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loganficsonly · 3 days ago

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thank you so much.... i am physically incapable of writing sad endings i fear 😭 life is already too hard for me

the subway

clark kent x f!reader, 4.1k WARNINGS/TAGS: right person wrong time, written with corensupes in mind, no use of y/n, angst with hopeful ending, relationship boundaries, mentions of lois lane, mentions of infidelity (not by clark or reader), one (1) mention of reader's hair AUTHOR'S NOTE: this idea was born because i kept listening to the subway by chappell roan (which always makes me think of @rosesaints bc of her gorgeous theme...), talking to @theworstwolvie about clark, and just remembering the film past lives by celine song 😭 this is my first time writing clark kent so please be kind!

It’s just as Perry warned. Just as you said. Just as he speculated.

In summary, all of you saw this coming, including him, but Clark Kent still finds himself unprepared with the reality of it.

The World Technology Expo’s first day down at Queensfield drew crowds several times the amount of what the city’s infrastructure could handle. Driving there and back meant signing away at least four hours of your life to traffic—he’d fly, but you were assigned his partner to cover the event.

Perry highly advised against it. Driving, that is. Unless, he said, the two of you could write, edit, and submit the piece while being stuck in the worst bumper-to-bumper you’ve experienced.

The both of you agreed to take the subway. It won’t be less crowded, but at least it’ll move.

In no way that is your fault, he knows it’s going to be uncomfortable—every person working in media and comms and then some are probably cramming themselves on the N line with the two of you. He expected a jostle here and there.

What he didn’t expect was spending the last fifteen, maybe even twenty minutes standing toe-to-toe in front of you.

The sheer denseness of people packed in this car almost enforces silence. It sounds like everyone is collectively holding their breaths, trying to avoid the unpleasant whiff that comes with the mass deaths of personal bubbles. There’s an awkward cough every now and then.

As for Clark and you, there were plenty of animated chats about the expo while you spent the day together. Work stuff coded in secret language: Mayor Berkowitz’s opening speech, the overpriced bento lunches, LuthorCorp’s “defensive technology” that suspiciously looked like they were designed to repel a particular metahuman.

That was all before you went underground. His last full sentence to you was “I insist, it’s really late” when you asked if he was sure about walking you home, discounting the numerous “sorry”s stammered as he backed you into the corner of a car.

He had to. The sensation of being sardined reminds him of that one time he was trapped in an alien’s intestine that kept pushing him down, except this time it’s something he can’t stop.

He also wants to shield you from the crowd.

He has his suitcase wedged between your bodies, resting against his legs and your knees. The only shred of propriety he can offer you.

You look up at him to smile, sheepish but sweet, before averting your gaze to somewhere that is not his face.

The corner of his lips twitches, but it’s not a happy expression. He’s painfully aware of how close he is, and despite being forced to share a scarce amount of dirty oxygen with the other people in this car, he can see that you’re trying your best to be polite.

Of course you are. You’re always polite to your colleagues.

Because that’s what he is to you. And that’s what you are to him.

Except calling you a colleague feels like he’s blind to Fate’s cruel designs. She draws paths for the both of you to dance around each other, precise enough for you to brush, but never to collide.

It’s been one full year since he met you and he’s still reeling. In awe at the way the two of you click into place. Ache, because somehow, it’s always out of step.

Like clock hands that never meet.

Calling you a colleague is a disrespect, but calling you the one that got away is a straight-up hoax.

He never had you in the first place.

And because you’re the only thing he can see in front of him, he can’t stop his mind from turning back time.

He first met you in the office.

It was spring. Yours is a fresh face with a firm handshake. Daily Planet’s new arts and culture correspondent.

“I’ve read your work before. Metropolitan Magazine, right? It was your review for a,a Miró retrospective! Gosh, your writing’s gorgeous.”

The way you smiled at him was something unforgettable. A type of beam that reached your eyes. It was a split second, but the cells in his body mistook it for the sun.

“Thank you! Feels great hearing that from the Planet’s front-pager.”

Since then, you fit right in with the rest of the bullpen cast.

He found his gravity constantly being pulled to orbit. Yours.

He brought your coffee every morning just the way you liked it, even if it meant waiting an extra three minutes for his order and being extra late for work after fighting another rogue extraterrestrial downtown.

Talked you through all the ways you criticized your own writing, dismantling your insecurity-fueled arguments like he was paid to defend your Word doc. Laughed over a photo-carousel of dogs on mushrooms together—not high, but physically being on top of fungi.

He continued to do all that even after he found out you were going to be engaged.

You met the man in university. Five years together. He had spoken to your parents and you were just waiting for a ring. The two of you wanted to save up before settling down.

It should’ve been enough to stop him. The last thing he wanted to do was get between a loving couple with an insignificantly stubborn office crush. So he did what he did best.

He did good.

Tried his best to remain professional and maintain appropriate boundaries. Tried to stay calm when faced with post-it notes attached to a little something on his desk. Sometimes a box of donuts, other times muffin, but all the time: “thanks for coffee :)” or “i don’t know HOW you made the city hall piece interesting”.

Tried to school his heartbeat when it skipped, hearing you speak to your parents over the phone for the first time. They had an endearingly bad habit of ignoring this thing called working hours, you told him after. You were always patient. He couldn’t help but tune in to how you’d playfully pacify them: yes, you were eating enough fruits, please stop asking if you have apples in your fridge.

Tried to be happy for you when Cat grilled you about the kind of ring you’d like. Tried to ignore the bitter taste in his sandwich.

Then time did its thing and Clark found out your long-term relationship froze over, as if it mimicked the cycle of seasons. Lush summer greens wilting in the fall, leaving you in a cold and complicated winter.

You told him that you’d be okay—that you saw it coming, and that for a while, it felt like a reality you blinded yourself to.

He couldn’t do much because suddenly, he was Lois Lane’s.

Clark liked Lois a lot. She’s spitfire with a spine stronger than steel and a belligerent sense of justice that rivals only his. It was right for him to be attracted to her, all of her: righteous, smart, beautiful her.

In his mind he was always into her. He just got distracted by you.

But that didn’t mean he stopped being a friend.

Clark never quit kindness. Never missed buying you coffee, never pushed you to talk, never stopped watching over you and watching you. Watched the way you tried to put yourself back together—sometimes spectacularly, sometimes with limited success. Saw you smile as if your broken heart was just a flesh wound.

Witnessed you wordlessly acknowledge that distance with him. Like you were sorry for being an imposition.

Like you overstayed.

You shared less memes and overtime hours, but he was still there. A kind hand on your shoulder. A buddy.

Because that was all he could be.

He chose Lois. Righteous, smart, beautiful Lois.

He has a set of clothes and a toothbrush at Lois’s place.

He stays over. Kisses her good night and good morning. Fixes her collar.

In a crowded room, Clark’s eyes would look for Lois first.

But before stepping inside, he would take a deep breath and remind himself to not think about you.

So what did that say about him?

What did that say about Superman, who fights cosmic calamities every other day, but fears confronting the footnote of your relationship that reads “more than friends, never lovers”?

Superman, the epitome of justice and truth, who lies to himself—it’s okay, he’s okay, them’s the breaks—just to cope with the cruel reality of right person, perpetually wrong timing.

