c/w ᝰ.ᐟ unprotected p in v, teasing, pet names (sweetheart, sunshine, pretty, baby + no y/n), oral (f. receiving), fingering, mutual pining, cream pie + one very down bad handyman ⋆✴︎.ᐟ
Knock. Knock.
“Coming!”
Your voice carries through the apartment over the steady trickle of water somewhere inside. Rain boots squeak across the soaked hardwood as you hurry toward the front door, splashing through a puddle before yanking it open.
The second you see Logan standing in the hallway, relief crashes into you so hard you don’t even think before reaching for him. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him over the threshold while you kick the door shut behind him with your boot.
“Oh, thank god.” You let out a breathy laugh, already pulling him farther inside before he has the chance to say hello. “Thank you so much for coming over. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”
Logan barely manages two steps before he stops. “…Jesus.”
His eyes move slowly around the apartment, taking everything in without saying anything. Every towel you own has been thrown across the floor in an obvious attempt to stop the water that has already escaped the laundry room and spread halfway through the kitchen.
Damp clothes hang from cabinet handles, dining chairs, doorknobs, and the oven handle, dripping steadily into baking sheets and mismatched bowls you’d shoved underneath them to catch the water.
A pastel floral duvet is draped across the backs of two barstools, three bras spin lazily from the ceiling fan, and a string bikini is looped around the refrigerator handle.
The whole apartment smells like fresh laundry, warm vanilla, and clean cotton lingering in the air beneath the faint scent of standing water. It’s complete chaos.
“I’ve been trying,” you blurt out before he can say anything else, throwing both hands toward the disaster surrounding the two of you. “I Googled it.”
“I can tell.”
“I watched, like…” You squint toward the ceiling, trying to remember. “…Seven videos?” He nods once. “And every single one told me to do something different.”
“I believe that.”
“So then I panicked.”
His eyes drift back toward the puddles stretching across your floor before settling on you again. “…Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I can see that.”
“Come here.” You wave him toward the laundry room. “It’s worse over here.”
His head dips as a soft laugh escapes through his nose, though it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
Logan follows without a word, stepping carefully around a towel as his boots splash through the thin layer of water covering the floor.
You’ve somehow managed to get yourself almost as wet as the apartment. Damp strands of hair cling to your forehead while everything else has been shoved impatiently behind your ears, your fitted white tank hugging your frame.
That tiny jean skirt kisses your upper thighs, creeping higher every time you step over another puddle, bright yellow rain boots squeaking against the tile as you stop beside the open washing machine and look back at him with the most hopeful expression you can manage.
“There she is,” you whisper sheepishly.
Logan steps up beside you and looks into the drum. The washer isn’t full of clothes anymore because you already hauled every last piece out by hand. It’s still nearly full of cloudy blue water, soap suds floating across the top thick enough that he can’t even see the bottom.
“It won’t drain,” you explain, chewing lightly on your bottom lip.
“Alright.” He reaches for the cuffs of his flannel, rolling one sleeve up before doing the other, exposing his forearms. By the time he finishes, he can already feel your eyes on him.
Your lips part ever so slightly, your attention catching on his hands before drifting farther up his forearms, getting completely lost somewhere between the strength in his hands and the quiet concentration written across his face when he reaches in to check the depth. The water skims his flannel and it’s clear—the shirt has to go.
“This okay?” he asks, already shrugging off one shoulder. Your mouth goes a little dry, lips still parted, lashes fluttering when he asks you again. “Sweetheart?”
The pet name does nothing for your sanity, your cheeks blooming with warmth as you try to answer a question you never heard. “Hmm?”
“My shirt? Can I take it off?” he asks through a chuckle.
“Of course,” you smile. “Take anything off.”
A quiet snort slips out before he can stop it as he strips the plaid fabric off his body, showing off the white cutoff t-shirt underneath. He wraps the bigger shirt around his waist, cinching it with a knot before adjusting the bandana on his head.
“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, sunshine.”
His bandana keeps most of his hair pushed back, though a few stubborn pieces still fall forward across his forehead as he squints down into the machine. The cutoff shirt stretches tightly across his shoulders every time he shifts his weight, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath sun-tanned skin as he twists the center agitator back and forth.
“…C’mon,” he grunts under his breath. You watch his jaw tighten as he gives it one more firm pull.
The agitator slides free. Logan takes a careful step backward, lifting the surprisingly heavy piece out of the washer with both hands. The movement makes the muscles in his forearms tighten beneath his skin, veins standing out as he adjusts his grip to keep it from slipping.
His worn blue jeans are tucked into work boots, and for a second you’re so distracted watching him that you almost forget he’s waiting for an answer.
“You got somewhere I can set this?”
“Oh!” You blink hard, snapping back to reality. “Hang on.”
You spin toward the hallway a little too quickly, and the rain boot hits another patch of soapy water. Both feet slide out just enough to send your arms pinwheeling through the air.
“…Oh, shit,” Logan huffs, his head snapping up instinctively as you manage to catch yourself, bent over at the waist. Nothing but ass and purple lace greeting him as you struggle to find your footing.
He tears his eyes away almost immediately, clearing his throat as heat creeps into his cheeks. His shoulders shake with a quiet laugh he can’t quite hold back, his head tipping to the side as the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen somehow managed to look like she’d stepped onto the ice with her skate guards still on.
“I meant to do that,” you smile over your shoulder, scurrying into the bathroom before returning a few seconds later with a thick striped beach towel bundled in your arms.
Logan blows out a breath as he watches you move, every inch of your apartment a hazard for a slip and fall. He smiles as you lay the towel on the floor, glancing up at him safe and sound.
“Perfect,” he hums, offering you a hand, guiding you closer.
The two of you lean over the washer together, peering into the cloudy blue water that hasn’t budged an inch. Logan studies the drum a moment before nodding once.
“I think your drain’s clogged,” he mumbles, looking to his left where you stand beside him, but you’re bent over now. The white tank top clinging to your curves is translucent—the purple lace bra underneath cups your breasts so perfectly he can’t help but sigh, the low scoop and soft swell of your breasts leaving him wondering what words left his mouth last and where he was goin’ with any of this.
His heavy eyes lift and you quirk an eyebrow teasingly, your glossed lips drawn to the side.
“Somethin’,” he huffs, and you nod. “I—I think things.” Words leave his lips, but they’re not the ones he’s reaching for. Your giggle fills the little laundry room, his laugh joining it. “Sorry—”
“Don’t be,” you smile, stepping a little closer, watching the breath catch in his chest.
“I think your drain’s clogged,” he says, getting his feet under himself again. Logan reaches both hands back into the drum, feeling carefully beneath the cloudy water.
His brow furrows a little deeper, the tip of his tongue slipping out to rest lightly against his upper lip while he concentrates, fingertips searching along the bottom where he can’t see.
“Hang on,” he mutters. “I think…” He pinches onto something beneath the water, his expression shifting with recognition. “I think I got something.”
His fingers tighten around whatever he’d managed to catch beneath the hazy water before giving it the gentlest tug.
“Shit…”
“What?” you ask, your eyes widening immediately as you peer over the edge.
“I think it’s gonna rip.”
Your nose scrunches and you laugh softly. “It’s okay.”
“You sure?” he asks, looking back at you. “I don’t wanna wreck your stuff, sweetheart.”
“If it fixes my washer, it fixes my washer,” you say simply, resting your hands on your hips, and he chuckles.
Logan smiles as he gives the fabric another gentle tug, every muscle through his forearms tightening. His biceps flex with the effort, boots squeaking faintly against the damp tile as he plants himself a little wider.
“Well…” he murmurs, glancing over at you with the smallest smile. “If I break it…” Another careful pull. “…I’m replacin’ it.”
A laugh bubbles out of you almost immediately. “Logan, you’re not replacing anything.”
“We’ll negotiate later,” Logan says, his brown eyes flicking toward yours for just a second before he braces himself for another pull.
You let out a breathy little laugh, shaking your head as you fold your hands behind your back. “There is no negotiation.”
“We’ll see,” he hums, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back into the washer.
A strip of black lace slips through the cloudy blue water first, dripping between his fingers before hanging there in complete silence.
