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of course! canons but like also like multiple canons about the same thing?? lol
⊹ doll! reader who leaves dexter the cutest little messages when his hands are snug in latex gloves, blood dripping from them.
look what i made! you send him a picture of a cupcake with pink frosting and sprinkles, tiny and delicate, perfectly sweet. he’s scrubbing blood off his arms when he sees it. made u a dozen. miss uuu. xx
just passed ur apartment. ur car’s not here :( you sends it while he’s in an abandoned warehouse, head tilted as he watches the life drain from someone’s eyes. must be busy! have a good day, baby! <3
if he’s in the middle of a kill and he actually sees it in the moment, he’ll keep one glove on, peel the other off with his teeth. blood smears his knuckles as he types a quick, bland response. yeah. busy. your reply comes back with a string of hearts and a miss u!!! and he just shoves the phone back into his pocket, mind a little lighter than before.
if he’s been distant for days, too many bodies, too many secrets, and you send a text that says, did i do something wrong? he can’t help it. he’s sitting in his car, waiting for his victim, and he peels off both gloves, trying to be quick just in case he misses his opportunity. no. just busy. you responds with: okay! just checking. ily!
but if not messages, voicemails. he definitely listens to them on his way back to his apartment or on his boat when he’s done dumping the bodies.
on the boat, as a body sinks beyond the surface of the water. your voice comes through warm and bright, like you’re talking to him from your couch, feet kicked up and perfectly content. “hey, babe! just left that cuban restaurant you like and guess what? got your favorite. got you two ‘cause I know you’ll forget to eat. anyway, let me know if you’re home. if not, i’ll just eat ‘em both. bye, bye.” dexter’s jaw clenches. he saves it. tells himself it’s so he doesn’t forget to ask you about the sandwiches.
in his lab, staring at a blood slide, your voice in his ear. “so, i was gonna text this but it’s too long and i’m too lazy to type. i found this shirt that’s, like, the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, and i swear it’s something you’d love. i took a picture. gonna send it to you in a sec. okay, that’s it. byeee.” dexter glances at his phone, waiting for the picture to come through. when it does, it’s a neon-green, hideous button-up. he smirks. almost smiles.
Summary: Butcher's sick of seeing you around the safehouse. He's had words with Frenchie, he thinks he oughta have words with you.
Warnings: 18+!, language, Butcher being Butcher, implied/referenced drug taking, smut (p in v, rough sex), I think that's it?
Word Count: 6,527
He'd seen her before. More than once, actually. Slipping out the safehouse door like a cherry-scented ghost, glitter stuck to her cheekbone and a vape pen swinging from her fingers like a bloody talisman. Always after sunset. Always with Frenchie trailing behind, grinning like a lovesick dog and waving her off like they'd just shared tea and crumpets instead of whatever illicit shit they'd actually been up to.
And every single time, Butcher had words.
"Who the fuck is she?"
"She's safe."
"She's a liability."
"She brings me things I need."
"Yeah? 'N I'll bring you a fuckin' lobotomy if you keep lettin' fuckin' strays into a CIA-sanctioned op site."
But it never stuck. Frenchie had that look in his eye—the feral kind that said he'd cut a man's throat with a butter knife if it meant protecting the little bubblegum-coloured fox he'd adopted. And Kimiko didn't exactly help, nodding along in quiet, wordless approval, like the girl was family or some shit.
Butcher never spoke to her. Didn't need to. What was there to say to a creature like that? She looked like she belonged on a sticker pack. Like the kind of bird who smelled like cupcakes and talked like a toddler. Useless, probably. A sugar-coated liability with zero survival instincts.
Still. He noticed.
He noticed the swing in her step, the way her skirt bounced when she walked, like she had no business moving like that through a world this cruel. He noticed how she never looked back. Not even once. Never glanced his way—not to flirt, not to flinch. Nothing. Like she knew he was there and didn't give a single shiny fuck.
That... pissed him off more than he liked.
There was something wrong about her, in that bright, beautiful way things get right before the world wrecks them. Something out of place. Like finding a goddamn Fabergé egg in the middle of a minefield.
And Butcher didn't trust pretty things that wandered into warzones and walked out smiling.
He smelled the change before he saw it.
Cheap weed. Burnt ramen. Something saccharine clinging to the walls like a sticky fingerprint. The kind of scent that didn't belong in a place like this. Not in a CIA-sanctioned safehouse with bullet-scarred plaster and a fridge that wheezed like it had asthma.
Butcher's boots hit the floor heavy, deliberate. Not creeping. Just announcing. And still—none of the fuckers looked up.
Frenchie was splayed on the battered couch, a grin stretched wide across his face like he'd just snorted joy itself. Kimiko sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, tapping her fingers to the rhythm of some cartoon bullshit flashing across the telly. And you—
There you were.
Perched on the coffee table like you owned it, delicate fingers unscrewing a little glass bottle filled with something neon and definitely illegal. Pink hoodie half-zipped, lollipop handle poking out the side of your glossed mouth, socks covered in anime kittens. You were all bubblegum and bare thighs and sin someone hadn't quite named yet.
And you were laughing. Laughing with Frenchie like the world outside wasn't rotting, like you weren't trespassing in a fucking war zone.
That was the last straw.
"The fuck is this, then?" Butcher barked, stepping into the room like the embodiment of a migraine. "Slumber party, is it?"
The air didn't shift. You didn't flinch. You just looked up, slow and lazy, like you'd been expecting him.
"Oh look," you said, voice syrup-sweet and soaked in venom. "The human yeast infection speaks."
Frenchie cackled. Kimiko smirked.
Butcher blinked. Once. Twice.
"Sorry—who the fuck invited Barbie back in?"
"I did," Frenchie said without missing a beat, reaching out to take the bottle from your hand. "She brings me the good things. You want me clean, non? This is the price."
"The price," Butcher repeated, voice low and sour, "is that I don't throw your candy-floss dealer headfirst out the nearest fuckin' window."
You sucked loudly on the lollipop, leaned back on your hands, and stared straight into his soul.
"Try it, and I bite."
Butcher stared. He wasn't sure if the heat rising in his chest was rage or something worse.
Jesus fuckin' Christ. She's got fangs under all that frosting.
Frenchie was grinning again, clearly delighted.
"I tell you every time, mon frère," he said. "She is safe. Like a kitten. A kitten with knives."
Butcher's jaw ticked. Something dark and electric curled low in his gut as you kept smiling at him like you knew he was already lost.
He hated you. Hated how curious you made him feel. Hated that the only thing louder than your laugh was the sudden, sick twist of interest in his chest.
And for the first time—he didn't say a word back.
You didn't look at him again. Not once.
Instead, you turned back to Frenchie with a swing of your legs and a soft hum, like nothing had happened, like you hadn't just sunk your teeth into the walking plague of the room and left him bleeding quietly in the doorway.
"Anyway," you said, uncapping the little glass bottle with a delicate flick of your thumb. "This'll keep your brain from eating itself, but only if you don't mix it with vodka or benzos or... whatever radioactive trash you've been putting in your system lately."
Frenchie took the bottle with both hands like it was holy. "You are an angel. Une bénédiction." He kissed your knuckles dramatically, then tapped the side of his nose. "I do not mix anymore. I am a new man."
"You're a lying little goblin," you said sweetly, plucking a vape from the floor beside you. "And the last time you took this, you tried to reorganise the entire fridge alphabetically and then fell asleep in it."
Kimiko, seated on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest, let out a soft breath of laughter. She hadn't taken her eyes off the TV, but her smile had been there the whole time. Quiet. Comfortable.
"I told you I would make a spreadsheet," Frenchie insisted.
You grinned, soft and sharp all at once. "You tried to use croutons as dividers."
"It was an experiment in modular nutrition," he said with mock offence, clutching his heart.
Butcher watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, unmoving. The kind of stillness that wasn't calm—just compressed pressure. He didn't know what pissed him off more: how easily you fit here, or how clearly they let you.
The air smelled like weed and detergent. The overhead light buzzed like it was dying. And there you were, right in the centre of it all—bubblegum and bare thighs and kitten socks with little skulls on the toes.
You weren't just in their space. You were part of it.
And Butcher hated it.
Too soft. Too loud. Too fucking bright. And they let you in anyway.
You zipped your hoodie halfway, slipped the glass bottle back into your glittery pouch, and tucked it into your bag with a practiced little shuffle. Then, as if remembering something, you stood with a bounce and pulled your vape from your bra—dragged a long inhale and blew a ring toward the ceiling.
"Alright, boys and ghouls," you chirped. "I got other degenerates to tend to. Try not to die while I'm gone, yeah?"
Frenchie stood and saluted. "If I do, I will haunt you from beyond the grave."
You ruffled his hair. "You already do, sweetheart."
Kimiko gave a small wave—thumb and pinky out, the casual shaka—and you shot her a wink before adjusting your bag across your chest.
And that's when the temperature shifted. It was subtle. A prickle across the spine. The kind of silence that came just before something broke.
He knew you felt it before you heard him.
"Oi."
One syllable. Snarled like a hook in the back of your neck.
You turned your head slowly toward the hallway—where he stood, arms crossed, still planted in the same goddamn spot like rot in the foundation.
"You always that mouthy," Butcher said, voice low and edged in challenge, "or just when you've got yer fuckin' fan club around?"
His tone wasn't raised. Didn't need to be. It coiled through the room like smoke.
Frenchie's smile faltered—just for a second. But you? You didn't miss a beat. You met Butcher's stare with a tilt of your head, as if sizing up a joke before the punchline.
"You always that constipated," you said, slow and syrup-slick, "or just when someone prettier than you walks into the room?"
Frenchie howled. Kimiko barked out a laugh so sharp it startled even herself. And Butcher—
Butcher said nothing. Didn't move. Didn't blink. But something in his face twitched—an almost-smile that died before it was born.
You gave them both a little wave and turned back toward the door.
"See ya, sweets," you murmured to Frenchie. "Don't snort the fun pills. That one's oral only."
"You wound me," he called after you, clutching his chest again. "I am mature now."
"Uh-huh," you said over your shoulder. "Call me when you relapse. I'll bring snacks."
And then you stepped into the hallway—and the door clicked shut behind you.
Silence. No laughter now. No safe little buffer. Just you, your boots against creaky tiles, and the sound of someone stepping right behind you.
You didn't turn. Not yet.
"What is it now, Butcher?" You sighed, letting your bag slip down your shoulder as you faced the wall. "Forgot to tell me I'm a security risk again?"
He said nothing. So you turned. And there he was, closer now. Arms still crossed. Eyes still storm-dark. But that little twitch in his jaw told you what you needed to know.
He hadn't followed you out here for national security.
"You like mouthing off?" He asked. "That it?"
You smirked. "I like watching grumpy old men pretend they're intimidating."
"You think I'm grumpy?"
"I think you're dying to see what I say when no one's around to protect you."
That landed. His shoulders shifted. His mouth curved—not a smile, not really, but something darker.
"You think I need protection?"
"I think you need a hobby," you said, stepping into his space. "Or maybe a good fuck. Either way, I'm not giving you either."
He leaned down, inches from your mouth. The air was warm. Charged. Electric.
"Y'know what I think?"
"I'm shaking."
"I think you talk like that 'cause you want someone to shut you up."
You looked him straight in the eye, popped your lollipop from your mouth with a slick little pop, and said:
"Try me, Big Bad."
And then you walked away.
Butcher didn't follow. Not because he didn't want to. But because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what the fuck he'd do if he caught you.
It'd been weeks.
Weeks without the glitter girl. Weeks without the sticky-sweet scent clinging to the curtains or the cartoon giggle echoing down the halls. Weeks without the fucking war crime of a vape trail you left behind.
And Butcher had been glad for it. That's what he told himself, anyway.
But when he stepped into the safehouse and caught the scent of some sickly-sweet body spray clinging to the stale air—he paused. Knew what it meant before he saw it. Before he saw you.
And fuck him—you were right back on the coffee table.
Like you'd never left.
Boots tucked under you, hoodie halfway unzipped, some horror of a pink pouch open on your lap, and that ridiculous glossy lollipop hanging from your lips. You were talking, chipper as a cartoon. Giving Frenchie the rundown on some new bottle of god-knows-what you'd brought him, like you were prescribing vitamins instead of illicit pharmaceuticals.
Frenchie and Kimiko were already there. Frenchie perched on the arm of the couch, laughing with his whole chest. Kimiko stretched across the floor like a cat, nodding absently at the screen. And there you were, in the middle of it all—knees tucked under you on the coffee table again, back arched, lip glossed, smiling like sin.
But this time?
This time he was here too.
Soldier Boy. Sitting in the goddamn recliner like it was a throne, one arm tossed over the back, the other nursing a beer. Aviators still on indoors, like a right twat. T-shirt too tight, ego tighter.
"So you're like a drug fairy or some shit?" Soldier Boy was asking, giving you that lazy up-and-down. "You sprinkle a little happy dust and poof—Frenchie stops twitchin'?"
You popped your gum. "Something like that. Depends how nice he is to me that week."
"And what about me, sweetheart?" Soldier Boy drawled. "I get a discount if I smile real pretty?"
Frenchie rolled his eyes. "You smile like a serial killer."
"A fuckin' charmin' one," Soldier Boy said without missing a beat.
And you—you laughed. Not the fake kind either. A real laugh. Light and bright and warm enough that Butcher felt it sting.
Felt it in his teeth. In his fuckin' chest.
No. Absolutely not. Fuck off with that.
He hated how it made him feel. Hated how Soldier Boy looked at you like you were dessert. Hated how you didn't shut it down.
But then you caught his eye. And Butcher watched it happen. Watched the moment your gaze snagged on his, held just long enough to feel deliberate, and then—
Something changed.
Your smile stayed, but the edge dulled. You shifted back slightly. Crossed one leg over the other. Still playful. Still glitter and pink sugar and dangerous calm—but not available.
And Butcher—fuck him—felt something twist in his gut.
You turned back to Frenchie, opened your pouch, and began pulling out a new set of bottles and blister packs.
"Okay, new rules," you said, clicking your tongue as you sorted. "Yellow ones are daytime only. No alcohol. Blue tabs are for emergencies only—no more than one every eight hours or you will absolutely start hallucinating your trauma."
Frenchie nodded, suddenly dead serious. "And the green ones?"
"Don't touch the green ones unless you're dying or planning to astral project. Either way, text me first."
Butcher watched your lips as you spoke, the occasional pop of your gum as you listed dos and don'ts.
"Pink tabs are serotonin pushers," you were saying, voice all sugar and sharp. "Good for when you're low, but they'll kill your appetite, so eat something or you'll look like an extra from Trainspotting by morning."
Frenchie nodded solemnly. "I will make toast. Emotional toast."
Kimiko laughed. Butcher didn't. Instead, Butcher's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"And how the fuck do you know what any of that does?"
The room quieted. All eyes on him.
You didn't look up from your bag.
"Excuse me?"
"You don't look like you use this shit," Butcher said, stepping further into the room. "But you rattle off side effects like you wrote the fuckin' labels. So what is it? You playing scientist? Little bit of pretend chemistry? Or just parroting what your dealer told ya?"
You looked up then. Slow. Controlled. Cold.
"It's not any of your fucking business," you said flatly. "But if you must know—I'm good with chemicals. Pharmaceutical chemistry. Human biology. Neuropharmacology. Pick one. I've got credits in all of 'em."
Soldier Boy let out a low whistle. "Shit, that's hot."
You shot him a look. "Don't make it weird."
But he wasn't done. Of course not. He leaned back with that lazy grin, turned his face slightly—but his eyes stayed on Butcher.
"Didn't realise we had to clear our jokes with the watchdog first."
Butcher curled his lip.
"Flirt all you want. Just don't drag your clap through the furniture."
Frenchie choked. Kimiko looked mildly horrified. But Soldier Boy only leaned in more.
"Told you, sweetheart," he drawled, flashing you a grin that belonged in a mugshot. "You're wasted on these pricks. You ever wanna deal with real men, you let me know."
And you?
You didn't blink. Just cracked your gum once—loud. Then:
"You two wanna whip 'em out already?" You asked, slow and sweet. "Should I get a ruler?"
Butcher nearly choked. Frenchie wheezed laughter. Kimiko covered her face. Soldier Boy grinned like a devil.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ." Soldier Boy chuckled low. "What's wrong, Butcher? Gonna lose on length and charm?"
Butcher's voice cut sharp.
"Heard your brain's three inches shorter than your dick. And that's still not sayin' much."
That shut the room up.
Soldier Boy's smile dropped. Beer bottle thunked down on the table. "You wanna take this outside, pussy?"
But then you stood. Bag over your shoulder. Boots firm against the tile. Chin high.
"I'm not a fucking prize for you two to arm-wrestle over." You turned to Frenchie, soft again. "Text me if the green ones make you time travel."
He nodded, still blinking, like you'd stunned him. You looked at Butcher next—just long enough to let the venom simmer—then at Soldier Boy.
"But hey—thanks for reminding me why I prefer chemicals to men."
Snap.
Your gum cracked like a pistol shot in the quiet. And you turned your eyes—straight to Butcher. Locked on like a scope.
"So," you said, voice smooth and sweet like poison in honey. "Is the grumpy old man gonna walk me to my car?"
Butcher froze.
The fuck did you just—
"I can do that," Soldier Boy cut in instantly, sitting forward. "Glad to."
But you didn't even look at him. You just lifted a hand—graceful, slow—and held it out in a stop without taking your eyes off Butcher for a single second.
"I wasn't talking to you," you murmured. "But I'll keep that in mind for next time."
The room went quiet. Butcher felt it in his spine. The tension. The heat. Like someone'd just lit a match behind his ribs.
And then you cocked a brow. Head tilted. That bubblegum pop mouth twisted into something almost smug. Almost dangerous.
"Well?" You said.
Fuck.
He didn't say a word. Didn't move when you cocked that brow, didn't answer when you tossed the challenge across the room like a lit match. Just watched as you turned with a toss of your hair, hips swaying like you knew he was going to follow.
And fuck him—he did.
Of course he did.
He trailed behind you as the door shut, boots heavy on the scuffed linoleum, and you? You were a fucking vision of chaos in motion. Half his size, all legs and attitude, miniskirt bouncing, pink hoodie riding up the curve of your back. You walked like the hallway belonged to you. Like you'd paved the fucking floor with your own glitter.
He kept his distance. Just a few steps back. Far enough to pretend it was casual. Close enough to clock the way you popped your gum every few paces, loud and sharp and deliberate. Like punctuation.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
Every sound was a middle finger.
Butcher's eyes dipped once—just once—to the curve of your thighs, the sway of your hips. He let himself look, let it hit like a blow to the gut. You were small. Soft-looking, sure, but dangerous in ways you probably didn't even know yet. Or maybe you did.
That was worse.
The lot was mostly empty when you reached your car. Streetlamp buzzing above like a dying insect. Butcher stopped beside you as you clicked your keychain and lit up the machine in front of him.
He squinted.
It was pink. Of course it fucking was. Tiny, boxy, obnoxious. Covered in stickers. One Powerpuff Girl flipping the bird from the back window.
Jesus wept.
You turned to face him, one hand resting on your hip. Still chewing, still unreadable. And when you spoke, it wasn't a question. It was a bullet wrapped in satin.
"So, William... you the type to do dates—or is it just one messy fuck to get all that grumpy bullshit out of your system?"
He blinked. Scoffed. Looked away like that'd shake something loose.
"Ain't thought about it."
You raised a brow. "No?"
"No."
You smiled. Real slow.
"Liar."
He grit his teeth. "And if I was?"
"Then you're coy. It's cute," you said, stepping closer—just close enough that he caught the scent of your perfume again, something synthetic and sharp and you. "I don't mind."
Butcher stared at you, the smirk twitching at the edge of your mouth, the way you tilted your chin up like you were waiting for a punch and daring it to land.
"You're trouble," he muttered.
"You love trouble." Your voice was soft now. Velvet-wrapped and dangerous. "And you've definitely thought about it. Thought about what it'd feel like to get it out of your system. Rip it out of your ribs and put it somewhere hot and messy and mine."
He clenched his jaw. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"You gonna keep playin' coy, William?" You murmured, eyes locked on his. "Or are you gonna be a man about it?"
He didn't answer. Didn't trust his voice not to betray the fact that he'd absolutely thought about it. More than once.
And if he was smart, he'd walk away. Right now. But Butcher had never been all that fucking smart.
You didn't move right away. Just stood there, one hand on your hip, the other hanging loose at your side, the pink strap of your bag riding high across your chest like a weapon holster. The streetlamp cast your shadow long across the cracked pavement, a soft silhouette with bite, and Butcher—he couldn't fucking look away.
You were chewing your gum slow now. Not lazy. Loaded. Like every snap between your teeth was another nail in his goddamn coffin. That smug little smile still playing on your lips, like you already knew he was fucked. Like you were doing him a favour by letting him watch you walk away.
He should've turned around. Should've made a cutting comment and left you standing there like the chaos you were.
Instead—he stepped forward.