Superman, who would rather be taken for a fool if it makes him more approachable, yet fail every attempt at intellectualizing the ellipsis between you and him.

For once, he’s powerless.

Powerless against what’s possible, against the pining that slowly kills him. Like being smothered by flower petals.

Powerless against predestination.

So he yielded. Smiled and took it in stride.

Made Lois pancakes for their three-month anniversary while the Christmas lights in your eyes faded.

The train lurches, metal noisily clunking against the rails. The entire host of passengers sway along with the car, except there’s no way to lose your balance when you’re boxed in this packed. People are left leaning into each other, jackets touching shirts, grumbling complaints against the subway’s unsteady jerk.

Clark’s chest presses against your for one second too long, and it feels close to being crushed by a firm wall.

You swallow your breath. You can’t melt yourself further into the steel backing. He places a hand right next to your head to steady himself, covering you with his shadow even more than he was before.

“I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine,” you reply quickly.

He whispers back at you, peering into your face like it would pain him if you were hurt.

“Are you alright?”

You know you’d walk out flat as a sheet if you were in his place, so you nod.

In truth, that answer was a lie.

Because from this distance, or lack thereof, you can count his eyelashes past the fluorescence and his glasses. Watch the tunnel lights zoom past, reflected in smudged lenses and eyes so blue.

Looking in them might drown you, so your gaze drifts to the lapel of his suit instead, studying the wool of it like its threading is something Perry might ask to include in the event report.

He’s with Lois, you repeat in your head. He literally has no choice but to be crammed with you in this train. Knowing Clark, he’s probably thinking of ways to make it up to his girlfriend, even if this was an inevitable situation—and even if Lois herself doesn’t seem to be the type of care about this sort of thing.

Lois is Lois. The brilliant woman who drinks coffee with too much sugar, who asks “why” until either her or her conversation partner arrives at a goldmine of an epiphany, whose confidence makes you want to bring your best.

She can smell bad intent from a mile away—that and courage are what’s carried her boots to traverse dangerous alleys and interdimensional lairs.

None are to be found in this situation. Just two journalists unlucky enough to cover a seventy-thousand-person type of event. She would probably shoot the two of you an empathetic look and tease Clark with something along the lines of “maybe you should’ve called your friend Superman to fly you out of there.”

She’ll continue being a friend, and she won’t know you’re jealous of her.

It feels terrible. You feel terrible.

She was nothing but kind to you after your long-term relationship breathed its last death rattle, offering to cover for some of your beats if only it meant more time off for you. Glared at the people from print when she heard their gossipy water cooler talk. Asked “are you okay?” only when no one else is out of earshot, because she knew you didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

All of that is precisely why you can’t tell her you think about Clark Kent all the time.

It’s a little bittersweet in the beginning. There’s a clear kinship between you and Clark. Something undefinable within the human understanding of relationships, yet feels as easy as blinking. Something warm in how he knows just what to say you make you laugh, in the way you tell him he did an amazing job.

Maybe if things were different, you’d end up in Clark Kent’s arms.

Maybe in another life.

Then things got too hard, too fast… and your thoughts turn to him.

When the man you thought was forever texted you all throughout your anniversary, only to realize he forgot when you told him before midnight—you thought of Clark. Wondered if he’s the type to remember the date to every milestone. Does he buy Lois flowers, tell her he’s lucky to have her in his life?

When catch-up calls devolve into unexpected cold wars, clipped tones with angry endings, you thought about Clark. Would he fight with a fire in him, convince you that the relationship is worth fixing whenever you started to give in? If you cried in front of him, would he wipe your tears away or kiss them?

And then when you found out, you still thought about Clark.

Would Clark Kent cheat on a girl he promised to marry?

The answer is no, he wouldn’t, but you don’t deserve to know. Will never, because Lois Lane is a standard you can’t possibly live up to. Because she’s the one he chose.

Because you were never a choice in the first place.

So you pull away. Flee the scene. Cover the crime your feelings committed.

You dive into work from clock-in to clock-out, keeping small talk minimum. Eat lunch at your desk. Volunteer for more assignments with Jimmy citing some half-baked bullshit about photography being a core visual device in the arts and culture column.

When Clark hands you your usual cup of coffee in the morning, you lie about already having enough.

The fall in his smile is heartbreaking to watch. You learn to avoid looking at him after the first time.

Learn to look elsewhere. At other people.

Other men.

Instead, what you got were free drinks and the vision of him sitting across you, every time. You left the date wondering if you’re cursed, every time.

Because the annotations about him won’t go away, and it’s flooding the margins of your mind. Clark opens doors for people. Clark’s eyes are more blue. Would Clark order for his date?

It’s sickening.

Then, (mis)fortune uses Perry to put you in the same assignment and you had to spend the entire day treating him like he’s just a friend.

The train stops. Doors open. Suddenly there’s air again.

“This is us.” Clark’s voice is too close to your ear.

“Clark, I swear I’m fine, I’ve walked home a thousand times—”

“It’s really late, just… please, let me.”

The two of you are stood at the mouth of the staircase, having just emerged from the underground. The night is warm, but the city streets are much more welcome than subway-stale air at this point.

He wonders for a brief moment if he sounded too desperate.

Then he sees you soften, acquiescing with a whispered “alright”, and it doesn’t matter anymore.

“It’s like a ten-minute walk from here,” you say, hands in your pant pockets. He falls into step next to you, shoes softly click-clacking on the pavement.

You start to talk about what you’re going to include in the report. About the poor man in the train who sounded like he was holding back his coughs throughout the ride. About the deli that used to be around this exact corner, and how you miss their pastrami sandwich.

He listens, but all he can think of is how you can’t quite bring yourself to look at him.

It hurts.

Clark doesn’t often feel pain. He’s invulnerable, but you’re a chink in his molecular armor—make him weak in the inside with and without a look.

The minutes feel long since he last saw the color of your eyes.

He can’t quite help but call out your name.

You finally turn.

There you are. The eye contact doesn’t ease his pain. It worsens it.

Good grief, he would say, except it’s the best kind of grief he’s ever felt.

The two of you stop, honoring a red man at a crossing. There’s no oncoming traffic.

You tilt your head.

He realizes you’re expecting him to say something.

“Um, how’s it going? With that guy, the one you brought to the company party?”

“Josh?” “Jake?” The two of you say in unison.

You chuckle at that, looking at the cracked pavement under your feet. Clark still doesn’t know the right name. Doesn’t matter.

“I’m not seeing him anymore.” Brows furrow. “Did I not tell you?”

You’ve been avoiding me, he wants to reply, but shakes his head instead.

“No, I’m… sorry to hear that,” he lies. Scary, how easy it slips out. “When did you—?”

“Uh… a few weeks ago.”

He senses a twinge of guilt in your voice. Once upon a time, he’d be the first to know.

Sounds of distant car honks. A cyclist rides past, ringing his bell, bag of takeout in the basket. There’s a light breeze and you fix your hair out of your eyes.

Clark swallows, wrestling with whether feeling relieved makes him a bad person.

He remembers the sight all too well. Standing with Jimmy at a corner wall, sipping on fruit punch in a mug while his buddy gets chatted up by a blonde woman from Accounting. His blue eyes scanned the room, found you lingering by the lobby near the spinning globe.

There was a hand on your lower back. A man’s. One Clark would shake when you introduced him ten minutes later.

