hi there!! would you maybe write a logan x reader insert where she's part of the drama club but in the costume department and allie begs her to step in when one of the actors can't perform because she has learnt every line whilst working in the background! and logan sees her in a completely new light, and he can be in the audience or somehow on stage too with her, whichever you feel is best 🥰 thank you, i really love your work!
Stage Lights - John Logan
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
Blurb: When an actress loses her voice on opening night, you’re dragged out of the costume department and into the spotlight. You expect to survive the show. You don’t expect Logan to be watching you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
That felt important to remember when Allie burst into the costume room with her hair half-pinned, one earring missing, and the expression of someone who had just seen the gates of hell open under a community theater stage.
“No,” you said immediately.
She stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other clutching a script she absolutely did not need. Allie never carried scripts this close to opening night unless she was using them as emotional support. “You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”
“I know your face.”
“My face is beautiful and expressive.”
“Your face is asking me to do something illegal.”
“It’s theater,” she said, stepping fully into the room. “Everything is either illegal, emotionally manipulative, or held together with spirit gum.”
You looked back down at the jacket in your lap, because the safest thing to do when Allie Hayes looked desperate was pretend thread had suddenly become the most fascinating object in the world. The costume room was already chaos in a way only drama club could manage. Dresses hung from every available rack, garment bags were unzipped on the floor, a row of character shoes sat abandoned beneath the makeup table, and someone had left a half-empty iced coffee beside a crown that absolutely should not have been sticky.
You had been here since three, sewing a button back onto Nick’s Act Two vest because Nick treated costumes like they were suggestions rather than pieces of clothing. You liked this part. The fixing, the adjusting, the last-minute saves nobody noticed unless you failed at them. There was comfort in being backstage. The lights never found you there.
Allie, unfortunately, had never respected comfort when a crisis was available.
“Marissa can’t go on,” she said.
You froze with the needle halfway through the fabric.
Allie took that as an opening and rushed forward, talking fast enough to outpace your panic. “She has no voice. None. She opened her mouth and sounded like a haunted kettle. The director is one missed cue away from lying facedown in the lobby. We tried calling her understudy, but her understudy is apparently in Boston for her cousin’s engagement dinner, which feels fake, but I don’t have time to prosecute that right now.”
You stared at her. “Allie.”
“You know the part.”
“I know the part because I’ve heard it eight hundred times while hemming skirts.”
“You know the part because you whisper everyone’s lines under your breath when you think nobody can hear you.”
“I do not.”
“You recited half of Act Two yesterday with three pins in your mouth.”
Allie crossed the room and dropped into the chair beside you, which was dramatic considering she was in a satin gown and had no business sitting anywhere near the lint roller pile. “Please. I know you hate this. I know you like being back here, and I know you’re going to tell me you’re not an actor, but you know every cue, every scene change, every line Marissa has. You know where she stands. You know when she crosses. You even know when she’s supposed to cry, which is more than Marissa knew until yesterday.”
That made you want to laugh, which was unfair. Allie weaponized humor when begging. It was one of her strongest and most irritating gifts.
“I can’t just walk on stage because I’ve been in the room a lot,” you said, though your voice had lost some of its certainty.
“You won’t be walking on because you’ve been in the room. You’ll be walking on because you’re the only person who can save us from performing a romantic drama where one of the main women is represented by a lamp.”
“A lamp?”
“It was Dean’s suggestion.”
“Dean is here?”
Allie’s mouth twitched. “The hockey boys are here. Dean came because he heard the phrase ‘costume department’ and misunderstood the tone of the evening. Garrett came because Dean promised there would be snacks. Logan came because…”
She stopped herself, which was your first warning.
You pressed your hands over your face. “That is not helping.”
“I know,” she said, sounding a little too pleased with herself, “which is why I’m only going to mention the relevant part. Logan asked if you were around.”
Your hands dropped.
Allie watched the information land with an almost unbearable amount of satisfaction. She was one of your favorite people on campus and also, at times, a woman who deserved to be locked in a prop closet for everyone’s safety.
“He asked if I was around?”
“He said, ‘Is your costume girl here?’ which I found reductive, but he meant you.”
“That could mean literally anyone in this room.”
“There’s only one girl he looks for when he comes backstage.”
You hated that your stomach did something stupid at that. Logan had been around a handful of times, usually when post-rehearsal plans somehow migrated to the green room or when one of the guys got dragged into carrying set pieces because the drama club had no budget and too much faith in hockey-player upper body strength. You knew him in pieces. His laugh in the hallway, his habit of picking up whatever someone dropped before they realized they had dropped it, the way he acted like every conversation was casual even when his attention made your skin warm.
He was easy to talk to, which made him dangerous. Guys like Logan could make you feel like you were standing under a spotlight even when they were only asking if you wanted the last slice of pizza.
“That still does not mean I can perform in front of him,” you said.
Allie’s face softened, and that was worse than the begging. “You won’t be performing for him. You’ll be performing because you can. And because if you don’t, I’m going to have to watch Dean’s lamp idea come to life and I may never recover.”
You let out a breath that felt like it had been living in your chest for the past five minutes. Outside the costume room, someone shouted for tape, someone else shouted that the tape was not where it was supposed to be, and the director’s voice rose above both of them with the brittle calm of a man preparing to lose his mind artistically.
You looked at the dress hanging on the rack. Marissa’s dress. Your dress, technically, since you had taken it in at the waist, shortened the sleeves, replaced the buttons, and stitched the inside seam after she stepped on it during tech week. You knew how it moved because you had made it move properly. You knew the character because you had dressed her.
Allie followed your gaze and wisely said nothing.
“I’m not kissing Nick,” you said finally.
Allie sprang up so fast the satin of her skirt snapped around her ankles. “The stage kiss was cut yesterday because Nick has the romantic presence of a damp sock. You’ll be emotionally yearning from three feet away, which is basically theater’s entire brand.”
“I need the script.”
“You don’t need the script.”
“I need it so I can panic with structure.”
Allie shoved it into your hands, then grabbed your shoulders with both of hers. “I owe you my life.”
“You owe me coffee for a month.”
“Done.”
“And you’re telling the director this was your idea when it goes badly.”
“It won’t.”
“Allie.”
She squeezed your shoulders. “It won’t!”
You wanted to believe her. The problem was, believing Allie Hayes had gotten many people into many situations, most of them loud, glittery, and poorly planned. Still, twenty minutes later, you were standing in the wings wearing Marissa’s dress, your own clothes folded over a chair in the costume room, your hair pinned up by Allie’s frantic hands. The director had looked at you like you were both his salvation and his next cardiac event. Nick had tried to give you an encouraging thumbs-up and immediately hit his knuckles on a fake bookcase.
Everything smelled like hairspray, dust, and hot stage lights.
You heard the audience settling on the other side of the curtain. Low voices, shifting seats, someone laughing too loudly near the front. Your pulse seemed to have relocated to your throat.
Allie appeared at your side, radiant in her costume and only slightly terrifying. “Remember, you enter after my line about the letter. Cross to the table, pick up the envelope, stare at it like it ruined your life, then Nick enters.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. I’m telling you because I need to be doing something with my mouth or I’m going to scream.”
That almost loosened the knot in your chest. “You’re very calming.”
“I’ve been told I have the energy of a beautiful emergency.”
Before you could answer, a familiar voice came from the side hallway. “That explains a lot, actually.”
You turned.
Logan stood just beyond the curtain line in dark jeans and a Briar Hockey hoodie, a folded program in one hand. He looked like he had wandered backstage by accident, except Logan never really looked lost. He looked curious. Curious and a little caught off guard as his eyes moved over you, not in the obvious way that would have made you want to disappear, but with a quiet pause that made everything feel suddenly too warm.
Allie pointed at him. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot be back here being distracting. She is saving the entire production.”
Logan’s gaze flicked to Allie, then back to you. “You’re going on?”
“Apparently,” you said, trying not to sound like your bones had turned to paper.
His expression shifted. The teasing eased out of it, leaving something softer behind. “That’s kind of badass.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out nervous, but real. “I’m replacing a girl with laryngitis in a student play, Logan. I’m not storming a castle.”
“Feels castle-adjacent.”
Allie made a strangled noise. “John Logan, if you make her laugh so hard she forgets her blocking, I’ll make you sit through every musical I’ve ever loved and test you afterward.”
Logan held up both hands, the program still caught between his fingers. “Leaving. I only came to tell you Garrett spilled soda on Dean and they’re arguing about whether that’s a bad omen.”
“It is not,” Allie said.
“Dean says sticky thighs are never neutral.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile, and Logan caught it. There was a tiny beat where the backstage madness blurred around the edges, where he looked at you like he was going to say something else and decided against making it a joke.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
It was simple. That was what got you.
Not loud confidence, not a big speech, not some teasing line about being impressed before you had done anything. Just his voice, steady and certain, like he had no trouble imagining you walking out there and surviving it.
Then Allie shooed him away with both hands, and the stage manager hissed for places, and the curtain went up before your body had a chance to catch up with your choices.
For the first few minutes, you waited in the wings and listened.
You had heard the opening scene so many times you could practically see it without looking. Allie’s entrance, the laugh from the audience when she delivered her second line, Nick’s first missed pause, recovered quickly enough that only the people backstage winced. Your fingers curled into the skirt of your dress, smoothing fabric you had already smoothed six times.
Then Allie said the line about the letter.
Your cue.
For half a second, your feet did nothing. All the confidence you had borrowed from Allie, from Logan, from the fact that you knew the play better than some of the people performing it, slipped out of reach. Beyond the wing, the stage stretched wide and bright. The audience was a dark shape past the lights, hundreds of eyes hidden in shadow.
Then Allie turned slightly, just enough that only you could see her face, and widened her eyes like she was trying to physically drag you into the scene.
You stepped out.
The lights hit first. Heat across your cheeks, down your neck, over the front of the dress. The room was both enormous and impossible to see. Your hand found the table because you knew exactly where it was. Your fingers closed around the envelope because you had placed it there yourself before curtain.
You stared at it like it ruined your life.
The first line came out quieter than Marissa’s usually did, but it came out. Then the next. By the third, your voice had stopped shaking. By the fourth, you were no longer thinking about the audience.
You were thinking about the letter, the room, Allie’s character watching you with pity she was trying to hide. You were thinking about the argument you had heard rehearsed for weeks, and how, somehow, standing inside it felt different than listening from a stool in the corner with a seam ripper in your hand.
In the audience, Logan forgot about Dean’s ongoing whisper campaign against the sticky soda on his jeans.
At first, he had been watching because you were you, and because seeing you walk onto a stage in a dress he knew you had probably altered yourself was enough to make his brain stall for a second. You were always in motion when he saw you backstage. Carrying hangers, pinning hems, ducking past actors with a headset around your neck, smiling when someone thanked you and then vanishing before they could say anything else.
He had thought you were shy. Not in a bad way. Just quieter than Allie, which was not hard, and less interested in being the center of the room than pretty much everyone in the drama club.
Then you started speaking.
It was not the kind of performance that announced itself. You did not walk out and demand attention. You earned it line by line, until the audience stopped rustling, until someone in the row ahead of him leaned forward, until Dean whispered, “Wait, she’s actually good,” and Logan elbowed him without looking away from the stage.
Because you were good.
Not cute-good. Not impressive-for-someone-who-got-dragged-into-this good. You were good in a way that made Logan feel like he had been missing something obvious for weeks. You knew when to pause. You knew how to let a line sit. When Nick came in too early, you shifted half a step, lifted the envelope, and made his mistake look like impatience written into the scene.
The audience laughed in the right place. Allie looked like she might cry from relief.
Logan watched your face change under the lights and had the unsettling thought that maybe you had been this interesting the whole time, and he had only been catching glimpses from the hallway.
By the final scene, you were flushed and a little breathless, but you were still there. Still holding your own. Still making the room follow you.
When the lights went down, the applause came fast. You blinked into the darkness as if waking up. Allie grabbed your hand for the curtain call and squeezed so hard your fingers hurt, but she was beaming, and the sound of the audience rose as you stepped forward with the rest of the cast.
You found Logan by accident.
He was standing with Garrett and Dean near the middle aisle, clapping with a look on his face you did not know what to do with. He was not laughing, not teasing, not performing his own ease back at you. He looked proud, which felt impossible and strangely intimate for someone who had only learned you were acting twenty minutes ago.
You looked away first.
Backstage after the show was worse than going on.
At least on stage, you had lines. Backstage, you had people touching your arm and telling you how amazing you were, the director saying something about instincts, Nick apologizing for the missed cue while also trying to pretend it had not happened, and Allie announcing to anyone within hearing distance that she had discovered you, like you were a small Victorian orphan she had pulled from the fog.
You escaped to the costume room under the very legitimate excuse of changing before someone made you talk about your feelings.
The second the door closed, you leaned back against it and exhaled. Your body felt floaty and exhausted, like all your nerves had burned through their fuel at once. The dress itched under one arm. Your hair was falling out of its pins. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You had just started unfastening the top button when someone knocked.
“If that’s Allie, I’m not doing interviews,” you called.
“It’s not Allie,” Logan said through the door. “And I don’t know enough about theater to conduct a good interview.”
Your fingers stopped on the button.
You opened the door partway, mostly because leaving Logan in the hallway felt more embarrassing than facing him. He stood there holding a small bouquet wrapped in green paper, looking faintly uncertain in a way you had never seen on him before.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He glanced down at the flowers like he had only just remembered they existed. “The woman in the lobby said these were for performers. I believed her because she had a cash box and seemed powerful.”
You took them before your hands could decide to shake. They were simple, a few bright flowers tucked together with baby’s breath, the kind of bouquet probably meant for parents to buy at the last second. Somehow that made it sweeter.
“You didn’t have to get me flowers.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that vibe from you.”
“What vibe?”
“The one where compliments make you look like you’re searching for the nearest exit.”
You huffed a laugh and stepped back into the room, letting him follow because standing in the doorway suddenly felt too exposed. “I’m not good at this part.”
“The acting part?”
“No, weirdly that part was fine after the initial terror.” You set the flowers gently on the makeup table, away from the sticky crown. “The after part. People saying things.”
Logan nodded like that made sense, and instead of filling the room with easy jokes, he looked around. At the racks of costumes, the spools of thread, the labeled bins, the dress forms with half-finished pieces pinned to them. His attention moved over the room the same way it had moved over you earlier, taking things in rather than skimming past them.
“You made all this?”
“Not all of it. Some pieces were pulled from storage. Some were altered. Some were built by the department.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes came back to you with that same open steadiness from before. “You were incredible.”
Warmth rushed up your neck. You busied yourself with removing a pin from your sleeve that did not need removing. “I knew the lines.”
“Knowing the lines explains the words. It doesn’t explain the part where the whole room went quiet because they were waiting to see what you’d do next.”
That silenced you for a moment.
Logan did not look pleased with himself for saying it. He looked almost surprised, like he had meant to keep it lighter and failed. That made it harder to brush off.
“I almost didn’t go out there,” you admitted.
“I saw.”
Your eyes lifted.
He leaned back against the edge of the table, making sure not to disturb the makeup brushes or the crown. “You had this half-second where you looked like you were going to run straight out the back door. Then Allie did something with her face.”
“Allie’s face has ruined many lives.”
“Probably saved a few too.”
You smiled down at the pin in your hand. “She knew I could do it before I did.”
“She was right.”
The room seemed quieter than it had a minute ago, even with the muffled noise of people celebrating in the hallway. You could hear the cast laughing, Allie’s voice rising above the rest, Dean complaining about something with full commitment. In here, with Logan standing close enough that you could see the place where his hoodie sleeve had been pushed up his forearm, everything felt softer around the edges.
“I’m not auditioning for the next one,” you said, because you needed something between you that was not the way he was looking at you.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking about it,” he admitted. “But I’m learning you respond badly to pressure.”
“Smart.”
You laughed, and his smile deepened, not triumphant, just pleased that he had gotten you there. It made you remember every other time he had found you backstage or in Allie’s room or at a party where you were never quite part of the loudest group. How he always seemed to notice when you went quiet, but never made a show of it. How he asked questions that sounded casual until later, when you realized he remembered the answers.
Maybe he had been seeing you more than you thought.
Logan’s gaze dropped briefly to the dress. “Do you need help getting out of that?”
Your eyebrows shot up.
He immediately closed his eyes for half a second, like he was replaying his own sentence and suffering through it. “I meant in a respectful, theater-costume, probably-a-row-of-buttons-you-can’t-reach way.”
“You’re very smooth.”
“I was before I watched you emotionally destroy an audience. Apparently that had consequences.”
The laugh that came out of you was softer this time. You turned, gathering your hair over one shoulder, and presented him with the back of the dress before you could overthink it. “Three buttons. Then you are leaving so I can change.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His fingers brushed the fabric at your back, and the quiet shifted again. He was gentle with the buttons, slower than he needed to be, or maybe you were just aware of every second because it was Logan standing behind you in the costume room, undoing the dress you had spent a week fixing for someone else.
He finished the last button and stepped back immediately, giving you space.
“All set,” he said, voice lower than before.
You turned around, holding the dress in place with one hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded, but he did not move toward the door yet. “For the record, I liked you backstage too.”
Your chest tightened.
Logan looked a little nervous after saying it, which was absurd because Logan had once flirted with a waitress while Dean loudly knocked over an entire basket of fries beside him and had not lost focus for even a second.
“You liked me backstage?” you asked.
“I mean, yeah. You’re kind of hard not to like.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then let his hand fall. “But tonight was different. Not because you were suddenly someone else. More because you were already you, and then everyone else got to notice.”
You had no idea what to say to that. It was too much and exactly enough, and it landed somewhere deeper than a compliment about the play.
The hallway door flew open before you could answer, and Allie appeared, stopping short when she saw you and Logan facing each other in the tiny, overstuffed room.
Her eyes flicked to the flowers, then to Logan, then to the undone buttons at the back of your dress that you were still holding closed.
“Oh,” she said, delighted in a way that promised future problems.
“Allie,” you said.
“No, no, I’m not here. I’m a hallucination brought on by applause and emotional vulnerability.”
“Go away,” Logan said, but he was smiling.
“I am going away. I’m leaving so naturally that nobody will even remember I entered.” She backed out slowly, still pointing between the two of you with the kind of silent excitement that made you want to throw a spool of thread at her. Somewhere in the hall, Dean called her name and asked if theater people kept snacks backstage, which finally dragged her attention away.
The door closed again.
You and Logan stared at it for a beat before you both started laughing. It broke whatever had been hovering between you, but not completely. It only made it easier to breathe around it.
“I should change,” you said.
“Right. I’ll wait outside?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He picked up the program from where he had set it on the table and tapped it lightly against his palm. “But I want to walk you out after. If that’s okay.”
It was more than okay, which was why you had to look down at the flowers instead of directly at him. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
Logan smiled like he knew exactly how much effort it took you to sound normal. “Good.”
He left, and you changed into your own clothes with shaky fingers, the dress going back on its hanger with more tenderness than it probably deserved. When you stepped into the hallway a few minutes later, Logan was waiting by the wall of old production posters, talking to Dean and Garrett. Dean was mid-sentence, gesturing dramatically with a pretzel he had found, but Logan’s attention shifted to you immediately.
It should have been embarrassing, being noticed that quickly.
Allie hugged you so hard you nearly dropped the flowers, then got swept away by three cast members and a director who wanted to discuss tomorrow’s performance. Garrett gave you a warm congratulations. Dean told you he had always believed in you, despite absolutely not knowing you were in the show until intermission, and then wandered off when someone mentioned pizza.
Logan stayed.
The two of you left through the side exit, away from the lobby and the last of the audience. Outside, Briar’s campus was cool and dark, the theater lights spilling gold across the pavement. You clutched the flowers against your chest as you walked, your shoulder occasionally brushing his.
For once, Logan did not rush to fill every silence. He let this one sit until it felt less like awkwardness and more like a place to rest.
“So,” Logan said eventually, “when you become famous, I’m going to need everyone to know I brought you your first bouquet.”
You glanced over at him. “That was my first bouquet?”
“For theater, probably.”
“You’re making a big assumption.”
“Am I wrong?”
You tried to hold back a smile and failed, which was apparently answer enough because his grin softened in that quiet, pleased way that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.
You walked a few more steps before you said, “I’m really not auditioning.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
“You sound like you don’t.”
“I sound like a guy who would sit through another play if you were backstage,” he said. “Or onstage. Or running the whole thing from a headset.”
The warmth in your chest returned, slower this time, spreading all the way down to your fingers around the bouquet.
“You’d come just because I was backstage?”
Logan looked at you under the theater’s side lights, the teasing still there but softer now, almost secondary. “Yeah. I would.”
The answer was too easy for him. Not thrown out for effect, not polished into something it wasn’t. Easy because it was true.
You stopped near the edge of the steps. He stopped too, close enough that the night air between you felt thinner than it should have.
“I don’t really know what to do when people look at me,” you admitted.
Logan’s gaze moved over your face with enough restraint to make your stomach flip. “I can look away.”
