just a weak bitch

not spoiler free!! / all my so called problematic stuff goes here / 18+ only

[learnrabid]

You Wish I Was Yours (And I Hope That You're Mine)

ao3 for those who prefer

Jayce Talis x Viktor Word Count: 16,225 Rating: E

Summary: “So you won’t take me because I’ll, what — see people fucking? Get offered drugs?” “Jayce…” Viktor warns, more to himself than to the other man. He can feel his already slippery grip on the situation weakening. “C’mon, V. I’ll be good, I promise! I’ll keep my hands to myself, I won’t take candy from strangers, and if it’s too much, we can leave.” Jayce keeping his hands to himself is not the thing he was worried about. It’s everybody else who wouldn’t be able to keep their hands away from him. They descend on topsiders like piranhas when presented with the opportunity. Their naïveté precedes them. Viktor has seen men and women undone by hands and tongues in mere minutes, and they’re not too keen on stopping before they’ve had more than their fill. It’s so lawless, even for the undercity, that the only way to assure Jayce’s sanctity would be to put him in a fucking tag. …Now there’s a thought. - In which the only way for Viktor to keep Jayce safe from the greedy hands and mouths of Zaunite clubs is to put him in a collar and claim ownership. However fake (or real) it may be.

Tags/Content: Set in Season 01 Between Act 01 and Act 02, Consensual Sexual Slavery (in Zaun), Zaunite Customs, Clubbing, Alcohol, Smoking, Cigarettes, Recreational Drug Use, Aphrodisiacs, Getting Together, Top Viktor, Dom Viktor, Bottom Jayce, Sub Jayce, Dom/sub, experienced viktor, Less Experienced Jayce, Cis Jayce, Cis Viktor, Viktor's Former Party Girl Era, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Under-negotiated Kink, Enthusiastic Consent, A frankly gratuitous amount of puppy/dog references, Jayce isn't beating the puppy allegations, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Collars, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Leg Humping, Dacryphilia, Sexual Overstimulation, Crying from Overstimulation, Dry Orgasm, Very Light Choking Kink, Very Mild Degredation, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kinda?, slightly bratty jayce, Felching, Wet & Messy, just a little bit

A/N & Warnings: -Jayce and Viktor have sex while they've both consumed alcohol and recreational drugs (ecstasy adjacent/aphrodisiac) but they are both very into it and enthusiastically consenting. -The whole situation of their dynamic is under-negotiated, but again, they are both very into it and enthusiastically consenting. -Precisely one (1) mention of Jayce's pectorals as tits in a non-serious/joking way. -Tagging/collaring is my own personal hc that Zaun would have some cultural/custom differences than Piltover. Tagging/collaring is the act of owning/being owned by another person as a sexual slave, kind of like a 24/7 bdsm dynamic. While almost all relationships are consensual, there is room for debate about the ethics and morals of the practice itself, and vague allusions to the practice being used in a dubious context, but no explicit explanations or examples of it. The slaves/tagged/pets are denoted by their collars (usually chains like necklaces/chokers, but can also be things like leather and other materials) and their circular shaped tags (much like a pet tag) with their owner's initial engraved on one side and their assigned number (if applicable) on the other, while the owners are denoted by their rectangular shaped tags (usually worn on a bracelet) that are detachable via a clasp. In Zaun, tagged people are largely ignored, as they are seen as another person's property from whom they need permission to interact with/speak to/touch/etc unless they carry the rectangular tag that is clipped on to their collar alongside the circular one to signify that they have permission from their owner to be interacted with. Though, people still treat them carefully and will not touch them inappropriately or try to hit on them or kiss them lest they incur the wrath of their potentially very powerful owner (ie. chembarons). this one goes out to all my subby bottom jayce truthers 🫡 you can find me also on bsky!! pls feel free to come yell at me about fic and fandom stuff any time!! comments and reblogs aren't necessary, but they are greatly appreciated if you enjoyed reading!

“I still don’t understand why you won’t take me. Surely it can’t be that different.”

“Jayce, please — can we drop this? I’m not taking you to Zaun to go clubbing, end of discussion.”

Viktor sighs, exasperated. Scrubs his hands across his face, blocking the view of the piling of wires and boards and metals and junk that sits on his work station that he’s getting absolutely fucking nowhere with anyway. 

Jayce is curious to a fault. And that, he unfortunately understands. He is a man of science, of course it’s in his nature to push boundaries and ask questions. They wouldn’t be here (in their well funded academy lab and not slowly rotting to death in a prison cell) otherwise. 

But Jayce has been bothering him about it for months, and Viktor has no idea how much longer he can say no to him; all round-eyed and pouty-lipped. 

After their last trip into the undercity (which Viktor doesn’t let him trek alone anymore, because he always ends up getting swindled by the merchants) where they had to venture to a vendor they hadn’t visited before, Jayce hasn’t dropped it. They had walked through a few streets they hadn’t previously, through a particularly club-heavy area. Jayce had caught sight of the insides as a few groups of people filtered out to empty the contents of their stomachs onto the street. It didn’t really matter that it was hardly dinner time, because the establishments don’t really close and have no care for timekeeping anyway. 

He’s not sure what enticed him about it so much. Viktor knows Jayce likes to go out from time to time; on his own terms that is, instead of the stifling expectations of the donor galas he’s forced to attend. But, he also knows from experience that the clubs and bars in the uppercity are very… tame. At least, comparatively. 

Sure, people in Piltover will dance and grind and kiss, but there’s a level of debauchery that just isn’t present. They have too much to lose if they get caught being finger fucked in the middle of the dance floor, or being seen dropping to their knees to crawl under the table and rest their face in the lap of another. It’s all social ladders and invisible hierarchies. Viktor knows for a fact that there’s a commendable amount of drug use in the uppercity as well, but from what he’s seen, it’s more of a private endeavour. A couple who share a tab of acid or split some ecstasy near the end of their visit and then leave to enjoy the best of it in the privacy of their own home. In Viktor’s experience, the undercity’s attitude towards drugs (at least pertaining to club culture) has been that of a communal one; with shared kisses and groups of people laughing, touching, and pleasing from all angles. After all, it’s more fun when you have someone to share the high with. 

Perhaps that’s it, Viktor muses. Jayce is a physical man who enjoys touch, if the amount of casual and regrettably platonic caresses he subjects Viktor to on a daily basis is anything to go by. Maybe he caught a glimpse of how tightly packed the dance floors were, with nary a centimetre of space between sweaty, inebriated bodies, and thought that it would be a nice catharsis to indulge. 

“Not until you explain why it would be so different,” Jayce mocks.

“It’s—”

“Don’t say it’s an undercity thing. Use your words and explain it to me. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

Viktor huffs. He turns his rolling chair around and eyes Jayce where he’s sitting at his desk, also having abandoned his work. Viktor crosses his arms, tilts his head back toward the ceiling, and heaves a dramatically long sigh to annoy him. 

“There are different… social expectations. People in Piltover are used to a certain amount of privacy that people in the undercity aren’t afforded.” He stares at the buildup of dust on the tops of the pipes that line the ceiling as he speaks. They should get that cleaned soon. 

“Like what?”

“Like drugs. And sex. When you walk into a club in Zaun, you are considered a kind of… public property. Free game, you could say.”

“So you won’t take me because I’ll, what — see people fucking? Get offered drugs?”

Viktor looks over to Jayce, spurred by the incredulity of his tone. 

He regrets looking, because now he has to stare at big, wet eyes and round, full lips that are actively pouting. He looks like a wet puppy, left out in the rain. Viktor feels his willpower evaporating from every pore in his body. 

“No, I — Jayce, it’s… I worry it would be too much for you.” 

And his Piltie sensibilities, Viktor thinks. 

“Shouldn’t that be for me to decide?”

“Jayce…” Viktor warns, more to himself than to the other man. He can feel his already slippery grip on the situation weakening. Just for a second, in the privacy of his own mind, he balks at the influence Jayce has on him. 

“C’mon, V. I’ll be good, I promise! I’ll keep my hands to myself, I won’t take candy from strangers, and if it’s too much, we can leave.”

Jayce keeping his hands to himself is not the thing he was worried about. It’s everybody else who wouldn’t be able to keep their hands away from him. They descend on topsiders like piranhas when presented with the opportunity. Their naïveté precedes them. He’s seen men and women undone by hands and tongues in mere minutes, and they’re not too keen on stopping before they’ve had more than their fill. 

It’s so lawless, even for the undercity, that the only way to assure Jayce’s sanctity would be to put him in a fucking tag. 

…Now there’s a thought. 

It’s not like he has to tell Jayce what wearing a tag means. Not fully. It’s not like he would be utilizing it in the way it was meant to be utilized either. 

Viktor grinds his palms into his eye sockets and rubs until he hears his eyeballs squelch under the pressure. He sighs dramatically one more time, for effect, even though he’s already folded like a wet newspaper. 

“On two conditions.”

He blinks away the splotches in his vision just in time to see the way Jayce’s eyes blaze with unbridled excitement, and the way he immediately sits up straighter in his chair, like a student prepared to listen to their teacher. 

Jayce nods fervently, in lieu of words; probably afraid he might miss what Viktor says, as though he only has one chance to hear it. 

“One: you will have to wear something while we are there, and you cannot remove it at any time.”

Jayce cocks his head to one side, confused, and Viktor thinks once more about the puppy comparison. Perhaps the collar-like adornment will suit him. 

“Like clothing?”

“Eh, more like jewellery. A necklace of sorts.”

Viktor raises his eyebrows at him waits for another affirmation before continuing. Jayce nods once, tightly. 

“Two: you will not ask questions about it.”

“At all?”

“None.”

The second condition gives him more pause, but Jayce accepts it after a moment of thinking. Surely he knows that Viktor would never put him in harms way. That’s precisely what he’s trying to prevent with the tag. His curiosity about going dancing in Zaun evidently outweighs his concern for whatever he thinks Viktor is up to. 

Jayce spends the whole rest of the week bouncing off the walls of their lab. Viktor has never seen him so worked up before. At least, not in a way that a few trips to the forge never solved. More than once, Viktor tells him to go busy himself in the forge simple because he can’t stand the moving and the hovering and the fidgeting he’s not even sure Jayce realizes he’s doing. 

Viktor leaves a little early in the middle of the week, and he didn’t really need to, but Jayce was annoying him and he had to go and procure his tag. 

His tag. Jayce’s tag. Gods, he was really going to claim him, wasn’t he? Even if it’s just a bit of make believe to keep him safe. 

The thing is, he’d be lying if it didn’t morbidly thrill him — just a little. He’s never felt the desire to own someone, or to be owned by another for that matter.  But the prospect of seeing Jayce with a claim of Viktor’s possession around his throat has him more than a little restless. And if he jerks off a little too avidly during the week leading up to their little trip, nobody has to know. Because when they’re done and Jayce has had his fill of Zaunite clubbing, he’ll throw the tag and the collar it comes with out and never think about it again. 

It’s not that Viktor has forgotten how tagging works, because he never really engaged in it in the first place. But he does feel a little overwhelmed when he pushes past the threshold of the shop and sees the myriad of different hardware and colour choices. 

The metals can be made into any colour under the sun, but Viktor knows that he would be affronted if he were to put Jayce in anything other than gold. So, he chooses a thin, gold coloured chain and tag to match and dutifully gets his initial engraved on the front. He hesitates when the shopkeeper asks for the number, because he’s completely forgot that people usually assign numbers and hierarchy to their property. He pointedly tells the man One, and watches as he turns the tag over and engraves it on the back.

When he’s done with Jayce’s tag, he takes a rough measurement of Viktor’s wrist and cuts a length off of the same chain and engraves a companion. This one rectangular, to Jayce’s circular, to indicate their status of owner and owned. He runs his fingers over the delicate artwork that is Jayce’s full name on his owner’s tag, once he receives it for inspection. 

Viktor okays the spelling, and he attaches the last few pieces of finishing hardware to the chain and its companion under Viktor’s scrutinizing gaze. 

He walks back to Piltover with a heavy pocket, even if it did substantially lighten his coin purse. 

By the time the end of the working week rolls around, Viktor is considering taking up smoking again to take the edge off of dealing with Jayce. He’s sure he has an emergency pack kicking around his apartment somewhere. 

They had made very little tangible progress during the week, and Viktor is sincerely hoping that this one trip gets it all out of his system so they can return to their regular working pace with the next.

Viktor parts with Jayce at the end of their scheduled day only so he can return to his apartment, hastily feed himself, bathe, and pack his change of clothes to bring over to his partner’s house. He was correct in his remembrance of his emergency cigarettes. He finds them in his Drawer of Errant Things, and pockets them after losing a contest against his will power. 

“Jayce, I don’t know how to say this nicely.”

“So don’t say it nicely.” Jayce replies to him through his reflection in the mirror. 

Viktor sits leisurely on the edge of his bed as he flits between his closet and his dresser, offering article after article of clothing up for Viktor’s rejection. The way he fiddles with the buttons of his much-too-preppy shirt betrays his steely outward appearance, prepared to accept criticism. Or maybe Viktor just knows his nervous tells a little too well. 

“Your clothes aren’t slutty enough.”

He did tell him not to say it nicely. 

“I— okay, so how do I…”

Viktor leaves him stuttering and grasping for words for a moment too long because he thinks it’s cute to watch Jayce fumble from time to time. He usually presents himself so confidently, and carries himself so upright that it’s kind of humbling (and arousing, though Viktor won’t admit it) to see. So he likes to see powerful men flounder a little, sue him. 

“Do you have anything that’s tighter?” He says finally, gesturing to his pants that are much too loose to be acceptable. 

Jayce scrunches his lips up in thought, and Viktor finds himself longing to soothe the crease that it makes in his brow. 

He hums for a second, contemplating, before storming into his closet. To Viktor’s surprise, he doesn’t immediately go for any of the racks of hanging pieces, but instead for a box, tucked away in the top corner. A few stray items tumble down with it as he pulls at the box. Viktor ogles the way the muscles of his shoulders ripple noticeably under the fabric of his shirt. 

Jayce rips open the box and begins emptying it the way a dog might tear into a basket of toys. He pulls out stacks and stacks of fabric, none of which is identifiable to Viktor at first. Once he gets to the bottom of it, he pulls up a small stack of neatly folded pants, and offers it on one outstretched palm towards Viktor. 

Viktor takes the stack from him curiously and sets them in his lap, thumbing the edges of the fabric.  

“These are a bit old. I had a growth spurt around twenty-ish. Not— not taller, but, uh— yeah.”

So delicate, Viktor muses. 

He unfolds the pants and holds them up by the waist to see what their cut is like. The first two pairs are too boxy, but the third has promise. They’re higher waisted than the rest, and would sit beautifully over Jayce’s hips and accentuate his ludicrous waist with the six parallel gold coloured buttons on the front and the cinch in the back. They look to be rather form fitting as well, tight enough that he’ll have to wear them under his boots and not over. They would pair fittingly with the shirt he brought as a last-ditch option for him. 

Viktor tosses the pair towards him and Jayce catches it with ease. 

“Are you sure you will not rip them trying to get in?”

“It looks like we’re about to find out,” he says as he excitedly steps into his en suite. 

Viktor amusedly shakes his head and begins to dig around in his bag for the aforementioned shirt. 

He has to remind himself to keep breathing when Jayce steps back out without his shirt on, in the tightest pants known to humanity all but painted on his legs. 

“Perfect.” Viktor says, a little too amused. 

“I’m a little afraid to move in them, if I’m being honest.” 

“Eh, just don’t try to squat and you’ll be fine,” Viktor flaps his hand, dismissing the notion of him forgoing the pants. “Put this on as well. None of your shirts are transparent enough.”

Thankfully, Jayce is good at following orders. Well. Viktor’s orders, at least. 

He barely hesitates to unbutton the mesh fabric and slides it over his shoulders, fitting a little loosely, even for a man as broad as him.

“Viktor, why do you have a shirt four times your size?”

“Long story.” 

It’s not. He picked it up by mistake in lieu of his own on his way out of some stranger’s apartment some years ago. It was dark, and he was pretty drunk. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it out because it is a rather beautiful design, and Jayce teases him for his slight hoarding problem. His justification is that he could have needed it someday, and he feels gratified in knowing that day is today. 

Jayce turns back to face him directly for approval, instead of looking at him in through the mirror. 

The intricate black floral lacework contrasts beautifully against Jayce’s skin, and compliments his hair stunningly. Because the short sleeved shirt is all mesh and lace, he can see straight through to his chest and upper abdominals where the waist of the pants doesn’t cover, and Viktor will be loathe to ever hide his tits inside a normal shirt ever again. 

He knows Jayce likes to smith with his shirt off because he’s gotten a number of drop-in lectures from the safety committee at the academy about it. Viktor makes a mental note to make the trek to the forge more often. 

It’s cute that Jayce has done the buttons all the way up to the top. 

Viktor hangs his cane off of his arm and stands up, beckoning the man closer. Jayce closes the three step distance between them, and Viktor undoes the first three buttons. They’re pretty generously spaced too, so it ends up unbuttoned to his sternum. 

“Like that.” He says with finality, gesturing for him to examine it in the mirror once more. 

Viktor comes up behind him as Jayce is looking in the mirror and sees an entirely new expression that he doesn’t have a name for yet. However, there’s lots of emotions he has yet to see Jayce wear. He hopes to catalogue them all, some day. 

“Much better. Still modest even, but it will be acceptable.” He shrugs at his reflection. 

“This is modest?”

Viktor smirks. “Getting cold feet? We haven’t even left yet.”

“No— no, we’re going.” Jayce has all the determination of a goaded child stomping their foot at their caregiver. 

“Let it be known that I did warn you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jayce dismisses him. 

Viktor has to take a moment and remind himself on how to breathe when he retreats to Jayce’s bathroom to dress himself. Even if they don’t make it all the way to the clubs — if Jayce shies away as soon as they get to Zaun, Viktor will have enough rich visual material to sustain him for the rest of his life. 

It’s a little mechanical, as he puts on his clothes. It feels a bit odd to be putting such attire on again. It’s been a good number years since he last indulged, before Jayce and him had started working together. And then he did meet Jayce, and he didn’t really desire anonymous sex and shared drugs very much after that. Not to mention that he doesn’t really have the time anymore. 

The pants go first, not too dissimilar to Jayce’s trousers, though Viktor’s do have mesh lining the sides from ankle to hip. The dark linen shirt with its weave so loose it’s translucent goes next, underneath (even more) mesh corseting that does nothing for structure and everything for looks. The boning isn’t rigid enough to provide support, but it looks pretty when he cinches the ribbon at his back and accentuates his admittedly already small waistline. He adjusts the shirt underneath until it billows slightly over the top edge of the corset, all but one or two of the buttons undone in a similar manner to Jayce’s. He may be tweaking his styling slightly than he has in the past, if he’s to sell the fact that Jayce is under his ownership. 

Finally, he pulls out his companion bracelet, clipping it with a little struggle around his wrist.

When he examines Jayce’s collar, pulled from the same box, he recognizes a fairly standard locking clasp that can’t be removed without the specified magnetic key. Jayce could brute force it, if he really wanted it off; it wasn’t meant to be impossible to get out of, rather unable to be easily removed. It’s symbolic, more than anything. Those who truly want people in things that cannot be removed are likely looking at very different hardware, and for a very different price. 

He pockets the magnet and makes sure his hair is an appropriate level of messy before stalking back out of the washroom. 

“Please tell me you have alcohol in your apartment somewhere.” Viktor all but begs through Jayce’s gawking he knew was coming. He had never seen him in anything but his academy uniform. 

He raises an eyebrow at the man, observing as he slowly rakes his (probably judgmental) gaze down the length of Viktor’s body. 

“Uh, yeah. Somewhere. Wine, I think? Have— have you always had this?”

“Of course. The academy would hardly approve, however.”

Viktor denies the roil of arousal low in his gut at seeing Jayce’s cheeks heat, and how he flushes so red it could be neon from his chest to his ears in one fluid act. It wouldn’t do very well if Jayce were to see his cock swell at the opportunity while scrutinizing him so close in pants so tight. 

“I can think of one person who would approve,” Jayce half speaks and half mumbles, and Viktor’s not sure he meant to say it out loud, what with how transfixed he is on his half exposed chest. He’s going to have a hard time inside the establishment if he’s having problems with Viktor’s relatively tame outfit already. He did warn him. 

“What?” Viktor asks, incredulous. 

“What?” Jayce parrots. 

They stare at each other for a long, fairly uncomfortable moment. 

“I’ll— uh. I’ll go find the wine.” Jayce fiddles with his buttons for a moment before leaving the room in search of alcohol. 

Viktor can’t help but huff a laugh as he tidies his belongings and leaves his bag in Jayce’s room. 

Oh the ways he would love to watch his Piltie squirm. 

At Viktor’s suggestion, Jayce has a glass. Viktor had two, after downing the first one as if it were merely juice. He ate dinner, but it wasn’t anything exceedingly substantial, and he feels just a touch more affected by it than he would like to ideally be as they inch closer and closer to the bridge. He should maybe pace himself slower than he has in the past. He doesn’t drink at nearly the rate he used to, and it’s evident in the way his tolerance betrays him. 

He lets them get just on the bridge, and ducks behind one of the support pillars, away from any potentially prying eyes, even though the sun is already dipped well below the horizon.

“Viktor?”

“Jayce, turn around.”

He obeys quickly and offers Viktor his back. Viktor runs his thumb over the engraving one more time before bringing it around Jayce’s neck and clipping it securely into place. There’s no getting it off now. Not until Viktor wants it off. 

His hand immediately flies up to the new item, examines it with his fingers and tries to get a look at it, but it’s too short for him to even catch a glimpse. Jayce turns back around to face him, and Viktor has to suppress the embarrassing whine that threatens to bubble up and spill over. It sits so beautifully and perfectly hugging his neck, with the tag dangling gently against the hollow of his throat. His fingers dance over the surface, trying to analyze the engraving. 

“It’s engraved?” He asks, one notched eyebrow raising. 

“Remember the condition about you not asking questions?”

“It wasn’t a question, it was an observation.” The man ribs. 

“Mhm, I’m sure it was.”

There’s a reason he waited until they were away from mirrored surfaces to finally put it on him. 

Viktor notices Jayce eyeing his bracelet now with a little more fervour. Tries to catch a glimpse of that engraving, in order to hypothesize about what’s on his own. 

“You have all the subtlety of a dog in a cone, Jayce.” He tells him as they walk. 

“I’m just curious,” he shrugs, defeated and slightly embarrassed; like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar before dinner. 

“I know you are, and that is why I insisted on condition number two.”

He goes to open his mouth, surely to ask another question, before thinking better of it and closing it again. Viktor almost regrets the rule for a moment, if only so he can have the privilege of seeing the pretty little gap in his teeth. He does it a couple more times before catching himself with each one, and it’s probably dawning on him just how little he knows about the strange and foreign custom. 

Jayce keeps tracing his fingers along the chain, toying with the tag, and trying to identify the locking mechanism around the back by blind touch. Viktor eventually smacks his hand away from it with a light tap. 

He throws him a bone and distracts Jayce with a mildly work-related question that he knows will send him on a tangent. It quickly diverges into complaints and protestations about the council. Viktor doesn’t spare his own participation either. 

Just when they’re closing in on the street of the club that Viktor is leading them to, he grabs Jayce’s wrist and tugs him along until they’re tucked into a grimy alcove in the mouth of an alleyway. Viktor uses the opportunity and flattens a palm against his broad, strong chest until Jayce defers and his back touches the brick wall behind him, and closes him in with his cane tapping gently against the man’s leg. 

“Viktor, what—”

“You will listen carefully.” He states firmly, no room for protest.

Seeing Jayce in what is effectively a collar has put him in some kind of mood, and he can’t say that he hates it. Viktor decides, just for tonight, he will indulge. Just for tonight, he’ll be able to pretend that as he watches Jayce touch and dance and grind that it’s Viktor that he’ll come home with at the end of the night. That it’s Viktor he’ll belong to at the end of the night. 

A little make-believe in the sanctity of one’s own mind never hurt anyone. 

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and Viktor watches the movement swing his tag back and forth minutely. Jayce stares heavily at him, through eclipsed irises. Viktor can feel his breath stutter and hitch in his chest under his palm. 

“There is an act to this—” Viktor lightly flicks the tag at Jayce’s throat. “That I need you to participate in for your own safety.”

And Viktor’s own sanity, but he doesn’t voice that particular aspect. Jayce nods once, very slowly, as if trying to comprehend Viktor’s words. With his affirmation, he continues. 

“Do not try to kiss anyone. Do not offer information freely. You may tell people your first name, if they ask. If they do not — don’t offer it. If they ask you if you have permission, you may tell them yes. If they ask for confirmation, you may tell them to find me.”

“P-permission for what?” Jayce whispers tentatively. 

Viktor raises an eyebrow at him.

“Condition two, got it.” He sighs, slightly disappointed.

“Alternatively, you may show them this,” Hanging his cane on his elbow, he reaches down with his left hand to unclip the rectangular tag from his bracelet and re-clips it to the same ring that Jayce’s circular one hangs from. 

The universal expression of permission, for those who are tagged. It was more like a temporary grant to their personhood so long as they bear the consent of their master. Viktor doesn’t like to think very hard or very long about the contradiction.

It’s still too short for Jayce to read, but that doesn’t stop his morbid curiosity from trying. 

“At any point if it gets too much, or you would like to leave, unclip it and hand it back to me. Understood?”

Jayce’s fingers dance over the new addition, still trying to parse the engraving on the surface, as though he’d be able to absorb his comprehension of the letters. 

With his eyes still blown out, he nods his wordless assent. 

It’s fairly dark down here, and he’s probably nervous. Viktor also doesn’t typically corner him, so that’s probably all it is. 

Viktor can feel Jayce radiating heat with how closely he stands behind him in the lineup. He hovers, nervously, behind him as Viktor allows the bouncer to inspect his cane to make sure there are no concealed weapons. He finds the hidden compartment in the handle (that Jayce put there during its construction after they broke the last one trying to keep the enforcers out), but there’s nothing in there so they can’t protest to it. 

Viktor thinks it's a little amusing that the bouncer at an undercity club found the compartment within seconds, and yet for all the times they’ve been subject to a return inspection when crossing the bridge, the enforcers have yet to discover it. 

Jayce is all but vibrating apart at the seams when the burly man hands his cane back. 

He invites Jayce to walk a few paces in front of him, so he can place one hand flat against the small of his back as he enters through the double doors. 

It’s early enough, not yet at peak volume, so he lets the younger man gawk for a few moments, knowing the trickle of people behind them would take their time.

The thrum of the music could be sensed well before entering, so it’s no surprise when Viktor feels the vibrations of the heavy bass hit him from all angles; through the soles of his boots, the tip of his cane, up through the length of his body and settling in his chest, influencing the beat of his heart to match the rhythm of the song. 

Viktor had chosen one of the biggest of these types to take Jayce to, largely because it was also the nicest inside, and they actually cleaned regularly. He won’t mention to Jayce that anti-weapon establishments aren’t exactly the norm in Zaun. He doesn’t have much to worry about really, because they have their own security team (who get paid pretty well, from what he’s heard) in any case. He knows that Jayce wouldn’t be able to enjoy himself if all he could focus on was the open carry of the person at the table next to him. 

It helps that they also have a well stocked bar, rentable private rooms, and a healthy amount of seating booths pushed up against the walls. There are three floors, all with balconies that also have seating, though it is a few flights of stairs that Viktor doesn’t particularly feel like trekking right now. There’s still ample options for them to choose from, while people still trail in. 

The bar counter is lined against the farthest wall, already busy with bartenders and servers prepping for the shift to come. 

Not very much has changed in the time since he was last here. New light fixtures, maybe. A fresh coat of paint here and there. 

As Viktor was admiring the establishment, it seems as though Jayce has been fixated on the patrons milling about. The dance floor has a decent swath of people occupying the space already, and Viktor can see from the way that they sway that they’re well on their way to intoxicated. On what, he can’t say for sure. 

But no, Jayce — with his virgin gaze and topsider sensibilities — rakes his eyes over everyone’s attire, their bodies, with a newfound interest. He knows what Jayce looks like when he’s intrigued by an observation. 

Viktor follows his line of sight to a woman hovering by the corner of the dance floor, talking with another person and waving her hands excitedly. Her tits aren’t out, per se, but they’re not really covered either. The weave of the fishnet crop top she has on is nothing more than a formality. Her lower half is clad in nothing more than a g-string with intricate, pretty looking beading that compliment the expanse of skin on her hips.  

As he scans the room, for people this time, it’s the level of dress for about half of the patrons so far. The other half is dressed similarly to them, with open suggestions taking the vague shape of clothing. As the night wears on, more and more will have less and less. 

He also takes note of the handful of others who also carry tags around their necks.

Sliding his hand further up Jayce’s back and coming to rest between his shoulder blades, Viktor tugs slightly for his attention.

He already looks dazed. 

“One more thing: if you see another with a necklace like yours with only the circular tag, do not engage them. Certainly do not touch them, yes?” He has to raise his voice to make sure he can hear him over the speakers.

Jayce nods at him obediently, with round wet eyes. 

“Remember what I said? If it’s too much?”

He nods once more. “Unclip it.” 

“Good boy,” he pats Jayce’s back once, and his throat bobs like he’s made a noise. If he had, Viktor couldn’t hear it over the music. 

“Come, let’s get drinks.” He says, pulling Jayce along with a loose grip on his wrist. 

A handful of Zaunites eye Viktor’s companion hungrily as they walk past, until they catch a glimpse of the collar around his throat, and morph from a predator eyeing their prey to merely a curious and somewhat jealous observer. 

He can see Jayce’s curiosity only grow, when the bartender actively examines his collar to make sure it has the companion tag before engaging him about his order with a friendly smile. Viktor orders something strong that he can nurse for a while, and Jayce gets something sugary, to curb his sweet tooth. Viktor makes the executive decision at the last second to add a round of shots for them. If only because he’s feeling nostalgic, and because he wants to see how Jayce starts to act when the alcohol starts wearing at his inhibitions. 

He’s never seen Jayce truly drunk before, merely slightly tipsy. He has an unbelievable amount of self control at public functions, wherein you could not keep your glass empty if you tried. And whenever Viktor drinks with Jayce, it’s never to get him intoxicated; a glass of wine here, a cocktail there. Drinking for social cohesion and drinking to get drunk are two very different experiences. 

