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thundersoothers · 16 days ago

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john price, his wife, and... the dog (derogatory)

who: John Price x wife!reader

what: inspired by this thought about john price being an absolutely softie for his wife. continued here!

word count: 2.4k

warnings: mentions of cheating but it’s NOT TRUE! you’ll see… just fluff that reallyyyyy makes me want to marry this man.

It’s 2AM on a Saturday in the summer when John Price thinks he hears his wife cheating on him.

“Shhh!! You have to be quiet, you’ll wake up my husband.”

He opens his heavy eyes to see the TV paused at the end credits of some movie he can’t even remember the name of. The screen reflects in the crystal of the empty rocks glass on the coffee table next to his feet, holding only a warm whiskey stone.

He groans and stretches, his old t-shirt riding up to show a dark happy trail disappearing into low-waisted flannel pajama pants. He has one sock on with a hole in the toe. You told him to get rid of them and got him a pack of 20 of the same sock (he’s very particular about his socks), but he still wears these ones, anyway.

“Stop moving, I’m trying to concentrate here. Damn lock… can never— oh, shit. Heh. Wrong key.”

He can hear you muttering and giggling and the scratch of the key against the lock as you struggle to get it in.

It’s your girls’ night and he likes to wait up for you to make sure you get in safely. He saw you off around 8PM, pouring himself a glass of whiskey as you took a shot of tequila. You planted a big kiss on his cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark that he didn’t bother to fully wipe off.

“Sorry, I know you’re eager to get inside. I bet you’re so cold, all naked. Here, you can go in my dress, is that better? Fu—ow! Don’t bite my tit, Jesus! Sharp teeth…”

Price suddenly feels much more awake. He pushes himself up from the couch and starts to walk to the foyer.

“This damn door… ah! There we go.”

The door creaks open and he hears you tiptoe inside in your heels (wearing heels and tiptoeing—are two actions that are mutually exclusive, especially when you’re plastered).

“Remember, we have to be quiet. My husband waits for me to get home, we don’t want to wake him up. He’s very nice, you see, but he can’t know you’re here.”

Apparently, you have gotten home safely—with an extra guest who just bit at your tit. And you’re being louder than your guest, who you keep telling to be quiet.

“My husband is gonna be soooo mad. He’s gonna be so mad at me, but once he sees how cute you are, I think he’ll forgive me. He’ll understand. I had to. I just had to!”

He hears rustling as he gets closer to the foyer, you fumbling around in the dark.

“Stay there, don’t move, okay? Stay, yeah? You know that, don’t you? Mummy will teach you if not. Just stay right there. Lemme get these damn heels off…”

There’s an odd sound of something quickly clicking on hardwood floor that makes his eyebrows furrow, and then you gasp—

“Wait, don’t run—“

Bang!

You groan loudly.

Price flicks on the lights.

You’re lying face down on the rug. You have one heel on. The second heel is twisted around your other foot—what you fell over. Your little dress is flipped up over your ass and your arms are outstretched.

“You okay there, love?” John asks, torn between amusement and concern. You just groan. “Sounded like you fell pretty hard.”

“I tripped,” you say into the rug, sounding very sad.

“You hurt?” he asks. “Anything broken?”

You shake your head and curl up a little. “I’ll just sleep here.”

He laughs softly. “Come on, none of that.”

“It’s so comfortable. I’ll just—“

There’s that clicking sound again and he’s almost startled by the abruptness of your movement. You push yourself up with one arm, stretch the other out and fucking snatch the quick-moving little brown blob that’s moving toward you. You pull it to your chest and cradle it, shielding it from John’s view.

He blinks. “What you got there, love?” he asks after a second.

“Nothing,” you say innocently.

“Right.” He crosses his arms, looking you over. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“No one,” you say quickly. “Myself.”

“Right,” John says again slowly. “Show me what you have.”

You look over your shoulder up at him through your lashes, vision blurry. “No. You’re gonna be mad.”

“Just show me.”

“Promise you won’t be mad.”

He sighs. “I won’t be mad.” You give him a look. He sighs again. You’re wasted—he can tell by your eyes. They’re unfocused and heavy. “Promise. Now show me.”

You look down at whatever you’re holding to your chest. “Okay,” you whisper (to your tits?), “you need to be very well-behaved, okay? No biting, please. Be very nice for Daddy so he will like you, okay? Can you do that? Yes? Okay.”

You glance up at John again over your shoulder and then turn yourself around in a very clumsy movement. Then, as if presenting whatever it is like you’re Mufasa from the Lion King, you lift it up in the air toward your husband.

It’s a puppy.

It’s quiet.

The little dog wriggles in your hands, wagging his tail so hard his whole body shakes. He barks up at John, high pitched. A small pink tongue lolls out of his mouth.

It’s still quiet.

You lower the dog a little so you can look up at John. “You said you wouldn’t be mad!”

