Logan Cooley who has a slightly older gf who teases him about being a baby but he has to remind her that he's fucking big and broad and he's 100% not a kid and she's only a couple years old than him anyway so like chill out you brat
Or like Logan who turns up to the locker room scratched and hickeyed (is that even a word) to death but he's so proud of it lol
nsfw content below
you only ever teased him when you wanted to get fucked. not consciously maybe, not out loud, not at first, but logan knew. he always knew. the second your voice dipped all syrupy sweet and you let that little smirk bloom across your lips, that look like you were just so amused by him and his twenty-something testosterone fog, like he was cute for trying, not dangerous—he’d go still. not angry. not even annoyed. just that razor-fine pause, like a predator in tall grass, when you said shit like “aww, are you gonna pout?” or “you know you’re just a baby, right?” while lounging across his lap like you didn’t weigh anything, swinging your foot like you weren’t begging to be grabbed, pinned, reminded. he didn’t always snap back right away. sometimes he let it hang in the air, let you dig your little hole deeper. because you would. you always did. grinning like you were older and wiser and untouchable, like a couple years mattered when you were the one in his bed every night, your toothbrush next to his, your panties tucked into the drawer in his nightstand because you never remembered where you left them.
and he’d let you play the brat for a minute. let you rest your chin on his shoulder while he watched tv, flutter your lashes while you called him “rookie” in that condescending voice that made him wanna bite, tug at the neck of his shirt and ask if he needed help lifting his heavy gym bag, say something smug like “no wonder your mom still babies you, poor thing.” that one? that one always did it. because logan didn’t see himself as young, not with the way he carried you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch, or the way he paid your damn rent once when your bank account got hacked and you were too stubborn to ask. he was bigger than you, broader, more muscle than boy now, and his hands could wrap around your wrists like nothing. he didn’t need to prove that, not usually. but sometimes—sometimes you made him. without saying the words, without asking, you’d poke the bear until he caught your ankle mid-swing and dragged you into his lap like a ragdoll, chest to chest, your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a yelp. and he'd look at you, real calm, real slow, mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin but his eyes weren’t playing.
“you done?” he’d ask, voice low enough to rumble. and you’d try to smirk, still squirming a little, but his hands were already on your thighs, thumbs digging in, arms flexed from the way he held you down like it was second nature. “you think just ‘cause you got a few extra birthdays you get to talk down to me?” he’d murmur, dragging his nose along your cheek, lips brushing your ear. “you think bein’ older means you don’t gotta respect me?” and yeah, you’d roll your eyes, maybe even give him a fake little shrug like you were still in control, but the second he adjusted his grip and pressed you down onto the couch, the bed, whatever surface was closest, you stopped playing. because he wasn’t teasing anymore. he was warm and hard and heavy on top of you, thighs bracketing yours, one big hand on your neck—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding—and his mouth curved up, but it wasn’t sweet. “you forget whose making you come every night?” he’d whisper, dragging his fingers up the back of your thigh, slipping under your shorts. “you forget how loud you get beggin’ for it?” and when you didn’t answer, when you blinked up at him with that stubborn glint still flickering in your eyes, he’d laugh. low and mean. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”
he didn’t fuck like a rookie. didn’t move like someone who needed to prove anything. logan moved like he already knew he had you—like your body was something he’d studied long enough to understand every twitch and tremble. like he could pull you apart with his hips pressed flush to yours, his hands gripping under your knees to fold you open, breathless groans into your mouth while he filled you. and you could still tease, sure—you could try. throw in a breathy “you’re such a boy when you get like this,” but it’d only make him rougher. deeper. “and you’re such a fuckin’ brat,” he’d bite back, snapping his hips hard enough to make the headboard rattle. “but that mouth always shuts up when i’m this deep in you, doesn’t it?” and you’d whimper, because he was right, because your thighs were shaking and your hands were scrabbling at his arms like he might pull away too soon. “what was that?” he’d taunt, grinding in slow. “you had so much to say earlier. c’mon, old lady, use your words.” and you’d hit him for that—weak little slap to his shoulder that made him laugh again, all teeth, all smug dominance. “yeah, that’s what i fuckin’ thought.”
afterwards, when your legs were limp over his, when you were sweat-slick and sore and still trying to catch your breath, he’d press his lips to your temple and murmur something smug like “still a baby, huh?” and you’d groan, burying your face in his chest because he was too damn proud of himself. but you’d let him have it. let him glow in the aftermath because he earned it—because the heat in your belly and the ache between your legs didn’t lie. he wasn’t a kid. he wasn’t even close. he was a man who fucked like he owned you, who held your face after and kissed your nose like you were fragile, who wiped the sweat from your brow and tucked your hair behind your ear like you weren’t the one who’d been bratty all night. and as much as you liked pretending otherwise, you liked being reminded. you liked the way he got when you pushed him, the way his body felt caged over yours, the way he whispered your name like it was both a curse and a confession. you liked being ruined by someone who was too young to rent a car but still knew exactly how to make you break.
THE DUCK PRESENTS
Logan Cooley x Male Reader
Could be read as platonic, I guess? Reader is on the team - no position is specified. Written as older reader, but not necessarily focused on (mentioned only a few times). Reader is written with scars in mind (Cigarette burns).
Warnings: Mentions of past abuse (reader). Mentions of (potential) toxic relationship (Logan). Cigarette burns (mentioned). No use of y/n (reader is nicknamed Sulfur [If you wanna know why, I’ll explain it])
5 times the reader tells Logan his door is always open, and the 1 time Logan actually shows up at his door.
And honestly, you didn’t mind. Boston had been where your home had been for years, but it never really felt like it. You really only stuck around because that’s where your friends were. But, after the Bruins recent trades, your closest friends on the team weren’t there anymore, scattered across the country.
So, you had deemed it time for a fresh start.
Letting your agent know about your willingness to be traded had surprised her. She didn’t seem to mind though, getting to work on the needed paperwork while you packed up your house, not a destination in mind.
Soon enough, you had packed up your life, and were in Utah. The other side of the country, and away from all of the bad memories of your childhood, and the parents who had caused it, but also good memories from your times on the Bruins.
The Mammoth team had been welcoming, and you got along well with Jack McBain and Dylan Guenther. The two had even been willing to offer up their guest room - an offer you politely declined. That didn’t stop you from spending the night occasionally after games or a team bonding night though.
Being close with Dylan naturally meant you hung around Logan Cooley a lot. You didn’t mind the younger. He was fairly quiet, and a little awkward, but you had your own moments of that too, especially with the new team, time zone, and mattress.
Despite Logan being awkward every so often, you didn’t miss the similarities with the younger you.
The averted gazes, the long sleeves, the small flinch anytime someone in the locker room got too loud. It was familiar, and something you wish you could say you didn’t recognize like an old friend.
You didn’t know too much about Logan, still being new and all, but you had heard around the locker room that he had a girlfriend he lived with, and the short conversation you had had with Michael Carcone’s wife, she was a nice girl. Clayton’s girlfriend though had overheard, and muttered something about how she had found Logan’s girlfriend a little odd, but you were rather willing to not ruin any relationship with your new captain by asking her more about it because of how uncomfortable she already looked being there.
You didn’t push. You still felt too new to try and dig into Logan’s life like that. Still, that didn’t stop you from keeping an eye out, and asking if he needed anything.
The locker room after the game was noisy, but you didn’t mind. You just sat calmly at your locker stall, leaning over your knees to unlace your skates. Thankfully, you had yet to be nabbed by the media, they mostly focused on talking to Clayton and Dylan right now.
You didn’t mind, just listening, and occasionally looking around, gaze drifting between players. They landed on Logan for a moment, and you tilted your head, watching as your hands stilled.
His head was down as he worked on pulling his leg pads off. Dylan was in front of his stall next to him, talking to the media, and you didn’t miss the way Logan flinched a little as a reporter next to him raised his voice to be heard over the noise of the locker room.
You could still remember the countless nights your parents would argue, and the little things you couldn’t help but flinch at when something would crash against the wall, or their voices would raise a little more. While you were never sure exactly what you looked like, you imagined it would look something like how Logan had just reacted.
Looking away, you focused back on taking your skates off, not looking up for the rest of the time the media was in the locker room. Thankfully, they never made their way over to you, and you were able to shower and clear your thoughts in peace.
As the rest of the team filed out, you were finishing packing up your gear bag, dressed in a pair of sweats and team hoodie. Hearing shuffling, you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Logan standing across the room in front of his own stall.
Frowning a little, you slung your bag over your shoulder, turning to look at him. “Hey, Cools,” you said calmly, and he flinched again, glancing over his shoulder.
“H-huh?”
“Sorry,” you chuckled, scratching the back of your neck. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Uh, yeah, you’re okay,” he replied, running a hand through his wet hair, looking away from you rather quickly.
“Have a good night,” you said, and he blinked, tilting his head as you continued. “And if you ever need anything, hit me up. My door’s always open.” With that, you offered a salute. As you turned to head out, you caught out of the corner of your eye him raising a hand to wave goodbye.
