my personal crusade to keep logan fic circulating and hype authors up one week at a time. make sure to like and reblog the fics themselves to thank the writers 🤍
plus size reader
feels like home
showering together
classic romance
untamed animal
trouble sleeping
feel free to join in with your own fic recs on fridays, the more the merrier. let’s keep the fandom alive and give creators some love! none of the writing is mine, i’m just here to hype up everyone else ~
Headcanon: Eddie's only mean cause you like it (he just wants to be loved)
Warnings: 18+ only, P in V sex, pretty light degrading language, praise kink
Word count: ~1,200
*°:⋆ₓₒ⋆:°*°:⋆ₓₒ⋆:°*°:⋆ₓₒ⋆:°*°:⋆ₓₒ⋆:°*
You’ve never been with anybody like Eddie. Somebody so desperate to push all the right buttons, fulfill every dirty fantasy that has ever passed through your head. You know that if you asked him what he likes, what gets him off? He’d say getting you off gets me off, sweetheart.
He gives you whatever you need, whatever you want.
And sometimes that means he has to be mean.
“Jesus, you’re always so fucking desperate,” Eddie laughs, wide hand pressing at the small of your back to make you arch for him, opening you up to every heavy thrust of his cock inside you. “Mm? Could barely wait for me to get through the door. Needed this cunt filled, is that it?”
Filled with him, him, him. “Yes,” you gasp, fingers curling into the sheets just as his press into your hips. “Needed you, Eddie.”
“Eddie,” he mimics, voice high pitched in a cruel mock of your voice. “Oh, Eddie, please fuck me.” His fingers twitch, digging into your softness till it aches. His voice is his own, then, harsh and direct above you. "I'm a desperate slut who can't be patient." His right hand vanishes from your hip, and your body tenses in expectation of the quick hard smack to your ass. “Desperate,” he repeats. “What the hell do you do when I’m not around, hm? Sit rubbing your cunt all day, wishing it was me? Does that sound right?” Your pussy pulses around him, eyes shutting tight until Eddie grasps your hair to turn your head to the side. "Answer me.”
The seconds you spend trying to get your brain in gear to answer him are too long. He gives you two quick firm taps to your cheek with his fingers, drawing your attention to him in your periphery. You can make out his curls, swaying with each thrust, then his open lips letting out quick, hot breaths. Then his eyes, dark and intent on you. He’s so beautiful.
"It has to be you," you tell him. "Can't do it myself."
With that in mind, you reach for his hand on your hip, wanting to bring it between your legs, but he bats you away with a scoff. In a second he’s grasping at you, hooking his arms under your torso to haul you up until you’re pressed against his chest. His thrusts turn mean. Long, powerful strokes that bully the end of your cunt, sending sparks of pleasure up your back. But not quite enough.
Your clit pulses, aching for his touch. But his hands are busy pawing thoughtlessly at your chest, pulling at your nipples and squeezing for his own enjoyment.
"Eddie-"
“Thought you could get my fingers without asking, mm?”
“I need it- ah!" He pinches harshly at your nipple, feels the hard peak of it with his palm.
"You don't need anything from me." He sneers into your ear. "You and this needy fucking cunt," he gives you a deep, punctuating thrust, "want it." You nod desperately, eyes rolling back, willing to agree to anything at this point. It hurts. “Then fucking say it,” he says, one hand travelling down your front until just the tips of his fingers are teasing at the hair between your legs. “Ask nicely, sweetheart. Then I’ll think about it.”
Your lips twitch. Sweetheart. He can't even help himself.
“Please touch my clit. I want to cum. I need you to make me.” You turn your head, catching his eyes again. You glance at his lips, knowing you aren’t allowed but wanting to kiss the sweat from his top lip. It’s trembling. “Please, Eddie.”
When he gives you what you want, it’s almost too much. Eddie reaches two fingers down to where he’s still fucking into you first, drags wetness up to rub quick tight circles on your sensitive button. He moves so fast you gasp and cover his hand with yours, fingers at his flexing knuckles. As if you could stop him, even if you wanted to.
“Fuckin’ cum then,” he says dismissively, even as he stares at you without blinking. “Cum on my cock.”
You gasp, the waves hitting you suddenly like your body was just waiting for his permission to let go. Your pleasure peaks with a wail from you, and whispered, fuck, yes, from Eddie when you walls clench tight around his cock. You’re glad to be in his arms, keeping you upright while you moan and shake, liable to fall flat to your face if he wasn’t there. He keeps rubbing tight circles, pushing you further each time you think the pleasure might have peaked.
Then it crashes straight into too much. Your body shakes, thighs squeeze.
He knows just when to slow. Your fingers loosen then tighten a little too much at his knuckles and he just gives you a couple more gentle rubs before retreating. Eddie caresses your twitching body as he pulls from you. Eases you onto your back instead of letting you ragdoll. You're surrounded by his smell when the back of your head sinks into the pillow.
Eddie crawls over you slowly. When you start to relax, the world coming back into focus, you register Eddie’s warm breath on your cheeks. “Was that-” His fingers rub your face, a gentle caress on the skin still half-stinging from his smacks. “Was that good?”
If you had the energy you’d roll your eyes. He has that little smile on, because he knows fine well that it was good, that you love when he gives that to you. Made to feel small and degraded by a man who loves you to your bones.
But he wants to be sure, and he wants to hear you say it.
You reach for him, and Eddie lets himself fall ungracefully into your arms, his cock still hard and wet against your thigh. Warm brown eyes and dark eyelashes, his cheeks pink from exertion, his nose flaring to let in more air with each breath. Your perfect, giving boy. “It was good, Eddie,” you say, scratching your nails gently across his shoulders and back just to feel him shiver.
You hear his breath catch, and open your legs for him. It’s his turn now. Eddie mutters a soft, thank you as he presses inside, groaning behind his lips as he’s surrounded by warmth again. He settles there for a second. “So wet,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. “Could you hear it, before?”
“No,” you answer as his hips start a slow roll. “I just heard you.”
His smile shows just a slither of teeth, eyes opening again to watch your adoring face. “I heard it,” he says, moving just that bit faster, barely pulling out from you each time like he’s caught between seeking more friction and staying deep inside. “You loved that. I made you feel so good.”
“So good,” you echo, enjoying the warmth and weight of him. “You always do, Eddie. You’re so good.”
That’s what he was looking for. He makes a soft, whimpering noise at the back of his throat, round eyes watching your mouth form its compliments. His hands rub gently at your hips where he made them tender, set to bruise tomorrow.
“M’good,” he says back. Then, eyes flickering up to yours. “And you love me?”
Your chest aches. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist till he’s all you can feel - your world is him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, grasping at the roots, damp with the exertion of bringing you pleasure.
Eddie wants to get you off. But really, what he likes, what he needs? It’s this.
“I love you, Eddie.”
He whines, twitches, on top of you and inside you, and fills you up.
summary: You don’t know how deep this runs. How badly he wants to ruin you, in the kind of way that feels so natural it scares the shit out of him.
Because if you gave him that part of yourself, let him guide you, teach you, take care of you the way he aches to—
He doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop.
warnings: 18+ mdni, softdom!eddie, experienced!eddie, virgin!reader, mutual masturbation, thigh riding, dirty talk, praise kink, guilt/shame around intimacy, eddie's pov, self-loathing, yearning, angst, comfort, dom/sub undertones, established relationship, love confessions, fluff
word count: 6k
prev pt here | series masterlist | series playlist
It’s been two months.
Two months since Eddie Munson fell into your life like a comet, all noise and heat and unexpected gravity, and somehow decided to stay.
Two glorious, heart-thumping months of falling for the boy who laughs too loud, talks with his whole body, and kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do.
Two months of Eddie. Your Eddie.
Two months of car rides with the windows down, limbs hanging out the passenger side while Eddie passionately explains why this wailing seven-minute track is a “fucking masterpiece.” Sometimes you’d stop for gummy worms and neon-red Slurpees. Sometimes you’d wind up somewhere off Route 6, parked under a bowl of stars while he spins stories about cosmic gods who could shatter galaxies with epic guitar solos. Half nonsense, half magic—all Eddie.
Two months of burned dinners, of dancing in his kitchen to scratchy cassettes, letting the garlic catch on fire because he’d rather spin you under his arm than stir the sauce. A dozen ruined meals, but who cares when there’s takeout in the fridge and the air smells like home?
Two months of late nights on his couch, your book open in your lap, his sketchpad filled with dragons and dungeons and ink-smudged dreams. He’d doodle monsters while you turned pages, but you were always watching him more than reading. The way his brow furrowed when he was focused. The curve of his mouth when inspiration struck. The absent way he’d reach out, blindly tangling his fingers with yours. Sometimes he’d fall asleep there, head in your lap, curls splayed across your thighs. You’d stroke his hair, trace circles into his scalp, and wonder how someone so loud, so vivid, could make you feel this quiet. This safe. This wanted.
Two months of tiny rituals. Of new traditions. Of learning him and letting him learn you.
You were stitching a life together in fragments. Moments strung like beads on a thread. Little pieces of him, slowly becoming yours.
Sewing the tear on his Hellfire shirt. Painting tiny dragons for his campaign. Burning your thumb on a birthday cupcake you baked two weeks too early because you couldn’t wait to surprise him.
Two months of this soft, slow thing.
And then—there was the kissing.
God, the kissing.
Soft ones. Sleepy ones. Clumsy, breathless, giddy ones. Kisses that taste like cherry ice and cinnamon gum and Eddie, through and through.
Your boyfriend was a good kisser. You didn’t have much to compare him to, but some things you just know.
You kissed him everywhere. On porches, in movie theaters. In the back of his van. In the hush of his living room. In the rush between class bells, sneaking out behind the gym, the thrill of it bubbling up up up like Pepsi Cola.
Sometimes they were silly, all teeth and laughter. Sometimes they were syrupy-slow, honey-sweet, affection melting you like sugar on his tongue. Sometimes they were nothing more than punctuation—a press to your temple, a kiss to your knuckles.
A soft I’m here, I see you.
And sometimes, they weren’t soft at all.
Sometimes, they burned.
Like that night on his couch.
His thigh between yours, his mouth dragging heat down your neck. The roll of his hips, slow and deep, a rhythm that made your whole body light up like a struck match.
And just as something wild and dizzying began to bloom in your belly, just as you whispered his name—
He pulled away.
He always, always pulls away.
Sometimes with a joke. Sometimes with a nervous laugh and a mumbled, “You want water?” or “We’ll miss the movie.”
And sometimes, worst of all, with his forehead pressed to yours, voice frayed to a whisper:
“Sorry.”
You never asked why. Never pushed.
Because he’d always looked so… scared.
Like there was a fire in the room only he could see.
And you didn’t want to shatter something delicate by asking for too much.
