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flowersforbucky · 13 days ago

Text

where the lines overlap

logan howlett x reader (dofp!logan x mutant!reader)

word count: 8.7k

summary: no one gets under your skin quite as much as logan howlett - and he knows it, too. sex pollen trope.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, sex pollen so dub con, frenemies to lovers? they aren't enemies but logan and reader don't really get along, reader is a mutant with pyrokinesis, reader is afab, reader is described as being smaller than logan, no use of y/n, wet dream, fuck or die situation, oral, pet names (bub, princess), brief pain kink for logan, unprotected p in v, cream pie

author's note: takes place after the events of days of future past - so everyone's alive, charles is old af, and logan has a pretty streak of silver in his hair. not proofread super well so please ignore any errors.

There's certain things that you like to think about when you're pissed off. It’s a coping mechanism that you learned in therapy at the ripe age of eleven.

Go to your happy place or whatever.

For you, that's the mansion's courtyard after a fresh snowfall, and having the library all to yourself on a rainy day, and the comfort of your bedroom on one of the rare days that you aren’t teaching, or training, or on a mission.

At this point in your life, you’ve forgotten just about everything you were taught in that therapist's office. It's not like you had wanted to be there, but your parents had been worried and scared – and rightfully so. With the unexpected emergence of your pyrokinetic abilities came multiple accidental house fires born out of preteen angst.

So they did the only thing they knew to do at the time – stick you in therapy in hopes you would acquire some anger management techniques.

These days, you have a pretty good handle on your powers. With a lot of time and effort, you learned to control them – and not just control them, but yield them in a beneficial and productive way.

All of that progress comes dangerously close to going out the window anytime you're in close proximity to Logan Howlett.

Maybe all is an exaggeration – but no one else makes your fingertips burn hot with fire that threatens to break through the barrier of your skin quite like him. From his bossiness to his arrogance and attitude, you’ve clashed heads since the first day you met him.

Today is no different.

“Don’t use so much force.��

You curse as the tip of the blade impales the target a whopping three inches from the center. By far your worst throw yet, though this one isn’t entirely your fault.

You snap your head towards the unexpected but familiar voice, pulling your last dagger from the holster secured around your thigh before chucking it in his general direction. It flies past him, bouncing off the wall behind him.

You knew that it wouldn’t actually hit him. And if by some miracle it had, he’d heal in two seconds and then go right back to being a pain in your ass.

A good looking pain in your ass, admittedly. But a pain in your ass nonetheless.

He looks at you with an amused expression. “See? Too much force.”

“I didn’t know that having giant forks for hands made you an expert on throwing knives.”

He exhales a breathy laugh, staring at you for several seconds before turning to pick the dagger up from the ground. He then proceeds to collect the rest of the knives that you had previously thrown from the body of the practice target.

In heavy silence, he struts over to you with the daggers in hand. He turns to face a wooden target board, finding the balance point of the knife before sending it flying through the air.

Bullseye.

“A long time ago, when I first joined this team, Charles made me practice a non-power related method of self-defense, too.” He pauses, lining the second dagger up with the practice dummy. To no surprise, it’s another perfect throw.

“Wanna guess what I chose?”

You snatch the remaining knife out of his hand.

“How to annoy someone by sneaking up on them and giving them unsolicited advice while they are minding their own business?”

You position your feet once again, holding the knife up in preparation to take aim. Your eyes dart back and forth between the blade and the target ahead of you. You hesitate, feeling nervous under his gaze.

Logan moves from standing beside you, to standing behind you. Your breath catches in your throat as his large figure looms over you. If he were to took a step forward, his chest would brush against your back.

He uses the tip of his boot to nudge your heel forward half an inch, adjusting your stance. He takes your right hand in his, and you have to consciously remind yourself to breathe.

A wave of annoyance washes over you that he’s able to fluster you so easily. It makes you as pissed at yourself as it does him. He’s barely touching you – his hand dwarfing yours is the only point of physical contact, but you’d think that he were pinning you up against a wall with his body.

You tell yourself the sudden light-headedness and increased heartrate is because of the newfound closeness, and nothing more. You’re used to being around Logan – the two of you live together and work together. His general presence is nothing new. But the intimacy of your current predicament is.

And maybe the fact that notes of tobacco and bourbon are infiltrating your senses doesn’t help.

“As unsolicited as my advice may be,” he says lowly as he pulls your hand back slightly, “I give it because if there is ever a situation where someone's trying to hurt you, and you’re unable to light them on fire for some reason, I would really hope that you could at least impale them.”

He tightens his hold on your hand, and then snaps both of your wrists forward. Surprisingly, your brain registers to release your grip just in time. When the tip of the blade impales the center of the target perfectly, he drops your hand.

But he doesn’t move from behind you.

“Much better. Now come back upstairs. Charles needs to see all of us in his office.”

••••••

You and Logan are the last people to enter Charles’ office.

Storm, Scott, Jean, Marie, and Bobby have all found places to sit throughout the small room. Logan chooses to lean against the door that clicks shut behind him, while you exhale in relief at the sight of an empty chair on the opposite side of the room, next to Marie.

“Ah, how nice of you two to join us,” Charles greets. “I was starting to think that Logan got lost on his way to retrieve you.”

You force out a laugh, earning a side-eye from Marie as Charles launches back into whatever he had been in the middle of before you two interrupted.

“Everything okay?” Marie murmurs to you. “You looked a little sick when you walked in.”

“Oh, yeah,” you shrug her off without looking at her. You keep your eyes on Charles. “Yeah, I'm just tired. Been training all morning.”

What were you supposed to tell her? That you were thankful to be wearing a tactical suit so that Logan couldn’t see all of the goosebumps that bloomed across your skin when he was practically breathing down your neck less than five minutes ago? Or that the walk back up to Charles’ office was filled with a loaded silence in place of your usual bickering and banter?

Marie might be one of your closest friends, and you trust her, but Logan is something of a fatherly figure to her. There’s no way you’re letting her hear those words come from your mouth.

You try your hardest to focus on all of the information that Charles throws at you. You’re all to leave on a mission early tomorrow morning. When he explains where you’re going and why, chills run down your spine.

Alberta, Canada – more specifically, Alkali Lake. All of your friends seem to tense up at the mere mention of the place.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, fighting the urge to sneak a glance to try to gauge Logan's reaction. You’ve never been to Alkali Lake before, and you’re far from excited about going – you can only imagine how he feels, given his history with the abandoned military base.

After no word of any activity surrounding the base for years, Charles had been made aware that the recent disappearance of a group of young adult humans had been traced back to Alkali Lake – to a modern day subsidiary of the group Weapon X.

The same group responsible for Logan’s skeleton being made from adamantium.

This, of course, is where all of you come in.

After a detailed rundown of the goals for tomorrow – the main one being safe extraction of the humans – Charles dismisses all of you to rest for the remainder of the day.

When everyone stands up, you finally risk glancing at Logan, but he’s already opening the door to Charles’ office and strutting away.

••••••

Thick stubble scratches your innermost thighs as sharp teeth and soft lips alternate between kissing and biting the sensitive flesh between your legs.

His face is covered in your slick from the three orgasms he’s already pulled from you with his tongue. He lays nestled between your legs, pinning you to the mattress beneath you. Your thighs rest across his shoulders, his hands splayed across your belly.

You're putty in his hands.

“I've gotta say, the sounds you make when you cum are way cuter than the sounds I'm used to hearing from you,” Logan muses against your cunt. His voice sends a vibration over your already overstimulated core.

You can only guess that the sounds he’s referring to are annoyed sighs and you telling him to shut the fuck up, but right now, you don't care enough to ask for any clarification.

“Yeah?” You yelp when his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. “Maybe if you spent less time pissing me off you’d get to—”

You're cut off by him plunging the tip of his index finger inside you. You writhe against him, your walls constricting around the digit.

“Less time pissing you off, more time letting you fuck my fingers and face. Got it.”

The slamming of a door somewhere outside of your room causes you to bolt upright in your bed.

You open your eyes to darkness except for the red glow of the numbers on your digital alarm clock that read 12:26 in the morning. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and your skin is clammy with a thin layer of sweat. You throw your covers away from you in an attempt to cool yourself off.

“What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck—”

You whisper the three words to yourself over and over again until your breathing resumes a normal pattern.

You’re alone, of course. In the comfort of your private room, where you had fallen asleep several hours ago. The difference between now and then is an uncomfortable pool of wetness between your legs, soaking your underwear.

You can’t even recall the last time you had such a vivid sex dream. It felt utterly lifelike – you reach down between your legs, trailing your fingers over the skin of your inner thighs where you had felt his beard tickle and tease you.

How the fuck are you supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, when you’re having to work together to rescue humans from Alkali Lake? How are you supposed to come up with smart-ass remarks for his endless taunting and teasing when you’re going to be trying your hardest to not replay the images of his hazel eyes looking up at from between your thighs?

“Get a fucking grip,” you whisper hiss to yourself.

It’s Logan. The same Logan who acted like he was too good to say more than ten words to you the first half a year that you were with the team. The same Logan that tries to get you benched for the dumbest, smallest reasons he can think of. The same Logan that condescendingly calls you kid or princess every chance he gets because he knows it gets under your skin.

You need a glass of water. And some fresh air, and a cold shower—

You start by picking up the pair of sweatpants that you’d discarded before falling asleep a few hours ago. You step back into them, deciding to trek to the kitchen for some ice water. Your mouth feels as dry as cotton.

As you approach the end of the hallway that leads from the team member's bedrooms to the kitchen, you hear the soft shuffling of footsteps and see low lighting that spills from the refrigerator.

As soon as you step into the kitchen, you come to a halt. You recognize the large frame standing in front of the open fridge right away.

Of fucking course it would be him. And of fucking course he wouldn’t be wearing a shirt.

You clear your throat to announce your presence, not quite trusting your voice to speak. He looks at you over his shoulder, a bottle of beer pressed to his lips.

You walk over to the cabinet beside him, keeping your eyes off of him entirely as you get a glass.

“What's got you awake at this hour?” He closes the fridge, leaning back against the edge of the countertop. The only light in the room now comes from the small, dim bulb above the sink.

If he only fucking knew, you think. If he only knew that the real reason you are out of bed right now is because you’d just woken up from an extremely graphic, jarring dream of you riding his face.

You fill the cup up with cold water from the kitchen sink and take a large swig before once again turning to face him.

“Could ask you the same thing,” you answer with a vague gesture to his half-dressed form and beer bottle.

He takes in your appearance, too. His eyes trail from your exposed feet, to your baggy sweatpants, and up to your even baggier t-shirt before settling on your face. You feel particularly vulnerable under his gaze right now. You compare how you look to how he looks – with his stupid abs that look like God himself chiseled them from stone and his sweatpants that hang just a little too comfortably.

You sip on your water just to keep from biting your lip.

“Guess we were both thirsty,” he shrugs as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Guess so,” you hum, and because you don’t want to fall into an awkward silence and it’s the only thing you can think to add, you say, “Nervous about the mission?”

His expression darkens and posture tenses at your question. “I am,” he admits. “And if you knew as much as I do about that place, you’d be nervous, too.”

You huff. Your grip tightens around the glass in your hand at the mere insinuation that he knows your feelings. “Who says that I’m not?”

“If you’re going, you’re not nervous enough.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. You take a deep breath, knowing damn well the direction that this conversation is headed. You’d heard it all from him before – anything to keep you as far away from him as possible.

“Of course I’m going, Logan. Whether you think I’m good at it or not, it’s my job.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re good at your job. It’s about experience—”

You laugh, cutting him off. You can feel the telltale warmth of fire beginning to form beneath the tips of your fingers, your irritation threatening to bubble over.

“Experience?” you exclaim. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve been with this team for three years now? Just because I’m not two hundred years old like you doesn’t mean that I don’t have experience.”

“I’m very aware of how long you’ve been with this team, bub,” he says calmly, which makes you all the more heated.

“For three years you’ve spewed every bullshit reason you can think of to keep me on the sidelines,” you laugh. “I wish you’d fucking admit that you just don’t like me. It’d be a lot more respectable than acting like you’re worried about—”

Logan’s gaze drops to the glass in your hand, making you come to an abrupt pause. You follow his stare, realizing that you’ve managed to melt the glass where your fingertips grip the glass. Water begins to leak out from the holes, spilling onto your sweatpants and the floor below you.

There’s no visible flames emanating from your fingertips. Your anger hadn’t progressed to full on fire, just intense heat, but still. No one else makes you come as close to losing control as him.

No one. And he seems to know it, too. You can tell by the smug look on his face.

You dump what little liquid is left into the sink before chucking the distorted glass into the garbage.

You start to storm past him, to get away from him and go back to your room without another word, when he grabs you by the wrist. You look at him in bewilderment – this is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that he has held your hand in his.

“Didn’t know you were so hot and bothered over me,” he says with an amused smirk.

You rip your hand away from him, an exaggerated look of disgust on your face. Your recent dream pops into your head and you have to remind yourself that he’s not Jean or Charles – he can’t read your mind.

“You're lucky that you've got those handy healing powers,” you spit as you once again begin exiting the kitchen. “If I thought there was a chance of it actually shutting you up, I’d burn more than just Charles’ vintage glassware.”

You hear him say your name, but you’re already speed walking back to your room and playing your list of happy place thoughts on a loop in your head.

The soup that Storm makes when everyone at the school seems to get sick at the same time. One of your younger students picking you a flower. The smell of fresh laundry, the crisp pages of a new book.

Finally, your bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

You would have been better off just enduring the discomfort of a dry throat, you think. You don't know what's worse – not being able to sleep because you're rattled from a wet dream about him, or not being able to sleep because you've once again allowed him to get under your skin.

You crawl back under your covers, hoping that when you close your eyes, you don't see his face again.

••••••

Logan doesn’t make any more appearances in your dreams for the rest of the night, but that doesn’t stop him from being the first thing you think of when you open your eyes in the morning.

And as much as you hate to admit it to yourself, the only thing on your mind the entire flight from New York to Alberta.

From the tension that filled the air when he corrected your knife throwing technique yesterday morning to the warmth of his calloused hand when he grabbed you by the wrist in the kitchen last night, you're fighting a losing battle with no one but yourself.

As far as you can tell, he’s utterly unaffected. The fact that he chose to sit directly in front of you on the jet instead of any of the other empty seats says as much.

Not even ten minutes into the flight, you're staring at the tufts of his hair and his broad shoulders when you have to remind yourself that there's two telepaths occupying this jet with you. Though you trust both Charles and Jean to not read your mind without cause, the mere possibility of either one of them accidentally tuning into your thoughts and seeing a replay of your most recent dream or hearing you think about what it would be like to tug on those stupid fucking tufts of hair that resemble kitten ears is enough to mortify you.

You find yourself grateful that you brought a book and headphones with you to distract yourself for the duration of the trip.

An eerie feeling creeps into your bones as soon as you step onto the hanger of the jet. You can’t deny that the scenery surrounding the military base is beautiful – from the snowcapped mountains to the frost covered lake, it’s picturesque. But then your gaze settles on the large dam, and you remember what lies beneath.

“Can't say that I've missed this place,” Logan grunts, drawing your attention to him. His face is impassive other than his mouth being set in a hard, straight line as he stares out towards the water.

It's rare for Logan to elicit feelings outside of burning irritation (and maybe, possibly, sometimes arousal) from you – but right now, there’s a part of you that wishes the dynamic between the two of you were different.

As much as he infuriates you, you still care about him. You wish you could say that you didn’t, but the fact that you feel the urge to reach out and give his hand a reassuring squeeze makes that pretty hard to deny.

That urge dissipates as quickly as it comes over you. The bitter chill of the mountain wind and your teammates voices pull you back to reality. You awkwardly fiddle with one of the daggers strapped to your thigh instead.

“Jean and Scott, the two of you take the west side of the building,” Charles instructs when the group nears the discreet entrance. “Bobby and Rogue, clear the east wing. Storm and I will be keeping watch outside to make sure that no one tries to escape with the humans.”

“What about us?” you ask with a slight nod towards Logan. The fact that neither of you had been given instructions yet leaves it to be assumed that you’ll be paired up together.

You and Logan working as a pair was nothing out of the ordinary, and although that typically comes with a lot of annoyance, right now you can’t help but feel a little relieved by it.

Even if you are still irritated at him for his behavior and choice of words in the kitchen last night and even if you do think of him between your thighs every time you look at him for more than five seconds, he’s still more familiar with this place than anyone else here.

And no matter how much he makes you want to tear your hair out, there's never a time that you feel unsafe when he's near.

“You and Logan are to inspect the basement,” Charles answers. “I trust that you can refrain from melting any antique personal property until we are back at the mansion, my dear,” he adds with a knowing smirk.

“I was planning on paying you back for that,” you mumble.

“No,” Charles sighs. “You weren't. It was very expensive.”

Logan snorts, earning curious glances from everyone other than you and Charles. He does get a nasty side-eye from you – a silent promise to deliver on last night’s threat to find something to burn other than vintage glassware.

Your teammates split up into their respective groups upon entering the base, leaving you to follow Logan's lead towards the lower levels.

It’s unsettling just how silent it is. The only sounds are that of yours and Logan's boots against the ground. You'd be able to hear a pin drop from across the building.

And it's cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones ache. You instinctively flex your fingers, focusing on the warmth that radiates from the tips.

As the two of you make your way through the dark, seemingly endless basement, checking each room for signs of life, you can't help but think of Logan being here under much different circumstances.

You don't know the full extent of his time here – even he only remembers bits and pieces. But you know enough to know that this can’t be easy for him.

The fact that he's being uncharacteristically quiet only reaffirms that. He makes none of his typical taunts and jabs, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

You find yourself damn near wishing he’d make some snide comment about how you’re walking too loudly and how being partnered up with you feels like babysitting duty – if he did, maybe then you wouldn’t feel this annoying, persistent worry over his mental well-being.

“Logan,” you begin quietly as the two of you approach a large set of hospital style double doors at the end of a corridor. “I know being here can't be easy for you. I'm sorry that you have to be.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, not meeting your eyes as he slowly pushes one of the doors open, peaking into the room before stepping inside and holding the door open for you.

“Just part of the job, bub,” he sighs. “I know what I signed up for.”

You enter, walking past him into the dark room. You shine your flashlight around the cramped space. Right away, you can tell that it’s vacant, as all of the other rooms you’ve checked have been. But it’s different – whereas most of the rooms have been completely empty, this one contains multiple twin sized beds. No frames, no pillows, just plain white sheets on each one.

“I know you do. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and he shines his own flashlight around the room from right behind you.

“It’s okay, princess,” he snorts. “I’m a big boy. You don’t gotta pretend to be worried about me.”

