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.
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.
sometimes logan’s hair just begged for it, the way it fell in messy waves, bright and reckless over his forehead, practically demanding your fingers. tonight the strands are damp from his shower, the blond gone a shade darker where your palms keep sweeping up and dragging through, every movement rougher than the last, and god, the way he shivers when you do it, the way his breath stutters, it turns the air heavy, makes the lamp-glow in the room feel humid and loaded with more than just steam. he’s got you pinned, legs bracketing your hips, his own body low but not heavy, all wiry muscle and that ever-present heat that radiates off him like he’s running a fever. he’s supposed to be in control, the one on top, but you curl both hands in his hair and yank, and suddenly that whole illusion cracks—logan’s hips jerk forward, face scrunched, a flush blooming under his cheekbones, ears burning scarlet.
“jesus, you’re—” he tries, voice coming out strangled, but you tug harder, just to see. his lips part in a soundless gasp, blue eyes nearly rolling. you can’t help it; you grin up at him, wicked and wide, and he narrows his eyes like he’s about to scold you but he doesn’t, because you both know he loves it, the way you can drag a noise out of him that he’d rather die than let anyone else hear.
“you got something to say, pretty boy?” you tease, lifting one eyebrow, twisting your fist a little.
logan drops his head, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, groaning like he’s fighting a losing battle, the low desperate sound muffled against your skin. “keep calling me that and see what happens,” he mutters, but he’s still not moving away, if anything he rocks forward a little, grinding himself down between your legs with a neediness that almost makes you laugh.
you twist again, fingers tight enough that his scalp moves under your palms, and this time the whine that rips out of him is sharp, undignified, almost petulant, a high “nnngh—fuck—” that he tries to smother in the crook of your neck but can’t. you can feel how hot his skin is, every inch of him buzzing like a live wire, and you can’t resist digging in, letting your nails scrape gently at his roots just to watch him fall apart a little more.
“didn’t know you liked it this much,” you taunt, voice syrup-thick, “gonna have to start pulling every time you act like you’re in charge, huh?”
logan lifts his head, red-faced, mouth open, eyes glazed, and he tries to glare but it’s useless—he’s ruined for you already, and he knows it. “maybe i’d be more in charge if you weren’t so—fucking—mean,” he snaps, but there’s no heat to it, only hunger, a breathless kind of need that makes him rut down again, cock pressed right where you want him, shameless about it now.
you let go, just for a second, watching his hair fall back into his eyes, the strands clinging to his temples. he chases your touch, frowning, his hands sliding down your sides to your thighs, squeezing hard like he’s trying to ground himself. “oh, now you want to behave?” you laugh, letting your heel press into his back, urging him closer, “thought you liked getting bossed around.”
he snorts, biting your shoulder, mumbling against your skin, “i like it better when you shut up.” but he’s grinning, flushed all the way to his chest, and the second you grab his hair again—tighter, this time—he makes the sweetest, filthiest noise, this soft, broken gasp that has you aching everywhere. “not gonna last if you keep doing that,” he warns, but his voice is all wobbly, like you could shatter him just by breathing the right way.
“good,” you whisper, licking up the shell of his ear. logan laughs, rough and breathless, hips stuttering, and his next kiss is more like a bite, teeth dragging over your jaw as he mutters, “okay, pretty girl.” you both know it’s true—no one else sees him like this, no one gets to make him blush and whine and snap all at once, no one else gets his hands shaking, his eyes wild, his heart pounding loud enough you can feel it through his ribs. and you never let him forget it, not when he’s above you, desperate and undone, not when you’re tangled together, not ever.
