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sinag789tala · 7 months ago

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"Now, just a moment---! Your..." And the door is already slammed at your face. "....name."

Great. So you are serving a master without a name. Great.

Traces of the energy spent summoning you still linger as fragments of the woman's nervous energy buzz in the air. You are a demon, you can Feel discomfort when it's around --- and you aren't particularly powerful or special enough to truly flesh it out, so to Feel it this well means that your Master feels it even worse.

You shudder. You chalk it up to the leftover energy of the Summoning Circle.

Beneath you, the child coos. In the past, you would have wrinkled your nose in disdain. You aren't particularly powerful, or special, and that's why you get stuck doing measly jobs like these. You aren't particularly powerful, or special, but damn it, you're a demon, and these summoners need to learn to put some decorum in their assignments!

But the millenium spent sitting idly by, waiting for the next wannabe-villain sap to say your name yet never being called, has certainly tempered some of that irritation. You are...well, not un-glad to be remembered.

Then the child begins to wail, and you feel that derision coming back. There is something you can smell, taste, a sensation beginning to spread, you can Feel the hint of it on your tongue. Boredom, its stench beginning to lace the atmosphere.

You think that you should probably pick it up.

You're not quite sure how to handle this thing. You think that it's probably safe to lift it from the foot, and you definitely try---but the nasty little creature's head is huge and heavy and does not know how to balance itself whatsoever---so in a panic, you stumble, and it nearly falls. Its' rump lands squarely on your hands, secure. It ceases wailing and begins to laugh. You breathe a sigh of relief. Good.

It seems to agree, clapping its hands and gurgling spit. Or maybe it just liked the adrenaline. It is human, after all.

Thankfully for you, the tunic wrapped around its' backside is not soft nor squelching, so really, you suppose that all you need to do for now is keep it appeased. Simple enough.

You take a step out of the summoning circle, toddler in tow, and take a seat. The seat suddenly crunches down beneath you, wobbling its' legs dangerously, the jerking movement catching you off-guard. A surprised hiss bubbles out of you, when you take a good look around the place.

It seems that the disrepair does not stop at the chair.

The entire lair looks shabby and neglected---no, that's not right. It is clean and organized, but old, decaying. The one chair she has matches its' table, paint chipping off, its' four stable legs down to three and a peg. You look at the walls, cracks, a dent shaped so strangely like a fist at about five feet tall or so --- and far below it, the remnants of pigment (a distant tongue reminds you, craie). If you look closer, you can see that it is smeared as though someone had tried (and failed) at furiously trying to clean it off.

You look at what you assume to be its' culprit, and it is making bubbles of saliva in your hand.

The lair is neat. Orderly.

But another word you are thinking, a word you are thinking very hard, is empty.

The lair is empty.

Your Master is a master of little possession, but you don't think that it is a choice.

Well. You aren't particularly powerful, or special, but you set the squirming mass of your Master's tyke-spawn on the rickety table, and you begin to work.

An hour into your carpentry --- you can hear the taunts of the other demons again, about the irony of that phrase, a demon, carpentry! --- when the familiar Feel of Boredom starts to hum, and you let out a deeply annoyed sigh.

"What is it now, you insatiable little pest?" You murmur, as it fusses from the table. It starts to move, writhing little thing, like a little maggot, then it gets up --- it stands.

Now, you are a demon, a being unaffected by the human constraint of time or millennia, and you are very acquainted with the idea of standing, you've been doing it yourself for ages. And frankly, you don't see what the fuss is about, these humans, but you at the very least know that there is a Fuss about it. For some reason, it is important to the human race that babies learn to stand.

So, "Oh," you say eloquently. Very eloquently.

It even begins to walk.

Oh.

And your traitorous, abhorable, demonic senses, warp into something eerily similar to a feeling of delight --- feh! You are a demon! This human matter has absolutely no effect on you, of all things.

So, you remember yourself, you realize that the maggot is learning how to walk, and its' very first steps are on the shaky foundation of a rotting, rickety table.

"Oh."

