#my salt wife wanted an expansion on waking in phases and lazy morning ~activities~ so naturally a fic is born!

[domesticatedantelope]

five stages

Pairing: Logan x MC

Rating: E | NSFW, 18+

Word Count: 6,420

Summary: The one where Logan sets a record; or, the five stages of waking up with best boy.

@brightpinkpeppercorn​ @choicesarehard​ @desiree-0816​ @leelee10898​ @client-327​ @navigatorholmes​ @lovehugsandcandy​ @anxious-arliah​ @zaffrenotes

Her abuela had this saying about idle hands.

It tickles at her mind on the third pass of Logan’s fingers down her back, when she is still emerging from the fog of sleep. There is a rhythm to the movement, measured steps to map each beauty mark that dots her skin; she knows them better by his touch than she has ever learned alone. Two below her shoulder blade, and one between her ribs, a scattering that draw his fingertips along well-travelled paths down the curve of her spine. 

Make yourself busy, mijita. The devil will find work for idle hands. 

She remembers staring at the lines across her palms, silk paper skin and soft with youth. She curled them into fists as if her tiny fingers might be strong enough to keep him out. Thinner now, and more experienced with age, but never tougher, always tender, curious and clumsy. What could the devil ever want with hands like hers?

But Logan’s hands -

Older and harder than the rest of him, brutal with strength, yet capable of such adoring reverence when he touches her, Logan’s hands could easily become the harbingers of her descent, could orchestrate her absolute undoing in a heartbeat, eighteen years of busywork and cautionary tales all swallowed up into the bend between his forefinger and thumb. He has the devil in his hands, and nothing but the best intentions built around them. 

One wicked finger twirls and spirals down the small of her back, penning love letters into her skin. They feel like testimony, sacred like confession; someday she may ask him what he writes there, but until then she is empty pages to his worries, content to let him bare his soul across her body with the wordless promise she will keep it safe. 

“You awake?” Pleased and teasing, rasp of sleep. His finger traces out a loop and punctuates it, etching the question soft into her skin.

“Nope.” She hides her smile somewhere in the sheets. They smell like Logan, and like her, like the sex they had here last night, when they fell into the bedsheets and they let themselves get lost, and an ember of that tension smolders once more in the pit of her gut. Like cinders given life again, that need for him is only ever resting, easily awoken, summoned to his touch and stoked to scorching. 

Logan hums against her shoulder, pleasant tremors of his laughter, heady with affection. Breath and kisses temper shivers down her body, and he follows their trajectory beneath his fingers, branching off to curl a hand around her hip and bunch her nightgown underneath his palm. The wet warmth of his mouth descends her spine in gentle presses, and every touch is heavenly, is devilry, is far better than he has any right to be upon first waking. “And now?”

Mercy bites down on a giggle as his fingers zigzag up her side, that roughened touch against her ribs, just short of tickling. “Sleeping like a baby,” she reports, her voice a frail and breathless echo. Too risky glancing back at him; her self-control is tenuous where Logan is concerned, and if she sees that wanting look he gives her - like the force of all his gravity is realigned around the cradle of her hips - no amount of her abuela’s most severe god-fearing proverbs could ever occupy her idle hands. 

The bed shifts when he nestles in behind her, sweeping the mussed tangle of her hair aside to find the space beneath her jaw. “S’that so?” he questions of her pulse, smile in his voice, pausing to scrape his teeth over the heartbeat crashing there before his mouth seeks further down her throat. He’s dangerous this close, all body heat and rhythmic breathing and the tempting stretch of his bare skin against her own. 

“Stage three,” she gasps, sounding far less unaffected than she��d hoped. “At least.” Her focus starts to fray under the lazy circles that his thumb traces along her hip. “And it’ll take a-ah-” his mouth rounds down to suck against her neck, forcing a whine into her breath that breaks her voice, “a m-miracle to wake me.”

