#fic: no thing defines a man | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iniquitousyearning · 5 months ago

Text

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you.

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

3K notes · View notes

rafeysbangs · 2 months ago

Text

⋆˚✿˖ ↷ab riding with rafe

warnings ; mdni. suggestive? not entirely smut..., ab ridiing obviously, kinda fluffy angst.

notes ; someone sent an ask with this but midway through writing this before it just disappeared off the face of the earth :( anyway to whoever sent the ask - this is for uuu. also i wrote this as a more angsty suggestive fluff fic i hope you enjoy it still !

the room is bathed in dim, golden light, the kind that makes everything feel hazy, dreamlike. the soft hum of the air conditioning is the only sound, a stark contrast to the rapid beating of your heart as you straddle rafe's lap. he's lounging on the plush sofa in his bedroom, shirtless, the toned expanse of his chest and abs on full display, and his hands rest lightly on your hips, as if he's waiting for you to make the first move.

“you’re staring,” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. his voice is low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. his blue eyes gleam with mischief, though there's something deeper there too, something softer, reserved only for you.

“just... appreciating the view,” you reply, your voice teasing but breathless. the words make his smirk deepen, though the intensity of his gaze never wavers.

his abs shift under you as he shifts slightly, leaning back further into the couch, giving you full control. “appreciate all you want, baby. i’m not stopping you.”

there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes, though. even as he teases, you know this is more than just playful banter for him. rafe, the man who’s always been so guarded, so closed off, is offering himself to you in ways he’s never offered to anyone else. and it’s not just physical. it’s trust. it’s the walls he’s built so high coming down, brick by brick, just for you.

your fingers trail along the ridges of his abdomen, tracing the lines that define his muscles. he’s impossibly warm beneath your touch, his skin smooth but taut. he’s watching you, his breathing slow but deliberate, as if he’s trying to steady himself. it’s a rare moment; to see rafe cameron unguarded, vulnerable, completely at your mercy.

“you’re so serious,” he murmurs, his tone softer now. “you’re gonna make me think you’re nervous.”

“i’m not nervous,” you lie, though the way your voice wavers gives you away. his smirk returns, and his hands tighten ever so slightly on your hips.

“good,” he says, his voice dropping lower, sending a thrill through you. ‘cause you’ve got no reason to be. you’ve got me, baby. i’m yours.”

you’ve never been able to get used to the way he says things like that, so openly, so confidently, even when you know it’s a big deal for him. rafe cameron, who’s always been the one to push people away, is now pulling you closer, letting you see every raw, messy part of him.

slowly, you start to move, your hips rocking gently against him. his hands guide you instinctively, finding the rhythm with you. his head falls back against the couch, a low groan escaping his lips as his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“you have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, his voice rough with need. his hands slide up your sides, his thumbs brushing over your skin in a way that makes your heart race even faster.

but it’s not just about the physical connection. it’s about the way he looks at you like you’re his entire world. the way his walls come crashing down when he’s with you. the way he lets himself be vulnerable, open, raw, things he’s never been able to be with anyone else.

as the intensity builds, you lean down, your forehead resting against his. his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world fades away. it’s just the two of you, tangled together, hearts pounding in unison.

“i’ve got you,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you.

his hands tighten on you, his breath hitching as he nods, his eyes never leaving yours. “and i’ve got you,” he says, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. “always.”

in that moment, you realise just how much he’s given you. not just his body, but his heart, his soul, his everything. and you know, without a doubt, that you’ll never let him go.

taglist ; @rafegetinmybed @sqfewrd @dreamyy-cloud @vampteeth @wtfisastiles @flvredcas @plaidcowboy @sematarygirls @slut4you @kravitzwhore @daryldixon83 @lexavanhuelee @dorcas4meadowes @foolishangelic @i2rapunzel @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafestoothbrush ( feel free to ask to be added! idm! )

841 notes · View notes

v6quewrlds · 4 months ago

Text

❝ candy paint, l. norris. ❞ ‎ ‎ ┉

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀summary: lando norris is a lot of things: 100% honest is not one of them. good thing you're around to make sure he owns his weaknesses.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: first lando fic everyone cheer!! finding my footing writing lando's personality (dry asf) but I'll get there lmao day three of my no nut november series.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀warnings: smut, please do not interact with my work if you are under 18. language, friends with benefits, the max mentioned is fewtrell not verstappen, oral (male receiving)protected sex, neither reader nor lando can shut the fuck up.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀pairing: lando norris x reader.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 2k.

"You're kidding, right?" you said into the phone, your voice laced with a hint of skepticism. The rain pattered against the window of your apartment, matching the rhythm of your thoughts. You had just returned from a week-long work trip and were looking forward to a quiet evening in.

Lando's voice was as persistent as the rain outside. "Come on, mate. It's been too long. You know I can't wait." His tone was a blend of playful and demanding, the kind that usually made your heart flutter. But this time, you had to draw a line.

"Lando, seriously," you said, a smirk playing on your lips. "What about your little bet with Max?" The mention of Max's name brought a mischievous glint to your eye. You knew how much he hated losing, especially to his friends.

Lando chuckled, the sound echoing through the line. "I wasn't sticking to the bet anyway. I've got to see you." His voice grew husky with desire, the kind of voice that made your knees wobble and your resolve waver. "I'll come to you."

You hesitated, your eyes narrowing as you considered his plea. The thought of seeing Lando sent a warm shiver down your spine. You could almost feel his strong hands gripping your hips, his breath hot on your neck. "Fine," you relented. "But if you want to come over, I'm telling Max you caved."

"You wouldn't," Lando said with mock horror, and you could almost hear his grin.

"Oh, I absolutely would," you replied, the challenge in your voice unmistakable. "You're the one begging to see me, remember?"

The line went quiet for a beat, and then Lando sighed dramatically. "Alright, fine, whatever. I'll be there in twenty."

Twenty minutes later, the sound of the door opening and closing was like music to your ears. You felt the heat of Lando's presence before you even saw him. He was soaking wet from the rain outside, his white t-shirt clinging to his muscular chest. You couldn't help but laugh at the sight of him. "You look like a drowned rat," you said, standing up from the couch where you had been scrolling through your phone.

"Charming," Lando shot back with a smirk, shaking his wet hair like a dog and spraying droplets across the floor. He stepped closer to you, and you could smell the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the freshness of rain. "But it's worth it if it means I get to see this gorgeous face." He leaned in to kiss you, but you playfully pushed him away. "What, no greeting for the man who braved the storm to see you?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile. "Take off your clothes before you drench the whole place," you said, stepping aside. You watched as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the defined abdomen and muscular arms that had your knees growing weaker by the second. You made no effort to hide your eyes sweeping over his form as you bit your bottom lip.

He kicked off his shoes and socks, leaving a puddle by the door. "Better?" he asked, a glint in his eye as he moved closer.

"Marginally," you replied, trying to keep your cool. But when Lando's hands reached for your waist, pulling you into his warm embrace, you melted against him. His touch was like a warm blanket on a cold night, comforting and revitalizing all at once.

You kissed with an intensity that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing, your tongues dancing in a familiar rhythm. His hands slid down your back, cupping your ass, and you felt his erection pressing against your thigh. "You're going to be the end of me," he murmured against your lips.

You pulled away just enough to whisper, "You're the one who couldn't wait." You stepped back, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. With a swift motion, you straddled him, your cotton shorts riding up your thighs. Lando's hands roamed up your legs, his thumbs teasing the hem, hinting at what was to come.

Your round brown eyes searched his emerald ones, a silent question lingering between you two. "You sure you're ready to lose?" you asked, your voice low and sultry. The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant patter of rain.

Lando's grin was all the answer you needed. "Love, I'd do anything to taste you right now." His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your shorts, and with a quick pull, they were around your ankles. He groaned as he felt the heat of your bare skin against his.

You giggled, a sound that was music to his ears, and leaned back, placing your hands on his shoulders. "Well, you're in luck," you said, your voice dripping with seduction. "Because I'm feeling quite generous."