Before the entire table gives, you pluck the baby into your arms, and then all the wood collapses (quite comically, too) into rubble and dust.

Your eyes twitch. Well. You did start it.

Beneath you, the little worm cackles at the havoc it has heralded. You think that it has a bright future in Overlord-ing.

(And you furiously ignore the fondness that is beginning to take you.)

To avoid any more incidents, you allow the child to walk wildly on the floor until it is hopefully exhausted, and you feel less like a demon, but more like a timid animal waiting out a rabid beast, and you want to kick yourself for how pathetic you are.

"Could you please just be still for one moment."

You're trying your hardest not to harness anymore occult than necessary for this woodworking project, because Hell would know, and it would be very pathetic on your report, but your patience is wearing thin, just as this toddler is getting increasingly bored.

It does not show even a sign that it heard you, and as young things often do, it runs around doing what it wants, governed by no one.

If not for the report that's being drafted for you on this very moment, you would turn this child into an actual maggot. Only Pledged Demons with Permanent Masters do not need to have reports, and of course, you do not want to be tied down to any Master.

Not even this one, though...she could use the help.

What are you thinking? You're a demon. You don't care.

Grumbling, you turn back to your work. Humans...and their moving about. The toddler squirms.

You would think that a freakish toddler attaining the capacity to walk on its own would be a stressful development for any parent but no, this weird species looks forward to the event and even celebrates it. You cannot for the damn life of you understand why ---

--- and for the 5th time, this chair that you've been working upon for 3 hours, completely crumbles.

You are so beside yourself with frustration that you do not realize the Boredom in the air dissipating --- you do not realize the tyke toddles to you, on its two newly discovered feet, holding a wrench in its hand, reaching out to you with a toothless smile.

You stare at it for a long while,

When it turns its head to the side with a puzzled stare and shakes it for you, as if to say, what are you looking at? It's right here, take it!

Begrudgingly, (that's what you are choosing to call this feeling blooming Rooting in your chest because you are a Demon, though not particularly powerful or special) you take the wrench, and you get back to work.

The wrench does wonders to your efficiency. Modern technology is beyond you.

You are getting better at this, so much better in fact, that you don't even realize that you've not only finished the chair, but you're on your way to finish the table too.

The toddler is reaching random tools at you, fishing out materials from the toolbox senselessly, laying them all down at your side in no discernible order, but once you figure out how all of them are used, it makes the job so much easier.

There is a note for each tool in the box, in curls of characters your ancient eyes are not made to understand, but the sentiment of each guides you --- another ability you have not felt yourself use in a long time. The letters have some similarities, the taller letters look Latin, those parts you know, but the rest, you are simply relying on feeling.

And what a strange feeling.

All these notes seem tired, but meticulous, dedicated, and they are so evident of your Master's worksmanship that you can't help but. Well. Appreciate her, you suppose. Without these notes, you would be senseless, with only an infant's gurgles to go by as you do your job.

The little maggot burbles something, while dancing along with what you know now to be something called a screwdriver, waving it in the air while singing a song.

It does not grate on you as you think it should. But you currently don't have the mind to be bothered, because you find yourself humming along to it too.

The toddler is reaching for something on the top of a weary drawer, and it is causing such a ruckus that the noise distracts you from completing your task. You can feel yourself snapping at it, some curse or hex rising up your throat like a flame ---

Then whatever it was reaching for topples, and breaks.

You are about to scold the little maggot, when you actually take a good look at the picture.

It is your Master, the tyke, and a man. She stands at what you assume is maybe five-or-so feet tall (you cannot help the way that your eyes flicker to the dent in the wall from earlier), and the man stands at her side so close that their arms are pressed together, despite the distant expression on his face.

His hand, you can see, is reaching for her face, but her frame is trying to pull back, and you notice a hidden bruise on her jaw under her scarf.

But the worst part, you think, as wrath (your least favorite vice) simmers --- boils --- beneath your scales, is that they are smiling for the picture.

The toddler stands up, as it has just learned, and promptly stomps on the man's face. It lets out a satisfied squeal with what it has done, and for a moment, the rage in you is quelled.