Princess. Your fingertips tingle as soon as the pet name leaves his lips.

“I’m not pretend—”

The sudden, loud clicking of a deadbolt echoes through the room, silencing you. You and Logan stare at each other for a brief moment, startled and confused, before he turns around and pushes on the double doors to no avail.

He slams the full weight of his body against the metal, but it doesn't budge.

“What the fuck,” he growls in between repeated strikes against the doors.

“Logan and I are locked in a room in the basement,” you say as you click on the communication device in your left ear. “The door automatically locked after we came inside. We can’t get it open—”

You’re met with white noise.

“My fucking comm isn’t working.” Panic begins to set in as you yank the device out of your ear to inspect it. There’s a small green light indicating that it is on, but for whatever reason, it isn’t getting signal.

“Scott? Storm? Can anyone hear us?” Logan says as he messes with his own communication device. “Nothing,” he grunts after a moment of silence.

“Professor? Jean? If either of you are listening, now would be a great time to poke around in our brains and let us know.”

Nothing indeed.

“Okay,” Logan says as he backs away from the double doors. “Blast them.”

“Blast them?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “They’re industrial metal doors. They’re like two feet thick. These walls are made out of concrete.” You bang your first against the rock solid wall for emphasis. “What the fuck do you think fire is—”

“I don’t hear you suggesting anything!”

“How about not setting the room we are trapped in on fire? Only one of us has regenerative—”

A loud hissing noise sounds from above, causing you and Logan to both point your flashlights up towards the ceiling. You squint, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Large vents make up well over fifty percent of the ceiling, releasing what appears to be a fog like substance. It quickly transforms the air above you into one large, milky looking cloud.

“Charles! Storm! Scott – we need help. Quickly, we need help. I don’t know what’s going—”

You continue to shout into the communication device while Logan alternates between punching the door with his fists and throwing the full weight of his body against the metal, but all of your efforts are futile. The doors don’t budge, and you hear nothing but static from the comm.

You frantically glance around the room, looking for another escape route. There’s no other doors, and no windows. You’re completely enclosed by the four concrete walls and the impenetrable metal doors.

“Hold your breath!” Logan shouts as the fog descends upon the two of you, but it’s too late. The sickeningly sweet smelling mist encompasses you, making it impossible to see anything other than the thick silver vapor. It infiltrates your nostrils, causing you to gag. You cough, desperately trying to clear your airway of the substance.

It burns – your throat, your nostrils, your eyes and skin. Anywhere that it comes in contact with you feels like pins and needles.

You’re vaguely aware that Logan is somewhere to your left, asking if you’re okay in-between coughs and gags of his own. You can’t catch your breath well enough to answer him.

His hand clasps around the top of your arm. Your vision goes fuzzy and you collapse into him, light-headed from the profuse coughing.

“I think it’s dissipating,” Logan whispers in a strained voice, still supporting you so that you don’t fall to the floor. You risk cracking your eyes open the slightest bit, and realize that he’s right. There’s still a veil of mist surrounding you, but it’s no longer so opaque that you can’t see even two inches in front of your face.

You take deep breaths, making no effort to step away from him as you attempt to regain control of your breathing. Your lungs feel like they are on fire and your throat feels like you haven’t had any water in days.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out as a croak.

“Can you stand?” he asks you. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from his embrace.

As soon as he steps away from you to see if the doors are still locked, the momentary relief that you felt when the fog began to dissipate is replaced with renewed terror. The room, which was previously dark except for the light from your flashlights, suddenly glows a deep red color from the ceiling that now emits crimson fluorescence.

You open your mouth to call out for Charles or Jean again, when a throbbing sensation radiates throughout your gut. You clutch your hands over your abdomen, gasping at the sudden and awkward feeling.

Logan turns his attention away from the doors and back to you as soon as he notices how you’re hunched over. You stumble over to the bed that's closest to you, the world blurring around you in shades of red.

“Something is wrong,” you gasp out. You know you're stating the obvious – something has been wrong since the moment that the doors locked behind you.

He's next to you in two long strides, kneeling beside the bed and looking up at you in concern. The ache in your lower belly seems to worsen with his close proximity. Your skin feels feverish, making you want to peel your tactical suit off of your body.

“Tell me what you're feeling,” he demands. Other than obvious confusion and fear, he appears physically fine. You piece together that whatever that shit was, it’s effecting you much differently than it is him – undoubtedly due to his healing abilities.

You can't form a coherent sentence – all you can focus on is the way that the discomfort in your abdomen travels down to your groin, making you clench your thighs together. You have the inexplicable desire to reach out and pull him to you, as if having him as close as possible to you is the only solution for every uncomfortable thing happening to you.

“You gotta talk to me, bub. Tell me what’s going on,” he says when you don’t answer him. He puts a hand just above your knee and you have to hold back the whimper that threatens to break through your lips. He notices your pained expression and quickly withdraws his hand from your thigh.

“No!” you gasp, grabbing his hand in yours out of desperation to maintain some level of physical contact with him. “I – I don't know how to explain what’s happening. Just – I just need you to keep touching me. Please. Whatever that fog was, it’s making me feel like…”

You trail off, realizing that you must sound every bit as insane as you feel. You don’t know how to begin articulating what’s happening to you, because it makes no sense. When the silver mist first started to rain down from the ceiling, the last thing on your mind was Logan pinning you to one of these mattresses and railing you until you until you see stars. Now, you think that if he so much as stops holding your hand, you'll fucking die.

A look of clarity washes over Logan’s face – with a hint of something else that you can't quite pinpoint, too.

“I think I know what this is,” he murmurs. His stare is locked on one of the daggers strapped to your thigh. He squeezes your hand in his, though you don’t know if it’s to comfort you or himself.

“I’ve heard of this before. Didn’t know it actually exists. I came across it once when preparing a lesson on Alkali Lake—”

“What is it?” you implore.

His eyes finally flicker back up to yours. Images of last night’s dream flash through your mind again. Instead of his hand holding yours, you visualize his slender fingers pumping inside you. You stare at his lips, imaging the feeling of them sucking love bites into the meat of your inner thighs –

“It’s a chemical created for breeding experiments,” he answers after a pregnant pause. “They – Weapon X – wanted super mutants. Some of the subjects were… less than compliant. This made it so that they weren’t able to fight it.”

You let his words sink in. It’s not something you’ve ever heard of, but you don’t doubt that what he’s saying is true. How could you, with the way that your pussy is throbbing at the mere sound of his voice? Under normal circumstances, you might not read too far into that. But right now? On a mission, locked in a creepy basement, unable to get in contact with your teammates?

“Weren’t able to fight it,” you repeat slowly. “You're saying there’s only one way out of this.”

He doesn’t answer – just looks at you with sympathy. With pity.

“No,” you shake your head. You yank your hand from his grasp and move back across the mattress as the gravity of the situation hits you. To distance yourself from him feels like ripping air out of your own lungs, but the alternative is borderline unthinkable.

“I can’t – won’t ask that of you,” you declare. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that laughs at you, as if saying it’s cute that you think you have a choice. The pain and longing grow with each passing second, threatening to consume you from the inside out.

“You’re fine. It would be different if it was both of us. But you shouldn’t have to do this just because you're stuck here with me.”

“Have to? You make it sound like it would be a punishment for me,” he chuckles darkly. He finally rises from where he had been kneeling next to the bed. He stands beside the mattress, looming over you in the maroon lighting.

“Let’s not overcomplicate this, princess,” he murmurs. He grasps your face in his palm and tilts your head to look up at him. His touch is a balm – it feels like running a burn under a cold stream of water.

“I'm gonna take care of you, and then you can go right back to tolerating my existence.” He runs the calloused pad of his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter shut, reveling in the sensation of the singular digit against your flesh.

“Besides, it’s not like you haven’t dreamed about this. Or were you moaning about someone else who just happens to have the same name as me last night?”

Your eyes shoot open at the revelation that not only had you said his name in your sleep, but he’d fucking heard you. And has the nerve to tease you about it at a time like this.

He's smirking down at you. His smugness irritates you often, but right now it’s enough to cause the tips of your fingers to burn hot. You jerk his hand away from your face, causing him to hiss when your fingers wrap around his wrist.

He chortles, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation. The reaction fills you with annoyance – of course he would have a fucking pain kink.

As much as it pisses you off, it also spurs you on. Blame the influence of the chemicals that you’re currently under, but the fact that he can so easily tolerate and even enjoy something that would have anyone else running in the opposite direction does something to you.

You’re past the point of finding it in you to care about consequences. You’re no longer thinking about how you’ll be able to look him in the eye when this is over, or how you’ll pretend like everything is perfectly normal when the two of you are back on the jet with your teammates.

Maybe you can fight this drug, or maybe he’s right and there’s no point in trying. Either way, you’ve decided that you're going to have him before you leave this room.

You drop his hand, bringing yours to the zipper at the neckline of your tactical suit. You slowly tug it downwards, gauging his expression as he watches you expose your chest and stomach.

For once, he’s all out of smart remarks.

A part of you feels a sense of satisfaction and wants to continue taking your time with undressing yourself, just to keep him looking at you like this – but every fiber of your being is screaming at you for more.

You waste no more time with shoving the restrictive Kevlar material down your arms, leaving you in only your bra from the waist up. Logan unfreezes at the sight, crawling onto the bed on his knees. You maneuver yourself so that you’re laying flat against the mattress, pulling him down with you.

He rips the fabric of your bra away from your breast, immediately attaching his mouth to your nipple. He rolls it between his tongue and teeth, causing you to arch your back into his touch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, pinning yourself to the mattress with his body. You mewl at the feeling of your pebbled nipple in his warm mouth.

His other hand attempts to free the opposite breast, but the fabric is too tight and restrictive. He let’s out an annoyed growl, pulling back to unsheathe his claws and snip the material in between your tits, letting them spill free.

“Hey! I loved that bra—”

Your complaint dies in your throat when he slates his lips over yours.

There’s nothing slow or sensual about the way that he kisses you. He slips his tongue past your lips, moving his lips with fervency and urgency – like he needs this as badly as you do.

You buck your hips up into him, desperate for any amount of friction. He grinds down against you, his erection evident even through the thick material of both of your tactical suits.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss to unzip your suit the rest of the way down. He peels it down your thighs, only stopping to discard your boots. When you’re left in only your underwear, he looks at you with a satisfied smirk.

“So, what exactly was I doing in your dream to have you saying my name like that, huh?” he asks as he toys with the waistband of your panties.

You roll your eyes, your patience growing thinner as the ache in your belly grows stronger. He can tease you about that all he wants when you’re back in the safety of the mansion, when you’re no longer under the influence of potentially life threatening chemicals and capable of thinking of a proper comeback.

“Shut up and eat me out.”

His smirk only grows, but he doesn’t tease you any further. He tugs your panties down your legs, tossing them to the floor. He lowers himself onto his stomach, still fully dressed. Under less dire circumstances, you would’ve been eager to get him out of his clothes, too – but right now, your highest priority is feeling his mouth on you.

No wet dream could have prepared you for how euphoric it actually feels for his teeth to nip at the tender flesh of your inner thighs, or the way that his tongue draws lazy circles at your hole before his lips lock around your clit.

You writhe against him, chasing the release that you’ve been desperate for since the second the vapor first came in contact with your skin. He’s more than generous, expertly nursing at your swollen bud as he eases a slender finger inside your cunt.

One finger – that’s all it takes to feel your climax building, the coil in your lower belly tightening. You feel your walls pulse around the digit as your orgasm washes over you. You don’t even try to hold back your cries and praises of pleasure, letting him know how good he’s making you feel.

When he sits back, his lips and beard glisten with your slick in the red glow that encases you both. You push yourself into a sitting position and reach for the zipper of his suit, antsy to shed his clothing now that your physical discomfort had been quelled – at least for the time being.

He helps you, shrugging out of his vest and tugging his undershirt over his head. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but never shirtless for you. You want to dig your nails into the planes of his chest, and run your tongue along the protruding vein that disappears beyond the waistline of his pants –

You undo his belt buckle and pop open the button of his pants before hastily yanking both his pants and boxers down in one movement. His cock springs free, bobbing inches before your face. You start to adjust your position on the bed – to get on your knees and take him in your mouth – when a low chuckle causes you to pause and look up at him.

“Nuh-uh,” he tuts, earning a confused pout from you.

“You don’t want me to suck your dick?” You ask with raised brows.

“S’not about me right now, bub. I said I was gonna take care of you, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Now lay back down for me.”

You aren’t going to argue with that.

You return to your original position on the mattress, pulling him down with you. He hovers above you, using one arm to support himself on the bed. He takes his cock in his free hand, stroking his length a few times before nudging his head through your folds until he’s lubricated in your juices.

“Don’t you worry, though,” he murmurs against your lips. He teases his tip at your hole. “If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I'll let you.”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtfu—”

He sheaths himself inside you, turning the end of your retort into a gasp. He fills you entirely, stilling to allow both of you time to adjust to the sensation. The stretch is damn near blinding, making your eyes roll back into your skull. You glance down between your bodies, halfway expecting to see him jutting out of your stomach.

He fucks you similarly to how he kisses you – like this is saving him as much as it is you. It's rough, and fast, and messy – and you dread the moment that it’s over.

No one has ever filled you as completely and perfectly as him. You don’t think anyone else ever will, again.

Each drag of his cock along your walls has you clenching around him, each time his head rams against your cervix you can’t help but cry his name.

He snakes his hand in between you, reaching down to where his body collides with yours. His thumb massages over your sensitive clit.

You rake your nails down his back and he hisses in approval, snapping his hips into you at a brutal pace.

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess,” he grunts before kissing you again.

You don't have time to overthink the sentiment before your second orgasm is washing over you. Logan cums as soon as he feels your pussy pulsating around him, fucking you until he's spilled every last drop of his warm seed deep inside you. When you're both finished, he stills inside you and rests his sweat-slicked forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

“You think it worked?” he grunts.

As if on cue, you hear the deadbolt unlock from the other side of the room. A second later, Storm’s voice sounds from your communication device that had fallen to the floor at some point.

“I don't feel like there’s a ticking time bomb inside my vagina anymore. So, I’d say yeah, it worked.”

He huffs a laugh, and then pulls out of you with a sigh.

“Logan,” you say, stopping him before he can pull away from you entirely. He stares down at you, waiting for you to continue.

You aren’t even sure what to say. Truthfully, you just weren’t ready for the moment to end and for things to go back to normal between the two of you.

“Thank you,” you spit out after a moment of loaded silence. “For… helping me,” you finish lamely.

“Don’t thank me, bub,” he chuckles. “It’s far from the worst thing that's happened to me in this place.”

••••••

You sleep the entire flight back to New York.

And as soon as you've showered and your head hits the pillow after returning home to the mansion, you sleep for another ten hours. Every time you wake up and think that you're finally well-rested, your body says otherwise and you're asleep again within minutes.

You wish you could say it’s a dreamless sleep, but that would be a lie. You see Logan’s face every time you close your eyes.

But it's different than the last dream you had of him. It isn’t images of his head between your thighs or his fingers slipping in and out of you.

It’s just.. him. His presence. The lingering feeling of his lips on yours, the light flavor of tobacco and menthol.

And the echo of the words he spoke as he teased you with the head of his cock and made you cum around his length.

“Don’t you worry, though. If you still wanna suck my dick when we get out of here, I’ll let you.”

“Fuckin’ ruinin’ me for anyone else, princess.”

When you wake, the ache between your thighs for him remains, despite the fact that the effects of the drugs had long since faded.

You know you shouldn’t read too far into words spoken while the two of you were locked in that room. But you can’t help but keep thinking that he wasn’t under the influence of chemical subjugation. Which leaves you questioning if he meant the things he said, or if he was just trying to lighten a scary, impossible situation for both of you.

You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

When you finally gather the courage the knock on his door, the sun has set and everyone has retired to their bedrooms for the evening.

You almost dash back into your own room during the few seconds that it takes him to open his door. He wears sweatpants, a plain black t-shirt, and a surprised expression.

“Hey, bub,” he greets you apprehensively. You don't normally make a habit of stopping by his room for late night chats. “Was starting to worry that you’d fallen into a coma.”

He opens his door wider, motioning with his head for you to come inside.

“Felt like it,” you give a small laugh. “Whatever was in that shit wore me out.” You take a seat on the edge of his bed, nervously wringing your hands together.

“You feeling better now?” he asks as he leans against his dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes trail over the large muscles of his chest and shoulders. The memory of his body caging you to the twin sized mattress in the basement of the bunker flashes through your mind.

You nod, hoping that it’s convincing.

“All things considered,” you shrug. “I just wanted to check in with you. Has Charles… said anything?”

What you're actually trying to ask is if Charles interrogated him about where the two of you were during the mission, why no one was able to contact either of you, and why you have been so exhausted that you've done nothing but sleep for the last day, but you trust that he knows what you mean.

“He hasn’t said anything, but..” he trails off, eyes darting around the room to avoid your gaze. “It’s Charles. Safe to assume he knows and is just being decent by not saying anything.”

“Right,” you murmur.

If he doesn’t already know, it's only a matter of time before you slip up and imagine the feeling of his lips on yours or the sounds of his moans in the middle of a mission debriefing.

“And the humans..? They’re all okay?”

“They are,” he assures you with a soft smile. “They’re all receiving medical attention, and most have been reunited with their loved ones.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “No thanks to us, I guess.”

“No,” he laughs. “I suppose not.”

He pushes himself off the dresser, walking the few feet to where you perch at the edge of the mattress. He sits down beside you, his thigh brushing against yours. He smells of Old Spice deodorant and spearmint toothpaste, and it makes you the room spin around you.

“But everyone’s okay. They’re safe. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. He’s close enough that you can practically feel the heat from his body. You risk looking at his face, your gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

“Yeah,” you finally agree. “You’re right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest. I just wanted to check in with—”

You start to stand up, when he cups your jaw in his hand and pulls your face to his. He’s hesitant in a way that he wasn’t yesterday – he gives you the opportunity to pull away before he sweeps his tongue across your bottom lip, as if asking for permission.

When you don’t give any kind of indication that you want him to stop, he pulls you flush against him and slips his tongue past your lips. You bring your hand to the back of his neck, twining your fingers through his hair.

He takes his time with you. Whereas yesterday’s kisses were filled with urgency and desperation, todays is tender and sensual. Now, you’re allowed the luxury of taking your time.

He lays down against the mattress, pulling you with him. You straddle his stomach, your lips never once breaking contact. His hands grip the globes of your ass, his fingers digging into the meat through your pajama pants.

You grind against the hard planes of his abdomen, earning a throaty growl from him.

He breaks away, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.

