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— all is fair, in love and poetry.

@not44radio's writing sub-blog | juna. . .ᐟ 22 / phil . . . cabin ten 🪷

🎧 ▸ clairo, shelly, niki, taylor swift, ethel cain, beabadoobee, keshi, laufey, lizzy mcalpine, sabrina carpenter, olivia rodrigo, the 1975, harry styles, audrey hobert, gracie abrams, role model, pinkpantheress, cigs after sex, boygenius, mitski, ichiko aoba, etc . . .

🎞️ ▸ dead poets society, flipped, tangled, yuni, a silent voice, lady bird, little women, umbrellas of cherbourg, picnic at the hanging rock, society of the snow, the virgin suicides, challengers, the hunger games.

゛read ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ REQUESTS CLOSED

see my works . . . ⋆.˚ 🦢⋆࿐♡⋆.˚

townsendbaby

Engineering

John Logan x Reader (y/n)

Summary: Logan gets jealous when he sees his girlfriend spending more time with her engineering group partners.

Word Count: 1,137

Version with Dean can be found here

thebriarbunny

𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚃𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚄𝚙 ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

𝒥𝑜𝒽𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝑔𝒶𝓃²² 𝓍 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

6.3K words

c/w ᝰ.ᐟ unprotected p in v, teasing, pet names (sweetheart, sunshine, pretty, baby + no y/n), oral (f. receiving), fingering, mutual pining, cream pie + one very down bad handyman ⋆✴︎.ᐟ

Knock. Knock.

“Coming!”

Your voice carries through the apartment over the steady trickle of water somewhere inside. Rain boots squeak across the soaked hardwood as you hurry toward the front door, splashing through a puddle before yanking it open.

The second you see Logan standing in the hallway, relief crashes into you so hard you don’t even think before reaching for him. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him over the threshold while you kick the door shut behind him with your boot.

“Oh, thank god.” You let out a breathy laugh, already pulling him farther inside before he has the chance to say hello. “Thank you so much for coming over. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

Logan barely manages two steps before he stops. “…Jesus.”

His eyes move slowly around the apartment, taking everything in without saying anything. Every towel you own has been thrown across the floor in an obvious attempt to stop the water that has already escaped the laundry room and spread halfway through the kitchen.

puckmegirl

This had me feeling things 😛🙂‍↕️

littlemissfaebles

𝒑art 𝒇ive

request: imagine if someone asked line cook art about his and the readers relationship in front of everyone and art brushes it off and says they don't have anything going on which hurts the reader and they end up arguing back home with turns into desperate sex - anon pairing: server!reader x line cook!art donaldson cw: 18+ mdni, smut/angst. masturbation (male), hate sex (kinda), arguing, breakup. wordcount: 2.4k headcanons | pt1 | pt2 | pt3 | pt4 | pt5

flwr-princ3ss

If we're going by Olivia Rodrigo songs bad idea fits so right with going back to messy John Logan at a frat party

girl you're so right, I'm just gonna drop this lil piece I quickly wrote (not proofread lol) as a lil break from my writing break lolol.

bad idea right?

tw: swearing, parties, slightly suggestive so MDNI

wc: ~1.3k

disclaimer: I don't own off campus or the song referenced in this, all credits to the writers and minds behind the characters and the lyrics referenced.

John Logan had a fantastic track record of pissing you off.

Ever since the two of you broke up so he could focus on his hockey training, the man had a dire fascination with finding you at parties and scaring off any guy that tried to talk to you.

In fact, he pulled the same stint tonight.

You had been out with Allie and Hannah, the girls solemnly promising that the boys promised to stay clear of the frat and to keep Logan away so you could have some fun. So you dressed up, did your hair and makeup, and talked yourself into going to this party. The plan was to meet up with the guys afterwards at Malone’s and just have a nice night out, if you weren’t otherwise preoccupied.

But Logan just had to show up to this party.

cactusjuzereads

I love me an Olivia Rodrigo inspired fic

gonkdrd

telephone busy

word count: 4,137

ship: john logan x reader

summary: Logan gets partnered up someone for a ECOn project. This. turns out to be a nightmare when suddenly your boyfriend becoems oblivious towards his partners advances.

notes: not proof read

Can’t make dinner tonight, babe. Project ran late. Rain Check?

That was all it said. The third cancellation this week. The familiar sting of rejection swirling through your chest as your boyfriend cancels on you again.