Strangely, it's as though the glass of the frame shattered on the ground did not allow itself to break through the child's skin. You are surprised, because you have never known the occult to prevent harm. And what surprises you even more is that you are not displeased by it.

You will say that you had nothing to do with it, if anyone asked, because you may not be particularly powerful, or special, but you are a good liar.

You finish the table; you start the walls. The chipped paint makes way for a new, deep hue, not quite red because maybe that's too on the nose and you remember that your Master is a human after all --- no, instead you choose a warm purple, and dark like wine.

...maybe it's still over the top. Very royal, compared to the Master you saw before. But you think that it's...

...not...un-nice.

The maggot wiggles in approval, streaked in the paint, flailing the brush around. You do not groan about having to clean up another mess because Strangely It Seems That No Mess Can Be Made. No smears of pigment that not even the most painstaking brush can erase. No more cracks or dents on the walls. No messes, not while you are around.

(And...if you start to use your occult stamina to give this newly-fixed lair a bit of a flourish...who's to say you aren't just defacing property?

Though, the toddler doesn't seem to think that the...vandalism is too bad. It's quite tasteful, actually. They like the decor.)

And by the end of the day, the tyke is clothed, fed, still clean, and appeased. And the lair is refurbished, redecorated, and repaired. The messes made always get cleaned up eventually.

"So, maggot," you are smirking...no, grinning to yourself, allowing that pride to swell in you, allowing the vice to swallow you whole. You think, you want to be so proud that it is sickening. "How do we feel about the new lair?"

It babbles. You take this as approval, as per usual.

"Excellent. All that is left for me to do now, is to see how the Master takes it---" Then the pungent, intense taste of nervousness begins to ambush all your senses, Satan below, this taste does not come easy to a demon like you, and you Feel the immense stress of your master is pressing into every bone beneath your flesh.

She opens the door slowly, and the worm in your arms begins to giggle, unable to notice the change in the atmosphere.

But in fairness, the master is good at hiding this feeling well, you don't even see it in her eyes.

"See how I take what?" She asks, eyes still downcast as she yanks the key out of her doorknob---then she Sees.

Though the nervousness in the room fades, it turns into something you have no name for --- and in a way, it is as if you soaked up all of the anxiety yourself.

"...so, Master..." Your mouth dries, as her face turns unreadable. "How do you like the lair---"

She throws herself at you, pulling you into a tight embrace. She sniffs, and the toddler, pressed against her chest, cheers.

She smiles, her eyes are warm, as she looks around her home anew.

"Purple," She grins. "That's my favorite color."

Something blooms in your chest and you let it.

She sees the newest additions separate from the table and the chair and the walls, some padding alongside a nice furnish (flair, every abode needs flair), a few shelves lined with books (because any Master should have a few of the dark tomes), new sets of utensils and platter (and cutlery! Any dark artist should have cutlery), but the one you can see her eye the most, a nice armchair (for all Masters must have thrones), dark oak with curling legs.

She takes a seat, the chair does not crunch nor wobble, but it shifts under her, like an embrace. She sinks in it, and her eyes close as you See her, for the first time, at rest.

She peeks, one eye opening slightly, with a tired smile on her face.

"Thank you," she says, stretching out her arm for her child.

You decide to put them down, let them walk to their mother themself.

Her eyes well with proud tears, and she looks at you with adoration in her eyes,

"Maggie! You clever little girl," she exclaims;

Delight pooling within you --- devotee to your harbringer, there is something new you are tasting, stronger than discomfort and nervous and anxious ---

You find the name as you reach within the crevice that feels it.

Love.

"Master," you begin, the words spilling out of your tongue as you hunger. This is a new, different feeling, this is an entity that your occult belongs with, scales and bone that need, need, need.

"I am the Badaqeth, Demon of Recreation and Rebirth, and from ashes and shadows I weave the foundations of new things," Your tongue has shifted into sounds she can recognize, it has been so long since you have said your name.

"Is there a name to the subject of my reverence?"

The statement is new on your lips.