The team bus was rowdy. Well, at least in the back. Most of the young players were joking around, messing and pushing each other. A lot of the older ones were in the front, just chatting quietly with their seatmate, or listening to music in headphones.
You had opted to sit in the middle, enjoying the chaos, but not necessarily wanting to get involved in it.
Your legs were in the aisle, twisted sideways while you scrolled on your phone, head leaning against the headrest while you listened to the players in the back.
You glanced up at the sound of a metal water bottle hitting the bus floor just in time to see Logan flinch, trying to slip past Dylan to get back to his seat.
“Sorry!” He immediately stated, and you tilted your head as he stood frozen in place, staring at the water bottle that had rolled a little before Barrett Hayton had picked it up, holding it out to Dylan to take.
“It’s fine,” Dylan had replied, waving it off. Logan still didn’t move, and your frown deepened.
“Sorry,” Logan repeated, sliding back into his seat. You watched as he flinched again once Dylan took it. He didn’t seem to notice, just going back to the conversation as if nothing had happened. You could see though how Logan didn’t rejoin the conversation, just sitting huddled against the window. He refused to even look in Dylan’s direction.
As the bus came to a stop outside the SAP Arena, you slid your legs out of the aisle. You waited as the team filed out of the bus, waving on anyone behind you as you waited. Finally, you stood, stepping up into the aisle before Logan passed.
“Sup, Cools,” you greeted, glancing behind you as he followed behind.
“Uh,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze as he stared down. You paused near the front of the bus, waiting as some of the team was taking their time to get out of the bus, probably because of the cameras set up. He didn’t notice in time, colliding with your back.
Glancing over your shoulder as he stumbled, you frowned at how he flinched, profusely muttering apologies under his breath.
“Hey, it’s good,” you interrupted, setting a hand on his shoulder. He flinched again, glancing up at you with wide eyes. You tilted your head, stifling a frown as you patted his shoulder. “We’re good.”
It took a moment, before he muttered another sorry, averting his gaze. Nodding as well, you avoided the memories of the times you would apologize to your close friends' parents after accidentally breaking something or knocking something over, even if they weren’t mad.
You dropped your hand from his shoulder, and didn’t say anything for a moment, before speaking up again. “Seriously, Cools. Don’t worry about it,” you offered a bright smile as you tilted your head. “But if you wanna talk about it, doors always open.”
Turning, you exited the bus, Logan taking a moment before he trailed behind you.
Vancouver was beautiful, in more ways than one. Walking around the piers with some of the guys on the team, it felt nice to be so far away from the past and actually enjoying your time for one.
You could see how much Logan seemed to be enjoying it as well. He seemed a little freer, laughing more openly, and joking around with Dylan and Jack. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed it.
You had gotten closer with Clayton, enough so that you two had talked multiple times about the team, and how everyone seemed to be doing. The captain was one of the few people who knew about your past - the arguments you had heard and the scars you adorned. And talking about that, you had shared your worries about Logan to him.
So, walking a few steps behind the team, Clayton by your side, you couldn’t help the small smile at seeing Logan try and jump on Dylan’s back. Clayton chuckled beside you, shaking his head fondly as Mikhail Sergachev grabbed Hayton, the two spinning around, Dylan narrowly avoiding them as he was now giving Logan a piggy back ride.
You chuckled a little, eyes soft as you watched them, Clayton grinning beside you as he elbowed your side. You glanced at him, throwing him a look, which only served to make his grin widen.
“I think we should thank your girlfriend for convincing none of the WAGs to come,” you stated, knowing the captain wanted you to admit it.
“Heck yeah we should,” Clayton grinned, looking back at the team.
Clayton’s girlfriend had plotted and planned, and gotten all of the WAGs together for a girls weekend while the team was away. You had heard she even managed to organize babysitters for the kids so it was just the girls. Really, she had gone all out, and you could see the benefits with how light the team was, and the bonding between the team.
As the team headed back towards the hotel, Dylan still carrying Logan, you noticed Logan slip his phone out, holding it out of view of his friend. The frown that crossed his features didn’t last long before he was putting his phone away, smiling again. A part of you told you it was probably his girlfriend, but you were happy to see him brush it off, and not let it get to him.
Crowding into the elevator, Dylan finally set Logan down, and slowly the high energy started to settle, everyone still smiling and chatting, but quieter. As you stepped out, you stopped in front of your door first, smiling as you glanced at the team. You locked eyes with Logan as you said goodnight to everyone.
“My door’s unlocked if anyone needs anything.” Turning, you waved goodnight as you headed in, keeping your promise and your door unlocked.
As the weather in Utah changed, the air grew more humid, the old scars along your shoulders started to itch more. It was normal, and you had experienced it pretty frequently in Boston. It was just hard when the layers you wore during the hockey season made it hard that you couldn’t satisfy that itch. Sure, you were always careful about it, not wanting to accidentally cut yourself with your nails at all, and somedays you could ignore it. But others, your pads would shift and suddenly your shoulders were itching again.
Cue you in the locker room after practice, pads chucked haphazardly in your locker stall, one hand shoved down the back of your shirt, scratching at your shoulders while you chatted with Jack. Your back was turned to the rest of the locker room while you talked, not really focusing on changing out of your pads.
“Sulfur, cut the scratching,” Clayton barked, and you glanced over your shoulder, grinning sheepishly at the captain, who just shook his head, an amused smile on his face. A few others glanced over as you pulled your hand out of your shirt.
“Sorry cap,” you laughed, before returning to your conversation with Jack. You didn’t pay much mind as you finally pulled your shirt off, tossing it aside. Obviously, this hadn’t been the first time you had changed in front of the team, since you did that almost every day for practice or games. You didn’t think much of it as you propped your foot up, undoing your skates as you leaned over.
You ignored the itchiness of your back, changing and cleaning up. After your shower, you were back in the locker room, only a few of the team left as you packed up your gear bag. There was a tap on your arm, and you glanced over, seeing Logan looking up at you before he looked away.
“Can I ask you something?” He asked, and you tilted your head, smiling with a nod.
“Ask away, Cools. I’m an open book.”
“Your shoulders,” he started slowly, trailing off as if figuring out how to continue. “I mean, your scars,” he continued, wringing his hands together as he looked away. “Where’d they–are they–I mean,” you smiled encouragingly as he tried to gather his thoughts. When he didn’t seem to know how to continue, you spoke up.
“They’re cigarette burns,” you explained calmly, and his eyes snapped up. They were wide, and you thought you could catch a little hint of guilt - whether it was because he asked or something else, you weren’t sure.
“Oh–I,” you cut him off before he could continue.
“I don’t mind talking about it,” you replied, zipping up your bag. Logan looked up at you again, one of his hands fidgeting with his sleeve. Your eyes tracked the movement, and you tilted your head. You didn’t comment on it as he nodded, looking away. “Doesn’t have to be right now,” you said softly, slinging your gear bag on your shoulder. “But if you ever wanna hear about it, my door’s open.”
After a rough home game, the locker room was pretty quiet except for the media interviewing some players. It had been a rough loss, but only because of how close it had been, the score having been 4-3 after overtime. You could remember looking up at the jumbotron and seeing the cameras drift over the WAG box. You wish you could say that you didn’t notice the look on Logan’s girlfriend’s face. One that sent you right back to your childhood, and the look on your mom’s face after you failed a math test.
You wished you could say you were thinking about the game, but you couldn't get the sight of Logan’s girlfriend's face out of your mind. It honestly terrified you for Logan, because while still nothing had been confirmed, almost all of the WAGs knew about your worries by now, and had teamed up to keep you updated. According to them, your worries were justified. So much so Clayton’s girlfriend had an entire list, and almost all the WAGs updated weekly things they overheard or saw in the box.
Glancing across the locker room at Logan, you frowned a little, seeing how he was looking down, staring at the floor. While he was completely changed out of his pads, he hadn’t moved in a couple of minutes. It made you wonder if he didn’t want to go home that night.
Standing up, clad in your leg pads, socks, and an undershirt, you took a few strides across the room, pausing in front of Logan. “Hey. Me, you, that Italian place on West Temple,” you started, nudging his knee with yours. “I’ll pay.”
Logan glanced up, eyes a little distant as if they were looking right through you. You didn’t move though, just looking down at him. Finally, he blinked a few times, nodding. “Okay.” Patting his shoulder, you turned on your heel, heading back towards your locker to finish changing.
As the locker room emptied out, your teammates saying their goodbyes, you stuck around, changed into your walk-in outfit as you waited for Logan to finish up, just scrolling on your phone.
Finally, he headed over, dressed in black sweatpants and jacket, a white shirt and a snapback thrown over his wet hair. You didn’t say anything, just smiling as you put your phone away in your pocket. Silently, the two of you made your way to the parking lot, still no words passing between you as you opened the passenger seat of your car.
Logan didn’t complain, and you thought you caught a small flush on his cheeks before you shut the door, rounding the front to slide into the driver seat. Pulling out of the player parking lot, you kept your music low as you drove, the streets of Salt Lake City already so familiar that you knew them by heart, despite only having been there for a few months now.
