Logan with a virgin reader, expecting her to be this shy nervous little thing only to be met with a woman who’s spent too much of her life with only her imagination to keep her company. Suddenly he’s the one nervous because you’re so eager to fuck him and you’re begging him so nicely that it’s hard for him to remember you’ve never actually done this and he has to be responsible. You whine the entire time he’s stretching you out with his fingers, hands grabbing at him and pleading with him to replace his fingers with his cock and god damn it, you’re making it really fucking hard for him to focus.
You’re both bare, losing your clothes somewhere between the living room and the kitchen. The feeling of skin against skin drives you wild, makes you plead for the cock that’s throbbing against your thigh. You know he wants this just as bad as you do, you can feel how bad he wants this, but he settles for spreading you apart on his fingers.
You know you’re testing his patience but you don’t care; not when you grind against him, not when his cock glides against your bare pussy, not when he pins you to the bed as your back arches off it.
“Stop moving,” he begs, over and over. “Stop it, stop—stop fucking moving.”
You’re killing him; every time you look at him with those darling little doe eyes he can feel what little self-restraint he has left crumbling apart, every whine and moan and please Logan, gimme more testing his resolve.
“You need to stop,” he begs, head falling forward as your cunt wets his dick, sliding against his length but refusing to push forward and take you. You shake your head, pull him in for a kiss that’s anything but demure, lust pouring from your tongue as you lick at his mouth.
“Don’t wanna,” you gasp, pulling him closer by his shoulders. Between each kiss you see his control waning, feel his hands bruised your skin, taste the depravity between his teeth. Slowly but surely you see his mask slipping away, a beast in disguise of a man, one that desperately wants to claim you as his.
A sick part of you wants that; to submit yourself, bare your neck against its fangs and beg for more when its teeth pierce your skin. You want to give yourself to Logan—all of him, even the parts that he himself doesn’t want to show you. You want your first time to be just as enjoyable for him as it is for you—which is why you bring his hand to your stomach, to where his dick would leave an outline. You hold his hand firm as he stares with lust-blown eyes just imagining how full of him you’d be, in awe at just how willing you are to submit.
“I can handle it, you whimper, voice sweet like sin. “Fuck me, please.”
And like that, you’re no longer faced with your loving boyfriend. You’re now face to face with the Wolverine.
He pushes inside your velvet walls, still conscious enough to give you a moment to adjust. The feeling is new, full. Your voice wobbles when his thumb reaches down to circle your clit, just enough to get you to relax as he feeds your greedy pussy inch after inch.
“Y’gotta breathe for me baby,” he rasps into the side of your neck, releasing a breath you never knew you were holding. He rewards your obedience with more of his dick, slowly rocking against you as you start to adjust to the feeling.
“Feels good,” you whisper, stroking his hair. Your eyes are locked with his, lost in his pretty emerald eyes. “You can move.”
“Are you sure?” He asks. “Not sure I’ll be able to stop once I do.”
You know he’s telling the truth, it’s written all over his face. A need to possess you in body and soul, his eyes glued to where you’re both connected with a sickening fascination.
You know the actual question he's asking, even if he can't bring himself to say it. Are you sure you want me?
You realize he's just as vulnerable as you are, unsure of himself. It's a rarity that Logan ever talks about himself, always focused on you above all. You want to give him a break, want to make him feel as good as he makes you feel, want him to finally stop holding back and let go.
So you kiss him, long and deep, and hope that gets the message across. His answer comes in the form of hands on your hips, the deep timbre of his voice radiating from his broad chest.
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
