Logan Howlett x Reader!Loganverse| smut | 5.8k words
Summary: You are the deceased-anchor-being-Logan's lover, having found yourself with Laura in the void, you navigate meeting the variant of the love of your life. Sweet dick kicking angst with gratuitous smut, cause we all know Logan eats pussy like a CHAMP. 😤
This is self indulgence at its finest, but it had be to done. 7-years ago, the movie Logan broke something within me that has finally been fixed! 🤠💕
Warning: Explicit - smut. canon death, depression, angst, spoilers for Logan / Wolverine and deadpool, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, creampie, all the good stuff. 18+
The first time you see him again, the new him, the other him you mean. It’s in the cave accompanied by a man who talks far too much.
You recognise his voice in an instant when the mouth finally allows him to get a word in edgeways. His voice.
You’ve heard it nearly every night for the past seven years. It's a few octaves deeper than you remember and filled to the brim with vitriol but it's definitely his. The realisation that your memory has been warped by time is a blow to the gut but you continue towards the sound all the same.
When finally you round the corner Logan stands before you in all his glory. For a moment you are rendered utterly unable to form a single sentence as he leans against the wall, a bottle of bourbon in his palm and adorned in yellow and blue.
Your mind can't reconcile this figure as the man you buried. He has the same sneer, the same broad shoulders, he even has the same stance - but Logan, your Logan, would rather die than wear that garish yellow suit and admit to being the hero he always was.
His nose flares in what you believe to be recognition as he smells your presence, you allow your powers to retreat and reveal yourself. As your invisibility ebbs away Logan snarls in surprise as the talkative man in red gasps theatrically and begins jumping on the spot.
Your fears are proven well founded when your eyes connect with his across the room, instead of the love and recognition, you find only open hostility and rage.
Your heart had bulldozed all logic, you were in the fucking void, of course it was a variant.
This Logan looks younger; his hair not so grey, his face unscarred and his eyes not so tired.
This not-quite-Logan stares right back at you seemingly ill at ease with the stranger who is currently taking an inventory of his face.
“Logan, that's them. It’s X-23 and Y/N, the one’s I told you about.” You graze your palm along your daughter's back in support as you come to stand beside her.
“Her name is Laura.” It’s a knee jerk reaction; your correction. Your girl wasn’t the sum total of an experiment, she was her own person with her own thoughts and feelings, not a weapon to be utilised.
The Wolverine’s gaze darts between the two of you, it’d be comical if you didn’t feel like you were about to regurgitate your lunch. They land on Laura, and linger there for a few moments, before they return to you, it's as if he’s trying to find you in her features.
You barely hear the man you will later come to know fondly as Wade Wilson, question how you all ended up in the void.
“There was a knock at the door TVA sent me here, saying my world was dying … and I never even got the chance to fight for it.” Blade explains remorsefully.
“They sent us here because they knew we’d put up a fight.” You utter distractedly, finally breaking your staring contest with Logan as he takes a swig from the bottle he’s currently white knuckling.
“People like us don’t go quietly, TVA knows that so they took us out.” Elektra attests.
“The answer is yes, I’m in.” Wade declares.
“In what?” Blade questions bemused by the man in red.
“A team up, you me, me you, all of us together, lets get the fuck outta’ here.”
“Don’t listen to him, he’s a fucking liar!” Logan growls, furious at the other man.
“It was an educated wish!”
“HA!” The loathing behind it makes you pause, he was so angry.
The heat in his voice, the resentment, it burns you. You supposed even your Logan had his fair share of rage.
When he arrived at the mansion all those years ago, fresh faced and wild, you had adored him even then, though Logan was far too preoccupied with Jean to notice the torch you carried for him back then.
It was ironic that It had taken the utter annihilation of the X-Men to bring you together. Charles’ accident had left the two of you as sole survivors. Over the years in hiding your ability to mould force fields managed to keep the worst of the effects of Charles’ seizures at bay, but Charles Xavier was one of the most powerful telepaths to grace the earth and your powers had limits.
Those years were some of the darkest and yet the best of your life, you found yourself growing to love the man the world called The Wolverine.
You realise you’ve entirely tuned out Wade’s rousing speech and have spent the time analysing the man wearing your love’s face currently gargling bourbon though your name pulls you out of your reverie.
“Laura, Y/N? What’s it gonna’ be girlies?”
“Lets fucking go.” Laura agrees heartily, you simply nod still dazed.
“YES! LET’S FUCKING GO!” Wade shouts back fist pumping.
“You’re all fucking dead.”
Much later in the evening when the sun has finally set you seek him out. When you come across the father and daughter duo before the campfire you hold back, your skin slowly begins reflecting light, fading from vision as you call upon your powers to hide in the treeline.
They both needed this and it wasn’t something you were about to get in the way of. They talk for a little while, before they part ways, both a little teary. Laura nods your way despite being unable to see you as she heads back to the cave, her nose just as keen as her fathers.
So it shouldn’t surprise you a few moments later when you hear Logan's voice call across the clearing.
“You gonna’ stand there all night, Bub?” The man sounds utterly exhausted.
You say nothing in response, only dismissing your powers and revealing yourself as you advance. You take Laura’s seat at the fire, not quite having the courage to look at him just yet.
“You hear all that? Should mind your own damn business.” You remembered this Logan well, the one aching for a fight, desperate to shed his vulnerability and bloody his fists.
“I didn’t hear a thing, Logan.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, you haven’t had to gentle parent The Wolverine in a while but it’s like riding a bike. “I wanted to let the two of you talk, she needed it and I think maybe you did too.”
“What do you fuckin’ know.” He growls dismissively, swigging from his bottle of what now appears to be scotch. “You can skip the speech and go back up, I’m not looking for company.”
“I’m not here to tell you what to do, Logan.” Finally, you look away from the fire and find his eyes fixed on you, you swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “I just wanted to see you.”
“See me?” He questions incredulously. “Well, keep the change, bub. Good night.”
Despite your smile at his words, you can’t help the tears that begin to cloud your eyes. Your mind and your heart have been locked in a constant battle since setting eyes on him. This man by all rights is Logan. The man you have mourned relentlessly and yet in every way that matters he isn’t.
“It’s like seeing a ghost.” Is the only explanation you can give him, his response is a stoic cheers with his bottle before he takes a deep gulp.
Finally either his curiosity or the alcohol gets the better of him as he questions. “You her Mother?”
“Yes and no.” His stare doesn’t leave your face as he waits for you to elaborate. “Her biological mother was a woman from Mexico City that the fuckers in the lab exploited, all we know is that she disappeared after giving birth. After … you … after everything that happened in North Dakota…” You trail off.
Your voice is suddenly thick and your words get stuck in your throat as you try to make them form. It's utterly embarrassing as you feel the traitor tears begin to form.
A bottle of Johnny Walker enters your field of vision from where you sit staring at your clasped hands in your lap. Startled, you glance up to find the Wolverine standing before you, casting an impossibly large shadow as he holds out the bottle.
You accept the offering from his gloved hand, your fingers grazing his in the transaction as you take a swig or two (or three) before passing it back. He looks thoughtful when he places his lips on the place where your own had just lingered, as he retakes his seat. With amber courage coursing your veins, you continue.
“She was all I had - if not for her, I-.” You wipe your nose, staring back into the fire. If it was a struggle to meet his eyes before, it was impossible for you now. “I just couldn’t see the point in being alive anymore if everything just slowly gets stripped away; the X-Men, then Charles and then Lo-”
You don’t know it, but you’re preaching to the fucking choir with your words. It was rare to find a soul, going through the exact same torture as yourself. Logan found himself softening to you, it was as involuntary as it was unwelcome, but he couldn’t help it as you described a battle so close to the one he fought daily.
“-she reminded me what I had to live for. Laura she is fierce and so fucking kind; she is everything I loved about him.” You cut your trauma dumping to a swift end as you remember yourself. “So no, to answer your question. I’m not her biological mother, but she’s my daughter in every way that counts.”
Silence reigns for a moment as neither one of you knows what to say to the other.
“You loved him?” Logan’s voice is deeper than before when he speaks the sentence. You raise your eyes from the fire to find his for the first time since you began monologuing. They’re filled with something you can’t quite name.
“I did.”
Logan seems to contemplate this, mulling it over as he continues drinking. Finally, he seems to reach some sort of conclusion. “You should get some sleep, big day for you tomorrow.”
“Can I stay here … with you for tonight?” The words slip out before you really even mean them to. Tomorrow you might be going to your death and the ghost of the love of your life is here alive and real, what do you really have to lose?
Logan does a double take, not quite expecting those to be the words that leave your lips. “I’m not him, Darlin’.”
“No, I suppose you’re not.” You sigh, “but could you please just hold me whilst I sleep, James?”
A huge part of you expects him to tell you to fuck off back to the cave and leave him to his booze fueled pity party. However, against all odds, he doesn’t do that.
Logan simply lifts the half full bottle of scotch to his lips and downs every last drop. He’s a little unsteady on his feet when finally he stands up to his full height and turns towards the blankets he’s laid out on the ground.
“Fuck it.” He growls and drops himself like a sack of potatoes onto the pile with little regard for his own body. You’ve certainly had nicer invitations into his bed but when he waves you over with a lazy gesture, you can’t help but hurry before he changes his mind.
Before you know it you’re tucked into Logan’s side. His gloved hand doesn’t quite seem to know where to go, more accustomed to brutality than tenderness these days as it hesitates for a moment suspended in the air. After some careful consideration he delicately places it on the dip in your waist securing you to him.
Logan’s breath is uneven, though he’s doing his best to seem unaffected by your closeness. It has been years since someone has touched him with such easy affection and the way your body curls around his own as if it was created to do just that is driving him crazy.
You are completely at ease with him, you trust him so entirely it almost breaks his fucking heart. Logan's stomach is heavy with something he can’t name, you fucking terrify him. Yet, he doesn’t move because you feel so fucking good as he holds you.
It's scary, you realise, how easy it would be to pretend this was your Logan as you melt into his embrace. He smells exactly the same as you bury your face in his neck, the roughness of his beard feels the same pressed against your forehead.
