my opinion: i do not like how people say bullseye has ocd. he does not, and as someone who has had ocd her whole life, it sucks when i see a fandom i love saying this is ocd and thinking this is what it is. dex has bpd and a need for perfection and order to keep himself in tact. ocd is not organizing and being obsessed with something, it is a debilitating terrifying thought process of things you do not want which compels you to act or think. Repetition, routine, and perfectionism are not signs or traits of ocd. Some of this can occur in ocd, but it is also accompanied by heightened anxiety and obsessive, intrusive thoughts. Dex does not have ocd, his routines and perfectionism’s as well as hyper fixations are to hide his impulses. ocd is not impulses or secretly wanted thoughts. please PLEASE read up on ocd, it’s not a common disorder, or something quirky, or something that can be diagnosed because someone is a perfectionist. people, including myself, have almost lost lives to obsessive compulsive disorder, i just wish people understood it.
i just wanted to spread some awareness on a condition and help people understand the character as well as other people🫶
his hands were bruising into your thighs, tongue relentless against your core as his nose bumped your clit.
He’d been at it for hours, the moment he got home he was on you.
He’s always so needy for you.
He had came home in his suit, dirty and stripping down like it was burning his skin; he saw you laying on the couch, relaxing after your own day of work and he sunk to his knees with a whimper when he hit the floor.
“are you oka—” a gasp left your lips as he tugged you to the edge.
He needed this, needed you, needed to please his girl.
And there was nothing you could do that would stop him.
A/N: I have been in my feels so enjoy some sad smut
Toxic!Logan X F!Reader
Warnings: SMUT! some angst. Unprotected P in V. Bodily fluid. Rough creampie.
Summary: You break up with Logan, exhausted from the harsh way he treats you, but he wants one last thing.
He doesn't even know what sets you off this time. He probably did something shitty again, no surprise. But you were through; standing before him with that sad look on your face that made his insides twist.
You had always told him you'd never leave him; you knew of his past, the memories that tortured him. He was difficult, but you stuck by him because you knew he was a good man.
But...he had taken your love for granted. He got so used to getting away with being an asshole, always earning forgiveness somehow, and a part of him enjoyed having someone so devoted to him. He knew what would get a reaction out of you and he relished in the toxicity. And every time you forgave him, chalked it up to 'he's just in an episode, i'll help him'. How naive were you.
But now you were through, you were done. He had pushed you over the edge this time, playing with your pretty little heart and you were finally sick of being miserable; no matter how much you loved him.
"I hate my life," you said, standing in the kitchen. He stood before you, leaning against the counter with a whiskey glass in hand. His heart clenched and he turns to you slowly, taking a sip before setting the glass down with a thud.
"You hate your life," He repeated your words and then his voice broke softly, "with me."
All you could do was cry, tears spilling over as all the stress you had came pouring out. Being Logan's girlfriend was a full time job, no matter if his pain was genuine you were always stoic. For him.
Logan couldn't handle seeing you cry, he never could. It broke him more than anything else. He wanted to grab you, hold you, fix it, but he knows better than to touch you right now.
"You hate your life. With me." He repeats again, each word cutting deeper into both of your hearts.
A sob rips from your throat and you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to silence yourself like you do every time you cry. You never wanted to be weak in front of him, because everything was supposed to be about him. It's about Logan. Be there for Logan. Be strong. For. Logan.
Logan's heart is breaking, watching you sob, your body shaking softly with each tear. He can see you're not just unhappy, you're miserable. He knows it's his fault. He knows he takes advantage of the care you give him, so he stands there, guilt gnawing at him.
You walk up to him, trembling and you cup his face. Trying to silence another sob as his skin touches your hands.
"Logan", you say softly.
He almost flinches at your soft touch and his eyes close momentarily. He leans towards your hands and when he opens his eyes they look red; he's holding back too.
"What?" his voice is soft, but a hoarse grumble.
"I'm so fucking sorry," you sob, thumb brushing his cheek as you try to slow down your crying to look at his face. You look over his expression and he can see it in your eyes.
It's over.
He knows your apologizing because you're about to break him, but he can't be upset because he already broke you. "Don't. Don't apologize. You have every right to hate me...to hate this life."
You sob at his words, because you don't hate him. Hell- you'd give the world to this man, but you need to save yourself.
"Logan-" you're cut off, lips met with his rough ones. He kisses you deeply, he can taste the salt from your tears. He needs to just stop you from speaking.
He knows you're going to say something that will destroy him- like "I can't do this anymore" or "I want to break up". He breaks the kiss for a split second to kiss you harder, all teeth and firm lips.
When he finally pulls away for a long moment he can see more tears spilling over your eyes.
"Please-" you start but are instantly cut off by his lips once more. God. He can't do it. He can't hear you say those words, can't watch them fall from your pretty lips. He knows he'll lose it. He'll lose his shit if he hears you say you're leaving. So he settles for kissing you, hands gripping your face as he devours you, hungry and desperate.
You finally get some word in, "Logan we can't.." mumbled against his lips. And once again he kisses you, hands still framing your face.
"Shut up", he growls, "Just shut the fuck up and kiss me back." His voice breaks as he ends the sentence. You hear the pain and desperation. You can see the demand, the very clear Logan that is going to get what he wants. One more time.
He knows he shouldn't continue kissing you, he knows you just want to leave but he can't stop himself. He needs this. He needs this one last thing from you before everything that matters in his life falls apart.
You can feel his hands, rough and heavy, tugging your skirt up. You try to get a word in, to plead with him, but his kisses are insistent.
"Logan..."
He continues to kiss you even as he lifts up your skirt, his hands quickly finding your panties and hooking his fingers into the hem. He's not thinking straight, he's only thinking of one thing- he needs to fuck you before you leave him.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up", he growls.
"We can't- we shouldn't", but yet you make no move to stop him as he tears your panties off, the fabric snapping and being shoved somewhere in a back pocket.
His movements are raw with pain, anger, desperation. He unbuckles his belt as he moves back to kiss you again.
"We can fucking do this one last time before you leave me," He says and he lifts you up suddenly, wrapping your legs around his waist.
You cry softly, because you know this is the last time you'll feel him like this. You continue to cry, arms wrapping around his neck as he walks you to the wall, holding you against it. He unzips his jeans quickly with one hand, the other wrapped tight around you.
His voice is broken when he speaks against your lips, "I'm going to fuck you one last time before I lose everything."
Your lip trembled at his words, you could see the pain, the man you love slowly crumbling before you. He kisses you again and his tongue pushes past your lips. You slide your tongue along his in a slow movement, like you're trying to memorize the way he tastes, the way his tongue rests against yours.
With another passionate kiss he nips at your lower lip, catching it with his teeth and pulling softly. A small sigh leaves your lips and he lets it go.
He fishes his cock out of his jeans and he looks down.
"Christ...I'm so fucking sorry..." he says. You watch his face then look down as he places the tip of his cock at your entrance, his hand shaking as he does so and your heart aches. He mumbles, "One more time."
You let out a whimpered moan, head falling back against the wall as he pushes into you. It's rough, desperate, like he's trying to memorize how you feel as quickly as possible, like you're already slipping away from him. He knows this isn't right, it's too desperate, it's him trying to save himself, trying to take what he wants before you save yourself.
"Baby.... fuck- I don't want to miss you", he said, pulling out before slamming back in.
Your cunt clenches around him, greedily sucking him in as it always does. He fills you to the brim, pushing so deep all you can feel is Logan. And you can't believe you're about to live a life where you won't be fully enveloped by him. You can feel the thick head of his cock brushing the sensitive walls, brushing your cervix with each rough thrust.
Every ridge and vein is memorized, your body squeezing tight to take everything in. His heavy balls hit your ass, the thick coarse hair at the base of his cock becoming drenched and sticky from your wet heat. Each thrust presses his skin against your clit.