A single step. Just enough to close the distance between you. Not quite touching. But he could feel your warmth, your perfume, that faint sugar-sharp scent clinging to the night air like a curse. You were a full foot shorter than him, head tilted back just slightly to meet his eyes. No flinch. No nerves.
You stared like you'd already decided how this would end.
Then, slow as sin, you reached into your bag. Fished around between your glittery pill cases and lip gloss tubes, and pulled out a sad little scrap of notepad paper—creased, purple-lined, with some cartoon frog in the corner giving a peace sign.
Of fucking course.
Butcher watched you uncap a pen. Watched you scrawl something in big, looping numbers across the page. Each stroke deliberate. Confident. Like you weren't just writing down your number—you were writing him a problem.
Then—casually—you popped the gum from your mouth, rolled it between two fingers, and stuck it right on the edge of the paper. Pressed it in like a kiss.
You stepped in—close. Pressed the whole thing into his palm, fingers lingering just long enough to make it clear it wasn't an accident.
"For when you stop pretending," you said, voice low and syrup-slick. A wink followed, fast and clean. "Night, William."
He didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Because he was standing there, in a piss-yellow parking lot under a buzzing streetlamp, holding your fucking phone number, complete with used chewing gum and cartoon frogs, and trying not to visibly sweat about it.
You turned without another word, hopped into that ridiculous pink clown car, and fired the engine.
The music hit like a shotgun blast—something synth-heavy and violent with bubblegum vocals screaming over it. Bass shook the tiny frame as you adjusted your mirrors and didn't look at him once.
Then, just before peeling out of the lot like a bat out of pastel hell, you threw him a two-finger salute. Sharp. Dismissive. Final.
And then you were gone. Burned rubber. Candy scent. Blown speakers. Gone.
Butcher stared at the empty space you left behind like a man who'd just been mugged by a fever dream. He still had the paper in his hand, crumpled now from how tightly he'd clenched it. The gum was still warm. Still soft. He could feel it through the page.
His cock was half-hard. And he hated that.
Inside, the mood hadn't shifted at all.
Frenchie was still on the couch, cackling at something Soldier Boy was saying—some bollocks about a bear trap and a stripper. Kimiko had curled up in the armchair now, watching the boys like a woman observing animals through glass.
None of them looked at Butcher when he walked back in.
Good.
He didn't want them to.
"You alright, mon frère?" Frenchie asked without looking, stuffing popcorn into his mouth with both hands. "You look like someone pissed on your cornflakes."
Butcher ignored him. Didn't pause. He passed through the room like smoke, tension in his shoulders and that crumpled paper burning a hole in his jacket pocket.
"Goin' to bed," he muttered.
That got Soldier Boy's attention. The smug cunt chuckled.
"Better jerk off before you sleep, Butcher. You're lookin' a little tense."
Butcher didn't answer. Didn't flip him off. Didn't give him the satisfaction. Just disappeared down the hall, boots echoing, heart hammering, half-hard and angry and more rattled than he'd admit if you put a gun to his head.
And in his pocket? That fucking number. Still damp. Still pressed between his fingers like a threat.
He hadn't called.
Not because he didn't want to. But because calling meant admitting something.
That he'd thought about it. About you. About what you'd said, and how you'd said it—with that glitter-glossed smirk and the gum pressed to paper like a kiss-shaped curse. The note lived in the back of his sock drawer now, folded between worn cotton and denial, burning a hole in his fucking resolve.
He'd taken it out twice. Once drunk. Once sober. Both times, he folded it back up with shaking hands.
It'd been weeks. Enough time to pretend it didn't matter. Enough time to lie to himself in peace.
But today?
You were back.
He walked into the safehouse and the heat hit him first. The air was thick, swampy—no proper ventilation, windows shut tight against the kind of daylight that burned the skin off you in minutes. Sweat clung to the back of his neck.
And there you were.
Sitting on the same goddamn coffee table like it belonged to you. Hoodie discarded in a heap beside you like it meant fuck all—exposed now in some little pink slip of a dress that barely covered your thighs. One knee tucked under you, the other swinging lazily. A sheen of sweat gleamed at your collarbone, glinting where your dress clung to you in all the wrong places.
You were explaining something to Frenchie—voice animated, hands waving, pill bottle in one, notebook in the other.
"It mimics a candy flip," you were saying, like it was no big deal. "But safer. No MDMA crash. No hangover. Half the hallucinations, double the serotonin. I'm calling it Kiki."
Frenchie blinked. "Like... the delivery witch?"
"Exactly," you grinned, popping your vape from your bra. "Cute name, terrifying high."
Butcher didn't announce himself. Didn't say a word.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw locked, watching as you tied your hair up with a pink elastic pulled from your wrist. Your movements were lazy, careless—flyaways sticking to your neck, sweat glistening across your skin, one strand of hair blowing loose across your cheek. You huffed it away with a pout, not even noticing the way his stomach fucking clenched watching you.
It was obscene. That level of ease.
Then Frenchie stood, muttered something about grabbing a glass of water, and stepped out. Butcher stayed frozen in the shadows. And—without looking up—you spoke.
"You gonna stand there all day, or you wanna come sit down, you scared little ghost?"
He blinked.
You didn't turn around. Didn't glance his way. Just twisted the cap off another bottle and kept talking like you didn't just wreck him.
"Jesus, William. You're worse than Frenchie's hallucinations."
His pulse kicked.
"You know," you added, voice light as air. "If you didn't want my number, maybe you should've passed it on to someone a little more willing."
He stepped forward once, slow. "You mean Soldier Boy?"
That got your eyes on him. You looked up—chin tilted, lashes heavy, that grin slinking across your face like smoke under a door.
"He's not my first choice," you said with a shrug, "but if you're really not game, I'll take what I can get."
And that was it.
Butcher snapped.
He crossed the room in three strides, one hand grabbing the back of your dress—soft cotton fisting tight in his fist—as he yanked you up off the coffee table like a fucking rag doll. You squeaked once, laughed next, boots scuffing against the floor as he frog-marched you straight down the hallway.
"Well, someone's finally feeling chatty," you said, breathless and delighted, letting him drag you with zero resistance.
Butcher didn't answer. Couldn't. Not when his blood was boiling and his cock was stiffening and you—you—were grinning like the filthy little menace you were, eyes lit up with pure chaos, hands swinging like this was just a fucking game.
Like you'd planned it.
And maybe you had. You always did.
The door slammed behind you hard enough to rattle the hinges.
You barely had time to stumble forward, his hand still fisted in the back of your dress, knuckles white around the soft pink fabric like he didn't trust himself to let go.
For a second, he didn't. For a second, he just stood there, chest heaving, pulse pounding like boots on concrete, staring at you like you'd just pulled the pin and handed him the grenade.
You weren't scared.
You looked up at him with that same fucking smirk, all teeth and glitter, breath a little heavier but no less composed. You tilted your head, mouth quirking like you were chewing on a thought.
Then—
"You gonna do something," you murmured, low and saccharine, "or just march me around like I'm—"
You didn't get the rest out.
Butcher was on you before the sentence died in your throat, both hands on your waist, hoisting you clean off the ground with a growl caught in his throat. You yelped, surprised—but laughing, too, high and breathless.
Your legs snapped around his hips like instinct, your thighs squeezing firm as he spun, caging you in the centre of his room like a man possessed.
He held you there—fuck, he held you like he was starving for it. One arm locked under your ass, keeping you up, the other sliding up the length of your back until his hand found the messy bun at the crown of your head. Fingers tangled, rough, yanking just hard enough to make your mouth part with a startled breath.
And then he kissed you.
Not soft. Not careful. But hungry—like you were the end of the fucking world and he'd decided to swallow it whole.
You tasted like bubblegum.
Of course you did.
Sweet and sticky and stupidly you, all pink gloss and danger, and Butcher wanted to rip it off your mouth with his teeth.
But then—then—you made a sound.
A low, humming little purr, amused and pleased, like the whole thing was delicious, and it hit him like a fucking thunderclap. That noise. That fucking noise.
You giggled into his mouth a second later, breath hitching as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and he cursed into the kiss because fuck, this was not supposed to be funny. But you were laughing—soft and delighted, squirming just slightly in his grip, hands curled into his shirt like you owned him already.
And maybe you did.
Because he couldn't stop. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but kiss you harder, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs as he held you like gravity was a lie and your mouth was the only goddamn thing he believed in.
The kiss didn't break—it fractured.
Split open around the sound you made when his hand slid up your thigh, bunching the flimsy scrap of your dress to your waist like it had no business existing between his hands and your skin. He grunted into your mouth, shifting his grip so your back arched into him, thighs bracketing his ribs as you ground down like it was muscle memory.
It probably was.
You were burning. Skin damp, lips sticky, breathing like you'd run five miles just to get here. Your hips rocked against him, needy and sweet, your arms looped around his neck like you'd been waiting for this—for him—and just hadn't had the patience to say it out loud.
He walked you to the nearest wall like he was possessed, one arm under your thighs, the other gripping your jaw now, thumb dragging across your lower lip, smearing whatever gloss you had left.
You hit the wall with a dull thud, back flat, legs tight around him, and he shifted his weight until your core pressed hot against the bulge in his jeans. He grunted, fumbled his zipper down with one hand, just enough to free himself—barely enough.
You wriggled, giggling like a fucking heathen, all flushed and glowing, hair sticking to your temple in soft, wet curls.
"You sure?" He growled, voice low, brutal, the kind of rasp you feel between your ribs. "Last chance, love."
You opened your mouth to say something—no doubt cruel, no doubt biting.
Butcher didn't let you finish. He thrust into you without warning.
You choked on a gasp, legs tightening around him in a spasm. He groaned, low and guttural, head dropping to your shoulder as he sank into you like it hurt.
"Fucking—Christ."
You were so goddamn tight. Wet. Already clenching around him like you'd been aching for this for weeks.
"Jesus," you breathed, voice shuddering. "God, finally—"
Butcher didn't let you say another word.
He pulled back and drove into you hard, fast, all hips and fury, the slap of skin on skin already obscene in the humid air of the room. He fucked you like a man possessed—like every step you'd taken, every smartass line, every smack of your gum, had led to this.
And now?
Now you were his to shut up.
"This what you wanted?" He hissed, jaw clenched, fucking into you like he meant to leave you ruined. "All that mouth—figured I'd fill it with somethin' else but this'll do."
You moaned, head thunking against the wall, one hand gripping his bicep like you were clinging for dear life.
"I'll fuck the attitude outta you, you little cunt." He slammed into you again, rougher, harder, angling his hips until your mouth dropped open on a gasp. "But you just don't shut up, do you?"
Your nails raked his back, and you laughed—you laughed, breathless and wrecked.
"Then shut me up, William."
His hand snapped to your throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming.
"Oh, I'm gonna."
And he kept going—hard, brutal, mean. Each thrust a punishment. Each groan a confession. And you? You took it like you'd won.
Because maybe you had.
You were a fucking mess now. Sweat-slick, dress shoved up to your waist, heels kicking against his thighs as he slammed into you like he was trying to fuck the smart out of your brain. Your bun had all but come undone—strands sticking to your neck, curling wild around your face—and still you were smiling.
Still giggling like this was a game you were winning.
"Still cocky?" He snarled, slamming you harder against the wall, your moan cutting into a whimper. "Still got shit to say?"
Your head lolled back, lips parted, one wrist trapped above your head now as he pinned it there with his free hand, the other gripping your ass, guiding you down onto every brutal thrust.
You made a tiny, breathless sound. A purr. Fucking delighted.
"Always got something to say," you breathed. "You'll just have to work harder."
Butcher growled—actually growled—and drove into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The sound that left you was wrecked, cracked open, real.
"Oh, I'll fuckin' work harder, alright," he spat, slamming into you again. "Wanna get smart with me? Mouth off like some little tart in a fuckin' dress?"
You shivered.
"Who wears that, eh?" He hissed, snapping his hips up. "You knew what you were doin'. Walkin' in here dressed like a wet dream and flutterin' your fuckin' lashes."
You moaned—high and hitched—and he felt you clench around him, a fresh pulse of wet heat coating him as you writhed.
"Yeah, that's right," he sneered. "Knew I'd snap. Knew I'd have you up against the fuckin' wall like a little slut beggin' for it."
You gasped, clinging tighter, eyes wide and glazed.
"You like that, don't you? Bein' used." Another thrust, so deep it knocked your head back. "Like gettin' ruined by a bloke old enough to fuckin' ground you."
You whimpered.
"Fuckin' knew it," he said, teeth gritted, losing rhythm now—not slowing, just sloppier, more desperate. "All that sass—just wanted someone to shut you the fuck up, yeah?"
You whined, loud and unrestrained.
"Well, congratulations, sweetheart," he rasped, voice fraying. "You found the right cunt."
You giggled, delirious and breathless and fuck if it didn't make him even harder, because somehow you still weren't done.
"So fuckin' full of yourself," you slurred into his ear, lips brushing the shell. "All bark, all teeth—figured you'd be soft when it counted."
Butcher bit your shoulder.
Hard.
You gasped—choked—and came right fucking then. Clenching around him so hard he nearly dropped you, your whole body spasming against his chest, thighs trembling as you cried out his name like a threat and a prayer.
He groaned, desperate now, fucked you through it, fast and ruthless, chasing his own high like it owed him something.
"Gonna fill you," he growled, voice feral. "Wanna walk out of here drippin' with me, that it?"
You nodded mindlessly, mouth hung open, eyes glazed over.
"Wanna sit back on that fuckin' table in front of Frenchie, smile all smug, and let 'em wonder who wrecked you like this?"
You whimpered something into his neck—he didn't even catch it. He was too far gone. Too full of you.
Two more thrusts—
One more ragged breath—
And then he spilled into you with a broken, strangled groan, hips jerking as he held you flush, cock pulsing deep inside, your name on his tongue like blasphemy.
He didn't move. Not for a moment. Didn't dare. Just breathed hard against your shoulder, heart hammering like gunfire, fingers still clenched in your hair and around your wrist.
And you? Your breath was still stuttering.
Sweat clung to the back of your neck, your thighs twitching around his waist in the aftermath. You hadn't let go yet—not completely—and neither had he.
Butcher's hands were still locked under your thighs and in your hair, holding you there against the wall like he didn't trust the air to carry your weight. You were flushed, glossy-eyed, fucked-out and grinning like a demon in pink.
He didn't know how long he stood there like that. Seconds. Minutes. Just breathing you in.
Then—your voice, wrecked and smug, cut through the silence like a knife through silk.
"You need to put me down, old man?" You rasped, arms still draped loose around his neck. "Your ancient little arms must be struggling."
He huffed out a laugh against your throat, warm and rough.
"Cheeky little cunt," he muttered.
"You're the one who said you're old enough to ground me," you shot back, breath hitching into a chuckle. "I'm just using your words, William."
That earned a real laugh from him. Low. Gravelled. Something mean and self-aware curled beneath it. But before he could fire off a comeback, you whispered—
"Lucky for you," you purred, "I've got a thing for grumpy old men who wear shit shirts."
He scoffed, pulling his head back just enough to look at you, eyes glinting.
"Yeah? And I've clearly got a thing for bratty little slags dressed like Polly Pocket on ketamine."
You barked a soft, shocked laugh, breathless and delighted.
"Fair."
He didn't move. Still buried inside you, still holding your spent body against the wall like a fucking crime scene. The sweat between you was tacky now, clinging. The room smelled like sex and heat and tension that hadn't gone anywhere.
Then—
"So?" You asked, a little quieter now, but still cocky. "Did it help?"
Butcher's eyes flicked over your face. That smug, perfect mouth. Your throat, still marked from his teeth. Your wrecked hair and sweat-glossed skin and the way you blinked up at him like you'd won something.
And maybe you had.
He nodded.
"Yeah," he rasped. "Helped."
And in his chest, something low and unholy growled awake.
Not love. Not softness. But something feral. Something like a match still burning after it's hit the ground.
Because the truth was—
You didn't just help. You hollowed him out. You carved your name into the part of him he didn't know was still alive. And he had a feeling? You weren't nearly done. Not yet.
Not even close.
a/n: Okay, I loved writing this one omg. FINALLY writing something from Butcher's perspective felt more cathartic than I can even begin to articulate. I am Butcher, he is me.
British, always calling people "cunt", jaded, daddy issues up the wazoo, creative insults... have I missed any? I don't fuckin' think so.
Please let me know what y'alls think because I absolutely loved writing this one. I think I might start writing for Butcher more.
You're all fuckin' welcome.
All the love.
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Steve Harrington x fem!reader
[3.4K] request from anon: what about Steve teaching reader how to really kiss? Like she’s only ever had bad ones before?
“Sloppy?” Steve grimaced, smiling through your word choice despite the disappointment he felt for you.
You shrugged, nose crinkled as you remembered. “Yeah. Wet, y’know? And not like— it was just too much…tongue.”
There was a silence, a sad kind that filled the room. Steve wasn’t sure what to say. You kind of regretted telling the boy. So you sighed and shrugged it off again, biting the head off of red Sour Patch Kid.
“Maybe I just don’t like making out,” you sounded defeated and Steve hated it, frowning as he watched you chew your candy mournfully, your back pressed to the side of his unmade bed. “That’s normal, right? Like, some people just don’t like things like that and—”
“Hey, hey,” Steve knocked his foot against yours, legs stretched out across his bedroom floor. The pack of playing cards had been abandoned beside some unopened twizzlers and Steve’s can of cherry soda. “Look, of course that’s normal. And— and if that’s how you feel, that’s totally okay, alright?”
The boy hesitated, worried his bottom lip between his teeth and wondered if he should keep talking. You watched him, brows raised expectantly.
“I just think—” Steve cleared his throat, his pointer finger dragging patterned across his carpet. He shrugged, all faux nonchalance. He didn’t want to sound like a creep, not to his best friend. Not to you. “I just think that maybe you’ve not had a good kiss, y’know?”
You didn’t answer, not right away. And Steve didn’t try and backtrack, or explain himself, he just waited, watching you think. His bedroom window was open, the sounds of the early evening slipping through. Someone’s backyard pool filter, their sprinklers out the front, the quiet spin of a kids bike going down the sidewalk.
You didn’t look at Steve when you finally asked, “well, what is a good kiss?”
You felt stupid, asking such a thing at your age but maybe you’d grown up picking all the wrong kinds of guys. Impatient boys, greedy boys, selfish boys. Boys who turned into men who didn’t have the time of day to take it slow with a girl like you. Boys who thought they were men, who used too much teeth and tongue and pressure and tasted like cheap party beer and the leftover smoke of their cigarette.
Guys who got too handsy too quick, guys who didn’t care that when they pulled away from your lips, you swiped the back of your hand over your mouth and tried not to frown.
Steve shifted a little, cheeks turning pink as his eyes found yours. “Well,” he gestured at you, awkward. His gaze settled on your lips before he blinked and looked away. “I mean, it helps when you really like the person, y’know? The uh, the chemistry of it all.”
You swallowed, throat feeling tight, chest feeling too warm. You remember Nancy talking about those kinds of feelings when she first kissed Jonathan, a dopey, soft smile on her lips as she recounted it, telling you of the buzz under her skin, the flips that her stomach did when he leaned in to meet her, eyes closing.
“Sure,” you agreed. You don’t think you’d ever felt that way about the boys you had kissed. “Right.”
“But I guess you’re supposed to take your time with it? I mean, at first, when you’re getting to know someone.” Steve smiled, soft, reassuring. His knee knocked yours. “You find out what they like.”
“What they like?” You asked, voice cracking a little. You didn’t know where to look, what to do with your hands. You picked up a green sour patch and bit its leg. “What does that mean?”
Steve looked bashful, miles apart from the boy you’d know in high school, with a girl on his arm in the hallways, a different one in his lap at a party that weekend.
“I’d, uh, I mean— person A would go slow with person B, right? They’d start soft. Gentle, I guess? You gotta— they’d have to figure out how the other person likes to be kissed. Not everyone shoves their tongue down your throat, y’know.”
You huffed out a laugh but it sounded weak, too breathy. You wanted the boy to keep talking, you wanted to watch his pink cheeks and his pretty eyes dart across your face, like he was searching for something.
You wondered if he’d find it.
“Not everyone?” You whispered.
“No,” Steve shook his head, his smile wry. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and he was closer now, closer than before and you could smell his cologne, the cherry soda fizz that hung in the air along with Mr Jackson’s freshly mown grass. “No, no, not everyone. I’d give the girl a peck at first, yeah? Just something PG-13. Then, when she relaxes and you know, she moves closer, kisses me back, I’d—”
Steve broke off, blinking like he was getting rid of something hazy. He’d been looking at you as he spoke, words coming too easy, the air between you both warm despite the setting sun. He licked his lips, suddenly nervous, awkward again, a bashful thing that made him suddenly even more endearing than you thought he ever could be.
“You’d what, Steve?” You blinked, feeling warm, wondering if the boy could tell. You didn’t know what to do so you moved, leaning forward until you could fold your legs underneath yourself and your thigh bumped Steve’s shin. “You’d what?”