“I said something I didn’t entirely mean yesterday,” he whispers, out of breath.

“What?” you ask, sitting upright and looking down at him. “You aren’t going to let me suck your dick?”

“No,” he chuckles. “God, no. I meant that. If you still want to, that is—”

“What is it, then?” you interrupt with a playful nudge to his chest.

“I said you could go back to tolerating my existence. But I hope you wanna do a little bit more than just tolerate me.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning down to press your lips to his once more.

“I could see myself doing a little bit more than just tolerating you.”

oooops i accidentally wrote another fic where logan overhears something that he wasn't supposed to 😅🫠 did not originally plan for that to happen hahaha

check out some of my other logan fics -

by the end of the night

dog tags drabble

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan x reader #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x you #logan x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett one shot #sex pollen #sex pollen trope #days of future past #xmen #xmen days of future past #xmen dofp

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revolutionsingingintherainnn · 2 months ago

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Hard Launching ∘°∘♡∘°∘

Summary: lando and y/n wanted to hard launch their relationship after dating secretly for a while. lando finds the perfect way to do so.

☘ ln x reader ✧˖*°࿐

☘ fluff + humour ✧˖*°࿐

masterlist ☾☼

lando and y/n had been discussing for a while about hard launching their relationship. they had managed to keep it out of the media for an entire season, but the media liked to paint lando as a villain, in more ways than one. not only were they attacking his skills on track, they began collecting pictures of lando with women, no matter how many years ago, and publishing them with articles about him being a womanizer.

the funniest ones were the pictures of lando and her sister out on some bonding time. reading those articles always made y/n laughed, and she would be lying if she said that she didn’t have them bookmarked in her browser for a pick me up when she was having a bad day.

at first, they had thought of doing a simple post with a cheesy caption. enough to let the fans knows that he was off the market again. but, it also felt kind of boring, and that was not lando or y/n’s style.

they discussed it for weeks, looking at different social media websites for inspiration, until it struck lando. scrolling through instagram, he’d found the perfect way to hard launch his relationship with his girlfriend.

when y/n asked him, he said, “you’ll just have to wait like the rest of the world, my love. but, i know you’re going to love it.”

y/n waited, just like he had told her to. she waited for two months, until one day, in the middle of her work, she received the instagram notification of lando posting and tagging her. this was the moment, y/n thought.

opening instagram, she found a reel, instead of a post or a story like she assumed. quickly, wearing her airpods, y/n clicked on the reel, increasing the volume in the background.

the reel opened with someone recording lando as he walked, head down and concentrated. the person recording said, “excuse me, what are you listening to right now?”

lando took out one of his airpods, and said, “my girlfriend yapping,” and then walked away.

the reel immediately cut to different instances of y/n talking and lando patiently listening. they were all sped up videos, and y/n watched her animated hands as she ranted, and lando listening, changing his position every so often. the music in the background was a lively, jaunty sound, and it fit so well with the reel.

there were a series of videos, from their home, from the paddock, from conference rooms where they were waiting for zak, or even from the gym where lando worked out, and y/n basically followed him, still talking his ear off. there were multiple videos of them on facetime as well, or screenshots of their hour - hour and half long conversations.

y/n laughed. it truly was the perfect way for lando to hard launch their relationship. it described them perfectly, if she did say so herself.

scrolling through the comments, she saw a lot of fans crying that he was a taken man now. she saw some saying things like, “this is the realest representation of a relationship.” there were some hate comments too, but they were stupid, so she ignored them.

she commented on the post as well, typing, “wait till i send you a 20 minute voice note on my lunch break” to which lando immediately responded with, “can’t wait, i got my airpods and my phone fully charged”

y/n laughed again, opening her text messaging app, and sending a quick “i love you this was perfect” to her boyfriend.

·̩̩̥͙＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊·̩̩̥͙

hi! i hope you guys enjoyed this! it came to me while i was driving to college! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday

#f1 #formula 1 #lando norris #formula one #ln4 #f1 imagine #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando imagine #ln4 fluff #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln x reader #ln

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needlekind · 2 years ago

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filterable picrew database!

original post updated march 7 2024

hey pals!! i'm working on a filterable, tagged collection of picrew i like. right now there's over 100 picrew (and other such makers such as those from neka or meiker) in there with tags for things like fashion, hair options, skin colors, specific features like horns or headscarves, and body types. you can search for multiple tags at a time and filter out tags you don't want. the whole thing is organized in a big grid of sample results from the picrew in question, so you can see the style at a glance and click it for more images and the url, but you can change the view and organization system however you like.

the link is here!!! feel free to share this wherever. i'm still going through my folders and adding more makers, so expect lots of updates real soon.

i'm hoping this makes it easier for people to find picrew that suit them and their characters, especially in cases where it's unfortunately harder to find certain features like dark skin options and fat bodies.

really important notes:

i do not take requests for additional tags. sorry!! please understand that every time i want to use a new tag, i have to manually go into every maker in the entire backlog and check to see if they have it. it's a pain! it takes a while! there's only one of me! the only circumstance under which i'm willing to add a new tag is if you're willing to go through the backlog and link me every picrew that needs the tag, and i can use it going forward.

if something is tagged wrong, i need to know which maker it is so i can fix it. you need to tell me! the most useful way to send me a specific picrew is a direct link, or the artist name (which will be the title when you click into the item in the database). sometimes i get vague comments like "there are makers in x tag that don't fit" and no one EVER follows up with which ones they are so i can't FIX IT.

one big thing that you can do to help me with this database is take one of the links on my tba page and tell me what tags apply to it. literally just one! enough folks see and use this resource that just a few people taking one takes a load off my plate.

💖🍵 if this resource has been useful for you, consider sending me a tip on ko-fi!!

have fun!!!! i hope this is helpful for people!!!

#picrew #dollmaker #doll maker

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cosmicdahlias · 2 months ago

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And They Were Roommates

Logan Howlett x Reader

MINORS DNI

Your roommate, Wade Wilson, brings home an alcoholic Canadian bastard with knifes in his knuckles. After a month of putting up with him, an argument between you two goes in an unexpected direction.

tags: hard drugs mention, marijuana mention, alcohol usage, age difference, enemies to lovers, slapping, claws, hate fucking, mdom/fsub, breeding, degradation, praise kink, belt usage, choking, p in v, knifeplay (counting claw usage as knifeplay lmao), blood, creampie, possible impreg, aftercare, oral, multiple orgasms (emphasis on multiple), overstimulation

i’ve recently started watching the xcu movies after deadpool and wolverine dropped on disney+ and MY GODDDDDD have i been missing out!!! i’ve been an mcu girlie for so long (plus deadpool). the x-men movies are so fun but alsoooooo uhhhh hugh jackman as logan??? HELLO??? i need this man biblically like it’s not even funny. i have yet to watch logan (2017) but i’ve seen edits on tiktok and WHOA MAMA talk about a silver fox!!! also fun fact male wolverines bite down on the female’s neck during mating and i couldn’t resist including that in this fic. animalistic logan is THE BEST logan 👌

You were Wade Wilson’s friend turned roommate. You first knew each other through your other roommate, Althea, a blind woman who went by Al. At one point in time you were Al’s dealer before giving up that life once you got your degree and found steady employment. You never dabbled in the devil’s dandruff like Al did, as with the rest of gen Z, your drug of choice was weed. Your friends often asked why you chose an old woman and a mutant in his forties as roommates, but honestly rent was cheap and that was all you cared about.

You hadn’t seen Wade in a few days, he mysteriously disappeared during his birthday party. Neither you, nor any of his friends had any idea what had happened to him. You knew he’d kinda hit a rough’ish point in his life, giving up his assassin alter ego by the name of Deadpool for becoming a car salesman. You wondered if he had gone off on some sort of bender, but you honestly didn’t know.

You had just gotten off of work and opened the door to your apartment. Getting home took longer than expected, half of your street was cordoned off, from the damage looked like a bombing was the cause. You sat on the couch and pulled out your phone, trying to see if the local news had covered what had happened when door unlocked and swung open.

Wade walked in, sporting the iconic red suit you hadn’t seen him wear in six years. He was carrying the most… unique looking dog you’d ever seen and he was accompanied by a man with a rugged appearance who was wearing pants of similar material as Wade’s suit and nothing else. The stench of blood permeated the room.

“Al, I’m back.” Wade said.

“She’s out. Dude, where the hell have you been?” You asked.

“Oh no big deal, just saved the entire multiverse from total annihilation. I’m Marvel Jesus now.” Wade answered.

You elected to ignore his explanation. You never knew why you asked what he’d gotten up to whenever he wore that suit, none of it ever made a lick of sense to you.

“Who’s the dog?”

“Her? This four legged scrotum is Mary Puppins, or as I like to call her, Dogpool. Something… unfortunate happened to her last owner, so I’m her papá now.” Wade said cheerfully.

Knowing him, he definitely had something to do with whatever happened to her previous owner, but that wasn’t what you were asking about.

“Cute, but I was talking about the washed up Abercrombie & Fitch greeter next to you.”

The man rolled his eyes.

“Ohhhh, yeah that’s Logan. He’s gonna be crashing here for a while.”

“Wait, hold the fuck up. You disappear for days and you just show up in the suit you haven’t worn in years, reeking of blood, telling me some shirtless dude who also smells like blood is gonna live here like it’s no big deal?”

“Well funny thing is he doesn’t exactly know anyone else around here, not really his fault since I had to pull him from his universe and bring him here to save ours. May or may not have done so to a choir rendition of Madonna. You know, typical multiverse stuff and whatnot. I mean we’re Disney property now and that’s the horse they’re beating to death at the moment.” Wade answered.

Once again ignoring the exposition dump, you continued to protest.

“You can’t be serious, Wade! This is a two bed apartment. You and Al already share a room, so where the fuck are you gonna put him?”

“Isn’t that a couch you’re sitting on?” Logan scoffed.

“Oh perfect, so I can’t even use the goddam living room anymore?” You asked, growing even more irritated by Logan’s input.

“Jesus, you’re just a fuckin’ princess, aren’t you?” Logan huffed.

You glared at him before turning your attention back to Wade.

“Do I literally not get a say in this like at all? Even though I live here and pay my share of the rent?”

“Look, I promise it’s temporary. Just until he gets his footing in this universe. It won’t be so bad, I mean look him, total eye candy.” Wade said, gripping Logan’s face and turning his head to you.

Logan gave him a look that could kill. Long metal claws sprung out from just below his knuckles. Your eyes widened.

“THE FUCK ARE THOSE?” You shouted.

“Riiiiiiiight, so those are adamantium claws. They ain’t vibranium, but hey, can’t always be the number one. He’s a bonafide animal, in more ways than one, maybe you’ll find out for yourself.” Wade said, you could tell he was winking underneath his mask.

“The fuck do you mean by that?” Logan growled.

“Yeah, what?” You asked.

“Hey, I know sexual tension when I see it.” Wade retorted.

“I literally just met him.” You said.

“Yeah and with Hugh Jackman’s face and body, the time between introduction and need for face riding is a matter of seconds.” Wade said.

You gave a quick glance at Logan. Sure, he was incredibly attractive, but you sensed a sort of emotional unavailability that put you off. You had standards.

“You know my type and he’s not it, Wade.” You insisted.

“Forget type, he’s THE Wolverine. You know how many fanfics people read about this guy? Lookin’ at you, reader.” Wade said.

“Whatever, I’m not getting into a debate over my preferences for men.” You said, walking to your room and slamming the door.

“I think that went well.” Wade said.

A month had passed and much to your dismay, you were still being forced to share the apartment with Logan. At the very least he’d upgraded to wearing a shirt instead of walking around with his top half exposed.

After getting home from an exhausting shift at work, you opened the fridge, looking for the bottle of wine you saved for those evenings after a particularly long day. It was nowhere to be seen and you immediately knew who the culprit was.

“For fuck’s sake, Logan!” You shouted.

You headed to the living room to confront what was supposed to be your temporary roommate who sat on the couch.

“Christ, what now?” He groaned.

“Where the fuck is my wine?”

“Hm? Oh that? Yeah, it’s gone.” He answered dismissively, almost like taking time to respond or even look at you was beneath him.

“How many times do I have to tell you to keep your barely functioning alcoholic ass away from my stuff?”

“Didn’t see your name on it.”

“I specifically told you not to touch that fucking bottle multiple times.”

“Must’ve not been able to distinguish what you said from your typical bitching, I usually just tune that shit out.” He said, still not making eye contact with you.

“Jesus you really have no respect for anyone.” You spat.

Logan stood, coming in way too close for your liking.

“Respect? That’s a really funny word coming from someone who doesn’t respect themselves enough to not wear short little skirts like the one you’re wearing, bending over all the time to show off that ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh you fuckin’ heard me. You think I don’t see what you’re doing with the clothes you wear, or when you come out in the morning in nothing but a shirt and panties because you think I’m asleep and won’t notice?”

“Back the fuck up, the hell do you mean by ‘think’ you’re asleep?”

“I barely sleep enough as it is, I’m awake the second I hear your door open. You have any idea what seeing you like that does to me?”

You blushed.

“You’re fucking disgusting.” You said through gritted teeth.

“Please, you do it because you hope I’m watching you. I see the way you look at me. You can say you hate me all you fuckin’ want, but I can smell your goddam pheromones from across the room. I’ve been around for over two centuries and have more than enough experience to know when someone wants me. Especially when they’re acting like as much of a slut as y-“

You slapped him hard across the face. Logan immediately responded by pushing you up against the wall, unsheathing his claws and holding them under your chin. Neither of you said anything, the only sounds being a mix of him and you panting in anger.

Fuck, you had really grown to hate him, but something about his claws so dangerously close to you was playing into your kinks. You stole a glance down under, holy shit he was hard. You grabbed him by the face, kissing him aggressively. His claws retracted and he let his hands travel to your waist, pulling you closer.

“Mmf- fuckin’ knew it.” He said between kisses.

Logan picked you up by the underside of your thighs and carried you to your bedroom, his lips never once leaving you. He threw you down onto the bed, pulling your shirt over your head and unhooking your bra, tossing it aside. He took in the sight of your exposed chest.

“You’re such a pretty little thing, babygirl.”

His rough, calloused hand cupped your breast. He leaned down and you gave a yelp as he bit and tugged your nipple.

Logan chuckled. “Sensitive, aren’t you?”

You kissed him as you pulled his shirt off and traced your fingers along the dip between his abs. He unbuckled his belt, unzipping his jeans and slipping them off. Your eyes widened at the size of his cock, he laughed at your reaction.

“Yeah, like it don’t you?” He smirked.

“How the hell am I supposed to enjoy this if you’re gonna tear me in half?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t want it like that, I can tell you like it rough.”

“That’s a bold assumption to make.”

“Yeah? Keep telling yourself that.”

Logan pulled off your skirt and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of your panties, slipping them down your legs. He looked at your pussy with pure animalistic lust.

“Fuuuck babygirl, look how wet you already are for me. You got it that bad for older men, huh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You retorted.

“Oh I don’t have to, the way you’re dripping says more than enough.”

“Just shut up and fuck me already.”

You laid back on the bed with your head against the pillow and Logan flipped you over on your stomach, pulling you up to your hands and knees.

“No, you don’t get missionary. You act like a bitch? You’re getting fucked like one.”

Logan reached for his belt, he raised it, bringing it down sharply on your ass, making you squeal.

“This is what you get for being such a fuckin’ brat. From now on you call me ‘sir’, understand?”

“Like hell I will.“

He lashed you again.

“Keep talking back and see what happens. Now, what do you say?”

“Y- yes sir.”

“There you go. I’ll be nicer if you listen to me… maybe.”

Logan looped the belt around your neck.

“I’m keeping you on a leash in case you continue making smart comments.” He smirked.

“As if that’s gonna shut m- hrrrk!”

He pulled it tight, the leather dug into your skin and constricted your throat. The most you could get out was a strained moan.

“Got nothin’ to say to me now, huh? C’mon, tell me how much you hate me.” Logan mocked as he pulled harder.

You looked back at him and mouthed “fuck you”.

He laughed. “Oh I will.”

He pressed the tip of his cock against your slit for a fraction of a second before sharply forcing his full length deep inside you, causing you to cry out as his intimidating girth stretched you wide. He began to fuck you at a ruthless pace, the sounds of your yelps and squeaks filling the room.

“Poor thing, am I hurting you? It’s okay, I’m only fucking you senseless.” He teased.

His free hand gripped your ass, nails digging into your skin.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so fuckin’ tight. It’s like your little pussy was made for my cock.” He grunted.

Logan leaned down, sucking your neck, leaving mark after mark, his hand letting the belt loosen.

“You’re gonna look so pretty all marked up by me.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Are you seriously giving me hickeys? Really? What are you thirtee- ngh!”

Logan pulled tight on his belt again, keeping you from finishing your snide remark.

His thrusts became more aggressive, and as much as your feelings about Logan confused you, his cock felt incredible. You moved yourself back on him and he growled in approval.

“Yeah that’s it, take this fat cock like a perfect little slut. So good for me.”

He let go of the belt, both hands moving to your hips. His pace became punishingly fast and brutal. Between his growls and the way he fucked you like a dog, he honestly seemed more animal than man.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ breed you, I don’t care if you’re on the pill or not.”

You whimpered and tightened around him at his words. He smirked.

“Oh you like that?”

You nodded.

“Yeah? You wanna get knocked up? Tell me you want it, babygirl. Lemme hear you say it.”

“I need you to cum in me, get me pregnant. Please.” You begged.

He stopped his thrusts with only his head remaining inside you. He grabbed you by the throat and pulled you up against him, pressing his chest to your back.

“Please, what?” He commanded.

“Please, sir.”

He shoved you down onto the mattress and slammed himself fully back inside you, immediately resuming his vicious pace.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl.”

He panted like a wild animal, his claws slowly extending as he grew close.

“S- shit, sorry. Happens sometimes.” He said.

You tightened around him.

“Use them on me, hurt me, sir. Please, I need it so bad.” You whined.

“Goddam, you’re a fuckin’ freak. Aren’t ya, babygirl?”

He raked his claws down your back, you moaned obscenely loud as pearls of blood formed from the long slits he’d created. The mere sensation of it all immediately caused you to cum on his cock. The feeling of you pulsing around his shaft pushed him over the edge. He grunted as he buried himself to the hilt and leaned over, biting down hard on your neck, capillaries breaking under your skin. His cock throbbed with every rope of cum he shot into you.

“Fuuuuckin’ Christ, it’s not often I find someone that’s as into the hardcore stuff as me.” He chuckled.

Your whole body shook and you collapsed onto the mattress on your stomach. Logan removed his belt from your neck and got off the bed.

