welcome to the railway

Professor Howlett's history class was not for any general ed student. He only accepts a small amount of grad students every year to the point where his class has become something of a legend. It's notoriously difficult, most only managing to scrape by with a C and the highest grade he's ever given was a B+. This year you were one of the lucky ones but day one you realized you were fucked.

Professor Howlett was undeniably insanely attractive. Call it what you want but something about an older man with glasses and a button up shirt threw you brain into a frenzy. You did everything you could to keep up with his class. You sat in the front row, you did the homework, you read the textbook.

But every time you looked up from your computer you were drawn into his handsome face and by the time you snap out of it the lesson is over. At this point dropping the class isn't even an option and the test in your hands has a big fat F in red pen.

You're desperate, you can't fail this class if you want to graduate with honors. You pace in front of his office door tears brimming in your eyes as you think of any way to appeal to his humanity. Which most students argue he doesn't even have.

"Jesus can you stop?!" The door flings open making you jump, Professor Howlett's annoyed voice booms through the corridor.

"I could hear your damn shoes squeaking for five minutes."

"Sorry." You mumble. You look into his hazel eyes and you can feel your heart start to beat faster. What were you here for again?

"What do you want?" Professor Howlett asks, an unamused look on his face. You open your mouth to speak but no words come out.

He looks at you confused and glances down to your chest, seeing your test pressed against your thin camisole.

"Oh that, I don't do retakes." He says flatly.

You glance down at your test and the tears start to brim. You feel so stupid for letting your crush get so bad, you're smart. You're very smart but he seems to reduce you to a fucking puddle of nothing.

"Please Professor how can I fix this. I'm trying I promise I really am and I know the material but I just..." You trail off, unsure of how to explain everything. He sighs and opens the door wider.

"Come in." You hurry into his office and he shuts the door behind you.

"Look sweetheart, I know you're smart too." He hums, sitting down in his chair and picking up a cigar from an ashtray. Could he even smoke in here?

"All my colleagues rave about you so tell me what's stopping you from doing well in my class?"

"I just...I get distracted sometimes but I've been trying to work on it." You sit down on the chair across from his desk. He tilts his head, looking at you for a while before placing the cigar back in the ash tray.

"Yeah? Distracted by what?" He pushes, a hint of a smirk on his face as he sees you clutch your test tightly.

"I don't know. Just life and stuff I guess." You mumble, not even convincing yourself.

"Mm hm, that why I catch you eye fucking me every day in class?" Logan asks bluntly and you cringe. Of course he noticed. If only the ground could swallow you up right now.

"I...I'm sorry I didn't...Look if you could just let me do something to bring my grade up. Extra credit or an essay or something. Please I'm so close to graduating with honors." You spill, begging him to take pity on you.

"Professor." You add on quietly.

Without thinking you cross your arms tightly, mostly out of nerves. Unknowingly pushing up your breasts which are already being pushed by your choice of top. You notice his eyes drifting downward and you become incredibly aware of where he was looking. You weren't trying to, uh seduce the man, when you picked this top but you aren't mad at seeing his reaction. In fact you're a little turned on.

"Okay." He says, grabbing a peace of paper and scribbling something down.

"What?" You ask in disbelief.

"I said okay. Meet me at my place later to discuss the details." He slides the paper over to you and you take it. You stand up and thank him.

"Oh, and don't change outfits alright sweetheart?" He hums as you walk out the door.

The pet name makes your stomach flutter and you're already eager for night to fall.

Logan's cabin was exactly what you thought it would be like. Secluded and rustic. It looked like he had made most of it himself and with all the random wood laying around the outside of his garage you were probably correct. You take one last breath as you walk up to his porch. You aren't naïve you know what this could lead to and if you're honest you're hoping it does.

Is it wrong? Yes. Is it incredibly risky? Yes. But do you care? Right now? Not really.

He opens the door and you're greeted with the smell of wood and linen. He's changed out of his normal work clothes for a tight shirt and some sweatpants. Fuck he looks good. He smirks as he looks you up and down.

"Come on in." His cabin is very warm feeling which you didn't really expect.

Pictures of who you assume are his friends are scattered on the wall and there's lots of mismatched furniture and decorations. Like most of them were gifts that had been placed around his house. He sits on his plush leather couch, legs spreading without a care.

A glass of brandy in his hand as he gestures for you to sit next to him, no not next to him, on his lap. You bite your lip as you sit yourself on his lap. His free hand coming to hold your hip and your hands rest on his shoulders.

"You're fucking gorgeous you know that?" He says.

"You're really handsome." You reply back. He chuckles in such a rich deep voice that drives you nuts.

"So professor..." You start to slide off his lap onto the plush rug. Your knees resting on the ground as you place your hands at his waist, playing with his belt.

"What can I do to raise my grade?" You ask. His eyes grow darker as he takes your hand and puts it on the button of his jeans.

"I think you know sweetheart, lets see how you do and then we'll talk grades." He growls.

With quick hands you unbuckles his belt and unzip his jeans. He lifts his hips to help you slide them down along with his boxers. Leaving his hard cock resting against his stomach. Your eyes widen at how big it is. Fuck you knew he'd be huge.

"Come on now, don't be shy." He purrs as he grabs the base of his cock.

"Open that pretty mouth of yours." You look up through your lashes as you open your mouth, letting the tip of his cock rest on your tongue.

"Shit." He mumbles as you suck and lick the tip. Your brows furrow as you focus on tasting him. He lets go of his cock and grabs the back of your head, slowly pushing you down to take more of him. You whine slightly at the stretch but he pays no mind.

"Fuck that's it. You can take it." You breathe deeply through your nose as his cock hits the back of your throat.

Your lips wrap so nicely around it. He slowly starts to fuck your mouth, tilting his head back as his hand stays pushing your head down on his cock. Your nails dig into his thighs, whimpering as you slide your cunt along your shoe. You've never felt more turned on in your life. Logan feels like a fucking teenager again, he's not gonna last long. Especially not when you look up at him with tears in your eyes a mouth full of cock.

"Hold on sweetheart, wanna come in that mouth of yours." He growls as his hips start to buck rougher.

Drool drips down your chin and a loud groan rips through his throat. You wince at the salty taste of his cum coats your throat. He carefully draws his cock out of your mouth. You sag into the couch, propping yourself up on his leg as you take a couple deep breaths. You look a mess, you can feel the tear tracks on your face and a few drops of his cum still lingering.

"Look at that." He purrs as he wipes his thumb along the side of your mouth.

"Swallowed it all hm? Good girl." You look up at him a smile, happy to have pleased him.

"I think you earned yourself a nice B, but if you want to make it an A I could tutor you some more." He helps you up, sitting you back on his lap and brushing out the wrinkles in your clothes.

Fixing you up so you're nice and pretty again. His hands linger at your sides, fuck he could practically smell you. You nod your head eagerly. Your hands running down his firm chest. Whatever the hell you've gotten yourself into is risky, stupid, and by every definition a bad idea. But god after sitting in his lap and staring in his eyes, you don't fucking care.

The gun weighs less than it used to — for one, Leon has amassed a decent amount of muscle in his arms so everything feels lighter. And, he’s become so used to it — the shooting, not the killing — that he’s actually a decent shot. He’s no Chris Redfield STARS Alpha Team winner of every sharpshooting contest since he began working at the RPD, but Leon’s one of four who escaped the RPD in ‘98 so it’s safe to say he knows what he’s doing. He knows what he’s doing. Killing. They’re not people anymore. Anymore. They used to be people. Every death fills him with a greater void, it empties him, makes him feel nothing.

Leon will do anything in the name of escapism. Sometimes he thinks the only reason he’s never done hard drugs is because he doesn’t know any dealers. Weekdays are for work - 9 to 5 most of the time. Then, he goes home to drink until he passes out on the couch. Leon only sleeps when he has a woman next to him. The women who sleep with him are usually impressed that his sheets are fresh, but unbeknownst to them he hasn’t changed them in two months. He doesn’t like his bedroom. He has to resign himself to his own loneliness when he stumbles through the doorway alone. There’s something different about the couch. It’s a liminal space, an in-between, something he can deal with. He can pretend he’ll just rest his eyes for a moment, and he can pretend that this isn’t just his life now. It’s a phase. It’ll end.

It could. It would only take one bullet.

Something in his brain clicks and he realizes he just needs another glass of whiskey and he’ll feel better. It’s not divine intervention leading him away from suicide, and it’s not an intrinsic belief of a greater purpose. It’s just that he’s sobering up real quick right now. A gun entering one’s proximity tends to invoke that kind of feeling.

On his short trek to the kitchen to refill his glass, he realizes that this is actually good for him. It’s one of those self-care techniques his therapist suggested. Well, okay, not exactly. She asked him to tell her what keeps him from these feelings and he lied and said some bullshit about family and friends, but what he meant was: alcohol. And, down the hatch it goes. A quick and easy solution. Now, Leon’s not thinking about all that fucked up BOW shit. No undead children, no shooting the president, not Spain or China or anywhere else. Now that he has a little shot of completely unfounded self-confidence, he needs to make it everyone else’s problem. Or at least, the local female population.

Everyone knows Leon has a drinking problem, not everyone knows about the sex addiction. It’s really a shame, though. Getting laid sounds much cooler than blacking out with a half-empty liquor bottle on the table next to him. Yeah, Leon’s almost 40 and he still fucks. Sometimes. When his dick works. 

If Leon had known how often he’d have trouble getting it up when he was in his 20’s, he would’ve killed himself. He doesn’t have the same shame anymore. You can get Viagra in the mail. He knows this personally.

One time, a woman he was sleeping with graciously grabbed the package from the door and watched him open it. They stopped talking when she left that day, and it didn’t matter because there was no way he could face her after that. Not that they really ever fucked face-to-face. It wasn’t like that between the two of them. 

Leon met a new chick recently, a younger chick, much younger. Way too much fucking younger. He met her at a goddamn coffee shop. She wrote her number on his receipt with her name and a heart. What was he supposed to do? Not call? He’d have to find another place to get his coffee. Plus, she reminds younger version of Claire — the one girl he could never have. The one girl he assumes might have some attraction to men. He’s yet to get Jill into bed, but the odds are stacked against him there. Not his fault she’s a lesbian.