You shook your head before he finished saying it. “I didn’t say I wanted you to.”
His smile faded into something quieter.
From somewhere behind you, the side door opened and Allie’s voice carried into the night. “I’m not interrupting. I’m just witnessing something, hopefully magical.”
“Allie,” you called back, mortified.
“I’m gone,” she said, immediately not sounding gone. “I’m disappearing. Like a supportive ghost.”
The door shut again before either of you could answer, and for a second, you and Logan just stared at each other. Then he laughed under his breath, warm and disbelieving, and the sound loosened the last of your nerves.
“We’re never hearing the end of this,” he said.
“Probably not.”
“Worth it?”
You looked at the flowers in your hand, then at him. For the first time all night, being seen did not make you want to hide. “Maybe.”
Logan’s eyes dipped to your mouth, then came back to yours like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. You didn’t. His hand lifted to your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheek, and the bouquet crinkled softly between you as he leaned in.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question, but it did not stay uncertain for long. You tipped closer, one hand curling into the front of his hoodie, and Logan made a quiet sound against your mouth that you felt more than heard. He kissed you like he had been waiting through the entire play for the chance, like every line you had spoken under the lights had somehow led him here, to the side steps of the theater with your first bouquet pressed between you.
When you pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“I’m still not auditioning,” you whispered.
Logan smiled against your mouth. “That’s fine.”
Then he kissed you again, and this time, you stopped thinking about the lights altogether.
Blurb: A busy night at Malone’s turns uncomfortable when the newest Briar freshmen decide to test your patience, but Logan notices more than you expect, and later, after closing, he makes sure you know exactly why he stayed.
Warnings: Rude/creepy behavior toward reader, objectifying comments/behavior, workplace harassment, Logan stepping in, public confrontation, swearing, fluff, kissing, protective Logan being soft after closing.
Malone’s was not technically a hockey bar, but there were nights where it gave up pretending.
Friday was one of them.
By nine-thirty, half the tables near the back had been shoved together, every other booth had at least one Briar sweatshirt in it, and the noise level had shifted from tolerable to this close to getting someone’s beer privileges revoked. You had been working long enough to know the difference between a busy night and a Briar hockey night. Busy meant sore feet, sticky tables, and people waving you down like you were the only thing standing between them and starvation. Briar hockey meant all of that, plus six guys ordering wings in different flavors and then trading plates five minutes later like a science experiment.
You did not mind them most of the time.
Garrett always said thank you like he meant it. Tucker stacked empty baskets at the end of the table without being asked. Dean tipped well enough to make you forgive almost anything, even when he flirted with half the bar out of boredom. And Logan—
Logan noticed things.
Not a problem, necessarily. Just an inconvenient one when you were trying to get through a shift without thinking too hard about the way his attention felt when it landed on you.
He was sitting near the middle of the long table tonight, shoulders relaxed, one arm hooked over the back of his chair while he listened to Garrett say something over the noise. The team was out celebrating the newest freshmen, which meant the table had the strange energy of older guys trying to be welcoming and younger guys trying way too hard to prove they belonged there.
You had already been warned by one of the bartenders.
“Rookies,” Maya had muttered as she slid a tray of draft beers toward you. “God gives them varsity jackets and suddenly they think they invented testosterone.”
You snorted, lifting the tray. “If I don’t come back, tell my mother I died doing what I hated.”
“Serving men?”
“Pretending not to hear them.”
Maya laughed, and you carried the drinks toward the back.
The table erupted when you arrived, not at you specifically, but in that loud, pack-like way guys did when someone put alcohol within reach. Garrett reached automatically to help pass the glasses down, and Tucker shifted a basket of fries away from the edge before you could knock into it. Dean was mid-story, grinning at someone across from him, but he still glanced up long enough to say, “You’re a saint.”
“I know,” you said, setting down the last beer. “Tell your friends. Saints get tipped twenty percent.”
A couple of the older guys laughed. Logan’s mouth curved around the rim of his glass, his eyes flicking up to yours before he took a sip.
You had known Logan as a Malone’s regular before anything else. He came in with the team, sometimes with Garrett and Dean, sometimes alone after a game with damp hair and tired eyes. He was never difficult. He never waved you over with two fingers or called you sweetheart in that way that made your skin crawl. He looked at you when you spoke, remembered when you said you hated carrying hot plates without warning, and once, when a man at the bar had snapped his fingers at you, Logan had gone completely still.
He had not even said anything that time. He had just stared until the guy lowered his hand.
Tonight, though, his attention kept drifting.
You told yourself it was because you were his waitress, and he was probably waiting on wings.
That was easier than admitting you liked it.
The first hour was normal. Loud, messy, manageable. The freshmen drank too quickly and laughed too hard at jokes that were not funny enough to deserve it. You refilled waters they were not going to touch, brought out a mountain of baskets, and dodged elbows while people made room for plates.
Then one of the freshmen at the far end knocked a basket of fries off the table.
Not bumped. Not clipped with his sleeve by accident.
Knocked.
You saw his hand move too deliberately for it to be anything else, saw the way his eyes flicked to the guy beside him before the basket hit the floor and fries scattered under the chairs.
“Oh, shit,” he said, far too loud. “My bad.”
The other freshman laughed under his breath.
You stared at the fries for half a second, then at him. He gave you a look full of fake innocence.
It was not the first time someone had treated you like the job made you part of the furniture. It would not be the last. Malone’s had taught you a lot of things, but mostly it had taught you how to swallow irritation in public, how to smile with your teeth, and how to decide which battles were worth your manager pulling you aside later.
This one, you decided, was not.
“Don’t worry about it,” you said, voice flat enough that Garrett glanced over.
You went to get the broom.
By the time you came back, the freshmen had moved on, already laughing about something else. You swept the fries into a pile, trying not to focus on the heat creeping up your neck. Your uniform skirt suddenly felt shorter than it had ten minutes ago. Every bend of your knees, every shift of your weight, felt watched.
Most of the table had gone quieter.
Not silent, but aware.
Garrett’s expression had tightened, his eyes moving from you to the freshmen. Tucker had stopped eating. Dean’s grin was gone, replaced by a look that made him seem sharper around the edges.
And Logan was looking right at the freshman who had dropped the basket.
Not with anger, exactly.
With restraint.
You finished cleaning, dumped the fries, and told yourself that was the end of it.
Twenty minutes later, you returned with another round of drinks. The table had loosened again, but the freshmen were still buzzing with too much confidence and not enough sense. You set a beer in front of Logan, then moved toward the far end with two sodas and a basket of onion rings.
“Thanks,” Tucker said quietly as you passed him.
You gave him a small smile.
The freshman who had spilled the fries watched you set down the basket. His friend, sitting beside him, shifted in his chair and let his phone slide off his thigh. It landed near your shoe, face-down on the floor.
The timing was too perfect.
So was the grin he tried to hide.
“Oops,” he said. “Could you grab that?”
For one second, nobody moved.
You looked down at the phone, then back at him. He was waiting for you to bend. He wanted you to bend. He wanted his friends to laugh, wanted the moment to turn into a story he could tell later like you were not a person standing in front of him with aching feet and a tray burn on your wrist.
Your hand tightened around the empty tray.
Before you could decide whether losing your job would be worth it, Logan’s chair scraped back.
“Pick it up yourself.”
The freshman blinked, his smile faltering. “What?”
Logan did not raise his voice, which somehow made everyone listen harder. “Your phone. Pick it up yourself.”
The guy let out a nervous laugh and looked around, probably searching for backup from someone older, someone cooler, someone willing to turn this into a joke. He did not find it. Garrett had leaned forward with his forearms on the table, eyes cold. Tucker was staring down the other freshman like he was memorizing him for later. Dean sat back slowly, all traces of amusement gone from his face.
“It’s not a big deal,” the freshman said, but his voice had thinned.
Logan stepped out from behind his chair. “Then you should have no problem doing it.”
The freshman’s ears went red.
You could feel half the bar watching now, the conversation closest to the table fading as people caught the shift in the air. You hated scenes. You hated being in the middle of them more. But Logan was not looking at you like you were a problem to fix. He was looking at the freshmen like they had embarrassed themselves, and for some reason, that made it easier to breathe.
The freshman grabbed his phone with an awkward dip, then sat up too quickly.
Logan waited until he was seated before speaking again.
“You’re here because the guys wanted to welcome you to the team,” he said, still calm, still controlled. “That does not mean you get to treat the staff like they’re props in whatever little performance you’re putting on. She’s working. You’re sitting here eating food she brought you. Try being less pathetic about it.”
One of the freshmen opened his mouth.
Garrett cut him a look. “Don’t.”
Dean reached for his beer, eyes never leaving the far end of the table. “Bold choice, making enemies with the woman who controls whether we get fed.”
The comment eased the pressure just enough for a couple of guys to shift, but nobody laughed at the freshmen.
Tucker glanced at you, his expression apologetic in a way that made your chest pinch. He moved his chair a few inches, giving you space to get out from between the tables without having to squeeze past anyone.
You took it.
Your heartbeat was still too fast. Your face felt too warm. You wanted to say something clever, something that made it seem like you were fine and unaffected, but the words would not come. So you looked at Logan instead.
He was already looking at you.
His jaw was tense. His hand flexed once by his side, like he had more to say and was forcing himself not to make the moment bigger than it already was. The anger was still there, contained but obvious. Because he was genuinely furious on your behalf.
You swallowed, then mouthed, thank you.
Something in his face shifted.
Softened.
You turned before it could undo you completely and headed back toward the bar.
Maya caught your eye as soon as you rounded the corner. “I was two seconds from coming over with the soda gun.”
“You would’ve sprayed me by accident.”
“Collateral damage.” She looked past you toward the hockey table, then back again. “Logan?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “I hate when people notice.”
“I know,” she said, a little gentler. “But sometimes it’s nice when the right person does.”
You did not answer that, mostly because you were afraid your face would say too much.
The rest of the night went easier, at least on the surface. The freshmen behaved like someone had stapled manners to their foreheads. They said please. They said thank you. One of them even tried to stack plates before Garrett looked at him like he was not allowed to earn redemption that quickly.
Logan did not make another scene.
He did not hover, either.
He watched you in small, quiet ways. When you passed the table with a heavy tray, he shifted his chair before you had to ask. When someone from another table tried to flag you down while you were already carrying six drinks, he told them you had seen them and would get there when you could. When the freshmen left with the rest of the group, he stayed near the back, pulling on his jacket slower than everyone else.
You were wiping down the bar when the team finally cleared out. Garrett clapped Logan on the shoulder on his way out, saying something low enough that you could not hear. Dean tossed cash onto the table and added more when Garrett gave him a look, which made you roll your eyes despite yourself. Tucker was the last of the others to leave, carrying two empty baskets to the bar.
“Sorry about earlier,” he said, not making it a production. “They were being assholes.”
You took the baskets from him. “Appreciate it.”
His gaze flicked toward the door, where Logan stood with one hand on the frame, pretending not to wait. “He means it, you know.”
You looked at Tucker. “Means what?”
Tucker’s mouth twitched like he knew better than to answer fully. “All of it.”
Then he left.
By last call, Malone’s had emptied into a quieter version of itself. The kind with chairs flipped onto tables, damp floors, and the lingering smell of fried food that clung to your hair no matter how many times you washed it. Maya counted the drawer while the last bartender hauled trash out back. You were sweeping under the hockey table, finding fries in places fries had no right to be, when the front door opened again.
You looked up, ready to tell whoever it was that you were closed.
Logan stepped in, hands half-raised like he knew he was trespassing on sacred post-shift territory.
“Before you throw something at me,” he said, “I come in peace.”
Your grip eased on the broom. “That depends. Are you ordering food?”
“No.”
“Then your survival odds are better.”
He smiled a little, but it did not quite reach his eyes. He let the door fall shut behind him and glanced around the bar. “You still closing?”
“Usually what happens after closing.”
“Right.” He nodded once, looking down at his shoes before looking back at you. “That was a dumb question.”
“A little.”
He took it without flinching, which you liked more than you wanted to.
The room felt different with Logan in it now. Earlier, he had been part of the noise, one guy at a table full of them. Here, with the lights half-dimmed and the music low behind the bar, he was impossible to ignore, his hair messy from the cold and his jacket unzipped over his Briar hoodie.
“I wanted to apologize again,” he said.
You leaned the broom against the table. “You already did more than you had to.”
“That’s not the point.” His gaze flicked toward the spot where the fries had scattered earlier. “You shouldn’t have had to stand there and decide whether saying something was worth risking your shift. They were being gross. I should’ve shut it down the first time.”
You picked at the towel tucked into your apron. “I’m used to it.”
His expression shifted. “That makes me want to go back outside and yell better.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, small but real.
Logan’s shoulders eased a little, and somehow that made you look away faster.
“You don’t have to hang around out of guilt,” you said, reaching for the broom again. “I’m okay.”
“I know you are.” His voice softened. “That’s not why I came back.”
You swept beneath the table, waiting, but he did not rush to fill the silence. He just stood there, close enough for you to notice the crease between his brows.
“I came back because I hated leaving you here thinking that was the only reason I noticed you tonight.”
Your hand stilled.
The bar hummed around you, all old refrigerators and low music and Maya pretending very hard not to look over from behind the counter.
“You noticed me tonight?” you asked.
His mouth curved, more nervous than teasing. “Yeah. Terrible habit. Been happening for a while.”
That landed low in your stomach.
You glanced toward the bar, where Maya suddenly became fascinated by clean glasses. Subtlety was apparently dead.
You looked back at Logan. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re secretly here all the time for the burgers?”
“The burgers are good.”
“Logan.”
“I’m here for the waitress who judges my wing orders,” he admitted, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “And because she remembers I hate celery but still brings it to me because she thinks it’s funny.”
“It is funny.”
“It’s bullying.”
He smiled, and some of the heaviness from earlier loosened between you.
“Mostly,” he said, “I’m here because of you.”
You hated how much you liked that. After a night of being looked at in a way that made your skin feel too tight, Logan’s attention felt completely different. It did not make you feel small. It made you feel seen.
You swallowed. “That was a really good apology.”
“I had time to work on it outside.”
“You waited outside?”
“For a bit.”
“In the cold?”
He winced. “Sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“That’s because it’s weird.”
“Probably,” he said. “I was trying not to make your night harder.”
“And then you came back into my closed bar.”
“Yeah, the plan had flaws.”
This time, your laugh came easier.
You still had closing to finish, so Logan helped without making a big deal out of it. He flipped chairs while you swept, quiet and steady, like making your night shorter mattered because it mattered to you. By the time Maya disappeared into the back with a look you chose to ignore, the bar was nearly done.
You untied your apron and set it behind the counter. “You really didn’t have to help.”
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he repeated, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I guess I’m trying to make a good impression.”
You looked over at him. “By doing unpaid labor?”
“By making your night a little less awful.”
That quieted you more than it should have.
Logan’s smile faded, but he didn’t look away. “I’ve wanted to ask you out for weeks,” he admitted. “Tonight just made me realize I was running out of excuses not to.”
You stared at him, your chest doing something soft.
“I don’t owe you anything,” you said.
“I know.”
“And you’re not getting a date because you yelled at a freshman.”
“Good,” he said immediately. “He doesn’t deserve that kind of power.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “But I might give you one because you waited in the cold and admitted the wing thing was about me.”
“It was fully about you.”
You laughed, and the way he looked at you afterward was what got you. Not the protective part. Not even the apology. It was the quiet relief on his face, like making you laugh after the night you had was enough.
You grabbed your coat. “I’m done here.”
Logan walked you to your car, matching your pace through the cold. When you stopped beside the driver’s door, the silence stretched between you in a way that felt awkward only because it mattered.
“Can I take you out?” he asked. “Somewhere you don’t have to carry anyone’s food or pretend rude people are funny.”
Your throat went a little tight. “Yeah. You can.”
His smile came slowly, warm enough to make the cold feel less sharp.
Logan did not move in right away. He waited, giving you every chance to tell him goodnight. Instead, you reached for the front of his jacket and tugged lightly.
He stepped in, one hand settling against the car beside your shoulder while the other brushed your waist. His mouth met yours softly at first, almost asking, and when you kissed him back, the hesitation disappeared.
When he pulled away, he stayed close, his breath visible in the cold.
“I’m trying really hard not to say something stupid right now,” he murmured.
You smiled. “Save it for the date.”
When you finally got into your car, Logan waited until your headlights came on before stepping back.
“Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” you said, this time out loud.
His expression softened under the parking lot light. “Anytime.”
You drove away with his kiss still warm on your mouth, and for once, after a closing shift at Malone’s, you thought about Logan instead.
The leak started as a soft, irritating drip beneath the kitchen sink.
At first, you tried to ignore it. Hannah and Allie had left for the weekend with a list of instructions that made the apartment feel less like a place to live and more like something you had been trusted not to destroy, and you refused to be the person who called for help over a little water.
By the time you opened the cabinet, the bottom shelf was already wet.
“Great,” you muttered.
You shoved a towel under the pipe, then another when the first one soaked through faster than you liked. The water was not pouring out, not yet, but it was steady enough to make your stomach tighten. You crouched in front of the cabinet with your phone balanced on your knee, watching some man on a repair video explain the shutoff valve like every sink in the world had been made by the same person.
You found what looked like the right valve and twisted it with more hope than confidence.
The dripping slowed, and for one brief second, you thought you had handled it.
Then something under the sink gave a sharp little sputter, and water sprayed straight across the front of your shirt.
You scrambled back with a gasp, bumping into the cabinet behind you.
“Shit.”
Your eyes went straight to the fridge.
Hannah’s post-it was still there, bright yellow and impossible to ignore.
logan — if something leaks, breaks, explodes, or you panic. do not let him flirt his way out of doing the job.
You stared at his name for a long second.
“No,” you said to the empty kitchen.
The pipe sprayed again.
You grabbed your phone.
It rang twice before he answered.
“Please tell me this is the part where you say you need me.”
You closed your eyes. “I need a wrench.”
There was a small pause, and then Logan laughed under his breath. “That is a devastating downgrade.”
“I might need a plumber,” you said, looking at the water spreading across the tile. “Or an exorcist.”
“Which apartment?”
“Hannah and Allie’s.”
“Yeah, figured. Hannah told me she left my number.”
“She also told me not to let you flirt your way out of doing the job.”
“She wrote that down?”
“In pink ink.”
“Wow.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “She knows me so well.”
“Can you fix a sink or not?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I haven’t seen the sink yet.”
“Logan.”
“I’m five minutes away.”
You looked down at your wet shirt clinging to your chest, then at the puddle near your feet. “Make it four.”
His voice softened slightly, though the amusement stayed. “You okay?”
“I’m wet, annoyed, and my kitchen is flooding.”
“That sounds like a yes with attitude.”
“It’s a yes with a time limit.”
“I’m on my way.”
He was there in four.
When Logan showed up, you were standing in the kitchen with damp socks, a soaked shirt, and the deeply unfair feeling that the apartment had chosen to embarrass you in front of the one person who would enjoy it.
He knocked twice before you opened the door.
John Logan stood in the hallway in sweats and a dark T-shirt, hair slightly messy, mouth already tilted like he knew the night had handed him something good.
His gaze flicked over you, quick enough to almost be polite, then lifted back to your face.
“Bad sink?” he asked.
You stepped aside. “Evil sink.”
He walked in, glanced at the towels on the floor, then at the bowl under the cabinet. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“I had it under control for about twelve seconds.”
“That’s longer than most people.”
You looked at him.
He held his hands up, fighting a smile. “That was supportive.”
“It sounded judgmental.”
“It was both.”
Despite yourself, you almost laughed, which annoyed you more than the leak.
He crouched in front of the sink and opened the cabinet, leaning in with one shoulder braced against the counter. The easy joking faded just enough once he saw the pipe, and that was somehow worse. He was still Logan, still too relaxed in your kitchen, but now he actually looked like he knew what he was doing.
You passed him the wrench when he asked for it, then a dry towel. His fingers brushed yours both times, and you told yourself it was only because the kitchen was cramped.
“So,” he said from under the sink, voice muffled. “Boyfriend couldn’t come save the day?”
You leaned back against the opposite counter. “That would require having a boyfriend.”
He paused with his hand still under the sink.
Not long. Just enough.
“Good to know.”
Your stomach dipped, and you hated that he probably heard the silence that followed.
“That was not an invitation.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
He turned the wrench again, but there was a smile in his voice now, low and pleased and impossible to miss.
You looked down at the towel in your hands instead of at him. “Fix the sink, Logan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Logan glanced back at you like he had caught something he wanted to keep, and that annoyed you more than if he had actually said something about it.
You busied yourself with the towels, wringing one out over the sink while he went back to the pipe. The kitchen settled into the sound of water dripping into the bucket, his hand moving against metal, and your own very poor attempt at not watching him work.
After another minute, he reached out without looking. “Towel.”
You handed it over.
He wiped beneath the pipe, then adjusted something near the valve with a focus that made you regret how much you were watching his hands.