“Stay there, don’t move.” He said, pulling on his jeans and leaving the room.

He returned five or so minutes later with gauze, a roll of medical tape, and a wet hand towel.

“Had to really dig around for some of this stuff, when two out of four roommates regenerate there’s not a real demand.“

Logan got back onto the bed, sitting next to you.

“So what’s it like? To not heal immediately?” He asked as he dabbed at the blood on your back.

“I dunno, I never really thought about it. I guess you just deal with the pain for a few days, weeks, or months depending on what it is until it’s fine again.”

Logan chuckled.

“Sometimes I forget just how fragile everyone else is, until the world reminds me of it again and then…” He trailed off.

You could tell there was a heaviness to the latter half of his words, you knew why. Wade had told you that in Logan’s universe (a concept which took weeks for you to fully grasp) every single one of his fellow mutants had been murdered. You didn’t know the details, but you didn’t need to for you to understand why he was the way that he was. You looked up at him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” You said softly.

“What do you-“ his brow furrowed. “What did Wade tell you?” He growled as he covered his claw marks with gauze.

“Don’t get mad, I just- I wanted to know why you act like-“

“A dick?” He scoffed, pulling out a few inches of medical tape from the roll.

“Like someone with severe trauma.”

He went silent and looked away from your gaze as he finished adding the last line of tape to secure the gauze.

“…You’re all patched up.”

You moved to get up and dress yourself, but Logan wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you back onto the mattress.

“No, c’mere. Lay back for me.”

“Do I still have to call you ‘sir’?

“It’s alright, you can call me ‘Logan’ again. This is about making you feel good, not me. I think I owe you one for being such a good girl.”

You laid with your head against the pillow and Logan began to kiss his way down the length of your body until his head was between your thighs. His lips were so close to your pussy that you could feel the heat of his breath.

“Didn’t peg you for the kinda guy that gives head.”

“You thought wrong. I’m eating this pussy until you’re shaking for me.”

His lips met your clit, his tongue rolling and circling it. You moaned and tangled your fingers in his hair.

“Fuckin’ Christ, your scent is addictive.” He growled against you, making you shudder as the deep vibrations went straight to your clit.

You bucked your hips and he moved his hands to them, keeping you in place.

“Eeeeasy there. I know it feels good, but you can’t move around like that if I’m gonna eat you out, babygirl.”

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them at just the right spot to absolutely send you over the edge. Your breath shuddered as you tightened around him.

“That’s it. C’mon, be a good girl and cum for me.”

You gripped his hair harder as you came undone on his tongue, pulsing around his fingers.

“Fuuuuuck, Logan!”

Your back arched off the bed, he pressed a hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“No, I’m not done with you yet.”

He continued sucking and licking your clit, his fingers fucking you hard and fast. You shook, feeling a second orgasm build. Your head cocked back as all of the nerves in your body ignited in pleasure for a second time. You expected Logan to remove his mouth, but he kept going.

“Fuck, I can’t stop. You’re just too goddam perfect when you cum.”

You moaned loudly, your clit throbbing in his mouth as you came for a third time, cursing like a sailor and writhing against his tongue.

“You doing good there, babygirl?” Logan asked.

“Uh-huh.” You murmured.

At some point everything went hazy and you lost track of just how many times he’d made you cum. The more you had, the quicker the next one came, until it was one immediately after another. You were a shaking, stuttering mess.

“L- Logan, I ca- an’t keep going. I- it’s too m- much.”

“Shhh, you’re okay. Just one more time, I promise.”

He pumped his fingers relentlessly, his tongue working your clit at an equally vigorous pace. Every muscle in your body tensed as the most intense orgasm you had ever felt in your life rocked you to your very core and everything went white for a moment.

“Ohhhhh godddd, Logan. You’re gonna fucking kill meeee.” You groaned.

Logan moved himself to get on top of you, kissing you deeply.

“I’m sorry babygirl. I know I pushed you hard, but you did so well for me.” He whispered softly, holding your face in his hand and stroking your cheek with his thumb.

He laid next to you, pulling you to him, his chest pressed against your back as your post orgasm haze finally subsided.

“Never saw you as the cuddling type.” You said.

“Depends on how I feel about whoever I’m fucking, and unfortunately for me I’m starting to actually like you.”

“And what did I do to deserve that?”

“Well, you’re still a total bitch, but you’re actually pretty sweet when you want to be. I like you that way though, makes things interesting. I’ll admit when you slapped me I got so fuckin’ hard.”

“So, you’re saying I should slap you more often?”

“I’m not saying no, but just expect to lose the ability to walk after I fuck it out of you.”

“You got yourself a deal.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck.

“Good. Now, there’s something you should know. Regeneration doesn’t just mean that I heal quickly.” He said, pressing the hard bulge in his jeans against you.

“Holy shit, so… we could fuck all night without stopping?”

“Exactly.”

“Then what the hell are we doing just lying here?”

Logan turned you onto your back, getting on top of you.

“Attagirl, let’s fuckin’ go.”

The two of you spent the whole night fucking like rabbits nonstop. When morning came you made your way to the kitchen. Logan followed, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you from behind as you made yourself a cup of coffee. He buried his nose in the crook of your neck, taking in your scent.

“I hope you know I’m never gonna get enough of you.” He said, his hands traveling underneath your shirt to your breasts.

“I swear, you’re hornier than a dog that hasn’t had his balls chopped off.” You teased.

“Yeah and you love it.”

“There you go with the assumptions again, you’re so right though.” You purred, turning to him.

“I know I am.”

His lips met yours and he lifted you onto the counter. You laced your fingers in his hair and wrapped your legs around him. Both of you were too focused on each other to notice the sound of a door opening. Wade walked out from the room he shared with Al carrying Mary Puppins.

“Judging by the NC-17 noises I heard all night I’m guessing you two had fun.” Wade said, causing you to jump and pull away from Logan.

“For fuck’s sake, do you not know when to leave people alone?” Logan huffed.

“Oh c’mon peanut, you know boundaries aren’t my forte. It’s my toxic trait.”

Logan glared at him.

“Alright alright, I can take a hint. Just try not to get any fluids on the appliances. I certainly don’t mind a little Wolvie in my coffee, but I don’t think Al would appreciate it.” Wade said, heading back to his room.

Logan turned his attention back to you, his lips brushing against yours.

“Now, babygirl, where were we?”

#x men #wolverine #logan howlett #wolverine fanfic #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader #logan howlett fanfic #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #my fics

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parfaitblogs · 2 months ago

Text

as time goes by ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you funnel through photographic memories of what once was, now isn't, but might still be.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst & smut (18+ mdni) tags: what isn't there? meet cute. burnt toast theory if you squint. right person wrong time. soft dom!spencer. first time. p in v. fingering. praise. fade to black oral (f receiving). mommy issues. anxious attachment reader. past alcohol consumption. argument. + angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort. word count: 9.8k a/n: i know i said this was 8k but then i just kept writing and writing and writing and writing and writing... enjoy my angels!! this truly took a piece of my soul to write. a short playlist of what i listened to while writing this <3

"I'm always soft for you, that's the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say 'come here, it's been too long, it felt like home with you." (Azra T)

February

It was a dreary burst of continuous rain and the threat of a thunderstorm that landed you in this predicament.

Grey storm clouds that darkened the entire city even at the early hour of seven in the morning. There was a soft glow in one of the clusters of clouds where the sun was attempting to peek through, a striking metaphor for the way your life currently felt. Rays of sunshine barely piercing the sky enough to make an impression on the otherwise miserable day.

You were late for work. Your usually easy morning routine replaced by bus delays due to the traffic on the roads, and trains canceled due to faults in the signalling.

You were barely halfway up the stairs to your platform when it happened.

If you were any less focussed on keeping the ends of your jeans off the damp concrete, you wouldn't have spotted the drop of the blue and green SmarTrip card dropping to the step in front of you, from a leather messenger bag that was frantically swinging on someone's shoulder.

You pick it up without even thinking, concerned by the fact that its owner hadn't even noticed. Which meant you'd have to experience the God awful awkward interaction of handing it back to them, and the even more awful small talk conversation that followed.

The platform stretched out in front of you, and you were rushing to tap his shoulder before he could get too far away from you. A mop of messy curls turned, and never mind the fact that he was a stranger; he was hot.

He's confused, and you watch him begin to think the tapping was a mistake, and you were just too rude to apologise for it.

"Hi," you burst out, holding the card out in front of you. "Sorry. Is this yours?"

"Oh," his expression is replaced with relief. "Yes. It is. Thank you."

You force an awkward smile onto your face, and he matches it with his own. Your heart flutters at the sight of it, and you thank God he was one of those awkward attractive guys — not an asshole.

Then again, this was a two second interaction, and you didn't know him. Delusion would be your downfall.

The train was overly crowded that morning. The traffic of two trains packed into one, resulting in barely any seats, and even less standing room.

Thankfully, you had gotten one at the back of one of the carriages, which meant you could watch as multiple people walk past you, thinking there'd be more further down. Only to be sorely disappointed, but too stuck to come back and get the seat beside you they had spotted.

"Oh. Hello again."

You lift your head at the voice, metro card man standing awkwardly next to the seat next to you.

"Hey," you reply, heart rate skyrocketing. Just your luck.

"Is it okay if I sit here? All the other seats are taken," he asks, and even if there were six other free seats away from you, you'd let him.

He sits when you nod, and you adjust your bag on the floor in front of you as he does the same, the messenger bag hugged firmly atop his lap.

"Thank you for catching my card," he says, and you aren't sure if he's trying to make small talk because he's interested, or because he feels too bad to not.

Your heart decides to go with the former.

"It's no problem," you shake your head. "If I ever lost my metro card I'd probably have a panic attack in the middle of the station. So... y'know..." Why did you say that?

His chest shakes with quiet laughter anyways, and he's nodding in agreement, but you're sure he doesn't really understand what you mean. He doesn't seem like the type of person to have a panic attack in the middle of a train station.

"Are you headed to DC?" he then asks, and delusion be damned if this isn't him interested in you.

You nod your head. "That's where this train is going, yes."

He pauses in a reply. "Well, yes, but there's stops along the way. You could be getting off at any of those." You fall silent at his words. That was true. "But you're not. You're going to DC."

"I am," you confirm your destination of the day for the second time, and your brain wonders if telling this inherent stranger where you were planning on going was a wise choice. Probably not. He didn't seem like a serial killer, at least. Then again, your judgement wasn't always the best.

"I am too," he says, lips pulling into the same awkward smile he had earlier, when you'd given him his metro card back.

"We have so much in common," you joke, but you aren't sure if it lands. For he's blinking awkwardly, and then he must recognise you're trying to joke, because his chest puffs in a laugh. Pity laughter was still laughter.

"We do."

It takes an entire train ride of conversation for you to muster up any courage at all, and it's only when he's about to step out into the aisle to disappear into his own world, and you into yours, that you blurt out,

"Do you want to get coffee?"

He blinks a few times, but then he's nodding his head, lips twitching into a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

At his approval, you ask, "Could I get your number? Y'know, to... plan... this coffee date..."

Metro man, whose name you've since learned is Spencer, nods again, and he's rummaging in his bag for a piece of paper and a pen. The pen he finds, the paper he does not, and you simply tell him to write his number down on your hand.

Delusions were fuelled quite easily when you're a hopeless romantic, and the immediate flutter of your heart when his hand holds yours in place so he could write on your skin was enough to convince you this man was your soulmate.

You part ways from each other, feeling a little giddier, and a lot less like the storm clouds still swirling over your head.

March

Even the quietest of sounds were catastrophically loud when you were in that middle ground between being awake, and being asleep. And the muffled sound of a tap turning on was as loud as a raging thunderstorm, in the early hours of that Saturday morning, startling you awake from the comfortable sleep you had been in.

It took you a few more minutes to fully come to consciousness, but by that point, you had registered what tap was on and why, and your fears of an unfamiliar scent surrounding you as you awaken were diminished.

"Oh. Morning."

Your eyes flutter open to see a slightly shocked Spencer Reid standing at the foot of his bed, collecting the bundled socks he had set on the mattress.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, tiredly, rolling onto your back and blocking the bright sunlight with your arm.

"Going to work," he answers. "I have paperwork I need to catch up on," he then adds, at your puzzled expression.

"Oh," you pout immediately, your heart sinking at the knowledge that he was leaving you.

"I'll be home by three," he promises, moving around and crouching down by the edge of the bed, next to your head.

"You want me to stay here?" you ask him, rolling over to look at him.

His eyes bore into your own, and you search his face, his cologne mixing with the scent of his sheets beneath your head, making your head go a little fuzzy.

He brushes hair out of your face. "You can if you want. There's food in the fridge, and I bought copies of your toiletries for when you do... stay over..." he stammers to a stop, brain catching up to his mouth. "Sorry. Is that weird?"

"No," your lips pull into a smile. "No. It's really sweet, actually."

"And there's clean clothes in my dryer," he continues at your reassurance. "Since you said you like my shirts. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But I'll only be gone six hours, and then I have the rest of the day and tomorrow off, and I know you do too, so I just figured—"

You cut him off with a kiss. Perhaps not the best time to kiss him, for you're pretty sure you have a bad case of morning breath. If you do, he doesn't protest. In fact, he melts even further into your lips.

"I'll stay," you tell him.

"Okay," his eyes light up a little, and your cheeks hurt from how wide you're smiling. You're sure you look ridiculous. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Bye," you say, catching him for one more kiss, until he's closer to being late for work than anything, and he's tearing himself away from you. Forcefully, because he doesn't really want to.

He comes home six and a half hours later to his home smelling distinctly of a candle he forgot he even owned, and whatever it was in his fridge you had managed to create a dish out of.

He wonders if it's too soon to feel love for you.

April

A night out was, arguably, the last thing you had expected to do when you woke up that morning. In fact, you had spent the entire day with plans to stay in your sanctuary of a bedroom with a shitty television series playing to detach from the past few weeks. Your life was busy, and you felt as though you had no time to yourself. Technically, you did. But your days off never consisted of an entire day in your bed without any responsibilities.

It seemed that even on your planned day off, you couldn't get that. Granted you weren't mad, come six o'clock, because despite talking about how excited you were for your day off to him, the second Spencer Reid had mentioned restaurant and dinner in your morning phone call as he commuted to work, you were begging him to fulfil the plans he was about to cancel.

He had stayed afterwards. Of course he had. You'd be damned if the man who had just taken you to the nicest restaurant you've ever been to in your life didn't stay over afterwards. And he was quite happy to, it seemed, which made your heart flutter a little more than it probably should've.

"Have you read Emily Dickinson?" you ask him, looking up at his face. You were now in your bed, covers draped over your entwined legs, his back up against the headboard of your bed, your own on his chest.

"Yes," he nods his head, lips twitching at the way your face fell upon his response. "Did you think I hadn't?"

"No, I guess I assumed you had," you shook your head. "A small part of me didn't know for sure, though."

"Now you know," he says, eyes falling to the televison that had a silent cartoon playing on it (your choice, not his). "Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah," your lips curl into a smile. "Did you?"

"I always do with you," he leans down and pecks the smile off your face, watching your lips frown when he pulls back. "What?"

He laughs at the pout on your lips, and your eyes narrow in response. In a quick motion, your legs and arms wrap around him, bodies now facing each other, as you return your lips to his.

"Was my kiss not up to your standards?" he muses against your mouth, and you poke his shoulder with a finger as a response, incessantly begging him to kiss you back.

You had done this before. Multiple times, in fact. Making out with Spencer was slowly but surely becoming your favourite past time. You weren't entirely sure what it was about it. Perhaps the way he kissed like he'd never be able to kiss again, always with so much fervour, and always so desperate. Maybe it was the way his hands felt when they grappled the entirety of your ass whenever you were on his lap, something that seemed so not Spencer Reid. Whatever it was, it was maddening, and you found a quiet, controlled mewl leave your lips when his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to him (if that was possible).

"Mm-mm," he murmurs against your lips at the sound, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass, eliciting another, less controlled sound from you. "You can do better than that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you mumble against his lips, semi-breathless, hands delving up into his curls, encasing your fingers in them.

He laughs again, the sound addicting, and melting any anxieties away as his fingers travel up your body, beneath your pyjama shirt, stopping short where your bra strap would be if you were wearing one.

"We don't have to," you rush out when you feel his hesitance. Though you were no stranger to this part of making out – the suggestive touching – you could feel the bulge in his pants, and you realised this was not like every other time.

"You don't want to?" he asks with a gentle voice, pulling back to look at you.

"No, I–of course I do," you reassure him.

His lips tug into a small smile, and his face leans in to kiss the corner of your lips. "Okay. Good. I want to, as well."

"Good," you answer with a firm nod, and he hums.

His hands slip beneath your shirt again. Warm – burning, even – though you weren't particularly cold. Yet, you felt like your skin was ice that was melting beneath his fingers as they dragged along your skin. All while his lips kissed down your jawline and neck, until they found your pulse point. He had found it accidentally a few weeks prior, and had used and abused it as much as he could after that. For no reason other than the fact that you let out the sweetest sounds whenever his teeth grazed over it, or his lips sucked on the skin there.

His hands reached further up, and his palms brush over both nipples at once, eliciting a gasp from you as your back arches into him.

"Sensitive," he notes when his thumbs drag down over them, pulling the same reaction from your lips. You shoot him a sharp glare, and he laughs. His response is then to lean back in and kiss the pout away, gently biting down on your jutted lower lip with his teeth. All while he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, earning a whimper from you into his mouth.

It was a few more moments of that, before you murmur quietly, "Tell me you're taking this further."

He laughs in response. Then, says, "What do you want?"

"Up to you," you reply, and he shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kissing it.

"No. Up to us."

"Okay. Um..." you hesitate. "Surely there's a natural order of things."

"I don't know. I think it depends on the people," he replies. "Tell me what you want to do."

You hesitate. There's a thousand things you want from him, and you're sure the mere twenty-four hours in the day are not enough for them all. Though, you also know time is not running out for the two of you soon.

Recognising your hesitance, he instead taps your hips to get you off his lap, and you comply, and he lays you down on the bed. He hovers above you, and you almost laugh at his hair that falls down and creates a curtain over your two faces.

His fingers lift the hem of your shirt over your body, and you let him, your breath hitching at the still less-than-hot air that settles in your room amidst April. He follows suite and removes his own shirt upon seeing your close to demanding look, before he ducks his head down to kiss you again.

Fingers dance across the skin of your waist as he hesitates in pulling your pants down, but you don't even want to complain as he kisses you. In no rush to hurry him along, you savour his lips on yours, allowing him to take the time to work you up with brushes along your thigh through the fabric of your pants.

