another hour.

You enjoyed the solitude at the end of the day, when your only company was the chirping of insects and the rustling of the wind through the tree branches. You were humming some tune and watching as a daddy long leg crawled across your palms as you alternated hands.

You hadn’t seen him approach, so you jumped when you heard his voice call from down below to ask, “can I come up?”

The daddy long leg had begun to crawl around your hand and up your arm without your attention, the bug completely indifferent to the nervous fluttering in your chest, so you quickly redirected the eight-legged arachnid and croaked out, “uhm…sure.”

You made yourself wait to look at John until he was seated in front of you, his legs swinging from the branch where he sat and chest rising and falling rapidly from the excursion of his climb. You took in his sports jersey that you didn’t recognize and the worn fabric of his converse before finally meeting his gaze, his smile just as friendly as the first time you met him.

As you stared at each other, you scrambled for something—anything to say. But all you could think was that you weren’t your sisters. You weren’t good with your words.

Luckily, he spoke first. “I noticed you like climbing trees.” You could feel your mouth drying up. How did he know? Had he been watching you? “I saw you the past few days, always sitting in this one. It’s nice up here. I like it.”

“I like the view,” you heard yourself say, sudden and clumsy like you were having to rip the words out. He looked out between the branches and nodded, the field below bathed in the warmth of the sunset. “And one time I found a family of birds. They hatched and flew off last year. I left them alone because my mom told me the mama bird may not come back if I touch them, so I just watched. I was sad when they left, though. Sometimes I still think about where they went. If they ever come back. If birds can recognize people.”

When you dared to look at him again, he was watching you with that smile, the one that made your mouth feel dry and your hands clammy. You continued your nervous rambling and avoided eye contact once again.

“Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be a bird. I bet it feels really cool to fly. Freeing. Sometimes I wonder what clouds feel like, if they’re like cotton candy, if they taste like cotton candy. That’d be cool. But then your hands would probably feel sticky afterwards. That’s another reason why I like this tree. It doesn’t have as much sap on its branches. My mom is always getting mad at me for getting sap on my clothes and in my hair.” You pat down your hair then self consciously, knowing your face is likely as red as a tomato with how warm it feels. He’s still staring at you with that same smile and you almost want to yell at him to stop.

“You remind me of a bird.”

It’s the first time you go still since he came up here to join you.

“What?”

“Yeah. I mean, you sit up in trees like a bird. You’re kind of twitchy like birds.”

“Twitchy?” You repeat, deciding you do not like that word.

He laughs. “I don’t know. You seem gentle like a bird, too.” He shrugs, and this time you don’t totally hate the picture he’s painting of how he sees you. “Where would you go?” You look back up at him, unsure of what he means. “If you could fly. Where would you go?”

“Oh.” You think about it. “I don’t know. I haven’t been many places before.”

“Me neither,” he confesses, beginning to pick at his finger nails.

“Maybe somewhere cold?” You guess. “I like the cold.”

“You do?” He seems to perk up at this.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I like the winter, when the lake freezes over and everything is kinda quiet. I like skating.”

He scoots closer toward the edge of the branch, his eyes wider and more excited. “You skate? Have you ever played hockey?”

“No, not really. I’m still learning how to not just fall.” You giggle.

“Maybe I could teach you.” You turn your head at his suggestion, a smile overtaking your face.

“Okay,” you agree. He smiles. You sit in silence for a few more moments before suddenly, you’re breaking it again. “How old are you?”

“Ten. How old are you?”

“Nine.” Then he asks you how old your sisters are. “Twelve and fourteen.”

He nods and then asks you to tell him about them and you wonder if you light up like he did when you brought up hockey. This was a topic you knew, this was something you could talk about for hours.

You tell him about Josh Kershaw and about your sister’s friends; the ones you like and don’t like. You talk about movies and TV shows and the music you like to listen to. He tells you about his younger sibling and his mom, how they had to move when his dad left them. You talk until you hear your mom calling from around the corner that dinner is ready, the both of you reluctantly pausing to climb down.

You think you talk more with him than you have with anyone else, outside of your family.

