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[puckmegirl]

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[puckmegirl]

raven,

this is sooo good what happens next ? we wanna seeee pretty please 🥺 https://www.tumblr.com/puckmegirl/820443826978242560/magic-mike-ft-john-logan?source=share

Ouuu should I make a part 2 where Logan actually gives her a show? 🫣😚

[puckmegirl]

BACK TO ME (ft. John Logan)

blurb: a broken down car. boston. one phone call to your ex. a loft apartment. you did not expect this much from your weekend trip.

warnings: 18+, smut, fem!reader, exes to lovers, angst but happy ending, brief alcohol, oral (f. receiving), king of yearning john logan, celibate!logan, cumming untouched (m.)

“If your car ever needs a tune up, call me.”

The memory of Logan’s words was a harsh bite of mockery sneaking up on you in the middle of a surprise Boston rain shower, soaking you down to a lesser person.

Your thumb hovered over his contact name on your phone. The pitter patter of the rain hitting your screen like an underlining meant to emphasize his existence.

my hockey boy ❤️🏒

You hadn’t bothered to change it after the breakup. But frankly, that wasn’t entirely true.

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.

He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”

His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”

“Fenway Park.”

Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”

The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”

He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”

Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.

It had been going so well.

Until it wasn’t.

Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.

No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned—like the sun and moon trying to meet.

You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”

“I live down the block.”

You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.

You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.

When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.

Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.

The floor to ceiling windows.

Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.

You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.

Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.

An unspoken exchange lingered between you.

“How’d you know where my car was?”

Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”

You nodded, “Of course you did.”

Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.

You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”

Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”

You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”

“I told you that when you bought it.”

Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.

Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.

He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.

Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”

“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.

He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”

Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.

You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”

Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”

Your smile faded away.

He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”

Your guy.

“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”

Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.

You nodded, putting your glass down.

“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”

You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—

Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”

He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.

Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.

You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.

He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”

You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.

By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.

He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.

He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.

“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”

“No, really, you should—”

“I insist—”

“But I—”

“Babe.”

You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.

Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”

This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.

You tried.

You really did.

But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.

You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”

“You’re what’s best for me!”

“No, I’m not—”

“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”

“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”

“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”

You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.

“Since when do you like baseball?”

Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”

You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.

“You been to any of their games?”

“One or two,” he answered.

“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.

“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.

You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”

His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”

Your eyes darted to him.

He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.

“Logan,” you called softly.

“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”

Your chest tightened, “Logan.”

“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”

“Logan—”

“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”

You kissed him.

He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.

Neither of you complained.

Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.

You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.

As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”

You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.

Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.

His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.

Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”

Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.

You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.

You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.

“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.

You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.

“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.

His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.

“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”

You huffed, “Yes.”

He smirked. So smug.

“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Don’t tease.”

Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”

Fuck was he right.

He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.

“Right there,” you gasped out.

Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.

Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”

Baby.

Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.

He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.

“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”

His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.

Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.

Your eyes widened.

Logan let out a small chuckle.

“It’s been a while,” is what he said.

“Since you ate a girl out?” You queried.

His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”

The room went quiet.

The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.

Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.

“Let me take care of you,” you offered.

“It’ll take a while,” he said.

Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.

Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.

“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.

Your heart ached at the pleading tone.

“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”

That was the life you wanted with Logan.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

He did everything perfectly.

And you had let your fears ruin that.

But not anymore.

You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into yours.

“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.

Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”

Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”

And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.

logan’s spotify wrapped the year you guys broke up included party 4 u by charlie xcx and back to me by the marías iktr

[dancethroughthethunder]

hurt my own feelings by reading this while going through my own breakup but that's a me problem

however this is soooooo good wow wow wow john logan the man you are

[puckmegirl]

O my days I’m so sorry love :(

But thank you so much <33 xx

[daydreamfiles]

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.

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl

You had never meant to learn the entire play.

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.

[puckmegirl]

I wish he was real 💔

[puckmegirl]

https://www.tumblr.com/puckmegirl/821681720363450368/the-boy-is-mine-ft-john-logan

just to let you know there’s a bit of an error in this fic! with the pov, it says ‘Her eyes switched to me’ instead of ‘Her eyes switched to you’ xx

Omg you’re a lifesaver! Thanks for pointing that out, I went ahead and fixed it <3

[puckmegirl]

john logan letting his frustration out on you but you’re too cock drunk to function

warnings: 18+, smut, fem!reader, p in v, oblivious logan does not know how good he feels lol

“and he comes onto the ice, all brooding and angsty,” logan narrates as he pounds into you, holding your legs up towards the ceiling.