NEED to be sitting in cooleys lap jerking him off while he turns progressively redder and whimpers while hiding his face in my shoulder in an attempt to crawl into me. stopping every time he gets close just to feel him writhe under me and sob as i run a hand through his hair and tell him he’s being so good for me as he squirms at the filth praise i whisper in his ear
(sorry for the spam queen, i’m just horny and high LOL)
nsfw content below... from march 4th i hope ur still around
his thighs are shaking under you, stiff and trembling like they can’t figure out whether to lock up or fall apart, and he’s so warm it feels like he’s burning through your clothes, breath hitching sharp where his nose is crushed into the crook of your neck. you’ve got one hand wrapped around his cock, slow, cruel, rhythm a calculated tease, slick fingers dragging up the underside just to hear the way he gasps—“ahh—!”—and then stifles it with a bitten lip and a broken grunt. he’s trying so hard to stay quiet, his knuckles white where they clutch your hips, eyes squeezed shut like if he concentrates hard enough he can stay still, stay sane, but his hips keep twitching, jerking into your palm like they’ve got a mind of their own.
“nngh—mmmh, f-fuck,” he chokes, voice muffled against your skin, his mouth slack and panting as he tries to disappear into you, curl up and bury himself inside you like he thinks he could crawl under your skin if he pressed hard enough. every time you tighten your grip, just a little, just enough to make his breath stutter, he lets out this tiny strangled noise—“ah! ah—ahh…”—and goes even redder, ears glowing like they’re sunburnt. you swear he’s going to melt through the floor. your other hand cradles the back of his neck, fingers sliding through the thick mess of his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp while you whisper filth into his ear, low and syrup-slow, and he whines like your words alone could finish him.
“so pretty,” you murmur, soft as a knife sliding between ribs, and he fucking sobs. not loud, not dramatic—just this sweet, gasping little hiccup of sound, wrecked and desperate, his whole body curling tighter around you like praise is the sharpest thing he’s ever felt. his cock twitches in your fist and he jerks his hips again, but you stop. not completely. just loosen your fingers, go lazy, drag your hand down with a featherlight touch that makes him buck and cry out through gritted teeth—“nnhhh—please, please, i-i was close, i was—” and you kiss the top of his head like that’ll make it better, like you’re not the one doing this to him on purpose, just to feel him fall apart underneath you like this.
“i know, baby,” you coo, rocking your hips slightly just to tease where his cock’s pressed against the inside of your thigh. “you’re doing so good for me, mmh, love the way you whimper when i stop. so fucking cute when you squirm like that, can feel you shaking, poor thing…” and he whimpers, honest to god whimpers, soft and ragged and helpless, his lips dragging over your collarbone as he mumbles something incoherent—“uhhuhh, can’t—mmmh—can’t take it, please don’t stop again, i’ll be good, i swear—” and your hand tightens again just to shut him up and the sound he makes is not human, high and wrecked and shivery.
he’s rutting into your palm now, desperate and messy, breath hitching into panicked little sobs every time you change the pace. his face is hidden, buried so deep in your neck you can feel every shaky exhale, every moan, every whispered “ah-ah-ahh fuck, please, please—” like he’s praying into your skin. your grip eases again right before he tips over the edge and he screams into you, muffled and pathetic, hips jerking up so hard you have to press him back down. he’s sobbing, real tears at the corner of his lashes, cock twitching uselessly in your loosening fist as he begs—“don’t stop, don’t stop, oh fuck, i’ll die—” and you just hum, comb your fingers through his sweaty hair like he’s the sweetest little mess you’ve ever held, and tell him, again, “good boy. such a good, pretty boy for me.” and he nods like he believes it, gasping against your throat, body a trembling furnace of ache and want.
since logan got a stick to the mouth the other night o can just imagine refusing to kiss him because you want it to heal and he gets super whiny about it causes he’s such a princess
you tell him no and his whole face collapses like you just kicked over his favorite sandcastle, one hand hovering stupidly near his mouth like maybe you'll change your mind if he looks pathetic enough. "babe," he whines—real whine, not the deep, masculine growl he tries to pull when he's in a mood, no, this is straight-up nasal, sulky, lips pulled into a pout and brows drawn in that helpless, wide-eyed disney prince way that would be funny if it weren’t so effective. except tonight it’s not. because his bottom lip is busted, split near the corner like a cruel red smile, the skin puffed and purple with swelling and a bright red slice gleaming through it like a petal slit with scissors. it happened last night, one too many sticks up high and too little self-preservation, and now he’s paying the price.