“I’m not mad,” John says, sounding mad.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he says again. “It’s just… dirty.”

You gasp. “He’s not dirty!” you exclaim, sounding offended on behalf of the dog. You pull him to your chest. “He’s just a little mangey, you see. But that’s okay. It can be fixed. You know—they have medicine for that. Or lotion, or whatever it is. He’s very nice, John, I swear. I know he’s a little… skrunkly but he’s very cute and—ow! That’s my hair, no biting Mummy, please.”

“You’re already calling yourself his Mummy?” he asks, bemused, eyebrow raised at you. Yep. You’re fucking wasted.

“Yes, and you’re his Daddy.” You hold the dog up again, this time facing him toward you. “I think you’re very cute, puppy. You’ll grow on Daddy. Just be very good for him, you can do that, can’t you? Yes, you can.” You whisper, as if John isn’t standing right there, “We’ll wear him down. Don’t worry.”

“I thought it was something else,” Price says.

“What did you think it was?” you ask, not looking away from the dog.

“Where did you find it?” he asks instead of answering.

This is much better than what his traitorous mind momentarily supplied. You, cheating? As if.

How silly of him to even think that. For a moment, his stomach twists with the guilt of doubting you. He should have known better.

Of course it’s this. What else could it have been?

A puppy.

A puppy!

“Oh, hello, there.”

You crouch down in your dress and heels and hold out your hand to the little puppy emerging from the bushes by the side of the road.

“What are you doing here, all alone? Come here, love, I won’t hurt you. Come on, puppy, come to me. Yeahhh, there we go. Oh, look at you. You’re so cute. You’re all mangey, though. Oh,” you say pitifully, “you little baby.”

You’re drunk as fuck at 2AM on a Saturday in the summer, halfway through your walk home from the bar, squatting in the middle of a back road in England, about to cry while petting this puppy clumsily—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He wags his tail and nips at your fingers.

“Where’s your Mummy? You shouldn’t be out here all alone. No collar… oh, goodness, what should I do with you? I don’t want to leave you. I’m not sure what to do.”

He barks at you, high pitched.

You nod at him seriously. “Oh, yes, good point.” He barks again. “Mhm. Yes, yes. I thought so, too. Exactly right.”

He runs in a circle around you.

“What are you, a month? You should be with your Mum, you shouldn’t be all alone. Oh, you little baby, you must be so scared.” (He’s wagging his tail.)

“It’s so cold.” (It’s summer.)

“Maybe you can come home with me?” (Your husband would be so mad.)

“Yes,” you decide. “You’ll come home with me.” (Your husband is going to be so mad.)

That’s how you end up stumbling home with a puppy in your arms, rambling to him about yourself and your life.

“Well, puppy, my name is Mrs. Price. I’m from around here. I live in a nice three bedroom house with my husband, I think you’ll like it very much. It’s very cute. He let me decorate it. He doesn’t understand feng shui, you see. You should see his office, puppy, it’s so bland. No taste for interior design.”

“Our house is only 10 more minutes away. See that big tree there? That means we only have 10 minutes left until we’re home. I’m not great with street names, you see, so I go by landmarks.” He barks. “Yes, yes, you get it.”

“Anyway. So, I’m—stop wiggling please, Mummy’s going to drop you—I’m married to a very nice man named John. I love him very much. You’ll like him, too,” you tell him seriously, “he’s very likable. I like lots of things about him, puppy. Actually, I like everything about him.”

“He says I can’t have a dog, though. He says it’s for my own good—booooo. Boo! But maybe we can sneak you in. What do you think, puppy? Should we do that? I think we should do that. We’ll have to be very quiet, though. Very quiet.”

“John waits for me to get home safely—he’s so nice, he’s so kind to me, I love him sooooo much—but we have to make sure not to wake him up. This is one of them—uh, covert operations. He’s very well-versed in those. My husband is very talented, puppy, he’s a Captain. So we’ll have to be extra careful.”

And that’s how you end up trying to sneak into your own house and then trip over your shoe and fucking slam! your face on the rug.

“Where did you find it?” John asks you as you sit on the floor after you presented the dog to him.

“On the way home from the bar, kind of my that big tree.”

“By Notting Street?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Notting Str—I dunno. Maybe? I just know the big tree. The one with all the branches.”

“‘The one with all the branches,’” he repeats, nodding slowly. “Right.”

“But he was there all alone so I took him home. I couldn’t leave him, John, he’s so little. And he’s very cute, look at his little ears? And his little feet? His toes are soooo small. His little teeth are sharp, though—like a shark. Fuckin’ hurt, he almost bit my tit off.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“You heard? Oh. I was trying to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

He smiles at you. “I know.”

You smile back.

“Give me the dog.”

You frown. “No.”

“The dog, please.”

“No.” You hold him tighter. “You’ll take him from me.”

