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hwan-g · 2 years ago

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DADDY ISSUES. —BANG CHAN; 🚬

pair. soft dom! chris x f. reader | genre. lovers to friends, roommates, heartbreak, hurt/comfort, smut | warnings. profanity, angst, alcohol abuse, anger issues, mentions of cheating, attempted su!cide, toxic relationship, unprotected sex, filthy talk. | word count. 6.9k

tags. @ughbehavior (@straywrds), @cb97percent, @hyuneater, @lix-ables, @hellishmoons, @hyun-bun, @skz317cb97, @danyxthirstae01, @choigore, @j-0ne25.

a/n: hi lovelies! popping in to say this story is heavy, read the warnings before proceeding. if any of you need to talk, my dm's/inbox are always open. the national su!cide prevention lifeline for the u.s is 1-800-273-TALK. i love you, you're not alone. ♡

synopsis. what can Chris say about you—you’re his girl. he’d do fucking anything for you.

You were driving him insane.

Your cunt, they way you felt around his dick, your nails scratching on his back, the arch of your back—but your fucking voice. His name coming from your mouth, your perfect fucking lips, that tongue that knows how to wrap around him, lick him just right to get him painting your face in hot, sticky white. He’d cum time and time again for you—would bury himself inside your sweet folds every single goddamn day of his life, forever if he could, if you let him.

But you don’t. You let him rail you, fuck the absolute shit out of you, the harder the better, your hand, that fucking hand, fuck him, always guiding his own around that pretty neck, pleading with those devil eyes, daring him, sending him over the edge, making him want to kill you with how much he craves you, how much he wants you, wants to have you again, always, if you let him, only if you fucking did, and he’d show you, you know he would, because no one could fuck you better than him.

And it’s not for lack of trying. ‘Cause that’s the fucking truth, isn’t it—he fucks you; you fuck literally anyone else. Every other goddamn motherfucker out there that gives you even a smidge of attention, promises you words and free drinks, takes you to expensive hotels, reservations booked under false names, room service on the tab, that sort of thing. Chris could never do that, right, not anymore, because you forsook him, you chastised and threw him away when he got too close, yeah?

Even though he was your first, even though that hole of yours belonged to him first— he was the one that found you first, claimed you first, had you screaming for him, daddy, daddy please, right there, oh, please touch me right, there—it’s still clear as day in his mind, how he made you come for him, on his fingers, on his cock, on his tongue, Christ, over and over, his good girl, his baby, so helpless, so needy all the time, for him, for everything he could give you.

But no more of that. You were all grown now, weren’t you, you had no need for him anymore, he’d taught you everything there was, you’d sucked him dry, and moved on to bigger and better things, didn’t you? Now he was an afterthought, a quick fuck when you felt like it, when you were too tired to go out, and he was there, ready and waiting for you, always waiting, always getting the short end of the stick, always the crumbs.

And still, he accepted every time. Because it was you, because at least you were coming back to him, at least you still wanted him, because he could have you, even like this, even on the A.M, even if drunk, in one of your moods, where he doesn’t know if he should hold you down so you could let it all the fuck out, finally, at long last, or just fuck it out of you, take it by force, bury himself in all of your sadness and drown.

You could dance circles around him. You could point a gun to his head, and he’d swear you loved him with all of your tartar fucking heart. You did, love him. You loved him in a way he would never understand, in the same way you loved your father when you saw the suitcase in his hand, door open, leaving, leaving, leaving—

You loved him just enough to keep him around. You loved him like a field burning. But he could never know. The moment love reveals itself, it is no longer a mythical thing, it holds no substance, no magic spell. It shrivels up, and it dies. Chris could never know—he would never know.

When you broke it off, when you gave him the ring back, those same Satan eyes dry, cold, a freezing winter to his scorching sun, middle of July, he proposed your arrangement in a desperate attempt to keep you with him, close to him; so, you wouldn’t walk out on your relationship, whatever would remain of it, leave him entirely. It was a selfish bargain, a man sentencing himself to death by hanging, but there was nothing else—you’d left him with no other choice.

He never expected you to agree. Never expected the look you gave him. A truce between lovers, a friendship that could only be the result of having entered one’s soul, of having seen who they are in intimate ways. Roommates, then, and he helped you move out of your shared bedroom to the guest room, the one your mutual friends usually crashed in after a party, exhausted and drunk. In the same way he’d fall asleep all those nights after you put yourself in a different space, a space away from him, so close but so fucking far away, so he’d never touch you, so he could not whisper to you anymore.

And then came the visits after hours, the sliding under his covers, the ghost of you, only real as far as the bed stretched, only allowed for a short while, enough to get what you wanted, and then gone, just as fast as you’d come. Chris gave himself away to you every fucking time, because he was foolish; because he looked for you everywhere, because he drove himself wild with jealousy when you weren’t home, because he’d wait, and wait, and wait, until the sun rose again, until he’d hang from the couch heavy with sleep, his eyes remaining stubbornly open, staring at the door, staring at his phone, staring at your jacket hanging from the coatrack, wondering if you’re warm enough, if you’re safe, if you’re fucking alive—

Hours and hours of obsessing over you, cursing himself for ever suggesting this; this half death, this swallowing of heart, drinking himself oblivious just so the clock would melt away and shut the fuck up, the ticking of it turning into nothing more than a faint buzz in the background. You were out doing God knows what, probably fucking other men, and what about it, right, what was he supposed to do, he was nothing to you now, no boyfriend, no fiancé, no love of yours, nothing solid he could grab on tight and hold onto—a mere roommate. He could fucking laugh.

He's saved you from yourself, helped you through grief; all music is you, everything he writes, composes, fucking arranges—all is you, filled with you, thoughts of you, your scent, your cunt, the way it clenches around his cock, the way you unravel for him, his angel, his girl, his girl, his his his— but you’re someone else now, aren’t you? And Chris, still here, on standby until you come; one glance from you and he’s back to life like usual, like you hadn’t pressed pause on him, like he’d been working perfectly fine all along.

It was enough to drive him to addiction. And it almost did—booze eased the pain of you, helped him sleep. A known insomniac, someone that has been working in the dark for most of his adult years, someone that needs help from pills to go to bed, otherwise he’d carry on through the haze of days, slowly turning mad, paranoid with deprivation. Oh, he was broken too, long before you, and there was no fixing that. That was to stay with him for the rest of time. In consequence, his brain was rewired, worked different than others’. There was no hope—the sky was a ceiling and it had collapsed on everything.

Complete standstill.

He finds you in the living room, something four in the morning. He’d just finished a track, send it over to the guys for reviewing, and felt his mouth dry as cotton. Chris hadn’t even realized the time, creating being water that sweeps everything else away, concepts and basic needs included. Your knees were hugged close to your body, your head resting on top, slow blinking at the wall.

The him that would rush to your side, inspect you for anything out of the ordinary, anything that could make him see red—Chris held him back. This was not that, not like all those times before, this was backstepping, this was your brain eating at you in plain sight, the only voice louder than your own. He approached carefully, always aware of his position in your life, of what he wasn’t, and wasn’t, and would not be, not for a long time, not until you said so.

“Alright?”

The faintest nod, you’d have to know the habit to make it out. He knew it; he knew it best of all.

“Alright,” you repeated the word back to him, not moving an inch.

Chris waited, as he does so well. He waited for something else, an indication to proceed. Your sadness was consuming the entire room, its shadows curling in the corners. An episode, then, as heavy as the world, and he wondered if that was the reason you were home so early—if some fucker couldn’t handle your vastness, the mess of you, all your pointed pieces, and send you back to the one person that can.