This Wolverine’s arms are a little fuller and his chest a little firmer, but he still holds you the same. You make a decision to not focus on such difficult philosophical concepts as variants and the morality of switching out your Wolverine. You decide to live in the moment, to just enjoy the furnace of his body keeping you warm and his arm encircling your waist protecting you from the world, it’s so easy to pretend that this was your Logan, so you do.
And you fall asleep quicker than you have in years.
It is still night when you awaken, it's not quite dawn but the fire has burned out to a low smoulder. You’re not sure what has awoken you from the best sleep you’ve had in a long while, that is until you feel the arms wrapped around you and the sleeping Wolverine holding you in a death grip against his chest, his half hard appendage digging into your hip.
Everything is still hazy; you’re floating in that sweet spot between waking and dreaming, you forget about North Dakota and, god forgive me, Laura.
You’re back in your bed at home and Logan is holding you.
There's no my logan, new logan, old logan.
He’s just Logan.
You bury yourself deeper in his neck.
It’s only for a moment though before it all comes flooding back and the agony overwhelms you like a blade to the gut.
Instantly tears flood your cheeks as you shake from your silent sobs.
“...Y/N?” Logan's voice is thick with confusion and sleep, his grip has loosened somewhat to allow you to breathe but he doesn’t release his hold on you. “What’s wrong darlin’?”
That affectionate name is the last nail in the coffin it fucking ends you.
All teary, and regrettably maybe a teensy bit snotty, you lean forward and kiss him. Kiss isn’t the right word but it’s your intention. Your lips touch one anothers before he’s pulling away and holding you back.
“Y/n… Darlin’ you don’t want this… I’m not-”
“But you are Logan. You’re him just as much as he’s you.” Your hands rise to his jaw, running your finger along its familiar sharp edge. “You’re Logan.”
“Y/N… I’d be taking advantage…” His voice is firm yet gruff as he tries to inject reason into the conversation. As usual being the good guy he’s constantly telling everyone he’s not.
“I am so goddamn sick and tired of being sad, please Logan.” This time when you capture his lips, he doesn’t rear back. You’re not sure what’s going through his mind, but his self control seems to snap within him as he begins returning the kiss in earnest.
Logan’s tongue swipes along your bottom lip begging entry, entry you swiftly allow. You’re breathing heavily through your nose as he plunders the depths of your mouth, exploring your mouth with his quick tongue.
Deciding to make the next move you push yourself up, throwing a leg over him to straddle his lower stomach. He’s lifted the top half of his body to ensure he doesn’t lose your mouth, your teeth clash slightly with the movement and you can’t help a bubble of nervous laughter. He pays it little mind though as he swallows the noise, his hands coming to rest on your hips.
Instantly, you grind your hips downward on the growing bulge that lurks below. Logan lets out a deep groan at the friction and his hands on your hips raise to the bottom of your tee in response, his thick hands tugging at it requesting your permission.
Nodding, you pull back causing him to groan at the loss of your hot mouth on his. Though it's only for a moment as the second the tee is over your head, he’s back on you, only it's your bare neck he’s lashing with affection now.
Logan breathes in deep your scent mixing with the heady aroma of your arousal. He’s nipping and licking along the smooth skin, soothing his bites as quickly he makes them. It's the animal instinct within him, telling him to devour you entirely; make you his.
“Logan…” You gasp, your eyes are clenched shut in pleasure as he bucks his hips upwards into your jean covered centre.
Logan pulls back to take you in, writhing above him in the moonlight, you’re fucking beautiful, though the flash of familiar metal between your breasts catches his eye, unable to stop himself, he catches it in his fist.
Dog tags; his old dog tags.
‘LOGAN’ is etched into the aged metal and they’re warm to the touch from living beneath your shirt over your heart.
The realisation hits him like a freight train, not only was he loved by you, but for his other self to have given you these, he fucking loved you.
He’s not sure why it didn’t occur to him before, that the other him was as devoted to you as you were to him. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it, but he twists his hands, careful not to snap the metal string, but using it to pull you close.
For the other dead Logan, the hero he’s heard so goddamn much about, he decides he’ll give you the treatment you deserve.
As if you weigh nothing at all he flips you onto your back, his hands dropping the dog tags and falling to the waistband of your jeans. His dexterous hands undo the button so quickly, that your trousers are peeled from your legs before you know it, leaving you in an unimpressive unmatching set of underwear beneath his roaming eyes. Though Logan couldn’t give a fuck as he groans at the sight of your body exposed to him.
Logan begins by kissing down your stomach before his hands linger on your black panties, he can't help but grin at the tiny barely there bow in the middle of them; you’re like a gift all wrapped up for him.
His eyes lift to meet your own as he begins sucking at the fabric that's keeping your pussy from him, it's already damp with your arousal and by the time he finishes, absolutely sodden with his saliva.
“Logan, please…” you whisper desperately as your hands find his ‘tufts’ for a lack of a better word. They were new, but you liked them, plus they now seemed pretty functional.
He takes only a moment to remove his gloves, before they return eagerly to your body. Those thick hands traverse the planes of your thighs, they’re quick in their passing as they make their way up to the waistband of your panties, he hooks them over his thumb and reveals your soaking core to his hungry eyes and he’s right back to wanting to fucking devour you, and boy, fucking does he.
Enthusiastic, would be the word, earth-shattering would be another - the word to describe how Logan eats pussy.
Logan without much preamble dives into your centre, his tongue slips into your hot wet heat, lingering for a moment on your clit, circling it reverently before he dips that talented tongue inside of you. His nose knocks against your clit several times, each more delicious than the last as he utterly devours your pussy. He moans, grinding his hips into the dirt and readjusts pulling you closer, his thick muscled arms locking under your thighs as you buck against his mouth.
You're a complete goner the second he slips a single long thick finger inside of you.
“Fuck, Lo, I’m gonna-”
“Come, baby... I got’ya.” He mumbles into your pussy. And fuck me, he does. He carries on lapping at you all the way through your orgasm, drawing it out of you like the pied fucking piper of pussy. It feels like you’ve been falling for hours by the time you finally come down, only Logan doesn’t allow you any reprieve before he’s back to lashing your clit with his quick tongue. Your hands find those faux ear tufts once more and he groans as you pull on them a little more sharply than you intend in your shock, in answer Two fingers bury themselves deep inside of you.
“One more.” He’s negotiating orgasms, but you have no qualms as he rubs his nose side to side with affection against your sensitive bud. His tongue and nose moving in pace with his fingers, currently fucking in and out of you.
It's when he scissors those thick long fingers inside of you, hitting that spongy spot within you that makes your back arch.
Your top half has left the ground, he grunts in annoyance, suspending your hips back to his mouth at the angle he likes. Those deep hazel eyes meet yours from between your thighs, crazed and animalistic, driven wild with arousal as he eats your pussy with gusto.
It's that image that thrusts you over the edge once more, your back hitting the ground as your body seizes, thrusting your hips against his mouth.
Without any preamble a third finger joins stretching you deliciously. The hand not currently fucking you, leaves your hip to caress your stomach stroking the flesh there, not quite able to reach your breast.
“Lo… fuck… yes… right… right fucking there.” You cry as he draws your second orgasm of the night out, only when you tug at his tuft due to overstimulation does he acquiesce and pull back, only of course, after cleaning up your gaping desperate hole.
He sucks his fingers clean as he sits back on his knees, his cock thick and tenting against the yellow bottoms of his suit. Your arousal has soaked through his beard making his chin slick, he wipes it with a single swipe with the back of hand though, it does very little for his sodden chin.
Tired of not touching him, you sit forward grabbing at his belt. It's a difficult contraption that confounds you, though Logan is far too wound up to find any humour from it.
He replaces your hands unbuckling the thing before finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head.
There, finally in all his glory, he is exposed to you and you’ve never been a religious woman, but Mary mother of fucking christ, he is gorgeous. Logan’s chest is fucking… transcendant to behold, it's like he’s been sculpted by god herself, the light isn’t the best out of here, but you hope to god you don’t die tomorrow simply for wanting to take your time and lick each and every single one of those muscles on his stomach.
Its your turn to leap forward onto your knees and join his mouth with yours, he tastes distinctly of you and his chin is still sodden, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck, you love the fact your desire is still marking his skin.
Your hands trace the firm abs at your disposal, before dipping into his now open trousers and underwear to find him rock hard.
If his physique impressed you, you had a big storm coming, because his cock was a fucking resplendant beauty and it was plain to see from the swelling Logan really liked eating pussy.
Your fingers barely touched as you pumped him, once twice, spreading the copious amounts of precum along his shaft.
“Fuck.” He grunts into your mouth. You lean down, positioning yourself to take him in your mouth, though he stops you in your tracks grabbing your shoulder. “No sweetheart, I want your pussy.” You clench around nothing at his filthy words, this man will be the fucking death of you.
You reach behind you and free your tits from their confines, another moan leaves his throat as he pushes you backwards. On his hands and knees he’s deliberate with every move as kicks the bottoms of his suit off as he prowls towards you.
Finally, he’s in between your legs naked as the day he was born. His hands are on your breasts, exploring the new plains exposed to him, playing with your nipples alternating between sucking and twirling them between his fingers.
So lost in his skilled hands, you barely notice when one disappears to line himself up, it's a shock, the sudden intrusion, but not an unwelcome one as he thrusts himself forward and as deep as he can go.
You moan his name into his ear, doing your best to keep your volume down.
He has prepared you well, you’re so worked up that he slides home through your tight slit. The sheer size of him means it's a stretch that borders on uncomfortable, but the second his hand finds your clit you’re clenching around him and grinding forward, desperate for more. Unable to control himself, his claws extend, he grunts pulling you close and thrusting them down into the ground.
“Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts into your neck, where he's busy lavishing the flesh once again with bites. Your neck is going to be black and blue tomorrow, but you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck.
The two of you are so fucking close his bare skin so deliciously hot against your own, but you want more, you need more.