This girl’s fucked in the head. He’s known this since the moment she took interest in him. In what way? He wasn’t quite sure yet. Probably some shit with her parents. Trying to piss them off by dating some sleazebag, or whatever. He wants no part of that. Leon’s got enough family issues already, and no family to show for it.

She cried after they had sex for the first time. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left a woman disappointed but he was at least 85% sure the orgasm she had wasn’t fake, and his dick was working fine. Until the tears came. Then it went completely limp and hung between his legs like a sad, deflated balloon.

Instead of leaving, she clung to him, and the revelation hit him. He was right about the parental thing. Leon knows what its like to not be held enough as a child. Holding her while she cried was the first time Leon had hugged someone in years.

He wasn’t drunk enough to forget that. So now, he’s holding a gun to his head because there’s no other way out of this. She’s in love with him. She hasn’t said it yet, but he’s pretty sure she will. And he cannot love her. Leon doesn’t have the capacity for that anymore. It’s not that he’s too cynical or worn down, that’s only part of it, but he’s got too much grief taking up all the space he’s got for love in his soul. 

The next time they see each other, because, of course, Leon’s too much of a pussy to go through with it, she doesn’t say the ‘L’ word, which makes him so happy he nearly says it to her. Until, she says another word. The ‘D’ word. Not ‘dick’. Leon says ‘dick’ all the time — ‘my dick’, ‘your dick’, ‘you’re a dick’, ‘this sucks dick’, ‘suck my dick’, ‘please, suck my dick’, etc. It’s a word Leon doesn’t remember saying ever, really. Daddy. D-A-D-D-Y. Leon has definitely said ‘mommy’ before. Both to his own mother and to women who looked a lot like her. He never really had a good relationship with his father, not the kind where he ever called his father ‘daddy’. The first ‘D’ word suited his old man better. So does a third: dead.

Leon, unfortunately, due to his cowardice, is not dead. However, he’d be a total dick (and would earn his dick zero affection) if he turned down her proposition to become her ‘daddy’. Not her father. It’s not like he’s adopting her. This whole arrangement is fucked up enough already, best not to add any more layers.

Okay, fine, whatever. He’ll be ‘daddy’ because who the fuck cares anymore, right? If he doesn’t like it, he can just kill himself, he thinks. Or, as she suggests, he could just tell her it makes him uncomfortable. But, that’s a little too vulnerable for him. Regardless, he’s agreed to worse propositions before. Like, becoming a federal agent, for example — though, that proposition was what some may call blackmail.

Unlike the whole DSO gig, he ends up enjoying the ‘daddy’ thing quite a bit. A bit too much. He gets so used to baby talk and speaking in the third person that it spills over into his working hours. As per usual, he’s been fantasizing about sex for most of the day because literally everything about his job is boring when it’s not life-threatening.

When he gets up to take his lunch (an hour or so early), Hunnigan asks him, “Where are you going?”

To which he responds, “Daddy’s just going to get something to eat. He— I mean, I’ll be right back. I’m taking my lunch early.”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

The answer is, and has always been: no.

“Never better,” he says with finger guns just to make things weirder.

He’ll blame the whole thing on the lack of sleep if Hunnigan brings it up but, knowing her, she probably won’t. She does not want to venture into that side of his life. Leon knows this for certain as he’s asked her out. More than once. She’s probably a lesbian too, he likes to think.

Leon doesn’t eat lunch during work hours. Instead, he, shamefully, jerks off in his car. An added perk of tinted windows. He’s deep in the parking garage anyway (even though he has a spot reserved near the elevators).

These days, he rarely gets the post-masturbation clear-headedness that he used to. The only real change one the blood has rushed back to his brain is that his ever-present headache is far more noticeable.

Every time, he swears it’ll be the last. Just one more, he thinks. Just one phone call is the same as just one drink. Impossible. Texting his baby girl pairs well with a glass of red wine. Or white wine. Or whiskey. Or a shot of NyQuil. That one makes him real drowsy, and no longer responsible for his actions. Actions including the weird fucking sex he keeps having. Kinky? No. Kinky is spanking or bondage or whatever other weird things normal people do. This is the kind of freaky shit that weird people do.

It doesn’t matter when you’re beneath him, smiling like he’s god’s greatest gift to the world. Leon knows that if god is real, he certainly didn’t make Leon. Leon was more likely a science project gone wrong. Regardless, he was definitely an accident. His father admitted this to him when he was too young to know how babies could be accidental things.

You, on the other hand, are an angel. A good girl who was probably put in his life to teach him a lesson, like in those made-for-TV movies where the scumbag learns gratitude or kindness.

However, this is merely exposition. He’s close to climax but so, so far from any sort of resolution. There’s a certain stubbornness inside him that forbids him from examining his actions too much. So, some fucked up version of himself takes control and before he knows it, he’s telling you how pretty your princess parts look.

When he was younger, a woman in lingerie did wonders for him. When he got older, it no longer mattered what underwear she was wearing — it was more about getting to the prize hidden behind them. Now, all it takes is cotton panties with a little bow and some polka dots to get him going.

He likes to keep them on, to tease you through them, to tease you underneath them. It doesn’t help that you refuse to wear pants around the house. And, it certainly doesn’t help when Leon asks to go remote for awhile. He deserves it. He nearly gets killed every time they send him on a mission and then they make him go sit in an office. It’s downright rude.

He’s young enough to understand the basic technology but old enough to get incredibly pissed off when he can’t remember the password to his email. Virtual meetings, as it turns out, bring him quite a bit of stress. You don’t. Quite the opposite, actually. You crawl under his desk and unzip his pants while he’s logging onto a call. He peers down at you and raises an eyebrow. You look up at him and smile.

Okay. Fuck it. It’s not like anyone will know, and he won’t have to tell you to shut up when his cock is down your throat. He’s gripping the edge of the desk, saying things like “uh-huh”, “right”, “let me get back to you on that”, or anything that’s not insanely dirty and would get him fired. No, not fired, that’d be a blessing. Killed, probably. No, that’d be good too. The point is something bad would happen if they knew what was happening. Maybe he’d get a spanking. That’s what you get when you’re “in trouble”.

You know his body too well. You know he’s close even if he’s trying to hide it. You pull off — not that he expects you to swallow, he just thinks you probably will but instead, you keep your hand steady, wrapped around his length, close your eyes and open your mouth, ready to take what he’s ready to give.

He slams the laptop closed and paints your face white. Even prettier than before, he thinks.

He has to lift you by the armpits, carry you to the bathroom, and deposit you on the edge of the sink. He takes a washcloth, wet with warm water, and wipes your face clean.

“Keep you eyes closed,” he tells you even after he’s done so he can plant a kiss on your lips.

When he does, he can taste himself. Just bitter enough to make him grimace.

God, you must really love him, he thinks. Because just thinking about swallowing a mouthful of that makes him want to down a bottle of Listerine. Which is something that was confiscated from him long ago. If you’re supposed to spit mouthwash out, then, why make it so tolerable?

Blame it on the corporations. Not because he has the energy to think about his principles, but because he needs a villain, and it can’t be him. And, it sure as hell isn’t you.

You’re too sweet. So sweet he caves to your every wish. Fuck me, love me, spit in my mouth, please. It’s always a yes from him. Slap me, was fine with him too. (No, in the face daddy, took a little while to get used to but you said daddy so nicely that he couldn’t resist).

Usually it’s some sex thing, or not sex — because he’s not allowed to call it that — but this time it’s different.

“I want Labubu, daddy,” you announce, breaking a perfectly good silence.

“You want what?” It sounds vaguely French, and Leon only knows words like Chardonnay and Cabernet etc. “Is that a sex thing?”

“No,” you huff. “I’ll show you.”

You bring him your phone and show him a picture of a weird-looking doll.

You’re kidding me, right? he thinks.

You pout, giving him those big eyes he can’t say ‘no’ to.

“Fine. Just add them to your cart and I’ll pay for them.”

Leon spends hundreds on whatever the fuck “Labubu” is.

But what else was he going to do with it? Spend it on booze?

He’s the one who starts asking if the toys can turn around during sex because he feels like ‘Labubu’ is about to curse his his lineage for the next ten generations with that grin on its face. More like ‘la voodoo’, he thinks. It’ll probably bite his dick off with those teeth sticking out.

He swears he can feel its gaze from behind him, and it’s difficult for him to stay hard when the thought won’t leave his mind.

Until you say something that shocks him like he’s stuck his finger inside an electrical socket.

“I wish you were my real dad.”

He short-circuits. It’s so much worse than he thought. You’re both so sick in the head. He’ll fuck the idea out of your brain. Harder, harder, harder. Until the brief silence before the bliss wears off.

Before he can get himself too strung out about it, he finds another distraction. He always does.

In a consistent attempt to ignore the massive void inside him that is nothing but grief trying to plant roots in the sand, its tendrils swirling around in the pit of his stomach with nowhere else to go, he lets himself sweat the small stuff. He can find a new way to piss himself off every day if it means not examining his psyche. Not getting a package delivered on time, burning the roof of his mouth on formerly-frozen pizza — that kind of thing.

“I’m gonna kill myself,” he groans at what should be a minor inconvenience.

He doesn’t even mean it. If Leon was ever going to kill himself, he would’ve been dead years ago.

“Leon,” you say, letting the word hang in the air, forcing him to reach out and grab it.

Forcing him respond to the name you should be calling him. The name you used to call him. But now, in this tone, you sound like Claire, he thinks. Your voice is somehow both pitying and chiding simultaneously.

“Sorry, baby,” he says. “I didn’t mean it.”

You look unsatisfied, which is, not only a real slight to his pride, but also simply out of the ordinary.

“What,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, subconsciously analyzing the volume its lost.

If he catches one gray hair on his head the next time he looks in the mirror, he’ll surely kill himself.

“I’m worried about you,” you say, quieter, like it’s some sort of secret.

“Don’t be,” he says.

Enough people are already worried about him. Out of love? Maybe. Out of pity? Sure. Out of necessity? Yeah. Leon’s good with a gun.