“And the truth?” he presses, but just enough. Enough for you to spill, and he walks towards you despite himself, despite his throat warning him of dehydration, despite his heart running for the hills, screaming of ruins and deterioration.

He’s been through all of it. He tells himself it won’t hurt anymore, not the same, not as much.

He’s wrong.

A sharp inhale, the shaking of shoulders. Sadness always shows like this. “It’s bad, Chris,” you whimper, your voice breaking. “It’s bad again.”

Chris takes a deep breath, only to remind himself that he must keep distance between you. Because if it were up to him, he’d cradle you in his arms so tight pain would slide right off, scare away in the sight of love. If it were up to him, he’d carry you to your bed and make it all okay again, and every time, as many times as it took, with no hesitation, no second thought, nothing but taking your sadness as his own, nothing but bearing every single thing that hurts you, that weighs you down. If it were up to him, but it’s not. You do not want him, and your pain is your own, this you’ve told him.

‘I’ve had pain for so long, I don’t know what I’d be without it.’ So, instead, he watches as you cry silently to yourself, comfortable in his presence, but just enough. Always just enough.

But never fucking enough.

“Go to bed, (Y/N),” he tells you, but what he means to say is ‘Come to bed with me, lay down next to me and I’ll take care of you. I swear I will.’ What he really wants to say is he wants to hide inside your body, wants to swim through your bloodstream, squeeze through your veins and remove all toxins, all illness out of you. And if that sounds a little crazy, forgive him, yeah, he hasn’t slept in twenty-six hours.

You’re shaking the very fucking foundation of him. He cannot bear to witness your tears, cannot physically turn into something that can take it all away, angel, please, please stop crying, will you—you’re killing me, you’re torturing me—

You look so small, so frail in that place of yours. The couch was coming apart at the seams, having seen a little too much for its young age of four. Chris stared at the threads hanging at the bottom of it, to avoid the gun in his mouth. Perhaps he could reach out and touch you, maybe you’d let him, maybe you needed him as much as he needed you tonight, and you’d mercy him, you’d pardon his sentence and set him free.

Wiping at your eyes, mascara smudged in the corners, purples and grays smoked together, strangling, patronizing him—it’s not for you, it’s not for you, I was out with another man, I smell like him, I have his seed inside me, I will leave you one day, it’s not for you—and if it’s not that it’s the fucking dress, short and black and thin, second skin, covering your tits and your stomach and your cunt and not much else. His woman, once and always after that, in sorrow even when he’s let you do what you want, even when he’s sacrificed himself to the Devil so you have free will, even as he chews on glass as he watches you leave, always exiting doors, always away from him, never to, always from, and goddamn him, he’s not a fucking pussy, he’s your man—

You need him. He shut out the entire world he once knew for you, shunned everything, so he knows this— you need him.

“We shouldn’t do this,” you whisper, but your gaze is begging, your eyes are a window, and he’s got 20/20 vision, he reads between the lines, he recognizes.

He knuckles his own, rubbing his face raw. “We’re not doing anything,” an ancient voice. A voice that’s not his own, waiting. Tired.

The lighting is low, but he could make you out blindfolded. It’s late, and yet it’s not, not for him, not for you, not with you, but you lay in different beds, with different men, while he’s alone, whilst the waiting is in process and trust him, he’d rearrange the whole fucking architecture of this building to bring your bedroom closer to his, would build it himself if he had to, so don’t underestimate him, don’t test him, goddamnit, don’t refuse, don’t deny—

Your feet touch the ground, bare and no doubt cold, and he loves you, it rips through him, because where you’re always cold he’s always warm, and in that way useful to you. He remembers a time where it wasn’t bad, where there were no men, where you shared one bed and exchanged body temperatures, giggling like teenagers.

“Call out to me and I’ll come to you,” you disturb the silence between you, and your words cut through him like a knife. More knife than human. Because he’ll do it, he has a thousand names for you, and they all spell out one thing, they all reside in his head and haunt him.

He doesn’t believe you. You’re toying with him, because you’re sad and lonely, and need him. He’ll fall for it anyway because he’s sad, lonely and he needs you. A double-sided coin, but one all the same. You’ll cut him and cut him and cut him. He’ll bleed to death. Cause and effect—one cannot exist without the other.

If he puts his hands together in prayer, forgive him. He’s in love.

“What will you answer to?” He asks, holding his breath, afraid to look, but terrified to look away, and you get up from the torn couch, falling apart at the seams yourself, and this, you, he knows how to mend. If only he says the right thing.

“Anything.” You stand, fists at your sides, shivering, tears never ending, and he could grab you—

He doesn’t think you know what that means.

“Lies. One mistake and you’ll be gone,” he retorts bitterly, and his mouth has never tasted sweetness.

You smile, and you’re an idol at church, staring at him through glass, you’re a million-dollar painting guarded in a museum, people questioning you for hundreds of years. Is she smiling? Is she lying to me? When you already know the answer.

“Take a chance, Chris. This could be the last time.”

He should’ve paid attention to that, should’ve dedicated his entire life to solving the riddle, putting together the clues, gone on the scavenger hunt, but instead he lashes out, cups your face and smashes your lips together. He’s been starved, he’s been left thirsty in a desert to walk around in circles, repenting for his love. He’s had enough.

Mine, are you? A fucking angel, open your legs for me, let me feel my cunt, goddamn you—soaking my fucking fingers, baby girl, come. Come with me now. His hand over yours, walking into Lazarus’ tomb, a raising of the dead. “Tell me what you need,” as his teeth graze your earlobe, as he turns you around, your back against his chest, as his hand is holding your arms in place, a hostage in front of God, so you won’t go anywhere, “Did you hear me?”

“All of it. All of you,” you moan, your head falling back, and he bends you over the bed, your knees hitting wood. He’ll take you like this, because he cannot stand another night of having you where he sleeps, and you don’t stay. Lies, he thinks again. Not all of me—enough of me, bits and pieces of me, he tears the dress from your body in one swift motion, the fabric resisting over your hips. You gasp, pulling against his grip. He grips tighter.

You buck into his hips, and he groans, his lips on your back, on your shoulders, on your neck, everywhere at once, because unlike you, he wants every square inch of you, he wants to destroy you, wants to reach inside the cage of you and eat your heart so that it beats next to his own, nothing between you, and he sounds fucking pathetic, but it doesn’t even matter, you’re under him, at his mercy, and your cunt stretches around his fingers, his palm runs over your sweet cheeks, fingers tracing your lips, coming to rest on your neck, and you moan again, you’re shaking, but for an entirely different reason this time, and Chris wishes he can have you like this always, always always—

“You fucking own me body and soul, baby, that’s it, fuck on my fingers, come on—” you’re so close, so fucking close, but then he takes them away, and he’s entering you in an entirely different way, a better one, and you almost collapse, but your arms grip the covers, steady you on the mattress, and you’re crying out in ecstasy. He knows the exact map to your pussy, all the ways to make you cum for him, and he’s checking all of them off, his mouth is filthy, whispering in your ear, sucking on your neck, his cock drilling into your hole, rearranging your insides—

Listen to how your pussy sounds, fucking Heaven right under me, God baby, will you let me rip you apart, you will, won’t you, you know I’ll take care of you, fuck—despite the roughness of him, you felt comfort in the way he was taking you; like coming home, like opening the door of a place you know upside down. The violence that you unleash on yourself, an unstitching of all your wounds, and scars, the familiar red of your own bleeding, of being alive—Chris felt like that. You couldn’t stop coming back for more, because you knew the lights would be on, the bed would be warm, the blood would run the same.