“You sure this is fixing it?” you asked.
“No faith in me?”
“I met you through a post-it on the fridge.”
“That post-it had my number for a reason.”
“Hannah also warned me not to let you flirt your way out of doing anything.”
Logan looked up at that, grin slow but not overdone. “Smart girl.”
“I meant her.”
“I didn’t.”
Your stomach dipped, and he ducked back under the sink before you could come up with anything decent to say.
After another turn of the wrench, he said, “Relax. I’m good with my hands.”
You almost dropped the towel.
He noticed without even looking directly at you.
“That came out exactly the way you meant it,” you said.
“Did it?”
“Logan.”
“What?” He glanced up, all innocence and none of it believable. “I’m fixing your sink.”
The worst part was that he really was fixing it.
He joked too much, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself every time he made you stumble over a response, but he was not just poking at pipes for show. He knew where to look, what to tighten, when to stop and check the leak. Every few minutes, he asked for something, and every few minutes, you found yourself looking at his hands before you realized you were doing it.
It was getting irritating.
Not because he was annoying.
Because he was annoying and attractive and actually helping.
That combination felt personally unfair.
When he finally told you to turn the faucet on, you did it slowly, one hand on the handle and the other ready to shut it off if the sink decided to attack again.
For two seconds, everything was fine.
Then water burst from under the pipe and hit Logan square in the chest.
“Shit.”
He reached under the sink while you scrambled for the faucet, twisting it too far in the wrong direction before finally getting it right. The spray stopped all at once, leaving behind a dripping cabinet, a wet floor, and Logan kneeling in front of the sink with his shirt plastered to his chest.
He sat back on his heels, water running down his neck, and pushed a hand through his hair.
You meant to look at the pipe.
You looked at him instead.
His shirt clung to him in a way that made the kitchen feel very quiet. You could see the shape of his chest beneath the wet fabric, the way his stomach tightened when he breathed, the water caught along his jaw before it slipped down his throat.
Logan’s eyes lifted to yours.
For once, he did not say anything immediately.
That was worse too.
He stood slowly, reaching for one of the towels on the counter. “That part was not supposed to happen.”
“I figured.”
“You look a little too satisfied about it.”
“I’m deciding whether I should still trust you with the sink.”
He dried his face with the towel, but his eyes stayed on you. “That what you’re deciding?”
The question was simple. The way he asked it was not.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of your own shirt sticking to your chest.
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped for half a second, then came back up.
“Okay,” he said, quieter. “Decide.”
The kitchen seemed smaller than it had a few minutes ago. Water dripped softly into the bucket under the sink. Your shirt clung to your skin, and his clung to him, and the space between you felt thin enough to snap.
You looked at the towel in his hand, then at his wet shirt, then at the way his fingers tightened around the fabric like he was stopping himself from reaching for something else.
“You told me you were good with your hands.”
Logan’s expression changed.
The teasing did not disappear, but it settled into something heavier.
“I did,” he said.
A second passed.
Then he stepped closer.
“Was that just about the sink?” you asked.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
“No.”
That was all it took.
He crossed the space between you in one hard step, and then his mouth was on yours.
It was not sweet. It was not tentative. It was a wet, hungry kiss that shoved the breath out of you and made your back hit the counter before you realized he had moved you. His hands went to your waist, firm and hot through the damp fabric of your shirt, and you grabbed his shoulders because he was already kissing you like he had been thinking about it since he walked in.
Maybe before that.
His tongue slid against yours, and the sound that left you made his fingers dig into your waist.
His hands tightened on your waist. He stepped between your legs, caging you against the counter, and the feel of his body pressed to yours sent a hot, dizzy rush through you.
His shirt was cold and wet against your chest, but underneath it he was warm, solid, all hard muscle and restless hands.
He kissed you until you could barely think through it.
Then his hands slid down to your thighs.
“Up,” he said against your mouth.
You barely had time to react before he lifted you onto the counter.
The casual strength of it made your stomach flip. One second your feet were on the floor, and the next you were sitting on the cold kitchen counter with Logan between your knees, pulling you forward until your legs opened around him.
“Well damn,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.
His grin was instant.
“Already?”
“Shut up.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand spreading across your lower back as he pulled you tight against him. He did not leave space between you. Not even a little. His chest pressed to yours, his mouth stayed close, and his other hand slid along your thigh, fingers pushing beneath the hem of your shorts.
You shivered.
He felt it.
A pleased breath left him against your jaw. “Still thinking about what I said?”
“About what?”
His fingers skimmed higher.
“My hands.”
Your breath caught.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then the side of your neck where your pulse was making a fool of you. His arm stayed locked around your back, holding you against him as his hand slid between your legs over your shorts.
The first press of his fingers made you inhale sharply.
Logan paused just enough to look at you.
“Still okay?”
You nodded.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Say it for me.”
“Yes.”
The answer barely left your mouth before he kissed you again.
His fingers moved slowly at first, rubbing over the damp fabric, learning the shape of your reaction. You tried to keep kissing him like you were still in control of any part of this, but then he pressed harder, right where you needed him, and your mouth opened against his.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
You dug your nails into his shoulders.
“Cocky,” you managed.
He smiled against your neck. “You like it.”
“I haven’t decided.”
His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your shorts.
Your whole body tensed.
Logan’s arm tightened around your back, keeping you close as his hand dipped under your panties. His fingers found you wet and aching, and his breath left him in a rough sound that went straight through you.
“Fuck,” he said softly. “You’re soaked.”
“You sprayed me with the sink.”
He laughed under his breath, but it broke when his fingers slid through your pussy, gathering the wetness there.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s definitely what this is.”
You would have snapped back if he had not started touching you properly.
Two fingers rubbed slow circles over your clit, and every thought you had scattered across the kitchen floor with the towels. You pressed your face into his shoulder, biting back a moan, but Logan was not having that. His hand at your back slid up beneath your shirt, palm warm on bare skin, and he pulled you closer until your breasts pressed hard against his chest.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said near your ear. “I want to hear you.”
The words made your pussy clench around nothing.
His mouth brushed your ear, his smile almost cruel. “Yeah. You liked that.”
You lifted your head and kissed him because it was easier than answering. He kissed you back immediately, tongue sliding into your mouth while his fingers kept moving between your legs. The wet sounds of his hand under your shorts were obscene in the quiet kitchen. You could hear them beneath the drip of the sink, beneath your uneven breathing, beneath the small groan he made when your thighs tightened around his hips.
He was still standing right in front of you, holding you like he wanted every inch of you pressed to him. You could feel his cock getting hard through his sweats, thick against the inside of your thigh.
The realization made heat roll through you.
Logan’s fingers slowed.
“You felt that, huh?”
You looked at him, breathless. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re sitting on the counter with my hand in your shorts.”
You hated how badly you wanted him.
You hated how much he knew it.
Then he pushed one finger inside you, and you stopped thinking about anything else.
Your head fell back, a moan slipping free before you could swallow it. Logan’s mouth moved to your throat as his finger slid deeper, curling slowly, testing what made your thighs shake. He found it too fast. A smooth curl, a press, and suddenly your hips jerked against his hand.
His laugh was soft and wicked.
“Still questioning my hands?”
“Logan.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
He added a second finger, stretching you with slow, deliberate strokes that made your eyes flutter. His arm stayed around your back the entire time, keeping you upright against him, close enough that every breath dragged your chest against his. Your wet shirt stuck to your breasts, and when he shifted, the friction made your nipples tighten painfully.
He noticed.
His mouth moved lower, kissing over the damp fabric at your chest before his hand left your back just long enough to drag your shirt upward. You lifted your arms because there was no pretending now. The shirt came off and hit the floor with a wet slap.
Logan looked at you.
Really looked.
Your skin burned under it.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
You reached for him, suddenly needing him closer again, and he came willingly. His mouth covered yours as his free hand cupped one of your breasts, thumb dragging over your nipple while his fingers kept fucking you. You arched into him, your knees tightening around his hips.
“That’s it,” he said against your mouth. “Let me feel you.”
His thumb circled your clit while his fingers moved inside you, and the combination made pleasure build fast and hot in your stomach. You gripped the edge of the counter with one hand and his shoulder with the other, trying to hold on to something as your body started to shake.
He kissed you through it.
Messy, deep kisses that stole every sound from your mouth until he wanted them back and pulled away just enough to hear you.
“You had a lot to say a minute ago,” he murmured.
You tried to answer.
He curled his fingers again.
Your words fell apart into a moan.
Logan’s eyes darkened. “That’s what I thought.”
You were close already. Embarrassingly close. Maybe it was the teasing. Maybe it was his fingers. Maybe it was the fact that he still had one arm around you like he had no intention of letting you lean away from a single second of it.
Maybe it was all of him.
His wet shirt. His mouth. His hand. His cock hard against you. His voice in your ear, rough and smug and getting less controlled every time you moved against him.
“Come for me,” he said. “Right here.”
Your thighs trembled.
“Logan.”
“I’ve got you.”
That did it.
The words were softer than everything else, but they hit harder. Your pussy clenched around his fingers as the orgasm rolled through you, sharp and warm and dizzying. You buried your face against his neck, moaning into his skin while he kept touching you through it, slower now, drawing out every pulse until your body went loose against him.
He did not let you fall back.
He held you close, breathing hard against your hair, his fingers still buried inside you until you whimpered from how sensitive you were.
“Fuck,” he said, voice rough. “You look good like that.”
You lifted your head, still trembling.
He kissed you before you could answer.
This kiss was different. Hotter because he had lost some of his patience. His fingers slipped out of you, and you gasped at the emptiness, but then he was reaching for the waistband of your shorts.
Then your shorts and panties were being pulled down your legs, his hand gripping your thigh to lift you enough to get them off. They dropped somewhere near the towels. You barely cared. Your hands were already at his shirt, dragging the soaked fabric upward.
He helped you yank it over his head, and for a second you lost your place in the rush of it.
Because he was right there.
Wet skin, hard chest, hair damp and messy, eyes locked on you like he was trying to decide whether to kiss you again or devour you whole.
You touched him because you had to.
Your hands slid over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the flex of muscle beneath warm skin. Logan sucked in a breath when your fingers reached the waistband of his sweats.
His hand returned to your lower back instantly, catching you, pulling you upright against him again. The closeness made your head spin. Even while you fumbled with his sweats, even while he shoved them down enough for his cock to spring free, he kept you against him like he could not stand the idea of space.
Your eyes dropped.
He was hard and thick, flushed at the tip, and the sight of him made your mouth go dry.
Logan noticed.
“Still full of myself?” he asked.
You dragged your fingers along his cock, and his breath hitched.
“Maybe not full enough.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
For once, he looked like you had stolen the line right out of his mouth.
Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and kissed you again. “You’re trouble.”
“You asked if I had a boyfriend while fixing my sink.”
“Yeah, and look how well that worked out for me.”
He reached down, wrapped his hand around his cock, and dragged the head through your pussy. The slick slide made both of you go still. Your hands gripped his shoulders. His forehead dropped to yours, and for one breath, neither of you said anything.
Then he did it again, dragging himself over your clit, down to your entrance, then back up until your hips lifted on their own.
“Logan,” you breathed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”
There was something in his voice that made you ache worse than the teasing had.
He reached to the side, grabbing his sweats from where they had bunched at his thighs. You realized what he was doing when he pulled a condom from his wallet. The normalness of it should have cooled things down.
It did not.
Watching him roll it on while standing between your spread thighs made your stomach twist all over again.
Then he stepped back in, one hand sliding behind your back, the other gripping your thigh. He pulled you to the edge of the counter until your pussy brushed the head of his cock.
You inhaled sharply.
He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.
“This still what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
You looked at him, heat blooming in your face despite everything he had already done to you.
“I want you to fuck me.”
His eyes went dark.
“Christ.”
Then he pushed inside.
The stretch made your mouth fall open. Logan groaned, deep and rough, his arm tightening around your back as he sank into you inch by inch. You clung to him, legs locking around his waist, your body adjusting to the thick pressure of his cock filling you.
He stopped once he was fully inside, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“Fuck,” he said. “You feel so good.”
You could barely answer. He was so close, chest against yours, one hand spread wide over your back, holding you upright while his cock throbbed deep inside you. The counter was cold beneath your thighs. His skin was hot under your palms. The sink dripped behind him like the most ridiculous reminder of how this had started.
Then he moved.
Slow at first, just a pull of his hips and a deep thrust back in that made your nails dig into his shoulders. His mouth found yours, swallowing your moan. His tongue slid against yours as he started to fuck you, still holding you close enough that every thrust rocked you into his chest.
You had expected him to be good.
You had not expected this.
The closeness made it worse. Better. Impossible. He did not give you room to turn away from the feeling. His arm stayed around your back. His hips pushed between your thighs. His mouth kept coming back to yours every time you tried to breathe. It was wet and heated and messy, the kind of kissing that made you feel like he was just as gone as you were.
Your breasts brushed against his chest with every thrust, nipples dragging over damp skin until you were shivering from that alone. He gripped your thigh harder, lifting it higher around his waist, changing the angle so his cock hit deeper.
Your head tipped back.
“Oh my God.”
Logan’s mouth moved to your throat.
“There,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
You could only nod.
He did it again, and your whole body jolted.
“Words,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.
“Yes,” you gasped. “There.”
His hips snapped forward a little harder.
Pleasure sparked bright through your body.
“Right there?”
“Logan.”
He kissed you, smiling into it for half a second before the smile disappeared into a groan. “You say my name like that again and I’m not lasting.”
You clenched around him.
His eyes squeezed shut.
“Fuck.”
You would have laughed if you had enough breath for it. Instead, you pulled his mouth back to yours and kissed him until he started moving faster.
The rhythm turned frantic without losing the closeness. He fucked you hard, but he kept you wrapped against him, one arm behind your back, one hand on your thigh, his chest pressed to yours like he needed to feel every reaction. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging when he hit that spot again, and his answering groan vibrated against your mouth.
“Keep your legs around me,” he said.
You did.
You could not imagine doing anything else.
Your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs. Your pussy took every thrust, slick and tight around his cock, the wet sound of it mixing with the harsh pull of his breathing. The counter creaked beneath you. Somewhere behind him, water dripped into the bucket.
It should have been funny.
Maybe later it would be.
Right now, all you could think about was Logan’s cock inside you and his hand moving between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again with devastating accuracy.
Your body jerked.
He felt it and groaned.
“God, you get so tight when I touch you there.”
You made a helpless sound into his mouth.
He kissed you through it, his thumb rubbing steady circles while his hips kept moving. The pressure built again, hotter this time, deeper because he was inside you, because his cock kept dragging through you just right, because he was holding you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “you don’t have to wait for the sink to break.”
The words went straight through you.
“There’s a next time?”
His hips slowed just enough for him to look at you.
His eyes were dark. His mouth was swollen from kissing you. His hair was damp, his chest flushed, his hand still moving between your legs like he knew exactly how close you were.
“You tell me.”
Your answer came out as a kiss.
He took it like a yes.
His hips drove forward again, and the counter dug into the backs of your thighs. You barely felt it over the pleasure gathering low in your stomach. His thumb circled your clit faster, his cock thrusting deep, and you broke away from his mouth with a moan you could not hold back.
“Logan, I’m gonna come.”
“I know.” His voice sounded wrecked. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
You tried to hold his gaze, but then he shifted the angle again, deeper, harder, still pressed so close you could feel his heartbeat against your chest. The orgasm hit fast, a rush of heat and pressure that made your pussy clamp around him as your body shook in his arms.
He cursed into your neck.
“Fuck, that’s it.”
He kept moving through it, fucking you while you came, his thumb slowing only when you started to tremble from too much. You clung to him, face buried against his shoulder, every pulse of pleasure leaving tingles down your thighs, your spine, the tips of your fingers.
Logan’s rhythm faltered.
His grip on your back tightened. His mouth found yours again, rough and desperate, tongue sliding against yours as he chased his own release. You kissed him back, still clenching around him, still shaking, and that seemed to break whatever control he had left.
His hips drove in deep once, twice, then he came with a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours as his body went tense against you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The apartment was quiet except for breathing.
And the sink.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
You started laughing first.
It slipped out of you, breathless and disbelieving, your forehead falling against his shoulder as the full reality of what had just happened came crashing in. Logan lifted his head, looked at the sink, then looked back at you.
“Technically,” he said, still breathing hard, “I did solve the emergency.”
You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to kiss him again, which was deeply inconvenient.
He slid out slowly, making both of you suck in a breath, then helped you down from the counter like he had any right to be sweet after what he had just done to you. Your legs were not entirely trustworthy, and Logan noticed immediately.
His hands went to your waist.
“Whoa.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
You gave him a look.
He kissed you once, quick and smug, then reached for his discarded shirt and paused when he realized it was soaked.
You glanced around the kitchen. Towels everywhere. Your shorts on the floor. His sweats low on his hips. The sink still dripping into the bucket.
Your phone buzzed on the counter.
Hannah’s name lit up the screen.
did everything survive? did you call logan?
Logan glanced at it before you could move the phone away.
“Nosy,” you muttered.
“She asked about me.”
“She asked about the sink.”
He looked past you, toward the cabinet, where the dripping had finally slowed to almost nothing.
“Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes and typed back.
yes. unfortunately.
Logan laughed under his breath. “Unfortunately?”
“You heard me.”
His smile stayed, but he let it go. For a second, neither of you moved. The kitchen was still a mess, your clothes were still on the floor, and his hoodie hung loose on your body while he stood there shirtless and damp, watching you like he already knew this was not ending here.
Then the sink gave one last quiet drip.
Logan sighed and reached for the towel.
“Give me two minutes.”
This time, you did not pretend not to watch him work.
A minute later, the dripping stopped.
He stood, glanced at the post-it on the fridge, and took the pen from the counter.
//song was more for the title than the vibes.// tags: @fallingfavourites //
Pairing: John Logan x Reader // Word Count: 4,577
Summary: Having a class with John Logan was best case scenario when the guy who couldn’t take a hint still doesn’t take a hint. It’s worth a shot to see if Logan can help.
Weird guy keeps hitting on you so you go to logan for help
“It’s Block Party! You have to go!” Allie insisted, dragging you to your closet. You huffed an argument but she pretended not to hear it. “If Hannah’s coming, so are you.”
“Hannah doesn’t want to go either!” You reasoned, to which Hannah tried to offer an agreement.
“Hannah does want to go because it’s a chance to talk to Justin.” Allie cut in. “You are going because you never go out with us anymore. It’s one night, Y/N/N. It won’t kill you.”
“It might.” You mumbled but sighed in defeat. “Alright, fine. Go on then. Pick my outfit.”
Allie clapped in triumph and focused back on your clothes, flipping through hangers and voicing her internal monologue regarding the selection.
“You definitely need more going out tops.” Allie shook her head. “Remind me to take you shopping this weekend.”
“I don’t need going out tops if I don’t go out.” You countered.
“Or you don’t go out because you don’t have going out tops.”
“Whatever works, Al.”
After a few more minutes of her rummaging in your closet and drawers, she finally found an outfit she approved of. You changed and she insisted on doing your hair and makeup as well. You knew better than to fight her at that point.
When you and your friends got to the block party, it was in full swing. You had pre-gamed at your apartment so there was a light buzz in your head. You still didn’t want to be out but it wasn’t as bad as you were anticipating.
After a while of dancing with your friends, you needed to sit for a bit. You loved Allie and her sense of style, but she managed to pick the most uncomfortable shoes in your closet. They were definitely meant for sitting events, but you had to agree when Allie said they made your legs look nice and long.
“Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.” She had commented when she saw your whole look put together.
You were looking around for an open table when your caught sight of the one person at Briar that you didn’t want to see.
“Fuck.” You whispered, quickly turning so your back was to him.
“What is it?” Hannah asked quickly.
“Remember that guy I’ve been complaining about?” You answered, trying to mask the instant annoyance that came from seeing him. “Behind me.”
You watched as Hannah looked over your shoulder, searching for a moment, then nodded in understanding.
“We can go if you want.” She offered.
“No.” You shook your head a little. “We came for you to finally make a move, so we’re not leaving until you do… I’m gonna get something else to drink cause I’m too sober to deal with this. If I get in trouble, I’ll call you.”
“Don’t hesitate, okay?” Hannah urged.
“Never do.” You flashed a smile before separating from your group.
You snuck through the crowd, keeping your eyes forward. You doubted he would recognize you just from the back of your head so you could at least make it to the drinks. Getting back to your friends would be a separate issue, but at least you’d have some more liquor in your system.
Once you got your drink, you swallowed a mouthful. It burned slightly and you sucked a breath in through your teeth.
“I thought that was you.” A grossly familiar voice came from behind you and you jumped.
“Hello, Eli.” You said tightly, eyes scanning the crowd for an out.
You didn’t care who it was. Allie, Hannah, you’d even settle for Justin.
“I thought you said in class that you weren’t going to come.” He continued.
“I didn’t talk to you about tonight in class.”