The name didn’t really register, but the face did—along with the way he kissed your lips right before leaving.

You smiled when you parted. It didn’t quite reach your eyes.

That night, Clark took the long way home just to restitch the image of your date with himself. Almost sorry, like an understudy waiting for his turn in the wings.

Was he treating you right? Did he know how you took your coffee, how to make you laugh, how to tell if it’s real?

Because he could—Clark Kent could. Give you all that, and more.

There was a whisper in the back of his mind, one he would be damned to entertain. Would you be happier if you were with him?

The train ride earlier didn’t help. All he could look at was you. All he could think of was the beautiful shape of your lips and how they would taste on his. He could smell your shampoo and it kicked up his pulse—his body already divining that it’ll conjure the scent in dreams.

God, he should stop. Has it been an appropriate amount of time for you to grieve the death of a relationship, no matter how short-lived this was compared to the man you were supposed to marry?

When Clark found out he cheated on you, he was so angry he couldn’t sit still. To imagine being disloyal to someone as close to sunshine as you was one thing. To see you anesthetized to the truth like you expected it was another.

Now too, with Jake—or Josh—you don’t look too upset.

“And yourself?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“You and Lois, how’s it going?”

His brows knit slightly. You look back at him, curious at the way he freezes.

“We… uh, we’re no longer together.”

The silence is loaded. Clark can’t help but tune in to the beat of your heart. Lets it be the only thing he can hear for a moment.

It’s fast.

The light at the crossing turns green.

Neither of you move.

Your lungs are too busy dissolving like wet paper.

“What?” you manage to whisper.

He smiles that boyish smile that wrecks you, more so that he’s looking down at his shoes.

“Yeah, she and I… well, long story short, we thought it was for the best.”

You stare at him, eyes slightly wide. You’re not sure if you expected an answer, but it certainly isn’t this.

“God, Clark, I’m sorry—”

“There’s no need,” he replies kindly. “We stayed friends.”

“I see.”

And you do see. She still drinks sugar with a little bit of coffee and bites her pen. He still scratches the back of his neck when she compliments his writing. They still argue about the ethics of lying to get to the source of truth. Nothing about the two of them strikes as particularly different—at least from what you can see around the bullpen—so what he said must be true.

Can a break-up be that amicable? They looked like they were in love.

Your mind flips through the endings in your past stories. Some of them still sting.

As much as you’d like to pretend, the rush of your blood can’t lie. This might be the first bad news you’ve ever celebrated.

It floods you with shame. You feel like a storybook villain.

Clark walks into the crossing. You follow, still trying to deny it. He probably needs consolation. He probably wants to be alone. Whatever he wants, you’re the last thing on that list.

You find your voice. “Can I ask why?”

He spares you a glance before fixing his glasses, looking ahead. His jaw locks.

He doesn’t answer until you’re safe on the other side. When he does, the two of you are standing in front of each other, not quite as close as the overpopulated subway, but somehow feeling warmer.

You watch as he parts his lips before speaking.

“She just… wasn’t who I wanted.”

His voice punched your ribcage from the inside. You can’t breathe, so you nod and walk like he didn’t just do a number on you, muscle memory guiding your way.

Your heart’s a pandemonium, wild behind your breastbone, screaming to be let out.

Feelings like these are far and few in your life. Too good to be true, too bright to be looked at with naked eyes—and you know better than putting on rose-colored glasses just to get a glimpse.

Still, hope beckons you. Dares you.

For one second, it’s strong enough to forgo any form of thinking, judging, prospecting. Enough for you to ignore the painful reality of trying and then failing and then losing him despite it all. To forget the many times you’ve imagined being worse than friends with him.

To pretend you won’t ever be strangers again.

The walk is quiet.

You wonder if that’s his way of acknowledging how things stand. How both your doors are open at the same time, how the dance of near-hits is about to collide, how it’s going to end one way or another.

You’re almost there. Home. The concluding moment.

Your hands are in your pockets again, clenched in fists.

It’s too big of a risk. What if it’s too soon? What if you’ve horribly misread whatever it is percolating in the space between you and him? What if, despite trying your best, you fail anyway?

His words echo in your mind.

She just… wasn’t who I wanted.

It’s too big of a risk. So you let the smallest instance of destiny determine the course of yours.

You look up at the row of street lights in front of your block.

If they flicker—even for the briefest moment—you’ll ask him to come up.

Twenty more steps and you’re at the front door.

The air is suddenly still. No breeze, no sound, no interference. No flickering of lights, their beams steady on the sidewalk.

There’s a heaviness in your stomach that tastes like acceptance. Surrender.

“Well, this is me,” you announce.

You’re already planning to forget about tonight when he looks at you.

He isn’t smiling. Doesn’t say anything back. Waits.

Then his eyelids flutter and you see the row of streetlights flicker.

It almost undoes you. Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“Hey, um—” “Clark?”

You call each other’s names in tandem. He stammers an apology, gesturing haphazardly with his hand.

“Please, you first.”

A small part of your heart tips the rest of you over the edge. Past this trepidation is the answer to your what ifs. It’s terrifying.

It’s inescapable.

“I was just… wondering if you wanna come up,” you say quietly. “For coffee. Or wine. Or whatever I have in my fridge.”

God, that was sad. Suddenly you think maybe you shouldn’t have.

You catch a flicker of disbelief in his eyes before a faint smile blooms on his face, half-dazed, half-shy. He licks his lips and you already think the worst.

Then blue eyes lock with yours, flooding you with assurance. A kind of certainty that eclipses chance.

“I was actually gonna ask you out to dinner sometime. But sure, I’ll come up.”

A sidewalk clock soundlessly strikes twelve. Midnight.

The hands meet.

#superman x reader #superman #clark kent x reader #clark kent #corensupes #clark kent x you #superman x you #superman fanfiction #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent angst #dc #dcu #superman 2025 #james gunn superman

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loganficsonly · 3 days ago

Note

it's a hot day, and reader is whiny for ice cream, Logan ofc gets her ice cream, but instead of giving it in a normal cone, Logan instead pours some melted ice cream on his cock and makes her lick it clean. 🤭🤭

anon you're in luck! because @sleepywolverine wrote something to this effect when i submitted the prompt of getting ice cream for @lareinedulune 's event. you can read it here! there's no ice cream on his ween but you get to lick up something else that looks like it hehe

#uni talks #not my work

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loganficsonly · 3 days ago

Note

Logan being the wild dog while still trying to listen to his partner being dominant for once. He wants it but holy hell he's THIS CLOSE🤏🤏🤏 to just pin them down to th bed. They know but make everything even worse for him

i'm so damn tired but this ask is sooooo fucking good i can't sleep on it... i hope i did it justice if i wake up and i feel differently i'll fucking rewrite this okay!!!! consider this a logan warm-up before i get back to operation: v-card!!!

good boy

logan x f!reader, 1.8k 18+ SMUT MDNI!!!, slight angst, nicknames ("baby", "ma'am"), slight sub!logan before they switch 👅, mentions of breeding, i'm barely awake so this might very well be a flop

Logan doesn't think of himself as a good man. One doesn't live to be nearly two hundred without committing certain sins.

He's always the person they look for when something difficult needs to be done.

As if his soul can't be marred further.

