this blog is for anything and everything off campus, mostly involving garrett graham, john logan, dean di laurentis, allie hayes, and the rest of the briar crew.
i write fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, heavy topics, neurodivergent readers, and smut ranging from soft to very explicit. please read the warnings on each fic before continuing. read the request guidelines and more here
requests are currently: open
last updated: july 2026
౨ৎ john logan
3:07 A.M
you wake up anxious for no reason you can explain. logan wakes up too.
panic attack, anxiety, hurt/comfort.
[coming soon]
summary goes here.
warnings and tropes
౨ৎ garrett graham
[coming soon]
summary goes here.
warnings and tropes
౨ৎ dean di laurentis
[coming soon]
summary goes here.
warnings and tropes
౨ৎ allie hayes
[coming soon]
summary goes here.
warnings and tropes
౨ৎ group fics
[coming soon]
summary goes here.
warnings and tropes
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summary: after weeks of running on empty, you let allie and hannah drag you out for a girls’ night. one drink turns into several, and soon logan, garrett, and dean are called in to collect three extremely drunk girlfriends. the night is funny until the alcohol strips away everything you have been trying not to say.
warnings: burnout, excessive alcohol use, depression, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, references to passive suicidal thoughts, the line “i don’t think i would be alive without you,” and a serious conversation about mental health. no vomiting and no explicit self-harm.
author’s note: this one became a lot deeper than the drunk girlfriend fic i originally planned. i wanted to show how burnout and depression can hide beneath jokes, partying, and acting like everything is fine. sometimes the scariest thoughts come out casually because saying them seriously feels impossible.
i write about these things because stories have always helped me feel less alone, and i hope mine can do that for somebody else too. this fic is not meant to romanticize drinking, depression, or relying on one person to stay alive. logan can love and support reader, but he cannot be her entire reason for surviving. the ending is about being heard, staying, and finally letting someone see how exhausted she really is.
please take care of yourself while reading. you deserve support even when your pain does not look dramatic enough to ask for it.
By Friday night, everything just feels exhausting.
Your laptop dies halfway through an assignment you’ve already rewritten twice. You forget to eat until almost four, then stand in the kitchen staring at a box of cereal because even pouring it into a bowl feels overwhelming. Logan texts after practice to see if you want to come over, and you spend ten minutes trying to reply without letting on how tired you really are.
Eventually, you just send him a picture of your ceiling.
logan: rough day?
you: rough life. dramatic sigh.
logan: want me to come over?
You almost say yes. Instead, you lock your phone and shove it under your pillow because you know exactly what would happen. Logan would show up with food. He’d sit on the edge of your bed and rub your back while you complain about being tired, and then you’d end up crying just because he asked a kind question in the wrong tone.
You care about him too much to let him see how close to the edge you’ve been all week.
That’s exactly why, two hours later, you’re standing in Allie’s bedroom while she tries to force you into a pair of silver boots.
“Your foot bends,” she says, gripping your ankle with the determination of a woman preparing to relocate a dislocated joint. “Stop fighting me.”
“I’m not fighting you. My body is rejecting them.”
“Your body has no taste.”
Hannah, sitting cross-legged on Allie’s bed with a glass of wine, watches the struggle over the rim. “I think losing circulation in both feet might make dancing difficult.”
Allie shoots her a betrayed look. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I’m on the side of keeping all ten of her toes.”
You finally wrench your leg free and nearly topple into the dresser. “I’m wearing sneakers.”
“You cannot wear sneakers with that dress.”
“I can do anything. I’m incredibly brave.”
Hannah snorts into her wine. Allie stares at you for another second before dropping the boot and pointing toward the door.
“Fine. Sneakers. But we are leaving before you crawl back into bed and disappear for another week.”
“I haven’t disappeared.”
“You answered my text yesterday with a thumbs-up.”
“That’s communication.”
“I asked whether you were still alive.”
You grab the wine bottle from Hannah and take a long drink directly from it.
Allie’s expression changes right away. She doesn’t get gentle, since Allie Hayes always chooses blunt concern over subtlety, but she does stop arguing about the shoes.
“That bad?” Hannah asks.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Nope.”
“That sounded convincing,” Allie says.
“I’m just tired. I need one night where nobody asks me about deadlines or my future or why I haven’t answered an email that has been sitting in my inbox for six days.”
Hannah holds out her glass, and you pour more wine into it.
“No deadlines,” she agrees.
“No futures,” Allie adds. “And absolutely no emails.”
