thinking about Logan leaning against the doorframe. Shirtless, belt undone, jeans open and so low you can’t even breathe right over that Adonis belt, smoking a cigar with crossed arms and a little I think I’d follow you anywhere smile tipping up his mouth. how he may just spend the rest of his life right here, in this version of forever, watching you pull in deep breaths of peace, safety, and everything men like him are never supposed to give.
It's not clear if Marvel Comics is gonna introduce Furaha at all, after Ayodele only hinted at her appearance in the future, but I'm acting ahead of the curve because I freaking love RoLo, and I know Logan’s gonna be the greatest dad
THEIR FANGS 🥹🥹
I'm sure he'll come up with a nickname that he'll use only for her, ever!!
Summary: Logan is the perfect boyfriend...or is he? Between his quirks and two centuries of life and trauma under that Wolverine belt of his, is he really the best at what he does?
-> just for Logan in general, though I could break this apart and do individual variants if it becomes a request. for now, enjoy my personal headcanon installs!
-> Affection. How affectionate is he, how does he show it?
In his heart of hearts, Logan would die for his girlie. A part of him lives for the moments he can tell her that, but he isn't always so forthright to say the words. Much more likely to let it pepper everything he does — a hand that brushes the low of her back, lacing his fingers through hers when making love. It's little things really that make up affection, or at least, he thinks so.
"If you wanna call me breakin' the earth open to find you 'affection,' darlin', then sure."
-> Best Friend. What would he be like as a best friend, how would friendship start?
Logan is a man who does not friend easy, and likewise, he has very few he'd grace with the title. However, when he does decide a person is the stuff of friendships, it's a pact that isn't easily broken. And friendship is akin to, in some respects, shared experiences — he can talk to a friend about most anything with the expectation that it wouldn't be weird, and it's a person he'd trust, maybe, with his own life. At the very least, friendship is cold beers between two people, something mindless on the TV, and interjections that he doesn't hate.
That friendship would start with honesty. About anything. If you can be honest with Logan, you've already earned some good marks.
"Tell me anythin', any dark little thing, but don't lie to me, honey. Be honest with me and I won't jerk your chain."
-> Cuddles. Does he like to cuddle, how would he cuddle?
Physical touch is a....thing to the Wolverine. Most of his experiences with touch have been painful, or at the very least, triggering. That said, he's careful about who he lets that close, but he does crave physical contact. Cuddling depends wholly on the other person — if it's her thing, he'll make it his thing, because she's the only person worth holding that close.
His favorite? On the couch, her pressed against his side in comfortable clothes and bedhead, looking real. His arm draped over her shoulder with feet kicked up on the coffee table. Mhm, yeah.
"You get softer e'ryday, darlin'."
-> Domestic. Does he want to settle down, how is he at domestic tasks?
Yes. Logan is a simple man. He had dreamed of a life where he can outrun the shadows, the ghosts of his past — preferably right into the arms of a little wife who keeps a modest home in the middle of nowhere, white picket fence and all. Give him a 12-hour shift working with his hands any day, as long as it means he comes home to her, a place that's his.
He's been around the block a few times, he knows his way around being domestic. Will help do anything that needs doing, but is particularly choosy about his cars, bikes, garage space. He may not remember the dishes, but he'll check her oil religiously, without question.
"You tell me this ain't the American dream, you standin' there looking pretty in my kitchen? If that ain't every man's dream, I'll be fucked."
-> Ending. If he had to break up with his girl, how would he do it?
First off —nobody like this conversation. Has he been this man? Yes, yes he has.
It's never a good time. Mostly it comes from that jumpy place between his ribs he fears the most, doesn't trust. Won't talk about. He's done it before, sure, but he's a firm believer in being straight up about it, but a little gracious. Let a girl down easy, and her heart is less likely to break in your hands.
It won't be fancy. It won't be a phone call. He won't come in. He'll tell her it's his fault, even if it isn't, and again — he'll be honest. If it's not working, it's not working. If she cries, he won't be surprised.
"I'm gonna be real with you, doll. This? Us? It's not really my style...."
-> Fiance(e). How does he feel about commitment, how quickly would he want to get married?
Scared, mostly.
He's lived two centuries, Logan isn't dumb. He's well aware he'll outlive anyone he's head over heels for, that's a given. So going in, there's an element of heartbreak that already exists. But he'll be damned if that stops him from getting what he wants.
He's mostly worried about her. How she'll handle living with someone like him. If his past will haunt every happiness he dares take. Logan is a highly committed man once that claim has been staked, but that doesn't mean he's brave about it.
And the marriage question? If he asks, if she agrees? He'll marry her tomorrow. The next hour. Doesn't matter. As long as that ring is on her finger, as long as she belongs to him? That means something, and he wants it to mean something now.
"Don't screw with me, sweetheart. If you wanna go, let's go. Right now, bike's warm. Let's make it real, as long as you're mine."
-> Gentle. How gentle is he, both physically and emotionally?
With himself, not at all? With people he cares about, as gentle as he understands the word. Will go out of his way to pussyfoot around issues if it means nuclear fallout, does take the low road if it means sparing someone else. He wants to be a tender man, believes it's what makes men better people, but knows he isn't wired that way.
He is extra careful about touching his girl, though. He knows he's crazy strong, which makes her crazy fragile. Sometimes it takes more willpower than he'll admit holding her softly, with gentle hands.
"Sometimes I'm so scared you'll break, sugar, that I can't stand it. Then I remember that if you break, I get to put you right back together."
-> Hugs. Do they like hugs, how often do they hug, what are their hugs like?
From anyone? No chance in hell. From the woman he loves? Wild horses would have to rip him away from her arms. Full starfish, beneath his arm, at his side, from behind, full koala, doesn't matter. To be held, to hold, is something he never thought he'd be worthy of.
"Holdin' you is as close to heaven as I ever thought I'd get."
-> I love you. How fast does he say the "l" word?
It takes awhile, only because he knows that she can never outlive it. He's carried many of them beyond the graves of women he has loved and lost, and it never gets easier. He feels it faster than he'll say it, though. He falls hard, he falls fast, he falls fully.
Inevitably, Logan will fall first. Every time.
"Loved ya since the minute I saw you lookin' at me like you do. Ain't ever been the same."
-> Jealousy. How jealous is he? What does he do when he's jealous?
Extremely. Irrevocably.
For all his braggart and swagger, Logan is deeply self-conscious about what he is, what the world has done to him. Someone around the corner is always, probably, better for his girl than he is, but that doesn't mean he isn't selfish and will let her go. He's a jealous man and is not too big to say it.
