logans-whore

[logans-whore]

PLEASE

[logans-whore]

This fic had me DROOLING

drenched to the bone

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.

“But the benefits are so much better.”

[logans-whore]

Thinking about sucking Jason Todd's cock, because I'm a freak and pre menstrual.

Like. Maybe I'm just a slut (in theory), but I'd love every freaking minute. He'd be nice and heavy in your mouth, enough to make your jaw ache a little. I feel like he'd make the prettiest little noises too, moaning and whining, hips bucking into your mouth with murmurs of "Fuck yes, you're doing so good for me gorgeous."

Just running your tongue all over the head, lapping up the pre cum as it spurts out. Sucking gently, then hard, kissing all over it, completely covering him in your spit. Pressing your face into his balls and inhaling (Can you tell I'm horny for this man), pubes tickling your nose. I'm just saying, I would worship that man till he had the best orgasm of his life

And I see him cumming one of two ways. Down your throat as you gag and swallow it down, or on your face, painting it white as you grin up at him.

Or maybe the best option would be a mix of both. He cums down your throat before pulling out and shooting ropes onto your face.

Me, after reading this *filth* that I wrote on a Monday afternoon.

[logans-whore]

Oooh I've got to try and write this!

Just putting this out there into the universe as I don't write AUs, but imagine Old Man Logan (Logan 2017) retelling of of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, Jean Grey as Rebecca and reader as the young virginal wife. Manderley's the X-Mansion?

[logans-whore]

I NEED him

Loooord I just read the invisible mutant reader and Logan and I desperately need more! Like yes you did absolutely amazing on that peace! I need more like how he would react if she went invisible when she was embarrassed sweet fluff or smut I need it lmaoo

first part here!

idk if you're the same anon who sent the ask. thank you for sending it in, if so. it was so fun to write! anyway, i don't do requests but please treat the askbox like a suggestion box and spam it whenever you feel like it—if i get inspired i'll respond to your ask :)

18+ MDNI SMUT!!! (mirror sex), fem!mutant!reader, unedited (i'm sorry if this sucks lmao)

I can immediately see the gears in his head turning with schemes to test your reactions lmao especially Trilogy!Logan he’s a menace 💀

Quietly weighs which opportunities are worth taking when people are around. He likes to tease you, but not completely humiliate you in front of others. 

e.g. when the team orders takeout and you survey the spread, beaming.

“Wow, these portions are so big.”

“Just the way you like them, sugar?” he quips next to you. Storm—unfortunate enough to be within earshot—slowly turns to the two of you, a pleasantly scandalized look on her face before stepping away. 

You don’t break. Not yet. He smirks at the way you furrow your brows.

“Logan.”

He tilts his chin at the box of orange chicken, cubed, sauced, looking extremely succulent. There’s a glint in his eyes.

“Bet you can fit a couple of those in your mouth just fine.” 

You turn to hit him playfully in the chest, but he catches your wrist before you can make contact.

Pulls you in closer, warm breath fanning your ear. His voice drops to that deliciously low rumble. Rough, only for you to hear. Reminds you of a different time and place he’d use this voice…

“Just like the way I made my cock fit in your mouth—”

You let out a squeak before cloaking yourself out of reflex, turning invisible with the intent of running away.

Of course you never stood a chance. He already has a grip on your wrist. It tightens, the other arm easily finding your waist despite your invisibility, and he locks you in place just like that.

Motherfucker actually chuckles. You wonder if this is predator behavior, playing with their food.

“Stop bullying her,” Jean calls out lightly from the other side of the room. Logan can feel the stares of an amused audience. Scott actually looks slightly concerned.

“Help me,” the words are half-laughed, half-groaned. It hitches into a peep when he presses you into his chest, lips curled against your temple as he whispers against your hair.

“But you liked it so much last night, princess.” 

It’s not always inappropriate teasing that gets you, though.

The first time he sees you dressed up for a black tie date, he has to clench his jaws to stop himself from salivating.

You look like someone poured you into a glass, wearing that dress with your hair done like that. He’s aware that he’s staring, but why’d he want to look away? Especially when you smell like that, hell—

“You okay?” you ask, a smile on your face. Your voice is saccharine sweet, though the look on your face tells him he should know better.