“then he misses all my passes! can you imagine?” he asks you. “he misses. three. shots.” each word punctuated with a mean thrust and emphasized by a squelching sound.

you’re so far gone—it’s amazing you can even comprehend half of the things he’s telling you. a breathy moan escapes past your lips with every drag of his heavy cock entering you.

“and worst of all, he has the audacity to give me shit about contacting his dad,” logan continues, pulling out of you for a moment to adjust his grip on your skin.

“no!” you cry out from the loss of contact.

“i know right?!” he replies, mistaking your eagerness for empathy.

he pushes back into you easily and your toes curl in appreciation, “oh, logan, that’s—”

“evil, right?” logan responds, working up his pace again. “i mean, i know he’s my best friend, and that actually makes me feel worse for saying all this, but garrett’s just been acting like such a prick.”

he’s stuffing you full of his cock, you can feel him in your guts, “mm…that feels so…so…”

“conflicting? yeah,” logan sighs, letting go of your leg to push his hair back. “it is. i wanna help him but he’s really not giving me any reason to.”

he holds you by the back of your thighs and presses your legs into your chest, “i don’t know. what do you think i should do, pretty?”

“deeper!”

logan tilts his head in pensive reflection as his thrusts leave your legs shaking. “a deeper conversation with him? hm, i could try that…”

“yes, more! more!”

“you’re right. we should talk more.“ he agrees. “garrett and i just fight and get mad at each other all the time now.”

your mouth hangs open, drool collecting at the corners from the delicious friction between your bodies. despite his oblivious state, logan still manages to comply with your requests.

“fuck!” you exclaim when his thick tip hits that special, gummy spot inside you.

logan grunts, “yeah, fuck that guy.” his efforts double as his frustration boils up again. he continues to bully that precise spot deep within you over and over again with tantalizing accuracy.

“don’t stop, logan. please, please, please—”

“i know,” he sighs, his relentless pace never once faltering. “i’ll keep trying. i need the team to connect if we wanna win this.”

“so close, so close…”

“yeah, we are,” logan confirms with newfound determination evident in his hips. “just a few more games to go. the hawks are gonna make it to the finals and we’re gonna bring home the championship.”

“yes, logan! fuuuck!!”

he does not even realize that you’re cumming around him. he hasn’t a clue despite your back arching off the bed, your thighs trembling, and your tight pussy walls milking him dry.

only when you collapse back against the sheets, your body falling limp and your lips heaving for breaths to force into your lungs, does logan finally blink down at you.

“you alright there, gorgeous?”

“mhm. perfect…”

this was so silly and self-indulgent

[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.

“Aw, you wanna win me over once again, gorgeous?” Logan had teased you.

You had rolled your eyes and nudged him, “It’s for a good cause.”

“You’re paying to go out on a date with your boyfriend.”

“I’m paying to fund a little cane’s hockey endeavors.”

Except you can’t do either of those things because your trusted friend turned out to not be so trustworthy.

“I’m sorry, babe! I really am,” Allie’s eyes shone with guilt. “Della had me working a table during Logan’s segment, and I lost the stupid auction paddle—”

You raised your hand up to cut her off. With a resigned sigh, you let any hard feelings flee from your system. Allie had been having a rough couple of days—with the Sean breakup, and her recent streak of suspicious disappearances that you still hadn’t confronted her about, you knew this was a genuine mistake.

“Did he at least sell for a good price?” You asked.

“$750, baby!”

The voice came from behind you, along with a strong arm draping over your shoulders. You turned your head and met your boyfriend’s handsome face. Logan wore a gleeful smile, probably elated that the fundraiser had gone so well despite the last minute arrangements.

“Wow, that’s a lot,” you noted in surprise.

Logan’s expression shifted to a subtle pout. “You don’t think I’m worth that much?”

You kissed his stubble placatingly. “I think you’re priceless, babe.”

That got him to grin again.

Tucker came up behind and clapped him on the back, “Your boy here got the second highest bid.”

You shared an unimpressed look with Allie, “Let me guess, the top bid was on—”

“Well, well, well, Mrs. Logan. You finally showed up,” Dean joined the circle with a smug smile.

“Speak of the devil,” Allie said spitefully.

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed, “You wound me, theatre kid.”

“I know you mean that as an insult, but I take it as a compliment.”

“You tell him, Al,” Beau popped up right behind Dean. He shot Allie a wink.