As for what he does? Well, he's got six MOs, and they fall into his skin. Usually come with blood.
"Anyone else so much as breathes your direction, honey, and I'll gut 'im open like a fish. You just say the word."
-> Kissing. What are his kisses like? Where does he like to kiss you? Where does he like to be kissed?
God, to kiss Logan. Mm. Mmm.
Two centuries walkin' the sun has taught Logan a lot about pleasuring women—he knows. Likes to fancy himself quite the cassanova when it comes to sweeping girlies off their feet, having them eat out of the palm of his hand. He knows he's handsome, and he knows his pheromones don't play nice.
Kisses are full, soul-deep, and hungry, at baseline. He's a bottomless pit when it comes to kissing the woman he wants, loves, will rip open the sky for. He gives it all, every time—from the tilt of his head, to the brush of his mouth. He'll shove his tongue down her throat if she so much as sighs the right way.
At his core he loves to make out, in a lot of ways it's sexier than fucking itself. He'll start kissing her slow and hard on the mouth, take it down the jaw, to that sweet little spot behind her ear that'll have her sniveling in his arms. His favorite, though, is coming from behind and kisses that soft of her neck, right along the collarbone, that almost bleeds with the right amount of pressure. Right where he can feel her pulse against his cheek, the salt of her skin on his tongue.
He'll die if she kisses him slow, rough, and hard on the mouth, fingers in his hair. Can't breathe when she kisses his chest. Absolutely loses his mind if she kisses anywhere on his hands, anywhere.
"You taste so fuckin' good, can't even think straight, baby."
-> Little ones. How is he around children? How does he feel about kids of his own?
Would give his own arm for children of his own, that's that. Her deciding to have little ones with him? Unheard of, but a fantasy he keeps locked between his ribs.
Kids love him, Logan is careful about them. He knows his strength and his capabilities. Marvels at their innocence, the pure way they see the world. The simple wisdom of children is God's gift to the world, a penitence for all the sin of it.
"However many you want's however many I'll be fuckin' thrilled to give, sweetheart. Not many things as sweet as baby breath, anyway."
-> Morning. How are mornings spent? Morning person?
Lazy, in bed, preferably tangled up with her.
However Logan may not be a morning person by choice, he is by habit — he is a morning sex man. Morning breath? Doesn't care. Bedhead? He prefers it. He's up as the sun rises anyway, he might as well get the perks of first light. Is always the first one to make coffee.
"Mornin', darlin'. Sleep good?"
-> Night. How are nights spent? Night owl?
Logan doesn't sleep much, but when he does, he sleeps hard. Most of the time, however, he's up in bed, watching the clock tick. Listening to the house settle, how the world gets quiet when the life stops humming through it. It's really the only time he can think with himself, sit alone and not be seen or heard.
You will, after all, sleep when you’re dead. Or something.
"Sleep, sweetheart. Don't you worry about me, I'll be here."
-> Open. How would he start revealing things about himself? Does he say everything all at once, or wait to reveal things?
First—Logan isn’t open. He’s as closed off as a sarcophagus—this man is as ancient as tombs, as just as quiet. He’s his own kind of hieroglyphic—difficult, unreadable, and otherworldly.
That said, he’s not super open, initially. Remember when we mentioned honesty? Yeah, lots of that. Lots of honesty and trust has to be built across the river Logan, and only once he feels safe enough, stable enough, will the littlest crack in his Wolverine armor begin to shine.
He’d start slow. With little details. What he likes and doesn’t—very simple things. How he likes that flannel the best, the one that’s stretched out and faded. How he hates when you ask him to spit in your mouth during sex, he doesn’t get it. How he likes his coffee. Those things.
Very small things, over a period of time. He is not an over sharing man. You’ll get a peep out of him once a blue moon dares to shine.
“Honestly, baby—don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Really.”
-> Patience. How angered is he? How short is his fuse?
Logan carries anger in his heart more than his personality—he’s grumpy, yes. But angry? Like punch the wall angry? Not often. He’s more just resentful, a little rain cloud. Wants to be left alone, disenchanted. Often compared to Eeyore, whoever the hell that is.
But when he is angry…oof. Lord. His rage could split the world. His fuse is short when it’s shot, otherwise he has pretty remarkable self control when you think about it.
“Don’t test me, bub—you don’t wanna see me when I’m a bad boy.”
-> Quizzes. How much would he remember about her? Does he remember every little detail you mention, or does he forget all?
Everything. All the things. He’ll empty the details of his own life to remember his girl, if necessary. Logan remembers the first time she laughed, why she did. What she was wearing—that little sundress with a missing button and a frayed hem. The first time she hummed a tune, what it was—when she was rubbing his palm by the lake, enchanted with him, him. How she likes to wear her socks, her favorite rings. That very specific line in her favorite movie and how it lights up stars in her eyes.
“Of everyone I’ve ever loved, darlin’—your memories are my favorite.”
-> Remember. What's his favorite moment in the relationship? His favorite memory of her?
That moment she saw him for the first time as a man, and not a mutant. He’ll remember it as long as he’s breathing—it’s a simple memory.
He’d kissed her on the porch, slow, and it was raining—his fingers had naturally slipped through hers. She’d sighed against his mouth and told him he was the best man she’d ever known.
His favorite memory? The first time she’d made him laugh—actually laugh. Not a chuckle or a hum, but a laugh. That is a rare thing for him, joy—but with her? He’s packed full of it.
“Never will forget the moment you cracked me open, pretty—it’s part’a me, now. Thank you.”
-> Security. How protective is he? How would he protect you? How does he want to be protected?
This is a question? Truly? Logan is the most protective man on the planet when it comes to the people he holds dearest. He will go up against armies, hell itself. Die and resurrect. Fall on the sword of his own pain, if it means keeping her safe—keeping his world within his grip. Responsibility is a badge of honor, a pride God reserved for men.
How is in the bones, the adamantium that will sink him like a stone but rise him from the grave. Those claws will cut through small universes for her. He will stop bullets. Trains. Run into fire, walk across glass. Poison. Anything—he will not be stopped when it comes to her.
He won’t lie, he gets a thrill when his girlie steps up for him. Everyone she offers a sharp word on his behalf, diffuses a confrontation. He wants her to hold the judgment of the world back, offer herself in its place. Her sacrifice of loving him is the only language keeping him alive.
“Safe with me is the last concern you should have, babygirl. Always—here to hell. I’ll come runnin’ when you call.”