You were a terrible fucking person, and you deserved none of it, so you bit your tongue, you tasted the iron, and clenched your teeth, letting him violate you in the best way, in the only way he ever will, because Chris was many things to you, but he could never hurt you—it’d only feel like he’d be hurting himself, every time.

When he came undone over you, he pushed through still, searching for your high, kind in his devouring savage in his ways, fingers brushing over your clit, smearing your wetness in between your thighs, driving you wild with his heavy breathing on your sweaty skin—it felt too much, too overwhelming, too hot, so hot, fuck c’mon baby girl, give it to me, I know you can, come around my dick, pretty baby, fuck you’re so goddamn beautiful—you did. Your eyes shut tight, your nails digging into his forearm, you came viciously, your entire body shaking, in a state of shock, rendered speechless, convulsing, yet needing more of him, his weight on you, his panting, his lips at the nape of your neck.

You’ve fucked a lot of men, you’re not proud to admit. All of them have been different, their love, the way they fuck—all different, all the same. They will never compare to this man, your man, one and only, because he knows you most of all, knows you inside out, has shaped you to fit around him like a glove. But it is because of that shame, because of the embarrassment—that you leave.

He watches you do so with apprehension, that dark gaze of his restrained, hurt. But you knew, didn’t you, Bang Chan? This changed nothing, this would always be one way and not the other, not what you want, never what you want. You could love her and love her and love her, until you die, until you burn yourself alive with yearning, until you get dragged into the pits of Hell. It—will—not—change. Because it’s not up to you. So, you watch her collecting seeds, you watch her fill herself up with so many of you, and you think maybe this will be enough now, maybe now she’ll stop, this is enough, right? Enough. This word on his mouth is pure acid, he curses it—but it’s all the consolation he has. That one day it’ll stop, one day you’ll come back, your thirst will be satiated, appeased, and you’ll be—satisfied. Another word that’s hard to voice, even harder to swallow.

“If I say it,” he starts, hands clenched into fists, tears brimming, heart crumpled up and thrown against the wall, a first-degree murder, “if I say it,” he repeats, and it’s wicked, “will you stop? Will you come here?”

You pause by the door, a being with no soul, no redeeming qualities. You will your face to look brave, to look indifferent, but what’s the use—against your own self? He can see right through you, this man.

“If you say it, you’ll never see me again.”

The door closes. He’s alone.

Two weeks later, Chris enters your apartment stumbling, taking off his coat, kicking off his shoes, world spinning. It takes him about two minutes to walk a straight line in the kitchen, but he succeeds, the water he manages to pour himself soothing his burning throat.

The record had been wrapped up, the fat check from his producer/song-writer skills now residing in his bank account, all the whiskey bought in his honor drank until the last drop. What was left now but to go home and sneak into your room, watch you sleep, fantasize about slipping right behind you under the blankets, wrap an arm around your waist, bring you close and smell the sweet shampoo scent of your hair? Such simple pleasures, and yet getting there was the hardest part. Chris wasn’t a creep, or at least didn’t consider himself one, but you’d driven him to the absolute fucking brink of madness. All he needed was your touch, your soft skin against his, your lips kissing back, initiating contact—he couldn’t even have that. Not even that.

He wanted to tell you, he wanted to see your expression as you’d hear it—he almost fucked another woman tonight. Almost, as in he couldn’t even look at her fucking face without thinking of you, couldn’t find his way inside her skirt, inside her pussy, and the truth of the matter was she wasn’t you, point blank, right, so what else was there to say? He got his dick sucked regularly, so many fucking girls begged him to take them home, but how could he when you’d be right there, one fucking wall of separation between you, possibly listening in, possibly covering your mouth, the betrayal pushing you one step further from him?

He couldn’t even risk it, no matter how impossible it sounded. You weren’t even there most nights, you didn’t even care—you’d gone and done it first, if he were to lay the facts down; you’d hurt him first, betrayed him first. But doing it back? Doing it to you? He’d rather cut his own hand. You held him by the balls, he was unable to escape your spell. So, he staggered over to your room, pressed the handle down, softly, quietly, afraid to wake you, if you were even there, he chanted, he prayed, it was so late, so fucking late, you better be in bed, you better be safe and tucked in and at home—you weren’t. Your bed was neatly made, your nightstand lamp off. But your shoes were by the door, a hope lit like a torch on his way to your bedroom now vanquished by the dark, the cold.

Panic settled low on his stomach, as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialing your number, eyes searching, ears perked for sounds. He moved towards the buzz, the living room, the sad looking couch—your phone was in between the pillows, going off on silent. Chris sobered immediately, warning signs going off in his head, his legs carrying him across the apartment, hands trembling, eyes wide, manic, heart leaping, beating out his chest, afraid, terrified—

You couldn’t have, you wouldn’t have, you’re fine, you’re out, you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine, he opens the bathroom door, looks left, looks right—you did.

“(Y/N)!”

There’s no one in his body, he’s floating, he reaches you, he falls on his knees, his arms sink into water, sleeves drenched, he’s dead, he’s dead, there’s nothing in him, he pulls your body up, he screams, he yells, he’s shaking you, you’re cold, you’re freezing, your eyes are closed, why are your eyes closed, he scrambles, he’s dead he’s fucking dead his heart is not responding—the water splashes on the floor, the water is everywhere, he’s drowning in it, he presses you against his chest, his lips are on your temple, his hands try to create friction, he rubs he rubs he rubs, he doesn’t know where to look, what to do, he’s not alive, what does he do what does he do—

“What the fuck, what the fuck, baby, please wake up, please wake up, please wake up,” he thinks he’s crying, he thinks he has to call an ambulance, he thinks there’s not much time, your pulse is weak, but it’s there, he’ll die, he’ll die with you, please please please please, “you can’t fucking leave me, you can’t fucking leave, angel why, why—”

Three numbers, he calls, he puts it on speaker, he’s shoving his fingers down your throat leaning you forward, how long have you been in there, how long like this, what if this doesn’t work, please, fuck, please, baby, baby, my—mine, my girl is not breathing, please hurry, please hurry, in water, I found her, she’s not responding, YES, SHE MIGHT’VE, FUCK, hurry hurry, what do I do!

Chris desperately tries to get you to throw up, checking your face, checking your pulse, ridding you of the clothes clinging on your skin, forcing himself not to think this was on purpose, the one time he’s not home, the one time he goes out. He doesn’t remember ‘this could be the last time’, he doesn’t remember the pills on your nightstand, he doesn’t, his mind is not cooperating, he’s not there, the woman is telling him to try CPR, but he doesn’t know how to do that, he’s scared to let you go, what if he hurts you, what if he breaks you, what if you die because of him, oh God, fuck, he’s crying, he’s hyperventilating, he’s dead, he’s dead—

You choke, water coming out your mouth, your shoulders moving, your body kickstarting, and he removes his hands from your chest, he pulls you to him, he rocks you back and forth, she’s back, she’s back, but she’s weak, as you gargle and heave on him, gasping for air, gripping on his shirt, meeting his eyes—you’re back, you’re back, no other thought than this, you didn’t leave, you didn’t leave him, but you’re pale, so pale, and you’re losing consciousness again, and the ambulance needs to hurry the fuck up, because this is a different fight now, a scarier one.

“Baby, what did you do, what did you do…”

“Keep her awake, sir!”