Without breaking eye contact, Lando reached for the waistband of his sweats pulling it down with a slow, deliberate movement. His erection sprang free, and you couldn't help but gasp. He was always so beautifully aroused, so ready for you. You slid your hand over it, feeling it pulse beneath your touch.

He groaned, his eyes closing briefly before snapping open again. "Don't tease me," he warned, his voice strained.

"Who's teasing?" you said, your smile wicked. You kneeled off the couch, your soft dark curls brushing against his chest, and took him in your mouth. Lando's grip tightened on the couch cushions, his body arching off the cushions with a hiss.

"Fuck, babe," he groaned, his eyes rolling back. Your mouth was warm and wet, moving over him with the kind of expertise that only came from knowing someone's body intimately. You took him deep, your tongue swirling around the head before pulling back to tease the sensitive underside. You knew every inch of him, every spot that made him squirm, and every spot that made him beg.

You felt a rush of power, your eyes sparkling with amusement as you watched Lando's reaction. You loved the way he lost control around you, the way his cocky exterior crumbled to reveal the desperate need beneath. You bobbed your head faster, taking him deeper each time, until you felt his thighs tense and his hips jerk upwards.

"Goddammit," he breathed, his hands finding their way into your hair, guiding your movements. "I can't wait anymore." He pulled you off him, his eyes dark with need. "Get on top," he said, his voice a gruff command.

Your heart raced as you straddled him, your own desire matching his. You watched as he reached into the pocket of his sweats, retrieving a condom he casually slid over his length. Then you felt him at your entrance, his fingers eagerly pushing your panties to the side, and with a little wiggle, you sank down, enveloping him in your warmth. Lando's eyes rolled back in his head, a silent groan escaping his lips. The sensation of him filling you was overwhelming, a sweet ache that you had missed.

You found your rhythm quickly, your bodies moving together as if you had been practicing this dance your whole life. Lando's hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts and squeezing your hips as you rode him. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving little half-moons of pressure as you rose and fell. Each time you took him in, you felt like you were claiming a piece of him, a piece that was yours and yours alone.

The sound of your bodies slapping together filled the room, a testament to your passion. You leaned forward, your breasts brushing against Lando's chest, and whispered, "Couldn't even go two weeks, could you?" Your voice was teasing, but it held an underlying satisfaction. You knew you had the power to make him break his bet.

"Fuck the bet," Lando groaned, his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. "You're all I need." His words were punctuated by his hips bucking upwards, pushing into you with a desperation that sent a shiver down your spine. The room grew hotter, the scent of your desire mixing with the dampness from the rain outside.

Your movements grew more frantic, their breaths mingling in the air. The couch creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion. You felt yourself getting closer, your inner muscles tightening around him. Lando's grip on your hips grew firmer, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Come for me," he urged, his eyes burning into yours. "Let go, baby."

You threw your head back, your dark curls bouncing off your shoulders as you picked up your pace. The sensations grew more intense, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. Lando's hands moved from your hips to your breasts, his hands squeezing at the bouncing flesh before leaning down to bring his mouth to the peaks. You gasped, the pleasure shooting straight to your core.

"Yes, just like that," you moaned, your voice a little raspy. The warmth of his mouth on your breasts sent shockwaves through your body. You felt your orgasm approaching, the familiar coil tightening in your belly. You leaned into him, your movements becoming erratic as you chased the feeling.

Lando could feel you tightening around him, your breath coming in short gasps. He knew you were close, and it was his undoing. He thrust upwards, his own release building. "Fuck," he groaned, his eyes meeting yours, silently pleading for you to let go.

With a cry, you did. Your orgasm washed over you, making your body convulse. You felt him swell inside you, his own climax following closely behind. You held onto each other tightly, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony until the waves of pleasure subsided.

For a moment, you stayed just like that, panting and sweaty, your hearts hammering in your chests. Then, Lando leaned in to kiss you, a gentle brush of his lips that spoke of affection and satisfaction. He pulled out of you with a soft groan, and you felt a twinge of loss. But the warmth of his body remained, his arms still wrapped around your waist.

"You're amazing," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low rumble that made your skin prickle. You leaned into the embrace, feeling a sense of peace wash over you. This was your thing, your little slice of heaven, left uncomplicated despite your close friendship.

You lay there for a while, your bodies entwined and your breaths slowing. The rain outside had turned into a gentle pitter-patter, lulling you into a state of post-coital bliss. It was moments like these that made the world seem to stop spinning, where the only thing that mattered was the warmth of each other's skin and the sound of your hearts beating in unison.

You leaned back and looked into his green eyes, the corners of your mouth curling up in a knowing smile. "So," you began, "Are you going to man up and text Max now, or should I?"

Lando groaned, his head falling back against the couch cushion. "You're enjoying this way too much," he said, a hint of a grin playing on his lips.

"I like seeing you squirm," you replied, your voice light and playful. You reached for your phone on the coffee table, your eyes gleaming with mischief. You knew Lando was competitive to a fault and losing was not something he took kindly to, especially not when it came to something as serious as a bet with Max.

Lando's eyes narrowed playfully as he watched you type away, his arms still around your waist. "Don't be too detailed," he murmured, his grip tightening slightly.

You glanced up at him, your smile widening. "Oh, I won't," you said sweetly, sending the text. "But he's going to know you didn't last five minutes."

Lando's eyes shot open. "You didn't!"

"Oh, I did," you said with a laugh, the sound like a melody in the quiet room. "And you know what?"

He tugged on your hair gently, bringing you closer. "What?"

"It was worth it," you whispered, your voice filled with sincerity. "Every single second."

You kissed him softly, your tongue darting out to trace his bottom lip. Lando's eyes closed, savoring the moment, his arms tightening around you. He knew you were right, that the thrill of being with you was worth any bet.

#&. cassie writes.#&. nnn masterlist.#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris smut #lando norris x black!reader #x black fem reader #black!fem!reader #black!reader #x black reader

979 notes · View notes

boltwrites · 7 months ago

Text

Kitty

Fandom: Marvel; X-Men Pairing: Logan Howlett/Wolverine / Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: M Tags: Suggestive, Logan's cat ear hair, Teasing

Synopsis: Sleep-addled and maybe a little horny, you ask Logan if he does his hair like that on purpose.

A/N: Fun fact about this one - you could replace reader with Deadpool and the fic would probably be the exact same (but probably with more stabbing). Enjoy! Also I almost titled it Kittyuuuuuhhhh but decided against it LMAO. Is this good? No. But I needed to expel it like some kind of demon. Anyway-

You made a soft pleased noise, arching your back as you stretched as far as you could under the thin sheet of your shared bed. Muscled warmed, you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, blinking blearily against the morning light that filtered in through the curtains.

You smiled - sleepy and sweet - as you propped yourself on your elbows to see the figure sat at the foot of your bed. Logan was already awake and halfway dressed, jeans hugging his hips as he leaned over to tug on his boots. Meanwhile, here you were - still in the oversized T-shirt you used as pajamas, your hair messy from sleep.

On that thought, your eyes drifted from where they had been admiring the taunt planes of his back, to Logan's own styled hair. He'd already brushed it, those little tufts that curled into what looked like tiny devil horns neatly defined in the soft morning light.

You frowned. Hmm, no, devil horns wasn't quite right. Not really.

You sat up, a hazy plan dancing through your mind as you crawled your way to the end of the bed. Logan glanced back at you - your heart flipped at the soft smile he offered you, making no effort to shy away from your touch.

"Hey, you don't have to get up because of me," he chided. You didn't listen - instead, you draped your arms around his warm shoulders, leaned in to pepper little kisses along his jaw, even if his beard caught most of them. You didn't mind how it tickled.

"But you're wearing my favorite outfit," you insisted, doing your best not to chuckle. You did like him in worn out jeans and no shirt. It looked good on him. Everything looked good on the man, though.

"I'm wearing half an outfit," he replied, turning just enough so that he could press a proper kiss to your lips. You sighed, pillowing your head on his shoulder as his lips met yours - lazy, gentle. Those weren't words you'd use to describe his kisses at any other time of day, really. This was special.