When you arrive at your front door, you both promise to meet back at the tree the next day, excited and grinning at each other.

And when he turns to leave, he offers a small wave, and tells you, “Goodnight, Birdie.”

You feel like you float home.

It wasn’t until about three years later that you realized what you felt for John Logan was not just friendship.

You were twelve, he was thirteen and already in middle school—as popular and talked about as any beautiful boy was in a small town. You were…not.

Your sisters had been, to a certain extent. But they were often mistaken for twins with them being closer in age and more alike with their tameable hair and lithe bodies. They were talkative and somehow always knew what to say. They made friends easily.

You weren’t the antithesis of those things, you were just…different. Something you didn’t previously know to be a bad thing, but somewhere, somehow that word had begun to morph into something else; something much less appealing.

For starters, you were big for your age. Your mom had told you that you were an early bloomer, whatever that meant. You felt like a weed; growing uncontrollably and unwantedly. Your limbs felt too long, your shins ached at night, and you had been made to start wearing a training bra that was itchy and uncomfortable.

The mirror had never been a place you would stand in front of for very long, but recently it seemed to be where your feet would often take you. And there, you couldn’t help but closely examine the parts of you that were foreign, and specifically, different from my sisters. You had messier hair, half because it was a different texture than theirs, and half because you hardly ever brushed it—despite your mother’s protests. You almost always had sap on your hands and dirt on your knees, and you were thicker in places your sisters weren’t. Your thighs were wider, your belly fuller, and your cheeks rounder.

You weren’t as into sports as your sisters were either; always preferring to write a story or play pretend in your head rather than compete in any sort of competition.

It was a year ago now that your mom suggested theater classes to you, which terrified you at first. The thought of having to stand up on a stage in front of a room full of people and talk paralyzed you.

It had taken you a few classes to like it, but not many more to fall in love with it.

It was just like playing pretend, just with someone else making the rules, and you found that you loved not having to think about what to say since someone had already written the script.

You loved the friends you made doing it. You loved who you were while doing it.

And you loved that it was yours and no one else’s.

And that had been another development in recent months that you had come to hate.

The jealousy.

Sometimes it felt like your world shrunk down to your neighborhood and you would forget all you were without it.

You and John had grown close, but that also meant he had grown close to your family as well, and more specifically, your sisters. And you did not like who you were with the two of them and John around.

The three of you bickered more with him there and it made you feel splayed open; your anger never something you felt comfortable displaying to anyone besides your family.

The biggest fight you and your sisters ever had was over John. He had come over to play some video game. You split up into teams and your middle sister kept picking John for hers. You told her she wasn’t being fair, then your eldest sister jumped in and threatened to involve mom, which only escalated the whole ordeal.

Then, the room finally exploded with, “you only want to switch teams because you have a crush on John!”

The basement was dead silent after that. You could feel your face getting hot and your eyes stinging. When your bottom lip started to wobble, your sister’s face crumpled and she immediately started apologizing.

You ran upstairs to your room, unable to look John in the eye. You cried so hard you felt sick and locked everyone out of your room. Your sister had to sleep in the other room that night and the three of you didn’t speak for a week.

Not until your mom made you all sit on the couch and stare at each other until you made up. It took an hour.

Your crush had begun to feel dirty and wrong more than anything else. You hated the feelings it gave you. You hated what it did to your sisters and you.

You didn’t understand why it seemed like you had to keep your worlds separate; one for John and one for your sisters. It didn’t make sense.

When it was just the three of you, you had so much fun. You loved the moments when you were inside playing rummy on a rainy day. You loved watching your favorite movies and quoting each line because you’d seen them countless times. You even loved fighting over who got to hold the popcorn bowl. You loved the rare nights when you would have sleepovers in your shared room, your eldest in the sleeping bag nestled between your beds. You loved how your stomach and cheeks hurt after a night spent laughing. You loved how warm you felt and how full your chest was. You loved the moments right before bed when you were all too tired to fake not liking each other and you could whisper, “I think you guys are my best friends,” into the dark quiet and not get only laughs in reply.