Steve’s eyes searched yours, his gaze falling to your lips and back again. You thought he found it then, that thing he seemed to be looking for. Because he cleared his throat and let one hand fall to the carpet between you, his fingers brushing over your socked toes and you almost jumped at the contact.
The silence was too loud now.
“I could show you, if you wanted.”
Someone’s lawn mower started up a few yards over, white noise buzzing in the distance as you tried to take in what Steve had just said. He was watching you, head tilted to the side, cheeks still rosy and when you looked at him carefully, you could see the barely concealed panic in his brown eyes.
He pressed his lips together and tried to smile, tight and nervous and he was picking at the carpet, fingers fidgeting as you sat there dumbly. You heard the shake in his voice when he tried to say, “I am—,” he choked on his words, panicked. “—so, so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Steve,” you stopped the boy with a hand on his shin, your warm palm against the denim. “We’re friends, right?”
The word seemed to burn on your tongue, like it tasted like a lie, like it was as dangerous as one. You waited, breath held, wondering if you wanted Steve to agree or not.
“Yeah,” he nodded, suddenly so serious. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course we are.” He worried at his bottom lip again, looking at your own. “Best friends.”
You nodded, tongue feeling too big for your mouth to speak. Words felt clumsy, your skin too warm. Buzzing. Fizzing. You weren’t sure if it was you or the air.
“Show me.”
You thought Steve would maybe hesitate, maybe he’d back out or shout, ‘got you!’ like those prank shows Dustin liked to watch. You thought he’d maybe lay down some rules, maybe he’d tell you how this didn’t mean anything and really, he was only doing his sad friend a favour.
He didn’t do any of that. In fact he didn’t say anything else at all. Steve just let out a breath and nodded once, almost to himself before he let his hand curl around the back of your calf and he tugged, gentle.
He lifted his chin, a casual ‘c’mere’ that had your heart thundering and you wondered if this confidence, this way of acting so sure of himself, was how he got all the girls.
A quiet sort of assertiveness that made your stomach flip inside out.
You unfurled yourself from your sitting position, shuffling to your knees as you moved across Steve’s bedroom floor, bare shins burning against the carpet. You leaned back on your heels, brought yourself down to Steve’s level where he sat against his wall, legs stretched out before him.
He didn’t warn you when he brought his hand to your face, fingers cupping your cheek and his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth and you were suddenly left wondering when Steve’s hands had gotten so big. You’d watched him grow, from a middle school kid to king Steve the senior. You’d seen the new muscles, the height, the hair. You’d never noticed his hands before but now they were on you, it’s all you could think about.
Dizzy. You felt dizzy.
“Okay?” Was all he asked, voice softer and quieter now he was so much closer.
You nodded, face too warm and licking across your bottom lip like a reflex. You weren’t sure where to look. Or where to put your hands. Most kisses you’d shared had happened in the crowds at parties or in the front seat of a boy’s car after a date. You usually lay your palms on their shoulders, holding on and wondering if every boy took these opportunities to grope your ass like a pile of dough.
“We can stop,” Steve told you. He looked nervous and if anything, it made you feel more anxious than ever. “Whenever you want, ‘kay?”
You nodded again, unable to really speak, too scared that your voice would crack or something equally stupid would happen. And maybe Steve knew this, maybe he knew you so much better than you ever thought he would, because he smiled and nodded too.
“Okay,” he announced, quiet and soft and he was moving closer, noses bumping, his eyes fluttering shut. “Here goes.”
“Wait.”
Steve paused, gaze back on your own and he looked concerned, he looked worried and before he could ask you what was wrong you were sucking in a panicked breath and asking: “what if I’m the bad kisser?”
“What?” Steve let out a laugh, breathy and disbelieving and he was still so close, his hand on your jaw and his thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the apple of your cheek. He was shaking his head, smiling, looking too pretty and suddenly this seemed like a monumental thing, something gargantuan. “No, there’s no way.”
You squirmed on the floor, shifting further and then closer and Steve loosened his hold on you but you didn’t go anywhere. You just blinked at him, pained with worry. “How could you know?”
Steve paused as he thought and you wondered if he had an answer, if he was going to say something truthful or he was simply thinking of something sweet to say to placate you. Instead, he looked into your eyes and seemed to search for that… thing, again.
I— I just—” Steve didn’t say anything, he didn’t give you an explanation or a reason.
He simply pressed his lips to yours.
It was chaste and sweet and entirely innocent, lips closed and nothing close to scandalous. But then he parted from you just a breath, looking at you from heavy lidded eyes, watching you from beneath his lashes. And when you didn’t move, you didn’t panic, Steve leaned in again, kissing you the same way until he nudged your chin up with his hand and his lips slotted between your own.
He moved slowly, carefully, with a practised ease that made your toes curl and it was still sweet, it made your tummy warm and your head spin and Steve’s lips were soft, tasting like cherry soda and sugar.
You caught up after a beat or two, your hand that wasn’t braced on the floor reaching up to cling to where you could reach. Your fingers found the collar of Steve’s t-shirt, fisting the soft material and doing everything to make sure he didn’t move away. You moved with him, lips meeting and parting over and over until Steve sucked in a breath and tilted his head to the other side, pressing closer, a little deeper.
After another soft peck, he pulled away, eyes still closed and his thumb on your chin as he whispered, voice hoarse. “See? Nothin’ to worry about.” He brushed your hair behind your ear, pressed his fingers under your jaw. “And now, a guy should be testing the waters, right?”
“They should?” You whispered back. Your eyes were still closed too, your fingers sneaking up past Steve’s collar to stroke at the skin at the base of his throat, experimental, adventurous. “How’d they do that?”
You were sure you felt the boy smile, sensed it. A warm breath across your lips as he moved closer again. “Like this—”
Another kiss, the same as before, once, twice and then Steve was parting his mouth over your own and letting the tip of his tongue lick over your bottom lip. It was a fleeting touch, a zap, a buzz, a tingle down your spine and you gasped without thinking about it, lips parting for the boy and you followed suit, tongue moving past Steve’s lips to meet his own.
He groaned then, a vibration against you, his hand skating back from your cheek to thread into your hair and he let his tongue move over your own, lips clicking every time they parted. It was slower than you’d been kissed before, something sensual about it despite being sat on your best friend’s bedroom floor and it made your insides somersault, the skin where Steve slouched burning.
“Told you,” he murmured, breath heavy as he spoke. “Nothing to worry about,” he repeated and when you finally opened your eyes to look at him, face blazing with heat, Steve was looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Mhmm,” you agreed, barely listening, eyes still on the boy’s mouth, fingering the collar of his shirt, not ready to let go yet. “You must be a good teacher, or something.”
Steve looked distracted, Adam’s apple bobbing, gaze on your lips too. You weren’t sure he had stopped looking at them. “Yeah, yeah. Or something.” He swallowed, throat tight. “Do you wanna stop? Or—?”
“No,” you said, maybe too quickly. “Do you?”
“God, no,” Steve agreed just as fast. “You can keep going— just— what do you want…?”
Steve’s words died on his lips as you moved suddenly, rising to your knees only to push Steve back to the wall. His hands fell to his sides, hovering in mid air as he stared, watching as you swung a leg over his knees and sat carefully on his lap. You were cautious, more on his thighs that closer to anything else but you tried to breathe evenly as you took in the position.
“Okay?” You asked him, voice caught sticky in your throat with nerves but Steve nodded, head bobbing hurriedly. You sucked in a breath, smoothing your hands over Steve’s shoulders before you did as he had, smoothing them up the sides of his neck and holding his jaw carefully. “What do I do now?”
‘Whatever you want,’ Steve wanted to beg. But apparently this was a lesson of sorts and he had something to teach you. So he cleared his throat to make sure his voice wouldn’t crack and held your hips, hands gentle and polite. “You, uh, you find out what I like.”
You nails scratched at the back of his neck, unconsciously. You licked your lips. “How do I do that?”
Steve’s hands flexed on your hips, climbing to your waist, holding you a little tighter. Something seemed to shift then, his eyes lighting up. He looked like he was ready to fight, like you’d asked him if he were up for a challenge. It made you grin.
“Kiss me.”
So you did.
You did as Steve had at the start, kissing him soft and slow and chaste, pulling away before he could catch you, teasing, nose bumping his and breaths mixing, cherry soda to fizzy candy. And just before Steve was about to groan, frustrated, you shifted closer, chest pressed to his and you parted your lips, catching his bottom lip between your own.
It was a greedier kiss and Steve let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk, opening his mouth for you, nails digging into your sides when you licked over his tongue, exploratory, gentle. You felt him nod, the tip of his nose smushed to your cheek and you smiled, amused at his praise.
“Like that?” You asked, breathless, barley parting from him to speak.
“Yeah, like that,” Steve agreed, sounding just as wrecked. “Keep going, please.”
He didn’t have to ask again. Fuck, he didn’t even have to ask as nicely as he did because you were back on him in a heartbeat, kissing your best friend like you didn’t want him to remember anyone else.
“Slower,” he whispered, muttering instructions against your mouth and you didn’t feel scolded, you didn’t feel embarrassed you just followed Steve’s instructions, pulling back slightly to kiss him softer, lips moving with his slower, slower, slower.
You heard him groan, felt his chest rumble and his hands squeeze at you in silent praise and you knew then he liked it like that, liked to be teased. You nosed at his cheek, did as he had done and pushed your thumb under his jaw to bring his mouth up to yours, his head tipping back, back, back. You pecked over his cheeks then, over the bridge of his nose and at the corner of his lips until he was panting, waiting for you.
“Yeah?” Was all you asked.
“Yeah,” he hummed, feeling like he was vibrating. He let his eyes shutter closed, waiting for your next touch. “Yeah.”
You felt bolder, brazen, pushing your lips back to Steve’s and when you pulled away this time, you nipped at the boy’s bottom lip, pulling at it gently with your teeth and until it popped softly back into place and Steve swore, he cursed, he grunted and his hips shifted under yours.
“You like that,” you noted with a smile and it wasn’t a question.
Steve didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Instead he stared up at you and nodded, dazed, throat bobbing as he swallowed tightly and tried to get himself under control.
You moved into each other again without discussion, an unconscious need that didn’t need a conversation. Your hands went to his hair, holding onto the messy ends at the nape of his neck as his travelled the expanse of your back, fingertips lifting the hem of your shirt every downstroke, his skin on yours. It was enough for you to make soft noises against him, nudging closer and Steve helped, his hands pulling at your waist until your chest pressed against his and were seated over his crotch.
You felt him then, hard and pressed underneath his jeans and it made you kiss him like you had something to prove, mouths moving together, open and panting, tongues touching teasingly, teeth grazing against lips to try and make the other moan louder.
And when Steve’s garage door opened, a groaning, grating sound below his window, it was an interruption that told you both his father had arrived home.
You slid from his lap, chest heaving and eyes heavy on Steve’s pink cheeks. His lips were shiny from your work, his hands leaving your waist at the very last second, your butt hitting his carpet rather ungracefully as you backed away, suddenly so aware of the line that had been crossed.
You were burning still, an ache between your legs that hadn’t quite been satisfied and your lips buzzed from Steve’s kisses, the slow, careful way he’d pressed his to your own. He’d paid attention, you realised, picked up on every noise you made, every shift against him, the way you kissed him back eagerly when he did something you liked. And you’d done the same, taking in his gasps and sighs, stomach flipping when his hips bucked and his chest moved a little quicker than before.
Your fingers touched your bottom lip before you pressed the back of your hand to it, as if to hide the evidence. Steve was still staring at you, panting, doing nothing to hide the obvious bulge in his jeans.
And when his front door opened and closed and you could hear his fathers footsteps lead into his office, Steve stayed quiet. Only when the sound of the door clicking shut filled the silent house did he smile, boyish and all charm.
“See?” He reminded you, cheeks still burning. His hair was a mess from where you’d pulled on it. He looked rumpled, undone at the seams. “Told you, you weren’t a bad kisser.”
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Summary: Kimiko takes matters into her own hands and gives her friend a little nudge in Butcher’s direction.
Warnings: Smut 18+, cursing, dirty talk, daddy kink, some subspace, biting, squirting, creampie, Butcher being himself *sighs dreamily*
Notes: Also inspired by “Fantasize” by Ariana Grande AND that scene where Kimiko sends a horny text for Frenchie in season 4😂 Special thanks to my girl Liz who proof reads all my stuff😘
“Bold Italics” - characters using Kimiko’s sign language
‘Italics’ - texting
//
“Black or Blue?”
Kimiko stared at the two nail polishes I held out, contemplation on her features until she tapped on the black bottle. I shook it as she laid her hands out on her desk for me to start painting. I put one headphone in my ear and the other in hers before pressing play and beginning my work.
Kimiko and I had become fast friends after the first time I offered to paint her nails. In exchange for being her personal manicurist, she taught me her sign language. Frenchie was a little jealous when we’d be signing away in the corner of the office, but he quickly got over it when all three of us would talk shit in front of the people we were talking shit about.
“Oi! This an office or a fuckin’ nail salon?” Butcher asked as he threw his coat on.
“If you wanted your nails painted, you should have made an appointment, Butcher,” I smirked as I painted Kimiko’s middle finger, “My books are pretty full.”
Butcher scoffed as he walked by me and Kimiko, “With your prices? Fuck no, bird. Chargin’ an arm an’ a leg for a fuckin’ flower.”
Kimiko and I laughed as Butcher left the office with Hughie on his heels. When the door closed behind them, Kimiko pulled her hands away, “You should hit that.”
I scoffed as I felt embarrassment in my cheeks, “No, he’s basically my boss.”
Kimiko wiggled her eyebrows, “That’s kinky. Don’t act like I don’t know about that dream you had where he fucked you on his desk…and mine…and MM’s.”
Frenchie was suddenly standing over us to join the conversation, “Or what about the one where you suck his dick under his desk while he’s talking to monsieur M.M.?”
I groaned, “You’re making me feel like all I do is fantasize about Butcher.”
Frenchie and Kimiko looked to one another before meeting my gaze again to agree with my statement. I flipped them off before going back to Kimiko’s nails.
Frenchie and Kimiko were the only ones that knew about my dirty little secret of wanting to fuck Butcher’s brains out. Or Butcher fuck my brains out. Whichever came first. The more time I spent with Butcher, the more I fantasized and ranted to the two of them.
I wasn’t ashamed to admit that Butcher was so fucking…fuckable. He was a rugged and rough type of handsome mixed with a cocky personality and a bit of madness. His filthy mouth drove me crazy. There was nothing sexier than a confident man that wanted to tell you all about the things he’d do to you. I could only imagine what his voice would sound like moaning in my ear while I pulled his hair and rode him.
My phone suddenly vibrated.
‘How much for a dick on me middle finger? Got a pic of EXACTLY what I want.’ Butcher texted.
I scoffed before replying, ‘I don’t know if I can do something that small.’
His reply was quick, ‘Fucking cunt.’
I hadn’t realize I was smiling until I looked up at Kimiko and her knowing look. I began to repaint some of her smudged nails as we continued to listen to music. I didn’t think twice about Kimiko picking up my phone because she usually queued up songs. It surprised me when she played a leaked Ariana Grande song Fantasize. It was a racy song that didn’t seem up the supe’s alley.
After a few minutes, Kimiko was still clicking around on my phone when I reached for her occupied hand to paint. She was zeroed in on whatever she was doing. Frenchie glanced at the screen and his face lit up in surprise, “Mon dieu! What are you doing?”
My stomach twisted, “What?”
Frenchie backed away snickering before I snatched my phone. Kimiko signed, “You’re welcome.”
Looking at my phone, I saw what she had done:
‘There’s something you should know. I fantasize about it all the time, if you were mine. I’d give this pussy to ya 9 to 5, 5 to 9. Trying to behave but I’m feeling some type of way🥵.’
“Kimiko!” I nearly screamed as I stood from the desk, “What the fuck?!? Shit! He read it!”
I watched as the words ‘read’ pop up under Kimiko’s text message, and I tossed the phone back at her like it bit me. She kept trying to get my attention as I began to pace around the room. My stomach rolled until it felt like it was in knots. My mind was reeling with anxiety. There was no way Butcher would go for it. He’d probably reject me then tease me about it for the rest of my natural born life. Hearing Kimiko clap at me made me look up at her.
“Stop being a pussy,” she giggled as she signed, “Scratch that itch.”
“Shut up,” I groaned.
My phone vibrated as it lit up Kimiko’s face. She smirked as she revealed Butcher’s name on my phone. He replied. I felt my stomach burn with anticipation and anxiety, “I can’t read it.” I walked away to keep pacing, resisting the urge to run out of the office.
//
As her friend paced nervously, Kimiko read Butcher’s reply, ‘Seriously?! Tell me what SPECIFIC type of way I got ya feelin luv.’
Kimiko bit her lip in thought. Frenchie was over her shoulder again to read the small screen, chuckling at his boss’s response. He watched Kimiko’s nimble fingers suddenly go searching through the phone’s photos. She quickly scrolled through all the images until she found the one she was looking for. Two weeks ago, she’d dragged Kimiko out shopping with her and purchased some lacy numbers, talking about the pictures she planned to take.
“Wow. Monsieur Charcuter will looooove this,” Frenchie nodded as he stared at the sexy photo, “Do it.”
Kimiko sent it with a content smile. Hooking people up was fun. The little bubbles popped up in the texting chat, and Kimiko and Frenchie’s eyes got big as they waited with bated breath for the reply. She still hadn’t looked up from her nervous pacing to realize the hole being dug on her behalf.
The moment was suddenly interrupted by MM busting through the door, “We gotta go. Huge V bust. Hughie and Butcher need back up.”
Kimiko rolled her eyes as she closed the phone and tossed it back to its owner. Just when she was starting to get to the juicy shit.
//
God, that was a shit show.
Whenever Butcher and Hughie needed back up, it always ended up that way. MM had picked up Butcher and Hughie while Kimiko, Frenchie, and I had loaded up the V before driving back to the office. After I parked the van full of contraband for the CIA to pick up, I walked back down the old hallway towards the sound of MM and Butcher arguing about what to do next. Fuck, I didn’t want to go through that door.
How could I look Butcher in the eye after what Kimiko sent him? His voice already had butterflies violently fluttering in my stomach to the point I thought I might be sick. I was so embarrassed because what she sent Butcher was 100% true. What if he 100% didn’t feel the same as I did? I took a deep breath before I walked into the office space, keeping my head down and heading over to my desk in hopes I wouldn’t be noticed.
“I’m going home. I’ve had enough’a you, motherfucker, for one night,” MM groaned as he turned away from Butcher to leave.
“Not what ya usually sayin’ when I’m givin’ ya a good ol’ wank in the van,” Butcher gave a suggestive smirk before MM slammed the door.
“We should probably go too. I promised Kimiko I’d take her to get ice cream,” Frenchie added as he began to shuffle towards the door, “Have a good night, Monsieur Charcuter.”
Frenchie and Kimiko looked over at me quietly snickering, “You have a VERY good night.”
Frenchie suddenly made a jerking off motion towards his mouth before heading out the door. I flipped them off as they shut the door. I didn’t have to look around to know Butcher was drilling holes in the side of my head, and I prayed for the floor to eat me alive as I tried to seem like I was gathering my stuff to go home. You could taste the tension to the point Hughie was having a hard time getting out of there fast enough. “I’ll walk out with you, Hughie,” I offered.
“Oi! Actually, I need to speak with ya, sweethear’,” Butcher interrupted.
Fuck.
Hughie mumbled something about needing to leave before fumbling out of the office. I leaned the back of my thighs against my desk and crossed my arms, staring at the floor as I heard Butcher’s heavy footsteps echo on approach. His boots came into view when he stopped in front of me and cleared his throat, “Sent me a naughty text and can’t even look me in the eye.”
My heart was racing as I gnawed on my bottom lip, gaze dragging up his body to meet his eyes. It was damn near impossible to look him in the eye and not feel my entire face burn red.
“Feelin’ shy?” Butcher asked with a prideful smirk, “Weren’t that shy earlier, now were we?”
“Butcher…,” I started to say but couldn’t think of how to explain the situation.
He suddenly leaned in closer, “What type of way were you feelin’ when you took that sexy snap in that bit of black lace?”
My stomach dropped again. She did not.
I quickly grabbed my phone from my pocket and opened the text conversation. I saw his reply and then what Kimiko sent. It was the picture of me dressed in a black lingerie set kneeling on the floor in front of a mirror, arms pushing my tits together as my knees were spread.
“Oh my god,” I could have burst into flames remembering the intention behind taking those photos. Kimiko was the one brave enough to carry out what I couldn’t.
“Cuz I know how it got me feelin’,” Butcher smirked and ran a hand over his facial hair, “Read out that response for me.”
That’s when I saw the small paragraph he sent. I took a steady breath before I began reading, “Keep that cunt nice and warm for daddy, love. I’ve fantasized about how much that lil cunt’s been begging to have daddy take care of her. Fuck, got me smugglin’ a fuckin diamond cutter in me trousers. Can’t even focus properly, naughty girl.”