At first you understood. Logan had been paired up with her for a big Econ project that was worth half his grade. The first cancellation came in a week in while you were getting dressed for the date night you two planned. You told yourself you understood how stressful group projects are. The second time was after class, Logan was supposed to pick you up to take you to an appointment but a last minute project session came up.

The pattern kept repeating itself. Then came the lingering touches from her, Maddison Blair, her hands would purposely find a reason to remain on him at all times. A brush of his hands, a comforting hand on his back during long sessions, strewn across his arm as she explained the topics.

You brought it up to him on multiple a occasions but you’d always be left with a kiss on the forehead and a simple “She’s just friendly, you have nothing to worry about”.

The phone goes face down, and you’re already walking, the word murder burning a path from your chest to your tongue.

The living room smells like Allie’s aroma therapy candles, and lingering smell of red wine that Hannah spilt by accident a couple weeks ago. Allie is sprawled across the couch, script in hand, legs kick dover the arm rest. Hannah sits cross-legged on the armchair, a notebook resting on her knees as she works out lyrics for a new song.

“I’m going to murder my boyfriend.” You plant your self in the middle of the room , arms crossed.

Hannah looks up from her notebook as Allie sit’s up, script falling to her lap. “Um, what?”

“He cancelled on me AGAIN.” The Words come out flat, controlled, the wya they do when you’re upset about something. “That’s the third time this week. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve seen him in the last month.”

Hannah exchanges a look with Allie—the kind that says they’ve been waiting for this conversation.

“Does this happen to have anything to do with a certain blonde puck bunny that takes Econ?” Allie slowly draws out.

“Yes. I’m so close to throwing hands with the girl.”

The words come out hot, you realize you mean them—every syllable. Allie’s eyes light up like she’s watching a show she’s been waiting to see. She swings her legs off the armrest, sitting up fully.

“Okay, okay. Before we plan a prison sentence, talk to me. What’s she actually doing?”

Hannah sets her notebook aside, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. “Because there’s a difference between her being a problem and Logan being the problem.”

“He’s canceled on me three times this week to work with her.” You hold up three fingers in an exaggerated display of annoyance. “Every time we have plans, she conveniently calls with some emergency project situation. She’s in his DMs—I saw her comment on his story at midnight. And every time I see them together, she’s practically in his lap.”

Hannah winces. “Okay, that’s… a lot of proximity.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him.” You say, voice lowering into something more vulnerable. “It’s that I’m tired of feeling like the third wheel in my own relationship.”

The room goes quiet. Hannah and Allie share a look of understanding.

“I need to stop spiraling.” You blow out a breath, letting the tension drain from your shoulders. “I’ll be in the kitchen baking.”

Allie blinks. “Girl, you just threatened to throw hands and now you’re going to bake?”

“Baking is cheaper than bail,” you say, already preheating the oven.

Hannah’s laugh follows you. “That’s the most y/n response possible.”

The kitchen welcomes you like an old friend—the evening sun lighting across the granite, the familiar weight of the apron hook. You tie the strings behind your waist and pull get lost in the familiar rhythm of the kitchen.

——————

The breaking point comes on a Friday. The Briar Hawks had just won against Eastwood and the Hawk’s are hosting a party to celebrate— the whole campus shows up. Bass thumps through the walls of the boy’s house before you’re even at the door. Red cups, bodies pressed together in the kitchen, someone’s already spilled beer on the couch.

You push through the crowd, scanning for Logan’s messy brown hair, ready to congratulate him properly on scoring the winning goal. You find him by the hallway—laughing at something, easy and relaxed.

And then you see her.

Maddison, wearing his jersey. Number 22, the fabric hanging loose on her small frame, like it belongs there. She’s pressed up against his side, hand on his chest, tilting her head up at him with a smile that’s all teeth. His arm around her waist.

The bass thuds in your chest. The room feels suddenly, violently small.

For one long beat, the party noise fades to a dull roar in your ears. Maddison’s fingers trail down the of his shirt—his shirt, the one you’ve slept in a hundred times—and Logan laughs at something she says, his head tilting down toward hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then he looks up.

His eyes find your across the room, and his face does something ugly—guilty, panic, the arm around her waist dropping like she’s on fire. “Y/n—“

Maddison turns, slow, a smile carving across her face when she sees you. She doesn’t move away from him. Doesn’t step back. Just stands there in his jersey, one hand still resting on his chest, watching you with those innocent eyes.

The bass thuds. The hallway’s packed. Every instinct in your body goes sharp and cold.

“Y/n” Logan says again, stepping toward you, hands out. “It’s not—she was cold, O just–“

His voice is drowned out by the crowd, the music, the heat of a hundred bodies. Maddison’s smile widens, just a little, as she watches him stumble over his excuses.