“I know. I heard you talking to-”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“A little, yeah.” He laughed, trying to appear embarrassed about it. You looked over at him, a slight curl in your lip. “You look great. Beautiful, even.”
You rolled your eyes and looked back to the crowd.
“Yeah…” You mumbled, not really paying attention.
Where were your friends?
“I uh, assume this outfit is courtesy of one, Miss Allie Hayes.” He continued. Without looking, you could feel he had taken a step closer.
“No, they’re my clothes.”
“I’ve never seen you wear anything like this.”
“Yeah, cause I don’t need a mini skirt for class. T-shirt and jeans work just fine…”
“And your ‘boyfriend’. He doesn’t mind you dressing like this?”
Your head snapped his way and he feigned innocence.
“You did say you were seeing someone. Didn’t you? Why are you here and not with him? Why isn’t he getting your drink?”
You shook your head and turned away again. Something about that man made your skin crawl.
Across the party, you saw a different group of familiar faces. Dean Di Laurentis, Garrett Graham, John Tucker, and John Logan. You stood a little straighter at the realization. You had the same class with Eli as you did with Logan. You had talked to him a few times, worked on projects and assignments before. He had even invited you to parties before. Not that you ever went.
You smiled slightly to yourself, mumbled a polite goodbye, then ducked away. You slipped through the crowd, narrowing avoiding spilling your drink as you ducked and dodged couples dancing.
Finally, you popped out on the other side and made it to the guys.
“Logan!” You called for his attention. He looked your way and smiled.
“Hey! I thought you weren’t coming.” He greeted.
“The girls dragged me out.” You nodded. “I hate to do this but I actually came over here for a favor.”
“Pause.” Dean cut in, pointing to you as his eyes raked up and down. Lingering on your legs. “Logan. Who is this?”
“Right, sorry. Guys, this is Y/N. We have Consumer Behavior together.” Logan introduced. “Her work has saved my ass on more than one occasion.”
“Dean Di Laurentis.” Dean bowed slightly and you had to laugh a little. “Nice to meet you.”
“I know who you are.” You shook your head with a laugh. “Everyone knows who you are, all four of you guys.”
“Which also means she knows what you’re up to.” Garrett told Dean, who was offering you a freshly poured shot.
“I’m not up to anything.”
Your eyes flicked to Logan in question and he gave a small shrug. Dean poured another and Logan took both small cups, holding the other one out to you. You accepted it, nodded in thanks, and tapped the two together in a toast before downing the liquor. You winced slightly and coughed, which earned a laugh from Logan beside you.
“Dude.” Tucker added. “You’re always up to something.”
“I resent that. Just because she-”
“I’m sorry but can this-” You gestured vaguely to Dean, handing the now empty cup back to him. “-wait? I need to borrow Logan.”
“Shit, yeah, my bad.” Logan laughed and gestured for you to go with him. You two walked a few feet away and then he faced you again. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his original drink. “What’s going on?”
“You know Eli from class?” You began, inching a bit closer as if you were telling a secret. You were a little convinced that Eli would pop up as soon as you said his name like some freaky version of Beetlejuice. Well, freakier version.
“Uh, yeah, a little. The guy’s a little…”
“Weird.” You filled in. “He’s fucking weird, Logan.”
“He bothering you?”
“I’ve tried being nice about it. He DMs my Instagram every other day. He likes my old posts. He comments on old posts. I’ve had to delete his comments and restrict his account. He won’t leave me alone. It’s like he thinks I’m playing hard to get or something.”
“You didn’t just block him?”
“I don’t trust that I can block him and he’ll let it go, not when we have a class together.” You confessed. “I’ve even tried telling him I’m seeing someone.”
“And he doesn’t care?”
“He doesn’t believe me! He said that I don’t have anyone posted, that I don’t go out, I’m never walking with a guy, and that none of my friends have posted anything either.”
“That is a bit much.” Logan nodded, looking over your head for a moment.
“He found me when I was getting a drink a few minutes ago. I don’t know what else to do so I just thought…”
“That I could get him to back off?”
“Yeah, maybe.” You shrugged a little. “Sounds a little pathetic now that you say it.”
“So what do you need? Just to hang out and put on a show?”
“Maybe?” You laughed nervously. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, and I wasn’t even sure you would say yes.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s not like we talk much outside of class.”
“Yeah, but that’s cause you never come to anything I invite you to.”
“Oh, come on. You guys invite everyone.”
“I don’t.”
“So I’m special?”
“Yeah, maybe…” He flashed a smile but nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll help you.”
“Really?” You brightened. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”
“But you owe me.” He pointed at you.
“The times I saved your grade isn’t enough?”
“No, not at all.”
“Alright, fine, I’ll do your next Consumers assignment.” You waved him off. “I appreciate you talking to him.”
“Oh, I’m not talking to him. Not unless he comes to us.” He laughed, taking his empty hand out of his pocket. He gestured for your cup and you offered it to him in confusion. “And you’re not drinking that.”
Without explanation, he dropped it in the nearest trashcan. He came back, offering you his now empty hand.
“My drink.” You frowned.
“I’ll get you a new one.” He offered with an amused smile.
“That one was fine.”
“You ever look away from it?”
You nodded slightly.
“You don’t trust to block the guy. You trust to not see your drink?”
“Fair point.”
You took the hand he offered and he gave you a slight tug to follow him. You did, looking back to try and find your friends. They were still lost in the crowd.
They wouldn’t miss you for a little while, right?
“Shit, Logan.” Garrett laughed as the two of you made it back to his friends. “I think Dean owes you an apology.”
“For what?” Dean spun around. “Oh, shit.”
“It’s not-” You tried.
Logan freed his hand from yours and put his arm over your shoulders instead.
“You two sneak off for a chat and come back… What? Dating?” Tucker asked and you just looked up at Logan.
You felt your phone buzzing in your pocket so you checked it.
Hannah was calling.
Maybe they would miss you.
“Shit.” You whispered and answered, turning slightly away from the boys’ conversation and blocking your other ear. “Hey, Han.”
“Y/N/N! What happened to you? We couldn’t find you.” Hannah answered. Even though she was likely yelling, the music was fighting to drown out her voice.
“Yeah, well. Long story short, Eli.”
“Shit.” She breathed. “Where are you? Allie and I will come help.”
“Another long story short, Logan.”
“Lo- Like John Logan from the hockey team?!”
“Yeah… I’ll explain later.”
“Alright… Call if you need a rescue, okay?”
“Absolutely. Thanks, lovey.”
You ended the call and turned back, shifting closer to Logan and unintentionally leaning some of your weight onto him.
“Everything okay?” Logan asked, looking over at you.
“I let Allie pick my shoes and they are not meant for standing.” You laughed.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Logan laughed.
“Because Allie was so proud of the outfit she put together despite her hating my closet.” You gestured to yourself and you didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the path of your hand. “She said…”
Logan met your eyes with a silent question.
Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.
“She said the shoes make my legs look longer.” You filled in.
“She was right.” Logan nodded.
“She also said the skirt distracts from my boring shirt.”
“I see what she means.” Logan laughed and you found yourself smiling in response.
“You’re wearing a plain shirt and a Carhartt.” You tugged on his jacket slightly. “But you’re telling me that my outfit is boring?”
“Not the whole outfit.”
“Oh, so just half of it?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“I am regretting coming over here already. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea.”
He laughed as he guided you to the nearby picnic table his friends had claimed. He sat on the table and left a gap between his legs. Again, he reached for your hand.
You accepted, though the questioning look in your eyes didn’t falter. He just winked and smiled, and that was enough for you to go along with whatever plan he had. You took your seat, crossing one leg under yourself and adjusting your skirt accordingly. You leaned back against Logan’s leg and looked over at the stage, watching the band perform. Logan was laughing and joking with his friends. Whatever was so funny, you didn’t know or didn’t really care.
You did realize you liked hearing him laugh.
“Oh, wait. You know her.” Garrett said suddenly, then he showed you his phone screen. “The waitress from Malone’s.”
“Hannah.” You corrected, glancing at the photo of her on his screen. “What about her?”
“What’s her deal?”
You leaned forward, crossing your arms over Logan’s leg. His hand found its way to your back, fingers tracing slight patterns between your shoulder blades that almost made you shiver.
“What do you mean?”
“Like… Okay, I have a class with her and she was the only one to ace a paper.”
“Not surprising.” You shook your head. “She knows her stuff.”
“So I try to get her to help me out so I don’t fail again and she said no.” Garrett lifted his hands for a dramatic shrug.
“Well it could have something to do with you not knowing her name.” You offered. “Or she just doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“No? You sure? Can’t blame her if it is.”
“Couldn’t possibly be that.” Logan joked.
“If it’s not personal, she is usually pretty busy.” You explained. “I think she has three jobs, and then her classes and her music.”
You felt a hand tap your arm and you turned to face Logan.
“I think he’s coming over here.” Logan warned and you frowned, deflating a little.
Logan chuckled, tapping his fingers under your chin. “Trust me, okay?”
“What other choice do I have?” You gave a small shrug.
“Yo, Dean!” Logan called and the blond came over, a slight wobble in his step from too much to drink too fast. “You see that guy coming over?” Logan shamelessly pointed at Eli. That seemed to make him hesitate and change course. “Would you think he has a shot with Y/N?”
“Fuck no.” Dean answered with a laugh and no hesitation. “Logan, you barely have a shot with her. No offense.”
You scoffed in offense and whacked at Dean’s arm, earning a laugh from him and Logan.
“Does he seriously try?” Dean asked you.
“Relentlessly.” You nodded. “I can show you the DMs. It’s at least twice a week.”
“Please do.” Dean laughed and sat near you on the bench.
“Once, he commented ‘be my waifu’ on an Instagram post from two years ago.”
You pulled your phone, seeing a series of texts from Allie.
WTF!?!?!
LOOK UP!!!!
YOURE KIDDING ME
!!?!?!??!?!
You swiped the messages away before opening the one sided thread in your Instagram DMs. You passed Dean your phone before looking towards the last place you saw your friends. Allie had found something to stand on and was waving frantically towards you. You smiled and offered an awkward wave. She looked down for a moment, head moving as she was likely typing an aggressive message, then she looked back up. Her eyes were wide and her hands were swinging wildly still when you felt Dean tap you with your phone.
“That’s sad, actually.” Dean said, fake empathy in his voice. “Oh, also Allie is very confused.”
“You read my text!?” You snatched your phone and saw it was open to yours and Allie’s messages.
IS THAT JOHN FUCKING LOGAN!?
YOURE DATING JOHN LOGAN?????
WHEN DID THIS START!?!?
Y/N Y/L/N STOP IGNORING ME
“She’s gonna kill me.” You sighed.
“She’ll get over it.” Logan answered.
“No.” You shook your head as you thumbed your response.
don’t make this a thing. i’ll explain later… call if hannah goes to make a move tho and i will come RUNNING
“This is gonna be her go-to for quite literally anything. ‘Remember when you didn’t tell me about you and John Logan?’ Allie will definitely hold a grudge over this.”
“Yeah, but is it something?”
You shifted to look up at him. His head was cocked slightly, his cup abandoned beside him and both hands bracing the way he leaned back on the table.
“Just a favor...” You answered after a hesitation. That was the truth, but it still felt suddenly wrong.
Before either of you could say anything else, there was a new presence beside you. You expected to turn and see Allie had stomped her way over to demand answers or Hannah had come with some excuse to whisk you away. Instead, you turned and saw Eli standing there.
Immediately, you tugged the hem of your skirt down and shifted to be facing straight. Logan leaned forward, an arm coming across your chest and pulling you slightly closer. You reached up and put one hand on his arm, the other going for his hand. His thumb ran gently back and forth over your knuckles. A heat raced up your neck as your cheeks burned but you tried not to acknowledge it. Prior to the last few minutes, you hadn’t considered anything with Logan but now that the thought had been planted…
Now that you knew how easy it was to be around him…
“This’ll be good.” Dean mumbled.
“Hey, man.” Logan said casually. “You’re in our Consumers class, right? Elliot.”
“Eli.” Eli corrected sharply. “I just wanted to talk to Y/N about something.”
“Up to her.”
“Can’t we talk here?” You asked politely, offering an easy and comfortable smile. “It’s not like we’re telling secrets or anything.” You laughed a little.
“I was hoping to save some embarrassment.”
“For who?”
“Fine… I just wanted to see why you lied to me.” He said sharply, as if you had offended him.
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you said you weren’t looking for anything.”
“Wasn’t.” You shrugged. “But I did also say I was already seeing someone.”
“Why are you here, Y/N?” He asked, nearly desperate. You tried to keep your face neutral. “You talk and you tempt me but then you leave.”
“I’ve never given you that idea.” You had to laugh.
“You expect me to believe you, a beautiful and innocent and sweet and kind and smart woman, would date him?”
“Have you been bothering her outside of class?” Logan cut in, a new edge to his voice.
“No.” Eli said quickly.
“No, I've seen the way you try to corner her.”
“Yeah and I’ve seen the messages.” Dean added with a small, almost pitiful laugh. “You bother the fuck outta her. She’s just too nice to tell you to fuck off. We, on the other hand, aren’t. So fuck off.”
“Who was talking to you, blondie?” Eli turned on Dean.
“Wrong fucking answer, buddy.”
“Don’t you have some other girl to make question her morals?”
Dean went to stand but Logan grabbed his friend’s arm.
“Blondie here can still kick your ass. I wouldn’t pick a fight with hockey players.” You commented, squeezing Logan’s hand slightly. “You won’t win.”
“I like her.” Dean smiled to Logan, who gave a small chuckle in return.
Garrett and Tucker had now come closer, as if recognizing the tension. Eli took a step back.
“Just leave her alone, alright?” Logan said calmly. “She doesn’t want shit to do with you.”
“But she suddenly wants you?” Eli snapped.
You didn’t bother trying to keep your expression neutral. Your brows raised and you let out a quiet “wow”.
“Why are you here, Eli?” You asked plainly. “You don’t respect anything I tell you. You don’t believe I’m seeing someone. You literally see me with him. But you come over here and… What? Think I’ll run off into the sunset with you? I see your DMs. I see the comments. You ever think that maybe there’s a reason I ignore all of them?”
“You’re better than this, my darling.”
“Alright.” Logan announced. You felt him lean forward, his chest against your back. “You heard her. It’s time for you to go.”
“Or what?” Eli lifted his chin, almost trying to challenge Logan.
Part of you wondered if Logan would’ve moved differently had you not been sitting in front of him, tucked under his arm. Would he have been more like Dean, ready to fight? Would he have been like Garrett and Tucker, a quiet but strong presence? Or would he be the same he was, tense but in control?
“What more proof do you need that I don’t want anything to do with you?” You said sharply. You moved Logan’s arm and stood, coming nearly eye to eye with Eli thanks to the lift of your heels.
“It won’t last. He will break your precious heart and toss you aside like you’re worthless.” Eli nearly pleaded. “I will treat you like a princess. Like a queen. You deserve so much better.”
You looked over at Logan, at Dean, then Tucker. Garrett had disappeared.
“I like where I am.” You gave a small, nonchalant shrug. “Take a fucking hint and-”
You were cut off by your phone buzzing. You looked down at it, ignoring the pleas from Eli.
It was Allie.
“No fucking way.” You said when you answered. “Is she really?!”
“Yes, get your cute ass down here now!”
“Okay, yes, coming!”
“You’re not off the hook for whatever that is with Logan.”
You laughed and hung up the phone. Still ignoring Eli, you turned and grabbed Logan’s hand. You didn’t need to bring Logan with you. Surely, if Eli still tried to follow and talk to you, the boys would block him, but you just wanted to bring him along.
“Come with me!” You said in excitement and gave a slight tug.
He laughed, said something you weren’t listening to, but gave in to your efforts. He stood, waved to his friends, and followed you back towards the main party. As you reached the crowd, you had to slow down.
Logan was close behind you, one hand still in yours and the other was now on your hip. You glanced down at it and felt the heat on your cheeks again. With the people around you, there was no way Eli could see much. He didn’t have to put on a show for anyone, yet he still went out of his way to keep hold of you.
You liked it.
When you finally got through the crowds, you found Allie and Dexter already watching Hannah.
“Girl. I thought you were kidding.” Dexter told Allie, offering a double take as you approached with Logan in tow.
“John Logan, this is Allie and Dexter. Allie and Dexter, John Logan.” You introduced quickly, though it was likely they knew who he was. “We have Consumer Behavior together and he is my savior tonight.”
“Okay.” Dexter gave a nod of approval.
“Shut up! We can talk about that later.” Allie insisted, smacking yours and Dexter’s arms. “She’s doing it.”
You turned and saw Hannah making her way to Justin. Her attempt was cut short by someone knocking into her and spilling their drink. You turned and dropped your head against Logan’s arm, huffing in defeat. He laughed a little and patted your back.
“Oh, hell no!” Allie said firmly and you looked back up. Dexter pulled her back and when you followed their focus, you saw Garrett Graham offering Hannah his jacket.
You turned back to Logan.
“What the hell is he doing?” You asked in shock.
“I have no idea.” He laughed a little, though his expression was just as confused. “Guess that’s why he was asking about her.”
“Huh…” You nodded slowly. “I guess rejection is the way to Graham’s heart.”
“Or he just really wants help with that next paper.” Logan joked.
You smacked his chest slightly but laughed a little bit.
“The things we do for our grades, huh?” You teased.
“Hey, I’m doing this for more than a grade.” He put his hands up in surrender.
“Are you?” You cocked your head.
The sun had fully set by now and there was a slight chill in the air. A chill ran down your spine, making you regret agreeing to the skirt. As cute as it was, it was not weather appropriate.
“Oh, shit. Here.” Logan noticed, quickly taking off his jacket. He offered it to you, but you tried to push his hands away.
“I’ll be fine. I don’t think I’ll stick around much longer anyway.” You tried.
“Shut up and take it.” He urged gently, pushing the jacket back at you.
With a sigh, you did. It was already warm and you could smell his cologne on it.
“Thank you.” You said, shoving your hands in the pockets. “For all of it, tonight.”
You felt a tap on your shoulder and looked over to see Dexter pointing between him and Allie. He took her wrist and began to pull her away, despite Allie’s protests. Dexter gave you a pointed look, to which you rolled your eyes, then they blended into the crowd.
“They are gonna have a field day with this.” You laughed.
Logan took hold of the front of his jacket and pulled you closer, flush against his chest. You let out a small noise of surprise at the action and he just smiled at you.
He had a very pretty smile. How had you not noticed it earlier?
“Can I tell you something?” Logan asked, his voice low as if he was telling you a secret.
“Sure.” You nodded.
“I’m glad you came up to me tonight.”
“I’m glad you agreed. Otherwise, I would’ve had to sick Allie on him and that would not have been pretty.”
“You still can, I mean…” He shrugged and you laughed. You drew your hands out of the pockets and rested one on his arm while the other fiddled with the chain around his neck. “Y/N…”
“John.” You titled your head back to meet his eyes.
“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.” He nodded slightly.
“Seriously?” Your brows raised. “Shit, not- Not that I don’t want to, just… It’s kinda out of nowhere.”
“Yeah, a little, but…” He smiled but he almost seemed nervous.
“John Logan, am I making you nervous?” You laughed.
“Do you want to go or not?” He laughed, ignoring your question.
“Well, we’ve gone this far. We might as well give it a shot.” You tugged lightly on his chain, pulling him the smallest bit forward. “Besides, you still owe me a drink.”
one bed enemies to lovers trope with john logan x reader 👀🙈
coming right up, m'lady
Nothing good happens after 2 AM
pairing: john logan x reader
words: 3.1k
summary: you and logan couldn't stand each other on a good day, got along for the sake of your friends. So, sharing a bed with him should've been a piece of cake, right ?
warnings: language, one single mention of a boner, it's all fluff baby
a/n: it started as a blurb i swear
Briar U students knew how to party. There was always something to keep everybody occupied. Great alcohol, decent food, groups of people on the dance floor, some singing their souls out, students in corners and couches discussing everything from the latest episode of Love Island to Astrophysics. Everybody was happy.
So happy that often times after a party ends, some people don't leave. Every inch of the house would be covered in either something sticky and moist that needed no further pondering or a whole ass person who was already fast asleep. Couch, porch, hallways, living room, bedroom, everywhere. It was a miracle if someone got to sleep in the bed.
Logan predicted that this would be the case, halfway through the party. People already started to slump and lean on walls; it was a matter of time before his own room was auctioned off to some random people he had never met in his life. He ran up to his room, locked it, put the key safely in the pocket of his denims and walked back down to the party.
"What are you so happy about?" you chided. You were at the bottom of the staircase, two solo cups with something strong, one in each hand.
Logan pressed a hand to his chest in mock surprise. "Offering me a drink? What's the occasion?" He gasped, hand to chest. "Did someone die?"
You fixed him with a flat look. "In your dreams, hockey boy." You shoved the cup at him hard enough that some of it sloshed over the rim. He accepted it and leaned against the wall as he took a sip.