The text was followed by his own picture. It was him in the driver’s seat of the van, large hand grabbing the bulge in his jeans, a cigarette hanging from his lips and sunglasses no doubt hiding the lust darkening his eyes. My stomach fluttered again for a whole different reason. Anticipation burned in my lower abdomen and between my thighs when I finally met his eyes again. The look he gave me made me squeeze my legs together. It was hungry, dark, lustful. I almost melted on the spot.
“Can I tell you something else I fantasize about?” Butcher was suddenly very close to me, the smell of cigarettes and his own manly musk filling my senses. I bit my lower lip and nodded.
He carefully rested his hand against my jaw, using his thumb to pull my lip from between my teeth, “I fantasize about all the ways I wanna fuck your lil’ cunt ‘til the only thing goin’ on in that pretty noggin of yours is how ya can’t live without me cock deep inside ya.”
His hand wandered from my jaw, down my neck and chest, over my hips until I felt both his large hands grab my thighs and haul me up to sit on my desk. He smirked at my gasp, “And don’t even get me started on all those lil’ noises you make. Mm.” The way he growled and cocked his head was like a predator. Butcher squeezed my thighs roughly as he hooked them around his hips, a moan escaping my throat at the sensation.
“Fuck, Butcher,” I shuddered as my hands wandered up his abdomen and chest.
“Don’t make me wait, love. Let Daddy fuck ya properly,” his smirk was so fucking charming.
It’s that smirk that made me wrap my arms around his neck and slam our lips together, clutching his body to mine. His tongue instantly invaded my mouth to fight against mine, and I whimpered at the lingering taste of cigarettes and vodka. I felt a moan vibrating in his chest as he dug his hands into my ass. Butcher chuckled as my body writhed against his. My brain was beginning to feel fuzzy as each touch of his hands and pass of his tongue stoked the fire in my belly.
“Someone slip ya a lil’ blue pill, dove? Or does Ol’ Billy get that cunt weepin’ to the point of misbehavin’?” he growled playfully against my mouth, “Daddy’s gonna make that cunt fuckin’ sob, pet.”
“Promises, p-promises,” I moaned as he shoved a hand into my hair and bit my jawline down my neck.
“Don’t try an’ be a lil badass after you’ve been actin’ like ya wanna be my personal slut,” he smirked as he harshly sucked a hickey into my neck.
A whine ripped from my throat as I pulled at his dark hair, letting him leave as many marks as he wanted on my skin. Rough hands yanked my shirt up, untangling ourselves long enough to throw it to the floor before I frantically worked on the buttons of his shirt.
“Fuck this fucking shirt,” I panted before ripping it apart, buttons scattering across the room as I drooled at his exposed chest.
“Oi! Gonna tear me panties off next? Shove’em in me mouth and treat me like a slut?” Butcher teased, “Shit! Your tits are fuckin’ gorgeous!”
He squeezed and pawed at my tits, his lips and tongue mouthing lazily as he pulled down the straps of my bra. Reaching behind me, I unclasped it and gasped when the man tore it away from my body. I threw my head back and moaned towards the ceiling as he sucked my nipple into his mouth. Butcher’s mouth was hot and his teeth scraped roughly against the sensitive bud. My rational mind was starting to slip under the waves to let Butcher have complete control.
“C’mere,” Butcher growled as he suddenly yanked me up to wrap my legs around his waist and carry me towards the couch, “Now while I get acquainted with these fuckin’ beautiful tits, I want ya to tell daddy about some of those fantasies.”
He suddenly dropped down on the couch, making me straddle him with my arms wrapped around his neck. The idea of telling Butcher what I’d do to him made me nervous, but the feeling of my nipples against his chest sent goosebumps across my skin. I sat directly against the swell in his jeans, beginning to move my hips and pushing my chest closer to his mouth.
Butcher chuckled darkly before slapping my ass, “Oi! What I tell ya? Get that chin waggin’.”
I whined and arched my back as his callused hands ran up my spine, my fingers digging into his shoulders, “I f-fantasize about y-your mouth…on me.”
Butcher ran the flat of his tongue over one of my nipples before sucking it into his mouth, “Where?”
“Inside me!” I moaned as he harshly bit down on the bud, “Always wanted to know what it was like to s-sit on your f-face.”
He laughed as I felt my cheeks burning. I moaned as he took both my breasts in his hands and squeezed making me grind down on his lap, desperate for more friction.
“Thought about riding you with your fingers shoved in my mouth and…,” I was a little embarrassed to admit this out loud. Past partners always made me feel like it was stupid.
Butcher grunted as he released my nipple from between his teeth, “And what, pet?” He noticed how I didn’t meet his gaze and my burning blush of embarrassment, “What is it?”
I let out a shaky sigh, “I-I like it when…when you talk. I like when you say dirty things and say stuff that’s…degrading.”
I gasped when I felt his cock twitch in his jeans, a deep, gravely growl of approval leaving his throat. Before I could think, Butcher suddenly flipped and pinned me down against the couch before tearing at his buckle. My whole body felt flush and vibrated with excitement as I started to push my jeans off. “Fuck, gonna ‘ave me creamin’ me fuckin’ jeans,” he groaned as I tossed my jeans to the floor before returning my hands to his body.
I couldn’t keep my hands off him, distracting myself as Butcher fought with his stubborn fly. He let out a frustrated grunt when his zipper got stuck, so I sat up and placed my hands over his larger, kissing and nipping his abdomen to hear his beautiful moans.
“If you wanna know all my fantasies, could ask Frenchie and Kimiko,” I smirked as I pulled the zipper of his jeans down.
“You been goin’ on an’ on about me to those two twats?” he grinned.
“Right in front of you too,” I smiled sweetly.
A gasp fell from my lips when he wound his fingers into my hair to jerk my head back to look him in the eye, “Ya know, I was gonna ease ya into it. Lap at them tits a bit, bury my gob in that cunt till she’s nice and wet. Really romance ya.”
There was no doubt he could see the hunger in my eyes. I bit my lip as I watched his lips intently. I felt my pussy throb at his display of control.
“Now I’m gonna treat you like a lil’ fuckin’ slut. Then I’m gonna watch you tell Frenchie and Kimi all about it with those lovely hands,” he promised, “And if you miss a detail…oof I’d hate to be you, darlin’.”
I gulped. I could cum right now, and he knew it.
Butcher shoved me back down on the couch, caging me against it with both his hands on either side of my head, “Cuz ain’t no muthafucka’ deal out a punishment quite like me’.”
I whined when his mouth met mine in a primal, hungry kiss. My fingers dug in his hair as I wrapped my legs around his hips to pull him closer. I attempted to wiggle his loose jeans and boxers down with my feet before one of his hands did the job for me. I finally felt the last shred of control slip out of my grasp when I pulled away and saw what he’d been smuggling around. My eyes went wide as I gasped.
Butcher chuckled, “Second thoughts?”
“God, no!”
Callused fingers tickled at my panty line, running along the elastic until they curled around the fabric covering my heat to push it to the side. The way his knuckles brushed over my sensitive clit had my hips chasing after it before they were pinned back to the couch. A cry tore from my throat when he ground his hard cock against my slick clit. I was desperate to grind my hips against his to chase after that delicious burn, but with his strong hands holding me down, I had to take what he gave. Butcher’s eyes closed and his mouth fell slightly open as he enjoyed the feeling of rutting against my sex.
With one last pass, he notched his dick against my slit. A shiver of anticipation rolled through my body before gasping when he pushed the head inside. My left hand dug its nails into his shoulder while my right held the back of his neck as he slowly sunk himself into me. The burn of being stretched and fullness I felt was indescribable. My brow knit in discomfort as he didn’t stop his slow, continuous push to be inside me. A pathetic whine left my throat when he bottomed out, the burn of him stretching me making my eyes water a little. His body against mine, skin touching skin, being stretched and filled to my limit was being burned into my memory. Butcher growled as he was finally seated inside me.
“S-shit, darlin’. You’re as tight n’ cozy as a fuckin’ crown royal bag filled with puppy dog ears,” he groaned deep in his chest.
An experimental thrust of his hips nearly knocked the air out of my lungs. He suddenly started a slow and powerful thrust. My body felt like it was singing as the discomfort quickly turned to immense pleasure. I pulled him closer to me until his forehead rested against mine and we panted into each other’s mouths. I felt him shift to his knees and move me around until my hips were angled up, straddling his lap with my back arched and legs wrapped around his hips. My legs squeezed around him as he began to pick up his pace and hit much deeper.
Butcher’s large hands were splayed out across my thighs to dig his fingers into the meat of them. I couldn’t stop the symphony of whines and whimpers that came with every single thrust of his hips and squeeze of his hands. I felt desperate, wanting him as close as humanly possible. I didn’t recognize any of the noises I was making. There was no doubt Butcher had ruined me. The idea of fucking someone else suddenly sent a negative feeling in my stomach, like a burning disgust. In my foggy brain, all I could think was, ‘Only him. Only want him. Need him. Need this. Only this.’
He moved to bite at my chest and tits, hickeys in the shape of his mouth being left in his wake. I dug my fingers into his thick black hair and dug my heels into his ass to encourage him more.
“Greedy fuckin’ cunt,” Butcher’e voice was saturated with lust, “She’s got a death grip of me cock, love. Think she’s fallen in love with me. ‘Course she is. Slutty lil’ cunt’s like this always need a fat cock in’em.”
“BUTCHER! Butcher, oh my god!” I nearly screamed when his tip slammed into my g-spot.
“Oh is that the spot, yeah? None of those other cunts find it before? I bet those little fingers couldn’t even reach it either. Well, that’s Daddy’s spot now,” Butcher smirked and thrust harshly against it making me whine, “And I intended to get to know it.”
He attacked my g-spot with every harsh and rapid snap of his hips into mine. My eyes rolled into the back of my head when I felt heat building in my lower stomach, bottoms of my feet beginning to tingle with my approaching orgasm. I shouted when Butcher bit down especially hard on my neck, but it quickly bled into a lusty moan as his tongue soothed the indents in my skin. I felt my walls squeeze him tighter the second his teeth had sunk in.
He suddenly pulled out, making me squeal in displeasure. I felt a sudden panic rise in my chest followed by the desperate need for him back inside. I was quickly shut up when Butcher pulled me around with his hands to lay face down, ass up and shoved his cock back inside me. The wind was knocked out of me at the new angle he had chosen to attack his spot. That desperate feeling changed into relief with him back inside me.
Butcher’s belt jingled with every thrust and his meaty hands pulled my ass cheeks apart, “Feel me in your guts yet, love? Might ‘ave bruised the back of ya cunt.”
My brain wasn’t able to form words, only moaning as I felt the familiar burning of an orgasm building again. Butcher jerked my head where the side of my face pressed against the couch, and I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He looked like a wild animal. His thick brows were knit in concentration, mouth slightly open as he grunted and panted. That broad body was covered in a light sheen of sweat.
His dark chuckle interrupted my slutty thoughts, “Can see the ‘earts in yer eyes, love. Uh oh. Think she’s in love with me cock now.”
A loud whine fell from my open lips.
Before I could blink, Butcher pounded into me like a mad man. The orgasm that had been teetering towards the edge was suddenly hurtled over it. I couldn’t stop the overwhelming release that I felt gush on my thighs and his. I moaned and gasped as my walls fluttered wildly and the room filled and the most obscene wet sounds I’d ever heard two humans make.
The Brit never let up. Never slowed down. He kept dragging his massive cock against my sensitive walls making me squelch and gush around him. My body began to wiggle away as the overwhelming feeling of a second orgasm tingling my nerve endings again. Butcher laughed as he held me down in place, one hand on my shoulder and the other on my lower back making me arch more. My eyes rolled completely to the back of my head at the new angle.
“No runnin’, pet. You take what I give ya. There’s a good girl,” the smirk was evident in his voice.
My limbs started shaking as I crashed into the throws of a mind numbing orgasm. My pussy pulsed and gushed more than the first. Butcher suddenly reached down and rubbed rapid circles on my clit, and the silent scream trapped in my throat came out.
“Look at that! Keep gushin’, love, go on. Just like that,” Butcher cooed as he lent over my body to press his lips to my ear.
Tears burned in my eyes and spilled out the corners as my orgasm ripped through me like a bolt of lightening. The waves kept crashing over me as he kept thrusting and rubbing my clit.
“F-fuck, D-Daddy,” I sobbed.
“I know, pet. Almost there,” Butcher groaned as his thrusting became more erratic, frantic to chase his high.
My body was barely holding itself up, brain too fucked out to do anything but beg, “Please, daddy. Cum in-inside m-me. Use me ‘till you’re spent. Want y-you to u-use me, f-fill me.”
With a one last harsh thrust, Butcher roared as he came as deep as he could inside me. I whined loudly at the feeling of being overfilled. He kept milking himself by rutting against me until he began to grow soft. Both of us remained silent and fought to catch our breath. My body felt like it had been through hell, but buzzed with the aftershocks of two amazing orgasms.
When he finally pulled out, I whimpered when I felt a pit of fear fill my stomach. I felt Butcher sit back on his haunches and spread my ass part to see our releases dribbling out of me.
“That. Is. A. Sight,” Butcher whistled, “Ya still with me, love?”
I nodded, but that wasn’t good enough for him.
My body was suddenly moved around. Having pushed my panties back into place, Butcher cradled by body and held me in his lap. That strange desperate feeling began to melt away as he wrapped an arm around my back and his other rested across my legs. I rested my head against his chest before I felt him press a kiss into my hair.
“Sure glad Kimiko sent those texts for ya.”
That comment cut through my little mind fog enough for a reaction, “Oh my god.”
pairing: dad's associate/friend!billy x f!reader
rating: explicit // word count: 2.2k // ao3 link
warnings/tags: no y/n, age gap, fun thanksgiving bathroom sex, unprotected piv, cum eating, billy is big, blink and you'll miss it daddy!kink, dirty talk, idk this is just an excuse to write a billy smut fic
divider by @saradika-graphics <3
summary: Your father's Thanksgiving dinner is tense. Billy can't keep his mouth shut about the little romp you had on this holiday last year. It leads…well, where else would it lead?
He leans over to you so casually. You glance sideways at him, and his eyes aren’t even on you. They’re solidly fixed on his plate as his fork spears through a candied carrot.
His voice is silky, deep as he whispers out of the corner of his mouth into your ear. “I been thinkin’ about that wet little cunt of yours all night.”
The sudden inhalation through your nose is probably louder than his confession, but no one seems to notice over the din of table conversation and clinking cutlery.
You swallow the mouthful of turkey and stuffing he’d caught you in the middle of chewing and clear your throat delicately, cutting off another bite-size piece of turkey with your knife and fork, ignoring the comment. Maybe a little smaller of a piece than you have been, so you don’t choke if he chooses to slink his way through another remark like that.
A wise decision, as once your fork is in your mouth, you hear that telltale accent murmuring something else. “Did you shave it all smooth for me again?”
You huff quietly, taking a sip of your wine, and speaking into the glass covertly, “I did nothing for you, Billy.”
“Tha’s alright, love. Didn’t care about it last time neither. I don’t mind a little safari through the jungle s’long as there’s a wild cat waitin’ for me through the bush, eh?”
Your eyes snap to him again, and he’s cool as a cucumber, an arm now draped over the back of your chair as he shovels mashed potatoes onto his fork and takes a casual bite.
“It’s a no, Billy,” you whisper sternly, sitting up in your chair. Your body tenses slightly when his fingers brush against the back of your neck in what could be an entirely innocuous move. But you know him better than that.
“Then why’re your little thighs squeezin’ so tight it’s like I got my head between ‘em sneakin’ an early dessert?”
You want to spit a cutting remark back at him. Growl in frustration. But how could you argue against that when the plush of your thighs, only half concealed by your dress, don’t have a whisper of air to speak of between them as your pussy clenches traitorously.
You can’t do this again with him. The first (and only) time had only been slightly on purpose. Last Thanksgiving.
Fuck him, you had shaved for him back then. You were less sure of yourself last year. More self-conscious and more eager to impress. You’d met him a handful of times in passing, him being a frequent contact of your father.
Billy…his eyes had always lingered on you. It had made you hot. Willing. An older man, nothing but trouble and chaos in his quirked smile and dark eyes. Last Thanksgiving had been your shot, and you’d taken it.
And fuck, did the bullet land precisely where you’d aimed it. You’d never fucked in your childhood bed before. You’d never fucked a man that much older than you. Both proved to be hotter than sin in both imagination and in practice.
But he didn’t call. Didn’t even text. And the next time you saw him, in discussion with your father out on the porch, Billy just offered you a swift, salacious wink and a gentle curl of his tongue when your father’s back was turned to him.
You’d partially expected him to conjure an excuse to follow you into the house, play your post-Thanksgiving dinner game again in your bedroom. But, again, he never came. By the time you left the house, he was gone.
Every time you’d seen him since, it had been more of the same. And you’d grown jaded with it over the past year. You’d resolved yourself to never giving into him again, if he ever did try his luck with you.
And here he is, trying his luck. And here you are, wet and dripping for it like a whore.
You promised yourself, you remind your pussy insistently. He isn’t good for you. Anyone would tell you that. Your father would scalp the both of you if he found out. Just. Leave. It.
“Well,” he announces to no one but you, or anyone in the adjoining seats as he stands, “I’m hittin’ the loo.”
His fingers blaze across the back of your neck, your shoulders as he departs from the table. He doesn’t look back at you as he rounds the corner out of the dining room.
You stare at your plate for another three minutes. You know, because your brain can’t seem to shove out the tick tick tick of your father’s grandfather clock in the corner.
He’s waiting.
You take a steadying breath and lie down your cutlery, excusing yourself politely and promising to be back promptly.
Your dress feels tighter, but you don’t think you’ve eaten enough yet for it to be the fault of the meal. Perhaps it just feels more suffocating. Harder to breathe. The cocktail dress is already tight, forming to your curves. You should’ve given more foresight to your attire, knowing that Billy would surely be here to torture you.
But you just hadn’t been sure. He hadn’t taken the bait since. He hadn’t even tried. How were you to know he was still thinking about…about your…wet little cunt as he’d so respectfully put it.
You check each bathroom in your father’s egregiously large house. Each restroom has been cracked open, no one inside. Until you head upstairs, to the one in the back. It’s closed. A slight shadow in the crack beneath the door. You take another resolute breath. Your hand rises to knock on the door at least three times, chickening out each time in succession.
On the fourth rise, the door simply creaks open without you making contact at all.
There he is, all dark eyes and dark hair and smug grin, his smile lines carved in full force, devastating you even through the minimal crack in the door. He opens it wide enough to tip his head against the door frame, scan you up and down with that look in his eyes and the smarm on his lips.
“There’s the girl,” he rasps quietly, stepping back just enough for you to slide through the gap.
Your ass presses against the marble of the counter, hands clamping onto the edge as Billy latches the door silently and twists the lock, his eyes plastered to your body in your dress as he’s practically pressed up against you. His patterned button up undone halfway down his chest, the button on his jeans popped.
He makes you feel severely overdressed, but his eyes don’t seem to mind.
“You chose the smallest bathroom in the house,” you whisper.
“I chose the furthest bathroom in the house.”
“Not sure why. Barely heard a peep from you in a year,” you remark bitterly, avoiding his gaze.
He cocks his head. “And you don’t find the cat ‘n mouse game the least bit exhilarating?” He asks, his hands laying on top of yours around the sink’s edge on either side of you.
“Not if the cat already caught the mouse,” you mutter defiantly, meeting his playful glint with your petulant glare.
“I’m sorry for keepin’ you waitin’, love. But innit just a little more fun this way?” He smirks, his mouth drifting to your jaw, planting a soft kiss, then another, as your heart begins to stutter in your chest. “The ‘will we, won’t we’ of it all?”
“Not much of a ‘will we, won’t we’ if you’re the one calling the shots, is it, Butcher?” You point out, a small, breathy moan escaping as he nips at your earlobe.
“I ain’t callin’ no shots. You came up here.”
“Because you knew I would follow,” you say breathlessly, a large hand creeping up your thigh and slowly rucking up your skirt.
“Oh, now, love. I don’t know anythin’ more than you do.”
“Bullshit,” you sigh out, your breath hitching at the end when his fingers brush over the cotton of your panties.
“Now, do I know an eager little slut when I see one? Sure. But I can’t be blamed for just settin’ a trap. It’s the mouse’s job to not…” his finger draws the gusset of your thong to the side and slips through your embarrassingly slick folds, “fall into said trap, eh?”
You gasp at his thick finger stroking through your sex, glancing off your already puffy clit, that goddamn cocky grin firmly in place as you buckle beneath a single finger.
An even smuttier smile wrinkles his eyes as he explores more between your lips. “You shaved, naughty girl.”
“S-shut up,” you dismiss sharply, because fuck him.
He wasn’t supposed to find that out. He wasn’t supposed to find out that you’d shaved for him, because he never should have asked if you had, for you to have to lie and tell him you hadn’t in the first place as a “fuck you”. Fuck him.
God, you need to fuck him.
“W-we need to make this quick. My father will n-notice we’re both gone,” you stutter through, your eyes rolling slightly as he slips inside you with ease, two fingers piercing you through with assured movement.