He lightly slaps your cheek, his fingers never moving from the pulse on your neck, and he talks to you, he talks to you about the first day he met you, and your eyes are fighting to stay open, you’re here but you’re not, you hear him but you don’t, and you smile but it’s a phantom thing, barely there, drugged, not there, not there—you walked up to Seungmin to get his phone number, and he should’ve known then, you’d never truly belong to him, because he saw you first, but he didn’t have you until later, he wanted you from that fucking moment, but he didn’t say anything, he didn’t intervene until later, until he talked to his friend, until he went on that first date instead of him, and how that came to change his entire fucking life forever.

Because you’ve been in it since, because he can’t imagine anything without you there, there’s fucking nothing, a black void, a hole to bury himself in, and that’s it, without you? Without you? His girl? Nothing. You need to stay alive, you owe him at least that, if he can’t have you, he won’t keep you back, not anymore, he promises, he swears, but please, please, for the love of fucking God, stay alive.

The paramedics come five minutes after he pulls you off the tub, and they take you away in the towels he’s wrapped you in, checking for responses, talking amongst themselves. He follows lost, in a haze, his drunk mind slowing him down—he wants to call your mom, but you haven’t talked to her in two years, and fuck if he knows where your father is. He left you, you’ve told him, when you were little, and ever since then you’ve treated the men in your life as passengers on a train, expecting them to walk out whenever their stop comes up, never thinking for one second that anyone could want to stay on forever, until the train seizes to work, until the tracks rust away, and there’s no more need for transportation.

You’ve never for one second thought maybe you don’t need to be train—that you don’t need to always arrive and depart. That you could stay, and that someone would stay with you.

You don’t wake up for three days.

You’re driving him insane. He still comes.

He sits next to you for hours, staring at your serene face, the face he’s seen change in fifty different ways, and he remembers how it felt to be the recipient of your smile, how your mouth stretched and curved, how your eyes creased. Sometimes you’d move your fingers, others your eyelashes would flatter, or your leg would jerk. He’d call the nurse immediately, point it out, get disappointed, fall back on the chair.

‘Normal reflexes,’ they called them. He thinks he hasn’t slept in more than thirty hours; he thinks your face is ingrained in his memory, yet he studies it nevertheless, endlessly, day to night, night to day, the machine next to you beeping, the IV on your arm dripping—he thinks he has reflexes too, but they all respond to you. If there’s no you, then he might as well stick that needle inside him, lay next to you, sleep eternally.

If there’s no you, what’s the point?

Seungmin visits, Jisung does too, they both bring flowers. On the third day your mom shows up much to his surprise—there was no emotion behind her eyes, nothing to indicate the girl on the bed was in fact her daughter, and Chris had to get the fuck away, step out before he caused a fucking scene, before he did something he’d regret.

There was no one for you—all those ‘friends’ you partied with on the regular, all those fuckers you slept with—no one came, no one called, no one gave a damn. You stretched yourself thin for people who most likely didn’t even remember your fucking name, you gave yourself away, time and time again, told him to go to Hell, you’d do whatever you wanted, you had others, you weren’t alone—Chris based himself off those words entirely. Knowing the truth, realizing the loneliness you’d been enduring all these months—he wanted to crack his head open, physically pick you out of his brain.

Only because you wanted to be away from him. All of this because he insisted.

How to forgive himself now? One, for being too late. Two, for not seeing. Where does one put his sins? There was no excuse for him; he saw you every day, he prided himself for knowing you best of all. What the fuck did he know, huh?

He left. Told the receptionist to call him if you woke up—him, not your mom, not anybody else, and he fucked off to go drink himself oblivious. The tiredness he felt couldn’t be described in human words. It had built a home inside his very bones, rested heavily, stubbornly on top, pressing down, down down—a mere mortal, with insignificant pains, and the need for sleep. Chris had no need for sleep, no need for mortal prerequisites.

He needed you. That was all.

You go home, eventually.

He picks you up, a thousand words in his mind, none on the tip of his tongue. He drives in silence, and you stare ahead. You’re different, there’s a cloud twice the size it was now. You have to go to therapy, you have to take other pills now, long names on them, day and night. You have to ask for help when you need it. Chris was pulled to the side as well—he had put himself down as your fiancé, had asked to know everything about you. So, they tell him.

You might need to go away for a bit, but for now you’d go back with him. Call this specific number if something happens. Your life redefined by this one choice. It was stupid. You didn’t even want to die, not particularly, you just wanted the pain to go away—you fell asleep in the wrong place. It didn’t even matter, anyway. Doctors don’t listen, not really. Chris does. You know he does, you know he’s a good listener, you’re positive he will understand—because he loves you.

And you love him, too. Just enough. A field burning. Always, and forever.

But he can’t even look at you, and you think you might’ve fucked something up with him. In him. So, you stare ahead, and you wait until you’re home. You didn’t even want to die; you say this over and over to yourself. You didn’t even want him to see you like that. Now he’ll treat you differently, he’ll ponder over everything you say, he’ll look for hidden meanings. Your mother was the same way, and you left her.

You absolutely do not want to leave Chris; you know this now.

Home is tidy. He might be a fucking mess, might’ve lost the entire goddamn plot over your absence, ruined his liver, and his brain nerves, but he’s not about to reveal that to you. Any of that. He keeps quiet, as you put the things he’d brought you away in your room, untouched, still as it was that night, says nothing as you undress and slip into pajama shorts and a T-shirt. You figure you’ll probably have to break the ice first, as he seems terrified to do so.

And with good reason. You had him balancing on very thin thread—what did you expect?

You sit down on your bed. He stands by the door, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. He looks exhausted, drained. He looks like he wants to reach out, see for himself if you’re really here, and you can see the fight inside him rage on and onwards. How do you fix this? Where do you start?

“I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows shoot up, his expression pained. Hearing those words…that’s not what he wants to hear. You’ve nothing to be sorry about. It was all him—he had no idea what you were going through, he’s the one being selfish, wanting you all to himself, forcing you to do things that were clearly against your will. You had nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all.

Except breaking his heart. Over, and over, and over. The one thing.

“You told me not to say it,” he speaks, his voice collected. “That night…that I’d never see you again. But it’s all that matters, (Y/N), isn’t it?”

You grab onto the covers underneath you. He’s right. He’s right, but you’ve been ignoring it for so long, you’ve been refusing to acknowledge, you’ve been putting him off, thinking if I do this a little longer, if I take it a little further…maybe he’d leave first. Maybe I won’t have to do the leaving this time, please don’t let me do it this time, I don’t think I’ll bear it.

But he cannot do this for you. The one thing.

“Do you love me?” he asks, and you shake all over.

Love—it was a house. A house with him in it, holding the ceiling in place, the light always on, the bed warm. Love was a place you never wanted to leave behind. A place you’d die in. Did you love him—yes. You never stopped. But was it enough? Say he knew this, the simple truth, you loved him all along, you loved him even through all the pain you caused him—then why? Why didn’t you just stay with him? It’s the question after that you’re most afraid of.

Your face collapses. “Yes.”

He pushes off the frame, hands through his hair, tugging at the ends. “Yes?” he breaths, chuckles incredulously. “Yes, she says, then drowns herself in the bathtub. Explain your love to me, angel. I’m fucking clueless.”

You flinch. At his words, at his tone. He’s not meaning to hurt you, not really. His frustration, his concern, it’s all written across his face. He could never lie, not to you. Yet, being confronted by it…it digs through you just the same.

“That was an accident,” you didn’t know where to start, what to say. You thought it’d be easier. It’s not. “You don’t have to forgive me, Chris. Please don’t, I don’t deserve it. But the answer to your question—it’s always going to be yes.”

