I’m playing fast and loose with the events of “Logan” so most of this is pretty inaccurate. Took the basic premise and turned it into a fix-it fic slash road trip romance because the ending of that godfuckingdamn movie made me want to cry and I couldn’t leave the love of my life like that. Also keep in mind that I have no fucking idea how cars work so anything in this oneshot is just guesswork.
ALSO the reader is said to be nineteen because duh this started out as a shameless self insert because I ADORE logan and he deserves love and someone who will appreciate his abs Enjoy and also SORRY FOR HOW LONG THIS TOOK KMS
It becomes his next mission, after Laura. Saving kids like her. Bringing them up across the border. And of course it’s easier said than done, but Logan feels like he owes it to them. It’s partially his fault their lives have gone to hell, anyway.
That’s how he meets (Name). She’s a mutant, the first natural-born one he’d seen in years– not strong, though, not with all the shit Transigen has been fucking dumping into the food and the water supply– and her entire telekinesis thing had brought a horde of those asshole Reavers crawling out of whatever hellhole they’d been stowed away in to track her down.
He picks her up in a bar somewhere east of Phoenix, Arizona.
The first thing he really registers about her is that she’s fucking pretty.
He notices her in fragments– she’s attractive in that sort of innocent way, with wide, wide eyes and dark lashes and a soft pink mouth and a bright smile, cutoff denim shorts exposing just a little more skin than actually necessary, enough that it makes him swallow around a sudden tightness in his throat.
He ignores it, focuses hard on doing what he came here to do, manages to get her out of there and into his truck without incident. Somehow she ropes him into small talk on the drive, though, and that– that’s where everything just ends up going to shit.
He tells her he’s like her– a mutant– explains where they’re going and why. Up through Michigan, to Canada, he tells her, because the Reavers will be expecting them to try to get through North Dakota again, and he’d rather be safe than dead. A solemn silence follows, which she breaks by making an odd sort of happy noise at whatever music is playing through his shitty speakers, and forcing him to crank up the radio for a song he’s never heard before. She tells him that she loves the song with a smile that’s pleasantly genuine. He says all he likes is alcohol and cigars and for some reason she finds that funny.
She asks him how old he is– “Old enough,” he says, avoiding the question– and then they lapse into a short silence.
“I’ll be nineteen soon,” she mentions as he’s crossing the state lines into New Mexico, an unimportant remark made in passing, and Logan feels his throat tighten inexplicably.
He glances over at her, mumbles some intelligible reply, rakes a too-hot gaze up her legs and over the front of her half-unbuttoned flannel shirt and registers that his palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry and that his stomach is sinking–
She’s barely even legal , he thinks, hopelessly resigned to how much he already knows he doesn’t fucking care.
They get to the safe house just fine, and Logan breathes a heavy sigh of relief when they pull into the winding dirt driveway at nearly two in the morning– the hardest part of this is over. His connection will be over within the week to take her up to where the rest of the kids are, and that’ll be it.
He never shows up.
Which is just fucking great, and leaves him with the responsibility of bringing her up to Canada himself.
It’s fine, he tells himself, as he pushes open the heavy oak door to the safehouse and realizes it’s only got two rooms.
There are separate beds, at least.
It’s not fine.
He finds out almost immediately that she sleeps in nothing but a t-shirt and underwear. That first day is hell– it’s like she’s actively trying to kill him; she runs around the house they’re forced to share in the tiniest goddamn shorts he’s ever seen and seems to own a fucking million of those tight, low-cut tank tops. And it’s not just that– she’s a good kid, too, which just makes it worse.
She’s cheerful. She’s smart and a little sarcastic and ridiculously positive, but she’s also focused. Nothing he does goes over her head. At first Logan spends half his time being ridiculously fucking careful about what he says and how he says it just to make sure he doesn’t accidentally scare her away, because he knows he can be frightening. He’s killed people before.
Three days in he becomes convinced that the girl honestly doesn’t care. Nothing he does ever phases her.
She’s clever, and brave, and unfailingly, stupidly kind.
It’s fucking weird.
On the last day, he wakes up to her fucking making him breakfast at seven in the morning like it’s a normal thing for her to do.
“It’s sort of a thank you, for, you know,” she mumbles through a mouthful of blueberry pancakes, “For saving my life.”
“Mm,” Logan responds, trying not to stare– because her nightshirt is incredibly fucking see-through and he might be two-hundred-something years old but he’s still a man, and–
(It’s not fine.)
“You could say thank you,” she whines through his silence, pretty obviously not meaning it.
“Thanks,” Logan replies, more gruffly than he intended. He pours cheap convenience-store syrup over the pancakes and focuses harder than necessary on cutting the stack into neat, even pieces. She bites her bottom lip. He does not look.
“So,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes thoughtfully. “I– what are we going to do? I mean, we can’t– how long are we staying here?”
He licks his lips. Swallows. Drops his fork down on his plate and clears his throat with a cough that’s a little too rattling to be healthy, and says,
She doesn’t say anything.
It surprises him, how easily she accepts the answer. To be honest, it’s nice, because he really didn’t feel like arguing, but a part of him wonders about her family and her friends and if there will be anyone to miss her– if Transigen fucking left anyone alive to miss her. The answer, if he had to guess, is no. She’s alone. She’s probably already been through her fair share of hell, but she still sings as she does the dishes, swaying gently to the tinny sound of some acoustic pop song as it filters in from the cheap radio he keeps on the kitchen window sill. He finds himself in awe of how incredibly fucking happy she still manages to be.
Logan leans back in his chair and he sips at his coffee and he watches her as she stares almost pensively out the bay window above the sink, her face illuminated in the warmth of the morning sunlight.
It’s nice, he thinks. It’s normal.
It doesn’t stay that way. Things like this usually don’t.
They clear out two days later. Logan leaves two hundred dollars crammed in the space between the front step and the doorframe for his contact who had set up the safehouse– if he isn’t already dead– and loads the remaining food and supplies into the back of his beat-down pickup truck.
“What the fuck,” she says, looking half-dead in the passenger seat– and it’s not really a question, so Logan doesn’t bother to really answer.
“What the fuck,” she repeats, louder, voice taking on a whiny sort of edge that should really piss him off more than it does. He’s already got a soft spot for her, apparently. Jesus Christ.
Logan grits his teeth.
“ What ?” he responds, deadpan.
“Wh– you dragged me out of bed at five in the fucking morning,” she says, kicking her feet up on the dashboard with a yawn.
Logan growls, and swats at her kneecaps with the folded-up, coffee-stained road map he’d swiped from one of those shady-looking rest stops by the highway. “Get ‘em off,” he snaps.
She flashes him a rude look, and in a move entirely indicative of how young she actually is, sticks her fucking tongue out at him , a flash of red against the white of her teeth.
Logan laughs. He laughs, the sound abrupt and kind of stilted, like he isn’t used to doing it, like there hasn’t been a reason for him to in what feels like years.
Which is probably true.
Fuck, he thinks.
The girl– she’s still looking at him, flatly unimpressed. Waiting for an answer, or an explanation, or something.
“We had to leave early,” Logan says, risking a side-glance over at her as he maneuvers out of the dirt driveway. “Makes sure we won’t be followed.”
She stares at him for a moment longer, and then heaves a sigh, leaning back against the leather-upholstered seat.
“I forgot about that,” she eventually offers. It’s kind of an apology.
He responds with a noncommittal grunt, reaching over to turn the radio up.
Soon enough they find the main road, and start heading northwest on a mostly-empty highway. The sky is still dark. The only light comes from the streetlamps, glinting off of the tinted windows in eerie, fleeting patterns as he drives past them, one by one.
“You’re not forgiven, though,” she says eventually, lips twitching up into a semblance of a smile. “I don’t get up before ten.”
Logan rolls his eyes. He wants to say something dismissive. Something rude, something to shut down whatever semblance of a friendship they’ve established.
Before he can muster up the courage to say anything she’s rolling down the windows and sliding on a pair of fucking sunglasses even though it’s like, five-thirty in the fucking morning, and turning up the radio as far as it will go. In the distance, the sun finally slips past the horizon line, and the light takes on this warm, ethereal sort of tone, highlighting the planes of her face in a way that makes Logan think about– things. Stupid things.
She’s pretty in a way that she shouldn’t be.
Whatever Logan was about to say dries up and disappears somewhere below his adam’s apple.