"Tucker asked me to give it to you. I'm just the messenger. Don't read into it."
"Sure," he took another sip, eyebrows furrowed in serious thought. "You know, you could've just asked Tucker to fuck off and bring it himself?"
"I could've," you agreed. "But then I wouldn't have gotten to watch you be wrong about something, and that's basically my, like, favourite hobby."
He tilted his head. "Funny. I thought your favourite hobby was pretending you don't stare at me at games."
You laughed incredulously. "You are so full of yourself."
"Right." He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside you, completely uninvited, because that was just what Logan did. Took up space like he was entitled to it. And as much as you pretended to be annoyed, you really, really weren't.
"And it has nothing to do with the fact that I look incredible in gear."
You turned to look at him slowly. "You are genuinely insufferable, you know that?"
Slowly, the crowd trickled down, shoulders slumped, and eyes started to droop. By 2 am, most people were passed out from exhaustion, alcohol, or both.
Logan finally headed up to his room, feeling accomplished that he got to have it all for himself. He changed out of his denims and into some comfortable sweatpants. His shirt was almost fully off when his door opened.
"Hey, mind if I— Oh shit." You slapped a hand over your eyes.
"What the fuck," Logan said, less a question and more a general statement of grievance at the universe. He yanked his henley down over his head and turned around. "Why are you in my room?"
"Garrett said I could crash here." You lowered your hand cautiously, confirming the situation was PG again.
"Crash here." He stared at you. "In my room."
"In your room," you confirmed, like it wasn't your ideal choice of a sleepover either.
"Garrett." He said the name the way someone might say black mould or tax audit. "I'm going to kill him."
"Incredibly valid," you said. "But maybe after? Because I genuinely have nowhere else to go."
He crossed his arms. The henley was dark green and soft-looking and you were absolutely not noticing that. "Garrett's room."
"Hannah's there."
"Right. Dean's?"
"Allie's in there, and I am not mentally strong enough to know what's going on behind that door." He just sighed.
"What about Tucker?"
You gave him a look. "There are five people in that room. I counted. Someone's sleeping in the bathtub, Logan, I am not going in there."
He considered his options, staring at the ceiling.
"And before you ask, both couches are occupied." You leaned against the doorframe and hated that you were about to do this. "Dude, I will sleep on the floor. I'm not even asking for the bed. Just— floor space. And a tiny little pillow."
Logan gave you a once-over as he considered.
You were still in your party clothes— some soft-looking sweater that had ridden up on one side where it'd gotten caught on your hip, dark jeans that were probably uncomfortable as hell at this point. Your hair was a mess, with strands falling around your face. You had that specific kind of tired that came from too much socialising and not enough sleep, your eyes a little glazed, your shoulders curved inward like you were trying to make yourself smaller.
You looked exhausted, vulnerable in a way he had never seen you before. You dragged your sweater down by the hem, suddenly self-conscious.
Something in his chest did something he didn't like.
"Do you have anything to change into?" he caught you off guard. Wow, okay. He did not have to do that. His back was already turned to you as he started rummaging through his closet.
"Oh? Um, no, no, I don't."
After about a minute, he threw a t-shirt and some pants in your direction. "Here."
You caught with the grace of a drunk person at 2 AM, trying to prove they had hand-eye coordination. Immediately after you caught it, he turned around, facing the wall. You stood there for a moment holding his clothes.
They smelled like him. Something clean and warm and distinctly so Logan that made the whole thing feel somehow you'd never felt before. You tugged your sweater over her head and stepped out of your jeans, suddenly very aware that he was maybe five feet away and actively not looking, which somehow made it feel more intimate than if he had been.
"Done," you said, after a couple of minutes, and your voice came out quieter than you meant.
Logan turned around slowly, like he was giving you time to object or change your mind. His eyes did this thing where they swept over you. He took in the sight in front of him. You, in what he'd never admit was his favourite t-shirt that he owned, standing in front of him, looking up at him, all tired and soft like you belonged there, in his room, in his clothes.
His jaw tightened.
"You're not sleeping on the floor," he said, and it came out rougher than he meant because he was already annoyed at himself for caring. He pulled back the covers on the side closer to the wall and nodded at it with all the warmth of a government official. "Take the bed."
"Where are you going to sleep?"
"Also, the bed." He said it flatly, daring you to make it weird. "It's a queen. We're adults. Stay on your side, and we'll both survive the night."
"Yes, sir," you said, with as much dignity as someone could muster while wearing someone else's sweatpants. He looked at you as if he were studying you, which wasn't doing you any favours.
You wanted to argue. You really did. But the bed looked soft and inviting, and you were so tired, and his clothes were warm, and some part of you, the part you that you would vehemently deny existed if anyone asked, didn't actually hate the idea of him being there.
"I know I'm in your bed and all, but if you snore, I am smothering you with a pillow."
"Noted." He was already pulling back his side of the covers. "If you steal the blanket I'm throwing you out."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You got in without looking at him. He got in without looking at you. There was an unspoken agreement. We say nothing, do nothing, and we fall asleep.
You both stared at the ceiling. For a long time. The only sounds either of you could hear were the soft hum of the AC, leaves rustling and crickets from outside, and each other's breathing, which oddly put you at ease.
He knew you were awake. You knew he was awake. And it was getting increasingly hard to just lie there doing nothing next to a fully conscious person in the vicinity of your personal space. You decided to break the silence. Might as well.
"So, uh, how have you been?" You immediately winced. Why was that the ice-breaker you decided to go with, Jesus Christ.
"You know we don't have to make small talk. We can just sleep like, you know, regular people."
"I know, it's just— I am not used to extended periods of silence, and it is way too quiet in here, and if we don't keep talking, I think we will hear some things from Dean's room that we can never unhear for the rest of what will be our tragically short lives. So, what I'm getting at with way too many words than necessary is please keep talking to me."
He looked at you for what felt like forever before bursting into laughter.
"You know," Logan said eventually, still looking at the ceiling, "most people would've just said they were scared of hearing Dean."
"Dude, I am scared of hearing Dean."
"Fair."
You smiled despite yourself. The silence settled again, but it wasn't awkward like before. Logan volunteered this time.
"You looked like you were having fun tonight."
You turned your head slightly toward him, smirking at what he was implying. "Is that your way of asking if I was talking to anybody?"
"No," he scoffed, which came out less nonchalant and more defensive.
"Oh, it absolutely is."
"It's not."
"You are so obsessed with me," you teased, to which he just stared at you, deadpan. He knew you couldn't see it in the dark, but you could feel his eyes on you, and that made all the difference.
"No, you're right. I am deeply obsessed with you," he replied, voice devoid of any emotion.
You grinned into the darkness and hugged your pillow tighter. Why this revelation made you feel all warm and sappy, you were in no hurry to find out. You decided to keep pressing his buttons because it was surprisingly easy and fun to get on his nerves.
"Wow, you're terrible at this."
"At what?"
"Small talk, subtlety, all of it, really."
He snorted at that. "Good thing I wasn't trying."
That sent an unexpected flutter through your stomach that you promptly ignored because you were not giving John Logan, self-proclaimed frenemy, the satisfaction of making you blush.
"So," you said carefully, "how was your game last week?"
"You were literally there?" he said in a tone that bordered on incredulous.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You remember?"
"Of course, I do. You sit in the same section every single game."
Heat crawled up your neck faster than you could process. What did he mean he remembered?
"Wha— No, I don't!" you defended.
"Sure, you do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"You are making things up."
"You wore that ugly yellow beanie—"
Your jaw dropped. "It is not ugly. You take that back!"
"It looked like a highlighter."
"It was cute!"
"It was bright enough to guide ships through fog."
You shoved his shoulder, and Logan laughed. He actually laughed, and it wasn't the smug grin he usually wore. Not the annoying smirk that made you want to throw things at him. Not that knowing smile that made your skin crawl.
And suddenly you understood why people liked him so much. You noticed how he was effortlessly charming, how he cared very loudly, not thinking twice about the consequences or what others thought. You paid attention to the fact that he absolutely did not have to let you sleep in his bed, let alone entertain you or put up with your bullying talking.
Which was deeply unfortunate for you specifically, because now you couldn't stop smiling.
The conversation just drifted after that. There was no more arguing just for the sake of arguing, no more trying to best one another at whatever imaginary rivalry you had going. You just... talked. Classes, shitty professors, first relationships, last relationships, friends, family, home, everything, really.
Eventually, the room grew quieter. The words started to slow. At some point, you rolled onto your side. He did too. Eventually, your replies became single words. Then hums. Then nothing at all.
The last thing you remembered was hearing him say your name. It was way too soft and filled with... something you had no energy to unpack. He said it like he was making sure you were still awake. You weren't.
—
Morning arrived far too soon. Pale golden rays of sunlight crept in through the gaps in the curtains that swayed slightly from the AC. The light painted lazy strips across the room's hardwood floor, climbing over the dresser, the rumpled blankets, and eventually right across Logan's face. He frowned in his sleep and buried his face deeper into the pillow like that would somehow stop the sun from existing.
The first thing you noticed was warmth. The second thing you noticed was that the warmth was breathing. What the hell?
Your eyes flew open. Oh. Oh no.
Somehow, at some point during the night, every promise about staying on your respective sides of the bed had completely failed. One of Logan's arms was around your waist. Your face was buried against his chest. One of your legs was thrown over his. You were practically sprawled on top of him.
For a solid five seconds, your brain simply stopped functioning. Then all the memories came back. The party. The bed. The talking. The sleeping. The fact that you were currently cuddling Logan. Mortification hit you like a freight train.
This wasn't even the side of the bed you went to sleep in. You froze.
Unfortunately for you, Logan chose that exact moment to wake up.
"...Morning." His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than usual, and it travelled right through your body in a way that had you reeling. You considered launching yourself through the nearest wall.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Logan made the mistake of looking down. You looked up at him, and immediately looked away again. "Oh my God."
"Yeah," he replied, like he had accepted his fate.
"Oh my God."
"I know."
You carefully untangled yourself and scooted backwards at approximately the speed of light. The movement made Logan grimace. You frowned.
"You okay, dude?"
His expression somehow became even more uncomfortable. Then realisation hit. Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. The silence that followed could've killed a Victorian child. Finally Logan dragged both hands down his face.
"Before you react," he said, staring firmly at the ceiling, "this is a perfectly normal, biological thing."
You immediately covered your face.
"Oh my God."
"It's literally just biology."
"I know it's biology."
You sat up, way too flustered to react like a normal person. He immediately sat up as well and grabbed your pillow, using it to protect what little dignity he had left. "Okay, then."
"I'm very aware, it's normal, i know."
"Good."
"Why are we having this conversation?"
"Yeah, I don't really know."
Another horrifying silence. You groaned. "I was basically sleeping on top of you, I'm sorry."
"It's alright, I'm sorry for... enjoying it too much?" he tried to manage, but let's be honest, that only made it worse.
"Nope."
"Yeah, that wasn't it."
"This is probably not helping."
"Definitely not helping."
You dropped your face into your hands.
"Fantastic."
"Fan... tastic."
It was silent for another lifetime before Logan decided that he had to protect his honour.
"In my defence, you were practically sleeping on top of me."
"Okay, in my defence, I don't remember doing that."
"You were using me as a weighted blanket," he argued. A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
The pillow shifted. Logan looked at you. You looked right back at him. And somehow the whole situation became so ridiculously awful that it wrapped right back around to funny.
You started laughing. Logan held out for maybe ten seconds before he cracked. "Wow, you're laughing at me right now?"
"No," you tried, but it came out as a high-pitched something that barely sounded like a word.
"Wh— you are!"
"I'm laughing at the situation."
"The situation is me living through the worst morning of my life."
"The situation is you getting a raging boner from basic human contact!"
"You and I have very different definitions of basic human contact."
That only made you laugh harder. Then the two of you were sitting there laughing like idiots over absolutely nothing.
A few minutes later, once the crisis had officially passed, you stood and gathered your things. Neither of you quite met the other's eyes.
"Well," you started.
"Well."
"We never speak of this."
"Oh, hell no."
"This goes to the grave."
"Absolutely. Scout's honour."
"You were not a Boy Scout."
"Not even close to the point, by the way."
You levelled him with a look before you continued. "If Garrett finds out, I move to another country."
"If Garrett finds out," Logan said darkly, "I'm killing him."
You nodded. "Call me if you need an alibi."
That pulled another laugh out of him, a sound that you were growing to enjoy more than you cared to admit. You glanced at him. He glanced at you. Something softened in his eyes that you were trying hard to convince yourself wasn't really there.
"So..." You shifted awkwardly. "Thanks."
"For what?"
You looked down at the oversized shirt hanging off your frame.
"The room, the clothes, the bed, everything really."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, don't— don't mention it."
The smile that appeared on your face felt impossible to stop. For the first time in a long time, neither of you had a sarcastic comeback ready, which was probably a much bigger problem than either of you realised.
Immediately after you left, he fell back against the mattress and scrubbed a hand over his face. His pillow and sheets still smelled like you, and it didn't bother him as much as he'd expected to.
He was staring at the ceiling in disbelief. Logan, who was aggressively a morning person, who loved waking up early for practice and catching the sunrise, had slept through four alarms. This was the best night's sleep he had had in ages. Fuck.
edit: so I tried experimenting and writing in third person, so I used she/her for reader, and then I realised that it was ass and changed it back to normal. So if you see a she/her anywhere pls pretend you didn’t 🧍♀️
pairing: john logan x fem!reader
words: 1.3k
summary: based on this request; you loved books, Logan loved hockey, and you both loved each other very, very much.
warnings: none, this is all fluff babyyy <3, maybe a couple swear words idk
Truth, dare, spin the bottle. It was right out of a book how you met Logan.
Picture this. It's raining heavily. Cats and dogs. And it's late at night. Everyone is running to find shelter from the pouring rain, holding their valuables close to their chest. Guy is running into a bus stop; he's not paying attention, bumps into a girl. Girl drops her book into the growing puddle of water and groans.
"Dude! I bought that like twenty minutes ago," she mourns.
"Oh my god, I am so, so, sorry, I wasn't looking, I—" he looks now.
The street light makes her glow, and she's dewy from the rain. She's frowning, she's angry, and she is not ready to put up with his bullshit. She looks radiant. He completely loses his train of thought. He's just staring at her now, mouth slightly ajar but finding nothing to say. She snaps him back to reality.
"Hey! Earth to Captain Splash."
"What? Oh, yeah, right, I'm— uh, I'm sorry," he manages, but he's not quite concentrating yet. He is positively smitten. And he feels awful because he just soaked this poor girl's brand-new book in a puddle of rainwater.
"Thank you for the apology; my book is completely dry now," she deadpans, bending to pick up what used to be the book. A laugh escapes him despite himself. He can feel her glaring at him.
She grimaces the moment her hands touch the item. That is not a fun sensory experience. She is holding it up with her index and thumb in front of her face, assessing the damage. Yeah, that book is done for.
"Again, I'm really sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'll get you the exact same book, from the exact same place, and I'll throw in a cup of coffee as reparations."
"As long as you don't throw it at my book..." she trails off.
"Logan. John Logan."
And the rest was history.
Every day, at least once, Logan swore that you were the best thing that ever happened to him.
"You are literally the captain of the hockey team."
"Baby, I could be the president, and my point would still stand."
And that would make you blush and bury your face into his chest every single time.
You and Logan were the best part of each other's day. He'd come back from an emotionally and physically exhausting practice day, climb up your fire escape (because you didn't want to tell anyone yet), and collapse on your bed like a thirsty man who finally found a river.
You'd let him lie down on your lap and stroke his hair as he'd tell you all about his day. Sometimes you'd just let him sleep for a while, and you'd read your book, a moment of peace for both of you.
A lot of times, when he woke up, he'd be annoyed that he wasn't getting enough attention and would try every single trick in the book to get you to focus on him instead. He would whine, complain, pout, and feign heartbreak while you promised one more page.
"Logan, I swear, it's getting so good I can't stop now, but give me five minu—"
He'd bury his face into a pillow and scream.
Eventually, he'd snatch your book from your hand, put the bookmark in and toss it on the table, despite your protests, and pin you to the mattress, knocking the wind out of you.
"Baby," he'd say, in that breathy voice he knew did things to you, "I've been patient, and I think it's my turn to do some reading now." You would nod slowly, breathless, and he'd laugh before grazing your jaw with his lips, and trailing further and further down. His hands would test the waters, sliding under the hem of his your T-shirt. He'd leave marks in places only you'll know about, and you'd go crazy thinking about it all day.
It was never either of your intentions to hide each other from your friends. God, no, but what you had, it was just... yours. Just him and you. To the entire world, he was John Logan, captain of the Briar U Hawks, playboy on sabbatical, charming handyman straight out of a dirty movie, the John Logan.
But to you, he was John Logan, golden retriever in disguise, supplier of endless hoodies, brings you coffee the way you like, memorises your convoluted and frankly concerning subway orders, best kisser in the entire world (among other things), John Logan. A version of him that no one will ever know, not like you did.
To him, you were the only aspect of normalcy in his entire life. Everywhere he went, he had to be somebody. A captain, a student, a friend, a brother, a son. But with you, he didn't have to put up a front. He didn't have to pretend. Because being your boyfriend was not something he had to learn or actively do. He just... did.
You were the one place in his life where he felt like he belonged. It was like he always knew how to be in love with you; he just hadn't found you yet. Now that he had, it was like he had found purpose. That's who he was now. John Logan, man in love.
The privacy, you thought, was what made the entire ordeal special. This was beautiful, and just yours. And you both wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.
And then there was that part of Logan that wanted to parade you around the campus, show you off, kiss you in front of everyone, and declare his undying love for you, god and all of Briar U as his witness.
He would unapologetically carry your stack of books whenever you were at the bookstore, and, ever the gentleman, never let you pay. Your bag was his by proxy at this point, the way he would always let it hang over his shoulder whenever you walked with him, halfway through some tangent about your latest book. And if you ever carry your own bag, god forbid, he'd look at you like you had an extra head before taking it from you.
You were deeply in love with each other.
It was a mundane day at the hockey house. Garrett had his feet up on the coffee table, controller in hand, losing spectacularly to Dean, who wasn't even looking at the screen half the time and still winning.
Tucker came through the front door, shaking rain out of his hair, and didn't bother with hello.
"Where's Logan?"
"Room," Garrett said, not looking up. "Don't bother him; dude went up like ages ago. Hasn't come out since"
Tucker paused halfway through unlacing his boots. "Let me guess. She climbed up the fire escape again?"
"Uh-huh," Dean said, eyes still on the TV, thumb working the controller. "Only tripped once this time. Progress."
"How do you even know that?"
"Window's right above the kitchen. You can hear everything. Heard her go 'shit—' real quiet, heard him go 'you good?' even quieter, and then I heard her go 'yeah, I'm fine, your stupid fire escape is a death trap,' and then nothing for like... an hour," he explained, his voice going an entire octave higher when he imitated you.
Tucker dropped onto the arm of the couch. Garrett looked up toward the ceiling like he could see straight through it to Logan's room, and he just smiled.
"Does he know we know?" Tucker asked.
"Nah," Dean said, easy, unbothered, like it wasn't even a question. "Nah, man. Let him have this."
Tucker nodded slowly, settling back, already reaching for the third controller. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah."
Upstairs, muffled through the floor, came the unmistakable sound of Logan laughing— the real laugh, the one none of them had heard much before this year, and nobody downstairs said another word about it.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x sports med! fem!reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : suggestive content [making out, mild mild PDA], not secret but private relationship, hockey frat boys, probably alot of inaccuracies
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : The Briar hockey team treats the sports medicine clinic like their personal emergency room, John Logan treats it like a second home. But the team can't confirm nor deny your relationship... well until now
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 3.8k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : Might not be my best work! but I am just getting used to the sports fandom in general. Also still deciding whether im leaning more towards book or show Logan, so I hope you enjoy my attempt at feeling out his character. diver credit : @cafekitsune
The sports medicine clinic at Briar somehow always smells the same no matter what time of year it is. Hockey gear, melting ice packs, and disinfectant.
And is technically supposed to close at six.
Technically.
In reality, it closes whenever the hockey team finally stops wandering in with mystery bruises, split knuckles, sore shoulders, or dramatic declarations that they’re "probably dying" before immediately asking for snacks five minutes later.
Which is why you’re still here. Somewhere along the line, what started as a second-year sports medicine placement had turned into unofficial emotional support for the entire Briar hockey team, half the roster had your number for “emergencies,” which unfortunately ranged anywhere from actual injuries to Garrett once texting you a photo of a bruise shaped vaguely like Abraham Lincoln at two in the morning.
The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead while you reorganise rolls of athletic tape for the third time that evening, one AirPod in, paperwork half-finished beside you, when the clinic door swings open.
You don’t even look up immediately.
“You’re late,” you say automatically.
“Mrs Logaaaan,” Garrett sings back.
Tucker’s voice follows before you can respond. “Oh thank god, my favourite healthcare professional.”