Billy’s lips graze your ear as he coos, “Bend over for me and it’ll go a right sight quicker.”
You moan as he crooks his fingers inside you. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” you exhale.
Billy smirks, pulling from your wet clutch and wrenching you around to face the counter, pushing firmly between your shoulders as your head lowers into the basin of the sink with nowhere else to go.
You should turn the faucet on. Shock yourself out of this trance that Billy has you under and go back to dinner. Forget you’ve ever had this man inside y—
His hands are shoving your skirt up over your ass, ripping your panties down your hips, and then again…there he is. Massive and imposing against your fluttering hole, just as you remember. Only last time…last time he’d ordered you to hold your legs, lift your head, and watch him stretch you open around him.
Filthy, filthy fucking old man. God, you need him.
“Deep breath in, little dove. ‘M sure you remember,” he instructs.
Fuck, do you remember.
And fuckall does a deep breath do for you when he’s mounting you like a bitch with a cock as thick as your fist.
Furthest bathroom was the right move. Because even with his hand smashed over your mouth, you’re terrified that your primal moans carry.
Everyone had been wine-drunk and passed out in their post-feast stupors last time. They’re all conscious and conversing now. Maybe they’ve already noticed the pair of you gone, the more crass family friends already concluding that you’re currently bent over a bathroom sink, your guts getting ran through by a man twice your age with your plate still half full of meticulously prepared food growing cold.
“That’s it,” he praises in your ear huskily, hips pistoning into you at an unforgiving pace. “That’s a cunt that knows how to take a beating, innit love?”
You squeal and scream, muffled significantly by his well-placed hand.
“Come on, scream loud enough for your daddy to hear it down there,” he grunts, clamping onto your shoulder with an iron grip. “While you’re at it, scream loud enough for your daddy that’s right ‘ere to hear ya.”
You sob into his hand, your pussy clenching and pulsing at his words. A desperate, shaking hand dives between your legs, rubbing at your clit as he slams into you from behind, pouring filth into your ear.
“That’s right, come on this cock. Such a tight little fuckin’ cunt. Make her squeeze a bit harder for me.”
You swear to god your eyes cross as your orgasm hits you at full speed, your own fingers spasming slightly as they scrub frantically at the sensitive nub and send your climax splintering through your body.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts out, his cock throbbing and raging inside your cunt as he chases down his own completion. “Get on your knees. Get on your fuckin’ knees,” he grits out, your cunt clenching around the absence of him as he pulls out.
Your brain hazy, you’re fairly certain that he puts you on your knees himself. You see his face collapse in pleasure, the divot between his brows deepening, an almost pained look in his eyes as he strokes his cock with rapid movements.
“Fuckin’ open,” he growls out in an unwavering demand, and your mouth drops open in obedience, tongue rolling out like a red carpet for him. The angry tip of him explodes across your taste buds, and reflex has you snapping your lips closed around the head as he spills himself into your mouth.
Your eyes fall closed with a shameless moan as you suck his spend straight from the tip, your hand thoughtlessly coming to cup his balls and massage as they pump you full of him.
“Fuck,” he curses, an edge of exhaustion in the word as he pulls his cock free of your lips and grips the counter to catch his weight. He gives a tight, breathless chuckle as he looks down at you, your tongue already proudly displaying what he’d given you. “Hungry bird, ain’t you, little dove.”
He taps the underside of your chin in silent instruction. You obey wordlessly, closing your mouth to swallow him down.
“Good girl,” he rasps out, running a thumb over your lips. “Still got most of your dinner waitin’ downstairs. Better not let on that you just got a bellyful of daddy’s dear ol’ friend, eh? Not lookin’ to lose both my heads.”
thank you for reading <3 writing for billy is very new for me but god help me i love that man something fierce. pls be nice i'm sensitive ty.
❥ summary: the entire time you’ve known logan howlett, you’ve tried to keep your longings locked. then, one night, all that effort goes to waste when you’re confronted about your feelings.
word count: 8.5k (IM SORRY!!!!)
pairings: logan howlett x fem! mutant reader
content warnings: 18+ CONTENT MDNI, masturbation, dirty thoughts, light choking, multiple orgasms, oral (reader and logan receiving), spitting, sixty-nining, scent kink, like one spank, underwear stays ON, slight hint of arousal from crying?, creampie, p in v (practice safe sex ty!)
❥ a/n: guys…… am i…. a whore? (yes) do i need to be locked up? (also yes). i started this when i was on my period so maybe that’s the reason this is so filthy? anyway i don’t know how it got to 8k of smut but it DID and i have nothing to say about that… also reader has a mutation it’s not super in depth but her hair changes to red in certain situations and she has red light/energy she manifest in her hands, kind of confusing but it’s okay. anyway please please enjoy and let me know your thoughts <3
— ˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚
‘I keep recalling things we never did
Messy top lip kiss
How I long for our trysts
Without ever touching his skin
How can I be guilty as sin?’
Guilty as Sin? - Taylor Swift
— ˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚
THE SHEETS are chilled, crisp to the touch, cold enough that shivers tickle their way across exposed skin. A sigh is heard, loud enough for wandering ears as a figure moves about in the unmade, blanket muddled bed. The window had been left open, and as a result, cold air had poured into the room.
Despite the fact that goosebumps adorn your body, it felt as though you were on fire. Huffs escaped parted lips, a charged hum zipping through your veins that only intensified each time you moved. You’d been trying to sleep for the past couple hours, trying to ignore the need thrumming through you, but had only managed to fail.
You turn on your side for possibly the twentieth time, but the position only worsens your state as the flesh of your thighs squeeze unintentionally, a wave of brief relief sent to your throbbing core. Tears brim your lashes, damp with frustration because fuck, your body was humming with lust and everything was so, so sensitive.
This was all Logan’s fault.
The man has been gone less than a week and yet, your body was practically vibrating with need, trembling with desire.
The feelings you harbor make you feel shameful and guilty for a handful of reasons.
Logan was not your boyfriend; he wasn’t even a friend. While he was cordial with the others in the mansion, he remained cold and indifferent toward you.
You pretended it never bothered you when he pointedly ignored your greetings in passing or refused to partner up with you. You didn’t understand what you’d done to upset him, to warrant his treatment of you as if you were the most annoying person on the planet. More often than not, you are the subject of the man’s pointed glare.
So, logically, your heart shouldn’t race at the mere thought of him. Nor should desire pool between your thighs whenever images of his sweaty form cloud your mind.
By definition, you were immensely smart; a genius with how you could understand what others could not.
Though, you were only human and Logan fucking Howlett was a man worth embarrassing yourself over, especially when he looked like he did.
He wasn’t, your mind huffed.
He was, your heart retorted.
A memory comes forward, one that has your cheeks blushing, your chest rising a little faster than before.
A couple weeks ago, you’d been up late, struggling to sleep and with the way it evaded you, wandering the halls had been your solution, in hopes of tiring yourself out.
But when you had walked down your hallway, you froze at the sight of a shirtless Logan in his room, the door left ajar.
A towel covered his head as he scrubbed away the wetness in his hair, and you desperately hoped he hadn’t noticed your presence. Water dribbled down his muscular body, and your eyes greedily watched each droplet descend down, glistening against the tan stomach you wanted to bite. What really had you drooling, however, was the thick, prominent vein that crept down into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. Said pants had your eyes wide with the prominent bulge tented in the material.
When you just barely caught yourself from moaning, you had dashed back to your room right away. You were wide awake still, but for a completely different reason. All you could think about was tracing your tongue along that vein.
If you’d fucked yourself that night to the thought of him and his glistening torso, no one had to know.
So theoretically, if you gave in to your cravings, it wouldn’t be the first time, but it certainly wouldn’t make you feel any less guilty.
Scarlett hues dust your cheekbones, lips bitten until they’re swollen and shiny with spit. Your breasts ache from inside the confines of the pink, lacy shirt, made worse with each labored breath you inhale as perky nipples brush the material. Your hole feels incredibly empty, the need to be filled overpowering. Your clit, puffy and neglected, throbs with pure, searing need.
Another wave of aching pleasure from your wetness breaks your resolve— a shaky hand slipping from its place on your stomach down, down, down until cold fingers meet the mess between your thighs.
A gasp sounds, melodic as it swirls with heavy breathes, fluttering around the room as you brush over your clit. Even through the material of your underwear, the slight pressure of your fingers made you mewl.
Flashes of Logan dance behind closed lids, your imagination running wild while you messily swirl over your bundle of nerves.
You wanted him so, so bad, in every way possible, it actually hurt, both your heart and core.
Your mind submerges your consciousness with thoughts of him; his pretty hazel eyes, the slope of his nose, the tufts of his brown hair. The muscles that were constantly on display, his thick thighs that you wanted to ride until you came all over him, and the huge bulge that was ever present in those flattering jeans of his (and if it was a reoccurring fantasy of yours to ride that delicious bulge over his jeans until you both came from just dry humping, again— no one had to know).
Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stop thinking about Logan.
Him hovering over you, dog tags swinging in your face as he fucked you hard. Him picking you up and taking you against the nearest surface, lips trapped in an erotic kiss. Him prying your thighs open as he licked up your pussy, tongue dipping into your hole to lap up all the desire pooling, his lips wrapping around the swollen bud and sucking violently. Him holding your face lovingly as his hips thrusted his cock deeper into your throat, groans spilling at the gag you’d let out.
You were split between wanting to sink down onto his cock and rut your swollen nub against the curls that nestled the base of him and stuffing his dick down your throat, gagging around him until he came and coated your throat with his spend.
You didn’t even bother to remove the damp underwear, instead circling the engorged bud over the material— and oh, fuck. The roughness of the lace mixed with the delicious rubbing of your fingers send little moans tumbling from parted lips.
Your unoccupied hand slips under the shirt covering your chest and only settle once your nipple is pinched between determined fingers, rolling the pert bud in tandem with the amorous touch of your hand on your sex.
Pleasure nips at your pelvis, and if you were a little more aware, you’d be embarrassed at how fast you to reaching your peak. But, as it is, your brain is completely hazy with wanton thinking and the only thing on your mind was lessening the ache that pulsates deep within you.
And fuck, you’re so fucking needy for logan that you try to pretend it’s his fingers abusing your clit, his fingers tugging at the sensitive buds of your chest. You want his tongue between your thighs, licking up your desire and sucking your puffy bud into his pretty mouth.
Chest rising rapidly, you feel overwhelmed at the fantasies swirling before your eyes. Its far too much— the mix of your filthy desires and your fingers rubbing your nub have your legs quivering as wetness coats your hand.
“Logan, Logan, Logan—“ The chant of his name mindlessly falls from you, the feeling of your orgasm washing over you, threatening to pull you under those soaring, unforgiving waves of pleasure.
Eyes snap shut, ears ring with white noise, and your hips hump your hand pitifully— you were an absolute, writhing mess against the sheets.
The hair messily strewn around your pillow shifts then from its natural state to a dark red. Even with your eyes shut, you could feel the vermillion light whirling at your fingertips, begging to be released.
Your mutation was not one of subtlety.
Searing bliss coils in your lower tummy, your button tingling with the after effects of the orgasm that crashed into you. You sigh, because even though you just came, you felt far from satisfied. Your body buzzes with sweltering hunger, all the way from the top of your head down to the tips of your toes. Even if you fuck yourself dizzy with another orgasm, you knew it won’t satiate your body. Not completely, anyway.
Before you could slip your fingers inside your weeping hole, a loud knock echos through your room.
You still; desperate and hoping that if you ignored the noise, whoever was knocking would simply go away. But when another rhythmic thump comes a few seconds later, you huff.
It’s well past midnight at this point, so who in their right mind would be going about and slamming their fists on your door?
Apparently, you arent moving fast enough when the person has the nerve to knock for a third time, hand a little heavier than before. A growl, tinged with annoyance, slips out as you fling yourself up and off the bed.
You stomp to the door, ready to tell the person on the other side to fuck off.
But when you actually swing open the mahogany door, all the anger simmering beneath your heated skin disappears, along with your breath, as your eyes take in the sight before you.
Logan Howlett stands before you, seemingly angry as a frown etches deep on his face. He glares at you, hazel eyes swarming with exasperation and something unknown.
And little did you know, all of your craziest, fatal fantasies were about to come true.
❥
The moment Logan steps into the mansion, finally back from the complete shit show of a mission Charles had sent him on, he tenses instantly.
His fingers clench into fists, tight enough that the skin turns white. The adamantium claws threaten to poke through his knuckles as he inhales deeply.
Big mistake.
That sweet, sweet scent swarms his heightened senses, the intoxicating smell nearly making him dizzy. His heart speeds up, his stomach flutters, and his cock twitches in the confines of his jeans.
Logan could fucking smell you.
It’s a heady aroma thats so completely you, that his body feels deranged, just about ready to march up those steps and break down your door.
He shakes himself loose from the metaphorical shackles of you and begins the journey to his room, trying to block out how delicious and syrupy you smell.
He decides then, as his body finally moves up the steps, that ignoring you is the best option.
But as he gets closer to the hallway he shares with you (just his luck, by the way!), he realizes that plan is a joke.
He feels his control slipping, especially as the heady scent grows stronger, tinged with something else— something erotic and salacious.
Logan curses, his entire being rigid.
You’re aroused, the smell seeping under the crack of the door giving you away instantly.
The idea of you whining as your pussy drips slick between your thighs has him grinding his teeth, fingers flexing and unflexing in an attempt to harness the control back to his body.
Though, it goes out the window entirely as his body is apruptly outside your door, unconsciously drawn to the very essence of you.
There’s a reason Logan has kept carefully crafted distance between the two of you.
The minute he was introduced to you, a new member of the x-men and teacher for the school, he knew he was fucked.
From the first look shared between you, he knew.
A pretty smile had graced your lips, eyes filled with joy as you greeted him, a hand outstretched in his direction as your hair swayed with your movements. In your cute, little outfit (a pretty, white lace dress that kissed the tops of your thighs, matched with baby pink pumps that accentuated your legs), he thought you looked like a princess.
He had stayed frozen, however, because he was assaulted with the fucking smell of you. It was nothing like he’d encountered before, and he’d been around for over a century.
Your scent was so fucking sweet, vanilla and honey permeated his nostrils and right in that moment, he wondered if you tasted as sweet as you smelt.
He knew that he had to keep his distance, otherwise he’d become addicted to you in every sense. If he let himself, he’d worship the very ground you walked on. He couldn’t risk having the walls he’d spent so long building to crumble.
And in an instant, he was angry that his body had reacted this way to someone he’d never even met. He was angry he wanted to press sweet kisses on your face while simultaneously wanting to fuck you on his cock until you screamed his name.
So, with that, he’d made up his mind.
He had simply glared at you, refused to acknowledge your existence and stormed out of Charles’ office. And since that day, he’s tried his hardest to pretend you didn’t exist— if only to ease the way you constantly haunted his every thought.
He pretended it didn’t kill him to see how your face would crumble at his rude behavior, at how he avoided you at all costs. He couldn’t help it, though, because if he treated you how he wanted, like the princess you were, he’d never let you go.
A sudden noise shakes him from the depths of his mind, that carnal, sensual essence growing stronger by the second.
“Logan, Logan, Logan,” your honeyed voice whines, all airy and light.
And it’s almost comical how the telltale snikt! sounds immediately after because what?
What the fuck? He thinks, mind utterly destroyed at the revelation that not only were you seemingly fucking yourself, but you were moaning his name.
Logan growls, low and dangerous as his claws reveal themselves, cutting through the skin of his knuckles. His body feels unnaturally hot, practically set on fire. His cock now uncomfortably hard in his jeans, lustful essence bubbling at his tip and no doubt staining his boxers.
With the wafts of your pretty aroma and sounds of your lewd whimpers, he knows he can’t resist you any longer.
His hand lifts, claws retracting as his heavy fist slams on your door.
And the sight of you, face shiny with a sheen of sweat has him choking on his own saliva.
Tonight was the night his control finally snaps, despite months of work put into avoiding you.
Logan knows his animalistic side is about to be released; he’s going to fucking ruin you.
❥
You gulp, a hand resting on the door frame as you stand frozen because honestly, what the fuck?
You deduce that the universe hates you because why? Why would the man you’d been thinking of while masturbating be right in front of you?
It only dawns on you when Logan’s gaze swipes over your figure that you’re basically naked. Clad only in your blushed, frilly top and the matching underwear, the latter soaked with both your arousal and release.
You shrink beneath his eyes, warmth simmering hot on the apples of your cheeks, and your mouth opens and closes, yet no words follow.
“Uh— Logan, hey!” Your voice is shaky, and whether it’s from the power of your release or the nerves that bumble beneath your skin at the man before you, you couldn’t tell. All you know is that you want the ground to swallow you up whole.
Logan doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at you in a way that you don’t understand. You assume he’s just gotten home from the very long mission, and confusion settles over you as to why he was at your door, especially considering how he badly despises you.
You’re about to voice that exact thought when Logan beats you to speaking.
“I heard you.” His gruff tone is coated in something darker than you’d ever heard before.
For a moment, you’re perplexed, brows furrowing and raising before your eyes go comically wide.
And— oh, oh.
“Can smell you, too.”
Heat licks at your whole body, embarrassment threatening to envelope you entirely. Tears of horror tickle your lash line, because this was probably the most painful moment of your life. Not only does the man hate you, but now he’s heard you moan his name as you came all over your fingers? How pathetic are you?
You open your mouth, an apology heavy on your tongue. You need to say something to quell the panic flooding your body— you’re never going to get over this
Though, before you can even speak, Logan slams his mouth onto yours.
He holds your head softly, a deep contrast to the way his lips melt over yours. A moan slips from your open mouth, the feel of his lips sucking at your bottom lip feels immensely intense and so, so good.
Your arms wrap around his neck, fingertips tangling themselves in the hair at his nape like you’ve wanted to do since the very day you met him.
“Logan—“ you whimper against his mouth, trying and failing to understand what the fuck was happening as he slips his tongue inside your wet, warm mouth. “Logan.”
He ignores you, grunting against your spit, slick lips as his hands travel down your curves, until they find purchase on your ass, gripping hard. A choked gasp spills from you as he suddenly paws at you, picking you up effortlessly in his strong arms.
The idea of him holding you up with no hesitation has your hips shuddering forward without your permission. Vaguely, you feel him move past the threshold of your door, slamming it shut before pressing your body up against the wood.
Logan switches between licking your tongue and sucking meanly at your lips, until they feel full and swollen with his attention. You’re pliant— almost willing to let him do anything he’d like to you.
Almost.
As good as his tongue feels dancing with yours, confusion still settles over your mind. Perhaps this was a dream and if that’s the case, you never want to wake up.
“Wait—wait.” You pull back, the questions swirling inside probing you until it’s impossible to ignore.
“Huh, baby?” Logan groans, teeth pulling at your bottom lip before sucking at the swollen skin.
Babybabybabybabybaby— the pet name clouds your senses for a second, a rush of arousal pooling at your hole. You want to cry at how that simple, simple word makes you feel.
“Stop that.” You mumble, pulling your head back and lips out of his reach.
Logan stares at you, silent but waiting as he waits for you say whatever is on your mind. Frankly, he wants his tongue to be buried deep in your cunt right about now, but, details.
“What is going on?” Breathless, the question settles between you, causing Logan’s brow to raise.
“Well, my tongue was just in your mouth—“ you slap his chest, face turning warm at his bluntness.
“Not that. I’m— why are you here? Why are you kissing me when you can’t stand me?” Your voice is quiet, insecurity present in your tone. Nimble fingers grasp the dog tags that rest on his chest, and you’ve never been grateful for it.
At that, Logan’s face scrunches up, confusion floating around his irises, lips curving downward.
“What are you talking about?” If it wasn’t for the genuineness in his voice, you would’ve smacked his chest again at how clueless he was.
“What do you mean? You’ve made it very clear how you feel about me; you’ve despised my entire existence the moment we met— wait, I can’t even say that because you didn’t even have the decency to greet me!”
Frustration hovers over you heavily, enough to snap you out of the lustful spell Logan often inflicts upon you. You slide down his body, ignoring the quiver of your cunt when you make contact with his jean clad bulge. You push at his chest, needing distance to ensure you actually get your words out and don’t end up back with his tongue down your throat.
“I don’t hate you.” Logan grunts out, staring at you as you pace the wooden floors of the room. Vaguely, he’s paying attention, but he can’t be blamed for the way his eyes focus on the way your ass shifts with each step, the plush skin so inviting as the lace cup each cheek. “What’re you on about?”
Frankly, Logan’s pissing you off. The vague answers are getting on your nerves, enough that you feel yourself snap.
Your hair swiftly turns bright red, a scarlet blossoming over the strands until they coat them completely. Your emotions could never quite be concealed, not with the way your hair would turn different variations of red when you were angry, furious, sad, happy, aroused.
“You’ve been a dick to me, treating me like shit for no reason and now you think you can just waltz in here and kiss me like that? You think you can pretend to want me when we both know that’s not true?”
Balls of fiery, red energy bloom at your fingertips, and though you stand in your pretty pink assortment, you look the part of threatening.