You bury your head in his neck, moaning and drooling against it as your body is slowly taken into ecstasy, allowing him to use you, to take all of you. Your hands clutch his shirt, gripping so tight you thought your nails might puncture holes.
"Always take me so well..." He rests his head on your shoulder as he fucks you, his thrusts desperate as he breaths in your perfume. His pace is frantic, and you can tell he's close by the way his cock twitches inside your pussy. "Please...don't leave me", he chokes out between thrusts.
You moan, trying to speak, "I-I have to-"
He cuts you off with a brutal kiss, teeth slamming together and his tongue searching your mouth. It's messy and uncoordinated, spit mixing, dirty. He starts thrusting faster, rutting his hips, grinding, circling, like a man starved trying to pull everything out of you and himself.
He feels so good, he always feels so good but this time its different. This time is the last, and you can feel everything. The emotions rolling off him, his hands on your back, arms wrapped around you, his breath on your collar, his cock twitching as he hits a particularly deep spot.
"Fuck", he groans. He knows your body and he knows it better than he knows his own, he lifts his head to see your face. He holds you tighter and he thrusts harder, hitting a deeper spot to get you going.
"That's it, sweetheart," He mutters, "Come on, give me one more..."
He can feel your body tense, going rigid as you sob and a strangled moan leaves your lips. Your pussy clenches around, sucking him in and fluttering around his cock and it sends him to his own end. He slams into you before twitching and holding you tight against the wall, pressing his cock so deep inside you as he comes its borderline painful against your cervix. You feel the familiar warmth of his cum filling you up and his low groans fill your ear as he buries his face in your shoulder.
When he lifts his head up you kiss him, this time its soft, a passionate silent shift- one that displays how much you'll fucking miss this. For a moment, one gone too quickly, everything is perfect- no fights, no nightmares, no arguing, no manipulation, no breakup.
He slips out of you, a small groan leaving his lips. Tears start to leave your eyes again, softly falling. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on your breathing so your cries don't make a sound. He can feel your tears, the broken breaths against his lips and it breaks him to feel your body fall apart.
He pulls back slightly, wiping a tear.
"Don't cry", he says softly. His hand slowly set you down, holding you tight still- both not wanting to let you go, but also making sure you can stand on your own. He presses his forehead against yours, "Please don't cry."
"I have to go..." you whisper, voice hoarse.
He freezes.
His jaw tightens and he knows he has to. He has to let you go. He takes a step back, hands hovering over you for a moment before letting them down to your side. He watches you, watches how you pull yourself together and he knows you're able to do that because of him.
He knows how many times he made you feel less, made you feel like you needed to be strong, or that you weren't doing enough. He fucking hated himself for it. He knows you're trying to pretend like nothing just happens.
He zips himself back up and looks away from you, "Right."
You turn away, fixing your skirt and you sob, mouth hung open as you stay as quiet as possible so he doesn't hear or see how hard the tears are falling. But he can hear it. His senses can hear the faint, choked sobs and he feels his chest cave. He wants to pull you back in his arms but he doesn't, he fights his instincts to take you and clenches his fists at his sides.
"Don't do this," He mutters.
You try to breathe again as you grab one of his flannels off the back of an armchair, tucking it under your arm. He knows your taking it to remember him, and he hates how he can see you in your apartment already, tucked into your couch, sobbing into his old flannel as you watch an episode of Supernatural to calm down. God he hates this. Fucking hates it. And you hate it too, but you know it's right.
"You know this is right...I can't-I can't live like this anymore", your voice breaks as your throat feels incredibly tight.
"Please", he says in a tone you've never heard before. It's soft, begging, pleading.
You grab your purse from his counter and more tears fall. You can feel the remnants of him slip out of you, dripping down the inside of your thighs, reminding you...this is over. The feeling of him dripping down your thighs is different this time because it's not an admiration of what he's done to you anymore- it's the last of him leaving your body. Forever.
He knows your feeling used, discarded. He knows your feeling the finality of it all and he looks you over, "Fuck."
You look at him one last time and the only thing screaming in your mind is the words 'I love you'. But it doesn't leave your lips that way, "G-Goodbye..."
His heart fucking shatters.
He watches you clutch your purse and his flannel to your chest as you run your hands over your skirt and walk out of his apartment. He knows you're gone and he knows he just lost everything.
He watches the door for a moment, hoping you'll come back. His mind racing as he waits for you to open the door, to run back into his arms and say you'll truly never leave him like you promised.
But you don't.
He did this and he knows it. He was awful to you, but that didn't change you he felt about you. He used you most of the time for his own gain. He leans back against the wall, slumping against it and sliding down until he's sitting on the floor. He runs a hand through his hair and tugs on it as he growls.
He knows he might never touch you again. He looks over the room, the room that was moments ago filled with your presence. And sad or not he would rather have you in this room.
A tear falls down his cheek as he stares at the floor. He fucked up. He was an asshole, a perv, a fucking animal who took advantage of a sweet soul. But God, did he love you. He loved you with all his soul and he just lost the part of him that felt alive.
He takes the torn panties out of his pocket and he inhales the sent of you, squeezing his eyes shut as he breaths heavy, angry with himself.
"FUCK!"
He looks up at the ceiling, emptiness clouding his mind as he tries to figure out how to live his life without you...
finally my entry for @lareinedulune's wet hot logan summer ficathon is done!!
this is for @rosenclaws, who requested 2013!logan getting drenched to the bone. i chose ronin!logan. i'm so nervous, i hope you like it, rose 💕
the first thing i googled upon getting the prompt is "can wolverine swim?" (the answer is yes, but it requires so much more strength because of his weight, which is why if he got dropped in the ocean he'd probably drown)
ronin!logan x f!reader, 5.6k
WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ SMUT MDNI!!!, porn without plot, heiress!reader, reader is alluded to be young ("little miss"), reader's hair is described as 'pinned up' and 'tumbles down' at one point, reader is horny LMAO, depictions of wealth, lampshading the wolverine plot and characters, descriptions of drowning, foul language, hate sex???, unprotected piv, creampie, fingering, rough sex, oral sex, nicknames ("princess", "pretty"), author doesn't know how to end a fic
AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is probably the filthiest thing i've written so far lol. also, zaibatsu means "money clan": a large family-run conglomerate, usually highly integrated within the power system
He’s seen this film before. A déjà vu so strong it conquers the very concept itself to become reality.
And it is. Real, that is.
The cream-colored cabin of the limousine and the newly-bought scent lingering in it are real. So is the tarmac under the wheels—Logan can almost taste the grind of rubber. Sceneries fly past. Rows upon rows of palm oil plantations stretch infinitely under equatorial blue skies. All those are real, too.
Unfortunately for him, so are you.
“I have a feeling this isn’t your first rodeo.”
There’s nothing imaginary about you. Nothing illusory about your crisp white shirt and neatly pinned hair, sitting with your legs crossed as if this 70 miles-per-hour car is your meeting room. A laptop on your lap, a phone on your hand. With hints of subtle jewelry and a shiny watch under a sleeve, you look more expensive than the Rolls Royce you’re sitting in.
And there’s that devious curl of your lips, equally capable of causing cars to collide into each other.
“Was it also an heiress, the last time you did this?” you ask, placing the laptop and phone on the seat beside you. “Maybe her daddy’s a big shot, who’s most concerned about his precious daughter’s safety despite what’s at stake. A power transfer. Or is it an inheritance?”
The way your eyes are trained on his face is nothing short of predatory. As if talons would materialize at the sight of even the smallest flicker of emotion.
“And that’s where you come in. Big strong man like you… protecting poor little princesses like me,” you lean back, crossing your arms. “Am I right?”
No silence. Just the all-too quiet white noise that is the engine.
The truth is, you’re spot on. Almost in a way that’s supernatural—or maybe superhuman, like you trespass in minds for fun.
Reminds him of someone red.