You wondered if this is what boys did to all girls. Made them isolate themselves in bedrooms and write sad songs, or compete with each other to win their affection but lose each other in the process.

Your crush had begun to resemble spoiled milk. It was sour and curdled in your mouth, and when you were alone you would take it out and examine it. You would shuffle through the mess and analyze your interactions.

But when John was in front of you, it was like you could see nothing else. You thought only of the good times. And there were many.

You thought of the nights when you’d laugh so hard you’d risk falling to the ground, out of your tree. You thought about how you didn’t need to speak, how you could communicate with a simple look and understand exactly what the other was thinking. You thought of how thoughtful he was, how kind.

Luckily, he never mentioned what your sister had said that day in your basement. You went on pretending like nothing ever happened, meeting in your tree each night when the rest of the neighborhood had gone inside.

You’re not sure when exactly it became your shared tree, but somewhere between then and now, it had become a ritual.

Most times, you’d sit in the quiet and listen to the bugs and birds and watch the sun set slowly. Even in the winter, you would bundle up in your coats and brave climbing the slippery, snowy branches to sit up where you had created a little break in the needles, your weight bending the branches slowly over time to create a larger window.

One Christmas, John had gotten walkie-talkies as a present, and he brought them to the tree excitedly, climbing up as high as he could, where the branches were thinner, to talk down to you through the small, handheld device. You’d pretend you couldn’t already hear him without it and listen to the crunchy sound of his voice coming through the speaker.

It was a chilly fall night when he climbed up to meet you, thoughts of the two of you swirling around your brain and leaving space for nothing else. His sweatshirt looked soft and warm. You had brought a blanket with you that your mom would undoubtedly be furious with you over later for bringing and getting sap on, but you liked the feeling of bundling up while leaning against the trunk of the tree.

Most nights, he would talk and you would listen, and somewhere between ten and thirteen, the topics got heavier. He would tell you about his mom, how she tended to drink so much she would fall asleep in random places. Then his dad, how he left and he hasn’t seen him since he was eight.

Sometimes you wondered if you were the only person he was telling this to. You wondered if there was a reason for that.

It was that very thought that made you interrupt his speech about the latest Boston Bruins game to ask, “do you think I’m pretty?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could tell he was surprised by the sudden question. He laughed nervously and then asked, “what?”

“Do you think I’m pretty? I know my sisters are pretty. I know my mom is pretty. But…I don’t really look like them, so I’m wondering if I’m pretty.”

You were poking the bubbles of sap in the tree bark as you awaited his answer, trying not to let it show that your breath was stuck in your throat and your cheeks had reddened in the night’s dark.

”I don’t know, you’re just…Birdie.” You looked at him then, unsure of his meaning. You’re not sure if he knew it either. “You’re something different.”

And there was that word again. The one that had begun to mean something much more ugly than it had before. You decided then that you wished you hadn’t asked at all, because somehow his answer was worse than if he had just said ‘no.’

You never allowed yourself to ask another question that toed the line of your friendship. You cherished you and John’s relationship too much to risk muddying the waters and fucking things up.

It wasn’t until the summer before he left for college that things shifted. And to your surprise, it wasn’t your doing.

You had been sitting up in your tree, dreading the coming of fall that meant not only your sisters leaving, but now John as well. And without your sisters around the past few years, the house felt hollow. Everything was too quiet. It was too easy to fill up all the empty spaces with John.

It was the night before he left, and he met you in your tree late, like he had so many nights before, climbing up with ease and then perching on his branch with a relieved sigh.

“I’m gonna miss this,” he confessed after a few beats.

You couldn’t help but smile. “There will be trees at Briar.”

“Yeah,” he conceded, sounded unconvinced. “But none of them will have you. I’ll miss our conversations.”

When you looked over at him, he was already looking at you with this expression you couldn’t quite name. The last few nights had been like this; heavy with something that lingered and left you feeling achy. You swallowed to try and moisten your dry throat, but you found you couldn’t.

You laughed lightly, trying to recover quickly from his confession, trying hard not to seem too affected. “You mean the ones where you talk and I listen?”

