Night Terrors. . .
(Van Helsing Boys x Reader)
(A/N); Ollo and welcome, friends! I give you VAN HALEN— wait. No. VAN HELSING!! Please note, it's my first time writing for the film AND my first time writing lil imagines! As always, enjoy! ❤
Plot; How they comfort you after having a nightmare
Pairings; Gabriel Van Helsing x Reader (Romantic), Carl x Reader (Romantic), Count Vladislaus Dracula x Reader (Romantic)
Warnings; mature themes, blood, death, angst with fluffity fluff
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Gabriel Van Helsing
The night was quiet save for the sound of the gentle evening breeze rustling the trees, the last embers of the campfire now burning away into nothing.
Dark eyes monitored the small encampment from afar, eyeing the two sleeping bodies with care. Peaceful sleep was hard to come by for one Gabriel Van Helsing.
Horrific nightmares often stole his precious sleep from him. Every night, almost. Both yourself and Carl were oblivious to such things, unable to hear his struggles whilst slumbering within your own little worlds. Some part of Gabriel was grateful for that, not wishing to burden you in particular about such things. You, who had already been through so much.
His gaze fell upon you with a tenderness that you never were allowed to see in your waking hours. Softly, a sigh passed through his nostrils in seeing you sleeping so soundly. As envious as he was, Van Helsing was unable to mask his fondness of you even still.
Your breaths were even, the delicate strands of your hair falling perfectly over the curves of your face. He could barely spy the details in the fading firelight, yet it never failed to put him at ease. You were so beautiful.
With great care in his steps, Gabriel strayed closer to your sleeping form. He almost jumped at Carl's sudden loud snore, glaring at the sleeping friar for a moment before continuing on his way.
Kneeling by you, he gently pulled your blankets up and over your shoulders, no longer having to mask his vulnerabilities and affection for you. You would never know how much you meant to the monster hunter.
From the very beginning, you'd been there. You found him on the steps of the Vatican Church, half dead all those years ago. Not a sister of the church, but a volunteer in servitude of God and the Church for their kindness in taking you in after your family was brutally murdered. They were your family. And you invited Gabriel in with open arms.
You tended to his wounds, nursed him to health, never left his side. Your face was burned into his memory from the very start. No longer wishing to stand idle in the Church, you trained alongside him to become a monster hunter yourself. You followed him everywhere. It was in all this time together, that Gabriel realised he loved you. However, he would leave such things unspoken. Everyone Van Helsing loves, always seems to die.
The warmth of his lips pressed a soft kiss to your temple, swiping your hair behind your ear with one of his callouses. Before standing up, he took notice to a sudden shift in your behaviour. Your head had begun to shift softly, a grimace appearing strongly on your expression.
"No", you breathed out, your feet suddenly kicking from your blanket. Your body began to tremor and thrash slightly, Gabriel dropping fully to his knees beside you.
"(Y/n)", he tried gently to wake you, his eyes clouding over in concern. The realisation hit Gabriel that this was him every night and the thought of you going through the same thing made him sick.
"No!", you protested louder, your brows now creasing further. Sweat began to glisten on your skin, your breaths becoming erratic with your movements.
Grasping your shoulder, Van Helsing called to you once more, firmly, "(Y/n)!". You were suddenly pulled from your unconscious state, grappling onto the strong arm of your best friend. The echoes of your unwelcome dream lingered freshly within your mind, the brunette entering your field of view. "Are you alright?".
Feeling as if your breath had caught in your throat, you felt your emotions overwhelm you all at once. Your eyes stung with tears whilst you sat up, only able to whisper his name in your relief, "Gabriel". The dream hadn't been real; Gabriel was alive.
Your arms reached up, engulfing the larger man in a hug. The hunter's arms floated for a moment, not having the most affectionate upbringing. Yet, after a moment, he found peace and comfortability in wrapping them softly around your form.
Trembling from your sobs, you remained in Gabriel's arms, the brunette almost content to hold onto you. He could only imagine the horrors you'd seen, a sense of dread prickling in his mind. "It's alright", he hushed you, hesitantly reaching up to run his fingers through your hair. "It's alright".
The image of Dracula flashed into your mind, covered in Gabriel's blood. It had been so real to you. You'd already lost your biological family, the feeling of losing Van Helsing as well was too much to bare. He was the man who held your heart, after all.
When your cries died into calmer breaths, the brunette didn't pull away. He was allowing you to do so at your own leisure. "Are you alright?", he repeated, amidst his growing concern.
"Yes", you finally answered him, your throat tight and croaky. Finally breaking your embrace with him, you wiped at your reddened eyes, noting the worry within his own. He had such beautifully coloured gaze. Like the comforting smoothness of chocolate. "It was just a dream".
Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small flask of alcohol. "Have a sip. It might dull your nerves", he whispered, offering the bottle to you. The liquid was smoky sweet and burned your throat, yet it had a comforting warmth to it as it hit your stomach.
"Thanks". He inclined his head with a short smile. "I'm sorry if I woke you".
"Don't be", he placated you with a gentle tug to his shoulders, sipping from the flask as well. "We all get nightmares".
"Even you?".
"Yes, me", he murmured. "All too often, I'd think. But, nevermind that". Wishing to distance himself, he stood. "Get some more rest, I think we'll both need it—".
"Wait!", you almost shouted, clasping your hand around his larger one. You sent a cautious look to the nearby friar who was still somehow asleep before meeting eyes with the brunette's. His brows creased in confusion. "Will you stay with me?".
Marking the look of terror in your orbs, the monster hunter relented easily to your coaxing. Many nights, he too wished that he had company for comfort. With a silent nod, his hat and jacket were quickly removed. You shuffled over in your bedroll, allowing him to fit in beside you.
Despite how intoxicating it was for the both of you to be so close like this, it felt almost right in a sense. Familiar. "Thank you", you breathed out, Gabriel able to spy the gratitude in your gaze despite the dark.
"Get some sleep", he encouraged softly, offering a smile. "I'm here". Shifting closer to him, your head rested by his broad chest as his arms instinctively fell over you. His gaze monitored your expression, ever content to watch you slip into a slumber. After some silence, you quietly called to him,
"Gabriel?". You recieved a hum in return, beckoning you to continue. Hesitation almost had your throat closing, yet you couldn't allow your best friend to face the fate in your dreams without knowing what truly lies in your heart. "I love you".
