#{natalia}

After about twenty seconds, the pain settled, and you felt strong enough to huff. “Jesus Christ.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just sick of this shit. If I’m lucky I’ll get uterine cancer or ovarian cancer and they’ll have to give me a hysterectomy.”

“Stop,” Logan said.

You rolled your eyes and slouched a little deeper into the sofa. God forbid you wished for a potentially fatal disease to cure a problem that would disappear in a few days and leave you alone for the following three weeks.

Any Saturday plans went down the toilet when the first round of cramps struck you before you even got out of bed. Visions of getting dolled up to get drunk disappeared almost instantly – a little prematurely, because there was no telling how you’d feel by the time ten at night rolled around. Still lazy, if the way you clung to Logan was any indication. All that lethargy even led you to beg him for a piggy back ride to the kitchen.

“Too old for this shit,” he grumbled, hitching you up higher on his back.

"You can put me down if you want." You kissed his ear.

He dismissed you with a grunt.

Breakfast, coffee, and a warm shower amounted to nothing but a late morning on the couch watching television and scrolling endlessly. Cursing God for making you a woman.

“You want that heating pad?” he asked.

“No… But will you hold me?” You batted your lashes. As if you even needed to ask.

There was a tiny curl to the corner of his lips. “Come here, kid.”

You grinned, and one of his arms encircled you as you slid into his lap. Face in the crook of his neck, you took a deep breath in, split your thighs apart to settle atop one of his. It was firm beneath you, pleasant and comfortable, and you put a hand on his stomach just because you could.

The tips of his fingers brushed over your ear as he combed your hair back, drifting down the back of your neck and to your spine until he finally settled on your hip. Warm goosebumps rose from your skin.

Independent as you were, you were beginning to learn that it was nice to have someone to take care of you. Not reliant on him, but accepted the comforts he wanted to provide. You were similar in that way. Lone wolf Logan Howlett didn’t need a young woman to tend to him, absolutely not. He spent centuries on his own; it was his default. Tried his hardest to reject it, yet there you sat. His gardener on his worst days, the ones with constant fits and audible creaks. You helped him sprout anew – and loved every moment of it.

You kissed the hinge of his jaw gently. There was no better cure for a bad day than him. His big body beneath you or above you or beside you, a strong arm around you, a deep voice mumbling away because you wanted to hear him speak. But even his silences proved his devotion. It radiated from him even when he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. You never thought you’d meet somebody more stubborn than you, but everything about him stoked your disbelief.

One of the most notorious X-Men cradled you through your period cramps. You’d turned the Wolverine to rose-colored mush.

You leaned further into him, that man you adored endlessly, and braced for another violent convulsion. As your insides squeezed and pinched, you fidgeted in a mindless search for relief.

One small shift was all it took. A familiar coil in your belly, everything aligning perfectly for a nanosecond of divinity. The thickness of his thigh, the placement of the stupid pad in your underwear, the angle of your body. Warmth spread across it, blooming from depths that were always eager during that one week of the month. Getting off helped with cramps, and with your nerves all frayed and sensitive, you instantly craved the feeling.

Nonchalantly, you wiggled again. Chasing a sudden primal urge, or finding a comfortable position as the cramping died down. But there was no denying the faint throb between your thighs. Not like you’d try; you loved the feeling.

“Lo…” you murmured, still tucked into his neck.

“Hmm?”

There was no shame in what you wanted – but perhaps there was a little in how you wanted to get it. Blood never stopped Logan. It made no difference to him; he let it coat his cock crimson, turn his fingers sticky, stain his beard ruby. Something about seeing his face smeared in your blood got you going. All you had to do was pose the question and they would have retreated to the bedroom with a couple of towels and a newfound hunger.

But you lost the words. They were pushed from your brain by that thrumming ache, the need for friction, nothing less and nothing more. You wanted to hump him like a goddamn dog. Like a bleeding bitch in heat.

An unusual shyness overcame you. You nuzzled further into the meat of his neck and silently rocked your hips forward.