How he finds himself here isn’t as important as how eerily similar the situation is. Mariko happened a month ago. This feels like a cheap sequel.
Except it’s not cheap, because you’re in line to inherit a multinational mining business worth billions of dollars, and with only a few more days until the last legs of legal paperwork is complete, your security is paramount. Your father made that clear—as clear as when he declared his empire should go to you.
Coincidentally, he’s also dying.
…to spend the rest of his days as a retiree, loitering in a five-star resort in Panama.
“Looks like my guess is correct.”
He responds with a glare. You smile.
“You talk to yourself this much?” he grunts.
“You’re talking to me now,” you glance down at your manicured nails.
Where Mariko was calm as snowfall, you’re the human incarnation of a lightning strike.
You’ve been nothing but polished smiles, practiced precision, and a dose of cheek. He’s watched you make countless phone calls since stepping in the car, like a bolt in a thunderstorm—striking at spots in the sky with vindictive accuracy. You welcome stupid propositions like a saint before expertly shutting them down. No room for debate when the argument doesn’t deserve any. Politely ruthless.
When you’re agreeable, though? Nothing sounds better. You’re sweet, and not the kind that’s artificial and syrupy. The sharpness in your gaze wears off but for a moment, before the call ends, and you close your eyes, breathing before dialling another number.
Now, Logan can’t help but look at your eyelashes while you look out the window.
“Almost there,” comes the driver’s voice, muffled from behind the partition.
“Thanks, Anton,” you take off your earrings. Then to Logan: “So who was it?”
“Who was what?” he grunts.
“Your last princess.”
He narrows his eyes at you. You’re clasping on a different pair of earrings that appeared out of your handbag, silver streams that dangle near your jaw. Tapered fingernails pop off the buttons of your white shirt, one, two… until all he sees is soft a lace bra—dark red—and skin. Soft, beautiful skin.
“Well, are you going to answer the question?” you press, tossing the white shirt away and looking at him expectantly like you’re not half-naked.
Logan finally averts his eyes outside. Still oil palms as far as the eye can see. “Yashida.”
From his periphery he can see you fish something out of the middle compartment.
“Yashida? The Mariko Yashida—from that Japanese tech zaibatsu?”
You laugh, the first time since meeting him. Arms slip into something shiny and Logan can’t help but look. A different top, satin and full of sensual promise. He tries to ignore the way your bra disappears from view as you wrap yourself in luxurious fabric.
“Why, you go to school with her or something?” he grunts, focusing once again on the monotonous view outside.
“Yes, we’re Richie Rich’s classmates.” You shoot back, tucking the top in your long pencil skirt. He rolls his eyes. You smirk.
“Kidding. Met her in a business meeting a long time ago—you don’t get to become Japan’s industrial backbone without metal. Our metal.”
There it is, that tone in your voice. Authority. It drips with confidence and summons subservience. It sounds like the reason you extinguished the competition for your father’s business at your notably young age. It sounds like you’re ready for anything.
“Help me with this.”
Suddenly you’re sitting next to him, a necklace waiting on your nape. He holds back a bristle, fingers brushing yours when he takes it. The clasp is too small in his grip but he manages. The silver latches on, and just like that, you’re back to your seat across him, taking out the pins in your hair. It tumbles down like sin.
“I’d ask you more about Mariko, but you’re the brooding type and we have a luncheon to attend,” you murmur, tossing your hair out carelessly with your hands. You look so different now. That top flows down your body like water, and your hair…
It’s tastefully messy. Screams at him to look at you like you’re a woman first and a business opponent second. A sly tactic. Looking at you like this, even the most decent men can’t help but think about their lovers after a particularly strenuous activity.
“You seem relaxed,” he notes. The people at lunch would love for you to die to be next in line—and now that your life is his problem, he expected you to be at least a little concerned.
“You’ll be my food taster, won’t you? Be a good boy and make sure nobody spikes my coffee with cyanide?”
“Don’t call me that,” he growls, “and it’s not like I have a choice.”
You chuckle, running a hand through your hair one last time.
“Relax, only a week more till this is over. I’ll survive. So will you, if what Dad said is true. He spoke highly of you, you know?”
Is that because your family loves precious metals? he wonders.
“I know I will,” he mutters.
“I’ll crack you open before the end of your contract.”
He glowers.
The limousine slows down to make a turn. Palm trees turn into manicured hedgerows as the vehicle approaches a gate made of curled ornamented iron. Four men stand guard, looking more like soldiers than security. You give them a friendly wave from the rolled-down window.
The gates open.
Then the car drives down a gravel path before emerging into a lavish courtyard. Trimmed garden, central fountain, marble staircase curving up to a colonial-looking mansion. A display of wealth that would inspire rebellion.
Your driver opens the door. Logan steps out first. He doesn’t offer his hand to you.
You’re too focused to look bothered, high heels clacking up the steps. He’s right beside you. A butler makes himself known as soon as you enter the grand foyer.
“Ma’am. The party is seated and awaiting your presence.”
“Thank you. Oh, and—” you place a hand on Logan’s shoulder, “—please make sure this gentleman is seated next to me.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
You turn to Logan. “Hope you like Southeast Asian food, Roman.”
“It’s Logan,” he grits.
You smirk. Logan huffs.
You’ve found a button. You intend to press it.
Logan becomes your shadow in any given room. Following you from a distance, scanning each crowd, watching your back.
You attend galas and garden parties like a congressman on a campaign trail, a butterfly taste-testing flowers and noting if they’re sweet enough. Checking in on relationships and picking the fruits of them. Finding out if any are rotten or poisonous.
It’s war, set to the music of a violin quartet.
You’re in your element and it’s fascinating to watch.
He hates it.
Finds it frustrating, the way you pirouette and twirl over social minefields, all grace. The perfect timing of your handshakes and smiles as you compliment Botoxed faces and new money suits. Cloak and dagger, velvet and ornamented. The polish of your halo, a crown you fix on before entering a room.
Can’t stand you and your designer dresses. How they whisper slivers of your skin, promise more through the slit on your thigh. Sometimes you’re generous and wear one that’s backless, like you’re welcoming a knife to land there—both figuratively and literally.
Logan feels a twinge of pain whenever a hand that’s not his is on your lower back.
Every piece on you looks lustrous. Every pair of eyes stare.
He loathes the notes of your perfume. Could probably reconstruct it in an olfactory lab, the way it clings to him—even after the game of glamor is over and you’re back in your mansion, wearing an oversized tee and nothing else.
Guarding you at home is arguably worse. Not just because you somehow look better in your pajamas than you do at parties.
The various states of your undress shouldn’t faze him. The crop tops that exposed midriffs, the shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass—he’s no stranger to that brand of temptation. He’s slept with more women than the amount of years in his age.
Yet his hand twitches. They want to touch.
Earthly desires aside, he believes it’s you that infuriates him. You and your smart mouth, faster than a whip whenever you see that window. The way he’s learning the difference between your polite laughs and your real ones. How you’re the only person in a ten-mile radius who happily entertains his drinking habits.
Then there’s the duality of you. How you won’t leave him alone, then act like he doesn’t exist.
His hate stands on a razor’s edge, threatening to fall into something he’d rather not name.
It simmers quietly like a raging summer, low in his stomach, flaring with every flash of your bare legs as you walk around the house doing whatever it is heiresses do days before being named empress. One time he caught you in the living room, ice cream dripping down one wrist while the other scrolls on your laptop. Your gaze was laser-focused, scanning lines and the clauses between them.
He stayed long enough to see you lick at your own skin. Nearly broke a tooth, clenching his jaws that hard.
The worst part? He knows you know.
You’re far from a fool. Your furtive smiles show just as much.
So when he finds you long after sunset, lounging by the swimming pool with a baggy tee that barely covers the navy blue bikini underneath, he knows it’s a trap.
There’s a gravity that pulls him into orbit. His feet lack the wisdom, believing he’s contractually obliged to protect you, and that he needs to be close to do that.