But you came along and he discovers he can still hurt—just in ways that don't heal right back. In places that are hidden to the human eye, in territories so tender he's not sure he can handle the pain.

You always seem to know when darkness tugs, even if it's just in passing. Always latch on to him on those days. Sometimes you'd pull him in a hug, head against his chest. Sometimes it's forehead-to-forehead and he can see the color in your irises.

Your voice is never louder than a whisper, but it reverberates like a fundamental truth. Shakes the waters under his soul's frozen lakes until the ice cracks and he can't help but fall. Like you're rewriting his reality.

You deserve to be happy.

You're a good man, Lo.

I love you.

The soft kisses you leave on him seal his fate.

And that is how Logan finds himself trying. He doesn't know if he can even call it that because it's so easy.

His hands are light for opening doors and jars. The metal in his body shifts closer to the street when going out for a walk with you. Shields you in a crowded space.

It's not exactly chivalry. It's eagerness. To comply. To please.

To make you happy, just as you've made him accept that burdenless curse.

Which is why he's here in a mess of sweat and want, watching you hover over his hard length.

Many hours ago you mentioned you wanted to take the lead. Pouted a little when you jokingly told him you barely got to, how you always ended up the prey—not that you were complaining.

It was at most a passing remark, before routine melted the charge in the air, and the two of you press smiles against each other like nothing happened.

But he listened. When night came and darkness reveals desire, he feels you slowly take what you want. Charge. Control.

He lets you.

The tip of his cock slides against that sweet button between your legs. He's not sure who wants this more, but it's not like it matters.

What matters is he's trying to be good.

Keeps his hands on the bed because you said so. "No touching, baby, or else I'll stop," but then you stopped anyway right as the edge was in sight. Over and over again, driving the both of you mad.

Now you're swaying your hips just to stroke your folds over his cock, precum mixing with your arousal. Your hands anchor themselves on his shoulders. He watches you with glazed eyes—you refusing to sink yourself onto him is one thing, watching your body move like that is another.

It's sin and heaven all at once. The way he slides against your soaked cunt is damning, but the smile on your face is angelic.

"So good for me," you purr, head tipping forward, breath tickling his jaw.

Of course he is, he wants to shout. If he had it his way, your hips would've been bruised in the shape of his fingers, and you'd be on your back screaming his name while he drives into you.

And it would be so easy. He doesn't have to look to know your thighs are shaking, weak with strain.

But no, he's trying. He told himself he was going to.

So instead, the sheets by his sides are crumpled to death under white knuckles.

"D'you want me to put it in, baby?"

Your voice is raspy, reaching overuse from when you spread your legs for him and let him lap you up like the good dog he is, cooing as you tug at his hair, screaming when you came.

In between were words of demand and consolation, of praise and humiliation. More than he's used to. Something to thank heaven or hell for.

Come here and put your pretty face where it belongs.

Look at you. I haven't even touched you and you made a mess...

Like tasting yourself on my fingers, baby?

Fuck, yes, that's it...

Now you're asking him a question and he pants, nodding, lips swollen. You tut, but the huff that follows betrays impatience.

Like you're getting tired of this game, too.

"What did I say about using your words?"

"Want you to put it in," he growls without sparing a beat. The syllables cut clear in the silent night. "Want to fill you up."

Your jaw clenches. He notices.

But your eyes are stubborn, looking at him. Almost disappointed in the way you frown. Waiting.

He exhales shakily, feeling the tip snag at your entrance, and it's like you're so close giving him what he wants.

Except you aren't. You keep him there. He can feel you clench. Soaking. Wanting. Ready.

He swallows.

"Please fuck me... ma'am."

And then there's the quiet. He swears he sees your throat work, the light in your eyes reflecting an appetite, a longing,

"Attaboy," you grin, chest heaving. It's sincere, but sounds rather half-hearted.

He knows what you wants.

Feels it in the falter of your hands on his shoulder, the catch in your voice. What started out authoritative is now gentler, less demanding, more inviting.

The tables start to turn. Part of it is your own doing.

You play your cards. Sink into his cock like you're made for it, bottoming out almost immediately—you're more than stretched after perching yourself on his lap for god knows how long, edging both you and him to oblivion. There's a sound. The both of you moan, one of your hands flying to his cheek to cup his face.

He's at the precipice of a reaction larger than release. It's ocean tides slowly eroding a coast, costing his patience. It's the twitch of his hands by his sides.

They yearn for you, tempted by the bounce of your tits when you pull out and sit yourself down onto him and then his thoughts become fuck want to touch her want to feel her she's mine she's mine she's mine—

"Put your hands on me," you breathe, and his hands grab your waist. The first signs of your crumbling will.

It's like his thoughts reach yours without being voiced.

Still, you persist, leading a languid dance while his hands roam at your permission. There's faith and disbelief in the way he tips his head back to witness you.

A miracle in his bed. Lashes wet, mouth open, looking like you're barely hanging on to the unseen leash around his neck.

He wants to be good for you, but he wants you. So bad.

The voices grow louder when your thighs waver slightly. His hands react, holding you steady, and you let out a beautiful sound—high-pitched, short, airy.

You're riding him but Logan can taste the shift of the scales.

Nearly bites the inside of his cheek when you call out his name like you're not the one withholding pleasure for an evil amount of time. "Logan," you moan, eyes closed, and by the way you're gripping his shoulders, he can tell you're regretting this.

Your thighs must be burning. Tired. Aching.

You can't fuck yourself good because only he can.

And you must be realizing this too, because suddenly you're still, filling your slick cunt up by sitting on him, lips needily finding his. In between tongue and teeth, he watches you through half-lidded eyes, waiting for that moment of capitulation.

It arrives when he slides a finger down your back. Featherlight. There's a look in his eyes that demand you to say it. A look in yours that surrenders.

Not without a few last words.

"You wanna be good for me, baby?"

Yes yes yes wanna be good for you want you, want to fuck you like I own you, want you to feel so good you can't fuckin' remember your own name, want to make this pussy come until she can't anymore, want to fill her up till she leaks, want to breed breed BREED

He plays along. "Yes, ma'am."

You bite your lip, still pretty on his cock. "How bad d'you wanna be good?"

A huff. "So fucking bad, you don't know the half of it."

Pause.

"...ma'am."

He doesn't know if you're stalling or if you're getting off on this, because you ask him, "tell me what you want to do to me," while your fingers twirl the ball chain of his dog tags.

"Tell me everything."

When he speaks into your ear, it's like bared fangs sinking into plush flesh, drool covering fresh meat.

He lets you know.

Voice ragged, words almost slurred, he tells you. A premonition of the near future once you let go of his collar. Every way he wants to ruin you, dripping explicitly out his mouth into your head, poisoning you with visions. Convincing you the control you have is wasted, because look what you could be having instead.

Heaven under his hands. Heights in the cant of his hips. Salvation in ruin.

When he pulls away, your face is wrecked, twisted with desire.

But even as victory's rays crest over the horizon, your response almost obliterates him.

"You've been so good for me, you deserve a reward, don't you?"

That sends a pang in his chest. He has been good for you. He does deserve a reward. Blood sings in his veins.

"Ngh—yes..."

"Come take it, then. Make me proud. Make me happy, Lo."

He almost came.