He hummed again, a knowing lilt in his tone. Because of course he knew. He always did. “Does that feel good, princess?”

A barely-there whine left your throat as you rocked again. The promise of pleasure shot sparks through you.

Thick fingers coasted up your back and wrapped around your ponytail. “Hey,” he taunted in a coo, then pulled at your hair to pry your face free. Silently, you obeyed, and you were pouting when your eyes met. When your hips rolled again. “I asked you a question.”

“Yeah, it feels good,” you said softly.

“Okay. Then how about this? You get yourself off and if you want more, I’ll clean up the mess you make. Deal?”

In an instant, your breathing picked up, coupled with embarrassing, incessant nodding. The smirk that slid onto his face should have irritated you. So goddamn smug all the time. But the only thing you could think about was the cry of your body.

As you braced your hands on his chest, you picked up your speed, enough to find a true rhythm. Overly sensitive, every catch of your clit felt like an explosion. It all but tased your body, a prickling sort of high you were trying to reach. Grinding and grinding.

Just as you went to duck your head again, he kept you upright by your ponytail. The strands were collected tight in his fist. “Look at me, baby.”

Huffing, you glanced at him. There was a new darkness in his pupils, which no doubt matched your own. Pressure was already building low in your stomach.

“Good girl.”

A whimper slipped from you before you could stop it. Two of your favorite words rumbling so deep in his chest, you felt it against your swirling body and in the palms of your hands, the sound radiating down your spine. You tried to rock a little harder, make the drag last longer. Like a slow pump of his cock, gliding along your walls so you could feel every last ridge.

It was waiting for you, you knew it was, stiffening in those gray sweatpants you picked out for him. Despite consistent insistence that he didn’t want or need you to buy anything for him, the gray sweatpants were one of the first gifts you ever gave him. You checked the size of his slacks when he wasn’t looking and grabbed a couple pairs for him.

“Your dick is gonna look amazing in them. Trust me,” you said when he tried to reject them in humility.

And unsurprisingly, you were right. The material stretched just right around his bulge, highlighting how well-endowed he was, how that massive cock belonged to you.

Grinding along his thigh, your cunt clenched in search of it. But when you found that delicious spot instead, that searing pleasure in perfect pressure, a squeaked fuck left your lips.

“That’s it. Take what you need, sweetheart.” He twirled the ends of your hair around his fingers.

“Logan,” you whimpered, nails digging into his chest.

He hummed, but offered nothing more. Only the heat of his eyes, ink bleeding into hazel, and it was enough to send another shiver down your spine.

Beneath your tee, your nipples hardened; you climbed further up his thigh just slightly to press your bodies tight together, tits grazing his shoulder with each thrust. They ached, too, but not because of hormones or menstruation. They ached for his touch. All of you did.

Flush crept up the back of your neck and spread into your cheeks, singed the tops of your ears. You felt an impending sweat at your temples. It was so much work, these baser instincts you sought to chase. If you stopped, you wondered if he would fuck you. Primed and ready, heavy, whining already. All he needed to do was splay you out.

Biting down hard on your bottom lip, rocking faster, your hand skittered down his torso to find where his sweatpants puckered. You grabbed him lightly, half hard. Just feeling it sent a shock up your tense sides.

But he moved too quickly. As he snatched your wrist, he bounced his thigh, ramming hard into your swollen cunt.

“Logan!” you gasped, as if your stomach didn’t surge with the contact.

“I said you’ll get it when you’re done. Not my fault you’re takin’ your sweet time.” One of his brows was arched.

If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was piss you off. It was a trait you shared, an affection for pushing buttons. For the moment, he chose the wrong ones. Though your jaw briefly clenched, you were distracted by the desire for attention on that engorged button in your panties, rubbing against his thigh with each jerk of your hips.

There was, admittedly, only so much you could do on your own. So much that could be amplified if he joined in your mindless urges.

“Help me,” you mewled.

“You can do it yourself.”