Logan pulls his hips backwards, pulling out of you until only the tip remains before slamming home and spearing you wide open his cock. Your moans blend together as you lose yourself in each other's bodies.
Logan is worked up from eating your cunt, so it doesn’t take long for the sensation to hit him.
“Fuck, where do you want it?” He grunts into your neck, as his hand descends to rub quick circles on your clit. He pulls your ass up, making sure to hit the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.
You know he’s teetering on the edge, desperate to make you cum before he does.
“Inside - come inside me, baby.” You whimper into his neck as he pounds into you reaching your deepest recesses with his thick cock, his hammering, it’s unforgiving with his enhanced strength but it pushes him deeper into spots you couldn’t have imagined. He groans at your words, sounding every bit the wounded animal he is. Your shared groans and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass as he takes you again, and again is all that can be heard in the clearing.
Finally as he joins your lips in a kiss, you come hard on his cock. Clenching around him as your body writhes uncontrollably.
Logan adjusts his hold on your thighs, now he uses your body, drawing out your pleasure but ultimately chasing his own. The pace is fast as he grunts and groans erotically into your neck, he fucking growls as his hips stutter against your own, and you know you should be more careful, but the thought of him cumming inside you has you gripping his cock like a vice once more. You give him a tight sheath to come in, and he pumps you fucking full of his cum and its a big fucking load. Logan thrusts a few more times, pushing his seed deep inside of you as he claims your mouth once more.
You run your hands through his hair as he lets his body fall against yours, he’s supporting his own weight, thank god, you don’t think you could handle his muscle, let alone the adamantium skeleton. He’s still sheathed inside you as the two of you revel in the closeness.
The silence stretches on for an amount of time you can’t quite quantify. The two of you take in your surroundings, listening to the quiet of the forest, until your breathing has finally calmed down.
Logan lifts himself up on one arm, and pushes your hair back from your face. You stare at him in the moonlight for a long moment, unable to help yourself as you trace his familiar features. His strong nose and the curve of his brow, your finger dances along his flesh.
Logan’s eyes close, so touch starved he basks in your affection.
“I-” Logan goes to speak, before you drop your finger on his lips.
“It’s okay. Whatever happens tomorrow, happens. I’m okay with it.” You smile at him, there's a chill to the air but you’ve got your Wolverine warming you up. “I just wanted one night to be about something other than death.”
He takes your hand from his lips and kisses along the back of it and up your wrist, though It's a slippery slope as he hardens inside of you again.
Logan manages to pull two more orgasms out of you before dawn.
When your time has run out, the two of you finally dress, not wanting to be found in a compromising position. Logan curls his body around yours and buries his face in your hair as he spoons you from behind.
Just when you’re just on the cusp of sleep, he finally speaks into the night. Logan opens up about his world tearfully, instantly you reach your hand down, finding his own thicker one resting on your belly and you intertwine your fingers with his. He tells you of the mutant hunting as you draw comforting circles on the back of his hand, it's not much, but it's more than he’s ever had whilst reliving his worst day. When he has finally bared his soul, the two of you fall back into silence.
After what has been an emotionally, not to mention physically taxing night the two of you finally fall asleep if only for a few more hours, two incredibly damaged souls offering one another comfort.
It’s later in the morning when you finally awake. The sun has risen that much is clear but you're slow to awaken from your comfortable position in Logan's arms, his warm strong body coiled against your back fighting off the worst of the early morning chill, his face still buried in your hair as he snores peacefully.
There’s a sensation niggling at you, you think it's what woke you up in the first place; you can’t shake the sensation of being watched.
Lazily you open your eyes, only for your heart to drop to your asshole when you find Wade Wilson about 10-inches from your face lying on his side, his head supported by his hand.
“Mornin’ sleepy head, have a good night?” You can hear the smile in his voice.
“AGH!” Unable to stop both your cry of fear and your fight or flight response in progress, you throw yourself backwards, your powers activating of their own accord, and slamming your body into Logan’s chest. He startles awake, with the telltale ‘snikt’ of his claws extending as he orientates himself, his arm coming out to block you from the threat, despite not being able to see you.
After your brain catches up, you call your power back, but Logan doesn’t do the same, keeping his claws out seemingly ready to slice up his not-so-best friend.
“Get the fuck outta’ here, Wade.” Logan growls harshly at the other man, his voice is filled to the brim with hatred.
“Hmph - this is what I get for acting altruistically. I thought a good stress relieving bone in the woods with your cherie amour would really sort out that bee in your bonnet, but you sir are just a very unpleasant man and I’m worried that-”
“WADE.” This time Logan’s voice is a threat as he shouts at the man. You place a hand on his muscled arm to steady him. Though he may have stopped your heart with his antics, Wade isn’t doing anything particularly outrageous. Logan shakes your hand from his arm and allows his claws to retract as he stands.
“Thanks for jumping to my defence there, Y/N. Great to meetcha bt-dubs, huge fan.” You’re disoriented from the wakeup call but you shake the hand he offers you. Honestly, you’re still trying to process the head-fuckery of the past day, so you don’t have a quick response for him, though the mouth doesn’t seem to mind as he continues. “That mean lil’ lady is asking for ya’. Thought I’d come and check you and big yellow weren’t still bumpin’ uglies. Didn’t want her to see you and Papa going to town on each other's fun parts.”
“Uh - Thanks… Wade?”
“That’s me.” He theatrically begins bestowing multiple kisses on the back of your hand he still had in his grasp, which you retract gently. “Oh, and we’re done.”
Pushing yourself up, you go to stand though Logan offers you his newly gloved palm. You lock your fingers around his and the two of you stand together, inches apart and your fingers still intertwined, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Wade’s ‘awh’ over your shoulder shatters the moment and he drops your hand instantaneously.
After a beat or two Logan leans forward, placing a single solitary kiss on your forehead. “See ya’ around, bub.”
“Where’s my smooch, Logie-bear?”
“Go fuck yourself, Wade.” He calls as he walks around, Logan doesn’t look back as he heads off into the forest.
You still had faith he’d turn up for the fight, Logan always turned up when it counted and you knew this time would be no different.
“Hate to see him leave, but love to watch him go.” Wade sighs linking his arm with yours.
“Mmh, You can say that again.” You agree with the clown watching Logan’s ass as he walks away, you swear you see his step falter thanks to his impeccable hearing, but he doesn’t turn back.
The two of you turn and you begin walking back to the cave arm in arm with the strange man to prepare for the assault on Cassandra’s lair when Wade finally asks the question you know he’s been dying to ask since meeting you “So, Y/N just between us girls… how big is it?”
LOGAN TENDER HAIR TUCK SUPREMACY RISE. I'll use it in every fic, don't think I won't.
꒰ wc ꒱ 15k words
꒰ summary꒱ after stalking you for years, dex is completely unprepared for the dizzying reality of finally being invited into your life—your apartment, your bed, your soft thighs opening for him so sweetly that he can barely tell where fantasy ends and addiction begins.
.ᐟ contents |
18+ (MDNI), stalking, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f&m!receiving), pervert!dex, canon!dex, fbi!dex, horny!reader, oblivious!reader, stealing, panty sniffing, panic attacks, mental breakdown, suicidal dex, mentally unstable dex, canon compliant, somnophilia, dub-con, inexperienced!dex, mentioned murder, humping, groping, spit swapping, finger sucking, creep!dex, breeding kink, fluff, dark romance, manipulation, gaslighting, all in dex's pov
.ᐟ lizzy’s note |
this fic has been plaguing my life for the last three months and now im finally free. genuinely just wanted to write smut, then forced myself to create plot leading up to it. trying out a new layout, pls don't burn me at the stake.
at this rate stay tuned for my next dex fic in 2027 <3
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
divider by @uzmacchiato
Dex loved sushi night Fridays.
You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.
Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.
The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew you’d order it before you did.
You referred to it as your “cheat day,” something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or “trying to be healthier,” only to cave every Friday night without fail.
But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.
He’d watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wings—any kind really— when you were too tired to cook… or on your period.
And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.
Dex didn’t think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.
If he had things his way, you’d indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.
He’d drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.
The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.
Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.
Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.
He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.
That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.
God.
He needed this.
Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.
His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.
But here, things felt… normal.
Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dex’s car.
The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.
Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.
Dex smiled before he could stop himself.
He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.
Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.
One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.
He hadn’t even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.
Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.
The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.
He’d picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driver’s seat.
His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.
His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.
There she is.
Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.
Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dex’s chest after all these years.
You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.
You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.
His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.
This was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had.
Just you and him.
The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.
The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.
He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.
The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail he’d traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.
Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.
The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.
Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.
He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.
A small souvenir he’d rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.
You’d forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when he’d tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.
Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.
He’d found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that you’d never bothered to mend. He’d slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.
Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.
He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table
Just you and him.
That was all he needed.
He didn’t know what to think when he saw the newspaper.
For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.
Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fisk’s penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.
Then the paper landed in front of him.
FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.
Agent Kane shifted beside him. “I’m sorry, Dex. This isn’t right,” she said quietly.
He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.
Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapes—black ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t understand anything about what he’d done or why.
The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.
Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.
He could feel them looking at him.
Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.
His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.
He was being used as a scapegoat.
By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.
“We’re going to find out who leaked this,” Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.
Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.
Not her eyes. Her mouth.
The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.
She was lying.
They all were.
The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure he’d trusted was cracking around him, when the rules he’d followed were being used to crush him.
It had been the Bureau.
They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.
Easier because he was useful until he wasn’t, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.
After everything, they were disposing of him.
If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.
But the rules had just thrown him away.
“Think of it as a paid vacation,” Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The static in his skull sharpened.
Dex looked down at his badge before he realised he’d already taken it off.
He didn’t remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.
Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.
His hand didn’t feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.
Badge. Gun. Credentials.
Structure.
Mercer’s voice rose in his head before he could stop it.
Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.
Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.
Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.
And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.
By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.
Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.
He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadn’t ten minutes ago.
But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didn’t belong here anymore.
He walked past an agent he’d worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.
Dex’s fingers twitched at his sides.
None of it belonged to him anymore.