Water drips steadily from the towels hanging around the apartment while neither of you says a single word. His eyes drop to the lace dangling from his hand before very, very slowly lifting toward you. Yours are already on him. “…Oh.”
He pulls again, and this time pale blue satin slides free beneath the black lace, a delicate strap catching somewhere inside the drain before cherry-red mesh follows behind it, tiny bows glistening with soapy water as they break the surface.
Your lips part and Logan’s lashes flutter. “I—Umm… I don’t…” He clears his throat when his voice cracks around the words. A horrified giggle escapes you before you can stop it.
“Oh my gosh.” You press both hands over your mouth, already feeling your face warming from your neck all the way to the apples of your cheeks while Logan looks very deliberately back into the washing machine, trying to focus on literally anything except the fact that he’s somehow standing in your laundry room holding what is very obviously the prettiest collection of panties he’s ever encountered.
“I don’t think I’m done,” he admits after another second.
“You’re kidding,” you sigh.
Bubblegum pink lace slips free this time. Then delicate little white florals. Another gentle pull brings soft lavender mesh knotted through the first three, followed by a ribbon of satin that disappears beneath the growing bundle collecting in his hand.
Somewhere deep inside the drain they’ve managed to twist themselves together into one impossible knot, every tiny strap looping through another until what should’ve been one pair becomes two…then four…then six, the growing chain spilling farther and farther across the striped beach towel you spread on the floor only minutes earlier until you’re in the double digits.
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, the corners of his mouth trembling as he tries not to smile.
“I am so embarrassed—”
“I’m impressed,” he mumbles.
“Stop,” you giggle, holding out a hand to block his handsome face when he catches you peering through your fingers.
“This is quite the collection,” he teases, hissing under his breath in faux pain when you shove at his shoulder.
You cross your arms over your chest, turning away slightly, rubber boots squeaking against the tile when a little whistle breezes past his lips. The culprit of it all, the white lace t-string that barely qualifies as underwear in the first place, threads through his thick, rough fingers. The final pair of panties in the makeshift line.
He looks down at you, the dimple in his cheek deepening, waiting to catch your eye again.
“C’mon, pretty. Don’t be like that,” he chuckles as he drops the panty chain to the floor in a heap, reaching for you as he straightens, his hand settling against your hip to turn you toward him.
Your heart beats a little faster when his brown eyes rest on your lips, the tension in his shoulders unwinding when your mouth tips into a smile.
“I can’t believe there were that many,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” he sighs, glancing at the pile before returning his attention to you. “How do you think I feel? I told you I was replacing them.”
“Shut up,” you chuckle, feeling your stomach flutter as he wets his lip, his thumb rubbing against the wet cotton at your hip—snap!
The sudsy water gurgles, bubbles popping from the middle of the drum, as the blue soapy water twirls down the drain like a cyclone until all that’s left is a clean slate.
Your lashes lift and your gaze rests on his. A part of you knows you should be relieved that the water is gone. A smaller, far less practical part of you has been hoping the machine might remain stubborn for an extra hour if it meant Logan had to stay.
“Well, look at that.” He smiles, looking down at the drum.
“You’re amazing.” You squeal, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips pressing against his cheek before you draw away.
For one long second, Logan forgets how to act.
His eyes stay on yours, searching your face like he’s making sure you really meant to do that, the warmth of your lips still lingering against his cheek.
His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip before he lets out a slow breath through his nose, one hand tightening where it rests against your waist.
“Well,” he murmurs, his voice lower than it had been a second ago.
“What?” you ask, the smile playing in your voice.
“I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”
Your hands smooth down his chest, his hand falling away from your hips reluctantly. He looks away under the excuse of checking the washer again, dragging one hand along the back of his neck.
He’d spent plenty of time fixing things for people—broken garbage disposals, leaky faucets, doors that wouldn’t quite shut, washing machines that refused to drain just like this one.
None of those jobs had ever left him standing in a tiny laundry room with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met smiling up at him like that. For the first time, he finds himself wishing something else around the apartment were broken—not because he wants another repair, but because he isn’t anywhere near ready to leave.
“I, uh—think we’re golden,” he says, reaching down for the agitator and resting the final piece of the puzzle back in before clicking it in place like it’s nothing.
“That’s it?” you ask, glancing between him and the washer. “You’re completely finished?”
“Unless you’ve got something else hidin’ somewhere that needs me,” he answers with a chuckle, hoping there’s something around here that will give him a little more time with you and another kiss on the cheek at the very least.
You glance around the apartment, taking in the soaked towels, the mixing bowls scattered beneath dripping clothes, and the duvet still draped across two barstools in the kitchen.
There is more than enough cleanup left to keep you busy for the rest of the day, but none of it technically requires a broad-shouldered hockey player you’ve had a crush on all semester.
Your lips press together in a slight pout before you can stop them, your boot digging lightly against the wet floor as you look back into the empty drum.
Logan notices immediately. “What’s that face for?” he asks, brushing the water off his rough hands on his jeans.
“What face?” you ask, peering at him out of the corner of your eye.
Logan catches you smiling before you realize you’re doing it. “That one.” He nods toward you, amusement pulling at his mouth. “You looked happier when your washer was broken, sunshine.”
“Did I?”
“You absolutely did.”
You bite your cheek as he lowers the lid of the washer, starting an empty load just to test it out. “So did you,” you mumble, calling his bluff, and his lips fall open like that can’t be so—like you’re reading him all wrong—but the chuckle gives him away.
“You think so?” Logan asks quietly. “…Guess I wasn’t hidin’ it very well.”
“M’happy it’s fixed,” you hum. “Obviously. I just thought it might take a little longer.”
Logan rests one hip against the washer, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he studies you. “You wanted it to take longer?”
“Maybe,” you smile.
“Huh,” he huffs, one hand lifting from his side to rest on your cheek, making your pulse jump as the other slides around your waist again.
Logan brushes his thumb across your cheek, his palm settling carefully against the side of your face when you lean into the touch.
“You know,” he murmurs, “it didn’t take shit breakin’ for you to call me over.”
“No?” you ask, and his arm tightens around your waist, guiding you closer. You smile bashfully, hands wrapping around his waist as well, chest pressing against his until your soaked breasts push into his broad chest.
“Been waitin’ for a while,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow pass over your skin. “Just needed you to give me a reason.”
“Yeah?”
His eyes hold yours as the corner of his mouth lifts. “‘Course.”
The sincerity in his voice steals whatever response you were about to give him. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath the thin fabric as you tilt your chin up toward his.
“Are you going to kiss me, or did I flood my apartment for nothing?” you whisper, your lips so close to his that all you can feel is the breath of his chuckle.
“You didn’t flood your apartment for this,” he mumbles, the warmth of his words brushing over your lips as he teases you.
“You know…” he murmurs, pulling back just enough for you to chase his lips, “…you’ve been lookin’ at me all afternoon.”
“So’ve you.”
“…Yeah.” The admission comes so easily it makes your heart stumble. “I’ve been tryin’ real hard to be a gentleman.” He lets out a quiet exhale through his nose, like there wasn’t much point pretending anymore. “Been havin’ a hard time lookin’ anywhere else.”
Your mouth parts on a soft breath, and Logan’s body reacts to it instantly. His own lips part, catching your bottom lip in a gentle tug, humming out a deep sound before he murmurs, “I think you’re makin’ it pretty difficult.”
His forehead falls to yours for the briefest second, both of you smiling into the inch of space between your mouths. His thumb strokes once along your jaw before his lips press together, like he’s trying to convince himself to keep doing the gentleman thing he’d been talking about thirty seconds ago.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs.
Logan’s big arms wrap around you in one smooth motion as he lifts you clean off your feet. Your legs hook around his waist as his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath as you kiss him for the very first time.
He turns and presses your back to the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it.
He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, nails sliding in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a deep groan from his lips.
You giggle breathlessly, and he buries his face in your neck, his fingers flexing against your skin as he physically holds himself back. His smile pulls along your skin, the weight of his body still holding you where he wants you, and even though he’s not kissing you for the moment, you can tell that it’s killing him.
“Sweetheart,” he mutters, warm at your neck, his teeth sliding against your skin.