Your gut twisted, anguish instead of pleasure. Breath heaving, you shook your head, squeezed your eyes shut in desperation. “No, please. Touch me. Please, just touch me, Logan. Please.” The words were pathetic little whimpers, bound to work on him. They always did, even when he knew you were ramping it up just to get him going.

Clouded by lust, your brain didn’t have the capacity to tease him. All you felt was need. Fucking yourself along his firm thigh, you wanted sparks to ignite.

Wrapping your ponytail a little tighter around his knuckles, he lowered his hand beneath the hem of your shirt and sighed. Like it was such an inconvenience to feel your warm skin. To capture your breast in his palm, kneading gently.

You gasped, and when he thumbed over your nipple, you cried out. You dropped your head back and clawed at him, and he used all that exposed skin to his advantage, leaning in and kissing at your throat. The wet heat of his tongue followed.

Deep in your stomach, that release was sizzling and crackling.

A bead of sweat rolled down the nape of your neck, and you jolted again when he pinched your nipple, then whined when he rolled it roughly between his fingertips. Gasped when he tugged on your hair to grant extra space for his mouth.

It was so close. You felt it.

You rocked a little harder, panting from your open mouth, drool collecting at its corners. If it started to streak down your chin, he’d lick it up.

Oh, you wanted it bad.

You jerked faster and faster, stomach doing somersaults. Stomach alighting. Your cunt spasmed in glorious preparation. On the precipice, fondled by his rough hands and tickled by his beard, you were finally there. About to erupt.

Every inch of you clenched, your burning body going rigid –

And the peak floated away. Embers that nearly caught fire returned to a smolder. Your goosebumps faded. A fatal error.

“No, no!” you cried. You picked up that same pace, twitchy and violent, fucking quicker and quicker in the hopes of capturing what faded.

Leaning back, Logan clicked his tongue. “‘d you lose it?”

You nodded spastically, face pinched. Tears formed a knot at the back of your throat. Fucking pathetic and you knew it, but you didn’t bother fighting it. Damn the shame. All you wanted was to come.

“You really do need my help, don’t you?”

“Please, Logan, please.” A bottom lip wet with spit quivered, a stark comparison to the dryness of the rest of your mouth.

He sighed again. What trouble it was, guiding his girl to her orgasm when all he wanted was to watch the show. There was a faint flush to his cheeks, visible even through your watery vision, and his eyes were practically black.

How he maintained his composure, you had no clue. You felt his bulge heavy against your quivering thigh, but you didn’t think to touch it. The throbbing of your desperate body and the harsh grip of ten big fingers overwhelmed you.

Logan urged your body backwards and forwards again. Behind her, your ponytail swished. He squeezed your hips, pressing your core harder into his thick thigh, and jerked you with shorter strokes. A steadier rhythm, though, and your aching clit practically screamed with pleasure.

Lashes fluttering rapidly, you tensed again, body quirking with the onslaught of him. In one of his white tanks, you saw so clearly the muscles of his arms working as he dragged you back and forth, the veins bulging, the masculinity of the graying hair that covered him. The tiniest details of him brought you closer.

And you were already so close again.

“Just needed your old man to do it for you, huh?” he said. “Wish I could feel you soaking my thigh. Oughta take those panties off and try again. What do you think?”

A broken moan clawed from your throat. You started to shake.

“That’s it. Come for me, doll.”

The vibrations of his voice and his assault of your clit – far better than everything you’d done – were too much to bear.

Back bowing, you let out a high pitched wail. Your pussy fluttered and spasmed around your wet, aching emptiness, still fucking along his leg. Being fucked along his leg. A little doll in his strong hands, wrought with filthy pleasure, a begging dog.

When he finally stilled you, you felt one last pulse of your heavy cunt. Your chest heaved, and he roughly grabbed your jaw and tugged you into an equally rough kiss. You whimpered when he licked inside your mouth. Hair frizzy, limbs trembling, sweat made your pink skin gleam. His was just as warm.

Just as you were about to slump into him, you faintly felt another cramp. Little stirrings of pain that all that desperation was supposed to cure. That was no good.

Hands on his chest, you leaned back slightly. “I want more,” you whispered.