It’s too bad the abrupt display of your mutation, mixed with fiery words, has Logan’s cock jerking with want.
“Sometimes, I question whether or not you’re actually a genius.”
And just like that, you feel the words like a punch to the gut. You’re so mad, so blind by the intense emotions you feel for Logan, that you feel those pesky flames of energy moving up your wrist and forearm, a telltale sign of your anger.
“Fuck you, Logan.” You hiss, your fingers hot with the heat coursing through them.
What pisses you off more, to which your hair and eyes darken to a dangerous maroon, is the fact that Logan wears a faint smirk, watching you with humor as if you aren’t showcasing how pissed you are.
“Are you done yet?” Logan takes a step closer, uncaring of the way your mutation flares furiously at his presence.
“Logan, leave me alone. I don’t need you to sit here and pretend to want me. I don’t need you to make fun of me, either.” Huffing, you glare up at the man before you, who stares back just as pointedly.
You turn around, back facing him as you go to enter the attached bathroom when all at once, you’re spun back around by a hand on your nape, your neck in a delicious tight grip as Logan pulls you into his body, smashing his mouth on yours for the second time tonight.
Your body betrays you, a desperate whimper ebbs out at how fucking good Logan’s lips feel on yours.
His teeth bite down on your top lip, before suckling sweetly to combat the pain flourishing there. You moan, mouth falling open as he messily kisses you. The intoxicating taste of him swarms your tastebuds, his tongue swirling with yours in a way that leaves you dizzy with need.
A string of spit connects between your mouths as Logan pulls away, chuckling meanly when you promptly follow the warm wetness of his lips. A rough hand grips your throat again, tight enough to leave you feeling breathless but delicious enough to make your cunt squeeze around nothing.
“So that’s what you think, princess? That I don’t want you?” Logan’s fingers flex around your throat, gripping at your jaw to capture all of your attention. As if you were anything but than enamored with him. “You think that’s what I’ve been doing, huh?”
You can only stare up at him as your heartbeat rings loudly through your eardrums. A hand goes to tug at his shirt, an attempt to steady yourself, but Logan’s faster as he grabs your wrist.
“Answer me.” He whispers hotly as the hand holding yours captive moves to intertwine your fingers.
The touch of him, the hold on your throat and roughness of his fingers in yours, renders you speechless. You’re so overcome with your emotions that you can only manage to nod. The weight of you goes limp in his hold, silently begging him to do something to satiate the hunger burning every inch of you.
“Words, baby. Got nothing to say now, huh?” He taunts, his grip leaving your neck in favor of thumbing at your lips.
“Yes— I, it’s what it’s seemed like, what you’ve made me feel. Thought you hated me.”
Logan’s nose twitches, no doubt smelling your arousal as it leaks into the material covering you, ruining the lace.
“Couldn’t be more wrong,” He groans, pushing his thumb past the soft of your lips. His knees nearly buckle at the feel of your mouth closing and sucking his thumb, tongue rolling up against the skin as though it was his cock instead. “Shit, baby.”
You whine around his finger, eyes fluttering up at him in a way that has his dick aching for you.
“Fuck, been dreaming about you since the day we met. Been dreaming of you in every way possible.” He admits, a smile tugging at his lips at the way you freeze, lips leaving his thumb with a ‘pop’.
“What?” It’s a whisper, barely audible but he heard it all the same. The butterflies in your stomach are now having a complete rager, bolts of anxiousness kissing your skin.
“Of course.” Logan leanes down, pressing a kiss to your wet lips. “Knew the second I saw you you’d ruin me, so I just… stayed away. I never meant to make you think the worst. M’sorry, honey.”
This was not the way you’d expected tonight to go.
It’s as though all the confusion, anger, and sadness drain from you and, in its place,its full of the tremulous feeling of the admission.
And despite the fact that you’d fucked yourself thinking about him, and he’d heard, you feel incredibly shy. You drop your head to his hard chest, your hands squeezing his own where he holds them.
“I don’t know what to say.” You utter, brain all muddled and no other thoughts come forth as Logan haunts every inch of your mind. You feel like an idiot, even though Logan had acted like a dick for the better part you’d known him.
Logan simply lifts your head, invading your senses as his nose bumps yours.
“You were a dick.” It’s spoken factually, making him huff against your face.
“I know.”
“You could’ve kissed me months ago.”
“Can I kiss you now?”
His quick reply leaves you flushing, but when you nod, his lips are back on yours instantly, in their rightful place.
The kiss is messy; hot, wet, and dirty. Logan groans when you jump up, strong arms catching your thighs in a tight grip. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you lose yourself in the thrilling taste of his mouth. You unconsciously start humping him, dragging your drenched panties across his hard dick.
You suck on his tongue before capturing his lip between your teeth, nails dragging down his shoulder blades. A loud, feral growl escapes Logan, and without another thought, he throws your pliant body on the bed.
And at the sight of you, Logan feels like he’s about to come right then and there. In your skimpy outfit, so much plush, soft skin is on display. The hair tumbling from your shoulders has turned a dark cherry color during your kiss, and your hands are tickled with red energy that’s twirling up your arms, not unlike the way vines thread onto an old home.
This time, though, he knows you’re not upset, but instead, aroused.
He can smell the way your slick seeps from your fluttering hole, how it sticks to the skin of your thighs.
And fuck, he wants to sink his face right in front of your pussy and inhale until he’s woozy with the complete perfume of you.
So, that’s exactly what he does.
Your eyes widen as Logan drops onto the floor in front of the bed, yanking your body to the edge. Your lower half is completely in his grip, and he stares at you for a moment, eyes hazy with lust. Then, he’s pulling your pussy all the way up to his nose. The feel of him so close to your puffy lips has you clenching, even more so when he lowers his head and fucking sniffs you.
“Fuck, baby. Been dreaming of this since the minute I saw you. Smells so fuckin’ sweet.” Logan inhales deeply again, smattering messy, open mouthed kisses to the skin of your upper thigh. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to throw you over my shoulder, get you alone and eat this pussy.”
“Logan!” You whimper out. The sound is completely feeble but you couldn’t care less, not with the way he’s sucking bruises into your skin. “Please, please.”
Spurred on by your whines, he sinks his canines into the skin, where your thigh meets the lips of your core.
Pain simmers into pleasure as the sting is followed by his tongue. Rosy splotches decorate your upper thighs, a preview of the bruises that will glaze the skin tomorrow. Logan does this until he’s satisfied with how his teeth imprint the skin. It’s as if it’s his way of solidifying that you’re his, like he’s staking his claim with his bruises smattering your thighs.
At some point your hand finds purchase in his hair, pawing at the tufts and tugging his face closer to where you need him most. He groans, the pain at his scalp sending jolts of desire throughout his body.
He sneaks a look up at you, and shit, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Your head is thrown back, sending those rebellious, red strands fluttering around you. Your hips are canting up to his mouth, and the smell of you, mixed with the previous orgasm you’d worked out before he interrupted, sends his senses in overdrive.
He knows he’d tortured you both enough when you can’t stop shivering with need, when his own hips brush against the edge of the bed. Without hesitation, Logan licks a long, wet stripe up your clothed pussy, suctioning around your enlarged clit.
The taste of you, heady, sweet, and so distinctly you, floods his tongue. He knew you’d taste good, but this? Oh, he wanted to drink you up all hours of the day.
With a growl, Logan tuggs the lace aside and loses it. He sucks, licks, and mouthed at your cunt like a man starved. His tongue dips into your hole before licking up and down your slit.
Moans of his name sound around the walls of your room, along with the filthy noise of his lips sucking your swollen button.
You’ve never felt like this before; the way he’s eating you out has your entire body on fire, and if you could see yourself, you’d see how ruby colored lines swirl all around your hands, how your hair practically glows with the intensity of your feelings.
He’d been attracted to you the minute he saw you— but the way you look when your mutation is at work? The way your hair grows shades of intoxicating reds and the way the fiery energy glows from the tips of your fingers to your elbows? Oh, how it fucking wrecks him. He just wants to keep you captive in this bedroom for all of eternity, if only to see you like this all the time.
“Feels so fucking good, fuck.” You’re a blubbering mess, hands tugging Logan’s hair hard, resulting in a moan that vibrates your pussy.
“Mine.” He grunts, and you gasp at the sensation of saliva as he spits directly onto your clit. “My fuckin’ pussy.”
Then, he latches his soft lips around your puffy bud and sucks hard. His dirty words and lucious mouth have your thighs shivering, hips bucking with insatiable need.
Like you’d done when you were alone and thinking about him, whimpers of ‘Logan’ slip past bitten lips as you rut against his face.
“That’s it, baby, say my name. Taste so fuckin’ good.” He humms against the slick, swell of your pussy.
A stream of ‘fuckfuckfuck’ is audible from open lips, forming an ‘o’ as the rush of delicious, hot pleasure pours over you completely.
As you come down, the pleasure fizzles out and overwhelming bursts of overstimulation bubble over you. Logan continues to lap at your wetness, groaning at your taste.
“S’too much, Logan.” Shaky hands grip his brown locks and you try and fail to bring the man away from your throbbing hole. His tongue laps at the taste of you, dipping in as deep as he could to savor every last drop. “Oh, fuck.”
“Taste too fuckin’ sweet, baby. Can’t help it.”
Logan grips tightly at your thighs, cruelly pinching at the flesh as he devours your pretty clit.
He can’t get enough, and seemingly, neither can you, with the way you buck into his warm, slick mouth despite the crushing pleasure. The material of your underwear snaps against you as Logan’s grip loosens, but he still eats you out as though there was no barrier.
His soft lips and dangerous tongue make it difficult to do anything but take the mind-numbing pleasure.
He’s content to stay here; between your gorgeous thighs and ravage your cunt all night, pull orgasms from you until you forget everything except the syllables that make up his name.
Except, the words that come from you have him still against you, his cock jerking and responding immediately to the addictive tilt of your voice.
“Logan— Logan, wanna suck your cock. Please.”
It was as though you were made for him— every inch of you riles him up like no one else has before and he has to take a deep, deep breath to refrain from coming in his jeans like a damn virgin.
With one last lick up your lace covered cunt, his face is suddenly above yours, the sight is lethal. The entirety of his lower face wears your wetness with pride, glistening and gleaming in the lowlight of the room. His eyes look animalistic, the hazel taken over by the black of dilated pupils.
Logan looks at you like he wants to fucking destroy you. You know without a doubt you’d let him.
A sweet kiss is pressed against your lips, a warm caress of his tongue on yours, the musky taste of your pussy causing you to part your thighs further. You whine once more, because you crave the heady taste of his cock; your mouth salivates at the thought of his tip heavy on your tongue.
“Easy, honey. Can smell how bad you want it.”
If you were less intoxicated by lust, you’d be mortified at the knowledge Logan can smell your arousal right now.
“Logan.” Pathetic whimpers and moans against his mouth have him pulling back, gritting his teeth to force himself to get a grip. It doesn’t work, not with the way you’re spread out below him, face pretty with a tiny that vaguely mimics the hue of your top and panties.”Please.”
How is he meant to last when you sound like that? All fucked out from just his tongue alone?
“C’mere’.” Logan mutters, tugging your body all the way up his chest, maneuvering you until your pussy is hovering above his mouth, facing his cock.
Completely fucked out, saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of his bulge, massive even in the confines of jeans.
You’re confused as to why Logan has put you on his chest, but it makes sense when he pulls your thighs down, mouth finding your wet, sopping sex once more.
You cry out, hips jolting at the way his tongue push the fabric away from your puffiness, immediately wrapping around your clit. At the way you were shaking on his face, unmoving besides the subtle thrusts of hips, he stops.
“Lo—“
“Go on then, baby. Suck my cock, just like you wanted.”
And oh, you both feel the slick that follows after those rasped words fill the air.
Only once you undo that damn belt buckle and pull both his jeans and boxers down, just enough to see the way his cock bounced out, wet at the red, swollen tip, does Logan resume licking up your pussy.
Fueled by the return of those talented lips, you lean forward without another thought.
Licking from base to tip, a moan vibrates against his cock as you hum, a taste so distinctly Logan making you feel light and warm. You lick up and down him sloppy, spitting on the tip of him as you slick his dick up, before finally wrapping your lips around him.
“Fuck.” His growl is borderning on feral; his teeth finding purchase on your asscheek and biting, an attempt to ground himself. It only serves to have his hips jump at the feel of you whining on him, sucking him down so fucking good. “Fuck, knew you’d be good with that pretty fuckin’ mouth.”
He’s so focused on the way you’ve started bobbing up and down the length of him, overcome with euphoria at the warmth and wetness as you suck and swirl your tongue, that he’s stopped his attention to your pussy, something he’s only reminded of as you wiggle impatiently over him.
“Sorry, princess, you’re driving me fuckin’ crazy.” He grits out, fingers gripping the flesh of your thighs at the little ‘hmph!’ you let out, pulling off his cock.
Though he can’t see you, he knows there’s a string of spit that spans from your swollen lips to his pulsating cock. He shutters, overwhelmed by you entirely, before burying his face into your weepy cunt.
”Oh! Logan, feels so good!” With a pathetic little whimper, his cock fills your mouth again as you sink down, satisfied with the way his tongue is licking at you.
A blend of moans sound as he wraps his lips around your puffed clit, as you ease his cock into your throat.
Logan’s eating you out in a frenzy, crazed by the tang of you soaking his mouth, chin, and nose. Despite the warmth bubbling in his stomach, he’s determined to make you come on his tongue again.
When thick fingers nudge into your hole unexpectedly, you mewl at the blissful feeling.
Logan’s fingers work steadily inside you in tandem with the way his mouth suckles divinely at your button. You’re an absolute mess— grinding down on his face, riding his digits, gagging as Logan’s hips match the pace of his fingers, grunts vibrating against you as he fucks your throat.
Logan curls his fingers in a way that has you seeing every fucking color of the rainbow. You come, moaning around the base of his cock and rocking back and forth on his fingers and mouth, muffled sobs spilling from your stuffed mouth.
When he feels you shivering on his tongue, overstimulated and sensitive, he pulls away from your center, the soaked fabric of your panties falling back into place once more.
Your mouth is still full of him, lips lazily sucking him down as your body tries to get ahold of the white hot pleasure still coursing through you.
“C’mere, baby.”
It’s a soft whisper against your thigh, but it settles over you, his soothing voice swirling around your shaky body like a warm blanket. Letting his cock fall from your lips, you scramble as fast as your body allows before you find yourself straddling Logan, staring down at the man with cloudy, wet eyes.
And maybe Logan is sick— because the sight of tears spilling over your cheeks has his cock unbelievably hard, a growl threatening to tumble out at the way your pretty, crimson hair spills over your shoulders.
Still, he wants to make sure you’re okay.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Logan watches at the way a small smile graces your features, even as tears continue to glisten your lash line. “You okay?”
“Nothing's wrong, just feel so good.” Your voice is a little hoarse, no doubt from the way his dick was fucking your whiny mouth. Your voice is still the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, those few words going straight to his dick.
Logan feels his own lips tug upwards as you speak. Even though he’s fucked you silly and stolen two orgasms, he tenses with desire as he notes the want dancing in your irises.
“Good.”
“Mhmm.”
There’s a beat of silence, a moment where hungry eyes lock in on one another, sensual energy threatening to burst.
Then, in a flash, lips are locked and tongues whirl together familiarly. It’s a hot, lewd kiss filled to the brim with desire— the passion almost too much with how it lights up every inch of your bodies, a fire threatening to spread.
Neither of you are sure who moved first— but it doesn’t matter because the way Logan’s hand wraps around your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail in a tight grip, steals your attention.
If someone were to see the two of you, they would see how desperate and needy you both were.
You’re kissing Logan’s top lip, biting before soothing the sting with a sweet, soft suck. Your thighs are spread over his own entirely and your position has your cunt settling over his cock nicely. Logan’s free hand grips the skin of your ass tight, guiding as you grind against him, the soaked panties catching on the tip of him with each thrust. The fingers tangled in your hair are unforgiving, tugging harshly as Logan grunts into your open mouth.
You’re both a mess of passion and lust— and your body thrums with the idea of his cock inside you.
“Such a good girl, that’s it. Fuck—“ Logan nearly whines, the feel of your wetness on his bulge has him trapping your lips in another all consuming kiss.
Your hands, lit up with energy, find purchase in his pretty hair, yanking as he kisses you vulgar, because everything is somehow too much and not enough.
“Logan— need you. Need you so bad, baby.”
Logan wants to eat you up entirely— somehow you’re still not satiated, rubbing your slick all over his lap and begging him for more. If he was a better man, he would’ve fucked you already. As it is, he likes it a little too much hearing you beg for him.
“Shhh, you got me, honey. I’m right here.”
“Fuck me, please. Need you inside, Logan.”
There’s tears in your eyes again, ready to spill over if the ache between your thighs isn’t soothed in the next five minutes. You’re clinging to him, hips stuttering because it’s just not enough and you both know it.
“My poor baby.” He sighs, the words somehow a mix of condescending and genuine and it makes you cry out. “So needy, huh?”
“Just for you.” The way you say it, it’s a message you both understand— you need him in every way possible, not just sexually.
He wonders if you know just how badly he needs you, especially now that he’s got a taste of you.
“I’m yours—“ you start, but it’s cut off by the squeak you emit when you’re suddenly flipped over, Logan’s muscular form hovering over you, his dog tags swinging between you.
“You’re mine.” It’s not a question, but a statement and it sends a thrill over you.
“Yours.” You’re nodding, eyes wide and so fucking pretty that it makes Logan squeeze his hands, the metal of his claws threatening to break through the skin.
He pulls his shirt off then, pride filling his chest at the way your eyes glaze over, a lip taken between your teeth as you stare at the vein that leads to his cock, which is pulsing with the promise of release.
He doesn’t comment on your lustful eyes, instead tracing his fingers down your body, until he reaches the hem of your baby pink lace. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination but Logan might break something if he doesn’t see your tits in all their glory.
You get the message, leaning up and slowly pulling the fabric from your chest, your breasts and midsection on full display. If he hadn’t already eaten you out twice, you would’ve moved to cover your taut nipples. Instead, you grip the chain of his necklace and pull him back down with you, sighing when you’re chest to chest.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” He says, pecking your lips once, licking a stripe down your throat. Wetness coats both nipples as his tongue swirls over them. “Do you know how badly I’ve wanted to have you under me?”
You moan, nails digging into his shoulder blades at the fluttery feeling his lips bring, deep enough to elicit blood from his skin. Logan groans, head tipping back as his hips thrust down suddenly, the tip of his cock ramming into your clit.
“Fuck, Logan.” Your hands span the expanse of his back, scratching each time he bumps your button just right. His jeans are still on, resting just below his thighs and something about the way he couldn’t even get up to properly take them off makes you shudder.
He’s rutting against you now, dick rubbing filthy over your panties and it dawns on you then that he hasn’t come yet, too preoccupied with taking care of you.
Determined, you slide one hand onto his asscheek, pushing him further into you, while your other grips his chin, pulling his mouth to yours in a slick, open-mouth kiss.
“C’mon Logan, fuck me, please.”
Logan turns into something animalistic then— flipping you over without warning, caging you between his arms. Your gasp is audible as he yanks your wet lace to the side, before thrusting forward, and fucks his cock into you with one thrust.
“Oh my god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—“ the feel of Logan finally inside you had you absolutely fucking drunk on the feel of him.
“Tryin’ to, baby.” He grits, arms flexing beside your head, fingers intertwining with yours as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you were filled to the brim.
Logan’s body covers yours, lips pressing all over your shoulder blades to soothe the little whines you let out at how fucking full you felt. It’s everything you want and more— you want to memorize the feel of him, every ridge and vein as he bottoms out.
“Baby,” he grunts, fingers flexing with yours as he stays still, for your sake. “So fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ wet.”
And it was true— despite the fact that he’s huge, he slipped in easily because of the mess you created, a slick mix of your come and desire that seeps from you.
“Logan, fuck me, please.” You ask so sweetly, as if you weren’t impaled by his cock right now.
With that, he slips out of you slowly, before fucking into you hard, deep. Then, he fucking ravishes you— creating a steady, fast paced rhythm and fucking you dumb with his cock.
You’re a whiny mess. Your hair grows darker, hands glittering between his grip each time he slams into you, each time your cunt squeezes around him.
Completely cock drunk, your back arches, ass up and hips slamming back against his with your cheek pressing into the mattress as you sob.
You’re so fucking needy that his own thighs are wet with your desire— he growls at the sight, fucking you even faster.
“You’re mine. Have been since you came here.” Logan growled, releasing your fingers in favor of gripping your hair and pulling you up until you were pressed into his chest. “My fuckin’ girl.”
“Yours!” You cry, tears rolling down your face. Your entire body jolts with pleasure, and you feel like you couldn’t breathe, not with how euphoria threatens to smother you. “M’so close!”
“I know, honey, I know. Can feel you fuckin’ squeezin’ around me.“ Logan moans out, pushing you back down into the mattress and finding purchase on your hips, pulling you back hard. “Gonna come all over me?”