He bended at the knees, hands coming to rest in front of him, as he stared at you. Never forgetting to put distance between you, even now. If you could feel anything, you’re pretty sure you’d feel your heart trying to break free from its cage. You wish you could, if just for a moment, so as not to feel like such a liar speaking such truths.

“I’m not going to ask why,” he croaked, his head dropping, embarrassed at the emotion spilling out of him. “Though God knows I want to. I almost fucking lost you, and it might not mean anything to you, but it means everything to me. If you’d died—that’d be the end of me, (Y/N), do you understand what that’s like?”

You couldn’t help your silence as you watched him break down and cry. You thought if you didn’t move then, you’d lose him and that was ten times worse. It’d be a long while since your life had any meaning for you, but Chris shouldn’t have to bury himself in the same pit as you. He used to smile so brightly once, was always the life of party, someone you counted on all too much, because he was just that dependable.

You think you need to become a little like him. Have more courage.

All it takes is three steps. Then, you’re on your knees in front of him, your arm resting on his back, as you try to find his eyes. His hand tries to wipe the tears away before you catch them, but you interject with your own, your fingers brushing over his cheek. You want to taste them, these tears, understand through them, without the misunderstanding of words, without ever speaking—you wish to know him before he even opens his mouth. As he is with you. You need to learn more about love, about what it means, and how it feels, really, and truly.

“I never stopped loving you, baby,” he whispers, the strain of him vibrating. “Not once. You could shoot a bullet through my chest, and I’d take it, I’d die a happy man. I’m as messed up as you are.”

He still won’t look at you. You pray one day he’ll be able to express himself without feeling ashamed. You hope one day your throat won’t choke up when around him. Maybe it wasn’t even about who’d leave first. You had never tried just being—with him. The one thing.

“Do the program,” he encourages, calming down. “Do the program, and when you get out, I’ll be here,” finally the brown meets you. You search it, want to dive in it, get lost in it. One last time. “I’ll always be here.”

When he takes you in his arms, then, you know he will. There’s no intention behind it—just love. Only love.

#( god for me to reply to this….i just wish and hope that you’re well lovely. i really really hope you are. i’m putting all my good faith )#( that you are. this is so much more than just a story and for you to be so strong and share that with me. thank you. i love you. )#( i don’t know you at all and i probably sound crazy but in a similar way you helped me come out of my slump as well 25+ days ago. )#( ik this deals with a tough subject and it’s sth i’ve contemplated many times as well when i was a teenager. )#( it’s not funny and it’s not easy to deal with it personally so I always wanted to write the other side and who better than chan to )#( deliver and delve into that vein yk? it needed to be raw it needed to be felt and feel ugly and gut wrenching )#( i have tears in my eyes even now bc yes this is a fanfic about my bias but it’s also a theme i don’t dare go near otherwise. perhaps )#( including chan in this was a comfort and in some ways a way to heal from those thoughts )#( i’m grateful it reached someone. pls know you’re not alone! 🤍 )#( a billion thank you’s are not enough but thank you anyway. i will always hold your words dear to me. )#—rblg. 🖇

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karmaphone · 1 year ago

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maybe I'm just a hoe with eds but people popping in their shoulders in media always bothers me. you don't grab and yonk it like that you make a fist and rotate it outwards*...........

#I don't care for whatever watsonian explanation there is. it happens so often in so many contexts including with characters with medical #knowledge that it's clearly a fault of the writers and not the characters not having that knowledge #you don't just wrench it dear fucking god #*I mean. my muscles frequently fall out of place during sublux/dislocations so I frequently have to wiggle funky to put it back in the right #spot. but it's always slow and deliberate. you NEVER wrench with speed and force #you NEVER take an injury from speed and improper movement and fix it with speed and improper movement #depending on how it's dislocated yes you may need some force but the way that people just walk up and grab and yank? makes me want to tear #my hair out by the roots and I'm not being hyperbolic

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dragons-and-yellow-roses · 1 year ago

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Getting a puppy has solidified my decision to never have children.

#i love my puppy so much #hes 4 months old and a certified Baby #my sibling and i are his parents #we have to take him out MINIMUM every two hours because his bladder is tiny #and he doesnt yet understand that he can only potty outside #hes a big fan of pissing on our kitchen floor instead #and we're crate training him #he doesnt like getting in the crate #and he cries if hes in the crate while any humans are in the same area as him #or he cries if hes in the crate and no one is around #hes a big fan of eating bad things off of the street #a huge favorite is cigarette butts #so i have to wrench his little mouth open every time he gets something bad. and he definitely resents me for it #i have to take him out at 2am and then walk him at 9am #meaning i get max 7 hours of sleep daily #i love him so much but he is so much work #i cant even imagine having a human child. i couldnt do it #dear god. the crying and the feeding and the screaming and diaper changing. fuck #god bless my parents for raising three of us #im going insane with just my puppy #and hes a hell of a lot cuter than a human child #i tell him thats his saving grace. that hes the cutest little motherfucker #cant imagine having a human child now. no thank you #god bless all human parents. youre doing great

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starkwlkr · 4 months ago

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Imagine helping old man logan with his claws after they get stuck like in the movie. Kissing the space between his knuckles 😭 this is all I can think about after rewatching logan recently

one more kiss, dear | old man logan

an: oh god that scene 😭 old man logan let me give you a hug <3 tried to find a gif with that scene but i couldn’t so here’s this:

mutant!reader (someone said we need more aging reader fics and I AGREE so that’s what this is)

You were folding Logan’s clothes when he stumbled in with his claws sticking out, we’ll sort of. You could see some blood on his white shirt. It hurt to see him like that. He didn’t speak to you at all and you didn’t push him to. Maybe he just wanted peace and quiet . .

He sat on the old bed, watching you as you finished folding his last shirt, that’s when you finally took a look at his hand.

“No,” Logan stopped you from grabbing his hand. Your ability to regenerate was failing like his, he certainly didn’t want you to get hurt. “I’ll do it.”

You weren’t going to take no as an answer. Ignoring Logan, you kneeled in front of him and took his hand in yours. You mentally prepared yourself for the pain. Without hesitation, you wrapped your hand around the claw that was stuck and pulled. Blood started pouring down the palm of your hand, but you didn’t care. The pain in your body seemed to fade into the background as you focused on the claw.

You could hear groaning coming from Logan, which made your heart ache more. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .” You whisper to him as the claw moved forward.

After what seemed like forever, you finally got the claw to its place. You stumble back, your body filled with exhaustion and pain, but all you could think about was how Logan felt. You looked up at the old man, the relief and love you saw in his gaze were both heart-wrenching and comforting.

It took a couple a minutes, but the claws eventually disappeared back into his hand. Logan winced as they went back in.

After wrapping your hand in some bandages, you took Logan’s hand again. The bloody knuckles, the wounds, the suffering . . . You didn’t want this life for him.

“I hurt you.” Was all Logan could say as he saw the bandage on your hand.

You ignored the comment, instead you wiped away some of the blood form his knuckles with a rag he had on the table beside the bed. After cleaning up the blood, you let him know you were okay by placing kisses where the claws had just come out.

“It’s okay,” you whisper to him, almost sounding like you were about to cry. “It’s okay.” Even as your own strength ebbed away, you knew your greatest comfort was simply being there for him.

“We’re going to be okay.” You placed one last kiss on his knuckle.