He looks at her.
His reflection stares back at him from the mirrored lenses of her knockoff Ray Bans.
“I can’t see shit,” she says, and, again, he finds himself laughing.
The first night, he manages to find a place for them to sleep: a motel about a half mile from the highway, nestled between a tiny gas station and a greasy, stereotypical “All-American” burger joint.
And it’s shitty.
Logan walks into their room and feels like he’s been blasted back to the fucking 1980s– between the weirdly overused floral patterns fading on the bedspread and the honest-to-god shag carpet, it’s like he’s stumbled into a time capsule.
“Ew,” the girl says, inspecting an odd stain on the chintz armchair by the coffee table. “ Ew.”
Logan scans the room. One bed. No couches, just chairs. The girl notices him silently studying the furniture and immediately sees the problem.
Her solution surprises him.
“We can share,” she says nonchalantly, “Just don’t snore.”
Logan opens his mouth, but doesn’t actually say anything. He closes it.
And that goes about as well as expected– which is to say they go to bed a respectable distance away from each other, and Logan manages to fall asleep without thinking too much about the practically half-naked girl next to him.
He wakes up on his side, hip digging uncomfortably into the box spring set beneath the paper-thin mattress, and finds her tucked into the empty space left by his body.
Right , he thinks, again, not really awake, and to be honest, uncertain as to whether or not he’s even conscious.
She shifts. Yawns, breath ghosting hotly against his bare chest. Makes absolutely no effort to move away, not even a little, and Logan feels something that’s almost panic begin to simmer in his abdomen, dissolving any of his remaining sleepiness and leaving him awake and painfully aware.
So he does the logical thing, which is to try to disentangle himself as quietly as possible, before realizing he’s already pressed up against the wall and that there is absolutely nowhere to go.
Fuck, Logan thinks, with the appropriate amount of irritation.
At least he hasn’t popped a boner.
He shifts uncomfortably.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Physical closeness– he refuses to call it intimacy, because it isn’t– has never bothered him before. His truck is small and road trips are long and at this point he should be used to the inevitability of being forced to share a bed with someone.
It would help, he thinks, if that someone were less attractive and less available and less exactly his type. Logan still isn’t sure if he even has a type, but if he did, she’d be it.
(He’s so screwed.)
She yawns, again, and then uses Logan’s body as leverage to push herself away from him towards the end of the bed. And Logan– he stays perfectly fucking still and forces himself to ignore the heat of her palms against his lower abdomen.
“Morning,” she mumbles, sitting up and kicking her legs over the side of the bed. She stretches, and her nightshirt rides up, up, up, exposes the curve of her spine as her back arches. The sun streams in from the nearby window and kind of fucking surrounds her, makes her look like some sort of goddamn angel, or something else equally as stupid.
Logan answers her with a noncommittal grunt and buries his face back in one of the lumpy pillows, legitimately praying for strength.
Getting up doesn’t help anything. They eat off-brand cereal for breakfast and he does his best to not talk. Later, she showers while he brushes his teeth, because they need to get on the road as soon as possible and sometimes that means awkward shit happens. He discovers there’s a sliding door to the bath, and it’s that bullshit frosted glass, not really see-through but not solid, either. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to keep himself from watching– he can’t really see anything, nothing defined, anyway, but there’s the outline of her body through the condensation collecting on the glass, and it’s enough to make focusing on anything else difficult.
It occurs to him, after they’ve checked out and after he’s thrown their bags in the back seat of his pickup, that ignoring her should be a lot easier than it’s ending up to be.
They stop at the tiny convenience store next to the motel before leaving, to stock up on food.
“And gas,” he adds, staring at the meter, hovering just above ‘empty’.
She goes in to pay and Logan fills up the tank, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the dusty side of the car. He glances into the shop through the dirty glass window and his eyes fix on her almost immediately. She’s smiling and handing a twenty to the cashier– a young guy, about her age, who looks like he has no fucking idea how to react to so much genuine happiness being directed at him.
HIs immediate response is a startlingly aggressive rush of irritation towards the cashier, followed immediately by irritation at himself.
He used to be immune to this sort of shit, he thinks, shoving the gas nozzle back into its cradle.
Apparently that’s changed.
By the end of their sixth day on the road, they’re somewhere in Illinois and Logan is suffering.
The AC is out and his engine is overheated and he’s overheated and about two minutes away from what feels like a goddamn heat stroke. He’s not sure if he can even have those, but he is sure that he’s about to find out.
They might have enough time to stop for repairs and still be ahead of the people following them. But Logan isn’t going to risk it. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s tired, and there’s always another way, even if that means running.
He tells her they’re going to start driving at night, and her response is understandably negative. It still doesn’t stop him from pulling the truck out of the little bed-and-breakfast they’d ended up in and getting back on the road as soon as the sun sets. She complains for a solid two hours before she starts to fall asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness in the passenger seat.
They’re driving through a long stretch of wilting, sun-dried fields when it happens.
“Wh– fireworks?” She says, opening her eyes just as the first one explodes into a shimmer of red and white above the car.
Logan grunts in affirmative. “‘S the Fourth of July,” he says. “I think.”
She sits up straight in her seat, absentmindedly rubbing the spot on her neck where the seatbelt had bitten into her skin, and fixes him with an imploring look that he can barely see in his peripheral vision.
“No,” he says, already knowing what she’s going to ask.
“But I want to watch the fireworks. Just half an hour,” she answers, somewhat convincingly. “I’ll watch from the truck bed. You can be an asshole and just sit in the car.”
Logan manages to hold his own for about five entire minutes.
“Goddamnit,” he grumbles. She grins.
(In hindsight, giving in to her was a horrible, horrible idea.)
He takes his shitty, beat-up pickup truck and parks it down off the road in one of the fields, half-hidden from the road by a giant weathered sign that reads Land For Sale in peeling black paint, and she climbs into the back truck while he stares at the steering wheel and contemplates what he’s even fucking doing to himself at this point.
He gets out of the car.
She’s lying on her back in the bed of the truck, arms tucked behind her head. The suspension creaks perilously as Logan moves to sit beside her. The sky is clear and the stars are bright and the moon is glowing and full. A firework shoots up into the sky in a trail of golden smoke and explodes with a dull crack across the dark expanse of the horizon. Logan doesn’t care. He’s been alive long enough that any sense of wonder he had for them has just– dissipated.
Above them, fireworks continue to go off, flickering through the sky in bursts of bright, effervescent color.
Logan looks at her as she watches them. He thinks about the happy smile she’d given him when he’d agreed to this bullshit. He thinks about the corresponding warmth that had blossomed slowly in his chest somewhere between his ribs, and wonders, not for the first time, when everything had gotten so fucked.
They’re in a shitty roadside bar in Michigan and she’s kicking his ass at pool when he realizes he has a fucking problem.
They’ve been camped out for the last hour and a half, commandeering the pool table in the back corner of the bar surrounded by half-drunk wannabe-rednecks in sleeveless flannels and fourty-year-old men with beer bellies who pretty obviously peaked in high school. Logan’s had enough scotch to actually start feeling it, which has been getting easier and easier to accomplish as his fucking healing factor shuts down, or whatever, but that’s not what really matters. The buzzing inside of his head isn’t entirely because of the alcohol, anyway.
The girl– (Name)– is bent over the pool table lining up a shot, and his eyes make a slow sweep up her body almost without thinking about it, lingering over her legs and her ass and the slow sinuous curve of her spine and–
“I am… the best, ” she announces, pausing to make sure she’s succeeded in sinking the eight ball before gloating, “That’s two to one, against somebody who’s spent, what, twenty years doing nothing but bar hopping–”
Logan swallows, mouth feeling particularly dry, and finishes off the rest of his scotch.
“Shut up ,” he says, not really meaning it.
Their arms brush. Distantly, he can hear the low-pitched rumble of his own laughter. She’s saying something about a rematch and he can’t fucking say no to her because they’ve got time to kill and this is infinitely better than being stuck in another shitty motel room.
She’s moving around the table, collecting the pool balls to rack for their next match when somebody approaches her from the bar.
In hindsight, Logan should have fucking expected this. It’s a dive bar and half the men here are scum and the other half are just plain stupid, and she’s young, and attractive, easily the prettiest girl in the damn place– it shouldn’t be all that surprising that somebody else would notice that.