For the first time in a long time, his heart was unsteady, thrumming faster within its confines. His silence was tormenting to you, insecurities already playing within your mind. Perhaps you shouldn't have said anything at all??
Tilting your head upwards, his lips seized your own with a dizzying gentleness, his hands burning hot against the skin of your face. Or was that the alcohol? You couldn't be sure.
Breaking down every wall of emotional shielding he'd made for himself, Gabriel finally allowed himself to give in to the wants of his heart. "I love you too". It was spoken beneath his breath, yet you could hear the smile and perhaps the affectionate warmth within his words; as if a burden had also been lifted in some way.
One thing you were both sure about was; when you both would wake the next morning, things would be different, yet better than they had ever been before...
♡ °•° ♡ °•° ♡ °•° ♡ °•° ♡
Carl
"I beg your pardon?", the young friar sputtered, gazing at his best friend incredulously.
"There's not enough room in the castle for all three of us to stay, so you and (Y/n) have to share a room".
"I can't tell if you've noticed", Carl's voice dropped an octave. "But, there's only one bed in each room!".
"You act as if you haven't been dreaming about this for years", Van Helsing teased with a rare and almost lighthearted grin, the blonde's face heating up. "Come on! Here I was thinking you would be happy about this!".
"She's your sister!", Carl hissed. "I can't believe you're happy about this!!". The hunter's eyes rolled amusedly, falling onto your approaching form with a gentle mirth. Anna strayed not too far behind, the two of you already getting along more than soundly in the few hours since your meeting.
"Ready to settle in, Carl?". With just the sound of your voice alone, the blonde's worries and his ability to form coherent sentences had both faded from him.
"Yes, yes", he fumbled, nodding to himself more than anything. "Let's go". Van Helsing's lips pursed to restrain any laughter that threatened to slip and ruin his composure, watching as the both of you journeyed together to your shared room.
"Did they take the bait?", Anna cocked a brow.
"All too well", the brunette replied, irking a smirk from his female counterpart.
"You come here to help me defeat Dracula and yet you also think it's the perfect time to help your sister end up with your friend".
"Is that a problem?". An amused giggle almost left the Valerious in her keen observation of this stranger.
"Van Helsing, monster hunter and matchmaker", Anna mused to herself, earning an unimpressed raised brow from Gabriel. "A curious title".
"Don't push your luck", he warned.
Settling into your shared quarters with the friar had been easy enough. The room was large and extravagant, easily impressing Carl with the study space and yourself with the various arrays of books upon the many shelves.
"Now", the blonde started to ready his bedroll once the time came to slumber. "I can hardly have you sleeping on the floor, so—".
"Carl", you halted him. "This bed is a palace. Just stick to your side and we won't have a problem". The friar found himself unable to argue with you, enamoured by the carefree and playful smile you'd offered him. However, he couldn't help but feel guilty. If you knew how he felt, would you still be so keen to allow him to sleep beside you?
It was no secret to anybody else that Carl loved you, Van Helsing's younger sister. He'd half expected the hunter to hate him for that, much less support the idea and tease him incessantly over it. But, the way Van Helsing saw it; Carl was a good man of faith and hardly able to stand against him should his sister face heartbreak at the blonde's hands, if at all.
Everyone knew, except for you.
In climbing under the thick covers of the bed with the friar, some part of you prayed that Carl's warm presence would ease the fear and pain you often experienced when falling into the world of sleep. However, you found that not even he could keep the horrific dreams away.
You awoke with a gasp, trembling uncontrollably in the early hours of the morning. The moon was shining brightly through the windows of the balcony doors, illuminating the room in a gentle blue glow. You were in a bed; it wasn't real.
You heaved a sigh of relief and exhaustion, your head falling into your hands to feel the wetness of sweat dripping from your face. Tears joined the mixture whilst you desperately wiped at your now swollen eyes. Not even you could remember the last time you slept pleasantly.
Turning your gaze to your counterpart, you were relieved to find him still sleeping. His restful expression was beyond adorable, a wet chuckle leaving you whilst you reached over to brush your fingertips along his cheek. He had light stubble and a soft snore, snuggling into his pillow. How you envied his peacefulness.
Carl had always been a comfort to you, although you'd never admitted it to him. His rambles, his creativity and ideas had all ensnared you. He had such a sense of innocence in comparison to yourself. You had so much blood on your hands, you wondered if you'd even make it to the gates of Saint Peter. You couldn't allow him to follow you into the dark. Not whilst he shone so brightly in comparison to you. So, silent you would have to remain.
Moving yourself from the covers, you hardly noticed Carl's eyes fluttering open. "(Y/n)?", he mumbled tiredly, his brows furrowing in concern.
"Go back to sleep", you hushed him, attempting to leave as to not burden him further. His warm hand upon your own stilled your movements, your head snapping back to him.
You would have preserved the image you saw before you now forever, the air being pulled from your lungs at how beautiful his blue-teal gaze looked in the shining of the moon. It didn't take long for him to spy your tearful eyes, the friar suddenly moving to sit up in his concern. "You've been crying", he fussed. "What's wrong?".
"Carl, it's nothing—", you tried again to release yourself from his grip only for him to squeeze your hand. "Just leave me be". Despite your assurances, his mind was far too quick, already figuring out what ailed you. Carl knew that Gabriel suffered from terrifying nightmares. As his sister, it must've been only natural that you would have the same thing.
"Please", his voice remained steady, his thumb running over your hand. Your eyes met his own glistening with tears and clouded with shame, completely frozen under his gentle gaze. "It's alright", he consoled you. "I know what ails you and you needn't hide it from me". At his kind words, your head dipped away from his whilst hot tears began to leave your eyes. "Look at me, look at me". He coaxed your face gently with his spare hand, wiping at all the tears that fell without a care.
Your fingers wound around the ones that grasped your own, blinking furiously to dismiss the tears of frustration and embarrassment. "I was hoping that you would never see me like this", you wept, entirely ashamed at your lack of composure.
"(Y/n) Van Helsing has emotions, God help us all", he mused with a playful sarcasm, delighting in the small laugh that left you whilst your crying slowly ceased. He even noted that his usual timidness had also dissipated.
With his nimble fingers, he moved the strands of hair that hid your face behind your ears and smiled whilst removing the last of your tears from your face. His focus, that kindness. If only he knew how beautiful he was.
"That's better", Carl hummed with a sense of accomplishment. "Shall I fetch you some water?".
"No, don't trouble yourself", you insisted. "You've done more than enough, Carl. Thank you".