Except when he’s not.

When he holds it to his head in the middle of the night after a little too much time spent thinking. Each time he ends up putting it away, locking it in his bedside drawer, keeping it safe. Keeping you safe.

You’ve asked him to teach you how to fight before.

“With what? A knife?” Because, of course, no guns for a baby girl like you.

“No,” you say, appalled at his suggestion. “Like, self-defense.”

“You wanna pepper spray me? ‘Cause, honestly, it’s pretty effective.”

“Is that some sort of kink for you?”

“No. God, no. I’m not a freak.”

Well, he is, but not like that.

“You said you wanted to learn self-defense, and based on experience…” He gestures vaguely, realizing he’s backed himself into an embarrassing corner.

“Huh? Has a girl… done that to you…?” You look scared, like somehow you don’t know him. And, you know him. Way too well.

“No, no. I… did it to myself… wanted to see if it works…”

He was 20 years old and stupid. Really stupid, considering he’d watched someone else do it first. The police academy was brutal. He had to do a whole hundred push-ups with tears in his eyes. And then, to those who hadn’t witnessed the initial incident, it looked like he was crying over push-ups.

And then, you’re laughing. Laughing so hard you get teary-eyed.

“See? Decades later and the singular spritz is still making people cry.”

There’s a glint in your eye. He sees the hit coming quickly enough to grab you by the wrist before your fist makes contact.

“Were you seriously—?” And then the wind is knocked out of him by your elbow.

When he gets enough air back in his lungs to talk, he says, “I’m proud of you, baby.” Another cough and a wheeze. “That was a good one.”

Standing there all flustered, knowing daddy’s proud of you, he has enough time to recover and throw you over his shoulder before you can dodge him.

“Daddy,” you whine.

“This is a learning experience,” he says, carrying you to the bedroom. “Should’ve kicked me in the balls when you had the chance.”

You’d never kick him in the balls—you like that part of him too much. That’s another thing Leon doesn’t understand, but when they’re in your mouth, he doesn’t have a mind to over-analyze it.

He throws you down onto the mattress and keeps you pinned down by the wrists.

“But you got too busy thinking about making daddy proud,” he whispers.

Even when he’s taunting you, it makes you melt. So entranced that your protests are gone. Not that you’re quiet. Not at all. Not when Leon sucks on your tits like he’s in love with them.

But Daddy’s not perfect. Sometimes his head gets foggy too. Sometimes he forgets he’s supposed to be playing with you, taking care of you, (or whatever pretense or euphemism you use to get him into bed that day), and he ends up rutting into the mattress with his mouth on fixated on one breast.

Leon’s drowned out your noises by now. Not that he doesn’t enjoy hearing your voice, especially in such a state, but it’s more symphony than testimony so it all just blends together — quite nicely. So, when he ignores your pleas, he feels your hands on the crown of his head, pushing him down. A gesture that needs no accompanying words regardless.

Drunk on nothing, his eyes flit to yours and he finds his own arousal mirrored. It takes all his willpower not to give in, to keep teasing you, which only drags him closer to the edge.

He lifts himself up so his face is level with yours. “Need something from Daddy?” he asks, dipping down to kiss your cheeks.

“Need Daddy,” you confirm.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Need Daddy to touch me.”

“Touch you where?”

You whine, kick your legs in frustration. You hate saying the words that you insisted he use. But you love to hear them. Your embarrassment is a facade and so is Leon’s disgust. God, he wants to hate this.

“Your princess parts?” he asks, looking you in the eye.

You nod, shrinking into the pillows in embarrassment. At the words you taught him.

“I’ll go check on them,” he mumbles, making his way down your stomach with open-mouthed kisses until he reaches your panties. Soaked. “Sweetheart, did you pee in your panties?” He knows you didn’t. And, honestly, even if you had, he wouldn’t give that much of a fuck anymore. A piss kink would be less fucked-up, he thinks. Alas, his psyche wasn’t kind enough to just leave him with one of those.

“No! I’m a big girl. I don’t do that.”

“How come these are all wet, then, huh?” He plays with the fabric, running his fingers along your clothing-covered slit.

He earns a sharp intake of breath from you. “It’s your fault, daddy.”

“It’s my fault? I haven’t even touched them yet, baby.”

You huff in frustration, tired of his rhetorical questions, and there’s no way he can stop himself from giving into his own urges when you beg him for something he wants as badly as you do.

So, he pulls the thin fabric to the side and wastes no time getting his dick inside you. Not the whole thing of course. Just the tip ‘cause he’s he’s nice like that.

You look appalled when you realize he doesn’t plan on giving you any more than that. If you had words to say, they get lost between your lungs and your lips. Your face says enough for him, as do your hips which buck up in a futile attempt to take control.

He can’t help but laugh a little at how pathetic you look trying so hard to get him to fuck you. It’s a cruel sound.

When he finally gives in and thrusts into you fully, he can see the bulge in your abdomen.

“Look, baby,” he says, looking down when he catches your eye, guiding you to the gorgeous sight. “See how deep daddy is inside you?”

You gaze at the sight, awestruck.

“You like it?” he asks as he increases his pace.

You nod, almost frantic like you know you won’t be able to respond in a moment.

He can tell how hard you try to keep your eyes open, to watch as he fucks you but you can’t. They flutter closed and you reach out to grasp onto him instead.

He leans forward, fucking you deeper from this angle. He would be worried about coming too quickly if he couldn’t see your impending orgasm.

It might wash over you like a gentle wave of pleasure, but it squeezes the life out of Leon. He couldn’t pull out if he wanted to—maybe he could, if he really tried, but you’re on the pill, and if you had the strength for words you’d beg him, and—

Before a near-infinite amount of excuses can flood Leon’s brain, he fills you to the brim. His ears ring with moans he hopes are yours. God, does he really sound like that? That’d be pathetic, so he likes to imagine all he lets out is some sort of grunt—anything that’s less emasculating.

Whatever. It feels so fucking good that he’s almost grateful that god gave him a refractory period because if he didn’t have time for the sense of shame to overcome him, he’d keep going forever. Like one of those lab rats that gets rewarded so hard that it forgets to eat, he’d just fuck until he dies of starvation.

God, you’re a fucking hand grenade wearing angel wings. You’re going to kill him and it’ll be beautiful.

The cream-colored cabin of the limousine and the newly-bought scent lingering in it are real. So is the tarmac under the wheels—Logan can almost taste the grind of rubber. Sceneries fly past. Rows upon rows of palm oil plantations stretch infinitely under equatorial blue skies. All those are real, too.

Unfortunately for him, so are you.

“I have a feeling this isn’t your first rodeo.”

There’s nothing imaginary about you. Nothing illusory about your crisp white shirt and neatly pinned hair, sitting with your legs crossed as if this 70 miles-per-hour car is your meeting room. A laptop on your lap, a phone on your hand. With hints of subtle jewelry and a shiny watch under a sleeve, you look more expensive than the Rolls Royce you’re sitting in.

And there’s that devious curl of your lips, equally capable of causing cars to collide into each other.

“Was it also an heiress, the last time you did this?” you ask, placing the laptop and phone on the seat beside you. “Maybe her daddy’s a big shot, who’s most concerned about his precious daughter’s safety despite what’s at stake. A power transfer. Or is it an inheritance?”

The way your eyes are trained on his face is nothing short of predatory. As if talons would materialize at the sight of even the smallest flicker of emotion.

“And that’s where you come in. Big strong man like you… protecting poor little princesses like me,” you lean back, crossing your arms. “Am I right?”

No silence. Just the all-too quiet white noise that is the engine.

The truth is, you’re spot on. Almost in a way that’s supernatural—or maybe superhuman, like you trespass in minds for fun.

Reminds him of someone red.

How he finds himself here isn’t as important as how eerily similar the situation is. Mariko happened a month ago. This feels like a cheap sequel.

Except it’s not cheap, because you’re in line to inherit a multinational mining business worth billions of dollars, and with only a few more days until the last legs of legal paperwork is complete, your security is paramount. Your father made that clear—as clear as when he declared his empire should go to you.

Coincidentally, he’s also dying.

…to spend the rest of his days as a retiree, loitering in a five-star resort in Panama.

“Looks like my guess is correct.”

He responds with a glare. You smile.

“You talk to yourself this much?” he grunts.

“You’re talking to me now,” you glance down at your manicured nails.

Where Mariko was calm as snowfall, you’re the human incarnation of a lightning strike.

You’ve been nothing but polished smiles, practiced precision, and a dose of cheek. He’s watched you make countless phone calls since stepping in the car, like a bolt in a thunderstorm—striking at spots in the sky with vindictive accuracy. You welcome stupid propositions like a saint before expertly shutting them down. No room for debate when the argument doesn’t deserve any. Politely ruthless.

When you’re agreeable, though? Nothing sounds better. You’re sweet, and not the kind that’s artificial and syrupy. The sharpness in your gaze wears off but for a moment, before the call ends, and you close your eyes, breathing before dialling another number.

Now, Logan can’t help but look at your eyelashes while you look out the window.

“Almost there,” comes the driver’s voice, muffled from behind the partition.

“Thanks, Anton,” you take off your earrings. Then to Logan: “So who was it?”

“Who was what?” he grunts.

“Your last princess.”

He narrows his eyes at you. You’re clasping on a different pair of earrings that appeared out of your handbag, silver streams that dangle near your jaw. Tapered fingernails pop off the buttons of your white shirt, one, two… until all he sees is soft a lace bra—dark red—and skin. Soft, beautiful skin.

“Well, are you going to answer the question?” you press, tossing the white shirt away and looking at him expectantly like you’re not half-naked.

Logan finally averts his eyes outside. Still oil palms as far as the eye can see. “Yashida.”

From his periphery he can see you fish something out of the middle compartment.

“Yashida? The Mariko Yashida—from that Japanese tech zaibatsu?”

You laugh, the first time since meeting him. Arms slip into something shiny and Logan can’t help but look. A different top, satin and full of sensual promise. He tries to ignore the way your bra disappears from view as you wrap yourself in luxurious fabric.

“Why, you go to school with her or something?” he grunts, focusing once again on the monotonous view outside.