How will he act, Viktor wonders. Does he get chatty? Recluse? Does he gravitate to the warmth of another? Is he the kind of sloppy drunk that people loathe do go out with? Does he get needy? Whiny? Horny?

All questions Viktor would love to answer tonight, but he’s not sure they’ll have time to get to them. An experiment for another time, perhaps. 

Viktor can’t tell exactly how long they’ve been seated at the booth he chose for them, since there’s no clocks inside, and he neglected to bring any kind of pocket or wrist watch with him. He also can’t say with much certainty how many drinks they’ve collectively consumed, because the servers retrieve the empty glasses from the table just as quick as they’ve set them down. He’s maybe had one and a half, plus a shot. So that probably equals two fairly strong drinks.

The lights have become even more dim as the night goes on, and Jayce is well and truly buzzed. He’s still not sure he could say he’s drunk yet. Viktor didn’t think it would take as many drinks as it has, but then again, Jayce is not a small man. There’s a deep pink flush high on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, with a not insignificant dusting down his chest as well. He doesn’t stumble or sway when he leaves Viktor for the bathroom though, so he can’t be too intoxicated yet. 

Viktor is mesmerized by the muscles in his back that he can see through his transparent shirt as he walks away from the table. It was a good decision to bring it with him. 

“Didn’t take you for the type to tag someone, Viktor.”

Viktor glances up to the woman’s eyes unhurriedly. 

“Zevia, how are you?” He asks in greeting into his drink.

His old dealer hums, and takes the newly vacated spot next to him in the booth. The leather squeaks when she sits. It’s probably still warm from Jayce’s exorbitant body heat. Viktor has the errant desire to bring his nose to the seat of the booth to see if he could smell his musk that lingers on the fibres. 

“Disappear for a few years, and then come back with a toy?”

Viktor shrugs one shoulder. “People change.”

“A topsider, though?”

“They make the best pets. Eager for a new perspective.”

Viktor decides his blood alcohol concentration is high enough to justify a cigarette. Maybe two, but he has to finish the first one to get there. 

He pulls the pack out of his pocket, puts a cigarette between his lips, and lights it with the lighter he was smart enough to stash inside with them. 

“Are you wanting to play with him tonight?”

Exhaling the lungful of carcinogens through his nose, he teeters his head in consideration. “I could be persuaded. What do you have?”

“What do you want?” She asks, seductively placing both elbows on the table and leaning forward. She pushes her semi-exposed breasts together in the process, emphasizing her cleavage. 

If it were a different night, at a different time, Viktor might have been coerced. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But right now, Jayce is in the building with a collar around his neck bearing Viktor’s initial and his own subservience (as fake as it may be). 

As it is, he eyes her chest in an appreciative manner, before meeting her eyes once more. 

“Something gentle. No shimmer.” He’s heard all the rage that shimmer promises, but also the destruction that follows. 

“A Piltie and a virgin? That’s exciting.”

She sells him on some kind of diluted psychedelic with some name he can’t be bothered to care about. Like ecstasy adjacent, she paraded. Pulls a small, colourful sheet about an inch wide, perforated and tucked neatly into a tiny plastic bag out of a small pouch on her hip, and hands it to him. 

“I’d recommend starting with half.”

The sheet is split into four quadrants. 

“I’ll try a quarter.”

“You’re going soft, V.”

“Eh, it’s been a while.”

She tries to get him to take it as a gift, but he forces coinage into her hand anyway, because he’s not interested in being indebted to someone right now. She parts from the table with nothing more than a wink, having satisfied her desire for business. 

Jayce sits down beside him, not three seconds later. 

“Who was that?” He asks. 

Viktor eyes him, after hearing the slight bite to his tone. The end of his sentence comes a little clipped. 

“Just an old acquaintance,” he replies, shrugging. 

“Since when do you smoke?” Jayce flicks his chin towards the half-finished smoke in his right hand on top of the table. He reaches for the glass tray and flicks off the ash at the end before it has a chance to dirty the table. 

“Since I was thirteen, more or less. I don’t partake often anymore.”

“They’re bad for you, you know.” The worried crease of his brow is almost amusing, and entirely adorable. As if this one instance will be the thing that does him in. 

“No worse than the fumes of the fissures, I assure you.” 

Jayce says nothing, but still eyes the hand that holds it. Viktor watches amusedly as the conflicting thoughts cross his mind. It seems that the alcohol has made him even easier to read than he already was, like he’s less aware that he’s even emoting. 

Viktor sucks back the last dregs, and stubs out the end in the ash tray.

“Why don’t you go grab us another round and then I’ll share a treat with you, hm?” He suggests. 

Jayce looks intrigued, but nods obediently as predicted, and vacates the seat once more. 

When he returns, Viktor notices the wetness under the bottom of his glass where he places it down on the table, like he spilled some over the side in his haste to get back. It’s cute, really. How eager he is. 

Viktor takes a sip of his new drink and hums in approval before handing Jayce the small plastic bag to inspect between two outstretched fingers. He takes it carefully, like it’s something delicate to be had, and examines it. 

“Viktor, is this—”

“Drugs, yes. Like ecstasy, it makes you feel good. Milder even.” 

Jayce hesitates slightly, though Viktor notes it’s more in consideration than in opposition. The way his eyebrows are drawn back in curiosity and not drawn together in study reveal his true thoughts on the matter. 

Viktor takes them back from Jayce, tearing into the bag and gently ripping off his quarter-portion. 

“You do not have to take it if you don’t want. I’m merely offering you the option.”

“No I want to, I just… Show me how?”

He takes his tiny square, wiggling it a little for emphasis, sticks his tongue out of his mouth to where Jayce can see him place it on the centre of his tongue and waits for it to start dissolving before pulling it back into his mouth. It’s unexpectedly sweet, like he just dropped a few granules of sugar into his mouth. 

Jayce watches him with rapt attention, cataloguing every movement Viktor makes. The tips of his ears flush a few shades darker than they were previously, gaze glued to his mouth. 

“Sublinguals take, eh, ten or fifteen minutes to start taking effect. I usually take more if I cannot feel anything after thirty.” 

“How do you know when it starts working?” Jayce asks, taking the proffered package back, and examining it some more. 

“You will know. Lights and sound will be mesmerizing, touch will feel good, you will feel euphoric; less tense, less anxious.”   

Jayce seems soothed by Viktor’s rather clinical explanation. A man of science, through and through. He doesn’t mention how insatiably horny some people get, because it varies so drastically from person to person; setting to setting. 

The other man tears another quarter from the tab, balancing two corners in between his index finger and his thumb. 

“You don’t have to Jayce, I am not forcing you.” 

Jayce smirks at him, but Viktor can tell he’s just a little bit nervous under the quirk of his lips. At the end of the day, Jayce is an adult man in his mid twenties who can make decisions for himself, and reap any consequences that may follow. 

He pops the square on his tongue and stares vacantly for a second, as if analyzing the exact taste and texture into a mental catalogue. 

“That wasn’t the taste I was expecting.” 

Viktor chuckles into his drink. “What were you expecting?”

“Not… sweet.” 

It’s late enough that the volume of people is starting to pick up. The dance floor is nearly full, packed from corner to corner with scantily clothed bodies, with no breathing room between any of them. Viktor’s unable to tell where some of them end and another begins. 

In a booth across the room, over top of heads and bodies, Viktor watches a man in mesh briefs and a chest harness drop to his knees and crawl under the table where three others sit. He nuzzles his face into the lap of the one in the centre, and offers a hand to the others on either side. In the booth next to them, a collared person straddles the lap of their owner, with both their hands slipped under their skirt, splaying over the expanse of their ass. In the corner, pushed up against a wall, two people frot through clothing that isn’t thick enough to spare details. Viktor feels at home, in his own strange and perverse way. 

When he does finally tear his gaze away from the lewd displays, Jayce is eyeing the people dancing with a renewed interest, with something written on his face that Viktor can only describe as hunger. 

“Go dance, Jayce.” Viktor pushes, sipping more of his drink. 

Jayce’s eyes flit from Viktor’s, to the bodies, and back again. 

“You—”

“Do not worry your pretty head about me, I am plenty comfortable here. You came to dance right? So go dance.”

The man gives him one last look through long, dark lashes, downs the rest of his drink, and leaves the booth. 

Viktor watches as Jayce walks forward, one slightly hesitant foot at a time, towards the crowd of people.

Viktor heaves a tiny sigh when he sees how easily Jayce is accepted and blended into the mass of bodies, albeit touched a little less than some of his peers. As soon as the people nearest him catch sight of his tag, their hands stop drifting as far downwards, and remain slightly more respectable on his shoulders, arms, back, and for a daring few, his chest. 

The collar is working, in Viktor’s intended effect, at least. If Jayce wasn’t wearing it, he surely would have been coerced to the middle and torn to shreds by now. 

Things start to get just the tiniest bit hazy as the minutes tick on. He becomes entranced in the way Jayce moves his body with all the fluidity of a professional dancer. He follows the cues of the people around him perfectly; bends when they bend, grinds when they grind, and holding when they hold. 

A tagged girl is able to grab his attention, stealing and slotting his hands in an above board way around her waist. The loose purple buns on top of her head bounce with her movement as she sways and pulls with the beat of the music. She pitches up on the tips of her toes to half-yell something into Jayce’s ear; something that Viktor is much too far away to hear. 

He denies the tug of jealousy in his chest, because that’s something to deal with later. The younger man currently has his initial dangling at the hollow of his throat, he reminds himself.

Jayce smiles warmly at her and laughs at whatever she said, shoulders heaving slightly with the movement. He presses as close as he dares to her, and it’s evident that he wants more contact; more hands, more mouths, more bodies.

He thinks he can see the moment when Jayce starts feeling the effects. He strays his gaze from the people around him for long enough to stare up, for just a few more seconds than is usually acceptable, at the colourful rays of dancing lights that fill the space. Jayce jolts slightly, as though he was punched, when he sees the acts of the people on the upper balconies; increasing in depravity with each level. He melts into the touch of the violet-haired girl when she places her hand on the top of his shoulder, guiding him into another movement. 

Viktor strays his own gaze up to the upper levels, and is met with about what he expected. It’s dark enough up there that he can’t see with great ease. After all, the rentable rooms are up on the highest floor. He feasts on the sight of a young man with shoulder length dark hair, naked save for the briefs wrapped around his thighs, being rhythmically pushed against the metal railing by a much older, much larger man at his back. The young man’s eyes are pinched closed, but his mouth hangs open in contrast. 

He catches himself absently thumbing at the head of his cock through his pants, under the cover of the table (not that it would really matter much anyway), and wonders about the aphrodisiac qualities of what Zevia gave him. If the pooling of heat low in his belly is anything to go by, he could guess that it wasn’t a zero sum. Though, that could also just be his general sexual frustration with the entire outing. 

How would Jayce look in that position, he wonders. Would he loathe the open attention, or would he become drunk on its effects? Jayce, bent over at the waist, tag swinging back and forth as Viktor fucks sloppily into him; one hand fisted in his hair, forcing him to face the crowd below, and the other digging harshly into the meat of his hip, leaving bruises for the days to come. 

When he tears his eyes away from the sight, he seeks Jayce’s dark head of hair in the edges of the crowd, and frowns slightly when he can’t immediately spot him. 

He probably got pulled in closer to the middle. He’ll like it there, surrounded by bodies, Viktor muses. 

Viktor, in the meantime, takes the opportunity to visit the washrooms. He relives the ache in his bladder while listening to no less than two couples and one throuple fucking in the stalls next to him. Their pace is quite commendable, in all honesty.

By the time he makes it back, Jayce is still nowhere to be seen. He’s not worried per se, but it’s been some time, and their drinks haven’t been refilled nor taken back since he left. The bar staff are now too outpaced to be regularly glass-wrangling, and Jayce evidently has been back to get a refill. 

He waits a little longer, idly people watching and passively searching for Jayce’s hair or the pattern of his shirt, whichever comes first. 

A little more time passes, and Viktor decides he’s going to see if he can’t meander around and find the man. He wants to check in on him, now that he can feel the peak of the high beginning to set in. It’s decent, it’s enough to be a little distracting, but not enough to make him completely delirious with lust. Desires to be close to someone, but it won’t be earth shattering if he can’t. It’s probably also the alcohol that make him fuzzy around the edges. He still has his wits about him though, and he wants to make sure Jayce is safe before he allows himself to really enjoy it. 

Viktor flags a passing server with a tray of empty glasses as politely as he can, adding two more to the tray so someone else can take the booth he’s vacating. He slips a few coins into their smock before they depart, in thanks. 

Lazily, he starts by walking the length of the dance floor on the outer perimeter. Paces a couple of times and then stops to lean against a wall near the back to see if he can spot him. Perhaps if he went up a level or two, it would be easier to see. 

Just as he’s about to depart for the balconies, turning away from the floor, a large hand engulfs the entirety of Viktor’s bicep. He knows from the heat alone that it’s Jayce. 

“Viktor,” Jayce gasps his name, as though desperate for air. 

His chest heaves, and there’s a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead. Viktor’s concern bubbles when he meets his eyes, and sees a veritable panic behind his blown-out pupils. 

“Jayce, what happened? What’s wrong— are you hurt?”

“What? No, nothing happened— I’m not hurt.”

His hand doesn’t release its grip on his arm. If anything, it gets tighter, unwilling to let Viktor go now that he has him. 

Viktor gently guides him to lean against the wall to rest; Jayce follows willingly and without a sliver of protest. Viktor could probably parade him around on a leash on all fours and Jayce would crawl happily alongside. Another thought for another time. 

“Something is bothering you. Did someone try something? What—”

Jayce’s face scrunches in annoyance. “No, nobody’s tried anything, and that’s the fucking problem.”

“What do you mean?” 

He pulls Viktor in closer by his steady grip, until he’s slotted rather intimately between Jayce’s legs. “Nobody will touch me—”

“People were touching you, Jayce.”

He shakes his head. “Not like that— not how I want to be touched. And it’s because of this fucking collar you put on me.”

Viktor looks away for a second, sheepish. When he looks back up, it’s to Jayce’s signature wet puppy eyes, and Viktor blames the way his knees wobble on the fatigue of standing, as though he’s not been sitting for the past few hours. 

“Viktor, I need to be touched.”

“Jayce, I—”

“Please,” he whines, and pulls Viktor ever closer to him. 

With no more room between their bodies, Viktor is slotted against him, hip to hip. The wickedly hot and obscenely thick line of his erection pushes against the space between Viktor’s hip and thigh from where it’s trapped in his deliriously tight pants. 

Jayce peers at Viktor through thick lashes; chest heaving, eclipsed pupils, panting open mouthed as he waits for Viktor to act. 

All at once, the pieces fall into place. 

Jayce’s reactions weren’t hesitance or apprehension to Viktor’s behaviour, as irregular as it may have been. It was pure, bloody, raw, aching desire; just barely kept from boiling over. 

“Oh, Jayce,” Viktor places his one palm on the centre of his chest. 

Jayce’s right hand flies up to grip Viktor’s hip, and he loosens the death grip he had on his arm in favour of having both hands on his hips; gasping for air like a man starved of it when their bodies make contact. “Have I been neglecting you?”

Jayce’s throat bobs, and he nods dejectedly in short bursts. His lower lip juts into a pout, and begs Viktor with his gaze to make it up to him. 

“I am sorry that I did not notice earlier, darling. Would you like me to take the edge off? Just until we get back and so I can make it up to you and take you apart properly.” 

Viktor gets a hand between them and provides Jayce the friction he so desires. He tries for a soothing manner, softly stroking his neglected cock through his pants, however, the effect is anything but. The man goes rigid, as he throws his head back against the wall behind him, bowing his spine at an uncomfortable angle. Fingertips dig, almost painfully, into his hips and Viktor wonders if there will be proof of it come tomorrow. 

Jayce nods hastily. “Please, yes, please, Viktor I can’t—”

“There is one condition, love.” Viktor purrs as he starts to unbutton as many buttons as it takes to get his hand inside Jayce’s pants to tug his dick out enough for him to wrap his hand around. 

“Yeah, yes — anything,”

“Tell me when you are about to come, yes?”

Jayce agrees between breaths, and when he slams his head back once more, Viktor gets slightly worried for the state of his skull. 

Hastily resting his cane against the wall beside them, he shifts his weight to his good leg, and gets the hand not currently wrapped around Jayce’s weeping cock threaded into the short hairs around the back of his head, protecting him from the wall. 

It prompts Jayce to tilt his head forward, until his forehead meets Viktor’s. He stares heavily between them, watching the tip of his length peek through the tight circle of Viktor’s fist. 

Viktor only gets ten strokes before Jayce shifts his head, whining obscenely into Viktor’s ear.

“I— I’m not gonna last.” he pants.

“I did not ask you to, Jayce. You can let go, darling.”

Jayce’s breath hitches so violently he all but sobs, gripping Viktor with more force, as though it will keep him from floating away entirely. 

“C-coming,” he spits out in warning. 

Viktor hastily, and in a way he will come to regret later, drops to his knees and engulfs Jayce with his mouth. Viktor feels him jerk violently forward, leaning his weight on both shoulders and carnally thrusting once into the wet and waiting heat. 

Jayce comes on Viktor’s eager tongue, savouring the salty thick spend for just a moment before greedily swallowing it down. 

Viktor laves his tongue around the tip of his cock, making sure to gather every drop. 

Using Jayce as an anchor, he pulls himself up and tucks Jayce away before anyone else gets any more of an eyeful than they already have. His hand returns to the back of his head, and idly plays with the shorn hair there, waiting for Jayce to come back to himself. 

His head lolls forward, touching their foreheads together once more. Through bleary eyes, Jayce gazes to him. 

“Now, would you like to dance more or would you like to go home?” Viktor asks softly.

“Home, please. Please take me home.” He begs, as though Viktor was not already convinced. 

“That’s what I presumed, but I thought I’d give you the option.”

Viktor makes sure all of Jayce’s waist buttons are done up before dragging him out of the club with the fingers of his free hand threaded through Jayce’s much larger one. 

Actually getting home proves to be no small task. Not with the way Jayce keeps caressing every inch of Viktor he can possibly reach from his position. It starts with his hand skirting up the length of his arm, resting at his shoulder and drawing arbitrary symbols into his scapula. At some point, he decides that it’s not enough contact, and saddles closer. Presses the sides of their bodies together while occupying a shoulder with one hand and the other tracing down the length of Viktor’s spine. 

He unfortunately has to cut him off when Jayce attempts to stick his hands under the layers of his clothing, itching at the waist of his pants. It’s not that Viktor is adverse to amorous displays in public (evidently), but it makes it incredibly challenging to continue putting one foot in front of the other without the risk of hurting himself. 

Viktor comes to a screeching halt in the middle of the sidewalk. 

Jayce puts a hand on either side of his waist, over top of the corset, his thumbs rubbing aimless circles into the fabric. 

He hooks one lithe finger on the chain around Jayce’s throat where the tag sits, and tugs firmly in warning. 

Jayce gasps, and Viktor watches transfixed as his eyes roll back and his eyelids flutter closed. 

“Jayce.”

“Mhm.” The man hums where his words fail him. His eyes remain closed, despite Viktor waiting a moment for him to open them again. 

“You may touch me, but do not hinder my movement. The longer you misbehave, the longer it will take us to get back. Understood?”

Jayce’s eyebrows pinch together uncomfortably in a way Viktor knows to mean he’s concentrating, as he neglects to answer. 

Viktor a little harder once more on his collar, his hand not having left its position. 

“Words, Jayce. I know you are capable of them.”

His mouth falls open in a wordless plea and his brow scrunches impossibly more, as the larger man pulls Viktor forward by his leverage on his waist, colliding their hips together just in time for him to feel Jayce’s cock pulsing within the confines of his pants. He’s forced to look down when he feels warmth teasing the outside layer of his own trousers. 

“Did you just co—”

“Yes.”

Viktor looks back up at him, incredulously, one eyebrow raised all the way to his hairline. 

“…Untouched?”

After two full steady breaths, he opens his eyes again to peer at Viktor. With more clarity this time, it seems. 

“You were touching me.” Jayce whispers sheepishly, as if it isn’t the singular hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen anyone do. 

If Jayce feels his own cock give a valiant twitch, he doesn’t let on.

Viktor gently releases the collar from his grasp, coming up to card through the man’s gel-sticky hair instead. Jayce all but purrs, following the motion of his hand as not to detach himself from his contact at all. 

“I was touching your collar.”

“Same thing.”

“What a marvel you are.” Viktor says earnestly, with all the sincere praise and adoration he’s only ever previously reserved for their research, and the things he’s sung about the man inside his head. 

He flushes and looks away shyly, though the cute little smile at the corner of his mouth betrays him. 

It’s unfortunate that Jayce is forced to walk the rest of the way with a wet come patch on the leg of his pants, but it’s late, dark, and they don’t run into anyone anyway. Much of Piltover has a complex about walking the streets so late at night, as though the Zaunites would abduct them under the cover of nightfall. 

Jayce is slightly more sated after the second orgasm though, and while his hands still wander and trace unseen patterns into his skin and clothing, he’s no longer acting like he’ll die if Viktor doesn’t get his cock out in the middle of the street. It probably won’t be long until he’s back at that state, if the slow but steady increase in desperation is anything to go by. 

Viktor is barely able to get two steps past the threshold of the door before Jayce all but drops to his knees. The older man gently leads him to stand in front of the sofa in Jayce’s open living room. 

“Disrobe, if you please.” Has to add a sharp Slowly, when Jayce’s over eager hands work the buttons of his top so roughly Viktor is worried they’ll snap off. 

With some struggle, he’s able to get out of the pants, peeling them off of his body so they lay inside out on the floor. He kicks the pile of clothes and his boots off to the side, as far as they’ll slide in one forceful kick, as though they’ve gravely offended him. 

He should have a little more appreciation for them really — it’s almost the entire reason he’s in this position in the first place. 

Viktor hums appreciatively, while Jayce stands naked, swaying slightly on his feet. He stalks closer, one asynchronous tap at a time. 

Pointedly, he hasn’t removed the collar. Not because he couldn’t (though he would need the magnetic key in Viktor’s pocket), but because he hasn’t even tried. Not once has he tugged at the chain or fiddled with the clasp in the back; all signals Viktor would read as discomfort. He rather seems at ease, baring only the collar (Viktor’s collar, with Viktor’s initial, and Viktor’s tag). Comforted, even. 

Viktor reaches a hand out, tapping the tip of his finger against the dangling tags sitting in his jugular notch. 

“Would you li—”

“Don’t take it off,” Jayce interrupts too quickly, and then realizes his discourtesy. “Please.” He adds, meekly. 

Viktor holds up his hand, placatingly. 

“Merely thought I would offer.” He replies, continuing his inspection.

He circles the man predatorily, memorizing every centimetre of exposed, bronze skin up for offer. 

Stopping at his back, Viktor teases one finger up each of the notches of his vertebrae, and revels in the outbreak of goosebumps in his wake; like the ripples of a tide. 

He trails the same finger around to the expanse of his chest, valiantly ignoring the way Jayce’s cock stands at full attention; aching and actively drooling onto the floor between them. He gasps slightly when Viktor trails the pad of his finger down to one nipple, toying with the reactive flesh. Trails further down, dragging his nails through the neat path of gradually thickening hair under his navel to where it meets the thatch of trimmed pubic hair. 

Jayce keens when Viktor reverses direction, and goes back up to his chest, flattening a palm against his massive fucking pectoral. 

“Hands behind your back.” Viktor softly orders. 

Jayce’s hands fly to clasp himself, neatly tucked together. 

“Good boy. Now on your knees.”

He soars with the praise and quickly drops to his knees, peering up at Viktor from crotch level, merely waiting permission to start his assault. He knows, from the mischievous glint in his hazy eyes, that he considers nosing forward into Viktor’s half-hard bulge, and ultimately decides against it. It’s a good thing too, because Viktor didn’t really want to put punishment on the table tonight. He desires the praise more than he craves to intentionally misbehave. 

The thing about Jayce, is that he is incredibly needy. Needier and whinier than anyone Viktor has ever bedded or played with before. Now, that’s not to say that handling Jayce is out of his comfort zone, or even necessarily out of his experience. But he finds that he wants to bend him, just a little (right now at least), to see how he reacts. Will he beg and plead and grovel for Viktor to touch him, anywhere at all? Or will he become stoic, once he’s been given a direct order, seeking out the moment he receives high praise for enduring so well? If he leaves him alone for long enough, restrained and dripping with desperation, could he get him to come untouched again, or was earlier just an anomaly? 

Viktor can hypothesize all he wants, but the only way he’ll get all the answers he’s ever wondered, daydreamed, and fantasized about, is to move on to the next phase: experimentation. 

Remaining fixed in his position, he peers down into Jayce’s waiting gaze. Viktor gently grips the underside of his jaw, letting Jayce rest the full weight of his head in his hand, like a dog begging for a treat. 

“How many times can you come in a night, Jayce?”

He shifts some of the weight away from his jaw so he can answer, but not enough to detach Viktor’s hand from his skin. 

“Uh… I don’t know, three maybe?”

Viktor raises a curious brow. 

“Have you never tried more?”

Sheepishly again, he gently shakes his head, his cheeks tinging a beautiful pink. Piltovian sensibilities, he reminds himself. 

“Maybe more now — I’ve never taken anything that’s made me feel like this before.”

“Horny?”

“Insatiable. I haven’t come in my pants since I was a teenager, much less after one already.” 

Caressing the hinge of his jaw with his thumb, scratching against the stubble, Viktor hums in contemplation. 

“It looks like we will have to experiment then, yes?”

It’s been a little while since taking their dosage, and Viktor has the stray thought to take another, just to see how long they could go before failure. Alas, Viktor would be woefully underprepared for such a scenario. Not that he hasn’t done it before, but that was back when he didn’t end up seeing his bedmate come daylight, and didn’t think much about how it would affect them (or himself, for that matter) the day after. Yet another thought to visit another time. 

Jayce doesn’t answer verbally, instead giving a small nod and looking up at Viktor expectantly on his knees. 

Instead of reaching for the button on his waist like Jayce expects him to, he strokes the underside of his jaw once more, before dropping contact entirely. 

“Stay here, do not move.” He instructs firmly. 

A shudder wracks through Jayce, pebbling his nipples and shaking his core. Viktor’s fingers twitch with the ache to touch from where they’re currently wrapped around the handle of his cane. 

When Jayce proves his compliance, still peering up at him, Viktor slowly back away. 

He leisurely meanders to the kitchen, and he knows that Jayce’s eyes are tracking his every movement, trying to predict what he’ll do next. 

Viktor knows his apartment well enough to be able to help himself with whatever he needs. He grabs a large glass from the cupboard and fills it almost to the brim with tap water, carrying it close to his body as he then leaves and makes his way to Jayce’s bedroom. He resists the biting urge to glance over at the younger man, still kneeling, and trying to analyze every minuscule expression that crosses his face. 

The bedroom is just as they left it; bed made, stray clothing options strewn about, and Viktor’s bag, still propped up in the seat of the chair in the corner. 

He first places the glass down on the waist-high dresser, grabbing a couple of rejected shirts and draping them over his arm for collection. Retrieving the bottle of over-the-counter analgesics he knows Jayce keeps in the shelving behind his bathroom mirror, he places it next to the water, and deposits the clothes into a crude pile in the closet and shuts the door. The curtains come next, securing them against the sunrise that is to come in the near future. 

Viktor gets so far as placing a few small towels on the nightstand and retrieving the bottle of lubricant he knows will be in the adjacent drawer — not because he’s seen it before, but because he has spent the last however many months trying to work out every facet of Jayce’s behaviour — before Jayce’s timid voice calls to him from the hallway. 

“Viktor?” 

It seems he’s at his upper limit. Interesting, considering it’s been barely three minutes. Viktor wonders what he could do with six. Nine, even. 

“Yes, darling.” He calls back over his shoulder. 

“Wh- uh…” Viktor waits patiently as he starts and interrupts himself a few times before settling. “Is everything okay?” 

Despite his words, Viktor hears the ‘am I being good?’ with crystal clarity. 

“Everything is wonderful, Jayce.” 

His assurance is met with a small whimper. Viktor hesitates a little more, just to drag it out and watch him squirm. 

He walks at a snail’s pace back to the living room, pausing at the threshold to examine Jayce. He tremors slightly, though not with exertion. He’s dripped steadily enough and without flagging that a small pool of precum has accumulated on the floor in between his legs. Viktor leans slightly to the left, and is able to see the tips of his fingers have turned white with how firmly he grips his own wrist. 

Viktor smirks to himself, huffing amusedly through his nose. 

He paces to the sofa, taking a seat directly in front of Jayce. His brows lift hopefully and his bottom lip trembles. 

Viktor pats the knee of his good leg, and Jayce shuffles forward the final inches to close the distance. The younger man immediately rests his head in the offered space, while two large hands crawl up the outsides of either of Viktor’s legs, settling for vaguely massaging his calves, but largely just groping his flesh. 

A hand flies up to card through Jayce’s hair, enjoying the shiver that runs through him when he drags his nails over his scalp. 

“You were very good for me, waiting so patiently.”

In time he’ll drag it out more, but as it is, Viktor has been at least half hard in his pants since Jayce first grabbed his arm. He’s also getting needy, and his tolerance is starting to wean; softened significantly by the drugs and alcohol. 

“Tell me Jayce,” Viktor drawls, undoing the buttons keeping the front of his trousers closed. “Have you done this before?” 

Jayce’s eyes track the movement of his fingers with rapt attention; a dog salivating at the treat being dangled in front of him. 

“Uh… Once or twice? It wasn’t, um, for very long.”

“Not to worry, I know you are a quick study.” He praises, finally tugging his rapidly stiffening cock free from its confines, sighing lightly as he wraps a lazy hand around himself. 

Jayce honest-to-gods salivates, a dollop escaping from the corner of his mouth and falling to the fabric covering Viktor’s knee. 

When Jayce reaches out and wraps a searing hand around him, he immediately knows he won’t last long. Viktor has denied himself any attention for the entire trek home, and he’s just a little keyed up.

Jayce gently strokes him, watching the way his foreskin peels away, exposing him to the cool air of the late night, before pulling his hand up again and repeating the process. He’s taking a metric, Viktor realizes; trying to figure out what makes him buck up or gasp or groan or whine.