The blonde's lips parted, a kind smile dawning on his features. "You're most welcome". He thoughtfully noted the exhaustion apparent in your features, tugging on your hand to pull you back under the covers. "I think some rest will do us both some good".
"I don't want to sleep", you refused politely, a shudder passing through you at the very thought of another horrific dream.
"Rest doesn't necessarily imply sleep". Moving his pillows closer to your own, Carl invited you to resume your place now alongside him. "Just close your eyes and relax. I'll stay close".
However, it wasn't your pillows you chose to lie upon. You shifted in beside him, instead resting your head upon his chest. His whole form tensed for a few moments, shocked at your decision. But, a tender warmth seemed to consume him whilst your arms encircled him.
Every part of him felt at peace, wishing to savour the moment which would probably never come to pass again. His larger hands worked caresses and circles over your back and arms, content to listen to your rhythmic breaths.
"Tell anyone that I cried and I'll have you", you threatened jokingly, the friar taking to it with a laugh.
"Even if you looked beautiful all the same?". Carl's words had your head lifting from his chest in some form of disbelief. The affection radiating from his halflidded stare was enough to affirm the honesty of his words and speak many more to you.
His callouses brushed over the curve of your cheek, igniting goosebumps across your skin before the warmth of his lips reached your own in a firm, yet gentle touch.
Sharing a smile with the young fri, your head returned to rest upon his beating chest. Accidentally falling asleep in each other's arms some time during the night, you awoke surprised the following morning. For the first time ever, you didn't have any nightmares...
♡ °•° ♡ °•° ♡ °•° ♡ °•° ♡
Count Vladislaus Dracula
The usually quiet castle of Vladislaus Dracula was now encompassed with a thunderous, rhythmic beating. It instilled a sense of terror that usually went unfelt by the Vampire as the deafening sounds reached the unparalleled senses of his hearing. Something, everything was wrong.
For this sound wasn't any drum or song. It was your human heartbeat.
These cold halls were a safe haven for Dracula, always well guarded both in the day and night. And that fact was no exception to you, his cherished human bride.
Never had he heard your heart in such a fearful state, not since that night over three hundred years ago. The night you'd lost your life defending him against Gabriel Van Helsing.
The raven haired male almost shuddered at the thought of it, still remembering the sharp and hurtful details of your death all those hundreds of years ago.
Alike to this current evening, there was a storm baring a cold rain. The thunder cracked open the skies with a deafening ferocity whilst the battle between Dracula and his age-old enemy had ensued.
You had screamed, begged for Dracula's life to be spared, along with your heart which undoubtedly belonged to him.
Gabriel was in love with you at the time, just as much as the Count had been. Always sworn to his sense of duty above all else, Van Helsing had sympathised with your pleas, but refused. He'd insisted that the man you'd fallen for, who had a gentleness, a need to be loved, accepted and wanted, was 'evil'.
So, you took the final blow for him, leaping in between Gabriel's blade and Dracula. In doing so, you had given him the chance to strike down the hunter. However, he was far too late to save the one who truly mattered to him. You.
Whenever you had stood beside him, smiled, held his hand or looked into his gaze, there was never any fear in your eyes or heart. Only the warmth of unconditional love. And perhaps that was what stoked the fire in his soul all those years ago?
Dracula had spent the next few centuries after your untimely demise feeling lost and alone, trying to replace the hollowness within his soul to no avail. Until the fateful night you returned to him many months ago.
Following a whim and the prophetic and vivid dreams you'd had since you were a teen, you'd travelled from your home in London to Romania. It had taken many days and nights, following the whispers of your dreams, but you had found Frankenstein Castle.
It had been a task for Dracula not to crumble to his knees before you, to take you into his arms and immortalise you forever. No, he'd decided to wait out of respect and love for you to give him the words. It had surprised many, but Dracula refused to lose you a second time. The fates had given him a second chance that he would not take lightly.
Despite his confidence in his home, Dracula's sharp eyes travelled the halls for unseen threats that could pose a danger to you, but found nothing in his quick journey to your shared room.
Moving faster than the shadows, he had wasted no time in rushing in, still scanning the darkness of the room. His steps were silent as he strayed closer to where you slept, his usually hardened eyes now soft as they landed on you.
Releasing the human equivalent of a breath through his nostrils, Dracula was relieved to find you weren't harmed. However, the new-found concern he had was completely different from before.
You were gripping the covers with a grimace, your head swaying side to side every so often. Whimpers and quick breaths heaved through your throat as if you were running. It was the one other disadvantage of being human. Nightmares.
With a featherlight precision, the raven haired male sat on the bed beside you. The back of his stone cold hand pressed against your forehead, the skin hot and glistening with sweat. "Oh, My Dear", he murmured, his dark eyes reflecting the worry now blossoming within his very soul. He hadn't realised he had one in the first place, until he met you.
Bringing his hand to cup your cheek, he felt your pulse raging beneath your skin. "(Y/n)", he cooed, attempting to gently lull you from your unconsciousness. His soft touches brought you suddenly from your dreams, a gasp shooting from your throat when your eyes fluttered open. "You are safe, My Love", he hushed you. "I'm here, it's alright".
"Vlad", you huffed in your breathlessness, noting the soothing of his cool touch on your blistering skin. Sitting up, your hands wrapped around your lover's, his hands lifting yours to his lips. Slowly, he pressed cool and sensual touches to your delicate fingers, his brows drawing together when he spied your tearful gaze.
"What ails you, My Beloved?". His voice was calm and gentle like the seas of a nighttime, his larger hands clasping around your own to caress them consistently. One quirk that you discovered early on in your relationship was the fact that your husband loves to play with your fingers and hands, even to self-soothe his own worries. To make sure you were still here.
The crevice of your throat grew tight, your chest fluttering and stomach almost nauseous with the building up of your anxiety. Flashes of your dreams remained fresh within your mind.
You'd seen the Vatican Church in Rome. You'd seen the Priests conspiring with a dark and faceless stranger to kill your husband. Anna Valerious was also prominent in your dreams. It hadn't made sense to you. Not at first.
When you'd seen horrifying flashes of the night you'd perished 300 years ago, it had all come together. The stranger's face was revealed to you. Gabriel Van Helsing. Like yourself, back from the dead. You saw his boat, you saw his array of weapons. He was coming to Transylvania.
"We're in danger", your voice tremored, furthering the confusion and concern Dracula felt. "He's coming for us, Vlad".