“Yes, we’re Richie Rich’s classmates.” You shoot back, tucking the top in your long pencil skirt. He rolls his eyes. You smirk.

“Kidding. Met her in a business meeting a long time ago—you don’t get to become Japan’s industrial backbone without metal. Our metal.”

There it is, that tone in your voice. Authority. It drips with confidence and summons subservience. It sounds like the reason you extinguished the competition for your father’s business at your notably young age. It sounds like you’re ready for anything.

“Help me with this.”

Suddenly you’re sitting next to him, a necklace waiting on your nape. He holds back a bristle, fingers brushing yours when he takes it. The clasp is too small in his grip but he manages. The silver latches on, and just like that, you’re back to your seat across him, taking out the pins in your hair. It tumbles down like sin.

“I’d ask you more about Mariko, but you’re the brooding type and we have a luncheon to attend,” you murmur, tossing your hair out carelessly with your hands. You look so different now. That top flows down your body like water, and your hair…

It’s tastefully messy. Screams at him to look at you like you’re a woman first and a business opponent second. A sly tactic. Looking at you like this, even the most decent men can’t help but think about their lovers after a particularly strenuous activity.

“You seem relaxed,” he notes. The people at lunch would love for you to die to be next in line—and now that your life is his problem, he expected you to be at least a little concerned.

“You’ll be my food taster, won’t you? Be a good boy and make sure nobody spikes my coffee with cyanide?”

“Don’t call me that,” he growls, “and it’s not like I have a choice.”

You chuckle, running a hand through your hair one last time.

“Relax, only a week more till this is over. I’ll survive. So will you, if what Dad said is true. He spoke highly of you, you know?”

Is that because your family loves precious metals? he wonders.

“I know I will,” he mutters.

“I’ll crack you open before the end of your contract.”

He glowers.

The limousine slows down to make a turn. Palm trees turn into manicured hedgerows as the vehicle approaches a gate made of curled ornamented iron. Four men stand guard, looking more like soldiers than security. You give them a friendly wave from the rolled-down window.

The gates open.

Then the car drives down a gravel path before emerging into a lavish courtyard. Trimmed garden, central fountain, marble staircase curving up to a colonial-looking mansion. A display of wealth that would inspire rebellion.

Your driver opens the door. Logan steps out first. He doesn’t offer his hand to you.

You’re too focused to look bothered, high heels clacking up the steps. He’s right beside you. A butler makes himself known as soon as you enter the grand foyer.

“Ma’am. The party is seated and awaiting your presence.”

“Thank you. Oh, and—” you place a hand on Logan’s shoulder, “—please make sure this gentleman is seated next to me.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

You turn to Logan. “Hope you like Southeast Asian food, Roman.”

“It’s Logan,” he grits.

You smirk. Logan huffs.

You’ve found a button. You intend to press it.

Logan becomes your shadow in any given room. Following you from a distance, scanning each crowd, watching your back.

You attend galas and garden parties like a congressman on a campaign trail, a butterfly taste-testing flowers and noting if they’re sweet enough. Checking in on relationships and picking the fruits of them. Finding out if any are rotten or poisonous.

It’s war, set to the music of a violin quartet.

You’re in your element and it’s fascinating to watch.

He hates it.

Finds it frustrating, the way you pirouette and twirl over social minefields, all grace. The perfect timing of your handshakes and smiles as you compliment Botoxed faces and new money suits. Cloak and dagger, velvet and ornamented. The polish of your halo, a crown you fix on before entering a room.

Can’t stand you and your designer dresses. How they whisper slivers of your skin, promise more through the slit on your thigh. Sometimes you’re generous and wear one that’s backless, like you’re welcoming a knife to land there—both figuratively and literally.

Logan feels a twinge of pain whenever a hand that’s not his is on your lower back.

Every piece on you looks lustrous. Every pair of eyes stare.

He loathes the notes of your perfume. Could probably reconstruct it in an olfactory lab, the way it clings to him—even after the game of glamor is over and you’re back in your mansion, wearing an oversized tee and nothing else.

Guarding you at home is arguably worse. Not just because you somehow look better in your pajamas than you do at parties.

The various states of your undress shouldn’t faze him. The crop tops that exposed midriffs, the shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass—he’s no stranger to that brand of temptation. He’s slept with more women than the amount of years in his age.

Yet his hand twitches. They want to touch.

Earthly desires aside, he believes it’s you that infuriates him. You and your smart mouth, faster than a whip whenever you see that window. The way he’s learning the difference between your polite laughs and your real ones. How you’re the only person in a ten-mile radius who happily entertains his drinking habits.

Then there’s the duality of you. How you won’t leave him alone, then act like he doesn’t exist.

His hate stands on a razor’s edge, threatening to fall into something he’d rather not name.

It simmers quietly like a raging summer, low in his stomach, flaring with every flash of your bare legs as you walk around the house doing whatever it is heiresses do days before being named empress. One time he caught you in the living room, ice cream dripping down one wrist while the other scrolls on your laptop. Your gaze was laser-focused, scanning lines and the clauses between them.

He stayed long enough to see you lick at your own skin. Nearly broke a tooth, clenching his jaws that hard.

The worst part? He knows you know.

You’re far from a fool. Your furtive smiles show just as much.

So when he finds you long after sunset, lounging by the swimming pool with a baggy tee that barely covers the navy blue bikini underneath, he knows it’s a trap.

There’s a gravity that pulls him into orbit. His feet lack the wisdom, believing he’s contractually obliged to protect you, and that he needs to be close to do that.

His brain deems it a flimsy excuse.

He walks towards you anyway.

“Drink with me, Nolan?” you smile teasingly, beckoning him over to where you are at the chaise.

“For the last time, it’s Logan,” he grits.

Past the darkness of the night, illuminated only by the cool blue lights emanating from the pool, he gleans a slight flush dusting your face. On the low side table next to you is a glass, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of artisanal whiskey he hasn’t seen in any bar ever.

“You better not be drunk.”

“I’m not,” you sigh, laying back down while he takes a seat on the chair next to you. “Just tired.”

He knows why. Tomorrow’s the day. After finally suffering the crushing experience that is ‘getting through legal’, your father will issue a statement on the leadership transition in a televised press conference. About thirty media outlets will be there, though the actual amount of people in attendance will easily be double or triple that.

You’re expected to say more than a few words.

Tomorrow is also the day he stops working for you.

He takes the whiskey bottle in hand. There’s about half left.

“They won’t be nice,” he rumbles, uncapping it.

“You think I don’t know that?” you grunt, standing up unceremoniously. The water calls you.

You walk along the edge of the pool with your bare feet, kicking a bit of water with each step. “I’ve gone over the shareholder agreement a hundred times, memorized every single word in the NDA, stalked email threads from communications teams and press. I know what I’m going to say.”

He believes you. Doesn’t doubt you’ll be stellar, either.

“Meanwhile, Dad just sent me a link to a hotel in Central America with a shaka emoji,” you laugh, squatting just so your hand can dip into the pool.

It’s calming, the ripples, the coolness of it. A small escape from humidity and the reality of tomorrow.

Logan takes a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. It burns as it goes down, then tastes a little like fruit, before the warm sensation ebbs like it was never there. You have good taste in liquor—that much he’ll miss, among other things.

The thought sinks in. He stills.

And distracts himself with a question. “He won’t be around?”

“Leaving on a jet plane right after the conference.”

You watch as Logan stalks closer, rippling muscles in that open button-down and white tank. Maybe it’s the light coming from the pool, but he looks even better like this. Towering over you. Leering.

You smile. What would happen if you splashed him?

The intrusive thought wins. So that’s exactly what you do.

Water gets all over his face and chest like a rude awakening, droplets of it darkening his clothes. He shakes the water off the way a dog would, hair damp.

And just like that, you laugh, the first earnest one all week that has your head tilted back. The weight on your shoulders momentarily gone.

No high society to hide from. Just you and him. No tomorrow. Just right now.

“The fuck—”

You splash him again with a grin. It gets on his thighs.

“Brat, gonna pay for that…!”

Next thing you know, he’s lunging at you, and you squeal as you run away from him.

The only thing you can hear is the pitter-patter of water at your feet and the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. Somewhere in the back of your head, you remember doing this as a child, the butler begging you to stop on top of his lungs. Nobody’s scolding you this time.

Laughter rips itself out of your throat as you look back at his hot pursuit. He’s so close behind you, enough to just grab your arm and—

A patch of pool deck that’s way too wet. Your foot slips. The world spins, your thoughts blank. Then you collapse headfirst into the pool, shrieking, a loud splash following.

Logan stops, panting. “Serves you right, messing around like that—”

His eyes narrow.

The pool is still.

You’re still submerged.

Why are you still submerged?

You gasp up like your lungs are flooded. Your shoulders break the surface, chin jerked up, arms flailing. The waters are choppy around your body—there’s no rhythm, none of the practiced precision he’s so used to watching you wear, only heavy thrashes that look like desperation. Jagged outlines of your legs from above the water tell him you’re kicking, but judging by the way you’re barely breathing, it’s getting nowhere.

“Help…!”

Fuck. You can’t swim.

He rips his outer shirt off and launches.

Adamantium body slams into the water and for one second he thinks he’ll drown, too. The thought is expelled as soon as his foot touches the tiles beneath. He’ll be okay here. Well-lit and eight feet deep is better than the darkness of Mekong in the middle of war.

He finds you quickly, arms wrapped around your torso, then pushes upwards.

You cough as you surface, throat sputtering out chlorinated water. Your shirt sticks onto your torso the same way hair is plastered all over your face, wet against skin. He parts the drenched strands to see you, cupping your cheek as he keeps the both of you afloat.

“Hey, hey—you’re okay now, you’re alright—”

He narrows his eyes, aware of the feel of you in his grip.

You’re light.

You’re swimming.

And you’re laughing in his face.

Big grin, damp skin. Both your hands are on his shoulders, but you pull them away before he can react, diving back under like he didn’t just think you were drowning. You resurface five feet away with a siren smile and a drawn-out exhale.

“Can’t believe you thought I couldn’t swim,” you say, pushing your hair back.