“No worries,” you say, the words landing almost too soft in the space between the bass thumps. “She was just cold.”

Logan’s mouth opens, the beginning of relief flickering across his face—and Maddison’s smile falters, just barely, because your tone isn’t forgiveness. It’s a chess move she hasn’t seen coming yet.

You turn on your heel and walk.

The crowd parts for you, or maybe you just stop caring about them. You cut through the living room, past the beer pong table, past Hollis mid-cheer, until you spot Garrett and Hannah by the kitchen doorway—mid conversation with that annoyingly sweet lovestruck look on their faces.

“Hannah, Graham.” You stop in front of them, chin up. “I need a favor, can I, respectfully, borrow your Jersey.”

Garrett blinks. Hannah eyebrows climb before the realizations creeps forward. Smile slowly peeking out. “My jersey,” Garrett repeats, slowly, glancing at Hannah to see if she understands what’s going on. She simply laughs and nods. “For what, exactly?”

“Logan’s project partner is wearing his number twenty-two like it’s a promise ring.” You tilt your head towards the hallway. “I want to remind him what he’s about to lose.”

A beat. Then Garrett’s mouth curve into something slow—amused, impressed, and just petty enough to love this. He sets his cup down, grabs the collar of his #44 jersey, and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.

“Don’t get beer on it,” he say, handing it over. “It’s Lucky.”

Hannah laughs at his request then wishes you luck.

The fabric is warm from his body, heavy on your shoulders, the number 44 riding across your back like armor. You let it hang.

You start walking.

The kitchen first—you cut through the cluster by the keg, slow. Tucker spots you, opens his mouth, and you watch the gears turn as he registers the jersey. He doesn’t say anything, just grins like he’s front row as a championship game.

The living room next. You pass the beer pong table, and. Girl with a red cup does a double, take, elbow-nudging her friend. Whispers bloom behind you like a wake.

“Is that Logan’s girlfriend.?’

“That’s Graham’s jersey—“

“Who’s she wearing?”

You let the murmurs trail you. Somewhere behind you, you catch Dean’s voice, low and delighted: “Oh she’s good.”

You take your time. One lap. Two. The crowd parts and reassembles, and every pair of eyes that lands on the #44 does the math in real time. By the time you circle back toward the hallway, the word’s already moving through the party like a current.

Logan’s still where you left him—but Maddison’s hand had dropped from his chest, and he’s looking around, scanning the room, like he can feel the shift in the air. His eyes find you.

The #44 hits him like a slap. His mouth opens, closes, and something raw crosses his face—hurt, shock, the beginning of understanding.

Maddison follows his gaze. Her smile’s gone.

You let his stare wash over you like it belongs to someone else. The #44 rides your shoulders, and you keep walking—past the hallway, past the whispers, past the sound of maya’s voice going thin behind you.

The kitchen door swings shut behind you, and the bass drops to a dull thud through the walls. The back porch is dark, strung with a few cheap lights, mostly empty. Cool night air hits your face, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Lose someone?” It’s not Logan’s voice.

It’s Dean, stepping out with a bottle of vodka, a grin already splitting his face. He hands you the bottle and leans against the railing, eyes bright with mischief. “He’s tearing the house apart looking for you. Maddison’s practically vibrating. This is the best party I’ve been to all year.”

You hand the bottle back after taking a swig. You watch as he lifts it. “To petty, brilliant revenge.”

“Come on,” you say, already moving toward the side of the porch.”Let’s go hide on the roof and wait to see how long it takes him to find us.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, a slow grin spreading across his face as he follows behind. “You’re my favorite person tonight. You know that?”

The fire escape ladder is rusted and creaky, tucked around the corner where the porch light doesn’t reach. You climb first, Garrett’s jersey riding up your back. Dean follows, the vodka bottle tucked into his chest, hands steady as you both reach the flat stretch of the roof overlooking the backyard.

The party sounds muffled from up here—just the bass and the occasional whoop drifting up through the gaps. String lights glow below, and the night air is cool abasing your face.

Dean drops down beside you, legs dangling over the edge, and gestures at the bottle. “Alright, evil mastermind. What are we drinking to.?”

You twist the cap off. Below, you hear the back door slam open and Logan’s frustrated voice, sharp and frustrated: “Y/n? Y/N!”

Dean’s grin widens. He doesn’t say a word—just hold out his hand for the bottle. You sniffle a laugh as you hand it over.