You were equally as present as you were lost in a daydream as he touches you, for you don't really remember when your legs had become bare and his touch had become more direct, but you remember exactly what it felt like for his breath to hitch against your ear as he ran a finger down the damp fabric of your underwear.

He seems to have picked up on your dreamlike state, for he brushes his lips against your temple and asks, "You with me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathlessly.

He doesn't really believe you, but you're eagerly inching your hips closer towards his retreating hand for him to need to.

Gently, he's pulling your underwear down your legs, and you're watching the pupils in his dark eyes expand. You relish in the knowledge of you emitting such a reaction from him.

A sharp whine comes from you when his finger brushes through your folds, stopping just short of your clit. He does it again.

"Spencer."

"Yeah, pretty girl?" he murmurs, though his focus is solely directed to his hand on you.

"Need you."

"I can see that," he muses, and he jolts at the way your heel kicks his side. You're pretty sure it doesn't hurt, at least. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"You should be."

His other hand pinches your thigh.

You don't have time to argue against him, for he is sinking a finger into you, and every word dies on your tongue, replaced only by a quiet moan and the breathless sound of his name.

He lifts himself back up your body as he presses his finger further into you, capturing your second moan with his lips against yours. Again. He would probably swallow you whole if you asked him to. You think you might.

He adds a second finger almost too soon. His fingers were longer than yours ever could be, and he curls them in a way that has your head tilting back and pressing into the pillow beneath it, and your hips rising off the mattress. He chases your lips with his as you squirm away, and his free hand pushes your body back into the mattress as he draws his fingers out, then presses them back into you.

"Didn't know you were this sensitive," he murmurs against your mouth, and your teeth nip at his lower lip in protest. You feel him smile, and he returns the gesture, scoldingly.

His fingers brush against your g-spot and you're pretty sure you see stars. Or perhaps that's just the ends of Spencer's hair tickling your cheeks as he continues to kiss you.

He continues to finger you until it becomes its own language, complete with strings of high pitched moans from you, and his inability to keep you still on the bed. He pulls his fingers out all too soon, and you're verbally complaining about it as he takes his own pants off.

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asks you, but there's no heat behind his voice for you to seek insecurity from.

"I talk when I'm nervous," you reply.

"Are you always nervous?"

"Around you? Yes."

He doesn't reply, but he laughs, bashfully, and you know he finds it endearing. Instead, he says, "I need to go get a condom."

At which your eyebrows shoot up. "Did you bring some?"

He pauses, sheepishly replying, "Yes?"

You decide against teasing him for it, and merely nod your head. "Okay."

He doesn't waste time, but you're left laying there on the bed to watch him, stuck within the thoughts of how did you luck out so well?

He's quick to return your mind back to Earth, and in a quick turn of events, he's positioned back over you, condom wrapper discarded somewhere in your room — you'd need to find that later before it gets found by somebody mortifying — and his hips achingly close to your own.

Lowering your gaze instinctively, your lips part, and you mutter a, "What the fuck?"

"Tone, please," he asks you, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Bad. But good," you confuse him further, before you settle on, "Shock."

"Are you still okay with this?"

"Yes," you quickly confirm. "Just... scared. I guess. I haven't had sex in a while and you're..." Not small.

"I'll go slow," he promises, and your heart flutters at the sincerity in his voice.

Slowly, he eases himself into you, swallowing your moans all over again with a kiss, hands rubbing gentle circles onto your hips as a welcome distraction. It was borderline filthy as he moans into your ear in harmony with your own.

You hear him murmuring from above you, your ears catching the whispering of numbers and statistical facts you've definitely heard him spewing to himself before. But never in bed. Usually, it would be as he situates at his desk to work.

"What're you doing?" you murmur, and he pauses upon realising he was thinking aloud.

"Trying not to come so soon," he answers, kissing your jawline, a shuddering breath leaving him to rest his head in that position.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," he mocks. "You just feel so good around me. Can't believe I went so long without you, angel girl. Fuck."

You wish you could tell the you many moons ago that this is how the man you met at the train station would talk to you.

He's slow as he withdraws his hips from you, before he's pushing himself back into you with yet another moan, from both him and you.

You're not sure when your causal moans break into whines and desperation overtakes you. Somewhere between him taking his time in getting to know what you liked, and discovering how easy it was to make you squirm if he just put a finger on your clit at the same time as thrusting into you.

He is so good it's almost sickening, and you begin to entertain the idea of this man being your soulmate once again. Or perhaps he's just really good at seeing right through you, which might be a little embarrassing in retrospect.

"Spencer," you moan, hands looping around his neck, delving into his hair and nails scratching gently at his scalp.

"Mm?" he asks you, pressing another kiss to your head, drawing circles on your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

"Please."

"Please what, honey?"

"Wanna—" you're cut off with a wanton whine, "—come. Please."

"You do? Really?"

"Spencer," you repeat his name, this time frustratedly.

"That's no way to ask for what you want," he wanes his movements ever so slightly, a silent warning.

"Please make me come."

"There you go, good girl," he mumbles, and he smiles at the way your hips jerk slightly at the praise.

He complies with your request immediately, though you're sure it has something to do with how quickly his own hips stutter into a stop with an orgasm of his own.

Never one to complain, though, and you let him work you through the star-seeing experience with broken moans and chants of his name that has his own heart fluttering.

He rolls off of you soon after, disappearing from the bed only to dispose of the condom, before he's climbing back into the bed. Regardless of every bone in his body telling him to get you up to shower.

"Why didn't we do that earlier?" you murmur.

"I don't know," he replies, lips moving against the skin of your forehead.

"Can we do it again?"

His breath is warm as he huffs out a laugh, rolling back over top of you, thankful for his lack of asking to shower. "Yes."

June

There's a comfortable quiet that blankets the air around you and Spencer. The pages of his book turning as he flips them every few seconds, and the quiet murmur of characters Ilsa and Sam talking on the television, Casablanca playing at an awfully quiet volume.

He was sitting on the floor in front of you, who was sitting on the couch, fingers entangled in his hair. Freshly washed, because you were adamant on fixing him a proper hair routine now that his hair was long enough to require something remotely akin to your own.

His head lifts as the piano began to play, and the familiar voice of Dooley Wilson filled the space, his reading of his book now on pause.

"Spencer!" you began to protest when he peeled away from the edge of the couch, the criss-cross pattern in his hair falling loose almost immediately. He turns to look at you, noting the page he was on for his book, before he closes it and places it on the coffee table in front of him.

"What are you doing to my hair?" he asks you, hands going up to feel the strands, eyebrows frowning towards each other at the loose plaits he was touching.

"I was braiding it," you grumble, watching as he brushes each strand out unconsciously. "You've ruined it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muses upon realising what he had done, lips twitching as his hands drop back by his side. "Do you want to redo it?"

"No," you huff, scooting further back into the couch, folding your arms across your chest.

"Honey," Spencer says amidst a laugh, turning his body around fully.

Instead of acknowledging him, you kept your eyes fully transfixed on the black and white television screen in front of you. You could see, out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him shifting on the floor.

Perhaps it was cruel to be giving him the silent treatment so quickly. Though, you have a small smile painted on your face that told Spencer he wasn't in any real trouble with you for pulling your otherwise perfectly curated braids out of his hair. Unknowingly, mind you.

With your lack of response, he found his hands wandering over to your legs, fingertips trailing delicately up the sides of them. Despite the pyjama pants you had on providing a layer between his skin and your own, you still squirmed. And, much to his own satisfaction, your gaze flickered down to his face. His stupid, grinning face, that told you he knew he had succeeded oh so easily.

"I'm mad at you," you bite, and his eyebrows rose.

"You're mad at me," he parrots. When you glare at him, he's forced to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. "Okay. Can I make it up to you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

No, you weren't. For his head was resting gently against the side of your thigh now, the slightest hint of a pout on his lips, eyes wide. To absolutely nobody's surprise, your resolve was dissolving, and you found yourself hesitating with a response to him.

He wasn't oblivious to your hesitance, and the amusement on his face was almost frustrating. Almost, if not for the teasing drag of his fingertips along the sides of your thighs distracting you from the irritation you had towards him.

But, you held your own. "Yes, I'm sure."

His eyebrows rising told you he didn't believe you, and it took everything in you not to respond with the twitch of a sheepish grin. And under his unbelieving gaze, you let out a huffed sigh, and shook your head.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," he answers, fingertips gently pressing into your lower back as he tugged you towards the edge of the couch. "So I can make it up to you?"

"Maybe," you murmur, biting the inside of your cheek. "What're my options, Dr. Reid?"

"I could take your clothes off," he says, punctuating his point with his fingers sliding around to your waist, hooking under your pants' waistband. "Or you can choose something else."

"I like option one," you answer, meekly.

"I figured you would."

He was frustratingly slow as he pulls your pyjama pants down, the fabric catching on the leather of his couch you were sitting on, until you had enough conscious mind to lift your hips up for him.

He trails his fingers back up the skin, eyes almost fascinated in watching you squirm as your inner thighs — and only your inner thighs — received the upmost of attention from his hands. At a whining protest from you, Spencer's hands wandered to do the one thing he knew you were after, and you let out a breathy moan when his index finger traced up the centre of your already damp underwear.

"Oh, you do like option one," he says with a hum, and if you were any less turned on, you'd probably be glaring at him for it. Instead, you were nodding your head in compliant agreement.

He, thankfully, wastes no time in latching his mouth onto you. He spends a good portion of your evening taking you to the stars and back, multiple times, before he's satisfied, and he's sure you are too.

You're showered (again), and curled up on the couch, your head now in Spencer's lap as his fingers brush through your hair, the beginning of Casablanca beginning to play all over again. You had protested neither of you appreciated it enough the first time, and you want to give the film its proper treatment.

"Why do you like this film so much?" he murmurs, staring at the black and white screen.

"Reminds me of better times, I guess," you reply.

"Your better times take place in Morocco in the forties?"

"No," your lips twitch into a small smile, your head shaking, hair brushing across his thighs. "When I first watched this film I was fifteen, with my mom. It was one of the few times we really got along, so... I guess that."

He decides against commenting on it, for your voice had dropped to something a little sadder. "Rick's not a good person," he chides.

"You don't get to form an opinion on Rick without finishing the movie first."

He laughs at that, but he falls silent soon after, an evident promise that he would wait.

"Why did you make me watch this?" he asks, as you're greeted with a screen of black, your two reflections staring back at you.

You turn your head, resting it flat against his thighs as you look up at him, raising an eyebrow in question.

"It isn't a happy ending," he explains at your quizzical look.

"Oh, so movies I show you need to have a happy ending?" you argue. "You like Star Wars, Spencer."

"No, obviously they don't. But when you explained the film to me, you said, 'a romance classic from the forties'. Forgive me for presuming it would be a happy ending."

"I think it is kind of happy," you reply, shrugging as you tear your gaze away, resting instead on the coffee table.

"How so?" he brushes the hair that falls out of your face.

"They weren't right for each other," you murmur. "Rick knew that. He loved her enough to let her go, I guess."

August

You are a fragment of every person you have loved, and who has loved you. Tiny pieces of their soul weaving within your own to form the person you are today. From acts as simple as the way you cook your eggs, to reactions as serious as your emotional response to an insult. Family members making up your emotional regulators, childhood friendships determining your insecurities.

Like a solidified piece of putty holding two pipes together, you are a person moulded to be what other people need.

Stay quiet, don't react, detach.

Not even a conscious choice you make anymore. Too many years spent punished for being loud, too many tears cried over your supposed overreaction, too many pieces of your heart shattered each time somebody leaves. Your responses are simply automatic now.

Spencer Reid had not heard from you in fifty six hours.

Two thirty in the morning was never a good time to try and communicate, for a plethora of reasons. Never mind the fact that it was late. His mind had been exhausted of its use during a particularly gruelling case, and you had been too anxious the four days he'd been gone to sleep properly.

For that reason, and possibly many others you didn't know, he was in a bad mood. Your being awake at that hour was irritating to him, your half drank coffee was an awful idea in his mind, and your touch was unwanted by him. You didn't know why.

You hated miscommunication. You hated the unsaid words that hung in the air whenever you'd look at him.

The first thing he had said upon coming home was not, hello, or even, I missed you. No, it was a sharp, "Why are you awake?" as he set his messenger bag down on the floor next to his door.

"I was waiting for you," you had said, picking up the mug of coffee. "Then it hit midnight, and you still weren't home, and usually you come home to me asleep, but I wanted to see you so I drank some coffee and..." you'd trailed off upon seeing his uncharacteristically cold expression.

"You shouldn't stay awake waiting for me," he'd muttered, taking the mug from you and heading into the kitchen to clean it, flicking the light on. "You have work tomorrow. You need to be asleep."

"I missed you," you'd protested, standing up and going towards him.

"I missed you too, but you should've been asleep."

Your attempt at hugging him and kissing him in greeting was denied, his hands prying you off his body. He could've ripped your heart out instead and you'd think it hurt less than that.

"Go to bed. I'll be there soon."

You felt like a child being scolded at his snark, which was evidently the reason behind you not listening to him at all in the end.

He'd offered no proper explanation for his irritation towards you. Even as you'd picked up your things and left his apartment, silently, not even a quiet I love you whispered to confirm that you weren't leaving him for good, he didn't explain a thing to you.

Out of sight, out of mind, was not a principle you could exercise when it came to him. Every notification to your phone that didn't brand his name hurt your heart, a constant reminder that maybe he was still mad at you, and he didn't want to see you.

It was a knock at your door that pried you from the clutches of your duvet that morning, a half-assed attempt at brushing through your hair and straightening of your clothes was the best whoever dared to come see you uninvited would get.

Opening the door and your brain computing who it was had you wanting to slam it again, as if this were some movie and he would have the will to shove a foot in the door to stop it from closing.

Maybe he would.

"So you are alive," he says.

"Last I checked, yes," you reply.

Simple words spoken between two far from simple individuals, until he was nodding his head to the open space of your apartment behind you, and you were wordlessly agreeing to let him come in.

"Are you here to break up with me?"

His closing of the door was interrupted by your question, his entire body going rigid for a beat, before he gently clicked the door and lock in place, turning on his shoulder with frowning eyebrows.

"No. I'm... not—why, why would you think that?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Habit."

That hurts his heart, and he's shaking his head almost incessantly. "I'm not. I promise, honey. I just want to know what's going on. Nobody's heard from you."

"I know," you murmur, feet carrying you over to your couch before your legs can give out on you.

He watches you, awaiting another spiel of words to explain where you had disappeared to for the past two and a bit days. And yet; nothing. So, he follows you, and sits down on the couch next to you. Hands reach out to pick up your legs, shoulders relaxing a little when you let him place them in his lap, and you go slightly still out of fluster.

"I'm sorry for making you mad, if I did," you whisper.

"You didn't. Did you think I was mad?"

"I guess. You were kind of mean," his heart shatters at that. "But maybe I was just taking it the wrong way. I was tired."

"No," his fingertips run up and down your legs, the only conscious act he could focus on to keep himself from bombarding you with every worried thought he's had the last two days. "I shouldn't have let you leave thinking I was mad at you. I wasn't. The case just stressed me out, and I was concerned about you still being awake that late."

"I was waiting for you," you mumble.

"I know, angel," he nods his head. "It's just I usually come home to you asleep on the couch."

"Or the bathroom."

His chest puffs out with laughter, and your heart swells a little in your chest at the sight. "Or the bathroom," he parrots, nodding.

It was when he was coming home from a case on the border in Washington state, and you had, like usual, tried to stay awake to wait for him. Unfortunately, the UnSub tiptoeing between the two country lines meant the case was dragged out, and he had come home much later than expected. And you had mistakenly passed out on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel, after a shower.

Amusement was over as his eyes found and locked with your own, and he earnestly asks, "Can you tell me why you disappeared?"

"No."

It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him. Just that you didn't know why either. Perhaps it was something you'd need to unpack with a professional, not your boyfriend at ten in the morning on your couch.

Ever so understanding, Spencer Reid was. Even with the pause of his delicate touch on your legs in what you're sure is another jolt of frustration towards you.

"That's okay," he says, instead. "Can you promise to try and not disappear next time, then?"

Your shoulders shrug. Can you promise that?

"You can't," he voices your thoughts for you, and you nod your head in confirmation. "Okay. Well, I really want to work this out with you. I need you to want that too."

"I do," you say quietly.

"Then you need to work with me," he answers. "Where did your brain go that night?"

"Um," you hesitate. You could think of a thousand places your mind wandered to that night. None of them very good. A child again, being scolded for not turning the light out because you were up reading, maybe. "I don't know. I don't like being scolded like I'm a child. I guess I felt like a child."

"That wasn't my—"

"—I know," you cut him off before he can defend himself to you. "I know it wasn't your intention. But it felt that way. I'm an adult who makes her own decisions, and losing sleep before work because I want to see my boyfriend is one of those. No matter how... how stupid a decision you may think that is."

"I didn't think it was stupid," he shakes his head. "I was just concerned."

"Funny way of showing it," you mumble, lowering your gaze, before his lack of response makes you realise what you had just said to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. That was mean."

"No," hands lightly swat your legs. "No, I deserved that. I was really mean. It wasn't the right way to show my concern for you."

"Doesn't mean I should be rude back."

"I think it does," he says, his fingers going back to tracing patterns on your skin. "In fact, I encourage it."

In true Spencer fashion, his words tug a small smile onto your lips, and you feel the heaviness of what had happened between you two ease off your chest slightly. "That's a weird thing to encourage."

"Maybe," he agrees. "I don't like that you left without saying anything."

"I didn't feel very wanted," you explain. "By you. I tried to hug you, and you wouldn't let me touch you."

"I was overstimulated," he says. "It wasn't that I didn't want to hug you, honey. I did. Sometimes I don't like people touching me, yes, even you," he adds upon seeing your confused expression and tilted head. "I didn't handle that well. I should've told you that in the moment."

"I wish I had known that before," you murmur. "That's why I left. And you didn't try to stop me, so I just assumed..."

"I wasn't very present," he shakes his head to stop your self-deprecating thoughts in their tracks. "I barely registered you were leaving until I heard the door shut."

"Oh."

"I wanted to stop you when I realised. I decided to give you space."

"I just thought you didn't care."

"If nothing else, know that I'll always care," he tells you, and your heart stutters at the raw honesty in his voice. "Even if you run away and I don't reach out for a week because I think you need space. I'll still care."

"Please don't leave me alone for a week if I run away," you reply, and one of his hands squeezes your knee.

"Noted. I won't."

You nod your head with the faintest hint of a smile, before your gaze lowers to your legs. You inhale, then say, quietly, "I'm sorry for disappearing."