“Hey,” he fakes offense. “I listen plenty. When you have something to say.”

“Which is…not often.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he reasons. You send him a look. “What? It just means when you do say something, I know it’s important. You don’t just talk to talk.”

Again, you’re stunned by his words and unsure what to do with them. You felt like you had been handed something you weren’t sure you were supposed to be carrying.

“Most times. Other times, I babble like an idiot.” He laughs fondly like he remembers the days before you were comfortable enough with him to allow the silences to stretch between you.

“A very cute idiot.” You’re almost angry with him for saying it, though you smile. You don’t understand when or why this shift between you happened. You wondered if it was because he was leaving. Was this some last ditch effort? You tried not to think on it too hard. “At least I won’t have to wait too long. Only a year before you join me at Briar.”

“I don’t know if I’ve got in yet,” you remind him softly, picking at some of the pine needles on the branch beside you.

“Oh come on.” He rolls his eyes. “We both know you’re getting in. If I got in, then you got in.”

“Yes, but you got a hockey scholarship. Briar doesn’t offer those for lowly theater kids like me,” you tease, only half kidding. He extends his leg across the space between you to lightly kick your shin in jest.

“You’ll get in.” He sounds so sure, and you wonder if he’s convincing himself or you. “You have to. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

“You’ll survive,” you tell him without doubt. “Briar U’s entire female student population will quiver at the sight of the great John Logan gracing their hollowed halls.”

He snorts a laugh, his eyes alight even in the dimmed hue of the evening.

Your chuckles fizzle out, and then you’re left with this heady sort of air between you, his smile soft and fond, his eyes hazy like he’s tipsy.

“What?” You ask him, though you’re scared to.

“Nothing.” He shrugs, though you know he isn’t finished yet and you wait with bated breath for him to continue his thought. “I just really want you there. I need my Birdie.”

His Birdie.

His.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, trying to find something in his face that would reveal the trick or truth. He stares back openly, like he has nothing to hide.

You find it hard to breathe.

Then, you eat up the space between you quickly, vaguely registering that it’s a miracle you don’t knock the both of you out of the tree with how quickly and forcefully you fling yourself at him to kiss him. You’re standing on the branch just below the one he’s sitting on, his hands immediately going to your hips while yours wrap around his neck.

His mouth is still beneath yours for a few beats before he starts to reciprocate, his mouth curving into a smile as he squeezes your hips. You don’t know how long you kiss for, but it feels like one second and one hour all at the same time.

You don’t climb down until your completely out of breath, your skin feeling tight and sensitive as his fingers find where your shirt has ridden up, or his lips at the hollow of your neck just above where your collar starts. When you do make it down, he’s standing at the bottom and reaching up to grab hold of you by the waist, keeping you suspended in the air there for a moment before kissing you again.

Your back hits the bark when he pushes you against the trunk of the tree and you instinctively wrap your legs around him, his hands moving to the backs of your thighs.

You don’t know how or when you finally make it home. You’d start the walk back and then pause again to kiss like you’re starved for each other. You’re giggling like idiots when you finally make it to your front door, his hand in yours tugging you into him to feel his lips again.

“So what does this mean now?” You hear yourself ask, letting your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“What does what mean now?” You watch his swollen mouth move that now resembles a darker pink than usual from your attention. You fight the urge to feel your own then, your mind hazy and limbs heavy like you’re drunk.

“This, us.”

You don’t sober until he pulls back with a sort of concerned look. “What do you mean ‘us’?”

“Well—“ You find yourself at a loss, unsure what to say. “I thought…” you trail off again.

“Birdie,” he says it low, like you’re a child. A kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Your hands fall to your sides as you back away. ”I’m leaving in a few days.”

“I know,” you reply firmly, your hands balling into fists to keep yourself from reaching back out. You feel shaky all of a sudden, like you’re coming down too quick. You feel desperate to rewind and go back to a few minutes ago.

“We were just…it can’t mean anything.”

And just like that, you feel yourself completely deflate; the needle of truth popping your balloon and you’re yanked back down to reality.