“A miracle, huh?” Logan splays his hand over her stomach, and she shudders as his fingertips descend the twitching muscles of her body, slipping down between her thighs with unerring intent. “I know something like that.”

“Logan -” The first few languid passes of his fingers have her panting out his name, clutching the bedsheets between shaking knuckles as he teases that molten touch in against her, too dull and far too distant through the cotton of her panties.

“Mercy,” he answers back, warm with laughter, smothered against the column of her neck before he nudges teeth along her skin. “Mi alma. Do you want me to stop?”

She shakes her head, all pretenses of sleep firmly abandoned for the further promise of his touch. “No.”

“That’s good.” There’s a smile wrapped around his voice. “‘Cause I really don’t want to.” He hooks two fingers past her panties, nudging them aside to find where she is surely wet with wanting, and the groan he bleeds against her shoulder sounds a satisfying confirmation. “Oh my god. Baby.”

With a whimper that borders on pitiful, Mercy wriggles her way back against his chest, where she can feel the hard and eager heat of him scorching between her thighs. He twitches at the contact, breath hitching somewhere close behind her ear as his fingers navigate a careful loop around the hood of her clit. 

“¿Duele?” He murmurs his concern between the loving touches of his lips across her shoulders. His fingers hesitate between her legs, never daring to forge on if there’s even the barest chance that he might hurt her. 

Her heart squeezes behind her ribs, affection singing with its every frenzied beat when finally she twists to face him. The want is dark and heavy in his eyes, just as she expected yet the sight still takes her breath away, and she shivers at the full force of that longing, tracing her fingers in a soothing line down the plane of his cheek. “No, baby. You’ve been perfectly gentle.” When she grins up at him, he matches it, like there is some knee-jerk response that rises in him when he sees her smile. “I’m fine.”

Reassured, Logan works his fingers with increasing urgency, reading every shift in her expression as she bites her lip and writhes under his touch. Those fiendish hands press burning pleasure tight between her legs, deep wrings of heat unfurling from the skilled tips of his fingers. He rests his mouth against her collarbone and slowly kisses his way down between her breasts, nosing the satin of her gown aside when it threatens to hinder his path.

With shaking fingers, Mercy sweeps his hair back from his face, tugging only hard enough to win herself a rumble from the cavern of his chest. She can’t stop the tremble from taking her hips, shuddering with every blazing touch that he paints down her skin, every loving drag of lips and teeth. Logan knows her down to the breath in her lungs, and if she weren’t so consumed, undone, enraptured by his touch, it would be such a treat to witness him at work.

She feels so small under his hands, like she is something fragile he could shatter into pieces, something precious he would never harm. He drops a kiss to the end of her lips before burying his face against her neck, teething at the tender nerves there as his fingers find the dip between the slick folds of her sex and tease at pushing in. The flat of his thumb shapes determined circles one by one around her clit, and then he’s slowly driving in, those wicked fingers never thicker than when they are filling her like this, and she can only grasp her clumsy hands along his shoulders as the splitting pleasure overwhelms her.

A broken noise lifts in her throat. It sounds a little like his name, and Logan smiles, flash of teeth, rolls his thumb and drives his fingers deep until she pleads it again and again, begging for more of him between her shattered gasps. His touch is everywhere at once, and when her eyes slip shut, it’s just the golden honey glow of sunlight bright behind her eyelids, and the endless ecstasy, unraveling and raveling and tearing her apart. 

“Please -” Somewhere among the clouds, she finds her voice again. “Oh, baby, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Like the confessions that he presses to her skin, his voice rings with a truth that feels too pure to ever doubt. The earth will cease to turn around the sun before he stops, and she could almost weep as the careening, plummet-freefall feeling of her climax closes in. With Logan, there is never any hesitation; she sinks into release with open arms and forfeits every fragment of control, and she is flying.

Coming is gentle, soft and calm, and oh, she thinks, like every time he brings her here, I was so right to trust him. She savors the breathtaking peak and lazy river float back down, dust motes slowly realigning into focus in the streams of sunlight overhead as she recovers.