"I know," he answers. "It's okay."

November

It was a horrifically awful day that led you to this moment. Curling up on the couch with a blanket covering your entire body, staring aimlessly off into the warm glow of the reading lamp Spencer had bought you many moons ago.

Your heart was heavy, hands cold, body shivering, in the cool November air that flooded your apartment. Your thermostat was just too far. Not that you were comfortable. Not even a little bit. You could evidently feel each spring of your couch pushing into your flesh, puncturing you uncomfortably. You hadn't had a need for a new couch since getting together with Spencer, usually finding your residence at his apartment more often than not.

Not today, it seemed.

Keys rattled outside your apartment door, and you heard the shuffling of familiar feet, followed by the gentle calling of your name to alert you of his presence.

"Honey, it's freezing in here," he says, settling his bag down on the kitchen countertop, you're sure (you aren't looking). You hear the beep, following by the rush of wind coming out of your air conditioning unit as he turns the device on, and you're silently grateful.

He finds you on the couch, wrapping his arms around you from behind it, greeting you with a kiss to the side of your head, right on your temple, and a few of your worries melt away in an instant. Only a few, for there is still a bricklayer of hurt seated comfortably over your heart.

He says your name again when you don't say anything to greet him, and it's more shuffling of feet until he's dipping into the couch next to you, despite the fact that he still had his shoes and work clothes on. Irrelevant affairs he could deal with later.

"Hey, what's this?" he asks you, quietly, leaning forwards and nudging your arched knees, and your gaze finally tears from the lamp to his face, spots of light decorating your vision and covering some of him.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I'm thinking."

"Very hard, apparently," he says, lightly. You appreciate the attempt of lifting the mood. "About what?"

"Um," you pause. "I saw my family today."

"Yeah. You said you were. I assume it didn't go well?"

You wordlessly shake your head, and he sighs, wasting no time in bringing you into his chest. You crack, and his heart shatters at the quiet sob that wracks through your body.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, voice all too quiet for your fragile state, for it only makes you cry a little harder. "Angel."

"She—um," your voice cracks. "Everything I said she turned into a joke to everyone. I just felt stupid the entire time. Like everything I said wasn't worth being said. So I stopped talking, because I couldn't get made fun of if I didn't say anything, right?" You feel his head nod against your own, even though you couldn't see him.

"No. She brought up things I'd said to her previously, and mocked them. I mean, I was in the other room so she didn't know I could hear her, but—but—" you choke on your words, cutting your ranting short, your hands petulantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. "I'm sick of waiting for her to love me. Isn't she supposed to? She's my fucking mother and yet I'm still begging her to even like me. Why?"

"I don't know, angel." His voice is achingly soft, and his hands thread into your hair, brushing through it a few times; a welcome comfort. "This happens every time you see her."

"Yeah."

You're feeling impossibly small in his arms as you nod, sniffling away hideous snot bubbles you're sure he cared about. If he did, he didn't say anything.

"Maybe it's time to stop seeing her."

"Yeah."

You're reluctant in agreeing with him, though you know deep down he's right. But it's an Earth shattering revelation that you aren't quite sure you wanted to ever come to. While certainly a thought you've had, and entertained previously, agreeing to it aloud is an entirely different beast.

"She's my mom, though," you mumble. "She raised me."

"What she did for you previously should never be enough for you to ignore what she does to you now. I've never seen you come home happy after seeing her. You're never anything short of miserable. That makes me miserable, honey," the pads of his fingertips brush against your cheek, and you hum as a quiet response. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate feeling like this."

"Yeah, I know," he murmurs. "Don't decide tonight. You're emotional—yes, you are. Don't look at me like that," he scolds as you jerk your head back to narrow your tear filled eyes at him. "But can you promise me you'll consider my option?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Good. I love you."

"I love you too."

January

He wasn't home.

Three o'clock in the morning, and Spencer Reid was nowhere to be found. Not in his own apartment, like you had originally thought. Not collecting the last of your boxes from your own. Not anywhere he commonly would be.

At three in the morning.

You had tried calling him. Multiple times, actually. A flurry of messages followed in their wake, and you were growing increasingly impatient as you stand awkwardly outside his apartment, that had just recently become your apartment too. You didn't have a key yet — needing one to be cut for Spencer only had one thus far.

He had promised he'd be home. When you'd asked him as you were leaving earlier that evening if you'd need to take the key, he said no, and that he'd be home all night.

God forbid you actually believed him, apparently.

You could've sat at that apartment door for three minutes or hours. You weren't too sure anymore. Staring off into space and making up a list of sentences to say to him when he finally showed up — if he showed up.

It was embarrassing. Heels tucked next to you, dress bunched at your waist, head beginning to ache from the alcohol wearing off, and eyes beginning to droop from how exhausted you were.

Shuffling of feet had you lifting your head, landing on an equally as exhausted looking Spencer Reid, who's lips were parting upon spotting you on the floor, and a sickening realisation settling on his facial features.

"I'm sorry," he stumbled out as he helped you stand up, ignoring your protests as he picked up your heels for you. "I forgot you weren't staying at your friends. I just assumed—"

"—You forgot?"

You didn't sound angry. You didn't even sound a little irritated. It shatters his heart more to hear a painstakingly small, broken tone coat your words, instead of them being dipped in venom.

He knew it was a pathetic excuse. He forgot. That's his whole thing. He doesn't forget. But he also isn't always called into his job at two in the morning for an in state amber alert. You didn't know that, though.

"Here, let's get you inside and out of your clothes," he places a hand on the small of your back and pushes you forwards into his apartment, your feet stumbling as you let him guide you around.

"What do you mean you forgot?" you ask him, quietly. His stomach twists.

"I got called into work. It was urgent. I had been so focussed on Hotch being freaked out I left without thinking. I'm so sorry, angel girl."

"Seriously?"

He freezes at your incredulous voice, his hands pausing at the top of your dress zipper. When he doesn't answer you immediately, you turn so you can look at him.

"You weren't home because you got called into work," you repeat the words over, and over, as if saying them more will make them any more sensical. He opens his mouth and begins to say your name, so you cut him off, "I was sitting there for—" you pause, checking the time on the wall clock across the room, "—two hours, Spencer. Drunk, and cold, and you weren't fucking picking up. Did you forget how to use your phone too? Did you forget how to contact your girlfriend?"

"You're tired, honey. Can you get some sleep and we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, actually. We're having this discussion now."

"No, you're not. You're exhausted. Sleep deprivation affects your emotional regulators, and—"

"—For once, can you not fucking Reid-splain to me?" you spit. "I think I'm allowed to be a little upset with you, Spencer. You forgot about me!"

He agrees; he does deserve your anger. Though, it doesn't make this any easier to listen to, and it certainly doesn't make his biting of his tongue very easy. For he wants to argue with you. He didn't forget about you, and none of what happened tonight was due to anything other than his lack of focus on things that weren't at the forefront of his mind. Case in point; a missing child.

A few more beats of silence pass by, and you're brushing past him into the kitchen, jerking your arm away when his hand reaches out to grab it.

"Why is it always work?" you ask him. "All of our issues come back to your job."

"I don't know."

"Am I not worth more than your job?"

The question itself hangs in thick air, and his hesitance is enough of an answer within itself. It isn't fair. You know that. His job is important, and you'd never actively ask him to choose you over saving somebody's life. He knew that.

"I'm not asking you to choose seeing me over saving a life," you verbalise your thoughts, when he still doesn't reply. "I'm never asking that of you. But you couldn't have called me back? Or texted me to see if I could go to a friend's? Or even come to you at work to get a key?"

"I—"

"—Forgot. I know," you mutter, almost bitterly, turning around to pick out a glass from the cabinet.

It's another few moments of quiet. Save for the tap that runs as you get yourself water, and the shuffling of his feet as he hesitates, then takes tentative steps towards the kitchen bar.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," you whisper, before he can get too close.

"Do what anymore?"

"Us."

The silence that follows deafens, and you have to flutter your eyes up to the ceiling to wane tears that threatened to spill. This was most certainly not how you imagined your night to go.

"That's a big decision," he says, as if it weren't obvious.

"I know," and it's the finality in your voice that hurts him even more.

"Can we please revisit this conversation in the morning? After you've slept?"

"My decision won't change."

"It might."

"Humour me with how we're supposed to move past this."

He freezes. "Um—we can talk. And we can even go to couple's therapy, or something," he ignores the face you pull. "I just think we—you—should make this decision when you're completely sober and rested."

You place the now empty glass on the bench again. "I won't have the courage to break up with you tomorrow."

"Is that not a sign that you shouldn't break up with me, then—"

"—Let me do this, damnit, Spencer!" you slam your hands down in front of you, eyes wide and almost desperate.

He doesn't say anything more to argue with you. Instead, he bows his head, and you despise the crack in your heart at the way his eyes shut and shed a tear before his face is out of sight.

You're moved out by the end of the month.

June

The universe is a wonderfully strange place. Somewhere you go to when things get too difficult, begging for respite and the freedom from yourself. Or when things are going so well you thank whoever was pulling the strings of your lifeline.

You tried not to curse at the universe. What you give, you will receive. The love you expend will always be returned to you, whether that is in two minutes or two years. Hatred for the universe was always internalised and pushed down, for you'd rather that, than having the karmic Gods ruin your life any more.

And yet; fuck you universe.

You were recently asked who you love, in a group setting with people you barely knew. You'd have said your best friend's name, or your parents, but you felt awfully lonely amongst a group of people saying, "my partner", "my kids". You didn't think you were old enough yet for the most important person in your life not being the woman who raised you (though, she would never be that anyways).

You said his name before you could even comprehend it. Before your brain had a second to stop running on autopilot to think. The two syllables flying past your lips, embarrassingly so.

When someone asks you who you love, you think of him.

Perhaps this was all your own fault. If you had just bided your tongue, held onto your pride and mumbled a quiet, "My mom, I guess", you wouldn't have spoken his existence back into the universe.

It was a quiet, "Oh. Hello," that'd prompted your head to lift from your phone, attempting to tune out the busy train. And there he was, standing tall, messenger bag crossing over his body.

"Hi," you say, breathless, air knocked from your lungs.

"Can I... um, sit? All the other seats are taken."

And like you would if he was a stranger, you nod your head, shuffling a little closer to the side, allowing for him to sit down next to you.

"Your hair's gotten long," Spencer Reid says, quietly.

"Yeah, I need to go get it cut. You have more—um, facial hair. Like it's more prominent. Like thicker," you stammer.

"Yeah," you see his lips twitch into a small smile out of the corner of your eye. "I just got back from a case. I haven't had time to shave."

You manage to push down a comment about you liking it.

And as if you were not strangers, he asks you, "How are you?"

You know he doesn't mean currently. Subconsciously asking you to tell him you're doing awfully without him, that the past six months had been horrible and you miss him dearly.

It's true, but you can't say that.

Instead, you opt for a nonchalant, "I'm okay," and, "How are you?"

"Okay, too," he says, and you wonder how much truth his words hold.

"How's work been?"

You don't know if you actually care. Asking aimlessly about the thing you had to blame for him becoming a solidified memory in your brain, and not a current experience.

"Busy," he answers. "I've barely been home."

Not much has changed, it seems. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replies. "It's kept me from wallowing."

"Can't say I've had the same fate."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

It was your own fault, really. And maybe he thought that. Maybe he's making fun of you in his mind for being sad and feeling horrible things after the breakup, because it was you who initiated it, at the end of the day.

No, he isn't. You know that. Spencer Reid doesn't do that.

"It's okay," you finally say, words spoken on a breath.

Silence covets the two of you, a thousand words on the tip of your tongue, but none ever spoken aloud. A silent conversation dancing in the air between your two bodies.

Do you miss me?

Yes. Do you miss me?

More than anything.

But then the train stops, and his station is called, and he's standing awkwardly, forcing a tight smile onto his face, as he bids you goodbye.

And for a few long half seconds, you watch him walk away, very slowly, for time has stopped for just a few beats of your heart. Then, you're calling his name, and he's stopping, as if he had expected you to reach out to him before he could get too far.

You stare up at him for another beat longer, and you wonder if he's quite content to miss his station, just to talk to you some more.

"Do you want to get coffee?"

"To wait an hour — is long — if love be just beyond. To wait eternity — is short — if love reward the end." (Emily Dickinson)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

#lia’s fics ♡#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader angst #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff

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girlkisser13 · 6 months ago

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size kink with jason todd

pairings: jason todd x fem!reader

warnings/tags: smut (18+), size kink, unprotected sex (practice safe sex guys), degradation/dumbification, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, creampie

divider by @plutism

he’d be lying if he said that his self control was still at it’s peak. jason had been teasing you for ages now, watching the way your pretty cunt clenched around nothing every time he drew his fingers away.

“jason,” you choked out another mewl, desperate fingers scrabbling for him. “please, please. i need you!”

a gentle hand brushes away the tears that had collected at the edge of your vision as jason’s beautiful eyes fill your gaze. a color so blue that it looked like someone had captured the brilliance of lightning flashing within his eyes.

“you look so pretty like this,” he hums, a smile gracing his lips when he sees your eyes roll back. “all desperate for my cock huh? what happened to the shy little maiden back then?”

she was gone, long corrupted by him. not that he was complaining.

he leans back between your spread legs, eyeing your exposed folds with a sort of hunger that had you trembling. “look at you,” he sighs, stroking his cock at the intoxicating sight before him. “all spread out for me to enjoy. it’d be a shame if i left you hanging like this wouldn’t it?”

“no!” your reaction was instant, a sharp pitiful noise of desperation at the thought of him leaving you hanging.

“just kidding.” he grabs your thighs to drag you closer to him. “since you asked so nicely hmm?”

there is an audible sound of pleasure torn from the both of you when he finally teases the head of his cock against your dripping slit.

yet, the thrumming anticipation is accompanied by the familiar sense of fear that flashes in you when you glimpse the sheer girth and length that has your eyes tensing shut.

no matter how many times jason had fucked you, his size still had your nerves jangling uncomfortably.

sensing your anxiety, his large hands shift from your cheek to cup your face as he leans down to plant a sweet kiss on your parted lips, briefly savouring the sugary sweetness that came with the kiss.

“relax baby,” he hushes, but there is a visible sight of feral excitement that lines his smile at the thought of sinking himself into your tight heat.

you can’t help but squeal when he buries himself into your spasming cunt, your sensitive walls fluttering over every ridge and vein of his cock that has him groaning.

“cumming already?” he asks, as if he couldn’t see your cute cunt creaming around his length. you can feel the laugh that rumbles through his broad chest.

too embarassed to reply, you nod, fingers finding their way to close around his wrists.

“you’re taking me so well” jason coos, one finger reaching to roll your puffy clit, earning him a shuddered jolt through your body.

he pins you down with ease, barely exerting any effort at all. “good girl, taking my cock so well, guess this pussy was really made for me right? maybe i don’t even have to play with your clit anymore, you’re going to squirt like a little whore for me anyway.”

grunting, jason buries himself deeper, thighs trembling at the feeling of your pussy tightening around him. you sniffle at the stretch but make no move to stop him from rocking further until his entire length is buried inside of your tight hole.

the feeling of being stuffed draws a sharp gasp out of you, your back arching, putting your tits on full display. when you catch sight of jason, his eyes are blown wide, pupils so blue that you could get lost in them.

you’re nearly half delirious at the feeling of his warmth sheathed inside of you, barely able to keep your eyes open when jason starts to move.

he weighs you down and humps your tender cunt, making sure to hit your sensitive clit every time his hips meet yours over the obscene sound of his balls slapping your ass.

you can feel your orgasm rising each time he pushes forward, the pain of his cock knocking against your cervix blends seamlessly with the pleasure when he rubs against your sweet spot.

“does it feel good baby?” he huffs in your ear.

“it feels so good, jay!” you nod, “please, give me more!”

he feels you getting wetter and wetter, knowing the way your tight little body trembles when you’re reaching your orgasm.

“jason,” you gasp, tears clinging to your lashes when you reach your climax. your fingernails dig crescent moons into his skin. he grins at your face, morphed into a completely lewd painting of euphoric pleasure.

“you came so fast,” he pants, quickening his pace. “what about me?”

“i’m sensitive,” you try to stop him with a pathetic whine, small hands pushing against his chiselled chest so weakly that he laughs at your efforts.

“stay still baby,” he groans when he feels your cunt clamp down around him again. you would be the death of him one day. “i’m going to ruin this pretty pussy of yours.”

who are you to deny him? you finally lay back against the pillows, letting him fuck you like he wants to as he presses your knees against your chest to assault your poor cunt as you gush everywhere, making a mess on the bed.

jason has a perfect view of your cunt, the sight of your small figure underneath him and the way your hole is stretched to accomodate around his cock only spurs him on.

you are so cute this way. letting him stretch you past your usual limit, your tits bounce with each thrust and jason can’t resist placing one of your tits in his palm, relishing the softness of them in his touch.

he can feel the plush resistance when he jackhammers into you, forcing another orgasm out of you until you’re reduced to a babbling mess with your tongue hanging out of your mouth and your eyes rolled back in that adorable expression he absolutely loves.

“f-fuck.” he feels his own coil of pleasure snapping in him as he succumbs to his own orgasm at the way your gummy walls clamp down around his throbbing cock. “you’re gonna take every drop of my cum in your pussy,” he growls, refusing to pull out until he sees you nod weakly.

“good girl.” he groans, finally satisfied of his own high before leaning down to occupy the space beside you.

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laikascomet · 7 months ago

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LAIKA'S COMET IS NOW ON HIATUS!

i've been talking about hiatus for awhile now (since about halfway through chapter 2!) but its official - laika's comet is now on hiatus! this hiatus will be a bit longer than the last, but for good reason.

my intention is to keep working until i can rebuild a buffer of finished pages that is larger than the buffer i've been working with up until this point. a photoshop update corrupting multiple pagefiles, a few challenging pages and then getting the flu for two weeks meant my entire buffer was depleted within the span of two months.

thankfully - that's what a buffer is for! i was able to finish out the main climax of the chapter so there weren't any strange pauses in the story, or stopping during a cliffhanger. that said, realizing that only two life events outside of my control was enough to leave me with no buffer has made me realize i need to be working with more than i thought. so yeah, ill be gone for a bit... but when i come back, i hopefully won't have to take a pause like this one again for awhile.

in the meantime, ill be trying to answer some asks to this blog in the #letters tag like i have been (and moreso to keep the time in between less quiet) as well as uploading art i work on for stuff outside the comic. i hope that you wont be too sad or miss laika and co too much while we're gone... and thank you again for reading/giving my comic a chance! i want to continue making a story you can all enjoy and be proud of.