Pulling into the parking lot of a small Italian place you had grown to love, you shut your car off, both of you sitting in the silence as you glanced over at Logan. He was looking out the window, fiddling with his sleeve a little, eyes still distant.
“C’mon,” you finally said, breaking the silence as you unbuckled your seatbelt. “Prepare yourself for endless garlic bread,” you grinned, stepping out of the car. Logan followed a moment later, a step behind you as you neared the entrance.
Holding the door open, you smiled, Logan glancing up at you, eyes wide, and you watched as he blinked rapidly a few times, before walking inside. Following behind, you grinned as you saw the familiar waiting staff.
“Wassup, Bry,” you greeted the woman at the front. She glanced up, before her expression morphed into a grin.
“Sulfur!” She laughed, glancing at Logan as she grabbed two menu’s, waving for them to follow. You trailed behind, chatting idly with the waitress about the game. She set the two menus down, turning to smile at the two hockey players. “Ambs will be by in a minute for your drink orders,” she smiled, and you nodded, taking a seat as she walked away.
Logan sat down across from you, one hand pressed in his lap while the other flipped through the menu. It was quiet between the two of you for a minute, and after having ordered your drinks and the water was in front of you, you finally spoke up, leaning back in your chair.
“Have you ever been in a toxic relationship?”
The way Logan almost choked, coughing as he hurriedly grabbed the water, clapping a hand on his chest. Sure, you hadn’t exactly been subtle with the question, but you weren’t trying to accuse him of anything.
“No,” Logan said quickly, avoiding your gaze as his shaky hand put the water back down. You just nodded, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked away.
“I have,” you replied, looking out at the mostly empty lobby of the restaurant. “Well, not a romantic one, but my parents and I had a very toxic relationship when I was younger.” You glanced back over at Logan, and his lips were pursed as he leaned back in his own chair, not meeting your gaze.
“How long?” He asked quietly, and you let out a sigh as the tension left your shoulders.
“Until I moved out at 18.”
Neither of you spoke after that for a few minutes, before Logan asked another question.
“Is that where your scars came from?” He asked quietly, leaning forward to rest his elbows against the table, looking across at you.
“My mom was an avid smoker,” you nodded, leaning forward as well. “She only ever pressed the cigarette to my shoulders when my dad was around.”
“And… when did you realize it wasn’t… normal?”
You didn’t reply at first, glancing up as the waitress returned with the dishes. Both of you thanked her, and ate silently for a moment before you finally replied.
“A part of me always knew it was bad, but like… they were my parents? Y’know?”
The conversation shifted after that, the two of you shifting between talking about the game, to the upcoming season, to how Logan was doing after his injury. It felt like it flowed easier between you two, talking about anything at all.
Once you were both done eating, you, as promised, paid for the dinner, walking back out towards your car. Same as back at the arena, you held open the passenger door for Logan. This time, he laughed a little, climbing in with this adorable smile on his face. It was clearly infectious, because as you climbed in the driver seat, you were grinning ear to ear as well.
Driving back to the Delta Center, the conversation continued, and as you pulled your car into a spot beside Logans, you didn’t miss the way he seemed to faintly hesitate to get out. Smiling softly, you reached over, setting a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” you said softly, and he glanced over. “If you ever need anything, Logan,” you continued, smiling softly as you tilted your head. “My door’s always open.” Squeezing his shoulder, he smiled softly as he nodded.
“Thanks for this,” Logan replied softly, and you nodded, watching as he climbed out. As he neared the driver door of his car, he glanced back, and you waved. He waved back, and you waited as he climbed in the driver seat of his car, pulling away a moment later.
It was almost 3 AM, and you wish you could say that you were sleeping since you had a long travel day tomorrow. Instead, you were sitting on your couch, only a lamp on beside you as you read. You figured that you could sleep on the plane tomorrow if you ended up actually being that tired.
It had been a week since you took Logan out to the Italian place, and everyday since at practice, he always took time to smile at you, and teasingly ask if your door was still unlocked. Every time, you said it was, and that if it wasn’t, it was because you were right in front of him at practice.
There was a quiet knock, and you paused, glancing up. You weren’t entirely sure if you had just imagined it or not. You didn’t care though, setting your book aside with a random receipt as a bookmark, before padding towards the front door.
Pulling open your door, you blinked at the sight of Logan on your doorstep. His cheeks were splotchy with tears, and in the soft light of your porch light, you could make out the hint of dried blood having trickled from his nose, and a bruise starting to form just below his eye. His suitcase for later in the morning was by his side.
You didn’t say a word, just silently spread your arms. He flinched at first, before stepping forward, falling into your arms. Silently, you stood on your porch, the younger wrapped in your arms. You didn't move, just letting him sob in your chest. Sure, it didn’t confirm anything, but offering your door was not only because of a toxic relationship you suspected, but because you wanted people to feel like they could come and talk to you, or just sit in quiet and get away. Heaven knows Clayton, Dylan, and Jack frequently used your place as that.
“I’m sorry,” Logan whimpered against your chest, and you could feel him try to pull away. You didn’t let him go far though, keeping your hands around his shoulders as you tilted your head to meet his gaze. Smiling softly, you nodded back at your house.
“C’mon. Let’s go inside,” you said quietly, and he nodded, sniffling as he used a sleeve to wipe his eyes. Keeping a hand steady on his back, you stepped aside as he headed in, only leaving him long enough to take his suitcase and set it next to yours at the door.
Shutting the door behind you, you looked over at where Logan had huddled on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, sleeves covering his hands, which were wrapped tightly around his legs to keep them close.
You didn’t talk about it that night, just sitting together quietly on the couch, and if the next day, you and Logan showed up together, and Logan stuck by your side, no one said a word.
A/n First x reader fic I’ve written in a while, lol. Maybe it went a little long, but I had ideas and sometimes you just need to write them. Anyway, have a good one. Duck out o7
me too anon would you like to see everything that's been spinning in a circle in my head for the past two months as i write this stupid fucking fic like you can't look at these two and tell me they weren't at least a little in love
featuring this song that came up thanks to the ♾️ button a couple weeks ago that i'm obsessed with now
Request: This is literally from JANUARY 8TH... so I hope you're still around - "kesselring saying cooleys new year resolution needs to be leaving the house more but really cooley is with his girlfriend and anytime the boys wanna go out he’s like “actually me and my girl are watching this new movie” to the point where his girlfriend forces him to go out"
Summary: When your sweet, clingy boyfriend gets forced to loosen up...
Word Count: 7.9k
Pairing: soft/clingy!logan cooley x fem!reader
Warnings: use of alcohol and marijuana, and subsequent panic attack resulting from it, vomiting.
Notes:
this has been sitting in my docs for a while so i thought might as well finish it
my first full length cools fic!
enjoy! mostly proof read...
Logan has always been a little skittish in crowds, the kind of boy who looks permanently startled, blue eyes wide and soft behind his pale lashes, hair so blond and fine it flutters around his temples like spun silk. You swear half the time he resembles a wet cat caught in a rainstorm—especially when Michael’s booming voice is echoing through the condo, telling him for the fifth time this week that his New Year’s resolution needs to be something simple like “get out of the damn house.”
But Logan just smiles that crooked, bashful smile, a shy crescent that tugs at the corners of his mouth until the edges of his teeth peek through, and then he rubs the back of his neck like he’s apologizing for existing. He’s got a hundred excuses tucked into the sleeves of his oversized hoodies—the ones he always shrugs into when the team is going out to celebrate a win or to just feel young and invincible in some overpriced club downtown. He’ll mumble that he’s tired or that he has a phone call with you, which, to his credit, is rarely a lie. You’re the one constant thread in all his tangled nerves, the one place he can let himself unravel without fear of anyone picking apart the pieces.
Every time the guys pile into Ubers with their cologne sharp as fresh-cut pine, you’ll find Logan still sitting on the sofa, long legs folded up under him, phone in hand, face lit by the gentle glow of your texts. He’s the kind of boyfriend who would rather spend a Saturday night on Facetime with you than in any bar on earth. He’ll fall asleep there, cheek pressed to the screen, breathing soft and even. It makes Michael roll his eyes so hard you’d think they’d get stuck.
“Jesus Christ, man,” Michael will say, exasperation slathered all over his voice as he watches Logan smile dopily at the picture you sent of your dinner. “You’re domesticated. You’re like a pet bunny. You know that?”
Logan only lifts his head, pink rising under his cheekbones. “I just…like being home.”
He never says it out loud, but the truth is simpler than that. He likes being where you are—even if “you” is just a warm little rectangle of a phone screen some nights. He likes the safety of it, the predictability of you loving him back. There’s no music too loud to hear his thoughts, no hands clapping him on the shoulders until they ache. Just your voice drifting to him soft as the snowfall piling up outside the window.