“How much did they get on you?” You redirected the conversation back into place.

The blond shrugged casually, peering down at his drink. “Nothing grand. A humble amount, really.”

Beau rolled his eyes and answered, “$1800.”

Your eyes widened, “You’re kidding.”

Dean’s mouth hung open, “Don’t stoop to their level, Mrs. Logan.” He pointed an accusing finger your way.

“I’m just shocked that somebody has that much money laying around,” you replied.

“We could’ve renovated the theatre department’s stage,” Allie noted bitterly.

“I could’ve gotten new car rims,” Logan added.

“Or that new gaming console,” Tucker said.

“Or my housing payment,” you continued.

“Or better toner for his hair,” Beau teased Dean.

“OKAY! WE GET IT!” Dean exclaimed, holding his hands up to stop the discussion.

Hannah and Garrett walked by, holding hands. The former shared a bright smile, “Hey, you made it!”

“How much was your boyfriend?” You asked her.

“5 bucks.”

“How.” You deadpanned. Garrett was a good looking guy, a very popular one at that. You’ve seen the herds of puck bunnies that worshipped him. A five dollar bid was ridiculous to even consider.

“Garrett stopped the auction once Wellsy placed her bid,” Tucker responded.

Smooth move, Graham.

And he knew it. Garrett had a shit-eating grin on his face like he knew he just won a million boyfriend points.

“That’s so cute,” you said before turning your head to eye your boyfriend. “Why didn’t you do that?”

The boys stifled their laughs at that.

Logan paused for a beat before he replied with: “I…wanted to make sure we raised enough money for the children.”

Smooth move, Logan.

Garrett dapped him up like his answer was ingenious. You hmphed and looked away. Logan squeezed your waist in an appeasing gesture.

“Well, when’s your date?” You asked.

Logan looked at his watch, which was on the wrist of the arm he had around you, so he charmingly pulled you closer to him to check the time. “In half an hour.”

You blinked. “What? Why so soon?”

Dean answered, “She requested it.”

“And is anyone gonna tell me who she is?”

“HIPAA,” Dean mimed zipping his lips closed.

“That’s for medical stuff, dingus,” Hannah told him.

“Is someone a sore loser?” Dean taunted.

Your gaze flew to Allie, “You placed a bid?”

“No,” she defended rather quickly. “Dean’s just…being stupid.” She muttered before rushing back into the staff kitchen.

You would’ve questioned their exchange more, but Logan’s arm returned to his side. “I should go too. You know, freshen up for my date.”

You flashed a faux smile, “Keep talking like that and you’ll have to go looking for a real date after this.”

The group dispersed—Garrett tugging Hannah along for their ‘fairly’-earned date, Dean and Tucker off to count up all the money they collected, Logan away to prepare for his mystery girl, and Beau gave your shoulder a reassuring rub and said, “If you give me $20 right now, I’ll go on a date with you” before you glared at him enough for him to bolt out.

You decided to stick around and help the group clean up the place once the festivities ended. Surely it wasn’t because you wanted to see the girl who spent hundreds of dollars to hang out with your boyfriend.

“Pop a fucking button, Logan. What is this, Sunday school?” Tucker was playing with Logan’s outfit to ensure he looked presentable for his date.

Logan’s eyebrows knitted together, “Relax, Law Roach. Are you forgetting she’s not actually my girlfriend?”

“For $750, you better start acting like she is.”

You cleared your throat loudly.

Tucker shot you an apologetic look.

“…John?”

The pair of them turned their attentions to the voice.

There stood a tall, stunning girl with beautiful deep tanned skin, hair down in luscious locs adorned in gold hair cuffs, and smooth legs peeking out from under her skirt. She looked like a model.

She looked between the two hockey players.

“You’re Amala,” Logan voiced.

She nodded with relief, “Yes. John, right?”

“We’re both John,” Tucker chimed in.

“Ohh,” Amala nodded.

“You can call me Logan,” your boyfriend said, stretching out a hand towards her.

“Logan,” she repeated the name, shaking his hand.

Tucker pushed Logan a step forward, “Have fun, you two.”

Logan looked over his shoulder to share one last look with you. He gave a reassuring smile, his eyes soft. Amala noticed and waved at you shyly. You waved back slowly.

Logan turned back to Amala, “Where would you like to go? You’re the boss.” He told her with a charming grin.

She shrugged with a smile, “Here is fine.”

