angel.

Morning always made Logan softer. Not in the most obvious ways, but it managed to make his edges quieter. You’d wake up to one of his arms banded heavily around your waist, his skin warm beneath your cheek as you’d rise to the view of his hair flattened from one side of sleep and his voice a lower baritone than usual. 

The room was pale with early light. A thin, grey-blue wash coming in through the blinds, catching on the dresser, the abandoned hoodie near the chair, the water glass on the nightstand, the edge of the shirt you were wearing.

His shirt.

Because at some point during the night, after the party had ended and the hockey house had gone quiet in waves, you had stolen it from the floor and put it on without asking. It smelled like Logan. Laundry detergent, skin, something warm and clean beneath it. It hung loose over your body, soft from use, the hem falling high on your thighs when you shifted.

You had woken before him.

That was rare.

Rarer still was the fact that you had not immediately moved. Normally, your brain began making lists the second your eyes opened. Things to do. Texts to answer. Hair to fix. Lip balm. Water. Breakfast. Whether it was socially acceptable to leave without speaking to Dean if Dean was in the kitchen.

But Logan was behind you, breathing slow against the back of your neck, and his hand was tucked beneath the shirt at your stomach, palm warm against bare skin.

So you stayed.

For a while, at least.

Then he woke. You knew because his fingers moved first. A slow flex against your stomach. Then his breath changed, mouth brushing the back of your shoulder in something too lazy to count as a kiss.

“Morning,” he murmured.

His voice did something unfair to your spine.

You closed your eyes again.

“Morning.”

His hand shifted under the shirt, not quite purposeful yet, just finding you. His thumb dragged softly over your skin. You felt him inhale against your neck, felt the pause that followed.

Then, lower, “This my shirt?”

You smiled without meaning to.

“No.”

“No?”

“I found it.”

“In my room.”

“Possession is complicated.”

His mouth pressed to your shoulder,“You look good in it.”

You opened one eye,“You can’t see me.”

“I know.”

“That’s not how looking works.”

His hand slid over your stomach, fingers spreading against you, pulling you back a little more firmly into his chest, “I remember.”

Your body warmed so quickly it was embarrassing,“Ridiculous.”

“Yeah.”

But his mouth had moved to your neck now, lips slow and warm, and ridicule became difficult to maintain under such conditions. His hand moved higher under the shirt, then lower again, teasing in no particular hurry. Morning Logan did not rush. Morning Logan seemed to have decided that time was something other people worried about.

You tilted your head without meaning to.

He noticed, “There?” he asked, mouth at the side of your throat.

You swallowed, “You know.”

“I want to hear you.”

You made a small, irritated sound and his hand stilled.

“Too early for that?”

“It is too early for you to be smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re horizontally smug.”

He laughed quietly against your skin, and the sound made your stomach tighten.

Then his hand slipped lower, suddenly you stopped caring about smugness.

Your breath caught, and Logan’s arm tightened around your waist, holding you steady as his fingers moved beneath the hem of his shirt. Slow and careful. 

The room grew smaller.

It was always like that with him when he touched you in the morning. There was no lipstick to hide behind. No dress. No heels. No red nails arranged carefully around a glass. No sharp little comments delivered from a position of social control. Just your bare legs tangled in his sheets, your hair loose against the pillow, his shirt riding up your thighs, his hand between your legs while he kissed your neck like he had all morning to learn you again.

“Logan,” you breathed.

“Yeah?”

You had no follow-up and he smiled into your skin like he knew that too.

His fingers circled slowly, and your hips moved back before you could stop them. He inhaled sharply.

That was when you felt him properly, hard against you, warm through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing into the back of your thigh.

Your eyes opened.

He went still, “Sorry,” he said immediately.

You turned your head slightly, though you could not fully see him from this angle.

“Why?”

His mouth brushed your shoulder again.

“Didn’t mean to rush you.”

“You didn’t.”

A pause.

“I like it.”

His hand on your waist tightened, “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He kissed your neck again, this time with intention. His fingers moved again, and your thighs parted under the shirt, one knee sliding forward over the sheets. 

“You want me?” he asked.

Your breath left you in a soft laugh, “What a humiliating question.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you know.”

“I still want you to say it.”

You closed your eyes.

The curtains glowed faintly with morning. His hand moved steadily. His mouth was warm at your shoulder. Your body was already softening for him in a way that made denial feel stupid.

“Yes,” you breathed, “I want you.”

His breath changed.

“Good.”

The word settled low in your stomach.

You would have complained, but he chose that moment to push his fingers inside you, and your complaint dissolved into a gasp.

“There you go,” he murmured.

You reached back, hand finding his hair awkwardly, fingers sliding into it as he worked you open with a patience that made you want to crawl out of your skin. He knew you too well now. Not fully, and there were still discoveries. But it was enough to make you resent his competence when it was being used against you.

“Slow,” you said, though you were not sure whether you were telling him or yourself.

He kissed your shoulder.

“I’ve got you.”

When he finally rolled you onto your back, the shirt slid up your thighs, and Logan looked down at you like the sight had interrupted every remaining thought in his head.

You looked away immediately, “No.”

His hand paused at your hip, “No?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re making notes.”

His mouth curved.

“You’re wearing my shirt and nothing else.”

“That does not require documentation.”

“It might.”

“Logan.”

He leaned down and kissed you, smiling into it, one knee pressing between your thighs. You bit gently at his lower lip because he deserved it. He groaned because apparently punishment and reward had become indistinguishable to him.

The kiss deepened.

Morning softened, then heated.

His boxers went somewhere. You did not know where. The shirt stayed, though by the time he rolled a condom on and came back over you, it had been pushed up over your waist, bunched beneath your ribs, leaving you bare under him except for the fabric tangled around you like a weak argument.

He kissed you when he pushed in.

You needed that. The first stretch made your fingers dig into his shoulders, mouth opening against his.

He stopped immediately.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Colour?”

“Green.”

His forehead lowered to yours.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Just-morning.”

He huffed a soft laugh.

“Morning?”

“Everything feels more.”

His expression changed into something warmer, more focussed on your reactions.

“I’ll go slow.”

At first, he did, slow, deep strokes that made the room blur at the edges. His chest brushed yours, his mouth moved against your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips. Every sound you made seemed louder in the quiet morning, every shift of the mattress too obvious, too intimate. 

He kissed you again, and his hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher around his hip, and you stopped thinking about daylight entirely.

For a while.

Until he shifted.

Until one of his hands slid to your waist and the other braced beside your head, and his mouth paused near your ear.

“Cherry.”

You made a small sound of acknowledgement.

“Can we try something?”

Your eyes opened.

He lifted his head so you could see him properly.

“What?”

His thumb moved once over your waist.

“Turn over.”

Your stomach dipped.

You looked at him and he held your gaze.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“We can stay like this.”

“I know.”

“Colour?”

You swallowed, “Green.”

His eyes darkened.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

Then, because nerves made you sharp, “Logan, I’m asking you to fuck me, not invest in a pension.”

He blinked and then laughed, head dropping briefly to your shoulder, “Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You like me.”

“I really do.”

The softness of it made you quiet.

That was inconvenient.

He kissed you before you had to answer.

Then pulled out slowly, carefully, and helped you turn onto your stomach. The first thing you noticed was how exposed it felt. Which felt stupid because you had just been naked under him in the morning light. But for some reason, this felt different. You were on your knees now, forearms against the bed with his shirt falling beneath you, the hem still twisted around your waist. The second thing you noticed was that you couldn’t see his face- couldn’t read the little changes there, couldn’t watch his mouth part when you shifted against him. You couldn't see whether he looked wrecked, whether he looked too composed, whether he was looking at you the way you wanted him to.

You could only feel his hands.

One on your hip, the other smoothing up your back beneath the shirt. 

“Still green?” he asked.

His voice came from behind you, lower than before. Different. 

Your fingers curled in the sheets, “Yes.”

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Which helped as he guided himself back to you and pushed in slowly. 

Your breath caught immediately and he stopped, “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly, “No.”

“Cherry.”

“No, it’s good.” You closed your eyes. “Just different.”

His hand moved along your spine.

“Different good?”

You exhaled, embarrassed by the answer before you gave it.

“Yes.”

He stayed still for another second, letting you adjust. Then he moved.

The angle made your whole body go tight.

“Oh.”

The sound left you before you could make it pretty.

Logan’s hand tightened on your hip.

“Yeah?”

You pressed your face into your forearm.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Sound pleased.”

“I am pleased.”

“Quietly.”

His laugh was rough.

But he listened.

For a few strokes, there was only the quiet rhythm of it. His hips meeting yours slowly, the bed shifting beneath you, his breathing getting heavier behind you. One hand stayed on your hip, guiding. The other moved under the shirt, over your back, over your waist, like he was trying to keep contact with as much of you as possible.

It was good. It was very good in fact. 

It was also strange. Not in a bad way that made you want to change colours, but strange enough that you went quiet. Too quiet.

Logan noticed after maybe ten seconds and slowed,“Hey.”

You swallowed.

“What?”

His hand moved up your back again.

“You with me?”

“Yes.”

“You got quiet.”

“I’m allowed to be quiet.”

“You are.”

There was no argument in his voice. No push. Just his observation.

Then his body leaned over yours, chest pressing to your back, mouth near your shoulder, “I just like knowing where you are.”

Your breath caught for a reason that had nothing to do with the angle.

You turned your head slightly on your forearm, trying to see him- but you could not.

Logan seemed to understand at the same time you did.

“Oh,” he murmured.

Your face heated,“What?”

“You can’t see me.”

“I can see the pillow.”

“Not the same?”

“Not remotely.”

He laughed softly and kissed the back of your shoulder again.

Not teasing this time.

“You want to stop?”

“No.”

“You want to turn back over?”

You hesitated. Because no, you didn’t. The position was too much and not enough and exactly enough, all at once. You wanted to stay there. You wanted him behind you. You wanted the weight of his hands and the sound of his voice and the sharp, deep pleasure of the angle.

You also wanted to see him.

Logan’s hand slid to your jaw, gentle, turning your face just enough for him to kiss your cheek.

“Cherry.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Okay.”

“I just…” You exhaled, “I don’t like not knowing what your face is doing.”

He went still for half a second.

Then his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades.

The sound he made was not quite a laugh, and not exactly a groan. 

“You’re worried about my face?”

“Not worried.”

“No?”

“I like evidence.”

His hand tightened on your jaw.

Then, low, “Evidence.”

You immediately regretted the word.

“No.

His mouth brushed your shoulder.

“No evidence?”

“Do not start.”

“I’m not starting.”

“You absolutely are.”

He kissed the top of your spine, still half over you, still inside you, and the intimacy of that nearly took your knees out.

“Look at the dresser,” he said.

You blinked.

“What?”

“The mirror.”

Your head lifted.

The dresser mirror sat across from the bed, half cluttered by a water bottle, his watch, and an abandoned roll of tape someone had left in his room for reasons you did not understand. It caught the bed at an angle. Not perfectly. But enough.

Enough to see yourself on your knees in his shirt. Enough to see Logan behind you, bent over your back, hair messy, jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed on your reflection. Your whole body reacted.

Logan felt it and his gaze flicked to yours in the mirror.

“There she is,” he murmured.

Oh. That was worse. That was so much worse.

You looked away immediately.

His hand slid from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, guiding your face back up.

“No hiding.”

“You are behind me.”

“Still no hiding.”

“That is unreasonable.”

“Look.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Bossy.”

“Green?”

You swallowed.

“Green.”

“Then look.”

You did.

Your eyes met his in the mirror, and Logan moved again. Your mouth fell open.

His face changed behind you, composure cracking just enough for you to see it. His jaw flexed. His eyes went darker. One hand gripped your hip while the other stayed at your throat, holding you steady and visible.

That was what you had needed.

Not to be looked at like an object.

To be seen. To know he was with you. To know he was losing it too.

Logan’s voice dropped, “Good girl.”

Your body clenched around him.