He’s the boyfriend who writes you long messages when he’s on the road, thumbs flying over his screen because he’s afraid if he doesn’t tell you every detail—how the bus smelled like stale energy drinks and the arena lights were too bright and he forgot his good luck charm in his hotel room—you’ll somehow slip further away. He sends you blurry photos of hotel carpets and the skyline from his window and the little coffee cup with your initial he found at a souvenir shop, because he can’t help but think of you wherever he is.
His teammates call him whipped. They say it with affection but with that brand of teasing that slides under your skin if you let it. Clayton will bump his shoulder and tell him he should at least pretend to have a life outside your little cocoon. Sean and John will threaten to come drag him out themselves. Barrett jokes he’s going to steal your number and send you a restraining order as a prank.
But Logan just shrinks a little into the collar of his hoodie, hair drifting over his forehead as he blushes and tries not to look too smug about it. Because he knows it’s true—he is completely, hopelessly yours.
He’s the boyfriend who remembers the tiny things you say offhand—that you were craving the salted caramel hot chocolate from the cafe by the rink, that you’d been meaning to watch a certain movie, that you felt too tired to cook. He’ll slip out between practices and drive across town to bring you what you mentioned, then act like it was no big deal when he shows up, sneakers wet with melted snow. You’ll thank him, and he’ll look like he’s trying not to combust with happiness, cheeks pink, eyes darting anywhere but your face.
When he does agree to go out with the guys, it’s never for long. He tries—God, he tries—to look like he’s enjoying it, standing a little apart with his drink clutched in both hands, eyes flickering to the door every few minutes like he’s memorizing the escape route. Eventually, someone will catch him texting you, thumbs working frantically, and Sean will come over to ruffle his hair and tease him until he ducks his head and mumbles something about checking in.
The second he can leave, he does. He doesn’t even care about the goodbyes anymore—he’ll text the group chat his apologies as he slips out into the cold night, breath fogging the air. He’s the boyfriend who walks home with his hands in his pockets, thinking about how soft your hair will feel under his chin when he pulls you into bed, how you’ll smell like that lotion he likes, how your sleepy voice will wrap around his heart like the gentlest fist.
Michael will tell him he’s pathetic, that he’s twenty-one and acting like some lovesick teenager. But Logan doesn’t mind. He’s always been a little afraid of everything—the crowds, the noise, the unknown. Loving you is the one thing that never scares him. It’s the one thing that feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the snowfall dusting the rooftops.
So he doesn’t make a New Year’s resolution to change. He thinks maybe this is exactly who he wants to be: the boy who would rather be yours than be anything else.
It had been one of those evenings that felt stitched from a fairytale—the snow outside falling in fat, lazy flakes, the lamplight turning everything amber and hushed. Logan had you tangled up with him on the couch, his arms circled tight around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder. He smelled like clean laundry and the faintest trace of his cologne, that gentle cedar that made you want to breathe him in forever.
He mumbled love-drunk confessions into your hair like he couldn't help it, voice quiet and cracking with the weight of it. "You have no idea how much I love you," he whispered, pressing kiss after kiss along your temple, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose. "Can't even think straight when you're this close."
You giggled, trying to duck away from his relentless mouth, but he only shifted, pinning you back against the cushions as he trailed his lips down your jaw. His hands were everywhere—splayed over your ribs, thumbs brushing under your sweater, fingertips tracing mindless patterns over the skin of your hip as though he was mapping out the places you made him feel safe. Your laughter spilled out in squeaks as he nuzzled your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen. "Logan, you're ridiculous!"
"Yours," he insisted, voice rough with sincerity. "All yours. Don't want to be anywhere else. Ever."
You were about to say something back—something equally mushy, knowing you'd both end up a pile of sighs and kisses—when the door to the condo practically exploded open.
"SURPRISE, LOVEBIRDS!" Michael's voice boomed in like an avalanche, so loud it actually made Logan jolt and smack his forehead off yours with a dull thud. You both yelped. Logan's arms shot around you protectively like you were under attack.
And then there was Hank. A giant tangle of fur and slobber, bounding in on his leash, yanking Josh half off his feet. The dog went straight for the couch with singular purpose, tail whipping the air. He practically body-slammed you both, giant paws thudding onto Logan's chest while his drool splattered everything in a three-foot radius.
"HANK!" Josh cackled, trying to haul him back, but it was hopeless. Hank's tongue was everywhere, hot and wet on your cheek while Logan sputtered and tried to hold him off with one hand, the other shielding your face.
Michael was doubled over laughing, actually wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh my God. I told you, Josh! He's whipped as fuck. Look at him!"
Josh's shit-eating grin could've powered a small city. He kicked the door shut behind them with one boot. "I dunno, man," he drawled, gray eyes gleaming. "I thought you guys were exaggerating. But this is pathetic even for him."
Logan was bright red, hair mussed, hoodie riding up so you could see the pale stripe of his stomach. He let out a strangled noise of horror. "Get out! We were—this was private!"
"Private?" Michael repeated, scandalized. "Buddy, you're literally cuddling like a koala in heat. You don't do private anymore."
Hank gave an enthusiastic bark, knocking a lamp askew with his tail. Josh whistled low. "Nice place, though. Really roomy. You know what I'm thinking?"
Michael slapped him on the back. "New Year's party venue!"
Logan's eyes widened in abject terror. "Absolutely not!"
Josh ignored him entirely, flopping onto the armchair and throwing his feet up on Logan's coffee table. "I'm serious. We move the coffee table, keg in the corner, DJ playlist, maybe those twinkly lights you got for Christmas? Boom. Vibes."
Michael was already scrolling on his phone. "Making the guest list right now. I'm telling you, this is happening. He can't stop us."
Logan turned to you, wild-eyed, one arm still loosely around you even as he gestured frantically at his so-called friends. "Tell them no. Tell them this is our space. They can't just... invade like this."
You tried—tried so hard—not to laugh. But you were shaking with it, biting your lip as you looked at his flushed, scandalized face. Hank chose that moment to lay his giant head in Logan's lap, drooling happily all over the pale fabric of his sweatpants.
You wiped a tear from your eye and squeezed Logan's knee. "Babe," you said, barely keeping it together. "Maybe you should loosen up a little. It's just one party."
Logan's jaw dropped. "You traitor."
For two solid days, the Utah Mammoth groupchat has been blowing up with plans for this ridiculous party. Michael renamed the chat "Cools’s House Party" and refused to change it back, even after Logan threatened to leave. Every few hours someone drops in with a new idea—Sean wanting to bring his own speaker system, Clayton offering to DJ, Barrett insisting they have to do a midnight toast to ring in the new year. Even John, the so-called responsible one, is texting about how many folding chairs they might need.
They all keep tagging Logan with excited thank you messages. "Thanks for hosting, man!" "You’re the best, bro." "Can’t wait to trash your living room lol." Logan has read none of it. His phone is face-down on the coffee table, vibrating periodically with fresh notifications he pointedly ignores while burrowed into your side. He hasn’t moved for hours except to shift even closer, whining under his breath every time you so much as lean away to get up for water.
Every time the chat dings he just makes this low, despairing groan in your ear. "They’re not really going to do it, right? Tell me they’re not serious." And you have to pat his hair and soothe him with your voice, pretending you’re not amused by how deeply betrayed he seems. It’s like watching a man mourn his own funeral.
By the time the night of the party actually comes around, the entire apartment feels like it’s buzzing with impending doom. You’re in the bathroom getting ready, applying makeup in the mirror—not anything fancy, but enough to feel cute. There’s music playing on your phone, something upbeat to keep your nerves in check. Logan is nowhere in sight at first—you assume he's sulking on the couch—until you hear the soft scuff of socks on the tile and he stumbles in behind you.
His arms go around your waist immediately, pulling you back into the solid wall of his chest. He’s unshaven, blond hair messy like he’s been raking his fingers through it all day. He smells like...well, nothing good. A little bit of sweat and stale hoodie. You wrinkle your nose but his arms just tighten, chin hooking over your shoulder as he peers at your reflection in the mirror with bleary devotion.
"You look so pretty," he mumbles against your neck, voice wrecked with exhaustion. "Stay here with me. Don’t go out there."
You squirm in his grip, trying not to laugh as you wiggle away just enough to breathe. "Logan. You need to shower. Seriously."
He sighs dramatically, pressing his forehead to your hair. "What’s the point? I’m not going downstairs. I’m not going to that...that den of sin."
You snort. "Sure, babe. Just humor me and get clean? For me?"
He groans but finally lets you go, stepping back with his hair sticking out in every direction, hoodie rumpled. "Fine. For you. But I’m coming right back up here after."
"Sure you are," you say breezily, smacking his butt as he walks past. He yelps like an affronted cat before pulling off his hoodie in one swoop, revealing the pale stripe of his back and the waistband of his worn sweats that he shucks off with a huff. He shoots you a scandalized look when you giggle.
"Stop staring," he mumbles, cheeks flushed.
"Stop being cute," you shoot back.
He flips you off half-heartedly before pulling the shower curtain closed. You can hear the spray start up, the hiss of hot water filling the room and the steam starting to gather. You lean against the counter, touching up your lipstick, the two of you bantering back and forth through the curtain.