"I know," you replied, offering him a silly smile as you leaned against his shoulder, arm around his chest preventing him from dressing any further. He didn't seem to mind, though, as your free hand carefully carded your way through his hair - making sure not to displace any of his hard work.

"But something I don't know..." you continued, twirling a finger around the tip of one of the tufts. "Is why your hair ends up like this. Do you do it on purpose?"

"Do I do what on purpose?" he asked. It was laced with a chuckle, like he thought this was one of your half-awake musings. And, perhaps it was, in a way. You were, technically half-awake. But you weren't making things up. It was a real question that had crossed your mind on several separate occasions.

"You know-" you insisted, releasing that little bit of hair from your grasp. "The kitty ears."

"The what?"

He laughed it, pulled away from you if only to make sure you caught a glance of his expression - a mixture of shock and amusement that telegraphed to you that he still wasn't taking you seriously.

You rolled your eyes at him, removing your hand from around his shoulders to scratch along his scalp, up to that little tuft of curled hair. He closed his eyes, made a low rumbling noise in his throat that only seemed to further the illusion that he was really just some big cat in disguise.

"The kitty ears," you insisted, "do you or do you not purposefully style your hair so you have these little kitty ear things?"

You sat up on your knees, reaching both your hands up to curl in the tufts - tugging them just hard enough to make his eyes flutter open as he looked up at you.

"Cat ears," he deadpanned, doubt lacing his words. "You think my hair looks like cat ears."

"Kitty ears," you clarified, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. "And you didn't answer my question, which means you absolutely do it on purpose."

"No-" Logan started, tone exasperated. But, unfortunately for him, he was already in too deep.

"Nope, sorry-" you laughed, sitting down behind him to wrap your arms around his bare chest, brushing through the downy hair there. "You're my little kitty now."

"Jesus Christ-" he groaned, rolling his eyes as you kissed his cheek. You made to kiss the corner of his lips next, but he turned his head ever so slightly, trying his best to quell the smile that was spreading. He'd just wanted you to pay attention as he insisted:

"I'm not a fucking cat."

"Why not?" you teased, kissing just under his ear with a little smile. "You've got the ears..."

You snaked a hand up to card through his hair again - making sure to rake your blunt nails along his scalp like you knew he loved. And, despite his dismissive tone, you caught his eyes fluttering closed, his lips parting ever so slightly.

"The claws..." you teased, punctuating each word with a new open-mouthed kiss to his neck - the last dotted with a touch of teeth that issued a sweet rumble from low in his throat.

"The fur-" your free hand slid down his chest - down the dips and curves of his defined abs, to tangle in the thicker hair that disappeared below the waistline of his jeans.

"And, I know how to make you purr," you chuckled, fingers dancing at the edge of his belt as your other hand weaved through one of those silly little kitty ears.

Logan wasn't immune to the way you touched him - when he laughed at your ridiculous comments, it was a bit breathless, even if he sounded absolutely exhausted with your antics.

"I have to get dressed," he insisted, his hand drawing over your own where you'd just started to wiggle your fingers under the tight denim. "And you're being ridiculous."

"Hmm," you hummed, nipping at the junction of his neck and shoulder. The muscles there jumped, tensed, then relaxed - and where he'd been grasping at your hand, your fingers briefly intertwined.

"If I remember correctly..." you pondered, nuzzling against his neck. "Kitties don't wear clothes."

"Oh, come on-" he groaned, laughing as he leaned back against your chest, his head pillowed on your shoulder. You grinned down at him. "How long are you gonna keep this shit up?"

"Until you're sick of it," you promised, kissing the corner of his mouth. He rolled his eyes. "Or, you take your pants off."

"We both know you'll keep saying it even if I take my pants off," he countered, his hold on your hand the only thing preventing you from inching your way into his pants.

"Touché. But -" you bargained. "I'd be distracted."

He laughed, loud and full, and your smile grew even more. That - that's what you really liked. When you could finally get some honest joy out of him. He looked so pretty when he smiled like that, even if it was brief. His hand squeezed over yours - soft, possessive, loving. That made your heart flutter even more than the thought of getting him undressed.

But he was right - you were never going to let him live this down.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #mine

1K notes · View notes

oneofreid · 1 month ago

Text

Close for Comfort

Summary: A new hot tub is installed at your apartment complex. You find yourself sneaking a dip at the same time as a particular BAU agent. But how much room can steaming water truly hold for two?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x F!Reader

Warnings: (18+ Content) Typical smut except heavier? and Spencer being a perv/slightly unhinged while being horny lol. Slight degrading. Descriptions of fingering, handjob, and unprotected p in v sex (wrap it before ya tap it). Public sex like damn get a room.

A/N: lord…….first ever fic. i think i might’ve blacked out with this. read my other fics here

Glistening sweat formed a thin line above your hairline, a few drops slowly running down the nape of your neck.

The heaving of your chest as you wiped the remaining sweat off your face. Still in need of a dip in the newly installed hot tub that was just emplaced at your apartment complex. Your body bruised and aching from how intense the workout you had just finished was.

A shade of purple and blue spots aligned various spots on your body. Some held a greener tint due to the start of healing. You hated the look, but nonetheless, you were one of the strongest agents on the team. Therefore, you got beat up pretty badly trying to take down different unsubs at times.

Slipping on a your favorite bikini, the fabric was snug accentuating your curves. A towel in one hand while another held a water. Closing the door to your room, making way towards the other side of the apartments. It was late at night, nearly one o’clock. You knew everyone else was bound to be asleep or at the very most, doing their own thing.

At least that’s what you hoped.

Sliding the back gate shut before passing the in-ground pool that had also been splurged on by your landlord. The cool marble of the backyard patio on your feet with every step. Only to halt at the sight of someone else in the hudson bay spa.

His chocolate brown eyes turning at the sound of your footsteps, his attention now all on you. Arms rested on the tub’s edge like an eagle spreading its wings to fly. The muscles in his biceps visible, a few veins poking out as well. Your eyes dropped down to his chest, strong pecks on full display. The dips in his broad shoulders giving away the idea that although he was lean, he was fit and worked out quite frequently.

“I thought I was the only one awake during this hour,” The sound of his velvety-voice snapped you from drinking him in. His eyes still completely on you.

Your cheeks heated up, a faint blush painting them red with embarrassment. Mentally kicking yourself for gawking at the man in front of you, not only was he your undeniably hot next-door neighbor, but your nerdy and charming co-worker at the BAU as well.

Spencer continued, “you can join me, if you want. Hot tubs like this one are made for two people. And they actually have a lot of health benefits like reducing stress, improving quality of sleep, and relieving pain….which can help with healing your bruises quickly.” The water lightly splashing around him as he talked with his hands, again over sharing.

You nodded, smiling lightly at him. Placing your towel and water bottle down before nearing towards the tub. Carefully sinking down into the water, the heat instantly burning your skin. Sighing in content. You leaned against the back wall. The scorching temperature numbing the ache in your exhausted limbs.

Opening your eyes to make instant eye contact with the man in front of you. A smirk pulled his lip, relaxing further back into the tub with a puff in the chest. Pushing his pecks further out, the defined lines of his abs peaking beneath the water.

“You still haven’t spoke a word to me. Are you enjoying yourself honey?,” He spoke after a moment of silence between you two. Nearly choking at the weak use of a pet name he used for you.

Eyes slowly dropping to admire your chest, the cups of your top pushing them slightly hire. A sight that secretly always drove Spencer nearly to the edge.

Clearing your throat at the sight of his chest slowly rising up and down with a trickle of sweat running down, “Yes, the water actually feels very nice.”

“It feels very nice,” his voice slightly mocking yours, “I like the heat…against my thighs,” His voice suggestive, dripping in lust.

Your breathe hitched at his flirty remark. Clenching your thighs together in need, forcing yourself not to drop your eyes any further. Noticing his damp curls sticking to his forehead with droplets of sweat forming. Every bone in your body fighting to run your fingers through his dark colored hair.