#wolverine fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine fluff #old man logan #old man Logan x reader #hugh jackman x reader #hugh jackman one shot #hugh jackman imagine #hugh jackman fanfic #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett x you

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wishful-sinful-9 · 25 days ago

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YOU WANT IT DARKER

Logan Howlett x Reader

MASTERLIST

cw: stalkerish!logan, kidnapping, kinda dubcon, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), biting, hair pulling, body worship, overstimulation, just feral sex, both parties are a little unhinged, reader has no sense of survival instinct bless her

halloween special (better late than never) 🐺

Was this karma? Had you been some sort of puppy-kicking throat-slashing cold-hearted bitch in a past life? Are you being bit in the ass for it? Or had the universe just singled you out at some point to be an object of constant torment?

You'd thought a small town in the mountains was just what you needed: peace and quiet, beautiful landscapes, charming locals. The reality was freezing temperatures as early as September, and elderly neighbours that are just as frosty to the strange young newcomer. Two months in, you could no longer take the loneliness - life became a little brighter when you adopted your fiercely loyal, and almost terrifyingly giant, doberman you named (aptly, in your opinion) Baby.

And then you left the Goddamn back gate open.

Miles of forest stretch up the mountainside behind your house. You've been trudging through the dense woods for hours, voice hoarse from calling for your dear Baby. A whisper in the back of your mind tells you it's a lost cause; he must have gotten too far to find his way back, and God knows the predators lurking in these shadows willing to attack him. These shadows that are getting deeper with each passing minute.

A shiver runs through you, in spite of your thick scarf and fur-lined coat. You scan the surrounding trees as you realise that it's getting harder to see past them.

That's when you halt abruptly.

You have no idea where you are.

Right and wrong blurs into eachother sometimes for Logan. He's been alone for so long, and his instincts are so loud, he can't fight these strange animal tendencies that claw into him every so often.

And you, well you didn't help him at all.

Why the fuck would a pretty young woman like you be doing living round here? Walking around his forest every damn day, with that hound that you love so deeply, even though it could easily wrench its lead from your grip or bite your arm clean off with one snap of its wolfish jaws. Of course, he knows it would never do such a thing - it loves you like all dogs love their owners, unconditionally and obsessively and devotedly. It loves you like how he'd love you.

Picking a spot in the shadows and watching you pass by was one thing. Beginning to follow you on your route, all the way back to your home though - his conscience was beginning to blink its red warning lights.

Yet every time he indulges in his guilty pleasures, those lights fade a little more.

He doesn't notice they've gone completely black when he sees you presently, stood shivering in the depths of the forest. Lost.

Your dog blinks up at him, eyes bright and tongue lolling. Excited to introduce you to his new friend.

The darkness of the encroaching night, the cruel icy wind, and the severity of your situation is all forgotten when your blessed Baby appears like an angel from the shadows.

“Baby! Oh, my God, Baby,” you sob, kneeling as he runs to you with a furiously wagging tail. “Where have you been, boy? Where the hell have you been?”

You unwind the leash from where you'd knotted it and clipped it to your belt loop and reach for Baby's collar. He twists, not with any fear or violence, out of your grip in an instant. You frown. He hasn't done that before.

He trots over to where he had appeared from, glancing back and stopping, encouraging you to follow.

You step forward, “What are you..”

He returns to shepherd you to his desired direction. You do so, praying that once he's successfully shown you whatever impressive stick or pinecone it is that you can finally go home.

You trudge after your dog for a few more minutes before deciding you've had enough. “C'mon, pup, let's go home. Aren't you hungry? Eh, boy? Want some- shit!”

Baby sprints off suddenly, lightning-fast.

Your feet move before you can think. You're far too exhausted for this chase, but you are not going to lose him again. You shout after him as you sprint through the darkness.

You break through the trees and find yourself skidding to a stop - in front of you, there is a black iron gate.

Beyond it, a gravel drive leads to a shadowed, decrepit manor house, lit only by the full moon above. You don't have time to wonder why there was ever a house built this deep into the wilderness, because Baby's running straight to the open door.

He pets the dog idly, knowing you'll soon follow. It licks his palm.

The scent of roses, your perfume, strengthens as he hears the stumbling of your hiking boots at the entrance. The dog barks, and you follow the sound.

You burst into the living room, eyes wild when they meet his own.

Got you.

His dark eyes are unsettlingly wide as he stares you down.

The man whose home you've just broken into is unlike any around here; considerably younger than the elderly folk in town, perhaps in his thirties. Beyond that, there's something abnormal about him: he towers over you, huge in stature and wide with muscle. And one of his terrifyingly huge hands is petting your dog.

“I am so, so sorry sir,” you stammer stupidly, taking a wobbly step back. “He just - ran off - he never does it I swear, I'll get out of your- Baby, Baby, c'mere.”

He doesn't move.

You tremble as you contemplate grabbing him by the collar. But you can't seem to bring yourself to move towards this man.

“Baby, please-”

The man says your name.

Your blood runs cold. You bring your gaze to his, slow with terror. Another step back.

You could cry when Baby finally moves away from him, only to be further horrified when you beloved protector only does so to get behind your legs and usher you towards the man. The strange man who somehow knows your name.

You lurch forward at a hard nudge of Baby's head against your calf - into his arms. Strong, large arms that wrap around you tightly. Shit. Oh shit.

You shriek, attempting to wriggle free, but the man holds you to him tighter. He removes one arm, keeping you there solidly still with the other, and curls his fingers into a fist.

And three knife-sharp metal claws unsheath from his knuckles.

Your fighting ceases immediately. He doesn't hold them to you in threat, merely displays them in warning: Don't. Even. Try.

They disappear back into his hand and he brings his lips to your ear.

“You ain't going nowhere, sweetheart.”

It would've been a nice room, once. A canopy bed in the centre, a velvet loveseat at the foot of it, and a large window stretching across the far wall. Only now, the canopy's sheer curtains are torn, the colour of the seat's fabric faded, and the window completely boarded up.

The only source of light is a lone candle on the dresser. You pace in its dim light, shaking like a leaf, gasping short, panicked breaths.

He'd picked you up as if you'd weighed nothing at all and deposited you in this room, locking it and ignoring how you banged and screamed and shouted at the door. It didn't take long before you'd exhausted yourself and resorted to desperately racking your brain for means of escape.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You sink to the floor with your head in your hands. Hiccupy sobs escape your lips, eyes sore from crying.

A gentle click of the door opening alerts you of his presence.

“I'm not gonna hurt you.”

As he lingers in the doorframe, even bigger from where you're crumpled on the floor, you find it hard to believe. Your breathing speeds up again.

In a stride, he's kneeling beside you. You jerk away with a cry as he tries to reach for your wrist.

His hand curls around your chin and brings your tear-stained, crazed face to his. The wildness in his eyes before was gone - there's a shocking earnestness in them now, as if he hadn't just used your only companion against you in luring you into his home.

“Deep breath in,” he murmurs.

What?

“Deep breath in, I said. Do it, girl.”

For some bizarre reason, you do it - drawing in a deep, shaky breath and holding it.

“Now out.”

You exhale.

“Again - in,” you do, “out.”

You can't shake the feeling that you're in some absurd dream as you repeat the process with your abducter until your breathing returns to normal.

He retracts his hand from your face and with a weak voice you whimper, “Who are you?”

“Logan.” He grunts.

“What do you want?”

He gazes at you for a long moment. When he responds, you detect a tremble in that baritone voice: “I've been alone for so. Damn. Long. Then you came along, into my woods, into my head, and now I'm losing it.”

His words send chills racing down your spine. Had he been watching you?

“It's like this instinct. This animalistic urge, that makes me want to keep you here - where I can keep you safe, keep you with me-”

“You're a mutant,” you rasp. He nods. “My parents always told me to stay away from... your people.”

“They aren't my people. I'm alone.” You flinch at the sharp edge to his tone.