Your smile fades a little at the way the hazel in his eyes is swallowed by dilating pupils. He stares at you like his reality is being rewritten. Rewritten, until what’s left is only you. Right at this moment.

“Turn around,” he says softly. You oblige.

Bare. Delicate straps criss-crossing your lower back. Feeling exposed, you turn to face him again. The look in his eyes has changed into something indecipherably molten and soft.

His palm on your cheek is the same—calloused, but gentle. Thumb brushing across your skin tenderly. A man holding treasure he isn’t sure he deserves.

When he speaks, it’s quiet, unflinching, real.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

That’s when you feel your heartbeat stutter, jerking errantly against your ribcage in one wild thud. You don’t even know you disappeared for that split second. His widened eyes tell you.

“Thank you,” you reply breathlessly.

And just like that, gone are his ambitions of teasing you to the point of invisibility.

Why would he, when the thing he loves the most is to see you? And not just in the physical sense of the word, but every meaning it holds.

He sees you—sees the difference between a polite smile and a real one. Sees what kind of mood you’re in just from the way you say ‘hi’ to him. Sees you when you don’t want to be seen, but you let him in anyway.

Still, his desires are a torment for you, and he collides into you again. At the end of the night, in wanting you to see what he sees, he places you in front of a mirror in his bedroom.

You know you’re going to suffer, but you welcome it anyway.

He keeps you on his lap throughout, chest against your back, holding you tight while his hands roam and his mouth lavishes your ear, jaw, neck, talking you through it.

“So beautiful, look at you. Know how many people were starin’ at you, princess? Too bad they don’t get to see you like this, yeah?”

The dress is hiked up past the point of decency, your hair framing your face messily. You let him trace his lips on your bare shoulders while his hands cup your breasts. His eyes meet yours through the mirror, and you feel incredibly feverish.

“Want you to watch yourself when I take you, see how pretty you are,” is what he says when he finally teases your slit. A whimper escapes you in response.

Fabric bunched up high on your waist, underwear hanging low on your ankles, your breasts exposed thanks to the way he pulled your neckline earlier. And now he’s lifting you, holding you so that your dripping core hovers over his length—

“A-ah!”

Eyes closed, head drops, but only for a moment, because his hand is immediately at your jaw. Strong fingers force you to look forward.

“Open your eyes, baby,” he rasps, face twisted in agony from holding back. He stills, only allowing his tip to enter you, adding onto the overflowing dam of desperation you have for him.

“Please, Logan—want you—”

“Then watch, pretty.” 

You finally gather the willpower to, chest heaving at the sight.

He sinks in with a wet sound, a mercy for the two of you as your moans intertwine. You can’t hold back like this, not with your reflection painted lecherously on the mirror. Goosebumps bloom at the sensation of being so full, and the unadulterated view of his cock in your cunt is too much.

You look at yourself. Make-up smudged, hair a mess. God, you’re wrecked, and he barely did anything…

His eyes meet yours again and you flicker, vanishing every other microsecond, an airy mewl dragged out of you just from the eye contact.

“Remember what I taught you before, sweet thing?” he holds you in place before bucking up into you, watching as you phase in and out of visibility again, overwhelmed with the way he stretches you.

“Disappear and I’ll stop,” he murmurs against your ear.

“This time, I’ll stop if you look away, too, m’kay?”

[logans-whore]

Hi. Whats up? Im depressed and touch starved and so lonely that i cry myself to sleep. Heres a Logan blurb. Mildly angsty, mostly fluffy

You can't help but crave it. The warmth that would come from someone holding you, body pressed tightly against yours, spooning you, enveloping you. It's cliche, but you're touch starved. And one doesn't really realize the meaning of starved until late at night, when you're curled in your bed, aching to be held and loved.

When you meet Logan, embarrassingly, he's the one you start to picture. Strong arms holding you tight, holding you close, kisses pressed to the top of your head.

Whispers of, I love you, you're mine, I'd do anything for you exchanged between both of you like love letters, travelling the minute slip of pillow between you both. And by some strike of luck, fate smiles on you for once. It's not as romantic as you thought. Logan snores. Loudly. Obnoxiously. If you're a heavy sleeper you're fine. If you're not? Good luck. Get earplugs.