You lift the bottle between you. “To making tomorrow’s problems significantly worse.”
“That is not what I—” Hannah begins.
Allie clinks her glass against the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
It turns out that drinking when you have barely eaten is remarkably efficient.
By the time you get to the bar, the wine has already warmed your stomach and taken the edge off everything that’s been bothering you all week. The music is loud enough that no one expects a serious conversation. The room is crowded enough that you can blend in without really being alone.
Allie buys the first round. Hannah buys the second. You lose track after a bartender places three violently pink drinks in front of you and Allie announces that they taste like “a slutty juice box.”
They do.
You drink two.
An hour later, Hannah is passionately explaining the plot of a book she read in high school to a woman she met in the bathroom. Allie is dancing with both arms above her head, her hair stuck to her lip gloss, and you are standing on the edge of the dance floor with your face tilted toward the flashing lights.
For the first time in days, your brain is quiet.
There is no assignment waiting. No unread message. No horrible heavy knowledge that morning will come and expect something from you again. There is only the bass vibrating beneath your shoes and Allie grabbing your hands, pulling you into the crowd.
“There she is!” Allie shouts.
“Who?”
“You!”
You laugh so hard you stumble into Hannah, who has returned from the bathroom with her new best friend’s entire relationship history.
“I like bathroom people,” Hannah tells you solemnly. “They’re honest.”
“Bathroom people are the backbone of society.”
“That’s what I said.”
Allie appears between you, flushed and shining. “Shots.”
Hannah points at her. “No.”
“Counterpoint: yes.”
“I’m with Allie,” you announce.
“You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing beautifully.”
To prove it, you straighten your spine and immediately sway sideways. Hannah catches your elbow before you can collide with a table.
“Beautifully,” she repeats.
The shot burns all the way down. You slam the tiny glass onto the bar and feel spectacular for approximately twelve minutes.
Then the room begins moving without you.
It’s not exactly spinning. It just feels like everything is a little delayed. Your legs take a few seconds to do what you tell them. Allie’s face keeps drifting in and out of focus. Hannah asks if you want water, and you tell her water is “emotionally boring.”
Your phone is in your hand, though you do not remember taking it from your bag.
There are six messages from Logan.
logan: having fun?
logan: tell Allie Dean says she’s banned from stealing traffic cones tonight
logan: apparently this is a real concern
logan: you alive, trouble?
You stare at the final message until the words blur together.
Alive.
A strange, sad feeling settles under your ribs. The alcohol has made you happy, but it’s also brought down every wall you’ve been holding up all week. Suddenly, you miss him so much it almost hurts.
You press his name and hold the phone to your ear.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”
“John.”
There is a brief pause.
Then his voice becomes much more alert. “Hi, baby.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too. How much have you had?”
You squint at the bar as though the empty glasses might provide a reliable inventory. “Some.”
“Some.”
“Drinks.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
You smile and lean your hip against the bar. “You’re so smart. That’s why I keep you.”
In the background, you hear male laughter and Garrett asking, “Is that her?”
Logan muffles the phone for a second. “Yeah, and she’s wrecked.”
“I heard that,” you complain.
“I know.”
“I am not wrecked. I’m having a girls’ night.”
“You called me, remember?”
Your eyes burn unexpectedly. “I wanted your voice.”
The teasing disappears from his voice. “Okay. You’ve got me.”
You press your fingers against your closed eyes. The room is getting too loud. Someone bumps your shoulder without saying sorry. Allie has climbed onto a low platform to dance, and Hannah is trying to convince her that this is how people break their necks.
“Can you come get me?” you ask quietly.
Logan does not hesitate. “Yeah. We’re coming.”
“We?”
“Garrett and Dean are here. Where are Hannah and Allie?”
You look toward your friends. Hannah has both hands wrapped around Allie’s waist while Allie argues with gravity.
“Being safe.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says somewhere in the background.
“Send me your location,” Logan tells you. “Stay with the girls. We’ll be there soon.”
“John?”
“Still here.”
“You’re my favorite.”
His voice softens. “You’re mine too.”
The three of you are sitting on the curb when the boys arrive.
Hannah has stolen your purse because you kept attempting to give cash to strangers. Allie is wearing one shoe and holding the other like a weapon. You are leaning against Hannah’s shoulder, humming along to a song playing faintly from inside the bar.
Dean gets out of Garrett’s Jeep first.
He takes one look at Allie and stops. “Where is your shoe?”
She lifts it proudly. “Here.”
“Why isn’t it on your foot?”
“Personal choice.”