-> Try. How much does he put into the relationship; dates, anniversaries, gifts, everydays?
Truthfully he doesn’t try very hard—he just brings himself. Not a showman. And that seems to be enough. He tries when it matters though—anniversaries, birthdays. Usually always with flowers, sometimes jewelry when it’s a big deal. She likes it when he shows up, and he never arrives late—for him, that’s a big deal.
His trying is in the everyday. Going to work so she doesn’t have to, if she doesn’t want to. Holding back the wolves of the day. Being the kind of man that breaks taboo and shatters every one of her bad memories, that’s his trying.
“Don’t try so hard—if it’s that hard, it ain’t you.”
-> Ugly. What's a bad habit of his?
All the things that make a priest blush. Alcohol. Smoking. The kind of sex that makes you stupid. A filthy fucking mouth. Everything a man shouldn’t be.
But his ugliest thing? Personal hygiene isn’t at the top of his list. He’ll sweat all over and not even think twice—he’ll flop into bed, head to toe with wood chips and dirt, and not even blink.
“A little stink never killed nobody, sweetheart—‘sides. Adds a little somethin’ to our nest, don’t it?”
-> Vanity. How concerned is he with his appearance?
Not at all. Logan knows he’s a good looking man, but he could care less about aesthetics or personal appearance. Same shirt for a week? No problem—hell, he’s worn the same shirt for a month in the long boat to Tokyo. Absolutely could live without a mirror, and thinks society is too vain for its own good.
Not on board for many of the modern beauty standards, simply because it’s not realistic and doesn’t leave room for real. Does appreciate when his girlie cleans up for him, though. Nothing gets him harder than a little sundress, some makeup, and natural flush.
“This—you outta bed, looking soft and a mess? Bed head and mornin’ breath? Best fuckin’ version of you a man can ask for, pretty.”
-> Whole. Does he feel incomplete without you, would he?
Yes. A part of Logan dies every time he leaves, can’t have her. She is the light that shines from his ribs, the air that gives him purpose. His soul will never feel whole without her sun to his midnight.
“Live without you? Darlin’, I can’t breathe every time you walk out the door.”
-> Xtra. Wildcard headcanon for him.
His favorite body type? Curves, lots of ‘em. Loves a little something he can hold on to, something soft — something that reminds him of everything he isn’t. His favorite thing in the world is that little thing that happens when she sits, her belly is soft, and her cheeks flush when his he can’t look away.
“You’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen—all of you, made for me. Damn straight.”
-> Yuck. What are some things he doesn't like, either in general or in a partner?
Self-consciousness in a partner. Frustrates him to no end. He’s already so intimate with hating his own soul, how destructive it is, that the idea of this, in the girl he loves? It’s soul crushing. An intimate torture.
In general? Anything political. Absolutely doesn’t care. Shitheads, all of them. And he really, really fucking hates light beer. Like, a lot.
“Do I look like a fucker that counts calories? Gimme.”
-> Zzz. What is a sleep habit of his?
Stomach sleeper, when he feels safe. Prefers sleeping on the floor—the best bed he’s ever had is in the middle of nowhere, on a wood floor, with a bison hide keeping him warm. God, yes.
Does have the habit of sleeping with an arm draped over his girlie’s middle. Keep her close, keep her safe—even if the silk sheets are a little slippery and frilly and smell like flowers. Even if everything is light pink and pretty.
Snores. Insanely. It’s window shaking.
“Mm, don’t move, sweet thing—‘s warm in here next to your old man, huh?”
Drover scanned the horizon with a watchful eye, his rugged jawline set firm in the glow of the sinking sun. “Time to guide the herd to the next grazing spot,” he said, voice roughened by dust and long days. “With the light fading, the boys’ll be counting on a steady hand. You with us, mate?” There was a bottle in his hand. It had caught your attention before the firelight caught on Drover’s grin. Dark glass, the gold label Jack Daniel’s. You’d only ever seen it on the shelf in town, your father muttering how it was “a man’s drink,”
but Drover wasn’t your father. Following your gaze to the whiskey bottle, he chuckles deeply, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. “Your old man keeps that fancy stuff locked up tighter than a drum. But tonight, we're not in town and you're not a kid anymore.”
“Please,” you whispered, tucked close against him by the flames, voice soft and sticky as the heat. “Just a sip. I wanna know what it tastes like. What you like”
Drover chuckled low, shaking his head as he tipped the bottle back for himself. His throat worked, the muscles in his neck flexing, and you were near dizzy watching him swallow. He smacked his lips, then passed the bottle your way.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, sweetheart. Burns like hell first time.”
You grinned, wrapping both hands around the heavy glass, tilting it up. The liquor scorched your tongue, your throat, made your eyes water but there was something sweet underneath the bite, something that made you gasp and laugh at once.
Drover’s arm curled around your waist, steadying you when you swayed against him. “That’s it. Easy.” His voice was thick, amused, but his hand slid down your hip like he couldn’t help himself. “Never had anything like that in your pretty mouth, have ya?”
Your cheeks burned hotter than the whiskey. You licked your lips, still tasting the amber sweetness brushing almost against his kneecap. “Want more.”
He snorted, taking the bottle from you. “Greedy” He tipped it back, another swig, letting the liquid burn down his throat. When he lowered the bottle, his voice was low, husky. then leaned in, catching your chin rough in his fingers. Before you knew it, his mouth was on yours, warm and wet. The whiskey spilled across your tongue from his kiss, the sharp bite softened by the sweep of his tongue.
You whimpered, clutching at his shirt. The liquor had your head spinning, but it was Drover’s mouth that made you dizzy and slow, his tongue coaxing yours until you melted against him. Your back arched without your permission, pressing chest-flat against his hard chest. He growled softly, deepening the kiss. His fingers tightened on your jaw, tilting your head back to give him better access. He swirled his tongue around yours, stealing another mouthful of whiskey, then fed it back to you, slow and deep.
"Mmmm" He captured your lips again, swallowing your whimpers as he ground his knee between your legs. One hand slid up to tangle in your hair while the other squeezed your ass possessively. "Shhhh..."
When you broke apart, panting, you realized the two of you were already grinding against each other. The liquor had your head spinning, but it was Drover’s mouth that made you dizzy and dumb, his tongue coaxing yours until you melted against him. His big hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking upward. The whiskey burned low in your belly, and the taste of him lingered on your tongue. You were crotch to crotch against that damn tree.