“Why…did you do it then?” You don’t understand and you hate that you don’t. You feel like crying and you hate that you do.

“We were just having fun.”

“Fun?” You echo woodenly, not really sure how what you did constitutes as fun. Enjoyable? Yes. Mind-melting? Absolutely. But fun? Not really. And especially not now.

“I…look, I’m sorry. I just broke up with Janelle and I was feeling lonely. I probably shouldn’t have sought you out like that.” He’s running his hands through his hair, but it just flops back into his face and you itch to push it back but don’t.

“You think?” You laugh bitterly. You hadn’t even known he’d a girlfriend, let alone that her name was Janelle. You feel stupid. You feel used. “So, that’s what these past few days were? Your ego was bruised so you came to me to make yourself feel better? Bigger?”

“No, Birdie—“

“You knew I’d be waiting for you,” You cut him off. “You knew you could kiss me just for fun and I’d let you. That I’d want you to.” You’re not asking because you know. You know your crush hasn’t ever been a secret—not to him, not to anyone. You knew how vulnerable and sad that made you, and yet you didn’t stop him.

“You kissed me,” he corrects, passing blame.

“Because you told me I was yours,” you cry out. “And you knew for years that’s all I’d been dying to be.”

The tears are freely flowing now as you angrily swipe at them. John’s face is crumpled by guilt as he reaches for you but you step away.

“Bird, please. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Your words lash out like a whip. “I gave you every reason to think you could.”

When you turn to go inside, he doesn’t stop you.

And the next day, he’s gone.

next part

masterlist

requests are open!

comment if you’d like to be added to my taglist :}

dividers by: @pixopix @koosuvi

˗ˏˋ SUMMARY .ᐟ Beau isn’t looking for a relationship, he’s good with where he’s at in life. Football, parties, hookups. You’re still healing from your last relationship that left you in pieces. But what happens when your advisor wants you to focus on writing about the football team, and Beau Maxwell—Briar’s very quarterback—conveniently keeps showing up in your life?

˗ˏˋ PAIRING .ᐟ Beau Maxwell x Journalist!reader

˗ˏˋ WARNINGS .ᐟ drinking/smoking, frat boys ??, eventual smut, making out, lots of mentions of sex, sexual jokes, sexual comments, comments on bodies (men & women), cheating (not beau ofc)

Note ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა — This going to be part smau, part written & I am making all of the social media parts myself so 1. it’ll take longer to put out and 2. it won’t be 100% accurate but it’s going to be based on real social medias

˗ˏˋ CHAPTERS .ᐟ

zero. insta profiles

one. beer pong

two. insta stalking

three. coffee date

four. drunk foolery

five.

˗ˏˋ EXTRAS .ᐟ

. . .

#your husband is coming 🎶

trope: brother's best friend

masterlist

plot: you just broke up with your toxic boyfriend, hunter, and he won't stop coming to your apartment. so, you decide to stay at your brother, garret, house for the weekend. . . . with his roommate dean.

the rain was hitting the windshield so hard, you could barely see the briar university campus signs as you sped away from my apartment.

your phone was vibrating out of control in the cup holder--name after name, text after text, all from the guy you had finally, thankfully, kicked out of your life an hour ago. he wouldn't stop calling, and he knew exactly where you lived. you couldn't stay there tonight.

panicked, you dialed the one person you knew would have your back no matter what.

"hey, what's up?" garrett’s voice came through the speakers, instantly grounding you.

"garrett," you choked out, trying to keep your voice steady. "i just broke up with hunter. he won't stop calling and he's literally outside my door. can i please stay at your place for a couple of days?"

there was a sharp pause, and you could hear the sudden tension in garrett's posture even through the phone. "yeah. absolutely. get over here right now. i’m away for a game with logan and tucker until sunday, but dean's home. i'll text him and let him know you're coming so he doesn't freak out. you're safe there, okay?"