"Who is, My Sweet?", his voice remained steady and soft, shifting closer to offer you more comfort from his presence.
"Van Helsing", you whispered, almost too fearful to even speak his name. The shock instantly hit Dracula's dark gaze, his whole form stiffening in a sense of alarm and fury.
"Gabriel is long dead", he attempted to console you with a smile, his callouses tracing over the smoothness of your cheekbone. "It was just a dream, nothing more".
"It wasn't, My Love", you mumbled, offering him a wistful glance with the shaking of your head. "My dreams spoke true".
Sadness clouded the eyes of your husband, knowing already that your dreams were never wrong. He'd only hoped they had been.
"Why can they not just leave us alone?!", he ground out from between his teeth with a sudden white fury. "Why must they scorn my very existence?! Can they not see that I am happy, leaving the world to its endless existence in peace??".
"Vlad, My Love", your voice instantly softened the rage boiling up within him, your hands reaching to cradle his face. His eyes were as tearful as your own, even now, managing the strength to offer you warmth in his smile as he looked upon you. "We speculated that this day may come, when we would be hunted again".
"I will not lose you", he spoke with absolute surity. "Not again. I will not allow him to take everything from me".
"And neither will I". His brows furrowed, silently asking for elaboration. "It's time, Vlad". At your words, his undead heart may have leapt into his throat in both excitement and delight.
"My Love, are you sure?? I am content to—".
"I will not let him rob me of a lifetime with you for a second time. Nor will I allow him to erase everything we have done. It will destroy you all over again".
Dracula only managed a few soft nods. For the first time in his existence, he would not be fighting alone, an unspoken promise lingering between you both. If he would be hellbound, then so shall you be.
Dipping his head, Vlad's lips took your own with a breathtaking softness, firm and sure of the strong tether between you both. Some part of him savoured the warmth of your blood lingering beneath the surface, knowing it would be the last he would feel of it.
___________________________________________
By the coming of the morning, you would be a creature of the night...
Hey readers!! ❤❤ I hope you all enjoyed this set of imagines!! As always, any and all feedback is welcome! So, please - let me know how I went in writing these characters and how to improve, if I can! If you wished to be added to my tagslist, check out my masterlist and let me know what you'd like to be tagged in!
Thank you all for your support!! ❤❤
____________________________________________
TAGLIST; @6lostgirl6
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all's fair in love and viscera...
pair: logan howlett x mutant!fem!reader
wc: 6.7k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, violence, blood, gore (more so thoughts of gore) nat probably blatantly ignoring canon, fighting as foreplay, bleeding as foreplay, written with X2 logan in mind, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), finger sucking hehehe, light choking, hair pulling, blood play, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, scent kink, pain kink, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.
author’s note: i have a rotting note that says "logan spar fic turned face sitting" so that's what this is but it kinda got a little weird lol i also just wanted an excuse to write more about the mutant ability that's been bopping around in my brain since watching season four of the boys. kisses!
logan wants to spar...
You can smell him before he even opens the door to the training room.
It’s funny, because almost all blood smells the exact same. It melds into one coppery, metallic tang that stings your nose everywhere you go.
Mutant blood is only slightly different, something sharper with a tartness that lingers in the air longer, that tingles along the edge of your senses and burns the back of your throat.
Logan's blood is something entirely different.
The first time you met him it almost brought you to your knees. It was so overwhelming, the smell swarming you so intoxicating and all encompassing that it made you feel dizzy.
Logan’s blood is a wild mix of earthy musk and something like charred wood. His scent carries an electric charge, like the smell of air right before a thunderstorm, like ozone after a lightning strike.
It's like nothing you've ever encountered before—hot and acidic, with a barely there underlying sweetness that never fails to turn your insides to liquid. It seems to defy normalcy, bending the rules of what you know about blood and biology.
You know in the back of your mind that it's the adamantium. It's been fused to his skeleton for so long, it must be something chemical. A reaction happening in his body that makes it so distinctly different.
Part of you likes to think that it's just Logan, that the scent is a reflection of everything he is. The raw, untamed essence of his nature, something primal that’s deeply ingrained in his being.
The door creaks open behind you, you make it a point to keep your focus on the punching bag. You've been here for hours, your arms only finally starting to burn with exertion. The bag feels solid and grounding under your taped knuckles, swinging lightly with every hit.
Logan's heavy footsteps get closer and closer, echoing through the empty room until he's striding past you to lean against the wall next to the bag's rig.
You don't look at him, but you can feel his gaze—an intense, almost palpable thing.
“Figured you’d be down here,” Logan's voice is the familiar rough and gravelly rumble you've become used to, cutting through the silence between the two of you with a barely there teasing edge. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?”
You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Logan has an even better sense of smell than you do, and he can sniff out a lot more than blood. You're sure he knew you were here this whole time, that he could smell you from his room two stories up.
You give a small, noncommittal grunt, ignoring him as you throw another punch. Sweat is dotted across your hairline, it drips down the small of your back and the column of your throat. It's not that you don't like Logan, that you don’t want him here, you have the complete opposite of that problem.
You like Logan too much, more than you should.
Every time he’s near, you’re intensely aware of how much his presence affects you, of the way all the blood in your body starts to sizzle under your skin with a throbbing need that's getting harder and harder to ignore. It’s like a constant, low-grade fever that only flares up when he gets too close.
“Come on, kid. You can’t ignore me all night,” he says, thick arms crossing over his chest. "Don't make me beg."
You let out a breath, more exasperated than anything else, and finally turn to face him. Logan’s standing there, all broad shoulders and rugged confidence in his white tank and gray sweats, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
That smirk—it's almost as dangerous as the claws hidden just underneath his skin.
“Didn’t know you were the begging type.” Your attempt to sound casual is overpowered by the slight breathy edge of your voice. You blame it on the workout.
Logan's smirk widens just a fraction, and you can tell he's caught the hitch in your voice. His eyes, sharp and knowing, narrow in on you with that familiar mix of amusement and something you can't quite place, something that sends a shiver down your spine.
"Only when I really want something," he replies easily.
Your form falters, just barely, but it’s enough for Logan to notice. You can hear the amused huff he lets out.
You throw another punch at the bag, more to steady yourself than anything else. The impact reverberates through your knuckles, but it doesn't do much to dispel the heat pooling low in your stomach.
"Back to ignoring me?" he asks, needling. You can see the raise of his brow in your peripheral vision.