“Here?” Logan raised a brow, surveying the post-function bar. “We could, though I thought of taking you out for ice cream—”

“Ice cream sounds great!”

“Yeah?” He smiled. “Perfect.”

Your eye twitched as you picked up discarded confetti off the floor.

Logan guided Amala out Malone’s with a hand hovering—not touching—over her lower back. The bell hanging over the door rang in a soft tune as they exited, marking their departure.

“Remind me again why I agreed to letting my boyfriend sell himself?” you queried as you picked up a broom.

Tucker raised a brow, “For charity?”

“Right,” you sighed.

Tucker looked around, “Hey, have you seen Dean? He was supposed to drive all this stuff back to the hockey house.”

You shook your head, “No. But he’s not the only unhelpful friend. Allie was supposed to clean up with me. She literally works here!”

“Huh.” Tucker licked his lips in thought.

He picked up a stack of boxes, “Well, I have to get these home myself. Do you need a ride?”

“I promised Della I’d clean up,” you replied.

“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

You shrugged, “I’ll be fine, Tuck. Drive safe.”

Tucker nodded and bid goodbye before leaving the diner.

By the time you finished fixing up the place, flipping chairs over tables, and mopping the floor clean, the bell chimed again.

“We’re closed,” you called out as you tied a garbage bag shut.

A pair of familiar arms wrapped around your torso from behind you. “No late night service?” Logan’s voice tickled your ear.

You stood up straight and leaned back into him before remembering you were supposed to be mad at him.

You pulled back and turned to him, “How was your date?”

Logan let out a wistful sigh, “Amazing. You know, I might need to ask her out again.”

You pinched his arm. He winced.

Logan leaned in and held your hips, “I’m kidding. You’re the only girl I want.” He murmured as he pressed a kiss against your forehead.

That soothed your jealousy a bit. “What did you two do?”

He hummed. “Took her to Spoons, got ice cream, sat at a table and talked about you, drove back—”

“Wait, wait,” you stopped him. “Talked about me?”

Logan’s lips tugged upwards, “Yeah, we talked about you. Like the whole time.”

“Why?” You were so perplexed.

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and responded, “Amala’s an exchange student. She shares a class with you. She’s been wanting to befriend you since the semester started but she didn’t know how to talk to you. So…she enlisted my help.”

You blinked a few times. “She went out with you…to ask you how she could be my friend?”

“Yeah. Sweet, right?”

“Oh my god, I feel like an asshole,” you breathed out.

Logan pulled you closer, “You’re not an asshole, baby.”

“I was cussing her out in my head for the past 2 hours!”

He chuckled, “I think that’s valid.”

“It’s not! I shouldn’t have judged so soon. Fuck, I feel so bad.” You started to spiral.

Before Logan could calm you down and reassure you, the bell rang again. You both turned to the door and saw Amala stepping in.

“Hey,” she shared a polite smile. “Logan, you left your wallet.” She handed it back to him.

“Oh, I didn’t even notice.” He took it from her hands. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

She smiled with a small nod. Her eyes flicked over to you. Amala mustered up some courage and said, “Logan said so many nice things about you. No wonder he loves you so much.”

Your guilt boiled over and settled into soft mush at that. “He’s…too kind.”

Logan rolled his eyes fondly and pulled you closer to him.

Amala smiled again then spoke, “We…we share an econ class together. The 10 am with Prof. Singh?”

You nodded, “Yeah, I’m in that class.” You didn’t want to tell her that you hadn’t noticed her before.

Amala nodded back, “Yeah…I think you’re pretty cool. And smart. Do you maybe wanna study together for the final exam this weekend?”

Your lips eased into a soft, genuine smile. “I’d love that, yeah.”

Amala’s eyes gleamed with excitement and relief. “Yeah? Great, that’s…” she cleared her throat to control herself and appear nonchalant. “Cool. Logan has my number, he can share that with you.”

“Will do,” Logan swore solemnly.

She waved goodbye and started heading towards the door, “Alright, text me! It was lovely meeting you both!”

And then she was gone.

You turned back to Logan. He had a smug, ‘I told you so’ smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes and shoved him. “Shut it.”

He buried his face in your hair, “Looks like you have an admirer.”

“Why, jealous?” You teased.

Logan’s brows lifted. “Me? Look who’s talking. You wanted to skin me alive a few hours ago.”

He wasn’t exactly wrong.

“God forbid a girl doesn’t want to see her boyfriend go out with someone else.”