His brain deems it a flimsy excuse.
He walks towards you anyway.
“Drink with me, Nolan?” you smile teasingly, beckoning him over to where you are at the chaise.
“For the last time, it’s Logan,” he grits.
Past the darkness of the night, illuminated only by the cool blue lights emanating from the pool, he gleans a slight flush dusting your face. On the low side table next to you is a glass, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of artisanal whiskey he hasn’t seen in any bar ever.
“You better not be drunk.”
“I’m not,” you sigh, laying back down while he takes a seat on the chair next to you. “Just tired.”
He knows why. Tomorrow’s the day. After finally suffering the crushing experience that is ‘getting through legal’, your father will issue a statement on the leadership transition in a televised press conference. About thirty media outlets will be there, though the actual amount of people in attendance will easily be double or triple that.
You’re expected to say more than a few words.
Tomorrow is also the day he stops working for you.
He takes the whiskey bottle in hand. There’s about half left.
“They won’t be nice,” he rumbles, uncapping it.
“You think I don’t know that?” you grunt, standing up unceremoniously. The water calls you.
You walk along the edge of the pool with your bare feet, kicking a bit of water with each step. “I’ve gone over the shareholder agreement a hundred times, memorized every single word in the NDA, stalked email threads from communications teams and press. I know what I’m going to say.”
He believes you. Doesn’t doubt you’ll be stellar, either.
“Meanwhile, Dad just sent me a link to a hotel in Central America with a shaka emoji,” you laugh, squatting just so your hand can dip into the pool.
It’s calming, the ripples, the coolness of it. A small escape from humidity and the reality of tomorrow.
Logan takes a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. It burns as it goes down, then tastes a little like fruit, before the warm sensation ebbs like it was never there. You have good taste in liquor—that much he’ll miss, among other things.
The thought sinks in. He stills.
And distracts himself with a question. “He won’t be around?”
“Leaving on a jet plane right after the conference.”
You watch as Logan stalks closer, rippling muscles in that open button-down and white tank. Maybe it’s the light coming from the pool, but he looks even better like this. Towering over you. Leering.
You smile. What would happen if you splashed him?
The intrusive thought wins. So that’s exactly what you do.
Water gets all over his face and chest like a rude awakening, droplets of it darkening his clothes. He shakes the water off the way a dog would, hair damp.
And just like that, you laugh, the first earnest one all week that has your head tilted back. The weight on your shoulders momentarily gone.
No high society to hide from. Just you and him. No tomorrow. Just right now.
“The fuck—”
You splash him again with a grin. It gets on his thighs.
“Brat, gonna pay for that…!”
Next thing you know, he’s lunging at you, and you squeal as you run away from him.
The only thing you can hear is the pitter-patter of water at your feet and the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. Somewhere in the back of your head, you remember doing this as a child, the butler begging you to stop on top of his lungs. Nobody’s scolding you this time.
Laughter rips itself out of your throat as you look back at his hot pursuit. He’s so close behind you, enough to just grab your arm and—
A patch of pool deck that’s way too wet. Your foot slips. The world spins, your thoughts blank. Then you collapse headfirst into the pool, shrieking, a loud splash following.
Logan stops, panting. “Serves you right, messing around like that—”
His eyes narrow.
The pool is still.
You’re still submerged.
Why are you still submerged?
You gasp up like your lungs are flooded. Your shoulders break the surface, chin jerked up, arms flailing. The waters are choppy around your body—there’s no rhythm, none of the practiced precision he’s so used to watching you wear, only heavy thrashes that look like desperation. Jagged outlines of your legs from above the water tell him you’re kicking, but judging by the way you’re barely breathing, it’s getting nowhere.
“Help…!”
Fuck. You can’t swim.
He rips his outer shirt off and launches.
Adamantium body slams into the water and for one second he thinks he’ll drown, too. The thought is expelled as soon as his foot touches the tiles beneath. He’ll be okay here. Well-lit and eight feet deep is better than the darkness of Mekong in the middle of war.
He finds you quickly, arms wrapped around your torso, then pushes upwards.
You cough as you surface, throat sputtering out chlorinated water. Your shirt sticks onto your torso the same way hair is plastered all over your face, wet against skin. He parts the drenched strands to see you, cupping your cheek as he keeps the both of you afloat.
“Hey, hey—you’re okay now, you’re alright—”
He narrows his eyes, aware of the feel of you in his grip.
You’re light.
You’re swimming.
And you’re laughing in his face.
Big grin, damp skin. Both your hands are on his shoulders, but you pull them away before he can react, diving back under like he didn’t just think you were drowning. You resurface five feet away with a siren smile and a drawn-out exhale.
“Can’t believe you thought I couldn’t swim,” you say, pushing your hair back.
He’s still stunned as you wade the waters to the pool’s edge, sitting yourself up. Hazel eyes watch your torso arch as you peel the soaked cotton that clings onto you, revealing inch upon inch of glistening skin. A forbidden expanse that he’s yet to witness, not even with the little amount of clothes you wear at home.
The shirt flops, waterlogged on travertine tiles. You’re in a two-piece swimsuit that looks much too easy to undo.
The pool is cool, but he feels it again—the heat in his stomach.
You swim to him, fluid as a mermaid, chin above the surface. You grew up in this mansion—how was he fooled?
As if making him worry isn’t enough, you chuckle. There’s something funny. Maybe it’s him: hair flat on his head thanks to the good-for-nothing rescue, glowering like a cat that got tricked into bath time. He pushes it back with one hand, annoyed, letting you see the heat in his eyes.
“Are you mad at me, Ronan?” you coo.
It’s aggravating, the games you play, but he’s not just mad. There’s another emotion in the way he looks at you.
He has a feeling you know—you always do.
“What do you think?” he barks.
There’s no bite in his words.
That’s all you need to strike. You smile up at him, coy in a way that spells trouble. Hands find his chest, fingers curling around the wet fabric of his tank top. To bring him close or to undress him, he can’t decide.
Your lips hover over his. There’s chlorine and promise in your breath. Hands travel up higher, palms flat on his pecs until they land on broad shoulders.
“I think, seeing as we’re already drenched… we might as well play for a little while.”
That’s all he needs to snap.
His large hands find the flesh of your hips, gripping them as he hoists you up and out of the water, making you squeal and laugh in the process. The sound twinkles in the air, echoing with a lightness that defies the weight of want charging around it.
He’s got you on the edge again before his body follows, breaking the surface. You’re under his shadow wearing a half-dazed, all knowing smile.
Then his mouth comes down to maul your neck and you moan.
Logan growls at the sound, lapping at the column of your throat like he’s trying to get rid of pool water from your skin. Biting like he hates you.
And you love it.
Fingers tangle in his plastered hair while a rush of blood down south makes you shiver and grin. You paw at his shirt. He gropes at your chest, parting from your neck only to take off his tank top before forcing his large hand underneath a bikini cup.
Your nipple’s already hard. He thumbs it with lustful spite.
Wordless vengeance for every time he observed the hint of your chest under baby tees and thin camisoles. Your giggle melts into a mewl at his relentlessness, pinching and tweaking while his mouth stays mean on your shoulder.
He pulls away, only to crash his lips to yours, and it feels like homecoming. Whimpers ravenously swallowed. Chest heaves into damp chest. Hands scramble like they need warm skin to survive—and of course he bites down hard on your bottom lip while you trace his sculpted torso.
With a stern tug, he unties the halter-neck ribbon of your bikini top. The fabric loosens.
He peels it above your chest… and leans down.
“Oh, fuck,” you sigh shakily, back arching to let more of his mouth on your tit. He glances up at you, eyes glassy, noting the absence of a teasing smile. Pleasure takes over your expression, brows knitted, lips swollen and parted.
The rumble in his chest sounds like approval.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, amazed at the sight of your bodyguard sucking on your nipple like a lover and a babe.