He raises himself from the floor, looming over you again. You cower under his shadow.

“Well,” he grunts, “not anymore, I suppose.”

He locks the door behind him.

You don't know how many days have passed since Logan first took you.

It was only the day after that fateful night that he unlocked your room, under strict order to not leave the house. His only other kindness was to get some clothes for you from your house. You hadn't given him the keys.

Baby is your only comfort, as he curls up beside you at night for warmth. Even still, he seems to have developed some sort of bond with your captor, and is unwilling to be the guard dog you'd have assumed he would be in a situation such as this.

You've taken to slinking about in the shadows, rarely directly coming in contact with Logan; instead, you observe him.

His mutant abilities are not limited to the claws; from what you've gathered, he has some sort of heightened sense of smell and hearing. You know it would be foolish to try and escape because he'd sniff the nerves on you in an instant.

He feeds you mostly meat, which you pick at with little appetite.

It's those minor interactions, when he hands you your meal, that you ponder over throughout the long, cold days and nights. Had he lingered for longer to watch you eat? Did his fingers graze yours when he passed you the plate?

It soon came apparent to you, that this ominous, claw-bearing creature was no more than a man in isolation.

In a largely anti-mutant society, it's push everyone away, or be shunned and hurt. In this world, he's abnormal. Dangerous. A monster.

And you want to crawl into his skin and find what he is really: man or beast?

His ears prick at the shuffle of your feet. No matter how often he hears you move about, you never fail to excite his paranoia.

But you never do run, or lash out, or panic. You just remain in the darkness, watching.

In truth, he regrets doing this to you. It was the primal part of his brain eating the rational, and now you were constantly in his proximity, the animal had calmed itself and the human had settled in. Still, he could not bring himself to set you free. Not until he'd figured out how to get himself back to how he'd used to be.

Click.

He froze.

The door. You were at the door.

He set his beer bottle down hard on the table, a warning. He was there. He'd know if you were escaping.

The smell of fresh night air leaks into his nostrils, and he stalks over to the foyer.

You're halfway out the door - staring at him.

For a heartbeat, you keep his furrowed gaze, heart rabbiting in your chest. Then you bolt.

You barely make it to the gate before rough hands slam you backwards into his chest.

You don't struggle. You just pant in his hold.

A long, terrible moment of silence passes that makes you doubt your confidence in emerging from this situation unharmed. When he finally speaks, his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“What. Was. That.”

You squeak, “I wanted to see if you'd go after me.”

You're flung over his shoulder and marched straight back to the house.

He dumps you on the tattered armchair by the fireplace, and leans over you - gripping each arm of the chair to cage you in. His eyes are as dark as you've ever seen them.

“You have your answer,” he growls.

“Logan I-”

“Now I want to find out mine.”

You press yourself back into the chair. “Answer to what?”

“Why did that turn you on?”

Your mouth runs dry and your cheeks are ablaze. You shake your head furiously, refusing to meet his eye. “I don't know what.. Uhm..”

One hand is no longer on the chair, instead it's on your cheek. Forcing you to look at him.

Wordlessly, he drops his hand... and shoves it down your pants instead. It's then that it hits you: that heightened sense of smell of his can detect arousal too.

A thick finger runs through your folds, gathering the slick sticking to your panties.

“Logan-”

“You are turned on.”

He sounds almost a little incredulous, as he pulls out his hand and studies how your arousal shines in the milky moonlight, coating his fingertips.

You make a little noise of embarrassment, and it turns his attention back to you. Wide-eyed, flushed, lips slightly parted. And a switch flips.

He grasps the back of your head to meet him halfway as he crushes his lips against yours. Bruising, but for some reason, addicting.

You moan slightly, opening your mouth to encourage his tongue and it makes his mind blur.

He tears away after a minute, and, operating as if possessed, rips your pants open.

You gasp, but have no time to reconsider: your panties are torn clean off too, and a finger is curling deep inside you.

Your wails prompt him to try another, his thumb circling your clit, the pads of his fingers pressing against the spot that makes your eyes roll. You can barely gasp his name, so overwhelmed and lost in pleasure.

It's not enough. He needs to taste you.

You almost scream when his mouth replaces his thumb, sucking desperately on your clit. He laps at you with such animalistic intent, the haze in your mind lets through one paralysing thought: how does he fuck?

The pressure builds in a way you've never experienced before - so quick and heavy, like a tidal wave, and when you cum he almost ruins his pants along with you. The sheen of sweat over your face, your heaving chest, that sweet white release trickling down his palm. More.

Your hand flies into his hair as his fingers begin to move again and his mouth is somehow faster and needier than before.

“L-Logan I can't-”

He groans gutterally as he pulls away for a second to spread your juices over your throbbing flesh, already swollen. When he dives in again, you just grip his hair for dear life.

The next orgasm has your thighs clamping tightly around his head, but he simply prys them apart again. You tug at his hair and he finally breaks away to kiss you hard.

You taste yourself on his tongue.

He doesn't let up until you're both in desperate need of air, and you take the opportunity to strip off your top and bra. His hands, shaking you realise, come up to cup your tits gently, his eyes greedily savouring the sight.

“Beautiful..perfect..let me fuck you.” He gazes in your eyes with such desperation, you lean forward to cup his face and kiss his nose.

“Anything, anything for you, Logan.”

You don't give a damn about that rug burning against your back. Not when he's so deep inside you, you swear you can feel him in your throat.

“Sweet girl,” he sucks into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “Take me so well, does it hurt?”

“Mm-mm,” you hum, eyes welling with tears of overstimulation. “Just move. Fuck me, Logan-”

He lifts your knees, pressing the backs of your thighs to your chest, and slams into you over and over at an unrelenting pace. Your mouth hangs agape, crying for the pleasure. It's as if the beast in him has bled into your skin, making you want him closer, deeper, faster. You claw at his shoulders. He leans down to nip and nuzzle at your jaw and neck, but your lips only move to moan.

“I can feel you - so tight - cum for me, sweetheart,” he grunts out, “cum all over my cock.”

You do as he wishes with a scream of his name.

He watches the sticky mess where his dick meets your cunt grow with your latest release, and he wants even more.

You're too dumb to register how he hasn't cum yet, but is pulling out of you. You let him manhandle you with ease until you're on your front, cheek against the floor while Logan grips your hips to keep your ass up.

Like this, he can better watch it all drip out of you.

You let out a little whine, eyes fluttering shut as you're sure he just wants a final look. You jolt as you suddenly feel his tongue thrust into your hole and curl. “No more-”

You shiver at the obnoxious wet sounds of him licking up the mess between your thighs, pushing back against his face despite yourself. You breathe out a sigh of relief when he pulls away - then you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance.

With the last of your deteriorating strength, you try your best to crawl away from his sloppy thrusts.

“I'm not done,” he growls, pulling you back onto his cock and pounding you harder. You give in, eyes rolling, back arching, front pressed to the floor once more.

“Give it to me.”

You can't.

“C'mon.”

He reaches round to rub your clit in mean circles.

“Let go.”

You cry, and clench so hard around him it feels as if your pussy is pulling him in.

You gush around him, and his hips stutter as he approaches his own release. You press back as you feel him try to slip out - “Inside me, Lo, fill m' up..”

With a shout, he cums deep inside you, only pulling out once completely milked dry. He groans at the sight of your twitching thighs, and the creamy mess leaking from your cunt. He pushes it back in before standing.

You're a sticky, panting, fucked-out thing when he gathers you in his arms, pressing his lips to your hairline.