“Trying to,” you mutter under your breath, though it's more to yourself than to him. You keep your gaze locked firmly on the bag, willing your pulse to steady.
"What's that?" he leans in closer, his scent wafting over to you as he does. Somehow stronger than before, an assault on your senses. You barely conceal a shiver.
"It’s not my fault you’re here when I'm at my least chatty," you retort blandly, a little louder, willing your voice to sound as steady as it can.
"Looks to me like you’re always at your least chatty,” he shoots back, not showing any signs of backing down.
"It's late,” you reply tersely.
"Yeah," he says. "It is late."
The words hang in the air, laced with a double meaning that neither of you acknowledges.
"Too late to be up hounding the bags like they owe you money," he adds, the tone of his voice almost gentle in a way that catches you off guard. Nothing like the Logan you're used to.
“Yeah, well,” you grunt, throwing a particularly sharp jab. “Some of us don’t need all the beauty sleep."
Logan lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, you can feel the vibration of it in your bones. "Funny," he muses to himself, voice going quiet like he's turning your words over in his mind. "I can see why Charles keeps you around."
You huff, sweaty brows knitting together in frustration. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”
“Babysit?” He smirks, clearly amused. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Your resolve finally cracks, your fists sore when you drop them to your sides and turn to Logan with a questioning look on your face.
"What do you want, Logan?”
It sounds harsher than you meant it, rough and exasperated as you start to catch your breath for the first time since he walked in.
Logan doesn't respond, just pushes off the wall to step closer. His scent hits you like a truck now that your focus is solely on him, you can feel your blood start to thrum under your veins. The sweat dripping down your back feels like it’s igniting the tension in your body, and Logan’s only making it worse the closer he gets.
He stops a little less than a foot away from you. It’s too close, he evades your space until all you can see is him. The width of his shoulders, the strong muscle of his chest and torso filling your view.
Logan doesn't say anything for a few beats, just stares down at you with a studying look on his face. It's a struggle to keep still under the intensity of his gaze. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the rhythmic thud loud in your ears as the silence stretches between you.
He tilts his head to the side slightly, eyes narrowing as he trails them over your sweaty face. You're seconds away from saying something, from turning and running with your tail between your legs, when he beats you to it.
He lets out an amused scoff, shaking his head as he walks past you to the large blue training mat in the middle of the room.
"C'mon," he calls over his shoulder, "Try hitting something that hits back, might help clear your head."
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift, but Logan’s already made his way to the center of the mat, turning to face you with a challenging glint in his eye.
You shake your head slowly, not moving from your place across the room. "I don't want to fight you."
Logan chuckles wryly, “Could’ve fooled me, sweetheart.”
The nickname sends a jolt through you, your pulse skipping in response. It’s always the way he says it—rough around the edges but with a softness that’s almost affectionate. You clench your fists tight, as if the simple act of it will keep your thoughts in check.
"Think you can keep up?" he teases, rolling his shoulders in that casual, self-assured way of his. But there's something in his tone, a challenge that makes you want to prove yourself.
You cast your eyes to the ceiling, exasperated, a bemused laugh bubbling from your chest as you do. "You know I can," you reply, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you. "This isn't about that."
You should just say no. You should say no and go back up to your room so you can go to bed and forget all about this in the morning. You can barely stand to be in the same room with Logan for more than thirty minutes at a time, training with him is too much of a risk.
"What's it about then? You scared?" Logan's voice snaps you out of your thoughts, a playful smirk curling his lips. He raises an eyebrow, daring you to join him.
That does it. A spark of defiance flares in your chest, overriding the nervous tension that’s been building since he walked in. You’re not one to back down from a fight, especially when Logan's practically begging for one.
Without thinking, you stride over to the mat.
Logan watches you approach, his stance relaxed but ready, like a predator sizing up its prey. You try your best to ignore the smug look on his face as you kick off your shoes and join him.
"Not scared," you shrug, running your fingers over the tape on your knuckles. "I just don't need you getting all pissy when I win." You roll your shoulders, shake out your arms, and square up, focusing on the way Logan’s eyes are locked on yours.
Logan's grin widens, a flash of sharp teeth that makes your pulse quicken. "We'll see about that."
You drop into a ready stance, the tension in your muscles coiled tight like a spring. For a moment, neither of you moves, just sizing each other up. The silence between you stretches taut like a bowstring. Your eyes lock onto Logan's, each of you reading the other, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The air between you feels like it's vibrating, charged with a mix of tension, anticipation, and something else—something unspoken, simmering just beneath the surface.
Then, in a blur of motion, Logan makes the first move, just like you expected him to. He lunges, fast and strong, but you're ready for him, sidestepping the blow and bringing your forearm up to deflect his fist away from your body.
"Slow start, old man?" you quip, a sly smile tugging at your lips as you regain your footing. "Speed isn't what it used to be?"
Logan chuckles, a low and throaty sound. "Just warming up, sweetheart. Don't want you crying unfair when I take you down too quick."
You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically before launching your own attack. You swing a swift roundhouse kick aimed at his midsection. He anticipates the move, catching your ankle with one hand while his other reaches out to grab your wrist.
But you're quicker. Using the momentum, you twist your body and slip free from his grasp, landing lightly back on your feet a few steps away. The brief contact sends a jolt up your leg, his touch searing even through the thick layer of your sweats.
"Stop holding back," you say roughly, your lips turned down in a displeased frown. "Hit me."
Logan's eyes flash with amusement. "Careful what you wish for."
He advances again, this time more aggressive. He throws a combination of punches—left, right, left—each one precise and controlled. You block the first two, but the third grazes past your defenses, skimming your rib cage hard enough to sting.
You hiss softly at the impact but don't back down. Instead, you duck low and sweep your leg out in a wide arc, aiming to knock him off balance. Logan slides back just in time, your foot swiping through empty air as he evades the attack with a kind of brute grace that you wouldn’t expect.
"Getting fancy now?" he remarks, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.
You don't respond, springing to your feet with a raised fist in a swift uppercut. This time you connect, your knuckles catching his stubbled jaw with a loud 'crack'. Your whole hand throbs, you can feel the break in your thumb snap back together in a sharp pinch.
Logan stumbles back a step, his head snapping to the ceiling with the force of your hit. When he turns back to you, there's a large bruise blooming along the sharp cut of his jaw. You watch the color of it spread across his skin, angry reds and dull purples that fade as fast as they appear.