He farts in his sleep. You wake up gagging every time he does.

But you're not exactly perfect either. You toss and turn, you struggle to sleep some nights, sometimes you wake him up because you're crying at puppy videos on your phone.

You've kneed him in the balls waking up, and the yelp of pain and subsequent falling out of bed remains in your brain, leading to a cushion being placed there when you both sleep.

That doesn't mean it's not romantic at all. Soft moments of being held after a nightmare or a bad dream. Getting caught up in something, hearing a snore and looking over to see him facing you, face golden in the soft light of your reading lamp.

Even the gross stuff is domestic. Loudly and dramatically complaining when one of you fart or accidentally kick the other while sleeping. Blowing raspberrys into your neck to wake you up, stubble brushing your skin.

Every morning, without fail, he'll kiss you good morning. Maybe after brushing your teeth after the nth morning breath joke. Maybe over breakfast. Maybe in the shower.

So now, when that loneliness comes creeping in, and you feel like you could lay down and give up from it all, you turn, look up and look at him. Snoring. Loudly. But still yours.

[logans-whore]

happy daddy’s day to joel<3, the owner of the dad pose, the owner of the dad jokes, the owner of my fantasies, the owner of my pussy too

[logans-whore]

I need to be violently fucked but I also want to be babied :(

[logans-whore]

.....so. I'm back. After.... a very long mental health break. Requests, anyone?

[logans-whore]

reblog to give prev some of that good writing mojo

[logans-whore]

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[logans-whore]

No because there is something about him in this specific angle that is making me THROB.

[logans-whore]

i need

[logans-whore]

if tumblr goes down give me yuor full home. address and i will move in to your hpuse

[logans-whore]

I'm sick of internet negativity, so let's combat it: reblog this and saying something nice/pay a compliment to the prev in the tags.

[logans-whore]

Logan comforting you.

I know I have requests pending and I swear I'm working on them. But my mom and I got into a really bad fight (I say fight, but it was her lecturing me and me trying not to cry after a 12 hour work day.) Sorry for the trauma dumping, but I desperately needed to write something with Logan comforting you, because I'm in desperate need of that man loving me right now. Or anyone loving me, really.

Logan knows your home life isn't the best. While you can't say it's abusive, or physically hurtful, he sees how it drains you. See how when everyone's eager to get home, you drag your feet. And it makes his blood boil, because you're his girl, damnit, and he'd rather die than see you upset or hurting. But he bides his time, not wanting to push you.

But when you show up on his doorstep, eyes rimmed red, and lips quivering as you mumble, "She wouldn't stop yelling," he won't lie and say he didn't see it coming.

But he lets you in anyways, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

"Hush now, stop crying. Why don't you sit down and tell ol' Logan about it, hm?" He soothes you, like he would a bird with a broken wing.

He listens to you explain how you came home exhausted and how your parents wouldn't stop nitpicking you for the smallest things, and kept talking over you, never let you get a word in, guilt tripped you, and you're trying, Logan, you really are, but it's never enough.

He'd soothe you so gently too, calloused hands pushing hair out of your face and rubbing tears off your cheeks as you speak, listening to you talk.

He'd be such a good hugger too, letting you curl into his side and cry your heart out, stroking your hair, pressing kisses to your temple. He'd hold you tight, arms like a weighted blanket.

He wouldn't fix things, not unless you ask him to, and he'd just listen. Chiming in with a "Motherfucker!" Or "That son of a bitch said what?". It'd make you giggle, just a little through the tears, and that makes it all the more better.

He'd tell you he knows you're trying, knows you're doing your best, knows that you'll get through this, and he'll be there for you all the way.

[logans-whore]

some fics i read recently where logan comforts/spoils reader

logan comforting a crying reader - @sweetverine

logan helping reader relax - @wolvietxt

logan taking care of a sick reader - @marifilue

(contains smut) logan taking reader out for valentines - @slushycoookie

logan comforting a lonely reader - @lostinlovingrevery

hang in there <3

This made me cry harder, in a good way. Thank you so much!!!