“Can I keep you?” he grins down at you, the first time you've seen him smile. You beam and kiss his cheek.

“Keep me forever.”

a/n: this has not been well edited but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless! I've had a bit of writers block but the first part of the knight!au and the bbf!peter oneshot is on its way, slowly lmao

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett imagine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #smut

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rippersz · 1 year ago

Text

(ᴄᴏᴄᴋ)ʏ

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(A Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader ~1.5K Word Oneshot) (NSFW: G!P; Face-Fucking; Lewd Language; Praise; Mommy Kink)

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Fuck, she felt good.

So good.

So heavenly. So right.

Even in the state she was in, moaning and huffing and growling with desire, head thrown back with her eyes bared to the ceiling. As though she was thanking the gods for your body and the pleasure you were willing to give her. No. Not give her. The pleasure you were willing to give up. That she was willing to take. Grasping your head in the way that she was, her knuckles turning red and bruised with the way she wedged them between your hair and the wall. Digging her fingers into your locks as though she’d make it to your skull if she pressed hard enough. Just keeping you there. Keeping you just right.

“Don’t move,” she panted earlier, her accent coming second to the raspy husk of her tone. So deep in pleasure she was- so lost to her own instincts.

Your poor lover. Your dear Larissa. She’d regret being so rough in a few hours, when you have trouble moving your neck and your throat is raw and scratchy - but you’ll comfort her as you always do and tell her that if she asked to do it again in a few days, you wouldn’t hesitate to say yes.

As it were, she didn’t even ask. The situation simply fell into both sets of your hands. Your pretty darling, unable to take care of herself after she got ready for the banquet, nearly out the door when the mental image of you in lingerie had her stumbling back to the bed and nearly ripping off her panties with haste to take her ecstasy into her own hands. And then you, walking into the room to grab her and greet the guests, only to find her on the side of the bed, rutting against her slim pretty fingers. She looked beautiful in her sweet flush-cheeked glory, but her palm was slippery and clumsy and she hadn’t gotten herself off in so long that you just had to help. How cruel it would have been to leave her like that.

And so, as you teased, came the escalation.

And so, as you moaned around her length, the true admittance of desire.

And so, your head pressed against the wall, your legs trembling and spread out in front of you, and the weight of her cock pressed against the back of your throat. Bullying it to bruise as she pumped her hips with unmatched strength and then held you there, her plush thighs quivering when your lips and nose pressed to the light curls at the base of her cock. Sheathing herself inside you, using you with a pathetic amount of need. Doubled over at the waist and eyes rolling back with an overwhelming- burning- amount of pleasure once your body’s instincts kick in and your throat squeezes the sensitive curve of her shaft. Constricting around her to the point where it makes you both ache and it makes your chest stutter and she’s forced to wrench herself away while pushing your head back against her fingertips, even though there’s nowhere else for you to go. Huffing and puffing and breathing so deeply while she watches you gasp for breath and shiver.

Eyes meeting while the spit from the red of your lips and the pink tip of her cock only spiderwebs and dips - not even destroyed by gravity before she’s pushing herself forward again and pressing herself to your mouth; waiting with desperate wanting eyes as you recover and open yourself up for her again. And again. And again - and again - and again. Over and over and over. Until your vision is blurred with tears, and your face is warm and stiff from some long dried and some still falling, collecting by your chin to mix with the drool that spills from your lips. A steady stream of your devotion, given and taken willingly - with enthusiastic consent as she pushed you against the wall and lined you up with her cock and you nearly fell over the edge on the spot; happy to help your darling lover. Happy to have her want you. Happy to please her and listen to her whines as she feels herself get close.

“P-please- right there- yes. T-take it. Take it. Deeper. Yesss.” Arching her back and clenching the muscles in her legs, making you moan with appreciation at the feel of her strength beneath your hands. Palms running over her calves and her shins and her thighs, desperate to make her feel good- so good. And letting your own eyes close when she leans over and whimpers, trying to control her breathing long enough to praise you. To tell you-

“Good- ungh- girl - fuck, oh gods- so- so good to me- f-for me… for- Mo-Mommy!” Both of your bodies humming with pure delight when she gives herself her honorable title, inhaling on a sharp breath before the most erotic moan slips out of her perfectly painted mouth. Red lips opening and closing, white teeth pressing together, hissing and growling as you tug her closer and keep her cock in your throat; the weight of it pressed to your tongue, the feel of it against the roof of your mouth as you try to swallow. All of it heavenly and soft and something divine as she slows down and eases herself in as far as she can go- until your chin brushes the softness of her balls and the tip of your nose prods the ticklish curls near her groin.

“Through your nose, darling,” she speaks slowly, softly, her beautiful chest rising and falling with short breaths as you do as told and take a moment to fight through the instinctive urge to gag. Allowing time to slow as you keep your eyes on hers and watch her nod while a slow smile crawls across her lips- unspoken praise falling from her as she hears and sees the way you inhale, inhale, inhale, hold it, and then exhale, exhale, exhale - your throat working around her cock while you train yourself to take it.

Always.

Any day.

Anywhere.

Your lower back numb from the feeling of sitting on the floor for so long, your panties ruined beyond belief as you leak and twitch and throb in tandem with your lover’s body, your brain fuzzy and your throat sore and your ears kind of ringing - but finding none of it matters when she looks down at you with wide eyes and feels you moan around her length and is suddenly pressing you so close, so hard, that you can’t breathe at all.

Drooling and groaning and whimpering as she pumps herself into your warm mouth, hips moving like mad with unchecked desire as her breath catches in her throat.

“Oh baby- baby I’m gonn- gonna- fuck darl-ing. Momm-Mommy’s gonna- gonna cum- please- pleasepleaseplease- please let me-”

And you don’t even hesitate to nod, using your tongue to lap at the sides of her pretty cock as she moves, silently begging her to cum down your throat- hard and fast and pleasurable enough to see fucking stars- as tears build in your eyes. Blinking them away quickly, your nails digging into her thighs, your body in flames with ecstasy as she meets your gaze and her lips fall open and she whimpers your name in a small squeak while the thick of her cock twitches. Spasms. Folded over you, forehead nearly pressed to the wall, as she keeps you there- keeps you there- keeps you there-

-yes!

Yes!

Fuck Larissa! Fuck you feel so- so- good- god yes!

And a fulfilling, satisfying warmth spills down the back of your throat, fast and thick as she shudders and groans and feels the way you constrict around her when you swallow it all without pause. Like it’s second nature, taking it like your life’s fucking duty, such a good little cockslut for Larissa Weems as you close your eyes and ignore the tears and the drool and the burn and the numb and the desire and instead focus on the way she finally breathes with unparalleled relief. Knowing her sweet girl is there to take her cum whenever she wants- to feel her in her throat or around her fingers or her tongue or resting on her lips- always eager to be of service. To be a good girl and take your Mommy like the desperate little whore you are. Her chest filling with breath while the last of her climax runs through her body; her pretty cock twitching and throbbing with aftershocks until the last of her cum is lapped up and you’re pushing against her thighs - telling her with as much kindness as you can for her to step back so you don’t pass out. And when she does, shivering and taking her hands away from your head and gently leaning it against the wall to slide stray bits of hair back behind your ears, your own chest heaves with delight. Grateful for the air, savoring the last of her in your mouth- salty and human and all hers, and happy to remove your shaking hands from her thighs so you can reach up and wipe the spit from your mouth.

“You did so well for me darling,” you hear her hum a moment later. “You always do.”

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My fucking dream come true. Have a good day. Love you lots. - Rip x

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(Too tired for tags today sorry darlings)

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