His eyes shut for half a second, “Fuck.”

You would have smiled if you had not been too busy trying to remember how breathing worked.

He straightened behind you, just enough for you to see more of him in the mirror. His hands moved to your hips again, dragging you back onto him with careful pressure.

“Still good?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You like seeing?”

You made a sound that was not an answer.

He slowed, “Cherry.”

You glared at his reflection.

“I hate when you require verbal participation.”

His mouth curved, “I know.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

“Because you like it.”

You did not answer. Which was the answer he was looking for. 

He leaned over you again, mouth near your ear, eyes still on yours in the mirror, “You like seeing what you do to me.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets and a flush washed over your body. 

“Logan.”

“You do.”

“Don’t make it sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know.”

His hips rolled into yours, and your answer broke apart, “I do know,” he murmured.

The next stroke made you drop your head. Immediately, his hand came to your jaw.

“Uh-uh.”

You groaned.

“Logan.”

“Look.”

You did, because apparently your body had decided obedience was the theme of the morning.

And there he was.

Behind you in the mirror.

Flushed and focused and so visibly affected by you that the exposure no longer felt one-sided. His hands on your hips. His body moving behind yours. His shirt bunched around your waist. Your own face wrecked in the reflection, mouth parted, eyes glossy, hair loose around your cheeks.

It should have embarrassed you more.

It did.

But the embarrassment fed the heat instead of stopping it.

“There you go,” he crooned, “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying not to be.”

“Try harder.”

His laugh broke into a groan when you pushed back against him, just a little, just enough to prove you could. His hands tightened.

“Oh, you’re gonna be like that?”

You glanced at him in the mirror, “Like what?”

His eyes darkened, “Careful.” He shifted the angle, one hand sliding around to your stomach, pulling you up slightly so your back arched against him.

The next thrust stole your breath. “Logan.”

“I know.”

His hand pressed gently over your stomach.

“Right there?”

You nodded, too fast.

He kissed your shoulder.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Your eyes fluttered as his mouth brushed your ear, “So good for me.”

You hated the sound you made.

Logan loved it.

You knew because his rhythm stuttered, his hand slid lower, fingers finding you beneath the shirt, and your arms almost gave out.

“Wait-”

He stopped instantly. Everything stopped, his thrusts paused suddenly, his breathing was still heavy behind you but his spine had straightened as his hand lifted away.

“What? Too much?”

You shook your head, breathless.

“No. Just-” You laughed once, broken and embarrassed,“I need a second.”

His hands went gentle at once.

“Okay.”

He stayed still inside you, chest against your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard. The restraint in him made your head spin almost as much as the pleasure had.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Still green?”

“Yes.”

His hand moved slowly over your side.

“No rush.”

That was the thing that ruined you. As if he was perfectly content to stay there, holding you together, waiting for your body to catch up to what it wanted.

You turned your head enough to find his mouth.

He met you halfway, kissing you awkwardly over your shoulder. It was not elegant. The angle was terrible. Your neck protested. His nose bumped your cheek. Somehow, that made it better.

When you pulled away, you were smiling faintly.

“What?” he asked.

“This is logistically complicated.”

He huffed a laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Emotionally also.”

His expression softened in the mirror.

“Yeah?”

You looked at him, then nodded.

He kissed your shoulder again, “Good different?”

You closed your eyes.

“Unfortunately.”

His laugh warmed your skin.

Then, carefully, his hand returned between your thighs. He moved slowly at first, building you back up with maddening patience, fingers circling in time with the deep drag of him inside you. The mirror kept catching pieces of everything. His face. Your hands in the sheets. The flex of his arms. Your own expression every time he found the right angle.

You could not hide from it.

After a while, you stopped trying.

“That’s it,” Logan said, voice rough, “Look at you.”

Your breath broke, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Say things.”

“You like when I say things.”

“I like when you are quiet.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you admitted, because there was no point lying to someone currently making you shake, “I don’t.”

His eyes met yours in the mirror, “There she is.”

Your body tightened.

Logan felt it immediately, “Close?”

You nodded. 

He kept you there. One hand between your thighs, the other at your hip, his mouth at your shoulder, his gaze holding yours in the mirror as the pleasure built fast and bright and inescapable.

You tried to drop your head when it hit.

His hand caught your jaw gently.

“Look at me.”

You did.

And came with your eyes on his reflection, Logan’s name breaking out of you as your body clenched around him. He held you through it, hips stilling, fingers working you softly until you were trembling and breathless beneath him.

“That’s it,” he murmured, “I’ve got you.”

Your arms gave out properly then.

He caught you before you collapsed fully, easing you down onto the mattress, turning you gently onto your side without pulling away too quickly. His body curved behind yours, one arm around your waist, mouth against the back of your neck.

For a few seconds, all you could do was breathe.

Logan’s breath was ragged too.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Words, Cherry.”

“Yes.”

“Too much?”

“No.”

“Good different?”

You shut your eyes, “Very.”

His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder and you could feel his smile.

“Don’t be pleased.”

“I’m a little pleased.”

“You would be.”

He kissed your shoulder, “I liked that.”

Your face warmed.

“I noticed.”

“Yeah?”

“You were not subtle.”

His hand moved over your stomach beneath the shirt.

“Neither were you.”

You opened one eye.

“I was extremely subtle.”

“Baby.”

“What?”

“You came looking at me in the mirror.”

Your whole body went hot.

“That was an accident.”

“Was it?”

“An emotional accident.”

He laughed softly.

You turned your face into the pillow.

“No.”

“No what?”

“No discussing.”

“Okay.”

“Immediately.”

“Okay.”

A pause.

Then, because he was himself, “Just one thing.”

You groaned into the pillow.

“Logan.”

His mouth brushed the back of your neck.

“You were so pretty, “His arm tightened around your waist, “Not teasing,” he said quietly.

You swallowed.

The morning light had gone warmer now, spilling across the sheets, catching the bare line of his arm over your body, the wrinkled fabric of his shirt still on you, the reflection of both of you faint and softened in the dresser mirror.

“Thank you,” you said, very softly.

His hand flattened over your stomach.

“You’re welcome.”

You lay like that for a while, half tangled, half dressed, both still trying to become normal again.

Eventually, because you could not allow sincerity to remain unattended for too long, you said, “That was logistically intense.”

His laugh hit your shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“And suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I feel like you learned something.”

“I did.”

You turned your head slightly to find him smiling against your skin.

You narrowed your eyes, “What?”

“You like seeing my face.”

“That is not new information.”

“You really like seeing my face.”

“That phrasing is vulgar.”

“You asked for evidence.”

“Don’t.”

He laughed harder when you elbowed him lightly, “Sorry.”

“You are not sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re going to become insufferable.”

“Probably.”

You sighed.

He kissed behind your ear.

“But not right now.”

You softened despite yourself.

“No?”

“No.” Another kiss, lower this time. “Right now, I’m going to clean you up, get you water, and maybe steal my shirt back eventually.”

You looked down at the shirt. Then pulled it closer around yourself.

“No.”

“No?”

“This is mine now.”

“It says Briar Hockey.”

“It says mine.”

He laughed.

“Fine.”

You smiled into the pillow.

Behind you, Logan’s hand moved slowly over your waist.

Sunlight spills through the windows, catching on copper pans and glass jars and the thin layer of flour dusting the worktops.

For once, you're not here for Patrick. You’re here for Taggie.

Standing in front of a mixing bowl, you wonder whether cake batter is supposed to look like that. You suspect not, which is precisely why you’re in Taggie O'Hara's kitchen instead of your own.

"I've ruined it," you blow out a frustrated breath, dropping your arms down to your sides.

Taggie glances up from where she’s measuring ingredients, "you haven't."

"I absolutely have," you reply, peering down into the runny goo you’ve created within the few minutes you’ve been left unattended. 

"You haven't," Taggie repeats, sounding entirely too confident in you.

You point at the bowl and she leans over, inspects it for all of two seconds, then gently takes the whisk from your hand.

"You've just put a bit too much milk in, that’s all." 

"Is that bad?" you wince. 

You've been staying with Aunt Lizzie for a couple of weeks now, long enough to learn that half of Rutshire's social life revolves around secrets.

This week's secret happens to be a birthday party.

Aunt Lizzie's party is tomorrow, a day before her actual birthday, and Rupert Campbell-Black had somehow convinced half of Rutshire to conspire against her.

The plan involves a surprise party and a very carefully curated guest list. You, meanwhile, have somehow ended up responsible for the cake.

Only, you can't bake. 

"It’s easily fixed," Taggie's answer comes immediately, comfortingly.

You watch as she adds something from a small bowl. 

"What was that?" you ask, continuing to watch as she mixes it until it looks like normal batter.

"A little more flour."

Thank the heavens above you have access to a professional who’s willing to help. 

You groan dramatically, embarrassed by such a simple mistake, and Taggie laughs, the sound filling the kitchen.

“You are a genius, Tag,” you tell her, the smile on your lips growing when she blushes.

“Oh, not really,” she dips her head down as she pours the batter into a tin, her reddish fringe hiding her eyes from view.

You have a feeling nobody's ever really told Taggie she's smart. 

“Honestly,” you say, scooping up what's left in the bowl onto your finger and bringing it to your lips, “cooking is a real science, baking even more so.”

You are halfway through licking batter off your fingertip when the slapping of bare feet echoes into the kitchen.

"Taggie!" an Irish cadence calls out before Declan O’Hara is stood in the doorway, fresh from the shower. 

“Have you seen my shirt? The white one.”

He’s wearing only a towel, slung low around his waist. Water clings to his hair and drips down his shoulders, entirely ignorant of the effect it might have on any innocent visitors present.

Taggie doesn't even look up from where she’s placing the cake into the oven.

“In the airing cupboard,” she says absently, closing the door and double checking the temperature.

“I looked in the airing cupboard,” Declan replies, each word landing with quiet irritation, carefully contained.

“Then you didn’t look properly.”

He tilts his head to you then, a quiet exhale through his nose, as if protesting the implication that his daughter underestimates his competence. 

You’re still licking frosting from your fingers when he moves, your eyes following him as he leaves without you really meaning to. A delayed, inconvenient realisation hits that you were staring at him the entire time he had stood there.

It’s mortifying, but you could hardly be blamed. How, exactly, did a father of three grown children still look like that?

“So, how are you planning to keep this all hidden from James?” Taggie asks, moving you both on from her fathers brief interruption. 

“Oh,” you snap back into the conversation, a slight flush to your face, “hopefully everyone at Corinium will still be at work, and then everyone at Venturer will have the afternoon off,” you explain. 

You’ve never really warmed to Uncle James, and staying with them these past few weeks has made that impossible to ignore.

He is, quite frankly, an awful husband.

“That’s very optimistic,” Taggie muses, bending down to give her puppy some attention.

“Yeah, well, Rupert's mostly organising that part,” you say, crouching to pet Gertrude, the older dog, before realising your slip up.

Patrick had attempted to catch you up on all the local scandals, but you’re still not really sure what had happened between his sweet little sister and the notorious politician. 

Taggie, however, doesn't so much as blink. She is far too gracious to make you feel awkward for mentioning him.

"That's kind of him," she says, gathering up the dirty dishes to take to the sink. 

“Yeah,” you smile timidly, helping her clean up all the mess you’ve created. 

Taggie glances towards the oven, "I've got the cake from here."

“Are you sure?” you ask, eyes widening,  “I feel like I kinda dumped this on you.”

“Of course,” Taggie smiles, “I don’t mind. Go see Patrick, he’ll still be in bed.”

“You are an angel,” you wrap your arms around her neck in a big hug when you feel her stiffen slightly. She laughs, though, patting your arm like you are something mildly chaotic but ultimately harmless.

You pull away reluctantly, already backing toward the door, “thank you!”

By the time you reach Patrick's bedroom, you're sure the house had acquired an extra corridor since the last time you’d visited.

When you spot him, he is indeed still in bed.

“Hey, lazybones, it’s almost noon,” you flop down on top of him.