There's a glint of something dangerous in his eyes as he meets your gaze. The brown of them darker than before, his pupils blown out and glossy in a way you've never seen.
With a low growl, he comes at you again, faster this time. His movements a blur of muscle and intent. You manage to block the first hit, but not the second, his fist catches your side with enough power to make you stumble back a few steps. Pain flares white hot through your ribs, but you grit your teeth and bear it.
You lose yourself in the rhythm of the fight. The world narrows down to the two of you, the sound of your breaths and the feel of his skin brushing against yours in fleeting moments of contact.
There's a thrill in it, in the way you challenge each other, in the way you push past your own boundaries.
But there's also something more, something deeper. Every time your eyes lock, you can feel the electricity between you, the way your heart skips a beat, the way your breath catches in your throat. It's not just about the fight anymore.
You feel more alive than you have in a long time. More alive with every sting of each new blow, with the way your muscles burn, with the stray hairs that stick to your forehead.
The heat between you is almost tangible, mixing with the sweat and exertion. Every punch, every block, sends a jolt of adrenaline through your system, making it both exhilarating and maddening.
The scent of him—earthy, electric, and utterly intoxicating—growing stronger with every second. Your senses are on high alert, every part of you tuned in to his presence.
It wraps around your whole being, making it hard to think straight. But you don’t need to think—you just move, letting your instincts take over.
Logan feints to the left and uses it to sweep your legs out from under you in the same move he mocked you for. Your back hits the floor with a hard thud, the give of the mat not doing much to soften the hardwood underneath.
All the breath in your lungs rushes out of you in a sharp gasp. Before you can recover, Logan is looming over you. He cages your body under his own, thick arms on either side of your head, his weight pressing you further into the floor. His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in close, his voice a low, almost growling murmur.
"Gotcha."
You try to come up with a witty comment, a snarky line, a petty insult. Anything at all really—but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you just stare up at him, your chest heaving violently, your heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.
The whole room feels like it’s spinning, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the intensity in Logan’s eyes, the heat of him against you.
Suddenly, your entire body feels like it's on fire. Phantom flames lapping at every inch of your skin that send your head reeling quicker than you can blink. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, but you've only ever felt it outside of a mission once, and it didn't end well.
For a few heart stopping seconds, you're more than confused. Panic starts to set in at the thought of having another "accident" and not even knowing what's triggering it.
Through the messy haze of your panic, you finally see it. The tiny cut above Logan's brow leaking a thin trail of red down the side of his face.
Everything around you dissolves into static, your eyes zeroing in on that single bead of crimson. The cut's long gone by the time it drips from his jaw to the mat right next to your shoulder. Logan's skin stitching back together and leaving no trace that it was ever broken in the first place, but it doesn't matter.
The damage is already done, and you can feel your body start to react.
You can feel your resolve crumbling, the edges of your self-control fraying with every passing second. Your own blood pulses beneath your skin like liquid fire as your stomach churns and twists. The intense need to feel, to taste, to take claws at your throat.
You let out a low, guttural sound, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, as you lose the last of your control.
Hank had called it a frenzy, but that wasn't a technical term.
"You're not in your right mind. You've essentially been conditioned to react strongly to the scent and sight of blood, particularly when you're already in a heightened emotional or physical state. The combination of adrenaline, exertion, and the scent triggers this...well, this 'frenzy' for lack of a better term."
It's like you blackout, and when you wake up, you're straddling Logan's chest with your hand wrapped around his throat in a vice-like grip. The tan column of his throat glowing red beneath your hand, a map of blue veins inked along his skin like spiderwebs as you watch the blood pulse through them.
Your grip tightens instinctively, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to reign in the storm swirling inside you. Everything narrows down to the pounding in your ears, the blazing heat of Logan's skin under your fingers, and the urge to let go, to give in.
Logan's voice starts to trickle in around the static buzzing in your ears, your name falling from his lips sounds strained, but there's a calmness to it. The fog of your instincts begins to fade, the world around you slowly starting to piece back together.
You blink, the haze in your mind clearing as you try to focus on his face, the way his eyes are locked onto yours. Intense, but not clouded with fear like you expected.
Your chest heaves with every breath, ragged and short like they're being ripped out of your lungs. Your wide eyes dropping to where your hand is still locked around his throat, panic surges in your chest like ice freezing over a lake.
But before you can do anything, Logan's reaching up, his hand catching your wrist in a tight grip. His thumb brushes over your pulse point—the touch sends a jolt through you, as if he’s touched a live wire.
“Don't,” he says, like he knows what you're thinking, his voice a rough whisper. The rasp of it vibrates against your hand. “Don't stop now."
Logan’s other hand comes up to rest on your hips, his touch firm but not forceful. He doesn’t try to wrestle control away from you; instead, he holds you steady. His fingers dig into your skin, grounding you.
“Come on,” he coaxes, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends a shiver of anticipation through you. “I can take it. Give it to me.”
The world around you blurs, your focus entirely on the man beneath you, the way his body feels under your hands, the way he’s willingly surrendering to your control.
You take a breath, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use. You search his eyes, dark and full of want. There's a heat there, a spark that crackles between you, and it only adds fuel to your fire.
If he wants to push, you're ready to push back.
Silently, you slide your hand up the expanse of his throat, feeling the way his pulse beats strong and fast under your palm. The glow under his skin dissipates as you make your way up, tracing your fingers over his jaw and up to his bottom lip.
Logan’s breathing is rapid, his chest rising and falling under you quicker than before. His lips are slick and red, parted so enticingly that you can help but slide your index finger over them. Your nail digs into the fat of his bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to let him feel it.
Logan lets you toy with him, meets your gaze head on as you push further. Your finger presses deeper, pushing past the seam of his lips to feel the warmth of his mouth, the wet glide of his tongue against your skin.
The sharp bite of Logan's teeth pinches your skin as he closes his lips around your finger and sucks.
Your breath catches in your throat, heat blooming in your core as his tongue brushes over the pad of your finger. You can feel the ache of your cunt between your legs, arousal leaking wet and sticky in your panties.
Your other hand rises up to rest on the side of his face, your fingers grazing over his cheekbone. The touch feather-light but filled with a fierce, unspoken energy. Logan’s breath hitches slightly, his eyes darkening even further.
Your palm splays over the skin of his cheek, the heat of his face seeping into your hand. Logan’s eyes close for a moment, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he tilts his head into your touch.