But two months is a long time to wonder, and the weight of not-knowing was starting to bruise.
Lately, in those quiet moments after he pulled away—after he kissed your forehead and stared up at the ceiling like he’s trying not to drown—you’d lie beside him and wonder:
Was it you?
It all comes to a head on one beautiful, opportune Monday.
Monday, in Eddie Munson’s opinion, can go fuck itself.
It starts with the death of his alarm clock. He must’ve knocked it off the nightstand in a half-conscious flail sometime around 4 a.m. It hit the floor, cracked open like a bad egg, and promptly gave up the ghost.
So yeah, he’s late. No coffee. No time to fix his hair. He yanks on a crumpled Slayer tee and the same jeans he thinks he spilled soup on last week. No time to care.
The van, by some miracle, starts. Then dies a mile and a half into the drive, coughing out one final, wheezing breath before sputtering into silence.
“Cool. Awesome. Fucking incredible.”
He hoofs it the rest of the way to school, two miles of gravel shoulder with the sun in his eyes. Grit in his shoes. Sweat down his back.
And the day just keeps giving.
Late to class, again. His backpack’s unzipped and leaking a crumpled D- from last week’s quiz. Then, before third period, a rogue water fountain nails him dead in the crotch and he ends up giving a presentation on post-industrial America looking like he pissed himself.
At lunch, the gods laugh harder: a freshman trips, launching a carton of chocolate milk across the table. It drowns Eddie’s beloved D&D binder—maps, character sheets, weeks of world-building, soaked beyond saving.
He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flip the table.
Just mutters a tight, “It’s fine, man,” and locks himself in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
By final bell, he’s got a stress headache, a ruined campaign, and exactly six stolen minutes with you.
Just long enough to hug you. Long enough to hear you say, "I’ll come by after tutoring, okay?”
Long enough to see you smile. The only thing that doesn’t suck about his day.
That smile almost saves him.
Until he trudges back to where his van died, still rotting on the roadside, and remembers Wayne’s pulling a double shift and they’re too poor for a tow.
So he walks home.
And by the time he stumbles into the trailer, something inside him is fraying at the edges.
His skin feels too tight. His thoughts snarling inside his skull like static.
He drops his bag. Stands rigid in the doorway, shoulders tight, spine wound into knots. The late afternoon light bleeds through the slatted blinds, painting the living room in that soft, decaying gold that makes everything feel like it’s fading.
It’s too quiet. Too still.
He lets his forehead thump against the door. Closes his eyes. Tries to breathe.
It doesn’t help.
Something inside him thrums. Itches. Crawls.
Not just arousal. Not just loneliness.
Need.
Need for control. For release. For something inside him to shut the fuck up.
And he hates this part of himself. Hates how fast it turns from wanting into craving into obsession. The way it gnaws at his spine, coils around his throat and chokes.
So he does what he always does when the ache becomes unbearable:
Drags himself to his room. Cranks Sabbath until his ribs rattle. Collapses onto the mattress and throws an arm over his eyes.
And with the other—he spits into his palm. Shoves it down his jeans.
No lotion. No comfort. Just this: dry and rough and angry. A punishment more than anything else.
A desperate effort to scrape it all out of him. To burn it off. Kill it.
His jaw clenches as he works himself hard and fast, staring at the ceiling like it might offer forgiveness. Like it could soak up the guilt bleeding through his skin.
He tries to keep his mind blank.
It doesn’t work.
It never works.
Because his mind always, always finds its way back to you.
To your laugh. Your breath on his skin. Your fingers in his hair. The way you said his name that night on the couch—
Eddie.
God. He could’ve come from that alone.
It lit something up inside him, and it broke something else.
Because all he wanted, all he fucking wanted, was to slide his hand between your thighs.
To guide you. Teach you. Worship you until you were shaking, until you were gasping his name again. Only louder this time, needy.
He wanted to take you apart. To coax you open. To say: There you go. Just like that. Good girl.
He jerks harder now, chasing the edge like it might erase him. Like it might exorcise whatever’s wrong with his head.
Tries not to think of your voice, your face. Tries not to imagine you whispering please in the dark. Asking for more, asking for him.
He does, of course, but fuck it, it's fine, he’s right there, teetering on the edge, so close he can taste it—
And then it drops.
The wave collapses before it crests.
His hand falls still. His breath stutters. His cock aches, flushed and untouched, angry with the unfinished heat of it all.
Shame clamps around his ribs like a vice.
It’s become a routine, at this point. Heat, guilt, silence, disgust.
He wipes his hand on his shirt, though there’s nothing left but spit and shame, and prays the ceiling would crack open and swallow him whole.
It never feels good. Not when it’s like this.
Because whenever he looks at you, he sees everything.
Everything soft and warm and golden.
Everything he doesn’t deserve.
You’re too good.
Too kind. Too full of light.
And he’s—
He’s this.
Tangled up in guilt and fear, warped and wired all wrong. Buried under the constant, gnawing certainty that if you ever gave him that part of yourself, he’d ruin it. Take too much. Break something sacred.
Hurt you.
Because no matter how many times he tells himself not her, not like this, his body doesn’t care. The part of him that craves control—quiet, aching, patient control—still wants to see you pliant beneath him.
Wants you flushed and panting and pleading for more. Wants to draw out every gasp, every moan, every broken, holy sound as he takes you to the edge.
Wants to believe you’d trust him enough to let him see you like that, vulnerable and open.
To touch. To take.
And that’s when the guilt sinks in deepest. Sharper than fangs digging into his sides.
Because you do trust him. You already trust him.
You trust him without knowing what he’s capable of wanting.
And you don’t know what that means to someone like him. Someone who’s spent most of his life being too much. Too loud, too intense, too hungry.
You’re such a freak, Munson.
You don’t know how deep this runs. How badly he wants to ruin you, in the kind of way that feels so natural it scares the shit out of him.
Because if you gave him that part of yourself, let him guide you, teach you, take care of you the way he aches to—
He doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop.
Doesn’t know if he’d be gentle enough. Doesn’t know if he’d be good enough.
So he pulls away.
He always pulls away.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Devotion and hunger. Reverence and ruin. All the fucked-up wires in Eddie Munson’s brain are twisted beyond salvaging. Lines so blurred he can’t walk them anymore. Isn’t sure he ever can.
And that part of him, the part that wants—it should never be in the same room as your first time. Shit, maybe not any time.
You deserve soft. You deserve space. You deserve to stumble through this at your own pace, with someone who doesn't come pre-loaded with instincts that sound like care and feel like safety but might just be another kind of selfishness.
You deserve better than a burnout metalhead with a hand down his pants and a head full of self-loathing. Better than someone who wants things from you he has no right to even imagine.
But his body won’t let it go.
His fingers twitch again, needy and insistent.
One more time. Just enough to dull the edge. Reset. Rewind. Pretend this day never happened.
Then he’ll take you out. Somewhere safe, somewhere easy.
Maybe the record store on Elm. Or that diner you like, the one with the vanilla milkshakes and the broken jukebox.
He’ll make you laugh, he promises to himself. That’s the plan.
He closes his eyes. Spits into his hand.
Just one more—
He doesn’t hear the door creak open.
“Eddie?”
Your voice cuts through the static like a blade.
His whole body locks, heart stuttering like a misfiring engine.
Fuck.
For a split second, he hopes maybe, just maybe, he imagined it. That you aren’t really standing there in the doorway, eyes wide and searching, backpack still slung over your shoulder. Like you didn’t just walk in on him like this—flushed, half-naked, drowning in his own shame.
Then you blink, and reality slams into him like a truck.
“Shit—fuck—fuck—sorry—” He scrambles upright, yanking his hand from his jeans, fumbling for the button. Hisses when his still-hard cock catches on the zipper. “Didn’t hear you—thought I closed the door—fuck—”
The music is still howling behind him. He stumbles toward the stereo, half-zipped and red in the face, and slams it off. Sabbath cuts off mid-wail. Silence crashes down like a guillotine.
He turns back around, breaths coming sharp and uneven.
You’re still there.
Staring. Not leaving. Not saying a word.
His heart kicks hard against his ribs. Fight-or-flight with nowhere to go.
And then your gaze dips.
Lower.
To the flush on his neck. The strain in his jeans. The guilty distance in his body, like he’s bracing for you to flinch.
But you don’t.
And when your eyes meet his again, there’s no disgust, or regret.
Just this strange, near curious sort of calm.
You break the silence first, voice soft but impossibly steady. “Hi.”
His throat feels like sandpaper. “…Hi.”
The air between you stretches, tight as guitar string wire, thrumming with tension neither of you dares to cut.
“Sorry. You were just… saying my name.”
The words land like a sucker punch.
His stomach flips. His face burns hotter, and his useless, traitorous hands hover awkwardly in midair, unsure if they should reach out or retreat.
You step forward, careful and patient, like he’s a wild thing caught in a snare.
“Eddie,” you say again, and god, it’s soft. Too soft. It cuts. “Were you thinking about me?”
Fuck.
He can’t hide. Not when you’re looking at him like that.
His eyes dart to the floor, shame burning like acid up his neck, but they flicker back up just as fast. Because he still wants to see you, even if it hurts. Even if it damns him.
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tries again.
He could lie. Could joke, like always. Toss out something lewd to make it less… intimate. But when your eyes catch his, he forgets how to do anything but feel.
Eddie Munson has never been good at pretending with you.
“Yeah,” he says. His gaze doesn’t waver this time.
Always.
You breathe in slow. Something shifts in your face, then. Relief, maybe. Understanding. Softer in the undercurrent, like a kind of quiet courage.
Like maybe you were hoping he’d say it out loud.
You nod. And then, steady, brave, beautiful, you say:
“Tell me.”
He blinks. Takes the better half of a minute to process two simple words. “…What?”
“I want to know what you imagine,” you say, still calm. “When you’re alone, thinking about me."
His whole body jolts like a live wire. “I…” He laughs, startled, breathless. Shaking. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“I think I do.”
And then you step even closer. Close enough that he could just reach out, if he were brave enough. If he didn’t feel so damn wrong.
Your hand brushes his, tentative, tender. And when he doesn’t flinch away, you take it fully. Wrap your fingers around his like he’s worth holding.
Like he’s not the kind of monster that could ruin someone like you.
“Sorry,” he whispers, voice rough, cracked open by guilt.
“You weren't supposed to…” he trails off, head dropping, curls falling like a curtain across his face. He can’t meet your eyes. Can’t let you see all of him like this: bare, aching, twisted up in hunger and self-loathing.
You weren't supposed to see me like this.
Wanting. Weak. Caught in the mess of everything he’s trying to bury.
You squeeze his hand. “Eddie.”
Just that. Just his name. Soft. Sure. Certain.