With a breathless smile, Logan flutters kisses down her cheeks and panting mouth, winding an arm around her shoulders to tuck her against his chest. She fits there nicely, lulled to stillness by the warmth of his body and the sleepy, drugging weightlessness that lingers in the wake of her endorphins. When he relinquishes his touch between her legs, even the brief graze of his fingertips still drags a shiver from her body, scattering her weakly gathered thoughts, and she is rendered speechless, blushing crimson as he slips his fingers in his mouth and sucks them clean.

“Logan!”

He grins, lapping delightedly along his teeth. “Yeah?”

“You just… y-you…” Still flushed and stuttering, Mercy can only gesture vaguely at the very pleased expression on his face. 

“You looked so good,” he tells her, licks his tongue over the slick pad of his thumb and hums in satisfaction. “I had to taste you, too.”

Despite the warm flutter of mortification, she manages to smile. “How do you always have the perfect line?”

His arms sweep in around her as he laughs, burying the sound against her skin until she starts to giggle too. “You,” he says decisively, and kisses the corner of her smile, “make it very easy to be romantic.” Then, with a prideful smirk, “That one was pretty good, though, wasn’t it?”

“Extremely,” she huffs, pressing shaky fingers to the warmth under her skin. “Maybe one day they won’t make me blush so much.”

His thumb coasts tenderly across her cheekbone. “I really hope not.”

Another line, and yet it isn’t - none of them are lines, not anymore, just every errant, loving thought that flits across his mind in blind pursuit behind his heart; and Mercy doesn���t know what good she ever did to deserve claiming that prize for herself, but she will spend her lifetime giving back and loving him, if it will keep that smile on his face.

With Logan sprawling out across the sheets, all tempting suntouched skin and stretching muscles and so very much aware of her attention, Mercy thinks that now’s as good a time to start as any. His eyes are black with hunger and fixed firmly on her own as she tiptoes her fingers down the architecture of his chest. Her touch roams lazily along familiar pathways, ribs and muscle, beating heart, the ridges of old scar tissue that split across his side. These she christens with an arc of tender kisses, end to jagged end, humming when his hand winds gently through her hair. 

“I don’t think they’re going anywhere,” he tells her fondly when she glances up at him, the cadence of a joke.

“I don’t want them to.” Her fingers chase the trail she blazed with lips and tongue. “I love all of you, hermoso, just the way you are.” 

Resting on his elbows, want and worship in his gaze, Logan watches her adore the contours of his body with a smile that swells like rising tides around her heart. “I love you,” he answers easily, eyes dropping to hang longingly on the curve of her mouth. “Always.”

Mercy blows him a kiss, and he reaches up to catch it just before she sinks onto her arms and ducks her lips against the tensing planes of his stomach. Black ink spans long and sprawling palm leaves down his hip, and she admires every stretch of frond that marks him as her own. His breath sucks in between his teeth, body flexing as she charts a slow progression lower, lazily approaching where he has been straining, waiting for her, trapped behind the fabric of his briefs. She frees him to the open air and a few teasing curls of fingertips, and then her lips are trailing down his cock, and Logan arches up against her, forcing his hips back against the sheets with a strangled whine.

“Almacita.” The name seems to stick in his throat, thick with need. “Baby, can I touch you?”

“Again?” She laughs, planting languid kisses to the hard, hard heat within her grasp. 

“Please?” Breathless, gasping, twisting fingers at the bedsheets. He stares at her like she might disappear if she is not between his hands, like every line of him is coiled tight with urgency and only Mercy holds the key to his release.

“I’m yours, Logan. You can have me when you want me.”

Like a floodgate lifted - better, broken through - he springs and reaches for her, curling certain hands around her thighs and shifting her bodily over his chest. Mercy squeaks and giggles and clutches at his hips for balance as he coaxes her knees above his shoulders, draping her legs open around his head and claiming for himself the full expanse of both her thighs and everything between them. Warm lips and breath tickle against the tender insides of her legs, that starving mouth wandering higher as his arms lock eagerly around her. 