He’s still stunned as you wade the waters to the pool’s edge, sitting yourself up. Hazel eyes watch your torso arch as you peel the soaked cotton that clings onto you, revealing inch upon inch of glistening skin. A forbidden expanse that he’s yet to witness, not even with the little amount of clothes you wear at home.

The shirt flops, waterlogged on travertine tiles. You’re in a two-piece swimsuit that looks much too easy to undo.

The pool is cool, but he feels it again—the heat in his stomach.

You swim to him, fluid as a mermaid, chin above the surface. You grew up in this mansion—how was he fooled?

As if making him worry isn’t enough, you chuckle. There’s something funny. Maybe it’s him: hair flat on his head thanks to the good-for-nothing rescue, glowering like a cat that got tricked into bath time. He pushes it back with one hand, annoyed, letting you see the heat in his eyes.

“Are you mad at me, Ronan?” you coo.

It’s aggravating, the games you play, but he’s not just mad. There’s another emotion in the way he looks at you.

He has a feeling you know—you always do.

“What do you think?” he barks.

There’s no bite in his words.

That’s all you need to strike. You smile up at him, coy in a way that spells trouble. Hands find his chest, fingers curling around the wet fabric of his tank top. To bring him close or to undress him, he can’t decide.

Your lips hover over his. There’s chlorine and promise in your breath. Hands travel up higher, palms flat on his pecs until they land on broad shoulders.

“I think, seeing as we’re already drenched… we might as well play for a little while.”

That’s all he needs to snap.

His large hands find the flesh of your hips, gripping them as he hoists you up and out of the water, making you squeal and laugh in the process. The sound twinkles in the air, echoing with a lightness that defies the weight of want charging around it.

He’s got you on the edge again before his body follows, breaking the surface. You’re under his shadow wearing a half-dazed, all knowing smile.

Then his mouth comes down to maul your neck and you moan.

Logan growls at the sound, lapping at the column of your throat like he’s trying to get rid of pool water from your skin. Biting like he hates you.

And you love it.

Fingers tangle in his plastered hair while a rush of blood down south makes you shiver and grin. You paw at his shirt. He gropes at your chest, parting from your neck only to take off his tank top before forcing his large hand underneath a bikini cup.

Your nipple’s already hard. He thumbs it with lustful spite.

Wordless vengeance for every time he observed the hint of your chest under baby tees and thin camisoles. Your giggle melts into a mewl at his relentlessness, pinching and tweaking while his mouth stays mean on your shoulder.

He pulls away, only to crash his lips to yours, and it feels like homecoming. Whimpers ravenously swallowed. Chest heaves into damp chest. Hands scramble like they need warm skin to survive—and of course he bites down hard on your bottom lip while you trace his sculpted torso.

With a stern tug, he unties the halter-neck ribbon of your bikini top. The fabric loosens.

He peels it above your chest… and leans down.

“Oh, fuck,” you sigh shakily, back arching to let more of his mouth on your tit. He glances up at you, eyes glassy, noting the absence of a teasing smile. Pleasure takes over your expression, brows knitted, lips swollen and parted.

The rumble in his chest sounds like approval.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, amazed at the sight of your bodyguard sucking on your nipple like a lover and a babe.

Generously greedy for you.

His other hand doesn’t stop working, tending to your other peak until he eventually switches. Your pants and sighs float in the open air, the sounds carried over by the light breeze that rustles through the trees and shrubs that surround the private estate.

Your reverie breaks. Two fingers press at your covered cunt. You let out a choked noise, head lolling to one side.

The sight must be unmistakably scandalous: two bodies drenched to the bone, yours curved into his mouth, letting him lave your chest.

You should be concerned over how exposed you are, but the zing of desire between your legs says otherwise.

“Fucking soaked already,” he grunts. “Been waiting for this, princess?”

You lay back down on travertine, faintly smiling as he pulls at the ribbon on your hip.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, watching the way he undresses you, “you have no idea…”

“Believe me, I have some,” he flings the bikini bottom away. “You and your damn schemes—”

You spread your legs to let him see you. All of you.

The rapture in his stare is well worth the wait.

His middle finger circles your pussy, almost marveling at the way you’re so wet for him. He coats his finger with your slick, then swipes up languidly to meet your clit, teasing it.

Your pretty hole chooses that moment to clench around nothing. His eyes flash.

“Jesus fuck—”

With one fluid motion, he sinks his finger in you, knuckle-deep. You’re so happy you start smiling and moaning at the same time.

Logan’s eyes stare the way they would in a crowded room, except this time he watches in a trance beyond habitual alertness. He leers at pebbled nipples, the sinful undulation of your hips, that blissed-out look at the way he stretches your walls.

Your eyes are closed, lips curled. Moaning like you’re not outdoors.

In and out, in and out.

He leans down again to suck on your breast, a hand gripping the flesh of it, feeding it to himself.

Then he adds another finger between your legs and you cry out, back hitting the stone deck. One of your hands grip the edge of the pool, the other in his hair, manicured nails gently dragging on his scalp. His reward is the climbing noises wrested out of you. That and your touch almost make him tremble.

“So fucking tight,” he growls against your skin.

It’s dizzying. Everything is. The way his fingers ruin you, scissoring, curling, hitting so deep that white spots start appearing behind closed eyelids. You encourage him with noises, sputtering things like ‘yes’ and ‘just like that’.

His thumb presses against your clit and you’re electrified.

You’re over the edge in an instant. Legs twitching, breath stuttering, mouth open in a delicious ‘O’. He doesn’t stop, still abusing your chest and cunt while you leak all over his fingers. You shake. He slows down.

Your breathing is wrecked as your lungs fight for air.

Air which you lose the moment he presses his fingers against your lips. The same ones that made you come.

“Taste yourself.”

You open your mouth and he presses his fingers on your tongue. The heady taste makes you moan around him, eagerly cleaning up, eyes boring into his. He smirks at the state of you: flushed and ruined, but not nearly enough to call it quits.

He takes his fingers out. Lips meet yours.

The kiss is open. Demanding. A hand sternly cups your cheek, not letting you move. His tongue swirls, and he moans into your mouth like your cum tastes better this way.

“Wanna taste you too,” you breathe when you part.

Just like that, he’s on his knees above you, busy shoving his jeans and boxers until they’re pushed down enough to reveal the raging arousal that is him. His cock looks angry, red with prominent veins all over. A hand slaps it against your cheek. You almost laugh.

Then he presses it right by your lips, another hand coaxing your mouth to open, thumb on your chin.

God, you can smell him. It’s making you wet again.

If it weren’t here and now, you would’ve teased him mercilessly—kitten licks and kisses, a word or two about how eager he is for you.

But you’re too hungry to play.

You take the entire tip in your mouth, reveling in the broken groan that rips out of him.

Then you lean forward. Deeper, more, until his cock kisses the back of your throat. Fuck, he’s so big, it almost makes you want to cry. You feel heat behind your eyes and a tingle down your pussy—already thinking about the way it’ll fit.

Or maybe it won’t. That turns you on even more.

“This fucking mouth,” he rasps, watching you suck him like you’re starving. Your hand wraps at the base of him and his back bows.

“Christ—”

He only allows you a few more bobs up and down his length before abruptly dislodging from your mouth. You whine at the loss of his weight on your tongue, but there’s no time for the loneliness to settle, because he grips your waist and pulls you up.

He sits, legs open over the pool deck. Your knees bracket his thighs but you’re not quite on his lap—his hands make sure you’re hovering on top of him, core open and dripping above his waiting cock. Your breath becomes shallow with anticipation, trying to ground yourself through your palms on his chest.

His heart is beating so fast.

Then, as you close your eyes to slide down to him, you realize you can’t. His hands don’t give.

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, looking at you. “You don’t get to. Not without asking nicely.”

He’s so close, the tip of his cock nearly kissing your folds. It’s just this side of aching, the way your cunt begs to be filled. Dripping. Waiting.

Desire floods your system. You’re almost dumb with it, but it hasn’t rendered you speechless. Not yet.

Pressing your forehead against his, you make sure he can taste every syllable you whisper against his cheek. Your voice is husky with want. Reedy with hunger.

“Please,” you breathe, “want you to fuck me with your cock. Wanna scream for you.”

There’s a swell in your chest that resembles pride when his exhale turns choppy after you speak. You stay still even as his hold grows lax, waiting while one of his hands rid you of the bikini top that no longer serves any purpose. That same hand travels, groping the flesh of your breast, snaking up…

…until they’re around your throat. Not squeezing. Just there. Big, strong. A show of control, in case you misbehave.

He murmurs out an order.

“Say my name.”

The sight of you smiling like you’re in heaven nearly decimates his crumbling self-control.

“The right one, princess.”

You slant, lips over his ear.

“Please fuck me, Logan.”

The shape of your voice around his name—one that you’ve annoyingly avoided for so long—makes his blood sing. Before he knows it, the hand on your throat moves to your hair, tugging you away from his ear, tilting your head back. You let out a weak laugh.

“You’re no princess. You’re a slut,” he rasps.

“Only for you,” you grin.

“Then beg like one.”

You don’t spare a beat of silence.

“Fuck me on your big cock, Logan. Make me stupid with it. Wanna come all over it.”

The words are emphasized with the impatient roll of your hips. He doesn’t relent, still unmoving, but you can tell he’s brittle. Nostrils flared. Eyes pinned on yours like he’s going to eat you alive in a few seconds.

Just a little push…

“I’ll scream your name for you. Let the whole house hear. Let everyone know who’s fucking their little miss.”

That does it.

He releases your hair. Both hands grip your hips and he drives his entire length up in one squelching thrust.

You almost scream.

“There. That’s the cock you wanted so bad,” he grunts. “So tight. So wet. Wanted it for so long, hm?”

“Y-Yes—”

Fuck, your voice is breaking.

“Then take it.”

He’s strong, you know this. Seen him carry your suitcase as if it were a shopping bag. You just don’t know he’s this strong. Logan uses his hands to slowly pull your entire body up like you’re weightless. You feel every ridge of him as his cock drags, every pulse of him rippling throughout your body.

And on the downstroke, he pummels, slamming you on top of him.