He lifts himself to his knees from his haunches, so he can eagerly lap at the tip of Viktor’s cock, before the steady drips of precum can travel too far, held securely with his large hand at the base. 

Viktor gasps, throwing his head back against the cushion. He’d forgotten how good this could feel while under the influence of an aphrodisiac. Or, more likely than that, under Jayce’s influence; making him feel dizzy with desire and stifled with the need to fuck him stupid. 

With great effort, he lifts his head again, as not to miss a single second of Jayce’s devotion. 

He can pinpoint the moment that Jayce gets impatient, wanting to see more of Viktor’s reactions; just how many sounds he can pull from him. 

Jayce follows all the proper proceedings, as though going through a mental checklist. He tucks his teeth under his lips, hollows his cheeks, and takes the first half of Viktor’s length with relative ease. He’s drooling enough that it starts to drip down his shaft, gathering briefly in the hairs at the base then teasing him by trailing down over his sack. 

Viktor rewards him with a fist in his hair, to which the man groans throatily, sending waves of vibrations back through his cock. By the end of it, it was really a reward for himself. 

Jayce gets agitated with his inability to take him all at once, as though the ability to deep throat is something gained through fervour and not practice and patience. He pushes himself forward, down further and further, and Viktor doesn’t catch him in time to warn him against it. 

He gags himself in his earnestness, the sound wet and loud and undeniable as it rings through the apartment. In the milliseconds following, Viktor feels his throat convulse impossibly tighter around the tip of his cock, and it takes all of his willpower to keep his hips fastened to his seat, moaning loudly as he fights his baser reaction. 

Viktor pulls him off with a firm hand in his hair.

“I will teach you to take all of me in time, do not hurt yourself for my benefit.” 

He continues mouthing at him, mere centimetres away from his wet and waiting hole. Jayce peers at him through hazy eyes. 

“Want to make you feel good,” he whines.

“You already make me feel amazing, Jayce. Use your hand with what you cannot take.” 

The younger man nods, already taking the tip in his mouth again. 

The next minutes dilate into hours and days and weeks and lifetimes of the enthralling way Jayce works him with his mouth as though it was the only thing he was born to do; in this universe and every other, Jayce is pliant and needy beneath him. 

Once Jayce finds his rhythm, only interrupted by the sloppy wet sounds, it’s an embarrassingly short interval before he has to voice another warning. 

“Jayce, I— ngh, I’m close,” he groans all the courtesy he can manage. 

Jayce simply gazes up at him, mouth stuffed with Viktor’s cock, and keeps pace. 

One of Viktor’s hands flies down to claw at Jayce’s bicep, and the other tightens its grip in the man’s sweat-damp hair, prompting another rewarded groan. 

Hopelessly, Viktor comes on Jayce’s eager tongue, core seizing and back arched. 

Jayce swallows all of him down, without hesitance. 

Viktor curses his sinful, enthusiastic mouth when he begins to immediately nip and suck at the skin on his hips and lower belly once he detaches from his spent cock. He has yet another errant thought to gag him, just to see how he’d fare with nothing substantial between his lips. Or, even better yet, a chew toy if he continues to act like a teething pup.

He gently tugs the man’s head back with the grip still in his hair, Jayce following willingly anywhere Viktor will lead him. 

Jayce awaits his response with a partially gaped mouth that begs to be fucked again. 

Instead, Viktor leans forward and kisses his forehead.

It’s then he realizes that, in his haste to debauch Jayce, he’s neglected to kiss him. 

Viktor slides his hand to gently cup the back of his head, cradling his skull, and tugs with one finger on his collar to keep him close, and chases the taste of himself on the back of Jayce’s tongue. Jayce keens, high pitched and needy, as soon as their lips meet; Viktor isn’t sure he’s aware that he’s doing it. 

It’s overzealous and a bit sloppy, but he doesn’t stop until the only thing he can taste as he licks over his tongue and between his teeth is undeniably Jayce. 

He starts to shift his left leg, intending to press closer, but is interrupted by a desperate gasp when the solid length of his shin meets the unyielding heat of Jayce’s engorged and ignored erection. 

Viktor grinds his leg against him, just to watch him writhe. The man nearly doubles over, heaving, if only he weren’t stopped by the couch and Viktor’s body. He lets him rut against the rough weave of his pants, and feels patches of warmth where he’s surely leaking all over him. 

“Could you come like this, Jayce? Hm?” 

Jayce regards him with open mouthed pants before scrunching his brow and leaning forward, digging his canines into the meat above Viktor’s knee, wrapping both hands around the back of his calf.

“I think you can. Evidently, I don’t even need to touch you for you to reach climax.”

He tugs at the collar some more, and Jayce begins rutting against him with a single minded purpose, chasing his release and the subsequent praise from Viktor. 

Viktor surges forward to kiss him again, this one even messier and sloppier and hastier than the last. Jayce pants openly into his mouth between kisses, smearing excess saliva across their chins and cheeks until he suddenly stills and Viktor is swallowing his moans. Heat blooms over the majority of his shin, and up as high as his kneecap, as his spend embeds itself in the fabric. 

He cradles Jayce’s head and toys with his hair, gently tracing absent patterns into his shoulders and neck as he twitches and calms through the aftershocks of his third orgasm. 

Still pressed against his shin, Viktor feels his erection flag more than it had previously, but still not entirely. He’ll be good for at least one more, if only because Viktor wishes it. 

“You did so well, doing exactly as I asked of you.” Another small whine escapes his lips, as Viktor cards through sweaty strands. “Would you like to move to the bedroom, or have you had enough for tonight?”

“Bed— bedroom, please.” 

Jayce begs so prettily, he never wants to hear him stop. Should keep him locked away from the rest of the world, strung on the precipice of too much and not enough, just so he can hear him scream and whine and beg and plead for Viktor, Viktor, Viktor. 

Viktor instructs Jayce into his own room, telling him to get himself comfortable on his bed, while Viktor downs half a glass of much-needed water in one go. 

He gets to the threshold of Jayce’s bedroom, and watches silently for a moment as he finds Jayce lazily stroking himself; eyes closed, with an arm thrown over his head. 

“Did I say that you were allowed to touch yourself, Jayce?”

His eyes fly open and the man jolts like Viktor’s words held kinetic potential. Another beautiful rosy-red flush decorates his cheeks and chest, as he places his own hands underneath his back in exile; as though they would act of their own volition if he left them free. 

Stalking closer to the bed, he trails one finger from his metatarsals up slowly through the wiry hair on his legs, the taught muscles in his pelvis, and up the underside of his straining cock, tapping at the wetness on the head with the pad of his index finger. 

Jayce’s heaving chest arches violently away from the bed when Viktor gently digs his finger into the slit of his urethra by a few millimetres. 

“We will determine punishments at a later time,” he says flippantly. “Right now, I need to see you come undone with me inside you.” 

He whimpers pathetically again, and Viktor ensures his gaze is trained on him before propping his cane at the end of the bed, and reaching around his torso to undo the ribbon of the corset at his back. The sheer top is next, of which he spends a not insignificant amount of time undoing the remaining buttons, followed by his now soiled pants. 

By the time he climbs onto the bed, between Jayce’s spread legs, the tip of his cock is once again flushed an angry red and steadily weeping; teasing in the way it slowly rolls down his shaft. 

“On your stomach, darling.” 

Jayce rolls over obediently, his newly freed hands coming to grip the sheets beside his head. 

Viktor nabs one of the extra pillows and slots it under his right knee. Not that it’s going to do a lot but he’ll appreciate having had the extra support come tomorrow. 

He also snags the lube from the bedside table, and watches goosebumps erupt on the smooth, strong expanse of his back when he hears the undoubtably familiar sound of the lid. 

Deciding to be kind, he waits for the lubricant to warm to the heat of his body in one hand, and pulls at Jayce’s muscular cheek with the other; thoroughly exposing his twitching hole to Viktor’s devouring eyes. 

Once it’s at an acceptable temperature, Viktor lightly prods with one finger at the muscle, expecting a certain amount of resistance, and finding himself considerably shocked when Jayce swallows his entire digit easily. He tests his sneaking suspicion by adding another, finding it too is greedily absorbed. 

This is the laxness of a man who had something inside of him not long ago. 

“Did you do more than stroke yourself while I was out of the room?”

Jayce pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and quietly replies. “…No.”

Viktor roughly manhandles the glute in his palm, spearing two fingers into him a little more harshly through Jayce’s wet gasps.

“Do not lie to me, Jayce.”

“I’m n-not lying! I didn’t do anything just now!”

“Just now?” 

The man closes his eyes, sheepishly hiding his face in the mattress. “I may have, uh… prepped. Earlier. Before you got here.”

Viktor grins wickedly, abandoning his rough handling of his ass to curl a hand around the back of his collar and pulling, applying pressure to the front of his throat. He pushes a third finger past his rim and finds himself welcome with open arms. 

“Jayce Talis,” he says with all the conviction of a chastising parent. “Were you planning for this?”

Jayce twitches around his fingers desperately willing him to move.

“N-not planning! Just… hoping. Imagining.”

“And was it me you were thinking of, or were you willing to let just any Zaunite fuck you?”

The man desperately shakes his head. “No— just you, Viktor. It’s always been you.”

Viktor can’t help but huff an amused chuckle. “Well, it’s a good thing you bear my initial then, isn’t it?” 

“W-what?” He tries for confused, but is already too fucked out to put his heart into the act.

“Don’t play coy now, Jayce. I know you examined it as thoroughly as you could in the piss poor lighting of the bathroom.” 

Viktor retracts his fingers as well as his grip on the collar in favour of slicking his cock with more lube as he speaks.

“Did it excite you when you realized what it was? That I had so publicly claimed you as mine?”

Jayce chances a look over his shoulder, and moans wantonly when he sees Viktor’s fist making quick work of himself. 

“Fuck, V— I wanted to drop to my knees suck you dry under the table, for everyone to see you fuck my face and come down my throat.”

Viktor teases him — rewards him — with the tip of his cock dipping just barely a centimetre inside of him. He could get himself off like this, if he was feeling particularly mean or punishing. It’s enough so that if Jayce were to ask for Viktor to fuck him, he wouldn’t be able to deny that that’s what he was doing. Could pop the head halfway in, work the rest of himself with his fist, and come so shallowly inside of him that most of it would drip back out as soon as he retreats.

It appears as though the key to breaking the Piltovian reserve is roughly three orgasms, some alcohol, an aphrodisiac, and the promise of a dick, prodding at his hole. 

“Would you have let me paint your face with my seed? Take you to the upper balcony and fuck you over the crowd with my claim on your skin?”

Jayce moans, louder than anything already, when just the head pops inside of him. 

“You — fuck— can do whatever you want to me, I’m yours.” 

Viktor duly notes the use of the present tense. 

Jayce’s hand flies back to grip Viktor’s hip, not to push him away or hold him at bay, but to greedily push him forward into his sloppy-warm hole.

Stars dance behind Viktor’s fluttering eyelids, and he has to still himself when his pelvis is cushioned against the plush muscle of Jayce’s ass. His second release teases dangerously close to the surface, cock violently twitching in earnest. 

Jayce roughly paws and kneads his hip, eyes closed and brows clenched, face half-buried in the pillow under his head; while wrenching combinations of whines, sobs, and moans spill from his mouth. 

“F-fuck, you’re so big — feel you in my fucking lungs, V.”

Viktor huffs, trailing a hand up and down his spine languidly. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Jayce. Not when you whine so nicely for me.” 

“Wasn’t flattery, just an observation,” He shakes his head, and the breathless way he speaks lends to truth, this time. 

Viktor grins again. How much can he drag out of him by just warming his cock inside him? How many depraved confessions can he pull from him with the aid of desperation? Viktor won’t deny it would also have the added benefit of stroking his ego.

“What else are you observing, I wonder?” Viktor teases, shifting backwards half an inch and then forward again, dangling his pleasure in front of him, knowing he’s too far gone to do anything but take it. 

He slides the hand tracing his spine further up his back, until it threads once more through the messy tangles on his head from Viktor’s previous abuse, as he slowly but firmly wrenches his head back until his collar is on neat display; the metal tags clinking beautifully against one another. 

Jayce groans, strained against the angle of his throat. 

“You fuck me so well without even needing to touch me — can so easily tear me down to the core and build me back up in your image,” he chokes out a moan when Viktor rewards him with another half inch. 

“Every day I have to fight the desire to drop to my knees for you, let you use me however you want, in front of anybody — everybody. Nobody sees me like you do.”

Viktor finally, agonizingly pulls himself halfway out and pushes back into Jayce’s greedy, wet hole with a lewd slap as their skin meets. The man below him gasps, trailing off into a pathetic little whine as Viktor starts his punishing pace. 

“Be careful what you wish for, Jayce. You might bite off more than you can chew.”

With limited movement, Jayce shakes his head back and forth. “No, not with you. Never with you. Take me, use me — I’m yours.”

Since he’s begging so nicely for it, Viktor fucks into him ruthlessly. Ignores the protesting exertion in his muscles, because if Jayce wants it, Jayce will get it. 

He worries, just for a moment, if he’s going to have to apologize to Jayce’s neighbours about the sheer volume of Jayce’s pornographic fucking moans. It isn’t one discernible sound, but rather a feral amalgamation of begging and whining and groaning and yelling. All punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin, where Viktor’s protruding pelvic bone meets the ample swell of Jayce’s ass, and every time Viktor’s balls slap against Jayce’s, sticky from the excess lubricant falling victim to gravity. 

Viktor knows when he’s properly grazed Jayce’s prostate, if only by his reaction, and not the way his insides flutter deliciously around him. His spine bows to an unnatural angle, the rippling musculature of his back seizing from the treatment, and his laboured breaths cease, waiting for the onslaught of stimulation to pass. 

Smirking, Viktor pulls upwards on his hips until he gets the message, and hauls himself to his knees, with his chest still pressed flat against the bed. Jayce presents himself like he’s in heat. 

Viktor then gets one hand around the back of his collar for leverage, and drags the man up on his hands. He complies so quickly and so willingly that Viktor has to praise him. 

“Good boy, Jayce.” Still tugging on his collar, he continues his ascent until Viktor is able to easily wrap one hand around the front of his throat. Jayce whines, high and broken. 

He doesn’t squeeze, rather just rests his hand against the hollow, engulfing the clinking metal of the tags, and holds him. A threat and a promise. 

Angling himself, Viktor abandons chasing any of his own release for the task of making Jayce sing. He proceeds to slowly and brutally stimulates his prostate with the tip of his cock, alternating between spearing and massaging. 

He sneaks one hand down the length of Jayce’s torso to wrap around his bobbing cock, stroking him with purpose. 

When Viktor squeezes ever so slightly with the hand wrapped around his neck, Jayce stills, and it takes all of Viktor’s willpower to not spill into his spasming hole. His spend dribbles pathetically out of his cock, warmly dripping over Viktor’s knuckles.

Jayce all but collapses forward, rag dolling, and Viktor manages to roll him on his back with no small effort. 

He whines at the loss when Viktor inevitably slips out of him with a wet pop. 

Viktor takes the opportunity to lean down over the man, trailing kisses from his spent cock to the spread of his collarbones. He whines again when Viktor kisses the dangling tag of his collar, sitting so prettily on his throat.

Jayce feels the expanse of his bare skin blindly, unsure of whether he wants more stimulation or less; caught between pulling him closer and pushing him away. 

“Viktor, please…”

“Please what, Jayce?”

“You haven’t—”

“I don’t need to — not if you’ve had enough. I am in control of myself, unlike some.” Viktor continues mouthing and nipping at his skin, savouring the heady taste of sweat and alcohol and dancing and submission and Jayce. 

“Please,” he pleads weakly. 

“Use your words, Jayce.” Viktor chastises. 

He’ll break him of that habit yet. 

“Please fuck me, wanna feel you come inside me. Use me to get off — wanna make you feel good.”

Viktor leans back, brings his own soiled hand up to his mouth and licks the entirety of it clean, until it shines, damp with his saliva. Jayce watches him hungrily. 

He quickly repositions himself, pushing both of Jayce’s legs back towards his chest, obediently slotting a hand under each knee and baring himself for presentation. 

Jayce gasps and forcibly throws his head back against the pillow when Viktor prods at his puffy, reddened hole with his thumb; sliding it inside and pulling until there’s a slight gape around his appendage. 

“Who am I to deny when you beg so beautifully for me?” 

Viktor thinks about taking up photography as a hobby, so he can catalogue the exact hue of every alluring blush to ever paint his skin. 

He doesn’t really need it, but Viktor slicks himself with more lubricant anyway, if only to hear the obscene squelching as he fucks into the pliant man beneath him. 

Shuffling forward the final inches, Viktor sighs in relief when Jayce’s tight, wet heat has him sheathed once more. Viktor leans forward, one hand braced by his head, and the other placed over top of Jayce’s hand that grips his own leg. Surely, it’s the only thing keeping him grounded through the overstimulated onslaught he’s experiencing. 

His head stays thrown back, in ecstasy or in endurance, Viktor can’t quite tell. 

Despite it all, his cock still tries valiantly to react. Not quite half hard, and dribbling out the last that he can manage. 

Viktor, wickedly, starts smiling. 

“I think you can give me one more, Jayce. Don’t you?”

His eyes fly open, staring pleadingly up at him through damp lashes. He whines so brokenly the sound hardly registers, the only tell being the vibration of his vocal chords. 

“One more, and then I will give you what you want.”

Jayce nods weakly, eyes rolling back, as Viktor watches a drop of saliva escape the corner of his lips and roll down his neck. He surges forward and chases the droplet with his tongue, licking into Jayce’s mouth to put it back where it belongs. 

Picking up his pace, Viktor fucks into him in earnest, chasing the younger man to the precipice. 

Jayce whines and thrashes weakly against — or for — the stimulation, no longer able to form coherent sentences, but rather bits and pieces of words, whispered as praise. Viktor is only able to catch a certain few; yes, please, Viktor, please, please, so much, too much, please, and yes, all sobbed through strained vocal chords. 

He finds his voice again when he clenches down on Viktor once more, albeit weaker than the last. Viktor watches with adoration as his half hard cock twitches against his belly, testicles drawing up closer to his body, and he comes — dry — for the fifth time. Through pinched eyelids, tears escape, cascading down the sides of his face and into his hair and the fabric or the pillowcase beneath him.

He’s hopeless against such a sight. 

Viktor buries himself to the hilt inside of Jayce, painting his insides with his spend; now having been claimed both inside and out. 

Leg aching and chest heaving, Viktor falls forward against Jayce, and begins kissing any of the skin he can reach, laving at it with his tongue, and singing sweet praises into Jayce’s ear. 

He slowly works his way down his body as he descends from the high, until he has to pull himself out to reach any further. His cock escapes with another wet pop, pushes against two powerful thighs to watch the way Viktor’s come slowly escapes his abused hole. 

Indulging himself, Viktor settles on his stomach, spreading Jayce open and licks into him, chasing his own seed with his tongue. 

One of Jayce’s large hands comes to thread in Viktor’s hair, tugging roughly and groaning painfully at the way he spears his tongue into him and stars licking at his insides. Jayce only lets him do it for a short handful of seconds before he’s slapping roughly at Viktor’s shoulders to get him to stop. He remorsefully departs with a final broad lick across his hole. 

He kisses apologetically back up his lax body, with Jayce mumbling incoherently all the while. 

Jayce hardly moves when he peppers his chin and cheeks and lips with light, fleeting kisses; already halfway to sleeping. 

“You were so good for me, Jayce. You’re always so good for me.” He whispers, despite the questionable memory he’ll have of it come tomorrow. 

Viktor stares at him for a long few minutes, observing the way his chest rises and falls with softening breaths.

Eventually, after staring at the sleeping man like a pervert, Viktor makes his shaky way to the bathroom and dampens a cloth with warm water. He hastily wipes himself down, still staring back at his own lazy smile in the mirror. He then cleans and re-wets the rag, making sure its temperature isn’t too jarring, and makes his way back to the bed to gently clean Jayce’s body. He groans slightly and rolls over when he drags the cloth between his legs. 

Viktor tosses it into the laundry basket and moves the water and painkillers from earlier within closer reach, settling them on Jayce’s bedside table. 

Reluctantly retrieving the magnetic key from the pocket of his discarded pants, he carefully undoes the mechanism, sliding the chain off of Jayce’s neck. 

Through no small feat does he wrangle the blankets over top of Jayce’s body, sliding in beside him soon after. 

As soon as he gets close, Jayce curls around the side of his body, as though Viktor is merely a teddy bear at his disposal. Viktor cards through his hair gently when his head comes to rest on his chest. 

“V?” Jayce mumbles into the skin of his sternum. 

“Yes, Jayce.”

“Can we keep the collar?”

Viktor laughs, hearty and fulfilling, in a way only Jayce has ever been able to draw from him. 

“Yes, Jayce. We can keep the collar.”

[tinacheesecat]

Here we are, y'all. This is the first gif I have made in 10 years! Wow, it feels good to flex that muscle after a loooong rest. Maybe it's a bit choppy, but eh it's fine with me as long as I get to watch my meow meow Thanatos tonguing his Zagreus, heh

[cosmicsproutcake]

this is a tweet, but it’s relevant here

[shellshocklove]

snapshot | old man!logan

pairing/AU: old man!logan howlett x female!reader

summary: short on money for rent, your joke about starting an only fans account, to earn some extra cash, goes over logan's head. but when an accident with charles puts your life in danger, logan takes you up on your offer.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! friends with benefits vibes who are also idiots in love, implied age gap, swearing, mentions and drinking of alcohol, use of pet names, logan's a bit of a grumpy dick, sex work, logan can't use a phone, logan can carry reader but he's also extremely strong, smut, praise kink, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), dom!logan, logan's got a dirty mouth, a little dacryphilia, sloppy blow job, facial, cum play, no use of y/n

a/n: a little disclaimer. i actually have no idea how OF work i only read the wikipedia page, so i've taken some liberties with it to fit it with the plot lol. the idea for the reader as charles' caretaker is inspired by @joelsgoldrush's fic never is a promise <- incredible fic that everyone should read! and also a big thank you to @guiltyasdave for all the encouragement on this fic!! <333 happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The coffee tasted sour on his tongue as he waited, engine running on empty, but the whiskey kept his throat warm. Behind the apartment complex the sun crawled up the horizon and split the the dark asphalt in pieces with streaks of blinding sunlight. The street lights shut off just as you walked out, the rickety door slamming shut behind you.

Watching you round the front of the limousine Logan pulled his seat forward, his rough hand grabbing the wheel as his left foot tapped impatiently on the footrest. A tickle in his throat had him greet you with a cough, and he brought his fist to his mouth.

"Morning to you too," you said, voice laced with sarcasm.

"Don't fuckin' slam the door like that– I've told you a thousand times," Logan grunted back and put the car in drive.

This was routine at this point. He picked you up in the morning after driving all night, and dropped you off again in the evening before he started his shift. Employing you took a large wad of cash out of his pocket, but at least he didn't have to worry about Charles being taken care of. You weren't a registered nurse or anything, not someone who'd had all the right references and education, but you needed money and didn't ask questions, and that had been perfect for Logan. He'd hired you about a year ago, and everything after had been routine.

When you didn't say anything back, only shifted your weight in the seat and leaned your head against the window, it pulled at something inside Logan. He couldn't deny you were a beautiful woman. He liked the way your nose curved, how soft your skin felt against his cheek every time you'd given him a reluctant hug, and he liked the way you smelled. It was primal, and in another life Logan would've had you in his bed already, but in this life, Logan was done with beautiful women.

Still early enough for the roads to be empty, Logan pushed the speed limit as he waited for you to speak – to finally say something trivial like you did every morning – some song you'd just discovered, or the plot twist in the reality program you watched every night, or how they were out of your favorite yogurt at the grocery store. He'd reply with a grunt, or with nothing at all, just letting you talk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan noticed how you picked at the skin around your nails, and when the sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, he heaved a heavy sigh.

"What's wrong with you?" he grumbled. A lilt of annoyance coated the words, and Logan hated how your silence had affected him. His harsh tone didn't seem to bother you, and the realization cut like a knife; biting down, Logan's jaw clenched.

"It's nothing."

Logan had to hold back the scoff he wanted to let out, "Clearly it's somethin', kid."

Finally, a reaction out of you. Pushing yourself to sit up straight, you let out a sigh as you turned your head to look at him. "My landlord raised my rent again… I'm thinking about how I'm gonna pay rent this month. I'm gonna be a few hundred bucks short," you told him.

Oh.

Gripping the wheel a little tighter, Logan couldn't help himself from asking, "You tellin' me you're quittin'?"

He couldn't blame you, he thought he paid you a fair wage, but it seemed that everything had gotten more and more expensive lately. The rides had been few and far between and the tank of gas didn't take him as far anymore. The weekends kept him afloat, along with bachelor and bachelorette parties, prom nights, and knuckleheaded business men too fancy to drive a regular cab to the airport. Had it not been for Charles' medication he'd give you a raise. Logan wasn't stupid, he knew he couldn't do this without you.

"No," you shook your head, "I wouldn't do that to Charles."

But you'd do it to me, Logan thought and let the words unsaid hang in the air between you as he pulled onto the dirt road leading to the smelting plant.

"I'll figure something out," you said, before a smirk teased over your face, that smile breaking forth the old you hidden behind this morning's melancholia. "Maybe I should start an Only Fans or something," you laughed.

"What's that?" Logan grunted, too focused on keeping his foot soft on the brake and avoiding the potholes to hear your joking lilt.

"Only Fans?" you questioned, one eyebrow raised in surprise before your eyes softened at the corners. "It's a social media platform for porn," you explained, "It's subscription based so you make an account and people pay a monthly subscription to see your content."

Porn?

Slowing down to a stop outside the gate, Logan put the limousine in park, the engine still humming.

"And how's that gonna help you pay rent?" Logan wondered, turning slightly in his seat to finally get a good look at you.

You were quiet for a second, eyes searching his face before the sound of a distant train had you looking away, almost bashful. "It's ridiculous," you muttered, "I don't have anyone to do it with anyway."

Before Logan could cough up an answer your hand found the passenger door, and a gust of sharp desert air seeped in. "I'll figure out the rent somehow… Sleep well, Logan," you told him, a wistful smile coating your features, before you climbed out the limousine and opened the gate. His eyes stayed glued to you as he drove past you, flicking to watch you close the gate after him in the rearview mirror. When you headed for the tank without your usual wave, a frown pulled at his face.

Stepping out of the limousine, Logan watched you leave, watched the way your hips swayed with new interest. Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, he found his flask – desperate to quench this fresh thirst with the last sip of burning alcohol, smoothing his dry throat. 

The cold coffee left a brown splatter as he discarded it; the coffee seeped into the sand. Inside the steeled walls he now called 'home' reeked of dust, like stepping into an antique shop, and Logan couldn't hold back his cough. Walking deeper into the plant with heavy steps, the old trinkets and equipment told a story of time passed.

So much time had passed.

Hanging his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs Logan started working the small buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before tossing it gently over the ironing board. Food would have to wait, he already knew the fridge wasn't stocked. Instead, he found the bottle of whiskey he'd left on the table, grabbing it by the neck before he took a large swig.

The whiskey helped, at least that's what he told himself, but his senses never dulled enough and the weight never got any easier. Sitting down heavy on the bed, Logan drank long and hard, but he couldn't keep his thoughts from trailing to you and what you’d muttered. I don't have anyone to do it with anyway.

What was it you'd called it? Just Fans? No, that wasn't right… Only Fans.

Logan remembered the first tape he ever saw; it had been the 70s, a summer in California, at some party he'd been forced to by a beautiful woman. The tape had been projected onto a wall in the living room, like background noise no one paid attention to. It had been lewd and obnoxious, but no one had seemed to mind, high as kites and drunk as skunks. Soon, Logan hadn't minded either, whisking away the woman to make his own private porn in one of the bedrooms.

Behind the woven fabric of his slacks, his cock twitched at the thought, but it wasn't the porn playing at the party, or the memory of the woman he'd fucked that filled his mind, it was you. 

It was innocent at first; the way your front teeth nibbled on your bottom lip as you pondered your next move in a game of chess opposite Charles, how your eyes sparkled under the low streetlights as he drove you home at the end of the day, and how your perfume had filled the limousine and clung to his skin that one time you'd left your jacket in the passenger seat. His hand came down to rub over the growing bulge in his pants, soothing the growing ache with a hard press, pulling a rumbling moan from his chest. 

Soon the innocent memories of you turned to filth. Logan's mind filled with images of you underneath him, his cock buried balls deep in your wet cunt as you withered for him. Then, as quickly as the first image had come, another took its place: of you on your knees with your mouth stuffed with his cock, gagging around him and swallowing him down like a good girl.

With each rubbing press to his cock, Logan couldn't shake the rolling images of you. It was wrong, never had he thought about you like that, never had he wanted to think of you like that, but once he'd started, he couldn't stop.

Working his fingers, it was almost instinctual as they moved to undo the button of his pants. His hand dug into his front, large hand palming himself with hard presses, as his cock hardened. Trailing his fingers upwards, stopping right above the elastic band of his underwear, his hand so close to wrapping around himself, a hint of shame pulled him out of the gutter.

He shouldn’t think about you like that.

Pulling away, like he'd burnt his hand, Logan let out a deep grumbling sigh. Leaning back on both hands, he let his head fall back as he squeezed his eyes shut. In his pants his cock throbbed with need. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, so long since he'd felt the velvet walls of a tight cunt wrapped around him, too long since he'd felt like he wasn't a monster, if only for a few blissful seconds.

Bringing the neck of the whiskey bottle to his mouth, Logan drowned his need in  temporary numbness, focusing instead on how the warmth filled his chest and dulled every ache. Falling back with a heavy bounce, he nursed the bottle in the crook of his thick arm, letting his eyes fall shut.

Logan couldn't remember the last time he wasn't tired, couldn't remember when his body didn't ache with every move. His veins bled through with rust and alcohol, and he hoped the latter made the corrosion run smoother.

His eyes fluttered shut, and the same flashing images filled the darkness. Years of fighting, years of killing, all the people he'd lost. It was the same show every night, and every night it tore a piece of him away, of his joy.

The bottom of the whiskey bottle clanked sharply as it hit the floor and a cough got stuck in his throat. It ripped and jerked in his chest, and he keeled over himself, fighting against it. When his head hit the pillow again, his eyes didn't fall shut, they trailed the walls, found the holes of blinding daylight seeping in through the holes in the corrugated metal sheets, and his thoughts found you again.