"Fuuuuck," when he finally grips your hips with his full strength, fucking up into you like he won't get to anymore. You lax in him immediately, letting him rut up into you with a ferocity that breaks through flimsy gates.

He hits the spot inside you that he knows will drive you to the brink, and then the two of you are riding that wave together, moans intermingled, garbled names and "oh my god"s and "don't stop don't fucking stop"s until shattered pleasure makes you spasm in his arms.

He follows suit, spilling himself in you.

There's so much it drips back out.

Barely a breath later, though, he has you on your back, wrists pinned. His cock is already half-hard again just looking at you.

The stretch of your naked body is a canvas he's eager to paint with every implement he owns: hands, tongue, teeth, cock, cum—and you just gave him permission.

Permission to make you proud. To make you happy.

So he pounces, the goal bright in his mind as he mauls your neck.

You smile under him all the while, drool escaping from the side of your lip.

He really is a good boy.

#logan x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #x men #wolverine smut #logan howlett #wolverine x you #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett smut #marvel #mcu #request done #wolverine fic #wolverine fanfiction #logan howlett fic #mcu smut #marvel cinematic universe #deadpool and wolverine

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loganficsonly · 3 days ago

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. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁ fic + writer recs: bucky writer's association edition‎ . ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

welcome to the bucky writer’s association edition of fic recs 🖊️ logan girlies please be patient with me (i’m writing something for him okay!!!) it’s just that my existence has been trapped inside a particular discord server and i’d like to shout out the works of the very lovely people within <3 (GOD I HOPE I DIDN”T MISS ANYONE)

⚠️ Some NSFW works below! Minors please do not interact. The rest of you, proceed with caution. Please heed individual fic warnings!

In alphabetical order:

As I begin writing this it has occurred to me that most of these people here have been recced before but IDC OKAY I STAND BY MY OPINIONS 😭

@54nboo ‘s fic incoming is her first Bucky fic ever and I was astounded when I learned that. Still am to be honest. It’s a long boy (10k words) but I ate that up like it was 2, for real the characterization, the banter, the action scenes? She makes writing look so damn easy. Don’t ask me about scammer!Bucky LMAO

@barnesonly is the mastermind author of Lust but I owe a read of Little Dove and Illegal. Please atp I need a week off work to clear my reading debt. I think I’ve recommended oneshots like Miss Rabbit before, which was… (sighs, takes off pants) really well-written

There is one person that uses one specific text channel in th Discord exactly as God intends it and that’s @blowingbarnes — not only does she instigate horny thoughts in the hivemind, she goes beast mode and writes/compiles/edits the goonery into a fic so hot you’ll get hospitalized for third degree burn. I’m still not over this story 😭

@chateaubarnes … Aluri, Aluri, Aluri (I’m shaking my head as I say this). In this fic she literally said “somebody’s gonna shut up, but it’s not the one who has their mouth occupied.” Whenever a fic makes reader bicker with Bucky, I bite my lip like a whore, and you made me a whore.

@daystarpoet melted my independent woman heart with this fic. Is it sad to confess that I haven’t been on a date where we don’t go 50/50? This fic really made me think about my real life experiences LMAO… 😭 the ending especially was really sweet. I also have the rest of a soldier’s solace to read! rubs hands

SOOO there’s this summer fic by @earthsmightiestbenders and it’s a Stucky fic and it involves popsicles… the blush I blushed reading this. If you want two super soldier popsicles, this is what you need!!! Doctor’s orders!!! My girlies with oral fixation please rise up

@emmathefanficgal is not only the sweetest person ever but she has LOTR fics???? I”M SORRY TO PAUSE REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING HERE but LOTR FIC (← this links to Ao3)??? I AM READING IT RIGHT AWAY I AM ALREADY SMILING THE FIRST WORD IN THE FIC IS “ARAGORN” 😍😍😍😍

I think the first fic I read by @firingstars is this one where Reader matchmakes Bucky and it’s giving Materialists. It’s giving movie. I feel like this is one of those fics that are iconic in the fandom so people have probably read it already BUT I didn’t realize there was a sequel and I’m running to that as soon as I finish typing this!!!

When I first saw the teaser to @flockoff-featherface ‘s series with Bucky and Dungeons and Dragons I had a freaking seizure. I love Bucky, I love Dungeons and Dragons, and I love the beautiful mind that put them togetherrrr 😭😭😭 I can’t wait to start reading this I already know it’s gonna be so damn good

Fresh out of this fic Survival Tactics by @heldbybarnes and it’s such a well-written Stucky smut fic, like… adrenaline highs and wanting to feel alive. I’m locked in metaphorically and literally (in between Steve and Bucky hehe). Also there’s this delicious sub!Bucky fic that tickles my brain. And somewhere else 😭

Call me a priest the way I preach about @houseofhyde every time I get the chance to. You should read her fics if you haven’t. I recently freaked out in the comments of Bucky Bossa Nova (this fic… is an earthworm in my brain) and there is also a series of pieces for mechanic!Bucky that pops my hood right off. Huh who said that?

Bri (@iamthatonefangirl)’s blurbs are lethal bullets because oh my lord. I’m dizzy. I really think it’s best for you to go to her Bucky masterlist and get lucky by randomly picking one. This one featuring John Walker (seriously this man has crept into my subconscious in ways that are unexpected) is dangerousssssss asdfghj

I confess I haven’t read @its-in-the-woods ‘s series but they wrote this cute little thing with Bucky that has me kicking my feet giggling. I love me a filthy smut fic but this sweet one is really giving me butterflies in my stomach. He carries her up the stairs and they’re giggling and I’m horny—

@juniebjonesin ‘s mind is a beautiful thing and she will let you know, as she did in this absolute miracle of a smutty drabble. I don’t need to say a lot, let me leave you with a quote: “so you mean to tell me… all this time i've been cumming down your throat and on your ass… i could've been inside you?”

@opheliabbarnes is another writer I’ve recommended! she’s known for nerd!Bucky fics (I haven’t read the longer ones I SWEAR I WILL) and I’m also really looking forward to reading The Hare, but I got reeled into her writing with her drabbles… I think what I’m revealing here is I’m a whore which is not new information

@rosesaints ← I could just leave the username there she needs no introduction I’ve recommended her fics many times and I am still in awe of the way she writes—she blends humor and heart so effortlessly. My favorite fic ever might be this one, I think about it very very often <3

Pauline @superbassbuck is not only super kind but also a really versatile writer. My first fic-love of hers is Grade-A and then Wildflower, which all featured single dad!Bucky and overall positive vibes, but then she put out one hundred sleepless nights and it’s soooo deliciously dark but soooo good. Like 😭 HOW

I am lowkey scared of reading @wildflowersandvibranium ‘s The Oddity of Falling (the chat cried and I don’t know if I’m mentally strong enough for that) but am happy to recommend Bread Buns should you be in a tender state like I am. Bucky’s a baker, you’re a bunny farmer, you meet in a market. Cutest thing to ever exist.

@winterdecember is the reader that keeps us going. And she has taste so go look at her reblogs. My TBR got 2x longer I fear.

always happy to get recs from others!

#uni's recs #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #winter soldier #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #bucky barnes fanfiction #john walker #steve rogers #captain america #us agent #john walker x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky fanfic #stucky x reader

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loganficsonly · 4 days ago

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you can.