You don’t answer, instead crying out as you feel a sharp flash of pain on your asscheek, Logan’s hand swift and quick. The pain mixes into pleasure when he rubs at the red skin, pressing sweet kisses on your back.
He wishes you could see yourself right now; maybe then you would understand why he was so intoxicated by you.
Your pretty body is bent over, ass up and face in the sheets as whimpers seep out. The lace that drove him crazy is yanked to the side, grazing his cock each time he drove deeper inside you. You’re so beautiful like this, he wants to keep you forever.
Sweet, little ‘uh,uh’s’ fill Logan’s ears as he speeds up, pulling you back up once more against his chest. He wants to be as close as fucking possible, the feel of your skin on his almost searing.
You turn your head back, lips seeking out his own. He kisses you, sucking at your lips as he continues to fuck you vigorously.
The fluttery feeling of your cunt squeezing around him suddenly sends him over the edge— low groans falling in your open mouth as hot, searing spurts of come coat your walls.
Knowing that Logan had lost it, finally giving into the temptation like you’d been doing all night, has you whining as your own orgasm surrounds your entire being.
“Baby—“ Logan thrusts shallowly, riding your orgasms out as long as he could; if he could, he’d never leave this feeling behind. Seemingly, you agreed as your nails dig into his forearms that hold you up, eyes squeezing shut at the overpowering bliss tingling everywhere. “I got you, it’s okay.”
“Logan, fuck!” It comes out as a huff, head against his sweaty neck, body completely limp in his hold.
You’d never been so incredibly sex-dazed in your life. From this moment onward, Logan has ruined you for anyone else.
Though, you hope there isn’t anyone else.
Logan kisses your head before untangling from you; a smirk dancing across his usually gruff features at the little whine let out as he pulls out. He gently rolls you onto your back, laying your head tenderly on the pillows. It was such a stark difference to the rough way he’d fucked you minutes prior, but butterflies flutter around your stomach all the same.
You watch his eyes trail lower, landing on the mess between your thighs.
Logan is mesmerized by the sight; your pussy is destroyed , so wet with his come seeping out of your hole. Mindlessly, he lowers himself until heieye level with your sex. Sans any warning, his fingers are thrusted back inside.
He ignores your hiss in favor of trying to push his come back inside, to keep you full of him. His eyes meet yours, watching as your chest rises as you observe him. There’s a glint in your eye that has his heart stuttering.
“I want to kiss you.” You whisper, soft and a little bashful, as if he didn’t have his fingers inside you. You look too fucking perfect, hair returning to its original color, eyes cloudy with unspoken words, a smile gracing your face.
How could he deny you when you looked like that?
Logan kisses your clit once, enjoying the way you jump before removing his fingers.
With those same digits, he sticks them in his mouth, sucking the flavor of you both and humming. He could hear the way your heart picked up at his actions. He releases them with a loud ‘pop’, before finally coming back to you.
He hovers over you, and like you’d done earlier, soft hands pull at the chain until his lips melt with yours in a soft kiss. Logan pulls back, resting his head on yours, eyes connecting with yours.
“Hi.” You giggle then, nose bumping his in the proximity.
“Hi, baby.” Logan kisses your lips once more, before rolling beside you. You would’ve whined at him if it weren’t for the way he immediately pulls you onto his chest.
With your limbs tangled, a kiss pressed to your forehead, you think this could be heaven and if so, you never wanted to leave.
It was quiet for a moment— the two of you content to listen to one another’s heartbeat, the breaths that fall from lips. Then, you break the silence, because of course you do.
“Logan?”
“Hmm?”
“Just so you know, I’m expecting you to take me out before you get me like this again.” You mutter against his slick chest, where your head rests as you wrap yourself around the man like a koala.
A deep laugh fills the room, chest rumbling because what the fuck?
He’s fucked you, with his mouth and cock, and now you’re laying on him as his come seeps out of you and you’re demanding him to take you out?
He was going to in the first place, but he thinks it’s cute you decided for him.
Logan may be a man that’s been alive for almost two centuries, practically immortal, but it’s completely possible you’ll be the death of him.
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tags: jealous/posessive!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, wingman!wade, flirting, feelings, (another short) miscommunication, immature humor, light angst, use of alcohol, threat of violence, use of alcohol and smoking, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, PiV, creampie
As the days pass, you think your time spent with Logan is pretty much perfect. Well... almost.
(Or - a dash of insecurity, some badgood advice from Wade, a near-fight at a bar, and the confession of overdue feelings.)
Those two nights spent with Logan turn into more.
The days are bleeding together, blurring. You fit well with him, you think. Together in Wade's apartment - spanning that space between their chatter and silence. Softening edges, though you think he's softened, too.
A stray cat coming around.
Bristling, with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Slowly learning that he can lean into your touch.
Your days since have been spent humming as you work. It had been an anchor once, this routine of yours. Getting up early used to give you something to get up for. Enjoying the whirlwind of prepping, measuring, making, decorating.
Now - you're grateful for how quickly the day passes because it means you can't overanalyze. Because it means by the time you catch your breath at the end of the day, you're already heading home to him.
Takeout was brought over to their apartment. A crappy movie with a hand curled around you, sending your heartbeat racing. The night ending at yours, hours between dusk and dawn spent learning every inch of each other.
You think it's pretty much perfect.
Well... almost.
“Do you think Logan likes me?”
It slips out of you. Something that’s been worrying at you, a splinter trapped just beneath your skin. You regret asking almost immediately - the sun glinting off the silver needle as you push it through the lycra suit.
“You mean the guy that’s been fucking your brains out for the past couple weeks?”
“Wade.”
“Oh, sorry.” He lines his knife up, poking a hole in the top of his styrofoam container - coaxing the waitress from lunch to give him a ‘take-home-margarita’. A cheerful “baby knife!” as he sheathes it again,” I mean the guy that’s been having totally-chaste-and-appropriate adult sleepovers with you?”
You understand what he’s getting at. Stalling, holding up his suit - another gash sewn shut with black thread, “You sure this is okay?”
“Mhmm,” He hums, “Gives me that bride-of-frankenstein vibe I’ve always wanted. Besides, anything is better than before.”
“You insisted, you helpless little man-baby.” Al adds, from her lounge seat, “Learn to dodge.”
Wade splutters - your lips twitching, as you work.
“See what I live with?” He gripes, “Maybe the two of you outta trade. It’d be cramped, but I bet the three of us could sardine it.”
“You wouldn’t last a week without Althea,” You snort. A beat, before you gather the courage to circle back to the topic at hand, “And besides, that’s just it. I’m not sure he wants to sleep with me."
The summer breeze feels better up here, on the roof. The whip of the wind cooling you, as you work your way across the once-again battered suit - propped up against the brick parapet.
“Okay, time out. Missing link here.” Wade gives you a sideways look, before his head pivots, "You cannot hit me with this fake virginal act when I literally heard you two fuck an hour after you met."
A beat, "And like, pretty much every day since then. I think I even heard a howl last night-"
Your eyes roll, "Wade. He’s not a werewolf, he did not howl-"
"Well, not anymore.” Wade smirks, “And funny that you assume I meant the Moan Wolf, but I could have meant you-"
You groan, head cradled in your hands, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we'll keep it down. It's just-"
It’s just you’ve been here before - this liminal space between an excellent physical connection, and more. You've done the hookup thing - casual, friends-with-benefits, lonely strangers. Thought you had learned how to keep your emotions in check, especially with those past experiences.
But you’ve never met someone like Logan before.
He makes you feel bare. Soft-hearted and stripped down - wearing your feelings on your sleeve. Opening yourself up - only for your fingers to brush up against a brick wall, in return.
Wade must catch your tone because he sets down the styrofoam container - the pink umbrella tucked against his ear.
"Alright Sugarbuns, tell Papa Bear what's bothering you."
You grimace at the names, another flicker of regret lingering in the corners of your mind. But you find yourself talking. Letting those worries flow from you in a rush.
But Wade would know, wouldn't he? It's his friend, after all.
"He leaves after."
His eyebrows raise, and you continue, "I mean, he'll stay for a bit but he always winds up on the couch by morning. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and he’s out there. I mean, I thought he'd want a bed, after where he's been staying, no offense-"
Thought he’d want to stay with you.
You nudged at it once. Getting nothing more than a grumbled excuse about not sleeping well, something about nightmares. Something you accepted, only to find him tucked in your bed a few days later - curled in your sheets when you had rushed back to the apartment after leaving your phone.
Hadn’t wanted to push, even if it confused you. Wouldn’t he want comfort, after a bad dream? You always did.
"Offense taken, Blind Al and I are excellent bedmates," Wade interrupts, "But please, continue."
His joke eases you a little. Risking a sideways glance, finding him already looking at you.
“I like him, Wade. I just really want this to work out.”
He hums, sympathetically. Knowing all too well the complexities of like and love. How you feel deeper than you’re letting on - he always was perceptive, after all.
A beat, before your head turns.
"Do you think it's me?"
He does laugh then, his shoulder leaning to bump yours, "Sugar, you have a two-hundred-year-old boyfriend who's gone through a massive amount of trauma and has an alcohol problem, and you want to know if it's you?"
"Fuck." The heels of your palms press into your eyes, "Okay, okay-"
"I literally traveled through the void with him, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-style. The John Candy to my Steve Martin, and even after saving the world he still wanted to kill me."
"Wait," Your head lifts, "Why would you be Steve Martin in that scenario?"
“He’s the main character, as am I.” He barrels past your question, "The point is, if he didn't like you, you'd know. You just need to be-"
"Patient." You finish, "Yeah, I know."
And you do know. Even since that first meeting, you've known that he's been eaten up inside. Cracks of the man beneath leaking through his gruff exterior, as you had sat together on that couch.
But Wade called him your boyfriend, but he's not. Not really - no conversation to indicate that's how he saw himself.
It just left you confused. Vulnerable. Enough that you did dumb shit like this - going to Wade for romantic advice. The man who proposed with a ring pop and thought that a prostate orgasm was a sign of being soulmates.
"Maybe you’re giving him too much. Withhold a little," Al interrupts, making you jump, "That's what landed me my second husband. Begged for it like a dog, and was married the next month. God rest his soul."
Wade mouths an exaggerated “what the FUCK" at you, before shooting a dark look in her direction - only just then seeing her smirk.
"Oh, you’re joking? She came to us for help and you’re joking-” A sniff, as Wade turns back, "So anyways, don’t do that. Do something normal. Like internalize it, until it makes you snap."
His face screws up, as he adds, “Or, maybe try it? That bricked me up a bit-”
"Or,” Al adds, “Maybe you should just talk to him, Sugar."
Althea always knew how to cut to the chase and give the hard advice you needed to hear. You just wish you weren’t afraid of the answer.
‘You’re both right,” Your head dips against Wade's shoulder, “I owe you. Again.”
Silence lingering, though it’s not uncomfortable. Leaving you to think about what he said.
The suit passed over to him, when you tie the final knot, “Done.”
“Thanks,” A beat passes, as he gives you a sideways look, “Any chance you want to cash in on that favor tonight?”
You know better than to agree without more info - an eyebrow raising as you wait.
“Vanessa is coming over tonight.” Wade gives you a meaningful look, “It would be great to have the apartment to ourselves for a bit.”
The serious tone does not last, as he smirks, “I fully intend to break my months of celibacy the second the opportunity arises.”
“Months?” You hadn’t realized it had been that long. Thought he would have moved on, in some ways.
“Years, actually,” He adds, casually, “Turns out my obvious romantic hangups plus this-”
A gesture at his face,” Are a total boner-killer. As well as having an elderly roommate, apparently. Especially one who won’t leave.”
You shoot him a sharp look at the self-deprecation, Al’s voice cutting through.
“I told you, I’m hitting the casino for singles night.”
“Okay. I can drop Al off and pick her up,” Your mind is already racing ahead, “And Logan and I can go out to dinner or something.”
The prospect is exciting. Despite the time spent together, you haven’t really gone on too many dates yet. After your long hours and his rotating work schedule, your meetings have mostly been late-night. Quick meals whipped up in your kitchen. A rotating pile of delivery menus.
“That would be great.” He smiles, “Thanks, Sugar.”
“Of course.” You smile, before adding, “What are you going to make?”
A frown, when he hesitates.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to wing it.”
“I wasn’t winging it,” He protests, “I was going to hit up ol’ reliable.”
“For a second-first date? You can’t do takeout from Buns and Roses.”
A sigh, as you turn to face him, tugging out your phone, “You should make something nice. I have this recipe bookmarked for engagement roast chicken. I’ll help you-”
He tugs your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the eight-paragraph opener before the start of the recipe.
“Make this for her, show her you’re serious-,” You start.
Wade finishes, with a smile.
“-and there’ll be a cock ring on it before midnight.”
You keep catching yourself looking at him.
It’s almost embarrassing how bad you have it. Still not used to seeing Logan like this - away from your small apartment.
Seeing him at work was different - a very cognizant realization that you were on the clock. The counter between you like a barrier, even when you slip a coffee and pastry across it. A lightning-quick kiss pressed into his cheek. The relentless teasing from your coworkers, after.
But here - crammed in a booth, his hand slipping just under the hem of your dress, a palm curved against your thigh - it’s something else, entirely. Even in this dark corner, you have to resist letting your hands wander. Eyes flicking to the deep cut of his button-down flannel - dark hair peeking out from the curve of his white tank. The blue and grey pattern pretty against his skin.
A curl of smoke pours from his lips, a cigar fit between two fingers.
Logan had been curious to find you in the apartment when he got home. The aroma of the roast chicken wafting through the space, as you talked Wade through the last steps. The slow sweep of his eyes over the pretty sundress you wore, tugged from the back of your closet.
It hadn’t taken much convincing, when you asked him to get dinner out with you. Even with Althea in tow, safely dropped off for her night out.
“This is nice.” You smile, and his eyebrow lifts.
A glance around the room.
Dinner spent at a local pizza joint - stories shared, wound between updates about his new job at the local lumber company. About Laura, who you met two weeks ago. So much like Logan that it still catches you off-guard. Shared expressions, shared tempers.
You think that it must have been hard for both of them, this reunion. That comparison between the Logan in this world, those memories that stay with her. She views him the same - even you can see that. He’s told you it came as a shock, but it’s easy to see how he’s warmed, with time. Finding joy, within the shared grief.
The conversations spill over into a bar you know well. Unsure what to do with yourselves with the order of “staying away”, the sun still setting when you had stepped inside.
“Not sure nice is the word I’d use, sweetheart.”
“Anywhere is nice if I’m with you. I am sorry, though. I know it’s not-” Your hand waves, shyness creeping in as you lean into his shoulder, “Wasn’t sure where else to kill some time. Dopinder and Buck run a tight ship, it’s really not so bad.”
“Mm. Guess this is nice, then.” He corrects, a hint of a dimple as he smiles, “But you let me take you somewhere safer next time, yeah?”
“I’m safe with you.”
You miss the way he looks at you, as you take a sip of your drink. The brush of his fingers against your skin. His voice going low, goosebumps rising as he murmurs in your ear.
“How much longer do we have to stay out?”
A question that’s been on your mind as well.
“Well, Al’s thing is over at ten,” Your teeth worry at your lip, “But, I guess we could sneak back early. It’s just, Wade-”
“What about Wade?”
It’s unfair, how he crowds you in the booth. Torso twisting to face you. The warmth of his hand - how you’re aware of each and every movement he makes. It takes you a moment to answer.
“Wade is… Wade,” You manage, “But he doesn’t really ask for much. I owe him, you know?”
“You owe him?” He chuckles, “He’s lucky you stuck around after he tried to give you cocaine-”
“Hey,” You smile, “That was Al.”
That had been your second run-in with your neighbors. Only desperation had sent you over to the apartment, needing a cup of powdered sugar for a personal favor. Under-estimating how much you needed, in your rush to finish some cookies for a friend’s baby shower.
Meeting Al instead. The powdered substance swapped when her roommate had rearranged the apartment as a prank. Only Wade bursting from the bathroom, a towel slung low from his hips, had saved you from disaster. The nickname had formed when you hadn’t written them both off.
“And besides, Wade was the one who introduced me to you.”
Logan’s expression softens, “That is something, isn’t it?”
He holds your gaze for a long moment. Eyes drifting lazily down to your lips, with a low hum, then further. It sends a heat blooming in your cheeks, an unconscious press of your thighs together.
“I’m, um, gonna let Dopinder know we’re heading out.” You breathe, “He’ll worry if we irish goodbye.”
“You sure?” He husks, with another exhale of smoke - and you can feel the heat rising from your cheeks to your ears.
“Yes,” It comes out breathy.
“Um, yeah. You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”
Your elbows pressing into the sticky bartop as you wait - watching Dopinder work his way through pouring pints of beer for a crowd of bikers, all in dark leather.
A glance over your shoulder, finding the booth tucked in the corner. The dark head of hair, the expanse of his shoulders - a thick arm slung across the back - as Logan waits for you.
It makes you smile, and you almost miss the bump of a shoulder against yours.
“Oh!” You squeak, shifting to the side to make room, “I’m so sorry, I-”
The apology dies on your tongue, as you glance up at the man leaning against the wooden post at the end of the bar. Eyes drifting over the black field jacket, up to dark eyes.
“Been a while, darlin’.”
You inhale a breath, in surprise. Close to two years ago, if you remember right. Numerous meetings spread out over months, before he slipped out of your fire escape and into the early morning.
No note, no text. Walking out just as suddenly as he had appeared.
It had never been anything serious - he had made that clear - but you can’t pretend that it hadn’t hurt.
“It has,” You agree, a low twist in your belly, “How have you been? Didn’t think I’d see you outside Hell’s Kitchen.”
Unable to help that flicker of worry, even after everything. It’s always been ingrained in you - thinking of others more than yourself.
“Should ask you the same,” His eyebrow arches, “This isn’t your kind of place. Taking up mercenary work, beautiful?”
“I’m here with someone.” It comes out clipped, a glance over your shoulder - the nerves eased when you spot his form.
“Mountain man?”
A scoff - lip curling over sharp teeth, “Taking you to a place like this… You can do better than that. You can do-”
“You?” It’s your turn for your brow to raise, “We both know how that goes, Frankie. This-”
A pointed finger, gesturing around the room, “Was my idea. Things are different. I’m different.”
There’s the hint of a smirk - dark eyes that drag slowly down. Flicking back up to yours, as his voice pitches low, “I’m sure some things are the same.”
Your head shakes, “Not like that.”
There are lingering shades of purple that fade to yellow across his cheekbone. Never was good with this. All that time spent glancing out your window, waiting for him to show up, battered and bloody like he used to. All he did was keep you out, keep you at arm’s length.
Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of it happening again. A little shake of your head - a reminder that you need to be patient like Wade said. Logan isn’t him.
“I know what I want, and it’s-” The words die, as you look for him, again. Finding only an empty booth - your stomach tying up into knots.
A palm touches at your hip, a chest pressing snugly against your back. Startling you, as you breathe, “Logan.”
“This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” It’s growled out, Logan’s eyes fixed on the other man.
“Nice guard dog.” There’s an amused appraisal - narrowed eyes, tongue trapped against teeth. “He do tricks as well?
The fingers at your hip curl, the smallest tug backward to bring you closer. The words ground out between bared teeth.
“You watch it.”
Christ. This was bad, you need to find your tongue - and quickly.
You twist, a hand resting on his chest. Only now does Logan’s eyes drop to yours, the tight pull to his features only just ebbing.
“This is Logan,” You smile, your palm pressing over his heart, “He’s, uh, my-”
And for a brief second, your words fail you. The tension is thick enough to cut, acrid in the air. Would labeling this right now send him running?
The man cuts through before you can finish.
“Frank Castle.” His eyes flick back to yours, as he adds, “Sure you can guess how we know each other.”
The muscles beneath your palm twitch. A light pressure against your hip, urging you away from the bar - the words low in your ear, “Alright. Let’s go.”
A nod, and you’re giving Frank a tight smile - letting Logan guide you towards the back. No more than a step taken before his voice cuts through.
“You still got my number?”
You shoot him an exasperated look, “Frank-”
“Gonna be back in town for a while, baby girl.” His arms cross, as he leans, “Call me when things don’t work out.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before a fist closes around the collar of his jacket. Logan stepping into his space, a forearm shoving Frank hard as he pins him against the post.
“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, bub.”
Fights are common in Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but you can’t say you’ve ever experienced one. Fear licks inside you, meeting Dopinder’s equally worried gaze as he starts to rush over.
Frank’s smile is dark, “You don’t want to start this.”
It’s met with a growl. Silver points peeking between the dips of Logan’s knuckles, the fabric straining in his tight grip.
“Fucking try me, you piece of shit.”
There’s a metallic click - the press of something cold against Logan’s groin.
“Should shoot your dick off for that.”
“Okay!” You shove between them, then. A hand on Logan’s arm, tugging - the other at his neck, trying to guide him back to you.
His hazel eyes are wild when they find yours. Face twisted in a snarl, deepened with the shadows cast in the dim room. Blinking, as he comes back to himself. A dark look as his arm eases - stepping away.