Curiosity got the best of him, and a hand dug into the back pocket of his pants for his phone. The small icons and text blended together as the screen lit up his face. When Logan held the phone a little further away the screen only got blurrier. With an exasperated sigh, he sat up, his body protesting as he grabbed his suit jacket off the dining chair, digging into the inner pocket for his new glasses.

Slumping down in the chair, his glasses resting at the tip of his nose, he tapped at his phone. He rarely used the thing outside of work, but suddenly he tapped at something that made it speak to him.

"I'm sorry I didn't quite get that," his phone said.

"Hello?" Logan spoke back.

Again his phone lit up and the voice answered. "Hello, what can I help you with?"

"What is Only Fans?"

……..

Fitting a brittle leaf between your thumb and pointer finger, you studied Charles' plants. The table always looked a mess after he'd tended to them, dirt spilled onto the table and tools thrown haphazardly about. Cupping your hand, you brushed the dirt into your hand, and discarded it into a pot you thought needed it.

Flicking your wrist, you looked at the time again. It was getting late. Usually by this time, Logan would have you halfway home already. Resorting to cleaning up the tools, you decided to give him half an hour before you'd start looking for him. He never slept in, although you could clearly see he needed it. 

Logan wasn't a man to show weakness, not to anybody, rather, he showed his teeth, barking and fighting against you or anyone who dared speak to him. It had intimidated you at first, and you'd held your tongue, afraid he'd bite your head off, but in time you'd come to realize that his gruff demeanor was just that, a façade. 

Charles on the other hand, senile and more and more forgetful, was the opposite of his son. On good days he beat you at chess while he told you stories about 'the good ol' days'. His imagination was vast, telling stories about the X-Men like he knew them, like he'd been a part of them, and especially by nightfall his stories would become even wilder. He'd tell you about his 'abilities', how he could read minds. He'd tell stories about Logan too, tragic ones, that if it hadn't been for the stack of comics you'd found, you would've almost said they were true.

Finding the chair by Charles' bed, you watched him deep in sleep. A heaviness could be felt in your chest as you thought about how his good and lucid days had seemed to get fewer and fewer lately. You found yourself having the same conversations with him, and once again today, he didn't want to get out of bed, telling you his head hurt. 

You wished you knew more of his condition, but Logan wouldn't tell you anything other than that Charles suffered from seizures, and if he didn't get his medication the consequences would be great. The way Logan had said it to you, his voice sharp and strict, it sounded serious, and in the year you'd taken care of Charles, you'd been diligent with his medication. Not once had you experienced a seizure with him.

Reaching over him, your palm found Charles' cheek. Stroking your hand lightly over his face, you felt the prickling stubble against your skin. His comment earlier about his head, had you worried. Logan usually supplied you with Charles' medication – from where you didn't know – there hadn't been any doctor's visits or health checks from what you could recall.

Maybe Logan didn't have insurance? It was your only explanation, a reason for why he'd found a more creative way of caring for his father. 

In a way you respected it, hacked an unknowing crack in Logan’s harsh façade– he cared. Only respect didn’t keep you from wanting Logan to tell you more, to open up, but wringing out more than a grunt from him was difficult. Instead, you made sure to let him know when you were running low on the pills and injections, and usually by the next day he'd hand over a new bottle. 

Stroking over Charles’ cheek, another chill of nervousness ran up your back where a worry tugged at your neck. 

Yesterday, after a week had passed since you'd asked Logan for more medication. He’d told you not to worry, that he’d have the pills soon, but running so low you'd had to resort to rationing Charles' doses.

Pulling back your hand, your eyes found your watch again, but before you could register the time, Charles stirred beside you. Then, an excruciating blinding pain permeated through your body. It rang in your ears and had your body shaking in agony, but at the same time you couldn't move. You wanted to scream, let out the pain that froze you to the chair, but no noise came out. When your vision started to go foggy, you thought that this must be what dying was like, but never would you have thought dying would feel this painful.

Through the ringing in your ears, a heavy creak of the tank door could be heard– or was it a trick your brain played on you in your last moments? Like the broad figure moving closer, slowly, too slowly, like it walked through water. You couldn't see who it was, but you didn't have too. Surely, your brain showing you Logan in your last moments, must've been a trick. The figure hovered over Charles, maybe it feasted on him first, reaped his soul as an appetizer before it would have you.

And just as quickly as the pain had taken you, the pain stopped.

Heaving for breath, your body fell forward, it was like the air couldn't fill your lungs quick enough. Two large palms cupped your cheek, tilting your head to Logan's frowning face. If you didn't know better you thought he looked scared.

"You okay?" he barked, your head rolling in his hands, "Hey! Bub, look at me."

You found the strength to nod your head, but Logan seemed far from convinced. He swiped his thumb over your cupid's bow, a flash of red coating his thumb and his face turned to stone, his frown so deep it looked chiseled.

Then he moved with an uncharacteristic haste, hiking you up in his arms and carrying you out of the tank. Closing your eyes, you tried to put your brain back together the way it used to be, but everything felt scrambled. When your back hit the soft mattress of a bed, you finally opened them.

Over you, Logan's large form hovered. He said something to you, but you only registered his mouth moving, your eyes glued to his pink soft lips, and your vision cleared completely.

"Drink this," he ordered, shoving a glass of water in your hands, and just like that your hearing had snapped back. "'m gonna go check on Charles– don't fucking move."

With no energy left in your body, you wouldn't dream of it. Logan watched you take a careful sip, the water lukewarm, before he left you in what you finally realized was his bed. The first sip nourished your dry throat, like you’d walked for miles in the desert without tasting as much as a drop. Surging forward, you chugged the rest of the water before you fell back against his pillow, clutching the glass in the crook of your elbow.

The smell of him on his sheets overwhelmed your weakened mind; a deep heady smell with a warmth to it, woven through with the heaviness of man. It soothed your mushy muscles, helping release the tension in your body.

The time passed differently now, fast and slow at the same time, and after an eternity and a second Logan was back. The weight of him where he sat down at the edge of the bed, had your whole body tipping towards him. His large palm found your cheek again, the rough pads of his fingers soothing over the skin.

"You doin' okay?" he asked, his deep voice filtering through a hint of worry.

"W-what happened to him– to m-me?" you managed to croak out.

Logan's heavy hand didn't move away when the furrow between his eyebrows deepened, the one that seemed to be a permanent feature on his face.

"He had a seizure," he told you, like it was obvious, taking the glass of water from your hands,

He must've caught the way your face turned, the confusion that flitted across it, one that spelled 'seizures don't affect other people'.

"Listen," he started, drawing back his hand, "There’s no other way of explainin' it to you other than tellin' you that all those stories he's told you about him– about me… they're all true."

The frown that deepened over your face at his words, must've challenged the permanent one over Logan's face. "W-what? The stories about the X-Men?"

"Yes, the X-Men– Is he talkin' a hole through your head about anything else?"

"No, but… there aren't any more mutants."

"Not new ones,” he sighed, “But we're old, sweetheart– the last there is." His voice went quieter and quieter as he spoke, a hint of sadness eating the words, before his palm found your cheek again. "You see… Charles he's a very powerful mutant, and years ago he started a school for mutants–"

"–I know all of that already Logan– he told me," you cut him off, "I never believed him, I thought he was just confused– the stories they–"

"–I know, bub," this time he cut you off, but he let the next words linger on his tongue. Drawing back his hand, his eyes found the wall behind the bed. "I never meant for you to get hurt– it's my fault. If he gets his medication he's fine, but… you ain't the only one who's a few hundred dollars short– it's been a slow month."

Before you had a chance to reply, Logan rose on his feet. "The seizures messes with your brain, so get some rest. I'm gonna get his medication, and I'll wake ya in the mornin'." Logan didn't wait for you to protest before he grabbed the car keys off the table, and left you alone in his bed. 

Outside the moon climbed the sky, and the new darkness, along with your scrambled brain, had your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier.

……..

"Wake up, sweetheart."

Logan's gruff voice pulled you from a dreamless sleep; a sleep like you'd just closed your eyes. Blinking, your heavy eyelids pulled shut just as quickly as you'd opened them, leaving you with a snapshot of Logan's body hovering over you. You hummed, sleep coating your brain, while your body felt like you'd put it through the wringer at the gym.

"It's mornin'."

You tried again, blinking your eyes open with more success. Logan's black suit jacket was nowhere to be seen, instead he adorned a white tank top. Letting your gaze roll over him, you noticed the scars etched into his skin, so many scattered up and down his strong arms, and suddenly the memories of last night filtered back into your brain.

"Logan," you whispered so low even you weren't sure you’d heard it.

"I'm takin' you home, alright? I'll watch him today," he told you.

When Logan told you something, he meant it. Leaving you in his bed, it was like a replay of last night as he grabbed the car keys and black suit jacket off the table. 

Slowly, you sat up and leaned on your elbows, letting the world spin for a minute. Your clothes from yesterday clung to your skin, and you felt both cold and sweaty as you got out of bed.

With each step you took every muscle ached, but somehow you managed to walk out the door. The burning light of the morning sun blinded you, and with one hand raised you shielded your eyes from the harshness while you walked closer to the humming impatient motor of Logan's limousine. Just as you'd sunk into the leather seat and managed to shut the door behind you, Logan stepped on the gas, and the smelting plant vanished in the rearview window. 

When you'd finally left the dirt road behind and hit the highway, you cracked the window ever so slightly – the morning air blowing away the last of your tiredness. The closer you got to the city, the more your stomach growled. You hadn't had a thing to eat since lunch yesterday, the aftermath of Charles’ seizure knocking you out before dinner– you needed something to eat.

"Can we stop here?" you asked and pointed at a sign advertising a diner off the next exit.

"I'm drivin' you home," Logan replied, his eyes glued to the road.

"Logan, please, I'm starving," you begged with a pout.

A beat passed, his fingers tapping over the wheel as he weighed his options, then his eyes found yours where they lingered. Staring back, you didn't know what to do. Logan wasn't a man that said yes, he liked things done his way. You bit down on your bottom lip, showing off your front teeth like a silent 'please' written over your face, and Logan huffed.

The loud buzz of conversation hit you first when you stepped into the packed diner, Logan in tow. Waiters ran back and forth between the booths lining the windows, taking breakfast orders and pouring coffee, and at the sound of the bell as the door swung shut behind you, one of them looked up at you.

"Seat yourselves," she said with a smile as golden as the syrup poured over hotcakes, "I'll be with you in a jiffy."

Walking deeper into the diner, you found an empty booth in a quiet corner. Logan seemed pleased, never too keen on people, and after what you'd come to know after last night, you could understand his hesitation.

Logan. The Wolverine.

You remembered the comics from when you were a kid, remembered this one kid in your class in elementary school that had been obsessed with them, reading every issue and Wolverine had been his favorite. He was a scientist now, last you heard, and here you sat opposite the comic character himself.

"Mornin', what can I get you guys?" the waitress asked, pulling up to your table.

"Um," you grabbed at the laminated menu in front of you, your eyes scanning over the breakfast items. Everything looked good, your stomach growling loud as you took in the pictures, but then again you didn't think you'd ever been this hungry before.

"Just coffee f'me, ma'am," Logan grunted.

"Could I get a stack of the blueberry pancakes… and a coffee for me too, please?" you ordered, watching the waitress with the name tag 'Stacy' write down your order.

"That'll be all for you guys this morning?" she smiled.

"Yes, thank you," you returned her smile.

"Alright, I'll be back in a second with your coffees."

While you waited for your pancakes, Logan wasn't much company. He sipped his coffee, black and piping hot, as he leaned against the corner of the booth, legs spread wide, watching the people coming and going. In the silence between you, you decided to study him while you sipped your own coffee. He must've felt your gaze over him, from the way he clenched his jaw, but he never turned his head to look at you, instead he let you look.

When your pancakes finally arrived, you dug in immediately. Fresh, hot and deliciously pillow-y and soft, it was the best thing you'd had in a while. The blueberries weren't too sweet, cutting through the sweetness of the pancakes with a tangy taste, while the bitter taste of your coffee woke you up and filled you with new energy.

"So," Logan suddenly spoke up, almost making the piece of pancake you were chewing on go down the wrong pipe. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I'm having the worst hangover in human history," you joked, "But better now after some food and caffeine."

Logan only hummed, turning his head back to people watching as you ate your pancakes. His silence had a frown work over your features when you placed your knife and fork down to sip on your coffee. He'd been so quiet all morning, which in truth wasn't new, but there was something about him now, something about the way his scowl dug a little deeper into his skin that had you asking:

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothin'," he answered, curt and to the point.

"Clearly it's something," you pried with a tilt of your head.

Another beat passed, before he leaned forward, a cough getting stuck in his throat. It sounded worse than it was, he'd told you once. So, you sipped your coffee, your eyes flitting away like you needed to give him privacy.

"I've been thinkin' about your proposal," he finally said, and you felt your eyebrows pull together in a frown.

"Wait?" your eyes found his, "What proposal?"

"About that subscription thing– the porn," he waved his hand, and leaned back again.

"Only Fans?" you asked, keeping your voice low, "It was just a joke, Logan."

"Well, maybe it's an idea for the both of us. I need money for Charles' medication, and you need money for rent– it'll just be us earnin' a little extra on the side, a win-win situation."

Letting his words sink in, you mulled over his idea in your brain. It wasn't like you weren't attracted to Logan, in truth, you'd wanted him to fuck you for a while now, but it had only been a fantasy, one to conjure forth late at night when you slipped your hand into your panties. To have it become a reality, served up by Logan himself on a silver platter, you'd never imagined.

How could you say no?

"Okay," you said, your voice breathy as what you'd just agreed to settled in your stomach. Having a little more cash in your account every month wouldn't hurt, and getting dick regularly sounded just as nice, it had been too long. "I'm in."

Logan only replied with a curt nod accompanied by an approving grunt, "Now eat your pancakes so we can get goin'."

………

"Cold feet?"

With the limousine parked outside your apartment building, a week's worth of anticipation came to a head. You and Logan hadn't really talked much in the days passed since the diner; Logan's main interest more in you feeling better after experiencing Charles' powers for the first time. He'd let you have a few days off, to heal up, to which you'd taken the opportunity to do some research and set up an Only Fans profile. Currently it was blank, but tonight that would change.

"No," you shook your head, telling true. "You?" you asked, turning in your seat to face Logan.

Logan eyes darted across your face. He never looked at you like that, and for a moment the oddity of the situation, of what you were about to do, settled in your stomach.

"No," Logan finally decided, and reached for the door handle, “Let’s get it over with before it gets too late.”

At his movement, you reached forward and grabbed his forearm, "Wait!"

With a grunt, Logan turned. "What?" he asked, his eyes settling on you with an eyebrow raised.

"I-I have an idea," you told him, and you didn't know why you stumbled over your words. With your hand still wrapped around his arm, his eyes fell to your touch, lingering before they found yours again.

"I was thinking–" you started, retracing your hand, "Well actually… I just restarted taking birth control and I wanted to settle into it before we have sex, so I thought maybe– if you want to of course," you rambled.

"Spit it out, bub, I ain't got all night," Logan cut you off.

"I thought maybe I could suck you off– here in the limo," you 'spat' out your suggestion, your front teeth immediately coming down to bully your bottom lip.

"You want to suck my cock… here?" he repeated. Leaning back in his seat, you didn't know if he spread his legs on purpose, or if he unconsciously drew your eyes to the bulge hidden behind his slacks.

"Yeah, I mean…" you shrugged, "I thought it could be hot? Like something that people would want to see?"

"Right," Logan hummed, reminded of the invisible audience, and reached for the key in the ignition.

Leaving your apartment building in the rearview mirror, Logan searched for a more secluded place to park. The windows in the back of the limousine were tinted, impossible to look into, but you didn't want to take the risk of getting caught. After finding an empty parking lot, backing up and occupying a more private space in the back corner, Logan guided you around the limousine with a hand resting gently over the small of your back. Climbing into the back with you, his broad form filled the space.

Inside, he'd turned on the lights, the colors slowly fading in and out and casting soft shadows across his features. The leather creaked as he sat down, his spread legs already inviting you to slot between. A fleeting feeling of nervousness tickled in your tummy, the reality of what you were about to do washing over you like a wave on a stormy ocean.

Logan watched you from his seat, a picture of sin in his suit, as he slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and fished out his glasses. His jacket fit snugly over his wide shoulders and he'd undone the top buttons where you could glimpse curling chest hair. The way he looked at you through the glasses, eyes dark and curious, had a warmth of arousal starting to pool in the core of yourself.

Clearing your throat, you spoke up, "I was thinking I could set my phone up here–" you pointed to the space between the leather seats and the window. "And then you could use your phone and film me?"

After a little bit of fiddling to get your phone to stay upright, you turned to Logan, your phone capturing your slow walk towards him. He sat with his legs spread wide, his large palms resting on either side of his thighs. When you reached for the hem of your shirt, his finger twitched, digging into the leather, and a toothy smile spread over your features.

Tossing your shirt you sunk to your knees and slotted between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, you held his gaze as you sat pretty for him, fanning out the skirt you'd worn specifically for today. He reached for his phone and pressed record when you curled your hands behind your back to undo the clasp of your bra, capturing your bare chest.

The air nipped at your exposed skin, making goosebumps ripple over your skin. Looking up at Logan, his eyes burned against your skin where he took in your breasts, his eyes glided over your bare skin for the first time and soothed out the bubbling nerves that had been brewing. When your eyes caught on the tent growing in his pants, you had to restrain yourself from surging forward, your mouth already watering at the thought of tasting him for the first time – of your wet dreams becoming a reality.

"S'pretty," he murmured, voice deep and guttural, soaked in arousal.

He cupped your cheek gently, the rough pad of his thumb skating over your skin bringing with it a calming safety. Your eyelashes fluttered as you tilted your head into his hand, desperate to feel more of the weathered skin of his hand against your body.

"Y'sure you want this, sweetheart?" he asked.

Opening your eyes, you held his gaze. "Yes, please," you nodded in his large palm, "It's the only thing I've thought about all day." And it was the truth.

"Shit, baby," he groaned in response, dragging his hand down your neck to rest heavy over the top of your breasts. "S'that so?"

Gathering your hands in your lap, you nodded slowly, your teeth caught on your bottom lip as his hand brushed over your right breast. "Thought of how you'd taste," you confessed, the phone in his hand forgotten as you focused entirely on Logan.

"Yeah?" he prompted. One knuckle brushed over your hardened nipples, pulling a quiet whimper from you– pleased he leaned back, "Take off my belt, then."

Bouncing on your knees, you leaned forward on his command, and pulled the leather belt from its loops. You did it slowly, tilting your head upwards to catch his eyes through the glasses. He helped you with the zipper, making you watch as he dragged it down.

With your eyes fixed on his hand you noticed three barely healed scars between every knuckle, and you remembered who Logan really was. The Wolverine. He caught you looking, and his hand tightened into a fist, tightening it for a beat before he relaxed it over his thigh. Leaning forward, you placed a soft kiss over his knuckles, and his hand dug into his thigh.

"Sweetheart," he breathed out, his voice strained.

In the depths of your chest you felt a pinch, a tiny stab in your heart that felt too real, too personal for what you were about to do. Willing it away, you leaned back on your ankles instead, your hands dipping into the waistband of his pants to pull down his slacks. Lifting his hips to help you ease them down, a quiet grunt escaped him, a deep sound that traveled down your spine and pooled in your core.

Behind the soft cotton of his underwear the firm hard line of his cock strained against the fabric. The sight of him, large and heavy, and hidden, had your eyes widening with lust, and a slickness soiling the gusset of your panties.

"You want my cock, don't you sweetheart?" he coaxed, his free hand finding your jaw where he cupped it, squeezing your cheeks together.

"Y-yes," you breathed out, your smile straining against his grip before you dropped your mouth open, showing him your tongue.

"There you go, baby– good girl," he praised, pressing his thumb down on your tongue and rubbing the saliva around. A soft moan caught in your throat at the praise, and behind the camera Logan's eyes darkened at his new discovery.

Wrapping both your hands around his wrist, you held his hand in place as you closed your lips around him. Slowly, you moved your head, up and down, up and down, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on his thumb like you would his cock. Logan's eyes were intense behind his glasses, his jaw clenching tight while he stared into your own.

"Such a filthy little thing f'me– so desperate for my cock down your throat you'll suck anything, ain't that right?"

A choked moan escaped you; they way he talked to you adding fuel to the fire in your core. Between the seam of your cunt you ached, wet arousal dripping into your soiled panties. He must've watched the way you melted for him, your brain turning to mush in front of him, because when he pulled his hand away, he laughed. A deep guttural thing from the depth of his chest.

"C'mon little angel," he tapped at your cheek, "Let's put you out of your misery."

Clouded in arousal, your brain stalled at the nickname, and you felt a new gush of arousal spill between the seam of your cunt. Logan's nostrils flared and a wild darkness settled over his face.

Shifting on your knees, you leaned forward to palm him through his underwear. Making sure to flick your eyes up at him (and the camera), you dragged your finger up and down gently, seductively, before you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his clothed length. Above you, Logan sucked in a breath, his free hand coming down to pet your head and press your face firmly against his bulge.

You couldn't help but breathe him in. Breathe in the heady deep scent of man, cheap whiskey and cigars – the unique scent of Logan. When you let out the softest little sigh, you felt him twitch against you, and quickly his hand on your head traveled down to the back of your neck where he pulled you back with a harsh yank.

You yelped.

"No more teasin'–" he reprimanded and let go of you, "Be a good little angel and make me come."

Logan leaned back into the leather, his body relaxed and inviting with one hand still occupied with filming you. Watching the deep furrow forming between his brows, and the way his eyes burned your face through his glasses, you could tell he wanted to take control, make you do what he wanted.

With a curling smile, knowing full and well you had the upper hand with one of his hands occupied, you slipped your eager hands into the elastic waistband of his underwear and tugged.

A wild and wiry patch of graying hair met you first, and you felt a flock of eagerness flutter in your stomach. Tugging the fabric down slowly, you made a show of revealing just an inch at a time. When you finally reached the end of him, you felt the wet head of him graze your cheek, leaving a streak of precum, as it sprung free.

His hard cock bopped heavily in front your face, and you felt your eyes widen at his size. He was big. The hefty length of him cushioned against his balls hanging heavy over the band of his underwear. Reaching a shaky hand forward you took him in your hand for the first time and familiarized yourself with the thick weight of him. With your other hand you traced the thick veins that lined the girth of him, memorizing every ridge and freckle before coming up to thumb at the fat tip where a pearl of wetness beaded.

A mix of awe and uncertainty pooled in your chest. How in the hell were you gonna fit all of him down your throat?

"'s okay, angel," he cooed, his heavy hand back to stroke over your head. His touch soothed you, a rhythmic warmth that shed all your insecurities.

With a content sigh you leaned forward and parted your lips to press a soft kiss to the leaking tip, pulling a "There you go, good girl, open your mouth f'me," from Logan. Urged on by his praise, you got a little braver. Flattening your tongue against him you started with a few gentle, teasing licks to the tip, your tongue dipping into the slit to taste him in earnest.

Above you, a groan rumbled in Logan's chest, a sound that had you eagerly taking more of him in your mouth. Suckling carefully on the fat tip, you let your tongue tease the underside of him, humming in content when you felt him harden even more in your hands.

Letting the excess spit run down the length of him, it pooled over your hands where they struggled to wrap around the thick girth. Slick sounds came from your hands when you started to move them over the soft skin, coating him fully in your saliva with every tug.

"Shit, bub, y'look so fuckin' good around my cock," Logan's voice vibrated from his chest, "But y'can take it deeper, can't you? Take that big cock down your throat?"

Well, you would certainly try.

Your knees dug into the carpeted floor of the limousine, pressing a deep pattern into your skin. Popping off his cock, you sat up a little more and shifted your weight. Looking up at him through your lashes, you were reminded of the camera pointed at you. Looking straight down the barrel of his phone you sunk down further on his cock.

Dropping your jaw, you felt your lips stretch as his hefty cock filled your throat. All too quickly the head of him kissed the back of your throat and you had to fight your gag reflex. Pulling off with a gasp, your eyes widened as you looked up at him.

"It's so big," you told him, both of your slicked hands jerking him in a slow rhythm.

"I know, angel," he cooed, his thumb running over your cheek. Leaning forward again, you placed a soft kiss to the fat head, and he hissed, "Too big f'you?"

"No," you shook your head, smearing the head from one corner of your mouth to the other, spreading the precum leaking onto your lips, and humming at the taste of him. "It's perfect– taste so perfect," you said through a pillowy kiss to the head.

With a buck of his hips, he pushed back into your eager mouth, slipping the fat head through your swollen lips and into your flexed throat, "That's it– right where it belongs, huh?"

Fitting him as deep as you could down your throat you felt dizzy with desire, an almost overwhelming feeling; the smell of him so close, how he filled your mouth and made your jaw ache. When your nose pressed into the grayed patch of wiry hair at the base of his cock, you spluttered with need, spit soaking the length of him as you came off him with a cough.

In an instance, Logan was on you, his free hand petting your cheek as he searched your eyes, "You okay?" I wouldn't be until after, when you edited the video that you'd realize he'd dropped the phone, focusing only on you in that moment.

"Yes," you replied, looking into his eyes with a toothy smile, "I want more– I want your cum."

"Fuck," he hissed, letting go of your cheek and leaning back into the leather seat, pointing his phone at you, "Go on."

Fitting him back down your throat again, you got lost in it as you found a rhythm. With a hand stationed at the base, you bobbed your head, letting your tongue dance over the length. More saliva dripped down and pooled over your hand, slicking up his pubes. It was messy, and hot, sticky and wet. Above you, Logan muttered praises between grunts and moans, encouraging you to take him deeper and deeper.

Feeling your throat loosen with every bob of your head, you pushed down and swallowed around him. Your eyelashes fluttered as you gagged and coughed, tears starting to prickle from your eyes, but you were determined to please him– to make him feel good.

When his hand came down to wrap around your throat, his thumb skating over your neck to feel himself, your eyes rolled back in your head in pleasure – the sight of you making Logan let out a deep growl. He kept the hand clasped around your throat as he started to buck his hips, feeding you his cock in small lazy thrusts.

"Right there, angel, so fuckin' good f'me… my good girl– choke on it," he mumbled.

You hummed around him at the praise, the vibrations pulling another deep moan from him. Fucking your face, bubbling spit trickled out the corner of your lips, soaking him and the coarse hair on his balls where they slapped heavy against your chin. Slipping a hand between your thighs, you couldn't help but touch yourself through your underwear – the white cotton translucent and drenched with your arousal.

Chasing his high, Logan's thrusts started to come quicker. More and more saliva overflowed, dripping down your bare chest and slicking you up in depravity. The grip Logan had around his phone was lazy, but he made sure to capture the way the shifting colors of the low limousine light gleamed over your slicked up chest.

"Such a good fuckin' throat–" he growled, squeezing around your throat as he pushed himself as deep as he could. Your nose brushed the wiry patch of his pubic hair, and you felt yourself start to gag around him as your lungs squeezed and throat tightened. He kept you down as you spluttered and swallowed around the length of him, and when the edges of the world started to blur he pulled you off with a jerk.

Gasping for air and filling your lungs with lost breaths, the hand Logan had wrapped around your neck was now pushing your own hand away to wrap around himself. The tears on your cheek mixed with the strings of saliva on your chin, as you looked up at him through fluttering lashes. Watching him stroke his cock, your eyes widened with interest as you shifted on your knees to sit up straighter.

His hard cock pulsated and throbbed with need as he stroked. Up and down you watched his hand; watched how beads of precum drooled over his fingers, mixing with your saliva before it dripped down onto your chest. A primal feeling came over you – an urge so strong to taste him come undone and claim you as his.

"Please," you begged, the fat head ghosting against your lips with every jerk, "come for me, please– wanna taste you so badly."

Logan's grunts and growls grew deeper and wilder as he stroked himself faster. "Look at me, angel," he ordered, and when your eyes locked with his, combined with a final hard stroke, he aimed the wet tip towards your face and came hard.

The first pump of his sticky warm seed, made you flinch before a smile widened and you leaned closer. Dropping your mouth open, he came all over your face, coating your cheeks, your nose, and forehead. Thumbing at the tip, he aimed at your waiting mouth to squeeze out the last few drops, and he finally let you taste him.

Wrapping your lips around the head, you suckled around him through content hums. You were covered in his cum, claimed, feeling the sticky seed drip down the bridge of your nose. You loved the way he tasted, salty and bitter, like Logan.

When the feeling of your tongue dancing over his sensitive head became too much, he pulled away with a hiss. His phone was still aimed at your face, and a little more clear-headed he filmed the aftermath of his orgasm closer.

"Even prettier with my cum on your face, angel," he said, letting his finger drag over your skin to collect his cum.

Pretty.

"Thank you," you whispered, your throat hoarse as he fed you his cum.

You hummed around his finger as he cleaned you up, making sure not a single drop would go to waste, and when he was pleased with his work after you'd shown him your empty tongue, he cupped your cheek.

"Good little angel," he told you with a pad, and pressed the stop button on his phone.

Back at your apartment the buzz of the excitement of the night lingered as you replayed the scene on your computer. You thought about Logan, about where he was and who might sit in the seat where you'd sucked him off only hours earlier. You thought about how filthy his mouth had been, and how much it had turned you on. And lastly, you thought about how you couldn't wait to see him again, and for him to finally fuck you.

Editing the video together, the last thing you did before you fell asleep was upload. Logan had taken a photo of your hand over his clothed cock before he'd left you, a picture that was now set as your profile picture. All tuckered out, you closed your computer and fell back against your pillows, dreaming of the smell of leather and cheap whiskey.

James & Angel ✨👼 📍 Texas subscribers: 15,478

1 post: "cute girl gives older limousine driver a sloppy blowjob"

..................

hopefully this was okay? i have concepts of a part 2 lol so please don't ask for it. instead, a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and/or tell me what you'd comment under james' & angel's first video! my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[logansbaby-deactivated20250113]

this had me absolutely giggling and feral ty for your service <3

[eupheme]

— tooth and nail

alpha!logan x mutant!f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dub-con (logan goes into a rut), a/b/o-lite elements (logan-only - ruts/knots/mates), breeding kink, mutual pining, two jealous dummies, size kink, fighting as foreplay, return of The Claws (claw-play?), outercourse, biting, marking, come play, rough PiV sex 

a/n: pure pwp. reader has druidic-based mutant powers (wild shape, strong connection to nature/animals, influence over vines/foliage) and is from Earth-10005.