Generously greedy for you.
His other hand doesn’t stop working, tending to your other peak until he eventually switches. Your pants and sighs float in the open air, the sounds carried over by the light breeze that rustles through the trees and shrubs that surround the private estate.
Your reverie breaks. Two fingers press at your covered cunt. You let out a choked noise, head lolling to one side.
The sight must be unmistakably scandalous: two bodies drenched to the bone, yours curved into his mouth, letting him lave your chest.
You should be concerned over how exposed you are, but the zing of desire between your legs says otherwise.
“Fucking soaked already,” he grunts. “Been waiting for this, princess?”
You lay back down on travertine, faintly smiling as he pulls at the ribbon on your hip.
“Mm-hmm,” you hum, watching the way he undresses you, “you have no idea…”
“Believe me, I have some,” he flings the bikini bottom away. “You and your damn schemes—”
You spread your legs to let him see you. All of you.
The rapture in his stare is well worth the wait.
His middle finger circles your pussy, almost marveling at the way you’re so wet for him. He coats his finger with your slick, then swipes up languidly to meet your clit, teasing it.
Your pretty hole chooses that moment to clench around nothing. His eyes flash.
“Jesus fuck—”
With one fluid motion, he sinks his finger in you, knuckle-deep. You’re so happy you start smiling and moaning at the same time.
Logan’s eyes stare the way they would in a crowded room, except this time he watches in a trance beyond habitual alertness. He leers at pebbled nipples, the sinful undulation of your hips, that blissed-out look at the way he stretches your walls.
Your eyes are closed, lips curled. Moaning like you’re not outdoors.
In and out, in and out.
He leans down again to suck on your breast, a hand gripping the flesh of it, feeding it to himself.
Then he adds another finger between your legs and you cry out, back hitting the stone deck. One of your hands grip the edge of the pool, the other in his hair, manicured nails gently dragging on his scalp. His reward is the climbing noises wrested out of you. That and your touch almost make him tremble.
“So fucking tight,” he growls against your skin.
It’s dizzying. Everything is. The way his fingers ruin you, scissoring, curling, hitting so deep that white spots start appearing behind closed eyelids. You encourage him with noises, sputtering things like ‘yes’ and ‘just like that’.
His thumb presses against your clit and you’re electrified.
You’re over the edge in an instant. Legs twitching, breath stuttering, mouth open in a delicious ‘O’. He doesn’t stop, still abusing your chest and cunt while you leak all over his fingers. You shake. He slows down.
Your breathing is wrecked as your lungs fight for air.
Air which you lose the moment he presses his fingers against your lips. The same ones that made you come.
“Taste yourself.”
You open your mouth and he presses his fingers on your tongue. The heady taste makes you moan around him, eagerly cleaning up, eyes boring into his. He smirks at the state of you: flushed and ruined, but not nearly enough to call it quits.
He takes his fingers out. Lips meet yours.
The kiss is open. Demanding. A hand sternly cups your cheek, not letting you move. His tongue swirls, and he moans into your mouth like your cum tastes better this way.
“Wanna taste you too,” you breathe when you part.
Just like that, he’s on his knees above you, busy shoving his jeans and boxers until they’re pushed down enough to reveal the raging arousal that is him. His cock looks angry, red with prominent veins all over. A hand slaps it against your cheek. You almost laugh.
Then he presses it right by your lips, another hand coaxing your mouth to open, thumb on your chin.
God, you can smell him. It’s making you wet again.
If it weren’t here and now, you would’ve teased him mercilessly—kitten licks and kisses, a word or two about how eager he is for you.
But you’re too hungry to play.
You take the entire tip in your mouth, reveling in the broken groan that rips out of him.
Then you lean forward. Deeper, more, until his cock kisses the back of your throat. Fuck, he’s so big, it almost makes you want to cry. You feel heat behind your eyes and a tingle down your pussy—already thinking about the way it’ll fit.
Or maybe it won’t. That turns you on even more.
“This fucking mouth,” he rasps, watching you suck him like you’re starving. Your hand wraps at the base of him and his back bows.
“Christ—”
He only allows you a few more bobs up and down his length before abruptly dislodging from your mouth. You whine at the loss of his weight on your tongue, but there’s no time for the loneliness to settle, because he grips your waist and pulls you up.
He sits, legs open over the pool deck. Your knees bracket his thighs but you’re not quite on his lap—his hands make sure you’re hovering on top of him, core open and dripping above his waiting cock. Your breath becomes shallow with anticipation, trying to ground yourself through your palms on his chest.
His heart is beating so fast.
Then, as you close your eyes to slide down to him, you realize you can’t. His hands don’t give.
“Uh-uh,” he tuts, looking at you. “You don’t get to. Not without asking nicely.”
He’s so close, the tip of his cock nearly kissing your folds. It’s just this side of aching, the way your cunt begs to be filled. Dripping. Waiting.
Desire floods your system. You’re almost dumb with it, but it hasn’t rendered you speechless. Not yet.
Pressing your forehead against his, you make sure he can taste every syllable you whisper against his cheek. Your voice is husky with want. Reedy with hunger.
“Please,” you breathe, “want you to fuck me with your cock. Wanna scream for you.”
There’s a swell in your chest that resembles pride when his exhale turns choppy after you speak. You stay still even as his hold grows lax, waiting while one of his hands rid you of the bikini top that no longer serves any purpose. That same hand travels, groping the flesh of your breast, snaking up…
…until they’re around your throat. Not squeezing. Just there. Big, strong. A show of control, in case you misbehave.
He murmurs out an order.
“Say my name.”
The sight of you smiling like you’re in heaven nearly decimates his crumbling self-control.
“The right one, princess.”
You slant, lips over his ear.
“Please fuck me, Logan.”
The shape of your voice around his name—one that you’ve annoyingly avoided for so long—makes his blood sing. Before he knows it, the hand on your throat moves to your hair, tugging you away from his ear, tilting your head back. You let out a weak laugh.
“You’re no princess. You’re a slut,” he rasps.
“Only for you,” you grin.
“Then beg like one.”
You don’t spare a beat of silence.
“Fuck me on your big cock, Logan. Make me stupid with it. Wanna come all over it.”
The words are emphasized with the impatient roll of your hips. He doesn’t relent, still unmoving, but you can tell he’s brittle. Nostrils flared. Eyes pinned on yours like he’s going to eat you alive in a few seconds.
Just a little push…
“I’ll scream your name for you. Let the whole house hear. Let everyone know who’s fucking their little miss.”
That does it.
He releases your hair. Both hands grip your hips and he drives his entire length up in one squelching thrust.
You almost scream.
“There. That’s the cock you wanted so bad,” he grunts. “So tight. So wet. Wanted it for so long, hm?”
“Y-Yes—”
Fuck, your voice is breaking.
“Then take it.”
He’s strong, you know this. Seen him carry your suitcase as if it were a shopping bag. You just don’t know he’s this strong. Logan uses his hands to slowly pull your entire body up like you’re weightless. You feel every ridge of him as his cock drags, every pulse of him rippling throughout your body.
And on the downstroke, he pummels, slamming you on top of him.
You moan loudly. You feel him in your stomach.
Hips slap up, driving his cock into you with a pace so punishing you feel tears forming in your eyes. It’s so hard, so fast, so deep. The slick sounds intoxicate you, sending you further down a spiraling abyss you’re not sure you can get out of—because why would you want to?
You sob. There’s nothing left but the incorrigible murmurs that escape your lips like streams. Your knees feel raw. You can’t care less.
“Look at that. Pussy’s fuckin’ leaking. You like it rough?” he pants.
You hiss ‘yes’ over and over again, lips open.
“Tell me,” he growls, watching your breasts bounce.
“I like it rou—hng—!!”
“Whose cock is fucking you dumb, princess?”
“Yours,” you cry. There’s drool out the side of your mouth. You don’t care.
