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puck-luck · 10 days ago

Note

i think … a lot … about jack getting pussy drunk and whining whenever you say you can’t take anymore bc he just needs to feel you around him at all times

warnings: sub!jack, use of “miss” in a sir!kink type way, ambiguous “is jack with another girl or not” (up to you. idc which one you choose), sex as therapy <3, begging, dirty talk, praise, references to thigh riding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, oral m!receiving, handjob, fist-fucking, making out, pain kink, unprotected p in v (with creampie), riding, desperate!jack, spit, cum and spit as lube.

pairing: sub!jack hughes x dom!fem!reader

wc: 4,444

It was only a matter of time before Jack came crawling back to you. After all, this is what he does– he gets in a funk or a slump or whatever you want to call it, and then he spends the night with you.

It started as a one-time thing. Then, two times. Then, it became a ritual, almost. Now… well, now, this ritual has grown into one of Jack’s most important superstitions. When he’s not playing well, he comes to see you, and he comes when he sees you, and suddenly– oh! He’s got his mojo back.

Three hours after tonight’s game, another overtime loss that you’re sure Jack blames himself for, he knocks at your door. He’s later than usual, often coming over as soon as he’s able rather than letting a few hours tick by. Still, when the door swings open and you go to greet the boy, Jack’s all over you.

He overwhelms your senses with no preamble. His hands are running over the curves of your body without a set path or plan, displacing your baggy sweatshirt and pulling at your comfortable pajama bottoms. You can taste the mumbled pleas on Jack’s tongue. The begging that doesn’t coat your tongue falls on your ears and Jack is nothing if not persuasive.

“Need you,” Jack says. He finds your hand, clutching your wrist and bringing your palm to his cock. He grinds into your touch. “Fix it. Take it all away, make me better.”

You’ve never liked the way he says that, like your touch is the true fix to every single one of his problems. You don’t like the way Jack asks you make him better because that’s not what you’re doing. Jack treats it like magic, but in reality, all you’re doing is taking control. All he’s doing is relinquishing that control for once, letting his mind finally clear after being run rampant with play after play and mistake after mistake. He doesn’t admit it to the world, but Jack beats himself up after a bad game– and after a series of bad games, he comes to you.

“Okay, baby,” you reply gently instead of scolding him, catching Jack’s hands and clasping them in your own. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll make you come.”

You lead Jack down the hall to your bedroom and you can’t help but wonder why he was late. You’ve been waiting for him for a few days now, knowing that he’s going to need you. You admittedly don’t keep up with the Devils because you’re a fan. In reality, you don’t care about hockey all that much. The exception, as it always seems to be, is Jack Hughes.

Once inside your bedroom, you sit on the foot of the bed. Jack stands before you, eyes darting around the room and coming back to you awkwardly. You tilt your head to the side and fall back into the same role that Jack needs– the authoritarian, telling him what to do. “Are you going to undress for me?” You ask, an air of impatience painting your words. “Or are you going to stand there all night?”

Jack’s eyes widen and he blinks. He pushes a hand through his hair, saying, “Yeah– yes,” before he pulls his shirt over his head by the back of his collar and rushes to remove his pants.

Before he can remove his boxer-briefs, you stop him and beckon him closer. Jack steps forward, between your legs and looks down at you, chest rising and falling evenly, albeit a little fast.

You fit your palms over his thighs and feel him out over the briefs. The strong muscles of these thighs– fuck, you remember the first time you took control, when Jack had finally broken after minutes of trying to maintain a shred of dignity and begged to have his cock inside of you, needing to feel you, but you’d denied him and continued to rut against his quads until you came. Jack had been left straining in his shorts, and when you switched to his other thigh to make it just as damp as the first, he’d come with just one brush of your hand against his length.

You scratch down his thighs and Jack whimpers, his eyelids fluttering at the sensation. Like a good boy, his hands are clasped behind his back. He’s allowing you to do whatever you want– something that you’ve proven, time and time again, is better than when Jack manhandles you onto the bed and takes what he needs. In making him wait, and in making him practice a bit of self control, you give him something he can’t find anywhere else.

Which is why you think he’s here today. Late.

“What took you so long, sweetheart?” you ask, bringing your index finger to the waistband of Jack’s briefs and tracing the lettering there. “I’ve been waiting for you to come see me.”

Jack lets out a breath, his head dipping shamefully. He refuses to meet your eyes.

“Jack,” you say, your tone growing sharp. “Tell me.”

“I don’t want to,” Jack replies. His voice is pouty. “It’s embarrassing.”

You withdraw your index finger from the band of his shorts and bring it to the front of his underwear, tracing over the line of his cock. “Jack,” you repeat, scolding him. “You know that you don’t have to be embarrassed in front of me.”

Jack just whines in the back of his throat, shaking his head. His hair falls forward, into his eyeline, but he doesn’t remove it. He uses the curtain to hide his face even further.

You pump his cock once over the front of his briefs, then pull the waistband down an inch. The tip of Jack’s cock, hard and red and leaking already, becomes visible. Then, you pull back and lean back on the bed, propping yourself up by your elbows. You’re still fully clothed and your legs are crossed, whereas there’s a blush starting to creep down Jack’s neck.

“I can’t touch you until you tell me, baby,” you tell Jack. His eyes find yours, his head barely tilting up, and he already looks betrayed. To make matters worse, you bring your right hand to your stomach, then push it up further beneath your sweatshirt. You sigh and roll your head back as your thumb and index finger find your nipple, pinching it and rolling it beneath the fabric. Just because you can’t touch Jack doesn’t mean you can’t touch yourself.

“Y/N,” Jack protests weakly. He wants your attention back. Sweet boy– he’s never been able to watch you pleasure yourself without feeling left out and neglected. Still, he stands before you with his hands clasped behind his back, cockhead peeking out from his waistband. A dribble of precum has bubbled from his slit and fallen down the underside of his tip, path completely visible to you.

“That’s not what you call me when we’re together like this,” you correct in a bored voice, raising your eyebrows at Jack and bringing your hand to your other nipple.

“Miss,” Jack corrects in a rushed voice. “Please.”