Logan knows this feeling. He thought he’d left this part of himself behind. Left on his Earth, carved out and buried with the rest. 

Should have told you no. Should have locked himself away like he always did. Instead, he’s stuck, unable to keep his mind from wandering while his sparring partner - sweat-dewed and squirming - is pinned beneath him. 

(Or - Logan’s rut begins at a most inopportune time)

Something wasn’t right.

It’s been settling under his skin for days now.  Tiny hooked claws, digging into flesh. A syrupy urge low in his guts, his mind not quite his own.

He thought he’d left this part of himself behind. Left on his Earth, carved out and buried with the rest. 

The world he lives in now is different. There’s humans, mutants, aliens. But none like him, answering to something innate that defined him in a way that didn’t matter anymore.

It’s been a while. Almost forgot how it felt, after years of tamping down this part of him. Should have recognized sooner what it was. This rippling, simmering irritation just beneath his skin, so much stronger than usual. 

Should have locked himself away, when he realized his rut was returning.

In his years in his own Earth, the urge had lessened. Dulled by alcohol and grief. Managed by himself, in the few months this part of his nature did visit him.

But he hadn’t been able to tell you no. Hadn’t been able to resist, not when you smiled so prettily at him, practically begging him. 

And the thought of you leaving him behind at the X-Mansion, while you went off without him - to spar with Hank, instead - made him want to rip McCoy’s arms off. 

Desire swirls around him now, as he trades blows with you. Your arms snaking around his shoulders as you shoulder a well-placed hit, bringing you both down the floor.

Logan feels like a pup again, watching your breathless laugh. The clench of your thighs around his waist. The heady throb low in his guts, the pressure of his cock as it strains against his suit. 

His hips lift, separating him from you. Trying to form an excuse, while his brain is rocketing into overdrive.

Fighting back the urge to close that gap again. To peel down those tight leggings that drive him mad, bury his mouth against your pussy and make you scream. Fuck you full of him, until he’s dripping out of you for days. 

The though makes him growl, as he tries to concentrate.

Tough to fake an illness, or injury. You’d see right through him.

Or even worse, worry.

So all he had to do was finish out this session. 

Shouldn’t be too hard. 

If you can just avoid touching him… he might just make it through. 

You know you shouldn’t let yourself get distracted like this while sparring with Logan, but you can’t seem to help it.

Not when you’ve been nursing this thing inside you for months now. Something planted from another earth, settling low in your chest. Infesting like the vines that sprout from you, taking over until you’re fully ensnared.

You’ve tried to ignore it. Didn’t want to ruin a good thing between you. 

Out of everyone in the X-Mansion, you got along with Logan the best. Used to a solitary lifestyle after being raised among the druids, before you knew the truth to what you were, the mutant lineage that flowed through you.

It had paired well with his temperament. His anger and grouchy quips slipped from you like raindrops on a leaf. Something about spending time with you softening him at the edges - just a little bit.

He was still the hard man he used to be. Grizzled, with that scowl of his and the flecks of grey at his temples.

And despite your efforts - forgetting and moving on hadn’t been successful. Not at all. 

Because it’s impossible to ignore when he’s close, like this. Pressing your back to the mat, your wrist slammed against the padded floor. A knife skittering away, because even after all this time - even with his insisting - you were still reluctant to use it.

It sends your pulse racing. He’s so fucking strong - and you think that maybe, even if you had been an equal pair, that you’d still throw these matches. 

Let him win, if it gets him like this. Sweaty and pressed up against you as you struggle beneath him. A thigh jammed between yours to prevent you from slamming your heel into his calf.

You’ll think about this later. 

You always do after your sparring sessions. You hand slipping between your thighs in the shower after. Bitten-back moans as you play out more in your mind - the plunge of your fingers inside your aching cunt until you’re shuddering with the pulsing pleasure, slumping back against the cold tile. 

The fantasies always comes back to him. 

You think that maybe Logan wants it too. Have felt his gaze on you when he thinks no one is looking, but your senses have always been keen. Animal attraction, perhaps. Pheromones. Something about his smell, his touch, beckons you - though you don’t understand what it means. 

And it’s only now that you realize he’s gone still above you. Eyes blown wide, a sharp breath of air inhaled through clenched teeth. A low growl, caught in his throat. 

Holding himself back. You can see it - the way his muscles string tight. How his eyes dip, flicking over your face. Down to the part of your lips. The sweat that dews your chest. 

Close enough that you can inhale him - the smell of leather and cigar smoke blending with more - something inside you giving them a name. 

Want. Need. 

It gives you courage. 

You bridge the gap, for a just a moment. A shallow lift of your hips. Encouraging, the movement pushing your tits against his heaving chest. 

“Bad fucking idea, sweetheart.” He growls.

It’s rough, low. Ground-out as if to himself, a wounded sound slipping from his throat. 

His response has a mark forming between your eyebrows. A soft murmuring of his name.

Logan’s face dips, eyes closing as he inhales. Then, without warning, his knuckles cradle against your throat. 

Wrist flexing as two of his claws spear forward on either side of your neck. Punching through the training mats and sinking deep into the concrete beneath.

Pinning you completely under him, your hips dropping as your free hand wraps around his forearm. A tug of fear ripples through you, but he doesn’t budge.

“Logan,” You repeat, gasping, “What are you doing? What’s wrong?

This isn’t like the times you’ve sparred before. He’s never drawn his claws. You don’t heal like he does - you both know it. Never using more than a loose fist, an open palm in your sessions. 

He’s breathing heavy. Holding himself over you, his other hand still wrapped firmly around your wrist. 

“I’m gonna let you go.” It comes out ragged, through clenched teeth.

“And then I need you to leave, and lock me in after.” Only now does he look at you - his dark eyes burning, “You understand?”

His voice is so rough that it makes your skin prickle. Heat licking down your spine, stoking the embers that have settled low in your belly. 

“I don’t.” It comes out hushed.

How can you? It’s like a flip has been switched, in those few moments. Did you truly misread everything? 

His eyes haven’t left your face. There a peek of his tongue against his lips, the words coming slowly, “Don’t wanna do something you’re gonna regret.”

And for a moment, time stands still. An ache in your chest that’s so different than the one between your thighs. Finger unfurling, reaching.

Slipping up his arm, touching his cheek. He flinches, eyes fluttering shut as he holds his breath. 

“What could I regret with you?”

If it were anyone else, the question would be stupid. You should be running from the man that has you pinned to the ground, claws drawn. Another twitch and you could be dead - the middle unsheathing to pierce clean through your soft throat.

“Whatever it is, let me help you.” Your voice is gentle - coaxing -  and for a second, he leans into the touch. Palm pressing against heated skin, and you gasp, “You’re burning up, Logan.”

“You can’t help me with this.” He rasps with his eyes closed, voice strained. 

Your head shakes, “Let me try.”

A long pause lingers. The room filled with the uneven intake of breath. Logan’s words coming slowly, as his eyes open - dropping down to your throat. And then away, like he can’t bear to even look at you, “Does the word rut mean anything to you?”

It feels like something stirs again inside you. The flutter of wings, not unlike the feeling when you tap into your power. Like threads slipping your fingertips, connecting you down to the earth below. 

“Animals have ruts. Deer, elk, creatures like that.” A beat, as you begin to understand. Heat flaring in your cheeks at the implication, “But, not… not humans.”

He grunts, shifting.

It takes everything not to let your chin tip down, to look. 

“They do where I come from.” 

Pieces start to fall in place. His increased irritability around you lately. Territorial. Aggressive. 

Blending in to what you know, in your connection to nature. Those animalistic instincts that linger in your blood long after you’ve shed your beast form. 

Desire. Mating. An urge to breed. 

Oh, fuck. 

You squirm and he makes a warning sound without thinking - a rough rumble from his chest. His weight shifting on top of you, still hovering.

“How do you handle it?” 

His eyes flicker up to yours, then away again. Jaw working, a breath before he answers, “Take care of it myself. Or, I’d find someone to work through it with me.”

Even as you’re scrambling to make sense of it, you understand his insinuation. It stuns you into silence. You cannot allow that. The thought sends your heart crashing into your guts. 

Your chin tips up, defiantly.

“Let me help you.” 

Those dark eyes narrow as they snap to your face. Your words softening, as your thumb sweeps across his skin, the scruff of his cheek.

“I want to help you.”

Logan laughs, the sound ragged. Showing the points of his canines with the shake of his head. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” His voice is smoky-low. Rough as it scrapes across your skin, leaving goosebumps, “You couldn’t take me.”

Your heart feels like it’s pounding in your throat. Heat licking down your spine, and surely he can feel it - the flutter beneath the press of his knuckles. 

“I can.” It comes out breathy. Insisting. 

His tongue brushes over his lips as they part. A tilt of his head as he lowers himself. His knee pressing against the meat of your thigh, nudging. Opening your legs up further. Spreading them wider. 

“I will ruin you.” 

It’s growled in your ear. Each word coming slowly, as he lets the hard curve of his cock grind against your core. His meaning unmistakable, his voice pitching down with a ragged groan. 

“I want you to ruin you. You understand?”

And, you do. It floods through you, sending your nerve endings alight. Imagining how he would handle you, take you. The space between your thighs throbs. 

His admission - the rasp of his words and the heavy nudge of him against you makes you do something very selfish. 

And very stupid. 

You’re just able to reach your thigh holster now, with this new angle. The quick fumble of your fingers to loosen the small dagger.

The metal side of his claw pressing into your skin as your head turns. Before he can move, a flick of your wrist sends it through the air.

Your aim is slightly off, but it does the job. Seating itself in the control box by the door, a sizzle as the wires are cut.

A metallic snick as the doors lock. The lights click off, plunging the room into darkness. The ground bathed only with the stripes of sun that stretch across the floor from the row of window along the wall.

Logan lets go of your wrist, but leaves you pinned. His fist curling in the strap of your tank, knuckles pressing against your throat as he yanks you forward.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Logan snarls, “You want me to use you?”

His words make you whimper. A soft little whine that has his hips dropping further. An unconscious rut against your core, leg muscles flexing as you clench around nothing. 

You meet his second thrust, your body curving against his. Head tipping back as the seam of your leggings nudge against your clit.

“Fuck.” It almost sounds awed now, his words soft and slow, “You do, don’t you?”

Letting his full weight drop, as your hands grip onto his shoulders for purchase. You had thought you were pinned before, but he had still been using his knees, his elbows. Hovering, in an attempt to keep control.

Now, you can feel all of him, as his body maps against yours. Pulling a rough groan as his hips flex, grinding himself slowly against your core. 

“Logan, please.”

He growls. Fingers unfurling from your shirt. Ghosting down your side to fit against the curve of your hip. Biting into flesh with a bruising force, as his face buried in the crook of your neck. A hot exhale against your skin, as he pants - finding a rocking rhythm, as his body curls around yours. 

You can feel the way his muscles tense with each needy snap of his hips. The way each breath pitches into a near-silent whine, as he seeks friction. 

It’s not enough, as much as he wishes it was.

“I need-” Logan rasps, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

The hand on your hip snakes between you. Roughly tugging on the belt of his suit, until the clasp opens. All while murmuring assurances, half to himself.

“I’ll let you go. Work through it myself-”

That need he speaks of rolls off him in waves. Facial hair scraping against your cheek. The brush of his lips against your throat, just above the cool press of his claws.

“Don’t stop.” It’s easy to answer. Easy to lean into what he offers you, all those sweet promises wrapped in steel. 

The groan he makes is filthy, “Give me your hand.”

Your fingers unlatch from the vice-like hold on his suit. A broad hand wrapping around your wrist, as he tugs you where he needs you. The tips brushing heated skin, making you gasp. 

“Make a fist,” He rasps, “Fuck, that’s it.”

Lining himself up, pushing his bared cock into the circled grip of your fingers. Using you like a cheap imitation of what he craves, as his desire leaks from him. Slicking up your fingers, with each roll of his hips. 

He’s heavy in your hand. You can feel how your fingers stretch - flexing, opening, with each forward thrust. Barely able to circle around, fingers splitting when you reach his base. 

You can’t help but move with him. Hips rocking up, to match his messy rhythm. The knuckle of your thumb pressing against your seam, nudging at where you ache for him.

“I can smell you, sweetheart,” Logan moans, his nose dragging along the curve of your jaw. Lips parting so he can test his teeth against a spot under your ear, the pressure making you shiver, “Your pussy’s leaking, thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, as you whine. Squeezing his cock a little more tightly, wishing it was filling you instead just your fingers. 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He husks, “You think you can take it?”

You want anything he’ll give you. And anything is better than the way he’s teasing you. Palm slick with his desire, your own soaking through the soft fabric of your leggings.

“I want it. Want your cock,” You breathe, “Want to fuck me, please-”

There’s a final jerk of his hips against you, his voice gruff as his thighs shift.

“Stay still then, sweetheart.”

There’s the sharp rasp of adamantium against stone as they withdraw from the floor. His knuckles easing carefully from your throat as he leans back. Eyes dropping down, considering.

Barely a heartbeat before there’s the kiss of metal against skin, as the edge of a claw hooks under your shirt. Your breath held as it slips up, between your breasts. 

A tug, and the fabric is shredding. Fibers splitting until the drag of the sharp tips, from belly to throat. Baring you, the air in the open room chilling your heated skin as you gasp.

Nipples already pebbled as his mouth descends. A needy moan loosening when he kisses at the curve of your tits, his tongue flattening across a tight peak. 

Your arms wrap around him, their duty forgotten. Distracting you as his claws shift down. Your breath catches, but then there’s the sound of them sheathing - slipping back under his skin. 

His hands finding the slice he made in the waistband, making short work of the rest himself. Ripping your leggings open - dragging your thighs over his as he leans back on his knees. 

And looking down, it’s only now that you can fully see him. The familiar, worn yellow suit that shows off how broad he is. Zipper yanked down at the crotch, his cock pulled through with his impatience.

Eyes widening, when you realize there’s more to him than you though. Hanging heavy between his thighs, pretty and flushed. A thickened bulge sitting where your fingers had split - what you had mistaken for his base. 

“Need to be inside you, sweetheart,” Logan’s hand already wrapping around his shaft, dragging the tip across your cunt, “Don’t make me waste a drop, alright?”

Fingers tugging the gusset of your panties to the side. Letting the tip slap against your clit. It glides against you, slipping against your combined arousal. Seeing how you flutter as you clench, your own need spiking.

“Logan,” You beg, “Stop teasing, please-”

He makes a rough sound. Almost a laugh, if it didn’t sound so pained. 

“Just listen to you. Begging like you’re in heat,” He grunts, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need.”

The tip dips down, nudging at your entrance. Lining himself up, before his hips drive him forward. The sudden pressure chokes you - a bitten-back cry as your muscles string tight, thighs clamping down around his waist.

“Fuck, I’ve dreamed about this.” He growls. Spearing into you an inch at time with a long, fluid motion. Fingers biting into your thigh, holding you open as your own scrabble against the mat - searching for something to hold onto.

“Tugging down those leggings. Fucking you into the floor.”

You can barely contain the whine. Brow furrowed, as he splits you open. Your pussy making room for him until the swollen ring at his base cradles your entrance. 

Only able to inhale a short breath before he’s moving. Hands catching your legs, slipping to the joints of your knees where they press into his ribs.

Pushing your thighs back towards your chest, opening you up further, as his cock drags along your walls. He feels deeper, bigger - groaning at the way you clench so tightly around him.

Better than any of those daydreams, as he leans into you. Chasing that animalistic urge inside to bury himself fully in you, ensuring that you’ll take every drop.

Your fingers bite into his wrists. The breath pushed from you with each thrust, feeling like he’s deep in your belly, as that swell stretches at your opening.

“Thought about it too,” You admit with a gasp, as that heat inside you burns, “Wanted you, like this.”

“Yeah? I bet you did.” He grunts, as his thighs snap against your ass. Leaning over you now, eyes fixed on yours. Close enough that you can see the glaze to them, lost in his need for release. 

Before his eyes drag down. Seeing where you’re stretched around him. Another shallow nudge, urging himself deeper. His thumb pressing at your entrance, before slipping back to hook around the swell.

“Good girl like you’d take my knot too, wouldn’t you?”

His knot. Your head shakes. He barely fits at is. You can feel every ridge as he ruts into you, every thick vein, “I don’t think- Logan, that won’t fit-”

The thumb shifts up. Pleasure burning through as he rolls the pad across you clit. His brow pulled in concentration, but there’s a flesh of white teeth.

“Sure it will, baby.” It’s slick, how he touches you. His cock grinding again and again against a spot that steals your breath, “You were made to take it. We’ll make it fit.”

It makes you moan. Your fingers sliding into his hair tugging at him. He comes willingly, a soft sound as his mouth dips to press against yours. Turning hungry as your lips part. Rubbing at you as his tongue strokes against yours, deepening the kiss. 

The pleasure licks in your veins, a molten feeling building in your core. 

A rough murmur against your lips, “Tell me you want it. I’ll make you feel good, sweetheart.”

You parrot it back to him without thinking, hips chasing the press of his thumb. 

“I want it,” You keen, “Your k-knot.”

Willing to do just about anything he asks if he keeps touching you like this. If he keeps rutting against the spot that makes your arousal leak around his cock, each drive of his hips loud and messy in the quiet room. 

He groans, the hand at your thigh pinching, sure to leave bruises tomorrow. The fingers at your clit slipping up to splay across your abdomen, his palm hot again your skin. 

“Yeah?” Logan husks - pressing down, almost as if he can feel himself buried inside you, “Fuck, you’d look so good filled with my pups.”

His rhythm going sloppy, as a hand slips up to palm at your breasts, “These pretty tits nice and round. Wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you, baby.”

Some of his words are new to you, but your body still reacts to his tone. The need, the longing. An intrinsic understanding of what he wants, even if it’s impossible with your implant. It still doesn’t stop your hand from slipping down to replace his.

Of pretending, with him. 

The circles practiced, leaving him to concentrate on his own end. Soft panting cries pulling from you as the pounding of his hips drags you closer. 

He’s close, as well. Those sharp thrusts growing shallow, messy. Letting go of your thighs, letting them wrap around his waist as he drives you into the padded mats. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, lips pressing against your jaw. Tongue dipping out to drag against a spot on your neck that makes you go slack in his arms. 

“Should mate you,” He rasps. Teeth pinching down, where his tongue just was, “Bite you right here. Make you mine.”

The words tip you over the edge. A ragged gasp as your pussy clamps down around him, blood thundering in your ears. Nails catching on the panels of his suit as you cling to him, moans ripped from your throat as you pulse around him in time with your thudding heartbeat.

There’s no sharp bite of teeth. Just a muffled groan against your skin as he grasps at your hips. The sharp feeling of pressure increasing, as something thick works its way inside you. You keen as it stretches you, swelling so he can’t withdraw. 

Twin ragged moans, as you’re joined together. 

He comes with you squirming on his knot, his lips pressed against your throat. Sweet nothings murmured - “squeezing me so fucking tight, baby”, “gonna need you to take every drop, atta girl” - his cock throbbing as he spills inside you, pumping you full.

Still grinding into you. It draws your own orgasm out, with the way he’s rubbing against your walls, nothing left untouched. Overstimulation flickering at the corner of your mind, but you’re locked in place as he breeds you. 

Understanding what he meant by using you - you feel it now. Fucked out and boneless and it sends another gush of sticky need between your thighs. 

The sharp, panting breath starts to ebb. The ghost of his teeth becomes the nuzzle of his face, that strung-tight pull of his muscles turning liquid as he relaxes into your embrace. 

“Why were you so worried?”

It comes out hushed, in the now-silent room. You’re sore - will be, tomorrow. Pleasure-drunk certainly, but not quite as ruined as he promised. 

Almost to your disappointment. 

“That wasn’t too much.”

Logan laughs, the sound dripping with condescension. A flex of his hips, still knotted inside you. Cum leaking from your swollen pussy, smearing against your inner thighs.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He coos, “Ruts can last for days.”

His fingers drop, dragging through his spend. Finding your clit again, rubbing slick circles against the tight little bud. 

Intent on doing this one himself. 

“We’re only just getting started.”

[moodboard] // I had two ideas for his claws after the movie - this was the second one! This is my first time writing something like this, so keeping it a little light with the dynamics 💖 thanks for reading!

and speaking of - I have to link this amazing alpha!logan thot by the incredible @avocado-writing! please check it out! 💕

[eupheme]

— you’ve got me wanting you

[part iii of sugar, sugar] | [part ii] [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 7.4k

tags: jealous/posessive!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, wingman!wade, flirting, feelings, (another short) miscommunication, immature humor, light angst, use of alcohol, threat of violence, use of alcohol and smoking, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, PiV, creampie

As the days pass, you think your time spent with Logan is pretty much perfect. Well... almost.

(Or - a dash of insecurity, some badgood advice from Wade, a near-fight at a bar, and the confession of overdue feelings.)

Those two nights spent with Logan turn into more.

The days are bleeding together, blurring. You fit well with him, you think. Together in Wade's apartment - spanning that space between their chatter and silence. Softening edges, though you think he's softened, too.

A stray cat coming around. 

Bristling, with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Slowly learning that he can lean into your touch. 

Your days since have been spent humming as you work. It had been an anchor once, this routine of yours. Getting up early used to give you something to get up for. Enjoying the whirlwind of prepping, measuring, making, decorating. 

Now - you're grateful for how quickly the day passes because it means you can't overanalyze. Because it means by the time you catch your breath at the end of the day, you're already heading home to him. 

Takeout was brought over to their apartment. A crappy movie with a hand curled around you, sending your heartbeat racing. The night ending at yours, hours between dusk and dawn spent learning every inch of each other. 

You think it's pretty much perfect.

Well... almost.

“Do you think Logan likes me?”

It slips out of you. Something that’s been worrying at you, a splinter trapped just beneath your skin. You regret asking almost immediately - the sun glinting off the silver needle as you push it through the lycra suit. 

“You mean the guy that’s been fucking your brains out for the past couple weeks?”

“Wade.”

“Oh, sorry.” He lines his knife up, poking a hole in the top of his styrofoam container - coaxing the waitress from lunch to give him a ‘take-home-margarita’. A cheerful “baby knife!” as he sheathes it again,” I mean the guy that’s been having totally-chaste-and-appropriate adult sleepovers with you?”

You understand what he’s getting at. Stalling, holding up his suit - another gash sewn shut with black thread, “You sure this is okay?” 

“Mhmm,” He hums, “Gives me that bride-of-frankenstein vibe I’ve always wanted. Besides, anything is better than before.”

“You insisted, you helpless little man-baby.” Al adds, from her lounge seat, “Learn to dodge.”

Wade splutters - your lips twitching, as you work.

“See what I live with?” He gripes, “Maybe the two of you outta trade. It’d be cramped, but I bet the three of us could sardine it.”

“You wouldn’t last a week without Althea,” You snort. A beat, before you gather the courage to circle back to the topic at hand, “And besides, that’s just it. I’m not sure he wants to sleep with me." 

The summer breeze feels better up here, on the roof. The whip of the wind cooling you, as you work your way across the once-again battered suit - propped up against the brick parapet. 

“Okay, time out. Missing link here.” Wade gives you a sideways look, before his head pivots, "You cannot hit me with this fake virginal act when I literally heard you two fuck an hour after you met."

A beat, "And like, pretty much every day since then. I think I even heard a howl last night-"

Your eyes roll, "Wade. He’s not a werewolf, he did not howl-"

"Well, not anymore.” Wade smirks, “And funny that you assume I meant the Moan Wolf, but I could have meant you-"

You groan, head cradled in your hands, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we'll keep it down. It's just-"

It’s just you’ve been here before - this liminal space between an excellent physical connection, and more. You've done the hookup thing - casual, friends-with-benefits, lonely strangers. Thought you had learned how to keep your emotions in check, especially with those past experiences.

But you’ve never met someone like Logan before. 

He makes you feel bare. Soft-hearted and stripped down - wearing your feelings on your sleeve. Opening yourself up - only for your fingers to brush up against a brick wall, in return. 

Wade must catch your tone because he sets down the styrofoam container - the pink umbrella tucked against his ear. 

"Alright Sugarbuns, tell Papa Bear what's bothering you." 

You grimace at the names, another flicker of regret lingering in the corners of your mind. But you find yourself talking. Letting those worries flow from you in a rush.  

But Wade would know, wouldn't he? It's his friend, after all. 

"He leaves after."

His eyebrows raise, and you continue, "I mean, he'll stay for a bit but he always winds up on the couch by morning.  I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and he’s out there. I mean, I thought he'd want a bed, after where he's been staying, no offense-"

Thought he’d want to stay with you. 

You nudged at it once. Getting nothing more than a grumbled excuse about not sleeping well, something about nightmares. Something you accepted, only to find him tucked in your bed a few days later - curled in your sheets when you had rushed back to the apartment after leaving your phone. 

Hadn’t wanted to push, even if it confused you. Wouldn’t he want comfort, after a bad dream? You always did. 

"Offense taken, Blind Al and I are excellent bedmates," Wade interrupts, "But please, continue."

His joke eases you a little. Risking a sideways glance, finding him already looking at you.

“I like him, Wade. I just really want this to work out.”

He hums, sympathetically. Knowing all too well the complexities of like and love. How you feel deeper than you’re letting on - he always was perceptive, after all. 

A beat, before your head turns. 

"Do you think it's me?" 

He does laugh then, his shoulder leaning to bump yours, "Sugar, you have a two-hundred-year-old boyfriend who's gone through a massive amount of trauma and has an alcohol problem, and you want to know if it's you?"

"Fuck." The heels of your palms press into your eyes, "Okay, okay-"

"I literally traveled through the void with him, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-style. The John Candy to my Steve Martin, and even after saving the world he still wanted to kill me."

"Wait," Your head lifts, "Why would you be Steve Martin in that scenario?"

“He’s the main character, as am I.” He barrels past your question, "The point is, if he didn't like you, you'd know. You just need to be-"

"Patient." You finish, "Yeah, I know." 

And you do know. Even since that first meeting, you've known that he's been eaten up inside. Cracks of the man beneath leaking through his gruff exterior, as you had sat together on that couch. 

But Wade called him your boyfriend, but he's not. Not really - no conversation to indicate that's how he saw himself. 

It just left you confused. Vulnerable. Enough that you did dumb shit like this - going to Wade for romantic advice. The man who proposed with a ring pop and thought that a prostate orgasm was a sign of being soulmates. 

"Maybe you’re giving him too much. Withhold a little," Al interrupts, making you jump, "That's what landed me my second husband. Begged for it like a dog, and was married the next month. God rest his soul."

Wade mouths an exaggerated “what the FUCK" at you, before shooting a dark look in her direction - only just then seeing her smirk.

"Oh, you’re joking? She came to us for help and you’re joking-” A sniff, as Wade turns back, "So anyways, don’t do that. Do something normal. Like internalize it, until it makes you snap."

His face screws up, as he adds, “Or, maybe try it? That bricked me up a bit-”

"Or,” Al adds, “Maybe you should just talk to him, Sugar."

Althea always knew how to cut to the chase and give the hard advice you needed to hear. You just wish you weren’t afraid of the answer.

‘You’re both right,” Your head dips against Wade's shoulder, “I owe you. Again.”

Silence lingering, though it’s not uncomfortable. Leaving you to think about what he said.

The suit passed over to him, when you tie the final knot, “Done.”

“Thanks,” A beat passes, as he gives you a sideways look, “Any chance you want to cash in on that favor tonight?”

You know better than to agree without more info - an eyebrow raising as you wait.

“Vanessa is coming over tonight.” Wade gives you a meaningful look, “It would be great to have the apartment to ourselves for a bit.”

The serious tone does not last, as he smirks, “I fully intend to break my months of celibacy the second the opportunity arises.”

“Months?” You hadn’t realized it had been that long. Thought he would have moved on, in some ways. 

“Years, actually,” He adds, casually, “Turns out my obvious romantic hangups plus this-”

A gesture at his face,” Are a total boner-killer. As well as having an elderly roommate, apparently. Especially one who won’t leave.”

You shoot him a sharp look at the self-deprecation, Al’s voice cutting through.

“I told you, I’m hitting the casino for singles night.”

“Okay. I can drop Al off and pick her up,” Your mind is already racing ahead, “And Logan and I can go out to dinner or something.”

The prospect is exciting. Despite the time spent together, you haven’t really gone on too many dates yet. After your long hours and his rotating work schedule, your meetings have mostly been late-night. Quick meals whipped up in your kitchen. A rotating pile of delivery menus. 

“That would be great.” He smiles, “Thanks, Sugar.”

“Of course.” You smile, before adding, “What are you going to make?” 

A frown, when he hesitates.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to wing it.”

“I wasn’t winging it,” He protests, “I was going to hit up ol’ reliable.”

“For a second-first date? You can’t do takeout from Buns and Roses.”

A sigh, as you turn to face him, tugging out your phone, “You should make something nice. I have this recipe bookmarked for engagement roast chicken. I’ll help you-”

He tugs your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the eight-paragraph opener before the start of the recipe. 

“Make this for her, show her you’re serious-,” You start.

Wade finishes, with a smile. 

“-and there’ll be a cock ring on it before midnight.”

You keep catching yourself looking at him.

It’s almost embarrassing how bad you have it. Still not used to seeing Logan like this - away from your small apartment. 

Seeing him at work was different - a very cognizant realization that you were on the clock. The counter between you like a barrier, even when you slip a coffee and pastry across it. A lightning-quick kiss pressed into his cheek. The relentless teasing from your coworkers, after. 

But here - crammed in a booth, his hand slipping just under the hem of your dress, a palm curved against your thigh - it’s something else, entirely. Even in this dark corner, you have to resist letting your hands wander. Eyes flicking to the deep cut of his button-down flannel - dark hair peeking out from the curve of his white tank. The blue and grey pattern pretty against his skin. 

A curl of smoke pours from his lips, a cigar fit between two fingers. 

Logan had been curious to find you in the apartment when he got home. The aroma of the roast chicken wafting through the space, as you talked Wade through the last steps. The slow sweep of his eyes over the pretty sundress you wore, tugged from the back of your closet. 