When he parts his lips against the wet slick of her sex, she gasps and arcs and feels his cock twitch hard between her fingers. Before the first time Logan got his mouth on her, she never thought to want something like this, to make herself so open and so vulnerable, invite someone into that very softest part of her - but this is Logan, and she loves him, and he is so unfairly talented at swaying her away from that cerebral feedback loop she runs around herself that sometimes she can’t sleep at night for craving it. The loss of her control is strangely freeing, letting him reduce her down to instinct and sensation, when her thoughts are only warmth and want and all the many ways she’d like to watch him fall apart.

Draped across his chest, she can feel the muscles clench under his skin as her lips part to take him deep over her tongue. His groan hums low between her thighs, prompting a shiver that leaps swiftly up the notches of her spine. The salt of precum hits her tongue, and jolts of heady bliss expand from where his mouth is hard at work against her skin, burning with all the heat of dying stars. 

There’s a flicker of hot coal pressure when he curls his tongue, something deep and tight, unholy, plunging past her gut and lashing through her like a wildfire. Her mouth lags as she pulls away, dropping slack around a scream as everything shuts out into the black behind her eyelids, and she comes apart once more, rent through with vivid pleasure.

At the sound of her voice breaking, Logan seizes into a tight line beneath her, and she barely has the sense to take his cock between her lips before he jerks and comes and spills across her tongue. Sucking through the headrush of her high, she hums a tipsy sound low in her throat as she swallows him down.

Her body is still wracked with violent after-shivers when she drags herself away, collapsing in a clumsy heap beside him as they fight to catch their breath. 

“Okay,” Mercy gasps, waiting to let another shudder pass before she makes a weak attempt at speech. “Okay… shit.” 

Winded laughter wheezes in his throat beside her. Even now, his fingers wander ceaselessly across her skin, kneading at her weakened legs and the ticklish soles of her feet. Her body feels abruptly far too heavy, anchored in the sheets beneath the weight of her complete and utter devastation.

Postcoital locomotion is a job for stronger women. 

“Babyyy,” she whines instead, a whimpered siren call summoned together with the last wells of her energy.

Devotion heats his gaze as he reaches out to lead her bangs back from the damp skin of her forehead, leagues of softness to his touch in the delicious glow that lingers after coming. “What do you need, beautiful?” 

Logan’s never just asking; he offers, with the smitten, solemn tone of voice that promises the stars and sky if she would just request them.

Her fingers run the wet curve of his mouth, laughter rising when he snags her index gingerly between his teeth. “Help me get clean?”

Four words and one shy smile win her passage from the bedroom to the shower, lazy kisses while the water warms, her hips against the countertop as Logan hauls her onto it and deepens all the points where they connect. He fits himself between her legs and prowls loving hands around her waist, lifting the flimsy satin of her gown away with gentle care. And then his eyes roam slowly down the bare curves of her body, always with that same awestruck and almost bashful disbelief, the heartsick rush of fumbling first times and falling desperately in love ad infinitum. 

The shower’s plenty big enough for two of them, but they press together like they need for every precious inch of space when Logan backs them both under the spray. Scalding water washes over her, soothing the stiffness of a long sleep from her muscles, lulling her somewhere toward a dreamy haze, and for a blissful moment, Mercy melts into the purest pleasure. 

She thinks maybe she might have moaned, because Logan breathes a husky laugh and tips her head back underneath the water, teasing careful fingers through her hair. He bends to kiss the slack line of her mouth, and there is so much promise in that simple touch; whatever he would give her, she would happily accept, a thousand Faustian agreements in his name and no regrets to leave behind her. 

Steam lifts to mist the smooth bronze of his skin, slicking his hair back dark and wet against his neck, and with it rises an insatiable desire for the feel of him beneath her hands. While her fingers chase the branching streams of water down his chest, he cups her face between his palms and ducks his head against her own, gazing the softest yearning down at her. 