You moan loudly. You feel him in your stomach.

Hips slap up, driving his cock into you with a pace so punishing you feel tears forming in your eyes. It’s so hard, so fast, so deep. The slick sounds intoxicate you, sending you further down a spiraling abyss you’re not sure you can get out of—because why would you want to?

You sob. There’s nothing left but the incorrigible murmurs that escape your lips like streams. Your knees feel raw. You can’t care less.

“Look at that. Pussy’s fuckin’ leaking. You like it rough?” he pants.

You hiss ‘yes’ over and over again, lips open.

“Tell me,” he growls, watching your breasts bounce.

“I like it rou—hng—!!”

“Whose cock is fucking you dumb, princess?”

“Yours,” you cry. There’s drool out the side of your mouth. You don’t care.

He shifts, strengthening the grip on his feet to piston into you, and the slight change in his angle is maddening. You nearly give out above him, hands clamoring onto his shoulders as he grins up at you, all teeth and taunt.

He fucks into you again and you cry out, the noise keening and unmistakably lewd.

“You’re close,” he husks, watching you with darkened eyes. “Can feel you clenching me.”

“Yes—”

“Gonna come on this cock, pretty? Wanna show me how good you feel?”

“Please…!”

“Fucking beg for it, then.”

“Please, Logan, let me come on your cock, want it so bad, please, please—”

His voice is in your ear, gritted through teeth.

“Scream my name like you said you would.”

Then he flicks your clit and you do as he says, throwing your head back with a loud “fuck—Logan!”, thighs spasming, goosebumps all over your skin. It’s even more intense than the first, making your limbs shake and your vision blur.

He doesn’t stop, groaning while pounding into your fluttering cunt. Your release triggers his, and within three hard thrusts, you’re fully seated on his lap as he shoots his cum in you. Your moans mingle with his, chin nearly glued to your collarbone the way you look down at the sight.

It’s dirty.

There’s a mess where your bodies meet, the curls at the base of his cock sticking together with wetness. A creamy ring froths like debauched proof of your shared pleasure. He’s still coming, his mouth pressed tight on your neck while he twitches inside you.

You’ve never felt so full.

Suddenly, gravity disappears. He’s lifting you up to sit on his thigh, slowly this time. You shiver from the loss of him, but air quickly fills up your lungs—it’s so much easier to breathe.

The both of you groan in unison as thick milky driblets leak from your cunt, pooling on his skin.

Without thinking, you swipe his spend with your fingers and bring them to your mouth, tongue swirling for a taste. Cheeks flushed. Eyes on him.

The way his cock twitches alive is all too obvious.

You lick your lips, slowly pushing him down, his spine slowly bending to meet stone. You’re not far behind, leaning over him, lips dangerously close to his. He grits his teeth at the way your pussy settles on his abs, smearing his cum and yours.

“You know,” you pant, hands splayed on his chest, “I’m becoming CEO tomorrow and a spot for security just opened up.”

“What’s the pay like?” his voice is hoarse. You recognize the leftover desire in them, and it sounds like there’s still plenty.

“About the same as yours now,” you purr.

His hands find your ass, firmly squeezing. You smile.

You’d met Logan at a considerably low point in his life. He was already old, hair and beard gone gray, his mutation unable to fight against the adamantium poisoning his body. He was tired and angry and sick, just about given up on life, when you found him. By accident, really. Nothing more than a friend’s bachelorette party. He was supposed to drive you to the party, then back to your friend’s place. Somehow, you ended up spending the night in the back of the limo, under him and on top of him and then on all fours in front of him.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, seeing how he was an older man and you were considerably younger than him. The age gap was noticeable and controversial. Neither of you cared, though.

You hadn’t even known who he was. It was only after, when you sought him out and finally managed to convince him to pursue what you two had and see where it led, that he let you in on who he really was.

A mutant, the Wolverine, legend and hero you’d grown up hearing about. You thought you were just another girl in your twenties about to date a regular old man. Instead, you ended up dating a hero who was over two-hundred years old. Still, you never minded.

Under the anger and the pain and the exhaustion, Logan was just a man with a broken, sensitive heart who was scared of getting hurt. He was wounded and he was aching for love. And you slowly brought his walls down, offered him the care and patience and love he never thought he’d have.

He did the same for you. He cared for you like no one else ever had, he protected you and loved you with every cell in his body. He kept you like one would a diamond, closely and jealously, fiercely guarded. If anyone got too close to you, they didn’t survive to tell the story.

When you lost Logan, you’d been devastated. Nothing made sense, the world was void of all meaning. You had no choice but to move on. You would’ve probably tried to go with him, follow him wherever he went, even death, if not for Wade. In a way, he saved you.

After Logan’s death, you went back to New York, unable to follow the young mutants to Canada because Laura reminded you too much of Logan. You just wouldn’t be able to live with the pain. And back in the city, you met Wade. Unintentionally, but definitely destined to do so.

For lack of better options, you ended up sharing an apartment with him and Blind Al, and with their company—odd as it was—you ended up finding meaning to your life again.

The wound—the abyss that Logan left in your heart never healed, never lessened. It still ached. There were still days you would lie in bed, from sunrise to sunset, thinking about him, missing him, considered following him…But you pushed forward, somehow kept finding reasons to stick around. And time went by like that.

You’d gotten used to Wade disappearing for days or weeks, never caring much because he always turned up one day or another.

Which is why, as you lie in bed after a few days of not seeing him, you’re not surprised to hear the apartment door open, followed by his voice.

You shake your head, hop off your bed, and go to find him, ready to ask him where he’s been so you can hear all about his adventures, when you see the man standing beside him.

You freeze. Legs stop moving, mind stops thinking, lungs stop breathing, heart stops beating. You stand there, mouth agape, eyes trailing over the man with Wade.

Logan.

He looks younger, stronger, somehow angrier. He’s wearing a hoodie and some sort of yellow pants. He’s all dirty and uncombed, covered in blood that doesn’t seem to be his.

You stand there, frozen, and he doesn’t move either.

Logan. Logan. Logan.

Your mind can’t form anything beyond that.

My Logan…

In his world, Logan had met you near the end of the X-Men’s existence. You weren’t a mutant, only a sweet, smart girl who was friends with some of the older students. A girl he should’ve stayed away from. But he just couldn’t. God, he couldn’t. He tried to resist you, time and time again, and it never worked.

He found you alone at the library in the X Mansion one day, waiting for your friends. His curiosity got the better of him. Talking turned into flirting turned into you sprawled on his bed, naked and at his mercy. And he knew then, he’d never be able to let you go.

The time he’d had to love you had been far from enough. He’d gone to a bar to drink, after a stupid argument with you, and you’d stayed with the X-Men as you cooled off. By the time he stumbled back, shitfaced and needing to apologize to you, the humans had come. It was too late. He found your body piled along with the mutants’. He cried for the first time in a long time. He cried for hours, bitter and broken and alone. Lost without you. And then he’d gone on to kill just about everyone he ran into.

And now he’s standing here, with Wade and that stupid fucking dog in this different reality where people seem to like him for some odd reason, and you’re there. You’re standing in front of him, alive, almost exactly how he remembered you, beautiful as ever.

And he stands there like a fucking idiot for one, two, three seconds before he reaches for you, whispering your name.

He’s forgotten about Wade’s presence, forgotten about where he is or why. His focus is entirely on you. You, the love of his life.

His hands find yours and reel you in, and you go willingly. You can’t look away from his face, can’t react. His touch is familiar, a sensation you’ve missed dearly, a feeling you’d forgotten. It’s home, the home you were stolen out of. The home you’ve been needing, yearning, aching for.

He stares down at you, his eyes flickering over your face like he’s making sure it’s you, like he’s making sure this is real and not a dream.

And then Wade speaks. “You two know each other?” he asks.

You realize, No. We don’t.

You pull away at the same moment Logan lets go of you. You take a step back as if burned by him, but you can’t look away.

“N-no,” you reply, blinking, eyes glancing at Wade before finding Logan again. “No. I just—”

“She looks like someone I used to know,” Logan finishes.

You nod. “He…Yeah. Someone I used to know.” Used to love. Used to need. Used to have.

Wade glances between the two of you. “Geez. The sexual tension is killing me. It’s either that, or you two are about to rip your throats out. In which case, I should warn you, if you get blood on Al’s cocaine, she’s gonna be pissed.”

His stupid comment doesn’t register with you. You’re busy staring at Logan, even as he shoots Wade a glare.

“It’s gonna be your blood on the walls if you keep talkin’, bub,” he grumbles, his expression softening when he glances at you again.

“Oh, my God. Pump the hate breaks, I was making a joke to lighten the obvious awkwardness. This guy…” Wade then walks further into the apartment, talking to you, saying this or that about some paradox and a void and a dog…

But you can’t focus, can’t hear him. Logan is standing here, in front of you. And it’s…unsettling. Unsettling and amazing and revitalizing.

After staring at each other for a long while, you and Logan break apart. He follows Wade's tour of the apartment and you retreat into your bedroom with your jumbled thoughts.

In the days that follow, you feel alive again. The sun seems to shine brighter, it’s easier to get out of bed, your smile comes more willingly.

And you know it’s because of him.

One day, when Wade goes with Blind Al (to get more coke, probably) and takes Mary Puppins along, you’re about to go into the living room and watch TV—as you often do when left alone—only to find Logan is already there.

“Oh. Hi. Sorry,” you say, heart fluttering, stomach filled with butterflies. “I…I didn’t know anyone else was home.”

“What’re you apologizin’ for?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong, hon.”

Your heart squeezes itself at the nickname. He used to always call you that. Hon, sweetheart, sugar—a sweet nickname for my sweet girl, he told you once.

“Right. I just…I don’t know. I was just surprised to see you here, is all.”

He nods in understanding. “Me too,” he admits quietly. “I never thought—” He stops abruptly, seems to rethink his words. “Well, it don’t matter now. Technically, you’re not her.”

It hurts to hear him say it, even though you know he’s right, even though you know it’s true. “Yeah. I guess you’re not really him either,” you say as you walk a little closer and plop down next to him on the couch. “It’s still a little weird.”