Or he didn’t belong to it.
The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.
His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.
He needed out.
He needed air.
No.
Not air.
You.
He needed to see you. Now.
The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.
Dex looked down at his watch.
6:17 p.m.
Thursday.
You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.
Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.
He had never understood that.
He loved that he didn’t understand that.
The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.
Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.
He turned before he’d fully decided to move.
His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.
By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.
Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.
That was fine.
He didn’t need the badge.
He didn’t need their rules.
He had you.
The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dex’s chest.
His palms were slick against his slacks. He’d just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.
Find her. Find her. Find her.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.
His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since he’d left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.
The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.
And Mercer’s voice.
She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasn’t the steady, grounding presence he remembered.
Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.
Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. You’re okay.
Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you can’t even—
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.
He didn’t care.
He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.
You weren’t there.
His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.
Not here. Not here. Not—
He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.
Empty.
The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The frustration crested, crested, broke.
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.
This was stupid.
This was—
Where the hell are you?
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.
He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didn’t know how to exist without breaking things.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’re in control, Dex. You’re always in control.
But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.
He dropped his hands and looked up.
There.
The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.
And everything stopped.
The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.
A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.
His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.
He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldn’t just walk up to you, couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just—
His hands were still shaking.
His chest was still tight.
His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.
He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t calm down.
The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.
If he couldn’t pull himself together now, if he couldn’t drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He couldn’t.
He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.
And for a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do.
The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.
He didn’t know why that particular fruit had caught his attention—maybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.
It didn’t matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.
Three steps away. You were three steps away.
Dex’s shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.
Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes weren’t listening.
They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.
He could smell you.
Estée Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.
He knew the scent because he’d bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after you’d passed.
He’d sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.
He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.
It didn’t.
His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like he’d never held anything in his life.
Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.
We don’t know how this got out, Hattley’s voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. We’re going to find out who leaked this.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest he’d been to you in years.
But nothing helped.
The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery store—
“Excuse me.”
The world snapped into silence.
Dex’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.
He stared.
He blinked.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.
“I don’t know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,” you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice he’d heard a thousand times in his memory, “but do I know you?”
His heart stopped.
Then restarted at double speed.
Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.
“I—” He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, “I don’t think so.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “No, I do.”
There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.
He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.
As if he didn’t have every moment he’d ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.
As if he wasn’t memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.
You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. “I used to work at this diner a few years ago. I don’t know if you know it—Bel Air Diner, maybe?”
He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.
“Bushwick?” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.
Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.
“Yeah!” You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. “The one on the corner of 9th Ave. That’s the one.”
Dex’s breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “Yeah, I remember.”
“But you don’t remember me?”
Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didn’t see coming.
For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.
You were teasing him.
The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that he’d never seen before.
Not in all the hours he’d spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.
In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way you’d duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way you’d bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.
He’d built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.
“I’m kidding,” you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.
He hated himself.
The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.
The Dex in his mind, the one he’d imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.
That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.
But that Dex wasn’t real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.
He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.
“No, no.” His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. “I do remember you now. I’m just surprised you remember me.”
You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.
“Can never forget a handsome face,” you said.
Handsome. She said handsome. She’s flirting with you. That’s what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.
But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.
His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.
“Thank you,” he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.
He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.
“Dex.”
You smiled and told him your name. Like he didn’t already know it. Like he hadn’t whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.
Your hand slid into his.
The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.
He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.
Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldn’t take back.
“So, Dex,” you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.
You had no idea he’d been waiting to hear you say it for years.
“What brings you to the supermarket at—” you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, “—seven pm on a Thursday.”
Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.
And you hadn’t even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.
Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man who’d wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.
There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago he’d been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush he’d had no part in, cast out of the only identity he’d ever known.
That he’d spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.
That he’d driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.
He couldn’t say any of that.
So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.
“End of the week,” he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. “But way less crowded on weekends.”
You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So I guess I’m not original at all, huh?”
You were making a joke, and he’d walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.
He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.
“Great minds think alike, I guess.” He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.
You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.
And then there was a pause.
A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.
But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.
Say something. She’s waiting. She gave you an opening and now you’re letting it die.
But his mind was a blank wall.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. “So, uh—” He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. “You come here often?”
The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line he’d pulled from his brain.
The most generic, cliché, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.
He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. He’d seen that look on women’s faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.
So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.
You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasn’t a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.
Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldn’t control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.
“Yeah, I heard it when I said it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sorry…”
He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didn’t recognise.
You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.
His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.
“I’ll give you a pass for now,” you said, a smile breaking through fully now.
Dex’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Thanks,” he said again , the word barely above a whisper. “I—I’ll try to do better next time.”
You raised your brows again, but your smile didn’t shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. “Next time?”
The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and he’d plummet.
He hoped to God you couldn’t see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.
Adapt. You have to adapt. She’s smooth, she’s quick, she’s going to eat you alive if you don’t keep up.
He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. “You’re the one who said for now.”
And that’s how Dex ended up with your number.
Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.
He’d pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future he’d almost chosen.
His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people who’d used him and discarded him like a broken tool.
One pull. That’s all it would have taken.
Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldn’t name.
It wasn’t relief, exactly—the weight of what he’d almost done was still there.
But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.
He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number.
Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.
The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.
It was a high he’d never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.
And then his phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.
He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.
His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.
He answered, “Hello.”
“When I was a boy…”
His skin wasn’t buzzing.
It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldn’t tell where the violence ended and his own body began.
The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.
He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.
He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.
The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.
The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people he’d just killed.
They weren’t separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.
He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.
The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.
He wasn’t in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.
The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.
His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.
Mercer’s tapes.
He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.
She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.
He paused.
The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.
Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didn’t have to look at the abyss. Mercer’s voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.
He didn’t want to be fixed tonight.
He wanted to be real.
He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.
His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.
Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.
The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.
First ring. A knife.
Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldn’t control it.
His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.
Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul.
Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.
His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.
The click.
A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.
A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.
“Hello?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.
The buzzing in his head didn’t stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.
What the fuck was he doing?
He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.
But he didn’t move.
“…hello?”
Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.
He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.
He cleared his throat.
“Hi. It’s Dex.”
Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.
“From the grocery store,” he added, stupidly. “Earlier today.”
More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.
He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didn’t make him seem unhinged.
Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.
“Oh. Guy from the fruit aisle.”
The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.
But he couldn’t hang up either.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. “Sorry. I know it’s late. I—”
He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words weren’t coming. They never came when he needed them. “I couldn’t sleep.”
A beat. Then, “You call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you can’t sleep?”
There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
“No,” he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Just you apparently.”
The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.
“You’re weird, you know that?” you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.
“I know,” he said. He didn’t even try to deny it.
He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.
But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.
“I was wondering,” he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. “If you’re free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.”
The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get them all out at once.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.
Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.
“You’re asking me out at three in the morning?”
“Depends on if you say yes,” he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than he’d intended, a sliver of confidence he didn’t know he possessed.
Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.
“That’s a good line,” you said. “You rehearse that?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”
“Pretty good for improv.”
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”
A beat. Then, “Depends on what you’re offering.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.
“Anything you want,” he said. And he meant it.
Dex prided himself on focus.
It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.
Ten minutes in and he still couldn’t land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.
He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.
His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.
Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.
You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.
“Relax. You’re sitting like I’m gonna jump over this table and bite you.”
The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.
I’d let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.
He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. “Still can’t wrap my head around why you said yes.”
You shrugged, setting the glass down. “Got nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.”
Hot. You called him hot.
Then your eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.”
The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.
“No. No, god, no. I promise.”
“Good.”
Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.
The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.
He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.
The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.
Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?
“So, Dex from the fruit aisle.” Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. “Tell me something about yourself.”
His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.
“I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Safe. Simple enough. “Or—was. It’s complicated.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”
“The kind that makes for a bad first date story.” He tried to smile. It came out crooked.
You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Fair enough. I’ll take a rain check.”
He nodded, scrambling for footing. “What do you do?”
You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. “Just a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, I’m sure.”
There’s nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. “There’s nothing boring about you.”
You let out a small laugh. “So you do know how to sweet talk a girl.”
He couldn’t hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. “I’m just saying it how I see it.”
“Maybe,” you hummed, “but then again you don’t know anything about me.”
Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life.
He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.
But he couldn’t say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.
The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didn’t catch.
“Well,” Dex murmured, “I’m hoping to learn if you’ll let me.”
Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.
The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldn’t tune into anymore.
Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.
You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didn’t pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.
Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.
It made no sense that you’d picked him. Not that he’d let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.
Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.
The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.
He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe he’d just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.
“How are you getting home?” The words came out before he could stop them.
“Walked here,” you said, pulling out your lipstick. “Guess I’ll do the same.”
He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldn’t look away.
“Let me drive you.”
You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.
Fuck. He’d done too much. He ruined it. He’d pushed too hard, too fast, and now—
“Okay.”
It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldn’t solve.
Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t quiet the noise inside his head.
But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasn’t any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadn’t made yet.
He couldn’t stop glancing at you while he drove.
His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.
No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.
By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldn’t steady.
How had this happened so fast? He’d spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.
The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.
You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.
But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didn’t have a name for.
“I had a good night,” you murmured.
Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. “Me too.” It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.
You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldn’t decode.
He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.
He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.
Your lips met his.
For a long, heavy beat, Dex didn’t move.
His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.
Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.
A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.
Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.
He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.
The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.
The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.
Then something inside him snapped.
The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.
He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.
His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.
His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.
He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.
He didn’t care about breathing anymore.
The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug he’d been starving for his whole life. He’d rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.
Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it.
His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throat—
But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.
The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.
Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.
His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.
His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.
Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.
Push.
The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didn’t pull further back.
You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache you’d left behind.
Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.
“Do you wanna come up?”
Fuck.
The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.
“Yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, “Yeah. Fuck—yes.”
Dex’s pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.
Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map he’d already burned into his memory.
“Nice place.” The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.
He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that he’d watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.
Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.
“Thanks.” Your voice came from right behind him.
Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.
Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.
Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. He’d let you do anything.
You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.