Drover broke the kiss with a groan, his forehead falling against yours. His breathing was heavy, chest heaving against yours. "Fuck," he muttered, voice rough. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tight. "I need you” He rocked his hips forward slightly, pressing against you through your jeans.
He swallowed hard, watching your drunken, needy expression. With a low curse, he lifted you suddenly, making you yelp as he spun and pinned you against the rough tree bark behind him. His hands went straight to your belt buckle, whiskey courage making him bold. “Oh?” You gasped, out of breath your body already aching for more.
A feral grin spread across his face at your words. He leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right on your clothed crotch. "Hard and deep inside you?" he growled the words before pulling your pants down and taking you into his warm mouth suddenly. “Like this?”
You cried out, your body convulsing as his mouth enveloped you. Your hands found their way to his hair, gripping tightly as you pulled him closer, urging him to devour you more. Drover dropped to his knees in the dirt, his stubble beard rough against your sensitive skin nose bumping against your arousal as he took you deeper. His mouth was hot and dirty, sucking you down without hesitation. His hands gripped your thigh, pulling you forward to meet his thrusting mouth. He was making a mess of you already, slurping and gagging loudly as he tried to swallow you whole.
"Keep still," he muttered around your length, his voice a low growl. "Don't wanna get caught out here, do ya? Be good for me and stay quiet."
You babbled, trying to comply, but your body betrayed you, bucking slightly against his mouth. Drover's hands tightened on your ass, holding you in place as he continued his relentless assault. He hummed around your core, the vibration making you twitch in his mouth. His hands squeezed your ass cheeks hard enough to bruise as he bobbed his head faster, taking you rough and deep. Saliva dripped down his chin onto your skin.
"Fuck, cowboy you taste good," he mumbled, pulling off briefly to catch his breath. His beard was soaked and messy from the encounter, and his eyes were dark with lust. "keep those noises down. Wouldn't want the others to hear you, would we?"
He dove back in, his mouth hot and demanding, sucking you deep and hard. He swirled his tongue around your sensitive tip, then took you down his throat, swallowing around you. You cried out, your body convulsing as he brought you closer to the edge. babbling incoherent nonsense.
“Almost there, aren't ya?” he teased, pulling off just enough to speak.
You nodded frantically, your body trembling with the effort of holding back your cries. Drover chuckled, his breath hot against your skin. He took you back into his mouth, his suction intense and unrelenting. His stubble scratched against your thighs as he moved his head, the sensation adding to the overwhelming pleasure.
“Damn...” he pulled off suddenly, licking his lips watching your body twitch and convulse as he swallowed your release, your thick cum coating his tongue and dripping down his throat. He pulled off with a pop, his beard soaked and messy from the encounter. He ran a hand through his hair, looking up at you with a smirk. “You're a mess,” he commented, wiping at the saliva and cum on his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was red, beard wet and sticky. He pushed your hips back against the tree, standing up to tower over you. “And I ain't even fucked you yet.”
“Are you seriously going to leave me like this? I hate you, Drover! You're unfair!”
He chuckled lowly, adjusting himself in his jeans as he watched you try to pull your clothes back together. His cock was still hard and throbbing against his zipper. “Mhm,” he agreed gruffly, helping you fix your belt. But then he leaned in close again, his stubble rough against your cheek as he pressed a deep, passionate kiss to your lips, tasting yourself on him. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you once more, drawing out a series of small, desperate gasps from you. He savored each one, his own breathing ragged as he finally pulled back, leaving you breathless and wanting. “When we get back to camp, I'm gonna finish what I started.”
DBF (Dad’s Best Friend), Bodyguard/Client, Age Gap, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Public Sex(hood of his limo), Degradation, Dirty Talk, Manhandling, Logan Being a Little Pervy, Humiliation, Possessive Logan, Bimboification, Risk of Getting Caught.
⋆⋅ 𑣲 ⋅⋆
It started the way it always did with your daddy asking Logan for a favor. That was just how it was between them. Years of loyalty, built on sweat and blood, on bar fights and backroom deals. And when your old man asked for something, Logan always delivered. This was different.
Logan leaned back in his chair, beer in hand. “Don’t you always?”
“This one’s different,” your dad said, and that was never a good sign. “It’s my daughter. I want you watching her.”
“Just keep an eye on her for a bit,” your father had said, brushing it off like it was nothing. Said you were too reckless. Too spoiled. That you’d never had to work a day in your damn life, too used to getting your way.
Logan had damn near scoffed at the request. He wasn’t a babysitter. He had bigger problems than running around after some hellraiser with a daddy’s credit card and a bad habit of testing limits.
Logan gave a low snort. “You got security teams for that. Young guys. Fast guys. I’m not a babysitter.”
“This ain’t babysitting,” your father replied, the weight in his tone telling Logan this was more than overprotective parenting. “She’s been drawing attention wrong kind. People know she’s my daughter, and that paints a target on her back. You’re the only one I trust to handle my daughter if something goes sideways.”
“Both,” your dad said flatly. “I’ve seen what you can do. Seen you heal after taking hits that’d put another man in the ground. I don’t have time to wonder if my guy’s still breathing while my daughter’s bleeding out.”
“That’s your sales pitch?” Logan muttered, rubbing at his jaw.
“It’s me cashing in thirty years of friendship,” your dad shot back. “I need someone who can scare off whatever asshole’s been watching her. Someone who knows when to shoot and when to disappear.”
Logan was quiet for a beat. “How long?”
“Until I say otherwise. I’ll make it worth your while.”
That last part made Logan chuckle. “You always do.”
The next day, he saw you. You weren’t the awkward little thing he half-remembered from years back, always hiding behind your daddy’s leg, big-eyed and quiet. No, you were grown now. Tight fabric, dazzled, hips that swayed knowingly, a tramp stamp peeking out just above your waistband. You had trouble written all over you, and Logan knew better than to get involved. Your father was paying him good money to keep you in line.
“Logan,” your father said, oblivious to the tension humming in the air. “This is your shadow for the next little while.”
You tilted your head, smirk tugging at your lips. “You sure he can keep up?”
Logan’s jaw tightened. He hated the heat pooling low in his gut. Hated it more when he realized he’d already memorized the shape of your mouth, imagined what it might taste like, and wondered if you’d bite when kissed. His gaze dropped for half a second just long enough to notice the faint sway of the chain at your navel. He shouldn’t have been looking.
Yeah. This was going to be a problem.
And Logan? He never turned down good money. Real good. And Logan always took the job when the price was right.