In a quick move, you dig your fingernails into the fat of his cheek roughly. Logan’s body arches under you, his back snapping off the mat with guttural groan ripping from his chest as you pierce his skin.
You gasp at the scent of him wafting up through the air, at the feeling of his teeth digging into your own flesh. His blood leaking onto the tips of your fingers feels like a shock to your system, both electrifying and terrifying.
His skin glows even brighter than before. A mix of reds and oranges that light up just beneath his skin, the blue of his veins like rivers on a map. Your nails dig deeper into his skin, drawing more blood, the warm, sticky liquid coating your fingers. You watch, mesmerized, as the glow under his skin pulses in response, as if feeding off your energy, amplifying the connection between you.
Logan’s breath hitches, his body tensing beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into your touch, his eyes dark and hooded with desire.
it takes barely any energy from you. The faintest traces of your power used for something none of those demented scientists in white lab coats intended.
None of that matters. All that matters is the raw, animalistic connection between you—the way his body is responding to your touch, the way his eyes shine with want, the way his blood sings in harmony with yours.
You could boil Logan alive in less than a second, burst every vessel and capillary in his body until he's nothing more than a copper stain on the floor. But his hands only tighten their grip on your waist to drag you impossibly closer.
"More," Logan growls, his voice vibrating against your palm as his teeth sink a little deeper into your finger, the heat of his breath searing against your skin. He hooks his hands under your thighs, dragging your body up his chest until your legs are spread on either side of his head.
Your hands fly to his hair, steadying yourself with two fist fulls of the brown tufts that sit atop his head. You’ve always been curious if Logan styles his hair this way on purpose, or if it just grows like that naturally. You don't have time to ponder it for long before he's letting out another ragged groan and burying his face between your thighs.
You can feel the heat of his breath over the clothed expanse of your cunt, his nose trailing along the inseam of your sweats as he inhales greedy lungfuls of your scent.
"Logan," you gasp, voice gone high and breathy around the edges.
"Tell me what you want," he says lowly, his lips brushing over you with every word.
It's muffled slightly, but the demand in his tone still sends a shock through you. Your grip on his hair tightens as your mind falls into a whirl of sensations and emotions you couldn't possibly confront.
He presses a heated kiss against the fabric of your sweats, right over where your aching clit pulses with need. The sensation sends an electric jolt straight through your core. Your whole body hums with an intense craving, a need that burns hot and fierce.
"Tell me," he repeats, his voice a rough rasp that vibrates against your core.
You swallow hard, your breath hitching as you try to form a coherent thought, let alone speak.
"I want..." you start, your voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and desire. The words are there, lodged in your throat, but saying them out loud feels like crossing a line you’re not sure you’re ready to cross.
"I need you,” you breathe out, the confession slipping from your lips like a secret finally set free “I need everything.”
Logan’s eyes flare with something fierce and wild. Without a word, he pulls you closer, his hands surging up to tear through the fabric of your clothes like it's nothing but tissue paper. The tattered remains of your panties and sweats pool to the floor in a crumpled mess.
The heat of his breath is replaced by the pressure of his mouth, his tongue sliding through the wet slit of your cunt. He lets out a filthy groan at the first real taste of you, the flat of his tongue lapping eagerly through your dripping slit.
The thrill of his mouth against your most sensitive spots sends a jolt through your entire body, your back arching taut as you grip his hair even tighter. Logan’s groan reverberates through you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your core.
Logan is relentless, devouring you like he’s been starving for this, starving for you. The wet sounds of his mouth working you over mix with your breathless whimpers and the low growls rumbling from his chest. He works his tongue expertly, tracing every inch of you, mapping out every spot that makes you tremble and moan.
Your thighs tighten around his head, hips grinding against his face almost unintentionally as heat starts coiling tight in your belly. The scruff of his jaw rubs against the sensitive skin of your thighs with each drag of his head, the sting of it just adds to the assault of pleasure. You wish he could leave his mark on you, wish that your skin wouldn’t work overtime to fix the angry red blotches of raw skin he leaves in his wake.
Logan grips you hard enough that you can see the bruises decorating your skin every time you look down. His arms firm and strong where they’re locked around your thighs to keep you pressed against his mouth. His nose bumps against your throbbing clit each time he fucks his tongue into your leaking cunt.
“Logan,” you moan, your voice a breathy plea that only seems to spur him on. He flicks his tongue over your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a harsh pull that makes you cry out, your whole body shuddering with the intensity of it.
“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he murmurs against you, the words muffled by the slickness of your folds. “Could eat you all night.”
“Logan, I’m—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as he sucks hard on your clit, sending you careening over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your entire body convulsing with the force of it as you cry out his name, your nails digging into his scalp as you hold on.
Logan doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. He licks you through your release, his mouth working you over with a single-minded intensity that has you writhing against him, overstimulated and desperate for more.
“Fuck, Logan, please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re begging for, just knowing you need something, anything to ease the ache that’s still throbbing deep inside you.
Logan pulls back just enough to look up at you, the bottom of his face slick with your arousal, eyes dark with a hunger that matches your own. He licks his lips, savoring the taste of you.
Logan’s hands slide up your thighs, his touch gentle now but still impossibly firm. He trails his fingers along your skin, tracing the sensitive lines where your skin starts to heal the damage he left behind.
“Still with me?” he asks, his voice is softer than before but there’s still an unmistakable rough edge coating his words.
You nod, your voice barely a whisper as you try to collect yourself. “Yeah...I’m here.”
“Good,” he growls softly, his hands squeezing the sore skin of your hips. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
You’re on your back in less than a second, Logan flipping your positions so fast it has your head spinning. His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, all sharp teeth and bruising pressure.
It’s a kiss that feels like a fight, like a challenge, like a promise of something much darker and more consuming just beneath the surface. His stubble scrapes against your skin, adding to the raw, visceral feeling of it all. Your teeth clack together violently, you can taste the faint coppery tang of blood on his lips.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all the pent-up frustration, all the desire, all the fear and anger and need into the contact between you. Your hands are everywhere, clawing at his hair, his shoulders, his back—needing to feel him, to mark him, to claim him as yours in a way that’s as undeniable as the blood pulsing through your veins.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him to fill the ache that’s building inside you. Logan grinds against you, his hard cock still trapped in the fabric of his sweats rubbing against your spit soaked cunt. You can’t help the desperate whimper that escapes your throat. “Please, Logan,” you gasp out against his lips, your voice trembling with need. “Fuck me, I need it, please–.”