“You’re standing on a public sidewalk.”
Allie looks down at her bare foot as though she has only just noticed. “Oh.”
Garrett circles the hood and crouches in front of Hannah. “Hey, Wellsy.”
Hannah smiles at him with slow, overwhelming affection. “G.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“You’re really handsome.”
Garrett glances over his shoulder at the others. “Finally, some recognition.”
“I always recognize you.”
“No, I mean—never mind.” He takes the purse from her lap and slings it over his shoulder without reacting to the bright pink strap. “Think you can stand?”
“Obviously.”
She cannot.
Garrett catches her under both arms before she reaches the pavement. Hannah dissolves into laughter against his chest while he mutters something about never allowing Allie to plan another outing.
Then Logan steps around them, and suddenly the whole noisy street feels like it’s just him.
He is wearing gray sweats and a Briar hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes find yours immediately, moving over your face, your clothes, your scraped knee from an incident you do not remember.
You smile so widely it hurts. “Boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend,” he says, crouching in front of you. “You look comfortable.”
“I’m on the ground.”
“I noticed.”
You throw both arms around his neck. The force nearly knocks him backward, but Logan steadies himself with one hand against the sidewalk and the other around your waist.
“You came,” you mumble into his shoulder.
“You asked me to.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“You smell good.”
“Thanks.”
“You always smell good. It’s suspicious.”
Behind him, Dean is attempting to put Allie’s shoe back on while she keeps moving her foot away.
“You’re being difficult on purpose,” he tells her.
“You like me difficult.”
“Not while I’m kneeling on a sidewalk that has probably seen three different bodily fluids tonight.”
Garrett guides Hannah toward the Jeep. “Nobody say bodily fluids. I don’t need anyone getting ideas.”
“I’m not throwing up,” you announce.
“Great,” Garrett says. “Thank you for the formal statement.”
Logan draws back enough to look at you. “Can you walk?”
You consider this carefully. “Can you?”
“Usually.”
“Show-off.”
He laughs, turns, and guides your arms around his shoulders. “All right. Up.”
The sidewalk falls away as he stands with you on his back. You tighten your legs around his waist and rest your cheek against him,feeling completely content.t.
“Logan,” Dean calls while wrestling Allie into the back seat. “Control your woman.”
“She’s not the one missing a shoe.”
“I found the shoe!”
“And yet it remains off your foot.”
The ride back to the hockey house is loud.
Hannah keeps telling Garrett that she likes his nose. Allie sings half the chorus of three different songs and becomes offended when Dean refuses to stop the car for French fries, even though Garrett is already driving to a twenty-four-hour diner.
You spend most of the ride folded against Logan in the passenger seat, your hand tucked beneath his arm so you can hold onto him.
The happiness starts to fade. In its place is that deep, loose sadness that comes with drinking when you’ve spent too long pretending you’re okay. You watch streetlights move across Logan’s face and feel your chest ache with everything you haven’t said.
At the drive-through, Logan orders enough food for everyone and adds your favorite without asking. Back at the house, the boys get water into all three of you and supervise as much food as can reasonably be managed.
Hannah falls asleep halfway through a sentence with her head on Garrett’s shoulder. Allie accuses Dean of being “aggressively beautiful” before allowing him to carry her upstairs.
Logan keeps you at the kitchen island until you have eaten nearly half your fries.
“One more,” he says.
“I’m full.”
“You said that before you ate the last four.”
“Those were emotionally necessary.”
“So is this one.”
He holds a fry in front of your mouth. You glare at him, then eat it.
“Manipulative.”
“I’ll live with it.”
When Logan finally takes you upstairs, you are exhausted enough that every step feels like walking through wet sand. He sits you on the edge of his bed and kneels to untie your sneakers.
You immediately place both hands in his hair.
He looks up. “What are you doing?”
“Petting you.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“You’d be a golden retriever.”
“That feels insulting.”
“It’s the highest compliment I have.”
He shakes his head, smiling as he takes off your shoes. Then he helps you into one of his shirts, turns away while you change out of your dress, and gently cleans the scrape on your knee with a damp cloth.
The sting makes you hiss.
“Sorry,” he says.
“You hurt me.”
“You fell outside a bar.”
“And now you’re attacking my wound.”
“Yeah, this is all part of my evil plan.”
He puts a bandage over the scrape and kisses just above it. The tenderness surprises you.
Your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt.
“John.”
He glances up immediately. “What?”
Your throat tightens. For a few seconds you cannot remember how to make the words come out without them sounding as frightening as they feel.