…
His limo pulled up to the casino, the afternoon sun glinting off the chrome. Logan stepped out, his boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. He adjusted his jacket, the fabric pulling taut across his broad shoulders, and made his way inside, his sunglasses reflecting the neon lights.
He spotted you immediately. You were exactly where you shouldn’t be at the high-stakes poker table, your back to the door, surrounded by a crowd of eager onlookers. Your mother’s influence was written all over you, from the way you held your cards to the confident smirk playing on your lips.
Logan scowled, his jaw tightening as he took in the scene. You were a chip off the old block, all right your mother had been a legend in these parts, her reputation for card sharpness and luck unmatched. But this? This was a different game, and you were playing with fire.
He approached the table, his presence commanding, his eyes never leaving you. The crowd parted for him, whispering and casting nervous glances his way. You, however, didn’t seem to notice, your focus entirely on the cards in your hand.
Logan leaned in, his voice a low growl in your ear. “What the hell are you doin’, bub?”
You started, your eyes widening as you turned to face him. “Logan! What are you doing here?”
“Should be askin’ you the same thing,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the pile of chips in front of you. “You know your old man would have it out for me if he knew you were in here.”
You just smiled, slow and sweet, a glint of mischief in your eyes. “Relax, Howlett. I know what I’m doing.”
Logan’s scowl deepened. “Yeah? And what happens when you don’t?”
Before you could respond, a commotion erupted at the bar. A group of rough-looking guys, led by a man in an expensive suit, were causing a ruckus, shoving patrons out of the way as they made their way towards you.
“Well, well, well,” the man in the suit drawled, his eyes raking over you in a way that made Logan’s hackles rise. “Look what we have here. The prodigal daughter, all grown up and playin’ with the big boys.”
You met his gaze, your chin lifting in defiance. “I’m not playing, Mr. I’m winning.”
The man chuckled. “Is that so? We’ll see about that.”
He signaled to one of his goons, who pulled out a gun, leveling it at you. The casino fell silent, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Logan moved faster than anyone could follow. In a blur of motion, he was in front of you, his body shielding yours, his claws extended and glinting in the harsh casino lights. The goon’s gun clattered to the floor, his hand a bloody mess.
“Anyone else want to try their luck?” Logan growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Come on, I ain’t got all day.”
other goons drew their weapons, but Logan was already moving, a whirlwind of claws and fury. He disarmed them one by one, his movements fluid and precise, his claws tearing through fabric and flesh with ease.
The boss watched, his face pale, as his men fell one by one. He backed away, his hands raised in surrender. “Wait—wait! I didn’t mean any harm! It was just a bit of fun!”
Logan advanced on him, his claws dripping with blood, his eyes wild and untamed. “Fun? You think this is fun?”
Boss stumbled back, tripping over a chair and crashing to the floor. Logan loomed over him, his fist raised, ready to strike.
“Logan, no!” you cried out, your voice cutting through the chaos. “Don’t kill him!”
Again, You’d been pushing him for weeks, teasing, taunting, sucking that cherry lollipop like you wanted him to snap.
Logan exhaled sharply, like he was trying real hard to shake off whatever the hell was crawling up his spine. He let go of your arm like you were something hot, something dangerous, something that burned worse than the cigar between his fingers.
“Move,” he muttered, voice gruff, already leading you toward the exit.
He shouldn’t be touching you. He knows that. He shouldn’t have grabbed you by the wrist, shouldn’t have yanked you out of that damn party, thrown you into the passenger seat of his car, scowling the whole drive.
“Fuck,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the wheel, knuckles tight. “Makin’ me chase after you like I ain’t got better things to do.”
You just smiled, slow and lazy, popping the lollipop out of your mouth with a wet little pop.
“You like chasin’ me, Mr. Howlett.”
His jaw twitched. His hands flexed against the leather. And Logan had his hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he tried like hell not to look at you.
And you?
You were out in the passenger seat, jacket unzipped, legs kicked up on the dash, still sucking that damn lollipop. Every time you pulled it out with a wet little pop, Logan’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel.
“Get your feet off the dash,” Logan growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “Ain’t no damn dance floor.”
You hesitated for a moment, your eyes meeting his in a challenge, but the intensity in his gaze made you comply. Slowly, you lowered your legs, crossing them demurely as you continued to suck on your lollipop, a smug smirk playing on your lips.
“You always drive this slow?” you hummed, rolling the candy against your tongue.
Logan exhaled hard through his nose. “You always run your mouth this much?”
“Only when I got an audience.” You grinned, dragging your nails up his arm, slow, teasing. “You listenin’ to me, Mr. Howlett?”
“Shut it.”
“You know, I’m only doing this because I’m a good friend of your father,” Logan muttered, his voice a low growl. “You’re just another spoiled rich rotten girl, bub. But fuck, you’re something else.
𑣲
The car sputtered. Stalled. Died. Now you’re both stranded on some forgotten backroad, the sun having long since dipped below the horizon, leaving nothing but thick, sticky heat behind.
Logan stands by the hood of the car, shirt damp with sweat, jaw tight as he mutters a string of curses under his breath.
“We’re fucked,” he grumbles, kicking the front tire.
A big mistake the limousine lets out a pathetic creak, and Logan groans, raking a hand through his hair.
“Guess that means we’re stuck, huh?” Your voice was light, teasing, as you tilted your head, letting the heat lick along your throat.
“You think this is funny?” he muttered, stepping closer.
Logan levels you with a look. “Don’t start with me girl”
You just smiled, slowly uncrossing your legs, letting your skirt ride up just enough.
“Start what?” You bat your lashes, innocent as sin.
“You’re talkin’ awful big for someone who ain’t doin’ nothin’ about it,” you whispered, voice saccharine-sweet, just begging for trouble.
That was all it took. Logan steps closer, crowding you against the side of the car. Heat radiates off him in waves, his scent—sweat and cigars, whiskey and engine grease—curling around you like smoke. The hard press of his belt buckle digs into your stomach, and you know then—you’ve won.
And that’s when it snapped. Then—he steals the cherry lollipop right outta your hand, shoves it into your mouth, pushes it deep. You gag, just a little, the sweet, sticky taste coating your mouth, and Logan, eyes wide.
𑣲
“Keep suckin’, girl,” Headlights cast deep shadows over his face, exaggerating the sharp cut of his jaw, the deep lines bracketing his mouth, the furrow between his thick brows. The silver streaks in his hair caught the light.