He growls low in his throat, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. “You sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice rough, his breath hot against your skin.
You nod frantically, your hips bucking up against him darkens the fabric tent of his bottoms. He feels huge, heavy and hot where he pushes against your slick folds. “Yes, please, just—” Logan doesn’t let you finish.
With a swift, almost feral move, he pushes the hem of his sweats down roughly, the sound of seams ripping rings through the room. You barely have time to gasp before he’s pushing his cock into you, stretching you wide, filling you so completely that all you can do is cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he immediately sets a relentless pace.
You don’t have any time to adjust to the thick length of his cock carving its way inside of you, the sting of it has your eyes screwed shut. It’s only barely straddling the knife's edge of where pain and pleasure meld together, but it has you crying out his name all the same.
Logan fucking sounds identical to Logan fighting, guttural groans and growls that are ripped from somewhere deep in his chest to pierce through the air between you. That ring in your ears and shake through your very soul like thunder.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grates, his voice thick with lust as he holds himself still for a moment, eyes glued to where you’re stretched around him. The puffy, abused lips of your cunt slick with his spit and the pre-come steadily leaking from his dark red tip. “Feels like heaven, sweetheart.”
You moan, high and loud in the back of your throat as your ankles lock around his lower back. Your heels dig into the skin just above his ass as your cunt trembles around his cock, your spongy walls working over him desperately, milking him.
“You like that don’t you?” Logan taunts, starting to snap his hips with purpose. “You like getting fucked like this, princess?” He leans down enough to growl directly into your ear, “I can smell how much you want it, how bad you're aching for it."
He slides his hands up your sides, rough palms gliding over your sweat-slick skin as he continues, "You drive me fucking crazy, sweetheart. I can barely think straight with you on top of me, with your scent all over me. You know what you're doing, don’t you? Getting me all riled up like this."
You can’t respond, can’t speak. You can barely form a coherent thought, your lips falling open in a stream of desperate moans and whines as you bury your face in his neck.
The pulse of his carotid artery under your lips is maddening, each beat of his heart like a drum driving you further into madness. You want to sink your teeth into the skin there, to pull flesh and muscle from bone so you can watch the blood run in rivers and streams down Logan’s body.
The taste of him fresh and heady on your tongue as you watch the layers build back up from nothing, nerves and veins weaving themselves back together grotesquely.
“Fuck,” Logan groans, the sound vibrating through your mouth as you press your lips against his throat, your teeth scraping against his skin with barely restrained hunger.
You nip at his throat, your teeth leaving small indentations that fade almost as quickly as they appear. Logan’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving with every shallow breath as he leans into your touch, his body taut with anticipation.
"Atta girl, that's it," he growls, voice thick with desire as his hands grip your hips even tighter, nails digging into your skin as he ruts into you like a beast. His hips snapping against yours hard enough to sting, the loud slap of it bouncing off the walls to echo lewdly in your ears.
He’s fucking you like he wants to break you, reinforced hips heavy as he pounds you into the floor mercilessly. “Taking my cock so well, best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever felt.”
You can feel the way Logan’s cock jerks and pulses inside of you, the taut heaviness of his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. You know he’s close, the brutal rhythm of his hips gets sloppier by the second.
You press your body up against his, your chest flush with his own as your hands wander over the hard planes of his back, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his skin. You dig your nails into his shoulder blades roughly, basking in the way his muscles roll and flex underneath your greedy palms.
You can feel the heat radiating from him, the pulsing glow of his blood under your fingertips as you explore every inch of him with a hunger that’s almost feral.
And then, with a low, guttural sound that you barely recognize as your own, you sink your teeth into his neck.
Logan’s reaction is immediate and visceral. His entire body tenses above you, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as you bite down, hard enough to draw blood. The taste of him floods your mouth, metallic and rich, and it sends a wave of heat crashing through you.
You can feel his blood on your tongue, warm and thick, the taste of it driving you wild. It’s everything you’ve been craving, everything you’ve been trying to resist. And now that you’ve finally given in, it’s like a dam has broken inside you.
Logan’s growl is pure animal, his hips bucking up hard as he thrusts into you one last time, burying his cock as deep in you as he can. The force of his orgasm rips through him, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he unloads inside of you. It’s so much, pulse after pulse of hot come that floods your insides. His hips don’t slow, still pumping and fucking like he’s trying to stuff you as full of himself as he can.
The feeling of it pushes you over the edge, your own orgasm crashing over you in a wave of white-hot pleasure that leaves you gasping and trembling above him. Your shaking cunt gushes over his cock as you swallow the blood pooling on your tongue.
Logan’s hips finally still, slotting flush with yours as he slumps onto the floor next to you, dragging you along with him so you can lay flat on his chest. The coarse hair scattered along his pecs scratches the skin of your cheek, you bury your face in the sweaty crook of his neck. You feel hazy, like you’re floating through the air, completely weightless.
You think you could live here, plastered to the strong planes of Logan’s body, stuffed full of his cock and leaking his come in messy trails down your shaking thighs.
But eventually, you have to pull back, your breath coming in short bursts as you lick the blood from your lips. Logan’s eyes are on you, shining under the chandelier light, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing. The wound on his neck is already healing, the skin knitting itself back together, but the blood still stains his skin red, a vivid reminder.
There’s a moment of silence, the air between you thick with tension and something else—something new and unspoken. You’re both panting, bodies still trembling with adrenaline.
Logan’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips, smearing the remnants of his blood across your skin. His eyes are locked on yours, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.
Finally, he reaches down slowly, like you’re a cornered animal that might turn and run any second. He takes your wrist in his hand, dragging it from the middle of his chest to the muscle directly over his heart. He presses your palm flat against him, blanketing your hand with his own.
“What do you feel,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath.
The question catches you off guard. It’s a challenge, but it’s also an invitation—a chance to confront whatever’s swirling inside you instead of running away from it. You hesitate, searching for the right words to encapsulate the storm of emotions you feel thrumming through your bones.
"You," you whisper back, your palm sliding over the sweaty plain of his bare chest. "All I feel is you."
Logan’s eyes soften, and a rare, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his lips. The intensity of the moment seems to dissolve, leaving a quiet understanding between you. He leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your palm.
“Good,” he murmurs, his voice a tender caress against your ear. His thumb brushes along your pulse in a feather light touch. “That makes two of us.”
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