"okay. see you sunday."

ten minutes later, you were sprinting from your car to the porch of the massive hockey house, clutching a duffel bag of hastily packed clothes. you stood on the porch, shivering as the rain poured down around you, clutching your duffel bag tightly against your chest. when nobody answered your first knock, you banged on the heavy wooden door again, harder this time.

finally, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

dean di laurentis stood there, looking completely caught off guard. he was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair slightly messy. but before you could even say hello, you noticed a girl standing just a few feet behind him in the hallway, putting her coat on and looking equally confused.

dean looked at you, then down at your packed bag, and blinked. "uh, hey? what are you doing here?" dean’s always thought you were beautiful, but he purposely kept his distance out of respect for garrett. plus, everyone on campus knows dean di laurentis strictly avoids relationship drama and commitment.

"garrett didn't text you?" you asked, your voice shaking slightly from the cold and the adrenaline.

dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen. his eyes widened slightly. "oh. shit. my phone was on silent. i didn't see it."

the girl behind him cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "i should probably head out anyway," she said, looking between the two of you. "i'll see you around, dean."

"yeah, sorry about that. night," dean muttered, stepping aside to let her walk out into the rain before shutting the door firmly behind her.

he turned back to you, the casual, easygoing smirk he usually wore completely gone. he took in your dripping wet clothes, your pale face, and the way your hands were trembling on the handle of your bag. the silence in the house suddenly felt very loud.

"hey," he said, his voice dropping into a much softer, more grounded tone than you were used to hearing from him. "garrett's text says you need a place to stay for a few days. what happened?"

you looked down at your wet sneakers, the weight of the entire night suddenly crashing over you. you gripped the strap of your duffel bag tighter, your knuckles turning white.

"it's... nothing," you muttered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rain still drumming against the door outside. "i just needed a place to crash. garrett said it was okay."

dean didn't move. he just watched you, his eyes scanning your face, clearly not buying the deflection for a second. he was used to being the guy everyone wanted to talk to, but right now, he looked genuinely concerned.

"hey," he said quietly, stepping a little closer but keeping enough distance so you didn't feel crowded. "you're shivering, you're soaking wet, and you look like you just saw a ghost. you don't have to give me the whole story if you don't want to, but you're not standing out here in the hallway all night."

he reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he gently took the heavy duffel bag from your hand. "go upstairs and get out of those wet clothes. garrett’s room is clean. i’ll make some tea or something."

you swallowed hard, nodding gratefully because your jaw was literally chattering from the cold. "thanks, dean," you whispered, avoiding his eyes as you started up the stairs.

by the time you changed into a pair of dry sweatshorts and one of garrett's oversized briar hockey hoodie, the shaking had mostly stopped, but the anxiety was still hovering right under your skin. you walked back down to the living room, finding dean sitting on the couch. two mugs were steaming on the coffee table.

he looked up when you walked in, shifting over to give you space. "better?"

"yeah," you said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch and pulling your knees up to your chest. you stared at the steam rising from your mug, the silence stretching between you.

dean let the quiet linger for a minute, giving you time to settle. "garrett's text was pretty vague," he finally said, his tone casual but careful. "just said you had some stuff going on at your place and needed to stay here until sunday."

he paused, looking at the way you were practically trying to disappear into garrett's hockey hoodie, before leaning back against the cushions. "how's that little boyfriend of yours anyway? hunter, right?"

hearing his name felt like a physical blow. you bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze dropping instantly back down to the steaming mug between your hands. you didn't say anything, but the sudden stiffness in your shoulders gave everything away.

dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, the trace of casual amusement completely dropping from his expression. he was smarter than people gave him credit for, and it took him about two seconds to put the pieces together--your packed bag, the frantic arrival, and the mention of your boyfriend.

"we broke up," you whispered, finally looking up to meet his eyes. "and he wouldn't leave my apartment. he was outside my door, so i'm here."

dean's jaw tightened, a hard, protective look passing over his features before he forced himself to relax so he wouldn't scare you. "he's not coming near this place," he said, his voice dropping into a firm, steady register. "you're safe here. i mean it."

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, but your mind suddenly flashed back to the hallway just ten minutes ago. the image of the girl putting on her coat, looking pretty and completely at ease in dean's space, flared up in your chest. an uncomfortable, sharp twist hit your stomach, making you feel suddenly self-conscious in garrett's giant, oversized hockey hoodie.