“Can you legally prescribe me a girlfriend?” Dean winks at you, messing with his hair- spraying sweat onto the other players around him.
That makes you glance up and grimace.
“You need deodorant first,” you reply flatly.
Your comment earns a loud chorus of offended reactions.
“You’re so mean to us.” One of them whines
“You guys make it incredibly easy.”
Hockey players file into the clinic grinning like idiots, damp hair from practice still sticking up in random directions, one drags himself dramatically toward one of the beds clutching his shoulder like he’s been mortally wounded.
“See? I told you guys that Logan’s her favourite. She hates the rest of us.”
“That’s not true,” you say automatically.
It kind of is, though.
You’d known all of them for years at this point - through playoffs and fractured fingers and Dean getting banned from intramural basketball for “excessive dramatics” - but Logan had somehow become something else entirely before you even realised it was happening.
“Logan’s my favourite because he knows how to fill out injury forms without drawing smiley faces.” You snort quietly and reach for a fresh pair of gloves.
“That was one time,” Dean argues.
“It was four times. It doesn't get funnier the more you do it.”
The boys continue arguing over each other while you start sorting through who actually needs treatment and who’s just here for attention.
And from behind all of them, Logan steps into the room, looking unfairly good for someone who just spent two hours getting bodychecked into plexiglass.
His practice jersey is half untucked, curls damp at the edges from sweat, hockey bag hanging from one shoulder while he watches the entire scene unfold with the long-suffering expression of a man who absolutely could stop his teammates and simply chooses not to.
Your mouth twitches on instinct.
“Not a single one of you knows how to act in medical facilities.”
“We’re athletes,” one of them replies solemnly. “We’re fragile.”
“You’re twenty.”
“Exactly.”
His eyes find you. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it, but you do. The way his expression shifts slightly the second he sees you, shoulders loosening a little like he’s finally somewhere he actually wants to be.
Unfortunately, the team notices too.
“There he goes,” Garrett says loudly to the room. “Looking at her like she personally invented happiness.”
“Actually disgusting,” another adds.
You shake your head under your breath, trying not to smile as you move toward the nearest bed.
“Alright, what happened?”
“Practice injury,” the player says dramatically.
“You got hit with a foam roller.”
“It was aggressive.”
From behind him, Logan laughs quietly.
The sound pulls your attention toward him automatically.
He’s already looking at you.
He always is, it started sometime last winter, subtle enough neither of you acknowledged it at first, until suddenly Logan had become this fixed point in your day without either of you meaning for him to.
And then, because apparently he enjoys making your job harder, he drops onto the stool closest to your station while the rest of the boys continue causing problems in the background.
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“You injured too?”
He shrugs once and glances at your clipboard.
“Are you busy?” he asks.
You look down at him. “No actually, this is all for fun.”
His mouth twitches.
Behind him, one of the guys points accusingly. “See that? Flirting.”
“We’re literally talking,” you say.
Which, admittedly, had become a problem sometime around November. Because Logan looked at you during conversations like every sentence mattered more than it probably did.
“That’s how it starts.”
Logan ignores them entirely.
“You look tired,” he says instead, quieter now.
You blink at him once, slightly thrown by the softness of it in the middle of all the noise, mostly because Logan only really sounded like that with you. Everyone else got easygoing sarcasm and dry one-liners. You got this version of him instead.
“Your team is exhausting.”
“That’s fair.”
“You included.”
“Less than the others.”
“Debatable.”
That finally gets a proper smile out of him, small but real, and it sits annoyingly well on his face.
You gesture toward the treatment beds with your pen. “Okay, which one of you is actually injured and which one of you just wants free medical attention?”
“My knee-”
“My wrist-”
“Emotionally, mostly-”
“Shocking,” you mutter, already beginning to inspect somebody’s wrist.
And through all of it, Logan stays where he is.
Closest to you.
Which, unfortunately, only makes the entire situation infinitely worse.. Because now he’s just sitting there. Watching you work.
You move from player to player while the clinic slowly dissolves into complete nonsense around you, someone stealing gloves from a supply drawer while another dramatically asks if bruising counts as a life-threatening condition.
“You’re literally holding an ice pack shaped like a cartoon penguin,” you deadpan, “meant for the kids who come for weekend lessons by the way.”
“It’s emotionally devastating.”
“You’ll survive.”
“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”
“Get out.”
Laughter breaks across the room in an undignified uproar.
Logan stays focussed on you with that same quiet gaze he always gets whenever you’re concentrating on something. One foot hooked loosely against the stool rung while he absentmindedly spun the little keychain attached to the back pocket of your scrub bottoms.
You glance back over your shoulder briefly.
He doesn’t even look guilty.
If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he realises you noticed.
“You’re annoying,” you murmur quietly while digging through the drawer for bandages.
“Thought I was hot.”
You try to stay unimpressed, but your mouth still betrays you by twitching slightly while you go back to work, “You can be both.”
That earns the smallest laugh out of him.
Across the room, Garrett notices immediately, pausing mid-sentence and looking between the two of you suspiciously.
“Why are you looking at him like that?”
You don’t even blink.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to put him down.”
“Because he’s touching my keychain.”
“That’s weirdly domestic.”
“It’s literally a keychain.”
“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, grinning now. “A married couple keychain.”
Logan finally speaks again from beside you.
“Pretty sure married people have bigger problems.”
Dean chirps back, “Like taxes and children.”
Garrett points at Logan. “That man would thrive as a girl dad.”
Logan doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed at being interrupted.
You throw a roll of tape at them without looking.
The room erupts instantly.
“Okay,” you say over the noise, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “Everybody either sit down properly or leave.”
Shockingly, they obey.
You finish checking a plethora of oddly shaped bruises and superficial cuts while the clinic finally settles into a moderate calm around you, the post-practice energy finally starting to wear off.
The entire time, Logan stays close. Close enough that every now and then your thigh brushes his knee when you walk past, close enough that he occasionally reaches out to tug lightly on the edge of your hoodie sleeve just to get your attention for absolutely no reason.
Especially when Dean starts dramatically fake-flirting with you while you’re checking his wrist, only for Logan to look up from where he’s sitting and say,
“Relax.” Which is unfortunately the exact tone he uses whenever he’s jealous but is trying to pretend he isn’t.
Dean sharply bursts out laughing.
“OH MY GOD THERE IT IS, you’re actually possessive!”
“I’m not possessive,” Logan lies.
“You looked ready to fight me.”
“You’re annoying me.”
“That’s even worse!”
You shake your head, trying to hide your smile while Logan leans against the counter behind him, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire room is basically accusing him of being in love.
Eventually, when the bulk of the man-toddlers have left the clinic and you’ve handed out enough ice packs to survive a small natural disaster. You finally make your way back over to Logan, picking up the 100th incident form to fill out for the stragglers left behind,
“You sure you’re fine?” you ask eventually without looking directly at him.
“Mostly.”
That makes you glance up, you click your pen and drop it into your pocket,
“Mostly?”
He finally shifts slightly on the stool.
“My shoulder’s stiff.”
You stare at him.
“You waited until after I treated everyone else to tell me that?”
A shrug.
“You were busy.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
His mouth twitches again.
“You like me anyway.”
The worst part was that he said things like that with complete certainty now, like somewhere over the past few months he’d stopped questioning whether you’d stay.
One of the teammates gags dramatically somewhere behind him.
“There it is.”
“Shut up,” Logan says immediately.
You’re already moving toward the storage cabinet before the teasing can escalate further, only to realise halfway there that the tape drawer is nearly empty.
You stop.
Then sigh.
“Great.”
“What?” Logan asks.
“Your idiot teammates used the last of my shoulder tape.”
A couple guys cheer from across the room, “LET’S GO.”
Logan rolls his eyes at them, “That sounds like a team problem.”
“That sounds like your problem,” you huff.
He looks entirely unbothered.
“So,” you continue, ignoring them completely, “I need to go grab more from storage.”
Logan nods once.
“You can come back after your shower and I’ll tape it for you properly.”
He pauses.
“You want me to leave?”
“You smell like a locker room.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“And yet,” Garrett says from the hallway without even looking back, “she keeps letting you come over.”
Logan doesn’t miss a beat.
“That’s because she looooves me.”
“Disgusting,” Dean mutters.
You point toward the hallway.
“Go shower or change or whatever the hell you hockey people do after practice and come back in twenty minutes. I’ll restock from the storage room.”
One teammate gasps dramatically.
“She’s asking him to come back.”
“She asks all injured athletes to come back,” you say flatly.
“Yeah, but not like that.”
Logan looks up at you with the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, then he stands, tall enough that suddenly the tiny clinic space feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.
He grabs his bag from the floor without taking his eyes off you properly.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
One of the players makes kissing noises immediately.
You throw a roll of bandage backing at them.
This time Logan laughs properly.
The rest of them filter out behind him in a mess of noise and complaints, leaving the clinic suddenly, almost suspiciously, quiet.
You thank the gods and take advantage of whatever time they've mercifully gifted you. Taking the minutes to do small tasks like restocking tape from the back storage room, reorganising supplies and finishing the paperwork you abandoned earlier.
By the time the clinic door opens again, barely fifteen minutes later, the noise of the team has completely faded into the distance.
You look up from where you’re reorganising a tray of supplies with immediate suspicion.
“You showered fast,” you say lightly.
Logan closes the door behind him with his elbow before answering, hair still damp around the edges like he’d towel-dried it in under thirty seconds and called it a day. He’s swapped into grey sweats and a dark Briar hoodie, duffel bag hanging lazily from one hand, and he looks far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly recovering from an injury.
“Yeah,” he says easily, walking toward you. “Wanted to see you.”
There was a time that line would’ve completely short-circuited your nervous system. Now it just settled warm somewhere beneath your ribs because Logan said things like that all the time.
You roll your eyes automatically even though warmth blooms under your skin anyway.
The corner of your mouth twitches before you can stop it.
“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic.”
“I know.”
“You’re laying it on thick today.”
He drops his bag by the wall with a heavy thud and sits himself up on the treatment bed while you grab the fresh tape you’d dragged out from storage, and hold it out toward him
“There,” you say. “Knock yourself out.”
Logan stares down at the tape for a second like you’ve personally betrayed him, then his mouth pulls into the most ridiculous pout you’ve ever seen on a grown man.
“…Baby.”
“What?” you ask.
“You’re just handing it to me?”
“You have hands.”
“But you do it better.”
The thing about Logan was that he got clingier when he was tired. Post-practice Logan in particular operated almost exclusively on physical contact and opportunistic whining.
You choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“But you do it better,” he complains, looking up at you from where he’s sitting. “You literally study this stuff. It’s like having a personal private healthcare system.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile while he keeps looking at you like a neglected house cat.
You stare at him for a second, then laugh softly under your breath despite yourself.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m injured.”
“You are literally sitting upright.”
“My shoulder hurts.”
“You survived practice.”
“Barely.”
He says it completely deadpan too, which somehow makes it worse.
You step closer eventually, taking the tape back out of his hand with a dramatic sigh.
“I cannot believe this works on me.”
“It does though.”
You roll your eyes, lean down, and kiss the pout right off his mouth.
It’s quick, barely more than a soft press of your lips against his, but it instantly wipes the smug suffering expression off his face.
“There,” you murmur against him. “Better?”
“Much.”
“you're so manipulative.”
“You love it.”
Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.
Still shaking your head, you begin to pick at the tape, searching for a start, a grin breaks across his face.
“There she is.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me.”
He leans back slightly while you move closer, between his parted knees,
“Take your shirt off.”
Logan’s eyebrows lift with mock dignity,
“Wow.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying, very forward of you.”
You point the tape threateningly.
“I can and will mess this up on purpose.”
That finally earns a laugh out of him before he grabs the bottom of the shirt and peels it up slowly over his stomach and chest before pulling it fully off. The movement flexes the muscles across his shoulders and arms in a way that makes your hands pause for just a second too long before continuing.
The first time you’d seen Logan shirtless, you’d nearly walked face-first into a supply cart. Now you liked to think that you mostly handled it with dignity.
But even though you have seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, your brain still stalls for a second. Of course he notices, a Cheshire smirk spreading across his face.
“Are you checking me out right now?”
You snap your eyes back up to his. “Relax.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve literally taken your shirt off in front of me like a hundred times.”
“Exactly,” he says, leaning back on one hand. “So why are you acting shy now?”
“I’m not acting shy.”
“You stopped moving.”
“I was thinking medically.”
That gets a laugh out of him, low and warm and entirely too satisfied.
“Sure you were.”
You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Sit properly before I ruin your tape on purpose.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He straightens up obediently, but the second you lean closer to inspect the swelling, his hands settle automatically on your hips, warm and familiar through the fabric of your leggings. Logan constantly touched you in ways so absentminded, they almost felt instinctive - a hand at your back, fingers catching your sleeve, knees knocking together under tables.
You glance down at them while peeling the backing off the tape.
“That’s not very professional of you.”
Logan looks at you innocently. “Neither is ogling your patient.”
You snort despite yourself and press your palm flat against his chest to push him back slightly so you can work properly.
“Shut up unless you want me to tape your arm to your torso.”
“Bit kinky for a medical facility.”
“John.”
You press the tape down slightly harder against his shoulder, he laughs quietly through the wince, shoulders shaking beneath your hands before finally relaxing when you glare at him.
“Abuse of power.”
“Keep talking and I’ll make it asymmetrical.”
That finally shuts him up.
The room settles into something quieter after that, the air hums softly around the two of you, close and warm and familiar in a way that makes the rest of campus feel very far away. You focus on the tape, fingers smoothing it across the curve of his shoulder and down his arm while Logan watches you with that same soft, steady attention he always gets when he thinks you aren’t noticing.
“You concentrate really hard,” he murmurs eventually.
“I’m trying to stop you from destroying your rotator cuff.”
“Hot.”
You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips, “you keep me around.”
You finish the final strip and smooth your hand over it one last time, making sure it’s fully adhered before tossing the empty backing aside.
“There,” you murmur, “Done.”
The clinic suddenly feels too quiet without the team in it.
Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of your strawberry chapstick, and Logan looking at you like he has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.
You don’t step away and his hands tighten slightly at your hips while you’re still leaning forward over him, palms braced against the crinkling paper beside him on the treatment bed. Suddenly you’re very aware of how close your faces are.
You can feel his breathe against your parted lips, warm and steady
“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.
“You’re shirtless in a medical facility.”
“You invited me.”
Your eyes flick down to his mouth first and you lean in to kiss him before he can say something smug about it.
The first kiss is soft, more amused than anything, except Logan enthusiastically kisses you back. It’s not so chaste anymore.
His hand slides from your hip up along your waist while your fingers instinctively catch against the back of his neck, and the second you kiss him deeper, he exhales softly against your mouth like it nearly knocked the breath out of him.
You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, nails digging into his shoulder.
His mouth stays slow at first, then the kiss deepens steadily until your breathing catches halfway through it, a small involuntary sound escaping you before you can stop it, and Logan takes the opportunity to tilt his head and kiss you deeper like he’s been waiting for permission.
One of his hands slides into your hair, the other stays firm at your waist.
The new angle arches you against him properly now, your chest pressed lightly to his as he kisses you harder this time, slower and warmer and very deliberately not innocent.
His mouth is still curved faintly like he’s enjoying the fact that you started this, but the smugness fades quickly when your fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his head and tug lightly.
The sound he makes against your mouth is quiet, but enough to make heat rush straight through you.
“Oh, you liked that,” you murmur before kissing him again. Logan’s hand tightens instinctively at your waist like he’s annoyed you noticed, which only makes you want to tease him more.
“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice lower now.
“You literally started pouting for attention five minutes ago.”
“And it worked.”
He kisses you again before you can answer, his fingers creep below the hem of your scrubs and his palm flattens up on your spine, against your bare skin. The other slides down from your hair to your neck, guiding you harder into his lips, mouth parting to swallow your shallow breaths.
The paper beneath him crinkles loudly when he shifts forward toward the edge of the bed, and you can’t help laughing softly into the kiss at how absurdly obvious the sound is.
“You’re so clingy,” you whisper.
“Mm,” he hums against your mouth. “You love it.”
You pull away from him, chest heaving as you make room for his hands to skate up your sides, your scrub top going with them, "Actually...", his hands pause against you. You grin, going to press hot kisses to his neck, "I love you."
He groans at that, blunt nails digging into your ribs, just below your bra- itching to take it off.
You’re about to help him peel off your layers, when the clinic door suddenly slams open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.
“YO LOGAN-”
You jerk back just enough to look toward the doorway while complete silence takes over the room.
You and Logan freeze for approximately half a second while the entire hockey team stands in the doorway staring in collective disbelief.
One teammate points aggressively.
“I KNEW IT.”
Another gasps dramatically.
“MRS. LOGAN CONFIRMED IN REAL LIFE.”
You bury your face briefly in Logan’s shoulder, mortified and laughing at the same time, meanwhile, Logan looks ready to commit murder.
He reaches blindly for the tape roll beside him and chucks it directly at them.
“Get out, you perverts.”
The tape bounces uselessly off one guy’s chest and nobody leaves.
If anything, they move further inside.
“HE’S DEFENSIVE!” someone yells.
“BRO WE INTERRUPTED FOREPLAY.”
“You guys are so annoying,” you groan, face burning.
Logan just watches you laugh for a second, despite the fact his teammates are actively ruining his life in real time, something in his expression softens completely.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters quietly.
You look back at him with teary eyes.
“You threw tape at them.”
“They interrupted me.”
“That sounded possessive. Maybe Dean was right?”
“It was, can't believe I'm proving him correct.”
"YES MRS. LOGAN" Dean cheers from within the pack.
That makes you laugh all over again.
Logan, meanwhile, tightens an arm around your waist and glares at them with absolutely zero shame. He doesn’t even bother to move away from you anymore, which is probably the most embarrassing part.
“Door,” he says flatly.
The boys finally retreat, still yelling over each other, and the second the door slams shut again, the clinic falls back into silence.
pairing: john logan x fem!reader
words: 3.3k
summary: Logan is trying every single trick in the book to ask you out, but you couldn't care less because you are very convinced he is just trying to rebound.
warnings: fluffity fluff babyyyyyy <3, some cussing, one single makeout
a/n: this was sooooo fun to write, based on this request; also the title has nothing to do with religion btw, it's from the song My Gospel by Charlie Puth, it just fit the vibe of the chapter
Every time you were at a party or any social event, really, and you actually made an effort to find love in Allie's words, nothing happened. You didn't really feel "it" with any of the guys who flirted with you. John Logan offered to walk you home one (1) time after a party, cause it was late and you were alone, and you were done for. That's it.
You saw him everywhere you went. Looked for him in every single room. And when you did see him, and he did a little wave in your direction, it was like a kaleidoscope of butterflies had made your insides their home.
It took you a wild minute, but hey, game recognises game. He was always looking for someone too. Just... not you. You followed his line of sight; you were curious as to who made his face light up that way. Curiosity killed the cat, desecrated it, buried it, and got rid of the evidence.
It was deeply inconvenient that the one guy you ended up genuinely liking in all your time at Briar just so happened to be in love with your best friend. As was your luck.
Logan, on the other hand, really looked forward to seeing Hannah.
The night after he walked you home, he'd had a revelation. He didn't want Hannah. He just wanted to be in love. And he wanted it to be with you, specifically. So, he had begged Hannah, who knew you better than anyone in the world, to tell him everything about you.
"And why exactly would I do that?" she asked, as she cleared his table at Malone's.
"Well, I may or may not be interested in asking her out," he confirmed. Hannah froze for a second before taking a seat opposite him in the booth.
"Listen to me, Logan. Before you have my blessing—"
"I wasn't asking for—"
"Before," she cut him off, "you have my blessing, know this. You will not hurt her. You will not make her cry; you will not ever be the reason she feels betrayed, and you certainly cannot treat her like she's just anybody. She's the prize. Understood?"
Logan was genuinely scared. "Yes, ma'am."
"What do you want to know?"
And so, he spent the following days brainstorming ways to ask you out and running them by Hannah to see if you'd say okay. They had settled on simple, subtle ways. "Drop hints. Let her know you like her," Hannah had said. So he did.
He was magically at the library at the same time you were, offered to carry your books, tried making small talk, and whatnot. You had nipped that right in the bud.
"Listen, I'm sorry, but I got this, like, really daunting assignment to work on, so if you don't mind..."
Next, it was getting you your coffee order. As a surprise. Yay! Here's your exact coffee order! See how much I notice? Love me.
Unfortunately, the only person that attempt surprised was Logan.
He had stopped you on your way to class with a rushed Hey! Wait up! It sounded very breathless, like he had sprinted through campus to get there. Which he had.
"What's this?"
"I got you coffee." He paused to catch his breath. "From that place you like."
"Oh," you trailed off, and you looked at him with what he convinced himself could not be pity.
"What's wrong? Did I get it wrong? Wh—"
"No, nothing, I just— I had coffee like five minutes ago. I didn't have time to go there before class, so I just got it from the cafeteria," you explained. Logan just stared in disbelief.