You’ve never been a fan of the word Mistress, feeling like it’s too 1800s-Evil-Vampire, and while you love to take care of Jack, you’re not exactly his Mommy. You’d gotten the idea to be ‘Miss’ when you’d teasingly said “Yes, sir,” to Jack after a session, and he’d slurred out a little fantasy about letting one of his teachers reward him for doing well on a test. Everything seemed to click into place and you’ve been ‘Miss’ ever since.

“Baby, I’m not touching you until you tell me why it took you so long to see me,” you remind him. You take your hand from beneath your sweatshirt and lean back on it, in the same position as before. “Tell me now and I’ll even get my lips around your cock, J.”

Another blurt of precum rises from his slit, his cock twitching in his briefs. “Please, I can’t say it,” Jack fusses, looking away from you and shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t– it’s just stupid.”

“Oh, honey,” you simper, coming back to a sitting position. “That bad?”

Jack doesn’t reply.

You’ve known all along what the problem is– or, at least, you’ve suspected. It wasn’t long after your last hookup that Jack told you he’d started talking to a girl and that he wanted to see if something could work out with her. You hadn’t really minded. It wasn’t like you and Jack were dating or exclusive; you dom him when he needs it and other than that, you don’t talk. It’s pretty much the definition of a ‘working relationship.’

You lean forward and press your lips to Jack’s tip, a chaste and sweet kiss that you might even give his lips when he’s being good for you, or when he needs that extra reassurance. “Let me guess, baby,” you say. “You tried this with her, didn’t you?”

The tips of Jack’s ears turn redder and he nods, in tiny, aborted movements.

Sympathy floods your being. “Oh, sweetheart,” you say with another kiss, flicking your tongue over his slit to collect the precum. “She wasn’t able to take care of you the way I can?”

Jack shivers and shakes his head.

“Poor thing.” You pout at him, then bring your lips to his v-line and kiss there. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you feel better. I’m here.”

You kiss down his abdomen again, finding his tip and fitting your lips over it gently. You suck his cock methodically. You’re not moving up and down. You’re not sucking gently, then harshly. You’re just consistent, creating suction around his tip that slowly brings him closer to the edge. You blink up at him, watching as Jack’s breathing grows more rapid and he has to roll his head back on his shoulders and look up at the ceiling to compose himself. You bring a hand down between his legs and find his balls, palming them and rolling them in your hand.

“Gonna–” Jack warns, his hips twitching.

Moving for the first time, you nod. You squeeze his sack too, just for that extra confirmation, and because you know that it makes Jack jump.

He spills over your tongue, a wanton breath leaving his mouth. His legs are a little shaky as you continue to swallow against him, continue to fondle him over his briefs. It’s only once his breath evens out that you draw back and instruct him to lay on the bed.

Jack follows your directions easily, happy and placated from his climax. He lays back on the pillows, lifting his hips when you tuck your fingers into the sides of his waistband and start to remove the briefs.

You pull your sweatshirt off and fit yourself against Jack’s side, rubbing your palm along his torso before bringing it to the side of his face. Jack’s eyes are hooded and his smile is relaxed, turning to face you because of your guided hand. You bring your lips to Jack’s, rewarding him silently for the way he handled his orgasm. He didn’t thrust into your mouth, nor did he shoot off without warning you. He followed your lead and did everything right.

You continue to touch Jack’s torso as you kiss him, growing bolder in both areas. As you lick over his bottom lip, which is chapped and broken from his incessant worried chewing, you thumb over his nipple. That draws a hum from Jack, so you do it again, feeling the sound vibrate between your bodies and rumble against your lips.

The kisses are lazy and Jack is insatiable but submissive, sucking on your tongue and capturing your lips sweetly because you’re allowing him to do so.

“Thank you, Miss,” Jack murmurs against your lips.

“You’re welcome, J,” you reply at the same volume. “But we’re not done yet, angel.”

“No?” Jack asks, pulling away with a smile.

“Mm-mm,” you say. You bring your lips back to his, then loop a leg around his. The crotch of your shorts brush his thigh, but you’re not planning to do anything with his thighs today. “Just relax and keep kissing me, baby.”

You take his hand and bring it to your chest, encouraging Jack to play with your tits over the lacy white bralette you’d been wearing under your sweatshirt. He enthusiastically does so, shifting his body closer to yours so that his reach isn’t at an awkward angle. Jack’s thumb finds your nipple almost immediately, already hard from how aroused you get seeing him like this, and he toys with you.

At the same time, you’re starting to toy with him. It starts with a light brush over his cock, which is fighting hard to become fully stiff again. You trace your fingers over his tip, mapping the organ as if you don’t know it intimately by now. It’s when you rub a finger over his slit that Jack’s cock jumps and really starts to react.

“Fuck,” he breathes out against your mouth, eyelids fluttering open. “That feels good, Miss.”

“Hm, yeah?” you ask. You rub his slit again, letting your fingernail catch on the divot. Jack’s abdomen tenses and he moans. “Are you going to get hard for me again, J?”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, thrusting his hips up tentatively and pinching your nipple.

“Oh, you want to fuck my hand?” You loop your fingers into a circle around his base, then drag them up to the middle of his shaft. “Make yourself feel good ‘til you’re ready to come again for me?”

Jack’s eyes light up. “Yeah,” he repeats. “Can I?”

You chuckle fondly pushing yourself up onto your elbow and planting a kiss on the tip of Jack’s nose. “Yeah, baby. Show me how bad you want to come, okay? Don’t stop ‘til you’re almost there.”

Jack nods, his head swiveling up and down until you give his cock a squeeze and prompt him to begin. It’s then that his head falls back on the pillows and his hips start to move, abdomen flexing and tensing with each thrust.

You watch his stomach for a minute, watch the abs appear and soften with each twitch of his hips. Jack’s cock is steadily, but surely, coming back to its full length. His breath hitches on a particularly rough thrust, faltering until you tilt your chin up and smooth a kiss onto his neck, right over his pulse point. Jack gasps and begins to pump his hips harder, faster.

“Shit.” He chokes on the word as you suck a bruise onto his neck, your movements slow in contrast with his own. “Do you want me to–”

“Does it feel good, my love?” you ask, whispering the pet name in Jack’s ear before nibbling on his earlobe. You know how crazy he goes for it, even despite knowing that you both crave nothing more than what you have in bed, in this relationship. Jack isn’t your love, but nothing makes him fuck you like hearing you say that.