This, and the first part, are the first works of yours I’ve read. Just, wow. Your writing style tickles my brain. I love how you weave metaphor throughout the paragraphs and call back to lines from earlier in the piece. I felt consumed by the intimacy without choking on saccharine cliches - thank you for that. This read like an emotionally mature tsunami, foreseen and inevitable, and my solidly-millennial self loved every word. Classiest 18+ fic I’ve ever read.

single tear running down my cheek.

first of all, thank you so much for taking the time to send me this message. i put a lot of feeling into this one because i wanted to do right by it and im grateful you chose to let me know you enjoyed it 😭

second of all, AHHHHH i appreciate you pointing out the effort i took to do all that—although im sure not all of it was intentional!! you calling this piece the classiest 18+ fic you've ever read is SUCH a high compliment. "FORESEEN AND INEVITABLE" okayyyyy poet 😭💕💕💕💕💕 thank you thank you thank you!!!

#uni talks

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loganficsonly · 4 days ago

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heyyy ❤️❤️❤️ it's been a hot minute for real but i just wanted to say that i read Can You and oh my goddddd your writing is sooo beautiful i've been behind on reading ur works lately i've yet to read ur v day fic omgg excited to dig into that LOL i love that you've started writing for bucky omg ure so real he also lives in my brain like a little worm hehe but aaaa yea it's been a hot minute i hope ure doing well <33

omg hiii ❤️❤️❤️ (in my head im calling you three of hearts anon hehe) thank you so much for dropping by and letting me know you liked that fic 😭💕

i promise im still a logan girl, my justification is they're both named james LMAO but yes the bucky brainrot is real. im excited to start writing for logan again though! i hope that you're doing well too, and that life is good 💕

#uni talks

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loganficsonly · 4 days ago

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did you just call this art... i'm crying. thank you so much, i feel so justified in my efforts and i'm making others happy and in return i'm hadihuadsasd a warm mess <3 thank you for reblogging and leaving very nice words <3

you can.

sequel to -> can i? bucky barnes x f!reader, 3.9k WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no use of y/n, reader is a new avenger, porn without plot but with plenty of feelings, unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), religious imagery, descriptions of scars and implied canon-typical violence, mention of reader's hair, nicknames ("baby", "doll") AUTHOR'S NOTE: writing this was extra intimidating because can i? got unexpectedly popular (?!?!?) and i have massive imposter syndrome. @houseofhyde kindly gave this fic a read and made me feel so much better about it (i had a mini 3am crashout thinking about this fic) <3 thank you so much, i'm not sure how else to show my gratitude, but i'm so glad i found you in this vast place called the internet!!!

If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d think this was a dream.

In a way, you are. But late-night visions don’t even come close. You’re better than the best thought he’s ever had. He tastes you, a little chamomile from the tea underneath something else entirely you, and he knows this is happening.

This is real.

The scent he thieves through stolen inhales is, too. He recognizes it, has allowed it to haunt him in hallways and hallucinations. The same one that wafts whenever you walk past or sit next to him in briefings. Lingered on the hoodie he lent when he noticed you stubbornly braving the common room AC. He only washed it once the scent was gone.

The flowers in your shampoo tell him he’s safe.

His hand pulls you in by the waist.

You don’t fight him. Don’t resist. Just melt.

It tells him you’re safe, too.

He’s never kissed like this. Like falling. Heavy in its weightlessness, certain in how it’ll hurt when it ends, like he’ll lose a part of him he won’t ever get back when he reaches the bottom.

He doesn’t want it to.

He just wants to stay here and memorize the shape of your cupid’s bow against his. Wants you at the tip of his tongue. Wants to spell bone-deep reverence in his reply to the wordless confession you whispered into his vibranium palm.

The hand on your jaw says it all—the metal one.

He moves it to your waist to pull you closer, slipping just slightly under your shirt. It’s cool against your warmth. A kiss, then another, and another. The soft sounds echo in his ear.

You sigh into his mouth. There’s a pang under his breastbone, as if your breath took his away.

It’s almost sinless, how your lips slant against each other. But something about it tears a depth in his conscience, extending far beyond comprehension. Unexplained by intelligence. Too mystical for mere words.

Underneath the innocence with which he kisses you, there’s a current.

Feelings rush in relentless streams through his veins, sick of being kept secret. The surge of them drowns the questions that cage his desires: Is this okay? Can I really have you? Do you really want me?

They banish doubt. Flood him with contentment and hunger all at once. Filling him up and leaving him famished.

His soul settles and stirs at the same time.

“Bucky,” you whisper against his lips. It moves him in all senses of the word.

With two simple steps he backs you up gently against the island, trapping you against marble and the equal solidity of his chest. He doesn’t stop kissing you. Corrals you into a tactically shaped crevice.

It reminds him of training, the times he’s privileged enough to pin you. Always in the gym, always on a mat, always with someone else in the periphery.

Those are the only times having his hands on you isn’t lawless, so long as he invokes the name of self-defense training like he’s not the threat.

In those times, nobody asks questions. Maybe they didn’t need to. Maybe they knew all along. His face betrays secrets too easily, and God knows his eyes are most honest while you’re reflected in them.

This time, it’s different. There are no harsh overhead lights. No stray observers or false pretenses.

Just you and him. Bared to each other even with clothes on.

It’s clear in the way his hips attach themselves to yours, the persistent press of his mouth, one hand snaking up to the back of your neck, curling into hair. Limbs coil even when closer is impossible. No part of him dares to part from you.

The kiss ends when your lungs demand you pull away for air, and he nearly weeps—it hurts. A soft, tortured sound escapes him as he noses against your throat. As if consolation hides in the crook of your neck.

His lips kiss the skin there. Laves. Not quite claiming, far from marking, yet certain enough to make you falter and hold on to his arms.

The hand in your hair moves to your nape, fingers tracing a feathery line down that makes you shiver. It settles mid-back, holding you as he mouths at your ear.

God, you smell so good.

Your breath stutters. He can feel your heartbeat do the same. It occurs to him that he said those words out loud.

Then you slide your hand in his hair, and everything other than this moment is a vestige.

Concrete pillars and cold casement windows don’t exist. Nor does the city that lies beyond. Outside of his body against yours, there are no more worlds to save. No more wrongs to right.

His purpose now lies in a singular revelation of the near future, one where you’re merciful enough to absolve him through acts of penitent service. One where he gets to worship you.

Except James Buchanan Barnes believes in payback, and he vows tenfold the tenderness with which you kissed his metal hand.

So it’s with tenderness that he lifts you up to sit on the counter. It’s also with tenderness that he aches—because in that instance your legs wrap around him like they’ve wanted to forever.

You hold onto him. Let him kiss your shoulder through your shirt. Comb kind fingers down dark strands, sighing when his mouth moves to latch quietly onto the flesh of your neck.

“Not here,” you breathe shakily. The revelation starts to become reality.

He obeys, because what else can he do?

Hands hoist you up by your hips and carry you away, pretending he isn’t drunk on you.

Feet traverse graystone tiles, led down a familiar path by muscle memory. It lets him continue nipping gently at your jaw while taking you where you want to be, but he’d gladly overwrite them just to carve you into the essence of him.

Even if he’s frostbitten and tortured for another seventy years, they can never make him forget this.

He feels you tilt his head up mid-walk—the delicate way you do it, Christ—and then you lean down.