You guys were always close, dare to be nothing more than best friends at and outside of work — and unfortunately in this case, neighbors at the same apartment complex. Yet, the sexual tension that had been building between you two these past few weeks was inevitable. It started with lingering glances during briefings, he would look at you like he wanted to devour every inch of you. You thought you were overreacting at first until Penelope…and Derek had pointed it out. Noting that the chemistry the two of you had shared was gradually getting deeper. Spencer always yearning to be close to you, sneaking touches here and there. Whether it be a light hand on your thigh as you glanced over crime scene photos, or the way his hand would sometimes slowly travel down the curve of your back. You knew there was something there, you just weren’t sure….who would make a move first.

A deep cough snapped you out of your filthy thoughts, his thick brow quirking at you. Posing a question of ‘what are you thinking?’ yet he remained silent.

Both of you scrutinizing each other, drinking in each other’s appearance. Atmosphere around you growing thick and heavy, yet all you could do was blame it on the heat. His eyes never leaving yours as you sunk further into the water. The temperature engulfing you like a warm blanket on a cold winters night.

Shutting your eyes closed, in hopes that you’d brush away the burning heat that traveled its way to your core. Along with the dirty images that flooded your mind.

The slosh of water snapping them open, Spencer’s body now right next to yours. Stiffening at his sudden move, you turned to look at him. A smirk still plastered on his face.

“Can I help you?” You asked, a bit more blunt than you intended to.

“There’s too much clothing on,” Spencer drawled.

“Excuse me?” Your eyes widened at his reply, caught off guard by the sudden surge of confidence from the one-and-only, Spencer Reid. The man who was known

“You have too much clothing on.” His eyes slipping from your face to stare at your breasts, covered in thin fabric.

“I don’t understand how exactly that’s a problem here.”

“Oh, honey…” he breathed, twirling a piece of your hair with his finger, “I see the way that you look at me. You crave intimacy but most of all, to be touched by me.”

The air knocked from your lungs at his bold statement, your chest tightened as he exposed you. Confused on how he of all people would know about your deepest desire. To be completely and utterly fucked at the hands of Spencer Reid.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you choked.

His intense gaze burning into your side, mentally forcing yourself to look anywhere but him. You needed to get out. Yet, your legs stayed mounted to the charcoal tub.

Intoxicated by his smell, a hint of cologne and cypress with every inhale you took. A staggering breathe from how close you were to the inviting man beside you.

Lips lowered to the shell of your ear. “Oh. I think you do, my love, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” The little pet name he picked out for you easily rolling off his tongue.

Closing your thighs shut, you attempted to scoot away from him. Desperate to get out before he could tantalize you any further. Hearing the snap of his finger before the material of your top disappeared along with the bottoms.

Yelping in shock, you quickly turned around. The devious look of him amused at your embarrassment.

“Relax, my sweet girl, I prefer you this way. Naked and on display, for my pure enjoyment,” he teased. Eyeing your bare breasts, nipples hardening as a slight breeze blew by.

Bubbles arose blasting at the quick speed that projected into the water. Just your luck, the jets had turned on.

Giving you slight coverage in attempt to cover your bottom half. The fast pressure massaging your muscles as you still remained in shock over what had just occurred.

You felt completely exposed to the man in front of you who held no shame.

A few bubbles had splashed up, dripping down his chin while he waited for your next move. His eyes hunting his prey like a meal in need of devouring.

The look he sent you sending electric waves to your core. A burning sensation stirred inside of you, a temperature that even the water inside of the tub could not satisfy you. The familiar ache of yearning to be touched and pleasured by a man growing by the second.

Your next words even surprising you, a surge of confidence leaving as you spoke. “Well, come fuck me then.”

Closing the distance between you two, moving each leg to straddle his lap. His fingers sliding down to grasp the side of your hips. Grinding your cunt to ease any friction against his swim trunks. A moan leaving your lips at the rough material and growth of his erection from underneath you.

Palming his clothes length, a strangled moan could be heard against your ear. Earning a smirk from you, satisfied with the reaction he gave you. He was withering under you and you both knew it.

Slowly lifting yourself up off of him, “I’m afraid that you have too much clothing on,” you whispered. Reversing the tables and mocking him this time.

Moving a hand down to tug the waistband of his swim trunks down, setting his aching cock completely free. Taking it in your hand before slowly working in a pumping motion, up and down, gripping slightly harder every time you made it to the top. Repeating the movement hastily. Gliding a thumb over his tip, beads of his pre-cum mixed with the body of water that held you two.

The water becoming a lubricant of its own, slipping through your nimble fingers with ease. Taking note of how easily your soft touch affected him. His breathe staggering with every jerk of your hand.

Spencer’s hand tugged your own. Releasing the hold you had on his cock, it was his turn. He needed to touch you.

“Allow me,” he murmured.

His lips attaching themselves to the side of your neck, hungrily sucking the sweet spot below your ear. A mixture of sweat and salt water. Moaning in approval at the magic of his tongue.

Grazing your folds, he delicately ran his fingers through them. Even with the water that submerged you two, he could feel how slick and wet you were for him. Just from his presence alone. Teasing you with one last draw of his finger before slowly dipping one inside of you, your walls welcomed his touch. Adding another digit, pumping it and out, a moan leaving you every time in a serene of pleasure.

Digit after digit. He pumped four fingers inside of you.

Moaning with every pump of his delicate fingers, getting lost in not only his touch but the feel of his lips on your skin. The slick of his fingers sliding in and out of you. Sucking the flesh of your neck to mark up your breasts with delicate kisses.

Pulling his fingers out swiftly, you whined at the absence. Suddenly feeling empty. Chuckling at your reaction, he knew how downright bad you were for him in that moment.

He had you right where he wanted you.

“Such a needy little one, you are,” Spencer crooned at you.

The bubbles stilled around your naked bodies. Your bikini and his swim trunks long forgotten, completely chucked to the side. Both of you drenched in a mix of salt water and sweat.

“Spencer….,” you cried. Your arousal still building up inside of you, the tip of the iceberg. Yet, that wasn’t the tip that you needed.

“I need you….I need you, Spencer,” you began to beg.

Feeling utterly humiliated as you pleaded for out of all people, your fucking co-worker to fuck you. Your body craved to be full of him. To feel his cock fill you up till he fully stretched you to your limit.

Reid snickered, a sense of dominance that he never knew he had coming over him, “Look at you. Begging for my cock. Is that what you want?,” his hand grazing your jaw before gripping it slightly so you could look at him, “For me to fuck you? Fill you with every inch of me until I have you screaming, pleading so that everyone knows who you belong to.”

His mocking words fired something inside of you, arousal practically dripping as it soaked your folds. Nodding eagerly, you began to grind your hips ferociously against him. A spill of ‘yes’s’ and ‘fuck me please’ coming from you.

Pulling you up from the hips, Spencer practically drooled at the sight of the water that dripped from your breasts. His mind spiraling, completely filled with the ideas and images of him fucking you until you couldn’t walk, or even better speak.

Your focus shifted from leaving kisses on the trail of his neck to centering his cock at your entrance. Gently running his shaft along your soaked folds, earning a moan from the both of you, before slowly sinking down. His girth stretching your walls leaving you to fully adjust, taking every inch of him.

A shaky breathe left your lips, never feeling this full before. “Are you okay?,” Spencer asked sincerely. Grabbing your chin, searching for any doubt in your eyes.

He knew he was above average so he gave you a moment to take him all in. You bit your lip, nodding at him.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered. Slipping a hand behind the nape of his neck, you steadied yourself for support. Running your fingers to through the soft, damp texture of his curls.

Beginning to bounce up and down, the water sloshed around you. Your eyes never leaving his in what is now the most intimate moment you have ever had with Spencer Reid.

“Fuuuuckk…Spence, you’re so big,” you panted.

Your praises fueling his ego, boosting him with pride.

Spencer thrusted beneath you aiding you both to reach your climax. The tip of his cock piercing your cervix with every bounce from you and thrust the he made.