“Hey,” he grins sleepily, reaching up to stroke your hair back, “what are you doing here?”

-

The morning of the party begins, as most mornings in the Vereka household do, with James being irritating.

You hear him in the bathroom practising his affirmations in the mirror, which he does religiously each day, reminding himself of his extremely important job as a television presenter for Corinium. 

Tony Baddingham's number one guy. 

Urgh. How does Aunt Lizzie live with him?

You’ve heard about the managing director of Corinium, though never in any context that made him sound particularly pleasant. Tony is a man who apparently runs his company like it is a kingdom and expects everyone inside it to behave accordingly.

All of it is very interesting, slightly intimidating, but not what you need to focus on right now. That doesn't help you get Lizzie to her party.

The difficulty with surprise parties, you are discovering, is that the surprise party has to remain a surprise. Unfortunately, the person being surprised by the surprise party must also somehow arrive at the surprise party and still remain surprised. 

Which means your current task is to get Lizzie to Rupert's house at one o'clock-ish without telling her why she needs to be at Rupert's house at one o'clock-ish.

Eventually, James leaves for work and the house improves immediately, even with the chaos of your niece and nephew getting ready for school.

You stay on the sofa with a bowl of cereal you’ve mostly forgotten to eat, mentally running through the increasingly fragile structure of the day while you wait.

By the time you leave the house, the children are half-cooperative and Lizzie is in a familiar state of organising everyone else’s morning into something vaguely functional.

You fall into step beside her on the walk to the kids’ school, hands in your pockets, trying not to look like someone actively scheming.

For a while, your presence goes entirely unremarked upon. Lizzie's attention is occupied by her children running wild across the Cotswold countryside. 

Eventually she glances at you. 

“You’ve never voluntarily joined the school run,” she says, her tone slightly suspicious.

You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, “thought I'd keep you company.”

“Mhm,” she hums. It's the sort of response that contains absolutely no words of accusation and yet somehow feels vaguely accusatory.

The silence stretches.

“I have a favour to ask.”

“What is it?” she asks, turning her head towards you. 

“Taggie needs something picked up from Rupert’s house,” you say, keeping your tone deliberately casual.

It is, of course, a lie.

“Oh?” is how Lizzie responds, eyes drifting back to follow her children running free rein up ahead. 

“Yeah, and I thought,” you hedge gingerly, “since I don't know him that well and you do, you’d come with me?”

The truth is, you've spent the last several days exchanging secret messages with the older man who happens to be possessed of more sex scandals than you could count on both hands. 

In your defence, every message had been entirely innocent. Unfortunately, "I've been secretly communicating with Rupert Campbell-Black all week" sounds considerably worse than it is.

“It would make it less awkward,” you add, a shy smile barely tugging at your lips.

“He has a reputation, but Rupert’s a good man really,” Lizzie says. She looks at you then and smiles, “but, of course. I'll come with you if you want me to.”

“I do!” you exclaim, then quickly reel yourself in. You need to act casual. So casual.

“Thank you,” you say, calmly this time, though a genuine smile stretches across your face.

As you approach the school gates, Lizzie seems more concerned with shepherding the children through than questioning your suspicious enthusiasm for helping Taggie. 

By the time you're heading back towards the house, the morning has brightened considerably. The rest of the day passes in a blur, and before you know it, it’s already a quarter to one when the all-clear message comes through.

Rupert Campbell-Black: All ready

By just after one o’clock you’re both in the car, heading towards the party.

Rupert's front door is already open by the time you pull up, with him standing there in front of it, waiting.

"Why is he standing outside?" Lizzie asks, leaning over the steering wheel to get a better look at her friend.

"No idea," you shrug, feigning confusion. 

Rupert ambles over with a big grin, on his way to open Lizzie's door. He greets her with a hug and an audible smooch on the cheek. 

The moment Lizzie steps through the front door, the room erupts.

"Surprise!"

There’s applause and at least one party popper that goes off late, and Lizzie's hand flies to her mouth as she stares at the crowd gathered inside Rupert's entrance hall.

You leave her to the inevitable wave of hugs and celebrations, slipping through the crowd yourself.

Taggie catches sight of you first. "You did it!" she laughs as you pull her into a hug.

Caitlin is next, followed by Patrick, who receives an additional quick kiss on the cheek.

You glance across the room, at all the people here to celebrate Lizzie. Most of the faces belong to friends she rarely gets to see these days. Friends from Venturer. Friends James had gone as far as to ban her from fraternising with.

You spot Declan standing at the edge of the crowd, already working his way through a glass of champagne.

He doesn't look like a man celebrating. If anything, he looks like a man making a determined effort not to think about something.

His jacket has already been abandoned somewhere, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand wrapped tightly around the stem of his glass.

Around him, the party swirls on happily, though Declan appears entirely separate from it.

He catches you looking, lifts his glass, then takes another long drink.

His wife is nowhere to be seen, not that you'd expected her to be. Most of the guests are from Venturer, and Maude O’Hara collaborates with Corinium now.

It's only when you catch him reaching for another glass of champagne that her absence starts to feel more meaningful.

“You did wonderful, darling,” Rupert approaches to wrap his arm around your shoulders, grinning down at you proudly.

“What? You did all the work,” you deflect, dipping your head when you feel your cheeks flush, “and Taggie made the cake.”

Rupert lifts his gaze from you, moving it to where Taggie stands besides you. “Did you, now?” he addresses her.

You slip out from under Rupert’s arm before you get in the way of whatever is happening there. 

By now, you’ve had a few glasses of fizz and are starting to feel it in that light, floaty way that makes everything slightly softer around the edges.

Your heels are long gone somewhere in the reception room, abandoned in favour of bare feet on cool floorboards. There’s no hope of finding them anytime soon, and the need to find the loo is no longer something you can ignore.

When you find it, you push open the door.

Only, the room is already occupied… by your aunt and another man.

They are kissing in that unambiguous, completely unaccidental way that rearranges the room the moment you see it. For one suspended second, your brain refuses to attach meaning to the image in front of you.

Quietly, before they can notice you, you close the door again. Only once it is securely shut again, do you release your breath. 

Crist on a crumpet.

Lizzie Vereker is cheating on her husband with Freddie Jones.

You stand there in the corridor for a second too long, staring unseeingly at wood-paneled walls. 

Under any normal circumstance, this would be exactly the sort of thing you’d feel fairly certain about being against. But, in this moment, you can’t quite summon the outrage you think you’re supposed to feel.

Not that it’s really any of your business. It doesn’t affect your life in any meaningful way. You just want the best for your aunt, who always wants the best for everyone else.

You need somewhere quiet for a moment to process these thoughts, somewhere away from the noise of the party.

The library is dimmer than the rest of the house, all heavy shelves and soft light filtering through old curtains. It feels, briefly, like somewhere the world might not follow you into.

You close the door behind you and let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

Pressing your fingers lightly against the edge of the bookshelf, grounding yourself in something solid and real, you try to make sense of what you’ve just seen.

That’s when you realise you are not in here alone.

Declan O’Hara is sitting in one of the armchairs by the unlit fireplace, an empty champagne flute dangling loosely from his fingers.

Tilting your head slowly in his direction, you peer at him from underneath your lashes to find that he’s already staring at you.

If you’re being honest, you've had a crush on Declan O'Hara ever since you watched him punch a vicar on live television.

He'd called him a "filthy, hypocritical old git" beforehand, so you'd always figured the Reverend must’ve had it coming.

“Sorry,” you say automatically, turning to leave.

“No, don't," he says, standing as if he should be the one to leave.

You listen and remain where you stand near the door. 

“Are you alright?” Declan studies you for a moment, “is it Patrick?” he asks.

There’s a flicker in his expression as he says it, something sharper underneath the calm in his voice. The suggestion seems to irritate him almost as soon as he’s voiced it, like he’s offended on your behalf by the idea of his son being the cause.

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s not Patrick.”

He nods, the tension easing from his shoulders slightly.

“He’s a good lad,” he says eventually. “Just misguided when it comes to relationships. I suppose Maud and I are hardly the best example.”

There’s something clipped in the way he says it, like he’s bitten the words off before they could soften.

“Oh,” you say, “Patrick and I aren’t really anything serious.”

You’ve never had any illusions that you and Patrick would ever turn into anything. What you two have is just a bit of mutual fun while you’re visiting your aunt, nothing more complicated than that.

“Right,” Declan nods, before the room stretches into silence. 

You watch him, while he watches you.

“So,” you say quietly, “why are you hiding in here?”

Declan's jaw tightens, a flicker of something uncomfortable passing across his face as if he’s just remembered what’s been sitting wrong with him all afternoon.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice gentle despite the obvious tension to his body. 

You’re still watching him carefully when he looks away slightly, his jaw clenching once more as he mutters, under his breath, “Tony fucking Baddingham.”

“Tony’s here?” you ask, your heart rate picking up at the mention of his name.

You’d hoped to have avoided that man during your visit here, after all the scathing descriptions you’ve heard of him. Now he’s here, uninvited, and bound to ruin your aunt's well-deserved celebration.

“No, no,” Declan steps towards you, “He’s not here.”

His warm palm lays heavily on your bare shoulder, a comforting effort to calm you down.

“He’s been sleeping with my wife,” he explains quietly. 

“Oh,” you say numbly. Do you have any other words left in your vocabulary? If you did, you can’t think of them now.

Declan exhales a soft breath through his nose. A laugh, sort-of. “Yeah, oh.”

The rivalry between Corinium and Venturer is threaded through everything in Rutshire in ways you don’t entirely understand but are increasingly aware of. 

And at the head of it all are Declan O’Hara and Tony Baddingham.

“I’m sorry,” you offer weakly, and Declan squeezes where he's still holding onto your shoulder. 

“I bet you’re an honest man,” you say, keeping your chin down, but moving your eyes up to his. “I’m not sure someone like that deserves your loyalty.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” he grits out, not looking down to meet your gaze. “Maud has cheated on me before, and she always will. I’ve accepted that, I still love her,” he takes a deep, angry breath, “but with Tony fucking Baddingham?” 

You lay your palm on his chest, unthinking. You just want to calm him down, like he had done with you.

When Declan's eyes shift back to yours, his gaze is intense. 

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” he asks in a whisper.

When you nod, his focus drifts to where a shaky breath leaves through your parted lips.

“Yeah,” he agrees, holding his eyes there as he speaks, “you wouldn’t ever stray, were you committed to someone,” he hums. He leans down towards you then, closer than you’ve ever been before.

When you shake your head, answering a question he never actually asked, your lips come so close to touching. 

The hand on your shoulder lifts, moving to grab a fistful of your hair. Declan holds it in a gentle handful at the back of your head.

“Fuck, you’re a good girl,” he breathes into your mouth. 

You moan softly and he can’t hold back, crashing his lips down onto yours.

You fall against him, leaning into the kiss desperately when his hand in your hair tightens and his other curves around your waist. 

The brush of his moustache against your tingling, sensitive lips is unlike anything you’ve felt before and you reach up onto your tiptoes to chase it. 

You’re in your own world, kissing Declan O’Hara, so when you are suddenly lifted off the ground as if you weigh nothing at all, you gasp in surprise.

When you wrap your legs around his sturdy waist, Declan hums in response. The sound vibrates down through your whole body, making you shiver. 

You can feel his hardness when you bear down, even through his trousers and all the bunched up fabric of your dress in the way. 

You whine, your lips barely lifting from his for a moment, the need to be rid of these layers between you suddenly pressing. 

“I know,” he murmurs against your mouth, taking a few wide steps backwards with you still in his arms. When you both reach the armchair he was sat in earlier, Declan lowers himself back into it.

You're in his lap now, sitting on his muscled thighs. Your lips leave his, one final lick up to touch the edge of his moustache with the tip of your tongue, before moving down to scrape your teeth at his jutting chin while your fingers fiddle with his belt buckle.