His breath turns into a weary pant. “Fuck, Miss, I’m going to come if you say things like that,” he whines, his hips blurring in your peripheral vision. You’re watching the sweat bead at his hairline and his eyes squeeze shut in pleasure, especially as he gets close.

“Make yourself come all over my fist, J,” you command sweetly, tightening your grip on his cock until Jack’s mouth falls open and his head tips back. His hips never stop moving, not even when the first spurt of cum escapes from his slit and starts to run over your fingers.

Jack is making sweet little noises as he uses your fist to extract all the cum from his cock, whimpers that have you pressing kiss after kiss to his neck, jaw, and cheek.

“So good, baby,” you praise under your breath, just loud enough that Jack can hear it. “That was perfect. My sweet boy, coming for me just like I asked.”

He needs praise when he comes to you, and you’re never shy about giving it to him. In the beginning of your relationship, it was hard for Jack to listen to your commands and anticipate what you wanted. It was hard for him to be good, even though he wanted to satisfy you. Jack had been active for years before he met you, and he was always an equal partner or the more dominant person in those relationships. With you, it’s the first time that he’s been so reliant on another person to bring him pleasure, to know what’s best for him. It took time, but you’ve both figured it out by now– and you know what he needs.

So when his hips stop moving, and his breath starts to even out, you use the cum on your hands like lube. You keep stroking his cock, your grip as tight as it was when he came.

“M-” Jack stutters, his eyes wild when he finds yours. “Miss?” he asks.

“Hm?” you reply, focusing on his cock and the way that you’re preventing it from softening, continuing the stimulation so that it remains erect.

“Fuck- it, oh my God,” Jack lets out, his breath heaving out of him like he’s been punched.

“What is it, baby?” you ask, pretending like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. You’re not a fool– you know that it’s hard for men to come multiple times in a night, much less one right after the other. That sort of thing feels impossible, biologically unfathomable, but you’re determined to pull a third from Jack tonight.

“It- it’s too much,” Jack whines out, voice breaking. “Miss, fuck, that’s too much.”

“Do you want me to stop?” you ask, twisting your hand around his tip before pressing the tip of your thumb to the crown of his cock. You press into the underside, massaging the sensitive skin, and stare at Jack expectantly.

“No, fuck, keep touching me,” he begs, despite the way his hips are twitching on the bed, away from your touch. “I can- I can come again. Please, in your pussy? I’m… ‘m being good.”

“Are you?” you tease, squeezing Jack’s shaft before you resume working over him. “Or are you trying to tell me what to do?”

Jack flounders for a second, opening his mouth and closing it with no sound escaping.

You quirk an eyebrow and lean down, letting a line of spit fall onto the head of his cock. You rub a bit of the liquid against Jack’s slit, which has his eyes rolling back, and then you use the saliva to make the movement of your hand easier.

“No, no, whatever you want,” Jack says, the words coming out in a rush.

“That’s right,” you say. You come up and kiss his lips, plush and slack beneath your own. He’s losing himself a little bit, so you’re determined to bring him back to center. “I know you didn’t mean to demand anything, baby.”

“No, was an accident,” Jack agrees. “Didn’t mean it, Miss, honest.”

“I know, sweetheart, it’s okay,” you tell him. You kiss him again, briefly, and Jack returns it this time. He’s desperate to prove himself and demonstrate how good he can be. “I was going to give you my pussy anyway. Do you want to make me come, J?”

“Yes.” Jack nods, wildly, touching your sides and trying to pull at your pajama shorts. “Want you to feel good too, Miss.”

“That’s my boy,” you say with a smile. “My good boy. Always so eager to please.”

“Mhm,” Jack whines, pulling you close and kissing your neck. “Need it, need your cum. Wanna feel it around me.”

God, when he starts to really lose his inhibitions, his words sound that much better. He’s begging you and you’re not even on top of him.

His cock is still hard enough for you to slip it inside, so when you’ve managed to remove your shorts and panties, you straddle his lap. You hover above him at first, holding Jack’s base and drawing his tip through your wet folds. Despite not touching yourself so far at all tonight, you’re dripping for Jack. This– what you have going here– is incredibly sexy.

Jack bites his bottom lip to suppress a whine, which is when you finally start to lower yourself.

At first, you let his tip breach your hole. You stay there, adjusting to the intrusion and flexing your muscles around his sensitive cockhead. Jack’s bottom lip shakes from the effort of staying quiet, still trapped between his teeth, and his eyes are silently begging you to keep going.

So you do. You continue to sink lower, and lower, taking your time with his cock. It’s a few minutes before you sink down on him until you’re flush with his hips.

Jack takes a shaky breath and looks up at you, eyes bright and dazed from the oversensitivity he’s experiencing. You watch his pupils dilate when you clench down on his cock, then how they return to their previous size when you relax. His hair is curling in clumps over his forehead, cheeks and nose dusted in pink blush. Jack’s mouth stays open as you start to move, grinding against him.

You keep your hands on his abdomen to steady yourself, moving your hips in sensual circles until it’s too good. You start to need more, so you begin to rise and fall on Jack’s cock, fucking yourself in short strokes at first, although they grow deeper and deeper with each pass.

Jack’s hands come to your hips and rest there, not quite guiding your bounces but certainly feeling the way your sides flex and move. His eyes roll back into his head, mouth parted wide in a silent scream. His eyebrows draw together and he gasps for breath.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart?” you ask coyly, knowing that Jack can’t decide how it feels. The pinch of his eyebrows spells pain, but the way his hands touch you and pull at you tells you that he wants nothing more than to have you atop him, gripping his cock with your gummy, wet inner walls. “Do you think you can come one more time for me?”

“I don’t know,” Jack admits in a shattered voice. “‘s hurting, but I want to, I wanna come…”

“Oh, it’s hurting?” Your voice is wracked in sugary-sweet, sarcastic sympathy, slowing your hips and rising off of Jack, leaving just his tip inside. You lean forward, his cock millimeters from slipping from your warmth. “I don’t want my baby to be in pain, maybe you can get me off another way.”

“No, no–” Jack yelps, his eyes flashing open and his fingers digging into your hips. He uses his strength to drag you back down onto his cock, until it’s sheathed inside of you again. “No, Miss, please, I’ll be good– I promise I can come again, please, I need your pussy–” He thrusts up once just to show you that he can, cutting himself off with a loud moan.