Logan kissed your temple, “It was for a good cause,” he said softly.

“I know,” you squeezed his hand. You knew how much the hurricanes meant to Logan ever since he was a kid himself.

“So…” He brought you closer to him until your foreheads rested against one another. “How much for me to take you out on a date?”

Your eyes looked deep into his, “Hmm, how much have you got?”

Logan pretended to think about it. “If Amala didn’t rob me before returning my wallet, I should have 60 bucks and a punch card for free cheesy fries.”

You faked a delighted gasp, “How romantic!”

He chuckled at your comment before kissing you. His lips moved smoothly over yours, his kiss felt like a breath of relief after the long and busy evening. He held your chin in one hand, using the other to pull you even closer.

You separated for a moment to murmur, “Next year we’re sticking to signed hockey merch.”

Logan grinned, “Good luck trying to convince Dean of that.”

“He needs a girlfriend.”

He hummed, “And for $1800 and an hour, he might already have one.”

You laughed, taking his hand and tugging him out of Malone’s. “Come on, time for my own date with you.”

“You’re the boss,” he murmured with a kiss on your cheek.

And maybe it was best if you didn’t know that Logan purposely ‘forgot’ his wallet at the ice cream shop.

who remembers this trope from the movie ‘flipped’?

[puckmegirl]

hey I just wanted to say that you are one of the best john logan x reader fic writers 🤭🙂‍↔️ they’re such high quality and always make me giggle! I don’t know what crack you put in your writing but you must teach me your ways 🙏

Stoppp you’re so nice thank you so much <3

The secret ingredient is daydreaming LMAO

[puckmegirl]

playlist: john logan fics

* indicates smut — ⤷ indicates following part in series

uptown girl

jealou$y

⤷ all mine*

magic mike

friends*

back to me*

the boy is mine

[glossiercheek]

logan talks you through it. ♡

warnings: 18+ mdni, fingering

“look at you,” logan says, voice all gravel and smug above you as he leisurely drags his thick fingers in and out of you. “takin’ it so well for me—”

his voice is cracked open in admiration and wonder. and you can’t do anything but just lie there, on the bed, thighs flexed open and spread, enjoying the sweet torture logan is putting you through.

“such’a perfect girl.” he mutters with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, as if he’s enjoying the sight of you so desperate and needy. as if you’re just a thing to be played with. logan dips his head down to your cheek, the sweet kiss a stark constrast to the sucky sound your pussy makes. “you feelin’ good, princess?”

your hole clenches around his fingers at the pet name. “y-yes, i do.” you admit shakily, your hand clasping around his moving wrist to keep his arm there.

“and you’re takin’ it real pretty, baby,” logan praises, his lips pressing a sloppy kiss to your gaped open lips. you feel way too good to kiss him back. you can feel him all the way in your guts.

he passes an absentminded kiss to your sternum before dipping down to your pussy again. “so beautiful, doing s’good, baby,” a third finger prods at your entrance. “so good, you deserve another, don’t you, baby?”

your pussy milks all around logan’s three fingers, the feeling of him stretching you open on his bed making you feel like you’re descending to heaven.

“yes, yes— keep going—” you whimper out with your eyes clenched shut. out of instinct, you push one of logan’s pillows in your face to muffle your wails of moans.

logan, however, is quick to snatch the dark blue pillow out of your grip. “aww, c’mon,” his tone sounds a tad bit disappointed. “don’t hide that pretty face from me.”

your legs start to shake uncontrollably, white spots cloudinf your mind. “logan, i’m—” close. you want to say that you’re close to climaxing. but logan just smiles at your disheveled state, how you seem to enjoy the fact that he’s pleasing you. you claw at his bare shoulders.

“know you are,” he grits out, somehow still with a smile on his face. “i got you, baby,” his eyes stay transfixed on your melting gaze, the way your glassy eyes flutter shut right before his own. “show me how pretty you are when you come all over my hand.”

it doesn’t take more than five seconds until you’re a moaning mess. your back arches into a demure, small bow, your jaw slack, a sheen of sweat on your browbone. “what a good girl,” logan whispers above you as your juices coat his hand, his fingers. “looking like an angel.”

he eases his three fingers out of you, your inner walls still sticky and clammy. without logan’s fingers, you feel empty and cold, but that feeling vanishes like snow before the sun when logan sucks all three fingers clean.

“everything a man needs, baby.”

[puckmegirl]

Helloooo, love. How are you?

I just wanted to say that I love your John Logan stories. They are great!