He had you down on your knees, squatting between his legs, your lips wrapped around his cock, sticky cherry lollipop forgotten in the dirt. You obeyed, dizzy with the heat, the way the sweat dripped down his neck, the way he loomed over you, broad and towering, his scent thick with leather, smoke, and musk. You barely had time to whimper before he shoved himself past your lips, heavy and hot, stretching your mouth.
And just how wrong this was.
“C’mon, open wide.” His tone was mocking, condescending in the way that made your stomach twist, the heat curling low in your belly. “Been runnin’ that mouth all day—‘bout time you put it to good use.”
You obeyed, letting your jaw go slack, tongue curling around the leaking tip. He groaned, something deep, something primal, his fingers flexing in your hair.
“That’s it, baby,” he muttered, a dark sort of approval dripping from his words. “Knew you’d be good for somethin’.”
You sucked harder, desperate for it—for the way he cursed low under his breath, for the way his muscles tensed, the way his broad, sweat-slick chest heaved as you worked him deeper. Your lipstick was ruining him, staining the thick veins, smearing over his base where your lips kissed his skin.
Logan grabbed you by the jaw, forcing you down, your throat tightening as he filled your mouth, the taste of salt and musk overwhelming. You gagged, tears welling at the corners of your eyes, but he didn’t let go.
“Nah, take it,” he growled, voice nothing but gravel. “You wanna act like a slut, I’ll treat you like one.”
“That’s it,” Logan rasped, one calloused hand heavy on the back of your head, guiding you, forcing you to take more. “Look at you—daddy’s spoiled little girl, sucking cock on the side of the road. What would he say if he saw you like this?”
Your nails dug into his thighs as he fucked your mouth, dragging himself out only to push back in, groaning as you drooled around him, a filthy mess of spit and cherry-red lipstick smeared across his skin. The heat, the risk, the taste of him—it had you aching, wrecked and desperate for more.
You moaned around him, the sound vibrating through your throat, and Logan cursed, hips bucking.
He dragged you off his cock with a wet gasp, strings of spit and precum connecting your lips to his skin. Your chest heaved, eyes glazed, and Logan?
“Get up,” he ordered, voice sharp. “Ain’t done with you yet.”
His fingers brushed the tramp stamp at the base of your spine, tracing it almost mockingly.
“Y’know what this means, right?” he muttered, grinding against you, thick and hot. “Means you were made for this. Made to be fucked.”
“You don’t even fuckin’ know what you do to me,” he mutters, palming the outline of his cock through his jeans, big hands twitching like he’s about to wreck you right here, right now.
You just blink up at him, all feigned innocence.
“What d’you mean, Howlett?”
His grip snaps tight around your chin.
“You know exactly what I fuckin’ mean.” Then he’s grinding against you, hands rough, cruel, dragging up your bomber jacket, fisting the thin fabric of your skirt, shoving it up past your hips.mHis breath is hot against your ear.
“You on somethin’,? Ain’t got the patience for a damn rubber”
Your head’s spinning, too turned on to think. “H-huh?”
Logan growls, hips pressing forward, cock grinding against your soaked panties. The blunt, heavy press of his cock against your soaked folds.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” Logan groaned, dragging the head along your slit, teasing, testing. He should stop. He should get his goddamn head on straight, but—
“Please,” you gasped, pushing back against him. “.. Howlett- Logan—please—”
“The pill,” he clarifies, voice low, dangerous. “Tell me now.”
Your heart stutters, pulse slamming against your ribs. You nod. “Y-yeah.”
Logan just chuckles, deep, dark. “Good,” he mutters, yanking your panties to the side, ripping them clean in half. You, dazed, only half aware.
He spits down between your legs, watching the slick mess pool over your folds before rubbing it in with two thick fingers.
“’Cause I ain’t gonna fuckin’ pull out.”
He thrust inside in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You cried out, nails scraping against him, your body stretching, breaking, molding around him.
Logan groand, deep and filthy, fingers digging bruises into your hips.
“Christ,” he hissed, jaw clenched tight. “Tight fuckin’—shit.”
The heat was overwhelming. Sweat dripped from Logan’s temple, slid down his spine, his broad chest heaving as he pulled back and slammed back in.
Your mind was white noise. He was wrecking you.
Raw, messy, desperate, every snap of his hips punching moans from your throat, every filthy grunt in your ear making your body melt beneath him.
“You like this, huh?” Logan taunted, voice rough. “Like havin’ my cock stretchin’ you open, like knowin’ your daddy’d be so fuckin’ disappointed—”
And then he was fucking into you like he meant it.
And the worst part? You fucking loved it. Logan grabbed your chin, rough and commanding, forcing you to meet his eyes. Big hand gripping your jaw, yanking you forward.
“C’mere,” he rasped, dragging your mouth to his.
You reached up before you could stop yourself, fingers tangling into his thick hair. His breath hitched, his body going rigid as your nails scraped against his scalp, just barely tugging at the strands. You felt him shudder, even as he clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth like he was trying to hold something back.
“Uh-huh,” you babbled, nodding fast, breath hitching as his beard scratched against your jaw. “Mmh—yeah, yeah, it ain’t right—”
You smirked, dragging your nails against his scalp again, slower this time. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
It started out as a teasing little dare. You’d never actually meant to provoke him into anything you couldn’t handle but the moment you picked up Drover’s battered, sun-bleached hat and settled it over your hair, you knew you’d made a mistake. Or maybe the best decision of your life. You’re standing outside the shed with the dying sun behind you, shirt sticking to your back, watching Drover haul the saddle down it weighs nothing to that strong Australian man. His shirt’s open halfway and rolled at the sleeves, chest soaked in sweat, forearms straining with each movement. He’s too pretty to look at directly sometimes.
He was working on tightening the saddle cinch by the tent, jaw dark with stubble, shirt already sticking to his back in the heat. He paused mid-motion. The slow lift of his head felt like a silent ripple through the whole camp. Those sharp eyes tracked up from your bare thighs to your mouth and then to the crown of his hat perched so innocently on your head.
You tried for a smile. “Just borrowing it—”
Drover didn’t answer right away. He simply unhooked the saddle strap, set it aside with much care, and straightened to his full, rangy height. You felt the bottom of your stomach drop out as he started toward you, the tilt of his mouth promising nothing gentle.
“Oi. You reckon that’s wise, darlin’?” He glances over his shoulder, a flicker of something sharp in his eyes when he sees it sitting crooked on your head. “That’s not a toy, y’know Takin’ a man’s hat? You got any idea what you’re askin’ for?”
Your throat bobbed. “What?”