It hadn’t taken much convincing, when you asked him to get dinner out with you. Even with Althea in tow, safely dropped off for her night out. 

“This is nice.” You smile, and his eyebrow lifts.

A glance around the room.

Dinner spent at a local pizza joint - stories shared, wound between updates about his new job at the local lumber company. About Laura, who you met two weeks ago. So much like Logan that it still catches you off-guard. Shared expressions, shared tempers. 

You think that it must have been hard for both of them, this reunion. That comparison between the Logan in this world, those memories that stay with her. She views him the same - even you can see that. He’s told you it came as a shock, but it’s easy to see how he’s warmed, with time. Finding joy, within the shared grief.

The conversations spill over into a bar you know well. Unsure what to do with yourselves with the order of “staying away”, the sun still setting when you had stepped inside.

“Not sure nice is the word I’d use, sweetheart.”

“Anywhere is nice if I’m with you. I am sorry, though. I know it’s not-” Your hand waves, shyness creeping in as you lean into his shoulder, “Wasn’t sure where else to kill some time. Dopinder and Buck run a tight ship, it’s really not so bad.”

“Mm. Guess this is nice, then.” He corrects, a hint of a dimple as he smiles, “But you let me take you somewhere safer next time, yeah?”

“I’m safe with you.” 

You miss the way he looks at you, as you take a sip of your drink. The brush of his fingers against your skin. His voice going low, goosebumps rising as he murmurs in your ear. 

“How much longer do we have to stay out?”

A question that’s been on your mind as well. 

“Well, Al’s thing is over at ten,” Your teeth worry at your lip, “But, I guess we could sneak back early. It’s just, Wade-”

“What about Wade?” 

It’s unfair, how he crowds you in the booth. Torso twisting to face you. The warmth of his hand - how you’re aware of each and every movement he makes. It takes you a moment to answer.

“Wade is… Wade,” You manage, “But he doesn’t really ask for much. I owe him, you know?”

“You owe him?” He chuckles, “He’s lucky you stuck around after he tried to give you cocaine-”

“Hey,” You smile, “That was Al.”

That had been your second run-in with your neighbors. Only desperation had sent you over to the apartment, needing a cup of powdered sugar for a personal favor. Under-estimating how much you needed, in your rush to finish some cookies for a friend’s baby shower. 

Meeting Al instead. The powdered substance swapped when her roommate had rearranged the apartment as a prank. Only Wade bursting from the bathroom, a towel slung low from his hips, had saved you from disaster. The nickname had formed when you hadn’t written them both off. 

“And besides, Wade was the one who introduced me to you.”

Logan’s expression softens, “That is something, isn’t it?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Eyes drifting lazily down to your lips, with a low hum, then further. It sends a heat blooming in your cheeks, an unconscious press of your thighs together.

“I’m, um, gonna let Dopinder know we’re heading out.” You breathe, “He’ll worry if we irish goodbye.”

“You sure?” He husks, with another exhale of smoke - and you can feel the heat rising from your cheeks to your ears. 

“Yes,” It comes out breathy.

“Um, yeah. You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”

Your elbows pressing into the sticky bartop as you wait - watching Dopinder work his way through pouring pints of beer for a crowd of bikers, all in dark leather.

A glance over your shoulder, finding the booth tucked in the corner. The dark head of hair, the expanse of his shoulders - a thick arm slung across the back - as Logan waits for you. 

It makes you smile, and you almost miss the bump of a shoulder against yours.

“Oh!” You squeak, shifting to the side to make room, “I’m so sorry, I-”

The apology dies on your tongue, as you glance up at the man leaning against the wooden post at the end of the bar. Eyes drifting over the black field jacket, up to dark eyes. 

“Been a while, darlin’.” 

You inhale a breath, in surprise. Close to two years ago, if you remember right. Numerous meetings spread out over months, before he slipped out of your fire escape and into the early morning.

No note, no text. Walking out just as suddenly as he had appeared.

It had never been anything serious - he had made that clear - but you can’t pretend that it hadn’t hurt. 

“It has,” You agree, a low twist in your belly, “How have you been? Didn’t think I’d see you outside Hell’s Kitchen.”

Unable to help that flicker of worry, even after everything. It’s always been ingrained in you - thinking of others more than yourself. 

“Should ask you the same,” His eyebrow arches, “This isn’t your kind of place. Taking up mercenary work, beautiful?”

“I’m here with someone.” It comes out clipped, a glance over your shoulder - the nerves eased when you spot his form.   

“Mountain man?” 

A scoff - lip curling over sharp teeth, “Taking you to a place like this… You can do better than that. You can do-”

“You?” It’s your turn for your brow to raise, “We both know how that goes, Frankie. This-”

A pointed finger, gesturing around the room, “Was my idea. Things are different. I’m different.”

There’s the hint of a smirk - dark eyes that drag slowly down. Flicking back up to yours, as his voice pitches low, “I’m sure some things are the same.”

Your head shakes, “Not like that.”

There are lingering shades of purple that fade to yellow across his cheekbone. Never was good with this. All that time spent glancing out your window, waiting for him to show up, battered and bloody like he used to. All he did was keep you out, keep you at arm’s length.

Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of it happening again. A little shake of your head - a reminder that you need to be patient like Wade said. Logan isn’t him.

“I know what I want, and it’s-” The words die, as you look for him, again. Finding only an empty booth - your stomach tying up into knots. 

A palm touches at your hip, a chest pressing snugly against your back. Startling you, as you breathe, “Logan.”

“This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” It’s growled out, Logan’s eyes fixed on the other man. 

“Nice guard dog.” There’s an amused appraisal - narrowed eyes, tongue trapped against teeth. “He do tricks as well?

The fingers at your hip curl, the smallest tug backward to bring you closer. The words ground out between bared teeth.

“You watch it.”

Christ. This was bad, you need to find your tongue - and quickly. 

You twist, a hand resting on his chest. Only now does Logan’s eyes drop to yours, the tight pull to his features only just ebbing.

“This is Logan,” You smile, your palm pressing over his heart, “He’s, uh, my-”

And for a brief second, your words fail you. The tension is thick enough to cut, acrid in the air. Would labeling this right now send him running? 

The man cuts through before you can finish.

“Frank Castle.” His eyes flick back to yours, as he adds, “Sure you can guess how we know each other.”

The muscles beneath your palm twitch. A light pressure against your hip, urging you away from the bar - the words low in your ear, “Alright. Let’s go.”

A nod, and you’re giving Frank a tight smile - letting Logan guide you towards the back. No more than a step taken before his voice cuts through.

“You still got my number?”

You shoot him an exasperated look, “Frank-”

“Gonna be back in town for a while, baby girl.” His arms cross, as he leans, “Call me when things don’t work out.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before a fist closes around the collar of his jacket. Logan stepping into his space, a forearm shoving Frank hard as he pins him against the post.

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, bub.”

Fights are common in Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but you can’t say you’ve ever experienced one. Fear licks inside you, meeting Dopinder’s equally worried gaze as he starts to rush over.

Frank’s smile is dark, “You don’t want to start this.”

It’s met with a growl. Silver points peeking between the dips of Logan’s knuckles, the fabric straining in his tight grip.

“Fucking try me, you piece of shit.”

There’s a metallic click - the press of something cold against Logan’s groin. 

“Should shoot your dick off for that.” 

“Okay!” You shove between them, then. A hand on Logan’s arm, tugging - the other at his neck, trying to guide him back to you. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” It’s softer now, soothing, “Baby, let’s go.”

His hazel eyes are wild when they find yours. Face twisted in a snarl, deepened with the shadows cast in the dim room. Blinking, as he comes back to himself. A dark look as his arm eases - stepping away.

This time, it’s you that leads him towards the back exit. Something gritted out as you leave that you miss, but sends Logan bristling. An apologetic look thrown at Dopinder, before you’re stepping together through the swinging door, into the wood-paneled hallway. 

Ducking down one of the hallways, next to matching doors leading to bathrooms, and a storage closet. An exit sign, gleaming red at the end. 

The music and voices are muffled. His face silhouetted in the light of a vintage beer sign, his features outlined in gold as his back presses against the wall. A gritted, inhaled breath.

You haven’t seen him like this before. Seen him mad several times. Grouchy and annoyed with Wade. The sharp temper that hid his hurt when he thought you didn’t want him.

None of those moments match him now. You’re not sure what to make of it - the way your skin prickles. Something in your belly flutters, a warmth that drips from behind your ribs, settling low. You never wanted anyone to get hurt. But that look in his eyes, how quick we was to find you - it makes you inhale a breath.

“We-,” You start - your fingers still curled around his bicep, “We should talk about this. You okay, Logan?”

His eyes flick to yours, jaw working. The fury has bled from them, the sharp etches in his face easing, even as his expression stays guarded. 

“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Logan rasps, “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

A beat, before it slips from him, “Was he one of the ones Wade scared away?”

“What?” It takes you a long moment to remember. Your brow pinching, as you shake your head,” Frank? No. It was-”

The pull of his brow is back, his frown deepening with your explanation. 

“It was just casual.” You finish, lamely, “It wasn’t anything. Never was.”

“Didn’t sound that way.” It’s gritted out. 

His head turns, eye contact dropping. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back, “Listen. If you want to go with him, it’s fine.”

You’re left stunned for a moment. His jaw working, hands jamming into his pockets. It’s defensive - it’s familiar. 

“I don’t want to go with him-” You start, but it only makes him sigh. 

“Then what were you gonna say, Sugar?” The look he finally gives you is searching, “I’m your, what-, your neighbor?”

“No!” You cry, “I was going to say you’re my boyfriend, but you’ve never-”

Logan’s pitches low, “I’ve never what?”

Your shoulders droop. Curling around yourself, as you lean into the wall next to him. He leans, matching your height - trying to catch your eyes. 

“I don’t know, Logan.” It’s almost too quiet to hear. He might have, if he had been anyone else. “I told you I liked you the day after meeting you. But you…”

A little shake of your head, “You keep everything so close to your chest. You leave in the night. It’s okay, I just… sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

When his arms cross this time, there’s something in his eyes. A dark glimmer, the tug of his lips.

“You think that I don’t like you, sweetheart?”

A tilt of his head, a sharp edge slipping into his tone, “You think I wasn’t ready to tear that asshole limb from limb for talking to my girl that way?”

Something low in your belly twists, desire thrumming in an echo that radiates through you. A sharp inhale of breath at his words.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You manage, transfixed.

It’s easier, this time, for him to step into you. Hands ghosting along your neck. Tipping your face to his, so you can’t look away. Can’t miss what he tells you.

“If-, if I open up.” It comes out hushed, his words soft and low, “You won’t like what you see, Sugar.” 

You reach for him - fingers curling around his wrists, “I like what I see just fine.”

He huffs. The barest hint of a smile, before his expression goes solemn. 

“This,” The word is punctuated by the way his thumb sweeps against your cheek, “Never goes well for me. Sleeping on the couch puts me between you and anything coming through that door.”

Your pulse races with the remorse in his words. He’s touched on the barest of details of his past. Those small moments shared in the night you met, riddled confessions in the late nights that have followed. 

“And the things I dream about-,” His eyes go hazy - lost in a memory, “They pull me back. I don’t want to hurt you because I can’t tell them from reality.”

The words slip from you automatically, without thought. Guilt floods through you, an ache from wondering - doubting. 

“You won’t hurt me.” 

“I will.” He breathes, “Sweetheart, I will. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”

Your head shakes - a stubborn set of your jaw, “You won’t. Please don’t shut me out, Logan. Please try…”

He huffs - eyes dropping to your mouth, as he leans. Hands slipping to cup your head, angle you to meet the press of his lips. A soft sigh that you swallow, something tender in the way he draws you to him. A hand curling around your back, splaying between your shoulder blades.

“Give me some time, okay?” Logan murmurs, when the kiss breaks, “Let me draw out the first good thing I’ve had in a long time. Just for a little longer.”

“Don’t have to draw it out.” Your body still curves to his, anchoring yourself to him. A hand touching his jaw so this time, his eyes have to stay on you.

“You deserve good things, Logan.” Your mouth brushes his, “Let me give them to you.”

The sound he makes is almost wounded, as if he wants to protest. 

As if he wants to believe you.

Breath ragged, as his hands trace down to grip at your hips. Leaning into you, your touch. What you offer him. A thigh fitting between yours, nudging against your core - and you think surely he must see how your eyes darken.

The rapid flutter of your heart, how it races for him and only him.

“Yeah?” He husks, as if reading your mind, “You ready to get out of here, Sugar?”

“Bathroom.” You breathe.

“Can’t wait that long.”

He’s on you the second the door swings shut. Fingers twisting at the lock, as his head dips - mouth finding yours again.

There’s a desperation to his kiss this time. One that you match with the way your palms trace up his chest. Fingertips at his neck, tugging him to meet you.

A thrill shoots up your spine. You’ve never done anything quite like this before. The space behind your ribs is soft and tender from his confession - already breathless before he deepens the kiss.

Backing you up against the old, chipped vanity that lines the wall. The stalls hanging open - empty as his hands trail down your spine. Fitting beneath the curve of your ass, tugging you up to fit on the counter. 

Finding your jaw again - guiding your lips to his, meeting the sweep of your tongue as he fits between your thighs. 

“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night.” He breathes, against your lips, “So fucking pretty, you know that?”

It sends a pulse through you, down to where you’re already responding to his touch. Your knees close around his hips, urging him closer. 

“Logan, please,” You hum, fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A palm pressing against the front of his jeans, where his cock strains against the denim. 

His moan is ragged, bucking into your touch. Fingers tracing up your waist. Letting your tits fill his palm, as you work him free.

“This okay?” Logan rasps, eyes half-lidded, “Pretty fuckin’ filthy, sweetheart.”

It’s hard to hold back a moan of assent, when his lips presses against your neck. Open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, the scrape of teeth pressing into your jugular.

“Good,” He growls against your skin, “Would’ve bent you over that fucking bar if you’d let me.”

It’s possessive. It makes you shiver - a sweep of his tongue, the suck of lips as he marks you. The sharp sting of his bite fading into sweet bliss. 

“Need you.” Your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking. The lightest of tugs to bring him closer, your thighs inching further apart.

He groans, “You have me.”

The pretty dress you wear is pushed up to your waist. His palm cupping you, feeling your warmth before he’s tugging the fabric of your panties to the side. 

Need rushes through you. A heave of your chest against his as your mouth meets his, greedy. A tilt of your hips, a leg lifting to hitch around his waist. Your hand curling around the edge of the counter, the other guiding the tip of his cock against your slick folds.

“Hold on, honey.” Logan’s fingers slip against your pussy, nudging inside, “Gonna be sore.”

“I can take it,” You insist, pleading, “I can take you, wanna feel it.”

His eyes darken. A little inhale of breath, watching as your lips part as two fingers press deep. Your teeth already sink into your bottom lip, muffling a whine.

Slipping them free, after crooking inside you. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough stroke to smear your slick around him. Lining the tip up with your opening, as his hands fit against your waist. His hips pressed snugly against the chipped counter, as he begins to tug you to meet him. 

You can feel every inch, as he moves you. He splits you open, your shoulders arching against the dirty mirror as your nails bite into the laminate. A hand pressed against his chest, as you urge him to go slow. 

A held breath coming in a rush, as he slips deeper inside you with a grunt. Filling that ache you’ve been carrying - your eyes dropping down to watch the slick shine of his cock. Sinking into you with the slow saw of his hips, a clink of his belt with movement. 

“Just for me, yeah?” He rasps, a hand drifting down. Fingers splitting where he fills you, drawing slick tips up to circle your clit.

“Just you.” You nod, breathless. Rocking into his touch, taking more as you adjust to the weight of him inside you. 

His teeth flash white, in the dim room.

“That’s my girl.”

The moan you’ve been holding back slips from you, as you clench down hard around him.

He hums, “You like that?”

“Yes.” You whine. Reaching for him, as he tugs you closer. The slow plunge of his hips turning into a shallow grind.

Fingers circling and pressing, in rhythm with the heady drag of his cock against your walls. Your fingers grasping onto his arms, his shoulders - the kiss is messy when he meets the tilt of your head. 

Leaning into you as his tongue licks into the cup of your mouth, your tits pressed up against his chest. A broad hand slipping from your waist, curving against the swell of your ass and squeezing.

“That’s it,” He rumbles against your mouth - eyes half-lidded. A groan when you nip his lower lip - grinning at the way you gasp, when his hips surge forward, “Atta girl, taking me so well.”

Each swipe against your clit feels like a countdown - hips angling until he finds that spot inside you that makes your teeth click together. That slickens him up even further, until he’s pounding into your wet, tight heat. 

Your fingers pinch down. Breath going short, until you’re panting. Unable to do more than buck into his touch, as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

“Couldn’t even wait to get home,” Logan growls, “Needed this cock so badly, didn’t you?”

“Needed you,” You whine, hips rocking to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut, as the winding pressure builds, “Fuck, needed you. Gonna make me-”

The words break on a bitten-back whimper. Your muscles go stiff, bracing yourself in his arms. 

“Want you to look at me, sweetheart.” He coos, with that steady roll of his hips. Nudging deep inside you each time, as his fingers circle against your clit, “Eyes on me when you come, alright?”

Your answer is a breathless nod, as you listen. 

You don’t think you could look away if you tried. Not with him right in front of you. So close you can see the pull of his brow in concentration, the pretty shade of his eyes. 

Fixed on you, as his lips part. The soft pant and grunt as desire throbs in your veins, your fingers curling into a fist in his flannel.

“Come for me, baby.” He urges, “Wanna feel you, let me fucking feel you come.”

It’s there, swirling inside you. Liquid heat between your thighs, yanking you to an invisible edge. Leaving you to dangle, breath held -

“Oh my god, Logan-“

You’re falling - clenching down hard around him. His name is a chanted prayer as he fucks you through it - a ragged, pleased sound rumbling in this throat as you pulse around his cock. The slap of his hips growing louder, more wet as your release coats his cock. His base and balls sticky, when they press flush to your cunt.

“That’s it,” He growls. Fingers leaving your clit, so he can grip your waist. Drive into you harder, chasing his own impending release.

“Come on, that’s my girl.”

It’s pulled from you, sweet and smooth.

“Yours.”

Logan’s moan is ragged, coming from low in his chest. His pace stutters - the steady thrust turning sloppy. A messy rut of his hips, grinding himself as deep as he can before he finds himself again. 

You forget the dingy bar. The flickering overhead lights. Filth and phone numbers scrawled on the walls. Everything narrows down to him.

How he holds you. Looks at you -  so much said in the way they soften. You don’t know how you ever could have doubted. 

Blinded with uncertainty. Fears from before, that will no longer have a hold on you. 

“Logan,” You sigh, your heel digging into the curve of his ass. Eyes still on his, as your plea slips from you, “Fuck. Don’t pull out.”

You want to feel him. The throb of his cock when he comes deep inside you. How he lingers, slick and dripping from you - now, and later, and tomorrow. 

A gritted-out groan, as the sharp tempo increases. Fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, and you’ll wear him there, too - fading marks against your hips. 

“Yeah?” Logan husks - that look back in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, as his lips part with a groan, “Gonna be my good girl, gonna fucking take it?”

“Mhm,” It pitches high, as you nod. 

“Fuck.”

It comes out choked, as he loses himself in you. One, two, three thrusts, and Logan is growling - hands slipping down to tug you flush against him, as he spills inside you with a muffled shout. 

Hips grinding himself deep into you, his words a rough rasp in your ear, “Take it. Just like that.”

He pulses inside you, filling you with each twitch of his cock. Marking you fully, as he tests his teeth against your shoulder. A moan, as your thighs hitch around his hips - nudging him deep, where you’re wet and warm and wrapped around him.

Leaving him to grind every last drop into you, slumping back when his grip finally loosens. Your limbs feel like liquid lead, head tipped back against the glass. A groan muffled against your neck, as your fingers slip beneath the tugged-open flannel.

Nails scratching along his back, the tight muscles beneath easing.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Logan hums when he finally leans back - and you already miss his hands on you, as they shift to brace against the counter.

It feels cruel that he teases you like this. When you swear you can still feel the throb of his cock inside you. When he’s still sheathed to the hilt.

You groan, “Don’t make fun of me, Logan.”

“‘m not sweetheart,” He huffs, eyes going soft.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

There’s something off about your apartment - he can sense it the moment they make it to the landing. 

This is exactly what he had been trying to tell you. The when, not if, something will go wrong. His senses flickering into overdrive, nostrils flaring. 

Catching the light that creeps from under the door, when he knows you clicked it off. His hand automatically leaves yours, reaching out to tuck you safely behind him.

“Logan?” There’s confusion in your voice, a hand at his shoulder.

He shushes you, his words a low growl.

“Someone’s in your apartment. Stay here, sweetheart.”

There’s the soft snick of his claws, your fingers untwisting from his shirt. A breath, and then his hand is closing around the knob - a sharp jerk of his fist as his shoulder slams into the wood.

Teeth bared, as he bursts into your apartment with a snarl. 

All that fury bleeds to relief, and then disappointment.

“How’d you get in here?” Logan grits, his claws sheathing. 

Your voice joins his, from where you had peeked around the doorframe, “You okay, Wade?”

Hazy, morose eyes peer back at him - a hand lifting to wiggle “baby knife” at him. A newly-opened bottle of your cooking sherry in the other - a plate balanced on his chest, filled with a half-eaten chicken breast and vegetables. Legs stretched out on your sofa, Dogpool curled between his ankles. 

“She didn’t show,” Wade mutters, with a miserable smile, “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Logan can’t help the soft flicker in his chest when you go to him. Sinking to your knees by the couch - moving the plate to the coffee table, lifting Dogpool into your arms. She licks your chin as Wade lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh - flipping to face the back of the couch. 

"What was the point of the first two movies?" The words are muffled into the fabric, "Why would Disney do something like this? We were picking out baby names for fuck’s sake-"

“I’m so sorry,” You soothe - a hand on his back, “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?”

Wade’s head turns to the side, with a long sigh.

“Thor’s phone number.”

“How about I take this,” You tug at the bottle, until it loosens, “And I text Peter? We can have a movie night, okay?”

He turns further, until he’s facing you again, “Even that one you hate?”

"Don’t hate it." You sigh, “It’s just so sad. I don’t know why it’s your favorite.”

“It’s not my fault they made that tree star look so goddamn delicious.”

You’re beckoning Logan over, a gesture to take his place. You hand on his arm, beseeching - but you don’t have to beg this time. The snarling dog inside him calmed - the fury from the bar and from the hallway ebbing at your touch. He can still feel your lips against his, when his eyes close.

The uncomfortable itch of opening up oneself still lingers, but it’s soothed by the way you smile at him in thanks. By the words that he still clings to.  

Logan has to fold himself into the space, knees folding. Mary Puppins tucked in the crook of his elbow - his other hand patting against a curved-in shoulder. 

Sincerity, as he offers, "Tough luck, bub.”

“It’s her loss.” You call, thumbs tapping away a message. 

“Her loss.” Logan echos, “You’re… you’re a good man, Wade. It’ll work out.”

It comes out clumsy. It always does - he never had a silver tongue like the Professor did. His edges as sharp as his claws, never one to waste words if his fist could do the job. 

Wade flips back over. The hint of a smile, “That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before his eyes are flicking over to where you pace, voice lowering.

“And I gotta ask, did you maul Sugar? What is with that mark on her neck?”

Logan huffs, lips twitching.  

“We’re all set,” You smile, “Your Emotional Support Peter is on his way. He’s bringing Al and some ice cream.”

A glance his way, the question written so plainly in your eyes - the lift of your brow. “That okay?”

It’s not the way he imagined this night going.

Had thought he’d take you to bed when he got back. Take things slower, this time.

Using his touch and the greedy press of his mouth to make sure you understand that he heard every word you told him. That he meant each one he said back - make sure you never made the mistake of thinking he didn’t care for you again.

But when he looks at you - how you’re ready to sweep into the kitchen to make some popcorn, he thinks-

That he might just prefer this. Even as messy as it is. 

He smiles back. 

The couch is crammed with far too many people. Five squeezing into a space meant for three at best. You’ve been half perched on his lap all night, his arm slung over your shoulder - tempted to pull you the rest of the way.

A couple months ago, his skin would have crawled to be this close to others. Would have peeled himself away with a scathing word and a sharper bite.  

But something softened him, during his time in this world. Days, to weeks, to months. 

Couldn’t go back, he knows that now. All the wishing and TVA TemPads couldn’t undo what was done - he’s known that for a while. It would take a long time, but he could try to come to terms with what happened. Try to do better, moving forward.

Starting with himself. A scrap of paper - snatched from a bottom of a flier with a brightly-printed 12-step program, shoved deep into his leather jacket pocket. Relearning how to be patient with others, and even more so with himself. Trying to listen what you and Wade told him.

He’s done walking away from things. You make him believe that whenever, if ever, he manages to open that tightly-sealed lid… you’ll stay.

The thought is one that he'll cling to.

“Alright. Enough bullshit.”  

It’s announced, as the credits roll - breaking him out of his thoughts. A creak of the couch as Wade shifts - crammed between you and Al, his head twisting on her shoulder to peer over his way. 

“‘m being serious now.” He insists, though the words slur together - the bottle stolen back during the movie and drained, “I’m so happy my two besties are falling in love, even if I am a jealous little bitch.”

A gasp, as he remembers - a reaching over to pat Peter’s shoulder, “Not that I’m forgetting about you, sugar bear. You too, Blind Al. I’d be just as happy if you two were dating. It'd be like a less fucked-up Harold and Maude."

A derisive snort from Al. 

Peter smiles, “Just happy to be here, pal.”

“Anyways, life sucks balls. Big, fat, sloppy, wet, balls, but goddamn if seeing you two happy doesn’t fill me with hope.”

Logan can hear the hitch in your breath. The pressure of your fingers, entwined with his. Embarrassment flickering across your face, when you are unable to help glancing his way. 

Exasperation and something else mixing in when you meet his gaze. Something soft and tender and directed so solely at him, that for a moment - he forgets to breathe.

Falling in love, huh?

Yeah. He might just be. 

a/n: i adore frank castle, haha. i thought he would be a fun person to pull in for a jealous!logan scenario - and thank so from the bottom of my heart for all the love on sugar, sugar - I honestly had no idea so many of you would like it, and I can’t tell you how much it means to read your sweet asks and comments 💖 this is all I have planned for them right now, thank you for letting me share this series with you!!! (though I am definitely not done writing for logan!)

[eupheme]

— honey, honey

[part ii of sugar, sugar] | [part iii] | [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 5.2k

tags: asshole friend!wade, (sorta soft) roommate!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, flirting, mutual yearning, miscommunication, immature humor, wingman!wade, light angst, oral sex, spitting, fingering, unprotected PiV, begging, floor sex

Even after you wake up alone, and almost late for work, it doesn’t deter your interest in your neighbor - especially after the night you shared.

(Or - a miscommunication, and the following through of two late-night promises.)

You awake to the blare of Dolly Parton's '9 to 5'. 

A time you wish your work schedule followed. Groggy with sleep as you reach for your phone, hitting snooze on your way-the-fuck-too-early alarm. 

Collapsing back on your pillows, as the night before comes rushing back to you.

The party. Meeting Logan. Coming back to your apartment after. 

An ache between your thighs that you definitely didn't have the morning before. Sitting up with a start, heart racing as your hand stretches out on the right side of the bed.

The sheets are cool, in-between the deep rips in the fabric.

You don't remember him leaving.

Had drifted off with an arm slung around your waist, one of the hardest sleeps of your life. Something inside you twists, leaving behind the sharp tang of disappointment. 

It's not unusual, you suppose. You'd had your fair share of fuck-and-go's, and had even committed a few yourselves. But you thought last night had felt different.

There had been a connection, you were sure of it. The way he had touched you, kissed you- 

You had just hoped...

The snoozed alarm goes off, and you catch the time. Forty-five minutes before than your usual alarm - the numbers shocking you into action. 

Set earlier to accommodate a last minute change for a wedding - all of the cupcakes needing to be repackaged before the mother of the bride came at seven. 

And you had volunteered, do-gooder that you were.

"Shit!” You hiss, scrambling out of bed. A whirlwind as you throw clothes on, banging into the bathroom to get ready.

Still muttering as you blow through the kitchen, snatching up your bag and keys. 

"Why the fuck did I do that?" You grouse to yourself, skipping your usual morning coffee - you'll have to grab it on the way, "God, I'm fucking dumb, I always regret it."

The door slams behind you - as you rush down the steps, and out into the streets.

His claws unsheath with the bang of the door. Awakened from a dead sleep, his heartbeat jolting as he's thrown back into another life, in another world. 

It takes him a full minute to come back down. His surroundings unfamiliar, the room still bathed in darkness. 

A groan, when he remembers. The claws slipping back beneath, a sharp twinge as his skin knits back together. 

It's too early for the late night he shared with you. Should have thought about you working in the morning, might have held back from the extra round the night before. 

Had meant to wake up before you, slip back into bed as you dozed. You had dropped off in his arms the night before, lulled to sleep after he had coaxed two more orgasms from you, with the slow pump of his hips and circle of his fingers. 

Dragging himself out to the couch once your breathing had gone steady. Tugging the homemade afghan off a nearby armchair, wrapping it around him as his eyes fixed on the door. Keeping watch, as he did next door.

Lulled to sleep, thinking about you. His eyes flutter shut for a moment now, the slightest pull of his lips at the memory. 

Flinching again, when you barrel out of the bathroom. The light makes him squint - you haven’t seen him yet, as he pushes himself up on an elbow. Your name soft hush on his lips, until he hears your angry muttering. 

"Why the fuck did I do that?"

"God I'm fucking dumb, I always regret it."

Your tone laced with anger, woven in with the sharp tang of remorse. 

The realization is a douse of ice-cold water, rising away the last dregs of sleep. Leaving him staring at the door as you yank it shut behind you. 

Scowling, as he pushes himself up. 

Nearly ripping the denim as he tugs his jeans back on. Finding his white tank and discarded flannel in your room, right where he had stripped them off the night before.

His jaw works, replaying your words.

He should have known. Shouldn’t have listened to Wade. Shouldn’t have listened to you. Shouldn’t have let himself hope. 

And for the second time, your door slams shut. 

You think about Logan all morning, even as you put out fires at work. 