"Oh."
Well, shit.
"Yeah," you laughed nervously. "It's fine, I'll just... have some more, I guess," you tried.
"What—no, no, you don't have to," he laughed, "I'll have it instead. It's fine. I love..." he trailed off, pausing to read the order written on the cup, trying and failing at hiding the mild grimace that formed, "... vanilla."
You just nodded solemnly and watched him as he took a sip. It was clearly not to his taste; he was struggling, and he gave you a very unconvincing thumbs-up as he swallowed what he believed could not possibly contain any amount of coffee at all.
"You okay, Logan?"
"Uh-huh!" he assured, but his voice was way too high-pitched to sound plausible.
The third time had to be the charm. Logan was very close to just going up to you and saying Listen. I really like you. You're killing me here. Dinner? Hannah had to convince him for twenty minutes to try being normal one last time before giving up.
It was a relatively simple plan. There was going to be a party. You were going to be there. All he had to do was talk to you and treat you like a human being. Genius plan, right? Wrong.
It was like the entire universe was conspiring against Logan. Every time he would try to strike up a conversation with you, it would die down in a matter of seconds because someone wanted either one of you for something. And when you both were finally free, and it felt like the conversation was getting somewhere, a puck bunny that Logan had met at a party ages ago would get the brilliant idea of getting reacquainted with him. After about three instances of this happening, Logan excused himself from you and pulled her aside.
"Kylie," he laughed, but there was no humour in it. "Listen. You're an amazing person—"
"You think so?" she asked, hand to heart and teary-eyed, clearly drunk out of her mind, poor thing.
"Uh-huh!" he indulged, already losing patience, "And any guy would be so lucky to have you."
"Yeah, he would," she laughed, pulling him closer by the collar. He caught her by the wrist, pulled her away and stepped back.
"Yeah, see? That's the thing. I am not that guy."
"What do you mean?" she asked, tears already welling in her eyes. He sighed, head dropping.
"I like someone, Kylie. I really like this girl, and I don't wanna screw it up, okay?"
Gears were finally turning in her head. She gasped, her eyes lighting up. "Is that who you were talking to?"
"Yes," he laughed. "That was her, yeah."
"She's pretty."
"Yeah, she is. And she's really smart too. She does this thing when—"
Logan spent the next 15 minutes talking about you. By the time he was done (he wasn't nearly done; he just noticed that it had been quiet for a while), Kylie had dozed off, leaning on the wall. Not wanting to leave her there, he ushered her into the nearest room and left her on the bed. By the time he came back to the party, you were gone. You probably thought he ditched you for Kylie.
Well, shit.
It wasn't that you didn't notice that Logan was trying something with you. It's just— It felt wrong at this point. What, Hannah was in a relationship now, so he was going for you instead? Is that what this was? And Kylie now? Were you that boring that he had to ditch you mid-conversation?
Sure, you loved that he was making an effort, and it was killing you on the inside to not reciprocate, but if his heart was not in the right place, then what even was the point? You deserved to be wanted because you were you. Not as someone's rebound, not as an afterthought. And you were going to wait until his intentions towards you were crystal clear.
Logan was getting nowhere with you, and it wasn't for lack of trying. He spent the following week trying to arrange as many "chance encounters" as possible to try and talk to you. But, no matter what he did, and no matter how obvious he made it, you seemed to show zero interest in him. It was pissing him off. Hell, it was pissing Garrett off, who had to listen to him complain about this every day, all day long.
"I'm telling you, G, it's like she hates me."
"She's not the only one," he deadpans.
"Dude, I'm serious," he said, his voice sincere.
Garrett almost felt bad for him, except he didn't, thanks to the fact that Logan had barged into his room unannounced; Hannah and Garrett were very, very naked and hiding under the covers.
"So am I. Get the fuck out of my room, Logan," Garrett threatened, throwing a pillow at Logan's figure, which rapidly sprinted out of his room.
"Jesus. Anyways, where were we, Wellsy?" Garrett smirked, hand already snaking up Hannah's waist.
"She does like him back, you know?"Hannah announced.
"Oh, come on!"
So, yeah. Logan's love life was in shambles; Garrett was getting cockblocked, and you were moping around thinking the guy you were basically in love with liked your best friend instead. A normal situation that everybody faces. Sure.
Logan was going to try one last time, and he wasn't going to take Hannah's advice. No more hints or subtlety, because he clearly sucked at those. No, he was going in the grand romantic-gesture direction because that always works out perfectly. They had a game coming up, and he knew exactly what to do.
It was game day, finally. The score was tied, third period, and Briar's crowd was already hoarse from screaming. You were wedged between Hannah and a very enthusiastic stranger in a Briar jersey, clutching your coffee you'd stopped drinking twenty minutes ago because your hands wouldn't stay still long enough.
"He's going to give himself whiplash trying to find you in this crowd," Hannah said, not looking up from her phone, where she was very obviously texting Allie updates about you and Logan.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing the thing where you pretend you're not looking for him while you are actively looking for him."
You did not dignify that with a response, mostly because it was true.
And then you saw him. Logan, skating backward near the boards, scanning the stands like a man on a mission. His eyes caught yours, and something in his whole body seemed to relax and panic at the same time, which should not have been possible, and yet.
He pointed. At you. In front of literally everyone. Oh god.
"Oh no," you said.
"Oh, this is going to be good," Hannah said, already filming.
"THIS ONE'S FOR YOU!" he bellowed, loud enough that three separate sections turned to look at you, and you wanted the bleachers to open up and swallow you whole.
Then he took the puck, because of course the puck was already coming to him, because the universe apparently wanted to humiliate him on the biggest possible stage— and he shot.
Into his own net.
The horn blared. For the other team.
There was a full second of stunned silence before the away side erupted, and Coach Jensen looked like he was one heart attack away from an ambulance. Tucker looked like he had seen a ghost. Dean had both hands over his face, shoulders absolutely shaking in laughter. Garrett skated up to Logan and just stared at him, the way you'd stare at a raccoon that had wandered onto the ice.
"Logan," you heard him say, loud enough to carry, "what the fuck."
You put your face in your hands. Hannah was cackling beside you, still filming, tears actually forming. Jules, who was covering the entire game, had to sit down to compose themself.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," you mumbled into your palms.
"He scored for the wrong team for you," Hannah wheezed. "He scored—" she stopped, laughter getting the best of her as she folded over, holding on to you for support.
On the ice, Logan was refusing to make eye contact with anyone, skating back to position like if he moved fast enough, no one could see him. Coach Jensen was yelling something from the bench that involved a lot of pointing and the phrase "are you KIDDING me," along with some very elucidating profanities.
Briar won anyway, thankfully; Garrett's overtime goal saving Logan from further embarrassment, but the locker room, you'd heard, was not kind to him afterwards.
The party after the game felt like a perfectly curated hazing ritual designed to torment Logan alone specifically. You found him by the kitchen, nursing a beer like it had personally wronged him, still getting razzed by literally every guy who walked past.
"Own-goal Logan!" someone shouted from across the room. Logan didn't even flinch; he just closed his eyes like he was praying for the floor to open. Any time now, floor.
You walked up, arms crossed, doing your best to look unimpressed and failing.
"Dude. What the hell."
He turned, and the relief on his face at seeing you, actually seeing you, not a heckler, was almost enough to make you forget you were supposed to be teasing him right now.
"In my defense—"
"This ought to be good."
"—I got excited," he said, like that explained anything. "You were right there, and I panicked, and my brain just went 'shoot', and it did not specify which net. Which, when I say it out loud, I realise makes me sound pathetic."
"It wasn't pathetic, Logan."
"You think so?"
"Okay, maybe like 10% pathetic," you confessed, which pulled a small laugh out of him, "but trust me, for the right person, it would've been endearing and adorable," you assured him.
"What about you?" he asked, sounding eager.
"What about me?"
"Was it any of that to you?"
Wow, that was incredibly forward. You hadn't expected him to put you on the spot like that. What were you supposed to say now? The truth? Yes, Logan, despite the fact that it blew up in your face, I thought it was very sweet. God, no. You can't tell him that.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Logan."
"I—" he stopped himself, hand dragging down his face like he could physically wipe the word back in. He laughed, but there was no humour in it, just something a little desperate. "You gotta give me something to work with here. Come on. I just bared my soul out to you, in front of the entire world. Give me something."
"Logan," you said, and you meant for it to come out steady, but it came out tight instead, "whatever you think is going on between you and I, you are incredibly mistaken."
You turned and walked off toward the porch before he could see whatever your face was doing. He followed you. Of course he did.
"Look. Can we talk?"
You sighed, arms wrapping around yourself against the cold, and leaned against the railing. "Go on."
"If you are genuinely not interested in me," he said, and he sounded like he'd rehearsed this part, like it was the only part he'd let himself prepare, "I promise I will stop bothering you. I'll take the hint, I'll back off, whatever you need. But you gotta help me out here, because I feel like I'm losing it a little." He dragged a hand through his hair. "You're giving me all these signals, and I feel like I'm hallucinating them, because one second you're looking at me when you think I don't know. You're at every single one of my games— don't think I haven't noticed. Hannah drags you to maybe half of them, and you still show up to the rest on your own, even when she's not there. You laugh at literally none of my jokes except when you think no one's watching, and then you're full-on wheezing. And then the second I make some kind of move, suddenly I'm the dick here. I'm the guy who overstepped." He spread his hands, helpless. "All I want to know is— am I reading this wrong?"
You closed your eyes for a second. The cold felt like the only honest thing out here. You sighed. Might as well.
"You're not reading it wrong," you said finally. "I... notice you. Okay? I do." You looked at him. "But you gotta give me some credit here. I tried really hard not to."
"Wow." He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, except it landed more like a flinch. "What is so awful about me?"
"That's not— I didn't mean it like that." You pressed the heel of your hand against your eye, frustrated at yourself now, at how badly this was coming out. "It's just — I can't just be another notch in your belt, Logan. I can't be your rebound."
His whole face changed. "Whoa. What rebound?"
"Come on, Logan. I'm not stupid. I know you like Hannah. And it's not your fault, she's very—"
"Yeah—no— I'm gonna stop you right there. What?"
"You know... you like Hannah?" you asked, sounding unsure based on his reaction.
"I assure you, that is not true."
"Dude, come on." You threw your hands up, some of the frustration finally spilling out. "Every single room you're in, you're looking for her. You see her, and suddenly it's Christmas! You just talk to her the whole time, and you get this light in your eye, and you look all adorable and—" you stopped, hearing yourself a second too late, "—god, I wish I'd stopped talking about a minute ago."
He sighed, dragging both hands down his face this time. "Okay. At the risk of sounding pathetic, here goes." He looked at you like he was bracing for impact. "I was looking for her because she was helping me ask you out." You stood there in shock. You were having trouble processing that information.
"We were talking about you. I was nervous, and I wanted to get it right, and— well, in retrospect that backfired splendidly," he gestured vaguely toward the direction of the house, like the hecklers and "own-goal Logan" were still hovering somewhere over his shoulder, "but the idea was, she'd tell me stuff about you— things you liked, whatever— and I'd come up with genius ways to ask you out." He spread his arms, mock-triumphant. "Clearly it worked, because we're on my front porch arguing. So— yay. Go Logan, I guess."
Your brain finally caught up with your mouth. "I—Uh, Wow. Okay." You blinked. "So— just to double-check— I am not a rebound?"
"Baby." He said it like it physically pained him that you'd thought otherwise, closing the distance between you. "Not even close."
"Oh, thank god," you breathed, and then you didn't give yourself time to think about it— you grabbed his jacket and pulled him in.
He made a small, surprised sound against your mouth before he caught up, one hand coming up to your jaw like he still couldn't quite believe this was real and needed to check. He walked you back a step until your shoulders met the porch post, one hand braced against the wood beside your head, the other still cradling your jaw, tilting it just slightly to get the angle he wanted.
You felt him exhale against your mouth right before the kiss deepened, unhurried but certain, and you fisted your other hand in the front of his shirt just to have something to hold onto, because your knees had developed some very inconvenient opinions about standing on their own. His tongue slid over yours as he found an angle that worked, pulling a sound from you that did things to him.
Somewhere behind you, a wolf whistle cut through the night, loud and delighted. You broke apart to find Kylie leaning out the porch door, drink in hand, absolutely beaming.
"Yeahhh, go Logan!!" she hollered, pumping a fist. "She likes you back!!"
Logan dropped his forehead against yours, laughing, equal parts mortified and thrilled. "Does nothing happen around here in private?"
"Apparently not," you said, grinning, "own-goal Logan."
"We are never speaking of that again."
"Oh, absolutely, we are. For the rest of your life."
Summary: Despite catching feeling for each other, John Logan is still being a slut. His bad choices mean potentially losing you forever, and Hannah and Garrett help save your crumbling relationship.
Ahead: Fluff and hints of smut (but no actual smut), John Logan x reader, jealousy, manwhore behavior, being embarrassing for the sake of love.
John Logan is a slut. This is something you knew before you even spoke a single word to him. All the hockey boys were. They existed with the idea in their heads that they were God’s gift to the earth, like their dicks were specially crafted by the big man upstairs to please Puck Bunnies and sorority girls.
You were neither a Puck Bunny or a sorority girl, not that there was anything wrong with either. You just didn’t have time for all the events and social standards they lived by. Instead, you worked double shifts on weekends and studied your butt off for the rest. Luckily, you made friends with the same point of view early on during your time at Briar U. Your roommates, Hannah and Allie, quickly became your rocks. Without them, college would be miserable but Hannah’s positive attitude and Allie’s adventurous tendencies kept you on your toes.
In your sophomore year, Hannah threw you for a loop. Suddenly, Hannah and Garrett Graham, star hockey player and known fuckboy, were attached at the hip. While you quickly learned of their scheme to pretend to date in order to boost Hannah's social status in order to catch the attention of Justin, Hannah’s longtime crush, that didn’t stop you and Allie from being dragged into the world of hockey. Without warning, you were at parties and the Hawk’s House nearly daily.
John Logan noticed you as soon as Hannah became Garrett’s tutor. He found your reluctance to fall for his charms endearing. Your ambition to succeed and make something of your life was even more endearing. As he was oftentimes surrounded by dreams of the NHL or girls with dreams of marrying a guy in the NHL, seeing you so determined to become your own person made you more attractive than you could ever know. Logan could never seem to get you alone. You clung to either Hannah or Allie at parties, or just didn’t show up.
His first chance to truly talk to you came about completely randomly one night while he drove home from his chemistry study group. It was already dark outside, the sun setting extra early as November entered and the cold had begun to worsen. His headlight caught sight of something ahead, a girl walking with a bike on the side of the street, pulling her jacket tighter with the wind rushing past her. Logan pulled over just in front of her.
“Need some help?” He called out, hopping out of his truck to help the stranger without thinking twice.
“My chain broke.” You grumbled, your lovely face coming into Logan’s view as he approached.
Logan’s breath caught. What were the odds that the damsel in distress on the side of the road would be you? You, the ever allusive best friend of his best friend’s girlfriend. You, the girl who didn’t even humor him with a scoff when he made dumb joke at a party. You, the girl who was clouding his mind without even knowing it.
“Oh,” You spoke, cocking your head as his large frame approached you. “It’s you.”
Logan smirked at that, unsure if that was a good or bad thing. “It’s me.” He held your eyes for a few moments, as though daring the other to speak next.
A strong gust of wind breezed past you, making the fallen amber leaves around you flutter. You shivered, tucking your chin into the collar of your jacket like a turtle. Logan was brought back to reality, stepping forward to grab your bike.
“I’ll drive you home.” He declared, picking up your bike like a toothpick and heading towards the bed of his truck.
You spluttered, you mouth agape. “You don’t have to-”
“And what,” Logan placed your useless bike into the bed of his truck. “Leave you here to freeze? Be rational, babe.”
You gulped at the nickname, a blush staining your cheeks that you could write off as being from the persistent wind. Logan didn’t give you anymore time to protest, opening his passenger side down expectantly.
You scurried forward, plopping into the seat. As Logan shut the door, you whispered, “Thanks.”
He paused, giving you a genuine smile. “Anytime.”
After that night, Logan saw more of you. When Hannah or Allie weren’t available to cling to at parties or Malone’s, you hung around him. To Logan, it was an honor. He learned more about you, finding himself lost in your eyes nightly. Suddenly, you were willing to hang around longer at parties, Logan always volunteering to drive you home once you were tapped out.
You realized that Logan was not that bad. There was more to him than just a devastating smile, superior hockey skills and glorious hair. He loved his family, even if they weren’t perfect by any means. He ran a side hustle as a repair man as he didn’t receive any monetary help from his parents, unlike the other hockey guys. You respected his willingness to work hard, never one to give up easily or at all.
In January, Briar Hockey had a huge win against Yale. The party was massive, taking over the Hawk’s House before the players could even arrive. You had attended the game alongside Hannah and Allie, finding the neck-and-neck win exhilarating and it was only logical to move over to the after party with the amount of adrenaline pumping through your veins.
In the past, Hannah was your sober buddy, but since Garrett became her guard dog she had left you high and dry. In the spirit of the night, you decided to partake in a few beers and a couple of shots of tequila with Allie. Soon, you were tipsy and breaking it down on the dancefloor with Allie.
You felt a warm, strong hand grip your shoulder. You glanced back, a wide grin splitting your face. “Logan!” You spun around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug. “You were great tonight!”
Logan grinned, a beer in his hand, “You are sloppy drunk.”
You pulled back from the hug and booped his nose, “You bet!”
Logan laughed, officially joining you on the dancefloor. At first, he seemed apprehensive to dance with you in your drunken state, letting you do your twirls and hold his hand as hopped around.
The song changed. “This is my song!” You shouted, a huge smile on your face. Without warning, your ass was pressed against his groin. Logan’s hands naturally fell to your hips, but you noticed his lack of movement and rigidness instantly.
“What’s wrong, Logan?” You teased, batting your eyelashes at him in a way that made his breath hitch. “Where are those world famous hips all the puck bunnies talk about?”
Logan knew he shouldn’t, but the few too many shots from earlier were clouding his judgement. His hands tightened, and he bent down so his lips aligned with your ear.
He spoke gruffly in your ear, making a shiver fall down your spine. “I don’t think you’re ready for all of that, sweetheart.”
You didn’t say anything back, just let your body take over. The music and heat of Logan’s hard body behind you took over your mind. You reached back, tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck making his groan into your ear. His hands explored, experimentally squeezing your hips and running over your abdomen just below your breasts.
“Logan…” You breathed, as lips ghosted your ear and down your neck. You turned in his arms, facing him fully and gazing into those big, brown eyes. “More.”
Logan smirked, his hands finding purpose on your ass, squeezing encouragingly, “I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”
You blinked up at him, and before you could lose your courage, you sprung up on your tip toes and pressed your lips to his. He responded instantly, moving one hand to your neck to pull you in further while the other remained on your ass. He tasted like beer and spearmint gum. You moaned as his tongue forced its way into your mouth, making you whimper with need. The heat coursing through your veins was made worse by a soft slap to your bottom as Logan broke the kiss to nip at your neck, leaving behind an array of multi-colored bruises in their wake.
“God, you don’t know what you do to me.” Logan groaned, wanting nothing more than to take you to his room. “I’ve wanted this for a while.”
You breath hitched, tugging at his hair as his lips made their way to your chest where your dress exposed your soft skin. At this point, the music and fellow party goers had faded into just muffled noise. To you, Logan was the only one there.
“I’ve wanted this too.” You admitted, scraping your nails against his scalp. “But I don’t do hook ups.”
Logan pulled back slightly, looking at your eyes. “You’re not a hook up. You never will be.”
You smiled, gently running your thumb over the stubble on his jaw. “Good, but I’ll need a date before we go any further.”
Logan grinned. “Are you asking me out?”
You rolled your eyes. “If that makes you feel special, princess.”
Logan laughed, holding your waist and not letting go. “It does, actually.”
You rolled your eyes again, laughing at his stupid comment. Logan tugged you through the crowd of dancers towards a more quiet spot.
“I’m going to tell the guys I’m going to bed. You’re coming with me.” He asserted and you opened your mouth to protest. “Not for anything like that. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
You blushed, crossing your arms and snorting. “I can call a cab.”
“That will take forever. You can sleep in my bed. I’ll take the floor.” Logan stated, and you opened your again to protest but he shut you down by holding up a hand. “No choice, sweetheart. See you in a second.”
With that, he disappeared in the crowd to find the boys. You leaned against the wall, trying to will your heartbeat to return to a normal pace.
“I can’t believe you hooked up with Logan in the bathroom.” A girl’s voice wafted up to your ears, you caught sight of her and a brunette leaning against a wall near you. You recognized them as puck bunnies from the games.
“He needed a reward for playing such a good game.” The brunette giggled, sipping on her drink.
The blonde girl laughed, nodding in agreement. “I might try to hop on that later.”