“You know,” you say, staring down at him, “I don’t think I would be alive without you.”
Logan goes completely still.
The room goes quiet. Logan doesn't move.
He stands and sits next to you on the bed, knees bumping yours. He doesn't look away. That almost makes it worse.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes only make it as far as his mouth.
“I mean it in a nice way,” you mumble.
“I know you think you do.”
“You make things better.”
His hand closes around yours. “I’m glad I make things better.”
“You do.”
“But that scared the shit out of me.”
Your face crumples before you can stop it. “Sorry.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Logan slides closer, catching your face gently between his hands. “I’m not mad at you. I just need to know whether you’re saying you’ve been thinking about hurting yourself, or whether you’re drunk and trying to tell me you love me.”
Tears slip hot and embarrassing down your cheeks. “I don’t want to hurt myself.”
“Okay.”
“I just get so tired.” Your voice breaks. “Everything is so much all the time, and then you’re there, and it’s not as loud.”
Logan wipes under your eyes with his thumbs. He looks at you for a long moment, but he doesn’t say anything or treat you like you’re fragile.
He leans in, his voice steady but a little rough. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’re going to talk about how tired you’ve been. Not because you’re in trouble, but because I don’t want you to feel like you have to get this drunk just to tell me what’s going on. You don’t have to protect me from the hard stuff. I want all of you, even the mess.”
You lean forward until your forehead presses against his shoulder.
“Tomorrow sounds awful.”
“Probably.”
“Can we cancel it?”
“Nope.”
“I knew you were evil.”
“That’s me.”
His arms wrap around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You clutch the back of his shirt and breathe him in, letting the last of the night dissolve.
After a while, Logan shifts you beneath the blankets and places the water bottle on the nightstand. He climbs in beside you, and you immediately wrap yourself around him, one leg over his and your face tucked beneath his chin.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still my favorite.”
He kisses your forehead and holds you a little tight. “You’re still here,” he says quietly. He doesn’t say anything else. His hand finds yours under the blanket, his thumb moving back and forth, and you let yourself breathe in the quiet. The room settles around you, heavy and safe, and for once you don’t feel like you have to explain anything.
thank you so much for all the love on 3:07am. i really wanted to write something that felt honest and accurate without forcing it into something cheesy or giving it an unrealistically happy ending.
i’m hoping to write more this week, but i’m having a really rough time with my mental health right now, so i’m just going to do my best and take things slowly. i recently got the results from my diagnostic assessment, and it’s been a lot to process. right now, i’m writing a few personal healing pieces just to help me understand everything. i probably won’t post them, but writing has always been one of the ways i work through things.
for anyone who relates to cptsd, anxiety, depression, autism, or adhd, please know that i’ll always try to write about those experiences honestly. i want my fics to show the real ways they can affect our everyday lives—not the cleaned-up or romanticized versions. sometimes my writing gets deep and dark because that’s how these things have affected me personally.
looking for someone who’d be willing to proofread/give feedback on my dean x allie x reader fic! mostly just wanting another set of eyes to make sure it doesn’t get too repetitive and that everything flows well.
if you’re free today or tomorrow and don’t mind taking a look, i’d seriously appreciate it. thank you :)
summary: you wake up anxious for no reason you can explain. logan wakes up too.
warnings: anxiety/panic attack, detailed descriptions of physical panic symptoms, fear of abandonment, mentions of being made to feel like a burden, hurt/comfort, soft boyfriend logan, fluff.
The first thing you notice is your heart, slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.
It’s beating too fast, every frantic thud rattling your chest and clawing its way up your throat. For a split second, you’re convinced you must have woken from a nightmare, but there’s nothing—no dream, no echo of shouting, no footsteps creaking across the floorboards. Just the thick, sour taste of fear flooding your mouth for absolutely no reason at all.
Only the dark outline of Logan’s bedroom, the familiar shapes warped by shadows, and the absolute certainty that something is wrong.
The clock on his nightstand reads 3:07 a.m.
Logan is asleep behind you, his arm draped heavy and warm across your waist, his face buried in the pillow so close you can feel his breath stirring the hair at the back of your neck. Most nights, the weight of him is enough to anchor you, to press the world back into place. Tonight, it barely touches the panic crawling beneath your skin.
You drag in a shaky breath through your nose and let it out as slowly as you can, counting the seconds, hoping your body will listen.
Your chest tightens anyway, squeezing until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
Logan shifts, and you freeze. He has practice in a few hours. He’d barely stayed awake through the movie downstairs before pulling you up to bed, and Garrett already considers six-thirty a reasonable time to start yelling at people.