The guy– he’s tall. Reedy. Messy, dull hair and a shitty beard that’s patchy and frankly pathetic, like he made it through half of puberty before his body just fucking– gave up. He’s got sweat-stains on his faded Michigan University t-shirt and tobacco-stained teeth and Logan knows, logically, that she isn’t even remotely fucking interested, but–
That’s not what matters.
What matters is that this piece of shit had seen him, and her, and assumed that any sort of bullshit he planned on pulling would be perfectly okay, because there was no way that the two of them could ever be together, no, the guy hadn’t even bothered to fully look at Logan before dismissing him entirely.
That makes him angry, even though he knows he’s got no right to be.
He comes up behind her. Curls his arm around her waist. He feels her stiffen and then relax into his side in less than a second, and a part of him wants to believe that the reaction is instinctive, natural, like she hadn’t even made the conscious decision to do it.
Logan grits his teeth and glares veritable daggers at the dirtbag leaning over her, and his anger must be palpable because the guy’s cocky, predatory smile withers and dies and he’s holding up his hands and walking away before Logan even has a chance to say anything to him.
She doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans into him, and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, reaching down to squeeze his hand. Logan stiffens– even that little amount of contact is enough to make his pulse beat faster, stronger, louder.
“We should get out of here,” he says, voice low and slightly gravelly. The events that had just unfolded– they don’t feel real. Like he’s outside himself watching everything unfold through a telescope a million miles away. What the fuck is he doing?
The look she gives him is soft, and Logan wonders if she realizes what’s happening, if she even gets it, gets the nights in the hotels and the hours together driving and the fireworks and the fucking bar fight he’d been willing to start for her, gets what it all means when the incidents are lined up like that, one after another–
“Yeah,” she answers. “We should go.”
They wind up in another hotel with two six-packs of Logan’s favorite beer, and everything feels– off. Wrong. The silence is thick and there’s a thread of tension between them that hadn’t been there before.
Logan realizes he’s singlehandedly destroying the first good thing he’s had in forty years.
He has a plan. Get to Canada, get her somewhere safe, and then leave.
That doesn’t happen.
The truck finally gives out in a tiny town called Paradise, on the very edge of Lake Huron.
It would be funny, he thinks, almost like fate, if he even believed in that sort of thing.
“Engine’s all overheated,” the mechanic explains, poking at a half-melted length of rubber piping. “See this? Coolant’s supposed to go through here, but it’s all fucked.”
Logan grits his teeth and crosses his arms and digs his nails into his palms with an unnecessary amount of violence. “Can you fix it?”
The mechanic runs grease-stained fingers through his hair and nods. “Yeah, I mean, next week , not, y’know, today.”
He babbles on about the shop missing the parts or some other bullshit, because apparently they don’t get much business in fucking-nowhere, Michigan– big surprise– and then he directs Logan and the girl to a small hotel by the shoreline that’s mostly empty, where they’ll apparently have to stay until the parts come in on Monday.
He checks in at the front desk and gets the keys from a sweet old lady who asks too many questions. Their room is small, and overly-decorated, with ocean-themed throw pillows scattered across a matching set of armchairs and a handful of seashell windchimes hanging out by the screened-in porch. It’s a nice place, better than where they’d been forced to stay before, but Logan doesn’t care. He just throws his bags onto a quilted starfish-patterned bedspread and collapses on top of it with a long, drawn-out sigh.
The girl is standing in the doorway, watching him.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
Logan grunts in affirmative and closes his eyes. He hears footsteps, steady and quiet against the plush carpet, and then a hand brushes across his forehead and it’s fucking ridiculous how quickly his pulse stutters and how sharp his sudden intake of breath sounds in his ears.
“No fever,” she says.
“‘s just the adamantium,” he grunts, except it isn’t.
She looks at him, and it’s suddenly so easy– too easy– for him to be angry. Irritated that when he looks back at her he can’t get a read on her, or her mood, or her intentions, can’t quite tell what she’s thinking.
He sits up, suddenly feeling suffocated. He’s tired of this– tired of fighting her and himself and tired of never being sure whether he’s winning or losing or just wasting time. Nothing makes sense anymore. It feels like he’s been knocked off-balance, like for some reason his center of gravity has shifted just enough to make his world spin around him and the only fucking thing he’s certain of anymore is his own denial. He’s never been good at confronting his emotions.
Logan stands up.
“I’m going out,” he says, tone clipped and short.
She doesn’t stop him.
Logan didn’t really expect her to.
She finds him a little over an hour later. It’s dusk– the sun has slipped down over the horizon, but there’s still just enough lingering light to give everything a soft, surreal sort of glow.
Logan’s clothes and shoes are stacked in a sandy heap up on the shoreline and he’s waded into the lake up to his waist, watching the fractured patterns of silver moonlight flicker over the surface, dizzyingly bright against the dark water.
He says nothing. Her gaze moves slowly over the planes of his upper body–the scars and the burn marks and the bullet holes that never really healed right– and the expression on her face is something he only distantly recognizes. Their eyes meet, and she searches his face, studying him, and Logan can see the precise moment when she realizes, pieces together his evasion tactics and his silence and his jealousy and his perpetual anger–
Her expression softens.
She pulls her tank top up over her head in one slow, languid movement. Discards her shorts. Wades into the lake until she’s standing beside him, gentle waves lapping at her stomach. She skims her hands over the water, gently, lightly, never quite breaking the surface, and Logan watches with a sharp sort of intensity.
The tension feels different, tonight. It’s softer, but it’s also become that much harder to avoid.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says in a gravelly whisper, before he can even think of stopping himself. His laugh is half bewildered and half angry, because he’s always, always angry. “You never fuckin’ know what you’re doing.”
She moves towards him. There’s the soft, lingering glide of her bare, wet skin against his as she traces the lines of the puckered, waxy scar he’d gotten on his left arm when he saved her life, and there’s the miniscule amount of space between them, hot and thick like the air inside of his shitty truck had been for the week since the AC blew out. None of this is new, not really, but it still feels different, this time.
“If I–” she pauses, swallows, and her pupils are dilated and nearly eclipsing her irises and Logan feels a sudden tightness in his gut, feels heat, feels anticipation and longing and a lot of fucking things, really, things he probably shouldn’t be feeling but feels anyway.
“If I asked you to kiss me, would you do it?”
He stares at her.
(He hadn’t been expecting that. He should’ve, though. She’s never been one for subtlety.)
The effect it has on him is instant. It’s like being doused in cold water. The fire pooling in his stomach fizzles and dies and is abruptly replaced by the thousands of reasons why he can’t and shouldn’t and won’t. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. He can’t just come waltzing into her fucking life and take a space that she should be saving for somebody else. For anyone else, really, for somebody who’s safer and kinder and better than him.
“(Name),” he warns, sharply. Abruptly.
End of conversation.
It isn’t really the end of it, though. She’s too fucking stubborn.
“Logan,” she retorts, moving closer. She reaches out to touch him again and he grabs her wrists before she can and fuck, he thinks, she’s looking at him like she already knows how he’ll react to everything that she’s saying and everything that she’s doing and he can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s managed to get himself into.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says, hoarsely.
She doesn’t say anything. He can hear the gentle sound of the waves lapping up against them, the strange silence of the surrounding shoreline, can feel his own heartbeat perilously, traitorously loud inside his ribcage.
She’s waiting for him, he realizes. He’s waiting for him.
“Fuck,” he says.
He lets go of her wrists, registers her hands against his bare chest, warm and soft, and then he’s reaching out, cupping her face, tipping her chin up.
She moves up to meet him.
He kisses her slowly. Gently. His hands are shaking and she has her arms wrapped loosely around his neck and her body is pressed against his like it belongs there.
It’s easy. It’s so fucking easy. Weeks of constant tension dissolve like mist in the sunlight.
She’s the one who ends it.
“I’m going back to the hotel room,” she whispers, breath warm where his neck meets his shoulder. “Come with me?”
He breathes out, exhale shallow and shaky, but his eyes are steady on hers. Focused.
By the time they get back to the hotel, it’s dark, but that doesn’t matter.
The door closes with a soft click of rubber insulation against wood, and Logan looks at her, really looks at her, eyes roaming over her legs and her hips and her chest and her mouth, all the places he hadn’t allowed himself to notice until now.
The distance between them closes much more easily, much more quickly, this time.