You are not particularly powerful, or special, but the Demon's Pledge is binding, and you will serve her and her kin forever, be unbound from the constraints of Hell and its' contracts, be tied to the woman who makes you feel you---Recreation, Rebirth, Repair.

She is looking at the toddler in her arms, Maggie reaches out for you, arms open, open, open ---

"Ameli," she answers, and meets your eyes. "My name is Ameli."

You’re a demon. One day, you’re summoned into a living room, and an exhausted woman quickly rambles about needing to get to work and being unable to find a sitter before flying out the door. Now, you stand in your summoning circle, a toddler staring wide eyed at you.

#badaq - hebrew: meaning to mend or repair #ameli - arabic: meaning “my hope”#and it tastes like ash that turns to the soil that harbors flowers on your tongue #writing prompts #writing #short story #demons #monsters

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logaenhowlett · 1 month ago

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TEACH YOU HOW TO GET TO PUREST HELL - L.H.

Summary: On the way to one of his cage fights, Logan's truck begins to break down and that's how he meets you, the owner of a repair shop in Northern Alberta. He promises to pay you with his winnings - but what he ultimately offers is far more interesting.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Fingering, Unprotected sex (against the cage), Aftercare, Logan's a snarky motherfucker (but secretly a softie)

A/N: The filthiest 4k I've ever written. I just know he was a menace during his cage fighter era. It's okay though, I'll still be clawing at the enclosure. Title creds to Radiohead. Hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

Smoke curls around him, bearing a semblance of warmth against the biting wind. Logan's grip on the steering wheel is loose, the other arm draped lazily across the window. He flicks his fingertips ever so often, the ashes of his cigar disappearing into the falling snow. Mile after mile, the same barren landscape stretches before him.

He's lost amidst the silence, having turned the radio all the way down in frustration at the nonsense plaguing the stations earlier. As sunshine glares through the windshield, he scrunches his eyebrows, vaguely entertaining some ideas swirling in his mind.

Hours pass by painfully slow. He tries to ignore the low rumbling that interrupts his flow of thoughts, body firmly protesting against this all-alcohol diet he'd unintentionally adopted. Logan skims a hand into the glove compartment, clicking his tongue when he discovers only a few wrappers lying inside. Slumping back into the seat, he takes another drag, disappointment etching onto his features.

An orange, flashing icon on the dashboard snaps his attention. His eyes dart to the blinking light, a sense of irritation washing over him when he recognises the ‘check engine’ symbol. In a haste, he pulls the truck over, slamming the door shut behind him as he ventures into the cold to inspect the issue. Though he has an extensive knowledge of motorcycles, by no means does that expertise carry over to whatever mess he finds beneath the hood. Logan returns with a sigh, recalling a faded road sign he'd passed ages ago - at least he isn't awfully far from his destination.

In the distance, the town welcome monument brings him some sort of peace. After driving by plenty of dimly lit diners and pubs, he reluctantly asks a stranger for directions to the nearest repair shop. Logan arrives shortly thereafter, parking at the entrance of this seemingly empty building. Curious, he scans the place, sliding out of his seat in search of anyone.

The distinct ring of metal hitting the floor has him spinning around. He fights back the amused huff at the sight of you, bottom lip slightly caught between his teeth in an attempt to stop the smirk threatening to break free. His eyes rake over your figure as you come closer - appreciating the way your overalls perfectly capture the slopes and curves of your body - before finally, rising to meet your unimpressed expression.

"What're you here for?"

There's a smidge of annoyance in your words, a reaction he very much enjoys being the reason for. He nods towards the truck parked out front, "Problem with the engine."

When you brush past him, Logan spots a name neatly embroidered onto your otherwise soiled clothes. Smiling, he follows after you, shamelessly dropping his gaze to your ass for a moment.

Waiting patiently while you poke around the hood, he steals glances at your profile, filled with the sudden urge to wipe away the grease stain remnants off your cheeks, "Yeah... looks like the head gasket needs replacing."

Logan groans to himself before agreeing with your judgment. He runs a hand across his face, stilling in brief confusion when you chuckle quietly.