At the same time, Declan's hands smooth their way up your thighs and disappear underneath the skirt of your dress. You look down at the simple cotton, embroidered with tiny daisies around the hem. It suddenly feels absurdly innocent for a moment that has become anything but.

You feel his fingertips trace the lacy edge of your thong and shift your hips forward slightly, encouraging him to touch you there.

“Please…” you beg. Your teeth drag down his throat as your torso falls forward against his.

“Yeah? What do you want?” he asks, his voice the slightest bit strained, his irish vowels just a bit rougher. 

“I don't care,” you whine. He's still not touching you. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” His thumb strokes so lightly at the fabric over your clit. You barely feel it, yet it still sends a shock of electricity to your core. 

“Yes,” you hiss, “there.”

His thumb presses down harder, resting against your clit as it throbs at the contact. 

“Okay,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear before he sucks the lobe into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it.

His cock is rock hard. You feel it jump beneath where your palm is absently resting over it and instinctively tighten your grip, squeezing it with slender fingers. 

Declan hums, deep and rough, but you need more. You bear down more forcefully against his thumb, moaning wantonly. 

His thumb stays where it is while two fingers from his other hand slip underneath the lace edge of your underwear, stroking you bare. You’re slick and needy, and you draw his fingers in so easily.

“Thats it,” he murmurs roughly, “you’re so wet,” he curls his fingers.

You moan, squeezing his cock too hard in reaction to the intrusion, far too lost in your own pleasure to pay much attention to his.

You swipe under the weeping head of his cock with your thumb in apology. 

“Fuck,” he groans.

Without warning, Declan's hands leave you, his rough fingers trailing along your hips to grasp at your arse with greedy handfuls. When he pulls you closer, the front of your soaked thong meets his bare cock and you both moan.

You push up on your knees slightly, causing friction between you, then tilting your pelvis forward, you rock against his straining length. 

Declan moves one of his hands out from beneath your dress to wrap around the length of hair between your shoulders. He tugs and it forces you to lean back, one arm reaching back to hold onto his thigh in order to stabilise yourself. Your other hand pushes the edge of his shirt up, exposing that impressive stomach as your hips stay grinding against him. 

“Just like that, sweetheart,” He tells you. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

“More,” you whimper, and it’s pathetic. You’re so needy. 

“You want more?” he asks and you nod desperately, unable to answer verbally.

With the hand that was still kneading at your arse, he grips onto the back of your thong, fingers curling into the lacy fabric so he can tug it down and out of his way. 

His eyes are half lidded as he leans back to watch you sink down onto him. 

“Ah,” you gasp at the stretch of it, your nails scratching down the taut skin of his stomach, leaving behind little red lines. 

You try to widen your thighs but are restrained by the lace wrapped around them, until Declan's hand smooths up your leg to rip them off of you. 

“Oh, fuck, urgh,” you moan, throwing your head back as you fall fully onto him. You're pelvis to pelvis, Declans whole length buried inside of you. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” Declan grounds out, rolling his hips against yours in the slightest, most intentional way.

You clench your muscles, pulsing on his cock, and he groans, low and long. When you're ready, you lift your hips before grinding down again.

With one hand now at your waist, Declans other travels up to cup your breast over the cotton of your dress. He squeezes and your stomach flutters in arousal. 

You can hear the wet, squelching sound of his cock moving, but you're frustrated at not being able to see it go in and out, getting slicker and slicker with your mess. Declan, too, seems unsatisfied with being denied full access to your tits.

“Unzip me,” you lean down to whisper breathlessly into his ear, stroking his sweaty black hair back as you do.

Without a word, Declan reaches behind you with deft fingers and swiftly tugs the zipper down your back. He helps push folds of fabric over your head until you are free of it and bare above him, your long hair falling messily around your face. 

The reality of the situation hits, and you realise that you're completely naked in a room with an unlocked door and several dozen people celebrating just beyond it.

Somewhere along the way, Declan's trousers had ended up pooled around his ankles. He kicks them aside now without a second thought, so at least you’re not alone.

He wraps his hands around your waist, helping guide you up and down as he thrusts up into your pussy. Eventually, one returns back to your arse while the other drifts down your side, thumb tugging down the centre of your stomach, over your pelvic bone, and stopping at your clit.

“So close, so close,” you chant, feeling the pressure mount as Declan fucks into you.

“Fuck!” he shouts, hot spurts of cum shooting into you without warning. 

Your hips stutter, dragging slowly against his softening cock as you follow with your own orgasm. 

When it’s over, you follow as he flops back deeper into the armchair, panting against him.

Declan hums in satisfaction, the vibration of it going through your whole body as he strokes your wild hair back.

"G, don't panic." Are the first words out of your mouth when you call your brother. This of course has the opposite effect. In the background, you can hear Garrett hastily quieting the others.

 "What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm not hurt, but I'm—"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, but—"

"Are you somewhere safe?"

"Garrett, if you let me speak, I could tell you that I'm fine." You sigh, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "I think my car battery died. I'm somewhere on the side of the road in Arlington."

A beat of silence. You can kind of hear the chatter from the other line, the absurd overlap of four, twenty-something-year-old, hockey players, discussing what's happening. Then, somewhere in the background, you hear someone — you don't even have to guess who, you could pinpoint him in any hectic frenzy— say "G, is she okay?"

Garrett ignores him, "What do you mean you think the battery is dead?"

"I mean I was driving back to campus when my lights started flickering and the next thing I know everything in my car is off."

"While you were driving?"

"Yes. What was unclear from the story?" You say bluntly.

"Holy shit, Y/N, did you get into an accident—"

"Relax, Gar. As I said, I managed to pull off to the side. I was the only person on the road. The point is, there's no one around to jump my shit and everything is closed."

"Okay, Okay. I can be there in like, twenty minutes—"

"Thought you were meeting with that philosophy tutor at 9— it's 8:48." You hear him let out a frustrated huff.

"I can cancel—"

"No. You can't, Garrett. Cancelling twelve minutes before a session is fucked up and you need the help." Another pause. You can practically hear him deflating.

"I'll send Logan."

Garrett hangs up before you can protest.

You stare at your phone for a second, then at the road, then at your phone again. Arlington is dead quiet this time of night, just streetlights and the distant sound of the city somewhere behind you. You lean back against the car and try not to think about the fact that John Logan is currently getting in his truck to come and look at your now sad, broken down wrangler.

Which you of course fail at.

Your phone buzzes.

John Logan flashes across the screen and you take one full second to compose yourself before answering.

"I'm in Arlington. Somewhere off Mass Ave, like in the suburbs somewhere? I can send my location—"

"Hello to you too."

You close your eyes. "Hi. I'm about a mile past the intersection off Mass Ave, pulled over by the—"

"Are you alright?"

It's a simple question. One that shouldn't make you lose your breath the way it is right now.

"I'm fine."

"G said you were on the road when the battery died?"

"Yeah." You try to brush off the obvious concern in his voice.

"Must have been scary. Are you alright?" He asks once more. Perceptive as always. There's a pause, but you can hear what sounds like the start of Logan's car. You dodge his question by just staying silent.

"Sit tight. I'm twenty minutes out."

You nod, though he obviously can't see. "Okay. See you soon."

You hear his car before you see it.

The low rumble of his engine cuts through the quiet of Arlington like it owns the street, headlights sweeping around the corner and finding you immediately. You straighten up, cross your arms, and do your best to school your expression. It's just Logan. He's just being a good friend and doing your brother a favor. His car pulls up right in front of yours and he kills the engine, hopping out of the car with both of his hands in his jacket pockets.

He doesn't say anything yet, just looks you over, and then the car.

"Get the hood?"

You furrow your eyebrows. "What?"

"Can you pop the hood?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." You mumble, walking to the front of the car where the latches of the hood are, and pop them open. You get the center hook, and Logan is there to put the prop rod up.

You take a step away from the car, giving Logan space. He pulls his phone out,turns on the flashlight, and takes a look at the battery inside. You lean against the driver's side door and watch him work, which feels awkward, so you look at the street instead. Then at your nails. Then back at him because there is genuinely nothing else to look at.

"When's the last time you replaced the battery?" He asks, not looking away from it.

"Um. I don't know."

He does look up at that. Just briefly.

"Garrett bought it used for me about two years ago."

"…So never, then?"

"So never." You pause, approaching his side and peering into the hood as well.

"Is that bad?"

The look he gives you is somewhere between amused and pained. "Yeah."

"Cool." You pull your cardigan around yourself just a bit tighter. "So it's my fault."

"That's not at all what I said—"

"It was implied."

"I implied that your battery was old." He turns to you. "That's not your fault. It's just what it is. Do you have jumper cables?"

"Do I look like I own jumper cables?"

"You look like a car owner, which means you should have jumper cables."

You open your mouth to argue, but close it. He is right. He tosses you the keys to his car, which you narrowly drop.

"Cables are in the trunk."

You take a deep breath, and walk towards his car trying to compose yourself. You can't help just how undone you feel around him. Like all sense of composure ceases being. When you open the trunk of his car, you get a waft of the air inside. It, much to your surprise, doesn't smell like sweaty hockey gear, but like Logan himself. A rich cedar with citrusy undertones to balance it. You locate the cables quickly, which means you have no reason to keep standing there, breathing him in. You grab the cables, and with a little more force than necessary, slam the trunk closed.

When you get back to the Wrangler he's crouched by the front again, looking at something on his phone, and he glances up when he hears you coming. You hold the cables out and he stands, taking them from you.

"Thanks," he says.

"Yep," you say.

Very normal. Totally fine.

"Okay." He holds the cables out toward you instead of the car. "Come here."

You blink. "I don't need to—"

"You should know how to do this." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like he's not just voluntarily extending the amount of time you have to stand next to him in the dark. "Come on."

You oblige.

He walks you through what needs to be done patiently. No condecension in his tone. You imagine if this is how he talks to the freshman boys on the hockey team…or if this is the tone he takes up when talking someone through it.

Pushing that thought to the back of your brain where you hopefully never find it again, he holds the cables out to you. One red and one black clamp.

"Two hands. Don't let these touch. Get into the habit of it." You nod, but reach for the cables with one hand, to which he pulls them out of your reach and shoots you a deadpan look. You shake your head in an attempt to get your mind back.

"Sorry." You take them with two hands, and he continues to talk about how the cables work.

"Red to dead first." He nods toward your battery. "Always."

You crouch down next to him and clip it where he points. "Red to dead," you repeat.

"Then red to donor." He reaches past you to attach the other end to his own battery, and for approximately one second his arm is right there and you are very focused on the cable. "Then black to donor."

"Black to donor."

"Last one goes on bare metal. Not the dead battery." He guides your hand — just barely, just enough — to a bolt on the engine block. "Ground it here."

You clip it.

He doesn't move his hand immediately.

"Why not to the battery?" you ask, because you are super interested in the car, and not the fact that he's so close to you right now. Definitely not that.

"Sparks," he says. "Dead batteries can off-gas hydrogen. You don't want a spark near that."

"Oh." You look at the cables, then at him, which is a mistake because he is still right there. "That's probably important to know."

"That's why I'm telling you. Now, we wait a few minutes before I start my car."

He leans against the front of the Wrangler, arms crossed, looking out at the empty street. Not at you. You mirror him without thinking about it. Leaning against the hood next to him, not close enough to be something, just next to him. The streetlight above you is doing that orange late-night thing where everything looks a little warmer than it actually is.

It's quiet for a moment.

"You doing okay out here? You know, before I got here."

"It was fine."

"I'm sure it was. But that's not what I asked." He turns his head to look at you.

You look at the road. A car passes at the far end of the street, headlights sweeping briefly over the pavement, and then it's quiet again.

"It was a little scary," you admit. "When everything shut off. The car kept rolling and all I wanted to do was get out."

He nods. Doesn't make it a big deal, doesn't say I knew it or you should have said so. Just nods, like he's filing it away somewhere careful.

"You called Garrett right away?"

"Immediately."

The corner of his mouth moves. "Good."

You look at him. "You're not going to tell me I should have roadside assistance or something?"