"Bet you're regretting inviting them now," you call sweetly.
A wet slap of hand against tile. "I. Didn’t. Invite. Them."
"Mmm, okay, host with the most."
"You're a traitor."
"Love you too."
He huffs, water pattering around him. After a minute you start to smell your own shampoo—that floral, creamy scent that is unmistakably yours—and pause mid-swipe of eyeliner.
"Logan," you say slowly, suspiciously. "What the hell are you using in there?"
There's a guilty silence. Then, meekly: "...Your shampoo."
You groan, rolling your eyes even as you smile, utterly charmed. "Logan. That stuff is expensive."
Another pause. Then a muffled, petulant whine from behind the curtain: "It smells like you."
The steam is billowing so thick you can barely see your own reflection in the mirror, curling in soft, languid ribbons around your shoulders as you lean in, squinting through the fog to reapply your lipstick. Behind the faded floral curtain, there’s the slosh of water and the occasional clatter of Logan’s clumsy elbows smacking into the tiled walls. He’s muttering curses under his breath, voice muffled by the spray.
"You better not be using all my conditioner too," you call out, dragging the crimson color across your bottom lip, smacking it experimentally.
There’s a scandalized squeak from the other side. "I’m not a monster! Just the shampoo. And—maybe the face wash. It’s nice. Smells like you. Makes me feel...calm."
You roll your eyes so hard it aches, but you’re smiling anyway. The steam beads along your lashes, makes your hair start to frizz at the ends. You wipe your palm across the mirror to see better, leaving a squeaky streak. "Logan. Baby. You need to be more independent, you know. Like a big boy."
A strangled sound of outrage. You can picture him in there, long, pale limbs tangled up like a baby giraffe trying to stand, soap suds everywhere. "I am independent!" he protests shrilly. "I live alone!"
You snort, dabbing at your eyeliner. "You live alone but you use all my expensive products, text me 47 times a day, and act like the world is ending if I go out without you."
A sulky silence. Then a petulant, grudging: "That’s...not fair."
"Oh it’s absolutely fair," you sing-song, delighted. You lean against the counter, breathing in the lush scent of your own stolen shampoo wafting through the humid air, that creamy floral note that always made him bury his face in your neck. "You’re a total barnacle. An adorable, clingy, whiny barnacle."
There’s the sound of wet slapping as he presumably pounds a fist on the tile in protest. "Take it back."
You laugh, loud and bright, the sound bouncing off the tile. "Nope. Barnacle Logan. That’s your new contact name."
He groans, and the water hisses louder as he moves directly under the spray to sulk. "I hate you."
"You love me."
Silence. Then, quieter, raw and unguarded: "Yeah. I really do."
Your breath catches a little, the air thick and damp and heady with shampoo and soap and Logan’s ridiculous honesty. You glance down at the sink, pressing your lips together to keep from letting the giddy, swoony feeling show too much. "Yeah," you say, voice gentler. "I know."
There’s another pause, then a rustle of movement. "Hey. Come here."
You snort. "Logan. You’re naked."
"And?" he shoots back, indignant and muffled. "Nothing you haven’t seen before. I wanna see you."
You roll your eyes but your cheeks flush. You push off the counter, steam coiling around your legs like cats, and step closer to the tub. Your hand lands on the edge of the curtain. "Behave."
"No promises."
You peel it back just enough to see him—dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead in dark gold strands, eyes huge and blue and so open it actually hurts to look at. He’s squinting through the steam at you like you’re the only thing that matters. Water traces the slope of his collarbone, pools in the sharp hollow of his throat.
He looks ridiculous. And beautiful. And so, so yours.
You lean over the edge of the tub, the steam curling thick and warm between you, and cup his flushed, wet face in both hands. He startles a little at the sudden closeness, those wide blue eyes blinking under the drizzle of the shower, darkened blond strands of hair plastered to his forehead in a dripping halo. He opens his mouth to protest—maybe to tease you back, maybe to tell you you're going to get your clothes wet—but you don’t give him the chance. You surge forward, kissing him hard.
He makes a startled, muffled sound that vibrates into your lips, arms coming up automatically to wrap around your waist and pull you even closer. Water splashes over the edge of the tub, soaking into your socks, but you don’t care. His mouth is so warm, so desperate. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that can save him, like every exhale is your name. One hand scrabbles at your hip, slick with water and soap, trying to keep you from pulling away even as you both break to breathe, your noses brushing, breath mingling in the humid air.
"Logan," you whisper against his lips, voice breathless. "You’re gonna make me soak through my clothes."
"Good," he huffs, stubborn and so painfully sincere. "Stay. Don’t go anywhere."
You give him another quick, hard kiss, biting at his bottom lip until he groans and tilts his head back to bare his throat, those pale lashes fluttering shut. You pull away with a soft, wet smack and press your forehead to his, both of you panting, the sound of the shower still roaring around you. "I have to go greet everyone," you murmur, fingers stroking the slippery strands of hair back from his forehead. "They’re going to be here any minute."
He lets out the most pitiful whine you’ve ever heard—a real, guttural, full-bodied sound of protest that makes you snort and slap a hand over your mouth. His grip on your waist tightens, like he's about to haul you in with him fully clothed. "No," he moans. "Tell them to fuck off. Tell them the party’s canceled. Tell them you’re mine."
Your heart flips at that—because even when he’s being the clingiest, sulkiest barnacle on earth, he’s yours, and he’s so earnest about it. But you manage to push at his chest, gently but firmly, feeling the wet heat of his bare skin under your palms. "I’ll come back," you promise. "But you need to hurry up. Please, for me. Clean up. Put on something decent."
He groans again, slumping under the spray, water rivuleting down the planes of his chest. "Hate this. Hate them. Hate you."
You roll your eyes. "I love you too."
You slip out of the bathroom with one last look—he’s pouting like an angry, damp cat, hair dripping in his eyes, water sheeting over his narrow shoulders. You shake your head fondly, pulling the door closed behind you and padding down the hall. The music is still going on your phone, something bass-heavy and cheerful, and you hum along despite your own nerves buzzing like static under your skin.
Then—the doorbell rings.
You freeze for half a second before cursing softly and rushing down the stairs. The apartment is already in disarray: furniture scooted back to make room for dancing, twinkle lights strung haphazardly over the curtain rods, a folding table in the corner that Michael insisted would make a perfect bar. You smooth down your hair, wipe the lingering steam-sweat from your forehead, and put on your brightest, fakest host smile as you unlock and swing open the door.
Michael bursts in first, arms thrown wide like he’s entering a wrestling ring, a grin splitting his face. "THE PARTY HAS ARRIVED!" he bellows, loud enough to make you wince. Behind him, Sean and John pile in carrying bags of chips, solo cups, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire case of cheap beer. Clayton is fiddling with a portable speaker in one arm, waving at you distractedly with the other. Barrett comes last, toting a bottle of champagne and wearing a smug grin, his girlfriend tucked under his arm, rolling her eyes at the chaos but smiling anyway.
The cold night air spills in behind them, smelling of frost and car exhaust. You stumble back a step as the whole Mammoth horde pours in, stomping snow off their boots, laughing, shouting greetings. Someone shoves a case of seltzers into your hands. Another flicks on the living room lamp so hard it rattles.
"Welcome to Cools’s house, where the drinks are free and the host is MIA!" Michael crows, earning a round of hoots and cheers. Sean is already throwing his coat on the back of your armchair, cramming bags of chips into Logan’s kitchen cabinets like he's moving in for good.
Sean’s girlfriend leans in to kiss your cheek in greeting, her perfume warm and powdery. "You look cute," she says conspiratorially over the din. "Brave woman, hosting this circus."
You grin back, frazzled but game. "I think Logan's planning to hide in the bathroom the entire night."
Michael catches that, snorting as he cracks open a beer. "He fuckin' better not. I'm getting him drunk tonight if it kills me."
You wince, casting a glance over your shoulder toward the dark hallway. Somewhere up there, Logan is probably listening in horror, hair still wet, face buried in his hoodie like it can save him from this social Armageddon.
And you’re pretty sure you can hear him groan from all the way upstairs.
Logan finally slouched downstairs after your pleading, hair still damp, face sulky and flushed from the too-hot shower, hoodie hanging off his sharp collarbones. He tried to sneak past Michael like a hunted animal, but Michael was on him in seconds, slinging an arm around his shoulders with all the subtlety of a bear trap.
“THE MAN OF THE HOUR!” Michael roared, nearly toppling them both as the entire room whooped. Logan gave you a look of naked betrayal as you half-laughed, half-cringed. The Mammoth boys chanted his name, loud enough to rattle the twinkle lights. Logan muttered something vicious under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like "I hate all of you"—but they ignored it entirely, someone pressing a red Solo cup into his hand before he could escape.
He clutched it like it might bite him. You watched him sniff it warily, lips curling in distaste. “What is this?”
“Vodka-cran, easy starter,” Sean assured him with mock-sincerity. “It’s basically juice.”