“Begging for me, J?” You tease, touching his bottom lip and rocking your hips.

“Yes, Miss, fuck, I need it, I need to be inside you, can’t be good without you,” Jack babbles, saying everything that comes to mind. His hips are still moving into yours and it feels good, and he’s so desperate to show you what he can do, that you don’t berate him for taking matters into his own hands.

You lean down to kiss him, squishing his cheeks together between your thumb and fingers. Jack whimpers and kisses back, his thrusts more like involuntary shudders. His tip brushes your g-spot and, in a welcome turn of events, stays there. It nudges your spot with each aborted thrust, bullying the spongy area inside of you and making your own mouth fall open.

Jack licks inside. “Please,” he keens before tangling your tongues. His hips pull you down, in time with the shallow movements. “Miss, please.”

“Keep going, baby, you’re going to make me come,” you tell Jack in a soft voice, petting over his features and smoothing his sweaty hair out of his face. You touch his lip again and slide a finger onto his tongue, which Jack takes and sucks like he’s latching onto your nipple. Your stomach jumps at the sight and you sigh, a noise that spurs Jack on even further.

He clutches your sides desperately and breathes heavy around your finger, his mouth falling open when you squeeze his member with your cunt. You take advantage– removing your finger from his mouth and lowering down until your lips are an inch away. You gather some spit in your mouth, emulating the Jack that you see on the ice whenever you watch him play, and direct the wad toward his tongue.

Jack seizes when it hits, his cock pressing as deep into you as it can go. Cum flows from his tip, a weak stream from having come twice already in the night, but it fills you regardless. It hits your spot, and Jack’s cock jumps inside you, unable to stop twitching from oversensitivity.

As his eyes go starry, probably seeing white from the strength of his orgasm, you fall apart on top of him. Your own climax hits you like a brick wall, making you throw your head back and grind on Jack’s length. You have to ride it out– regardless of the desperate, pained noises Jack is making– and it has never felt better.

“Miss, fuck, oh–” Jack repeats mindlessly, even after you pull him from your entrance and fall into his side. You’re a mess, leaking all over your clean sheets, and Jack is no better. He’s sweaty, covered in a light sheen, and his skin is splotchy with the blush that crawled down his neck with each orgasm. “Fuck, I… I don’t even…”

“I know, J,” you coo softly, petting over his hair. You brush your lips over his cheek. “You don’t have to say anything, angel. Let’s go to sleep, baby, let me cuddle you all night.”

Jack curls into your touch, throwing his arm over your waist and shoving his thigh between your legs. He buries his head in your neck and kisses it softly, holding you tightly until he falls asleep.

You expect that he’ll be gone in the morning, like he always is. For now, you pet his hair and whisper soft praises in his ear until his breath is even and quiet and he’s fallen asleep, body wrapped around yours.

#puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#jack hughes #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes smut #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x y/n #jh86 #sub jack agenda!#nhl #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #hockey smut

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sceletaflores · 3 months ago

Text

it’s the easiest thing (just love me and eat me)

pair: logan howlett x mutant!fem!reader

wc: 6.1k

anon says: nat pls speak on sub!logan...people are hating on the sub!logan agenda and someone needs to show them that they're wrong and it can be done cuz if anyone can convince them it's you mommy!

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, crimson! again! she's back!, slight angst, swearing, violence, light gore, somewhat dark content, religious symbolism? (idk this one got weird babes), established relationship, lowkey a toxic relationship but you didn't hear that from me, sub!logan-ish, handjob, p in v, slow sex turned rough, unprotected sex, riding, creampie, pain kink, scent kink, blood play, blood...eating (drinking? idk), porn with a tiny bit of plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: anon i'm so sorry this took me so long...i hope it was worth the wait! it started as a short smutty drabble that somehow turned into…this? idk it got out of hand so fast. i am a proud member of the sub!logan nation but that's mostly because i think that ALL men have the potential for sub vibes like doesn't matter who he is if i want to fuck him he's probably a little subby. special shout out to my baby boo and fellow sub!logan truther @avocado-writing <3 tysm for sharing anon! xoxo mwah.

dividers by icon @saradika-graphics!

psst! want more logan and crimson? here's the to the bone au masterlist!

it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…

The team had a big scare earlier in the day.

It was supposed to be an easy mission, bust a mutant trafficking ring in Albany. You do assignments like these every week, and as sick as it sounds, it’s almost routine.

But this one was different. It was an ambush, and you were compromised.

Only humans, but they were smart. Waited until the team split up to attack. They had tech, things you'd never seen before.

Big guns loaded with tiny darts full of an ominous red liquid.

It was your fault really. You didn't clear your surroundings, so focused on getting to the kids that you let yourself get sloppy.

The tiny sting in your back barely registered, you don't think you would have even noticed if it didn't kick in so fast.

You'd never felt anything like it before in your life.

It didn't hurt. The rush of pain you braced yourself for never coming.

The sensation was strange—like your body was shutting down, piece by piece. You fell to your knees, shaky legs folding under you in less than a second.

You felt empty, wrong. An eerie silence trickling in to fill your insides.

Panic bubbled beneath your skin, but you were too numb to feel it. Trapped in the mounting weight of your limbs, the slow blink of your eyes, the shortness of breath despite hardly moving.

Your hand slipped across the gritty cement, reaching for support that wasn't there.

That was when you saw it, the shock of it was enough for your heart to drop. Your skin, blanched and sallow, the veins in your arms black and spreading like spilled ink.

You tried to fight it, tried to will your body to move, to react, to do something. You had to get up. You had to. The kids.

As hard as you willed yourself, there was nothing. It was like your body wasn't your own, like it had become something completely foreign.

You could barely make out the tiny voices calling for you. Pleading, frantic yelps of your name fading into a dull hum as everything went hazy. The edges of your vision blurring into a narrow tunnel.

He stepped in front of you, the same one who shot you. A cynical grin on his face and collar in his hand. You'd seen collars like it before, used on mutants to muzzle their abilities, to weaken them.

You tried, fingers barely twitching by your. Nothing. Just another shock of that cold, unfamiliar feeling shooting through your body.