He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.
You were soft in ways he’d only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.
You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. “I don’t do this often,” you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.
“I know,” he breathed without thinking.
The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean, you know?”
Dex’s stomach dropped into freefall.
His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins.
Fuck. Fuck.
He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. “I mean I—I know what you mean. Me too. I don’t—I don’t do this often either.”
You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. “You’re so weird.”
Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.
Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.
He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.
Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.
He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.
You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.
You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.
The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.
“What—what are you doing?” Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.
You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.
“Having my dessert.”
Dex’s brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.
He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,
“Are you sure—you-you don’t have to—”
His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.
A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didn’t give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.
It wanted you. It had always wanted you.
You didn’t hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.
He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.
He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.
Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.
The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.
Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“You don’t want me to suck your cock?”
Jesus Christ.
The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.
He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.
A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. “That wasn’t a no.”
Before he could answer, something wet touched him.
His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.
You didn’t stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.
When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.
“Keep your eyes on me, Dex.”
He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You didn’t even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.
His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.
Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.
The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.
Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t.
Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.
The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didn’t think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.
He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.
You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.
A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. “You gotta stop—or I’m gonna—”
You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.
“No, no, wait—please, I want it to last,” he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. “I’m not gonna make it—I swear to God—”
You didn’t stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.
He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.
Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you anymore.
He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.
You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.
And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.
“Oh fuck—I’m coming—”
His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.
His release slammed into him like a freight train.
Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.
His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.
When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.
The tenderness of it made his chest ache.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That was so fast—I couldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.
But you wouldn’t let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.
Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.
You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. “Yeah?”
You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”
The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.
He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.
He still hadn’t ruined anything yet. He still hadn’t lost you.
His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.
You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.
Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.
You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.
He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.
His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldn’t look away from.
He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.
You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, he’d followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.
He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.
But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.
He couldn’t see your face. Couldn’t watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldn’t feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.
It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.
After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.
He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.
He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.
He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.
By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.
He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.
He captured your gaze and held it hostage.
“Look at me,” he breathed, the command barely a whisper. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”
He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.
He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.
He knew you probably didn’t understand the full scope of it.
But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.
When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.
He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.
His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.
He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.
Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.
“Been waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t ever leave me.”
His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.
You didn’t answer. You probably didn’t even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.
Lost to sleep. Lost to him.
He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didn’t need you to answer. Not tonight.
Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.
The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.
But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.
He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.
And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.
I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.
Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.
He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like home—the faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.
God. This was unbelievable.
And that was where his next problem laid.
He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.
He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.
He couldn’t fucking help it.
He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.
The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.
He had known it would be addictive. He just hadn’t realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldn’t think of anything else.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.
The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.
Fuck. He should let you rest.
He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.
But his cock didn’t give a shit about what you deserved.
Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.
He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.
Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.
The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.
He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just... I need you. I can’t stop needing you.
His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.
The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.
A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.
He froze.
Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught.
She’s going to wake up. She’s going to see what I’m doing. She’s going to realise what a fucking creep I am—that I can’t keep my hands off her even when she’s asleep, that I’ve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.
The seconds stretched like hours.
But you didn’t wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.
He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.
Instead, he kept moving.
His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.
The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.
His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.
He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. “But I can’t... I can’t stop touching you. Every second I’m not inside you feels like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”
His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.
A shudder ran through his entire body.
“Please. Just a little more.”
The words slipped from Dex’s lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.
He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.
There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.
The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t leave him.
His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.
The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.
That’s when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.
“Dex...?”
He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.
His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.
“Shhh,” he breathed against your ear. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got you. Just let me stay right here.”
He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasn’t completely out of control.
But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.
“Dex—”
He couldn’t let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.
And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.
He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.
You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.
“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. “You want this too.”
You didn’t answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.
He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.
The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.
“Dex,” you murmured again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.
He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.
He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.
His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.
His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.
You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.
More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.
A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. “You liked that, didn’t you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.”
Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.
That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, “Uh huh.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.
He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.
Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. “’S fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”
Dex couldn’t help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.
Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.
The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.
He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.
He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.
“I’m gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.
Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.
He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.
The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.
He was seconds away from coming. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
He needed you there first.
With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.
He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.
His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.
You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.
“C’mon,” he breathed, the words cracking. “Let go f’me. Let go, baby.”
And you did.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.
The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.
Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.
When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.
He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.
“Jesus Christ,” you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.
He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.
“Too much?”
A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.
“No.” A pause. “By all means... keep me in your basement if you want.”
Dex’s eyes snapped open.
The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didn’t hear the joke.
He heard the offer.
Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.
And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...
Then why the fuck wouldn’t he do it?
He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.
His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.
“Yeah?”
Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.
His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.
“Then I’m never letting you go.”
a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny
being logan’s wife had its perks, he was the most caring man you’d ever known. he was sweet in his own.. gruff way. always buying an extra quantity of an item because he knew you’d want more of them. say for instance, oreos. he knew better than to only get you one case of them; knowing that they’d be gone in a millisecond and he’d have to trail his behind back to the store to get you more. he’d also buy you flowers every week; making sure that you still felt loved and appreciated even while being well into you two’s marriage. logan wanted nothing more than for you to still feel his love, as he would never stop loving you.
but.. being logan’s wife also came with other perks. one of being the fact that you didn’t have to initiate sex, because logan already knew when you wanted him. he could smell your arousal from a mile away. so when he smells the fact that your pussy is practically flooding, it doesn’t take long before he’s between your thighs and feasting on you like it’s nobody’s business.
“oh fuck! l-logie!” the sound a hitched moan spilled out of your mouth as you looked down at logan between your plump brown thighs as he feasted on your essence. logan simultaneously sucked on your overstimulated bundle of nerves while also stopping to send nice and long flicks up and down your pussy lips. your hand instantly became intertwined with his dark brown locs.
“why’re you doing me like thiss!” you whined as a shiver rolled down your spine. “smelling how wet you were; the whole entire day drove me fucking crazy.” logan grumbled, pausing between the juicy kisses he was giving your clit. your eyebrows began to furrow as you proceeded to let out a very pornographic moan. the sound of your moan fueled logan’s primal need to devour you. his mouth went even more wide and wet, tounge continuously the slits of your walls and circling your clit.
a pool of heat started to form in your stomach, your muscles started to tense and the familiar feeling of being close to your peak started to take over you. “logie, hah—‘m gonna cum!” you declared, ripping your hand away from logan’s locks and instead proceeding to fist the sheets. “cum f’me hun,” logan grumbled. the sound of his words didn’t even get to linger in the air for a moment before you released, your back arched off of the bed and you’re muscles tightened. juices began gushing and trailing out of your essence, and right into logan’s mouth. he instantly began lapping up every trail of cum.
this was a originally an ask.. but tumblr took it down, so i’m going to say thank you to @aizawash0e for requesting this! i love you so much! i swear if tumblr takes this down too i WILL be sending a VERY angry email to them!
a while back @pyraomen you sent me a ask similar to this idea, and i never got back to you… but! i thought since you sent it.. you might like this little drabble.
Tags: female reader, alternate universe - soulmates, time travel, reincarnation, Crowley being Crowley, murder, character death, but not really, angst and feels, angst with a happy ending, fluff.
Summary: Living a dreary, slow life working in a diner-slash-cafe in a terrible small town, waiting for your life to start and soulmate to walk into your life…it happens. You meet the guy. And thus, the story begins.
When you started dating Crowley, you had no idea exactly what would happen. Boy were you in for a surprise....
Warnings: fluff, angst, cussing, trust issues, talks of marriage.
(Let me know if you want any of these Headcanons to have their own story!)
~~~~~~~~~~
First date:
Crowley actually had to ask you out several times over the course of four months before you actually said yes.
The first date was honestly a little over the top. He took you to an extremely upscale restaurant, insisting that it was nothing.
If you don't or can't drink he won't shame you, he simply orders you something else to drink before ordering himself some form of alcohol.
If you do drink he'll order the most expensive bottle of wine.
He showered you with compliments, though he was very confused when you looked down at the table after every compliment.
You brushed it off, telling him you were just tired. He obviously didn't believe you, but chose to drop it.
When the date was over, Crowley took you home, giving you a quick goodbye kiss on the cheek with a soft "Thank you for going out with me". Then he was gone.
This whole situation was confusing. Usually Crowley was one to do anything in his power to get what he wanted, worrying only about himself. But tonight... This whole date... He was doing nothing but complimenting you and making sure you were comfortable... You didn't understand.
You shrugged off your confusion, deciding to go to bed, absolutely sure you'd never see him again after tonight.
But you did....
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Second date.
He appeared at your doorstep two weeks later, holding a bouquet of deep red roses.
You froze when you opened the door and saw him standing there.
He gave you a small smile and a "Hello, love."
You began to stutter out a response but he cut you off, handing you the roses as he began to apologize for being gone so long.
"It's okay.." you responded softly.
He asked you on another date and you agreed without hesitation.
This date was much calmer, like he'd paid attention to your reaction to the first date.
This date was a simple walk through the park at night.
You had no reason to be scared of being out so late at night since you were with the king of hell, someone who wouldn't hesitate to kill someone if they made you uncomfortable.
You both talked for two full hours as you walked.
~~~~~~~~~
Crowley gives you roses at least once a week.
He loves bringing you down to hell, having you sit on his lap while he sits on his throne.
Being a tailor when he was a human, he loves to make you clothes that fit your exact body type.
He loves having his hands on you at all times, it could be just holding your hand, it could be a hand on your waist, it doesn't matter what it is, he loves it.
Speaking of hand holding, the reason why he loves it so much is because he wasn't able to do it when he was human, no matter how much he wanted to.
He loves to watch you indulge in your hobbies. You do art? Can he watch you draw? Oh! You like to write? Can he read what you're writing? Even if you just like taking pictures with your phone, he wants to look at each and every photo.
Despite his position in hell and how he treats other people, this demon is one gentle and attentive lover.
Crowley constantly checks up on you, making sure you've eaten.
Crowley is a major cuddler! He enjoys physical touch, but yours just feels so different to him and he loves it! *
Literally almost cried the first time you snuggled up to him.