He offers you a mock cheers before shotgunning a good portion of the drink. As he hands it back you bring it up to your lips and take a long sip. The vodka burns going down, smooth and warm, settling in your chest like a second heartbeat.

From below, Logan’s voice cuts through again, closer now, edged with frustration. “Y/n? Where’d she go?”

A pause. Then back door bangs shut.

You pass the bottle back to Dean without a word, fingers brushing his in exchange. He takes a sip, slow, and the two of you sit in the quiet, watching the yard below.

Dean’s voice is barely a murmur. ‘You could end this whole thing in about two seconds, you know. Just say the word.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Dean barks a quiet laugh, muffled behind his fist. “There she is.” He takes a sip then passes he bottle back, eyes glinting in the string-light glow. “You know he’s going to find you eventually, right? He’s got that dogged Minnesota thing going on. Man’s probably checking the basement by now.”

Down below, the porch steps creak. Logan stands, hands still shoved in his pockets, and he does another slow sweep of the yard. His phone buzzes in his pocket—he pulls it out, glances at the scree, and his jaw tighten before he shoves it back.

Maddison’s voice drifts through the open door, sweet and carrying: “John, come back inside, it’s cold—“

He doesn’t turn around.

Dean’s voice drops to something almost serious. “He’s not going back in.” A pause. “You know that right?”

The night air is cool on your shoulders, Garrett’s jersey still loose around you. Logan’s still standing on the steps, staring into the dark, and for the first time tonight he looks less like the guy who had his arm around another girl and more like someone waiting to be found.

“Did the bitch just call him John?” The words come out low, sharp, cutting through the quiet. “He only lets me call him that.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Oh, that’s the thing that breaks you? Not the jersey, not the hand on his chest—the name.”

“Names are personal,” you say, the bottle hanging loose in your grip. “Anyone can wear a jersey. Maddison’s probably been practicing that name in the mirror for a week.”

Down below, Maddison’s voice drifts out the door again, syrup-sweet. “John, come back inside—“

Logan still hasn’t turned around. He’s planted at the bottom of the porch steps, shoulders tight, staring into the dark like he’s waiting for something to appear.

Dean takes the bottle from you, tips it back, and wipes his mouth. “You know, most girlfriends would be down there screaming right now. You’re up here cataloguing his pet names like a lawyer building a case.”

He pauses. “I mean that as the highest compliment.”

Below, Logan’s phone buzzes again. He pulls it out, glances at it, and this time he doesn’t just shove it back—he silences it. Drops it in his pocket. Stays right where he is.

“Please you’ve known me two years. I’m petty and I don’t like to lose.” You tilt you head toward the yard below, where Logan still stands planted on the porch steps, Maddison’s silhouette hovering in the doorway. “Plus, I already talked to him. Gave him the full conversation, the understanding girlfriend, the whole thing. He didn’t listen.”

Dean takes a sip, watching you over the rim. “So now he suffers.”

“Now he suffers.” You shrug, easy. “Let his dog follow him around. Let her call him John and touch his chest and wear his jersey. He’s out here on the steps in the cold, looking for me, while she’s inside trying to warm him up with her voice.” A pause. “He knows where I am. He knows what he did. He can sit with that.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment. Then a low whistle. “I’ve seen you petty before. I’ve seen you hold grudges for a decade.” He gestures at the scene below. “But this? This is art.”

Below, Logan’s head snaps up, like he’s heard something— some instinct. He scans the roofline again, slower this time. His eyes sweep past you, then stop, then come back.

He’s looking right at you. You grin and lift the bottle. A. Slow toast, the neck lifting toward him, the string lights catching the glass. A clean and unmistakable gesture: I see you. I’ve been here the whole time.

Dean whistles low under his breath. “That’s a power move and a half.”

Below, Logan’s whole body goes still, The tension in his shoulder shifts into something else—relief, maybe, or the first crack in the stubborn set of his jaw. He takes a step off the porch, toward the side of the house where the fire escape ladder hangs.

Maddison’s voice follows him out the door, sharper now. “John, where are you goin—“

He ignores her as s treks across the yard, reaches the rusted ladder, and start climbing.

Dean nudges your shoulder, grinning. “You got thirty seconds to decide if you’re gonna make him work for it or let him off the hook.” He pauses, then adds, quieter: “I’m rooting for making him work for it, obviously.”

You turn and grin at him before rushing off towards the other side of the roof. You use the ledge to scale down towards Tuckers open window and propel yourself inside giggling.