“Got a big one, boss.” The man boasted into a comm strapped to his wrist, his voice sharp and grating. He took a single step towards you, smug grin still stretched across his face. “Yeah, real nice lookin' one too. She'll sell for—“

A muddy roar pulsed through the molasses filled haze of your ears, six claws flying through the air to embed themselves on either side of the man's skull with a wet, stomach-churning sound.

The collar dropped from his slackened grip with a dull bang, shattering into different pieces that slid across the floor haphazardly. A mess of wires and metal.

There were rushed footsteps before he dropped to his knees in front of you, his torso bathed in a dull glow from the overhead lights yellow shine.

There was blood splattered across the side of his face, slicking the front of his suit enough to reflect light off the leather.

Logan, perched in front of you like an angel.

Not one with a golden halo and a harp, but a indescribable mess of eyes and wings looming over you calling 'be not afraid'.

You'd never seen him so shaken before. All wide-eyed and pale as he checked you over for any major injuries. His breath coming in short bursts, hands frantic and shaky as they skated along your body for the viscosity of blood or uneven shift of a break.

He refused to let you even try and walk on your own, swept you off the floor and cradled your trembling body to his chest as he called for help. The beat of his heart was fast beneath your cheek, strong enough that you could feel it even through the thick leather of his suit.

You buried your face deeper in the crook of his neck, the pit in your stomach barely warmed by the feel of him. His scent is strongest there, so much so that in a room full of spilled blood, you could only smell him.

He was careless stepping over clawed up bodies littering the floor like a messy maze of twitching limbs and entrails. You didn't even know there was more than one guard in the room.

The evidence of his love for you, of his devotion, oozing red on the concrete.

Logan didn't even give the carnage a sideways glance as he raced you outside, back to the jet.

Trusting Scott and Jean to take over getting the kids out. The unsteady murmurs he pressed to the top of your head the last thing you heard before there was nothing.

You woke up six hours later.

The sterile hum of medical equipment was the first thing you heard. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled your nostrils, and the faint pressure of a needle in your arm confirmed that you were hooked up to an IV.

Your muscles felt heavy, like someone had filled them with lead. But you were alive.

You could feel your body working overtime, fixing itself. The sickening shift of your insides falling back into place.

It took a few more moments for you to realize you weren’t alone.

A low, familiar rumble caught your attention. You turned your head to see Logan slumped in a chair by the bedside, his face buried in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. His hair was mussed, his usually sharp features softened by exhaustion.

He looked different, smaller, as though the weight of what happened was pressing down on him, making him fold in on himself.

You’d seen him bloody, beaten, on the verge of death, but you’d never seen him like this–completely and utterly human.

Your throat was too dry to speak, but a small sound escaped you, and Logan's head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and in a heartbeat, he was at your side, his large hands hovering over you, unsure where to touch, like he was afraid you’d shatter under his fingers.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. His voice was hoarse, cracked with a mixture of relief and something else, something deeper. His eyes darted over your face, your arms, as if memorizing every detail just to make sure you were real.

“I'm sorry,” you managed, your voice barely more than a rasp.

Logan's eyebrows furrowed, the lines in his forehead deepening. "What the hell are you apologizing for?" His voice was gruff, but there was a tenderness beneath it. A gentleness he only reserved for you.

Your lips cracked into a weak smile. "It was my fault. I messed up."

A growl rumbled low in his chest, and you could feel the anger simmering just beneath his skin, not at you but at the situation, at whoever had dared to hurt you.

“Don’t,” he said, voice like gravel. “Don't start, none of this is on you.” His voice softened slightly as he leaned closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping you. “What matters is you’re here.”

The reassurance wrapped around you like a warm blanket, grounding you.

Logan’s thumb traced the line of your jaw, his touch sending a spark of warmth through your veins. “When I saw you on the floor like that…I thought—” He shook his head, jaw clenched as he forced himself to meet your gaze again. “I thought I lost you.”

Your fingers twitched slightly, managing to catch his wrist, squeezing it with what little strength you had. “I’m right here,” you said softly, voice clearer than before. “I’m okay.”

Logan’s gaze softened again as he looked down at your hand, his rough exterior cracking just a little more. He gently pried your fingers from his wrist and pressed your hand to his chest, right over his heart. “You scared the hell outta me, you know that?”

You tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a breathless huff. “Didn’t mean to.”

He shook his head, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You never do.”

You were fine an hour later.

The color of your skin had returned, glossy and like new. The hollow emptiness inside of you long gone. Your abilities passed every test Charles threw your way with flying colors.

Fully recovered and finally excused from the med-bay after Hank and Jean checked you over one last time, you were given your strict marching orders in the form of extra fluids and bed rest, no matter how much you argued that you were fine.

Your health was the last thing on your mind, just a distant phantom ache each time your eyes would find Logan.

He was still shaken up, even after all the reassurance from Charles and Hank. He kept close the rest of the day, hovering, his presence more protective than usual, but he didn’t talk much.

You could see it in the way he moved, slower, less sure, like he was carrying around something too heavy to shake off. It lingered in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands flexed as though still looking for something to fight, to protect you from.

It wasn’t hard to guess what it was.

You hated seeing him like this, burdened by a guilt he didn’t deserve.

It gnawed at you, that heaviness. The way he started to shut down, to close himself off in the face of fear. It was the only way he knew how to cope.

After seeing him like that, bed rest was the last thing on your mind.

You knew Logan. Knew what he needed when his thoughts got tangled up like this, dragging him under. He wasn't the type to sit and talk through it, not easily anyway.

And even though you know he’d never ask for it himself, you knew what he needed—to be reminded, physically, that you were still here, still his.

Later that night, when the mansion had quieted and the others were tucked away in their rooms, you found him exactly where you thought you’d find him—in the room you shared, sitting on the edge of the bed. The yellow light from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across his face, the tension in his jaw still there.

A frown tugged the corners of your mouth as you moved towards him, catching his attention with the rustle of the sheets as you sat next to him.

“Logan,” you say softly, breaking the stillness. He doesn't respond, only the slightest twitch in his shoulders indicating he even heard you. “Hey,” you try again, your voice a little firmer this time.

He turns his head just enough for you to catch the edge of his profile, the crease between his brows, weariness etched into his features.

But he still doesn't speak.

You shift, moving closer until your fingers brush his arm, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt. “Look at me,” you whisper, and finally, his gaze lifts to meet yours, guarded and pained. “I’m fine. I’m right here.”

