Chapter 1: The Last Thread – A Tank Top’s Final Stand
The safehouse was a shithole, which was honestly our aesthetic. Military-grade monitors flickered with dead feeds on the walls, and the air tasted like stale coffee and the copper-tinged aftermath of adrenaline. Red emergency lights bathed everything in a hellish glow, stretching our shadows into grotesque shapes on the concrete floor. We’d just crawled back from a messy extraction in Madripoor, and the quiet was a physical relief.
Logan sat on the rickety couch, the springs groaning in protest. He was a mountain of quiet aggression, even at rest. And fuck me, the view was better than any monitor feed.
He was shirtless except for a tight white tank top that was clearly too small for him now. His body had gotten noticeably thicker — broad, hairy pecs straining the fabric, a beginner heavy musclegut has been forming ever since he started eating fastfood, pushing forward, and dense dark hair covering his chest, stomach, and especially his deep, bushy armpits. Sweat had already started darken bits of the tank top.
I, still in my full suit, circled him with a shit-eating grin. “Holy shit, peanut… you’re packin’ on weight. That gut’s gettin’ real friendly with your shirt.”
He just growled, low in his throat. A sound that usually meant ‘piss off’ but his eyes, half-lidded, watched me move. He didn’t stop me. He raised both arms to stretch, a slow, deliberate motion that made the couch whine. His thick, sweaty, hairy armpits were revealed in all their glory. The tank top rode up, exposing the lower part of his hairy belly revealing his happy trail as it spilled over the waistband of his cargo pants. The pants button creaked loudly. The fabric of the tank stretched painfully tight across his swollen pecs and gut, the seams creaking audibly.
I stepped closer, my voice dropping into that teasing, filthy tone I knew got under his skin and into his dick. “Look at those hairy pits, big guy… fuck, you smell like pure testosterone. Bet that shirt’s about to give up.” I reached out and playfully poked his round gut. It was solid, but it gave, jiggling slightly with the force. Warm. Real.
Wolverine grunted, but his cock was already thickening visibly in his pants, forming a heavy bulge that strained the front.
With a cocky smirk, Wolverine flexed his pecs hard. The tank top immediately fought back — the fabric pulled drum-tight as his hairy chest and gut pushed forward aggressively. The pants button creaked louder. A few threads along the side seam snapped with tiny, pathetic pops.
I laughed low and hungry. “That’s it… burst it for me, peanut. Let that big hairy gut breathe.”
His breathing got heavier, a rhythmic huffing in the quiet room. He pushed his gut out deliberately, shoulders back, hairy armpits on full display. Sweat darkened the tank top even more, mapping the dense fur beneath. His bulge throbbed visibly, a promise of weight and heat. With one final deep grunt, he flexed harder, pushing his gut forward, and the button finally gave up—shooting across the room like a bullet and pinging off a monitor. The zipper tore open down the middle.
The sight punched the air from my lungs.
His sweaty underwear was exposed, a damp spot already darkening the cotton at the crotch. And his gut—a round, overhanging shelf of muscle and fat, thick with dark hair, completely free. It was a beautiful, bearish fucking masterpiece.
I whistled. “Now that’s what I call a big stretch.”
“Satisfied?” he rumbled, but the strain in his voice wasn’t from the fabric. It was from the thick column of flesh tenting his underwear.
“Not even close.” I peeled off my gloves, then my mask. The cool air felt good on my scarred face. I dropped to my knees on the grimy floor between his spread legs, the cement hard under my knees. The smell of him hit me—sweat, cigar smoke, blood, and that raw, animal musk that was just Logan. It went straight to my own dick.
I nuzzled my face against the hot, hairy expanse of his stomach. It was soft and hard all at once. I licked a stripe through the sweat, tasting salt and skin. He jerked, a sharp intake of breath. My hands went to his hips, holding him there as I mouthed at the damp spot on his underwear. The cotton was warm and soaked through with pre-come. I could smell it, sharp and clean.
“Fuck, Wade,” he growled, his hands coming down to tangle in my hair. Not pushing, just holding.
“Shhh, I’m admirin’ the craftsmanship,” I mumbled against him, before hooking my fingers in the waistband of his underwear and pants and dragging them down in one rough pull.
His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, curving up against that big gut. Dark, full balls tight beneath. I didn’t tease. I took him into my mouth in one smooth motion, swallowing him down until my nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. He was impossibly hot, veins throbbing against my tongue. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked, hard.
Logan’s whole body bowed off the couch. A guttural, shattered sound ripped from his chest. His hands clenched in my hair, forcing me down even deeper until I gagged, tears springing to my eyes. I loved it. I pulled back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening tip.
“You’re so fuckin’ greedy,” I rasped, before diving back down. I worked him with my mouth and one hand, the other reaching up to paw at his hefty gut, to squeeze the dense flesh of his pec, my thumb rubbing rough circles over his nipple.
He was grinding up into my face now, fucking my mouth in short, brutal thrusts. The couch screeched against the floor with every drive of his hips. “Suck it,” he grunted, voice shredded. “Suck my fuckin’ dick, you mouthy bastard.”
I did. I sucked and licked and slurped until my jaw ached, until he was dripping and I was drooling, a filthy mess of spit and pre-come smeared across his gut and my chin.
“Enough,” he snarled suddenly, yanking me up by my hair.
I stumbled, my own erection painfully tight in my suit. He spun me around and shoved me face-first over the back of the couch. The world tilted. I heard the tear of fabric as he ripped my suit open from the back, the cool air hitting my ass. Then the sound of him spitting, rough and wet.
He didn’t wait. He wasn’t that kind of guy. One big, calloused hand pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me down. The blunt, wet head of his cock nudged against my hole. I braced.
He pushed inside.
It was a brutal, burning stretch. I screamed into the couch cushion, my back arching. He was so fucking big, and he didn’t stop, just piled in with a single-minded, grunting drive until he was fully sheathed, his hairy gut pressed against my ass, his balls slapping my skin.
“Fuck! Logan, god—!”
“Shut up,” he panted, and then he was moving. No finesse, just a raw, pounding rhythm that shook the couch and my bones. Each thrust knocked a grunt from me. The pain bled into a deep, overwhelming fullness, a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. He leaned over me, his sweaty chest plastered to my back, his teeth on my neck. The scent of his pits filled my senses—pure, feral musk. I was drowning in him.
His hand slid around my hip, his rough fingers wrapping around my cock, jerking me in time with his savage thrusts. The dual sensation was too much. I babbled, nonsense and filth, begging him to fuck me harder, to fill me up.
He growled, his rhythm faltering, becoming ragged. His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt, and I felt him pulse deep inside me, a hot, flooding release. The feel of it tipped me over. I came with a broken shout, stripes of come painting the couch cushion below, my body clenching around his.
He collapsed on top of me, a crushing, sweaty, wonderful weight. We lay there for a long time, just breathing in the stale, sex-thick air. His softening cock still inside me. His big gut spilled over my side, warm and heavy.
Eventually, he shifted, pulling out with a wet sound. He slumped onto the couch, pulling me with him so I was half-sprawled on top of him, my head on his chest. I traced lazy circles in the hair around his nipple.
“So,” I said, my voice hoarse. “New diet plan’s workin’ for you, I see.”
He just grunted, his arms tightening around me. Outside, in the real world, sirens wailed in the distance. The monitors still flickered. We had maybe an hour before we had to move again.
But for now, his heartbeat under my ear was the only mission debrief I needed.