“Well,” he says, “yes.”

You sigh heavily. “Be gentle.” You hand him to John and he takes him in one hand and holds him out, frowning, as if it’s offended him.

A puppy.

“Can we keep him?” you ask hopefully.

He glances at you and then back to the puppy and then back to you and then back to the puppy. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“But…” You trail off and he looks back down at you. You’re starting to tear up.

“Oh—love, don’t cry.”

“He’s so little and soft and nice and he’s all mangey and he’s all alone and he’s just a little baby and…”

“Okay, okay, darling, we can keep him.”

(By that, he means you’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober, and by ‘talk about it’, he means, ‘no.’)

“Really?!” you gasp.

The way your face fucking lights up makes John pause. For a second, he almost feels like he lost his balance.

“Oh, John, really? Oh, thank you so much! Puppy, did you hear that? Daddy said yes! See, he’s very nice, just like I told you, remember? He’s very nice and kind and he’s very handsome and I love him very much, and I—“

“The dog can’t understand you.”

“You don’t know that,” you say defensively.

He looks down at you. “Right.”

You stare up at him, standing over you as you sit on the floor. “How are you handsome even from this angle?” You frown deeper. “Stupid face,” you mutter.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Let’s get you up.”

“I’m so comfortable.”

“Hand.” He tucks the dog under his arm and extends his other hand toward you. He crooks his long, thick fingers at you. “Now.”

You look between his hand and his face, and then slip your hand into his.

“Good girl.”

He fucking yanks you up and, in one movement that’s somehow graceful, bends down and throws you over his shoulder.

He, naturally, slaps your ass and you squeal. “Hey!!”

You kick your feet (still with only one heel on) and he laughs, resting his hand on your hip, heavy fingers digging into the plush of your butt, as he makes his way up the stairs with you on his shoulder and the dog in his hand.

Gently, he drops you onto the bed and you fall back with an oof! and stare up at him.

“Well,” Price drawls, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You grin. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He takes off your shoe (singular), your dress, and your makeup as you hold the dog, curled up, on your chest.

“You’re so good to me, John,” you say, your eyes closed. “I’m so lucky. I don’t know how I got so lucky. And, you, puppy,” you mumble, petting him slowly, “you’re so lucky, too. You’re about to have the best Daddy in the world. He’s so good to us.”

“‘Puppy’ is asleep,” John says. “And,” he adds, scooping him up in one hand, “puppy is not sleeping in the bed.”

You just groan, too tired and drunk to argue.

He holds the dog out in the air again, turning him around and upside down to examine him. He yips and wriggles in his hands, but John shushes him. “Hush now. Your Mummy is asleep.” He shakes his head and sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

He takes the dog to the bathroom and puts him down on the floor. His paws slip a little on the cold tile. John puts his hands on his hips, staring down at the dog. “I can’t believe this.”

He reaches over to turn on the heated floor (which he got installed for you) and says to the dog, “You are so, so damn lucky I love your Mummy.”

In the morning, despite John Price’s best efforts to say no to you, you end up convincing him to keep the dog. He’s a military Captain but the pleading of his wife is enough to make him crumble.

The happiness on your face when he finally says yes, makes him wonder why he ever said no in the first place.

note: thank you for reading! this is my first time posting in years–and in a totally new fandom. thank you for your patience and your support. let me know your thoughts! merry christmas!

posted 12.26.2024. revised 01.02.2025.

do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform.

to masterlist.

#john price #john price x reader #call of duty #call of duty imagine #cod imagine #john price smut #well wait I guess not #for once #lux.writes #lux.price #john price fic #john price drabble #call of duty fic #I haven't done tags in forever what else do I do #call of duty smut #price

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sceletaflores · 2 months ago

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I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!

divider by angel @saradika-graphics!

it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...

The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.

It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.

It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.

He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.

His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.

By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.

He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.

The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.

"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.

Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.

You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.

Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.

You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.

Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.

Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent.

The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.

“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”

Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.

The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.

You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”

Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”

You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.

“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”

The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.

You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.

Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.

You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.

In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.

He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.

You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.

“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.

“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.

Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts.

Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.

He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.

Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning.

“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”

The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.

Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.

Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more.

He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you.

It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved.

The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.

His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.

“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure.

The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.

Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.

He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.

Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.

Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”

Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.

But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.

He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.

“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.

The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.

“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."

He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.

Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure.

Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.

Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist.

He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.

You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.

“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.

With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.

“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”

Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”

The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain.

The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.

With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.

He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.

Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer.

Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.

Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.

He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.

“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.

Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours.

The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.

Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.

Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.

His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.

Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow.

Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.

“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”

Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.

He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.

“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.

The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.

You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.

He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.

“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."

A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest.

Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.

“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”

Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt.

Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.

He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.

He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.

Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.

He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.

“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.

“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.

“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.

It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.

Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”

Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.

He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.

And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.

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