Thanks for sharing your work with us!

~ T.

Awww thank you so much! You’re so sweet mwah mwah 🥺

[puckmegirl]

BACK TO ME (ft. John Logan)

blurb: a broken down car. boston. one phone call to your ex. a loft apartment. you did not expect this much from your weekend trip.

warnings: 18+, smut, fem!reader, exes to lovers, angst but happy ending, brief alcohol, oral (f. receiving), king of yearning john logan, celibate!logan, cumming untouched (m.)

“If your car ever needs a tune up, call me.”

The memory of Logan’s words was a harsh bite of mockery sneaking up on you in the middle of a surprise Boston rain shower, soaking you down to a lesser person.

Your thumb hovered over his contact name on your phone. The pitter patter of the rain hitting your screen like an underlining meant to emphasize his existence.

my hockey boy ❤️🏒

You hadn’t bothered to change it after the breakup. But frankly, that wasn’t entirely true.

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets. He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”

His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”

“Fenway Park.”

Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”

The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”

He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”

Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.

It had been going so well.

Until it wasn’t.

Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.

No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned, like the sun and moon trying to meet.

You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”

“I live down the block.”

You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.

You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.

When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.

Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.

The floor to ceiling windows.

Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.

You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.

Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.

An unspoken exchange lingered between you.

“How’d you know where my car was?”

Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”

You nodded, “Of course you did.”

Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.

You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”

Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”

You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”

“I told you that when you bought it.”

Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.

Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.

He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.

Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”

“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.

He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”

Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.

You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”

Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”

Your smile faded away.

He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”

Your guy.

“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”

Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.

You nodded, putting your glass down.

“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”

You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—

Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”

He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.

Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.

You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.

He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”

You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.

By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.

He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.

He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.

“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”

“No, really, you should—”

“I insist—”

“But I—”

“Babe.”

You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.

Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”

This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.

You tried.

You really did.

But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.

You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”

“You’re what’s best for me!”

“No, I’m not—”

“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”

“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”

“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”

You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.

“Since when do you like baseball?”

Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”

You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.

“You been to any of their games?”

“One or two,” he answered.

“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.

“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.

You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”

His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”

Your eyes darted to him.

He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.

“Logan,” you called softly.

“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”

Your chest tightened, “Logan.”

“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”

“Logan—”

“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”

You kissed him.

He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.

Neither of you complained.

Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.

You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.

As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”

You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.

Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.

His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.

Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”

Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.

You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.

You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.

“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.

You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.

“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.

His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.

“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”

You huffed, “Yes.”

He smirked. So smug.

“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Don’t tease.”

Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”

Fuck was he right.

He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.

“Right there,” you gasped out.

Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.

Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”

Baby.

Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.

He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.

“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”

His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.

Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.

Your eyes widened.

Logan let out a small chuckle.

“It’s been a while,” is what he said.

“Since you ate a girl out?” You queried.

His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”

The room went quiet.

The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.

Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.

“Let me take care of you,” you offered.

“It’ll take a while,” he said.

Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.

Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.

“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.

Your heart ached at the pleading tone.

“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”

That was the life you wanted with Logan.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

He did everything perfectly.

And you had let your fears ruin that.

But not anymore.

You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into yours.

“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.

Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”

Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”

And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.

logan’s spotify wrapped the year you guys broke up included party 4 u by charlie xcx and back to me by the marías iktr

[puckmegirl]

Hi 🩷

Just stopping by to say how much I love your fics. Thank you for always feeding us with such quality.

Gimmie more Logan pls & thx 🥺👉🏾👈🏾

- iceyngi

Ahhh Emmie you’re so sweet tysm!! <33

Trusttt, I shall be dropping a Logan fic tonight so stay tuned hehe

[puckmegirl]

guys am i flopping 😬

[puckmegirl]

PLEASE write John Logan w reader except he is like in LOVE WITH HER but she has no clue and he thinks she likes Garett (kinda like Hannah) except she doesn’t like Garett at all and has been crushing on Logan for a while now PLEASEE that would be so cute and angsty with a happy ending😛‼️

Heyyy I wrote it in combination with another request and I hope it turned out well?? I dunno ahh anyway it’s here

[puckmegirl]

i loveeeee you’re john logan fics so much. I would absolutely eat up maybe an angsty argument leading to smut (because why not 😛).