This time, it’s you that leads him towards the back exit. Something gritted out as you leave that you miss, but sends Logan bristling. An apologetic look thrown at Dopinder, before you’re stepping together through the swinging door, into the wood-paneled hallway.
Ducking down one of the hallways, next to matching doors leading to bathrooms, and a storage closet. An exit sign, gleaming red at the end.
The music and voices are muffled. His face silhouetted in the light of a vintage beer sign, his features outlined in gold as his back presses against the wall. A gritted, inhaled breath.
You haven’t seen him like this before. Seen him mad several times. Grouchy and annoyed with Wade. The sharp temper that hid his hurt when he thought you didn’t want him.
None of those moments match him now. You’re not sure what to make of it - the way your skin prickles. Something in your belly flutters, a warmth that drips from behind your ribs, settling low. You never wanted anyone to get hurt. But that look in his eyes, how quick we was to find you - it makes you inhale a breath.
“We-,” You start - your fingers still curled around his bicep, “We should talk about this. You okay, Logan?”
His eyes flick to yours, jaw working. The fury has bled from them, the sharp etches in his face easing, even as his expression stays guarded.
“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Logan rasps, “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
A beat, before it slips from him, “Was he one of the ones Wade scared away?”
“What?” It takes you a long moment to remember. Your brow pinching, as you shake your head,” Frank? No. It was-”
The pull of his brow is back, his frown deepening with your explanation.
“It was just casual.” You finish, lamely, “It wasn’t anything. Never was.”
“Didn’t sound that way.” It’s gritted out.
His head turns, eye contact dropping. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back, “Listen. If you want to go with him, it’s fine.”
You’re left stunned for a moment. His jaw working, hands jamming into his pockets. It’s defensive - it’s familiar.
“I don’t want to go with him-” You start, but it only makes him sigh.
“Then what were you gonna say, Sugar?” The look he finally gives you is searching, “I’m your, what-, your neighbor?”
“No!” You cry, “I was going to say you’re my boyfriend, but you’ve never-”
Logan’s pitches low, “I’ve never what?”
Your shoulders droop. Curling around yourself, as you lean into the wall next to him. He leans, matching your height - trying to catch your eyes.
“I don’t know, Logan.” It’s almost too quiet to hear. He might have, if he had been anyone else. “I told you I liked you the day after meeting you. But you…”
A little shake of your head, “You keep everything so close to your chest. You leave in the night. It’s okay, I just… sometimes I don’t know what to think.”
When his arms cross this time, there’s something in his eyes. A dark glimmer, the tug of his lips.
“You think that I don’t like you, sweetheart?”
A tilt of his head, a sharp edge slipping into his tone, “You think I wasn’t ready to tear that asshole limb from limb for talking to my girl that way?”
Something low in your belly twists, desire thrumming in an echo that radiates through you. A sharp inhale of breath at his words.
“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You manage, transfixed.
It’s easier, this time, for him to step into you. Hands ghosting along your neck. Tipping your face to his, so you can’t look away. Can’t miss what he tells you.
“If-, if I open up.” It comes out hushed, his words soft and low, “You won’t like what you see, Sugar.”
You reach for him - fingers curling around his wrists, “I like what I see just fine.”
He huffs. The barest hint of a smile, before his expression goes solemn.
“This,” The word is punctuated by the way his thumb sweeps against your cheek, “Never goes well for me. Sleeping on the couch puts me between you and anything coming through that door.”
Your pulse races with the remorse in his words. He’s touched on the barest of details of his past. Those small moments shared in the night you met, riddled confessions in the late nights that have followed.
“And the things I dream about-,” His eyes go hazy - lost in a memory, “They pull me back. I don’t want to hurt you because I can’t tell them from reality.”
The words slip from you automatically, without thought. Guilt floods through you, an ache from wondering - doubting.
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I will.” He breathes, “Sweetheart, I will. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”
Your head shakes - a stubborn set of your jaw, “You won’t. Please don’t shut me out, Logan. Please try…”
He huffs - eyes dropping to your mouth, as he leans. Hands slipping to cup your head, angle you to meet the press of his lips. A soft sigh that you swallow, something tender in the way he draws you to him. A hand curling around your back, splaying between your shoulder blades.
“Give me some time, okay?” Logan murmurs, when the kiss breaks, “Let me draw out the first good thing I’ve had in a long time. Just for a little longer.”
“Don’t have to draw it out.” Your body still curves to his, anchoring yourself to him. A hand touching his jaw so this time, his eyes have to stay on you.
“You deserve good things, Logan.” Your mouth brushes his, “Let me give them to you.”
The sound he makes is almost wounded, as if he wants to protest.
As if he wants to believe you.
Breath ragged, as his hands trace down to grip at your hips. Leaning into you, your touch. What you offer him. A thigh fitting between yours, nudging against your core - and you think surely he must see how your eyes darken.
The rapid flutter of your heart, how it races for him and only him.
“Yeah?” He husks, as if reading your mind, “You ready to get out of here, Sugar?”
“Bathroom.” You breathe.
“Can’t wait that long.”
He’s on you the second the door swings shut. Fingers twisting at the lock, as his head dips - mouth finding yours again.
There’s a desperation to his kiss this time. One that you match with the way your palms trace up his chest. Fingertips at his neck, tugging him to meet you.
A thrill shoots up your spine. You’ve never done anything quite like this before. The space behind your ribs is soft and tender from his confession - already breathless before he deepens the kiss.
Backing you up against the old, chipped vanity that lines the wall. The stalls hanging open - empty as his hands trail down your spine. Fitting beneath the curve of your ass, tugging you up to fit on the counter.
Finding your jaw again - guiding your lips to his, meeting the sweep of your tongue as he fits between your thighs.
“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night.” He breathes, against your lips, “So fucking pretty, you know that?”
It sends a pulse through you, down to where you’re already responding to his touch. Your knees close around his hips, urging him closer.
“Logan, please,” You hum, fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A palm pressing against the front of his jeans, where his cock strains against the denim.
His moan is ragged, bucking into your touch. Fingers tracing up your waist. Letting your tits fill his palm, as you work him free.
It’s hard to hold back a moan of assent, when his lips presses against your neck. Open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, the scrape of teeth pressing into your jugular.
“Good,” He growls against your skin, “Would’ve bent you over that fucking bar if you’d let me.”
It’s possessive. It makes you shiver - a sweep of his tongue, the suck of lips as he marks you. The sharp sting of his bite fading into sweet bliss.
“Need you.” Your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking. The lightest of tugs to bring him closer, your thighs inching further apart.
He groans, “You have me.”
The pretty dress you wear is pushed up to your waist. His palm cupping you, feeling your warmth before he’s tugging the fabric of your panties to the side.
Need rushes through you. A heave of your chest against his as your mouth meets his, greedy. A tilt of your hips, a leg lifting to hitch around his waist. Your hand curling around the edge of the counter, the other guiding the tip of his cock against your slick folds.
“Hold on, honey.” Logan’s fingers slip against your pussy, nudging inside, “Gonna be sore.”
“I can take it,” You insist, pleading, “I can take you, wanna feel it.”
His eyes darken. A little inhale of breath, watching as your lips part as two fingers press deep. Your teeth already sink into your bottom lip, muffling a whine.
Slipping them free, after crooking inside you. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough stroke to smear your slick around him. Lining the tip up with your opening, as his hands fit against your waist. His hips pressed snugly against the chipped counter, as he begins to tug you to meet him.
You can feel every inch, as he moves you. He splits you open, your shoulders arching against the dirty mirror as your nails bite into the laminate. A hand pressed against his chest, as you urge him to go slow.
A held breath coming in a rush, as he slips deeper inside you with a grunt. Filling that ache you’ve been carrying - your eyes dropping down to watch the slick shine of his cock. Sinking into you with the slow saw of his hips, a clink of his belt with movement.
“Just for me, yeah?” He rasps, a hand drifting down. Fingers splitting where he fills you, drawing slick tips up to circle your clit.
“Just you.” You nod, breathless. Rocking into his touch, taking more as you adjust to the weight of him inside you.
His teeth flash white, in the dim room.
“That’s my girl.”
The moan you’ve been holding back slips from you, as you clench down hard around him.
He hums, “You like that?”
“Yes.” You whine. Reaching for him, as he tugs you closer. The slow plunge of his hips turning into a shallow grind.
Fingers circling and pressing, in rhythm with the heady drag of his cock against your walls. Your fingers grasping onto his arms, his shoulders - the kiss is messy when he meets the tilt of your head.
Leaning into you as his tongue licks into the cup of your mouth, your tits pressed up against his chest. A broad hand slipping from your waist, curving against the swell of your ass and squeezing.
“That’s it,” He rumbles against your mouth - eyes half-lidded. A groan when you nip his lower lip - grinning at the way you gasp, when his hips surge forward, “Atta girl, taking me so well.”
Each swipe against your clit feels like a countdown - hips angling until he finds that spot inside you that makes your teeth click together. That slickens him up even further, until he’s pounding into your wet, tight heat.
Your fingers pinch down. Breath going short, until you’re panting. Unable to do more than buck into his touch, as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.
“Couldn’t even wait to get home,” Logan growls, “Needed this cock so badly, didn’t you?”
“Needed you,” You whine, hips rocking to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut, as the winding pressure builds, “Fuck, needed you. Gonna make me-”
The words break on a bitten-back whimper. Your muscles go stiff, bracing yourself in his arms.
“Want you to look at me, sweetheart.” He coos, with that steady roll of his hips. Nudging deep inside you each time, as his fingers circle against your clit, “Eyes on me when you come, alright?”
Your answer is a breathless nod, as you listen.
You don’t think you could look away if you tried. Not with him right in front of you. So close you can see the pull of his brow in concentration, the pretty shade of his eyes.
Fixed on you, as his lips part. The soft pant and grunt as desire throbs in your veins, your fingers curling into a fist in his flannel.
“Come for me, baby.” He urges, “Wanna feel you, let me fucking feel you come.”
It’s there, swirling inside you. Liquid heat between your thighs, yanking you to an invisible edge. Leaving you to dangle, breath held -
“Oh my god, Logan-“
You’re falling - clenching down hard around him. His name is a chanted prayer as he fucks you through it - a ragged, pleased sound rumbling in this throat as you pulse around his cock. The slap of his hips growing louder, more wet as your release coats his cock. His base and balls sticky, when they press flush to your cunt.
“That’s it,” He growls. Fingers leaving your clit, so he can grip your waist. Drive into you harder, chasing his own impending release.
“Come on, that’s my girl.”
It’s pulled from you, sweet and smooth.
“Yours.”
Logan’s moan is ragged, coming from low in his chest. His pace stutters - the steady thrust turning sloppy. A messy rut of his hips, grinding himself as deep as he can before he finds himself again.
You forget the dingy bar. The flickering overhead lights. Filth and phone numbers scrawled on the walls. Everything narrows down to him.
How he holds you. Looks at you - so much said in the way they soften. You don’t know how you ever could have doubted.
Blinded with uncertainty. Fears from before, that will no longer have a hold on you.
“Logan,” You sigh, your heel digging into the curve of his ass. Eyes still on his, as your plea slips from you, “Fuck. Don’t pull out.”
You want to feel him. The throb of his cock when he comes deep inside you. How he lingers, slick and dripping from you - now, and later, and tomorrow.
A gritted-out groan, as the sharp tempo increases. Fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, and you’ll wear him there, too - fading marks against your hips.
“Yeah?” Logan husks - that look back in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, as his lips part with a groan, “Gonna be my good girl, gonna fucking take it?”
“Mhm,” It pitches high, as you nod.
“Fuck.”
It comes out choked, as he loses himself in you. One, two, three thrusts, and Logan is growling - hands slipping down to tug you flush against him, as he spills inside you with a muffled shout.
Hips grinding himself deep into you, his words a rough rasp in your ear, “Take it. Just like that.”
He pulses inside you, filling you with each twitch of his cock. Marking you fully, as he tests his teeth against your shoulder. A moan, as your thighs hitch around his hips - nudging him deep, where you’re wet and warm and wrapped around him.
Leaving him to grind every last drop into you, slumping back when his grip finally loosens. Your limbs feel like liquid lead, head tipped back against the glass. A groan muffled against your neck, as your fingers slip beneath the tugged-open flannel.
Nails scratching along his back, the tight muscles beneath easing.
“Boyfriend, huh?” Logan hums when he finally leans back - and you already miss his hands on you, as they shift to brace against the counter.
It feels cruel that he teases you like this. When you swear you can still feel the throb of his cock inside you. When he’s still sheathed to the hilt.
You groan, “Don’t make fun of me, Logan.”
“‘m not sweetheart,” He huffs, eyes going soft.
“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”
There’s something off about your apartment - he can sense it the moment they make it to the landing.
This is exactly what he had been trying to tell you. The when, not if, something will go wrong. His senses flickering into overdrive, nostrils flaring.
Catching the light that creeps from under the door, when he knows you clicked it off. His hand automatically leaves yours, reaching out to tuck you safely behind him.
“Logan?” There’s confusion in your voice, a hand at his shoulder.
He shushes you, his words a low growl.
“Someone’s in your apartment. Stay here, sweetheart.”
There’s the soft snick of his claws, your fingers untwisting from his shirt. A breath, and then his hand is closing around the knob - a sharp jerk of his fist as his shoulder slams into the wood.
Teeth bared, as he bursts into your apartment with a snarl.
All that fury bleeds to relief, and then disappointment.
“How’d you get in here?” Logan grits, his claws sheathing.
Your voice joins his, from where you had peeked around the doorframe, “You okay, Wade?”
Hazy, morose eyes peer back at him - a hand lifting to wiggle “baby knife” at him. A newly-opened bottle of your cooking sherry in the other - a plate balanced on his chest, filled with a half-eaten chicken breast and vegetables. Legs stretched out on your sofa, Dogpool curled between his ankles.
“She didn’t show,” Wade mutters, with a miserable smile, “Didn’t want to be alone.”
Logan can’t help the soft flicker in his chest when you go to him. Sinking to your knees by the couch - moving the plate to the coffee table, lifting Dogpool into your arms. She licks your chin as Wade lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh - flipping to face the back of the couch.
"What was the point of the first two movies?" The words are muffled into the fabric, "Why would Disney do something like this? We were picking out baby names for fuck’s sake-"
“I’m so sorry,” You soothe - a hand on his back, “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?”
Wade’s head turns to the side, with a long sigh.
“Thor’s phone number.”
“How about I take this,” You tug at the bottle, until it loosens, “And I text Peter? We can have a movie night, okay?”
He turns further, until he’s facing you again, “Even that one you hate?”
"Don’t hate it." You sigh, “It’s just so sad. I don’t know why it’s your favorite.”
“It’s not my fault they made that tree star look so goddamn delicious.”
You’re beckoning Logan over, a gesture to take his place. You hand on his arm, beseeching - but you don’t have to beg this time. The snarling dog inside him calmed - the fury from the bar and from the hallway ebbing at your touch. He can still feel your lips against his, when his eyes close.
The uncomfortable itch of opening up oneself still lingers, but it’s soothed by the way you smile at him in thanks. By the words that he still clings to.
Logan has to fold himself into the space, knees folding. Mary Puppins tucked in the crook of his elbow - his other hand patting against a curved-in shoulder.
Sincerity, as he offers, "Tough luck, bub.”
“It’s her loss.” You call, thumbs tapping away a message.
“Her loss.” Logan echos, “You’re… you’re a good man, Wade. It’ll work out.”
It comes out clumsy. It always does - he never had a silver tongue like the Professor did. His edges as sharp as his claws, never one to waste words if his fist could do the job.
Wade flips back over. The hint of a smile, “That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Before his eyes are flicking over to where you pace, voice lowering.
“And I gotta ask, did you maul Sugar? What is with that mark on her neck?”
Logan huffs, lips twitching.
“We’re all set,” You smile, “Your Emotional Support Peter is on his way. He’s bringing Al and some ice cream.”
A glance his way, the question written so plainly in your eyes - the lift of your brow. “That okay?”
It’s not the way he imagined this night going.
Had thought he’d take you to bed when he got back. Take things slower, this time.
Using his touch and the greedy press of his mouth to make sure you understand that he heard every word you told him. That he meant each one he said back - make sure you never made the mistake of thinking he didn’t care for you again.
But when he looks at you - how you’re ready to sweep into the kitchen to make some popcorn, he thinks-
That he might just prefer this. Even as messy as it is.
He smiles back.
The couch is crammed with far too many people. Five squeezing into a space meant for three at best. You’ve been half perched on his lap all night, his arm slung over your shoulder - tempted to pull you the rest of the way.
A couple months ago, his skin would have crawled to be this close to others. Would have peeled himself away with a scathing word and a sharper bite.
But something softened him, during his time in this world. Days, to weeks, to months.
Couldn’t go back, he knows that now. All the wishing and TVA TemPads couldn’t undo what was done - he’s known that for a while. It would take a long time, but he could try to come to terms with what happened. Try to do better, moving forward.
Starting with himself. A scrap of paper - snatched from a bottom of a flier with a brightly-printed 12-step program, shoved deep into his leather jacket pocket. Relearning how to be patient with others, and even more so with himself. Trying to listen what you and Wade told him.
He’s done walking away from things. You make him believe that whenever, if ever, he manages to open that tightly-sealed lid… you’ll stay.
The thought is one that he'll cling to.
“Alright. Enough bullshit.”
It’s announced, as the credits roll - breaking him out of his thoughts. A creak of the couch as Wade shifts - crammed between you and Al, his head twisting on her shoulder to peer over his way.
“‘m being serious now.” He insists, though the words slur together - the bottle stolen back during the movie and drained, “I’m so happy my two besties are falling in love, even if I am a jealous little bitch.”
A gasp, as he remembers - a reaching over to pat Peter’s shoulder, “Not that I’m forgetting about you, sugar bear. You too, Blind Al. I’d be just as happy if you two were dating. It'd be like a less fucked-up Harold and Maude."
A derisive snort from Al.
Peter smiles, “Just happy to be here, pal.”
“Anyways, life sucks balls. Big, fat, sloppy, wet, balls, but goddamn if seeing you two happy doesn’t fill me with hope.”
Logan can hear the hitch in your breath. The pressure of your fingers, entwined with his. Embarrassment flickering across your face, when you are unable to help glancing his way.
Exasperation and something else mixing in when you meet his gaze. Something soft and tender and directed so solely at him, that for a moment - he forgets to breathe.
Falling in love, huh?
Yeah. He might just be.
a/n: i adore frank castle, haha. i thought he would be a fun person to pull in for a jealous!logan scenario - and thank so from the bottom of my heart for all the love on sugar, sugar - I honestly had no idea so many of you would like it, and I can’t tell you how much it means to read your sweet asks and comments 💖 this is all I have planned for them right now, and will be catching up on some comments/reblogs/fics this weekend! thank you for letting me share this series with you!!! (though I am definitely not done writing for logan!)
You think the slits where Logan's claws come out are a sensitive spot for him? When you glide your fingers over them, he shivers with an uncontrollable delight. When you press your fingers into them and feel the tips of the sharp blades that make his claws, he can't help but let out something of a strangled moan.
Maybe you found out while playing with his fingers, long and thick and freshly wet from being inside you—still slick with your scent. His knuckles are hairy, just like the rest of him, hiding the thin slits from which his claws extend from.
You did it by accident. Your fingertips finding the openings and pressing. Logan tossed his head back against the headboard and let out a deep, guttural moan that seemed to surprise even himself.
You were delighted by your discovery. Logan was not. “Don’t do that again, bub.” But you were too excited, too enthralled by the idea that maybe you could make him cum by just using the three little holes between his knuckles.
You were quick to climb on top of him, straddling his hips between your knees as your sat yourself on his meaty thighs. He did little to stop you though his strength far outweighed your own. He could have you across the room in a second if he wanted to, but of course he didn't.
He did struggle however, as he watched you take his fingers into your warm, pretty mouth. “I could hurt you.” You never heed his warnings. The pads of his fingers slid against the wet flat of your tongue as you took the digits further and further. They were long and thick and with two of them, it felt much like taking a cock down your throat. You gagged and swallowed him down until he was knuckles deep in your mouth, drool dripping from your lips and down your chin.
Your tongue parted his fingers just enough for it to slip through and prod carefully at the slit between his fingers. Watching his lips part and his body shudder beneath your touch was almost orgasmic. You licked at the slit in tentative touches and felt him grow harder between your thighs.
“S-stop."
But you couldn't. How could you when you had him quivering? You could see Logan’s hair-covered abs tightening as he bucked his hips beneath you, his cock nice and hard against his naval. You dipped your tongue into the slit like licking pussy and watched him, red in the face and in the cock, nearly explode.
And when he does cum—which he does—quick and plentiful. He groans louder than he’s ever before, back nearly arching as he twitches. Logan cums so hard that some managed to get tangled in the hairs on his chest. You’re highly satisfied with your work and decide that maybe just one more time wouldn't hurt.
⋅˚₊‧ ୨ darlene ୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ (on writing hiatus) @delicateblues - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
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