You don’t want to wake him because your brain decided to lose its mind in the middle of the night.
Carefully, you peel Logan’s arm away and push yourself upright. The room tilts, the shadows stretching and warping until nothing feels steady. You press your shaking hands between your knees, knuckles white, and stare at the thin, accusing strip of light beneath the door.
You list off the facts in your head, desperate for something solid. Logan’s room. Dean is probably asleep across the hall, TV flickering blue behind his door. Garrett’s at the end of the hallway. Tucker’s passed out on the couch downstairs. Everyone is exactly where they should be.
You are safe. You repeat it, over and over, as if saying it enough times might make your body believe it.
Your body refuses to listen. Every muscle stays locked, waiting for something awful to happen.
The mattress moves behind you.
“Where’re you going?” Logan’s voice is rough with sleep.
“Nowhere.”
“Why’re you sitting up?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Go back to bed.”
“I am in bed.”
The lamp clicks on. Logan pushes himself against the headboard, hair sticking up and a red pillow mark across his cheek. He looks half asleep until his eyes settle on you.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay.”
You glance over. “Okay?”
“Not okay like I believe you.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay like I’m waiting for the real answer.”
Your hands tremble harder beneath the light. “I woke up anxious.”
“How bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Panic attack?”
You nod.
Logan reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand and holds it out. “Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Didn’t ask.”
You give him a look but take it. The plastic crackles beneath your grip, water shifting as you raise it to your mouth. Logan places his hand under yours, steadying the bottle without mentioning the shaking.
“Better?” he asks after you swallow.
“No.”
“Worth a try.”
You set the bottle down, fingers still trembling, and pull your knees tight to your chest. Logan shifts closer, his shoulder pressing solid and warm into yours, grounding you with the simple weight of his presence.
“Do you know what started it?”
“No.” Your voice catches, thin and unsteady. “That’s the worst part. I was asleep. I was completely fine, and now it feels like something horrible is happening and I can’t even see it.”
“But you know nothing is?”
“Yes.”
“And it still feels real?”
“Yes, John.”
“I’m asking.”
“I know.”
You press your palm hard against your chest, desperate to quiet the pounding underneath. Logan’s hand closes gently around your wrist, pulling it away before you can leave a mark.
“You’re gonna bruise yourself.”
“Maybe it’ll distract me.”
“Probably not in a helpful way.”
He keeps your hand in his, thumb tracing slow, steady circles over your knuckles. The rhythm is hypnotic, something for your mind to cling to when everything else feels like it’s spinning.
“You want to get up?” he asks. “Walk around? Go downstairs?”
“And do what?”
“Wake Dean and make this everybody’s problem.”
A short laugh escapes you.
Logan smiles. “There we go.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“You laughed.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
The panic doesn’t leave, but the laugh cracks it open just enough to let in a little air.
“Talk to me,” you whisper.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“That’s dangerous.” Logan leans back against the headboard. “You missed Dean trying to cook chicken.”
You turn toward him. “What?”
“After you came upstairs, he decided he needed protein.”
“At midnight?”
“Apparently his muscles were having an emergency.”
Your mouth twitches.
“Tucker found him holding a raw chicken breast in one hand and a beer in the other.”
“Did he cook it?”
“He tried. Tucker took the pan away.”
“What did Dean do?”
“Called him controlling.”
You laugh again, quieter but real.
Logan keeps talking, filling the room with stories that are so stupid they almost sound made up. Garrett found wet clothes abandoned in the washing machine and threatened to throw everything into the yard. Dean blamed Tucker, even though every single sock was his. Then they argued for twenty minutes about whether cereal actually counts as dinner. It’s ridiculous. It helps.
The stories are stupid.
They help.
The room begins to feel familiar again. You notice the hum of the fan, the smell of detergent on the sheets, and Logan’s warm shoulder against yours. Your heart is still racing, but it has stopped climbing.
Logan reaches for his laptop. “Movie?”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“You have practice.”
“I’ve played hungover.”
“That’s not a defense.”
“It is technically a fact.”
He finds a comedy you’ve both watched too many times and sets the volume low. Then he pats his thigh.
“Come here.”
“I’m sweating.”
“Hot.”
“John.”
“Still hot.”
“I’m having a panic attack.”
“And somehow you remain attractive. Impressive, really.”
You roll your eyes, but you move anyway, curling up with your head in his lap. Logan tugs the blanket around your shoulders, tucking you in like you might fall apart if he lets go, and runs his fingers gently through your hair.