Logan shakes his head, bringing a hand up to run it through his already messy hair. “You could’ve died,” he bites out, tone rough and low. “We should've never fuckin' split up. I should’ve been there faster, sooner. I should’ve–”

“Logan.” Your voice cut through his, sharper than you meant it to. You catch his hand in yours, thumb brushing against the pulse point of his wrist. “You saved me, I’m not going anywhere. I need you to hear that.”

He meets your gaze then, eyes dark with something vulnerable, something raw. He nods weakly, like he only half-believes it. You can still see the hesitation swirling through his eyes, the reluctance in the stiffness of his muscles against yours.

He needs something more than words, something to bring him back to you.

With that, you move to straddle his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. His body stiffens under yours, his breath hitching slightly as his hands fall to your waist almost instinctively.

“Hold on,” Logan starts, tone hesitant and hands light as they hover over your hips like he’s still scared to touch you. “You heard what Hank said–”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, finality lacing your tone and leaving no room for argument. You reach down, taking his hand in yours and bringing it up to press flat directly over your heart. The very same way he did your first night together. "Can you feel me?”

The question hangs between you, soft but weighted with purpose.

Logan’s breath catches in his throat, fingers splaying wider across your chest. The heat of his palm sinks through to your skin, lighting a fire in you.

The steady beat of your heart under his touch is an undeniable reminder–alive, strong, with him. You can feel him relax, just a touch.

The tension in his muscles breaking down beneath you piece by piece as the rhythm grounds him, helps to pull him out of his spiral.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely audible. His eyes drop to where his hand rests, his thumb absently grazing the space just above your sternum. “I feel you.”

“Then trust it,” you murmur. “Trust me.”

A deep, slow breath escapes him, and something in his eyes softens just enough. You lean closer, your fingers trailing up his arms, over his shoulders, until they thread into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You smile softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. He sighs deeply, leaning into your touch like a dog starved of attention from its master. His grip on your waist finally tightens, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to feel that edge of need—the need to let go.

“You’ve been taking care of me all day,” you murmur, scratching your nails along his scalp softly. “Now let me take care of you.”

You feel him shudder, a weak groan escaping from his slack lips. His hazy eyes search your face, pupils blown out and seeping into the warm hazel color like an oil spill over a lake.

You tilt your head, lips grazing the stubble on his jawline, moving slowly, deliberately, until you can capture his mouth in a kiss.

It’s soft at first, gentle, but you feel him melt into it, the sharp edge of his restraint crumbling as he kisses you back with a kind of hunger that fuels you.

Logan’s hands slide up your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as you take control, deepening the kiss, coaxing him further into the moment.

His mouth is warm and wet and urgent against yours, the scrape of his teeth along your bottom lip sends a thrill down your spine.

His lips move over yours with a reverence that makes your chest tighten, as if each slick glide of your lips together is an apology, a promise, and a plea all rolled into one.

But you don’t want his apologies. You want his surrender.

His breath stutters in his chest when your fingers twist in his hair, tugging just enough to remind him who’s in charge tonight.

When your hand finds his chest, pushing him down gently, he goes without protest. His eyes never leave yours as he settles against the pillows, following your every movement as you crawl closer.

Climbing over him to perch on top of his thighs, you waste no time in reaching for the hem of his shirt, gently tugging on it in a silent question. Logan’s breath comes in shallow puffs as he nods, fingers twitching on your hips.

You can feel the way his chest rises and falls under the tips of your fingers, the sharp intake of air when your hands ghost across the skin of his lower stomach as you lift his shirt up and over his head.

You toss it over your shoulder carelessly, it lands with a muted thump somewhere behind you, leaving his chest bare. His muscles taut and rippling as he forces himself to stay still, the dim light plays across his skin, highlighting the contours along his torso.

You take a moment to just admire him, trailing your fingers along the familiar planes of his skin. Your touch is feather light, tracing over the spots that should be littered in scars.

The place in his shoulder where he got shot two weeks back, or where the loose shrapnel that embedded itself in his side on the last mission should be, or the skin where his shoulder meets his neck after you dug your teeth into it hard enough to bleed a few nights ago.

The way his body responds to you makes your pulse quicken—the way he finally relaxes completely under your touch, melting into the mattress.

You continue your path down, fingers slipping through the ridges of his abs, scratching your nails through the dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his bottoms teasingly. The muscles of his stomach jump under your touch, the power of his need thrumming beneath your touch.

You drag your hand over the hard length of him, his cock thick and hot as it twitches beneath your fingers. There’s a sharp hiss bleeding through grit teeth as his hips twitch up off the mattress ever so slightly.

You lean forward, hiding a small smirk in the crook of his neck. “Logan,” you whisper, voice dripping with intent, “I want you to beg for it.”

A deep, guttural growl rumbles through his chest. It shakes your body like thunder, finding a home between your thighs. Logan’s head falls back against the pillows, exposing the tan column of his throat to your hungry gaze.

It’s almost immediate, your reaction, your bodies reaction. The pulse of your blood starts to simmer with that telltale heat, slowly bubbling beneath your skin in anticipation.

Your gaze traces along where the vein of his jugular presses against his skin enticingly, barely suppressing a full body shiver at the sight.

You slip your index and middle finger beneath his waistband, brushing against his hard cock with barely any pressure. His hips buck up again, seeking more friction, but you pull back slightly, making him chase it.

“I said beg, Logan,” you murmur, your voice low, teasing, a sharp edge to it now. Your free hand comes up, gripping his jaw tightly, forcing him to look at you.

His eyes, dark and blown wide with lust, meet yours, and you can see the war raging inside him—the urge to dominate, to take control—but then he’s giving in to you, surrendering so beautifully.

“Goddamn,” he rasps quietly, his voice rough, broken. It’s barely a word, more of a growl torn from his throat. He bites it out, quiet and foreign sounding coming from his tongue. “Please, I need—”

“Good boy,” you purr, and finally, drag the soaked fabric of his bottoms down. His cock springs free, slapping against his stomach lewdly.

You moan softly, deftly wrapping your fist around him loosely. Logan groans, you swear you can hear his teeth grind together at the first feeling of your touch where he wants it most.

He’s scalding to the touch, velvety skin throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Rock-hard and flushed an angry red, darkening even more the closer you get to the tip.