In a kiss so deep, his tongue tastes yours.

For the first time tonight, you moan. The sound is quiet, just for him. Short, airy, yet powerful enough to unchain the past that banishes sleep and locks his longings.

Falling apart never felt like the right thing to do, until tonight. Until now.

Then he catches the little “please” you whisper into him, and the beaten old thing in his chest bleeds open.

Tangled touches feel like ages and seconds at the same time before you reach his room.

He lowers you on the mattress slowly, fearing you might fall and break. Lips never once leave you. Loyal to a fault, like a storybook knight misplaced by time.

His mouth kisses you, jaw to cheek, then back to lips again. Measures the distance it takes to reach the landmarks of you. Draws new borderlines on the map of your concealed skin.

Then he pulls away just to witness you.

You’re laid on a pillow while he hovers above. He takes you in like a panorama, breathing the landscape that is your body on his bed, before blue eyes capture individual places of interest. Learning your spots.

There’s sanctity in the rise and fall of your chest. Majesty in knowing that the flush on your face is his fault.

Historic when he sees the look in your eyes.

“Can I touch you?”

This time it’s him who asks, throat working, metal fingertips lightly skimming the side of your face. A little prelude before your full permission.

For once, there’s no second-guessing in him. No fear. No lack of faith.

“You can,” you whisper, fulfilling the prophecy.

Two words. Monosyllabic and simple, when in truth, the life in you vividly begs to finally know his hands.

You’re guilty of greed because you want more than you’ve already known. More than the accidental brush when he passes you your knife back, or the strength with which he grabs your wrist as he grunts, “left’s wide open, doll.” More than soft touches around flesh wounds.

You want him to touch you for reasons deeper than worry.

He breathes at your assent. Arms move, steady as mountain ridges. Something for you to hang on to as you fall headfirst into a hazy future. Because nothing in it is real, most of all for people like you and him.

But you hold each other anyway, and you are. He is.

Real.

Vibranium thumb caresses your cheekbone while his warmer palm touches you. It slides a slow line down your body. Collarbone. Breastbone. Stomach. Trails down curves under worn cotton.

Your lips part when he shifts under your shirt, just like he did in the common room, except this time it’s the heat of flesh instead of cool metal. He draws languid circles on your waist. One, two, three, each meridian is infinite.

We have all the time in the world, but I want you now, they all say.

He doesn’t stop looking at you.

A can I? in his eyes and the tentative hitch up of his hand until his palm splays on your belly. The motion catches the hem of your shirt, riding it up. You relax into the sheets.

You nod wordlessly into the dark of his eyes. You can. You always can.

You watch his lashes flutter in response. Within that infinitesimality is an entire universe, where the only thing that matters is this.

He continues, enraptured by each inch of revealed skin. His breath starts to shudder when he sees your chest, nipples already pebbled, watching goosebumps form on you thanks to cool air and heated gaze.

Your arms stretch to take off your shirt. It gets discarded somewhere unknown.

A tide has taken him, evident in dilated pupils and open mouth. Eyes glaze with equal parts desire and devotion.

He hasn’t seen you like this before. Never this exposed, this clear.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice like gossamer.

Fingers trace up, acknowledging the line of your underbust where wires so often dig. The touch is soft and fleeting. His hand centers on your sternum, searching.

There it is. The beat of your heart.

The thing that gives you life. The reason for his own.

Funny how things work. He isn’t supposed to be here—not in this room, not even in this lifetime. But something took pity on him and the hellish tests he was given. Something bigger than him, powerful enough for second chances.

Enough to bring him to you.

The sheer causality of it lowers his head, kissing you and bowing down in gratitude to the schemes of the universe at the same time. You respond by tangling your hands in his hair, bringing him close.

He chooses that moment to knead the flesh of your breast. Your moans entwine.

And then you rise up slowly from underneath him.

He gives, moving back for you. Two bodies sit at the center of the bed.

In locking lips, wants are set free. Your hands comb down dark strands in favor of the rest of him, moving like streams until you’re taking his shirt off.

Big arms help midway, exposing lines of solid muscle, the paleness of him stark against black fabric. He tosses it away. No negotiations are needed in the fairest of all trades.

Because now, chest brushes against naked chest, and spirited hands reign free over willing flesh. His are big. Warm. Ruinous. Yours falter on his shoulders the moment his callused fingers tease a hard peak, all while kissing you.

He wrecks the pattern of your breath. Unravels your composure and inhibition.

Slowly, you shift.

On your knees, turning, until you’re pushing him down against the pillows.

He lets you.

You move to shed the rest of your clothes.

He huffs a heavy exhale at the sight of you towering above him. The room is lit only by the moon and hallway fluorescence through the crack under the door, but it’s enough for him to catch the state of you.

For once, he lets you go. Venerates you with his eyes only. In their blue depths, you’re a deity.

He calls your name like one would in prayer.

You lean down as if to say I’m here.

Eyes meet.

“Take this off,” you command, tugging at the waistband of his pants, still looking at him.

He follows the order until he’s left in his boxer-briefs and a thin ball chain around his neck.

Then you crawl back on top of him and that’s what breaks his silence, a quiet groan floating in the space between your bodies. Not a word, just a sound that signals the beginning of devastation.

You start with his lips. Continues on a path past his left ear, down his jaw, until you’re mouthing the slope of his shoulder, one hand on his chest and the other gripping vibranium forearm.

Your lips hesitate near a web of raised welts, the conjoining of flesh and metal.

Eyes flick up to his face. A wordless ask.

He answers with a look that spells out capitulation and a thumb on your bottom lip.

You begin again. His hand shifts to the back of your head, steadfast.

Your lips are soft against the scars. No pressure, just the lightest of brushes, as if those old things were fresh. Fingers trace parts where your mouth will soon follow. A dance so slow and languid it’s making him lightheaded—the sensation of bleeding out comes to mind.

Like the twist of a knife between ribs, it brings the same kind of ache, but no pain. What you inflict is so much sweeter.

Your mouth drifts from his scarring to finally land on his prosthesis. From this distance, you swear the plates respond with a faint whir. As if they’re alive. Waiting.

What starts out as chaste pecks turns into something more. Far from obscene, intense in its own right. You’re braver. Lips work boldly on sleek black metal, puckering as if the material could sink into your mouth.

He hisses when he feels your tongue, shyly prodding, catching vein-like grooves.

The way you glide is like silk, tending down the artificial forearm until you reach his hand.

The second time tonight.

He feeds himself air.

“Was that okay?” you murmur, the question pressed against the inside of his wrist.

Okay? Were it another time and place, he’d laugh.

“I don’t think you know what you do to me,” he rasps. I’d beg you to do it again is what he really means to say.

Cybernetic fingers run through your hair, feeling you adjust your weight on the mattress. Bucky watches with a bleeding heart as you lean into his chest. Delicate kisses map the constellations on his body, faded cuts and smaller scars forming the history of him.

Most of them aren’t there anymore. Still, he notices you trace an invisible past.

The first is a spot on his ab that got nicked by a knife—Minsk. Northeast of it was a bullet graze, a true near-miss—Cameroon.

Then you move up his shoulder. It bruised not too long ago, a nasty one that stayed like a vengeance. You were trapped with no way out other than past armed personnel, outnumbered seven to two.