“I know,” you say, swaying on your feet a little, grinning slow. “But Drover you weren’t wearin’ it.”
You swallowed, heart beating like a kicked-up mob of cattle. You didn’t take it off. You just stood there, letting him come to you, a little thrill pooling low in your belly at the way his gaze dropped to your chest, your parted lips.
When he finally stopped in front of you, the heat off him was as oppressive as the Outback sun. He reached up, hooked a thumb under the brim. Didn’t remove it only tilted it back enough that your eyes locked fully.
“That’s my hat,” he murmured, accent thick, voice scraping your skin raw. “You wear it, you ride the cowboy.”
Your pulse hammered. “Drover—”
You felt your pulse explode behind your ribs. Before you could say a word, Drover’s hands caught you around the hips, tight enough to leave bruises. and he hauled you flush against him, mouth crashing over yours in a rough, searing kiss. His tongue swept past your lips, tasting you, claiming you he’d been waiting for this moment.
You gasped, fingers curling helplessly in his shirt. He smelled like sweat and leather and iron-rich dust, a scent that made your knees buckle. Drover caught you easily, sliding one broad palm down to cup the curve of your backside, grinding you against the hard ridge behind his fly. His voice was rough against your mouth.
“You want it bad enough to steal my hat,” he rasped against your mouth, “Sweetheart better be ready to take all of me.”
You could only nod, breath hitching when he let his other hand drift between the inside of your jeans, testing how soft and wet you were already. His lashes dipped low. “Goddamn, you’re plump as a ripe peach.”
You backed up a little, nerves kicking in. “I- I’ve never…”
His face softened. Just a little. “I know, sweet thing.”
You’d felt his eyes on you all day, the way they kept snagging on the little pink gingham top knotted just under your bust, shoulders bare and sun-kissed. The matching tie-front shorts left your legs long and loose, dust clinging to your skin from the walk back to camp. It wasn’t exactly decent maybe that’s why his gaze had gone hot and heavy, mouth set like he was holding himself back all damn day.
“Been wantin’ you since the first time you set foot on my land, Girl” he muttered, thumb pressing more firmly against you through the thin cotton. “Knew I shouldn’t. Knew I’d ruin ya. But you go ‘n’ put on my bloody hat…” His head dipped, lips brushing your ear. “Darlin’, you just signed your fate.”
𑣲
The next thing you knew, he’d turned you bodily and walked you backward into the tent. His hands didn’t leave your body Drover guided you to the little cot, pressing you down onto it without ceremony. When he knelt over you, his hat still perched defiantly on your head, he looked like a man about to break a wild thing to his saddle. And you realized you wanted that. The tent was small but packed with the rugged essentials—faded canvas walls stretched taut over wooden poles, a battered lantern hanging low, its warm amber glow flickering over worn leather saddles, tangled ropes, and a scuffed wooden crate piled with oilskins. The dusty floor creaked underfoot as Drover pulled you inside, closing the flap behind with a snap that sounded final.
His hands never left your body as he guided you toward the cot—a rough, narrow frame with a coarse blanket thrown over it. The scent of leather, sweat, and campfire smoke wrapped around you, thick and intoxicating. The evening heat clung inside the tent, but the closeness between you and Drover burned hotter.
A groan rumbled in his chest, and suddenly his hand was between you, as he helped you push your jeans down, fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal sharp in the night air. Your top falling loose in his rough hands. You pulled at the hem of his shirt, shoving it upward until he peeled it off entirely. His zipper rasped down. You caught your breath as he freed himself, thick and flushed and so blatantly ready. Drover’s gaze fixed on the hat.
“Keep it on,” he ordered, voice hoarse. “I want you rememberin’ who’s makin’ you feel this way.” Then his hands locked on your hips and he sank into you in one long, unstoppable thrust. The startled cry tore from your throat before you could stop it half sob, half moan his name breaking on your lips.
“Jesus—Jack,” you yelp without meaning to, half a moan, half a sob, hands flying to his shoulders. Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears high, needy, desperate and the name slips out before you can stop it. His big hand slid up your bare side, fingers splaying across your ribcage, and then cupped your breast from underneath. He gave a slow, squeeze, thumb brushing over the peaked nipple until you gasped.
He groaned raggedly, burying himself to the hilt. “That’s it,” he murmured, the brim of the hat tipping forward to hide your wide, overwhelmed eyes. “That’s my good girl.”
Every inch of you stretched and filled, your walls clenching greedily around him as he started to move deep, rolling drives that made the cot creak under your bodies. You clung to his shoulders, the hat slipping sideways but refusing to fall, his mouth finding yours again in a hot, consuming kiss. Everything you’d wanted for too long.
“Y’know what sittin’ like that does to a man, don’t ya? Makes a man dangerous.” he muttered, You bit your lip, fingers splayed over his chest, feeling the tense pull of muscle. Drover’s hands gripped your hips, guiding you up to meet every stroke, he wanted you to feel the exact heaviness and thickness of his cock every single time.
Drover didn’t give you a moment to collect yourself. He rocked into you with a measured patience that somehow felt more intense than any frantic thrusting could have been. Each slow withdrawal let you feel the hot slide of his cock stroking deep along your walls, only to drive back in so solidly you couldn’t stop the breathy little moans tumbling out. Nothing existed except the cowboy above you, the rough rasp of his voice as he dropped his mouth to your ear.
“That’s it, love. Just like that.” His hands roam, rough palms catching every soft, trembling part of you.
“Feelin’ full, sweetheart?” His breath tickled the shell of your ear. “That what you wanted, stealin’ my hat gettin’ split wide on my cock?”
You whimpered, nodding helplessly.
“Yes—yes—” You couldn’t stop the words spilling out, voice going breathless and wrecked. “Feels so good—need it, Jack—oh God, I need you—”
“Yeah.” He drew back slow, savoring every inch, then slammed forward, making you cry out. “You love this. All wet and greedy for it.”
He shifted suddenly, sitting back on his heels without withdrawing. Your hands fluttered over his chest, clinging to the sweat-slick muscle as he reached for your hips. Strong fingers clamped around your waist. And then he lifted you bodily, pulling you upright to straddle him. He growled and shifted under you, bracing his boots on the floor so he could thrust up to meet every bounce. The sensation made you cry.
The new angle made you gasp he felt impossibly deep this way, the thick head of him pressing right up against a spot that made your vision go white at the edges.
“That’s it,” he growled, guiding you to rock forward. “Ride the cowboy.”