You keep the pace of your strokes tortuously slow, letting him feel every movement, teasing him. It’s addictive, watching the way he starts to unravel beneath you at the slightest touch.

His legs kick out against the mattress minutely, hands falling from your hips to grip the sheets as hard as he can in a failing attempt to calm himself.

You lean down, slick lips brushing against his as you speak, your voice soft but commanding. “You’re going to let me do whatever I want to you tonight, aren't you?”

Logan nods, his breath coming in quick pants, his sweaty chest rising and falling rapidly. “Yes,” he chokes out, eyes brimming with need. “Fuck, do whatever you want, baby. I’m yours.”

The usual dominance he carries like a second skin has been peeled away, leaving him vulnerable, laid out beneath you, at your mercy.

Your hand speeds up, grip tightening as you twist your wrist over his leaking tip. Your knuckles shine with pre-come, slick from the gratuitous amount of wetness steadily drooling out.

“You’re being so good for me, Logan,” you whisper, your voice soft and laced with praise. “So good, letting me take care of you like this.”

His response is a loud moan, his hips arching up off the bed, but you’re quick to press them down with your free arm, your thighs tightening around him.

“Not yet,” you warn, strength on display as you stop his movements. “You’ll come when I say.”

A strangled sound escapes him, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, and it sends a thrill through you. He’s right there, teetering on the edge, but he’s holding on—for you.

“Poor thing,” you mumble, idly pressing your thumb into his slit, gathering the precome there to spread it along the flushed crown. “So hard, so needy for me.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Logan whines, his head tipping back against the pillows a second times, eyes squeezing shut tighten enough to wrinkle the skin around them.

You smile, your nails digging into his chest as you shift, positioning yourself above him. The heat between your legs is unbearable now, slick all along your inner thighs as it pools from your aching cunt, drenching the soft cotton of your panties.

So desperate to be stretched around Logan’s cock, to be filled the only way he can. You roll your hips forward, the hard jut of his cock sliding through the sticky mess of your panties.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, loud and hoarse. “Fuck, give it to me, I’m ready–”

You press your finger to his lips, silencing him as you hover over him. “Not yet,” you whisper, a wicked grin on your face as you slide your panties to the side and take him in your hand, letting the tip brush against your soaked entrance, still not giving him what he craves.

Your own patience is starting to run thin, but the sound of his begging is too good.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” you say, your voice sharp and commanding as you rub the tip of him along your cunt, teasing. “Tell me what you need.”

He’s trembling beneath you, a soft whimper leaving his lips as you sink down slightly, barely letting him inside. "Please, darlin'," he groans, voice rough with need. "I need to feel you—need you so fuckin’ bad."

You finally give in, sinking down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

His body jerks beneath you, a choked growl spilling from his lips as you take him in, inch by inch. You don’t stop until he’s buried deep inside you, your walls clenching around him as you settle into his lap.

The feeling is overwhelming, the stretch, the heat, the way he fills you completely.

You both groan at the same time, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you roll your hips, savoring the way he pulses inside you, how his entire body reacts to every little movement.

“God, you’re so big,” you whisper, your voice heavy with lust as you look down at where your bodies meet. “You gonna be a good boy and let me ride you?”

“Fuck,” he grits, voice like gravel crunching underfoot.

His hands slide up your back, desperate and needy as they cradle the back of your head softly. “I’d kill them all,” he pants, lips messily searching for your own, desperate for more frantic kisses. “Fuckin’ all of them, all for you.”

You moan loud and unabashed, eyes screwing shut as your nails rake down his chest hard enough to break the skin. The smell of his blood breaks through the air, heady and sharp. He throws his head back, a broken gasp dragged out of him as his hips speed up.

You think back to the room in the warehouse, the floor slick with stray remains and viscera. Think back to him lifting you to his chest, of the blood spattered across his suit and face slipping against your own clammy skin.

Flashes of Logan running to you like a loyal livestock dog, covered in the blood of any wolf that dares attack his precious sheep. Staining the white of your wool red with the righteous wrath of his sacrifice.

You roll your hips faster, bouncing with enough force to have you crying out. The tight suction of your walls pulling him as deep as he can get at this angle.

The coarse hair along his stomach drags against your throbbing clit, making white hot sparks of pleasure zing up your spine to light up each vertebrae.

Logan presses his forehead to your chest, hot breath puffing out over your sweaty neck. You tilt your head to the side almost subconsciously, bearing more of yourself to him.

“Can’t hold back much longer,” he admits weakly, blunt nails digging into your skin sharp enough to sting. “Feels so good, so fuckin' good."

He trails off, face pinched with ecstasy as he gazes up at you. You smile, rolling your hips slowly, tiny figure eights that let you feel every inch of him pressing against your walls.

“You're not supposed to hold back," you whisper, your voice thick with need as you lean down, kissing along his jawline. "I want you to let go, Logan."

His eyes snap open, the hazel gone wild and desperate, and it’s like you can see the exact moment he breaks. The tiniest shred of self control finally crumbling under the weight of his instincts. With a low, feral growl, he surges up.

You’re on your back quicker than you can blink, stomach surging with it. You hardly have any time to react, Logan punching all the air out of your lungs as he sets a brutal pace.

The sudden intensity has you gasping, your body jolting as he takes over, fucking you like his life depends on it.

Each thrust is hard and deep, hitting the spot inside of you, over and over again until you’re a trembling mess above him, moaning his name, your nails digging into his chest.

Logan’s grip on you is ironclad, pulling you back onto him harder, faster, his breaths coming out in ragged pants as he loses himself completely in the heat of your body.

"That's it," you pant, feeling the way your body tightens around him, the tension building deep inside you. "Fuck, Logan, just like that—"

He growls again, the sound vibrating through his chest as he slams into you harder, his pace relentless. You can feel the sweat slick between your bodies, hear the wet, filthy sounds of your bodies coming together as his control snaps completely.

“Mine,” he growls between thrusts, voice low and rough as he pounds into you, his eyes locked on yours, full of possessive need. "All fuckin’ mine."

Your body responds to his words, tightening around him as your orgasm builds, every nerve in your body on fire. "Yes," you gasp, your voice barely more than a broken moan as he hits that perfect spot again and again. "Yours—only yours."