He huffs. “Weird ain’t the word to describe it.”

“It’s between relief and pain,” you murmur after a pause, glancing away from him when you feel tears in your eyes. “Feels like you’re—Like he’s here, but then I remember he’s actually not.”

He nods. “Like I found what I lost but didn’t really.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

There’s a long moment of silence before he speaks up. “Well, Wade told me how your Logan died. It sounded pretty brutal, I’m sorry.” He leaves out Wade’s exact wording because chest-fucked by a tree doesn’t feel like something to say to a grieving girl.

You tear up, lower lip quivering. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking.

His heart breaks when he sees you’re going to cry. Almost instinctively, Logan’s hand finds yours and he rubs your knuckles with his thumb before he can think it through. “Hey, it’s okay. I—” He cuts himself off. I’m right here is on the tip of his tongue. But he’s not. Not really, is he? He’s someone else, so are you. Just because you’re like her doesn’t mean one can replace the other…

You sniffle, eyes on your lap. Logan wants to grab you gently, kiss the corner of your mouth, kiss your tears away, hold you until you’ve cried it all out. He doesn’t think you’d be okay with that. He’s not your Logan, he’s a very different man. No matter how much he looks like yours.

So he focuses his gaze on your knuckles, the way his thumb traces over the familiar skin. He focuses on his senses. You smell like her. Although the perfume you’re wearing is different, your essence is just like hers. Your heart beats identically too. And when you look up at him with those beautiful eyes, wide and big, eyelashes wet with tears, he’s almost convinced you are her.

“What happened to…to her?” you whisper, and Logan grimaces.

“Nah, that ain’t somethin’ you wanna hear.” He shakes his head, a knot forming in his throat just at the thought. “It ain’t somethin’ you need t’know, sugar. Ain’t gonna do you any good.”

You accept it quietly, silently, like the good girl you’ve always been. You just sit there beside him, letting his thumb trace your knuckles, your breaths and heartbeat filling the silence he’s become so accustomed to.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” you say gently, eyes finding his again.

“Me too,” he replies, voice low. “She was the best damn thing to have ever happened to a bastard like me. Should’ve left her well alone, the people I love always get hurt.” He shakes his head, self-deprecating. “She would still be fine and happy if I hadn’t gone and loved her.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t happier before my Logan,” you tell him. “I loved him with everything I had. He was the best thing that ever happened to me, even with all that baggage he always claimed he was dragging around. He was the best thing in my life.”

Logan’s eyes are shiny with tears, and he’s trying to hold them back. “My girl was the best thing in the world for me too. I hope she felt for me like you did for your Logan.”

You nod, tears flowing freely down your pretty cheeks now. “I know she did,” you whisper.

Logan stifles a sob as a tear rolls down his face. He should be embarrassed about crying in front of a stranger, but you feel so familiar, so like her…It’s like he’s back home after being lost for too long.

“Oh, baby,” you say quietly, grabbing his face in your hands. “Shh, you’re alright,” you coo, gently wiping his tears away. “Oh. Don’t cry, don’t make that face, you’re breaking my heart.” Your voice cracks.

He can feel his tears falling and falling and falling with absolutely no intention of stopping soon. But he’s not crying out of grief anymore, not crying because he misses his girl. He’s crying because your touch feels like home, familiar and safe and loving. All the love he hasn’t had in so long, you’re offering it to him freely and it’s breaking him apart.

He leans closer, melting into your touch, and you press your forehead against his like you always used to do. “I know I’m not her,” you whisper, “I know I’m not her. But just…just maybe, for now, we can pretend…”

He gently nuzzles his nose against yours. “If you’re okay with pretending I’m not the fucking bastard I really am, I can be him,” he replies.

You hold his gaze for a second. “You’ve always been a good man, no matter how much of a bastard you think you are.”

Logan gives you a soft, sad smile. “No, honey, I ain’t. I’m a bad man.”

You shrug minutely. “I loved you regardless,” you whisper.

And then he kisses you. Softly, a brush of his lips against yours only to feel his heart race, only to hear your breath hitch, only to try and fill the void you left behind.

He cups your face in his hand as he pulls back to meet your gaze, your eyes still wet with tears, lips parted slightly, and then he’s leaning in for a proper kiss.

He kisses you hard, messy, desperate. He needs to feel you, needs to make sure this isn’t a dream.

How the fuck did he get lucky enough for Wade—the idiot that he is—to bring him back here? To bring him to a world where you still exist, where you could be his again? What lucky stars favored him and gave him a second chance? What deity forgave the horrors he’s done and blessed him with you?

He’ll never understand it. But he’ll never, ever complain.

You kiss him back, matching his fervor, and Logan’s mind is too far gone. His heart feels like it’s growing, full of hope and love, and it’ll pop in his ribs any time soon.

It’s been too long since he’s felt you, since he’s smelled you, since he’s loved you. All the nights spent together, all the dates, all the kisses and the sex and the feeling of his naked body tangled with yours come rushing back.

And you’re not her. He makes the effort to remind himself that you’re not really what he lost. But you’re just too close to being her, you feel too familiar, and he’s been alone for too fucking long.

His body is heating up, and he needs you closer, needs you more, needs you now.

He pulls you onto his lap, his mouth finding your jaw, moving to your neck before traveling up to your ear. “Please,” he rasps, voice low and thick in your ear. “Baby, please, I need you. I need to be with you, need to be in you. Please, give me this.”

He can hear your heart racing, can smell your arousal gathering between your thighs. You nod. You were always so eager and willing to give yourself to him. “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

He picks you up, carries you over to your bedroom. He kicks the door shut after himself and sets you down on the bed gently before climbing over you.

He’s missed this sensation, the feeling of you under him, the knowledge that he’s got you, that you’re his in body, mind, and soul. All his.

My girl. My love.

He nips at your neck as one of his hands goes to pull your shorts off. The scent of your arousal grows thicker in the atmosphere, and Logan’s cock is already getting hard, eager to be where it belongs: deep in you.

Your panties are soaked, Logan finds, as his hand traces between your thighs. You gasp softly, spreading your legs more, inviting him farther. He chuckles lowly, burying his face into your neck to kiss and lick and leave hickeys there as he pulls your panties off.

His thick fingers, calloused and warm, spread your folds, making you shiver as the cool air hits your naked cunt. This thumb runs up and down your slit before finding your clit and pressing down there.

Logan groans when you whine and push your hips against his hand. He’d almost forgotten how gorgeous you looked and how sweet you sounded when he touched you. His thumb finds that rhythm you like so much, as he holds it steady, wanting to give you as much pleasure as possible.

He keeps his eyes on your face, every expression already etched into his memory, every sound locked deep in his heart. It’s familiar but somehow new; he’s exploring territory he once knew by heart but somehow forgot. He’s relearning it all, in a way, while also, technically, learning you.

He makes the effort to remind himself that you’re not really what he lost. But he’s been alone for too fucking long and you’re just too close to being her—you feel too familiar.

It’s too close a call and the line has already begun to blur.

He slides a finger into you, curling it up and finding that sweet, spongy spot in you that has your legs quaking.

“Yeah, I know you like it like that,” he says lowly as he leans down, busying his mouth on your neck. He kisses down, to your collarbone, before moving lower, mouth tracing over your tits through your shirt, down your stomach, and then over your womb.

He pauses there a moment, a pain blooming in his heart and tainting the moment blue.

“I wanna give you babies someday,” you’d told him once. Safely tucked in his bed at the X mansion, you’d admitted, “Wanna be the mother of your children.”

And Logan’s heart felt like it had stopped. He’d been hesitant at first, not really convinced he could be father material. But then time went by until eventually, he felt settled and safe enough for it. You two just never got around to actually trying. He’d lost you too soon.

He shakes the memory off, trying to focus, and kisses over your womb gently. He doesn’t even notice the tears spilling down his face until you sit up a little, eyes on him, hand grabbing his wrist to stop him from touching you.

He withdraws his hand, glances away from you even as you reach to grab his face gently.

“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly, a crease forming between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just…memories, is all.”

Your gaze softens with comprehension, but you don’t back down. “Memories about what?” Your voice is quiet, reverent, understanding and feeling the pain that you’re asking him to confess to.

Without looking at you, Logan replies, “You—She’d asked me for babies. She wanted to have babies with me, and I said no for a long time. But I ended up realizing I did want them. We just never got the time to try.”

You’re quiet a long time. When he glances at you, he sees your gaze is clouded and far away, lost in your own world.

“Sugar?” he prompts.

You remember having that conversation with your Logan, lying in bed, curled up against him. You remember the pain in his eyes, that look that said he felt he couldn’t offer you all you wanted.

“I wanted babies too,” you murmur, still caught in that memory that hurts you. “I wanted his babies. He always said he was too old, too broken for kids. He never wanted them. But I think he just felt unworthy of having a family. Charles told Logan he still had time, but Lo just never…” You trail off, shake your head. “I think he was coming around to it after finding out Laura was his. I think he realized he was capable and deserving of it. But they took him away from me before any of that could happen,” you say, voice trembling, lip quivering. “I didn’t get enough time with him.”

Logan nods. “I didn’t get enough with her, either.”

And somehow, the shared pain and the understanding adds fuel to the desperate, aching desire between you.

Logan prowls over you, his body covering yours before he kisses you hard, demanding, reminding you that you’re his—if only for now.

You gladly give in, meeting his lips, aiding him in pushing his pants off and spreading your legs more.

Logan’s hips press down on yours, his hard cock resting against your cunt, making you both shiver. When he pulls away from the kiss and meets your gaze, his eyes are wild and dark with lust. He looks every bit the animal people always thought him to be, but you know that the beautiful man you love is under that primal surface.

You caress his jaw gently, fingers running over his beard as his hands squeeze and knead at the flesh of your thighs, your hips, your waist. He’s touching you like he needs to be sure you’re here, like he needs to be sure he’s not only dreaming of you again.

He grinds his hips against yours, his cock slotting between your folds, gathering your slick. The bulbous head, leaking precum, nudges against your clit until you’re whining and shaking, hands holding onto his arms, nails digging into the skin there.