“Never thought we’d do this,” he murmurs, and then corrects himself, “Never thought you’d want me to.”
Her laugh is soft. Disbelieving. She meets his eyes and leans up towards him and whispers, “That’s because you’re stupid”, and the words dissolve into his mouth as she kisses him– or maybe he kisses her, or maybe a little of both. It doesn’t matter, anyway, and Logan doesn’t care.
He frames her face with his hands and slants his mouth over hers and deepens the kiss, his tongue parting her lips and pushing in and scraping over her teeth, across the roof of her mouth– she tastes exactly how he imagined, exactly how he’d dreamed she would, sweet like chapstick and strawberries and so fucking perfect that for a moment he’s left wondering if this is even real. His hand is moving down from her face to the curve of her waist, fingers digging in, and he’s urging her closer until her body is pressed up so close to his that he can feel her heartbeat against his chest, the rapid rise-and-fall of her breathing as he keeps kissing her. Her hand wraps around the back of his neck and her teeth scrape over his bottom lip, half-smiling against his mouth when he makes a sound almost like a growl and kneads her hips, yanking her closer, moving one hand up under her half-damp tank top. Her skin is soft and warm under his calloused hands and fuck when he drags his thumb across her nipple through the sheer fabric of her bra she makes a noise like a sigh, or maybe a moan, shallow and soft, and rakes her nails down his arms–
It’s still not good enough.
He wants to touch her everywhere.
Logan yanks her tank top off, fabric clinging stubbornly to her still-wet skin, and then he fumbles with the clasp of her bra for a moment before discarding that, too. She’s beautiful, and he had known that, but it’s not the same– not when it’s like this, when he can so easily reach out and touch, and maybe he stares for a second or more than a second–
“Jesus,” he whispers, a little more frantic than intended, and almost immediately his mouth descends over the soft column of her throat and then down to her collarbones, her breasts, kissing every inch of skin he can reach with a sort of reverence he hadn’t known he was capable of. She leans into the feeling of his mouth, gasps out his name in a breathless, needy way that hits him hard, makes his cock ache in the rough confines of his boxers as he sucks a bruise into her skin where her shoulder meets her neck– half because he wants to and half because it’s proof that this is real.
In the back of his mind, he thinks of all the ways he could talk himself out of this, all the countless reasons why he shouldn’t let this get any worse or any more permanent, but he finds that he doesn’t care. She kisses him and he tugs her closer, a low groan vibrating somewhere in his throat at how effortlessly her body fits against his.
She’s the one who pulls him towards the bed.
“Come on, Logan,” she says, and it’s probably supposed to sound teasing, sarcastic, defiant, even, but mostly it just sounds breathless. There’s a bruise blossoming on her neck and her mouth is swollen and red, and Logan stops and stares and the only thing he can think is I did that, I did that to her, I kissed her–
“Fuck,” he bites out, the noise low and unsurprisingly aggressive.
He hears the rustle of the comforter against the mattress as she moves onto it, and he follows, wrenches his shirt up over his head and tosses it to the floor and then easily pushes her legs apart to take the space between them. Her nails dig into his shoulders, not enough to really hurt, and she drags him down into another kiss, the movement of her mouth against his mirroring the slow, languid roll of her hips–
“Get your clothes off, c’mon,” he mutters, half pleading, biting her bottom lip just hard enough to make her gasp against his mouth and relishing in how she reacts to him, honest and real in a way he hadn’t expected.
Her shorts are off before he even has time to think about what he’s doing, and then her underwear, too, joining his shirt in a messy, haphazard pile of clothing on the floor, and he’s looking at her and she’s staring right back and the sudden rush of vulnerability he feels is almost enough to make him wonder if this was a mistake. It’s fucking stupid, he thinks, because he’s still got half his goddamn clothes on, why does he feel so exposed ?
His breathing is ragged. His pulse is thundering. The air is thick with something that feels like static electricity, sharp and heavy, like in the moments before a storm. His eyes rake up her body almost of their own volition, taking in the swell of her breasts and the curve of her stomach and then trailing down, down–
“Logan,” she mutters, squirming under the heat of his gaze, and any hint of defiance is gone at this point, replaced by pent-up, repressed longing, and it suddenly clicks that this entire fucking thing had never been one-sided. It had never just been him, she had watched and waited and wanted him too, and–
“(Name),” he rasps, not sure if he had even meant to say it out loud, and then he’s undoing his belt and fumbling with the button on his jeans, discarding his clothes in a bundle and closing the space between them with a newfound desperation.
She leans up and meets him halfway, and the kiss is frantic and messy and perfect. His weight pins her down to the bed and his desire is all-consuming, white-hot in the pit of his stomach as she rocks up against him, the friction making him groan. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s wanted something this badly, and the feeling of her bare skin is like a fucking drug. His hand slips down her stomach, moves in between her thighs, and she’s wet, fuck, his fingers are slick against her skin and when he touches her she chokes out a soft, trembling moan, and he realizes distantly that he’s so fucking hard it hurts–
“Logan,” she whispers, a little desperately, rocking her hips up into his hand, looking for friction, and his breath just fucking falters, shit, the arm supporting his weight on the bed is trembling and he can’t think of anything he wants more in this moment than her.
“Jesus,” he groans, pressing a finger inside of her and curling it up, and her answering moan is needy and helpless and when he starts to fuck her with his fingers she fucking melts underneath him in the best way–
“Stop fucking– teasing,” she says, trying to sound irritated but failing miserably as her voice wavers and dissolves into a moan.
Logan exhales shakily. He stops touching her.
They’re both aware of it, he knows, his cock pressed up against the inside of her thigh, hot and hard and insistent, and then she rocks her hips up against him and he groans, the sound frantic, desperate, dragging her into a kiss–
He thrusts into her in one fluid motion.
“Ah– fuck,” he groans, against her open, waiting mouth, eyes closed and face tense and the muscles in his arms and upper back strung taut, tense with the effort of holding himself still.
There’s a moment of silence– a moment of stillness– that’s strangely intimate, warm and familiar and right, his breathing ragged and unsteady against her neck as he struggles to hold on to the quickly-fading remains of his self-control.
Logan moves slowly.
Her answering moan is soft and the warmth of their combined body heat is heady and suffocating–sweat beads on his forehead and her breath ghosts hot across his collarbones as he moves and as she rolls her hips up to meet him. His forehead is pressed against hers and their noses are bumping as he kisses her, open-mouthed and messy, catching her gasp and his answering groan as she tightens around him, hot and wet and perfect. The way she drags her palms down his chest and across the wide expanse of his shoulders is desperate, almost like she’s looking for something to hold on to as he thrusts in a little harder, watches, seemingly entranced, as his cock moves, in down to the base until their hips are pressed together and then back again.
“ Logan ,” she moans, biting into the tight, sinewy curve of his shoulder just enough to make him groan, and make his rhythm stutter, and make his hips snap forward hard, and whatever he was going to say in response is replaced with a desperate, needy growl at the way she moans with the rock of his body. A shiver trembles down her spine, liquid and involuntary, and he can feel the way her muscles tighten around his cock, can hear the creaking of the bedsprings and the sharp, ragged sounds of his own breathing and nothing else really seems to matter except what’s happening right then. He doesn’t care about the past, or the future, or anything except the way she melts when he kisses her and how she arches her hips to meet his and moans into his mouth at the feeling, simultaneously overwhelmed and wanting more–
He snaps his hips forwards and he watches her tremble, watches her mouth part for a gasp and how she never stops looking at him, not even for a second. Her eyes are bright, clear and warm, and Logan wonders if she’s always looked at him like that, if maybe he just never noticed.
“I– fuck, fuck, I’m–” she gasps, tripping over the words, a little desperate and a lot frantic as she grinds up against him, one hand tangled in his hair and the other somewhere on the expanse of his shoulder, reaching for purchase, something to hold on to–
He’s acutely aware of her body pressed up against his own, slick with sweat and incredibly fucking warm, her face buried in his shoulder and her breath hot against his skin and her body soft and pliant and perfect underneath him. Everything about this is driving him fucking crazy and he’s wanted it for so long that it’s hard to focus, that everything else is a colorless, meaningless blur in the background and all he can see is her, back arching and muscles tensing and calling out his name as she comes.