His grunts and moans filling your ears, a mix of your own joining with him. If nobody could hear you before, they definitely could now. Both of you too lost in the pleasure of ravishing each other to care about all your neighbors and people down the street who could hear.

Up and down, you continued to bounce on top of him. You were never a huge fan of riding but suddenly with him, it was the best thing in the world. Your breasts at his eye level while he looked up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and you are.

His hand fell down to circle your clit. Adding another source of stimulation to your nearing climax.

“Come on, sweet girl….don’t be shy. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel, let’s put on a whole show,” he coaxed in your ear.

Quickly pulling out his dick before turning you to face the wall. You clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling the scream that had just erupted from you. The sudden change in position hitting a different angle, a different spot than before. Your chest was flushed up against the wall of the hot tub as Spencer pounded into you from behind. His attempts at getting you to be more vocal succeeding as your pleasure was heard for the whole world to witness.

Moan after moan, shout after shout, the spews of you telling him to go harder and how big his dick was, you cried after each thrust. Each one hitting harder than the last. Tears spilled out of your eyes at the brutal force that Spencer used to help you reach your climax.

Fuck, he heard you tell the girls how you liked it rough.

“You feel so good, taking all of me like this. The good girl that you are,” Spencer praised. Wrapping a fist full of your hair around his wrist. Tugging it ever so slightly which earned another moan from you in return.

Water splashed with every hurried rock of his hips against the flesh of your skin. His heavy balls slamming against your ass, destined to create even more bruising from the grip he had on you.

The sound of waves crashing around you drowned out by the heavy pants and whimpering moans that left both of you.

“My pretty girl,” you felt yourself tighten around him, “Is that right? You’re my pretty girl, you look so beautiful filled with my cock.” He moaned.

Thrust after thrust, his dick disappeared inside of you. Pulling out just before the tip only to slam right back in. It was rough and you knew tomorrow you’d wake up bed bound but damn, it was worth it. Your body jerking every time he forced himself back in while you gripped onto the ledge for dear life. His sweet praises, compliments, and slight taunts tipping you over the edge.

“F..fuck..Spence, I’m gonna…I need to cum,” you panted.

Your stomach tightened, knowing you were almost close and he was nowhere near from slowing down.

“I know, sweet girl, I can feel you,” he rasped. His own stomach coiling from the rapidity of his movements.

He placed a kiss on top of your shoulder blade. “Where…where do you want me to cum?” He panted.

Turning your head to look back at him, his dark curls framed his face. His face contorted in sweet pleasure, heavenly moans leaving his lips at the same time. Your walls clenching even harder around him at the scene of him pussy drunk over you.

“Inside. Cum…I want you to cum inside of me,” you managed to get out. Feeling drunk over his cock as well.

Spencer deeply inhaled, feeling his cock twitch aggressively as he coursed you with every thrust to cum. Screams and moans could be heard from the both of you, as his head fell onto your shoulder. Both of you chasing out a high that you had never felt before.

After performing a couple more lousy thrusts, Spencer rested his head on you. His chocolate curls laying to fall on your shoulder, feeling his chest fall up and down behind you. Your own vision falling blurry at what you could now say was the best sex of your life.

A mixture of both of your cum slowly slid down your leg, his length still buried deep inside of you.

“That was….,” he breathed.

“Amazing,” you finished the sentence for him.

Earning a laugh from the both of you. Spencer slowly pulled out of you causing you to wince, “I’m sorry,” he kissed your forehead.

You turned around placing yourself back on his lap, moving to snake your hands around his neck. “It’s okay, I like this side of you,” you smiled at him.

Both of you exhausted yet still relishing in the presence of each other. His hands rubbing in a circular motion on your hips.

“You know I’ve thought about this for so long,” Reid admitted.

“What? Fucking me in a hot tub outside of our apartment complex,” you teased. Splashing him lightly with the water, watching it glisten and hit his chest.

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head as he continued to stare at you. A look that he had never given you before.

“Turning our friendship into something more than just being friends. You know since we first joined the BAU, I always had this thing for you. Everything about you was just so…so magnetic and captivating. There was just somethin-“

You cut him off, babbling and over explaining being a bad yet adorable habit of his. Closing the small gap that was between you, connecting your lips with his as you finally gave him a true and passionate kiss.

Leaning back you took him all in, “It’s a date. Tomorrow, we can head to the coffee shop that you love down the street before work.” This would be the start of something new.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #dr reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x f!reader

860 notes · View notes

moonlight-prose · 7 months ago

Text

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 01. IN DREAMS WE REST

a/n: i've been stressed about this fic probably more than any other i've ever written. not because it's logan per se, but because wade wilson makes me want to rip my hair out. i love that bastard, but writing him feels like pulling teeth. i'm in love with this concept solely for the angst, so if you see more throughout and wonder if they will ever get a happy ending, please know i'm dead inside. enjoy!

summary: stuck in another universe and unsure of where he stands, logan expects things to even out as they always did. but when you cross his path and you have no idea who he is, he's in for a rude awakening.

word count: 5.9k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, angst, cussing so much cussing, alcohol consumption, grief, pain, a broken man pretending he's not broken, chance encounters, awkward conversations, hope.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

He can hear it when he sleeps.

Their screams.

The constant ring of agony that chimes out like a bell, an alarm he never set for himself. A joke once told to him in the midst of World War II, as bullets flew by him and soldiers lost their lives each second of each day. There's no escape from hell. No running from the devil that nipped at his heels the faster he went, the longer he tried to navigate a way free.

There's no escape from the memories that ate away in his mind. Multitudes of them, of the faces he once called family, the people he used to love. They were his punishment. The boulder he continued to roll up the hill, day after day after day. Until eventually...he was crushed by his own self-hatred.

"Logan." The voice whispered long enough for him to grasp who it might be, yet never louder than a mere breath of air.

He clung to it some days. Sunk his claws into what little of his past remained good and allowed it to fill him with some amount of peace. At least then he'd be able to bear this weight, this grief he could never quite name.

Something light brushed across his cheek. Tickling the skin enough to send a flare of irritation down his spine, but the dreams held him in their grasp. What came next never surprised him. He expected it at this point—longed for it. The distant pain of losing what once made him whole; the entirety of his life now defined by one single moment he could never change.

"He sleeps so sweetly. I just want to curl up in his arms and have him read me bedtime stories."

"He's not gonna like that when he wakes up."

"Zip it Al. If I wanted an opinion, I'd go see a Hollywood therapist."

A scoff echoed in the background. "No therapist wants you on their couch."

"Not true. I hear Ryan Reynolds has a great one."

"Who?"

"Not the point." The feather dusted across Logan's face again, soft enough to keep him asleep yet annoying enough to bring a smile to Wade's face. "I wonder if he's dreaming about killing bad guys. They say it's good for the soul."

"Who the fuck is they?"

Wade laughed. "Oh you know. Them. The readers. And boy howdy do they love their blood."

Every day he was forced to listen to Wade's voice became another day Logan dragged his claw through a tally mark of his sanity. "Do you ever shut the fuck up," he growled, gripping Wade's wrist until he heard the satisfying crack of bones.

"Only when I swallow."

"I'll tear your fuckin' arm off."

The smile on Wade’s face only added another tally. "Nice kitty. No need for the claws."

Anger washed across his skin in a familiar wave as he released Wade's arm, watching it go limp. Trying to kill the unkillable walking irritation was like trying to swat a fly that never quite died. It still buzzed incessantly. Until eventually madness was the only viable option of dealing with it. In his case, he seemed to be driving head on with no brakes.

Logan wasn't sure he possessed enough sanity left within him to keep dealing with this. Sleeping on the couch didn't help the way his body never rested; always stuck in that permanent fighting mode. He'd give anything to find some peace. A small sliver of it carved off the past that continued to call him—that begged him to come back and try again.

Swinging his legs off the couch, he planted a swift kick to Wade's chest that sent him across the floor. The lack of caffeine in his system left everything hazy and half coherent. If he focused he might have caught the keys thrown at him, but being exhausted and sober didn't make for a good combination with him. An empty whiskey bottle lay discarded on the floor from last night; the memories of how he passed out barely tinged on the edge of his mind.