"Somethin' funny?" He asks, noting how you browse the insides of his camper with a flair of barely-masked mockery.

"Just admiring the interior design."

That one almost draws a scoff out of him. Logan knows his living quarters are rather bare-bones in nature, at best, providing decent shelter for when he's on the go. Inside, a makeshift bed large enough for a man of his size and basic kitchen appliances - though he rarely uses those. It's all he cares for anyway, yet there's a tinge of self-consciousness he shakes before gruffly responding, "You can do it by tonight?"

"Tonight?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise, "Fine... but it's gonna set you back about three grand."

"I got half for now."

A sharp laugh pierces his ears. And even though it's undoubtedly fake, he thinks you look pretty like this - shooting what can't be anything less than a deadly glare just for him. The corners of his lips tilt up when your tone suddenly becomes stern, "That's not how it works, buddy."

"Listen, I got a fight later, I'll be good for it."

"What? You that sure you're gonna win?"

You're teasing him. You know it, and so does he. Logan studies the way your hand rests against your hip, a challenging glint behind your eyes while you consider this ridiculous suggestion. He moves one step closer and proudly welcomes the surge of satisfaction at the slight crack of your demeanour.

"Darlin', I always win." It's a whisper that leaves him, hushed and dangerously low. Giving your shoulder a playful nudge as he walks by, he circles to the trailer behind the truck, retrieving his motorcycle. He smirks, pleased to witness such a glimpse of weakness, "Eleven-thirty. O'Malley's. I'll see you there."

The engine revs with each twist of his wrist, the movement so precise and natural. As he sinks onto the bike, the suspension adjusting to his weight, he sends you a wink.

"And if you lose?" You shout over the blaring sounds.

With one final grin, "Just fix my truck, alright."

Even from outside, O'Malley's is deafeningly loud. The wooden door creaks lightly with the gentlest push, and a mixture of overly enthusiastic yells paired with the clashing of glass greet your presence. You're no regular here whatsoever, but the fights that occur in this bar are usually the talk of the town. And despite its reputation, you've never had much interest in being surrounded by a crowd of angry, intoxicated men - all drowning beneath the crude insults and empty threats tossed into the air.

Some of the patrons, customers you recognise from work, acknowledge you with a polite smile while you settle into a booth near the cage. As you observe the utter chaos around the room, it only cements your distaste for this so-called form of entertainment. The current match's loser staggers past your table, barely walking on two feet even with the support of his friends.

All you can think about is returning home with your hard-earned cash. It was a rather tiring day, running around salvage yards scouring for spare parts to tend to the old piece of junk he'd called a truck. Not to mention the unforgiving weather, which seemed determined to make your day more miserable. And to top it all off, the jerk wanted it done by nightfall - the audacity! Just the simple reminder of today's events has your body tensing from restlessness.

Behind you, a group of men sneer amongst themselves and between their slurring, the words "pretty boy" and "his ass kicked" grasp your attention. Turning around, you watch as they hand over money to some younger fella, taunting others to join the bet. Oh, that makes your blood boil. This Logan had strolled into your shop with nothing but a superficial promise for your services, and now, he's presumed to lose?

You stand up abruptly, peering across the space in search of him. A rush of fury courses through you at the same time you spot him casually lounging in the corner. As you approach, the faint glow of the bulb illuminates his face, a cloud of smoke momentarily hiding the smirk playing on his lips. His chuckle cuts through the hum of the jukebox he's leaning on, eyes crinkling with a kind of smugness at your arrival.

"You're joking." The bottle of whiskey between his fingers shocks you the most, "Are you seriously getting drunk before your fight?"

Logan grins at your concerned expression, eyes tracing you up and down, "You fix it?"

"Yes, I fucking fixed it. Took me all day!" Fists clenching, you stare at him intently, "Look, I did my job - you better do yours."

"Don't worry 'bout it, darlin'. I'm a man of my word." He dismisses you completely, taking a prolonged swig of his drink. A beat passes before he lazily holds up two fingers right to your face, "Scout's honour."