And it’s fucking beautiful, and perfect, and exactly how he imagined while also being so much better. She trembles and tightens around him in the most delicious way and the moan she releases is wonderfully helpless and whatever remaining scraps of decorum he had left just fucking dissolve. His thrusts become erratic, his rhythm falters and he realizes, distantly, that he’s not going to last much longer as she rocks against him until he can barely think straight.
“(Name),” he mutters, and chokes out a curse, buries his face in her shoulder and relishes in it, in the closeness and the shared body heat and the feeling of being here, with her, like this, until his body falters and his weight comes down onto his forearms and his orgasm is wrenched through him like a fucking revelation.
And then it’s over.
He doesn’t move for a long moment. She doesn’t make him. Nothing seems to matter anymore except the warmth of where their bodies are still joined, the sound of their combined breathing, and the ache of the emotions they had unleashed on one another. It’s a brief moment of peace for him, and he thinks she must feel the same.
“You can get off of me now,” she complains, softly. Breathlessly. Logan huffs out a laugh, deep and warm, and moves away. He hesitates, only for a second, before pulling her to his bare chest with his hand curled over her hip.
The silence isn’t as suffocating as he’d expected. It’s almost– comfortable.
“Dumbass,” she says. There’s an honest sort of affection in her voice, as she throws an arm over his chest and buries her face in the crook of his neck.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, sleepy and sated and not really meaning it at all.
He goes up to Canada. Brings her back to a house he hasn’t been to in years, nestled comfortably in the mountains under the shade of a forest of pine trees. The last time he was here, he was still mostly human; no adamantium. Just bone. The house is empty, but he still owns it, technically.
The first thing she asks him after getting unpacked is if he’s going to stay. He expected the question, but answering it is still hard, the word catching somewhere in his throat just below his voice box.
a/n: sorry that this is so late, guys! school is a bummer and there isn’t enough time in the day to write. but i hope you enjoy this ❤
When Quil had invited you to hang with him down at the
beach, you almost died of shame remembering the events of a few nights prior.
The res party had been a complete disaster. Not only had a possessive stranger
hit on you but juvenile delinquent Paul Lahote had jumped in to rescue you for
a reason that was completely unknown to you. The way he’d acted, you would have
thought he was jealous, but that couldn’t have been the case. He’d never said a
word to you before – never even looked
at you before – so whatever it was had to have been personal between him and
that boy. That was the only explanation you could come up with.
“It’ll be just the two of us,” Quil promised. “Come on,
(Y/N), we haven’t hung out since—” But he’d stopped himself short. He wasn’t
allowed to mention the party, not when you still burned with shame every time
you thought about it.
“Fine,” you agreed. “But only for a few hours. I have
homework to do.”
And so you found yourself walking along the shore with Quil,
hands stuffed in the pockets of your jacket. It was particularly cold that day,
even more so than usual. You could feel yourself starting to regret going out,
but Quil was chattering so happily to you about a new movie he’d seen with
Embry that you decided it was worth it. It didn’t take much to make your best
“Also, you want to know something funny?” he asked. “Embry
said that Paul Lahote was asking about you.”
You stopped short. You could barely hear the waves rolling
onto the shore with how hard you were breathing. If you’d been cold before, it
was nothing compared to the ice that seemed to be spreading through your veins.
“He did what?”
Quil snickered. “Well, I know you said I can’t mention the
party, but apparently he’s been going around asking people if they knew you.
And you can imagine how freaked Embry got when big bad Paul Lahote came up to
him after class and questioned him, too.”
Your knees turned to jelly and you were forced to take a
seat on a large log of driftwood to keep yourself from falling. Your voice was
barely above a whisper. “And what did Embry say?”
“He told him the two of you really didn’t hang out – which
is true and Embry is kind of salty about it because he thinks you don’t like
him, and I told him that’s bullshit and that you like everyone but he actually
thinks you have something against—”
“Not important, Quil!”
Quil grinned. “Right. Sorry. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Paul’s
got the hots for you, which is cool but he’s kind of weird. The whole bunch of
them are.” His grin faded as he stared behind your shoulder, eventually turning
into a full-blown grimace. You glanced back in confusion and paled.
“Speak of the devil,” you muttered.
On the other side of the beach was Sam’s gang. Paul was
talking animatedly to Jared and Sam, but then his eyes met yours and he froze
in his tracks. He the same look on that he did at the party, like he was in a
trance that he couldn’t snap out of on his own. Jared elbowed him and jerked
his head in your direction, mouthing something you couldn’t make out.
Paul started running towards you.
Quil tensed like he was getting ready for a fight, but
something in your gut told you he could never take Paul. Not like he needed to
anyway. Paul wasn’t going to hurt you. He wouldn’t go through the trouble of
saving you from the overly flirtatious stranger at the party if he was going to
do even more damage.
“(Y/N),” he said when he reached you. A shiver ran down your
spine at the way he said your name. “Can I talk to you?”
Quil gave you a pointed look, silently urging you to refuse,
but you were far too curious to listen. Your fear of him and his gang was
replaced by a foolish eagerness; everything about Paul drew you in.
“Sure,” you replied. “Walk with me.”
You left Quil behind and set off with the tattooed boy.
Neither of you spoke for a good few minutes, letting the tension around you
grow thicker. What was his deal? Were all boys this confusing?
“Listen, I’m sorry about the party,” he blurted. “I
shouldn’t have snapped like that.” But by his tone, you could tell he really
didn’t mean it. It didn’t seem in his nature to be sorry.
“Do you have beef with that dude?” you asked. “What’d he do
Paul stuck his hands in the pockets of his cutoff shorts,
the muscles in his abdomen hardening. He was gorgeous, that much was certain.
Just being around him made it hard for you to think. You knew you were probably
going to end up saying something stupid in front of him – like admitting how
pretty he was.
“He didn’t really do anything to me,” Paul said. “It’s you
he was bothering, and I guess I just… I just snapped.”
A million questions burned on your tongue, but you held
back. Paul didn’t look like he was finished talking and you didn’t want to risk
him being cautious.
“I must look like a freak to you, huh?” He laughed
forcefully though there was clearly nothing funny. “There’s just something
about you that I can’t get over. You’ve been in my head since the party.” Paul
wrinkled his nose. “Jeez, that’s so cheesy.”
You smiled warmly and slung your arm around his neck. It was
a friendly gesture that took him by surprise – though, really, there was a
little more than friendship on your end. Admittedly, you were a little taken
aback yourself by how at ease you were around him.
“If you wanted to ask me out, Paul, you could have just said
so,” you teased.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re willing to let me take you on
“Yeah. Isn’t that what you’ve been hinting at?”
Paul’s gaze was a million miles away, like he was thoroughly
confused by your assumption. For a second, you turned cold with worry that
maybe you’d misinterpreted his behavior and that he wasn’t actually into you,
but then he grinned.
“Sure. Yeah, I’ll take you out.”
You talked for a while longer about where and when he was
going to pick you up, and then the two of you headed back to your friends. Jared
pulled Paul into a headlock as soon as the boy left your side, and it looked
like he was going to be in for one hell of an interrogation. Judging by the
looks Quil was giving you, you were in for the same treat.
“What happened?” he whispered as Sam Uley’s gang started to
put distance between them and the two of you.
You shook your head in disbelief, a thin smile on your lips.
“Apparently, I’ve got more game than I thought.”
Summary: Steve’s been crushing on you for a while but is forcing down his feelings….Well all that tension has to go somewhere… and it manifests in his sketchbook.
Warnings:Language, not much else I think, it’s long lol I got carried away
Note: This is my first ever fic, feedback is appreciated! Even if its just ‘It was too fast paced’. Thanks for reading!
Steve Rogers had a problem. For some reason he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of you. It’s like his eyeballs had decided to separate from the rest of his body and follow you. Constantly.
This problem had started about a year and a half ago when you had come to the compound and started working with the reconstructed Avengers. You were a former SHEILD agent, hand to hand combat and espionage were your strong suits. You were also friendly and smart.
Steve knew he was in trouble when his first thoughts on meeting you were about how pretty you were. So he maintained his distance from you, keeping cordial and almost cool relationship. But keeping his distance didn’t stop his mind from wandering. Or his eyes.
“Wow,I really ain’t shit to you”
Steve’s head whipped around to meet Bucky’s grin.