“John?” you answer, the sound of his first name leaving your lips doing nothing for his restraint. He glances toward the ceiling for a second before looking back at you, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a quiet sigh.
“Baby,” he mutters against your neck, his voice rough enough to send a shiver through you. His eyes squeeze shut for a second before he tips his forehead to yours with a quiet laugh. “I’m bein’ so damn good right now.”
He sets you to your feet, your body still pinned to the wall, his rough hand cupping your cheek as the other holds you close, kissing you again.
“You don’t have to be,” you whisper, and his jaw tightens, his deep, dark eyes falling to your lips again.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, smiling when the corner of your lips curls. “You are trouble, aren’t you?”
You look back at him through your lashes, shaking your head no, but everything in your body language screams yes as he stares back at you, his lips still tingling.
“Can I ask you something?” he whispers.
“Mhmm,” you hum.
“Would you let me take you out sometime?”
You bite your lip, stifling the giggle bubbling on your tongue because the answer had been sitting on the tip of it before he’d even finished asking.
“I’d really like that,” you whisper.
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you answer.
“You can keep those boots on,” he teases as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, and it’s clear that the last thing he wants to do is wait until then.
“I have something a little cuter I can wear,” you whisper.
Logan’s eyes drift over your face before the corner of his mouth lifts again.
“Somehow…” he murmurs, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip, “…I don’t think that’s possible,” he sighs, stealing your breath when he steps back. “Pick you up around six?”
“Six sounds perfect.” You smile, fixing your skirt where it’s ridden up your thighs a little, feeling your body throb from your head to your toes.
Logan reaches for his toolbox, then the doorknob, his fingers wrapping around the brass handle before he slowly pulls it open.
He steps out before turning back toward you.
“Tomorrow.” You smile, your head resting against the doorframe—a floaty sensation coursing through your veins, the desperate need to kiss him again leaving your body trembling with adrenaline.
“Tomorrow.”
For one impossibly long second, it feels like you’re both waiting for the other person to break. Instead, Logan smiles. He gives one small nod before finally forcing himself to turn away, the old toolbox swinging lightly beside his leg as he starts down the breezeway.
You stand in the doorway long after he should’ve disappeared from sight, one hand still resting against the edge of the open door as your eyes follow him farther and farther away.
The afternoon sun catches the back of his shoulders, flannel tied around his waist shifting against his jeans. He looks over one shoulder, catching you still standing there watching him.
You lift your hand, waving with the tips of your fingers, feeling your heart race in your chest before he rounds the corner and falls out of sight.
You let out the tiniest sigh before easing the front door shut, the latch clicking softly behind you. Your back settles against the cool wood of the door, your eyes drifting shut as the biggest smile you’ve worn in weeks spreads across your face all over again.
Your shoulders slide another inch down the door until your rain boots squeak against the hardwood beneath you.
“Tomorrow,” you repeat, nodding to absolutely no one. “Not today. Tomorrow.” You press your lips together, trying very hard to look serious despite the fact that nobody is there to witness it.
“Which means…” You point one finger toward yourself in mock warning. “…You are not going to chase after him.” You nod solemnly. “You are a grown woman. You are capable of waiting…” Your eyes drift toward the front door. “…Twenty-four hours.” You pause. “…More or less.”
The washing machine sloshes cheerfully behind you as your head tips back against the door with another little groan. “Oh, he’s so handsome though,” you pout, your lips still tingling, the smell of his cologne clinging to the cotton of your tank top.
You push yourself away from the door and wander aimlessly toward the kitchen, your fingertips trailing across the backs of dining chairs draped in damp clothes.
“You’re not texting him.” You tap your cellphone as you pass it. “You’re not calling him. You’re not coming up with some household emergency because—because you can’t…”
“And besides…” Your eyes flick toward the laundry room where the machine continues humming along perfectly. “He fixed the only one you’ve got.”
A smile slips across your face before you can stop it. “He asked me on a date.” You gossip the words into the nothingness of your kitchen, your yellow puddle boots squeaking when you twirl. “He asked me.”
You stand there for a beat, the quiet hum of the washing machine filling the apartment before you let out one long sigh through your nose. “…Alright.” Reality.
The flood might be over, but your apartment still looks like a tornado spun through for fun. Towels lie scattered across the hardwood, damp clothes hang from cabinet handles and dining chairs, and somewhere beneath the floral duvet draped over your barstools is probably the mixing bowl you’d spent half an hour using to bail water out by hand.
The laundry basket waits against the wall exactly where you’d abandoned it earlier. You cross your arms over your body, peeling off the white tank top first, flicking it into the basket, shimmying the denim skirt down around your hips before lofting it into the heap as well.
You gather a handful of drip-dried clothing strewn across your place, cheeks warming all over again as flashes of the last hour replay in your mind.
The crease between his brows while he concentrated. The way he’d completely forgotten how words worked the second he’d looked over and caught sight of you. “…Poor guy.” The smile refuses to leave your face.
One by one, you begin dropping everything into the hamper, wandering back toward the scene of the crime as the water from the test-run starts to drain, the metal drum turning like a top for the final spin.
Something metallic rattles softly on the washer and your brows knit together, eyes snapping toward the appliance.
A wrench?
It sits on top of the metal lid, bouncing with the last lazy turn of the drum before settling perfectly still in the middle of the washer.
A laugh escapes before you can stop it.
“John Logan…”
He hadn’t touched a wrench all afternoon. Not once. You’d watched every second of it. He’d rolled up his sleeves, reached into the washer with those big hands of his, hauled the agitator out without so much as looking for a tool, and somehow fixed the entire thing anyway.
The wrench wasn’t forgotten… It was an excuse.
You lift it into your hand, turning it over once between your fingers as your smile grows impossibly wider.
Knock. Knock.
Your heart stumbles, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. You round the corner, not even glancing toward the peephole before you throw the door open.
You lean into the doorframe, smiling as the wrench hangs lazily from your fingers, giggling breathily as your heart pounds.
His eyes find yours first, his lips parting like every word he’d prepared has disappeared into thin air when he sees you in those little puddle boots and the panty set he’d spent the last few minutes fantasizing about, but it’s so, so much better.
Logan simply stares. Every coherent thought leaves him as his little plan unfolds into something more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
The toolbox hanging from his hand suddenly feels twenty pounds heavier as his eyes fall down your body, lingering for a moment before lifting back to yours. “I—I forgot somethin’,” he manages, though it comes out rougher than he’d intended.
“Did you?”
You look down at the wrench resting in your hand before lifting it between the two of you. His eyes flick to it for all of half a second before they wander right back to your face.
He steps forward as your fingers fist in the front of his cutoff, bunching the soft cotton beneath your hand as you give him one determined tug over the threshold, and his lips find yours first.
The toolbox clatters to the floor, the front door slamming shut as every ounce of restraint he’d pretended to have around you disappears the second your lips meet.
Logan lets out one low sound against your mouth, lifting you off your feet just as effortlessly as he had before. The urgency makes your heart race, the wrench slipping harmlessly from your hand into the hamper of clothes as he presses deeper into your place, work boots pounding over the hardwood, and your fingers fist the hair at the nape of his neck.
“In there,” you mumble through a smile into your kiss, and he chuckles hungrily, his hold on you tightening.
He kicks off his boots at the threshold of your bedroom without missing a beat, setting you down just to walk you back to the mattress, his hands coming up to comb the bandana out of his hair as your fingers greedily tear at the knotted flannel around his waist.
Logan strips off his shirt as you toss his flannel aside, smiling against your lips as your fingers unfasten the hardware of his blue jeans, his voice deep and warm when he whispers, “You sure?”
“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your hands reaching behind your back to unfasten your bra as his jeans fall in a heap at his feet.
“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, dipping down to get closer as his big, rough palms reach up, cupping your breasts in his hands, his lips sucking down on your neck. Your fingers wrap around the band of his boxers, drawing the material lower, shoving them down his thighs.
Logan kisses up your neck, lips brushing by your ear as he sighs deeply. His fingers hook around the panties on your hips—the last piece of clothing separating you from him.
“I’m still trying to be good,” he whispers against your ear, his voice honeyed and deep. You can hear the smile in his voice as he snaps the fabric against your skin, making you suck in a breath.