He shifts, strengthening the grip on his feet to piston into you, and the slight change in his angle is maddening. You nearly give out above him, hands clamoring onto his shoulders as he grins up at you, all teeth and taunt.
He fucks into you again and you cry out, the noise keening and unmistakably lewd.
“You’re close,” he husks, watching you with darkened eyes. “Can feel you clenching me.”
“Yes—”
“Gonna come on this cock, pretty? Wanna show me how good you feel?”
“Please…!”
“Fucking beg for it, then.”
“Please, Logan, let me come on your cock, want it so bad, please, please—”
His voice is in your ear, gritted through teeth.
“Scream my name like you said you would.”
Then he flicks your clit and you do as he says, throwing your head back with a loud “fuck—Logan!”, thighs spasming, goosebumps all over your skin. It’s even more intense than the first, making your limbs shake and your vision blur.
He doesn’t stop, groaning while pounding into your fluttering cunt. Your release triggers his, and within three hard thrusts, you’re fully seated on his lap as he shoots his cum in you. Your moans mingle with his, chin nearly glued to your collarbone the way you look down at the sight.
It’s dirty.
There’s a mess where your bodies meet, the curls at the base of his cock sticking together with wetness. A creamy ring froths like debauched proof of your shared pleasure. He’s still coming, his mouth pressed tight on your neck while he twitches inside you.
You’ve never felt so full.
Suddenly, gravity disappears. He’s lifting you up to sit on his thigh, slowly this time. You shiver from the loss of him, but air quickly fills up your lungs—it’s so much easier to breathe.
The both of you groan in unison as thick milky driblets leak from your cunt, pooling on his skin.
Without thinking, you swipe his spend with your fingers and bring them to your mouth, tongue swirling for a taste. Cheeks flushed. Eyes on him.
The way his cock twitches alive is all too obvious.
You lick your lips, slowly pushing him down, his spine slowly bending to meet stone. You’re not far behind, leaning over him, lips dangerously close to his. He grits his teeth at the way your pussy settles on his abs, smearing his cum and yours.
“You know,” you pant, hands splayed on his chest, “I’m becoming CEO tomorrow and a spot for security just opened up.”
“What’s the pay like?” his voice is hoarse. You recognize the leftover desire in them, and it sounds like there’s still plenty.
“About the same as yours now,” you purr.
His hands find your ass, firmly squeezing. You smile.
A/N: I have been in my feels so enjoy some sad smut
Toxic!Logan X F!Reader
Warnings: SMUT! some angst. Unprotected P in V. Bodily fluid. Rough creampie.
Summary: You break up with Logan, exhausted from the harsh way he treats you, but he wants one last thing.
He doesn't even know what sets you off this time. He probably did something shitty again, no surprise. But you were through; standing before him with that sad look on your face that made his insides twist.
You had always told him you'd never leave him; you knew of his past, the memories that tortured him. He was difficult, but you stuck by him because you knew he was a good man.
But...he had taken your love for granted. He got so used to getting away with being an asshole, always earning forgiveness somehow, and a part of him enjoyed having someone so devoted to him. He knew what would get a reaction out of you and he relished in the toxicity. And every time you forgave him, chalked it up to 'he's just in an episode, i'll help him'. How naive were you.
But now you were through, you were done. He had pushed you over the edge this time, playing with your pretty little heart and you were finally sick of being miserable; no matter how much you loved him.
"I hate my life," you said, standing in the kitchen. He stood before you, leaning against the counter with a whiskey glass in hand. His heart clenched and he turns to you slowly, taking a sip before setting the glass down with a thud.
"You hate your life," He repeated your words and then his voice broke softly, "with me."
All you could do was cry, tears spilling over as all the stress you had came pouring out. Being Logan's girlfriend was a full time job, no matter if his pain was genuine you were always stoic. For him.
Logan couldn't handle seeing you cry, he never could. It broke him more than anything else. He wanted to grab you, hold you, fix it, but he knows better than to touch you right now.
"You hate your life. With me." He repeats again, each word cutting deeper into both of your hearts.
A sob rips from your throat and you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to silence yourself like you do every time you cry. You never wanted to be weak in front of him, because everything was supposed to be about him. It's about Logan. Be there for Logan. Be strong. For. Logan.
Logan's heart is breaking, watching you sob, your body shaking softly with each tear. He can see you're not just unhappy, you're miserable. He knows it's his fault. He knows he takes advantage of the care you give him, so he stands there, guilt gnawing at him.
You walk up to him, trembling and you cup his face. Trying to silence another sob as his skin touches your hands.
"Logan", you say softly.
He almost flinches at your soft touch and his eyes close momentarily. He leans towards your hands and when he opens his eyes they look red; he's holding back too.
"What?" his voice is soft, but a hoarse grumble.
"I'm so fucking sorry," you sob, thumb brushing his cheek as you try to slow down your crying to look at his face. You look over his expression and he can see it in your eyes.
It's over.
He knows your apologizing because you're about to break him, but he can't be upset because he already broke you. "Don't. Don't apologize. You have every right to hate me...to hate this life."
You sob at his words, because you don't hate him. Hell- you'd give the world to this man, but you need to save yourself.
"Logan-" you're cut off, lips met with his rough ones. He kisses you deeply, he can taste the salt from your tears. He needs to just stop you from speaking.
He knows you're going to say something that will destroy him- like "I can't do this anymore" or "I want to break up". He breaks the kiss for a split second to kiss you harder, all teeth and firm lips.
When he finally pulls away for a long moment he can see more tears spilling over your eyes.
"Please-" you start but are instantly cut off by his lips once more. God. He can't do it. He can't hear you say those words, can't watch them fall from your pretty lips. He knows he'll lose it. He'll lose his shit if he hears you say you're leaving. So he settles for kissing you, hands gripping your face as he devours you, hungry and desperate.
You finally get some word in, "Logan we can't.." mumbled against his lips. And once again he kisses you, hands still framing your face.
"Shut up", he growls, "Just shut the fuck up and kiss me back." His voice breaks as he ends the sentence. You hear the pain and desperation. You can see the demand, the very clear Logan that is going to get what he wants. One more time.
He knows he shouldn't continue kissing you, he knows you just want to leave but he can't stop himself. He needs this. He needs this one last thing from you before everything that matters in his life falls apart.
You can feel his hands, rough and heavy, tugging your skirt up. You try to get a word in, to plead with him, but his kisses are insistent.
"Logan..."
He continues to kiss you even as he lifts up your skirt, his hands quickly finding your panties and hooking his fingers into the hem. He's not thinking straight, he's only thinking of one thing- he needs to fuck you before you leave him.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up", he growls.
"We can't- we shouldn't", but yet you make no move to stop him as he tears your panties off, the fabric snapping and being shoved somewhere in a back pocket.
His movements are raw with pain, anger, desperation. He unbuckles his belt as he moves back to kiss you again.
"We can fucking do this one last time before you leave me," He says and he lifts you up suddenly, wrapping your legs around his waist.
You cry softly, because you know this is the last time you'll feel him like this. You continue to cry, arms wrapping around his neck as he walks you to the wall, holding you against it. He unzips his jeans quickly with one hand, the other wrapped tight around you.
His voice is broken when he speaks against your lips, "I'm going to fuck you one last time before I lose everything."
Your lip trembled at his words, you could see the pain, the man you love slowly crumbling before you. He kisses you again and his tongue pushes past your lips. You slide your tongue along his in a slow movement, like you're trying to memorize the way he tastes, the way his tongue rests against yours.
With another passionate kiss he nips at your lower lip, catching it with his teeth and pulling softly. A small sigh leaves your lips and he lets it go.
He fishes his cock out of his jeans and he looks down.
"Christ...I'm so fucking sorry..." he says. You watch his face then look down as he places the tip of his cock at your entrance, his hand shaking as he does so and your heart aches. He mumbles, "One more time."