Yes, he acts all big and tough, but this man just wants to be loved, and I'm talking real, genuine, passionate love.
He does tend to get upset, yelling at demons, yelling at the Winchesters, yelling at everyone. But never once has he yelled at you, he'd hate himself forever if he ever did.
Crowley will kill for you. (Let's be honest, he probably already has, but he won't ever admit it to you.)
After a month of dating he proposes to you. It's not that he didn't like waiting, he has an eternity to wait. He knows you're a mortal and don't have as long as he does, so he wants to do everything with you.
~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of being mortal.... You were on a hunt with the Winchesters and Crowley popped in just in time to watch a rogue demon attack you, leaving you in the ground bleeding.
Cue pissed off king of hell.
He could let you bleed out.
But he doesn't
Choosing instead, to use his powers as king to turn you into a demon.
He just couldn't lose you... Not the only person who ever truly loved him.
He panics for a bit when you stop breathing, thinking it didn't work.
But it did, and you start to breathe again causing a wave of relief to wash over him.
You were alive.... He wasn't alone again..
~~~~~~~~~~
He asks (begs) you to move down to hell with him.
When you finally say yes, his excitement is very visible on his face.
Getting to have you by his side every day is a dream come true.
Hello everyone! I know it's been a while and I'm quite out of practice, but I hope you enjoyed this! Thanks for reading!
Summary: The king of hell cannot help but fall head over heels for you over and over again each day. So when the anniversary rolls around, you bake him a dessert and he reminds you exactly why he loves you.
Crowley x (Wife)Fem!Reader
He was the king.
Correction, He is the king.
Well, he’s actually your king. Crowley was incredibly shocked when he met you, quick as whip and not afraid to put your foot down no matter the situation. Yet, you had this awfully sweet side that he had adored. After helping the Winchesters with only God knows whatever venture they were on the hunt for or whatever monster they need to stop, he went back for you.
Finding you both intellectually and physically stimulating it had made him do a whole three-sixty. He couldn’t complain as you were the perfect balance to his evil side. He knew it. You knew it.
So as the day of his anniversary approaches he finds himself stuck. What to do? What kind of present fits his queen? The demon was absolutely driving himself, along with his subjects, up the walls about it. So much so he went to Castiel for help.
“Anything? Got any big ideas?”
Castiel tilts his head and looks off to the side “Perhaps get her something that only you could. I mean you are a king.” He notes, “The king of Hell, and well there are so many things you could give her.” The advice was useful but so vague it did little to help Crowley’s problem. Damn.
That’s when it hit him. Only something that he could give you. Perfect. “Thanks, feathers.”
Nothing was perfect, except when it was. Today was your anniversary and it just filled you with a pleasant buzz that was not going away. It was hard because that was how he made you feel. It was odd that a demon of all things had made you so happy. Not just that he was the king. The others seemed to like having you around, some claimed it made him less grouchy and others said he was even more particular but it was nice. So here you were in the kitchen baking away, because as much as Crowley loved a good deal, he loved sweets just as much.
You were fishing up the decorations on the cake when that familiar sensation danced across your skin, sending a pleasant chill down along your spine. You knew he was there, but he just loved sneaking up on you. “I know you can feel me, darling.” His voice brings a certain giddiness to you and turning on your heels to face him.
“Well, what do you expect when you attempt to sneak up on me all the time. A girl gets used to these things, my king.” You bow to him out of respect and more so as a joke. His hand finds its way beneath your chin, lifting and urging you back up to stand.
“You have no need to bow to me my queen.” His grip on your chin grows slightly firm, guiding you closer to him. When his lips brush yours it is passionate, soft, and euphoric. Crowley was a deeply respectful lover and an even better husband. When you pull back he chuckles, “Do I smell cake.”
“Yes.” You replied breathlessly, “I knew today was special, so I made you something sweet.” He chuckles in response and looks over at the cake, palm moving to cup your cheek. “Looks divine, darling. I have something for you as well.” Crowley pulls away, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small velvet jewelry box, too big to be a ring and too large for earrings. You take the box and open it revealing the jewelry sitting neatly in the plush fabric lining of the box.
“Oh, Crowley..” It nearly takes your breath away, because it is unlike anything you have ever seen. Glittering chain of demands, but in the center was red gem, encased in black metal and it glowed. “It’s beautiful. What is it?” Your eyes flit back up to his and he smiles.
“Why it’s a blood diamond. A real one, forged in hell.” He tells you, “And when you are close to me or if I go it stops glowing. It is a piece of me for you.” As he tells you this there is just nothing you can do or say to thank him enough. He reaches to remove the delicate necklace from its case. “Allow me.” You turn around and brush your hair aside to let him hook the chain around your neck. Fingers brushing across your skin, a pleasant tingle following in suit. You turn back around to face him with the biggest smile you could manage.
“It’s so amazing. I love it, love you.” Your hands cup his face in your palms, thumbs gently brushing over the stubble on his chin. Crowley smiles down at you, not a grin, or his usually cocky smirk. A genuine smile, the only time he would is with you and it was such a precious gesture that meant the world for you.
“You are mine forever, my darling.” Crowley tells you in a hushed voice. “Now, about that cake.” You can only giggle at him, forever the king and an even bigger sweetheart.
benjamin poindexter who melts whenever you guide his hands yourself. he's already touch-starved, already eager to have his hands on you, but knowing exactly what you like is even better. he wants to learn every little preference. every small adjustment teaches him something new, and he memorizes it all. more than anything, he wants to know exactly how to make you feel good. your pleasure always comes first in his mind.
you take his wrists, drawing his palms flat to your shoulders. sweet. innocent. a kiss pressed to his jaw, a smile warming his skin before you drag his hands higher. you spread his fingers against your collarbone. they spasm. his throat clicks.
wanting to test that reaction, you lift his hands again, winding them around your throat.
“wait… baby… i might-” concern cuts through his voice.
you cut him off. “i like it.” a smile plays on your lips.
he nods slowly. “okay… okay.” the words slip out. his eyes drop from your face to his hands locked around your neck. the sight makes his cock ache. he bites his bottom lip, subtle.
you hum, pressing his grip tighter. "looks pretty?”
a shaky exhale. “so pretty.”
then you slide his hands lower. down your sternum. over the swell of your breasts. you press his palms into your curves, squeezing his fingers so that he squeezes your tits. a quiet moan from you as you keep your eyes locked with his. he’s watching intensely. focused on your reaction, on the way your hands move his.
then he takes over. he kneads your tits exactly how you taught him. you let go of his hands, fingers sliding down his wrists, just holding him. letting him work your breasts. no surprise he makes you feel this good.
bullseye is indeed very skilled with his hands.
the sight of you moaning, looking down at him as he shapes your tits, makes his cock jump.
“you like that, baby?” nervous. managing. his fingers graze your nipples, then pinch soft through the fabric of your clothes. earning a whine from you.
you nod, your hands drifting back down his biceps, your fingertips skimming over the firm lines of his muscle. a laugh nearly escapes you at how nervous he sounds. neither of you breaks eye contact.
your hands cover his again. you guide them down your waist, over your hips, along your thighs. he squeezes automatically, gently pulling you closer.
his hands massage your thighs, stroking up and down. your pussy clenches, slick and hungry, aching for him to go higher.
you moan lightly as your cunt pulses. you pull his hands up, curling his fingers around the waistband of your shorts. you work his grip, making him tug them down slowly, agonizing, along with your panties. he’s just as eager as you.
you pry his fingers off the waistband. stopping him just short of baring you. a tease. his fingers twitch as you push his hands back down, settling them on your hips. they stay there. patient. waiting. hope flickers in his eyes. maybe you’ll want his hands to go even further. maybe even deep between your legs.
✴︎ Request: hi if you are still doing them can i request 3- please dont leave. with Lobo? by: Anon
✴︎ A/N: Here you go boo! <3
You look small, and it's not just your flimsy little human body. It's in the way you're standing, hunching inward, like you're holding yourself.
It's in your aura, all quiet and dejected.
It's in those big, sorrowful eyes as you look up at him. It's in the crack in your voice as you reach for him. “Please don't leave.”
“Aw, frag, chickadee.” He hates this. Emotional displays and all that soppy shit just ain't him. He hates that it's doing something to him, pulling at his heartstrings. “Don't do this to me, you're making me soft.”
Most of all he hates that despite his rebuffing, already he's meeting your outstretched hand, taking the fragile thing between his fingers.
send me a pairing/character + a number and i'll write you a drabble/blurb
Hi!! Can I request fluff? Very caring Fem!reader x comic Logan/Lobo??? Like making sure they're okay or if they're arent hungry, caressing their hair or making them breakfast? 💗
lobo with a doting reader!
lobo x f! reader
synopsis: a bunch of unordered thoughts about lobo with an overly caring reader :)
warnings: mentions of violence and food and alcohol. also is probably a bit ooc also not proofread
word count: 588
a/n: thank you for this request i hope u enjoy it!! to the person who asked me for more ted kord its coming i swear
The two of you made an interesting pair. A giant, hulking, scary man and a cute girl who seemed entirely immune to his brash violence. Lobo is often found sitting in the corner of a crowded bar with you perched on his lap. He held you close, glaring at anyone who dared glance in your direction.
When Lobo first met you he made himself a pact. Under no circumstances would he let you domesticate him. You were just another pretty lady, and he was just gonna take what he wants from you and leave you behind like he always did. Lobo knew deep down, however, that he’s never had to make a pact like that upon meeting anyone else- and that knowledge frightened him.
Lobo did not want to go soft. It was against his whole brand, his whole sense of self relied on his tough, fold-for-no-one personality. You were far too kind and squishy. You averted your eyes whenever he hurt anyone, you looked out at the various planets you visited in bright awe, and you held the world with such a gentleness it made Lobo sick.