"Do you have roadside assistance?"

"No."

"Then there's no point in telling you that now." He looks back at the street. "Now you know you should have it."

You almost smile. "Yeah. Okay."

~

"Okay." Logan pushes off the hood. "Let's try it."

He gets in his car first and you get in yours, and when he starts his engine you can feel it faintly through the steering wheel from the cables still connecting you. You wait the way he told you to. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute. Then you turn the key.

The Wrangler shudders, clicks, and then —

Catches.

The dash lights up all at once and the radio comes back on mid-song and you let out a breath you have been holding since 8:48pm.

You get back out. Logan is already unclipping the cables in the right order, black from ground, black from donor, red from donor, red from dead, staring at the way his hands look wrapped around each clamp

"You're good," he says, coiling the cables back up.

"Thank you." It comes out quieter than you mean it to. "Really. You didn't have to—"

"Garrett asked me to."

"Right." You nod, a pang of embarassment filling your chest. Right. This was a favor for his best friend— your brother. Nothing more. "Still."

He looks at you for a second, then holds out the cables. "Keep these in the car."

"What about you? I can just buy some online when I get home."

"Really? Are you actually going to?" He tilts his head skeptically.

Unfortunately, he is correct in his assumption that you will likely forget. You sigh, but take them, fingers lightly brushing his as you pull the cables away.

"I'll follow you home," he says, and then he's walking back to his car before you can tell him he doesn't have to.

You watch his headlights in the rearview mirror the whole way home.

It's a twenty three minute drive back to campus, and you are aware of him for every single one of them. Every turn signal, every stop light, the way he stays exactly two car lengths behind you like he's done this before. You turn the stereo up just a little bit louder in an attempt to drown out any more thoughts of him from your brain, which of course, fails miserably.

You pull into your complex and he pulls in behind you. You were half hoping he'd just — flash his lights and keep going, waving you off into your dorm room. Instead, he parks.

You meet him just outside of the entrance to the dorm hall, pulling your jacket just a bit tighter around your shoulders.

"Thanks again." you say again.

"It's fine."

"I know…but thank you. I really appreciate it, Logan."

Something shifts in his expression. Just briefly, just enough that you notice and then immediately question whether you imagined it.

"…Call Triple A in the morning. They can come replace your battery." You nod obediently, and he tilts his head towards you just a little bit.

"Get some sleep," he says.

You nod. "Yeah."

He doesn't move for exactly one second too long.

You watch him walk off into the darkness of the parking lot. You keep standing there even after you hear his car start, and even after the sound of his engine fades out down the street. Finally, you scan your ID and let yourself into the building taking a deep breath once you're inside.

He also kept a heavy hand on the small of your back any moment his hand was free. You put on a good act, pretending it didn’t get to you every time his fingers drew small shapes over your top, or whenever his digits slipped beneath the fabric when the boys were too busy laughing, leaving you with a hitched breath and a warm feeling between your legs.

When the other half to your dynamic duo, Kendall, stepped between the two of you and grabbed your hand, spluttering something about dancing to her favorite song, Logan’s grip tightened on you for a moment before he loosened up and plastered a pursed smile on his face.

“As long as you bring her back to me,” he said. Kendall laughed at his joke as she dragged you away. But one look between you and Logan and you knew he wasn’t trying to be funny.

“He’s so down bad for you, it’s hilarious,” Kendall giggled to you with a roll of her eyes. “He needs to lighten up.”

The pair of you danced to an ABBA song, laughing and belting out the lyrics. You closed your eyes and let loose, submitting to the tingle of whatever alcohol remained in your system.

John watched like a hawk. The irony wasn’t lost on him considering his bird costume. You looked so good. He wanted to hold you from behind and make you feel how heavy his—

“Any more staring and she’ll burst into flames.”

Logan snapped out of it and turned to Garrett, who wore a knowing smirk and offered him another can of Sprite.

“Thanks, man,” Logan said gratefully, taking the refill.

Garrett looked at your dancing figure. “Freshmen on the team were asking about her.”

“Yeah? What’d they say?” Logan replied almost absentmindedly, sipping his drink and staring at you.

Garrett sighed. “Rather not say. I’m supposed to be Hannah’s ‘boyfriend’ and all.”

Logan peered at him from the corner of his eyes, feeling his protective instincts start to wake. Garrett noticed and gently bumped their shoulders together.

“Not like that. Wasn’t bad. Just…” Garrett hummed into his red solo cup. “Horny.” He settled on that word.

That was enough.

Logan chugged down whatever was left in the can of soda before making his way over to you. He crossed the room in quick strides, ignoring Kendall’s amused voice when she cooed, “Uh oh, return to sender already?”

Logan took your hand and pulled you away; away from the dance floor, away from the party, and most importantly—away from the lingering gazes so many guys sent your way.

“Logan?” You queried as he brought you up the stairs.

He didn’t respond, just kept tugging you along.

“Logan.”

Nothing.

“Baby—”

He finally stopped and turned to look at you. His stature towered over you and you suddenly felt small with the way he was staring down at your face.

He exhaled a heavy breath. “Fuck, baby, I’m trying really hard to be respectful.”

You cupped his cheek. His skin was hot to the touch. He subconsciously burrowed closer into the palm of your hand.

“You don’t have to be,” you murmured.

He closed his eyes for a moment. “How many drinks have you had?”

“A can and a half of beer,” you answered.

He opened his eyes to make sure you were being honest. You stood unwavering.

“You’re sober?” He asked.

“Mhm.”

“You’re sure?”

“100%. Are you?”

He sighed, turning away. “Yeah. Yeah, I made sure not to…” his words trailed off.

You smiled. “You made sure not to drink too much so we could fuck?”

He looked at you again. “Don’t say it like that.”

You giggled, pushing away a strand of fallen hair from his forehead. “I’m saying it as it is.”

“I made sure not to drink too much to be responsible,” he corrected.

You nodded along, “Oh, yeah. Responsible. My responsible and respectful boyfriend.” You teased. He did not appreciate that.

“Okay,” he let out an amused sound as if he were faced with a challenge. He leaned in and whispered, “Let’s see who’s laughing when I stop respecting you and start doing all the things I plan to do to you.”

You gulped.

+

He led you to the nearest vacant bedroom in the Maxwell family home before pushing you inside and locking the door behind him. You thought he’d pin you against the door and makeout with you.

Instead, he said, “Sit on the bed,” in that husky voice you rarely hear so you knew you had to listen.

You sat down. The covers were soft and cool. You watched and waited for his next words, but Logan was too busy pacing in front of the door and running his hands through his hair. He looked so yummy.

“Take your clothes off. Let me see you.”

You blinked. You weren’t used to Logan being like this. He usually did all the work. But this new side of him was hot, so very hot.

You slowly unzipped your boots and kicked them off along with your socks. Next, your headpiece with the sprinkles. Then, your tube top, revealing your bare breasts, and lastly, your skirt, leaving you in nothing but underwear.

You felt exposed, just sitting there on the bed as Logan stared at you without a word. His eyes were nearly black from how blown out his pupils were, his bottom lip chewed and slightly pink from how much he dragged it beneath his teeth.

“Pretty,” he finally commented. “That’s new.”

You glanced down to where he gestured, looking at the lace thong you wore. He was right; it was new. You and Kendall bought matching ones for the costumes, but you didn’t need to tell him that bit right now.

“Yeah,” you confirmed.

“Was it expensive?” He asked.

“Not…really…”

“Good,” he nodded to himself. He pushed off the wings he wore for his costume and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

He knelt down in front of you and spread your legs apart. “So I can ruin it, right?”

That shot up your spine. Your thighs wanted to rub against one another at his remark, but he held your knees firmly. “Answer.”

You nodded without thinking. “Yes.”

He smiled at your obedience and nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get to that. But for now…” his words died down as his lips attached to yours.

It was all tongue and messy. Logan pinned your wrists to the mattress as he kissed you. He grunted against your lips every time you bit his lip teasingly. Eventually, his kisses trailed downwards. To your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. He made sure to give all your sensitive spots an abundance of attention.

Then? His favorite bit. Your tits. John Logan was a tits guy, through and through. Doesn’t matter what size or shape, he was enamored with them.

“Missed my girls,” he murmured before he took one of your breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue over your pebbled nipple and sucking softly, then switching to the other boob and giving it the same treatment.

Your head tilted back and let out soft sighs. The comfort of him mouthing at your breasts left you aching and squirming on the bed. “Oh, baby…”

He pulled away at your voice and left a sloppy kiss between your tits. He peppered a few more kisses on your abdomen—nipping an especially ticklish spot below your rib—before diving in and licking you over the fabric of your lace thong. You gasped, your hand flying to his hair like second instinct.

He groaned against you, the sound muffled but the vibrations sending sparks to your core. “Already so wet for me. I hardly did anything.”

“Logan, please…”

He kept licking up your slit through your panties. He could feel your juices seep through the delicate material. The friction was doing wonders for your pleasure, but you grew impatient. “Logan…”

He finally pulled your thong to the side and resumed his ministrations with extra fervor. The direct contact had you jumping in your seat, but Logan’s strong arms held your hips down.

He groaned again, pulling away just to mutter, “Fuck, gorgeous, maybe he was right to call you cupcake. You taste so fucking sweet.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before his words fully registered in your head. “James?” You asked, breathlessly.

He pulled away and looked at you with a deadpan expression. He crawled up your body until he was face-to-face with you and said, “Please don’t ever say another man’s name when my tongue is inside you.”

That had your hole clenching around nothing.

“Got that?” He asked.

You nodded right away, “Mhm.”

“Words,” he demanded.

“Yes. Got it.” You responded quietly.

“Good,” he murmured before smoothing your hair down and admiring you for a moment. Then, his head was back between your thighs.

“Ah, Logan!” You breathed out, digging your nails into his scalp.

He raised up two fingers to your lips without stopping. You blinked back bleary eyed at that. “Open,” he said.

Immediately, you parted your lips. He shoved his ring and middle fingers inside your mouth and you sucked on them diligently, running your tongue over his calluses earned from hockey and various handyman jobs. Once they were appropriately wet, he pulled his fingers out and into your pussy.

You keeled over with a loud cry, “John!”

He raised his head up, letting his fingers do all the work now. “You like that? Yeah?”

You bobbed your head up and down, unable to find any words left in you from how nicely Logan scissored his fingers inside you, all whilst keeping his thumb on your clit in steady motions.

“Look at you. So pretty and whiny for me,” he murmured, voice smooth as honey. “Letting me wreck you like this and I haven’t even used my cock yet.”

You whimpered, hand gripping onto his bicep. You were sure you’d see nail marks on his skin even tomorrow morning.

“Oh, you like that?” He asked, tilting his head. “You want me to fuck you stupid with my cock?” The pace of his fingers increased.

Your eyes screwed shut. “Yes! Please, I want that.” You tugged him closer so you could bury your face in his neck, feeling so overwhelmed by pleasure.

He let out an airy chuckle. “Such a good girl. Just for that? I’ll reward you.”

He made you cum on his fingers. The heel of his hand applied pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves until you seized and melted against him with a moan.

“Shhh, that’s it. Come down from it, you’re okay,” he kissed the top of your head.

You mumbled incoherent sentences into his neck and he merely smiled and rubbed your back.

After a minute of breathing, he pulled back slightly to look at your face. “You okay?” He asked, pushing a lock of hair away from your face.

You nodded, still buzzing from what had happened. “Yeah,” you exhaled.

He nodded, watching you carefully in the vulnerable afterglow. Your hands trailed down to his jeans, tugging at his belt, silently asking for it to come off.

Logan chuckled softly before helping you remove his belt and jeans. He reached into the pocket then chucked them on the floor and you instantly started palming his eager boner through his boxers.

He hissed, tossing his head back. “Fuck, baby.”

“Please tell me you have a condom,” you said.

He held the small foil up in his fingers.

At that, you rid him of his boxers and watched in tense awe as he teared the packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom on. You settled back against the bed pillows as you waited in hot anticipation.