Slowly, deliberately, you bring your hand to your mouth, biting down on the pad of your thumb hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

The scent of iron fills the space between you, mixing with the musk of sex and sweat. Logan’s nostrils flare as he takes in the scent, his pupils dilating further, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you.

You raise your thumb to his mouth, sliding it along his bottom lip to leave behind a thin trail of red. “Suck,” you whisper softly, pressing your thumb into his mouth ever so slightly.

And he does, without hesitation.

Logan’s lips part, and he pulls your thumb into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the taste of your blood. The look in his eyes as he does sends a wave of heat crashing through you.

The pure devotion of the act thickening the air around you to coil the spring of pleasure winding in your lower stomach tighter.

You groan, your own restraint folding like a house of cards as you drag your nose down the column of his throat, stopping right at the base. You press a quick kiss over the rapid fluttering of his pulse before you bite down, hard.

Logan keens around your thumb, teeth digging into your skin roughly as his blood floods your mouth.

You get lost in it, the familiar taste of him seeping onto your tongue as his cock jerks and pulses in your clenching cunt. Getting lost in the way you can feel the rhythm of his heart against your lips, each strong beat sending more blood pumping out to leak along your taste buds.

You press your chest to his, not leaving an inch of space between you. It’s still not enough, it will never be enough.

You need more, so much more.

You want to encompass him completely, to be encompassed by him.

You want to dig your hands into his skin–to peel back each layer of flesh and fat and muscle, snap each of his ribs back so you can bury yourself in the cavity of his chest before you bend them back into place. Burrowing yourself deep enough inside him to watch him heal all around you, to watch his skin stitch itself back together.

It’s a sick feeling, the need to take and take until he has no more left to give. Sick and all consuming, lighting you up like the raging flames of a forest fire that destroys everything in its path.

When you finally pull your hand away from his mouth, he lets out a breathless moan, and you lean down to press your lips against his in a bruising kiss.

The coppery tang of your blood lingers between you, mixing with Logan’s as your teeth clash together violently, as you devour him, pouring every ounce of your control into the kiss.

You press your palm to his chest, powers surging to life over his heart. You don't need to open your eyes to see what you leave behind, the red and blue pulse of his blood lighting up beneath his skin like the neon sign hanging outside his favorite bar.

Logan moans into your mouth, tongue dragging along the point of your canines. "Don't stop," he pleads, “Please, baby, don’t fuckin’ stop.”

You can feel the energy coursing between you, a tangible thing that's threading itself between your fingers. It’s intoxicating, a connection deeper than flesh, a binding of souls fueled by blood and lust. You lean into the heat radiating from him, urging your energy to flow freely, wrapping it around his heart like a warm embrace.

“Logan,” you whisper breathily, breaking the kiss just enough to look into his wild, pleading eyes. “You feel that? You and me, we’re connected.”

“I feel it, honey,” he groans, bucking his hips, forcing you to take him deeper. “You’re everywhere. It’s all I can think about all the goddamn time, drives me fuckin’ crazy.” His words tumble from his lips, raw and unfiltered, sending another thrill of desire through you.

You whine, head tipping back to the ceiling. Drunk of the feeling of him, of his cock, of his blood on your teeth.

You've come to think that being in bed with Logan is like being in church.

There's a holiness to the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing worth believing in.

The familiar weight of his body pressing you into the mattress is the alter. The heat of him like laying in the burning flame of a candle. The strong planes of his muscles each a different scripture that you take in by touch alone, skating your hands over his skin with something close to worship.

Each bead of sweat on his skin feels sacred, a testament to the intensity between you, as though every part of him has been crafted for this moment of devotion.

The hard length of his cock carves a place for itself inside you, each heavy smack of his hips punching another desperate sound out of your slack lips.

His breath, deep and ragged, is a chant that pulls you into reverence. It puffs against the wild beat of your pulse, his lips brushing over the fever hot plane of your skin.

The sound of your name falling from his mouth sounds like a prayer answered.

You can’t help but close your eyes, not in exhaustion, but in a kind of spiritual surrender, like by shutting out the world, you can truly grasp the divinity of it. His blood, mixing with yours on your tongue feels like a sacrament—an unholy communion.

The air between you crackles with heat, your bodies moving together in perfect sync, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. Logan’s head tilts back, his mouth open in a silent scream as he claws at your hips, pulling you down harder, deeper.

“I’m close,” he groans, his voice strained, desperate. “Please—fuck—I need to—”

You reach up quickly, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at you. “Look at me when you fuck me,” you demand, your voice sharp, dripping with authority. “I want you to watch me when you come.”

That’s all it takes.

Logan’s entire body goes taut, a strangled roar tearing from his throat as he buries himself inside you one last time, the force of his release crashing through him. The hot spray of his come floods your insides, drenching your walls in thick spurts of white.

His hands grip you so tightly you’re sure there’ll be bruises blooming later, but you don’t care. You wish they wouldn’t fade. You want them. You want to wear his mark, to feel the evidence of this moment lingering on your skin long after it’s over.

His hips don’t stop even as he comes, a sharp cry ripping its way from his throat as he keeps fucking you, pumping you full of him like he can’t stop.

When you feel him start to lose control like that, feel the frantic twitch of his cock inside you, you finally let go, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. The force of it rips a scream from your throat as you clench around him, your body spasming with the intensity of it.

Your abused cunt gushes around his cock to seep into the mattress, soaking both the sheets and his lower body all at once as you let out a weak mutter of his name.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged, uneven breathing between you as you both come down from the high. Logan collapses on the bed, arms circling your waist to drag you along with him. His cock stays inside of you, plugging you full of his come.

Your body trembles with the aftershocks of your orgasm, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

Logan is warm and grounding under you, soft and lax. You can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath your cheek, and you press a soft kiss to the skin there, a silent reminder.

His hand comes up to thread through your hair, his touch gentle now, his body relaxed in a way that it wasn’t before.

“I love you,” he whispers against the crown of your head, his voice soft, vulnerable in a way that makes your heartache.

You smile, soft and secretive in the valley of his pecs, “I love you too.”

It’s a quiet admission, the first time you’ve ever said that to each other with words. The first time you both felt the need to, because it’s nothing you didn’t already know.

Your blood dripping from his teeth lays the same claim over you as his come dripping down your thighs.

It means you're his, and he’s yours.

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