He could recall stabbing Wade in the leg.

Nothing beyond that.

Dried blood—now an ugly brown—stained his white shirt. He nearly stripped himself of it, prepared to throw it in with whoever was washing next, but his flannel being chucked at his head caught him off guard.

"Fuck off," he snapped, stumbling to the kitchen.

Wade sighed, following him. "Get dressed, peanut. We have to go do human things today."

"Human–”

"Food," Al retorted. "We're out."

Even in a new universe, he couldn't see himself acting normal. For so long he did what had to in order to survive. Yet now...he wasn't so sure. Accompanying Wade Wilson in order to complete household chores left a bad taste in his mouth. But the thought of fresh coffee and an unopened bottle of whiskey sounded like sweet silver bells in his head.

With reluctance, he buttoned up half of the flannel before he became annoyed with the small size of the holes punched into the fabric. There was only so much he could do with the life he had now. And sometimes shit really sucked.

"Don't scratch my fucking car," Al pointed her words towards Wade, thankfully ignoring Logan's existence for a brief moment.

"Is it safe for her to own a car?"

The door shut behind him with a bang, echoing down the vacant hallway. He was surprised people actually lived here given Wade's antics. They could hear the loud mouthed fucker across the street—if the angry notes in the mail were anything to go by. He didn't bother asking if he should be concerned with any of it. Not when he had no say in how the house was run. And choosing to insert himself where he wasn’t needed, rarely went well for him.

"God no. But I give her the benefit of the doubt. She hasn't killed anyone. Yet."

He yanked the keys out of Wade's hand. "Yeah well I don't trust you either Bub."

The car didn't leave room for his legs as he squeezed into the driver's side. His body practically folded in half as he turned it over—the rumble of the engine rattling against metal. How Blind Al managed to pay for this vehicle went beyond even Wade's knowledge, and in all honesty…he was too fucking scared to ask.

Too much seemed to be happening for him to ever catch up. While this Earth felt similar to his, small things were different. And when they began to add up...he began to wonder if he was drowning.

"Turn left to merge onto the asscrack of traffic."

He barely heard the directions as he drove, his mind drifting the further they went. Part of him sensed the grief from earlier begin to claw up the back of his throat. It begged him to fall, to be swallowed whole by the darkness he'd been stuck in before. And he nearly gave in; could feel his body shift into its constant mode of fight or flight.

The steering wheel cracked under his white knuckled grip as Wade's voice became an afterthought to the war he fought in his mind. Terror trapped itself in his throat and he slammed his foot on the brakes a foot away from a parking spot in retaliation. The car lurched forward, his claws descended. A snarl rumbled in his chest the longer he sat there thinking.

"Woah..." For the first time in days, Wade fell silent. "You alright?"

Logan ripped himself free, shoving his body out of the car before he even threw it in park. He gulped in breath after breath and did his best to wait for this fucking feeling to leave his system. The nightmares only came as he slept. A constant familiar horror show after two centuries.

Yet now he was left like this. Leaned up against a car, his eyes closed shut, and heart racing.

All because he couldn't do his fucking job.

"Logan–"

He snapped, shoving past Wade and his pity that choked him with a vengeance. He didn't deserve anyone's pity. He didn't want it. But people couldn't help but hand it over unconsciously. As if they could see the layers of broken pieces beneath his false expression of strength. Logan never pretended to be okay. Why bother with something people could see right through?

He merely wanted others to ignore he was there. Walk past him, look through him, do whatever it took to pretend that him and all his tragedies weren't standing before them. Because one day he would die and fuck how he couldn't wait for that time to come.

A small hole in the wall dive bar sat in the corner of the shopping center. He barely caught sight of it. But the unmistakable scent of alcohol poured out the door as someone stumbled out—their eyes squeezed shut against the harsh brightness of the sun. He could understand them in a way.

His world didn't have sunlight this bright. Or perhaps he never noticed it ‘til now.

Maybe his body wasn't acclimated yet; unsure of what the fuck was still happening. Everything seemed to be turned up to eleven for him, yet no off switch existed.

The dark hazy glow of the interior sent a wave of calm through him as the door swung shut with a soft thud. Four people sat scattered around the place and a bartender with white and graying hair stood cleaning a glass so foggy it was probably better to throw it out. He found himself letting out a breath that'd been trapped in his chest since that morning. Finally some peace before he had to listen to Wade yap about bullshit he didn't in fact give a shit about.

"What'll you have?" the old man asked, his face screwing up in a wince as he limped towards Logan's spot at the end of the bar.

A quick glance down let him see the brace wrapped around the man's knee. "Whiskey on the rocks."

He nodded, slowly heading towards the center of the wall—a lonesome half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. Logan shifted, taking the center seat directly behind the man.

"I can't say I've seen you around before son."

He grinned, his finger tracing a random carving that'd been placed in the wood. "I just moved here. Living with a coworker."

"Coworker huh?"

The word didn't sound right to Logan, but he couldn't exactly call Wade his friend. Although they were more than people who fought together, more than men who shared blood during the same battle. That was the thing about Logan though. He'd never be able to put a label on something like that. To him...things weren't one or the other as much as he wanted to pretend they were. There was nuance to his life.

Complications which made living that much harder.

The man turned, surprised to see Logan so close, but didn't make note of it. Logan could see the gratitude in the way his drink was slid carefully to him. The small silent thank you in the bowl of pretzels placed beside it.

"You look lost."

Logan grunted, biting into the salty and dry snack. "Do I?"

"More than some of the others that come around here."

"And who comes around here?"

The man laughed. "No one as of late. You're the first young man I've seen in a while walk through those doors."

He bit back his laugh at the word young. The stories he could tell would leave the man baffled. About wars that no living person had witnessed. About when the world was far different than today—when mutants were freaks of nature and humans were far less forgiving. He could list it all and then some.

But whether or not someone would listen was another thing entirely.

"This place that old?" he inquired, sipping on the amber liquid with a contented sigh.

"Oh you bet." A weary laugh filled the space. "I bought this place in the sixties. When my wife was still my girlfriend. She almost left me because of it."

Logan huffed, his lips curling slightly. "She wasn't a fan?"

The man shook his head, tossing a cloth over his shoulder. "Still isn't. Well she...wasn't." He pressed his thumb to the worn gold band on his left hand. "When she was alive she used to host a book night. Helped bring in the men's wives. Kept them outta trouble."

"Book night huh?"

"She loved to read."

Before he could down the final sips of his drink it was topped off. Logan nodded his head in thanks, his thumb digging into the thumbprint shape of the glass. If he thought about it hard enough, he could almost see himself coming here every night. He pictured a life far different than his own, a past where he might have been happy. With someone who might have even made him smile.

"I'm not much of a reader," he replied, his voice hoarse and eyes fixed on the ice that floated to the surface.

"Ah me too," the man laughed. "I just liked seeing her smile."

A soft remark was on the tip of his tongue before an entirely new image began to take shape. The face of someone lost. Of a smile he'd known better than his own. Hands that once held his face with the tenderness of a lover—a voice that sent the hair rising on the back of his neck. He could see it as clear as he did the man.

You in all your beauty. Lost to a past he could no longer rectify.

He swallowed thickly, beating back every emotion that crawled under his skin. "What's your name?"

"Travis."

Raising his glass, he tipped it towards the man with a tight grin. "Logan." The alcohol went down with a quick and biting burn. A feeling he'd grown familiar with. One he counted on.

"Nice to meet you Logan."

"Yeah you too."

He dug out some cash and tossed it on the bar as he stood with a slight grunt. He may heal quickly but the ache in his bones still existed. As if something resisted against how his body moved with each slow shift.

Fighting meant he could ignore it.

Existing is what made it worse.

The sun practically burned his eyes when he stepped out, the heat of the day encompassing his whole body quicker than he would have liked. For some unknown fucking reason, summer here felt worse than on his Earth. Then again the alcohol didn't help. He stood in the shade of the building next to the bar, searching the parking lot for any sign of Wade.