The boxes exchanged - two-hundred and fifty rustic, individual cardboard carriers exchanged for sleek and shiny white ones, tied with a bow. The memory that runs through your mind even staves off your irritation at the last-minute work, a peppy smile and wave as you hand the boxes off. 

The 'tied-up-in-knots' is a feeling that echoes in your belly. Your fondness for Wade is starting to come back, after the way you were ready to write him off for that absolute debacle of an introduction. 

You'd been expecting something a little more... natural. Normal. A "hey, have you met my neighbor?" not one of the most embarrassing things you've had to live through with a near-stranger. 

Maybe you should have known better.

But with the way the night ended, you can't bring yourself to be mad. Letting yourself get distracted as you replay the night, again - almost grabbing the wrong tube of icing as your mind wanders back.

Not only thinking about the way he felt - those wandering hands and how perfectly he fit inside you, how he had completely fucked your brains out - but him as well. 

The conversations. The tiny crack you had made in his armor, the way he had shown you his claws. The drift of his fingers against your skin, when he had asked why you had gone to Wade. 

You’re thankful you’re working in the back today, with the way your skin heats from chest to ears. Quiet mutterings to get it to together. 

And as the afternoon finally starts to lull, you find yourself gathering ingredients.

It wouldn't take long to make something small. The recipe is one you know by heart. 

Maybe you can drop it off tonight. Maybe it will erase whatever you did to drive him from your bed and back to his apartment in the middle of the night. Maybe it will be a nice way to let him know you’re thinking of him.

Vanilla, flour, powdered sugar. Fresh, sliced strawberries.

Maybe you have it bad. 

The box is tucked under your arm when you knock on Wade’s door. It’s still early in the afternoon - the hallways bright, traffic buzzing outside.

You fidget with the strap of your dress - something breezy, but still a little cute. An attempt to look like you have it together with looking like you tried too hard - something easier said than done.

There’s a fluttering twitch behind your ribs when the door opens. That curl of hope squashed when it’s not Logan that answers, but Wade.

You’re quick to fix your expression, offering him a smile, “Morning! Late night?”

“Is it a late night if it’s still going?” A yawn, as he scratches at his ribs - fingers digging into the fabric of his cropped tee, “We’re four seasons deep into a Supermarket Sweep marathon. If I could go back in time again…”

The tv blares in the background, Al sitting in an armchair. The couch from the night before still sits empty, no sign of Logan. 

Not that you’re checking. 

“You’d… want to host?” You offer, eyebrows raising. 

“God no. Can you imagine me in those sweaters? Way too much polyester.” He chuckles, “No, Blind Al and I would sweep. Pun intended.”

Your head tilts, nose scrunching.

“I see you make that face, but that woman knows every goddamn aisle.” Wade sighs fondly, before he’s jolting - eyes fixing on you, “But enough about the biggest regret in my life, how was your night?”

“Oh,” You manage, “It’s was good-”

“Just good?” He scoffs, “He gave you the greatest show and you’re saying it’s just good?”

A huff, muttered under his breath, ”Can’t remember the last time I took the skin boat to tuna town like that. Surprised you’re still walking.”

The noise you make is ugly - a broken groan. Embarrassment flooding with your nerves, cheeks heating, “If you must know, it was great. Lots of wholesome, adult conversation.”

“Uh huh. And a good, old-fashioned railing.” His tongue tucks against his teeth, “I get it! I’ve had him inside me too, it was quite the experience.”

That has you pausing. A beat, as curiosity wells in you, “You mean…?”

“Well, it was his claws,” Wade sighs wistfully, “But how different can it be?”

You huff.

“I don’t think that’s the same thing.”

His brow lifts, “It is, according to the internet.”

“Sure, Wade. The Internet.” Your eyes roll, as you shift - adjusting the box as it rests against your hip, “Speaking of though, is he, uh, home?” 

Wade doesn’t hear you. His eyes have already dropped, just noticing what you’re carrying. A tilt of his head as he peers through the transparent film on top. 

“What is that?” His finger pokes the box, and your eyes dip down

“It’s nothing,” You start - but you know he won’t let it drop, “Well, actually, it’s - I uh, made him a-”

The words peter out lamely, as you hold up the box. Wade’s teeth sink into the side of his lip, as he bites back a cackle. 

“Did you seriously bake him a ‘thanks-for-the-sex’ cake?” 

You blink, “No!”

A pause, as mortification wells in you.

“Oh my god,” It’s a whisper, as your hand drags across your face, “Oh my god, Wade. I baked him a sex cake.”

You shove at him as he laughs - his hands sneaking beneath your arm to wrestle the box away from you, “Mm, you’ve got it bad, girlfriend. This is pretty embarrassing, real hard to come back from.”

“There was context!” You insist, reaching for it, “Give that to me.”

Wade twists - pivoting away from you, “Oh ho, not a chance, Sugarplum.”

Your forearm presses into his chest as you lunge at him, but it’s all too easy for him to set the box on the cluttered end-table, barring you as he closes the door - trapping you both out in the hallway. 

“He earned it, from what I heard,” He chuckles, “And are you really gonna take it away from him?”

You’re still mentally, and possibly physically, cringing. Leaning against the wall, while he blocks the door. 

Wade is still grinning, a sigh as his arms cross,“God, I wish he was here.”

And for the first time all day, you’re glad he’s not. It had seemed like a sweet idea but you’re left feeling like an idiot now - already planning on trying to sneak back in and grab it when Wade isn’t looking. 

“He’s not?” You’re fishing. Hook and bobber, a flick as you cast out your heart, fingers on the reel. Pathetic, perhaps, but you can’t resist, “You think he’ll be back tonight?”

“Ooh, the real reason you stopped by. I see how it is.” He sniffs, “But no, I’ve got no idea. Left this morning with Laura, something about a job.”

A beat, before he adds, “Which about time, bee tee dubs. Great face card, but Old Wadey here is about to go into overdraft.”

“Laura?” You parrot, without thinking. A frown creasing your brow, the slightest downturn of your lips.

He catches the expression immediately. 

Wade smirks, “Ooh, you are looking so green, Sugar. Never took you for the jealous type.”

An inhale of air between his teeth, head tilting as his hands brace on his hips, “God I could make this so complicated right now. Drag this whole thing out to another chapter, but I won’t, because I just so happen to like you.”

A beat, before he puts you out of your misery, “Laura’s his daughter. Well, this world’s Logan’s daughter. Well, he’s the baby daddy, but there’s no mom. Well, it’s complicated.”

“Oh.” You manage. Another detail to keep up with, something you tuck away with the rest. To ask Logan about later, when you see him - a feeling that he might be a little more coherent in his explanation.

“I’m sure you’ll meet her.” Wade smiles, “Good kid, I mean, as good as you can be with that as a father figure. So much trauma.”

You hum. He had hinted at that. You couldn’t believe that his world didn’t want him. Not sure what could have happened to have him all but warn you the night before.

As if it would make you not want him. 

There’s a beat, before his hands are resting on his hips, “Okay. I need to go back to the apparently-contextual-sex-cake.” 

You groan, slumping against the wall - the heels of your palms digging into your closed eyes.

“I thought it was embarrassing but I gotta admit that I’m jealous. It’s really bothering me that no one’s ever baked me a cake, because I’m a very tender and generous lover.”

“That wasn’t why. He seemed interested in trying a non-phallic version of the cake I made for you,” You try to keep it professional, but he’s already smirking, “Which thank you for bringing up by the way, really broke the ice.”

“Without me you’d still be at ‘favorite colors’,” Wade’s smile widens, before he sighs longingly, “And god, that cake was good. Best dick I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

You snort, “So far, right?”

His eyes widen.

“You little slut, are you shopping for a third already?” Wade twists the doorknob - opening it a crack with his yell, “Al, it’s happening!”

“No,” You laugh, “I just meant-, I meant I might get better.”

“Can’t beat perfection. And I would know, with a face like this.”

There’s a high-pitched yap then, the sound of nails scratching at the wooden door. 

“Ooh, duty calls. Pun intended. Again.” He thumbs over his shoulder, “I’ll tell him you stopped, by if-”

You give him a look, but a grin still tugs at your lips, “If I do that other thing you’re always asking me to do.”

His hand presses against his chest, in mock-offense.

“I can’t believe you’d say that! I was going to say if you don’t see him first.”

It makes you smile. Fondly, even. 

“Thanks, Wade.”

His hand pats your shoulder. 

“Any time, Sugar. My holes are always open.”

You sigh. 

You don’t see him until late in the evening. 

The afternoon ticking by. Telling yourself you don’t care - to play it cool - only to turn around and try to convince yourself that open communication is the way to go.

Vegging out in front of the television for a while - trying to figure out what to order for dinner. Narrowing it down to two takeout locations when there’s a series of bangs in the hallway.

Layered voices. 

You can’t help but look. Half-nosy and half-worried for Wade, even if he did have mutant powers. Even if you can’t offer much for backup, it doesn’t stop you from cracking open the door. 

“-open the goddamn door right now, I’ll break it down.”

The growling voice is one you’ve come to know, even if it’s angrier than you’ve ever heard.

The side of Logan’s fist colliding with the door frame, his shoulder pressed up against the wooden door.

“Not a chance, Jack Torrance.” Wade’s voice is muffled, “Always wanted to be an uncle and you are not ruining this for me-”

The doorknob rattles under his grip, as he snarls, “You roped me into this, shithead. All that talk about getting to know-“

“New York’s Cupid is never wrong! Don’t you dare ruin my streak!”

It’s then that Logan sees you - the snarl on his face flickering. Expression going flat.

A final filthy glare shot at the door before he steps away. The calculated look he throws your way makes you think he’s considering making for the end-of-the-hall staircase instead.

What is happening? 

A beat, before his jaw grits. Hand shoving into the pocket of his jeans. Closing the gap between you only to thrust out a rolled-up bundle of bills, secured with a rubber band. 

“For the mattress.” 

There’s a frustrated rumble in his throat when you don’t take it - too busy frowning, your eyes flicking from the bills to his face.

“I don’t want that?” It comes out like a question, as you try to put the pieces together. 

“Just take it.” He grits. Eyes dropping, “You can replace your mattress and we can forget last night happened, if you regret it so much.”

You blink.

“I don’t regret last night, Logan.” Your hands brace on your hips, “You were the one that left. Which is fine, if that’s how you like things to go, but don’t you dare point your finger-”

Logan scoffs, interrupting you.

“I didn’t leave.” His tongue licks against his teeth, as his head shakes, “I slept on the couch. Perfect place to hear your rant this morning.”

Your hands brace on your hips, “My rant?”

“Yeah, Sugar.” He’s stepping into your space - and it shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but something about how you’re bumping up against the door has your heart racing, “Heard everything you said. How ‘fucking dumb you are’, how you regret it.”

A beat, as you process - a thunk, as you head tips back against the door. Everything becoming clear, and you almost laugh. 

He hadn’t left.

“I wasn’t talking about you.” 

His frown deepens.

Your face softens, “How could I think that? I spent all day thinking about you. I was mad at myself for taking an early shift, instead of getting that extra time with you.”

There’s still a jut to his jaw. Defenses and hackles raised - your words as useless as his fist against the door.

Your hands spread wide, “I even baked you a cake, which is apparently something I do when I like someone.”

He goes still at that, eyes dark. A lithe roll of his shoulders as he steps closer - voice dropping, “Say that again.”

“I baked you a cake?” You repeat, distracted by his proximity.

“Mm,” Logan hums, “Not the beginning. The last part.”

Your cheeks heat, as you realize what you said, “When… when I like someone.”

There’s the touch of his fingers against your chin. Tipping your face towards his, even as your eyes drift to somewhere over his shoulder. Too embarrassed to meet his gaze just yet.

“Is that right?” Logan husks. 

The word slips from you, “Maybe.”

“I like maybe.”

That emboldens you to look. He’s close now, a mimicry of the night before - just on the other side. 

The hand still hovers, in that narrow gap between you. Fingers flexing around the bundle of bills, “I still want you to take this.”

“Well, I don’t want it.” Your head shakes, “Maybe just for some new sheets, but I thought-“ 

There’s a different intent in the way he crowds you, now. A softer slope of his shoulders, the sweep of his thumb against your skin. 

“Thought what?”

The low husk makes you squirm. His eyes half-lidded when you glance at him. The heat of his anger morphing into a much different kind of fire. 

“Thought that if it was already ruined…” You trail off, as you smile. 

As you hope.

“….maybe you’d want to ruin it a little more with me, sometime?”

There’s the slightest pull of his lips, as he smirks. 

You make it inside, but no further than the couch. It’s familiar, the way his hand cradles the base of your neck. The muted sigh, when your lips part at the sweep of his tongue.

Laid down against the cushions, legs spread to fit him between them. Hips that dip down, the meat of his thigh nudging against your core, sending your heart racing. 

How he chases after you, when you forget to breathe. Leaning in you as your fingers twist in his hair, tugging him closer. 

Need pounds in your vein, matching the pulse in your throat when his lips press against it. Wandering hands, one that palms the curve of your breast. A throaty hum when he can feel the tight peak through the fabric, pinching it between thumb and forefinger.

The other skating up your bare thigh, raising goosebumps. Slipping beneath the hem of your dress, his leg shifting to make room. Fingertips stroking against your inner thigh - the soft crease as you whine into his mouth, feeling how his lips curve as he kisses you. 

You’re wet already. You know you are - since that spark of realization, then the moment when his mouth pressed against yours. Fueled by the heavy weight of him as he guided you beneath him, smelling like smoke and wood and the sharp bite of leather. 

Wound up by this teasing, and it’s enough that your hand is catching his wrist, pulling his palm flush with your core. 

The moan it pulls from you is ragged. Logan’s hand is warm where he cups you, curling fingers against the curve of your ass, heel pressing against your seam. 

Another rock of his hand, until there’s a soft “please” slipping from your lips. Fingers slip beneath then - a ragged curse muttered against your lips as they part you.

Slipping against where you’re wet and warm. The tips of two pressing against your opening, feeling how you give for him.

“Should let me make it up to you.” Logan’s voice is ragged, as he sinks to the knuckle. A slow pump as you clench down around them, a lift of your hips as you try to take more. 

It’s on the tip of your tongue to protest. 

Remind him it was just a misunderstanding, but then your eyes are fluttering open, seeing how his dark gaze is fixed on you.

Your answer is quiet, “Okay. S’long as you don’t stop.”

There’s the flash of sharp teeth. You mourn the weight of him as he eases off of you, fingers slipping free. But it’s only to catch your thighs - smearing slick across your skin as he moves to the floor. Tugging you until legs spread wide for him, hips at the edge of the couch.

There’s a hitch of your breath, as you hold it. His lips pressing against your knee, as his hand bundle up the fabric. A slow reveal as he fists it around his fingers, bringing it up to rest against your abdomen.

His kisses follow the path his fingers took. Open-mouthed against your thigh, until his tongue dips out to taste the soft skin where your leg meets hip.

“Logan,” You huff - needy, “Don’t tease.”

His eyes lift from where they lingered - the darkened patch of fabric between your thighs. 

“Been teasing me since I left. Couldn’t stop thinking about this.” It comes out rough, his eyes flicking back down.

“But I thought-,” You start. It’s hard to think when he’s this close, the press of his thumb into the joint of your knee - keeping your legs spread, “Thought you were mad.”

Logan huffs. Lips ghosting against your skin, as he inhales, “At the thought of never having you again.”

It’s like being struck by an arrow, piercing clean through. The little gasp turning long, as his hand slips up your thigh. Catching at the waistband of your panties - tugging them down so he can get his mouth on you.

The tip of his tongue meets you before his lips do. A low groan as it flattens against your slit, tasting your arousal. His nose pressing against your mound as he teases at your clit. Slipping down to dip inside you, as your nails scrape against the cushions. 

Slicking you up with his tongue. The buzzing groan of his lips against your skin as he eats you - open-mouthed kisses against your core. Tight licks against your clit, before his lips close around and suck.

It leaves you a mess. Short panting breath, as he gives you what you need. His name melding in with your gasps, as that string inside you winds tighter and tighter.

The pressure eases and you whimper as he leans back, jaw working. Lips shiny where he’s smeared with you - watching how you clench for him as he lets spit pool on his tongue, before it’s dropping against your folds. 

It’s filthy, the way he rubs it into your skin. Coating his fingers before the two are notching again, before sinking deep into you.

A moan is pulled from you, with the stretch. Stealing your breath, even with how eager you are. Giving you more. That dull ache easing as his mouth returns to you. Hungry in the way he groans against your skin, as if he was getting off to your pleasure.

The time before doesn’t compare to now. The full focus of his fingers, buried deep and crooking. Pointed flicks of his tongue - the way his eyes are so fixed on your face.

Catching the pull of your brow and the way your teeth sink into your lip. Keeping the pounding pace steady when he sees how you gasp, your fingers fisting in his flannel. Relentless in the way they stroke against the spot that makes you see stars. 

It sends you higher and higher. A groan against your skin when you buck into his mouth. Another one, louder, when your hand slips to his hair and tugs. 

“Feels so fucking good, Logan,” You’re babbling now - desire slurring the syllables, “I’m so, I’m so close-”

Those dark eyes settle over you - his mouth busy but it’s not hard to imagine the way he’d encourage you. The husk of his voice, that tough timber as a low command melds with praise. The thought is enough to send you over - with the soft suck of his mouth, the way his fingers fill you. 

Your knees dig into his shoulders as you curl inward - that hand at your belly pressing you flat against the cushions as you come. Making you take what he gives you - the flick of his tongue going lazy as the tight pulse around his fingers ebbs. 

The tension leeches from you, turning to glitter in your veins. That tight knot of worry slowly unfurling - giving you something to grasp, hold onto, as you come back down. A sigh when his fingers slip from you. The hungry press of teeth against your inner thigh, a reminder that he’s there. Soothing it with the swipe of his tongue after. 

Easing back as you push yourself up - his shoulder pressing into the edge of the couch as he sits on the floor. Your limbs are liquid as you slip down to join him - Logan’s broad hands gripping at your waist, your thighs splitting as you throw a leg across his lap.

“You’re too good at that.” You hum, as you settle in his lap bare, spit-slick against his jeans. Against where he strains, a breath hissed out as you tug at his belt. Reaching to help you - loosening the button, tugging at the zipper.

A lift of his hips to push his jeans down, his cock full and hard where it rests against your belly. His hands reaching for the hem of your dress, tugging it from you. Fingers slipping around to loosen your bra as your mouth meets his. 

He tastes like you, as he licks into your mouth - a sweet tang that blends with him. His shaft pressing against your pussy as he lifts his hips, grinding himself into you. You push yourself up onto your knees - his lips parting with a groan as your fingers circle him, holding him steady.

It breaks off - a sharp hiss, when you sink down. 

There’s no slow slide this time. Too eager, in the way you drop down. Taking half of him at once, with a breath that chokes you. His fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, as his brow knits. 

“Easy, sweetheart.” He grits, “Not going anywhere, alright?”

It soothes you, as your nails bite into his shoulders. Pink marks that ebb away by the time you start moving - a slow bounce until you’re sitting flush on his lap, cock speared inside you. 

It’s also different than last time. He’d been deep, then. Your faced pressed into the mattress as you had panted - but now -

Now, his mouth is at your shoulder. Lips pressed against the fading mark he had left. That tight grip of his hands loosening, as he guides you - letting your hips rock. A shallow drag of his cock inside you, feeling like he’s in your ribs. 

Another press of his mouth against your sternum. Hands slipping down to wrap around your thighs, encouraging you to lift a little more. Enough that he can get his mouth on you - his tongue laving across a nipple. Groaning as you press your chest against him, leaning into the suck of his lips, the nip of teeth.

His thrusts like this are shallow, punctuated by the occasional deep thrust that has you panting. Has your fingers loosening to slip between your thighs, pressing against your clit.

You can feel the scrape of his facial hair. The ease of his hands as he lets you drop, until he’s buried in you again. Catching at your wrist, tugging your hand back to his shoulder.

“Uh-uh.” Logan tongue clicks, eyes dark, “Just keep riding, honey.”

His fingers replace yours. Slick circles, a pressure that makes you clench down hard around him. 

A soft coo, as your breathing shortens - turning to whimpers. 

“Lemme make you feel good.”

And this is new, too - how close he is. Those hazel eyes focused so singularly on you, it’s almost too much.

“You do make me feel good,” You breathe, letting your lips press against his cheek, ‘You’re, oh-”

His hips stutter, where he flexes into you. Your own pace sloppy - grinding instead of bouncing, chasing the building pleasure in your core. The soft sounds you make growing louder. His legs flexing beneath you, feet going flat against the floor so he can drive himself up.

There’s that tell-tale clench. The way your vision starts to go blurry, words slipping into sounds. 

“Logan.” You, “I’m-,”

He can feel it - the way you tighten as he pounds into you. The glaze of your eyes, the throaty moan as you start to string stiff in his arm. 

“That’s it,” Logan rasps, face tipped up to yours, “You gonna come for me?”

Your moan pitches high. 

He grins. 

“Then let me hear how pretty you sound. Come on, sweetheart.”

With the circle of his fingers, you’re shattering.

A soft cry as you come again, gushing against the cock that only pounds harder. Drawing out the flutter of your cunt as he grips your thighs, rocking into you. A ragged moan as he feels how you flutter around him, head tipped back. An arm wrapping around you back as he tips forward, bringing you down to the floor.

You head cushioned on the pile of discard clothes. His knees brace against the rug as the angle changes, sending him deeper. Lifting your hips, eyes fixed on where he drives into you. The gleam of his cock where he’s soaked with your release, how he slips between your puffy folds.

His teeth grit. Fingers flexing against your skin. A rough moan when your hips move to meet his thrusts.

“You want me to come in you again?” There’s an edge to his voice. Eyes fixed on your face, searching.

You nod, but it’s not enough. 

His hips snap harder, breath ragged, “Ask me for it, Sugar.”

It makes your stomach clench. Something deep burning, liquid heat in your core. Your legs hitch around his waist, hooking around his back.

“Want you to come in me,” You beg, “Logan, please-”

His eyes flutter shut. The muscles in his neck flex, as he arcs over you - a hand braced on the floor, pricks of silver glinting between his knuckles.

A rough growl that turns into something soft as his hips snap forward - hilting himself as he comes. Hips pumping with each pulse of his cock, as he spills deep inside you. As you milk him dry, until the heavy throb of his cock fades. 

He’s beautiful. It leaves you dizzy.

You really might just have to bake him another.

The golden sunset seeps through the windows, spilling across the floor.

“You wanna stay?” 

It comes out drowsy. Your limbs are liquid, even more so than last time, “I know a great takeout place.”

You’ll need a little fuel, if tonight goes as it did before. 

He hums - the brush of bare fingers down your spine. It’s cramped on the couch, entwined limbs. Sweat-dewed in the summer evening. 

“You still wanna get to know me?”

Your nose brushes his throat. Cheek pressed up against the curl of his shoulder - where he can just feel you nod, “I would. If you’ll let me.”

“Yeah,” Logan rasps, quietly.

“Yeah. That sounds nice.”

I can't even express how just - grateful and thrilled and happy I am that so many of you liked sugar, sugar! thank you for the encouragement for this part 2, and I hope you liked it! 💖 I have one more part planned (though open for more!) that I've been working on, along with more for the wade x f!reader x logan fic as well!

[eupheme]

— sugar, sugar

[part ii] | [part iii] | [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 6.5k

tags: asshole friend!wade, (sorta soft) roommate!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, flirting, mutual yearning, immature humor, a reference to while you were sleeping, wingman!wade and the worse way to meet someone, light angst, oral sex, swallowing, fingering, v. light ass play, unprotected PiV, appearance of The Claws, what’s a refractory period, sorta audible voyeurism (brief/humorous)

a/n: includes spoilers for deadpool & wolverine (which omg I loved - what was your fave cameo?)

Your eccentric neighbor Wade may drive you a little up the wall… but, you’re willing to put up with him if it means he’ll introduce you to his new, grumpy-looking roommate.

“You gonna introduce me?”

You’ve cornered Wade in the apartment’s laundry room - the door to the front-loading washer hanging open as he holds a bundle of red fabric up to his chest.

“You think this will wash out?” 

The suit in question looks like it had been run over by a truck and then set on fire, with the rips criss-crossed in the leather and the numerous charred holes scattered across the chest.

“Definitely.” Your eyes flicker down, and then back up, “So, will you?”

He bundles the suit up - flinging into the back of the washer, the laundry basket still tucked under an arm.

“Really? Not even ‘hello, Wade’? ‘Looking good, Wade’?” His voice pitches up, imitating yours, “Does our friendship really mean nothing to you?”

You wouldn’t necessarily call Wade Wilson a friend.

In fact, he’s honestly the worst neighbor you’ve ever had. 

Loud, obnoxious. Persuasive - the first night you met you had been banging on his door at three in the morning, yelling at him to shut up as music and a caterwauling voice blared through the shared wall.

Ten minutes later you were playing the drums on his late night session of Rock Band, using a banana and a wooden spoon in place of sticks. Only for Althea to stomp out of her room and shut everything down, scaring both of you out of your skins.  

But sometimes, you think - remembering the times he came through for you, a shoulder to cry on, helping him this slump he’s been digging himself out of - he might just be the best, as well.

And maybe that was friendship, after all. 

You sigh, leaning against the row of washers. Eyes flicking over him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You do look good, Wade,” There’s a tilt of your head, the smile widening, “Glad you lost the toupee, that really wasn’t your color.”

“Ah, ah. Repurposed,” He chides, cupping his crotch, “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed-”

“Ew, stop.” Your face scrunches, a hand covering your eyes as you shield your vision, “Will you please just answer my question?”

He throws a handful of shirts in the washer, “Which was...?”

Your head shakes - a hand on his arm as you reach for a glint of gold in the pile of clothes. Cringing as a handgun appears, held gingerly between thumb and forefinger as you set it on the side table.

“Good call,” He nods, “Dry clean only.”

You can't help a laugh then, even as your hands brace on your hips, “I want to meet your roommate.”

He frowns, “You’ve met Blind Al.”

“Jesus, Wade. Not Al." A hand waves, " I mean Mister Tall, Dark, and Brooding.”

You’ve seen the stranger in the hallways a few times in the month since he’s moved in. Scruffy and scowling the first time, a silent shadow behind Wade’s endless chatter. 

But in the weeks following, that look had softened. You’d stopped by twice with cookies to welcome him, but every time you’ve just gotten Al.

Not that you dislike Al, that’s not it at all. She’s sweet enough to you when it’s not 3 a.m. or if Wade doesn’t have her annoyed half to death.

But you certainly weren’t harboring a crush on her. Maybe even secretly hoping that maybe the new neighbor will get a little lost and end up at your door, instead of his new place.  

“Ooh,” The syllables draw out - detergent flung in, before he’s leaning against the washer too, facing you. “Yeah, Logan. He's great, got a mean ‘Hugh Jackman’ vibe, just without the singing. You’d like him.”

Something like hope flutters in your belly, but then he’s raising a finger - wiggling it at you, “Just one question though. What’s in it for me?”

That has you scowling, “What do you mean? You owe me. I covered for you when you had that barqueue in the stairwell.”

“God, that was great sausage.” Wade groans, thinking back, “Mmm, but I think Peter covered for me.”

“Who do you think got Peter?”

“Well, I don’t remember seeing you.” He shrugs.

“I was right-,” You pinch the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger, a sharp exhale of breath, “Fine. If you do this for me, I’ll do that thing you keep asking me to do.”

Wade gasps gleefully, “You mean you’ll make the triple decker-”

“-chocolate caramel cheesecake chimichangas. Yes.” You finish with him, arms crossing over your chest, “You’re lucky you heal fast because that should put you right into a food coma.”

“Right. Lucky me,” He smirks. A second as he thinks, before he snaps his fingers, “I’m having a little get-together tonight! You should come. Was gonna invite you anyway.”

The pounding in your head ratchets up at the thought that all this could’ve been avoided.

“Logan sleeps on the couch, though,” He adds, sagely, “So just letting you know that if the two of you decide to get your fuck on in my bed, according to the state of New York I am legally allowed to join you.”

“Thanks for the warning,” You grimace - even if you’re certain that cannot possibly be true, “But I do have my own apartment.”

“Oh, right.” There’s the faintest edge of disappointment in his tone, paired with a sigh.

You give him a sideways look, then.

“I saw Vanessa leaving yesterday. Things getting better?”

He sobers at that, eyes moving towards the sliver of a window. The glimpse of the street outside.

“Yeah.” Wade manages, “Yeah, I think so.”

There had once been a flicker of something. In-between your annoyance and exasperation, there were tendrils of tenderness. Long snuffed out, when you had seen just how banged up his heart was. How it’s always belonged to another. 

You had gotten over it. Gotten to a place where seeing him now, like this, makes you smile.

“I’m really glad to hear that.” 

He smiles, then.

“Thanks. Me too.”

“Hey, hold on.” Wade darts in front of his roommate, a leg kicked up high to block the doorway, “Where are you going? You can’t go out.”

Logan scowls, an arm already shoved into his leather jacket, “Sure I can.”

The blow against his shoulder might move a lesser man, but Wade’s fingers just grip the frame even tighter, “But I promised-, I got a friend that wants to meet you. There is some really important shit at stake here. I can’t let you go.”

An eyebrow cocks, “Can’t? I think we both know how that would go if you tried to stop me.”

It would be easy to get into this right here and now, but his suit is still in the dryer and he’s not about to spend another hour cleaning up blood.

“Wait, wait, wait,” He throws a hand up, “Aren’t you listening to me? A girl wants to meet you. She’s hot, she has a job, and she has an apartment. You’re only one outta three there. Can’t you see what a good opportunity this is? This is totally in your favor!”

Logan scoffs, his tongue tucking against his teeth. Hesitating for just a second, but it's enough that Wade knows he’s got him.

“I’ve met your friends,” He eventually acknowledges, “They’re good folk and all, but there isn’t anyone there I’d like to ‘get to know better’, yeah?”

“You haven’t met this one. She lives next door.”

The pause stretches longer this time. Dark eyes dart out into the hallway, and Wade can practically hear those rusted gears turning.

“Apartment 16 or 18?” Logan finally rasps, his arms crossing. 

Oh, he’s definitely got him. Just call him Wade Wilson, New York’s own personal Cupid. New life goal - get his friends laid. 

He nocks a mental arrow - aiming, and then firing with his answer. 

“18.” 

Another beat passes, and then a sigh. 