So why, Lobo is often asked, does he keep you around? He’d respond that he just can’t seem to get rid of you, and he needs someone to take care of Dawg anyways. In truth, Lobo had never asked you to leave. You could keep up with him just fine and you made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
After a particularly irritating defeat, Lobo trudges into whatever Inn he was staying at where you sat waiting for him. He’d collapse onto his bed while you pet his long, tangled hair and ask him how his day went and if he was hungry. (He always was.)
On slow days when you were travelling from planet to planet, Lobo wakes up late as usual to find you making brunch for him. He sneaks up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and biting your shoulder.
On your side, Lobo was a handful. If he weren’t immortal he’d be dead a million times over. Not just in battle, but out of lack of selfcare. He often forgot to eat, hydrate, and sleep- insisting he didn’t need it and you were wasting your time worrying. (Which is true, but didn’t stop your fretting.)
That being said, you had your reasons for sticking around. No matter how much danger Lobo was in, he’d always do something to ensure your safety. There were moments when Lobo would arise from a nap, sleepily holding you closer to him and muttering incomprehensible words into your soft hair.
It could be argued that Lobo’s love for you showed most in his reactions to others. He’s all fun and games until anything, anything puts you in danger. The second there is even a small threat to your wellbeing he will do everything he can to eradicate it. He wouldn’t accept any rude comments towards you, and sure as hell wouldn’t let anyone get away with trying to steal you from him.
Your housewife-esque mannerisms were logically, completely unnecessary for a man like Lobo. He didn’t need help, you could throw him into the vacuum of space and he’d come out unscathed. But you challenged Lobo in a way he’d never been challenged before.
To allow himself to accept your concern and kindness, and to see a smile on your face that he caused- he would never admit it, but those are the kind of feats he’s most proud of. Even if they came in the form of playing along when you worriedly asked how long it's been since last brushed his hair, offering to do it for him.
a/n: i'm sorry this is so short and kind of buns im ngl i was recovering from a terrible migraine whilst writing
taglist! (its just twenty, hi twenty!): @twentytomidnight
lobo x fem!reader. suggestive themes. no spoilers!
notes: the lack of lobo fic...guess i gotta do it myself idk.
lobo is a busy man. if you placed a bounty in front of him he would no doubt drop whatever he’s doing to get his hands on the money. there was very little that stood in his way, very little that distracted him. but, there was always that one percent chance that he could be easily persuaded, distracted even—so much so that the money became a distant memory. and that one percent was in the form of a woman who people swore he hated by the way he spoke about you or even to you.
“ugh, gotta take this, its my headache”
“what do you want woman”
“goddamn airhead”
but it was genuinely all out of love—you knew that, you especially knew that the big bad bounty hunter could not and would not live without you. behind closed doors he was pretty much the same, but with a soft smile adorning his face.
“you give me a headache you know that?” he grumbled, uncrossing his arms—leaving them open so you could crawl onto his lap after complaining about the lack of cuddles you received the week he had left.
“what is it now woman” he sighed, marching his way over to where you currently sat—sobbing as the romance movie came to an end. he had just left for a second, turns out in that second the guy got the girl and you were suddenly remembering how you both met, becoming not only nostalgic but emotional. 
“goddamn airhead” he groaned as he hoisted you over his shoulder—dragging you out of the bar. he will always take care of you and when your outside with him by your side you happily turn off your brain and let loose. which often leaves lobo dealing with a very drunk and touchy girlfriend.
you were always calling him when he was out on jobs, if you weren’t calling you would text him and if neither happened the man lowkey panicked. today was one of those days.
he sat at the back of the bar—head casted down, drink in one hand and his phone in the other as he waited for either his target or a sign of life from you. but as if the gods were truly testing his patience both things happened at once.
his target walked through the doors, already tipsy and easily accessible. yet his phone pinged simultaneously and the moment your name flashed across the screen his fingers tapped to open the message.
he was quickly met with a photo of you, then another, and another, each showing more and more skin. he let out an obnoxiously loud sigh, his pants now feeling slightly tighter then what it once was a moment ago.
omw, don’t do anything stupid toots
the dumb bounty could wait, he currently had a headache he needed to take care of.
summary: seeking answers, you find yourself in a bunkered hideaway of Dr. Murray Bauman – the night stretches on as secret connections unveil (he’s a dork and you kiss him)
content: flirting, poor murray is still awkward, stuff gets stirred, guest bedrooms are for SHARING
requested by: @murmuring-meows (also tagging @lovingrosewho who wanted a part 2!)
part one: here
note: I’m not a native speaker so forgive me if there are any awkward mistakes. also, I found out that writing dialogue is actually hard lol
“Murray.”
“What?”
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to call the Pentagon.”
"You know," you mused, "for a man who thinks everyone's out to get him, you're terrible at guarding yourself."
Murray didn’t answer immediately – instead, he busied himself at the stove, though whatever he was cooking for dessert was beyond saving now. The rubbery mess of cheese now clung to the pot like it too developed trust issues. You watched him for a moment, noticing the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched even when he was trying to appear composed, and the way his eyes kept flicking toward you as if you might run off or – more likely in his worldview – pull a hidden tape recorder out of thin air.
You let the silence stretch deliberately – it’s the trick you used during interviews when a person was on the brink of saying something useful.
Finally, you sighed softly and leaned back in your chair. “I figured,” you began, “your biggest problem isn’t paranoia.” That seemed to get his attention, because for the first time in minutes he turned towards you slowly, looking above his glasses. “Oh, this should be good,” he said. “Please, enlighten me. I always appreciate unsolicited psychological evaluations.”
You waved that off. “Your problem is the lack of structure.” You gestured toward the chaotic mess of newspaper clippings and red strings. “Your board looks impressive, but only at first glance. I’ll give you that – it’s very theatrical, very ‘lone genius uncovers the truth while the world sleeps.’ But once you actually start reading it…”, you tilted your head slightly, “it really falls apart. Look.”
You got up and walked to the board.
“It’s repetitive, you’re stacking sources. You’ve got three separate clippings about power outages from different towns, but you treat them like equal evidence when only one of them actually links to a documented incident at Hawkins Lab.”
“Wait, you actually read those? When did you have the time? Were you studying them while I was making dinner?!” – Murray once again looked like he was about to tear his hair out. In response, your face made that smug expression that it always did when you’d outplayed you opponent. You stepped in front of the board, scanning it again, this time with him watching.
“I’m saying,” you added, turning to face him, “that you’ve got instincts, which is more than most people have, but you don’t trust them enough to do the legwork properly. So you compensate by… this.” You gestured at the board.
His jaw tightened slightly, like he was concentrating.
“You missed interviews,” you continued, softer now but no less pointed. “Half of these clippings could’ve led you to actual people, to witnesses, employees, anyone who might’ve seen something firsthand. But you stayed here, bunkered up.”
“And what,” he asked after a moment, quieter now, “what would you have done differently?” You smiled faintly, because that right there was the question you were waiting for. “I would’ve started with the lab,” you said. “Former staff, maintenance crews, anyone who got laid off or even transferred. People talk when they think no one’s listening anymore. Then I’d cross-reference incident dates with hospital records, not just your police reports. I’d look for weird injuries, neurological symptoms, anything that’s out of place. In a quiet town like Hawkins this should stick out like a sore thumb.”
Murray’s eyes sharpened. “Hospital records are sealed.”
“Officially,” you said. “But receptionists gossip, orderlies get bored, and small-town systems really aren’t built for scrutiny.” You looked victorious at him, crossing your arms.
“You’ve got experience, huh?”, Murray kept his eyes glued to his board, scratching his beard, clearly avoiding looking directly at you.
You tilted your head. “Took you long enough.”
“You’re dangerous.” And then he caught himself, clearing his throat. “Well. Regardless. This doesn’t change the fact that you–” he gestured vaguely at you, “–are still an unknown variable.”
You stepped closer again, closing the space between you. “Then maybe you should study me.”
Murray blinked. “…That sounds exactly like a trap.”
“It might be,” you said lightly. “But you like those, don’t you?”
His gaze dropped – just for a second – to your lips before snapping back up. “Experiments should be performed in controlled environments only.”
You leaned in just enough for him to feel the tension. “You’ve got three deadbolts on the door, Murray. How much more controlled do you need?”
“…You can stay,” he said finally, like he was negotiating with all his fears combined. “It’s late. Roads aren’t safe at night. Increased probability of– of incidents.”
“Incidents,” now you were properly amused.
“Yes. Incidents.”
You glanced toward the dark windows, then back at him. “How generous of you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, already avoiding your eyes again. “There’s a –uh – guest room. Sort of.”
You stepped past him, brushing his arm just enough to make it noticeable. “Lead the way.”
~~~~
The “guest room” was exactly what you expected: a storage room – it didn’t seem like Murray had a lot of guests staying over. A wooden bed, stacks of boxes, more papers, some other gear and canned beans.
Bauman lingered in the doorway, like he wasn’t entirely sure what came next.
“Well?” you said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You going to stand there all night, or are you going to say goodnight like a normal person?”
“I am saying goodnight,” he replied quickly, snapped out of his thoughts.
“You haven’t yet.”
He frowned, clearly annoyed at being technically wrong. “…goodnight.”
You patted the space beside you.
He froze. “That’s– no. That’s not–”
“Murray.”
“What?”
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to call the Pentagon.”
“That’s a completely reasonable response under certain circumstances–”
You reached for him then, fingers catching his sleeve, tugging him just enough off balance that he stepped into the room.
“…You’re serious.”
“Terrifying, isn’t it?”
A pause. He answered, quieter: “A little.”
“Good.”
His hands still trembled a little when they found you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, or that this was happening outside of some elaborate setup. You laughed once, low and warm, and that seemed to lighten the mood for him more than anything. The night stretched on, the world outside fading into nothing but distant wind and the occasional creak of the house and the mattress. For once, Murray stopped talking – stopped theorizing, stopped calculating. All of that was replaced by the forgotten feeling of pleasant emptiness on his mind.
Being a little shit as you are, you wanted to crawl from under his arm when he fell asleep – to look through his files, to *correctly* rearrange the connections on his board, but looking at his relaxed face, and almost smiling turn of his lip – you dropped the idea. You felt like you found something to peak your curiosity and a reason to stay in Hawkins for a while.