Going into the store wasn't an option and as much as he wanted to leave the annoyance behind, he didn't want to feel like a piece of shit. That is...even more than he already did.

"Fuck," he hissed, leaning against the brick wall. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

One option would be taking a walk to work off the energy that ran through his veins. At least then he'd be able to sleep at night. And the temptation almost worked. If it weren't for the shop doors that opened to his left, effectively distracting him from the chance of leaving. He could have ignored the person, probably should have given everything he'd been through.

But then his heart dropped to his stomach as you walked out. He'd never seen you in such a soft sundress before, the off white fabric draped off your curves in a way that floored him. As if you were an angel floating by without a care in the world. You were busy shoving a small piece of paper in your purse, your face furrowed in frustration, and Logan smiled. Because he'd traced each line of that face before, he'd kissed those cheeks, your eyelids as you slept.

He'd loved you in ways that would scare a normal human.

And there you were.

"Honey?" he called, unconsciously following you quicker than he intended to. "Honey."

You glanced to the side, completely unaware of the giant lumbering man trailing after you with a soft look on his face and hope in his hands.

That alone tore him in two more than the memories from before.

"Baby, it's me."

The breeze finally went through the air, pushing the skirt of your dress a bit higher on your thighs. Except that's not what he latched onto. Your scent was different. Unlike any he'd encountered before. Honey still sweetly caressed his senses, but flowers overlayed that—peonies if he guessed. Delicious enough to have his mouth watering; his body already aching for you to be closer. To look at him in the way you used to.

He wanted to call out to you—gain your attention properly—but your name wouldn't leave his tongue. Because you were there and you finally caught sight of him and you were looking at him as if nothing bad ever happened between the two of you.

You saw him as a man.

Not a disappointment.

He willed himself to stop and breathe. Take in his surroundings; realize that you weren't who he once knew. You weren't even the same fucking person.

But before he could think straight, he'd already followed you halfway to your car. His eyes were dazed, heart nearly throttling him alive as he stood there dumbly. Waiting for you to finally speak.

"Oh..." Your heart rate spiked quicker than he expected. He couldn't find it in himself to feel bad though. "Hello?"

"Honey," he sighed, the weight on his shoulders lifting ever so slightly.

He caught the way your fingers tightened around your keys, the defense mechanism an instinct by now. And Logan realized what he looked like. A strange man standing too close for your liking. So he took a step back and gave you some space. In the hopes that you wouldn't see him as a threat. That maybe...you'd listen to what he had to say.

"Can I help you?" you asked, eyes darting around the parking lot in case you needed help.

What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to reassure you. To explain that he wasn't here to hurt you. That he'd kill himself before even laying a hand on you. Yet the correct words were lost and all he seemed to get out was an incoherent babble that had him wanting to dig his own claws into his chest.

"You smell different."

You straightened your spine, eyes narrowed into a glare he felt burn across his skin. "Look, I don't know who you are. But fuck off."

Something akin to pride flared in his chest at your tone, your words. But he couldn't show it externally. How would he explain that your fight—your fire—is what drew him to you in the first place? How could he tell you about a version of yourself you'd never know? A person he thought would be with him until his last breath exhaled into the world.

"I'm not here to hurt you." He raised his hands in an attempt to prove his point, but like your variant counterpart you were willing to bite first and ask questions later.

"Yeah. Sure asshole." The shopping bag in your other hand was lifted up, until you had a tighter grip on it in case something happened. You didn't know him. You probably never would.

But Logan had to try. He owed it to you to give it all he had this time around.

Otherwise...what was the point of living?

"My name's–" He made the wrong move stepping forward and knew it the second his boot hit the gravel. With a wince, he watched you stumble back against your car, your arm coming up to protect yourself. "No. Look I'm not gonna do anything–"

"Get the fuck away from me," you spit.

He moved back as if approaching a wounded animal—his body finally on edge in a new way. The fact that you didn't know him wasn't what broke off another chunk of his heart. He could handle that. He'd been through that.

You were afraid of him.

That realization dug in too deep for his body to heal.

That...he couldn't live with.

"WOAH hey!" He'd never appreciated Wade's irritating ass more than in this moment. He jumped between the two of you, the cart of groceries forgotten as he blocked Logan from your sight. "Step away from the nice lady wolf boy." Wade regarded you with a smile. "Hi! Sorry. This is my uncle and well as you can probably tell he's lost eight of his lives. So we're going on little old nine. And well the mind just goes to shit first."

Seconds passed by like minutes and Logan watched you visibly deflate. "Wade," you greeted him, visibly calmer than before. Logan felt his stomach twist violently at the thought. "It's good to see you. How's the job?"

"Oh yup you know. Left that. But I'm really pushing through. I've got an Etsy store where I sell miniature paintings of Michael Angelo's David's penis. So there's that."

Your laughter sent a hole through his chest and Logan bit back the growl that rose up the back of his throat. What the fuck was Wade doing making friends with you? Why were you laughing at his humor?

He couldn't count how many days he'd spent longing to hear your laugh again, the shine in your eyes that always came around when joy flooded your bloodstream. He could smell the honey off your skin, the warmth of what no doubt lay beneath your thin dress. And he wanted to rip Wade to pieces knowing that he was the one making it happen. That you were comfortable with a man who's mouth ran at a mile a minute.

"Did your sister have the baby yet?"

You brightened and Logan felt his heart stutter. "She did! A boy."

"Named Wade I hope."

Another peal of laughter had Logan's claws itching to descend as you ignored he was there. "Theo actually. A cutie."

"Aww." Wade moved closer, head bent to see the small polaroid you pulled out of your wallet. "Wow, he looks like you'd find him in a Gerber's advertisement."

Your eyes drifted up, past Wade's shoulder, until you finally caught Logan's gaze. And he felt like he could breathe. Every ounce of fear was wiped from your face; interest now creeping in as you dragged your eyes down his form. Past the slight peek of chest hair and down to how his jeans hugged his hips. Logan stood taller for your benefit, as if he needed to make a good impression.

He wanted to linger in your mind for days. Until the curiosity ate you alive.

"We're gonna go," Wade announced, after grabbing your bag and placing it in your trunk for you. "Someone has to feed the blind woman in my apartment. She tends to root through everything looking for food." He gripped Logan's arm, shoving him back a good few feet. Even as your eyes still remained glued to his face. "Glad to see the Hyundai is still working. You know you could take the fattest fucking nap in the back of that puppy. Makes you feel like an Egyptian mummy."

"Bye," you said, a dazed look in your eyes as Logan smiled in your direction. At ease with the knowledge that even in a different universe, he could still fluster you with a look.

Dragging himself away from you was hell, but Wade's grip remained unbreakable as they clambered to the car. The groceries stacked in the small backseat.

He could glimpse you driving off and suddenly the nightmare from earlier was the last thing on his mind.

Wade's back hit the wall with a crack before the door could shut properly. The groceries in their hands toppled to the floor. He barely had time to duck before Logan's claws were aiming for his head—a snarl ripping from his throat.

"What the fuck?" Wade shouted, grabbing the paper bag and gently setting it on the table. "Next time just say you need to stay home and find some joy in an empty room and your hand."

"How do you know her?"

Wade smiled, assessing the furious state of chaos Logan was now left in. The tatters of his stability falling to the floor around him. For as much as he held himself together, it certainly remained easy enough to tear him a part.

"Got an eye on someone, do we honey badger?"

Logan grimaced, running a hand down his face. "Would you just fucking tell me?"

"Let me bask in this Logan. I'm about to watch a romcom come to life and need some popcorn." He rummaged through the bag, yanking out some chips. "Salty and sweet. That'll do."

"Wade," he bit out.

"Stick with us girls, we're about to get to the good stuff."

"WADE!"

He tossed the bag to the table, eyeing the way Logan never quite settled. "I'm gonna take a guess and say we know her more than just friendly hellos."