You rush through the house and head to the front of the house towards the porch and throw yourself on the bench out front while you wait for him to catch up.

You hear the front door creak open a few minutes later, the familiar sent of sandalwood and grease hitting you.

He stands still, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll run off again. The silence stretches. Somewhere inside, a song shifts, and the bass drops out.

“Come sit, John. Let’s talk about your girlfriend.”

The words carry across the porch, easy and unhurried, like you’re inviting him to dinner. The string lights buzz. The bass from inside thumps, oblivious.

Logan steps forward hesitantly, as a prey does when testing the waters, waiting for the attack.

He stops a few feet from the bench, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight. “She’s not my girlfriend, you are.”

“She’s wearing your jersey,” you say, crossing your ankles. “Called you John. Had her hand on your chest in front of half the party. I don’t know what you call that, but around here we call it a claim.”

“It’s not—“ He runs a hand through his hair frustrated. “She grabbed it off the couch. I didn’t give it to her. I didn’t put my arm around her, she—“

“She,” you repeat, tilting you head. “Everything’s what she did. Where are you in that sentence, Logan?”

The front door opens. Maddison steps out, voice thin and bright. “John? Everything okay out here?”

“She’s asking if you’re okay, John.” You say loud enough to carry, eyes holding his, chin tilted just so. “Are you?”

Logan’s jaw tightens. Behind him, Maddison’s frame got still in the doorway, caught mid-step, her bright voice dying in her throat. The question wasn’t for him—not really. It was for her. He’s mine to check on. Not yours.

The silence stretches. A laugh burst from inside the house, muffled by the bass.

“I’m fine,” Logan says finally, and his voice is steadier than it’s been all night. He doesn’t around. Doesn’t glance at the door. His eye’s stay locked on you. “I’, right where I want to be.”

Maddison’s face scrunches up in annoyance. She huffs before turning on her heel and walking back inside.

The door closes with a slam. Like she’s trying to remind him of her attention.

Logan takes a step toward the bench. Then another. The string lights catch the mess of his hair, the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand stay shoved in his pockets like he’s holding himself back from something. He stops at the armrest of the bench, close enough that you can smell the cold on him, the faint traces of whatever he was drinking.

“I didn’t give her the jersey,” He says, low. “I had put it down on the couch and she took it not long after arriving. But I should’ve taken it off her the second I saw her in it.” A pause. “I should’ve walked her to the door the second she showed up tonight.”

The silence sits between you like a held breath. The string lights buzz overhead, and somewhere inside the house someone whoops, oblivious to the two of you out here.

Logan’s throat works. He looks down at you, at the #44 loose across your shoulders, and something in his face cracks open—not the panic from earlier, but something quieter. Something that looks like shame.

“I should have taken her hand off me,” he says, slow, like he’s saying it for himself. “The second she put it there. In front of anyone.” A pause. “In front of you.”

He sinks down onto the wooden floor in front of the bench, elbows on his knees, lookin up at you. The string lights catching the exhaustion in his face.

“I’ve been so caught up in my own head—my dad, the scouts, hockey, school—that I let her get comfortable.” He hold your gaze. “That’s on me. Not her. She can throw herself at whoever she wants. I’m the one who should’ve shut it down.”

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t try to touch your knee or take your hand. He just sits there kneeling on the floor, messy hair falling into his eyes, waiting.

“And what happens the next time she puts her hand on you?”

Logan’s eyes hold yours. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t reach for an easy answer. The string lights buzz, and a car passes somewhere down the street, headlights sweeping across.

“I take it off,” he says. “I take her hand off tee, and I tell her to back up. In front of whoever’s watching. A pause. “I don’t care how it looks. I care about it looks to you.”

He shifts on the floor, closer, still not touching you. “I should’ve done it the first time. I should’ve done it a hundred times, and I didn’t, because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to notice I was letting someone treat me like I was available.” His voice drops. ‘That’s the part I can’t take back.”

A door opens somewhere but neither of you look up.

“Next time she shows up at the rink, I’ll tell her to study somewhere else. Next time she tags me at midnight, I won’t answer. Next time she’s at the house, I’ll walk her out.” He hold you gaze, steady. “I’m done being oblivious. That’s a promise, not a line.”

“Good boy.” You let the words land, slow and deliberate, watching the way his jaw ticks. “Now get that stupid jersey off her and walk her out. Or I’ll find another jersey to permanently occupy my wardrobe.”

Logan stares at you for half a second. Then something shifts in his face—a corner of his mouth twitching, the tension bleeding out of his shoulder. “You’d wear it to bed wouldn’t you?”