“Huh, sorry?” Steve mumbles. Bucky laughs. “I was tryin’ to ask ya if you wanted some eggs,but your mind seems to have wandered.” Bucky leans against the kitchen counter top, they had just completed their morning run, and had showered before heading into the kitchen to grab breakfast. Where Steve found you already sitting on a stool at the end of the counter, talking to Natasha and a visiting Clint. You were wearing that skirt, the pleated white one that was short enough to make him sweat a little every time he saw you in it.
“Oh, I’ll have some, sorry ‘bout that” Steve says.
“Oh no, it’s fine, after all your mind seems to have wandered to more… pleasing things.” he jerks his head in the direction of your figure. If it was possible, Bucky’s grin gets wider. “Damn now those are some legs.” He gives a low whistle. Steve feels his face heat up and he whips his head around to make sure you didn’t hear. But you were too far away and too involved in your conversation. Bucky’s recovery is still ongoing, but in the past couple of years he slowly but surely made marked progress. Enough progress that he began to socialize and started giving Steve a hard time again. Steve’s glad that he is feeling better, but man if he wasn’t a pain in the ass sometimes.
“Don’t you have some fuckin’ eggs to make?” Steve hisses lowly throwing Bucky a glare, who in turn just laughs and grabs a saucepan from the counter.
“You’re not as slick as you think Stevie,”
Steve’s brow furrows as he tries to apply the right amount of pressure to get the shading right. Now more so than ever Steve finds himself turning to drawing as a way to relax. He had opened some windows in the kitchen and sat at one of the stools at the counter with some coffee and a snack. He finds he goes through phases, a section of his sketchbook was filled with sketches of birds, followed by drawings of only buildings, and then depressingly desolate landscapes. But now he’s going through a different phase. One that has him checking over his shoulder every time he sketches out in the open. Recently it seems like his infatuation with you bubbled over into his drawings. He smudges the shadows that fill out the curve of your smile. The page he’s working on is filled with sketches of your face in different expressions. The one before that was of your face at different angles.
He supposed it would be easier to forget you if you weren’t so sweet. And patient. And funny. Steve had had several moments where he almost laughed at a joke you had made when he wasn’t even in the conversation. And even though he tried to give you the brush off you always were friendly when interacting with him…and those legs…He found himself flipping the page and before he even knew what he was doing, the outline of you sitting on a stool, legs crossed, was on the page. Then your figure in that tight dress you wore to the last party Tony threw joins it. His neck heats up. A sketch of your ass from that one time you wore tiny cutoff shorts soon follows. Damn he still thinks about those shorts sometimes. His whole body heats up. He feels like a creep, drawing you, but he can’t help himself….and admitting that makes him feel creepier. He rubs his hands over his face and groans.
“Rough day?” Your voice makes him jump, but when he catches sight of you he almost falls off the stool. You’re wearing a red bikini and water is trickling down your body. You seem hell-bent on giving him a heart attack.
“Something like that,” He says stiffly, flipping pages back in his sketchbook when you turn to get something from the fridge. His eyes trace your form, and he bites his lip to keep from groaning out loud. ‘How is it even possible?’ Steve thinks to himself ‘to have a body that looks that good?’ You bend over slightly to get something and Steve feels himself start to sweat. ‘I gotta get outta here.’
“Well,its an amazing day outside.” You stand up straight and turn towards him, Holding two water bottles and a Popsicle “I’m gonna spend the day by the rooftop pool, swimming and trying to finish my book…if you want to join?” Your voice tips up hopefully at the end. It takes a moment for Steve to realize you asked him something because he’s too busy watching the path of water droplets down your body while trying to not look like he’s watching water drip down your body. His mind scrambles and goes then blank.
“No thank you,” he finally musters and it comes out harsher than he intended. And Steve’s too busy getting the hell out of the kitchen to see your hurt expression. Or realize that he left behind his sketchbook.
Steve makes a bee-line to where he knows Bucky will be. He finds the brunette sitting in his usual spot, this time joined by Sam, and playing checkers. This makes Steve crack a smile. The two are constantly giving each other shit, but they’ll never admit that they’ve become pretty good friends.
Steve screeches to a halt in front of the window seat.
“Ya got the devil chasing ya or somethin’, Steve?” Bucky looks up and smiles at Steve.
“No something much worse.” Steve sighs and plops down on the floor in front of them. The men exchange an amused glance.
“What, Y/N caught you drilling holes into her head?” Sam says. Steve’s head whips up.
Sam and Bucky burst out laughing.
“Man you think you’re subtle?” Sam snickers. Bucky moves his checker and snorts. “Like I said, ya ain’t slick, Stevie.”
“I-I uh,” Steve stutters, flushing.
“I’m pretty sure even Fury’s noticed by now” Sam says moving his checker and Bucky chokes, coughing out a laugh.
“Just make a move already.” Bucky says.”Ya obviously like ‘er and the distant act ain’t fooling nobody, what with the way you watch her.”
“Amen.” Sam says, and raises an eyebrow. “And lets be real, a girl that smart and that fine won’t stay single for long.” Bucky nods.
Steve groans, running his hands through his hair. “Shuddap, don’t you guys have a game to play?”
Bucky and Sam share another smirk, but keep quiet, focusing back in on their checker game. Steve sits back and watches them play, listening to them making small talk. But his mind keeps on wandering back your body in that bikini…. he wanted to be able to call you his ….what he wouldn’t give to just hold you…. …you always looked so soft….
He doesn’t know how much later, but he knows he must have zoned out for a little bit because Sam is snapping his fingers in from of his face get his attention and the checker game is put away.
“Hey you want to order a pizza and watch a movie?”
“Yeah sounds good.” Steve smiles and stands, stretching, his joints making popping sounds. The three men make their way down the hallway and are entering the living room when Steve hears a voice calling his name.
It’s you. And you’re holding his sketchbook.
Steve’s stomach bottoms out. ‘Can Captain America enroll in witness protection program?’
“Hey, mind if I talk to you for a bit?” You say, jerking your head towards the hallway, and Steve nods glumly. His heart is pounding painfully and he squares himself for the inevitable rejection and disgust. He follows you into the hallway. Scratching the back of his neck.
“Listen I-” he starts, but you interrupt.
“You know you’re a really good artist. The birds almost looked they were gonna fly off the page.” You hold up his sketchbook “I’m really sorry about being nosy, but you left it open….and your art is amazing.” You sheepishly look down.
Steve’s eyes widen. Maybe you hadn’t flipped far enough to see the drawings of yourself? Relief soaks down his body.
“Uh thanks,” he says, taking the sketchbook and moving to get away.
“Wait, can I ask you something?” You say and he nods, freezing.
“Do you draw from memory or use models?” you ask curiously.
“Uh, usually I like having whatever I’m drawing in front of me for the beginning of the sketch, it helps with accuracy.” Steve mumbles.
“Oh, okay” you say, and step closer and closer until Steve can feel the warmth of your body heat. Steve swears he stops breathing. “You know,” you start, your face a hairsbreadth away from his. “You really are an amazing artist. But if it helps with accuracy you should let me know the next time you’re going to draw my ass. I’d love to model for you.” with that You smirk and turn, heading back down the hallway. Steve stays frozen for a few more seconds staring at your retreating figure before glancing back to the living room where Sam and Bucky are arguing over movie choices and then back at the hallway.
As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Tags are at the bottom. There is still room on my Forever Tag list. Please add yourselfhere
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” I urge.
Sam groans, Dean looks mildly intrigued.
“I have work to do, but you two go on, have fun,” Sam says. He sounds like a dad sending his annoying kids off to play. Dean and I have both been feeling restless, the walls of the bunker closing in on us.
We’ve been cooped up in here too long, no case to work, no outlet for our energy. Dean’s like me in that regard. Too much time sitting idle makes me antsy. I’m about ready to climb the walls.
“I’m in,” Dean says, pushing his chair away from the table.
“Yay!” I exclaim, a little overenthusiastically. “I’m going to go get changed.”
Dean’s eyes widen when I rejoin him in the library in my cutoff denim shorts and star-spangled halter top. A thrill shoots through me when I see him taking in my curves and lines with appreciation.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Just need a few supplies first.” He follows me to to the kitchen where I pull two six packs out of the fridge. “You grab the cooler.”
Dean returns with the green cooler just as I finish making sandwiches. “Ice,” I direct him. Dean loads the cooler while I go snag a blanket.
“All set?” he asks.