“Alright.” The leather sleeve slips from his arm, drooping in his fist.

“Five minutes. That’s all I’m staying.”

Wade’s fist pumps. 

Bullseye, motherfucker. 

The apartment is packed and it’s been well past the allotted five minutes. Logan’s been nursing a beer for the last fifteen, eyes flicking over the people he’s grown to know well.

Offering a tight, half-smile when the big man claps him on the back, followed by Opposites Attract. Almost tempted to find that damn dog, just to have something to do. 

Or maybe, just bail all-together.

Starting to think this was all an elaborate prank. Some fucked up aspect of this Earth, unknown to him until now.

He’s too old for this shit. If he heads for the bedroom now, he might make it out the fire escape before anyone notices.

Logan is still entertaining this new thread of thought until he hears his name - called out over whatever fuck-face bullshit boy-band music Wade’s been playing. 

Ambiance, his ass.

The muscles of his crossed arms flex. Catching the way his roommate hauls a girl across the floor - the look of panic on her face as she tosses a container onto the nearest surface.

Wade hadn’t been lying, after all. It was Apartment 18 - that was about as much as he knew about you.

Other than the color of your eyes. The smell of your perfume in the hall. Your hair, your schedule - waking in the mornings to hear your door opening at 5 a.m., five days a week.

A baker. A damn good one, from the bits of cookie he’s snuck when no one was home. 

Had never thought to introduce himself, because he’s been through all this before. Knows better than to reach out in the first place - still nursing the old wound of heartache, one that still flares to life in his chest.

Better not to hope, or even think, at all. 

You stumble when he lets go, and Logan’s hands only curl tighter. Afraid to touch, now that you’re so close. 

A pretty young thing compared to him. This was a fucking stupid idea, his eyes darting away as Wade claps, his hands spreading wide. 

“Logan,” Wade’s tone is cordial, as if discussing the weather, “This is our neighbor, Sugar. She bakes a mean penis cake and likes emotionally unavailable men.”

A dejected sigh as he regards you, “Which is why it’s never worked out between us. I am just too available.”

Penis cake?

Logan shoots you a sideways look, an eyebrow cocked. Caught off guard by this unexpected intro, and it seems you are the same - gauging by the way your mouth drops open. 

Your face swimming with regret, as you hiss, “Oh my god. Wade. It was one time. Why do you have to put it like that?”

Wade’s smile widens, his tone still innocent, “Just skipping over the ‘getting-to-know-you’s, so you can know if you’re compatible.”

Already pivoting to face Logan with a little wink, his own scowl already deepening. Something like nerves flickering to life - as he wonders if this will all be over before it ever begins.

“And this is Logan. He’s from another Earth, is two-hundred years old, and has a metal dong.”

Jesus Christ. 

Logan’s teeth grit, before he snarls, “It’s not made of metal-”

Out of the corner of his eye, catches the curious dip of your gaze. Past the folded twist of his arms, the flannel, down to his thick belt buckle.

A knock rings out then, interrupting him from any further clarification.

“Ooh! Door,” Wade thumbs over his shoulder, “Go on now, we’ve got some good energy going here. Sugar and spice, I love it.”

A spin on his heel, and he’s leaving them alone. Silence a lingering companion for a long moment, before Logan turns.

“Nice to meet you.” He seethes, jaw working as he shoots daggers at Wade’s back. A hand extended - he’d manage that much at least.

Waiting for you to make an excuse and run, but all you do is fit your hand into his. Soft and strong and a near perfect fit.

Logan doesn’t touch people much anymore unless it’s a hand around a throat, or claws buried deep into a chest. Had almost forgotten what it was like, even if this meeting is close to his own personal version of hell.

“Nice to finally meet you, too.” Your smile is wry. Hands still clasped a moment longer, until he’s withdrawing. 

Your hands shove into your back pockets. The tilt of a head as you regard him, and he lets his eyes meet yours. 

They’re pretty, like the rest of you. Captivating even, if he could use such a word, and Wade’s words ring out in his head. 

She wants to meet you.

He’s wondering if that’s still true. Maybe you’re wondering the same, with the way you look at him. 

“So,” You begin, awkwardly - another unconscious flick of your eyes,“How does-”

“Uh-uh.” Logan’s head shakes. He’s picked up a couple things living with Wade. Never used to be a bargaining man, but he has to admit it has its uses. 

“If you wanna know, you gotta go first.” 

He hates you.

He must, with the way he’s scowling. Thighs spread wide as he sits on the couch you had gestured to, fingers in a vice grip around the bottle. No doubt plotting a dozen ways to ditch you the second he can.

Who wouldn’t, with a meeting like this? You could kill Wade, cheeks burning as you sink into the worn cushions next to him.

That is, until your knee knocks against his. The muscles in his thigh flexing - but Logan lets it rest, instead of pulling away. 

“You gonna-?” His voice is gruff, a low rasp that makes goosebumps raise across your skin. 

“Uh, sure.” Your fingers twist, “Which part did you want to hear about?”

His eyebrows lift. Those dark eyes beneath, almost a hint of amusement in them.

“Right,” The little laugh that bubbles from you is self-conscious, “Well, I don’t really like emotionally unavailable men, they just have a habit of finding me.”

His voice is low, “How would Wade know that?”

“Mm, how would he know about your-?” Your eyes flicker down for the third time, and he shifts. 

“You first.”

“Alright.” You huff, but you’re smiling now. Some of your discomfort easing. 

Logan is even more handsome than you had thought. You like the way his eyes dart away, only to come back and linger. 

It’s starting to make you think that maybe it’s not dislike that has so much of him hidden away. Maybe it’s just been a long time since someone tried to peel any of him back. 

Maybe he’s as nervous as you are.

“Well, he’s had to scare an ex or two away.” You shrug, “He only knows because I told him. And the cake, oh-, that was him, too.”

You turn then, to face him. A shoulder brushing the arm he has thrown across the back of the couch, a flicker in his eyes as you get comfortable beside him.

“Well, Wade had gotten ripped in half a couple years ago,” You nose wrinkles, a wave of your hand, “And it all like, has to grow back, right? It’s so creepy.”

Logan grimaces at your explanation, and you wonder if he understands. You think he must - you had thought he was like Wade, in some ways. 

Different. Special.

“Well, he uh, finished growing everything in,” You make a sweeping gesture over your lower half, “And the next year to celebrate his dickiversary, he ordered a penis cake from my shop.”

“His… dickiversary.” Logan repeats slowly.

The heat is back in your cheeks, but you nod, “Yeah, because it like, it came back and all. And he paid in cash, I couldn’t say no.”

There’s the smallest twitch of Logan’s lips, and it feels like a victory.

“Right. What flavor was it?”

Your smile widens with relief, “Strawberries and cream. It was so good. I’ll have to make it for you sometime.”

A second before you cringe, adding, “I mean, a normal one. Not…”

He hums then, close to a laugh.  

“Sure. You do that.”

You smile, letting your shoulder bump his, “And with that… I think it’s your turn.”

The bit of humor in his expression flattens. A searching look thrown your way, before he inhales a breath.

Setting it free. 

“I’m a mutant.”

Logan waits there, as if expecting something. You only nod, thinking of the ones you know. Colossus, Ellie, Yukio, Domino. Wade. 

“Wade said you were similar to him. I had assumed-” You encourage, waiting.

“Right,” He seems relieved, some of the tension ebbing, “My powers are regenerative, like his. But unlike him, I have these-”

There’s the jerk of his wrist, and three sharp metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. Your gasp is caught in your throat as you cling to his flannel shirt - the surprise bleeding into worry. 

They glint in the light, as his fingers flex. 

“Adamantium instead of bones. All of me is like this.”

The claws sheath themselves inside him again. His wounds smoothing over seconds later, as he scrubs his knuckles across his jeans, wiping away blood. 

Offering out his hand, after. Letting your grip unwind from his shirt, and press against his skin instead. Feeling the tendons in his hand, his wrist. The skeleton beneath utterly unyielding, a weight to his limb that is so unlike your own.

“Metal…” You trail off, as pieces click into place, “I get it now. So does Wade really think there’s like, an actual bone-?”

Logan huffs again, “Guess so.”

You laugh then. A thought sobering you after, as a fingertip drifts up to the dip between his fingers. 

“But doesn’t that hurt?” 

It makes you wince to even think about it. Much less how casually they sprung from him, no different than breathing. 

He shrugs, and it’s heartbreaking.

“Doesn’t even phase me anymore.”

“And, the two hundred years,” Another facet you put together out loud, “You’re still alive because you keep healing? Will it be that way forever?”

His hand flexes in your grip.

“Not forever. Apparently my powers will run out, at some point.” His eyes meet yours, “The Logan in this world is dead. Wade pulled me from another.”

Your brow furrows - always trying to keep up with the snippets that Wade has told you across the years - stories about time-traveling and mutants and even how he came to be. But this seems too deep. Surely Logan must be joking.

“Another world, huh?” You ask, head tilting - trying your best to roll with it, “Won’t they miss you in yours?”

Only now does his face falter. That sharp mask cracking, as his hand pulls from yours. Resting again on the back edge of the couch - his answer low and rough. 

“No. I don’t think so.”

Another jolt racks through your heart. You don’t know him know him yet, but you already can’t believe that could possibly be true. Your fingers fan out, hovering - before it folds into a fist.

“Well then, I’m glad you’re here.”

He doesn’t reply. 

The room is darker now, dim with the setting of the sun. Street lights outside pouring in a golden beam that cuts across his face. 

His eyes are hazel, you can see that now. A fading rim of green spilling into the brown, beneath the near-permanent furrow of his eyebrows. 

Yours caught in the glow of the flamingo string lights that curl out from the kitchen, stapled to the walls.

He breaks the silence, the words coming slowly. 

“Let me ask you one more thing.” 

“Sure. You know some of my worst secrets already.” You smile, a shoulder lifting.

His hand twitches, where it rests near your shoulder. The tip of a finger ghosting against skin.

Just the slightest brush but it feels like it radiates out, lingering after.

“Why’d you tell Wade you wanted to meet me?” 

His voice is still low, rough. But it’s lost that sharp edge. The combination has your stomach tied up in knots, suddenly more nervous that you’ve been the whole night.

Surely he must know? 

“Well…” You hedge. It’s your turn to look away, but then there’s the brush of his fingers again.

“Because I did want to meet you.” You admit, “You, you seemed like someone I wanted to get to know. In whatever capacity you’d like.”

“Is that right, Sugar?” Logan husks, and the nickname sounds even sweeter on his tongue, stealing your breath.

All you can do is nod, as his eyes darken. 

Voices rise behind you, ripping you out of this little bubble you’ve found yourself in. Nearly forgetting just how many people are here, how many eyes have been glancing your way since you’ve arrived.

“Not strip poker Wade, please.” The rough rumbling plea of Colossus’s voice rings out above the others, “You never wear anything under the suit-”

You didn’t even realize when he had changed, but he had - patches of bare skin on his ass showing through the holes. Your nose scrunches, before you turn back to realize that Logan’s eyes are still on you.

Dropping when your tongue peeks out to wet your lips - your words coming out in a soft hush. 

“You want to get out of here?”

You want him. You can only hope that he might just want you, too.

The corner of his lip twitches.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

It’s strange to have someone like Logan in your space. You can remember the last time you’ve wanted someone here.

His fingers still entwined with yours, from where you had reached back for him. Leading him through the dim corners of the room.

Thinking you had made it, only for the rousing cheers to rise when you had cracked the door open to slip through.

His grip tightening when you made to tug your hand free, in an urge to press it against burning cheeks. Letting you fumble with one hand, to open the lock next door.

It’s quieter here. A low echo of the music next door, as the darkness wraps around you again.

Here, his fingers move, but it’s only to skim up your wrist. To tug you between him and the front door, until your back presses against it. 

His nose brushes yours as he steps into your space, your lips already parting. Holding himself there for a moment, inhaling the scent of you as his arm braces above your head.

Leaving you to be the one that closes the gap. The tilt of your head and the press of your lips against his.

A rough hum when your arms wrap around his neck, fingers buried in his hair. His hand gripping at your waist, pulling your hips against his.

Tugging and pushing. A messy path from the front door through the small living room - a mirror-image of the apartment next door.

Through to the bedroom, wandering hands and the brush of his tongue against yours as he deepens the needy kiss. Until his knees are hitting the edge of your bed, and he’s letting you nudge him back onto the mattress.

He brings you with him - your hips cradling his as you settle yourself astride him. Hands flatten against his chest as you rock down - drawing a rough, mumbled “fuck”.

Grinding yourself down where he’s hard, the curve of his cock straining against his jeans. Letting your hands follow, as his own cup your ass. Squeezing, before slipping to press the heel of his hand against the seam at your clit.

You moan into his mouth, as your fingers curl around him. Eyes blown wide when you pull back, scooting your hips down. 

It’s here that he comes back to himself. 

Going tense as you fit yourself between his thighs, fingers at this belt as the other still cups him.

“You shouldn’t want this.” He rasps, those eyes glinting in the dark, “A man like me. You know that, right?”

Propping himself up on an elbow, so he can see your expression. So you can see the way his jaw grits, nostrils flaring. 

It’s a warning, wrapped up in silk. A last ditch effort to scare you away - knowing that once he has you, he won’t want to stop.

Your fingers slow - his zipper half-undone, baring skin and a dark shadow of hair beneath. 

The other pulling away, “You want me to stop?” 

He catches your wrist, jerking your hand back. His hips bucking into your palm, grinding himself into your touch. 

“The last thing I want to fucking do is stop.” It’s almost a growl, “But on my Earth, I-”

You sigh then, impatient, “Logan, this Earth isn’t all that great either. I lost five years of my life to the blip.”

He frowns, not understanding - but your head shakes as you continue, “I’m tired of being too scared to take chances. I’ve been trying to live each day to the fullest, and I’d like to end this one with you.”

And out of everyone - Logan knows a little something about second chances.

“Yeah,” He manages - the grip of his fist leaves you, “Yeah, okay.”

"Thank you,” You answer primly, just as you finish yanking the zipper down. 

His hand beats you in the race to ease himself out, fingers curling around the base. You can’t help it - you inhale a breath at the sight of him.

Heavy, with the way the flushed tip bobs in his grip. Thick enough that you’re already wondering if you’re going to be able to take him. 

The huff he makes turns into a groan as you start small - engulfing the leaking head with your lips. The first inch turns into another as his hips lift, feeding his cock into your waiting mouth. 

Only when he’s halfway inside you, bumping against your throat, does his hand drop. Letting you replace it with your own - squeezing, as drool slicks up his shaft. Your head bobbing in time with the twist of your fist.

That brief hesitance is quickly forgotten. Fingers brush at your cheek, curling around the base of your head as he guides you.

Leaving you eager for more. Another hissed groan when your mouth leaves him, your hand loosening as you strip your clothes away.

“Oh fuck yes,” He coaxes, when he realizes what you’re doing, “Let me see you, baby.” 

Your shirt and pants left to pool on the floor. A second of boldness as you unclasp your bra next, leaving you in your panties as you focus on his cock again. 

A bitten-back moan when your tongue slips across his swollen shaft - an low throb between your thighs as you rub them together, clenching around nothing. Resisting the urge to slip your hand beneath the hem to ease the ache. 

Instead, your keep your hands on him. Goosebumps raising as your nails scratch against the deep v of muscle at his hips. The others working him into your mouth, as he slowly comes more undone. 

His hips flex with each bob of your head, lips parted as he pants. The words a rough mumble, becoming almost desperate. 

“That’s it sweetheart.”

Another moan when you take him deep, hollowing your cheeks as you suck, “Oh fuck, gonna fill that pretty mouth.”

His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady as he bucks into your mouth. Those dark eyes fixed on you in wonder, all that pretty skin bared for him to touch, to taste. He’s mesmerizing like this - the weight of gaze. Jaw slack with pleasure, eyes aflame.

You did this to him. 

It sends something warm flooding through you, as his eyelashes flutter. The tipping back of his head, muscles ticking in his cheek as his teeth ground down. 

A sound still slips between them, as he floods your mouth with the next flex of his hips. Pulsing between your lips as you swallow him down, a choked sound ripping from his chest when you cup his sack to gently squeeze out every last drop. 

Logan melts into the mattress after, an arm thrown over his eyes as he catches his breath. His gaze focusing on you when he feels you squirm - dark, and hungry.

A lithe stretch of muscles as he moves - legs easing from beneath you. 

“Hands and knees,” He commands, head tipping towards the bed next to him, as he rolls off. Kicking off his jeans as you listen, watching over a shoulder as the flannel and white tank underneath joins your clothes on the floor.

Your eyes widen at how toned he is - muscles rippling, the bed dipping as he fits himself behind you.

His broad hand at the small of your back, pushing your torso down against the mattress. A pleased hum then, fingers trailing just along the elastic edge of your underwear.

“Could smell how much she needed this.” The tips of two press against the damp fabric between your thighs, making you gasp, “Even next door. You want it that bad?”

It should be embarrassing that he could tell how much you desired him, but at the moment all you can think about is him touching you more.

“Yes,” You agree, “Please, Logan.”

“So fuckin’ polite,” The fingers withdraw; but only so his nose can replace them. A ragged inhale, just before his tongue drags against your clothed slit.

A groan against your skin as you cry out, before a finger hooks around the fabric, baring you for him to taste.

The heat of his tongue flattens against you - lapping at where you drip with need, a rough rumble in his chest. 

“Sweet, too.” Another flick of his tongue, “Your name. ‘s fitting.”

You can’t manage words. Only his name, muffled against the sheets as your fists twist in them. Back arched as you resist the urge to grind yourself against his tongue, as it flicks against your clit.

It’s messy, how he eats you. You don’t think you’ve even had someone take you like this. Hungry, desperate even, as he devours you. The rumble of a groan against your cunt as his tongue delves inside you, stretching you open. Letting your slick smear into his beard, with how close he presses his mouth.

That need inside you thrumming. Winding tighter as he yanks your panties down your thighs. His palm flattening against your ass, holding you open as he licks you from clit to hole, then higher. Humming as you squeak, when his tongue flattens against your tight rim. 

A thick finger nudging against you then, as his tongue dips back to your clit. There’s no resistance as it slips deeper, into slick walls that clamp down around him.  It’s what you needed - that little bit more.

Unable to help rocking into the crook of his finger now. Whining when a second joins it, spearing deep and curling. Dragging against your walls, loud and wet and filthy with each plunge. 

Your whimpers only grow louder. Needier, as his lips wrap around your clit. Fingers pounding deep, stretching you out. Leaving you babbling, your words slipping together. 

“Don’t fucking stop.” Tears prick at your eyes, each breath a rattling gasp, “Oh my god you’re gonna make me come-”

He has you gushing, with the next flick of his tongue. A pleased groan as he feels your pussy tighten around his fingers, hearing the wail that is muffled into your pillows. That sharp pace slowing, his thumb replacing his tongue to draw your orgasm out until your legs are shaking. 

His fingers sticky when they pull from you, only to slip between his lips - tongue curling around his knuckles, sucking them clean.

It leaves you floating above yourself. You can’t remember ever coming this hard, even by yourself. Only the tintest thread of disappointment as you drift, and it’s only that you won’t get the pleasure of his cock filling you tonight.

You would’ve liked to see what he can do with the rest of him. 

Perhaps you can convince him to stay until morning.

But he moves behind you, instead. His knee pressing against yours, spreading your legs further. The rhythmic shuffle of skin against skin, as his hand slips from between his lips to fist around his cock. 

“Tell me I can fuck you.” It’s not a plea, not with the harsh rasp of his voice. But it’s as close as you’ve heard, as he swipes the tip against your leaking pussy.

Smearing your slick on him, teasing at your waiting hole.

You don’t know how he’s hard again, but at the moment you really don’t care. Not sure if you’ve ever felt a need like this, your back arching further as you present yourself to him. 

A twist of your neck, so your eyes can meet his. 

“Fuck me, Logan.” 

He groans, broad hands squeezing at your ass. Slipping up to sink his fingers into the flesh at your hips. Holding you steady as he lines himself up. 

Your breath held, when you feel his cock start to breach you - muscles stringing tight.

“Relax, sweetheart,” He grits out, though not unkindly, “You can take it.”

Trying to hold himself back from filling you with a single thrust, with the way you’re already gripping him.

Easing himself into your heat. Two inches forward and then one back, and with each one you think you’ll feel the press of his thighs against yours. A low whine as your cunt makes room for him, that sharp stretch as it feels like he’s reaching into your belly.

Feeling full when he finally is flush, the weight of his sack kissing against your clit. His shoulders following the curve of your back, as a hand slips up to plant next to your head.

“Feels fucking incredible,” It’s mumbled against your skin, almost as if it hadn’t meant to say it. 

“Mm,” You grin, your face tipping up to his, “Should’ve met you weeks ago.”

He smirks, a low sound in his throat as his mouth presses to yours. Starting a slow rhythm that drags his cock against your walls. Slipping until he’s halfway out, only to sheath himself again. Pushing the air from your lungs as he flattens himself, knees digging into the bed as your thigh spread wider - forcing him deeper.

It’s almost too much. 

You hand shoots out, reaching. Wrapping around his wrist, nails biting against his skin. 

It feels like he’s surrounding you. Each thrust a heavy weight that presses you into the bed. Splitting you open, until all you can do is squirm beneath him.

That pressure in your belly building again, as his hips pound. His breath, hot and panting in your ear as he chases his own end.

“Fuck, Logan.” You sob, “Harder-”

His tendons flex under your grip. Knuckles pressing flat against the sheets as he makes a rough sound in his throat. 

Those claws unsheathing with his next thrust. Punching down into your mattress. Anchoring as he loses himself to the feel of you beneath him.

How tight and wet and warm you are, your arousal still sweet on his tongue. Fighting the urge to sink his teeth into your throat, as everything tightens up inside him.

“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning, rasped out. 

“Come in me,” You whine, “Wanna feel you.”

He does growl then, at the thought of filling you to the brim, until he's leaking out of your pretty little pussy. Hips snapping faster, pinning you to the bed as he ruts into you. Each squeak of the bed paired with the sharp rip of fabric as his claws dig in. 

Feeling how your body strings tight beneath him, how you clench down in anticipation. Wanting to feel you once more, before he gives in to his own desires.

“Come on, baby,” It’s hushed, murmured against your skin, “Fuckin’ give it to me-”

The sharp point of a canine scraping against your skin, his groan rough and throaty in your ear. 

Your fingers work down to wedge themselves between your thighs. The tips brushing where you’re speared open, before circling your clit like his tongue had.

He has you mindless. Fucked out - that soft glow from your earlier orgasm shining bright as he tips you towards a second.

Burning at that tightly wound thread inside you, until the ends fray, and then snap. 

It has you coming with his next thrust. A wail ripped from you as he buries himself deep, feeling the way your pussy clenches down around him. 

Fingers still swirling, drawing out the deep pulses that fan out from your core as your toes curl, vision going hazy.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He rasps, those sharp thrust slowing to a sloppy grind, “Make a fucking mess for me, there you go-”

Panting, as he groans. Another roll of his hips before he’s coming with you - teeth bruising skin as they sink into your shoulder. The sound he makes is broken as he spills into you, muscles clenching with each pulse that paints your walls.  

Marking you thoroughly with teeth and come, the saw of his hips slowing until you both finally go still. A breath finally caught. 

Blissed out, when he rolls you both to the side. His thighs still mapping yours, cock still notched deep. A thick arm thrown across your waist, his breath ragged in your ear as he catches his breath.

Your fingers drift, as you bask in your afterglow. Dipping into the rips in your mattress, knuckle deep.

There’s a grunt as you wiggle, the words low in your ear, “I’ll get you another, sweetheart. Just lost control for a moment.”

The thought doesn’t bother you as much as you’d think. In fact, you wouldn’t mind if happened again.

Only as your imagination runs wild, do you hear the muffled moan from the brick wall behind you.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

Dramatic and drawn out, paired with faint rhythmic noise. 

A beat - before you hear mumbled protesting. The voice of someone talking with their mouth full, “No. Back the fuck off Peter, I’m not going to share.” 

Eating. The fucker was eating his end of the bargain, ear pressed to the wall.

The next louder, “Alright, pay up everyone, Operation ‘Get Sugar Some Sugar’ was a success!”

You grimace, eyes rolling. Logan grunts behind you, the words mumbled out sleepily.

“Wish I could sew that goddamn mouth shut.”

There’s a faint “they already tried that!” before Logan’s fist bangs on the wall, shutting him up.

But you can’t help the smile. Your fingers fitting between the ones that rest just below your breasts, squeezing.

“He’s not so bad,” You admit, “Wade, I mean.”

Logan groans, “Don’t say his name while I’m fucking you.”

“You’re-” You start - but then you can feel him.

Still hard - as his hips cant slowly against yours. Your joined hands slip up to cup a breast - as his lips press against your neck, stubble scraping you skin.

“Again?” You breathe, disbelieving that he’d be up for a third time - your hips rocking back to meet his. The sound lewd with how he drips from you - but it only has him grinding himself deeper, “You sure you’re two hundred?”

“Regenerative powers, sweetheart.” Logan husks, the flash of teeth with a knowing smirk.

“Can’t say it doesn’t come with perks.”

I used to have the biggest fucking crush on wolverine, haha - so fun to watch a new movie with him!! 👀💕 thank you so much for reading! And please me know if you'd like to read any more for him! (like more one-shots,etc!)

[bitchofdarkness]

I hate how fandom has become "if you haven't created anything in this very specific time frame after the release of the show/movie, everyone will have moved on"

And call me old fashioned, but that's just not me. I sometimes take ages to create and publish. And I will love a show or movie for such a long time (years, babes, years) that I just can't relate to the fast consumerism that's going on.

Because, let's be real, it can get really lonely in a fandom if most have simply moved on to the next shiny thing. Is what's created less worth, just because it was created outside the hype? Why is it such a taboo for this new fandom generation to love an old or "late" fic or art?

It's so tiring and I'm too old for the 30-seconds-hype-tiktok-shit. Just tired. So, so tired.

[jurassicbarnes-archives]

you ever just click on a fanfic and read the first word and go “shut up” and exit

[pearwaldorf]

#yes#furthermore this is a skill#you need to cultivate this skill to survive fandom (dsudis)

[lowlifetheory]

Desperate for money and utterly out of options, Peter sells his virginity online.

A bidding war ensues making Peter more anxious about the whole thing. When bidding goes over 1.5 million Peter decides to call the whole thing off but when he gets an eviction notice it’s the final straw.

His virginity is worth 2.3 million, apparently.

He organises to meet his buyer, Bucky. Bucky takes him for lunch, Peter fawns over his arm and asks a lot of questions.

Bucky transfers the money and Peter prepares to go home with Bucky but Bucky stops him. He didn’t buy his virginity he saved him from creeps.

Peter finds he’s disappointed, but he tells Bucky he wants to thank him for his kindness, so they start hanging out, and maybe Peter wants Bucky to sleep with him.

[digglesthedickerfly]

*police sirens in the distance*

Peter, who has never committed a crime in his life: They found me!

Bucky, who actually committed the crime, eating chips: You better run.

[winter-spiders]

hi! do u have any good winterspider fic recs? preferably ao3

YES I DO!

Okay heres some good oneshots

On the Road to Freedom by definitelynotahunter

i can hardly think straight lookin’ at ya by lavenderlotion

Kiss Me Honey, Honey Kiss Me by TheOnlyCeeCeeJ 

This could be a meet cute but you tried to hit my lights out by PleaseDontFindThisMom

and for like full fics (more than one chapter)

there's a small space between us by lemon_meringue

The Spring Break Secret by nickxy

The First Rule of Keeping a Secret by Legends_Never_Die

Avenger's Assemble by RinKitsune

and heres a series or two i love

Sweet Sin by WinBlam

Hot for Teacher by Pandafish

Hope you enjoy!!! I have so many bookmarked it's ridiculous! (there's also another small rec list on my masterlist <3 )

[monster-cock69]

Escaped prisoner bucky and “yeah you know what I guess I will finally visit that cabin in the woods uncle Ben left me,,,,,,all alone” Peter

[snowkissedmonsters]

A necessary reminder!!

[ddybucky]

Bruh I just had to block someone who had their very much minor age in their bio who liked one of my very much not for minors post

Like y’all aren’t even subtle please just wait until you’re of age for the love of god it’s for your developmental health 😭😭😭

[snowstark]

I need your thoughts on winter soldier!Bucky (or a not quite recovered Bucky) and Peter nursing on him PLS

wait wait wait.... okay i know this might not exactly be what you envisioned but i can't the image of winter soldier!bucky x sweet little peter sitting on his lap out of my head,,,

so, you said winter soldier bucky. that makes me think: hydra! maybe the soldier has shown too many signs of aggression lately. maybe they decide hey, he needs some stress relief!

so they find the prettiest thing they can find and bring him back to the solider — the details are unknown. hydra doesn't care about details. they get the job done, and that's all that matters. they shove him into the soldier's room, a square concrete room that looks barren and cold, and leave him there without saying another word.

peter should be scared. but he isn't. because the soldier doesn't try to do anything to hurt him. he just sits there, and watches peter.

peter's the one to make the first move. it's after a few days have passed, and they've grown more used to each other. when the soldier seems particularly stressed, he sits down on his lap, adjusting his position ever so slightly to get comfortable, and runs his hands down the soldier's broad shoulders. the soldier breathes him in, eyes closing, and peter lets him, captivated. "do they hurt you?" he asks softly, quiet enough so that only bucky can hear him. bucky doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to.

peter and bucky quickly grow fond of each other. maybe it's the way the soldier's gaze softens only when he sees peter, or maybe it's because of how gentle and sweet peter is — the soldier hasn't had anyone be gentle to him in a long, long time.

every time the soldier returns from a mission, peter rushes to tend to him. he begs and begs until the guards concede and toss him a kit and some hot water with a rag. peter immediately begins to wash the dirt and blood off of bucky.

bucky seems more like himself that day, under peter's gentle gaze and soft touch. he even speaks, saying, "thank you," when peter tends to his wounds, brows furrowing.

it's just two words, but it fills peter with such a large swell of emotion that he feels like it'll knock him off his feet. but it doesn't. he just presses close to bucky.

"you're okay, buck," peter whispers, mouthing lightly at his neck. "'m here now."

and hear me out: i feel like this whole premise could work so well in an omegaverse setting too 👀