Your hand drifts between you, the tip of his thick cock already pressed against your thigh. He groans beside your ear when your fingernails trace softly from the base of his dick, shuddering out a breath as you work your way slowly to the tip, goosebumps spreading across his tanned skin.
“Are you?” you ask teasingly, sucking in a breath when he lifts you off your feet, taking you down to the mattress, pinning you under his weight as he steals the smile off your lips.
His tongue slides between your lips, rolling slowly with yours as your fingers thread through his hair, his hips rocking into you with a practiced sway, rutting against your clothed clit, making your thighs fall open.
“Been waitin’ for this forever,” he mutters into the kiss, his forehead dropping against yours when he breaks the kiss, looking at the space between you as his dick grinds over the purple lace between your thighs.
“Please,” you whisper, and his eyes lift to yours.
“Teasin’ me all afternoon?” he chuckles, pulling back, his body sliding lower on the mattress. “Think you don’t deserve a little teasing too?” His lips travel over your chest and stomach, pressing softly below your navel as his thumb traces over the lace panties along your slit.
He works lower, lips teasing the insides of your thighs as he kisses down your legs, stripping off your boots before he lets them fall to your bedroom floor. His biceps and shoulder muscles swell as he dips down again, the stubble on his jaw grazing your soft skin.
“Logan,” you pout, and he chuckles between your thighs, the warmth of his laugh making your legs draw in, but he spreads them apart again, those rough hands you couldn’t keep your eyes off earlier pressing your thighs into the mattress.
“Tell me you didn’t wear that little skirt just to torment me?” he hums, his mouth dipping down so his teeth can catch along the lace, dragging it down your thighs. “A wet, white tank top… How?” he asks as he tugs the lace the rest of the way down your legs before he bunches it up in his fist, tossing it to the side. “How was I not supposed to end up right… fucking… here…?” he asks, his breath blowing warm against your clit.
“I’m gonna take good care of you,” he murmurs, the words making your thighs tremble. Your hips lift off the mattress when his tongue drags up your center, a moan falling from your lips and filling your bedroom as his groan vibrates between your thighs at the taste.
Logan smiles, pressing your legs wider into the mattress, kissing your clit and making your back arch off the mattress as your hands fly to his hair, holding him close.
His rough fingers trace up your legs as his tongue circles your puffy clit, sucking against it as two thick fingers shove through your entrance.
Your eyes roll back in your head as he works his fingers in and out, curving them to hit that spot that has your thighs shaking with every push of his hand and flick of his tongue.
“C’mon, baby,” he mumbles into your pussy, adding a third finger, stretching you out as he feels you tightening around his digits, humming against your clit as he tastes your sweetness on his tongue and you break, fluttering around his fingers as his name leaves your lips in a breathy cry.
He watches you from between your thighs, working you through each wave of your orgasm until you’re gasping and whimpering in overstimulation, your hands tangling in his hair to drag him up to your lips.
“Proud of you,” he mumbles between kisses as you try desperately to catch your breath, the two of you smiling into your kiss when he rubs the thick head of his cock between your thighs, catching the wet mess he’d left pooling between your legs.
“Fuck, you drive me insane,” you whisper, feeling him rub his tip against your entrance.
“Yeah?” he asks, pressing just enough for your lips to fall open. His mouth curls against yours, feeling how desperate you are. “How was it?”
“So fucking good,” you whisper as your hands wrap around his body, nails sliding down his strong back.
“What about this?” he asks, feeling your hips lift off the mattress, making him sink deeper into your pussy as you grind up to fuck yourself on the first few inches.
“Keep teasing me, Logan. See what happens,” you smile, and he laughs.
“Still picking you up at six tomorrow,” he manages to push out, the muscle in his stomach tightening with how good you feel around him.
“Can’t wait,” you breathe, your eyes flicking up to him.
“I’ll drop you off and you can drag me back inside and we can do this shit again, huh?” he asks as you reach up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down to your lips. You catch Logan’s deep moan as he presses your hips down into the mattress, pushing in, stretching you wide.
“Yes, s-shit,” the words whimper past your lips as you cradle his sharp jaw in your hand, peering down to watch his hips draw back, the length of his cock pulling back slowly just to drive back in.
“Feels so good,” he groans against your mouth, pushing in and out. “Taking me so good,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours to watch as his toned hips strike your skin again and again.
“Fuck, baby. That’s it,” he praises as you lift your legs, hands squeezing the back of your thighs, a loud moan falling from your mouth as his pace quickens, thrusting harder, in and out.
He leans into you a little, the position letting him fuck into you impossibly deep, his eyes rolling back into his head as your bottom lip slips between your teeth, your hands twisting the sheets below.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, and he nods like he knows what you need, changing the angle just enough to fuck into you as his fingers rub and circle your clit.
“Fuck, John,” you whine, your back arching off the mattress as he rocks into you further, swirling his fingers over your clit when his lips find yours.
“Cum for me, baby,” he breathes. “Cum on my cock—”
Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into you as your body falls apart around him, your pussy squeezing him so tight he buries himself in your neck, grinding his teeth with the effort, moaning against your skin as he fills you with his climax too, his hips stuttering as your body softens around him.
“Fuck, baby,” he sighs into the crook of your neck as you giggle blissfully, your fingers slipping and threading into his hair. He stays like that for a moment, breathing and nuzzling into your neck, taking in the scent of your sweet perfume as he presses gentle kisses up to your ear. “I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”
Alright chat we’re approaching 1k followers (insane btw I love y’all mwah xx) so I need ideas. What should I do to celebrate? A John Logan series? Ask game? Idk idk leave your suggestions in the comments or ask inbox
the way I think boyfriend!logan would be so quietly watchful with you!!! Always looking at you to see your reactions to everything from something funny a friend says to your first sip of coffee. This mans drinks in your every facial expression and files it away as he compiles more and more insight that he uses to be the best boyfriend!!! like knowing that you always put three sugars in your coffee, or that you get really shy when someone compliments you and try to deflect but also that it secretly makes you giddy, or how when you’re tired you’ll start scratching your nose and slowly blink at the textbook in front of you. He knows it all and uses it to better love you!!! This man is a yearner even when he has you!!
His love language is observing! I’ll die on this hill. John “you seriously never noticed her?” Logan mhm mhm mhm
He pays attention to everything you do. Not in a surveillant spirit way, but in an eager to learn more about you way. He just admires you from afar, noticing little things that make him fall more and more in love with you.
He knows your food order, your little tells when you’re lying, can read any micro facial expression. Always the first to notice when something is off. “Everything okay, baby?”
Sometimes it’s scary how he can see right through you, but for the most part, it’s so intimate yet comforting to know that he sees you—really sees you.
Logan loves all of you, the loud bits and the quiet ones.
omgggg i fear i may never get over john logan but him interacting with reader's family like maybe she has younger siblings, how he proposes, when he says i love you
oooh he makes me SICK (in the best possible way)
Omg John Logan would win over your family sooo easily, without even doing anything extra.
Your younger siblings? They love him. They call him Logey and he always plays with them no matter what obscure game they just invented with completely unfair rules. He, of course, lets them win every single round.
Your parents? Adore him. He’s practically adopted. He’s wordlessly dragged along to fix any household machinery, from dishwaters to cars. He even has assigned duties when it’s dinner time—in charge of setting the table with silverware and putting down coasters.
You already know he asked for your parents’ blessing before he proposes. He’s such a gentleman. And when you two come home after the engagement, he already has the celebration party planned and ready so your family is there to congratulate you both.
Part 2 of uptown girll pls where she doesn't even realise she's spoiling him and maybe logan introducing her to the guys and they r shocked she isn't rude and spoiled cs she's rich
hii love thanks for the req, i just posted it here
blurb: pt. 2 to uptown girl. john logan did not anticipate the spoiling he’d receive when he started dating a rich girl and the boys are suspicious about it
warnings: fluff, slightly ditzy rich girl!reader, featuring the hockey bros, crack, wholesome!!!
note: trying out a slightly diff layout so nervy
It only took a week into dating for Logan to learn that gift giving was your love language.
The only problem was that Logan wasn’t so fluent in this language in the same way that you so obviously were, despite being together for a month now.