#mewspaper

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reiderwriter · 8 months ago

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🧺 Any More 🧺

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Requested: spencer realizing that he’ll never love someone as much as he loves you. (whether that be because of a case or what have you), his mind is absolutely blown with how much he worships you and how much you love and care for him and he shows you that with the softest most sickeningly sweet sex you and him has ever done. <3

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI! Discussions of case details, case burnout, very close friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), vanilla sex (p in v penetration). Discussions of mental health, and two idiots in love.

A/N: I'm hitting the prompt Vanilla for this one, so please don't be scared off by the KinkBingo tags! I had a lot of fun writing this one (and adding Pride and Prejudice quotes into the smut scene because HELLO). Let me know what you think in the replies~♡

Masterlist || Bingo Board

You hadn't seen Spencer in 100 days. Which in the grand scheme of things wasn't that long, trapped in the purgatory of a ‘what if’ the way you had been for the last eight years.

You'd lived without him for longer than 100 days before. He'd been in prison, you'd been on assignments, you'd lived an entire life before meeting him, but now somehow 100 days was too much time, and you were exhausted. You understood why Spencer had to take some time away from you, from the team in an official capacity after everything he'd been through. You supported him even.

But when even your free time didn't overlap anymore, you wondered if your relationship would ever be the same again.

Spencer was a friend, your best friend, probably. You'd arrived on the BAU team, he'd rattled off some statistics, stammering the way through them, and you'd immediately warmed to the man. He was brilliant, funny, and fiercely loyal, and you tried your best to protect him even when the job seemed designed to break people like him into thousands of little pieces.

You'd tried to convince him to leave before, after Maeve had died. You didn't want to see him heart broken again, but no one else had seemed to agree.

“Reid needs purpose,” they'd said. “Reid needs something to do.”

What Reid needed was to not end up dead before he had a chance to be happy, and happiness didn't come often in your field of work.

You'd been almost vindicated a year later when he'd been shot again, almost fatally. Vindicated, maybe but distraught and inconsolable. Morgan had to carry you screaming and clawing out of his hospital room multiple times. It sounded stupid enough to yourself that it was only then you realized your feelings for the man.

You wanted to be Spencer Reid's happiness, which was why you were so lost without him.

He was coming back on Monday, and at least you had the weekend to sort your feelings out about everything.not just about him, but about the job you'd found didn't fit you well enough anymore, about the team you loved like family, about the relationship you knew would likely never come to fruition.

You dumped your bags at your door when you'd arrived in your house that night, pushed yourself into your bedroom and let yourself collapse on your bed, balling up into as cozy a position as you could. You didn't even bother taking your jacket off, you just let your brain haze over and sleep rush in.

Three quiet raps at your door lifted you up and out of bed again, not an hour later.

You grabbed your phone, grabbed the second go-bag you kept at your house, put your shoes back on, and opened the door, expecting Emily and a new case.

“Where are we going?” You said, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, not even looking up at your guest.

“Hopefully, nowhere? I brought takeout.”

Your eyes widened then, taking in all 185cm of Doctor Spencer Reid, tweed jacket and plastic bag full of chow mein included.

“Spencer,” you breathed out, like a sigh of relief, letting the bag drop to the floor next to the first one and letting yourself into his arms.

He held you carefully there for a second before leading you back into the apartment, wrapping an arm around you and ruffling your hair. It was brotherly, and it made you sick to your stomach.

“What are you doing here?”

“Emily said you were back from a case,” he started, unpacking the takeaway from the containers. “And it feels wrong to eat this without you.”

You rolled your eyes and followed him into the kitchen, pulling two forks out of the drawer nearer you and stabbing them in the top of your two cups.

“Hey, I can use chopsticks now,” he said, defending himself against an inside joke. Spencer was always useless with his hands.

“I don't care if you can use them, I care that they don't accidentally end up stabbing me,” you said, taking yourself back to your bedroom, Spencer following.

“You'd hardly die from being stabbed by a wooden chopstick, maybe a papercut or a splinter but-”

“But you're just bad enough that I don't want to risk it.”

You kicked off your shoes again and climbed onto your bed. Spencer followed.

“Remind me again why we aren't sitting on your couch?”

“Uncomfortable.”

“Or at your breakfast bar?”

“Glorified filing cabinet right now. Eat.”

He shook his head but complied, leaning back against your pillows as you both began carefully eating. Silently, you pulled your laptop onto your bed, opened it up, and pressed play on a movie, one you'd seen more than once, and you'd forced Spencer to watch before as well.

In a comfortable, friendly silence, you finished your food. You stretched out in a yawn once and then curled into his side, letting his mumbling voice, repeating the movie lines as they were spoken, lull you softly into sleep.

Spencer knew he had to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to wake you. The movie had finished hours ago, he'd closed the laptop and turned off the bug lights, but he couldn't leave.

Unlike you, he hadn't counted the days that you'd been apart. He hadn't needed to. He knew you'd be waiting there for him when he returned, knew you'd give him a smile and a pat on the back, and immediately start bouncing ideas off of him. It was what he loved about you.

As he laid next to you in your bed, a place he'd absolutely been before, his heart thumped. Just once, but hard.

Even in sleep, you looked exhausted. Your shirt was crumpled, hair a mess, you were still wearing makeup, and he knew he'd probably get an earful for letting you sleep like that in the morning. You were a mess, and he still wanted you.

The thought came to him suddenly, another painful thump of his chest echoing in his mind. He rubbed absent mindedly at his chest as if experiencing heartburn. In the dim light of the room, he let his head drop to the pillow and wrapped two shaky arms around you and pulled you in closer.

The two of you were a picture - both in suits, both with badges still somewhere on your person, both dearly clinging to the person they feared losing the most.

When you woke the next morning, it was actually the afternoon.

“Spencer,” you groaned, melting under the heat of his embrace. Somehow, during the night, he'd rolled on top of you, pressing you into the bed with a delightful pressure, head nuzzled into your neck, arms tucked around your waist.

“Spencer, we should get up,” you said again, forcing your eyelids apart as your mascara tried to glue them together.

“Mmmmhh,” he groaned, moving to pick himself up off you for a minute but lowering himself again. If asked, he'd blame your hand in his hair, stroking the rogue curls gently, as if he were a prized pet and you their carer.

“Spencer, its 2pm.”

“On a Saturday.” You laughed at how pouty his voice sounded, but he complied and rolled off of you slightly, arms still wrapped around you.

“Come on. Get up. I've got some clothes that might fit you, let's get you out of the tweed.”

He huffed but nodded and lifted himself halfway to upright, eyes still closed lazily as he let in the light millimetre by millimetre.

“God, my face feels horrible,” you said, itching at your nose. “How did we even sleep so long like this? My belt is still on, Spencer, my belt.”

“If you were still wearing a weapon, then I'd be worried,” he smiled.

You shot him a sarcastic look and finally detangled yourself, only to clasp his hands and pull him forward as well, letting him trail you to your closet.

“Here, change in the bathroom,” he nodded and walked away, following directions with eyes still closed, as if it were really his apartment and not your own.

100 days without him, and it was as if it had only been 100 hours. Your entire body chemistry changed when he was around, the stick holding your spine rigidly in place, dissolving into calm, into a smile and a free giggle. It felt right again, and you almost forgot you'd ever felt wrong.

After briefly changing, you swapped place with Spencer, who'd exited the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and wet hair.

“Dry it for me?” He asked, sitting on your couch, and you nodded your ascent. A shower and a quick change later, and you were doing just that.

As much as he tried to keep his head upright, it kept lolling onto your thigh, yawns stretching out of him as he nuzzled closer to you.

“Spencer, you're like a big kid, keep your head up.”

“I'm not a kid,” he laughed, hooking his arms behind your knees and nuzzling closer into your soft sweats. “I'm just tired.”

“You're right. A child would probably be better behaved.”

“Our child would be,” he sighed, but you'd already turned the hairdryer back on, drowning out everything. Everything but that thump again. A child, he was thinking about children, and more importantly, he was thinking about your children. With him.

He'd always imagined himself with a family, knowing it would ultimately stay in his imagination. But for a second, his visions changed. It wasn't just a child or two. It was you. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He only released the image when you finally pushed his head off of you and stood, turning away from him to get a glass of water from your kitchen.

“So, any plans today? Books to read, papers to mark, undergrads to run away screaming from?” You let the ice water cool your hot cheeks, but kept your back to him. You were hot, embarrassed, and you were looking at him in a sickeningly sweet way that could only be described as love struck or struck dumb.

“No, no, I finished all my obligations at the college yesterday,” he said, following behind you and picking up your cup when you set it down, taking a sip himself.

“I was… I was actually hoping we could spend some time together? Unless you had plans, which is totally fine-”

“No, Spencer, yeah, I have no plans, that's…. Well I have to do laundry, which is a bit boring but, no. No plans.”

“Laundry?”

“Two week case in Florida, I don't know how you didn't smell me yesterday, Spencer. I'd be running for the hills.”

He laughed and stepped away again, grabbing the two go bags by the door and coming back into your space.

“How about we get this done now so we can spend the day in a Who-Trek marathon?”

“Make that a Who-Greys Anatomy Marathon, and you have yourself a deal.”

He pouted again, and you snorted at the sight, taking another sip of water to calm yourself before you could react safely to that face.

“Come on, you know you've been dying to know what happens next at the Grey Sloane Memorial Hospital.”

“I thought it was called the Seattle Grace Mercy?”

“Oh we better get to that laundry now. You have a lot to catch up on.”

Grabbing a bag in one hand and his free hand in your other, you made your way down to your building's laundry room. But despite the man by your side and the relaxing day threatening to stretch ahead of you, a gloom caught you in the corridors.

You'd worked for two weeks, practically solid. You'd killed a man two days ago, or at least someone on your team had multiple shots having been fired. Another day on your job, another unsub felled, and everyone else was content with this just being a part of the job description.

It felt like each step towards the laundry room, each thing you did that was normal, that was regular, threw back in your face the pain you endured to save lives.

The bag in your hand weighed you down, pulling you lower and lower by the second.

You reached the laundry room, and you found the weight almost unbearable, stopping just before you could step in. You didn't have to think about what came next though, because suddenly the bag was out of your hands and Spencer was sorting your laundry for you.

“It's a Saturday, so your neighbour's won't complain if we separate the darks and lights into two machines, will they?” He asked, not looking up at you as he worked pouring out the fabric softener and the detergent. “Y/N?”

You hadn't noticed the lightness in your body until the tears hit your cheeks, the weight gone with his support.

“Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?” He said, hands cupping your face, because of course he was immediately at your side.

“I-I can't do it, Spencer…” your voice shook, pitching upwards, your vision blurring with tears.

“Can't do what, Y/N? Talk to me please, let me help?”

“I can't do laundry!” You said, finally bursting into a full fit of tears and burying your head in his waiting chest.

“L-Laundry?” He said, trying not to laugh, but the smile slipping out anyway now you were holding him.

You only sobbed again, nodding into his shirt, aware you were probably leaving snot all over it but not being able to care. It was your shirt anyway. You would just have to add it back to your laundry pile.

The thought set you off on another wave of sobs, and Spencer set about comforting you again. Keeping an arm wrapped around you, he put his quarters into the machines and set them off before quickly ushering you back up the stairs into your apartment.

“Y/N? Y/N, please talk to me,” he begged, smoothing your hair out of your eyes as you tried to gather yourself.

“I don't…. I can't….” You took a breath again, aware of the way your breathing hitched in your chest as you did.

“I don't think I can do this anymore,” you said, and his eyes widened quickly.

“This? Y/N, if you mean this as in us, then I can't-”

“This job,” you clarified, hands digging into the soft flesh of his arms further as he held you, finally sitting back on your couch.

“The job. Okay, the job. That's okay. We all feel like this at some point.”

You sniffed again and refused to meet his eyes.

“But this isn't like the other times this - It's like my whole b-body is protesting, and I can't sleep, and if I don't, then I might get sloppy and an unsub could-”

“Y/N, focus on my voice. You're spiralling. Listen to my voice, let's take some breaths, and think about this for a second.”

He guided you through some breathing, a hand on your back tapping out beats even as his voice grew quiet.

When you finally relaxed, you were sat on top of him, his hand rubbing circles into your back.

“I think it started when you left,” you whispered. “When you went to Mexico, and then, you know,” you've voice thickened, and you couldn't get the words out.

“And then these last 100 days they've just been…difficult.”

“100…difficult,” he echoed, almost breathless as he listened to you.

“It's like I can't do it without you. I never had to try to do it without you, and now I get what people say when they say this job is shitty, because it is when your best friend isn't there.”

You gave him a weak smile and wiped away your tears, trying to climb from his lap. But his firm arms held you still, and you didn't really want out anyways.

“When I get home, everything is different, and I can't make myself do anything. If you weren't here, I wouldn't have done that laundry. I'd let it sit and avoid it for weeks. Do you understand?”

“Y/N, lots of people feel depressed sometimes-”

“It's not - Spencer, I don't think this is something I can medicate my way out of. I don't know what to do because I can't do my job without you, and I can't be happy doing my job, and if I leave my job I'll be without you and then-”

Your voice cracked again.

“And then I still won't be happy.” The words were barely a whisper, but they were a plea, too. You weren't sure what for.

“You can't be happy without me?” He asked, but it was more a statement than anything else. Spencer felt horrible in that moment as his chest rattled, gleeful that he was your happiness.

“I love you,” he said, outloud finally after eight years.

“I love you, too, Spencer, but-”

“No, Y/N. Listen to me. I. Love. You.” The thumping of his heart set the tempo for the choir that was his senses to begin singing, as he finally leaned forward and kissed you.

“I love you, and I don't care if you're working at the BAU or if you're avoiding laundry at home. I, god, you're amazing and wonderful, and you're a human being, and you've our yourself under so much pressure for the last decade to keep me alive, to keep all of us alive really and….”

He took another breath, leaning into kiss you one more time.

“And you deserve a break.”

“W-When we take breaks, people die.”

“Did anyone die when I was teaching for the last three months? When JJ went on maternity leave?”

You shook your head, but your brain was still a mess.

“You all had reasons, I-”

“You have reasons, too. Y/N…. Y/N, let me be your reason.”

For a moment or two, Spencer truly thought you were going to say no. He thought you would get up and walk away, or better yet, ask him to leave and never come back.

So when you pressed your lips to his, he was sure that this was a dream.

But to you, it was salvation. Spencer Reid's love was the lifeline you'd been thrown, and it was buoyant enough to make you start floating.

His hands kneaded the flesh at your hips as he pulled you closer still to him, his tongue slipping into your mouth to explore every part of you there.

“Y/N… love…you,” he mumbled with each spare breath he caught, and you only detangled your lips to hear him say it again as he pressed similarly heated kisses against every inch of your exposed skin.

When Spencer's mind lost its ability to create original speech, he leant back on a lifetime of information, of learning love through books and people and marathons with you.

“I know that all I know right now is that I love you. And I know that I always will,” he whispered, lifting you and carrying you back to the bed you'd only crawled from an hour hence.

A hand slid under your shirt, and slowly pushed it over your head, letting it slowly drop to the floor as he held you tenderly.

“To me, you are perfect.”

His mouth found one nipple, and he gently kissed, then suckled at it, hands softly caressing your stomach, feeling along every ridge of you as you writhed under him.

“Of all the FBI Units, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.”

“Spencer,” you said, voice still thick with tears, but these ones more tender, more joyful.

His hand eased your sweats over your ass and off, his hips settling between your legs as if he found the place he was made to lie forever.

“The truth of it is, I’ve loved you from the first second I met you.”

His mouth trailed lower until his tongue hit your clit, brushing against it languidly, as if it was his deepest desire to taste you and nothing else ever again.

His tongue flattened and flicked and pushed inside of you as you replayed his words again and again and again. You found yourself repeating them with him.

“I love you,” you echoed as he pushed a finger inside of you.

“I.. love you,” you gasped as he added another.

“I love you,” you screamed as your back arched up off the bed, finding your pleasure in his tongue, just ad you'd found love in his words.

“You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love….” He freed his cock from his pants, and took it in hand.

“I love…” With another kiss, he pressed the tip of it against you, asking for permission silently as you nodded your head.

“I love you.” He pushed in slowly, but it wouldn't matter how he did it because now you knew how he felt, and you didn't want to return to a time of not knowing.

Hooking your legs around him, Spencer dropped his forehead to yours and looked you directly in the eyes as he began moving. In and out, he thrust, mouth open in a moan of pleasure, likely mirroring your own.

The poetry, the movie lines, they were gone now, and Spencer was left with nothing but you, and love, and love for you.

“Spencer,” you moaned out, and he felt his chest swell. Pride. His name on your tongue, his body pressed to yours, claiming you as his ad you claimed him as yours.

He came with a shudder and you were not far behind, his undoing sending a shiver up your spine as his fingers grazed your clit again.

You sat panting for a minute, still attached, still forehead to forehead.

You weren't sure if it was him who giggled first or if it was you, but you were glad it was one of you.

You spent the rest of the night, the rest of the weekend, wrapped in his warmth, dressed in his love, taking each day a step at a time as you basked in his adoration.

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cupcakeslushie · 2 months ago

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I’ve been debating on saying something because I have a lot of thoughts about this, but I just want to say a quick (maybe not so quick) thought…

“Comfort Character” is not a declaration of ownership. Just because you relate to a character deeply, and see yourself in them, does not mean you get to go around policing the stories that get told regarding them, or the how they’re depicted in said stories.

I wanna be clear. Im not saying you can’t pose genuine questions and have perfectly reasonable discussions about the intricacies of hard topics. In fact, fiction can even help make those discussions easier to digest by lowering the stakes, because there are not any actual stakes when none of it is real.

Unfortunately, I’ve been seeing the entire opposite. People taking stories that may make them “uncomfy”, and declaring that they’ve now decided they are taking it personally, to near obsessive levels. You are not the only one allowed to play with these characters. It is a huge sandbox, and these toys are mass produced enough for everyone to have their own doll to do with whatever they’d like.

I get you might see yourself in a character, but that doesn’t give you the right to go around sending death threats just because someone wrote, or drew your current blorbo in an unfavorable light. Prioritizing some cluster of lines and colors over the mental health and safety of actual real human beings, is worse than whatever fictional, moral “atrocity” that you think you’re championing against. You only end up sounding just like the people calling for book banning in schools.

You are not the character. You are not being hurt. The character is not even being hurt, because they do not in fact, exist to actually experience any of the pain creators are putting them through. And most importantly, you have no claim on how other people entertain themselves with said character. Because that is what these characters are. Entertainment. They can be used in good or bad stories. If you don’t like how a creator is using them. Move on. Don’t send death threats or attacks.