The movie murmurs quietly from the laptop, barely more than background noise. You focus on the warmth beneath your cheek, the slow, careful movement of his hand through your hair, and the way your breathing finally starts to match his.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
“For what?”
“Waking you.”
“You didn’t.”
“You were asleep.”
“And now I’m awake.”
“That’s what waking someone means.”
Logan looks down at you. “I woke up because you moved. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You pick at a loose thread on his sweatpants. “Still.”
“Stop apologizing every time you need something.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Kind of.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing softly over your skin. “You’d wake up for me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because it’s you.”
“And you’re you.”
“That made no sense.”
“It made sense to me.”
The sharp edge of panic has dulled, replaced by something heavier and older. The kind of fear that settles in your bones, built from every time you ever needed comfort and it made someone angry.
“What if you get tired of this?” you ask.
Logan’s hand stills. “Of what?”
“Me waking you up. Needing you. Being difficult.”
His expression sharpens. “You’re not difficult.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it tomorrow.”
“John.”
“Baby, I’m not leaving because you had a bad night.”
“I didn’t say you were leaving.”
“You were thinking it.”
You look away, throat tight, wishing you could hide inside the blanket.
Logan sighs and leans back against the pillows. “I hate seeing you feel like this. I hate that I can’t fix it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His mouth lifts slightly. “Kind of.”
A small laugh slips out.
Logan brushes his thumb beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reaches your cheek. “I’m not tired of you.”
“You’re literally tired.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll recover.”
Your eyes burn again, hot and stinging, and you bury your face in his stomach, hiding from the world for a second.
“Don’t,” you mumble.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to tell you your mascara looks great.”
“I’m not wearing mascara.”
“Then you’re naBy the middle of the movie, your hands have finally stopped shaking. The pressure in your chest is still there, heavy and stubborn, but it doesn’t feel impossible anymore. You can breathe around it.here, but it no longer feels impossible to carry.
“Better?” Logan asks.
“A little.”
“Normal shitty or really shitty?”
“Medium shitty.”
“Progress.”
You take his hand and press it over your heart, needing the weight of him there. His palm is warm through your shirt, thumb moving in slow, steady circles that almost match your heartbeat.
“Love you,” you whisper.
He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Love you too.”
“What if it happens again?”
“Then you wake me again.”
“You have practice.”
“I’ll tell Graham you kept me up all night.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“He’ll kill me first.”
“True.”
Logan slides lower against the pillows, never moving his hand from your chest, as if he can keep your heart steady just by holding it.
“Close your eyes.”
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“Sometimes.”
“Good enough.”
The movie continues quietly in the background. Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator opens, followed by Tucker loudly demanding to know which asshole left an empty milk carton inside.
Logan’s breathing settles into a slow, steady rhythm above you, and, almost without meaning to, your body starts to follow.
The last thing you feel before falling asleep is his hand resting over your heart, holding it as though it has never been too much for him.
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i may not write every request, and some may take longer than others depending on how much inspiration i have.
౨ৎ important
some stories on this blog may include depression, anxiety, trauma, abuse, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, panic attacks, shutdowns, dissociation, alcohol, sexual situations, or other difficult subjects.
warnings will always be listed at the beginning of each fic.
this blog is meant to be escapism, comfort, and a place to put some of the heavier things in my head into stories. please be kind to yourself while reading.
hi!! i’m bella, i’m 25, and off campus has completely taken over my brain.
i’ll mostly be writing for john logan, dean di laurentis, and allie hayes, but honestly anything off campus is fair game.
i’m open to pretty much everything, from soft domestic fluff and comfort fics to angst, darker themes, and very explicit smut. anything nsfw will be clearly tagged and is strictly 18+.
small content warning before you follow: a lot of my writing comes from things i’m currently trying to process in my own life, including severe bullying, abuse, self-harm, and suicide attempts. some of my fics may explore those topics, but i’ll always try to tag everything clearly so nobody gets blindsided.
this blog is mostly meant to be an escape. writing gives my brain somewhere else to go when things feel too loud, and i’m hoping this can become a fun little corner of the internet for other people too.
i especially love writing neurodivergent readers and characters because that representation means a lot to me, but i’ll also be posting plenty of general reader inserts.
requests are open, so please send me whatever is living in your brain. fluff, smut, angst, comfort, random headcanons, oddly specific scenarios, i'm ready for itall.
anyway, welcome to my little briar corner of the internet <3