“Guess who?”
Logan did not need to guess at all. Nobody else would come up to him and cover his eyes from behind and chirp that question in such a sweet tone.
He feigned a defeated sigh, “Awh man, I’m beat. I wonder who it is that smells so nice.”
A melodic giggle and then the hands were gone. Logan’s eyes fluttered open and there you were standing before him, eclipsed perfectly between him and the sun behind you, shining a halo around your head.
He smiled instinctively. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“You think I smell nice?”
Logan nodded, taking your hand and pressing a kiss against your palm.
“You smell amazing. Always do.”
You beamed. “Thanks, Johnny.”
You shifted shyly under his praise, the gift bag slung on your arm crinkled against your leg. The sound caught Logan’s attention, his eyes flicked over and his expression sobered.
“Baby.”
“What?” You asked innocently.
He gave you a knowing look.
“It’s not that expensive this time!”
Logan sighed, “Princess.”
“I promise!”
“You said that last time.”
“And I wasn’t lying!”
“You got me a car engine that was used in one of the Fast and Furious movies.”
“But—”
“From the set in Abu Dhabi.”
You looked at your feet, “It was imported…”
Logan shook his head and pulled you closer. “You know I don’t need expensive gifts every week, gorgeous. I know it’s how you show love, but I don’t want you spending money on me.”
“But I pinky promise this one isn’t as bad,” you held out your little finger to him.
He couldn’t deny you when you looked so adorable. He wrapped his pinky finger around yours begrudgingly.
“Alright, show it to me, princess.”
And the smile you gave him—followed by that joyful “Yay!!” and enthusiastic clap—made him forget all about the lecture he just gave you.
+
At the off campus house, Dean, Tucker, and Logan all sat on the living room couch, watching an action movie Dean and Tucker fought over. But the latter was much more interested in pestering Logan with questions about his recent escapades.
“So who is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Logan replied, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“You’ve gotta be seeing someone, dude. You’ve been disappearing like crazy.” Tucker insisted.
“You wouldn’t know her,” Logan responded.
“Kendall Klein?” He tried.
“Nope.”
“Grace Ivers?”
“Uh uh.”
“Refill duty,” Dean tossed the empty popcorn bowl to Logan, who sighed in exasperation but stood up nonetheless.
When he walked in front of the couch, Dean suddenly raised his hand up.
“Park it.”
Logan halted in his tracks.
Dean spun his finger in the air, “Reverse.”
Logan complied and stood before him.
Dean lasered in on him with that perceptive gaze that meant he knew something and he was judging. Hard.
“Isabel Marant?”
Logan’s brows knitted together, “That’s not my girlfriend’s name either.”
“Ha! So there is a girlfriend,” Tucker smiled victoriously. “Damn, I didn’t think it was that serious.”
Dean waved his hands for Tucker to cut it. “Not the point!” Then he pointed at Logan’s feet. “Those shoes.”
Logan peered down and kicked his foot up slightly. “You like ‘em? They’re new.”
“Yeah, and they’re also $400.” Dean said.
Logan’s eyes widened. So you lied, sneaky—
“You don’t say,” he commented casually.
Dean raised a brow. “You’re telling me you spent $400 on sneakers?”
“Felt like treating myself.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
Dean stared at him before standing up to his full height. “Logan, don’t do it.”
Logan’s furrowed in confusion, “Don’t do what?”
“A rich girl. You’re dating a rich girl.”
Wow, he did not think Dean out of all people would be the first to put it together.
“Wait, you’re dating a rich girl?” Tucker asked, rising up from the couch as well.
Logan looked between them, suddenly feeling like he was put in the spotlight. “I—no. She’s not that rich—”
“Is that how you got that Fast and Furious collector’s item?” Tucker questioned.
“I still need to figure out if UPS can ship that back to the UAE—”
“YOU GUYS ARE SIDE TRACKING!” Dean yelled.
Logan blinked in surprise.
“Logan, you don’t understand.” Dean put his hands together in a praying motion. “Rich girls, they’re a different breed, alright? Not the cute, fun kind like Shiba Inus. No, like chihuahuas.”
“Chihuahuas are kind of cute,” Logan quipped.
“Yeah, they are…until they bite your hand off!” Dean exclaimed.
Logan squinted his eyes. “Alright, you’re laying it on thick.”
“No, I’m not, dude. Trust me. I grew up in New York. I’ve lived in the Hamptons. These rich people are insane. They don’t just accept lower class folk—”
“Ouch?”
“—they hunt them for sport,” Dean told him.
“Okay, maybe that’s a bit exaggerated,” Tucker chimed in.
“A little,” Dean muttered.
Logan sighed, “She’s not like that, alright? She’s actually really kind and sweet and generous, okay? She’d never do that.”
“Have you met her family?” Dean asked.
“…No.”
Dean made a ‘I told you so’ gesture.
Tucker spoke, “You should let us meet her. You know, check it out. Dean will lend you his rich people expertise.”
Logan raised a brow, “Is this an excuse for you to see who she is?”
“Oh 100%.”
Logan sighed.
+
A week later, Logan was pacing the hockey house living room. You were coming to meet his friends for the first time.
Garrett came down the stairs and saw them all gathered, “…What are we doing?”
“Meeting Logan’s girlfriend,” Tucker told him.
“You have a girlfriend?” Garrett queried.
Logan opened his mouth to answer but Dean spoke up, “We don’t know that yet.” He raised a finger. “Guilty unless proven innocent.”
Logan rolled his eyes, “Stop with that.”
“You’ll thank me when I save your life.”
The doorbell rang.
Logan froze and looked at his roommates. They stared back at him.
“Alright…just…don’t be fucking weird,” he told them before going to the door and pulling it open.
“Hi, Johnny!” You chirped.
Logan practically melted at the sight and sound of you. “Hey…”
You peered over his shoulder and saw all three of his friends standing behind him. You waited for him to let you in.
Your boyfriend cleared his throat and stepped aside for you to enter. You walked into the home and shared a polite smile with the group of hockey players.
Logan took a deep breath, “Guys, this is my girlfriend.”
You waved excitedly and shared your name.
“Baby, this is—”
“Garrett, Tucker, and Dean,” you finished. “I’ve seen you guys play! Though, I’m new to the sport…I only started watching recently.”
You blushed at the memory of only taking up hockey as an interest because of your crush on Logan.
“Welcome to our place,” Garrett greeted.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tucker said.
Dean said nothing. His eyes inspected your figure. He grew up with a spoiled sister so he could tell you were dressed in designer from head to toe.
Yup, you were a rich girl.
You lifted up a box, “I brought everyone banana pudding.”
Tucker practically lunged forward and took the box from you, carrying it over to the kitchen counter. Garrett followed after him, you shared a look with Logan, as if waiting for his approval.
Logan gave you a reassuring nod and squeeze before leading you into the kitchen. Dean was the last to trail behind everyone.
“Magnolia Bakery?” Tucker gasped when he opened the box. “They opened one here?”
“I got it from New York,” you replied.
Tucker practically moaned around his spoon when he took a bite. Garrett chuckled at that before looking at you, “Did you go there over the weekend or something?”
You shook your head, “No, I had my butler fly there this morning to get it.” You answered sweetly, utterly oblivious.
The guys all exchanged a look.
Logan kept an awkward smile on then turned to you with a low voice, “Baby, I thought we talked about this.”
“You said no imports,” you pouted cutely.
Logan bit back a sigh. “You’re right, I did.”
“I just wanted to do something nice for your friends…” You mumbled, your bottom lip quivering.
Garrett noticed and changed the topic, “Dean, hey, you’re from New York, right? Come have some, I bet you miss a taste from home.”
Dean, who was a silent observer to all this, finally stepped into the kitchen fully and grabbed a spoon. He scooped some pudding up and ate it.
A beat.
“I see you got the seasonal flavor.” He noted.
You nodded hopefully.
Dean returned a slow nod before dropping his spoon. Your heart skipped a beat, thinking he was going to disapprove.
Then, “Fuck, Logan, she’s a good one.”
Garrett and Tucker laughed, playfully hitting Dean on the back. Logan rolled his eyes, but he could not deny that a part of him loosened in relief. Not that he needed Dean to make a judgment on you—more so that he really wanted his friends to like you.