“Uh uh,” he wagged his finger before curling it in a come hither gesture.

You sat up, letting out a surprised squeal when he lifted you by your thighs and settled on the bed before placing you above him. Your hands scrambled until they settled on his abs.

He looked up at you with hooded eyes, “Look good for me, gorgeous. I want a show.”

You leaned down and peppered kisses over his face. He let out a relaxed sigh and rubbed up and down your sides lazily. You nibbled on a spot right below his ear, earning you a delicious whimper from him.

“Tease,” he muttered and you grinned.

“Thought you wanted a show,” you remarked.

He hummed, “Mm, yeah. But just for me. No one else.”

You looked down at him, realizing he’s still a bit hung up from the incident earlier that night. Your finger slid sensually from his adam’s apple to his naval. “No one else. Only you.”

“Yeah?” His voice got deeper. “Show me.”

Sir, yes, sir. You held his dick from the base and slowly sank down on him. Logan groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. The stretch of him filling you up was deliriously good. You bit your lip as you took him in, inch by inch.

Finally, you both let out a sigh in unison. You planted your palms flat on his abdomen and started rocking back and forth.

The room succumbed to the sounds of soft moans and the subtle creak from the bed. The party downstairs was long forgotten. Here, it was just you and Logan.

“Just like that, baby, hah,” he breathed out, moving you back and forth. Even if he put you on top, Logan would always end up doing the work for you. You were his pampered princess.

You threw your head back, feeling the pleasure build up in your tummy once again. You took one of Logan’s hands and guided him through rubbing circles on your clit.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” He asked.

You nodded fervently. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Logan. Keep doing that, baby, I’m so close.”

He held you firmly and started bucking up into you. You cried out, slumping against his chest as he thrusted in and out of you, reaching so deep inside, hitting that spongy part that left you seeing stars.

“Cum for me, baby. I know you can do it,” he said.

The coil snapped and you released, letting out a long moan. Your body shook, the pleasure and adrenaline rushing through you like a live wire meeting water. You collapsed against him, your bones feeling like putty.

He took your chin in his hand and tilted your head up to meet his face. He was still rocking into you. “Need to see you, baby. Need to see your pretty face when I cum.”

You were so out of it, barely processing his words. You simply nodded and chewed on your bottom lip. He looked so hot all sweaty and breathing heavily.

His eyes squeezed shut when he came, letting out a guttural groan. You felt his hips falter as he bucked up into you, rhythm sloppy and erratic. He let out a shuddering breath and dropped his head back onto the pillow.

The room was quiet now. The hum of electrical circuits and the distant noise of the party below filling up the space. You traced shapes onto his ribs, your touch barely skimming his skin. His hands caressed your back slowly, giving a small squeeze every now and then.

“Not jealous anymore?” You murmured, looking at him with an amused smirk.

He scoffed. “I wasn’t jealous.”

You hummed, “Ohhh, okay. Not jealous. Just possessive.”

He rolled his eyes fondly, a smile threatening to tear his lips wide. “Just…want you to be mine. All the time.”

You smiled, “I am.”

“I know you are.”

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”

You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.

From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.

Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”

Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.

Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”

Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.

You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.

“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.

He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”

He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”

You shook his hand and told him your name.

“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”

Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.

“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.

The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”

“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.

James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.

Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.

You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.

“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.

“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress

His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.

“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.

You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”

He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.

He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”

Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.

You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.

When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.

Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.

"Have you met Hotch?" Another one of them said. "SSA Agent Hotchner, Unit chief of the BAU. Loads of accolades this guy."

He smiled politely at the praise but then his eyes settled on you and it almost vanished as you tried to suppress the mountainous eyeroll that was begging to spill over.

"We haven't been formally introduced." You held your hand out for him, introducing yourself. His palm hit yours and his fingers ghosting the soft skin as he pulled away. It tickled lightly and you took a minute step back and a gulp of flat champagne.

Every second you we're in his presence the more you wanted to light yourself on fire. Or maybe it was the heat in his gaze as it dragged down you.

"What sector do you work in?" He asked across the group.

"I'm head of Counter Terrorism." You responded, and really tried not to smirk at the slight flash of surprise on his face. Last time you had spoken, you had been a lowly desk agent. Had it really been that long?

"I'm surprised we haven't ran into each other." He said. You knew none of the other people noticed it but his hard brow and white knuckles around his whiskey glass told you otherwise. It was a dig.

"My team are great at handling anything before it even has to get to me." You kept for feet planted, toes curled into the bed of your heels. "Oh, I think I hear someone calling me. Goodbye Gentleman."

You knew it was petty to undermine him and his team. But the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth as you made your way to the bar was undeniable.

Quickly, you glanced over your shoulder and almost gave yourself whiplash turning back around. He was already staring you down. Then someone actually called out your name, just as the bartender passed you a real drink. Not some flat, bland liquid that doesn't calm the burning in your feet.

He looked almost the same. The same dark hair that he ran gel through, the same ridged back, like he had a rod pressed against it. The same intense glare and the same stupidly good looking face that never failed to make you hot.

The scotch burned a little at the back of your throat, holding an uncomfortable warmth that tickled as you glanced around the room again. Attempting to find the voice calling your name.

Then, you were embraced tightly. The force of her almost knocking you off your feet and the smell of an almost too sweet perfume drifting upwards.

"Hello Pen." You smiled into her hair, the blonde curls swished along your cheeks. "I didn't know you we're coming."

"Who am I to ever say no to a party?" She exclaimed, with that ever so happy smile on her face.

Pen was the one good thing that came out of, whatever it was that you and her unit chief used to get up to in the dead of night behind closed doors. Or in a squad car, or the one time in his office. But that certainly wasn't relevant to the fruity cocktail that had appeared in your hand.

"This isn't a party, it's a boring meeting with old men, who wear cologne 20 years expired." You rolled your eyes, "How did you even get this, it's a set drinks menu?" Taking a long sip anyway, it was stronger than you had anticipated.

"I gave the bartender very specific instructions after I saw you in that dress." Linking her arm in yours and dragging you around the room.

"Are you trying to get into my pants, Penelope Garcia?" You shot at her with a smirk.

"I'm not a man who wears 20 years outdated cologne, so I don't think I'll have much luck." She retorted.

"Right." Coughing slightly, you jabbed an elbow into her ribs. But you couldn't help but swipe your eyes across the room in a desperate attempt to locate him. You couldn’t. An unsettled feeling swiped through your stomach at his lack of presence.

“Am I that much of a cliche?” You snorted and wiped your damp palm down the side of your dress.

“Eh.” She gave it a thought for a second. “Yeah. But I love you all the more for it.”

Penelope let out a quiet gasp, before she pulled you towards the group of people that you least wanted to see. The BAU

“Chocolate thunder.” Penelope smiled as she sidled up to him, wrapping herself around his muscular arms.

“Babygirl.” He leant over and pulled her closer to him. “Who have you brought to see us? Derek Morgan.” He introduced himself, making a space for you in their group.

You introduce yourself, giving them a tight smile and keeping your hand stuck tightly to your side. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the BAU, they had a great job and Pen spoke highly of them. Of their heroic actions, saving people just in the brink of time. It was inspiring.

The problem was their boss, their boss that for some reason was currently nowhere to be found.

“So what sector do you work in?” The dark haired woman asked, a similar fruity cocktail in her hand.

“Counter terrorism. How are you guys finding the BAU? I hear it’s a whirlwind.” You asked, idley sipping on your drink.

“It keeps you on your toes for sure. We spend a lot of time darting around, the private jet is a plus.” The blonde one, that you knew as JJ shrugged.

You laughed, your head tipped back. “I wish we had one of those in CT. If we ever go out of state i’m always pressed up against a stranger.” Rolling your eyes as you cringed slightly of the memory of rubbing shoulders with a stranger.

“So how do you know Pen?” Derek asked and glanced over to her, still wrapped on his arm.

“I met her on my first day at quantico. Told her I liked her shoes in the elevator.” You smiled at the memory, “Then she invited me for lunch and the rest was history. Now she can’t get rid of me.”

“She forgot to mention that she looked like a total badass.” She giggled.

“Hotch, Hotch!” Pen’s eyes lit up and waved the man you least wanted to see was on his way over. “Have you met my friend?” Her hand gripping your shoulder and spinning you towards him.

Your face hardened at the sight of him, mouth set into an unmoving line and brows pinched together. His face looked like it always had, the stony, frozen expression that was permanently on his face.

“We met earlier.” He said shortly. Stepping around the outside of the group and making room before he stepped in opposite you.

“The guys were singing his praises. Called him FBI royalty.” You hummed, an edge of sarcasm laced through it. A teasing glint in your eye.

He didn’t match it in the slightest. “She was telling me that we haven’t met because her team is that good.” He shot out.

“Well, Strauss isn’t knocking down my door.” A fake sweet smile shone towards him. But your glare was cool as ice.

“Hmm.” He looked like his teeth were going to explode with how hard he clenched them together.

“Right.” Penelope said, cutting through the too long silence with her usual peppiness. “Did you know that she shot a 100 in her recent test?”

“I didn’t tell you that.” Your head shot over to her with a line forming in between your brows.

“I looked it up.” She shrugged.

“Damn!” Morgan exclaimed, “The highest I’ve shot is a 98.”

“99.” Emily smirked at him, a hand on her hip. “The only other person I know who shot a 100, is Hotch.”

Everyone looked towards him, but you hadn’t stopped your hard stare.

“That’s not fair, he used to be a sniper.” JJ huffed, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Well, you know what they say about snipers. Verrry trigger happy. Isn’t that right, Aaron?”

The smirk on your face was huge, egregious even. The satisfaction that settled in your gut hit better than the strong drink that Pen had given you. With that, you span on your heel and walked away.

Leaving the rest of the BAU, stood cringing and looking anywhere but their boss. And him staring at your retreating figure with a fury he knew only one thing could quell.

——

The hotel room they had put you in for the night was not too shabby. The bathroom had a huge bathtub that you couldn’t wait to dip into. A balcony that you’d sit and drink your morning coffee on, and a huge king size bed with the fluffiest sheets you’d slid into.

You pushed open the windows, letting in a cool breeze that swished the curtains into your bare shins. Goosebumps pulled up on your arms at the tickling sensation.

Then, a knock at the door caught your attention. You’d assumed it was Penelope, so didn’t bother to pull some pyjama pants on. The oversized tshirt brushing the tops of your thighs.

“Hey!-oh.” The smile on your face slid off. It was not Penelope. You were not staring at your friend and the coloured streaks in her hair, you were staring at a red tie and dress shirt covered chest. “What do you want.”

He was still furious, standing in the door way with his jaw ticking to the side and the vein in his neck prominent. But he still said nothing, fuming at the sight of you and staring at you with a look that you’d assume was akin to the look he gave mass murderers. It almost made you shiver.

Huffing, and a deep roll of your eyes at his silence. You began to close the heavy door in his face.

Suddenly, his foot was jammed in between the gap and shoved it open. A gust of air pushed your hair back and you took a minuscule step back.

“What are you doing?” You murmured, attempting to hide the shake in your voice. Gaze darting over his shoulder as the door clicked shut, then the lock not long after it.

“You humiliated me.” He stated, taking a large step, filling the gap between you. You took another step back and you felt your heels hit the wall.

“It’s not humiliation if it’s the truth.” You scoffed, your mouth running faster than your brain. “I remember, what was it? Three minutes?”

“That’s not true and you know it.” He hissed, the noise erupted deep from his chest. “I’d been away for two weeks. I don’t remember you complaining.” His eyes narrowed into slits.

“Snipers are known to take the shot too early.” You shoved past him, your shoulder knocking into his roughly.

You remembered that case. He’d been away for two weeks on a child abduction, every couple days another snatched from under the parents noses. No time for relaxation, of any kind.

Then, the second he got back. He was at your door, suit still crinkled. Neither of you had lasted long.

A large hand grasped your shoulder, spinning you around and yanked you into his hard chests His grip settled on your bicep, nostrils flaring as he looked down at you.