He pushes up off the floor, brushes the dirt off his palms, and looks down at you with that crooked thing he does when he’s trying not to smile. “Stay here, I’ll be two minutes.”

He turn and walks through the door towards the house, and you watch him go—the set of his shoulders, the easy stride. The front door closes softly behind him. You get up and slip off Garrett’s jersey then head inside to hand it back.

You find Garrett and Hannah on the couch talking to Justin Kohl. Hannah’s eyes find you first, a knowing smirk gracing her lips. “Did you make him sweat?”

“He better have learned his lesson, because I’m not doing this again.”

A laugh escapes Garrett as you hand him back the jersey. “No beer, just as I promised.”

Them you head up to Logan’s room and throw yourself on the bed. A few minutes late you hear a familiar set of footsteps as you watch as the door opens. Logan looks relieved as he finds you on his bed, no longer wearing the #44 jersey. He crosses the room in quick strides.

The jersey hangs loose under his arms. He grabs hold of it and extend his arm out handing it to you. “Yours,” he says. “Always was.”

“Nope. You better wash it first. I’m not wearing something someone else had on less than five minutes ago.” You say deadpan, already sinking further into the bed. Logan;s mouth opens and closes in front of you with a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Y/n-"

You stare at him with the most serious face you can muster, before pulling him down towards the bed. You take the stupid jersey and throw it across the room before settling into his arms.

“I hope you know your punishment for all this neglect is no sex for a month.” You say, latching further into the crook of his neck, the words coming out muffled.

“wait what?–"

not44radio

giggling kicking my feet omfg i love this cause its so ME

#/juna: recs #john logan x reader

it's fine po tuldok

jay kamusta sa iskul jay

#/juna: chitchats

puckmegirl

THE BOY IS MINE (ft. John Logan)

blurb: briar’s hockey team hosts their annual fundraiser for the hurricanes at malone’s. the prize? a date with one of the four hottest hockey player heartthrobs. the problem? you lost the bidding war to win your own boyfriend.

warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, the whole gang is here yay power of friendship, lowk crack fic with a side of romance, light jealousy, mentions of deanallie hehe, BEAU MAXWELL IS A FLIRT

“Allie, I gave you one job!”

And really, you did.

You were swamped with final exams and endless group projects. On this particular Friday night—the evening of the hurricanes fundraiser—you had to meet up with your teammates to go over presentation slides.

Thus, you entrusted your beloved friend, Allie Hayes, to ensure your spot in the bidding war for…well, your boyfriend.

iceyngi

Break the Ice 𝚿

☄︎ Warnings: None! ☄︎ Pairing: Psych!Reader x John Logan ☄︎ Rating/Genre: PG. Fluff. ☄︎ Words: 1584 ☄︎ Summary: Logan goes to the library to escape the chaos of the hockey house, only to meet Psych!Reader

Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Logan Masterlist here. 〣 Meet Psych!Reader here.

Logan knew of library etiquette existed, which is how he knew that a library was the last place for him to be. He was far too restless, possessing too much nervous energy to sit still in a room that demanded silence.

#i am the target audience for this

calumsargwife

NOOOOOOOO WAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY they did this for me omfg

#at the same damn time

joshuaballsett

drew starkey was hit with a sudden stab of jealousy when he found out mike faist had his own embroidered fan to cool himself from the parisian heat

jhnnyssnclrs

fourth of july

johnny x female!reader

summary: during the annual fourth of july bonfire, someone makes a comment about you and johnny gets angry.

warnings: mentions of alcohol, violence, blood

wc: 1k

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

"hey- you almost ready? people are starting to arrive." Johnny says, appearing in your doorway. you're finishing your makeup and have yet to pick an outfit.

"shit, seriously? okay, i'll hurry." you tell him. Johnny is your best friend, and you love him, but he can be a little over the top. he invited practically all of Martha's Vineyard to the bonfire tonight. you hurry to your closet and pick out a pair of jean shorts, a red bikini, and a loose fourth of july themed tank top to put over it.

"do i look okay?" you ask, walking downstairs into Cuddledown's kitchen. Johnny looks up from the cooler he's stocking full of different beers and seltzers. his ears go slightly pink.

"yeah, you look great," he clears his throat. "help me take this out back?" he asks, nodding to the cooler.

the two of you make your way outside where, like Johnny said, people were already trickling in. Cadence spots you before anyone else.

"hey! wow, don't you look sexy!" she shouts. you can tell she's already at least two drinks in.