Oh, only if your old colleagues back at the Indianapolis times knew you just slept with a conspiracy theorist.
Imagine if you will, a rainy evening. Too soon to be asleep and too late to be out to see a movie or go bowling. You are in a car, rain taps on the roof and windows. In the drivers seat is Fox Mulder with little binoculars. It's a stakeout. Hard to see with the rain, but someone should be leaving a building across the street. You anxiously bite your fingers and Mulder takes your hand in his to stop you.
"Don't do that, please?"
You give him a tight smile and squeeze his hand, he puts the binoculars down and leans back in his seat, your hand still in his, resting in your lap. He turns to look at your face.
Noone should find out this operation is going on. Skinner didn't agree to this, Scully called it ridiculous. But as always you were here to support Mulder. No matter the cost.
He looked at you like you were a gift from the universe and he wouldn't trade you for anything or anyone. And yes... he might forget about the case for a little while, just to admire you and hold your warm hand.
A drabble from a lovely ask for a reader who has chronic pain and does yoga with the Checkmate gang! Sorry it took me so long to write up your request <3
Another morning waking up to the suffocation of being trapped in pain.
The chronic was chronicing today it seemed and as you got up or rather rolled yourself out of bed, you drew a long measured sigh and started the day. Wrapping a heatpack around your stomach, you went into the kitchen to get yourself a cup of tea and try out some stretches.
While waiting for the kettle to boil, you stared at photos on your fridge as means of disctraction, the pain meds not yet fully kicking in. Polaroids pegged along a cute star length piece of string had you and John prominently along with your new friends, the 11th Street Kids.
One in particular made you snort, from Harcourt's rooftop party, where John had a beer poured down his mouth by a blasted Chris and Adebayo, who got most of it into his precious beard.
Your lovely John was at work, in the office at Checkmate. It was so cute how excited he got before going now, a real game changer from the grumpy farewells at 2 o'clock in the morning, usually over skype or discord when he traveled for ARGUS.
Instead you got a gentle kiss on the forehead and a pleasant farewell and he took his time getting ready, looking more refreshed than ever.
You wished that you felt that way today, it was definitely a work from home day, thankfully you didn't have any in person classes booked so you'd contact your online class tonight to reschedule.
Working for yourself as a yoga instructor, you always had the freedom to change up your hours to work around the chronic pain flare ups and helped others with breathing exercises and stretches to suit their needs.
After getting your stretches in and a cup of tea, you felt considerably better and able to shower, thankfully you were up to heading out for a bit do the groceries.
But when you got home, your boyfriend was in the Dragonball Z Yamcha pose on the bed.
"You're back early, are you okay?" You called out, putting the shopping away into the fridge.
“I've fucked my back.” John explained, calling out from the bedroom.
“Oh Johnny, that's terrible. Let me try to help.” You went over and tried to soothingly massage his back, it was so stiff and filled with knots that John was close to tears when you dug an elbow in.
"Mission gone wrong?" You guessed.
“Yeah we're all sore, battered like fish and chips. Or tenderized like a steak. Did I mention I'm hungry? We didn't eat anything outside of energy bars that tasted like a powdered strawberry leather boot from the bottom of Em’s purse.” John lamented, telling you that the rest of the crew were suffering more than he was.
“Maybe I could give the gang a yoga class tomorrow morning?” You suggested. "Help limber you all up for a smoother recovery."
“That could definitely be in order, speaking of order, can we get a pizza from the place with the stuffed crust?” John begged with some cute rare Economos puppy dog eyes and you relented instantly.
“Yes we can John, I'll get the pepperoni one you like.” You got your phone out and fired up the usual order.
“And garlic knots?” John whined hopefully.
“And the garlic knots.” You giggled, pecking him on the nose, adding to cart, you tossed your phone away. “But while we wait I'll help get out those knots in your back.” Getting back to work, you used the flat of your palm to massage his aching shoulders.
“Damn what did I ever do to deserve you again?” John asked with a contented sigh.
Humming for a short while as you considered your options, settling on, "It's a mystery, might be that you're a massive softie, cute, a total munch and have a wonderful flowing beard..."
"Nah it's that I'm the best at Starcraft obviously." John replied with a chuckle, his cheeks red at your compliments. Even this many years into dating him, he couldn't accept them without a silly retort.
"Obviously." You playfully rolled your eyes back at him. Eating pizza together you both enjoyed some Star Trek DS9 re-runs before going to bed early to rest up.
John had texted the gang and everyone was willing to give your yoga session a shot. Even Eagly, who was very excited at the front row.
You brought along all the mats and your CD player, setting up out in the Checkmate lobby before the office opened. "We're going to build up to an eagle pose, or should I say Eagly pose?"
Eagly chirped cheerfully at that, doing a little tap dance on his claws.
"Let's begin in a mountain pose. Bending our knees slightly and shifting the weight into your left foot."
As you began to explain the techniques, going with an eagle pose after the simple poses, you soon realised there was a major difference in skill leaves with the Checkmate crew.
Eagly was doing very well, adorably balancing on his left claw and looking up proudly at you. "Good boy!" You grinned, then grimaced at his owner who stumbled down the line.
Chris was incredibly hungover, sunglasses on to stave off the incoming migraine. He went through the motions without an ounce of grace, rigid and muscle bound like a Grecian statue.
"When you're balanced, lift your right leg and crossing over your left thigh as high as you can..."
Harcourt was somehow worse, she could do any military drill like the back of her hand blindfolded, but yoga thwarted her at every turn. She often nearly or did spinkick Chris by her side, movements aggressive and not at all zen. Also she was similarly hungover in shades.
"Squeeze your thighs tightly and, if accessible, hook your right foot behind your left calf..."
Adebayo got the hang of the poses eventually, but her balance wasn't the best, you got her a foam roller to help out and once the aid was in place, she killed it.
"Find your drishti, anything to focus on in front of you to anchor and maintain balance. Drawing your navel towards your spine, engaging our cores and stablizing the hips..." You explained, wandering around the group to give hints and tips.
John also needed quite a bit of help, but you couldn't help think it was mostly that he wanted to see you do the poses up close. Especially when an impish glimmer cross his gaze.
"Extening our arms straight out in front, dropping the left arm under your right..." You grinned back at him, sauntering away, "wrapping your forearms so your palms press together."
"Like this?" Sasha was enthusiastic but robotic in her relaxation methods, the techniques were correct and textbook.
"You've got it!" You encouraged her, "just remember to breathe throughout deep in and out," Sasha followed suit and you saw her suprised at how different it felt.
"Now we will sit our hips back like you're sitting in a chair, lifting the elbows to shoulder height..."
Judomaster was the opposite, every movement was fluid and zen, a true master of martial arts, he felt at home in your teachings.
"Hold for 5 deep breaths..." As you counted down there was some groans of impatience from the front row but you tried to reassure them to stick with it.
Meanwhile you had some star pupils in the back row that you weren't expecting. Adrian and Langston were killing it, holding the pose with ease the entire time.
“I do pilates with my mom!” Adrian announced with a wide goofy grin, easily bending into the pose.
“I also do pilates with Adrian's mom!” Langston grinned, also suprisingly getting the post right.
“I never see you at the studio?” Adrian scrunched up his face at him, thoroughly confused.
“It's a special night class for seniors…” Langston coughed awkwardly.
"Five...four...three...two...one...! Done, you all did so well everyone!" You applauded the group, who in turn clapped and looked much lighter in their gaits. "Now let's take a water break and do it from the top!"
Getting into yoga instructor mode, Chris looked back at John warily. "There's more?" He asked, dipping his shades.
"Oh yeah it's usually an hour session." John replied with a lazy shrug.
It took the entire hour, but at long last you got everyone to perform the Eagly pose perfectly.
Everyone was glad for the coffee afterwards and the relief stretching gave them. "What was the mission that messed you all up so bad?" You had to know what wrecked them.
"Don't ask." Harcourt shook her head bitterly.
"Is it classified?" You wondered.
"No, we all got locked into a tiny Janitors closet while trying to infiltrate a Lex Luthor lab. Harcourt read the schematics of the building wrong." Adrian had no qualms telling you and Emilia looked ready to murder him.
"Hence the booze required after being trapped in a tiny closet with the worlds most annoying dude." Harcourt retorted, downing her black coffee with a glare.
"We were gonna get wasted anyways." Chris laughed, "It was Tuesday margarita night at this bar we like to go to for karaoke...you best believe I belted out some Jimmy Buffett!"
"Scratch that, trapped with the worlds most annoying dudes." Harcourt snapped, groaning into her hangover cure of a toasted cheese sandwhich.
"I think you've got a new client." Langston pointed over to Eagly who was holding out a present expectantly.
A cute ribbon he had found somewhere, velvet and in your favorite color! "Aww thank you Eagly, you're always welcome to join me whenever you'd like!" You grinned, tying it into your hair.
Eagly sqwaked approvingly, it only seemed right- you did teach a pose named after him after all! Without even consulting his publicist or agent no less.
Butcher holds you, head tucked under his chin like a keepsake.
Listening to your steady breath, as it fills the promise of your lungs; to your pulse, as is quickened under the brush of his rough fingertips, cigarette ash lining the dry texture.
Here you were, whole, human, busting with potential like a germinating bud. His fingers threaded through your hair and he sighed.
"Love ya bird." He whispers moving his hips again. He says it sweet and tried, like hes ordering another drink he knows he shouldn't.
You don't know what to do with the knowledge you can never have him so you find peace in the sweat, in his boots muddying your entryway once in a blue moon, in his warmth blanketing you so effectively you can't seem to recall the stress outside your own apartment.
After, he makes you pancakes and you rub his shoulders, trying and sometimes failing not to ask nosy questions.
Until eventually he is dressed and standing at your doorway looking for all the world like he doesn't want to leave.
He makes you promise you'll keep safe and only laughs in return when you demand to hear it back with all of the indignance of a spurned i love you.
He pats your cheek and kisses you until you feel shaky and then he disappears into the night.