Logan couldn't answer because his grief did it for him. He did what he could to catch his breath, to stop seeing his version of you. The disappointment on your face, the pain in your voice. You'd been so angry with him. To watch the person he loved be reduced to a screaming crying mess wasn't something he wanted to relive, but Wade's question seemed to send an avalanche toppling to the ground.

"She's..." He sucked in a breath. "On my world. I...knew her."

"Knew her? Or knew her."

He reached for the bottle of whiskey Wade threw in with the rest of the groceries and popped it open before he spoke again. "It didn't end well between us. None of it did."

Wade fell silent and Logan found himself loathing the quiet more than the sound of his voice. If he was joking Logan could ignore it. He could pretend nothing happened. That you weren't here, you couldn't be hurt by him again.

You were safe from his destructive tendencies as long as you were in another universe.

"She lives across the street." Logan's head rose and whipped to see the window that faced the building across from them. "The old uncultured shit whistles that keep complaining about WHAM! the greatest thing to happen to music. They're her neighbors. Live right next door."

"Neighbors."

Wade nodded, offering him a chip. "She found their note and angel that she is, she very sweetly threatened to get them evicted. I offered to let her borrow my katanas but was rejected like younger me on prom night. You've really got yourself a catch there buddy."

Logan didn't need Wade to tell him how fucking lucky he was. He knew that the second you walked out of that store. You were everything good in his life at one point, everything he couldn't save. There wasn't much keeping him going on his old Earth, but having you made all the suffering he went through—all the pain he endured—worth it.

If you were waiting for him at the end, he'd do it all over again.

"So you want to take a dip in that honey huh? Taste that rainbow?"

His claws would have sunk into Wade's throat if a knock hadn't sounded at the door. With a huff, he stepped into the kitchen, the bottle clutched tightly in his hand. Whoever decided to give Wade some luck was of no concern to him.

Or so he believed.

"I didn't mean to accidentally take your groceries," you laughed, handing over a overpacked paper bag.

Stuffing the bottle under the sink, he met you halfway to the living room, his eyes drinking in the sight of you still in that dress. Still delicate enough for him to rip if he tugged it right. Heat curled along the base of his spine when your eyes met his, wide and glimmering with your laughter. He felt himself crumple at the sight of your lips parting, the surprise at his size still enough to make you speechless.

"Good to see you again," he greeted you, voice low and soft.

You didn't mean to grow flustered in his presence, but something about the way his gaze devoured you within seconds left you breathless. The swooping sensation in your stomach became too much to handle. Desire and attraction weren't unknown concepts to you. But this felt like more. You could sense him right down to your bones and it scared the shit out of you.

"Oh right!" Wade scooched past you to swing an arm around Logan's shoulders. He did what he could to not stab him in the stomach. "This is Logan. My hunky new roommate."

Logan groaned. "Alright–"

"No, no it's good. You remember when I was declared basically the savior of the universe?"

Your face screwed up in confusion. Logan had never wanted to kiss someone more.

"Marvel...Jesus right?"

"I prefer MJ. Since I've got a Peter." Wade's head whipped to the side. "Suck it Tom Holland." His grip on Logan tightened. "This walking People's Sexiest Magazine helped. We're talking big claws, abs you just want to lick whipped cream off of–"

Logan's elbow slammed into Wade's stomach—crimson slowly tinting the tips of his ears. "That's enough."

"AND the Wolverine."

Surprised etched itself onto your face even further. Until you finally regarded Logan with a look he'd seen once before. Awe. When you first met one another in the halls of the mansion, you stared at him that exact way. As if you couldn't quite believe that iconic figure the X-Men made him out to be actually existed.

He couldn't tell if he liked it. Or if he'd rather you view him as a stranger.

"Logan," he said, offering his hand to you politely. Your skin remained as soft as he remembered.

Warmth bloomed in your body at the feeling of his calloused palm overwhelming yours, the scars across his knuckles old and ancient. Yet you found yourself wanting to trace them over and over, until the sight of them seared in your mind. You fought the urge to press your lips to them, etch your own mark into his skin. Something told you he wouldn’t mind.

Logan could see the intrigue on your face—the distracted gaze he wanted to keep in place. You were still curious. Still willing to learn about him. To pick him a part with soft words and even softer touches.

"Logan," you murmured under your breath, your eyes catching his. He felt his stomach leap at the sound of your voice whispering his name. Memories flooding his mind quicker than he expected. Of mornings spent in bed, your skin pressed against his. Of nights alone in his cabin—your stories lulling him to sleep.

Everything he willed himself to forget, yet could never truly let go of.

"I've got to head back." Disappointment filled your heart at the thought of not getting a chance to talk to him more. He had yet to let go of your hand and you found you liked his touch on your skin. "I'll see you soon Wade."

"Logan will be more than happy to walk you back," Wade replied, waving drastically behind your back. "Can't have you getting hurt now can we? Right peanut?"

You smiled. "I'm just across the street."

"I don't mind," Logan cut in, glaring at Wade to shut the fuck up.

"Okay," your voice was soft. Happy.

Logan would have done anything to keep it that way.

The walk back wasn't long enough for him to explain his actions from earlier, but you seemed to be just as smart as your variant self. Shutting the building's door, you turned to him—your dress fluttering in the breeze. Logan choked on his spit at the slight peek of your ass before you pushed the skirt back down around you.

"Did you know me?" You lead him to the corner, waiting for the traffic to die down. "On your Earth."

He paused, his eyebrows pulling together, and for a moment you wondered if you asked the wrong question. Wade told you bits and pieces of what happened since you last saw him, but Logan's background wasn't a discussion you tried to seek out. All you knew was that Wade acquired a new roommate. Not even a name.

Certainly not that he was Wolverine.

"Yes," Logan muttered, glancing at the change in lights.

You started to walk. "In what way?"

His hands curled into fists—echoes of his past rising to the surface. "We were...friends. You're a professor."

"A professor?" you exclaimed, a smile tugging on your lips. "Am I a mutant?"

He nodded. "You're able to bend time. Or control it." He snorted, following your lead towards your building. "I could never understand it. But Charles did."

The walk up to your apartment was silent, your thoughts filled with the new information he'd given you. And no matter how hard you tried to picture it, you couldn't see yourself as a mutant. A powerful being that held the ability to manipulate time who just so happened to be a professor. Somehow even thinking about it made you wonder why Logan was bothering to entertain this version of you. When the better one existed on his Earth.

"You said were."

Stopping at your door, he nearly knocked into you. "Hm?"

"Were friends. What happened?"

The answer he couldn't give you. The words he wouldn't even admit out loud to himself.

He felt his heart twist as if a knife slowly carved through his spleen. "We uh..." He coughed. "You..."

"I don't have to know." Grasping gently onto his arm, you offered a warm smile he felt down to his toes. A look he hadn't seen in quite some time. Logan could picture the last day you were happy in his head. Laughing with Charles in his office as you shared dinner, working on theories of your powers late into the night.

A week before they came.

"It's good to see you like this," he breathed, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek before stopping midair. "Happy."

Your eyebrows knit together. "I wasn't happy?"

"No." What he wouldn't give to take that information back, but it was out in the open, and as always—he remained too late.

"Why?" you asked, your hand sliding down to his much to his delight.

"I made you a promise." He sucked in a breath, his body begging him to start running. You'd be better off if you never knew. If you never remembered him in the first place. "I couldn't keep it."

I'll always keep you safe.

Words he refused to say again.

How could he promise this version of you that? How could he look you in the eyes and lie again? Breaking his Earth's you would haunt him for the rest of his life. He couldn't fathom doing it all over. It would kill him.

Except you weren't the person in his mind. You weren't the mutant who hated him with every fiber of your being. You were you. A continuous surprise that left his heart stuttering in his chest each time you looked his way. An enigma he found himself wanting to unravel.

"Maybe this time around you can," you said softly, letting him go with a smile as you entered your apartment, effectively opening the wound in his heart so wide there was no saving him.

Although he now knew something he didn’t know before.

He didn’t want to be saved.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett x f!reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine x y/n #my writing

1K notes · View notes