Your thighs trembled as you started to move, lifting yourself up just enough that his tip nearly slipped free, then sinking back down with a wet, obscene slap of flesh. You couldn’t bite back the desperate moan.
“Oh—God—Jack—feels…feels so good, I—” You broke off in a moan, your head tipping back as you sank all the way down again. “S’too much”
He watched you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hands flexing on your hips to steady you. “You’re doing well, love. takin’ me so deep.”
You rode him slowly at first, trying to find a rhythm, but he was too thick, the stretch too perfect you could feel yourself fluttering around him every time you dropped back down. You leaned forward, bracing your palms on his shoulders. The hat slipped forward over your eyes, but he didn’t let you fix it. He caught your chin in one big hand and tipped your face up instead. his thumb brushing over your swollen lips before he crushed his mouth onto yours.
The kiss was fierce, almost harsh—his beard scraping roughly against your skin, the scrape leaving a sting that bloomed into heat. His teeth nipped your lower lip just enough to make it swell, his tongue invading your mouth with a claim so fierce it left you breathless.
“Sweetest thing, Keep goin’,” he ordered, “Show me how bad you need it.”
You started moving faster, bouncing in his lap, the cot creaking madly beneath you. Your breath came in ragged little sobs as your pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, every wet slide of him hitting a spot inside you that made your thighs spasm. He rutted up into you hard.
“That’s my girl,” Drover rasped, watching the way you swallowed him over and over. “Such a pretty girl when you’re ridin’ me.” He reached between you without warning, pressing the rough pad of his thumb against your clit. Your whole body jolted. You cried out, voice breaking, and he did it again, circling, the combination making you clamp around him so tight he swore savagely under his breath.
“Tell me what you need.”
Your voice came out high. “Need you—need you to—oh God—need you to inside me always—”
He thrust up to meet you, so deep you felt your belly tighten almost painfully. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you?”
“Y-yes—yes, I’m—oh—fuck—” You buried your face against his neck, voice muffled and desperate.
Your eyes fluttered shut, head falling back as you moved faster, chasing the heat coiling low in your belly. “I’m—I’m so close—”
“That’s right?” His thumb circled your clit, making your whole body spasm. “Come on—come for me, darlin’. Let me feel you.”
“Jack—!” You clapped a hand over your mouth, suddenly shy. It was too much his thumb, the thick heat of him inside you, the raw want in his voice. “Don’t you dare hide those sounds. I wanna hear every little noise you make when you come on me.”
“Can’t—can’t—” you stammered, overwhelmed.
“Yeah, you can,” he murmured, kissing the underside of your jaw as you trembled. “Gonna take every inch of me, yeah?”
His breathing turned ragged, swearing low and sharp into your neck before yanking you up just enough to slide free. His hand wrapped around himself, pumping hard as he groaned your name, hot ropes spilling across your stomach and dripping down the insides of your shaking thighs. The mess was hot and heavy on your skin, his hand still gripping your hip as if he couldn’t stand to let you go.
You were gasping, chest heaving, legs trembling in his lap while he looked down at you—hair mussed, lips swollen, his release painting your skin.
“Reckon you understand the cowboy hat rule now?”
Your legs were still trembling where you straddled him, knees pressed into the rough cot, and Drover leaned back a little just to take you in. Hair mussed, lips swollen, skin flushed all the way down your chest and his seed dripping lazy trails down your thigh. His eyes darkened, jaw flexing.
“First time, and you took me so damn natural.” His other hand drifted down, rough palm grazing your stomach until it stopped right over your navel. His thumb traced a lazy circle there before dipping lower, dragging through the heat of your sex just to smear his seed across your skin.
You whimpered, thighs twitching under his touch, but he didn’t stop just rubbed the mess in, he wanted it to stay. “That’s mine,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Every drop. You feel it?”
When you nodded shyly, his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. “Good girl.” His hands slid down to grip your hips again, big thumbs pressing into the dimples of your lower back. “Bet I could get it in you again.”
pulling on logan’s little hair kitty ear thingies and calling them his “love handles” when making out😽.
💭#𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 ♡ྀི ⋆ || 𝐭𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞
. . . ─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ─── 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
Pairing: Logan x Gn!Reader
@loganspet
. . .
⋆⋅ 𑣲 ⋅⋆
Logan’s about two seconds from losing his composure. You lean in, grab those tufts, give ‘em a little tug, and smirk, “These are my love handles.” It catches him so off guard that the usual precision in his kisses just… evaporates. One second, it’s a deep, controlled pull; the next, he’s practically devouring your mouth with that sloppy, hungry sort of heat he only gets when you’ve thoroughly riled him up. His tongue snakes out, brushing against yours in a lazy, teasing stroke. You respond, tentative at first.
He whispers against your lips between kisses, a little breathless, “You’re real lucky I like you, darlin’, real lucky” before diving right back in sloppy, warm, and not at all careful, because you’ve already ruined any chance of restraint.
You slide onto his lap, fitting perfectly as you belong there, and start rubbing against him slowly. The friction, the ache, it’s a silent promise you both understand. His hand finds the curve of your hip, holding you steady as his other fingers trace lazy patterns along your thigh.
A glass of whiskey sits forgotten on the nearby table, and you notice him glance over, eyes narrowing with interest as you lean in again. With a crooked grin, he reaches out and moves the glass aside, clearing the space between you two, as if daring you to come closer. familiar taste of whiskey on his tongue as he slips in a kiss, and then suddenly he bites your lip, hard enough to make you gasp.
He pulls back just a bit, eyes shining with mischief as he smirks. “Sorry sugar” wiping your lip gently with the pad of his thumb. the faintest trace of red where he bit down still lingering.
“Looks like I ruined your pretty face again,” Logan whisperd, voice low and rough. His thumb strokes over the tender spot. “I bet you’re into that, though, hmm?” Without giving you time to answer, he’s back on you.
Your fingers don’t let go of those tufts of hair, clutching his love handles like a lifeline as he crushes his mouth against yours again, every sloppy kiss pulling each breathless moan from deep inside you.
He seems to drink in every sound you make as if they’re the sweetest melody. Logan’s hands tighten on your hips, His rough breath tickles your ear, and he growls low, “You sound real good, baby’ That’s how you make a man feel.”
You shiver, your grip on his tightening as he bites your lip again, this time on purpose, pulling a well deserved , satisfied sound from your throat.
You press your hand against his chest, heart pounding. “I love the way you kiss me,” you say softly. If he could he’d eat you alive He would.
His grin is crooked but genuine. “Only for you, darlin’.”
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