And he hears something crackle inside him: a hairline fracture he’s been pretending wasn’t there, splintering like glass beneath pressure. Behind it, the floodwater churns—cold, relentless, impossible to contain. Because he knows what he sees in your eyes now. That same thing he’s spent countless nights trying to crush inside himself. What he’s been trying to kill every time he wakes up with his hand between his legs and your name in his mouth. Want tangled with fear. So tightly fused at the root he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
That unbearable, unspeakable, beautiful truth.
The guilt claws its way back up like it’s got teeth.
It’s not something he can explain. Not in clean lines. Not without cutting you on the jagged edges of it.
Because what he wants to say is:
I didn’t pull back all those time because I didn’t want you.
I pulled back because I want you too much.
In ways that scare the hell out of him. In ways that don’t feel safe, not for you.
I want to ruin you in the most reverent way. I want to hear you beg. I want to be the one who teaches you what it means to need someone like that.
To need me.
Because he’s only ever known people who came into the world already knowing the rules. Who could play the game with sharp smiles and empty hands.
But with you…
With you, it feels like trespassing. Because wanting you the way I do could hurt you.
And he’d sooner die than let that happen.
Because he breaks things. That’s what he does. That’s who he is.
Takes too much. Ruins them.
I’ll turn something beautiful into something I can’t come back from.
He swallows hard, jaw locking. Shoulders tensing like he’s waiting for a blow.
And all he manages, small and hoarse and hopelessly inadequate, is:
“I didn’t want to rush you. I just… I want it to be good.”
A coward’s version of the truth.
But you nod, eyes soft.
“I want it to be good too,” you whisper. “With you.”
Then, without even flinching:
“I trust you.”
His breath stutters, chest tight. Eyes squeezing shut like he can block the word from settling into him.
The fracture in the glass grows, spiderwebbing across everything. The water rises higher, pressing harder against the fragile barrier.
He wants to believe you. God, he wants to earn that word. Wrap it around himself like armor—but it cuts. It draws blood on the way in.
“You can’t…” His voice trembles. Breaks. “You can’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I—” He chokes on it. Shakes his head like he can shake it off his skin. “Because even I don’t know what that means.”
The words taste like rust in his mouth.
But then he feels your hand on his cheek. Gentle. Certain. He leans into the touch before he even knows what he’s doing.
“I do,” you say softly. “I know what it means.”
You brush the curls from his forehead like he’s something worth holding.
“It means you make me feel safe.”
Your thumb comes to rest on the curve of his cheek, stroking gently.
“You make me feel seen.” Another stroke.
“Held.” Another.
“Loved.”
He flinches.
That last one lands like a blow. A rib-shattering strike that leaves him breathless.
“It means,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “that I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like… until you.”
Your smile—radiant, wondrous—burns through him like sunlight through stained glass. Too beautiful to touch.
“Eds, I’m ready,” you murmur. “But if you’re not… that’s okay. I mean it.”
He stops breathing. Eyes snapping open, wide, stunned.
Because he knows. He knows what it costs you to say that.
To offer softness like that after all the times it’s been taken from you.
After everything.
After assholes who used your trust like a weapon. People who made you feel wrong for saying no, like you were the problem for wanting to feel safe.
It’s how he stumbled into your life in the first place, isn’t it?
That night in his trailer, your voice shaking when you asked him for something to make you feel brave. For something that should never require courage.
Then the night on your back porch, that party, your tears bleeding into his shirt.
Both nights carved something permanent inside him.
Etched in lines under the skin. Sunk in deep. Stayed.
And he’d sworn, sworn, that he would never be one of them.
That he would never make you feel that way again.
And now, after all that—
You’re looking at him like you're doing the same thing to him.
Like you're becoming the same kind of person who hurt you.
The thought guts him.
It strikes him like lightning then. Like cut glass, something he’s always known, but becoming crystalline clear in this moment, sharp and sudden and slicing clean through his walls—
He loves you.
No questions. No caveats.
He loves you.
Eddie stares for a long, aching moment.
His chest heaves. His eyes shine, glassy and wide.
“It’s not… it’s not that I don’t want to.”
You nod. “I know.”
“It’s never—I never—” His gaze drops, throat working.
But you don’t let him fall.
You reach down, slowly, tenderly, fingers sliding along his wrist, tangling with his.
A soft I’m here, I see you.
He breathes, shaky. His hand tightens in yours. And—as another crack splinters down the glass, as everything he's been holding back threatens to break loose—
He kisses you.
It’s everything.
Hot. Urgent. Breathless. Like the weight of all this emotion was just waiting to catch a spark.
Your hands slide down his neck, his chest, his stomach, down to the waistband of his jeans—but they hover there. Waiting. Letting him decide.
“I think about that night,” you whisper between kisses. “When you were on top of me. Between my legs. I couldn’t—can’t stop thinking about it.”
He groans, breathing hard through his nose. “Me too. Baby, god—”
He kisses you like he’s drowning. Because he is. Drowning in want, shame, every dark thought he’s tried to smother beneath bright colors.
Step by step, he backs you toward the bed until your legs brush the edge.
Then, without breaking the kiss, he lowers himself down first, shifts the center of gravity so that you're placed above him.
Because that’s what he needs.
Show me it’s okay to want you like this. Show me it doesn’t make me like them.
His hands are careful. His breath shallow. His eyes scan your face, reading for hesitation. But you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away.
You settle into his lap like you belong there, like this is exactly where you want to be.
And that’s what he needs right now.
Because when you’re in control… then wanting you feels safe.
When you set the pace, it means he doesn’t have to question every breath, every touch, every tremor under his palms.
If you’re the one moving, deciding—then maybe it’s not selfish. Maybe it’s not too much. Maybe it’s not wrong to feel this way about you.
“Do you still want to…?” You glance down, smile soft and teasing. “I could just… help.”
He nods before he can find his voice. Hands trembling, rings clinking.
“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart. Please.”
And when you start to move—hips slow, purposeful, grinding against the growing ache in his jeans—the room begins to tilt.
“I think about you too, you know,” you whisper, low and lethal. “When I’m… touching myself.”
His eyes slam shut. “Fuck.”
“It’s true. I think about you all the time.”
“You can’t just—say shit like that—” he groans but you laugh, soft and dangerous, hips still rolling.
You kiss him again, slower now. Deeper. No pressure to go further. Just want. Trust. Presence.
He fists the linens on his mattress, kisses you back hard.
And this close to you, this close to unraveling, he starts getting greedy.
“What do you—ah, fuck—what do you think about?”
“Mm, your hands,” you murmur, right into his ear. “Your voice. What you’d say to me while you’re inside me.”
He chokes on nothing but air, eyes squeezed shut. You hold down the rhythm, soft and steady.
It’s like every dumb adolescent fantasy he’s ever had collapses in on itself. Every dog-eared porn mag, every secret late-night movie—all of it fades away.
“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, watching the way your face is screwed up in concentration. “I’m—"
“It’s okay, Eddie. Let go.”
Then, softly, like a spark to gasoline:
“Please.”
That’s all it takes.
He’s done.
He comes with a hoarse groan, hips twitching as warmth blooms through his jeans. It slams into him like a Mack truck, too hard, too fast, fierce and unforgiving. His legs are trembling by the end of it, chasing a release he can’t contain. Fingers curled tight in the soft, worn cotton of your shorts to try and anchor himself.
And when he looks up, vision blurred, you’re watching him.
Eyes locked on his face, pupils blown wide, lips parted in something like desire and awe and maybe even something else.
Your expression is so open, so unguarded.
Like he’s beautiful. Like what just happened was beautiful.
You blink slow, lashes heavy, then smile.
It’s blinding.
One trembling hand reaches up and pulls you down for another kiss—warm, messy, soft around the edges, the high still settling. He feels your arm shift against his chest, a quiet inhale catching in your throat. Eddie watches, utterly entranced, as your hand slips out from beneath your waistband.
You were touching yourself.
But you waited. Just to see him. Just to be with him through it.
And you haven’t finished. You’re still aching.
“You didn’t…?” he starts.
You shake your head, cheeks flushed.
“Didn’t want to miss it.”
He groans, hands moving before he can stop them. Thumb brushing your waist, voice thick with awe.
“You wanna…” he breathes, barely believing, “… use my leg?”
Your nod is small. Lips caught between your teeth, eyes shimmering. All soft certainty. All permission.
And it floors him. Because no one’s ever looked at him like that, like he’s safe. Like he’s something you can trust with your body, your needs.
You shift, lifting your hips, and he braces you, helping you find the right angle. Steady hands on your sides, guiding you as you straddle his thigh. He plants his feet against the floor, lifting just enough to offer the resistance you need.
The seam of your shorts drags against him. You suck in a sharp, stuttering breath.
Eddie feels it like a punch to the sternum—that tiny, wrecked sound zipping through his bloodstream like the first hit of nicotine. His hands tighten on your hips.
And then you move.
Grinding slow at first, testing pressure, rhythm. Every drag of denim and cotton drawing out soft whimpers that catch in his skin.
“Yeah?” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw. “Feels good like this?”
“So good,” you breathe. “You always feel good, Eddie.”
He groans; it wrecks him every time you say something like that. Like it isn’t just praise. Like it’s the truth, pure and uncomplicated.
Your breath hitches against his mouth.
“Wanna… wanna make a mess on you.”
His whole body locks up, muscles going rigid like he’s been jolted by a live current. The part he’s been trying so hard to keep silent comes throbbing to life.
He shifts underneath you, near frantic, pressing his thigh up against your heat, adjusting the pressure until you gasp, sharp and sweet in his ear.
And he watches you like he’s starved.
Watches the way your jaw goes slack when the angle hits just right. The way your lashes flutter, the tiniest crease between your brows. The way your nipples go stiff under your shirt. The little tremor in your fingers as they slip back under your shorts, gliding through your arousal.
And he can feel it, too. Damp heat seeping through denim. Hear the slick, rhythmic drag of your knuckles. Sticky sounds of plush skin, matched by the soft, broken moans spilling from your throat.
He feels it, hears it, smells it. Drenched in it, drowning in it, he never wants to come up for air. Never wants to break the surface. Won’t ever come up unless you tell him to.
His mouth starts running, unbidden. No amount of shame could stop him from giving this to you now.
“That’s it, baby. Use me. Whatever you want. Fuck, look at you, so beautiful like this. Gorgeous. Yeah? Right there? There you go, don’t hold back.”
You shiver like each word hits something deeper inside you, hips rolling fast, hard, rough. Bearing your weight down, hand clenched tight around his shoulder.
That’s what he wants most. For you to have this. To take it. To feel safe claiming it.
“Still good?” he breathes, kissing your shoulder.
“So good,” you nod, voice shaking. “So close. Don’t stop—please—”
“Won’t. I’ve got you,” he promises. “Just like that. That’s my girl.”