Because he liked you. A lot.
You grinned, “Yay!” You exclaimed, clapping your hands before launching yourself into Logan’s arms.
He stumbled for a moment but hugged you back, sharing a bewildered but happy look with the boys over your shoulder. They returned the look with obnoxious smirks.
“I thought Dean would be way scarier,” you told Logan without thinking.
Logan smiled nervously and glanced at Dean who looked incredibly offended. “No…I didn’t say he was.”
“You said he was judgy,” you titled your head.
Garrett and Tucker had to bite down on their cackles, leaning onto each other for support.
“Judgy?” Dean repeated with a glare.
Logan looked at him, “I mean…” he shrugged.
“Don’t worry, Dean.” you said reassuringly. “You don’t seem judgy or dumb at all!”
Garrett burst out in laughter, “Oh, man. I like this girl, Loge!”
You blinked, completely unaware. “Thank you, Garrett. You don’t seem like a moody drama queen either!”
Garrett’s face dropped. Now it was Tucker’s turn to laugh out loud.
He pointed at Garrett’s dumbfounded expression. “She got you too, G.”
You were a bit confused by their reactions. You looked at Logan, “Did I say something funny?”
Logan just watched the scene, half horrified, half amused. He shook his head and pulled you into his side. “Nah, gorgeous. You’re perfect.”
“Really?”
“Mhm,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head as all three of his friends started comedically arguing and laughing over the mess you started.
“Okay, yay!” You clapped your hands. “Because I have a little something for you waiting in my car. It was under a thousand dollars this time, I promise—”
the boys adopt her and take her to try “normal” people stuff she’s never done before
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? 🫣😚
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
hi there!! would you maybe write a logan x reader insert where she's part of the drama club but in the costume department and allie begs her to step in when one of the actors can't perform because she has learnt every line whilst working in the background! and logan sees her in a completely new light, and he can be in the audience or somehow on stage too with her, whichever you feel is best 🥰 thank you, i really love your work!
Stage Lights - John Logan
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
Blurb: When an actress loses her voice on opening night, you’re dragged out of the costume department and into the spotlight. You expect to survive the show. You don’t expect Logan to be watching you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
That felt important to remember when Allie burst into the costume room with her hair half-pinned, one earring missing, and the expression of someone who had just seen the gates of hell open under a community theater stage.
“No,” you said immediately.
She stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other clutching a script she absolutely did not need. Allie never carried scripts this close to opening night unless she was using them as emotional support. “You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”
“I know your face.”
“My face is beautiful and expressive.”
“Your face is asking me to do something illegal.”
“It’s theater,” she said, stepping fully into the room. “Everything is either illegal, emotionally manipulative, or held together with spirit gum.”
You looked back down at the jacket in your lap, because the safest thing to do when Allie Hayes looked desperate was pretend thread had suddenly become the most fascinating object in the world. The costume room was already chaos in a way only drama club could manage. Dresses hung from every available rack, garment bags were unzipped on the floor, a row of character shoes sat abandoned beneath the makeup table, and someone had left a half-empty iced coffee beside a crown that absolutely should not have been sticky.
You had been here since three, sewing a button back onto Nick’s Act Two vest because Nick treated costumes like they were suggestions rather than pieces of clothing. You liked this part. The fixing, the adjusting, the last-minute saves nobody noticed unless you failed at them. There was comfort in being backstage. The lights never found you there.
Allie, unfortunately, had never respected comfort when a crisis was available.
“Marissa can’t go on,” she said.
You froze with the needle halfway through the fabric.
Allie took that as an opening and rushed forward, talking fast enough to outpace your panic. “She has no voice. None. She opened her mouth and sounded like a haunted kettle. The director is one missed cue away from lying facedown in the lobby. We tried calling her understudy, but her understudy is apparently in Boston for her cousin’s engagement dinner, which feels fake, but I don’t have time to prosecute that right now.”
You stared at her. “Allie.”
“You know the part.”
“I know the part because I’ve heard it eight hundred times while hemming skirts.”
“You know the part because you whisper everyone’s lines under your breath when you think nobody can hear you.”
“I do not.”
“You recited half of Act Two yesterday with three pins in your mouth.”
Allie crossed the room and dropped into the chair beside you, which was dramatic considering she was in a satin gown and had no business sitting anywhere near the lint roller pile. “Please. I know you hate this. I know you like being back here, and I know you’re going to tell me you’re not an actor, but you know every cue, every scene change, every line Marissa has. You know where she stands. You know when she crosses. You even know when she’s supposed to cry, which is more than Marissa knew until yesterday.”
That made you want to laugh, which was unfair. Allie weaponized humor when begging. It was one of her strongest and most irritating gifts.
“I can’t just walk on stage because I’ve been in the room a lot,” you said, though your voice had lost some of its certainty.
“You won’t be walking on because you’ve been in the room. You’ll be walking on because you’re the only person who can save us from performing a romantic drama where one of the main women is represented by a lamp.”
“A lamp?”
“It was Dean’s suggestion.”
“Dean is here?”
Allie’s mouth twitched. “The hockey boys are here. Dean came because he heard the phrase ‘costume department’ and misunderstood the tone of the evening. Garrett came because Dean promised there would be snacks. Logan came because…”
She stopped herself, which was your first warning.
You pressed your hands over your face. “That is not helping.”
“I know,” she said, sounding a little too pleased with herself, “which is why I’m only going to mention the relevant part. Logan asked if you were around.”
Your hands dropped.
Allie watched the information land with an almost unbearable amount of satisfaction. She was one of your favorite people on campus and also, at times, a woman who deserved to be locked in a prop closet for everyone’s safety.
“He asked if I was around?”
“He said, ‘Is your costume girl here?’ which I found reductive, but he meant you.”
“That could mean literally anyone in this room.”
“There’s only one girl he looks for when he comes backstage.”
You hated that your stomach did something stupid at that. Logan had been around a handful of times, usually when post-rehearsal plans somehow migrated to the green room or when one of the guys got dragged into carrying set pieces because the drama club had no budget and too much faith in hockey-player upper body strength. You knew him in pieces. His laugh in the hallway, his habit of picking up whatever someone dropped before they realized they had dropped it, the way he acted like every conversation was casual even when his attention made your skin warm.
He was easy to talk to, which made him dangerous. Guys like Logan could make you feel like you were standing under a spotlight even when they were only asking if you wanted the last slice of pizza.
“That still does not mean I can perform in front of him,” you said.
Allie’s face softened, and that was worse than the begging. “You won’t be performing for him. You’ll be performing because you can. And because if you don’t, I’m going to have to watch Dean’s lamp idea come to life and I may never recover.”
You let out a breath that felt like it had been living in your chest for the past five minutes. Outside the costume room, someone shouted for tape, someone else shouted that the tape was not where it was supposed to be, and the director’s voice rose above both of them with the brittle calm of a man preparing to lose his mind artistically.
You looked at the dress hanging on the rack. Marissa’s dress. Your dress, technically, since you had taken it in at the waist, shortened the sleeves, replaced the buttons, and stitched the inside seam after she stepped on it during tech week. You knew how it moved because you had made it move properly. You knew the character because you had dressed her.
Allie followed your gaze and wisely said nothing.
“I’m not kissing Nick,” you said finally.
Allie sprang up so fast the satin of her skirt snapped around her ankles. “The stage kiss was cut yesterday because Nick has the romantic presence of a damp sock. You’ll be emotionally yearning from three feet away, which is basically theater’s entire brand.”
“I need the script.”
“You don’t need the script.”
“I need it so I can panic with structure.”
Allie shoved it into your hands, then grabbed your shoulders with both of hers. “I owe you my life.”
“You owe me coffee for a month.”
“Done.”
“And you’re telling the director this was your idea when it goes badly.”
“It won’t.”
“Allie.”
She squeezed your shoulders. “It won’t!”
You wanted to believe her. The problem was, believing Allie Hayes had gotten many people into many situations, most of them loud, glittery, and poorly planned. Still, twenty minutes later, you were standing in the wings wearing Marissa’s dress, your own clothes folded over a chair in the costume room, your hair pinned up by Allie’s frantic hands. The director had looked at you like you were both his salvation and his next cardiac event. Nick had tried to give you an encouraging thumbs-up and immediately hit his knuckles on a fake bookcase.