Logan narrowed his eyes at it like it had insulted his mother. But everyone was watching, Barrett recording on his phone while Michael and Josh jeered, so he raised it to his lips with the kind of solemn resignation most people reserved for signing organ donation papers. He winced as he swallowed. The room exploded in cheers.
That first drink went straight to his ears, turning them a brilliant pink. He tried to retreat, but Michael physically herded him back to the makeshift bar. “Oh no. Oh no no no. We’re just getting started.”
You tried to intervene, grabbing Logan’s wrist, feeling the fine tremor under your fingers. He wouldn’t quite meet your eyes. "You don't have to—"
“Gotta,” he mumbled, voice cracking. “They’ll never shut up.”
Shot number two was tequila. Someone poured salt onto the back of his hand with excessive ceremony, Barrett shoving a lime wedge between his fingers. Logan gave you the most pathetic, beseeching look you’d ever seen in your life as the salt burned against his pale skin. You tried to hold it together, but your grin cracked wide. He glared at you the entire time he licked it off, slammed the shot, and bit the lime so hard the juice squirted down his chin.
By shot number three—some unholy cinnamon whiskey—his eyes had gone glazed, pupils blown wide. He was leaning on the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair falling in damp, unruly waves around his face. He giggled at something Michael said that wasn't even remotely funny, nose scrunching, teeth showing in that dopey way that made your heart ache. You were buzzing yourself, three drinks in and warm all over, but nothing compared to Logan. He was gone.
At some point, the music changed to something filthy, bass so deep it shook your ribs. The living room morphed into a writhing mess of limbs and laughter and glitter from someone's spilled craft bin. You lost track of Logan until you found him in the kitchen, slumped against the fridge, blinking at nothing.
“Hey,” you laughed, voice sticky with sugar and booze. “You alive?”
He startled violently, hitting the fridge so hard the magnets clattered to the floor. Then he focused on you. And lit up like the goddamn sunrise.
“BABE,” he crowed, flinging his arms out. You nearly toppled as he grabbed you, mashing his mouth to yours with all the grace of a drunk toddler. His lips were hot and wet and eager, tongue clumsy and greedy. You squeaked against him as his hands fumbled under your shirt, icy from holding his cup, making you arch away with a breathless shriek.
“Logan, oh my God—”
He just whined, chasing your mouth, trying to press you back against the fridge door so hard it rattled. The whole time he muttered nonsense, slurred and urgent: “So pretty. Fuck, so pretty. Mine. You’re mine. Don’t wanna share. Hate them. Hate this. Just wanna—wanna be—fuck—”
You were breathless, laughing helplessly even as you kissed him back, his hair sticking to your lips with sweat. Someone wolf-whistled from the doorway and Logan actually growled at them, clamping both arms around your waist possessively. He was shaking with it, chest heaving, pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue left.
“Baby,” you tried, voice soft despite your giggles. “You’re so drunk.”
He shook his head violently. “’M fine. More shots.”
“Absolutely not.”
But Michael was there, devil on his shoulder, pressing another tequila shot into Logan’s wavering hand. You watched, horrified and delighted, as he tried to throw it back and ended up gagging halfway through, coughing so hard he nearly doubled over. He shoved the glass at Michael, glaring like he’d been personally betrayed. Then he turned back to you, eyes wet, lip trembling. “They’re mean.”
You snorted. “They’re your friends.”
He lunged forward again, pressing his nose into your neck, inhaling so hard it was obscene. “Just wanna smell you,” he slurred. “Smell so good. Better than them. Better than anything.”
You were so drunk you just cradled his head, carding your fingers through his damp hair. “Okay, okay. Calm down. We’ll get water.”
But he refused to let you go. He pressed you into the fridge so firmly your breath hitched, kissing your neck sloppily, moaning in your ear like he couldn’t help himself. You could barely breathe for laughter and heat, aware of your friends cackling and cheering behind you. Somewhere in the din Michael shouted, “Get a room!” and Logan gave them the finger without looking up, too busy dragging his mouth across your collarbone.
Eventually you managed to pry him off with promises of more kisses if he drank some water. He went, whining the whole time, clutching your hand like a lifeline. When you entered the living room for the countdown to midnight and another sloppy kiss, he flipped off Sean with both hands and shouted something incoherent about "stealing his girl" even though Sean was dancing with John and his girlfriend and had never looked more unimpressed.
***
It’s well past midnight, the apartment a humid, chaotic mess of music and half-shouted jokes and the sticky tang of spilled liquor on laminate. You’re trying to catch your breath in the kitchen, plastic cup sweating in your hand, when you hear the hooting and cackling from the living room.
You peer around the corner, and there he is. Logan. Your Logan. Wedged into the battered sectional with half the team draped around him, a joint passing lazily between them. Barrett is narrating something absolutely unhinged, voice pitching up and down, while Michael hoots with laughter. Clayton is half-asleep on the floor, eyes glassy and red. And in the middle of it all is Logan, his long body slouched deep into the couch cushions, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. His hair is messy, flattened where someone ruffled it, his cheeks flushed crimson and eyes glassy, dilated so wide they’re all pupil. He’s giggling like he can’t stop, mouth wet and shiny, hand fluttering to his chest every time someone passes him the joint.
When he brings it to his lips, he misses the first try. Michael roars with laughter, slapping Logan’s knee hard enough to make him yelp and nearly drop it. He fumbles for it with shaking fingers, eyes so wide they look alien, a scared little animal in a snare trap. But then he takes the hit, cheeks hollowing, eyes closing in bliss. The exhale is ragged, smoky, and when he opens his eyes he’s not even seeing them—just staring at nothing, mouth slack.
You feel a cold dread pool in your gut. That’s too much. He’s too gone. You shove your drink onto the counter, stalking forward with your pulse hammering in your ears. When you reach the couch, he doesn’t even notice you at first. He’s blinking slowly, breathing shallow, fingers twitching like he’s forgotten how to hold them still.
"Logan," you say sharply, voice slicing through the din. His head jerks, eyes struggling to focus. He blinks at you with a slack, confused smile, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real. "Hey. Hey, baby. Come on. Get up."
He tries. He really does. His legs kick uselessly against the floor, his arms flailing for purchase. You take his hands, feeling them clammy and limp in yours, and tug. He slumps forward onto you with a groan, forehead knocking into your collarbone. His hair is damp with sweat, the scent of cheap weed clinging to him like a second skin.
"Nnnnn—where’re we goin’?" he slurs against your shirt. His breath is warm and reeks of smoke. Someone hoots from the couch—Michael, probably—but you don’t look back. You just wind an arm tight around his ribs, feeling them flex as he breathes shallow and ragged. "I’m—I’m chillin’, s’good. S’fine."
"It’s not fine," you mutter, voice low but urgent as you push your shoulder under his and haul. He whines, resisting at first, but his knees buckle easily. His weight collapses into you. "We’re going somewhere quiet. Come on."
He’s mumbling the entire way down the hall, limp and boneless, forehead pressing into your temple, breath hot and panting. "Don’—don’ wanna go. S’party. M’partyyyyy…" His voice cracks into a pitiful whine, and your heart twists painfully. You hush him gently, hand smoothing over his side, feeling the tremor under your palm.
You drag him—nearly carrying him—into his little den. His so-called man cave. But really it’s this absurdly gentle space, all warm throws and oversized pillows and three different candles in vanilla and sandalwood that he only lights when it’s just the two of you. There’s a tiny bookshelf in the corner with all the paperbacks he actually finishes, battered spines and dog-eared pages. A battered record player humming with faint static, the pile of vinyls arranged so carefully by mood.
You kick the door shut with your foot and lower him onto the couch. He collapses like a marionette with cut strings, arms falling limp at his sides. His head rolls to the pillow, blinking slowly up at you, pupils so wide it’s all black, the blue a thin, trembling halo. "S’you," he slurs, voice cracking with wetness. "Babe. Babe I—I can’—feels weird."
Your heart aches so badly it’s a physical pain. You drop to your knees beside him, cupping his flushed, sweaty face in both hands. His skin is so hot. His lashes flutter like he’s fighting sleep, or tears. "I know," you whisper, smoothing your thumb over the wet corner of his eye. "I know, love. Shh. You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you."
He whimpers, pressing his cheek desperately into your palm. "I don’—I don’ like it," he slurs, voice breaking. His eyes squeeze shut, two tears leaking free and cutting clean tracks through the flush of his cheeks. "’M too high. Feels bad. Don’—make it stop."
You brush the tears away with shaking fingers, your own throat tight. "I know. I know, baby. Just breathe. Just look at me, okay? Just me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."
He sobs once, a broken little sound, trying to curl in on himself. You push him gently onto his back, tucking the throw around his shaking shoulders. You reach for the old green candle on his nightstand, the one that smells like cedar and moss, and light it with trembling fingers. The match flares and dies, leaving warm amber glow and soothing scent in the air. The static from the record player hisses and pops like a fire, and you keep petting him, gentle and rhythmic.
"Here," you murmur, pulling his hand to your chest so he can feel your heart beating. "Breathe with me, okay? In… and out…" You exaggerate it, deep and slow, and after a moment, he tries to copy you. It’s shuddery, hitching, but he tries. "That’s it. Sweet boy. So good for me."