Block and filter your tags.

I have triggers, but that is my issue to control and maintain. It is appreciated when steps are taken by creators to help me avoid the things that trigger me, but I don’t wish death and pain on anyone who doesn’t view the world through the same lens as myself, and might not have considered my own personal feelings on the matter. My feelings of unease or anxiety from coming into contact with my own triggers, might be valid, but initiating an attack on a creator, because I took a personal offense to their story, is not. I do not outright assume that something was created with me and my tastes in mind.

Also, this is not aimed at any one person. This is a rampant issue that I have seen first hand, going back all the way to more than a year ago. I’ve seen it happen in multiple fandoms, but as I spend most of my time in the Rise fandom, that’s where I see the worst of it. I’ve received attacks, I know other creators have received attacks, and if this keeps up, creators will just stop wanting to share anything at all.

I also need to emphasize, I’m not mad. This is not a lashing out. This is just a frustrating and hurtful trend to constantly witness, when creators are putting their own heart, time, and energy into creating intriguing and complex works of all kinds in order to broaden the beauty of this fandom, and they’re getting anonymous messages to kill themselves.

Please think about the real life person behind the art and stories you are consuming, instead of prioritizing the fictional comfort of made up characters inside the story, that will in actuality, never have any opinions on what’s being done to them. Because they do not exist.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise fandom #discourse #even tho I hope this is not taken as an attack on anyone #I’m not trying to add to any fire #I only wish to give a perspective

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flowersforbucky · 5 months ago

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delirium

bucky barnes x reader (sex pollen trope)

word count: 4.1k

summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you.

warnings/tags: sex pollen, dub con, unprotected sex, oral, masturbation, angst, descriptions of physical pain, language, friends to lovers, avenger!reader, no use of y/n, reader is afab, 18+ only

flashbacks are in italics

Sometime in the near future, there would be a case study conducted on how long a human being could burn from the inside without dying.

They would refer to you as exhibit a.

Doctors and scientists would lay your cold corpse on a colder table and use a scalpel to cut you from your thorax to your belly button. They would scribble notes about how your lungs had turned to ash and your esophagus to molten lava.

They wouldn't say it, but they would think it's a shame, because your driver's license states that you were an organ donor.

A harsh gust of wind snaps you out of the twisted fantasy and back to your reality - standing barefoot on the rickety front porch steps of a small cabin in Sitka, Alaska. You've only been outside for a few minutes but the snow is pouring down at a brutal pace, already covering the tops of your exposed feet.

The razor sharp chill of the ground below you and the air that surrounds you are the only things tethering you to what little remains of your sanity.

You never thought that you would be so thankful for your feet to be going numb, but after feeling like every fiber of your being is getting melted with a hot branding iron for - what? Ten? Twelve hours now? You had to resist the temptation to submerge your entire body in the multiple feet of snow that had accumulated since nightfall.

You hear the front door of the cabin creak open from behind you. You don't have to turn around to know that he's standing in the doorway with the same look of pleading desperation that he's been giving you since the two of you had realized what was happening.

“You need to come back inside,” he says delicately. His voice is muffled by the roar of the snowstorm, but right now with heightened senses, you hear him just fine. “You're going to get hypothermia.”

You don't respond. The mere sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth together so hard that you're surprised the tiny bones don't shatter.

He keeps to the doorway, scared that if he takes one step closer, you'll flee into the miles of thick woods that surrounds you in only a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He murmurs your name in a tone that begs you to come in from the below freezing temperatures.

“What time is it now?” You barely recognize your own voice - low and strained, it sounds like you haven't had anything to drink in days.

You clear your throat, though you doubt it'll make any difference.

“Just after four o'clock.”

Eleven hours into this hell, then. Best case scenario, another half a day of this. Worst case scenario, close to two.

Either way, you knew that these symptoms had yet to hit their peak. This would undoubtedly get worse before it gets better.

You stare out into the endless thicket of snow covered hemlocks and spruces. The illumination from the full moon makes the white powder on the branches glisten in the darkness.

Daylight was still hours away, and with it, hope for some means of communication with the rest of your team back in New York. The snowstorm had brought a widespread power outage across the city. Cell phone signal was nonexistent right now.

“Go on back to your room,” you tell him. “I'll come back inside in just a moment.” You continue to watch the blizzard before you, knowing that he's still just a few feet away from you. “I promise,” you add, hoping that he’ll believe you and return to the bedroom you'd been forcing him to keep to.

The drug coursing through your veins had amplified every one of your five senses. Even with him behind the closed door of the bedroom, you could still smell faint traces of the earthy musk of his deodorant and something warm that is uniquely him.

You wouldn't chance coming back into the house until his scent has dissipated from the entrance - not unless you want to feel as though all air is being stripped from your lungs.

Even simply standing here, with him behind you and the wind blowing his scent in the opposite direction, is nearly intolerable.

You hear footsteps retreat into the house, growing quieter and quieter as he makes his way back down the hallway, until you finally hear the click of his bedroom door. You exhale a breath that you weren't aware you had been holding in.

You have no doubt that he'll try to drag you back inside by the ankles if he has to, so you make good on your promise and return to the sweltering interior of the six hundred square foot log cabin.

A sharp, stabbing pain radiates from the center of your body at that thought - the exact kind of thoughts you were actively trying to avoid having. Thoughts of his hands digging into your thighs, his wet mouth on your throat, his bare chest pressed against yours as he fucks you into the likely thirty-something year old couch - those thoughts. Dangerous territory thoughts - the kind you didn't trust yourself not to act on if dwelled upon for too long.

Apparently, the thought of him putting his hands around your ankles and dragging you kicking and screaming falls into that category.

You settle onto the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest in an effort to alleviate the ache in your lower belly. You notice that Bucky has crammed more wood into the fireplace, which currently serves as the main source of light for the cabin, save for a few candles that have been placed sporadically throughout the small space.

Sweat begins to bead across your skin within seconds of sitting down in front of the fire. You know that Bucky is just trying to keep the temperature of the house from dropping below zero while also providing enough light to see during the middle of the night while you are in too much discomfort to sleep, but you feel like you are locked in a sauna after running five miles.

You think back to all of the times that you've given Sam shit for taking ice baths after his workouts. Now nothing sounds better than an ice bath.

Almost nothing, anyway. The only thing that could possibly feel even better is laying down behind a closed door less than twenty feet away.

And he'd offered - begged, actually, to take this pain away from you.

“Please,” he whispers, kneeling on the ground next to the couch, where you sit hunched over in pain. He's so close to you and it's fucking suffocating. He places his hand on your knee and you have to dig your nails into the suede upholstery to keep from whimpering. He notices the reaction and retracts his touch.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says louder, the pet name finally getting you to meet his gaze for the first time since you dropped the glass jar of the firetruck red powder in the former HYDRA warehouse two hours ago.

Big mistake. Looking at him is a big fucking mistake. From the way his blue eyes bore into yours with sincere concern to the way that his plump, pink lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather -

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head into your hands. “I can't ask that of you. I can't make you do that. I would never forgive my–”

“You wouldn't be asking or making me do anything,” he tries to reason with you. There's sincerity in his voice but you're too delirius to hear the truth of his words. “I'm offering. Because I care about you. Because I don't want to see you in any kind of pain if there's anything I can do about it. Because I think you'd do the same for me if the situation were–”

“Bucky,” you cut him off in a strained gasp. “Your voice is making this so much worse right now.”

“Then let me help you. Let me make you feel good.”

His words alone are enough to have you clenching your thighs around nothing but the thick material of your sweatpants. You can feel your cotton panties becoming more drenched with each word he speaks.

“Not like this.” You're on the verge of tears - from pain, from anger at the entire situation, from how goddamn badly you need to feel him inside you. “It can't happen like this. I never wanted it to happen like this.”

His features soften, a look of understanding spreading across his face.

“When we fuck, I want it to be because we want to fuck,” you say as you jump up from your position on the couch, desperately needing to distance yourself from him before you do something you can't take back. “I don't want it to be because we feel like neither of us have a choice in the matter.”

“But we do have a choice,” he murmurs from where he's still kneeling on the floor next to the couch. “And I'd choose to go back to that HYDRA facility and infect myself with this shit, too, if it means you'd feel a little less guilty about saying yes.”

Your answer to that was, of course, a big, giant absolutely fucking not. The snow started pouring down shortly after, making his irrational proclamation an impossibility, anyway.

Almost half a day later, here you are. Surrounded by miles and miles of snow and ice in a town with no power or semi-functioning cell phone towers, just trying to endure the fire coursing through your veins until the effects of the HYDRA made drug have worked through your system.

You're coming up on the twelve hour mark now, and there's no denying that you're desperate for relief in one way or another.

Worth a fucking shot, you think.

You prop your feet up on the glass coffee table in front where you sit on the couch, spreading your thighs apart by a few inches.

You hesitate for a moment, listening for any kind of indication that Bucky's no longer in the confines of the cabin’s singular bedroom.

Dead silent, except for the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.

You snake your hand down the front of your pants, past the waistband of your underwear and to your center that's been aching for hours now.

You stroke your fingers up and down your folds, stopping at the apex of your core to massage your clit in circular motions.

Your head rolls back on the couch at the sensation, immediately feeling the slightest sense of relief. You dig your teeth into your lower lip to keep from moaning - hard enough to draw blood, the taste of iron flooding your mouth.

You slip two fingers past your entrance, not requiring any foreplay to plunge them to the hilt. It feels good - the way you're working yourself with rapid scissoring motions. Really fucking good, actually. Better than fingering yourself has ever felt.

But only a mere minute into the ministrations, you fear that it won't be enough to satiate you in the way that the drug requires.

Still, you try. You yank your t-shirt above your tits, bringing your free hand to paw at your breast as you continue working your pussy with your fingers, the heel of your palm putting pressure against your clit.

“That's not going to work, you know.”

You yank your hand out of your pants, snapping your head to the side to see him leaning against the frame of the small hallway. You had been so immersed in attempting to find some amount of relief that you hadn't heard him exit the bedroom. He's looking at you with sympathy and concern, not judgment - you don't think you'd be able to find it within yourself to feel embarrassed even if he were. Not in your current state of discomfort.

“How do you know that?” Frustration is evident in your voice. You look away from him, back to the fire in front of you as you pull your shirt back down. The floor creaks as he steps out of the hallway and makes his way over to the opposite end of the small couch. He sits a foot away from you, close enough so that his scent and warmth invades your senses, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core.

“Because I've been through what you're going through right now.”

Your eyes break away from the ember that you've been staring at, your gaze snapping to him. You don't know why this comes as a surprise to you. It shouldn't, not with every other form of torment that HYDRA had inflicted upon him for over half a century.

“Why didn't you tell me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was embarrassed,” he answers with a small half-shrug, breaking your stare. “I didn't.. handle it as well as you are,” he continues, shame in his voice and cheeks rosy. “You’re doing everything you can to fight something that you didn't ask for. That's more than I can say for myself.”

“You were brainwashed, Bucky,” you remind him delicately. It's a risky move that makes your skin burn and belly clench, but you scoot closer to him on the couch - your outermost thigh brushing against his knee. If the two of you weren't both wearing sweatpants, the minimal touch might even aid in bringing you some relief. Instead, you’re left feeling desperate for more of him.

But you push the feeling down, wanting to do what little you can to comfort him - wanting him to know that you don't think poorly of him for what was forced onto him, and what is now being forced onto you, too.

“I would never judge you for anything they made you do,” you assure him.

“I know you wouldn't,” he murmurs, turning to face you again. His blue eyes glow in the low lighting of the fire. The closeness between the two of you is dizzying, and electrifying, and -

“And I want you to know that I would never judge you for giving into this torture,” he adds.

You snort a laugh. “I'm starting to think you want me to give into this.” You mean for the statement to sound light-hearted, but a sharp pang in your gut makes you wince in pain and your voice goes shrill. You clutch your lower belly, hunching over at the pain.

He leans in closer, putting one hand on your lower back and one on your thigh. You whimper at the pressure of his fingers against your spine and inner thigh. Even through your clothes, the contact feels like heaven compared to hell you've been enduring for the last twelve hours.

You lean into his touch - you don't even think about it, you just do it. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your forehead nuzzling the warm skin of his throat.

You take a deep inhale, attempting to steady your breathing, and you realize quickly that is a mistake - his scent is so euphoric, it feels like inhaling flames.

“Would it make it easier for you if I said that I do want you to give in?” His voice is low, his breath fanning across your face from his position above you.

“Fuck, Bucky, you can't say that to me right now,” you whine. You fist your hands into the fabric of his t-shirt, your eyes squint shut.

“Look at me,” he commands. You force your eyes open, pulling your head back enough to look up at him through your eyelashes.

“I want it to be your choice.” He brings a hand up to cup your jawline. His thumb skims the outline of your bottom lip. “But I would be lying if I said that I'm not relieved that I'm the one here with you, or that I wouldn't enjoy every second of helping you feel better.”

He brings his hands to yours, pulling them away from where they still clutch his shirt. You release your grip, allowing him to hold you by your wrists. He pulls your right hand up to his face, stopping just under his nose. Your brows furrow in confusion, until it dawns on you what it is he's doing.

He inhales deeply, then lowers your hand to his parted mouth. He slips the tips of your index and middle fingers past his lips, and then swirls his tongue around the two digits.

The exact two that had been inside your pussy not even five minutes ago.

Right now, you think you could come from him sucking on your fingers and nothing else.

You don't even try to stop the groan that slips past your lips as you shove your fingers deeper into his mouth. He moans around them as he finishes cleaning them off, the sound sending vibrations up your arm and throughout your body.

You pull your fingers from between his lips and immediately crush your own lips to his in their place. You feel the drug surging through your veins, but this time it's less excruciating - it now feels like pure adrenaline bubbling under your skin, spurring you on.

He opens his mouth to you, your lips and tongue moving with his in synchronicity. It's hurried and messy, and maybe not as romantic as you had imagined it in your head before this night - but it's exactly what you need right now.

He maneuvers you so that you're laying down on the couch, and nestles himself between your thighs. You can feel the hard outline of his erection through the thin material of his sweatpants. He ruts against you, dragging the bulge across your clothed center as he yanks your t-shirt up and over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind the couch before attaching his mouth to one of your nipples and palming the other with the cool metal of his left hand.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling the full weight of his body down against you. You stick your hands up the back of his t-shirt, scratching your nails down the skin of his back.

“I need more,” you gasp out as he pinches your nipple between his teeth, rolling it in his lips. The clothing that separates the two of you feels like a prison. “I need to feel you.”

He pulls away, leaning back to perch on his knees between your legs. Your eyes roam down the chiseled planes of his chest until they land on the defined “V” shape that disappears into the waistband of his low-hanging pants.

He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants and underwear and tugging them both down past your ankles, then throwing them somewhere across the room with both of your long-forgotten shirts.

His eyes trail your body from your breasts to your thighs, his pupils dilating in the firelight. He splays his hands across the meat of your inner thighs, pinning your legs open wide for him. He lowers himself back down on the couch, belly down so his face hovers just above your pussy.

“Bucky, I swear if you don't put your mouth–”

He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle before his tongue slips between his lips. It darts to your hole, licking a soft strip up to your clit. You exhale a sharp hiss of pleasure, your hands shooting to lace your fingers through tendrils of his hair. You arch into his touch, meeting the thrusts of his tongue with thrusts of your hips. He eats like you're the best thing he's ever tasted - like he's wanted this for way longer than this drug has been in your system.

You're coming on his face in an embarrassing amount of time, really. Thanks to the influence of the pollen, you currently have the stamina and endurance of a teenager losing their virginity. Your thighs are clenched around either side of his head, writhing above him as you ride out your orgasm on his face.

The relief that you feel as you come down from your high feels like years of pent up frustration leaving your body all at once.

You don't quite feel entirely like yourself - there's still a dull ache in your core, and your skin’s still feverish - though that could be due to the fire that the two of you are just feet away from. But you're now able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Come here,” you whisper, your voice low and honeyed. He crawls over you, his chest brushing against yours as he centers himself above you. His skin shines with a thin layer of sweat that mingles with your own. You reach a hand between your two bodies, palming his erection through the sweatpants that he has yet to shed. You keep your eyes locked on his face, watching as his eyes roll back into his head and his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as you massage him through the fabric. Your other hand juts down to the waistband of his pants and you tug them downwards, far enough to help him shimmy them down to his knees.

His cock springs forward and he takes himself in his flesh hand, pumping his length several times before teasing your folds with his tip. He collects your slick along his length, lubricating himself before nudging his head just past your entrance.

You're more than ready for him - hours of desperation in addition to already having come on his face leaves you needing no further preparation before he's filling you up with his impressive length and girth. There's a slight burn at the sheer fullness of it, but there's also a wave of relief that your body has been craving for hours.

He pulls out halfway, then rocks back into you. He starts slow - trying to hold back for his own sake or for yours, you're unsure. Gradually, he increases his speed, hitting your cervix at that sweet angle that not everyone knows how to work. You lean forward, raising your head enough to capture his lips in yours once more.

You taste yourself on him - a dichotomy of sweet and salty mixed with something entirely unique. He brings his flesh hand in between your bodies, lowering his fingers to your clit where he begins rubbing pressured circles. You moan his name into his mouth and he responds by biting your lip between his teeth, his movements becoming messier.

“You gonna come on my cock?” he asks in a low growl when he feels your pussy clenching around him. “Gonna fill you up and make you feel all better.”

His words send you tumbling over the edge for the second time - that telltale warm coil in your belly bursting at the same time that he begins spilling his warmth into you.

He collapses, pinning you between his body and the couch beneath you. Starting at your shoulder, he peppers kisses along your collarbones and up your neck until he’s finally eye-level with you.

“We can do that again,” he says in a breathy voice, still inside you. “If you need to, that is. Or if you just want you.” There's a mischievous grin spread across his face and a twinkle in his eyes. It's the most carefree you've seen him since the two of you left New York to come here for this mission. You put your hands on his chest, jokingly attempting to shove him away from you.

“Oh, I don't think I need to,” you jab at him. “I'm feeling pretty great now, but thank you for your services.” He laughs, pulling out of you and sitting back against the couch. He pulls you up with him, wrapping his flesh arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. “But I think I might want to again. You know, now that I'm no longer in excruciating pain.” He hums in agreement, stroking his flesh fingers across the side of your stomach.

“I'm glad you were the one here with me too, Bucky."

thank you for reading! i know sooo many people have done this trope, especially for bucky, but it's truly one of my all time favorites and i just needed to get this out of my system so i hope you all enjoyed

comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

other works by me: oil & water • down bad • acquainted •

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes one-shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction

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