The brunette smirked. “He’s probably down. You know how easy he is after games. All adrenaline and testosterone. He’s like an animal. He’ll fuck anything with a pulse.”
Your heart constricted at their conversation, your digging your nails into your palm to refrain from saying something to them. It wasn’t their fault that Logan was an animal, as they said. If their words were correct, his willingness to kiss you wasn’t due to genuine feelings, but a want to put his dick into something with a pulse. Although, according to the brunette, he had already done that earlier in the night. You felt red hot anger taking over as you pushed off the wall, heading for the door. He kissed you after hooking up with something merely an hour or two ago. He was willing to go out with you with some over girl’s nail marks probably in his back.
You ignored all of Logan’s calls and texts over the next few hours. You walked 20 minutes in the cold back to your dorm, angry tears stinging your eyes.
Him: Where are you?
Him: I went back to the spot and you were gone
Him: Did you go back to dancing lol
Him: I’ll wait for your upstairs
Him: Why are you ignoring my calls?
Him: Please answer the phone I’m worried
Him: Did I do something?
You refused to answer him. Not even giving him the relief of knowing you got home okay or where you went. You continued to ignore his texts and calls into the next several days, choosing to lay on the couch and eat Hot Cheetos while Allie and Hannah got ready to go to Malone’s with the boys.
“What is going on with you?” Hannah asked, plopping down next to you. “You’ve been super mopey since last Friday.”
“Nothing.” You lied, pausing 10 Things I Hate About You. “I’m just not in the mood.”
Hannah paused, gnawing at her lip like she was building the courage to ask something. “Did something happen between you and Logan?”
You couldn’t hide the surprise in your eyes. While Allie and Hannah knew of your mutual affection towards Logan, neither knew about your steamy encounter at the post-game party. They most definitely didn’t know about your overheard conversation between the puck bunnies or that you were attempting to mend a broken heart that somehow managed to be cracked by someone who was never your boyfriend.
“Why would you think that?” You asked, trying to seem nonchalant, but just coming off like a cornered animal.
“Logan might be super down too and asks about you everytime we see him.” Hannah admitted, waiting for your reaction.
You stared at her, shocked by the news. You assumed Logan was continuing to call and text you because you were a new conquest that he hadn’t completed. Maybe he was bored when would call and text you. He without a doubt was still hooking up with other girls, that was given. Despite his willingness to go out with you, John Logan was not a boyfriend, he was a hook up. And you? You were a girlfriend. The two of you would never work, you had accepted that until Hannah informed you of his out of character attitude.
“He’s been laying around all day, missing shots at practice and just not like himself at all. Garrett said he hasn’t left the house for anything but class and practice since Friday.” Hannah explained further, leaned towards you to ensure you were really listening. “He’s been clinging to his phone like a lifeline and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you’re both seemingly heartbroken at the same time.”
You bit your lip, casting your eyes to the ground. It didn’t seem like Logan was hooking up with anyone after all. Instead, he seemed as devastated as you were.
Hannah continued, “I think you should give him a second chance. Whatever he did, I bet he would be willing to fix. Have you tried calling him?”
You shook your head. You couldn’t lie to Hannah. With a sigh, you spilled your guts, telling her the entire story. Hannah listened, nodding and holding your hand supportively.
“I just don’t think he’s capable of being a boyfriend.” You admitted at the end of your story. “If he can’t be serious, I’m wasting my time.”
Hannah nodded, eyebrows crinkled like she was thinking too hard. “I get that. But it seems like he is really serious about you. I mean, even Garratt is worried about how he’s been acting. He said Logan has never been like this before. That has to say something, right?”
You shrugged, pulling the blanket on your lap up to your chin. “Maybe, but I’m not sure I’m willing to get hurt by him to find out.”
Hannah frowned, kissing your forehead as she stood. “I think you should give him a second chance. He might surprise you.”
“So Logan made a big fuck up.” Garrett nodded, pacing his bedroom as Hannah explained the whole story of what happened between you and Logan.
“Massive.” Hannah nodded. “But I think with the right moves Logan can fix this.”
Garrett paused, raising an eyebrow at his girlfriend perched on his bed. “Go on, Wellsy.”
“We need to get Logan to show her that he can be serious. A romantic gesture? Something that gives boyfriend material.”
Garrett fell backwards onto the bed, landing next to Hannah and staring at the ceiling in thought. “She’s super into romance movies, right?”
Hannah nodded, “Her favorite is 10 Things I Hate About You.” She paused, thinking and then gasped. “I know what he’s going to do!” She squealed, hopping off the bed and running to Logan’s room, Garrett in tow looking very lost.
Somehow Allie and Hannah had convinced you to leave the confines of your shared dorm to go out three days after Hannah had spoken to you about Logan. Your heart still ached. Everything reminded you of Logan. The strength of his arms around your waist. The feeling of his soft lips brushing your neck and chest. The taste of his tongue against your own. It was all too much. Yet, you were now shoved into a tiny top from Allie’s closet and some “fuck me” boots and placed into the backseat of Garrett’s Jeep.
When you arrived at Malone’s, you were begrudgingly disappointed to not see Logan. A little part of you wish he was here. You missed him, even if you were mad at him.
Garrett brought you and the other girls drinks, seeming ansty. In fact, so did Hannah and Allie, who were glancing at the door every few minutes.
“What’s going on?” You spoke up, making all three head whip towards you.
“Nothing.” Allie spoke way too fast. She was an awful liar.
You scoffed, placing your beer down on the table and crossing your arms. “All three of you have been watching that door like you’re waiting for crime to take place. What is going on?” You repeated the question.
They shared nervous glances and as Hannah opened her mouth, the door of Malone’s opened and in walked none other than John Logan. You stared, surprised and unable to help the flutter of your heart as he walked in, a plaid shirt over his broad shoulders and his stubble more prominent than normal, like he hasn’t been shaving.
“Oh thank god.” Garrett breathed a sigh of relief, seeing his best friend enter the bar.
“Is this a set up?” You asked, an edge of annoyance in your voice.
“Well-” Hannah didn’t get to explain as John Logan made long strides to the stage.
Logan grabbed the karaoke mic, speaking into it, “Hello, fellow Hawks.” A few people in the bar whooped and clapped. “I am going to do something that is meant to prove that I am willing to do anything, even humiliate myself, to get you to forgive me and know I am serious.” His eyes held your own.
You sucked in a breath. “Hannah, what is this?” Despite addressing your friend, you didn’t take your eyes off Logan.
Music started playing. The beginning of “Can’t Take My Eyes off You” by Frankie Valli began to play, making you involuntarily snort and throw a hand over your mouth. Just like in your favorite movie, Logan began to sing the line of the song with the same passion as Patrick did for Kat. Garrett clapped and hollered for his friend while others laughed and cheered. Logan’s face was pink with embarrassment, a huge smile on it as he held your eyes the entire time. As the song ended, he approached you in the audience, held out a hand and you grasped his without a second thought. The laughter coming from you was uncontrollable as your eyes shined with mirth.
“You are something else, Logan.” You spoke as he placed the microphone down.
He grinned, shrugging his shoulders. His hand refused to leave yours, like letting go would mean losing you forever. “What do you think?”
You laughed, standing up to face him fully. “I think you’re a dork.”
Logan rolled his eyes and chucked. “I get that, but do you think I’m serious now?”
You stared at his face, eyes full of hope and sincerity. “I believe you, Logan.”
Logan gave you a stupidly large grin, lifting you from the ground and making you yelp in surprise. He spun you around, kissing you with a smile still on your face.
“But!” You spoke up, making him freeze. You held his face, making him look you in the eyes. “No. More. Puck. Bunnies.”
Logan chuckled. “Trust me. I’ll never think of them again.”
I hope you enjoyed and feel free to send me Off Campus requests!
Hiii request for a cute friends to lovers trope with John Logan 👀maybe he keeps like blocking you from chatting or dancing with other guys because he makes his presence known. Like halting down the men or just straight up interrupting you mid convo like ‘oh hey Tucker made these dippables you gotta try’ and he tugs you to the kitchen. Maybe you get a little frustrated at one point and then ofc a confession from both of you
Only Ever You
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
Word Count: 844
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
You started noticing John Logan before you started admitting it.
That was the problem.
He had a way of slipping into your nights and your conversations so naturally that it took you too long to realize he was doing it on purpose. Not in a big dramatic way. John was too subtle for that. He just kept showing up.
At parties, when another guy tried to talk to you, John always appeared with an excuse.
“Oh hey, Tucker made these dippables, you have to try them.”
Or,
“Dean needs help with the music.”
Or even,
“Come outside with me for a second.”
And every time, he would tug you away so casually that you almost wondered if you were imagining it.
Almost.
Tonight was no different.
You were in the middle of a conversation with a guy from your literature class, laughing at something he had said, when John appeared at your side with a paper plate in one hand.
“Hey,” he said, voice easy. “You gotta try these.”
You blinked at him. “What is it?”
He held the plate out a little. “Tucker’s weird little dip things.”
The guy you’d been talking to looked between you and John, clearly aware he had just been interrupted. “Uh,”
John glanced at him once, then back at you. “C’mon.”
You frowned. “You don’t even know if I want one.”
John’s mouth twitched. “You do.”
You stared at him for a second, then sighed because he was already half-turning away like he assumed you’d follow.
And you did.
Because somehow, every time he did this, he made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.
In the kitchen, you took the plate from him and crossed your arms. “You are getting very obvious.”
John leaned against the counter. “About what?”
You gave him a look. “About this.”
He looked innocent for about half a second before his expression softened into that familiar, quiet thing he got when he knew you were right and still wasn’t going to admit it too fast.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“You keep blocking me from talking to other people.”
John looked away briefly. “I’m not blocking.”
“You are absolutely blocking.”
He was quiet for a second.
Then he said, “I just don’t like it.”
That made your heart stumble.
You looked at him carefully. “Don’t like what?”
John met your eyes again, and now there was no point pretending it was casual. “Watching people try to flirt with you.”
You blinked. “John.”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking more tired than smug. “Yeah?”
“Are you jealous?”
He exhaled once through his nose. “A little.”
You stared at him.
He looked like he wished he had never admitted it, which only made it sweeter.
You folded your arms. “You realize you’ve been doing this for weeks.”
He looked mildly defensive. “Because it works.”
Your mouth twitched. “Works for what?”
“For getting you away from them.”
You tilted your head. “And why do you want that?”
John went still.
For a second, the only sound in the kitchen was the noise from the party in the other room.
Then he looked at you and said, very quietly, “Because I want to be the one you’re talking to.”
That hit harder than you expected.
You stared at him. “John…”
He looked almost embarrassed now, which was deeply unfair because it made him even more honest-looking. “I know I’ve been annoying.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“I know.”
You smiled a little, but it faded when you realized he was still waiting for your answer.
So you stepped closer.
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
John laughed once, short and self-deprecating. “Because I didn’t want to mess this up.”
Your expression softened.
He kept going, voice lower now. “You’re my favorite person to be around. I just didn’t know how to tell you that without sounding insane.”
You stood there for a beat, then finally said, “You don’t sound insane.”
John looked up.
You gave him a small smile. “You sound jealous.”
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You reached for his hand before you could overthink it, and his fingers curled around yours immediately.
John looked at your joined hands, then back at your face, and the quiet in his expression changed.
Not shy.
Not cautious.
Just sure enough to make your stomach flip.
“I like you,” he said.
Your breath caught.
He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he had been carrying it around for so long that pretending otherwise had finally become impossible.
You stared at him for one stunned second, then laughed softly because your heart felt too full to do anything else.
“That’s good,” you said.
His eyebrows lifted. “That’s your response?”
You smiled. “Did you want a speech?”
He stepped a little closer. “Maybe.”
You looked up at him and said, much quieter, “I like you too.”
John’s whole face changed.
And for once, he didn’t hide the smile that followed.
summary: this one’s for my fellow non-native english speakers. exchange student!reader tries focusing on your essay, but logan keeps distracting you from it. short fic, fluff. requested!
“Remind me again how’s engulfed spelled?”
Logan looks up at you from your desk, a textbook on his lap and a black pen between his lips, once used for notetaking that now looks completely chewed up. “Hm?”
“Engulfed.” You repeat, “Is it spelled with an E or an I?”
“Oh, with an E. And an L after U.” He says, already closing his book, in dire need of a distraction. “What are you doing?”
Your eyes are glued to your laptop, and you don’t dare to look away from it, “Writing a paper for my English class.”
He hums, slowly lifting himself up from your chair and heading to the bed where you’re sitting, “What is it about?”
“Jane Eyre.” You say, not giving too much detail for him to start a conversation, then adding just so he won’t call you out on it, “Engulfed in fire was the sentence I was thinking of.”
Logan watches you for a moment, “I see,” he sits on the edge of your bed. Your eyes lift from the screen to stare at him, the suspicion on your face bringing a breathy chuckle out of him, “What?”
“I know what you’re doing,” you say, head snapping back to your essay, like he’s a ancient myth you can’t stare at for too long. “You’re trying to distract me, but that won’t do.”
“Aw, c’mon,” he rests his tired back on your bedframe, definitely too close to you now, the weight of his body sinking in your bed taking your mind off of your assignment for a second. As if he senses your splint distraction, Logan’s chin finds your shoulder, his voice low, “You could use a break.”
“I can tell if I need a break, Logan. I am a free human being,” you say, “With independent will. That’s Jane Eyre.”
“I know.” Logan deadpans, “I’ve read it, back in High School.”
“Ah, you and your American curri– Curriculum?”
“Uh-huh. Curricula, if you wanna use the plural form.” He says, then with a smile, “See, I can be useful too. Time for a break?”
You know where this is going, as most study dates with Logan tend to do.
John Logan wasn’t the first person you met once you arrived at Briar, but he might be the kindest. With his big eyes, a sweet disposition of being helpful and a newfound adoration for the way his name rolls off your tongue, Logan quickly found a way into your life, study dates included.
Though you’re still finding a healthy balance between actually studying and killing time making out on your bed.
Your head lolls to the side a little, “Do I need to remind you that I need good grades to maintain my scholarship?” you say, “You know, the whole thing keeping me here in Briar? No, actually– In this country?”
“I know,” his lips find your upper arm, not exactly a kiss but close enough to maybe call it that. Semantics, you think.
“You’re not giving up, are you?” Logan shakes his head, a grin on his lips. You sigh, closing your laptop, “Okay, fine.”
Logan scoffs, “Maybe don’t make it sound like such a burden,” he says, legs moving between your own, moving his arms so now they lay on each side of your head. He watches as you grow nervous with his teasing, “You wound me.”
“Not a burden,” you say, your usually more subtle accent slightly more heavy, your voice a murmur, “Just distracting.”
He bows a little, lips on your cheek, “You don’t want the distraction, honey?”
“I do.” You say, eyes fluttering closed, chasing his lips with your own, “I really, really do.”
Logan chuckles, obliging you with a kiss, then another, then another, a sweet surrender to his mouth and your wishes.
Damn the healthy balance, you think. There’s no balancing between the way Logan engulfs you in long kisses, anyway.
notes: this one was shorter than usual, but i had so much fun writing! thank you for reading! likes, reblogs and thoughts are always appreciated! <3
logan’s best friend (reader) gets drunk at the boys house party… he helps you to his bed & ends up struggling with his feelings for you more than he anticipated tonight.
details: not smut, but sex is discussed. alcohol intoxication. unspoken feelings. overhearing a conversation about you. best friend trope. yearning. physical affection. sharing one bed.
warmth from tequila floods through your body, making the sound of house music feels much louder to you at the moment even though the night is calming down.
you’ve found yourself drunk rambling to dean, fully convinced nobody would even notice you drank. logan puts a gentle hand on your shoulder to let you know he’s back.
“logan! where have you been? i missed you! dean, say hi to logan! i was just telling dean how… i was telling him something.” you ramble, wrapping your arms around him like you’re scared you’ll lose him again in the crowd. meanwhile, all he did was leave to to the bathroom for 60 seconds.
“oh yeah, hey man. you missed out on such a great story.” dean tells him with sarcasm that flies over your head, mouthing a (she’s so gone) to him when you’re not looking.
“damn. well hopefully i’ll catch the next one.…” logan amuses you, mouthing a (thanks for watching her) back. “well you are cut off for the night, and we are going to bed.”
before you can protest, he lifts you up into his arms. it’s hard to fight back when you can’t stop drunkenly giggling but you do your best at hitting his back. “you’re evil. i was finishing my drink… and i don’t want to go to bed. my bed isn’t even here.”
“yeah, well lucky for you i have one.” logan teases, doing his best to not look at your pouting face and pay attention to the stairs. he’s certainly not wasted like you, but that last tequila shot garrett poured in his mouth definitely has him tipsy.
too tired to push anymore, you nuzzle your head comfortably on his warm shoulder while everything starts to spin and his hold around you tightens. all you hear his soft mumble of “i got you. c’mon.”
when you open your eyes back up, you’re in the familiar feeling of his bed. you’ve laid here more than friends probably should. you slip on a shirt he gives you, then curl up under the comforter like it’s your own.
he sits down next to you with a wet washcloth and motions for you to turn your head towards him so he could wash your face.
“you’re treating me like a baby.” you huff, still tilting your head obediently so he can get it all. “and washclothes are bad for your skin.”
“forgive me for my lack of makeup remover on hand. and maybe if you didn’t want to get treated like a baby, you wouldn’t of drank so much.” he says, deeply focused on getting everything off your face.
even though it’s a rough cloth, it somehow feels gentle with how careful he takes his time. he swallows heavy when moving it along your lip to get off the lipstick. it doesn’t help you’re looking at him with such bright eyes, and keep glancing at his lips not even thinking straight.
“are you mad at me for drinking?” you gulp. he stops in his tracks for a second, knowing how much you know about his family history.
“never. i want you to drink with us. tucker on the other hand, will be hearing from me for giving you that last shot.” he says trying to make you laugh which he succeeds.
“why don’t you have a girlfriend?” you randomly ask thinking out loud. he almost chokes taken back by the question.
“you sound just like my grandmother…” he deflects. “you think there would be space in this bed for another girl?”
“maybe but i don’t really like to cuddle people, logan.” you say obliviously, missing the point taking his phrasing literally.
“you love to cuddle me though.” he says.
“you’re not people. you’re my best friend. that doesn’t count.” you say, making him swallow. he didn’t drink enough for this.
“mhm.” he manages with a half effort smile. he locks his door hearing people still lingering downstairs, trusting nobody when it comes to you. he’s not in the mood to kill anyone tonight for even accidentally opening the wrong door.
“why don’t you want to fuck me?” you ask abruptly, deep in thought.
“jesus christ–” he reacts startled.
“i heard you tell the boys you don’t want to fuck me.” you sigh. he can’t handle you saying fuck me again and starts to panic.
“do… what, did you want me to? wait, don’t fucking answer that– fuck. that’s not even what i said.” he rambles, making you giggle. you’re too drunk to take this conversation seriously, even though before you drank it was burning deep inside you and still is underneath all the nausea.
“you did! you said i don’t want to fuck her.” you insist.
“i said i don’t want to just fuck her. besides, boys say stupid shit. please, don’t even think about that right now.”
“that’s the same exact thing. i don’t understand…” you groan, too nauseous to think about words.
“you don’t have to. you weren’t even supposed to hear that. just get some rest, okay? worry about… that. tomorrow.” he tries to convince you in your current state of mind.
“you fucking me?” you raise an eyebrow at what that means and he can’t take it anymore.
he playfully covers your mouth with his hand while laughing, “you need saying that– fuck. ow?! did you just bite me?”
“how else was i supposed to breathe?” you ask. before he can try to reason with your dramatics, you cut him off again. “wait you said tomorrow. so you’ll fuck me tomorrow?”
“if it will make you stop saying that then sure.” he sighs, unable to hear you talk about him fucking you any longer. he knows he’s not going to be able to fall asleep anymore, already spiraling at the thought of you basically just said fuck me just put differently a hundred times.
he knows when tomorrow comes, you will wake up to an empty bed while he’s at practice.
you’ll take the advil & water he left for you on the nightstand.
you’ll fold up the shirt you’re wearing neatly on the bed when he wishes you would just take it home with you.
you’ll steal your favorite snack of his mini fridge and still won’t put together he hates those but only keeps buying them for you.
you’ll text him “home. thanks for letting me sleep in ur bed :)” when you get back, and all he will be able to cowardly reply is “np :)” then suffer in his own guilt that all he’s capable of doing is acting like he doesn’t care.
lucky for you, you’ll have no memory of saying any of this including the conversation you overheard.
unlucky for him, it’ll be the only thing on his mind all week.
he crawls into the bed next to you, giving you enough space to lay on your side but you still lean towards him instinctively. he runs his fingers through your hair while his mind races, not sure if he’s doing it to soothe you or himself.
you fall asleep pretty quickly. he kisses your forehead gently, appreciating the soft hum you let out when he does it. “m’love you. fuck you tomorrow.” you mumble into pillow falling asleep.
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