His eyes crack open, watery and unfocused, but fixed on you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth. His fingers flex against your chest, grabbing for you like a lifeline. "Love you," he mumbles, voice shredded and raw.
You bite your lip against the sob threatening your own throat, leaning in to kiss his damp hair, your lips pressed to his temple. "I love you too," you whisper, voice wrecked. "More than anything. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. Just keep breathing with me, baby. Just keep breathing."
He’s shivering despite the warmth of the room, lashes clumped wetly against his flushed cheeks, eyes struggling to stay open. You can see it building—the way his mouth twists, the soft groan vibrating in his chest. His stomach gives another loud, ominous churn, and he whimpers like a wounded animal.
“Oh God…” he croaks, breath hitching. “I’m gonna—”
You sit bolt upright, looking wildly around the dim little den. Your gaze lands on the battered old trash can tucked by his desk—you lunge for it, dragging it across the carpet with an ugly scraping sound. He barely gets it into his lap before he folds over it with a wet, miserable retch, his whole body curling in on itself. You wince, but your hands move automatically, sliding into that soft, fine hair of his, sweeping it back from his clammy face as he chokes and sputters.
“Shh, breathe—Logan, baby, it’s okay. Let it out, I’ve got you.”
He gags again, fingers scrabbling at the rim of the bin, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. His shoulders jerk with each heave, the wretched sounds echoing off the walls. You feel the way his spine arches under your hand as you rub slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades, voice dropping to that low, soothing hush you know calms him even at the best of times.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. Just get it up, okay? Don’t fight it. I’m right here. That’s it—good boy.”
He shudders, spitting weakly into the bin, making a wounded keening sound that tears your heart in half. The candle you lit still burns on the little table, its warm cedar scent wrapping the room in sleepy hush, but it can’t mask the sharp, acrid stink of sick. You try not to breathe it in, focusing instead on Logan’s shivering form. When he lifts his head at last, he looks ruined—eyes red and glassy, drool slicking his chin, blond hair tangled in damp ropes around his ears.
He tries to speak and his voice breaks on a sob. “’M sorry. I’m so—so gross—”
“Stop that,” you whisper fiercely, cupping his hot, damp cheek. “None of that. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He whines, forehead pressing to your palm, tears leaking freely now, and you press your lips to his temple, feeling the salt on his skin. Your other hand slides down his back, stroking firmly, grounding him. He gives another weak gag and you nudge the bin closer, steadying him as another miserable retch wracks his ribs. You keep your voice steady, calm, even though your own throat feels tight.
“That’s it. Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Good boy…you’re doing so good.”
It feels like forever before he finally slumps back, the trash can tipping sideways onto the carpet. He makes a pitiful sound and wipes at his mouth with the back of his shaking hand, eyes fluttering half-shut. You haul it away quickly, tucking it aside, then sink back onto your knees, gathering him into your arms like you’re scooping up something precious. He doesn’t resist—just melts, all 180 lanky pounds of him draped against you like a boneless cat.
You press kisses into his hair, his temple, the sticky line of his cheekbone. “There we go. That’s better. Shh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
His fingers twist weakly in your shirt, breath hitching in exhausted sobs. “Don’t go,” he slurs. “Please…stay…”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise, voice breaking a little. You shift until you’re half lying on the couch with him, pulling the soft green throw over both of you. He clings to you like a drowning man, nose buried in your throat, the scent of sweat and sick and your stolen shampoo clinging to both of you.
Your fingers card gently through his hair, still damp, the fine strands sliding between them like silk. His breathing evens out slowly, the jerky hitch of sobs tapering into exhausted, damp snuffles. The candle flickers, warm and low, its light dancing on the walls, casting both of you in a sleepy glow.
You can feel the shudder of his ribs as he exhales, voice a hoarse whisper against your skin. “Love you. So—so much. ’M sorry.”
You press another kiss into his hair, squeezing him tight. “Love you more. Nothing to be sorry for. I’ve got you. Always.”
Eventually the tremors in his limbs stop. His fingers relax, curling slack against your side. His breathing deepens, warm and damp against your collarbone. You feel your own eyelids grow heavy, every muscle sinking into the couch beneath you, the hush of the room and the weight of him pressed close lulling you down with him.
You fall asleep like that—tangled together, surrounded by the low glow of candlelight, your fingers still buried in his hair, the scent of cedar and shampoo thick in the air. His cheek is pressed against your neck, breath warm and slow, and even in sleep, his arm is locked around you tight enough that you know he’s never letting go.
You wake to a vicious, throbbing headache that pulses behind your eyes in time with your heartbeat, a relentless pounding that makes you squeeze them shut harder against the early winter light filtering through the blinds. The air is stale with the smell of last night’s spilled beer and extinguished candles, sweet wax clinging in the back of your throat. But worse is the weight draped over you—Logan’s entire lanky form, half on top of you, cheek mashed into your collarbone. He’s drooling, warm and damp, breath hitching in little huffs against your skin.
You groan and shift, and it only makes him grumble in protest. He tightens his arm around you instinctively, long fingers flexing on your ribs, his nose burrowing deeper into your shoulder. A line of cool drool smears wetly along your shirt. You wince, stifling laughter despite the pounding in your skull, and gently card your fingers through his mussed blond hair. It’s soft as silk, damp with sweat at the roots, sticking up in all directions like he’s been electrocuted. When you speak it’s a scratchy rasp: "Logan. Baby. You’re...kind of...soaking me."
He just snuffles wetly, mouth opening with a faint click as more drool leaks out. You sigh, your headache flaring. It takes a careful, painstaking operation to pry him off you—lifting one of his slack arms from around your ribs, shifting his bony knees that have somehow jammed between yours, wincing as he makes sad, wounded sounds the entire time. Finally you ease his head onto the pillow, where he promptly flops with a sleepy whine, lashes fluttering against flushed, tear-stained cheeks. He’s out cold again in seconds.
You take a minute to breathe. Your own mouth tastes like stale vodka and regret. You wipe at your collarbone, grimacing at the sticky damp spot on your shirt, then push yourself up onto shaky legs. The candle is still guttering in its dish on the low table, half its wax melted over the side. You snuff it out with a hiss of your fingers and stand there blinking, pressing your palms to your aching temples. The world seems too bright, too loud, your own pulse a roaring static in your ears.
When you finally push open the door, it’s like stepping into a war zone. The living room is an unholy disaster—cups everywhere, sticky with dried, congealed mixer, beer cans rolling underfoot. Someone’s spilled salsa across the rug in a congealed smear of red and orange. The coffee table is tilted on one leg, with a collapsed folding chair half beneath it like roadkill. There’s a single cowboy boot perched inexplicably on the back of the couch, and the twinkle lights are hanging sad and broken, half of them blinking erratically like a dying star. The air reeks of booze, sweat, and the ghost of weed smoke, stale and sour.
You survey it for a good thirty seconds, lip curled in pure horror. Then you take a single decisive step back. "Nope," you mutter, voice raw. "Not today."
You shuffle back down the hall, ignoring the throbbing behind your eyes, socks scritching on the floor. When you re-enter the little den, Logan hasn’t moved at all—still sprawled sideways on the couch, hair fanned across the pillow in a blond halo, mouth open in a soft, slack O. He’s snoring lightly, one hand curled against his chest like a child clutching a security blanket. Your heart squeezes painfully tight at the sight. Even after everything, he’s so impossibly soft.
You ease back down onto the couch and gently gather his head into your lap. He mumbles something incomprehensible, nose scrunching as his lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake. You start stroking your fingers through his hair, combing out the snarls carefully, smoothing it back from his flushed, vulnerable face. He lets out a small, broken sigh, sinking deeper against you. The room is quiet except for the hum of the furnace and the low hiss of winter wind outside.
You lose track of time like that—just carding your fingers through the fine strands of his hair, pressing your thumb to the arch of his cheekbone, memorizing every freckle, every faint scar. The doorbell of his phone buzzes against the floor, vibrating loud and obnoxious. Logan flinches in his sleep, letting out a pathetic squeak, and you shush him softly, pulling the phone closer. It lights up with "Michael calling."
You hesitate, then swipe to answer with your free hand, pressing it to your ear. "Yeah?"
There’s a beat of surprised silence. Then Michael’s voice, lower and rougher than usual. "Oh. Shit. It’s you. Uh. Hey. Sorry."
You glance down at Logan, who is drooling anew in your lap, utterly defenseless. You brush his hair off his forehead. "Hey," you rasp back, voice kinder than you mean for it to be. "He’s out. Like...really out."
Michael exhales loudly. You hear the scrape of a chair, a mumbled curse. "Yeah. Fuck. Look...I know we’re assholes. I just...I wanted to say sorry, okay? For pushing him so hard. We just...we just want him around more. He disappears for weeks. Doesn’t answer sometimes. It’s...it’s not the same without him."