He laughs again when you roughly shove his hand aside, not sparing another second for this cocksure attitude. You grumble under your breath, making your way back to the booth, "It's three fingers, asshole."

A few matches take place over the next hour, and you're only getting more antsy as each of the competitors exits the cage with nothing short of bloody faces and broken bones. The audience roars all of a sudden, some even rattling the fence as this new person strides into the threshold.

Of course, he'd stripped his shirt off and the sight of his muscle-toned chest only serves to further fuel your irritation. Logan's eyes find yours immediately, looking past the crowd of hecklers now whistling at him. With a nod, he throws you a confident smirk and turns to his rival.

The man he's up against is much more burly and has a couple of inches on him. Though that doesn't seem to faze Logan in the slightest, instead he's flexing his arms almost playfully before adopting a fighting stance. Every punch and kick has you twitching in your seat, your feet firmly stuck to the ground in anticipation.

Remembering how he'd chugged an entire bottle of liquor earlier, you're astonished by the ferocity with which he attacks his opponent, dodging most moves with deadly precision. As he lands more jabs, the spectators begin to jeer and boo, swarming the enclosure of the cage in a tantrum. You peek over their shoulders, ducking away from the things they're flinging around. There's a collective gasp when he knocks out the other man, and you sigh in relief.

Leaning towards the cage, a cigar lightly pressed against his mouth, Logan's focus shifts to you. His chest is heaving from all the physical exertion, skin damp from the sweat. As he exhales the smoke, blowing a kiss in your direction, a satisfied expression returns to his face. He runs a hand through his wet hair, leaving the arena with no regard for the protesting crowd.

You follow after him, squeezing through the tightly packed space. He's settling a score with the owner, a wad of rolled cash passing between them as a reward. After a nod of mutual agreement, Logan faces you, tossing his leather jacket on. And while you're ultimately happy he won, there's also this urge to smack the cheeky look that seems to be glowing as you come closer.

What's more upsetting is the fact that he is undeniably gorgeous - especially like this, all sweaty and wound up from the adrenaline rushing inside. And of course, he doesn't miss how your gaze wanders to the sliver of skin peeking through his jacket, every slight movement only revealing more.

Logan grabs a few bills from the roll of money and stuffs them into his back pocket, holding the rest out towards you. As you reach for the cash, he swiftly draws his hand back with a teasing smile, "Have a drink with me."

"No."

"C'mon." He drags out, repeating the same thing when you try again, "No one needs their cute, little mechanic right now."

Watching you sigh triggers a thrill of excitement, an unspoken victory he claims with no shame. With a simple gesture, he leads you towards a secluded booth, determined to make this a worthwhile exchange. Despite your hesitation, he maintains a sort of relaxed energy, draping his arm along the seat - his eyes not straying from yours.

Two shots of vodka are placed on the table and Logan mirrors your action, slowly raising the glass to his lips. In no time, the air of unease dissipates, replaced by a comfortable silence while the drinks keep coming. As the night wears on, casual conversation flows between you and he asks a few things like how long you've lived here, why you became a mechanic and eventually, when he slides you the money, "What now, darlin'? You gonna leave?"

His voice, dripping with honeyed sweetness, sends a shiver down your spine. You can't exactly place the feeling, but it's a tangle of exasperation and something else - something you're not quite ready to define. Instead, you blame it on the drinks, the late hour, and the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man just inches away.

As frustration envelops your thoughts, you suddenly excuse yourself and head towards the bathroom. The alcohol, previously a gentle companion, now seems to be taking its toll. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you try to fight against the sensations running through your body. The splash of cold water does little to your state of mind, yet you're back outside in what feels like a tilted world, using all your strength to walk straight.

As you brush past the cage, someone collides into you. Desperate for balance, you reach out to grip the fence, but a strong hand lays steady on your lower back. With a gasp and a tilt of your head, you're caught off-guard when Logan comes into your view. His arm snakes around to gently hold your waist, his body now pressing into yours.

Overwhelmed by the sudden proximity, you tear your attention away from him and glance at the wire pricking your fingers, "This is fucking sharp."