you cross your arms, plant your feet like a line in the sand. “logan. no. you need to let it heal.”
he exhales dramatically through his nose, blond hair falling in his eyes as he tips his head back against the couch like he's just been told he has three days to live. he's got it loose and down from the tie he wore to practice, soft waves spilling around his neck and over his shoulders like he's posing for a shampoo commercial. you want to braid it just to punish him for being this pretty. instead you flick his forehead, gentle but firm, and he lets out a quiet ow like you hit him with a crowbar. then he looks up at you again, eyelashes so thick they’re practically a threat, eyes the clearest shade of blue you’ve ever seen, stormless and stubborn.
“you kiss my face every morning,” he says, tone offended, like you’ve violated a contract. “you kissed me when i had strep. you kissed me when i was sunburnt and my nose was peeling like a lizard. this is so minor.”
“your lip is bleeding,” you say, pointing.
“it’s not actively bleeding,” he counters, already leaning closer. “it’s just... wet. healing wet.”
“healing wet is worse!”
he blinks at you, tragic and beautiful, pouting with the side of his mouth that isn’t cracked open like a cherry pit. “baby,” he whispers, all reverent need and crocodile tears, “i’m touch-starved.”
you snort. “you got back from practice twenty minutes ago. you’re touch-drunk, not touch-starved.”
“same thing. i’m fading.” he slumps over until his head hits your stomach like a fallen tree, arms winding around your waist, breath hot through your shirt as he mutters, “you’re depriving me of essential nutrients. it’s cruelty. it’s a violation of my human rights. i could report you.”
“oh, shut up,” you mutter, threading your fingers into that ridiculous waterfall of hair and combing through it slowly, tugging gently at the knots like penance. he hums, satisfied, going boneless under your hands like a spoiled cat, rubbing his cheek against your stomach and sighing like this is a last meal. he doesn’t stop pushing it, though—keeps shifting higher, nosing under the hem of your shirt, pressing little, damp, wounded kisses to the warm skin of your side like that somehow doesn’t count.
“this isn’t my mouth,” he whispers, nuzzling. “this is my nose. my nose is fine. i can kiss with my nose. i’m a gentle lover.”
“you are not a gentle lover,” you laugh, tugging on his hair hard enough to make him grunt, and he grins up at you, bruised and boyish and insufferably pleased with himself.
“okay, not gentle, but devoted. passionate. tragically romantic. like—like a man in exile. like a pirate’s bride waiting on the shore—”
“you’re the pirate’s bride now?”
he huffs, offended at your tone. “i have very feminine sensibilities.”
you stare down at him, this absurd six-foot blond glass doll curled in your lap with a cut lip and a very earnest argument for mouth privileges, and sigh. “you’re gonna reopen it.”
“you can kiss the other side.”
“that’s not how mouths work.”
he groans, full-body despair, flopping backwards and pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s battling a migraine. “so what you’re saying is i suffer. in silence. with no affection. just cold rejection from the one person who’s supposed to love me.”
“you’re the biggest baby i’ve ever met.”
“and yet you love me.”
you pause, looking at him sprawled like a prince who’s been cast from his velvet throne, his hair a golden halo against the couch cushion, the corner of his mouth crooked and shiny with ointment, lip swollen but still smirking.
“…i do,” you admit, grudgingly, already leaning down, aiming for the curve of his cheekbone, avoiding the busted parts with surgical precision.
he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering like curtains in a breeze. “tell my story,” he whispers dramatically. “tell the world how i perished, lip untouched, love denied.”