“Let me take care of you,” he says, as if he ever needs to ask.

Stretched up on tiptoes, held between his hands, she is an open well of affirmation in his grasp. “Please.” 

Logan has told her there is never any need to beg, but the eager satisfaction in his gaze suggests a zealous hunger for it. Grazing touches at her hips, he urges her to turn, guiding her back against his chest and letting the long masses of her hair trail down into his open hands. Her eyelids flutter shut, and she can feel his fingers testing gingerly at all the tangles knotted through her hair, moving with utmost care and deference.

The warmth of cinnamon flickers across her senses, and she dips her head back with a groan as he begins to weave the silky glisten of shampoo through her hair. His fingertips chart soothing shapes over her scalp and down the slim line of her neck, working his thumbs through all the tension in her shoulders before proceeding onto the full tresses of her hair.

When Logan tilts her back under the water, curls of cinnamon and sugar steam lick softly up their bodies. He sinks a groan against her shoulder, lashing the warm flat of his tongue across her skin. “You smell so good,” he sighs, and bites down at the bend between her neck and shoulder, just deep enough for her to feel the sting. 

Mercy shivers at the prickle of his teeth. “Good enough to eat?” she teases, her voice almost lost among the shower’s sigh and swells of water that drop loudly at their feet.

A chuckle rumbles lovingly against her neck, hints of pressure as he sucks a mark into her skin. “You know better than to ask me that.” 

“Apparently,” she says, and turns to smile up at him. “I don’t.”

Keeping her gaze held with his own, Logan curls his grip around the showerhead and twists the spray over wet tiles, warming the ceramic there before he backs her gently but quite decisively against it. At his height, he has always towered over her, but when he bends to claim her mouth, it feels like all the angles of his body lead to her, implacable in orbit, circling her heart.

And then, while she is rapidly unwinding to his kisses, one broad and scalding hand follows the flow of water down her body. Her nerves exalt his touch, singing with need, hard tiles at her back and Logan’s mouth still moving readily against her own. When his fingers reach the throbbing heat between her thighs, a ripple of sensation grips her spine, and she cries out beneath him, raw and still recovering. 

“Easy,” he breathes. “I’ve got you.” His fingers gentle, murmurs of her name shaped longingly against her skin, his free hand lifting up to find the cradle of her jaw. His thumb strokes calming haloes at the thumping of her pulse; like the ataractic influence of lullabies, his touch soothes her to stupor. “Oh, god, you’re still so wet.”

The next exploring nudges of his fingers flutter just the barest contact, coaxing her to shivers as he tempers the savage flare of too much into softer and more tolerable pressure. At times his touch is barely there at all, and after a few tantalizing cycles of this almost teasing, Mercy starts to ache for it. She licks her lip and catches it between her teeth, swallowing the sudden urge to whimper. “Logan…”

A crooked smile slants his mouth before he sets his teeth against the contours of her collarbone, nipping at the tender flesh there and the dip between her breasts. When his free hand roams her skin, the slick of soap propels his fingertips along her neck and shoulder, over fringes of her own palm fronds that fill the canvas of her arm. Heartbeats hammer hard against her ribs as he so delicately cleans her, tender and attentive, all the while mapping patient signs around her clit. 

Logan only releases her to rinse the soap and lather from her body, checking his work with searching teeth and leaving marks behind that make her giggle. At the tail end of his journey, he is kneeling at her feet, and peering up at her as if she hangs among the stars that fill his sky.

She weaves her fingers through his dripping hair and offers him a blissful smile. “All clean?”

The grin he echoes back is far more fiendish. “Almost.”

His touch was reverential with the tresses of her hair, but the same cannot be said for all the rest of her. Two eager hands maneuver her around him with delightful ease, shrugging one suntanned leg over his shoulder as he pins her back against the tiles. Palms and fingers loop around her thighs and guide her slowly, firmly down onto his mouth; with her legs folded tight behind the muscles of his forearms, she is helpless to resist him, senses overtaken by each scrape of blinding pleasure that he laves into her skin.