“Oh my god, Eds—"
And then you fall.
Soft, like everything between you.
A sharp little gasp. A tremble through your thighs. A whispered, broken:
Eddie.
He feels the exact moment you let go.
Feels it in the way your breath catches, in the way your hands scramble for something to hold—fisting his shirt, his hair, pressing your face into his neck like you’re trying to sink into him.
Your hips stutter, grinding down one last time, chasing every ounce of feeling left in you. Your body collapses forward, breath shaking against his neck, arms curling around him like you might disappear without the anchor.
And he holds you through it. Holds you like he’s holding his entire fucking world.
Arms locking around your back, hands clenched in the back of your shirt, mouth moving against your temple.
“I got you,” he breathes, over and over. “You’re okay. I got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
I love you. I love you. I love you.
You collapse fully against him, hips jerking through the aftershocks, thighs twitching. Still trembling.
He feels every aftershock, every breath that shudders against his skin, and holds you tighter. Like he can absorb it. Soak the overwhelm right out of your body.
He kisses your temple, your cheek, your jaw—whispering breathless praises into your skin. Make it stick. Keep you safe.
“So good. You did so good, baby. So fucking beautiful.”
You breathe against his shoulder, shaky and dazed. Your chest heaves against his as you float back down.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod, laughing softly as you nuzzle into his hair. “That was… holy shit.”
He huffs a stunned, stupid breath, eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah. Holy shit.”
Eventually, you lift your head, just enough to see him. Eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen and parted.
And you smile.
Not embarrassed. Not awkward.
Just soft. Glowing.
Radiant in a way that makes his throat ache, pressing hot behind his eyes like too much light after too much darkness.
“You make me feel so good, Eddie,” you whisper. “So fucking safe.”
And just like that, the glass shatters.
The dam breaks.
The flood rushes through, relentless and inevitable.
It fills every chamber of his chest, crashing in like cold, clear water that cuts deep beneath the skin, scouring away years of doubt and fear.
Your voice, your gaze. The way you touch him like he’s something worth holding. The way you speak to him like there’s nothing wrong with how much he feels, like his hunger isn’t monstrous. Like love isn’t a thing he has to earn through pain.
It rushes into all the hollow places. Fills him full of things he’s spent so long trying to seal up, starve out.
Hope. Tenderness. Acceptance.
He’s soaked in it. Drowning in it. Dripping with your scent, your heat, your hands sliding up his arms, around his neck. You’re pressed so close he can’t tell where he ends and you begin.
There’s no stopping it now. No holding back.
It pulses through him, cell by cell. Can feel it everywhere, down to the marrow. Just how deep this runs. How thoroughly it’s woven into him.
How much he loves you.
It’s always been you.
You, in every look that steadies him, in every gentle touch that tells him he’s not too much, not too broken. You, in every breathless laugh, every whispered Eddie that sounds more like a prayer than a name.
You, with softness that doesn’t flinch. Kindness that doesn't demand. Strength that chooses him, even when he can't choose himself.
And now that he sees it, truly sees it, it’s all he can feel.
The tide has finally taken him under. And he’s grateful for it.
Grateful to drown in this.
In you.
Because this love—your love—it’s been patient. Quiet.
Steady in ways he’s never quite known.
It’s been waiting. You’ve been waiting.
And he can’t stand to keep you waiting a second longer.
His voice cracks as he says it:
“I love you.”
You go still for half a breath. Then your smile blooms, slow and stunning, like sunrise breaking over still water.
You lean in. Press a kiss to his lips. Another to his cheek. One more at his temple.
Your rest there, forehead pressed to his, and whisper it back:
“I love you, too.”
Your words land soft. Gentle.
His breath catches all the same.
Too.
A word has never sounded quite so holy to Eddie Munson.
It drops like a stone in water, ripples, reverberates, rings out through every nerve ending.
Because he’s been wanted before, but only in pieces. Only for what he could give. Only until he became inconvenient.
Used. Tolerated.
But loved?
Not like this.
Not freely. Not gently.
That voice in his head, the one that whispers that he ruins everything he touches, it’s still there. But your voice—your love—is louder.
And for the first time in his life, he believes it might stay that way.
His heart’s still catching up, staggering under the weight of something he’d convinced himself he’d never get to feel.
And then—your soft little sigh.
Happy. Content.
It tugs him gently back to earth.
You curl into him again, arms wrapping tight around his neck, warm and buzzing and real. And Eddie’s arms won’t stop moving—can’t. His hands drift across your back in slow, reverent sweeps, tracing your spine, your waist, the curve of your shoulder blades.
Trying to memorize this. Press it into his bloodstream. Etch it into bone so it can’t ever leave.
So even on the days when the ache creeps in, he’ll still have this.
Your smile deepens against his neck, the silence draping like a warm blanket.
And then, light and teasing:
“So… what do you wanna do now?”
Eddie laughs.
Really laughs.
It bursts out of him before he can stop it—a bright, breathless sound, a lungful of clean air after being underground for so long. Light spilling out through all the little cracks, in a way it hasn’t in years.
It feels new. It feels free.
It feels like you.
God, he loves you.
Loves you like it’s easy. Like it was always going to happen.
He wraps you tighter in his arms, lets the moment settle like starlight. Then, with a spark of mischief creeping into his grin, he shifts, hands sliding toward your ribs.
Digs his fingers in just enough to make you squeal, twisting in his hold as laughter bursts out of you, squirming to get away.
“Eddie!”
“What?” he grins, catching your hips before you can slip off. “You asked me what I wanted.”
You smack his chest without any real force, still breathless with laughter as he pulls you back into him, tucking you under his chin.
There, he closes his eyes, breathes you in.
Hears the ripple of your laughs soften against his chest and smiles. Knows he’s made good on at least one promise he made to himself today.
Then—with his eyes wet, heart full, voice thick with everything he knows he’ll never be able to fit into words—Eddie Munson vows:
“Anything. We can do anything you want.”
a/n: sorry it's been a while gang! wanted to get this one right. can't believe we've breached 40k words and we're just now getting to dry humping. anyway. much to look forward to. we're barely getting started here...🙊
thank you for following this story and sending me so many kind words about it! it means everything to me 💙💙
series masterlist | series playlist | general masterlist
thinking about Logan leaning against the wall near the open bedroom window shirtless with his pants unbuckled hanging so low on his hips that you can see his v line. He’s smoking a cigar and grinning from ear to ear because he’s just railed you into next week and you’re lying on the bed a complete mess with his cum still dripping out of you.
It’s nice and quiet and the only thing he can hear is your soft breaths and the crickets chirping in the night and he thinks that this is right where he wants to be for the rest of his life.
Hey! Firstly, I just wanted to say how wonderful it is to find someone who writes comfort fics for those with chronic illnesses/medical conditions. It’s definitely something you don’t see very often and it’s so amazing to be able to truly ‘see’ yourself in a fic with your favourite character. I would love to request something, if that’s ok? But absolutely no pressure at all!
I have Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) and as part of my condition, I really struggle with fatigue and chronic headaches. I would love to see a reader insert with Kelly Severide (I love that man and his beautiful blue eyes so much 😭) where he comforts the reader one night after he comes home from work and finds her still awake suffering from the most awful headache.
Despite feeling so unwell, she’s insisted on staying up until Kelly’s home and she knows he’s safe. She always makes an effort to cook for him when he gets in, despite her low energy levels which can fluctuate hourly or even over a period of minutes, and always stays awake until he’s home. Recently she’s been struggling with feeling guilty that she doesn’t do enough, even though she’s home all day and is trying to manage her health alongside working from home, part time. She feels guilty that she can’t always go to events or to Molly’s with him because of her energy levels etc.
Anwyay, I hope that isn’t too specific but I basically would just love some domestic fluff with Kelly, if that’s ok 🥰
I should say, I’ve only recently started watching Chicago Fire (I watched Chicago Med first) and am only just about to finish season 2. Thank you so much in advance and I can’t wait to see what you come up with! 🥰
You’re More Than Enough
Summary: After a long shift, Kelly comes home to find you awake and in pain from a severe ME-related headache. Despite her exhaustion, she waited up for him—like she always does—carrying guilt for not doing “enough.” Kelly comforts her with quiet love and reassures her that she’s more than enough just as she is.
The clock read 11:42 PM.
You’d been curled up on the couch for hours now, lights dim, a cool compress pressed firmly to your temple. The pain behind your eyes had spiked after sunset—a deep, throbbing pressure that made your skull feel like it might split in two. Your limbs ached with exhaustion, the kind that went far beyond tiredness. Bone-deep. Cellular. Like gravity was stronger just for you.
Still… you waited.
The gentle sound of the front door unlocking made your heart flutter.
Kelly.
You shifted slightly, wincing at the movement, your body slow to cooperate. The air changed when he walked in, like the room recognized him too. He was still in his station gear, soot smudged just lightly across his neck, his jacket slung over his shoulder.
He stopped when he saw you.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice thick with that deep concern he always tried to hide. “You’re still up?”
You offered him a tight smile and a tired blink. “Wanted to make sure you were safe.”
He set his jacket down, crossing the room in two long strides. Kneeling in front of you, he reached for your hands gently, brushing his thumbs across your knuckles.
“You’ve been in pain all night, haven’t you?”
You gave a small nod. “Just a headache. And the usual crashy mess.” You paused, then whispered, “But I wanted to see you. You’ve had such a long shift. I didn’t want you coming home to an empty living room.”
His eyes searched yours—those unfairly blue eyes, warm and intense—and something in his expression cracked.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, moving to sit beside you on the couch, carefully gathering you into his lap like you weighed nothing at all. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to hurt yourself trying to take care of me.”
“I know,” you whispered, though your throat tightened around the words. “But I miss you when you’re gone. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I just… feel like I don’t do enough. You’re out saving lives. And I’m here… just trying to survive a headache and finish a few emails.”
Kelly rested his chin gently atop your head and breathed in slow. His hands rubbed small, slow circles into your back.
“You do everything, baby,” he said, his voice low and solid like the ground beneath you. “You live with a condition that no one sees. That most people don’t understand. And still… you cook for me, you wait up for me, you check on me even when you’re the one in pain.”
Your lower lip trembled.
“I couldn’t even make dinner tonight. I wanted to. I had the stuff out. But I—I just couldn’t move.”
Kelly’s fingers paused. Then he pulled back enough to look at you.
“Did you think I’d be mad about that?”
You shook your head, but tears slipped out anyway.
“I just… I feel useless sometimes,” you admitted. “Like I’m supposed to be the one holding the home together while you’re out doing the impossible. And instead, I’m measuring whether I can handle brushing my hair.”
Kelly cupped your face in his calloused hands, thumbs gently wiping away your tears.