Everything smelled like hairspray, dust, and hot stage lights.
You heard the audience settling on the other side of the curtain. Low voices, shifting seats, someone laughing too loudly near the front. Your pulse seemed to have relocated to your throat.
Allie appeared at your side, radiant in her costume and only slightly terrifying. “Remember, you enter after my line about the letter. Cross to the table, pick up the envelope, stare at it like it ruined your life, then Nick enters.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. I’m telling you because I need to be doing something with my mouth or I’m going to scream.”
That almost loosened the knot in your chest. “You’re very calming.”
“I’ve been told I have the energy of a beautiful emergency.”
Before you could answer, a familiar voice came from the side hallway. “That explains a lot, actually.”
You turned.
Logan stood just beyond the curtain line in dark jeans and a Briar Hockey hoodie, a folded program in one hand. He looked like he had wandered backstage by accident, except Logan never really looked lost. He looked curious. Curious and a little caught off guard as his eyes moved over you, not in the obvious way that would have made you want to disappear, but with a quiet pause that made everything feel suddenly too warm.
Allie pointed at him. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot be back here being distracting. She is saving the entire production.”
Logan’s gaze flicked to Allie, then back to you. “You’re going on?”
“Apparently,” you said, trying not to sound like your bones had turned to paper.
His expression shifted. The teasing eased out of it, leaving something softer behind. “That’s kind of badass.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out nervous, but real. “I’m replacing a girl with laryngitis in a student play, Logan. I’m not storming a castle.”
“Feels castle-adjacent.”
Allie made a strangled noise. “John Logan, if you make her laugh so hard she forgets her blocking, I’ll make you sit through every musical I’ve ever loved and test you afterward.”
Logan held up both hands, the program still caught between his fingers. “Leaving. I only came to tell you Garrett spilled soda on Dean and they’re arguing about whether that’s a bad omen.”
“It is not,” Allie said.
“Dean says sticky thighs are never neutral.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile, and Logan caught it. There was a tiny beat where the backstage madness blurred around the edges, where he looked at you like he was going to say something else and decided against making it a joke.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
It was simple. That was what got you.
Not loud confidence, not a big speech, not some teasing line about being impressed before you had done anything. Just his voice, steady and certain, like he had no trouble imagining you walking out there and surviving it.
Then Allie shooed him away with both hands, and the stage manager hissed for places, and the curtain went up before your body had a chance to catch up with your choices.
For the first few minutes, you waited in the wings and listened.
You had heard the opening scene so many times you could practically see it without looking. Allie’s entrance, the laugh from the audience when she delivered her second line, Nick’s first missed pause, recovered quickly enough that only the people backstage winced. Your fingers curled into the skirt of your dress, smoothing fabric you had already smoothed six times.
Then Allie said the line about the letter.
Your cue.
For half a second, your feet did nothing. All the confidence you had borrowed from Allie, from Logan, from the fact that you knew the play better than some of the people performing it, slipped out of reach. Beyond the wing, the stage stretched wide and bright. The audience was a dark shape past the lights, hundreds of eyes hidden in shadow.
Then Allie turned slightly, just enough that only you could see her face, and widened her eyes like she was trying to physically drag you into the scene.
You stepped out.
The lights hit first. Heat across your cheeks, down your neck, over the front of the dress. The room was both enormous and impossible to see. Your hand found the table because you knew exactly where it was. Your fingers closed around the envelope because you had placed it there yourself before curtain.
You stared at it like it ruined your life.
The first line came out quieter than Marissa’s usually did, but it came out. Then the next. By the third, your voice had stopped shaking. By the fourth, you were no longer thinking about the audience.
You were thinking about the letter, the room, Allie’s character watching you with pity she was trying to hide. You were thinking about the argument you had heard rehearsed for weeks, and how, somehow, standing inside it felt different than listening from a stool in the corner with a seam ripper in your hand.
In the audience, Logan forgot about Dean’s ongoing whisper campaign against the sticky soda on his jeans.
At first, he had been watching because you were you, and because seeing you walk onto a stage in a dress he knew you had probably altered yourself was enough to make his brain stall for a second. You were always in motion when he saw you backstage. Carrying hangers, pinning hems, ducking past actors with a headset around your neck, smiling when someone thanked you and then vanishing before they could say anything else.
He had thought you were shy. Not in a bad way. Just quieter than Allie, which was not hard, and less interested in being the center of the room than pretty much everyone in the drama club.
Then you started speaking.
It was not the kind of performance that announced itself. You did not walk out and demand attention. You earned it line by line, until the audience stopped rustling, until someone in the row ahead of him leaned forward, until Dean whispered, “Wait, she’s actually good,” and Logan elbowed him without looking away from the stage.
Because you were good.
Not cute-good. Not impressive-for-someone-who-got-dragged-into-this good. You were good in a way that made Logan feel like he had been missing something obvious for weeks. You knew when to pause. You knew how to let a line sit. When Nick came in too early, you shifted half a step, lifted the envelope, and made his mistake look like impatience written into the scene.
The audience laughed in the right place. Allie looked like she might cry from relief.
Logan watched your face change under the lights and had the unsettling thought that maybe you had been this interesting the whole time, and he had only been catching glimpses from the hallway.
By the final scene, you were flushed and a little breathless, but you were still there. Still holding your own. Still making the room follow you.
When the lights went down, the applause came fast. You blinked into the darkness as if waking up. Allie grabbed your hand for the curtain call and squeezed so hard your fingers hurt, but she was beaming, and the sound of the audience rose as you stepped forward with the rest of the cast.
You found Logan by accident.
He was standing with Garrett and Dean near the middle aisle, clapping with a look on his face you did not know what to do with. He was not laughing, not teasing, not performing his own ease back at you. He looked proud, which felt impossible and strangely intimate for someone who had only learned you were acting twenty minutes ago.
You looked away first.
Backstage after the show was worse than going on.
At least on stage, you had lines. Backstage, you had people touching your arm and telling you how amazing you were, the director saying something about instincts, Nick apologizing for the missed cue while also trying to pretend it had not happened, and Allie announcing to anyone within hearing distance that she had discovered you, like you were a small Victorian orphan she had pulled from the fog.
You escaped to the costume room under the very legitimate excuse of changing before someone made you talk about your feelings.
The second the door closed, you leaned back against it and exhaled. Your body felt floaty and exhausted, like all your nerves had burned through their fuel at once. The dress itched under one arm. Your hair was falling out of its pins. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You had just started unfastening the top button when someone knocked.
“If that’s Allie, I’m not doing interviews,” you called.
“It’s not Allie,” Logan said through the door. “And I don’t know enough about theater to conduct a good interview.”
Your fingers stopped on the button.
You opened the door partway, mostly because leaving Logan in the hallway felt more embarrassing than facing him. He stood there holding a small bouquet wrapped in green paper, looking faintly uncertain in a way you had never seen on him before.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He glanced down at the flowers like he had only just remembered they existed. “The woman in the lobby said these were for performers. I believed her because she had a cash box and seemed powerful.”
You took them before your hands could decide to shake. They were simple, a few bright flowers tucked together with baby’s breath, the kind of bouquet probably meant for parents to buy at the last second. Somehow that made it sweeter.
“You didn’t have to get me flowers.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that vibe from you.”
“What vibe?”
“The one where compliments make you look like you’re searching for the nearest exit.”
You huffed a laugh and stepped back into the room, letting him follow because standing in the doorway suddenly felt too exposed. “I’m not good at this part.”
“The acting part?”
“No, weirdly that part was fine after the initial terror.” You set the flowers gently on the makeup table, away from the sticky crown. “The after part. People saying things.”
Logan nodded like that made sense, and instead of filling the room with easy jokes, he looked around. At the racks of costumes, the spools of thread, the labeled bins, the dress forms with half-finished pieces pinned to them. His attention moved over the room the same way it had moved over you earlier, taking things in rather than skimming past them.
“You made all this?”