Mercy gasps and arcs and tightens down the hand that’s gripped among his hair. Her eyes shift out of focus when they roll back under heavy lids, but she fights against the instinct, watching water surge in heavy torrents down his shoulders and thinking in her dreamy, dizzied haze that she might envy every drop. Beats of rapture pound along with all the frantic crashing of her pulse, orchestrated expertly between the skillful tip of Logan’s tongue and roughened fingers digging perfect bruises at her legs.

Her world is falling water, steam on tiles, fingertip trails twisting through the fog across the glass, and the pale reverberation of her own voice bouncing back at her with every sobbing of his name that he pries loose. His tongue winds crescent shapes of vibrant heat between the swollen folds of her sex, dancing careful steps around the line of overstimulation, and she can’t believe it but god bless him, he is actually about to make her come again, and wild, manic laughter catches in her throat before she’s hooked and dragged over the summit into climax.

For a moment, Mercy only knows the blank release of coming. White-hot pleasure scorches out across her body from the point of their connection, and she wails a tortured noise into the ether as time and space are washed away into a savage nothingness.

The third descent is quick enough to flip her stomach, and she flinches when the heavy, overwhelming pleasure crashes over her and starts to sting. “Baby, baby, please, I can’t-!”

Logan supports her with a steady hold as he slips back from between her legs. Pride lights the hunger-darkened color of his eyes, tongue flashing out across his bottom lip before he dips a kiss against her twitching stomach. In the speechless wonder that remains, Mercy pants for breath and traces shaking fingertips at the familiar topography of scars and ink and muscle while he commits more thoroughly to cleaning her, dragging the soft bar of her soap over her body.

They savor the lazy process of washing each other clean, lingering under the spray until the water starts to cool, and even then a moment longer, sharing body heat and sated laughter. 

In a series of well-practiced movements, Logan snags a towel from the bar outside the shower and drapes it snug around her shoulders, shielding her wet skin from the cold. Grabbing his own, he scrubs the water from his hair and lets the towel hang haphazardly around his hips before grinning and sweeping an arm under her knees, gathering her up into his hold once more.

The travel back to bed is measurably quicker, hastened by hurried steps until they tumble in a laughing sprawl across the mess they left of all the bedsheets. Kissing the giggles at her lips, he peels her slowly from the cotton of her towel, leaves her open to the star struck wonder in his eyes and heady crawl of sunlight that peers in between the curtains. She could ascend under that look, float her way into heaven on the beating wings that he affixes to her heart with smiles like that.

Sore and satisfied and still nursing the aftershocks of climax, Mercy barely has the breath to mumble her appreciation as he takes her towel in his hands and pats the beads of water from her body. With a catlike stretch of sleepy limbs, she preens under his touch, stifling more giggles when he flips her over and continues down the wet span of her back. 

“You’re gonna spoil me,” she slurs into the duvet.

“Yeah?” Logan laughs somewhere above her, sounding pleased. “Is that so bad?”

“Only when I turn into a princess and start bossing you around.”

His silence spans a thoughtful pause, followed momentarily by calloused fingers down the notches of her spine. “Hmmm…”

Mercy rolls back over with a knowing smile. “You sound intrigued.”

Grinning, brimming with delight at the idea: “I could think of worse fates.” 

There is an eagerness in him that hovers just beneath the surface, everready, spurring all his thoughts into a reckless, wild urgency. Here in the sanctuary of their bed, it leads him always to the circle of her arms, against her heart, catching her lips beneath his own as the wet length of his body presses her into the sheets. Warm lips travel down her jaw to the crook of her neck, hunting drops of water that still linger on her skin with meticulous attention. By the time he has kissed every inch of her suitably dry, her eyelids sink like anchors, and she clutches onto consciousness with only the most feeble, last-ditch grapple of the thoroughly exhausted. 