“You are not useless,” he said, firm but gentle. “You are living with something no one else sees, and you’re still showing up for the people you love. For me.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, lingering there where your pain pulsed strongest.
“I don’t need dinner. I don’t need you at Molly’s. I don’t need some ‘perfect’ partner. I need you. Just you. Soft blanket and messy bun, half-asleep on the couch because you couldn’t rest until I was safe.”
You let out a choked laugh, burying your face in his shirt.
“You always say the right thing.”
“I just say the truth.”
He shifted you so you were curled into him, your legs stretched across the couch, your head on his chest, rising and falling with every breath. He grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and tucked it around you both.
“I know it’s hard,” he murmured. “I know you feel like you’re always apologizing for things that aren’t your fault. But you don’t have to explain your pain to me. Or your limits. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”
You closed your eyes, the pain still there, but dulled slightly by the warmth of his arms and the quiet of the room.
And just before sleep finally came, you whispered—
“Thank you for loving me like this.”
His arms tightened around you.
“Always.”
Thank you so much for your kind words sweetheart, I really hope this did your idea justice and I’m happy to do more because like you said you really don’t see fics with readers with chronic illnesses and medical conditions so I really hope I did it well for you, because it comforts me too having theses fics too! 🫶🏻🫶🏻
Warnings: language, pills, reader has pots and other unnamed chronic illnesses, eader is an artist
Words: 0.8k
A/n 1: It's finally here! I am so incredibly grateful for all the love and support and am so thrilled that people wanted this to be a series because I'm having so much fun with it! Writing this is so healing for me. Hope you love it! <3
“How have you been doing?”
You look up from your hands - you’d been fiddling with them for the past ten minutes - as Jack slides into the seat across from you. “Much better,” you smile. “Thanks to you.”
He leans back with his arms crossed, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Y/n, I’m already here. No need to butter me up.”
You laugh, and he swears it’s the most heavenly sound he’s even heard. “You’ve been taking your Midodrine?” he asks.
Rolling your eyes, you set your hands on your lap. “Yes, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes gleam with witty desire. It’s been seven days since your visit to the ED, but the two of you had exchanged countless texts over that timespan. He was relieved to finally conversate face-to-face.
“I didn’t order yet,” you tell him, taking your sweater off and setting it next to you, revealing a black, v-neck top you’d found shoved to the side of your closet earlier, waiting for the day you finally go out and party - or, in this case, go on a date with a hot ER doctor.
Jack feels underdressed in his scrubs, having come straight from work, but you’d assured him earlier that you didn’t care what he was wearing as long as he came.
Jack nods. “I’ll go-”
You stand before he can. “I can go get us drinks,” you tell him, sliding from your seat. “You’ve been on a twelve hour shift. I know your leg is killing you; give it a breather.”
The chivalrous part of him wants to argue, but the other part is aching. His leg is killing him. He’s hardly sat down since his shift started. “Alright,” he caves, giving you his order and insisting you take his card to pay. You depart with a curtsy, leaving Jack chuckling quietly.
When you come back, sliding him his cup, Jack peers over at the label on yours. “You listened,” he says with the inkling of a smile on his face, nudging his chin in the direction of the drink.
You look down and laugh. “Yep. I even got green tea because it has less caffeine than black.” You stir. “I’m doing research and everything; you should be proud.”
He nods, takes a gulp from his coffee. “I am.”
Jack glances outside - (the sun is just starting to rise) - before turning back to you. He takes another gulp this time, but it’s to stomach the butterflies fluttering about as he studies you. “You look nice,” he manages.
You smile, looking down at your top. “Thanks. You do too. Love the outfit.”
Jack laughs at this, straightening out his scrub top. “This ol’ thing? You’ll never guess where I got it.”
You’re giggling again, and Jack flushes. “Spirit Halloween!” you guess jokingly.
Jack hides his smile behind his cup as he takes another drink. “You never told me what you do. For work.”
Beaming, you whip out your phone and begin to tap furiously at the screen. When you put it on the table and slide it his way, Abbot looks down to find a stunning painting of a woman looking out a window.
“I’m an artist,” you tell him and then point at the women in the painting. “That’s Keria. She made me take a photo to reference after like thirty minutes because she was getting bored.”
Jack picks the phone up and surprises you by whipping out a pair of reading glasses. Your cheeks heat when he puts them on, watching him in all his dilf glory as he zooms in and out.
When Jack gives your phone back, he looks almost…proud. “You’re really good.”
“Really?” Your smile is bright. You put your phone away. “I don’t know, I feel like I could’ve mixed the colors a little better.”
Jack nurses his cup. “Don’t sell yourself short. That’s pretty damn good.”
All you can do is smile and shyly gaze down at your cup. “I’ve submitted some pieces to a few art galleries.”
“That's awesome.”
You nod, finally meeting his gaze. You flush at the way he’s looking at you - almost in wonder. “Thanks.
Jack takes another sip. “Would you paint me?”
Your jaws drops. “Really?” you stutter.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “My flat’s pretty bare right now; I’ve been looking for some art to put up.”
He can’t be serious. “You’ve only seen one of my pieces. How do you know the rest is good?”
Jack leans forwards, setting his cup down. “How do I know it’s not?”
You turn away with an awkward cough. “How was your shift?”
“Fine. Would you paint me?”
“You’re unbelievable!” you guffaw, swiveling back to face him.
He’s leaning even closer now. “Would you?”
“Ugh….fine!” you groan, throwing your hands up in defeat.
He finally leans back, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “How’s next Saturday?”
You’re still in disbelief. “I’ll give you my address.”
It’s official: Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
A/n: Let me know what you want to see next for these two! I have a few things planned (like how the painting date goes!) but am interested in any feedback. Sending love!
Taglist:
@miraclesabound @qardasngan @mads198-9 emma8895eb
People I thought to Tag (let me know if you want me to continue tagging you):
Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)
Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.
Word Count: 2.3k+
A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!
Main Masterlist
The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.
You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.
He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.
He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.
You hadn’t moved from your spot.
By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.
“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.
You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”
“Does what?”
“Stops.”
He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.
“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”
You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”
But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.
“Thanks,” You murmured.
He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.
After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”
“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”
You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”
He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”
You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.
“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.
His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.
He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”
Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”
He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.
Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.
Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.
“Trying to impress me?”
He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”
You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”
-
You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.
But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.
On your first date, he had planned it carefully.
Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.
So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.
“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”
You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”
“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”
You laughed, which he counted as a win.
The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.
But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.
“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”
“Exhausted?”
“Real.”
The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.
You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.
Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.
“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.
By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.
He knelt beside you.
“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”
You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.
“…I don’t want to ruin this.”
His eyes softened. “You’re not.”
“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”
“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”
That made you blink.
He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.
You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.
“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”
You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”
He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”
You felt something in your chest unravel.
And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.
It was the beginning of something real.
-
There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.
One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.
You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.
You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.
He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.
He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.
“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”
You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.
Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.
But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.
He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.
“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.
You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”
He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.
“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”
You swallowed hard.
“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”
His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.
“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”
You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”
“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”
“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”
Bucky went very still.
You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”
His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”
“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“
You broke off. Voice cracking.
“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“
Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.
He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.
“You think I want a normal life?”
You blinked at him.
“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”
He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”
Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.
“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”
His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.
“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”
Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.
He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”
And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.
For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.
And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.
Some self indulgent headcanons about Robby since the chronic illnesses have been beating my ass the past 3 days.
Robby with a chronically ill partner:
It's really hard for him to not go into full doctor mode, but he can't help it.
Feeling dizzy? Vertigo attack? Forget walking. He's carrying you around the house. You are NOT falling on his watch.
He's taking your blood pressure to make sure it's stable. And he's doing it the manual way. He's doesn't trust those electronic cuffs.
He makes sure you take your meds and even fills your pill organizer for you.
Always has your go to safe foods and electrolyte solutions on hand, and he gets them for you if you need them.
He's always warm, and you seek out his warmth when the pain gets bad. He's always happy to hold you, rub your back, and kiss away any tears that might fall. He HATES seeing you in pain.
If he can't get out of work to stay home and take care of you, he's definitely calling to check on you. Even sending someone he trusts over to put eyes on you and get you anything you need.
He's quick to remind you that you are not a burden and that you are the strongest person he knows. He wishes he could take it away from you, and it kills him that he can't. He loves you for YOU, and considers it a privilege to take care of you.
Logan being the wild dog while still trying to listen to his partner being dominant for once. He wants it but holy hell he's THIS CLOSE🤏🤏🤏 to just pin them down to th bed. They know but make everything even worse for him
i'm so damn tired but this ask is sooooo fucking good i can't sleep on it... i hope i did it justice if i wake up and i feel differently i'll fucking rewrite this okay!!!! consider this a logan warm-up before i get back to operation: v-card!!!
good boy
logan x f!reader, 1.8k
18+ SMUT MDNI!!!, slight angst, nicknames ("baby", "ma'am"), slight sub!logan before they switch 👅, mentions of breeding, i'm barely awake so this might very well be a flop
Logan doesn't think of himself as a good man. One doesn't live to be nearly two hundred without committing certain sins.
He's always the person they look for when something difficult needs to be done.
As if his soul can't be marred further.
But you came along and he discovers he can still hurt—just in ways that don't heal right back. In places that are hidden to the human eye, in territories so tender he's not sure he can handle the pain.
You always seem to know when darkness tugs, even if it's just in passing. Always latch on to him on those days. Sometimes you'd pull him in a hug, head against his chest. Sometimes it's forehead-to-forehead and he can see the color in your irises.
Your voice is never louder than a whisper, but it reverberates like a fundamental truth. Shakes the waters under his soul's frozen lakes until the ice cracks and he can't help but fall. Like you're rewriting his reality.
You deserve to be happy.
You're a good man, Lo.
I love you.
The soft kisses you leave on him seal his fate.
And that is how Logan finds himself trying. He doesn't know if he can even call it that because it's so easy.
His hands are light for opening doors and jars. The metal in his body shifts closer to the street when going out for a walk with you. Shields you in a crowded space.
It's not exactly chivalry. It's eagerness. To comply. To please.
To make you happy, just as you've made him accept that burdenless curse.
Which is why he's here in a mess of sweat and want, watching you hover over his hard length.
Many hours ago you mentioned you wanted to take the lead. Pouted a little when you jokingly told him you barely got to, how you always ended up the prey—not that you were complaining.
It was at most a passing remark, before routine melted the charge in the air, and the two of you press smiles against each other like nothing happened.
But he listened. When night came and darkness reveals desire, he feels you slowly take what you want. Charge. Control.
He lets you.
The tip of his cock slides against that sweet button between your legs. He's not sure who wants this more, but it's not like it matters.
What matters is he's trying to be good.