"i'm sorry again for interrupting," you muttered, staring down at your thumbs. "with... whoever that was. you didn't have to kick her out because of me."

"who, marissa?" dean let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head. "trust me, you didn't interrupt anything important. she was already leaving."

"right," you said, a little too quickly. "i just know you usually have a lot of...visitors. i don't want to get in the way of your weekend plans."

dean paused, studying your face. a slow, faint smirk began to creep back onto his lips, though his eyes remained soft. "are you worried about my social life, or are you just jealous?"

"jealous? no way," you lied, feeling your cheeks heat up. you'd always thought dean was impossibly attractive. everyone on campus did, it was a known fact but you'd always kept your distance because he was garrett's friend and a notorious player. now, sitting this close to him on the couch, the sudden urge to defend your territory from random campus girls felt weirdly intense, even if you didn't quite understand why you cared so much.

"well.." dean grinned, his eyes locked on you. "the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."

you shifted slightly on the couch, your face flushing even deeper at his words. you rolled your eyes, pulling garrett's oversized hoodie tighter around yourself to hide the flutter in your chest.

"is that your professional advice, di laurentis?" you asked, trying to match his playful tone even though your heart was beating a little too fast. "because it sounds like a line you've used about a hundred times."

dean laughed, a rich, genuine sound that made the remaining tension in your shoulders melt away. he leaned back against the cushions, his arm resting along the top of the sofa behind you, not quite touching you but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"maybe a little cliché," he admitted, his grin softening into something more genuine. "but seriously, you look like you're carrying the weight of the world right now. you don't have to think about him, or campus, or anything else tonight. you're off the grid here."

you took a slow sip of the tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest. looking at him now without the usual crowd of hockey players or random girls surrounding him, he seemed different. less like the untouchable campus legend and more like someone who was genuinely looking out for you.

"okay," you said quietly, meeting his gaze. "no talking about exes. what are we doing instead?"

"well, i have an idea... but they might get me in trouble with your brother."

dean tilted his head, a slow, playful grin spreading across his face that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"what kind of trouble?" you asked, raising an eyebrow and holding your mug with both hands.

he moved closer to you, his face now inches from yours. "do you want to find out?" his eyes flicking down to your lips.

you held his gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs as the space between you completely vanished. the playful banter died out, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence that made the breath hitch in your throat.

"yeah," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips before dean leaned in and closed the distance.

the kiss was instant heat, a sudden release of all the built-up tension from the entire night. it wasn't gentle or tentative; it was hot and messy, his mouth moving against yours with an intensity that took your breath away. dean’s hand slid up your waist, tightening his grasp on your hip and pulling you into his lap.

you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his shirt as the rest of the world completely faded into the background. the rain continued to beat heavily against the living room windows, but the inside of the house felt entirely warm, safe, and removed from everything else.

when he finally pulled back a fraction to catch his breath, his forehead rested against yours. his hands remained securely on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, calming circles against the fabric of the oversized hockey hoodie.

"i've been wanting to do that for a really long time," dean murmured, his voice lower and rougher than usual, his eyes locking onto yours with total sincerity.

you let out a soft breath, a small smile finally breaking through. "yeah? even with garrett's voice probably screaming in the back of your head right now?"

dean let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his grip tightening just a little as he pulled you a bit closer against him. "honestly? worth it. let him lock me out. i'm not going anywhere."

no. 1 obssession, part one

Pairing: john logan x fem!reader

part two

Summary: You never had any problems interviewing athletes, but that was until John Logan crossed your path. He thinks you don't pay attention; you think he's an arrogant prick. But now he seems to be everywhere you go, a constant, and way too close reminder of his audacity.

WC: 2.4k

A/N: english isn't my first language! hope i don't get judged cause i used google translator on many many phrases. it took me like 5 minutos to figure out how to say reader's a communication major. anyways, thank you for those who liked my idea and asked to be on the taglist!

taglist: @em1ly57 @nihoshi17 @phoebemikaelson