And when he leads her head into his lap and starts to tease a brush through the damp masses of her hair, those devil-taken hands tilt her ongoing battle firmly in the favor of a catnap here among the honey touch of sunshine and the sheets that smell like them. 

The last thing she remembers before she succumbs to sleep is the gentle pull of fingertips like ebbing tides as Logan gathers the long tresses of her hair, weaving the dark and dampened waves into the dual braids that he composes for her every night, that sacred rite they share like evening vespers. 

Memories imprint her technicolor daydreams: twirling under Logan’s hand to the swelling strings of a Sinatra song, walking the scalding sand at Venice Beach, falling asleep beneath the shifting shadows of palm trees that flicker black like ink across their skin; city streets and lamplight clusters constellation-bright in rearview mirrors, neon signs with missing letters, shooting stars against the dark of night, gossamer impressions melding memory and fantasy, impermanent and perfect.

Waking is gradual, glimpses of consciousness that shift at her peripheral, occasionally tapering back into sleep. She rouses herself in lazy cycles to the hazy glow of afternoon with diligently woven braids and two long arms curled loose around her body. His bare skin simmers like a furnace at her back, the languid sway of slumber in his breath, and when she stirs to stretch the numbness from her muscles, he voices a soft noise of protest and constricts her tighter in his arms.

Yanked back against his chest, Mercy only has the room to squirm and laugh and wriggle in his hold until he sinks his teeth at her throat with a playful chuckle, half-awake. Tangled among the sheets, their bodies form a link of sleepy warmth and roaming touches, and Logan spans her hip with one rough hand, biting groans into her skin as she grinds back against the thick weight of his cock. 

“Again?” He echoes her own question back at her, husky and rough with wanting, thrumming like some magic incantation underneath the skin.

She sucks in a shuddering breath and shivers to the next soft mark he shapes into her neck. “I don’t think you know what you do to me, hermoso.”

His hand slips confidently down between her thighs, prying them apart to feel the warm silk of arousal that still slicks her skin. Teeth climb her neck and lift to graze the delicate shell of her ear, soothing with the press of lips when she leaks out a strangled whine. “Mmn, I think I can feel.”

An ache throbs in her hips and thighs at just the thought of any more activity, and Logan seems to sense the tension of fatigue in her reaction. His lips brush the crown of her head. “Can I move you, beautiful?”

She chokes out a dry laugh. “As long as I don’t have to.”

“Never.” Palming her thigh, he guides her legs apart and slides his knee between them. She lets herself spill open to his grasp, little more than weightless when he hooks her legs open around him, and some sweet, submissive thrill descends her backbone at the first stroke of his fingers down her sex. They move decisively across her skin, finding where she splits and nudging in, the sheer expansive width of them stealing her breath as they edge deeper. After the rise and fall and rise and fall of coming again and again, her body sings with ecstasy and clings to the intrusion, throbs of pleasure welling in the deepest parts of her.

“Logan-!”

His teeth score neatly at her shoulder. “Need me, baby?”

“Yes! Please, god, oh, Logan, please...” Restless chanting dances on her tongue, impatient invocations, rough with longing. 

He doesn’t make her wait. In slow and inching increments, he edges himself into her, and everything is stretching, thick and solid and divine. A gasp crawls deep into her lungs, her fingers grasping out at nothing as he takes his time to fill her. It feels like an eternity before his hips cage flush against her own, and then there is only heat and pressure left between them.

His fingers dig in at her hips, pinning them together as he huffs a curse into the lovemarked column of her neck. He nips and sucks and drags his tongue across her skin, distracting the most tender nerves he knows among her shoulders as he slings his arm around her and pitches an experimental thrust.

The world throbs at the edge of her peripheral, her body full to bursting, sunlight blinding in her vision, and she reels. She’s not sure how it happens - pent-up longing, maybe, something like an ache that he has left and tempered in her, emptiness that craves the perfect pain of taking taking taking all he has to give, and now that he has finally gripped in and split her open, climax lashes over her with the gut-wrenching shock of ambush. 