Tysm!! Hope I did it some justice—though the smut was quite rushed lol

Post is here

[puckmegirl]

FRIENDS (ft. John Logan)

blurb: john logan is in love with you. he thinks you’re in love with his best friend when you keep sticking to garrett graham all night. boy is he wrong. based off two separate requests.

or: you want logan. logan wants you. and garrett’s just there.

warnings: 18+, smut, fem!reader, missionary, jealous!logan, alcohol, miscommunication trope (i know i’m sorry), argument, brief angst, mutual pining

John Logan has a tick.

It’s subtle. Barely there.

He doesn’t even notice it himself.

But right now, he could feel the dull ache of his clenching jaw every time he spotted you speaking to Garrett.

The off campus house was packed; college students drinking, loud music blasting, and Logan’s annoying roommates belting out incorrect song lyrics among other slurred talk.

Garrett was standing too close to you, whispering something in your ear that made you glance around with careful eyes before leaning into him again.

What were you talking about, anyway? You and Garrett were from two different worlds. Was he your type? But no, Garrett and Hannah were—

“Careful, any more and you’ll cut glass.”

Logan’s eyes flicked away from you and towards the sound. Jules.

He raised the beer bottle to his lips, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jules raised their brows in amusement, “Really? We’re playing this game?”

Logan looked away from his sibling and back to where you were, except now, Garrett’s hand wrapped around your wrist and he led you up the stairs, disappearing out of sight.

Logan’s jaw ticked again.

Hannah stepped out of the kitchen, holding a can of berry soda in one hand, and a red solo cup—probably containing a concoction of Tucker’s design—in the other.

She blinked around, “Hey, have you seen Garrett?”

Logan placed his beer down on the closest table with a soft clink, his eyes not once wavering away from the staircase.

“I’ll go find him for you,” is all he said before pushing off the wall and making his way upstairs.

Logan’s legs carried him every step of the way, his mind too hazy from the alcohol and scattered with jumbling thoughts to trust his own judgment.

Garrett was with Hannah now. Supposedly. He wouldn’t do that with you…right? But his best friend’s words echoed in his head with mocking cruelty:

“We’re not exclusive or anything.”

Logan wouldn’t put it past Garrett to fuck around with another girl. But this is you. You wouldn’t do that.

Right?

He was too distracted to notice he reached Garrett’s bedroom until his body stopped him. He could back out. Right now. Leave whatever this was between you and Garrett up to his imagination, give you both the benefit of the doubt.

But his hand reacted faster than his brain, his grip on the door handle already turning it open before he could decide if forgiveness was a quality he deemed himself noble enough to procure.

But the sight that awaited him made him wish he was saintly enough for absolution.

You were pinned against Garrett’s dresser, in your bra and jeans, Garrett’s hand was on the dresser behind you, right by your head. You both turned your heads so quickly towards the door you might’ve gotten whiplash.

Garrett backed off immediately, clearing his throat and looking at the floor. You glanced between the two men before yanking Garrett’s dresser drawer open and pulling a shirt out to wear.

Logan seemed to snap out of his daze, moving aside from the door. His jaw clenched, “Garrett, Hannah’s looking for you downstairs.”

The hockey captain nodded, looking at you one more time, searching for something in your eyes. You shared a loaded look and only then did he leave, exchanging a hesitant glance at Logan as he walked by.

Then it was just you and Logan.

He didn’t want to look at you, didn’t want to see Garrett’s shirt on your body. The article of clothing was insulting to him.

“Logan,” you called.

His eyes finally flicked up to yours. He stepped inside and closed Garrett’s door behind him.

“Does Hannah know?” Logan asked quietly.

Your face dropped a little. “No, it’s—it’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

You bit your lip.

Hannah had left Garrett’s side to get drinks. He was left alone by the bottom of the staircase. You made your move then.

You came up to him, “Hey, Graham.”

He played uninterested, “‘Sup.”

“No need to act like that, Jules isn’t around to write a gossip piece.” You responded, sipping on your drink.

Garrett turned to you in silent panic. He looked around before moving closer so nobody would hear the conversation.

“What does that mean?”

You looked up at him, “I don’t know what you’re doing exactly, Graham. But you’ve got my best friend involved and I don’t like it.”

Garrett tilted his head to the side, “Wellsy’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

“I know she can. But I can handle you myself.”

Garrett narrowed his eyes slightly, “I’m not doing anything wrong with her.”

“I don’t know that yet. You and Hannah started dating out of nowhere. And she won’t tell me anything. That’s not like her—that’s not my best friend.” You told him.

“So what do you think this is, huh?” He asked.