“Worried you can’t take it?” He rumbled, fingertips digging in.

You couldn’t help yourself, the scoff coming from your lips before it had even crossed your mind.

The next thing you knew, a strong hand clasped around your jaw and pulled you up to his lips. His crashing against yours, his tongue immediately forced its way into your mouth. You let out a squeak, muffled by him not letting you up for air.

His hands were moving, they tickled down your ribs and made home for themselves under your ass and lifting your socked feet from the ground. Finally, he pulled away to let you gasp for breath.

“I’m going to make you cum so many times, you can’t even remember your silly little comment.”

Now that took your breath away, as you stared at him dumbly with your legs wrapped around his hips. “What?”

His lips nipped your earlobe and the next words sent a shiver down your spine and soaked your panties through. “I’m going to ruin every other man for you.”

You crashed your lips back to his as he lowered you onto the bed. Clambering over you with his hand snaking up the outside of your thigh, he hooked a finger under your underwear and yanked them down your legs.

His head lowered to the apex of your thighs, placing a few light kisses before holding them apart and dipping in.

He wasted no time, like a man on a mission. Pulling you closer to his mouth and licking long swipes up you from hole to clit. Each time he reached your clit he flicked his tongue sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

“Aar- fuck.” You panted, already fisting the sheets with one hand, the other darting to his hair. You could feel the slight amount of pomade that he had combed through it before the evening.

He didn’t let up, zeroing in on your clit and sucking it in and getting grazing it slightly with his front teeth. Tongue licking up and down, just how you liked it. It sent your back arching and your mouth stumbling over your words.

“Jesus christ!” You cried out, teeth clamped over your lip hard enough to taste blood. The muscles in your thighs tightened as you crashed towards the edge. Desperate to hold off for longer, not wanting to prove his point.

But Aaron Hotchner didn’t like being wrong. Keeping the same pace, but then he hummed. The vibration made your toes curl and a strangled groan escaped from you.

“Oh my god!” It was futile to pretend any longer, letting the tension go. And came. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You whispered through gritted teeth, cunt gripping around nothing.

“What the fuck Aaron.” You said, cheer rising and falling rapidly.

He pulled off the a squelch, the entire bottom half of his face covered in your slick. Now, he was the one smirking.

“What was that? Three minutes?” He echoed your earlier sentiment. Before, you could say anything to snark back, his two fingers had pushed inside of you. Comment dead on your tongue. “Hmm?” He hummed as he started to pump them in and out.

Your hand shot down and wrapped around his forearm. “What, what are you doing?” Still sensitive, each graze made you whimper. “Aaron.” You sighed.

“Making you give me another one.” He smirked, fingers curling up and the pads hit the sweet spot inside of you. The slightest roughness of them made you gasp out again.

Your thighs clamped around his hand as his fingers sped up again and you slumped forward. Head resting against his shoulder, moaning into the crook of his neck.

He knew exactly how to coax noises out of you. Your legs starting to tremble, still gripped to his forearm.

“Fucking hell.” You got louder again, each pump of his finger letting out a wet noise and a delicious scrape against your g spot.

A deep laugh came from his chest, taunting you as your nails started to clasp onto his expensive dress shirt.

“Cmon baby, cum again.”

Cunt tightening around him, it squeezed his fingers in a vice as his voice sent you over the edge. And you did give him another one, just as he asked.

“Fuck you, fuck you!” You moaned out.

He always left you panting, like you’d just ran a marathon. But he stole the air from your lungs when he slid his fingers into his mouth and sucked them clean. Then, his hands traveled to his buttons and quickly discarded his shirt and slacks. Throwing them in the same direction as your panties.

“You can give me another one.” He wasn’t asking, he was telling.

He was crawling over you, almost foaming at the mouth. “You ok?” He checked in, pulling off his boxers.

“Yeah.” You confirmed, with a weak nod.

“Mmm, good.” He rumbled, jumping into action and attached his lips to your neck, and sucking marks that he definitely shouldn’t.

The feeling of his dick sliding up through your slick sent your eyes rolling and finally the deep stretch of him entering had you crying out.

“Aar.” Still ever so sensitive, you couldn’t even get his whole name out. Then, made you babble as he fucked in and out. “Ohmygod, mmmph.”

You could tell you wouldn’t last long, quite literally eating your earlier words. Each press of his dick, left you carving red marks down his back.

Even though his brow was furrowed in deep concentration, grunts slipped from his lips as he felt you tighten around him. But he still looked so, so pleased at himself.

The sight of you limply sprawled on the bed. Hands gripping to him for dear life, words dead on your tongue. Just, loud, incoherent moans that filled the room. A thin layer of sweat over the whole of you, hair stuck out every which way.

You looked completely fucked out.

“Beautiful.” He hummed, pressing a quick peck to your lips. Just the sight of you like that, because of him, had him almost exploding right there. Fingers dragged down to your already sensitive clit and swiped across it.

“Aaron, gunna, gunna.” Your eyebrows pulled together, hands now clasped on his biceps.

“Cum for me honey.” He said, sweetly. He leant down to capture your swollen lips, swallowing your almost scream as you came for the first time. The pulsing of your cunt had him uncharacteristically moaning too.

Finally, he came for himself. Each last drop pumped inside of you. Still kissing rather gently, as he slipped out of you slowly.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” You sighed, body flopped on the bed. “But if it gets me fucked like that, I’m not that sorry.”

“It’s ok.” He smiled and let you rest your head on his chest. “I should clean you up.” His eyes darted down to his cum leaking out of you. It made his cock jump.

“In a minute.” You smiled up at him, quickly pecking his lips. “You’re still a sex god.”

He laughed as he gave you a longer kiss back. “Still?”

“Always.”

He was gone and then back, wet rag in hand as he cleaned his cum off of you. Smirking at the jolt when he lightly grazed your clit.

“Do you want to go on a real date?” He asked, “Not like pizza then sex after a case. But like dinner.”

“After you’ve cleaned your cum off my pussy?” You smiled at him cheekily, but a brush of the rag over your clit had you shut up. “Yes yes! obviously we can go to dinner.”

“I’ll make the reservation.” He climbed back next to you, wrapping his arms around and resting his head atop of yours.

——

a/n: heyyyy! i am alive. this is slightly shorter than normal buttt i had great fun writing it. i’m hoping to get back on a schedule! this was kinda bad but i haven’t written in a whole so i hope that’s ok! 

night slowly creeping in, the tension between you and declan had eventually had enough. he leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "meet me in the bathroom in five minutes. i need you, alone." his voice was low and commanding, leaving no room for you to even argue. with a nod, you eventually managed to slip away from your conversation with lizzie, heart racing with anticipation.

you quickly slipped into the bathroom, with your flushed cheeks. meanwhile, declan is already there. his presence filling the room, his voice a low whisper, "shut the door." he turns to face you, his eyes darkening possessively as he sees you. "declan, i promised taggie i'd help her finish up the pastries. i can’t be gone for too long" you whispered, biting your lip as you approached him. he reached out, hand cupping your face possessively. "we’ll be quick angel," he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek. he knew it was all wrong, that their secret affair could ruin everything.

yet he couldn't stop himself. his hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. "lock the door," he ordered gruffly. as the lock clicked into place, he unbuckled his belt, eyes locked on yours. "come here," he said, patting his lap.

you hesitant for a moment, heart-pounding and body betraying you. as you moved forward of its own accord. sitting directly on his lap, short dress riding up to reveal your bare thighs. 

declan groaned, hands gripping your hips tightly. "i've been bloody hard watching you all night. seeing you in this dress, christ," he muttered, hands already working on the zipper of your dress. you carefully bit your lip, trying to be quiet as he pulled the dress down your arms, leaving you just with bra and panties. he stood up, holding you in his arms, and setting you on the counter. "spread your legs,"

he instructed, his voice low and commanding. doing as what you were was told, as your legs trembled slightly. declan stepping between your thighs, his large hands hooking into your underwear. "lift up,"

"christ, you're wet," he growled, his fingers brushing against your already damp panties. "always ready for me, aren't you?" his other hand reached up to cup your breast.

declan hooking his fingers into your underwear and slowly tugging them down your legs, revealing yourself to him completely. spreading your legs wider&stepping closer. "look at me," he ordered gruffly, his fingers splaying on you. "god look at you, you're dripping,"

"so fucking tight," he muttered, running his calloused finger along your slit. "always so tight for me, aren't you? like you were made just for my cock."

he brought his finger up to his mouth, sucking your juices off his finger before pushing two inside you. quickly you let out a quiet gasp, back arching off the counter as he fingered you roughly. "love when i have you like this,"

he growled, adding a third finger and pumping them in and out of you quickly. "I can't wait to bury myself in you, and fill you up." He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a rough kiss as he continued to finger you.

“fuck, i need you declan” you whispered.

"shh," he murmured against your lips, whilst fingers curling inside you. "not yet," he warned, straightening up and wrapping his arms around your thighs to pull your legs over his shoulders. "i need to make sure you can take me," he growled, pushing his fingers deeper.

declan with his fingers hooked inside you, stretching you out. "look down," he ordered gruffly. you peering down, watching as he fingered you open. "i want you to look at me while i stretch you out,"

"fuck, i can't, it's too much," you panted, squirming on the counter as he stretched you out. “you can” declan growled, once again slamming three fingers inside you and scissoring them open wide.

"oh god, oh god, oh god," eyes rolling back as he stretched you impossibly wide. "declan, i can’t" you whimpered, hands scrabbling at the counter.

"too bad," he snapped, fingers once again curling up inside you. "spread your legs wider," he demanded, his voice thrumming with barely contained anger. "there we go, good girl ."

"fuck, declan," you hissed, legs shaking as he forced you open. "declan, we have to hurry someone gonna suspect," you begged, voice cracking with desperation. but declan just ignored it, fingers moving faster and harder inside you.

"you should've thought about that before you bent over in this tiny dress," he growled, pulling his fingers nearly out before slamming them back in. "spread those knees wider," he commanded, pressing his thumb against your clit hard enough to make you cry out.

"declan!" you shrieked, back arching off the counter. "i-i'm going to- fuckk" you were cut off by a loud, wracking sob orgasm crashed over you, while you clenched around his fingers.

both of you trying to catch your breaths, faces inches apart, declan nuzzled into your neck. "you're absolutely perfect," he murmured. you smiled, arms wrapped around him possessively. "and yet you're still the worst," you giggled. 

declan zipped up your dress back up, and gently pulled your panties back up your thighs, adjusting them carefully. "love, are you sure you're alright to walk out like this?" he asked, eyes crinkling at the corners as you nodded, face flushed.

he helped you fix your hair, straightening your dress once more. "ready?" he murmured, his hand gently patting your thigh. "ready," you said. he watched as you took a deep breath and prepared to go back out to the party.

It was a normal, intimate night between the two of you. You rocking rhythmically on his lap while his hands gripped tightly beneath your jeans, fingers pressing into your ass hard enough that it would 200% leave a mark in the morning.

He slipped out of your pants to drag up your shirt slowly, hissing appreciatively through his teeth at your bra choice, " jesus, it's like you're tryin' to kill me."

You giggle breathlessly against his lips, leaning back to tease him, " dunno what you mean baby," your finger slips coyly past your unbuttoned waistband and into the lace band of your thong, the pretty blue peaks out behind the denim, just enough for Logan to bite his lip and glance up at you from below his lashes.

"yea?" He grips your wrist and hooks the elastic under his thumb, snapping it against your abdomen- laughing when you jolt and moan under your breath, "y'sure you have no idea what I mean?"

you shake your head and slink off his lap, "not a clue." you planted your knees onto the carpet and lay your cheek against his thigh, pushing your elbows together and boosting your tits up, presenting a shameful image for him to admire.

Logan threads his hands through your hair, "what d'ya want pretty? hmm?" he strokes your face, pushing the odd strand away from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear.

you shuffle a little beneath him, biting your lip.