Keeps his hands on the bed because you said so. "No touching, baby, or else I'll stop," but then you stopped anyway right as the edge was in sight. Over and over again, driving the both of you mad.
Now you're swaying your hips just to stroke your folds over his cock, precum mixing with your arousal. Your hands anchor themselves on his shoulders. He watches you with glazed eyes—you refusing to sink yourself onto him is one thing, watching your body move like that is another.
It's sin and heaven all at once. The way he slides against your soaked cunt is damning, but the smile on your face is angelic.
"So good for me," you purr, head tipping forward, breath tickling his jaw.
Of course he is, he wants to shout. If he had it his way, your hips would've been bruised in the shape of his fingers, and you'd be on your back screaming his name while he drives into you.
And it would be so easy. He doesn't have to look to know your thighs are shaking, weak with strain.
But no, he's trying. He told himself he was going to.
So instead, the sheets by his sides are crumpled to death under white knuckles.
"D'you want me to put it in, baby?"
Your voice is raspy, reaching overuse from when you spread your legs for him and let him lap you up like the good dog he is, cooing as you tug at his hair, screaming when you came.
In between were words of demand and consolation, of praise and humiliation. More than he's used to. Something to thank heaven or hell for.
Come here and put your pretty face where it belongs.
Look at you. I haven't even touched you and you made a mess...
Like tasting yourself on my fingers, baby?
Fuck, yes, that's it...
Now you're asking him a question and he pants, nodding, lips swollen. You tut, but the huff that follows betrays impatience.
Like you're getting tired of this game, too.
"What did I say about using your words?"
"Want you to put it in," he growls without sparing a beat. The syllables cut clear in the silent night. "Want to fill you up."
Your jaw clenches. He notices.
But your eyes are stubborn, looking at him. Almost disappointed in the way you frown. Waiting.
He exhales shakily, feeling the tip snag at your entrance, and it's like you're so close giving him what he wants.
Except you aren't. You keep him there. He can feel you clench. Soaking. Wanting. Ready.
He swallows.
"Please fuck me... ma'am."
And then there's the quiet. He swears he sees your throat work, the light in your eyes reflecting an appetite, a longing,
"Attaboy," you grin, chest heaving. It's sincere, but sounds rather half-hearted.
He knows what you wants.
Feels it in the falter of your hands on his shoulder, the catch in your voice. What started out authoritative is now gentler, less demanding, more inviting.
The tables start to turn. Part of it is your own doing.
You play your cards. Sink into his cock like you're made for it, bottoming out almost immediately—you're more than stretched after perching yourself on his lap for god knows how long, edging both you and him to oblivion. There's a sound. The both of you moan, one of your hands flying to his cheek to cup his face.
He's at the precipice of a reaction larger than release. It's ocean tides slowly eroding a coast, costing his patience. It's the twitch of his hands by his sides.
They yearn for you, tempted by the bounce of your tits when you pull out and sit yourself down onto him and then his thoughts become fuck want to touch her want to feel her she's mine she's mine she's mine—
"Put your hands on me," you breathe, and his hands grab your waist. The first signs of your crumbling will.
It's like his thoughts reach yours without being voiced.
Still, you persist, leading a languid dance while his hands roam at your permission. There's faith and disbelief in the way he tips his head back to witness you.
A miracle in his bed. Lashes wet, mouth open, looking like you're barely hanging on to the unseen leash around his neck.
He wants to be good for you, but he wants you. So bad.
The voices grow louder when your thighs waver slightly. His hands react, holding you steady, and you let out a beautiful sound—high-pitched, short, airy.
You're riding him but Logan can taste the shift of the scales.
Nearly bites the inside of his cheek when you call out his name like you're not the one withholding pleasure for an evil amount of time. "Logan," you moan, eyes closed, and by the way you're gripping his shoulders, he can tell you're regretting this.
Your thighs must be burning. Tired. Aching.
You can't fuck yourself good because only he can.
And you must be realizing this too, because suddenly you're still, filling your slick cunt up by sitting on him, lips needily finding his. In between tongue and teeth, he watches you through half-lidded eyes, waiting for that moment of capitulation.
It arrives when he slides a finger down your back. Featherlight. There's a look in his eyes that demand you to say it. A look in yours that surrenders.
Not without a few last words.
"You wanna be good for me, baby?"
Yes yes yes wanna be good for you want you, want to fuck you like I own you, want you to feel so good you can't fuckin' remember your own name, want to make this pussy come until she can't anymore, want to fill her up till she leaks, want to breed breed BREED
He plays along. "Yes, ma'am."
You bite your lip, still pretty on his cock. "How bad d'you wanna be good?"
A huff. "So fucking bad, you don't know the half of it."
Pause.
"...ma'am."
He doesn't know if you're stalling or if you're getting off on this, because you ask him, "tell me what you want to do to me," while your fingers twirl the ball chain of his dog tags.
"Tell me everything."
When he speaks into your ear, it's like bared fangs sinking into plush flesh, drool covering fresh meat.
He lets you know.
Voice ragged, words almost slurred, he tells you. A premonition of the near future once you let go of his collar. Every way he wants to ruin you, dripping explicitly out his mouth into your head, poisoning you with visions. Convincing you the control you have is wasted, because look what you could be having instead.
Heaven under his hands. Heights in the cant of his hips. Salvation in ruin.
When he pulls away, your face is wrecked, twisted with desire.
But even as victory's rays crest over the horizon, your response almost obliterates him.
"You've been so good for me, you deserve a reward, don't you?"
That sends a pang in his chest. He has been good for you. He does deserve a reward. Blood sings in his veins.
"Ngh—yes..."
"Come take it, then. Make me proud. Make me happy, Lo."
He almost came.
"Fuuuuck," when he finally grips your hips with his full strength, fucking up into you like he won't get to anymore. You lax in him immediately, letting him rut up into you with a ferocity that breaks through flimsy gates.
He hits the spot inside you that he knows will drive you to the brink, and then the two of you are riding that wave together, moans intermingled, garbled names and "oh my god"s and "don't stop don't fucking stop"s until shattered pleasure makes you spasm in his arms.
He follows suit, spilling himself in you.
There's so much it drips back out.
Barely a breath later, though, he has you on your back, wrists pinned. His cock is already half-hard again just looking at you.
The stretch of your naked body is a canvas he's eager to paint with every implement he owns: hands, tongue, teeth, cock, cum—and you just gave him permission.
Permission to make you proud. To make you happy.
So he pounces, the goal bright in his mind as he mauls your neck.
You smile under him all the while, drool escaping from the side of your lip.
warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI, cum, dirty talk, teasing, he fucks you without actually going in if that makes sense. IDK what to call this im just kinda in a mood u know. afab!reader.
a/n: So i had this idea but I beat Hollow Knight's true ending and im so hyped up I wanted to finish this as a reward LOL anyways enjoy teehee
wc: 883
"Logan..." You cry as he holds your hips still with just one of his strong hands. His fingers splayed along your tummy as Logan continues his torture.
"So fucking whiny." He says as he clicks his tongue. His eyes glancing up to give you a disapproving look.
"I told you to be quiet. Let me have some fun alright?" He tilts his head slightly and waits for your response.
"Okay, but please hurry." You rest your head back on the pillow, your legs shaking with anticipation.
Logan grins, his hand stroking his cock slowly as his other thumb plays with the waistband of your panties. How cute he thinks as he slowly rubs his cock along the crotch of your panties. It's hot and heavy and you can feel it through the fabric. So close yet so damn far.
Logan groans as he starts to leak on the pretty blue fabric. It's bright and sticks out like a sore thumb. He saw it when you bent over earlier and he knew he had to punish you for being so naughty.
"Wear this color just for me?" He asks as his fingers snap it against your skin.
"Matched your suit." You mumble as you start to shift impatiently.
It was pure torture what Logan was going to do to you. He likes to admire you, worship you. You can't remember how it came up, probably an offhanded comment about your sex life. He always left you satisfied but poking fun at just how good he was ignited something inside of him. Tonight, Logan decided that he was going to make you fall apart with only his touch. No fingers and definitely not his cock. Even if you begged for him to fuck you in that sweet voice he wouldn't budge.
No, he's got something to prove this time.
"Fuck..." He whispers as he grabs your hips, dragging you closer to his cock that was starting to leak and stain your underwear.
"God fuck Logan!" You whine as his thumb presses onto your clit.
The pressure sending pleasure shooting through your body. His ironclad grip leaves little room for movement as he he slips his cock between the fabric and your cunt, getting it all wet and messy.
"You're soaked baby." He coos as he thrusts his hips slowly, wetting his cock till its nice and slippery. The tip peaking out of the waistband. Red, hard, and leaking. Your mouth waters at the sight. You want him inside your cunt or your mouth so fucking bad but the asshole won't give in. You open your mouth slightly and silently beg to let you just get a taste. But he just shakes his head.
"Not tonight, tonight is about you."
He pulls back your underwear and teases your pussy with his tip, watching with hungry eyes as it flutters and clenches around nothing. Begging for it. Begging for him.
"Could come just like this." He groans as he lets go of your underwear in favor of reaching up to spread his hand along your stomach.
"And I think you could too." He says with a smirk. His cock rubbing faster against your clit, each drag sending shocks through your system.
"Soaking my cock, so damn dirty." His voice is condescending,"Just look at the mess you're making."
He grabs the back of your head gently and forces you to look down. To watch his cock coat itself and slide between your underwear. The fabric is completely soaked through. Wet and sticky from your boyfriends lewd actions. It sticks to your skin as Logan groans, thrusting faster. His balls hitting your cunt with each thrust making you squeak.
"Fucking so good, so wet just fuck." Logan rambles complete nonsense as his brain turns to mush and all that remains is the primal urge to please his lover.
"Logan!" You moan as you feel your legs start to shake.
Unlike any orgasm you've had it rocks you to your core. It's not as intense as the ones Logan has given you before but it feels like your whole body is buzzing. You're aware of everything and nothing at the same time. You tilt your head back as your mouth parts, soft whines leaving as Logan growls like a beast. A harsh thrust against your soft wet skin and he's a goner. His cum coating your stomach and your now ruined panties. He pants as he comes down from his high. His hands scrunching up the sheets as he rests his weight on the bed. A half smirk on his face as he sees your fucked out expression.
"See, now wasn't that worth it?" Logan asks as he slowly pries your panties off your legs.
He sighs as he inhales the scent, his enhanced senses being overwhelmed by you. You gasp as you feel his already hard cock rest at your cunt. Inching its way without a care in the world. Logan leans down and kisses your cheek gently, brushing your cheek with his hands as he bottoms out. He closes his eyes as his body buzzes with pure bliss.
"Logan..." You whine, wishing he'd just hurry up and fuck you already.