“Not all of it. Some pieces were pulled from storage. Some were altered. Some were built by the department.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes came back to you with that same open steadiness from before. “You were incredible.”
Warmth rushed up your neck. You busied yourself with removing a pin from your sleeve that did not need removing. “I knew the lines.”
“Knowing the lines explains the words. It doesn’t explain the part where the whole room went quiet because they were waiting to see what you’d do next.”
That silenced you for a moment.
Logan did not look pleased with himself for saying it. He looked almost surprised, like he had meant to keep it lighter and failed. That made it harder to brush off.
“I almost didn’t go out there,” you admitted.
“I saw.”
Your eyes lifted.
He leaned back against the edge of the table, making sure not to disturb the makeup brushes or the crown. “You had this half-second where you looked like you were going to run straight out the back door. Then Allie did something with her face.”
“Allie’s face has ruined many lives.”
“Probably saved a few too.”
You smiled down at the pin in your hand. “She knew I could do it before I did.”
“She was right.”
The room seemed quieter than it had a minute ago, even with the muffled noise of people celebrating in the hallway. You could hear the cast laughing, Allie’s voice rising above the rest, Dean complaining about something with full commitment. In here, with Logan standing close enough that you could see the place where his hoodie sleeve had been pushed up his forearm, everything felt softer around the edges.
“I’m not auditioning for the next one,” you said, because you needed something between you that was not the way he was looking at you.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking about it,” he admitted. “But I’m learning you respond badly to pressure.”
“Smart.”
You laughed, and his smile deepened, not triumphant, just pleased that he had gotten you there. It made you remember every other time he had found you backstage or in Allie’s room or at a party where you were never quite part of the loudest group. How he always seemed to notice when you went quiet, but never made a show of it. How he asked questions that sounded casual until later, when you realized he remembered the answers.
Maybe he had been seeing you more than you thought.
Logan’s gaze dropped briefly to the dress. “Do you need help getting out of that?”
Your eyebrows shot up.
He immediately closed his eyes for half a second, like he was replaying his own sentence and suffering through it. “I meant in a respectful, theater-costume, probably-a-row-of-buttons-you-can’t-reach way.”
“You’re very smooth.”
“I was before I watched you emotionally destroy an audience. Apparently that had consequences.”
The laugh that came out of you was softer this time. You turned, gathering your hair over one shoulder, and presented him with the back of the dress before you could overthink it. “Three buttons. Then you are leaving so I can change.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His fingers brushed the fabric at your back, and the quiet shifted again. He was gentle with the buttons, slower than he needed to be, or maybe you were just aware of every second because it was Logan standing behind you in the costume room, undoing the dress you had spent a week fixing for someone else.
He finished the last button and stepped back immediately, giving you space.
“All set,” he said, voice lower than before.
You turned around, holding the dress in place with one hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded, but he did not move toward the door yet. “For the record, I liked you backstage too.”
Your chest tightened.
Logan looked a little nervous after saying it, which was absurd because Logan had once flirted with a waitress while Dean loudly knocked over an entire basket of fries beside him and had not lost focus for even a second.
“You liked me backstage?” you asked.
“I mean, yeah. You’re kind of hard not to like.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then let his hand fall. “But tonight was different. Not because you were suddenly someone else. More because you were already you, and then everyone else got to notice.”
You had no idea what to say to that. It was too much and exactly enough, and it landed somewhere deeper than a compliment about the play.
The hallway door flew open before you could answer, and Allie appeared, stopping short when she saw you and Logan facing each other in the tiny, overstuffed room.
Her eyes flicked to the flowers, then to Logan, then to the undone buttons at the back of your dress that you were still holding closed.
“Oh,” she said, delighted in a way that promised future problems.
“Allie,” you said.
“No, no, I’m not here. I’m a hallucination brought on by applause and emotional vulnerability.”
“Go away,” Logan said, but he was smiling.
“I am going away. I’m leaving so naturally that nobody will even remember I entered.” She backed out slowly, still pointing between the two of you with the kind of silent excitement that made you want to throw a spool of thread at her. Somewhere in the hall, Dean called her name and asked if theater people kept snacks backstage, which finally dragged her attention away.
The door closed again.
You and Logan stared at it for a beat before you both started laughing. It broke whatever had been hovering between you, but not completely. It only made it easier to breathe around it.
“I should change,” you said.
“Right. I’ll wait outside?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He picked up the program from where he had set it on the table and tapped it lightly against his palm. “But I want to walk you out after. If that’s okay.”
It was more than okay, which was why you had to look down at the flowers instead of directly at him. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
Logan smiled like he knew exactly how much effort it took you to sound normal. “Good.”
He left, and you changed into your own clothes with shaky fingers, the dress going back on its hanger with more tenderness than it probably deserved. When you stepped into the hallway a few minutes later, Logan was waiting by the wall of old production posters, talking to Dean and Garrett. Dean was mid-sentence, gesturing dramatically with a pretzel he had found, but Logan’s attention shifted to you immediately.
It should have been embarrassing, being noticed that quickly.
Allie hugged you so hard you nearly dropped the flowers, then got swept away by three cast members and a director who wanted to discuss tomorrow’s performance. Garrett gave you a warm congratulations. Dean told you he had always believed in you, despite absolutely not knowing you were in the show until intermission, and then wandered off when someone mentioned pizza.
Logan stayed.
The two of you left through the side exit, away from the lobby and the last of the audience. Outside, Briar’s campus was cool and dark, the theater lights spilling gold across the pavement. You clutched the flowers against your chest as you walked, your shoulder occasionally brushing his.
For once, Logan did not rush to fill every silence. He let this one sit until it felt less like awkwardness and more like a place to rest.
“So,” Logan said eventually, “when you become famous, I’m going to need everyone to know I brought you your first bouquet.”
You glanced over at him. “That was my first bouquet?”
“For theater, probably.”
“You’re making a big assumption.”
“Am I wrong?”
You tried to hold back a smile and failed, which was apparently answer enough because his grin softened in that quiet, pleased way that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.
You walked a few more steps before you said, “I’m really not auditioning.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
“You sound like you don’t.”
“I sound like a guy who would sit through another play if you were backstage,” he said. “Or onstage. Or running the whole thing from a headset.”
The warmth in your chest returned, slower this time, spreading all the way down to your fingers around the bouquet.
“You’d come just because I was backstage?”
Logan looked at you under the theater’s side lights, the teasing still there but softer now, almost secondary. “Yeah. I would.”
The answer was too easy for him. Not thrown out for effect, not polished into something it wasn’t. Easy because it was true.
You stopped near the edge of the steps. He stopped too, close enough that the night air between you felt thinner than it should have.
“I don’t really know what to do when people look at me,” you admitted.
Logan’s gaze moved over your face with enough restraint to make your stomach flip. “I can look away.”
You shook your head before he finished saying it. “I didn’t say I wanted you to.”
His smile faded into something quieter.
From somewhere behind you, the side door opened and Allie’s voice carried into the night. “I’m not interrupting. I’m just witnessing something, hopefully magical.”
“Allie,” you called back, mortified.
“I’m gone,” she said, immediately not sounding gone. “I’m disappearing. Like a supportive ghost.”
The door shut again before either of you could answer, and for a second, you and Logan just stared at each other. Then he laughed under his breath, warm and disbelieving, and the sound loosened the last of your nerves.
“We’re never hearing the end of this,” he said.
“Probably not.”
“Worth it?”
You looked at the flowers in your hand, then at him. For the first time all night, being seen did not make you want to hide. “Maybe.”
Logan’s eyes dipped to your mouth, then came back to yours like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. You didn’t. His hand lifted to your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheek, and the bouquet crinkled softly between you as he leaned in.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question, but it did not stay uncertain for long. You tipped closer, one hand curling into the front of his hoodie, and Logan made a quiet sound against your mouth that you felt more than heard. He kissed you like he had been waiting through the entire play for the chance, like every line you had spoken under the lights had somehow led him here, to the side steps of the theater with your first bouquet pressed between you.
When you pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“I’m still not auditioning,” you whispered.
Logan smiled against your mouth. “That’s fine.”
Then he kissed you again, and this time, you stopped thinking about the lights altogether.
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.
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.
“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,” Allie said.
“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’?
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 🙏