He doesn't break the eye contact. A low hum vibrates through his chest as he leans in, the warmth of his breath dancing with yours. The space between you slowly shrinks, whatever lighthearted facade he'd worn earlier vanishes only to be replaced by something raw and inexplicable.

"How're you not bruised?" You whisper, remembering the way he'd been thrown against the cage earlier.

"Call it a special talent."

Despite your better judgment, you find yourself captivated by him, the intensity of his gaze reeling you in. And so, you decide to play his game, "Can you teach me?"

Logan pauses, "You wanna learn... how to fight?"

"Just a little punch or something."

A faint smile spreads across his face, you're absolutely sure he can feel the way your heart is pounding. When his lips lightly brush against your ear, a quiet rumble escapes and something flickers in your gut - a twist of exhilaration laced with a hint of caution.

There's barely anyone left in the bar at this point besides the one or two stragglers hanging around. Logan and you stand alone in the cage, seemingly tucked away in a little pocket of your own. He doesn't wander too far, remaining within an arm's distance while demonstrating the proper technique for a jab - the motion so fluid and effortless.

Your initial attempts to mimic his movements are clumsy and awkward, his amusement only growing more evident with each try. Slipping behind you, he sheds the jacket, once again exposing his glorious muscles and the thought of tracing his vein-riddled biceps with your tongue leaves you dazed for a moment. This time, he circles his arms around you and guides your hands into the correct position.

As you practice, your bodies nudge against each other, his breath fans across your neck and ignites a fire within you. The tension is palpable, the air thick with implicit desire. You can almost feel his gaze burning into you, every second posing a challenge to cross this imaginary line.

The rest of the patrons are ushered out the door, the owner nodding at Logan before disappearing into the back room. And the silence settles in, a stark contrast to all the commotion that lingered for hours prior. You notice the difference, inching towards the exit, "Looks like they're closing up."

Before you can move away, Logan's hand shoots out to catch your wrist, "And we got it all to ourselves."

"What?"

"Might've slipped the owner a little somethin’."

His fingers trail up your arm, thumb gently pushing your soft skin. Slowly, he brings you closer, his words just a whisper of heat on your cheek. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm echoing your own racing heart. Your voice, hoarse and strained, barely manages a response, "Is this how you budget? No wonder you're broke."

It's his laughter that breaks you at first, followed by, "You got a smart mouth, darlin'. Tell me, what else can it do?"

His lips hover mere inches above yours, there's a moment of hesitation hanging in the air - an out, if you don't want this. But, temptation is a dangerous siren and you're already ensnared by her song.

Fuck it.

Logan's dog tags hang pretty between the slopes of your breasts, his mouth moving against yours in a rough, demanding fashion. It's sloppy. It's wet. And it's goddamn heavenly when his fingers thread through your hair, the gap between you now completely erased. You cling to him as if he's an anchor, nails digging into his shoulders while he pins you to the cool metal of the cage.

He wants to touch you. To feel the warmth radiating straight off your body. The straps of your overalls fall from his force, he takes the opportunity to slide one hand through the side, kneading your waist with a kind of tenderness that surprises him too. When you take a second to breathe, Logan peppers kisses along your jawline, then some beneath your ear before grazing his lips on your neck.

The pulsing vein he finds nearly has him growling in pleasure, "Fuck, darlin'... feel so good already... can't wait to taste you when I'm done..."

He stills when you gasp, glancing up through his lashes and then quietly chuckling at your flustered expression. Yet, he can't revel in his victory for any longer than a blink, your palm tilts his head back before you fiercely capture his mouth once more.

His name rolls out your lips, drawn out and glazed with an obvious need. Taking a deep inhale, Logan feels the bulge in his jeans growing with each passing moment. You're only getting restless as his hands roam over your body, becoming nothing more than a whimpering mess all from his doing.

"Lemme hear you for real, baby... don't be shy." His fingers latch onto the cage, using it to thrust forward and deepen the kiss. Your clothes end up pooling at your feet, the barriers between you peeling away with every layer gone. Now, skin to skin, sweat glistening on your brow, you're left bare and vulnerable to his touch.