Brunei. Before you got hit.

What has a son of war done to deserve this tenderness? The best thing he’s ever known is now in his bed.

Maybe one day he’ll find the answer. Tonight, he’ll let himself have you.

You’re kissing his sternum when he gently pushes you away, only to flip you underneath him. The power transfers he’s dealt with are far more violent, yet the one happening here is arguably the most important among all of them.

Knees bracket your thighs. He draws his tongue down your body, hands extending the heat of his mouth, taking the long way home.

If you weren’t already sinking into the sheets, his words would have taken you under. The array of praises slips out of his mouth like silk, each altering you at an elemental level.

“You don’t understand how much—” whispered against the inside of your leg, “how much I’ve wanted you.”

“Just look at you,” when he moves your knee to your chest.

“So much better than dreams,” as strong hands spread you open, making room for him to lean down.

His mother used to say that patience is a virtue, and virtue is a grace. So it’s with grace that he tortures you.

Featherlight touches, fingers running up and down slick folds. Eyes alternating between your core, your face, and how you writhe. He gets dizzier with every inhale, the glisten of you tempting him.

When his mouth is finally on you, it’s worship.

Because what is holier than this? Your hair forms a halo on the pillow while he seeks sanctuary between your thighs. He’s more supplicant than a thousand sinners before an altar, fingers faithfully taking you to a state of fallen grace. More divine than divinity itself.

Hushed voice offers murmured exaltation against you. Tastes so sweet. Doing so good, baby.

The heavens finally shatter and your breath collapses.

You shudder through deliverance, watching with lidded eyes as he wipes the remnants of a sacrament on his mouth.

Then he’s hovering above you again, kissing your temple, hair, nose. Hands cup your face in a manner so loving you might cry.

He shifts you between pillows and sheets until hips press against hips. That’s when you feel it.

Him. One glance is enough to make you burn.

He leans down and your foreheads touch.

“Do you still want this?” his words drip with want despite themselves.

You look back at him, nodding.

“Always.”

He guides himself with a hand. You have your arms around his neck, keeping him close. Heads loll forward as the bewitching sight—his length slowly disappearing into your heat. He kisses your temple, sweet while he coos as he sees you struggle.

“You can,” he breathes. You believe him.

You taste each other’s moans as he slides further. Dog tags clink, suspended in the air. Your fingers absentmindedly trace over engraved letters—distracting yourself from the burn of the stretch or searing the name of the man doing this to you, you’re not sure which.

When hipbones bump, it’s a kind of full you’ve never felt before, both in body and in soul.

He’s finally inside you. All of him.

He curses under his breath. Profanity has no place in something so sacred, but he can’t take the warmth, can’t stand the heat, can’t comprehend how he’s lived so long without having you like this.

Home is many things. To him, its meaning was erased by torture, found amidst trials, then lost and changed with time. But tonight it’s clear.

This is it, he thinks. Home.

From that point on, there’s no language left but the body’s.

It’s a vernacular as natural as breathing, older than writings on a wall. A primal tongue that speaks only truths. The consonants are his hands on your body. The vowels in the shape of your open mouth.

The meaning is untranslatable. Immutable. Found between the lines that shape four letters.

His cadence is poetic. You punctuate it with soft cries, thighs on his sides like parentheses. The way your eyes meet speaks volumes. He responds by canting himself deeper within you.

Your bodies finally catch up to what your souls have already done.

Intertwining fingers instead of pasts. Settling into a rhythm so tangible with each drag of him, you might cry. Keeping score no longer happens only in your minds, but on his back in reddish lines.

Waiting used to be done in hesitance. Now it’s to prolong pleasure.

But if patience is a virtue and virtue is a grace, then his grace has its limits.

Because he’s bursting at the seams and so are you, and it doesn’t take much until the two of you are subjects in a carnal painting.

Your legs are tangled around his body as his hips drive into yours, searching for the edge. He dips down, mouth against your ear, saying things like “you feel so good for me” and “can’t get enough of you.” Meanwhile, your hands scramble, finding stability in his arms. Fingers curl and tighten. Sobs escape from between your lips.

Your voice molds itself into his name, repeated in a longing litany.

A lesser man would have surrendered then and there. He’s no better.

He hears the exact moment you crest, the high-pitched sound wrested directly out of your diaphragm. Then you clench around him, spasming, tight like a silk fist, and it triggers his own downfall.

You’re still shaking when you feel him chase it, relentless in the way his hands grip your waist to keep you still. By the time he’s spilling inside of you, you’re a mess against him, dazed as a second wave hits you. A gamut of colors dots the edges of your vision, fading into white.

It should be paradoxical when he kisses you while breaths are being gathered. Whatever air you have ends up being stolen by him. Again, again, and again.

You don’t mind.

Eventually he parts, and you remember how to inhale. He’s looking at you, lips parted and swollen, satisfied.

But desires don’t lie dormant. You feel it in your bones. Something tells you it’s in his, too.

Who, or what, is to blame? Is it the discipline that kept you apart, a form of submission to your stations? Or is it the cowardice wearing the mask of another emotion, pretending that it was for the best when all you did was ache for each other?

You’re not sure. The only thing you’re sure of is the need to make up for lost time.

It takes over with a dance of give and take. Sweat-misted bodies coiling, finding truth to secrets hidden in the depths of dreams. Those days of wondering are abjured.

Whenever his lips are by your ear, he feeds you a morsel. A thought. In turn, you show him how much of it is real.

How much better it can be.

There isn’t a whisper in the morning. The hum of air conditioning seems strangely quieter, and there are no birds this high up on the tower. Sunlight streams generously through floor-to-ceiling windows.

You wake up to your hair being stroked.

Blinking awake, you see only broad chest and silver chain. Your hands rest on him. He’s already awake, looking down at you.

The blue in his eyes is like crystals.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Your voice is nearly gone. He smiles at you like that’s funny.

“How long have you been staring?” you ask.

He fixes strands out of your eyes. “A while.”

You sigh. “See anything embarrassing?”

He tilts your chin up. The sincerity on his face is almost overwhelming.

“No. You’re even more beautiful like this.”

Dodging compliments is a sport you’ve grown to be good at, but he says it with such finality that it renders you paralyzed. You can do nothing but stare back at him.

What’s ice blue to most people are pools of warmth to you, especially in this light. In his bed.

There’s a shift in the silence.

Maybe it’s the air. Or the cardinal directions. Identical to the way magnets snap into each other. Pieces into place. Whatever it is, it feels permanent.

You move closer, hand on his shoulder, as if wanting to make sure he’s here.

Then Bucky leans down to kiss you again, and suddenly there’s no room to doubt that it’s real.

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loganficsonly · 4 days ago

Text

i'm not sure if you're in love with words or if words are in love with you

stop i just lost my mind at this because words -> the evil mistress that tugs me along by a collar of thorns round my neck and kicks me in the face 😭 what a lovely, lovely compliment that i'll print to carry in my locket which i will wear to war.

words handpicked like the sweetest, juiciest cherries

FR THAT"S THE EXACT THING. I WAS HANDPICKING WORDS except not in the impressionist painting way, but in the i'm so stressed out way

@elvenrin thank you so much for taking the time to reblog and leave this lovely comment, it really means a lot, just thinking about the hours i worked on this after my 9-5...🥹