Tracing your fingers over your fictional love’s features, noticing their lashes fluttering at your touch, lidded gaze trained on you as your own is fixed on the path of your fingers. Memorizing every little wrinkle, scar, blemish, and mark, wanting to know by heart the curve of their cheek bones and the slant of their jaw, the bump of their nose, or cleft in their chin. Passing over their cheeks you can feel warmth, a burning sign of your effect on them. Whenever you’re satisfied, or, perhaps, when you’ve spent just slightly too long tracing their hairline or the divot at the back of their head, they’ll take your own face in their hand(s), and bring you into a passionate kiss, tormented so sweetly by the tenderness of your touch. You drive them wild, you know, with your endless care and fascination for every aspect of them .
When Logan came back after a long mission, it would never be graceful. He’d drag himself through the door in the dead of night, boots heavy, shoulders carrying the kind of weight you couldn’t see but could always feel. He’d try to move quietly, like maybe you’d keep sleeping, but he’d forget—he never could hide from you.
You’d meet him in the doorway, and he would freeze. For a moment, he would just look at you, like he was convincing himself you were real. His eyes would soften in a way they never did anywhere else. Then he’d pull you into his arms like a man starved, like he’d been running on fumes for weeks and you were the only thing keeping him alive.
He would hold you too tightly, pressing his face into your shoulder, mumbling against your skin that he missed you. His voice would crack a little, low and rough, the words dragged out of him against his will. You’d feel his breath shudder when you whispered you missed him too, and he’d clutch you closer, like if he let go the world might swallow him whole.
Later, he’d sit with you on the couch, your legs tucked against him, his hand resting heavy on your thigh. He wouldn’t talk about what happened, but he would tell you that he thought about you every night. That the only thing that kept him going was the thought of coming back to this—your warmth, your laugh, your hand in his hair. Everything.
And when you leaned against him, half-asleep, he’d finally let himself press his lips to your temple, lingering there, eyes closed. It wouldn’t be a kiss meant for you to notice—it would be a confession, a whisper he didn’t know how to say out loud.He’d think it then, though, with aching certainty.
pairing: worst!wolverine x f!reader.
w.c: 3.7 k.
tags: logan's POV. 18+. artist!reader. reader is coded to be neurodivergent. fluff & minor angst à la logan's self hatred. wade and logan bantering. crack premise taken a little too seriously.
summary: he's drawn to you the moment he meets you; the kind, endearingly honest painter who lives next door. logan agrees to model for you, but after a joke brings the nature of your relationship into question, he finds himself wondering if you feel the same way. conflicted as to whether he should cross the line between love and friendship, he confides in wade. things go as well as you'd expect.
“Thanks for agreeing to this,” you say as you lead him through the doors. “It means a lot to me.”
“No problem, sweetheart,” Logan assures, grinning unabashedly as your eyes flicker away.
There’s a certain shortness to your breath as you stammer: “You don’t have to call me that.”
He watches in satisfaction as you hurry onward, trying to hide your expression from him. It doesn’t matter, anyways. He knows exactly how flustered you look when he calls you things like sunshine, darling, sweetheart…
The art studio you’ve brought him into is a sweeping expanse, big enough to run laps in. Through the sheer curtains, creamy sunlight floods the room, melting the harsh shadows that stretch across the wooden floors.
As he reaches the far end of the room, you kneel before a square platform with a chair placed on the middle of it. He puts down the bags he’d insisted on carrying for you, and you arrange your supplies: small boxy crayons, a lump of something gray and pliable, and large sketchbooks with tawny beige paper.
“But really, thank you,” you continue, smiling down at the floor. “I couldn’t have asked anyone else to do this.”
He scoffs. “Anyone can sit still.”
“Not Wade."
“Good point.”
“Not everyone has a strong build, or high endurance,” you say, sharpening a pencil. “You know what your body can do.”
He raises an eyebrow, teases: “I know what my body can do?”
“Yeah,” you nod, not even looking his way as you carve the pointed lead. “You’re confident in knowing what you can hold, and for how long. That’s why I asked you."
Logan watches the wooden shavings spiral to the floor in limp ribbons. His eyes trace up to observe the smooth, slow gliding of your thumb against the cutter as you push it towards the leaden tip.
You know what your body can do. He can’t think of anything flirty to snap back with. Not when he knows you mean everything you say. All he can do is shake his head in quiet amusement, up to his throat in feelings he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
He closes his eyes. He tries to ground himself in the reality that this is just another one of your too friendly, too honest observations. Innocuous compliments aside, you’ve never shown any sign of liking him the way he’s liked you for the past six months.
That’s a good thing. You have no business getting your life ruined by a super–centenarian (bi-centenarian? Is that even a thing?) like him. Especially not when you’ve got a blossoming career and your whole damn life ahead of you.
You and him being anything other than friends is a pipe dream at best.
He chokes his feelings back, and it goes down his throat with the same smoothness of a ricocheting pinball machine. That is, not smoothly at all. It sits at the bottom of his stomach like a stone he can’t digest.
Ignoring the weight of it, he swings himself onto the elevated square.
“What now?” he smirks archingly, putting his hands on his hips. “Should I start stripping?”
Logan can’t help being smug, not when he can already imagine the embarrassed bite of your lip, the cute stuttered promises of pure intentions.
He surveys your face, waiting for you to get shy.
You don’t get shy.
A familiar neutrality washes over your features, with only the slightest beetling of your forehead betraying a deep contemplation.
He knows that look. Can practically hear the wheels turning in your head. He forces himself to smirk until it inevitably falls like plaster from a ceiling.
The realisation clicks into place:
You’re actually fuckin’ considering it.
Livid heat crawls up his neck, and his body tenses at his attempt to repress a shudder.
“I was joking,” he explains blandly, feeling sweat bead on his palms.
“Oh!” Your expression lifts as you laugh, carefree. And then, with the breeziness of someone talking about the weather, “I thought you were offering! You’d make for a very good model—”
He sucks in a breath.
Logan doesn’t hear anything past that. Spikes of heat sear his forehead, his cheeks. He can see your lips moving, but every sound in the room is rendered noiseless against the beating of his heart.
You’d make for a very good model.
It’s the context that he finds most flustering. Good model. Good (naked) model. Fuck, who says that so casually?
Are you making a pass on him? Are you implying he’d look good naked? Do you want to see him like that?
“Logan?”
Your voice shocks him back into clarity. Everything sharpens back into view, and he looks down to see your worried expression. “Are you alright?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Logan chokes out, profoundly embarrassed by the racing rhythm of his heartbeat.
You’re biting your lip again. “Are you sure? You look…”
“Let’s just get started,” he grunts under his breath, turning to face the chair behind him. “What am I meant to do with this?”
He falls into the seat the moment you ask; digging his forearms against the armrests, feet pressing flat against the ground. It’s almost like he strapped himself into an electric chair, and now he’s waiting for death to claim him.
Good thing the chair is placed diagonally, as to not face you headfirst. He doesn’t know if he could sit still for more than a minute if you were looking him in the eye.
Hopefully it’ll be over with as soon as possible.
“This good?” he manages to grit out, adamantly staring at the wall.
You laugh softly in response. “You look like a kid in detention. Try to relax, you’re really stiff. Pretend I’m not even here.”
He does his best to relax, fully knowing that pretending you’re not here is impossible. He couldn’t miss you in a crowd if he tried.
“Let’s get started,” you announce, shifting to get comfortable in your seat.
You hunch over your big–ass sketchpad propped over the edge of your bench, and the moment your conte crayon touches the surface, it makes the same noise as when striking a match— a flame bursts alive, and the scratching of your paper echoes like a crackling campfire.
He doesn’t need to see you to feel your searing gaze pin–pricking his skin; piercing straight through him like grilling fork through a marshmallow. He’s ready to melt like a marshmallow too, under the intensity of your bright, burning eyes.
Your voice abruptly cuts through the silence. “Could you move your hand a little to the right?”
He grunts, complying with a jerk of his arm.
“Perfect! Thanks.”
Logan flexes his fingers. Clenches his hand, unclenches. There’s a brief pause, before you surprise him by speaking up again, “Did you sleep well last night?”
The question hangs in the air like a static dust mote until he realises you’re waiting for him to reply.
“…Aren’t I supposed to shut up?”
“It’s okay! I like talking to you, and I can still pay attention,” you say.
Clearly, he thinks, still feeling your incessant eyes trained on him. “Uh, ‘bout as well as I normally do.”
“As in, not at all?” you say with a knowing smile.
“Heh. Nope.”
The conversation goes on like this for a while. You ask him all sorts of questions: about his temp work with the TVA, whether he’s visited the new café around the block yet, how his week is going…
(It’s good, now that he’s with you. Doesn’t tell you that, though. Obviously.)
He doesn’t usually like small talk. It’s long, exhausting, and a useless waste of time.
But with you, it’s fun winding around topics, like taking the scenic route on a long road trip to nowhere in particular. There’s the occasional pause, but the red light always turns green again, and then the conversation’s flowing smoother than a highway.
It’s only when blinding sunlight bursts into being in the corner of his eye that he jolts back into reality. He winces, static dancing across his vision as he blinks. As he adjusts to avoid the light, he takes in the room around him.
Outside the window, the wobbling egg–yolk of a sun is already dipping past the horizon. All the bright buttery yellows has dimmed to embers, drowning the room in caramelised gold.
It’s sunset. Hours have passed, and he’s spent all of it adamantly avoiding your gaze by staring at the wall.
Was he doing that subconsciously? All because he made that embarrassing joke about getting naked?
He’s familiar with stares that linger on him too long; with deep, tunnel eyes bristling with hatred. They tell stories of grief; of losing family, lovers, children to the clawed monstrosity that prowled the streets, going down his never ending list of who to kill next.
A murderer. A fucking mutant.
The lives he destroyed, plainly laid out on the faces of everyone he walked past in the universe he left behind.
He’d always been too scared to look his sins in the eye.
He wonders what he’ll see in yours.
Fuck it. He tenses his jaw, swiftly turning to look at you for the first time in hours.
And his breath catches in his throat.
Honeyed light melts over you, softly gracing your body like a veil. There’s a slight lift to your eyebrows, a gentle upward quirk to your mouth. Where he expects hatred, he finds warmth instead. Even as your hand moves across the sketchpad, you keep your softened, studying eyes on him.
You’re looking at him like he’s the pretty one. Like he’s worth looking at.
And then, he catches the whisper under your breath:
“Beautiful.”
And it happens all at once; like you hit the brakes hard. Four words, and suddenly the world’s spinning in circles. He’s swerving, skidding out of control for a small eternity, trying to ground himself until everything stops with an unpleasant lurch, jolting him back into lucidity.
Static dances across his vision as he hears himself say, “…What?”
“You’re beautiful,” you say.