Logan reaches down, spreading your thighs wide enough till he can push your panties aside, stroking the outside of your entrance. Clenching his jaw when he's met with a distinct wetness, "Hidin' all this for me?" He almost laughs at how you curl forward and then whine his name, craving for any part of him to be inside you, "Hm... what'd you say to me before? Three fingers?

With no warning, he slides exactly three inside your cunt, pumping in and out as best as he can, "So fuckin' tight, darlin'... c'mon... show me you're ready for the real thing." He knows he's doing something right when you squirm at his actions, jumping at the invitation to delicately flick your clit before sinking his fingers back into you.

"Logan-"

Pain consumes you as he continues, tears springing to your eyes. You've never felt pleasure like this, so intense and so profound, words lost amongst the moans trembling out your lips. Your knees begin to shake under the pressure, and his free hand immediately cups your thigh, securing your body to his. As you call out for him, urging him to fuck you senseless, he tugs his fingers away.

The belt flies, jeans tossed behind in an instant and he grunts, freeing his hard length from his boxers. The tip of his cock teases your folds, the precum slicking down from the head. His nose presses against your cheek when your hand runs up and down - getting him all nice and ready. Breath hitching at the sensation, Logan involuntarily bucks his hips, your eagerness carrying him over the edge.

He's careless about lining himself up, giving it no more than a fleeting thought before thrusting into you. Whatever floods your brain at that moment is much more potent than anything you've ever experienced. It's vigorous, almost animalistic in nature, how hard he fucks you. The veins on his arms become more apparent as he hoists you up, pushing you against the cage. He can hear the little fibers of your skin tearing because of the friction, yet he does little to ease that pain, knowing you're enjoying the hurricane of emotions whisking you away.

Logan pants into your tits, nipping at the soft flesh, "Wanted to ruin that pussy since I saw you this mornin'... all dirty and pissed off at me - god. Thought 'bout somethin' else on your face too."

"Logan - don't... fucking stop. Feels amazing... wanna feel all of you." The words escape you - laboured and breathless - your eyes soften in delight, watching this sort of enraptured expression wash across his face, "So good for me, Logan."

So good.

For me.

And boy, if that doesn't spur him on.

Picking up speed, his movements turn greedy, grinding into you with a degree of passion he's never felt before. As you tug his hair, fingers raking through the dark tresses in a frenzy, Logan taps into the primal energy swelling within. His hands squeeze you further, your thighs constricting his waist as he drives up into you, "That's it baby... fuckin' perfect. Takin' all of me like a good girl... mhmm."

The way your body helplessly arches has him grinning, but that quickly gets swept away when his cock twitches inside you, aching to burst at any given moment. He tries his hardest to control himself, longing for your cries of pleasure as you finish. Thrusts weakening to a leisurely pace, Logan grunts into your neck, mumbling a string of curses while he rides out this wave. Thankfully, you're on the precipice as well, your body reaching its peak with a shiver.

His cum trickles out of you, thighs getting sticky as it seeps lower and lower. Lost in a daze, Logan thinks he can see the damn sun in your eyes. With a gentle swipe of your cunt, he sheepishly licks his own fingertips, a smile brightening his face.

The mattress, once a source of great discomfort, now feels like paradise as you cuddle into the crook of his neck, the soft rhythm of your breath soothing him to a state of peace. He'd carried you to his truck earlier, threatening you with a barrage of kisses when you dangled his keys in front of him. There was a rather short game of tag before you relented and collapsed into his embrace, tiredly blinking up at him. He'd tucked the loose strands of your hair back then tenderly caressed your cheek. It took all but one affectionate grin to convince you to spend the night in his camper.

Not a single inch of your body is free from his touch. He pulls you even closer, tracing patterns around the tiny scratches spreading across your shoulders. If you'd asked him yesterday, he would tell you he has no plans of sticking around this town, grown used to a life of impermanence. Yet, as he rests, tangled in your arms, Logan finds a reason to stay.

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