You let out a whimpered moan, head falling back against the wall as he pushes into you. It's rough, desperate, like he's trying to memorize how you feel as quickly as possible, like you're already slipping away from him. He knows this isn't right, it's too desperate, it's him trying to save himself, trying to take what he wants before you save yourself.
"Baby.... fuck- I don't want to miss you", he said, pulling out before slamming back in.
Your cunt clenches around him, greedily sucking him in as it always does. He fills you to the brim, pushing so deep all you can feel is Logan. And you can't believe you're about to live a life where you won't be fully enveloped by him. You can feel the thick head of his cock brushing the sensitive walls, brushing your cervix with each rough thrust.
Every ridge and vein is memorized, your body squeezing tight to take everything in. His heavy balls hit your ass, the thick coarse hair at the base of his cock becoming drenched and sticky from your wet heat. Each thrust presses his skin against your clit.
You bury your head in his neck, moaning and drooling against it as your body is slowly taken into ecstasy, allowing him to use you, to take all of you. Your hands clutch his shirt, gripping so tight you thought your nails might puncture holes.
"Always take me so well..." He rests his head on your shoulder as he fucks you, his thrusts desperate as he breaths in your perfume. His pace is frantic, and you can tell he's close by the way his cock twitches inside your pussy. "Please...don't leave me", he chokes out between thrusts.
You moan, trying to speak, "I-I have to-"
He cuts you off with a brutal kiss, teeth slamming together and his tongue searching your mouth. It's messy and uncoordinated, spit mixing, dirty. He starts thrusting faster, rutting his hips, grinding, circling, like a man starved trying to pull everything out of you and himself.
He feels so good, he always feels so good but this time its different. This time is the last, and you can feel everything. The emotions rolling off him, his hands on your back, arms wrapped around you, his breath on your collar, his cock twitching as he hits a particularly deep spot.
"Fuck", he groans. He knows your body and he knows it better than he knows his own, he lifts his head to see your face. He holds you tighter and he thrusts harder, hitting a deeper spot to get you going.
"That's it, sweetheart," He mutters, "Come on, give me one more..."
He can feel your body tense, going rigid as you sob and a strangled moan leaves your lips. Your pussy clenches around, sucking him in and fluttering around his cock and it sends him to his own end. He slams into you before twitching and holding you tight against the wall, pressing his cock so deep inside you as he comes its borderline painful against your cervix. You feel the familiar warmth of his cum filling you up and his low groans fill your ear as he buries his face in your shoulder.
When he lifts his head up you kiss him, this time its soft, a passionate silent shift- one that displays how much you'll fucking miss this. For a moment, one gone too quickly, everything is perfect- no fights, no nightmares, no arguing, no manipulation, no breakup.
He slips out of you, a small groan leaving his lips. Tears start to leave your eyes again, softly falling. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on your breathing so your cries don't make a sound. He can feel your tears, the broken breaths against his lips and it breaks him to feel your body fall apart.
He pulls back slightly, wiping a tear.
"Don't cry", he says softly. His hand slowly set you down, holding you tight still- both not wanting to let you go, but also making sure you can stand on your own. He presses his forehead against yours, "Please don't cry."
"I have to go..." you whisper, voice hoarse.
He freezes.
His jaw tightens and he knows he has to. He has to let you go. He takes a step back, hands hovering over you for a moment before letting them down to your side. He watches you, watches how you pull yourself together and he knows you're able to do that because of him.
He knows how many times he made you feel less, made you feel like you needed to be strong, or that you weren't doing enough. He fucking hated himself for it. He knows you're trying to pretend like nothing just happens.
He zips himself back up and looks away from you, "Right."
You turn away, fixing your skirt and you sob, mouth hung open as you stay as quiet as possible so he doesn't hear or see how hard the tears are falling. But he can hear it. His senses can hear the faint, choked sobs and he feels his chest cave. He wants to pull you back in his arms but he doesn't, he fights his instincts to take you and clenches his fists at his sides.
"Don't do this," He mutters.
You try to breathe again as you grab one of his flannels off the back of an armchair, tucking it under your arm. He knows your taking it to remember him, and he hates how he can see you in your apartment already, tucked into your couch, sobbing into his old flannel as you watch an episode of Supernatural to calm down. God he hates this. Fucking hates it. And you hate it too, but you know it's right.
"You know this is right...I can't-I can't live like this anymore", your voice breaks as your throat feels incredibly tight.
"Please", he says in a tone you've never heard before. It's soft, begging, pleading.
You grab your purse from his counter and more tears fall. You can feel the remnants of him slip out of you, dripping down the inside of your thighs, reminding you...this is over. The feeling of him dripping down your thighs is different this time because it's not an admiration of what he's done to you anymore- it's the last of him leaving your body. Forever.
He knows your feeling used, discarded. He knows your feeling the finality of it all and he looks you over, "Fuck."
You look at him one last time and the only thing screaming in your mind is the words 'I love you'. But it doesn't leave your lips that way, "G-Goodbye..."
His heart fucking shatters.
He watches you clutch your purse and his flannel to your chest as you run your hands over your skirt and walk out of his apartment. He knows you're gone and he knows he just lost everything.
He watches the door for a moment, hoping you'll come back. His mind racing as he waits for you to open the door, to run back into his arms and say you'll truly never leave him like you promised.
But you don't.
He did this and he knows it. He was awful to you, but that didn't change you he felt about you. He used you most of the time for his own gain. He leans back against the wall, slumping against it and sliding down until he's sitting on the floor. He runs a hand through his hair and tugs on it as he growls.
He knows he might never touch you again. He looks over the room, the room that was moments ago filled with your presence. And sad or not he would rather have you in this room.
A tear falls down his cheek as he stares at the floor. He fucked up. He was an asshole, a perv, a fucking animal who took advantage of a sweet soul. But God, did he love you. He loved you with all his soul and he just lost the part of him that felt alive.
He takes the torn panties out of his pocket and he inhales the sent of you, squeezing his eyes shut as he breaths heavy, angry with himself.
"FUCK!"
He looks up at the ceiling, emptiness clouding his mind as he tries to figure out how to live his life without you...
A/N: Beginning to a series, this is extremely slow but a little basis for the next part which is good I PROMISE. I'm working on my writing a lot so trust trust my process. Please enjoy and I always love feedback!
Warnings: none. just backstory and a little plot:)
You had finished your book, finally, a smile on your lips as you completed yet another book. Looking up at the tree branches above you, your hands closed your book. Dusting off your dress, a long red sundress with white polka dots your grandmother had bought you, you stood up. You gathered your book, water, and cowboy boots that you had set by the base of the tree. You slipped your boots back on your feet before heading back up to the farmhouse.
You live with your grandparents, have all your life, your parents died when you were young and you miss what you could have had with them but, you never knew them; your grandparents were all you knew. The farm was all you knew. You didn't go out, barely left the farm, and even if you did the town was so small and far from the farm nothing exciting would happen. You enjoyed the simplicity of living on the farm, taking care of the animals, wandering the land, bringing the few farmhands lemonade on hot days.
You stayed to yourself, but when you did interact with others you were extremely kind, there was no need to be rude in a world with so much cruelty already. Most who knew you, said you were a ray of sunshine, not even the darkness could reach your smile; somewhere in the pitch black of night you were the sliver of moonlight. You did everything for your grandparents, as a granddaughter should, you loved them very much. You went to church with them on Sundays, mainly to hear the beautiful music and see the flowers, but you enjoyed every bit.
You kept to yourself, away from men, having almost no experience. You had dreamed of your first kiss, hoping it would happen someday soon; maybe someone kissing you under the football bleachers; simple, a peck of a first kiss, one you'd barely remember years later. You dated once in high school, but nothing really happened, it ended innocently. You still didn't even understand the concept of making out, anything beyond a peck was foreign. But you didn't really care, or maybe you weren't aware of what you were missing.