“Ohmygod, baby, I’m-!” Sobs of panic fill her throat; she hasn’t ever, not so quickly, not on the first brutal strokes, and Logan fucks her through it with implicit understanding, chaos crashing in her veins and carving heat along the tight arcs of her nerves. In her frenzied high, among the savage batter of her heartbeat, she can hear him gasp her name and groan a strangled sound as his hips shudder hard against her own.

“Fuck,” he pants, and glances teeth across the pulse point slamming in her throat. His arm sweeps down above her head, fingers twisting in around the base of both her braids and angling her face up to admire the soft heat of pleasure in her features. “I can’t believe how good you feel.”

Her shaken breath will have to count as laughter. “Me?” Even that tiny word feels suddenly so clumsy on her tongue. “You f-feel... like…”

“Like…?” His voice is rasp and gravel, molten whispers at her ear. He rocks another thrust and lingers, keeping her caught full around him, and the pressure, pleasure, every heartbeat of it all so good, so much, fuck -

“Like -” but Mercy lacks the words, she lacks her sense entirely. She wishes - blindly, swimming the oblivion of bliss - that his hands would leave a path like footsteps on her skin, marking all the scalding points his fingers brand across her body, dotted lines where she can sign her soul away if he will only just keep touching her. 

When Logan latches teeth into her shoulder, the pain descends in perfect twinges deep between her thighs. She clenches down around him, and he fucks an urgent, clumsy roll of hips in swift response, and the cinders of bright ecstasy that linger after her last climax start to surge together once more, currents rising ever higher, threatening to drown. Shudders wrack her hips as all her muscles seize into a brutal arc, chasing the pounding beat of pleasure every time that he sinks home. His hand seeks out the crosspoint of their bodies, and the pads of two rough fingers gliding down around her clit is all her weary nerves require for one last intense and devastating peak. 

His name rips through her teeth, her fingers winding fists into the sheets as ecstasy erupts in every atom. The breath he drags in at her throat is rigid with surprise, and then he tenses, fingers flexing down around her waist and body arcing when he hisses and comes after her. Ripples of searing bliss still pulse like heartbeats through her body, and she locks the blunt points of her nails into his shoulders for support, gasping for air though every breath burns the dry cavern of her throat. The last few frantic jackknifes of his hips drive him as deep as she will take him, and that innermost of pinnacles is where he spills inside of her.

Gently, as if now that she has come for a fifth time she is immensely fragile, Logan disentangles himself from her body; with the soreness of exhaustion that has settled in her bones, she can’t exactly summon any strength to disagree.

He rumbles tired rasps of laughter, dropping his lips to the flushed nape of her neck. She smiles and bends an arm back to run fingers through his hair with a purr of his name, if only just still capable with what is left of her frayed vocals. 

His teeth and fingers have left bruises in her skin, and in the golden trance of afterglow, he takes the most devoted care to kiss them over, as if each one is deserving of its own heartfelt apology. The quiet wake of intimacy soothes her crashing pulse as he retraces where his treatment left its mark on her body.

When he is satisfied that he has christened all the evidence of their affection, he tucks her in amongst the sheets with steady hands, his smile outlined by the sinking sunlight as he sprawls himself around her like he simply cannot bear even the briefest inch of separation. Catching the slim stretch of her wrist, he links his fingers through her own and rolls his thumb along the valleys of her knuckles, where his lips leave breathless kisses.

Devilish, perhaps, how fast those hands dismantle her, but Logan knows precisely how to piece her back together, press himself into the empty spaces left behind and make her feel like something whole again. His mouth follows the column of her throat, hushing the tender promise of te amo there between her slowing heartbeats, and she murmurs back I love you with his jaw against her palm.

Sins and marvels have both passed between his hands, brutal and strong and reverent, and she would trust no other’s with her flesh and tender heart.

And if the devil should possess them in those lazy, idle moments -

Maybe there is marvel in that, too.