You swallow, your throat dry and sore. Your fingers never stop moving in Logan’s hair. He nuzzles closer, smearing spit on your thigh. "I know," you say quietly. "He knows too."
Michael sniffs. He sounds uncharacteristically serious. "I know he’s...like that. I just...look, can you maybe...I dunno...tell him to make that his resolution? To come out sometimes? For us?"
You let out a slow exhale, eyes stinging. Logan’s breathing deepens, lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy sigh. You tighten your fingers in his hair, thumb brushing over the pulse at his temple. "We’ll see," you murmur. "I’ll try."
Michael clears his throat. "Okay. Cool. Uh. Tell him...tell him we love the bastard. Even if he’s a fucking hermit."
You huff a quiet, watery laugh. "Yeah. I will."
You hang up without waiting for anything else, letting the phone fall gently to the carpet. Logan shifts in your lap with a soft whine, blinking blearily up at you. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, the blue of them watery and shining like sea glass. His lips are chapped, parted on a shallow breath. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.
"Hi," you whisper, fingers brushing along his cheek. He blinks slowly, confusion melting into sleepy wonder, pupils dilating as he focuses on you. A dopey, adoring smile curves his mouth.
"Hi," he whispers back, voice wrecked and raw. He shifts, burrowing closer, nuzzling into your belly with a pathetic little groan. "Mine."
Your heart twists so hard it hurts. You press a shaking kiss to his forehead, cradling him tighter. "Always," you promise, voice breaking. "Always yours. My little homebody."
reader dated macklin were eachothers firsts and everything but broke up and now she’s dating cooley and it causes that weird rivalry between them but mack still chirps and gets under cooleys skin until cooley sends a (consensual) video of him and reader to shut mack up?
nsfw content below
out on the ice it’s chaos—sticks clattering, skates screeching, logan and macklin locked in this fucked-up dance nobody else can quite parse, elbows thrown, words spat close enough the cameras can’t catch it, just lip-reading fans on twitter posting endless gifs, slow-motion clips of macklin jamming a glove to cooley’s chest, shoving him hard enough to send him spinning, logan right back in his face with that stupid pretty-boy mouth twisted, blue eyes cold and mean, both of them chirping, chirping, chirping, like this is all about hockey, not about you. but every hit macklin throws is a message—every scuffle at the boards, every shove behind the play, every time logan tries to skate away, macklin’s there, stick between his skates, body checking him with a little too much edge, lips moving, saying shit nobody else hears.
and later, after the horn, after he storms off the ice, jersey clinging to his back, face red and hot from adrenaline and something meaner, he gets home and tosses his keys on the couch, doesn’t even bother to do anything else, just peels down to his boxers and throws himself on his unmade bed. the city’s loud outside but it might as well be silent, because all he can see, all he can feel is you, the video burning a hole in his brain, in his phone, in his fucking chest. he unlocks it, thumb trembling, cueing it up, eyes hungry and miserable and so goddamn hard he wants to punch something.
there you are, perched in cooley’s lap, knees bracketing his hips, that desperate, messy hair and your skin flushed, mouth all pouty and pink, making the filthiest sounds he’s ever heard spill from your lips—macklin’s never seen you like this, not with someone else, not with anyone but him, and it’s all wrong and too right, like the part of his life where he was your first, your everything, is being peeled back in layers, exposed under some fucking microscope. you rut yourself on logan, hips grinding, back arching, face twisted up in that way that always made macklin lose it—total abandon, total trust, every muscle in your body screaming for it, pleasure etched in every twitch of your thighs, every frantic jerk of your hips.
he sees the way you move, how you’re not shy about it, not even pretending to hold anything back, not the sweet little good-girl act you played for him at first, but this hungry, ruin-me-right-now neediness, clawing at logan’s shoulders, clutching his shirt, burying your nose in his neck, moaning and gasping, spilling every single sound you have. you don’t care about being quiet, not for cooley—no, you want him to hear it, want him to feel every flutter of your cunt clenching around him, every shudder, every pathetic whimper, your whole body vibrating with it, nerves crackling, jaw gone slack.
macklin’s hand slips under the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping tight around his cock, squeezing, stroking slow and mean, eyes never leaving the screen. his stomach knots—not from jealousy, not just, anyway, but from the sick, raw ache of seeing you like this, the realization that he was the first one to do this to you, the first to feel you like that, trembling and needy, grinding yourself stupid in his lap, soaking his cock with how bad you wanted it, crying his name out in those little gasps that made him feel like the king of the fucking world.
he remembers the first time—your body shaking in his arms, hips moving on instinct, grinding down so hard it felt like you might break him, hands fisting in the sheets, eyes wet and shining and full of awe, letting him see everything, every ounce of pleasure you could give. he sees that now, in the tape, how it’s changed but not gone—how you melt for logan the way you used to melt for him, still that same precious, greedy little thing, desperate for cock, desperate for closeness, desperate for someone to hold you tight and tell you how good you are, how perfect you feel, how much they want to fill you up, mark you up, make you theirs.
logan’s voice in the video is rough, all cocky and possessive, whispering filthy shit into your ear, and you eat it up, mewling and shuddering, body trembling as you ride him, as you rut yourself raw, like you’d let him fuck you senseless forever if he asked. your moans crescendo, sweet and frantic, hips jerking as you chase it, chase the high, chase the edge, and when you come you don’t hold back, not for a second—your head falls back, mouth open, eyes rolled up, whimpering so sweet and fucked it makes macklin’s heart stutter, makes his fist pump faster, hips bucking up into empty air, trying to match you, trying to feel what you’re feeling, wishing it was him under you, his hands marking up your waist, his cock inside you, making you fall apart, just like that.
but it’s not. it’s logan. and he watches you fall apart in another man’s arms, thighs quivering, cunt squeezing down so hard you make him curse, and he can’t look away, can’t stop remembering the way you used to cling to him after, used to let him hold you, all soft and spent and messy, whispering that you’d never felt anything so good in your life. his chest is tight, eyes burning, and he jerks himself off rougher, meaner, biting back a groan as he spills into his hand, messy and unsatisfying, just a memory, just a ghost of what you used to give him.
he wipes his hand on the sheets, watches the end of the tape, logan still buried in you, rocking you through it, whispering sweet shit, your bodies tangled, your voice shaking as you kiss him, both of you sticky and ruined and too perfect. macklin’s throat is raw when he finally looks away, phone still glowing in his palm, your name stinging behind his eyelids, and all he can think is that he was your first, he made you that way, and no matter how many times you do it for cooley, nobody’ll ever know you like he did—not the way you sound when you’re right on the edge, not the way you taste when you break, not the way your body used to beg for him, every single flutter burned into his memory forever.
can u write about Cooley is in relationship with his childhood sweetheart until today and she’s always the favorite among his fans and mammoth fans ? She played hockey before and they always bicker like old married couple sometimes in public…just fun and fluff ? Thank youuuuu ❤️
the thing about you and logan—everyone knows, even if they pretend they don’t. you’re the golden girl of the old neighborhood, the girl with the wicked wrist shot, always chirping from the stands, your laugh carrying over the ice like a bell. logan’s been glued to your hip since he was eight years old, taller than you by a head but never too proud to admit you beat him in mini sticks more times than he’d ever let his teammates know. when you show up at mammoth games in his worn jacket, the fans chant your name louder than his during warmup, and he pretends to scowl, but you see the secret smile he tries to hide in his shoulder every single time.
you were always the favorite. logan’s mom says it’s because you could talk the teeth out of a tiger, but the real reason is how you make everything brighter—team dinners, charity events, the godawful mascot reveal (logan still brings up the time you laughed so hard you snorted blue gatorade out your nose). there’s a highlight reel somewhere of you chirping him from the glass and logan giving it right back, pink-eared and grinning, and the comments are all “just get married already” and “find someone who looks at you like logan looks at her when she’s roasting him in front of the zamboni.”
old habits die hard. you bicker in the grocery store over cereal brands, he claims you only like that team because their jerseys are ugly, you counter that he cries every time you watch the lady and the tramp, which is absolutely true. if he gets too smug about a win, you’ll text him a picture of his first game with a gap-toothed smile and tape on his glasses. he never deletes them. sometimes, standing outside the arena, you’ll squabble about who has the best shot—he’ll poke your ribs, you’ll try to trip him, he’ll catch you easily and swing you around until you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe. people film you sometimes, thinking they’re catching a candid, but you both know you’re just playing the same game you always have.
at home, it’s the same story. you steal his hoodies, he hides your favourite mug, you bake cookies and he eats the dough, you watch his games and he cheers you on at rec league like you’re still ten years old with skates two sizes too big. you give each other grief about everything—who snores louder (he does), who leaves wet towels on the floor (definitely him), who gets more fanmail (you, embarrassingly). but it’s all love, thick as honey, golden and warm. sometimes you’ll catch him watching you, eyes bright blue, and he’ll shake his head, lips twitching, and say, “you’re such a pest,” but then he’s pressing a kiss to your forehead, arms wrapping you up tight. and you know, in the way only childhood sweethearts can, that he’ll never love anyone the way he loves you.