Walking back up to the farmhouse, your grandparents truck was in front, they must have made it back from the store, meaning dinner would be done soon. You walked inside, hearing your grandparents in the kitchen. You walked towards the stairs to head up to your room and you paused. There was movement in the bathroom by the stairs, you stared at the closed door; the sound of metal, like blades was heard, maybe you imagined it. You must've sworn both your grandparents were in the kitchen, but you convinced yourself it was just your grandfather shaving. So you walked upstairs to your room.
An hour later you heard your name, you ascended the stairs, hearing your grandmothers voice echo through the old house,
"Our granddaughter lives with us, ah-here she is," your grandmother said your name again as you appeared in the dining room. You furrowed your brows at what she was talking about until your eyes landed on him and you froze in the doorway.
He was tall, huge, standing there in jeans, a tank top and red flannel. You swooned, and it was clear how obvious your facial expressions were because your grandmother laughed softly. Your eyes softened and head tilted a bit, looking at him like he was the first man you've ever seen; and in a sense he was, you had no experience, hell you haven't talked to a man besides a farmhand in ages, and seeing someone as handsome as him?
Wow.
"I'm Logan", he said, looking at you with an expression like, 'this girl is looking at me insane'. A blush crept onto your cheeks and you looked around, down, up, anywhere and then back at him. You stuttered your name and shook his hand, cheeks turning an even darker color as your hand fit in his. He gave you a small, tight lipped smile and you gave him a gentle smile.
"Give the boy room", your grandfather said, breaking you out of your trance. you stepped back and sat into your seat at the table. As your grandparents handed around food you couldn't help but stare. Mouth slightly open as you observed him.
"Who is he?" you whispered to your grandmother.
"Farmhand. Your grandfather found him breaking into the barn.."
Your eyes widened at what she said.
"A criminal?" You gasped. Your grandfather and Logan looked over at you, hearing your statement.
"He's no criminal. Just lost. Right son?" Your grandfather said. Logan just grunted and nodded.
Dinner for you was the most exciting thing since sliced bread; you got to gawk at a handsome man. It was like watching a movie. Logan ate like he hadn't eaten in days, murmuring 'thank you's' every two seconds to your grandparents. Nearing the end of dinner you helped your grandparents clean up, while taking Logan's plate you started at him again. He looked up at you and you just smiled like an idiot. Logan had a glimmer in his eye as he looked at you, something absolutely predatory that you couldn't even detect. But it soon vanished, replaced with an odd look which you soon realized was because you were still staring at him and smiling like an idiot.
You tore yourself away from him, continuing to help your grandmother.
"Show Logan to the guest room", your grandfathers voice rang through your ears. Your face twisted into confusion. Guest room?
"He's not living in the farmhand house with the others?" you asked softly.
"No room. We'll make room but for now he can stay in the guest room."
"Yes sir." You quickly moved to the end of the staircase waiting for Logan to follow. Logan followed you, he felt like a giant shadow as he followed you up the stairs. He was massive, towering over you even as he was a few steps behind. When you reached the top of the stairs you pointed to a room.
"That one is mine...And that one across is the guest bedroom...so, uh... bathroom is at the end of the hall..." you said softly, not meeting his eyes yet.
"You nervous?"
His voice hit you. Smooth like honey, and his words left you speechless for a moment. Eyes slowly lifting to meet his.
"No?" Your voice was soft, barely audible.
"No?" He repeated.
"I just...don't talk to many..."
"Why's that?"
You paused, "don't go out."
He hummed, then tilted his head as his eyes roamed. You suddenly felt very aware of yourself. He was standing close, but he was calm, still and planted like a tree. His lip twitched and then, a small- barely noticeable, smirk. A small smile met your own lips and before you could say something his face dropped, like a mask.
"Night".
That's all he said as he slipped into the guest bedroom, closing the door behind him. You stood there, gripping the sides of your dress for a moment. Maybe you said something wrong. You don't know the man...he did break into the barn after all, he could be a criminal. You sighed and made your way into your room. Although you didn't understand his sudden change in attitude a smile spread across your lips.
There was a man across the hall, one more handsome than you've seen in this lonely town. You chewed on your lower lip, mentally preparing a new outfit for tomorrow, because damn it all if you weren't going to try to get under this man's skin...
PLEASE tell me if I should continue this series. I'm not sure how I feel about it but I have a VERY spicy idea with this. ;) I'm sorry it's so short but please trust the process.
Logan loves your scent. LOVES IT. Like anything about you drives him crazy. Your hair? The smell of your shampoo? He loves burying his face in your hair to relax when he lays next to you. The yummy vanilla lotion you bought the other day? He'll lick your skin and kiss you fucking dumb. He loves trailing kisses up your legs, arms, stomach, nose softly brushing against your skin. You make him feel safe. He doesn't even need to see you when you come into a room, he can just smell you. And your pussy??? Oh good grief that's his favorite. It drives the poor man nuts. Sometimes he'll just be working on his motorcycle, you're perched up on his work bench, getting all hot and bothered by watching him and he loves that fucking smell from between your thighs. If you cross your legs, he won't even look at you, he'll just reach a hand out to pull your legs back apart so he can smell you while he works. Teasing himself with what he'll be eating later. HE LOVES IT.
SMUT! A short smut to practice my writing! Enjoy :)
"Stop faking it", he growled in your ear, fingers digging into your cheeks while he held your face. His other hand trailed down your side until it rested on your hip. "Don't worry baby, I'll make you sing for real". Your breath hitched, fuck, you were excited.
You've worked in the adult film industry for years, mainly videos of just yourself, or with others, on a low quality camera. But it was always so bland, your body was starved, practically begging every time you were on screen with another person; but you were always let down and had to put on a show.
Logan on the other hand, (a prominent figure in the industry), could make any woman feel good, every one of his videos had millions of views, and you were excited to finally get recognized when you heard he wanted to 'collaborate' with you. But you had no idea his videos were real, it just seemed he was one excellent actor. But Logan relished in making others feel good, he was a master at it; his videos aimed for the female audience.
So when a fake, high pitched moan slipped your lips as Logan got on top of you; oh that just wouldn't do.
You knew there were multiple cameras on you both but it seemed to fade away when you felt his lips trail down your neck. You pressed your head back into the pillow, a breath escaping you as you relaxed. You were both completely naked and you were already soaked from seeing the size of him. His cock was huge, standing tall and proud, a flushed pink tip with a bead of pre-cum sitting at the tip.
"Please, sir", you said your line, soft eyes staring up at him.
"What do you need? Need my big cock? Hm?"
You nodded and he grinned. oh fuck.
He pressed his tip to your clit, earning a whine from you. He slid his cock down and out of habit you let out another fake moan slip for the cameras. Logan's gaze darkened and he grabbed your face again. He leaned in an whispered so the cameras couldn't hear.
"What did I say about the fake shit?"
"That was real", you lied. He tilted his head and gave you a cocky smirk, seeing through your bullshit.
He was staring directly into your eyes, almost through you- like a challenge. A hint of a smirk on the corners of his lips as he looked so intently at you; and he finally, slowly, pushed his cock into your cunt- his eyes never leaving yours. Your mouth opened in an 'O' shape and you kept your eyes on his. You let out a breath when he bottomed out.
Then he moved his hips, a steady but hard rhythm- and there it was, a long moan, a real one. His expression turned smug, a grin spread on his lips, his eyes still never leaving your face. Your hands clutched his biceps, nails digging into his skin.
"Feels good, huh? Needed this right? Needed somethin' real" Logan whispered into your ear. He bit down on your neck, licking the skin in forgiveness immediately after.
Moan after moan, whine after whine, you were pushed into bliss. It had been so long since a man in this industry made you feel something real; God, this was better than your fucking dildo. He knew how to work you, how to touch your skin to make it feel on fire.
And fuck, this was going to be the best (and definitely not the last) collaboration you'll ever have with Logan Howlett.
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