"hey Cady," you say, hugging her. "what are we drinking?" you peer inside her cup, which looks like a mix of a lot of different things.

"come on, i'll make you one." she grins, taking your hand and leading you to a table with red solo cups littered about.

"don't get her too drunk!" Johnny yells after the two of you. you smirk at him, knowing it doesn't matter what he says.

more people arrive on small boats, once a big party boat stops by but doesn't stay long, and everyone mingles around the bonfire on the beach. you're sitting on a beach chair enjoying who knows what number of white claw, talking to a friend when a boy about your age comes up to you.

"hey, you look good." he says, sitting on the armrest of the chair. you just smile at him, a bit too drunk to flirt. he grins, putting his hand on your thigh.

"come with me, i wanna show you something." he says, attempting to grab your hand. you don't hold his hand back. you're content where you are.

"come on, you're hot, i'm hot, i know you want this." he says. you don't. you stand up, wobbly and all, and saunter off to find Mirren or Cadence.

"no thanks, i'd rather makeout with a trash can." you say, your words slurring together.

he scoffs, "bitch."

you find your way closer to the house, where Mirren is happily enjoying making herself some sort of concoction.

on the other side of the party, chaos.

the boy who tried to get with you, Caleb, has started badmouthing you to everyone.

"yeah," he scoffs. "she didn't even say anything and then walked away and basically flipped me off. such a bitch." Johnny who is half listening-half looking for you, jumps in.

"who are we talking about?" he asks, downing the rest of his drink.

"oh, her. over by the table. she's such a bi-" he starts. he can't finish his sentence though, not before Johnnys fist connects with his face.

"don't fucking talk about her like that, you asshole!" he yells, punching Caleb again in the gut, making him fall onto the sand.

"yo, chill!" Caleb gasps, "i didn't do anything!"

you hear a commotion from where you're sitting.

"Mirren? what's happening?" you ask, standing up. she turns around, and groans when she sees Johnny pounding his fists into some dudes face.

"jesus christ, is that Johnny?" you ask, rushing to the scene.

"Johnny! what the hell?" you shout. Gat comes up behind him, hooking his arms beneath Johnnys shoulders and lifting him off of Caleb.

"dude, calm down, okay?" he says.

"Johnny, what the fuck were you thinking?" you ask, throwing your hands up. "all he did was try and talk to me!"

"he was talking shit about you to my face." he says, pinching his bleeding nose where Caleb decked him.

"you can explain after you're cleaned up. come on, let's go." you say, taking his hand and leading him towards Cuddledown. the two of you enter the bathroom and you shut the door behind you.

you cross your arms and lean against the door.

"okay, explain." you say.

he rolls his eyes momentarily, and then sighs.

"he had no reason to say anything about you. so what if you rejected him? i don't like when people talk shit about my friends, okay?" he confesses. he anxiously runs his hands through his hair.

you step closer to him, inspecting his nose.

"well, i don't think it's broken, so there's that at least." you tell him. you wet a washcloth and start dotting it around his face where his and/or Caleb's blood has dried.

"you can't just... punch people when they say shit." you tell him, holding his jaw gently so you can clean the blood. his eyes are closed.

"i'm sorry, i really am. i just... it's you, you know? i can't just let him." he says. you sigh, giving him tissues for his nose.

"look, you know i love you, like a lot. so i'm gonna forgive you. but please, never again?" you plead. he smiles at you.

"what did he say to you, anyway?" he asks, his face suddenly serious.

"not much, just like, i'm hot or whatever." you tell him. Johnny smirks.

"yeah, well, you're way out of his league." you blush. what is he saying? you think. he leans a little closer, and you blush a little harder.

"Johnny-" you start, putting your hands on his chest as if pushing him away.

"i know, i know. you're very drunk. it's okay." he smiles, moving a strand of hair out of your face. his touch sends a shiver down your entire body.

why do i feel like this? we've hugged and stuff before. is it the alcohol, maybe? you question.

he looks down, then back up at you, still smiling.

"well, i'm gonna go back outside. come with me?" he says, offering you his hand. you quickly place your hands on his shoulders, lifting yourself up a bit to kiss him lightly on the cheek. a light blush spreads across his face and neck.