How he responds to that, he has no idea. He doesn’t even ask to see the drawings. Before he knows it, he’s helping you pack up your shit, and moving out the door with you.
Logan stares at his boots the entire way home, thoughts slurring into sludge. You’re probably talking about some show Wade made you watch, how he should totally try watching it too. At some point the echo of your distant voice clarifies, sharpening into coherent sound:
“Here we are! Thanks for today, Logan!”
Logan opens his eyes to your star white smile, and the rest of the world brightens with it. Completely unable to find his tongue, he nods jerkily by way of ‘good night’.
The moment your door closes, he careens through the door of Apartment 17 and crashes headfirst into the couch ship–wreck style.
“Fuck,” he groans, balling a trembling hand into a fist and grinding it against an eye socket. Sparks burst behind his eyelids; but it doesn’t even hold a candle to that smile of yours—burning and unforgettable.
His claws itch to explode past the skin of his knuckles. Every neuron in his body is blaring, and he needs to do something about it before he ruins the couch trying to make sense of every discombobulated thought ping–ponging in his skull.
“Fuck,” he says again for emphasis, realising what he has to do. Who he has to talk to.
With a profound sense of dread, Logan eyes the bedroom door. He can hear the barely-muffled blare of ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’ as he trudges up to it.
Behind the door, vibrations of yet another Just Dance song ripple out beneath his feet; an omen of the fate awaiting him.
Logan lets himself sigh as he reaches for the doorknob. Here goes nothing.
“You offered to pose nude for her?!” Wade squawks, spraying bits of wet bread out his mouth in the process. Logan winces, already regretting his decision to confide in the annoying prick he reluctantly calls his best friend.
He hadn’t even gotten one sentence in before Wade scrambled to arrange a truly upsetting spread of single–wrapped cheeses, raw meats and ambiguous sauces on the dinner table. Apparently talking about crushes means it’s “Smorgasbord time, baby”, so really Logan doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself.
“Shut up.”
“Honestly,” Wade laughs in between bites of the sandwich he’s choking down. “Just ask if she wants to fuck next time like the rest of us! No need to beat around the bush.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Logan hisses, cheeks burning as he adamantly stares down at his lap. “I didn’t fuckin’ offer. It was a joke.”
“A joke,” he scoffs. “The last time I asked you to get me chorizo from the bodega, you flipped me off—”
“—Because you’re a dick, and I don’t owe you shit—”
“Yeah, exactly! You never offer to do anything for anyone, but guess who’s carrying her art supplies up to her apartment when the lift breaks down! Guess who makes a point of sitting next to her at every dinner party! Guess who’s down bad.
“It’s you,” Wade jabs a finger at Logan’s chest. “You’re down bad.”
“Still dunno what that means,” Logan protests, desperately clinging onto dignity in ignorance.
Wade continues: “I don’t think you were joking, peanut. I think way deep down, you wanted to pose nude for her.”
He laughs at that. “Yeah, uh, no. Don’t think so.”
“Oh?”
“Nope,” Logan confirms flatly, slinging an arm behind his chair to get comfortable.
The merc–with–the–mouth hums, staring with a shuttered over expression. Logan hates that look on impact: like Wade knows something he doesn’t. So, Logan stubbornly holds Wade’s empty gaze, until he grows sick of the tension.
“What?” he finally snaps.
Wade speaks, sounding suspiciously casual: “Y’know, pretty much everyone in the friend group’s offered. Shatterstar, Colossus…”
“Offered what?”
“To model for her.”
“No shit. She’s an artist, she needs to draw from life, only natural—”
“No, no, no, I mean, that way. Naked.” Wade elaborates steadily.
“But has she? Drawn ‘em like…?” Logan falters mid–sentence.
“She’s even drawn me that way.”
Logan’s head jerks up at that. “Yeah, right.”
Wade raises a hand as if swearing the oath, looking dead serious. “Telling the truth, honey badger. Cross my heart and hope to die— she did. You can ask to see the drawings if you like.”
“No onewants to see that,” Logan retorts, feeling suddenly restless as he drums his fingers against his thigh.
“Shedid, though!” Wade shrugs, biting into his sandwich and shredding a slab of meat with his teeth. “She’s the one who drew me, after all. I think she liked it, too. Freaky–deaky, that girl.”
Logan inhales sharply, shoulders tensing as he does.
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he reminds himself. He’s talking out of his ass, just like always.
“I offered as a joke. She didn’t even say anything; just started closing the blinds and setting up the stage without having to think twice.”
His fingernails dig crescents into his palms, drawing blood.
“I just went along with it, because hey, why not?” Wade shrugged. “I’ve always been into voyeurism, anyhow—”
It’s too late to restrain himself: a growl rumbles from his throat, and his claws spear out from his knuckles as he moves to stand—
Wade slams the table, pointing with all the grandiosity of Phoenix Wright. “Aha! I fuckin’ knew it! You’re jealous that anyone else could be her french girl!”
“Her what?” Logan asks through gritted teeth.
“Her french girl,” Wade repeats, like that explains anything. “You know, ‘paint me like one of your french girls?’”
“You lied,” he seethes, cheeks flaring hotter.
Wade groans dramatically, letting his head fall limply like a toddlers. “Of fucking ‘course I was lying! First of all, I’m not gonna offer a look of this smoking bod for free.”
Logan makes a noise from the back of his throat, and moves to brace his hands against the kitchen counter, if only to avoid looking in Wade’s direction.
“Second of all, do you really think anyone in the friend group’s gonna offer to sit naked as a jaybird for like, what, five hours while she just stares? Be for real— you’re the only person who wants to do that!”
“I don’t want to, I just—”
“Oooh, I’m Logan, and I’m super horny for the cute artist next door with the neurodivergent rizz!” Wade mocks, posing like Marilyn Monroe getting her dress blown up. “I’d totally strip naked and get on my knees for her if she asked~”
“Shut up!” Logan shouts over his shoulder, a feverish burn flooding his face. “God, you— fine. Fine!
“Let’s say in the off chance that this issomething that I want. That I don’t know how to ask her out, and thatthis—of all things—is just a way of coming up with the stupidest fucking reason for her to keep me in her life. So what?” he laughs humorlessly, raking a hand through his hair. “What’s it matter?
“Maybe I keep waiting for her to hate me and she just doesn’t, ‘cause finding redeemable qualities in people who don’t have any is her fucking superpower. Maybe she makes everyone she meets feel special and seen and comfortable, and she makes me feel like I make sense in her life, as her friend.
“And that’s more than I deserve, but then she looks at me like she sees someone better than what I am, and she… she called me…”
“Called you what?” Wade prompts, quieter than Logan thought he was capable.
“…She called me beautiful,” Logan murmurs under his breath, barely managing to choke the words out past the heavy rock lodged in his throat. “Which, pretty sure contradicts everything about my everything, but she told me I was like it was fact, so… what the fuck else am I supposed to do about this?”
A long pause settles. Logan curls his fingers in and out again, willing himself to come up with some sort of answer to his own question.
Finally, Wade cuts through the silence with a sigh. “You gotta ask her out, Logan.”
“Yeah,” he says, feeling exhausted. “Ain’t gonna, though. It’ll just make things weird.”
“Weirder than stripping naked in front of her?”
“Yeah, well,” Logan groans, deciding to busy his hands by grabbing a few slices of bread. “You know how she is. She’s friendly, too friendly, and I’m just tryna justify standing next to her.”
“You know, I wasn’t expecting this to get heavy. Like, at all,” Wade admits under his breath. “Thought this was just something I was gonna laugh at you about for the rest of your life, but it sounds like this is… uh…”
“Me neither. It’s making me stupid.”
“She’s not nice to you because she’s doing you a favour, though. You know that, right?” Wade points out bluntly. “She’s not even trying to be nice, really. She’s just honest.”
“Well, she’s got a warped view,” he retorts sharply, loading all the fillings within sight between his increasingly thick sandwich. “I shouldn’t be the one she’s making artwork of, the one she’s calling...”
Another pause. The rock plummets from his throat to the hollow cavern of his chest. It cracks open a space in his adamantium ribcage and the sound echoes and echoes and echoes.
A sudden clap resounds, loud enough to startle Logan out of his trance. A good half of the sandwich escapes his grasp in the process; a whole bunch of shredded lettuce spilling over his lap.
“Jesus—”
“Just offer again!” Wade suggests with a gleaming smile, sounding very proud of himself.
“Huh?” he asks abstractedly; absentmindedly gathering fistfuls of lettuce off the ground.
“Just offer to pose nude again! That way, she’ll get to see you naked, you’ll get to be naked in front of her, and—”
“No! Didn’t I establish it was a joke first fuckin’ thing?”
“Think about it!” Wade scrambles off the table, waving sauce–smeared hands enthusiastically as he explains. “She’s serious about it, you’re serious about it. She thinks you’re beautiful, and you got so grumpy over the thought of anyone else being naked in front of her that you almost went beast mode!”
“I don’t have a beast mode,” Logan says, massaging his temples in exhaustion. “There is no beast mode.”
Roundly ignoring him, Wade continues: “You’ll get to keep helping her out with her art, and the moment you take your clothes off, she’s gonna realise everything she’s been missing out on! You might even get to shake that thang!”
“Never say that again. I swear to god, I’ll kill you,” Logan says wearily. “I’ll kill you.”
Wade slaps his shoulder. “Sure you will, bud! Listen, I gotta go get Althea, but you got this. Just tell her you’re down for it— the moment you strip, she’ll be climbing you like a mountaineer, and that’s a Deadpool guarantee!”
Logan sighs, feeling a century older than he was twenty minutes ago. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“Everyone will call you Mount Logan the way you’re hard as a rock for her and fuckin’ huge.”
“Oh, God.”
“Canada's pride and joy, with the largest base of any non-volcanic mountain, and a peak that’s still rising by the minute!”
“Get out.”
“Thousands of climbers a year die falling down the crevices of your—”
“Get out!” Logan shouts, shoving Wade through the front doors.
Even as he slams the door shut, he can still hear Wade’s muffled yelling from the other side: “Seriously, I’ll be holding you to it! I’m giving you five days to ask her, or I will!”
Logan stares at the door blearily until the fog clouding his mind disperses just enough for him to understand what Wade was saying.
“Wait, what d’ya mean by that?” he asks aloud, palms suddenly slick with dread.
Panic seizes his heart as he impetuously swings the front door wide open. “Wade! What do you mean, you will?!”
The hallway was empty, the only response being the swinging of an overhead lamp. Logan stands under the scant yellow light, left breathing harshly in the aftermath with no small amount of panic beginning to boil and rise in his chest.
Shit.
part 2 coming soon!
a/n: @eupheme made this lovely moodboard here!! thank you so much ♡♡ tagging @loganficsonly who asked to be on the taglist 2 months ago :'3c