I can’t keep the dopey grin off my face. “Yes!” I’m so unbelievably excited to get out of the bunker. Especially with Dean.
Anonymous Said: Can
you do a really detailed smut where you give Jin or Jungkook their first
blowjob? Like they get hard and are
really embarrassed about it and you help him out? Like details about the sounds he makes and
how he would look like…
I hope this is what you were looking for anon….sorry about the delay, I completely forgot to put this in the queue and left it in my drafts…..
Genre: NC-17 (read at your own risk) Smut, smut,
and more smut! Did I mention
smut??? This is totally PWP NSFW
material as in I thought I was going to hell for Talk Dirty to Me, I’m
DEFINITELY going to hell for this one……
Pairing: Jungkook X
are you okay?” He shifted slightly his
cheeks flaming in embarrassment as he tried to shift his lower half away from
your body. “Looks like you could use
some help with that. Would you like
noona to take care of you, Kookie?” The
frightened twenty year old turned to look at you, his large brown eyes
sparkling slightly as he contemplated what you had said. Slowly, he nodded his head in consent, after
all you felt guilty being the cause of his obvious discomfort. The least you could do was help him alleviate
I snuggled in deeper; my head was resting comfortably
against Jungkook’s chest as we watched Spirited
Away. He’d lounged against the sofa
first when we started the movie about twenty minutes ago and instead of moving
his legs I just pushed myself between his and snuggled into him. Jungkook was always comfortable to lounge
against and unless all of the boys were trying to fit around the television for
a movie or show this was usually the position we ended up in.
The downside of sitting like this was that I always moved
around a lot, unless the movie had my full undivided attention I was always
shifting around in my position. And
considering that Jungkook and I had watched this movie several times together
and separately, I wasn’t exactly giving it my full attention.
It wasn’t long before Jungkook was shifting himself, moving
to try and position himself further away from me. I frowned, not thinking anything of it at
first, snuggling closer thinking that he was just wanting to prop himself up
more. When I settled against him this
time I felt his body tense and it wasn’t long before he was sitting up further,
his hands pushing against me slightly.
“Can we sit up for a while, I’m not comfortable.” Jungkook mumbled a slight flush to his cheeks
as he shifted slightly.
I didn’t say anything, only nodding in response, cuddling
one of the throw pillows to my chest, my head turned towards the screen, but my
attention was on Jungkook. He was acting
weirder than usual today, and it wasn’t until I noticed his subtle shift that
it caught my attention. The ‘source’ of
his discomfort was located in his pants, the rather large tent bulging against
his ripped blue jeans.
Trying not to laugh at his obvious state of arousal I chose
to ignore it for his sake, but I couldn’t help sneaking glances at him every
now and then when he would shift slightly, one time I caught him using his hand
to push against himself. He let out a
slight groan of relief quickly darting his gaze over to me to see if I had
“Jungkook are you okay?”
I asked, already knowing the answer to my own question, but I looked at
him innocently enough, letting him believe I didn’t know about his problem.
Jungkook shifted uncomfortably, leaning his upper body
towards me while angling his lower half away trying to conceal his hard on from
me as he spoke, “I’m okay.”
I gave him a disbelieving look, scooting closer to him,
pressing my thigh against his own, and my hand resting dangerously close to his
throbbing erection. “If you’re not
feeling well I can make you something to eat?
Or I could just leave if you want to sleep.”
Jungkook’s face darkened, his mouth opening and closing like
a fish out of water, his eyes glued to my hand on his thigh. Smiling to myself, I waited patiently for him
to respond, but he didn’t say anything.
Instead his eyes were wide, trained on my hand as he continued to stare
between his erection and my hand.
“What are you looking at?”
I asked curiously, darting my gaze down to where he was looking at.
“N-nothing! I-I swear
its n-nothing to worry about.”
My eyes were already looking down at my own hand on his
thigh, catching a glimpse of his bulging jeans, my cheeks flushing
naturally. Glancing up at him through my
eyelashes I caught him looking at my top which was low cut enough he could see
the top swell of my breasts.
“Looks like you could use some help with that,” I said
gesturing down to his pants, causing his cheeks to flush a darker pink.
“Would you like noona to take care of you, Kookie?” My voice was low, a seductive drawl to my
words as I smiled innocently up at Jungkook.
I knew he’d never had sex before and this wasn’t the first
time I’d caught him trying to hide an erection from me. It often happened when we were alone in the
dorm when it was just the two of us. The
last time it happened I was helping Jin make dinner and I was wearing my
favorite pair of cutoff jean shorts that hugged my backside and thighs
tightly. It showed off my legs and they
were comfortable to wear when the weather was hot, I’d bent down to grab a
container of kimchi from the fridge when I’d caught his reflection in the steel
and glass of the oven door just above the kimchi fridge.
He didn’t know I’d seen him looking, but I saw him adjust
his pants, turning back to his conversation with Taehyung and Jimin, but
keeping an eye on me while I worked closely with Jin. Needless to say, I’d put a theory to the test
that day and I’d gotten a positive response from the youngest Bangtan member.
I’d known the boys for about two years and I’d always
harbored a tiny crush on Jungkook, he was my bias after all, but it wasn’t like
I was looking for a relationship with him considering our age gap. I was his ‘noona’ as he so fondly reminded me
several times throughout our friendship, the word sometimes made me cringe
considering I saw him as more than just my ‘dongsang’.
Jungkook stared back at me, his dark chocolate eyes staring
back at me with lust at the thought of me helping him with his erection. He bit his bottom lip, pulling it between his
teeth gently as he mulled over my words.
“Noona, I-I’ve never-” Jungkook stared to speak, but I cut
him off by moving my hand further up his thigh, my fingers smoothing over the
bulge in his pants.
“I know,” I replied to his unfinished sentence. “I’d love to be your first, Jungkook. What do you say?” Nimbly my fingers pulled down the zipper to
“Can noona be your first?”
The words were barely out of my mouth before Jungkook’s soft, full lips
were on mine. His kiss was rushed and
sloppy, but he made up for that in eagerness to please and it didn’t take long
for him to slow his kiss down matching my pace.
I groaned into his mouth when I felt his teeth sink into my
bottom lip slightly, sucking on my lip before locking his lips fully with mine
once again. With one hand I was able to
work the button of his jeans undone, my fingers gently brushing against his
hard cock through his boxers. Jungkook
moaned into my mouth, kissing me harder, swiping his tongue over the seam of my
lips asking for entrance which I granted.
Considering the boy was new to being sexually intimate with girls, he
was a rather quick learner and his kissing was better than I’d expected.
With little resistance I was able to sneak my hand into his
boxers coming into contact with his erection.
Jungkook tensed slightly, pulling away from our kiss to lean his head
back on the couch, his eyes closing and brow furrowed. I was gentle at first; I didn’t want him to
blow his load too quickly seeing as this was his first hand job that wasn’t a
solo act. My fingers didn’t touch as I
wrapped them around his thick length, Jungkook’s breath hitched, his front
teeth digging into his bottom lip as his face screwed up in pleasure.
Smiling to myself, I started to stroke him, carefully
watching his face for signs that he was getting close to his orgasm. It wasn’t much longer before his moans were
coming closer together and his breaths shortening with his effort to hold
“Noona, please,” Jungkook’s words were strained, as his eyes
opened just enough to look at me pleadingly his hips pushing up closer to my
I slowed my ministrations down, keeping my fingers wrapped
around his now pulsing cock, the slight tremors in his body easing slightly.
“Please what, Jungkook-ah?”
I smiled sweetly back at him causing him to bit his lip harder, his hips
bucking up towards my hand trying to increase the motion and friction against
his aching cock.
He groaned, “Can’t you just-” he growled in frustration as I
cut him off.
“Ask nicely Jungkookie and you shall receive.”
“Noona, I-” Jungkook tried again.
I gave him a pointed look, stroking my fingers gently up his
“Oh god,” Jungkook’s face reddened slightly as his eyes
collided with mine. “Suck me, Y/N-ah,
“Dropping the honorifics you little shit? Naughty boy,” My tone was light, teasing, but
I saw Jungkook’s eyes darken slightly at my words.
His hips bucked up harshly, causing my hand to slip down his
My cheeks reddened slightly, he was a cocky little shit that
was for sure. Not only was he dropping
the honorifics, but trying to push me to giving him a blowjob – even if that
was the whole idea, not just a hand job.