Logan grins down at you, "you thinking about something baby?" you nod your head slowly, "you can tell me. it's just us here."

"wantyoutoslapme" you mumble, your fingers playing with the zipper of his fly, barely noticing the obvious tent brushing against your nose- more occupied with the sudden dryness of your throat and the burning of your cheeks.

Logan tilts his head, squinting at you, "might need you to enunciate a little darling." his index finger taps your pouted lips, pretending to not enjoy your embarrassment, he definitely didn't feel his head swim at the way your chest heaved with the weight of his stare and he swears that the sight of your pressing your thighs together didn't make his dick even harder than it was.

You glare at him, but there wasn't any heat behind it, "I said it clearly enough."

"I dont think you did baby," He leans down to peck your mouth, holding himself back from licking into your mouth and devouring that sweet, peachy taste of your lipgloss.

you whine and almost bury your head into the crook of where his thigh meets his pelvis, ignoring how he stifles a laugh, eventually you sigh. What did your mother always say? closed mouths dont get fed.

You don't really want to be thinking about your mum right now, but she always had words of wisdom that were multi-faceted.

"I want you to..." you blink up at him, "slap me."

Logan pauses above you, the hand that was playing with the ends of your hair and running along your shoulder froze.

"what?"

"see I knew you'd do that-" You huff, noncommittally shrugging your shoulders "it's fine, take off your pants, I'm more than happy-"

Your fingers are held in place with his, "let a guy buffer for a bit baby. It's not everyday your girlfriend asks you to slap her."

"yea but not in like a weird way" you justify, "in like a kinky way. you don't need to full palm bitch slap me, just like. a little one."

"a little one?"

"yea, try it"

"now?"

"babe start acting your IQ and slap me"

Logan huffs, and against every single nerve in his body, against his rational judgement, against his brothers parenting and beatings into his brain that under no circumstances do you ever lay your hand on a woman, jackass.

"okay..." he brings his hand up and pulls back very slightly.

well to him it was.

but you jerked back as you watched him bring his hand out, further and further like a rubber band and you weren't prepared to feel snap against your face.

"woah!" you grab his wrist and place it, maybe 4 inches away from your cheek, "the fuck you winding up for?"

"I'm not" he jumps, "babe I dont want to hurt you, I dunno how I feel about hitting you."

you cock your head at him, "I get that, but you're not hurting me, its more like.." you chew your lip racking your brain for an example, "oh."

you slap his thigh.

Logan hesitates, staring at the spot that you slapped, "huh..." he nods slowly. It wasn't so much of a slap than a firm pat against his skin, sure his muscles tingled a little beneath his jeans, but the area warmed just as quickly. maybe he could see the appeal.

you rush to interrupt his thoughts, "sorry- that probably was so random. and I won't force you to do anything you dont want to, I'm more than happy with what we do right now plus we can find other things."

"no..."

"no?"

"no- I mean yes- no." He shakes his head and wraps his hands around your shoulders, "I'll slap you."

What a weird sentence, and whats weirder is that your panties flooded almost instantly.

"yea?"

"yea ill slap you."

"ok, but don't like warn me before, it's the surprise that-"

you swallow the rest of your words with a gasp, your cheek burned deliciously and Logan's hand hovered by the area in question. Slowly you returned back to your position, your breathing stutters and fingers quake as red, hot pleasure burns through your body.

"like that?" Logan's cocky smirk makes you want to simultaneously stick your fingers down his throat and beg him to fuck the living daylights out of you.

"yea, just like that. do it again. m'dont care that it hurts"

He does it again, gaining confidence- instead of hovering and waiting for your approval his hand forms a choker over your neck, his fingers bracing against your jaw, "pretty baby doesn't care that it hurts huh? Just wants me to slap her" He brushes his knuckle against your face, "So fucking gorgeous, fuck, you wouldn't think that you're such a filthy girl from your face darling."

You whimper, barely noticing that your hand had started to slip under your panties and rub slow circles over your clit.

"turns y'on? never would've thought that you're into this, not in my wildest dreams." Logans eyes flutter from your face, where moans slip from your puckered lips to your fingers that begin to quicken.

He tsks, watching your hips roll into your palm, "naughty girl," He slaps the other cheek. Not letting you register the tingles blooming through your face before he manhandles you onto the bed.

You laugh, sitting up onto your shoulders as Logan kneels between your legs, dragging his arms backwards to slide off his t-shirt, gripping the neckline and throwing the article somewhere onto his floor.

He lowers himself, staring up at you predatorily, his lips dragging up from your stomach, biting the skin until you fall back with an appreciative hum- head bouncing on the soft pillow beneath you. He lifts again, one palm pressed to where his lips were teasing you, the other caressed your neck, pushing your hair away.

"this," he murmurs lowly, pointer finger ghosting from your throat down to your cleavage and circling your nipple through the flimsy fabric. The bud hardened and you arched into his touch- gasping softly, "off." he flicks the puckered nub.

You struggle to contort your arms to your clasp, shoulders straining against the stretch.

Eventually it falls limp and you graciously throw it in the general direction of where his shirt was carelessly thrown on the floor.

Logan hums from above you, "hmmm, this is the perfect view, in fact.." he trails off, grabbing your jeans and tugging them harshly down your legs, contributing to the pile on the other side of the room. You moan when he presses a finger against the ruined fabric of your panties, "there she is..my pretty girl."

You blush and attempt, albeit pathetically, to whine against his arms placing your legs wide apart, bending at the knee so he can slot comfortably between them, still rubbing and teasing you over the lace of your underwear.

The protests die on your tongue when he pulls the barrier to the side and delivers another slap, this time to your pussy, which clenches hopelessly around nothing. Logan brings his hand up in awe, fingers glistening under the yellow glow of his lamp.

"oh my god" he glances at you, grinning when he sees you nearly at the point of tears, "you are so into this. The whole tough guy, dominant thing really does it for ya?"

You shield your face from his teasing, "I didn't fucking know asshole," you peak at him between your fingers, "and don't act like you dont love this." you angle your knee to grind into his bulge.

"you play dirty, baby," he punches out, gripping your knee in place while he taps against the hand covering your mouth.

You lower your palm hesitantly and startle against his fingers that bury themselves into your mouth, the taste of your arousal bursts over your tongue, and you delicately hold his wrist, keeping the two digits firmly in place as you coat them with a thick layer of your saliva.

he hisses, watching you intently make a show out of sucking his fingers, tongue swirling and weaving in between the knuckles. Logan chuckles to himself when you try to force more into your throat, barely gagging when your swollen lips meet the webbing of his hand.

"what's got you so worked up pretty?" you roll your eyes and discreetly shift your hips towards him- the answer is pretty obvious, but Logan decides to toy with you a little bit more.

Maybe he really is loving this whole dominant thing.

He takes his fingers gently from your mouth, skimming them down your body and into your underwear.

"fuck! Logan," Your hand shoots down to grip his forearm, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut when he rolls your clit between his soaked fingers.

"nuh uh baby," He breathes against your lips, arm bracketing over your head to hold himself up, "look at me. wanna see your gorgeous eyes." his fingers drum against your temple until you meet his gaze.

You jump forward and bite his lip, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to drag him closer to you while free hand snakes under his arm, digging your nails into his back.

Logan swears against your mouth, "or you could do that." You laugh at his surprise, but it turns into a guttural moan when he delves into your face, mouth devouring yours whilst his tongue strokes and licks any inch of you he can reach.

"please" you whisper when you break apart for air, breathing into each others mouths, "Logan, you gotta do something- pleaseeee," you whine and buck your hips when his fingers stop circling your clit and tease your hole.

"patience baby," He snickers, thoroughly enjoying watching you suffer.

"fuck you, and fuck your patience." you grit out, squeezing your eyes shut when he barely breaches you with the tips of his digits, "fuck you more than your patience, ohmygod, god I'm going to kill you logan. As soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more, I'm breaking up with you. How humiliating is this, I'm so wet baby- please come on."

Logan nods along, almost condescendingly to your babbles, eyes widening in the right places and pouting his lips at the better ones. But when your voice breaks into that breathy whine, his resolve shatters along with it and he can't help but swallow the gasp you let out when he sinks in, knuckles deep.

"fuckkk" you both say in unison, granted yours is more muffled because you've arched so far back that your mouth is in the pillow, but Logan compensates, his voice is significantly deeper than when you started and the obscenity is breathed against your sternum- where his mouth is peppering kisses whilst watching your chest bounce with each hard thrust of his wrist.

Your moans are choppy and sound more like sobs when Logan sits up onto his haunches, staring at where his fingers disappear inside of you, a wet trail left along them every time he pulls back.

"You're doing so well baby," he bites his lip, angling the hell of his palm into your clit, so with each push the bundle of nerves is bumped with the calloused skin, "look at you, doing so well f'me." he leans down briefly to kiss your pussy, but stays longer when he feels how wet you are against his lips.

"Logan," you whimper warningly, both hands scratching his scalp as you fight against the momentum to trap his head between your thighs, "Logan m'gonna cum if you do that."

He glances up at you, almost as if he forgot you were present whilst he got lost in your pussy, the lower half of his body now bent along and off the bed- it seems he took you with him, your knees now hooked onto his shoulders.

"I mean I'm not complaining," He shrugs, huffing in amusement when you roll your eyes, which widen comically when one of the hands that was wrapped around your thigh and rested on your hip came down in a harsh smack.

You let out a broken moan when his head dips again, this time working in tandem with his fingers. The sounds are lewd and you feel inexplicably sorry for whatever poor soul was getting the free show- but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming amount of pleasure that spiked through your entire body.

Logan slurped and nipped at your pussy, tongue lavishly stimulating your clit with harsh sucks that ended in debauched pops, making your head spin and cheeks flush.

"what were you saying pretty?" he mumbled against you, removing his mouth to kiss the inside of your thigh. You whimpered in response, barely able to bring your head up to meet his gaze, "what?"

"that," His fingers sped up and mouth parted when you jolted, gripping your breasts whilst gaping at him, " 's soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more,' " his voice is pitched slightly higher, mimicking you, breaking at bits when he leans down to spit on down onto your hole where his fingers disappear, "what was the end bit? I cant seem to remember."

His fingers slow, much to your dismay, as he waits for your response,

"No! nono, baby," you words are slurred as you blindly reach for his wrist, "baby," you coo at him, stroking his hair, "I don't even remember, you know what they say, bitches be crazy. all that jazz."

He snorts at you, "really?"

"yea, but I'm bitches. please make me cum."

"You're not a bitch pretty," He kisses your cheek.

"John," You grind your hips down into his fingers, "Can we talk about the feminist meaning of the phrase and the wider effect on society. after you make me cum."

"Oh so I'm John now?" He pecks your hip, curling his fingers slowly.

"No," You stroke his face and whisper, "Logan."

He hums happily, increasing the pace slightly whilst crowding over you with his body, "And?"

Your chests brush together as you grind out a deep groan, hands limply hung from his shoulders.

You hook your ankles over his hips, welcoming him into your space, "Baby," You murmur, noses brushing together. Logan speeds up, plunging fast inside of you, the promiscuous sound of your wetness makes you arch your back.

"Anything else?" He prompts, breath fanning over your neck- you moan and bury your finger in your hair,

"F-fuck" You legs quiver around his torso, "I don't fucking know, daddy? sir?"

Logan nips at your throat, "Not what I was looking for, but I'll take it." He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly and rolling it between his teeth.

"Shit," Your hands fly to cradle his face against your breast, "cumming, yes Logan, don't stop" You sob into his hair, body convulsing against his.

A silent scream parts your mouth as wetness gushes onto Logan's fingers, you twitched and writhed as he continued to fuck you with slow thrusts- his fingers making hollow and wet sounds against you.

Only when your orgasm subsided is when he removed his fingers, eyes glistening as he sucked off your arousal. You watched, heavy pants still billowing out between your lips.

"So..." He slumped next to, already moving to grab a wet wash cloth, "You got any other requests for me?"