“I think you’re using her to get on Jules’ account,” you answered.

Garrett let out a laugh, “Right. Like I need the publicity.”

And you hated how he wasn’t wrong. He was Garrett Graham, everybody on campus knew who he was. He didn’t need Jules to broadcast him to gain popularity.

You glanced around before leaning in to whisper, “Then tell me what’s going on.”

Garrett looked at you and he knew you wouldn’t let this go. He sighed, grabbing your hand and dragging you away from the crowd.

When you reached his bedroom, Garrett closed the door and turned so abruptly that he spilled your drink over your shirt.

You groaned, “What the fuck, Graham?!”

He sighed and looked at the material of your shirt slowly soaking up the liquid, turning see through. He cleared his throat and went to his dresser to get you something new to wear while you took your top off before it could stick to your skin.

You came between him and his dresser, “Just tell me. Don’t bullshit with me.” You demanded.

Garrett sighed, still holding onto his dresser behind you. “If you really want to know, why don’t you ask Wellsy?”

“She keeps telling me you guys ‘hit it off’ during tutoring.” You shrugged.

Garrett raised a brow, “And you don’t believe that?”

“I’ll believe that once I stop spotting you looking out for Jules every time you and Hannah stand next to each other.” You rolled your eyes at him.

Garrett could tell you really cared about Hannah. He leaned closer, “Look, I promise you? I’m not using her.”

If anything, she’s using me to get Justin, he wanted to say but didn’t.

Before you could shoot back a retort, the door creaked open and the two of you snapped towards the entrance where Logan stood, frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

Garrett stepped back, and when Logan told him Hannah was searching for him, he shared a pleading look with you as if to say ‘don’t tell Logan’.

You gave him a brief nod.

And now, back to where you left off with Logan.

“We’re not like that, I just needed to talk to him,” you explained to Logan.

“Why him?” He stepped closer. “Talk to me.”

You looked up at him. “It’s not about you, I—“

“No, I get it,” he stepped back and you hated how you needed him closer like it was oxygen.

“We can’t all be Garrett Graham, right?” He said with a self-deprecating smile.

You closed the distance, “I don’t want Garrett.”

He looked down at the shirt you were wearing, you followed his gaze. The name Graham—bold in bright capital letters on the fabric seemed to painfully taunt the two of you.

You took the offending shirt off and casted it aside.

Logan’s breath hitched, his adam’s apple bobbing in tandem with the spike in his heartbeat.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the jealousy rearing its ugly head, or the close proximity between the two of you. Whatever it was, it was enough to compel the both of you to launch forward and share a long overdue, and very messy, kiss.

There was no finesse, all tongue and teeth. Neither of you minded. It had been a long semester of friendly exchanges and desperate pining, this was an inevitable outcome both you and Logan craved.

You should’ve felt bad for fucking on Garrett’s bed, but you couldn’t bother enough to care. Nor did Logan, it seemed. He had your legs hooked over his shoulders as he pounded into you in a fervor.

“Do you love me more than him? Tell me you never loved him,” Logan demanded through gritted teeth.

It was a miracle that you could hear him at all, let alone reply, “Never. Only you, only want you, Logan. Please.”

Your needy voice did things to him. His pace quickened, “Yeah? Only I can fuck you like this, right? Nobody can make you feel this good.”

You shook your head, nails digging into the muscles on his back. “Just you, I swear.”

He buried his face in your neck, “Fuck, you’re amazing. Perfect girl for me, perfect pussy made just for me.”

Goosebumps crawled up your skin at his words, it didn’t help that he left wet kisses on your skin. “Logan, I’m close…”

He bit your earlobe, “Yeah? Cum for me, baby. I wanna hear you say my name when you finish.”

Your cheeks flushed, part of you worried about the people downstairs, the other part of you ready to throw caution to the wind.

His thumb rubbed your clit in circles, helping you get there. Your eyes screwed shut and you screamed his name when the waves of pleasure took over your body.

Just the sight of you losing yourself made him finish. He grunted and held himself up over you, being mindful not to crush you with his body weight.

He brushed away the wet strands of hair that stuck to your forehead, wanting to look at your face. He admired you silently before kissing you deeply, much gentler than before. Your fingers tugged on the little hairs on the nape of his neck.

“Garrett’s gonna kill me,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, “He’ll live.”

He smiled and pecked your lips once more before getting off you, “Come on, let me get you one of my shirts to wear.”

alr lil bros this was so rushed gah whatever hate it