You reach down, grabbing his cock, leading it to your entrance. You meet his gaze, a silent plea that says you’re ready and eager for him to fill you.

But he pauses, hesitates.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, holding his gaze, the lust in your eyes subsiding when you see the seriousness in his.

“I just…I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears filling his eyes again. He buries his face into your neck. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” you ask quietly, voice breathless.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you that day. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everyday how much you meant to me. I’m sorry I was always a cold bastard, always trying to pull away from you. I’m sorry.”

And you’re not her. You’re well aware of that. But the words come from your heart, knowing not only that he needs to hear them, but also that she forgives him. “It’s okay, Logan. It’s alright, you don’t have to carry that burden forever. I forgive you. I always have,” you say gently.

And he breaks down, his shoulders shaking and heaving with every hard sob that wracks through his body. You hold him close, let him cry, gently caress the back of his neck to remind him you’re here for him. And you’re not going anywhere any time soon.

He rests there, his head on your shoulder, his face hidden in your neck for a long while. The weight of the pain he’s been carrying all these years is easing, the fear of spending the rest of his life alone is fading. And for the first time in too long, Logan feels calm. Not happy, not sad, not angry. Just at peace, like the world has paused to give him a moment to breathe. And he’s not enough of an idiot to let the chance go.

When his tears subside, he kisses up your neck and to your jaw, his hands sliding to your hips. “You okay to keep goin’, sweetheart?” he asks lowly, voice raspy from the crying and from his lust.

Even so, he’s still hard, body still thrumming with desire, and he can smell your arousal, still strong.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say in a soft whisper. “I want you.”

He loves the way you say it, somewhere between a demand and a plea, the kind of tone one would use in prayer. You make everything sacred—love, lust, sex, loss. Something about you is sacred to him. Maybe because you made him a better man. You shaped his world, turned it upside down and made it something better than it was. It was paradise with you, and it became hell when you left. He wouldn’t know how to exist if he lost you again.

He kisses you softly, his eyes shut tight, and then he slowly pushes into you.

You gasp and Logan’s body shudders. It’s familiar, a sensation he’s missed dearly and thought he’d never, ever experience again. It’s home, the way his body slots against yours, the way you feel perfect underneath him, the way you stretch to fit him.

You two were made for each other, that much he knows. Regardless of where or when, what universe you’re in or what version you each are, you were made for him as much as he was made for you.

He starts out slow. Deep, languid thrusts, just dragging his cock in and out of you, feeling you.

You gasp, burying your face into his neck, moaning quietly.

He holds your hip softly, steadying your body as he thrusts. He feels you around him, feels his heart melt as his body falls into the familiar rhythm that he knows you enjoy.

He kisses the side of your head, his voice raspy and quiet as he murmurs, “Just like that, baby. Just lemme take care ‘f you, you know it’s what I was made for.”

His hand slides from your hip to your leg, making you bend your knee and pushes it up to your chest. He thrusts deeper, a little harder, his cock filling you up perfectly.

You squeal at the change, nails scratching at his shoulders, and he chuckles. “Mhm. Still got it, don’t I?” he teases into your ear, nibbling his way down your jaw, then moves his mouth over to your lips.

He kisses you desperately, heatedly, grunting now as he fucks you deeper. You squeak and moan, pussy tightening around him, and Logan’s cock twitches.

“Fuck. Sugar, ease up a little before I come in you. We can’t have that, can we?”

“Why not?” you ask breathlessly, nails dragging down the length of his back, leaving marks in their wake.

He chuckles softly. “Sweetheart, you know it’s not the stork that brings the babies, yeah? I could get you pregnant.”

Your breath audibly hitches and your cunt tightens around him. “Oh,” you squeak, and Logan’s eyebrows raise.

He pauses his thrusts and glances down at you. His breathing is heavy, eyes wide and dark with lust. “You like that idea?” he asks.

You blink up at him, cheeks flushing. “Y-yeah. I just…Is that weird?”

He gives you a sideways smirk. “Not weird at all. It’s very, very far from weird, sweetheart.” He leans down and places a kiss to the tip of your nose. He starts thrusting again, picking up that hard, fast pace again.

You squeal, eyes fluttering shut, and Logan’s eyes watch your beautiful face.

“You really want a baby, don’t you, honey?” he murmurs. “You want my baby.”

You whine, nails scratching at his shoulder blades. And Logan takes that as a yes.

“Mhm, thought as much. You want me t’fill up your pretty pussy with my cum, hm? Fill you up, make you keep it in there until you get my baby.”

You mewl and throw your head back, hips pushing against his desperately. “Please!”

“Please, what? Say it for me,” he says, kissing up the column of your neck.

“Please, give me your baby.”

And it breaks him. Logan fucks you twice as hard, twice as deep. The bed creaks, the headboard slamming against the wall, and Logan is too close.

He reaches down, rubs your clit how he knows you like, messy and quick, and your orgasm builds until it crashes over you. You come hard, body trembling, and your back arches. Your body quivers, eyes rolling back as your pussy clenches his cock too tight for him to move.

Which is fine, anyway, because he comes right after you. His orgasm is strong, and it wracks his entire body. His arms shake and he grunts, making a considerable effort to keep his claws retracted because he can feel his control over his own body slipping. And the lack of sex he’s had these last years don’t help at all. He comes so much, rope after rope of thick, sticky cum filling you, his cock twitching as his load spills into you.

When he’s finally spent, he collapses on top of you, unable to hold himself up. You two stay like that a while, curled up together and entangled. Slowly, Logan rolls off you, spooning you, but doesn’t pull out.

“Need to keep my cum in you, honey. Keep it all in there so it takes,” he whispers into your ear, kissing your temple.

You hum softly, weak and content, eyes fluttering shut as you begin to fall asleep.

There’s a long silence, and then he speaks up. “I know I’m not him,” he whispers, “and I know you’re not her. But we’re just different versions of the other, aren’t we? If we try, we can make this work. If-if you want to,” he adds quickly.

You glance at him, and something about the calmness and certainty in your eyes settles his nerves. “I want to.” You nod. “I always want you.”

He lets out a small sigh, the tension in him easing away, and kisses you. “Good. Because I always want you too.”

---

Taglist

@nerrivm @rosiahills22 @d3vils-adv0c8 @thychuvaluswife @18lkpeters @daddy333 @e-nonsense @ch3rryblossms @ayamenimthiriel @thesecretlifeofmo @simming4sims @raideaters-blog @1cam8 @angelicbbsblog @giuliahowlett @lemonsquaredd @meadow-field @secretpandaconnoisseur @givenoutlaw @wunder-blunder @aredheadednerd @fictionalmen-dilflover @insanesociopath @m1cky-y-y @fictional-hooman @ion-even-know @znerac @steviebbboi @insanesosciopath @reidsworld @arrozconpepitoria @meadow-field @sir-thisisadndserver @wolviesgirl @rooroen @tezooks @nervousmumbling @sowhatariyana @mikyapixie @breezeybre @andmuzzlethat @takeyour-pants-off @manifester3 @ddwnghead @sacred-timeline @wolvndmouth @i-wanabe-yours

*if you wanna be added to my Logan taglist, lmk 💛

---

Like right now. You’re a panting mess, sweat making hair stick to the sides of your face, your lips glossy with that beautiful swollen shade of red he likes—proof that he’s kissed you silly. You lost your clothes while he made you lose your mind with his mouth, and that was not too long ago.

Ruined. That’s how you look. He loves it.

Hasn’t even put his cock in yet and you’re already gone. Came twice. He didn’t give them to you easy. Made you beg and say all sorts of dirty things (“Tell me this pussy belongs to me, honey,” he commands with two fingers curling deep), and even then he didn’t let you succumb fast. You had to earn it by being a good girl for him.

Yeah, he is in some kind of mood tonight. One that yearns to make things last longer, especially torment.

Not that you’re complaining.

When he finally stretches your cunt with his cock, your jaw goes slack, eyes glazing over. God, he’s so big, it feels like the first time you had him all over again. He watches closely, hot breath fanning the side of your face as eyes flicker down to where you’re joined.

His favorite view.

“Feels good, huh?” he taunts through gritted teeth, finally bottoming out and feeling you squirm with pleasure beneath him. “You’re drenched, pretty girl, takin’ big cock so good.”

“L-Logan—”

It doesn’t take long till he thrusts. The movement is shallow, pulling back only halfway before driving his hips into yours, but it’s enough to make you cry out. Your blood sings, nerves alight, and he sees you phase in and out of invisibility, appearing and disappearing a few times in a second like a short-circuiting light.

He laughs breathlessly. Even when he can’t see you, he can feel your tight hole clenching around him.

But that won’t do.

A hand flies to your unseen face, fingers squishing your cheeks. You reappear. The look you wear is delicious—drool escaping the side of your lips, a bead of sweat dripping down your brow, hypnotized eyes...

Heat burns under his skin.

Yes. This is what he likes to see. A true feast for his eyes.

“Focus, sugar,” he purrs, fucking into you again, his hand still forcing you to look up right at him. Your eyes clench shut at the friction of his veiny cock against gummy walls, a wet sound lewdly ringing in your ear. Shit, he feels so good—

You phase out again. Logan huffs. It looks like he’s humping air like this, except for the fact that his dick is clearly sunk into something—the best thing he’s ever had.

Slowly, he pulls out of you, and you sob at the emptiness while your bare body flickers back into sight.

“Don’t fuckin’ hide,” he growls, the hand on your face trailing down to your neck, gripping there. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you the power he has over you.

A languid smirk enters his face.

“If you disappear, I ain’t movin’.”

You whine, a wordless protest—it’s not that you’re doing it intentionally.

“Wanna see this perfect body when I fuck you,” he breathes, hips thrusting into you again, harder this time. You let out a throaty groan, but manage to control your powers to remain visible.

“Turn you into a cock-drunk slut,” he rasps between thrusts. He brushes against a deep spot in you that sends sparks flying in your veins, and you disappear for a split second.

Mercilessly, he takes his cock out all the way, and you feel tears forming in your eyes. The words escape you, airy and rushed.

“Please I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—”

The chuckle that escapes him is dark and threatening, but the way your stomach churns signals something other than fear. Excitement.