Laughing to myself, I lowered to the floor, feeling Jungkook’s
eyes following my movement as I slid down to a kneeling position between his
firm thighs. Grabbing the edge of both
his jeans and boxers, together we were able to work his restricting clothing
down and off of his legs. Finally able
to see the full length of his cock my eyes widened in shock.
I knew he was big because my fingers couldn’t touch each
other as my hand had been wrapped around his length, but I wasn’t expecting him
to be as large as he was. Trying to calm
my nerves I looked up at Jungkook to see that he’d been watching my assessment
of his erection. Smiling reassuringly, I
scooted myself closer to him, settling on my legs in as comfortable of a
position as I could before I took his length in both of my hands.
Jungkook’s hands wound their way into my hair, his fingers
gripping hard as he watched as I lowered my head down to where my face was
hovering inches above his length. There
was a small amount of precum dripping from his slit, the clear liquid dripping
down the side of his shaft. Slowly, I
swiped my finger over the liquid earning a groan of appreciation from Jungkook
as I stuck my finger between my lips, maintaining direct eye contact with him.
He was salty on my tongue as I wrapped my tongue around my
finger taking in every last drop. I
watched as Jungkook’s eyes darkened and widened slightly as he watched my
actions, his eyes going down to watch my throat as I swallowed. I smiled back at him; my hand that was still
wrapped around his shaft gave a slight tug, the friction causing him to moan.
Leaning forward my eyes followed my movement as I neared his
weeping cock. Taking a swipe with my
tongue before my lips enclosed around the head of his shaft sucking slightly as
he writhed above me. Jungkook wasn’t the
most vocal person, but surprisingly his groans and moans were more frequent
than I’d thought they were going to be.
With his fingers still wrapped up in my hair he tugged slightly from
time to time, usually when my head was going down as though he was trying to
stop himself from forcing me on him.
We stayed like that for a while longer, his moans echoing in
the room around us and knowing that the boys could be back at any minute. The thought alone sent a cold shiver down my
spine and I found myself suctioning harder around his shaft. Jungkook’s hips jerked involuntarily, his
fingers pushing my head down further. I
allowed him to push as far as he wanted; feeling the head of his cock hit the
back of my throat and going slightly deeper.
I took a breath in through my nose, feeling my eyes begin to water as
his hands held me there for a moment longer than I would normally allow, but I
wasn’t going to tell him no, not with his cock jammed down my throat.
Pulling back, I felt Jungkook’s muscles relax; he exhaled
deeply, his eyes looking at me through slits.
Focusing my attention back on the task at hand, I continued to bob my
head up and down his shaft several more times, occasionally going further down
his shaft and allowing him deeper into my throat. Jungkook’s hips began to stutter the longer I
went down on him, his breaths shortening dramatically from earlier as he neared
“Fuck, noona,” Jungkook’s voice was deeper than usual as he
groaned in pleasure, his hips continued to thrust harder against my mouth. “I’m so close, please.”
Smiling around his cock, I sucked harder, my tongue swirling
around his head when I pulled back, taking a moment to dip towards his slit, digging
in slightly before sinking back down around him. My hands were playing with his balls, rolling
them gently between my fingers. When he
got closer to his orgasm, I removed one of my hands from his balls to start
stroking his cock again as I worked to bring him to his climax.
“Shit,” Jungkook shouted as his hips thrust up violently a
few more times, his muscles tightening and tensing as he remained frozen with
his hips pushed out. My lips worked
harder, my tongue stroking in time with my hand as I pulled back one final time
to swipe gently over the head before enveloping him in the warmth of my mouth again.
Jungkook’s whole body shook with the force of his orgasm,
his cock twitched in my mouth as I stilled waiting for him to come. The first shot was strong as it hit the back
of my tongue, followed shortly by a second, third, and finally a fourth. I swallowed, feeling his seed go down before
I started to stroke his cock with my mouth again, helping him ride out his high
as his body continued to shake in the aftermath of his orgasm.
When Jungkook’s body finally stilled, I glanced up at him
only to find his dark brown eyes staring intently at my face as I continued to
stroke him between my lips. Letting him
go with a slight ‘pop’, I brought my hand up to my lips to wipe off the excess
saliva and come as I watched him with a questioning expression.
This was a new step in our friendship and despite not having
any regrets for where this ended up, I was afraid that Jungkook wouldn’t see it
the same way. I was filled with
apprehension as I waited for him to say something – anything at all. My legs were numb from sitting in this
position for as long as I had, but I didn’t care about that right now, all I
wanted was for Jungkook to speak.
Lifting himself up into a sitting position, Jungkook leaned
forward, cupping my chin in his hand before swiping his thumb under my bottom
lip. His eyes were trained on mine, his
dark pools of chocolate melting slightly as he spoke, “You missed some.”
My cheeks flamed slightly at his words, his thumb pressed
gently against my lips, encouraging me to open up which I did gladly, accepting
his thumb into my moist cavern, sucking gently.
Jungkook’s eyes were watching as his thumb disappeared into
my mouth, his eyes darkened again, the melting chocolate that was there moments
before was replaced by solid blackness.
He groaned as he felt my tongue dance around his thumb before he pulled
it out, resuming his stroking of my jaw and chin.
My eyes widened at his words, my thoughts snapping back to
the fear of what he would say now that the moment was over.
“We really need to do that again.” He grinned at me, his cheeks turning a slight
shade of pink.
I laughed, relief filling my chest as I responded in a
slightly gruff voice, “Next time though, you owe me.”
I pulled myself up from my kneeling position, wincing slightly
as the feeling returned to my legs, making my way to the kitchen to get a glass
“You should put your pants back on before the boys get home
I called over my shoulder. I could my
own wetness soaking my panties, thankfully I was wearing jean shorts so no one
would be able to tell, but I would have to live with the discomfort for the
next several hours. This is what I get for pulling something like this when Jin had invited
me to stay for dinner, I thought to myself as I poured a glass of water,
drinking it down in a few gulps grateful for the cool liquid.
Art + Fic because I’ve had this small fic sitting around in my drafts for awhile and felt like publishing it. Thanks to everyone who came to my stream!! Drawing this one was a lot of fun.
“Yeah, I uh…” Nico’s gaze was faraway, and he began to twist at the ring on his index finger. Nico sighed and looked away. “Forget it.”
Hazel stuck out her lower lip. “Nico, what’s been eating at you?” She murmured tenderly. Hazel took a step closer to her brother, and Nico shuffled his feet in response. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you disappearing again.” She blinked slowly, not looking away from Nico’s dark, hollow eyes. He wouldn’t meet Hazel’s gaze. “C'mon, sit down at least.” She reached out and gave a little tug to Nico’s wrist.
They sat down at the base of a tree and gazed out at Camp Half-Blood’s morning-bustling troopers. They were far enough away, though, that they couldn’t hear more than an occasional pegasus whinny from the stables or giggle of the naiads in the nearby lake. Nico stayed quiet, and the two siblings sat in silence, listening to the stream.
Hazel shuffled through the river rocks at their feet and handed Nico a smooth, flat one that. “Here, watch me.”
Nico tossed his gaze over at Hazel, then at the rock before taking it from her hands. He followed Hazel’s lead when she threw the stone into the river, except Nico managed to skipped his three times.
“If there’s… Something you want to talk about, I’m all ears.” Hazel spoke quietly.
Me, sitting outside on an old quilt in a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a bikini top and aviator sunglasses, basking in the sun, drinking sweet tea and listening to Nujabes on my phone while birds sing around us in trees swaying gently in the summer wind:
there's nothing in Persona 5 that indicates that Goro Akechi's intent was to kill people from the start and in fact most in-game evidence points to Shido and his conspirators introducing murder into the mix. You could easily make the argument that the first victim of a mental shutdown was Wakaba Isshiki since she died right when the shutdowns first began. Only Shido had access to Wakaba's research at the time, so who's to say that Akechi even knew that killing Wakaba's shadow would kill the woman herself? Once it happened, he'd be trapped with the threat of being accused of murder.
He still approached Shido with the offer of "psychotic breakdowns" in the first place. None of this absolves Akechi of his guilt and he should still face justice for what he did.
Me, rolling over onto my stomach so the back of my legs will be just as tan as the front:
people who fixate on punishing a 17 year old boy for falling victim to forces far outside his control are boring and aren't welcome in this yard. I think you should leave.