“you’re getting kissed, shut up.”
he grins, smug even through the pain, even as you press your mouth to the safe part of his face and breathe him in—his smell, warm and clean and a little like ice packs and medicated cream. he still tastes like trouble. always does.
there’s something wolfish about the way logan looks at you sometimes, some quiet, private hunger that simmers behind those blue eyes, the sort that tightens the air in the room until your whole body feels it before he’s even said a word. he never means to stare, but he does, jaw set and lips parted, gaze dragging over your stomach and hips and thighs as if he’s measuring you for something he’d never say out loud. when he’s got you in his bed, your body stretched beneath his, legs thrown over his shoulders or spread wide by impatient hands, it’s all instinct, all tension and focus, like the idea of you underneath him rewires his brain and the only thing he can do is fuck you deeper, harder, slow but insistent, chasing some unreachable place inside you that he needs to mark. his breath always gets rough when he pushes in bare, no rubber between you, the warmth of your body swallowing him whole, every thrust punctuated by a low, desperate groan—ngh, fuck, just like that—his hands so tight on your waist you know you’ll be wearing fingerprints the next morning.
he tells himself you’re too young for this, both of you, too much future ahead and too many things unfinished, but that never stops the fantasy from blooming every time he’s buried inside you, sweat running down his temples, his long blond hair damp and wild from your hands clawing through it. it isn’t just about filling you up, not for logan—he needs you messy with him, needs your cunt leaking, needs the proof of what you did together sticky and running down your thighs long after he’s finished. sometimes when he’s close, his whole body goes tense, hips grinding deep, the head of his cock nudging up against your cervix while he pants into your mouth, voice breaking as he grits out, “gonna make you mine, fuck, you feel so good—want you full, want you carrying me, baby, let me—” he never gets further than that before he shudders, spilling inside you, cock twitching, arms locked tight around your torso like if he lets go even for a second, the world will steal you away. afterwards, he always stays buried for a moment, breathing you in, letting his cum seep and drip, watching your belly rise and fall beneath his hand, palm splayed possessively over the soft curve as if he could will something to grow there.
it’s in the way he talks to you, too, the rough edge in his voice when he asks if you like being fucked raw, if you want him to fill you up again, if you like knowing you’re the only one he’s ever let himself go in, over and over, no second thoughts or second guesses. “wish i could keep you like this,” he mutters, eyes glassy and feverish, thumb rolling over your clit until your legs tremble, “wish everyone could see—wish they knew you’re mine, inside and out. fuck, baby, wanna see you round, all swollen with me, wanna know i’m the only one who could ever put it there.” his kisses turn messy and hungry then, teeth scraping your jaw, tongue hot and desperate, like he wants to taste everything he’s just done to you, to claim every inch of you all over again. sometimes he’ll press down on your stomach while he’s still inside, not hard but firm enough to make you gasp, eyes going wide as he feels himself moving in you, as if the evidence of his claim is more important than anything else.
it’s not that logan doesn’t know better—he does, he’s careful, he never lets the game get out of hand, but that longing lives in him like a second pulse, thumping louder every time your body takes him in and holds him tight. some nights, when it’s late and the world is shut out behind locked doors and drawn curtains, he’ll talk about it with his lips against your skin, all low confessions and greedy wishes. “too soon,” he whispers, nuzzling your neck, voice half-ashamed and half-dreaming, “but fuck, i want it, want you, want us to be stuck together for real. you’re already mine but i want it to show—want to ruin you for anyone else.” and then he’ll roll his hips again, slow and thick, fucking his words into you until you’re whimpering beneath him, his hand never leaving your stomach, as if even the ghost of a promise is something he can plant there.
and after, when you’re tangled together, legs sticky, your cunt full and aching, logan presses his mouth to your shoulder and just breathes you in, holding you like a secret, the scent of sex and sweat and something impossibly tender soaking into his sheets, his room, his bones. you know it’s all pretend—just dreams, just the heat of youth and want—but when he touches you like that, looks at you like you’re already carrying him, the line between fantasy and future blurs, and the only thing that matters is the way he never, ever lets go.