"i'll take that as a yes." he laughs, grabbing your hand and leading you back to the party.

little blurb 🤗 i'm gonna spam the shit out of this blog i think so be prepared 🫰i adore protective johnny because he absolutely would fight someone over you

rowsbloom

omg i could i request a johnny fic based on the song iloveitiloveitiloveit by bella kay i can't stop thinking about it!

friends with benefits! johnny sinclair

a/n: soo it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted on here lol. my schedules been super busy but things are luckily slowing down now and im so excited to post again. i love this request and this song in general so im happy to get back into posting with it! i took it in the fwb/undefined relationship route, since that's what the song feels like to me, like not committing to love, relapsing into each other, etc… enjoy!

fwb! johnny sinclair who never meant to fall into this pattern with you. it started out as a friendship first, casual and uncomplicated, until the looks started lingering and the conversations got longer. the flirting was harmless at first—at least that's what both of you told yourselves. stupid jokes, lingering eye contact. the occasional challenge to see who could fluster the other first. nothing real.

fwb! johnny sinclair who can't even pinpoint when you became part of his routine. when seeing you stopped being something fun he wanted and became something real he needed. because now his first instinct whenever something funny happens is to tell you. whenever something goes wrong, his instinct is to call you first.

fwb! johnny sinclair who lets everyone believe in the easygoing, reckless persona he built. but with you, he gets used to things he never meant to need. your hand automatically reaching for his when you meet. the way you save him a seat without asking. the late-night texts that always find him. and suddenly, the absence of those things feels unbearable.

fwb! johnny sinclair who acts like he doesn’t mind that you only call him when you're bored or need something quick. he tries to stop himself from overthinking his place in your life, from dissecting every message and call. because sure, you only called him to kill time, but you still called him. and maybe that’s pathetic, maybe it’s embarrassing how quickly he answers, but at least he has a place in your life, even if it’s not the place he wants.

fwb! johnny sinclair who secretly likes being your first choice for all the little things. carrying your bag, fixing something stupid, listening when you’re upset. because every favor feels like proof that you need him, and johnny has spent his whole life feeling replaceable.

fwb! johnny sinclair who despite every affection he feels for you, cannot help himself from running away. the minute something feels too real, he disappears. he starts to pull away, text less, and act colder. he suddenly becomes too busy to see you. and the worst part is he knows exactly what he's doing. he is too self-aware to not recognize his patterns, but he’s not strong enough to break them. he keeps pulling you close enough to need him before disappearing the second he realizes he needs you too.

fwb! johnny sinclair who has a habit of acting like nothing happened when he comes back from his disappearance and getting frustrated with you when you call him out on it. he’s not ready to take accountability, and so he is immediately defensive. he knows he's mean when you fight, but he can't help it. he hates being confronted about the things he already feels guilty about. because underneath the irritation is shame. shame that he left. shame that he always leaves. shame that he keeps hurting you in exactly the same way.

fwb! johnny sinclair who knows your habits too. your own disappearances, your inability to give a name to what the two of you have. the broken communication is a two way street, and the pain you cause each other is something you both hate but love. the way you leave and relapse into each other again is an ironic and beautiful dance you never intend.

fwb! johnny sinclair who notices every inconsistency, every mixed signal. the way you look at him like he’s the only person in the room one day and act completely normal the next. and he spends hours trying to decode you, replaying conversations, searching for answers in words that probably didn’t mean anything at all

fwb! johnny sinclair who laughs when people tease him about you. rolls his eyes. says, “we’re not together.” too quickly. too casually. while his stomach twists itself into knots because technically he’s telling the truth.

fwb! johnny sinclair who can never decide if you’re being sweet or cruel. because sometimes you tuck your cold feet under his legs while watching movies. sometimes you brush his hair out of his eyes when you think he’s asleep. and then other times you introduce him as “just johnny” like his heart isn’t sitting right there in your hands.

fwb! johnny sinclair who knows he should pull away. who knows this arrangement hurts him more often than it helps. but every time he starts creating distance, you smile at him, or touch his arm, or send one stupid text, and suddenly he’s right back where he started.

fwb! johnny sinclair who swears this is the last time he’s sleeping over. the last time he’s letting himself hope. the last time he’s going to sit there imagining a future you’ve never promised him. and then you mumble “stay” when he gets up to leave, and every ounce of his resolve crumbles instantly.

fwb! johnny sinclair who spends days convincing himself he’s over it. over you. only to see you again and immediately remember everything. the sound of your laugh. the weight of your head on his shoulder. the way you always look for him in crowded rooms. and suddenly all that progress means nothing.

fwb! johnny sinclair who hates how much he loves this. hates how much it hurts. hates how willing he is to take whatever pieces of you he’s offered. but if you asked him to walk away, he’s not sure he could.