Atleast You Kissed The Brick Before You Threw It At Me
Atleast you kissed the brick before you threw it at me
Mon Soleil
Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader
Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)
The door shuts softly behind him.
That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.
Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.
He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.
That’s where you are.
Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.
Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.
“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.
You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.
“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.
He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.
“You’re home early,” you murmur.
Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”
Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”
He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”
“Did you win?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.
He closes his eyes.
“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”
“Sounds like a dream job.”
Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”
You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.
“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”
You blink.
He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”
Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”
“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”
He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”
“You’ve said no to a lot.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”
You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.
“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”
“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”
There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.
You look at him. “You’d want to?”
He hesitates.
“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”
That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.
He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”
“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”
You shrug.
He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”
You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”
He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”
“You’re usually not.”
“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”
You look at him for a long time.
There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.
“I wrote today,” you say finally.
His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”
“I want to read them.”
You raise a brow. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
“I’m not ready.”
He doesn’t push. “Okay.”
You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”
Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”
The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.
“How long are you home for?” You ask.
“Five days.”
“Before Spain?”
“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”
Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”
“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.
“Charles-”
“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”
You swallow.
He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.
“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.
You nod.
So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.
In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.
He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”
You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”
“Especially when you’re quiet.”
He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.
“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”
You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I always come back to you.”
And in the hush of the room, you believe him.
He holds you closer.
Outside, Monaco sleeps.
Inside, he dreams only of you.
***
The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.
Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.
He glances over at you.
“You sure?” He murmurs.
You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.
“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”
The door opens.
The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.
You step out first.
And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.
But it’s enough.
The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.
There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.
“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”
You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.
Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.
You watch him go.
He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.
The memory hits like a whisper.
***
It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.
He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.
He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.
You turned.
He held it out. “You forgot this.”
You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”
He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”
“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”
You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”
“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”
You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”
He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”
You nodded.
That was it. That was the moment it began.
Not with a spark. But a softness.
***
Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.
“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.
He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”
You nod slowly. “You sure?”
“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”
The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”
You smile. “I know.”
But it doesn’t last.
After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.
“Charles, Charles, one question?”
He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.
The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”
Silence.
For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.
Then, “No comment.”
You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.
He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”
The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”
Charles doesn’t answer.
You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.
He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.
The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.
You stare out the window.
He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”
“I know,” you say, too quickly.
“But it didn’t sound like-”
“I know, Charles.”
Another pause.
“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”
You nod. “It never is.”
He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not. But it’s true.”
There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.
Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”
You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”
“I know that.”
You exhale, soft. “Do you?”
He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”
“And I want you honest.”
His jaw tightens.
You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”
“I hate it.”
“Me too.”
The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.
The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.
You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.
You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.
“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”
You swallow.
His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”
“I know.”
His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”
“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”
Your eyes search his.
He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.
“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”
You kiss him first.
And then everything slows.
There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.
He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.
His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.
“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”
“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”
He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.
When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”
You shake your head. “You were scared.”
He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”
“You have me.”
He nods.
Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.
He says it again, barely audible.
“Mon soleil.”
And you fall asleep knowing he means it.
***
It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.
He stays still for a moment.
Watches you.
You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.
He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.
Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.
But it’s not the book that stops him.
It’s the manila folder on the desk.
The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.
He tells himself not to look.
Then he does.
Just one page, he promises.
Then two.
Then-
A line.
To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.
Charles stops breathing for a second.
The words blur.
He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.
There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.
He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.
Charles exhales, long and slow.
He reads on.
The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.
He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.
You see him.
You always have.
And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.
So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.
***
Letter one.
Found tucked inside your book the next morning.
I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.
***
Letter two.
Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.
Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.
***
Letter three.
Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.
I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.
***
He doesn’t sign them.
Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.
You’d know his handwriting anywhere.
***
The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.
It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.
You don’t say anything.
You just … sit with it.
Read it twice. Three times.
Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.
When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.
He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”
“Still early,” you murmur.
“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”
“Maybe.”
He grins. “Lucky me.”
You lean in and kiss him.
It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.
When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”
You shrug. “Felt like it.”
He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”
So you do.
***
That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.
But something’s shifted.
You start noticing the notes.
They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.
And still, you don’t mention them.
Because that’s the thing about Charles.
He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.
But when he loves — it’s quiet.
***
A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.
“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.
You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”
He smirks. “Maybe.”
You smile. “No new ones today.”
He feigns offense. “That you found.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”
“I do.”
There’s a pause.
“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”
“I know.”
He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”
“I thought you were shy.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”
He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”
You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”
He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”
“I still do.”
He swallows hard.
***
Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.
Letter four.
I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.
You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.
He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.
***
A few days later, you call him out of the blue.
He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”
You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
There’s a pause. Then:
“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.
You blink. “Stop what?”
“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”
Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”
He lets out a breath. “Okay.”
You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”
“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”
***
That weekend, he comes home.
No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.
You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.
“Hi,” you say.
He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.
Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”
You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”
“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”
You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”
He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”
You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”
He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”
You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”
He nods. “I will. One day.”
But until then-
The notes are enough.
***
He sounds like someone else on the phone.
The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.
“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”
You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”
“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.
You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
“Charles, look at me.”
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”
And that’s all it takes.
You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.
And underneath it all: him.
Raw. Alone.
Not anymore.
***
By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.
He doesn’t see you at first.
He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.
His whole face shifts.
Like breathing after holding it too long.
He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.
“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.
You nod. “Of course I am.”
He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”
He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.
And then-
His arms are around you.
Just like that.
He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”
“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”
“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”
You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”
His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”
“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.
Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.
“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”
***
That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.
He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.
You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.
“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.
He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”
“You don’t.”
“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”
You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”
He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.
“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.
You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.
“Because I love you,” you say simply.
His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.
“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”
You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”
And he does.
He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.
“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”
You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.
“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”
His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.
“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”
Your heart stutters.
“I’d catch you,” you breathe.
His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.
When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”
He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”
“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”
He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”
You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”
He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”
***
And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.
Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.
His handwriting, scrawled but certain.
You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.
You don’t cry.
But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.
Where all the others live.
***
The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.
Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.
He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.
You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”
“It’s just true.”
Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”
He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”
He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”
***
The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.
Not once.
You step out of the car together, and everything slows.
You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.
Not just affection. Not even pride.
A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.
It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.
Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.
You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.
“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”
And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.
“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.
He grins. “You run, I follow.”
A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.
“Is this your girlfriend?”
“Are you official?”
“When did it start?”
Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.
A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.
The world sees it.
And for once, you let them.
***
Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.
Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.
You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.
“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.
Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”
You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.
“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.
“Good,” he murmurs.
You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”
He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”
There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.
“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.
“For what?”
“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”
He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”
You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.
Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.
A ring.
Small. Delicate. Not flashy.
Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.
One for his birth month. One for yours.
Not a proposal.
But something more sacred, somehow.
A promise.
“Charles-”
“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”
He takes your hand.
“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”
He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.
“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”
He cups your cheek.
“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”
You’re crying before you can stop it.
He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.
“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.
“You are my world.”
You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”
His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”
You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.
“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”
He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”
***
Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.
He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.
And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.
It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.
When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.
Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.
Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.
You glance up. “What?”
He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.
“Mon soleil.”
You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”
“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”
You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.
“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.
“And?” You murmur.
He presses his lips to the curve of your neck.
“And they finally know what I’ve always known,” he whispers.
You turn to look at him.
“That I revolve around you.”
The wind tugs gently at your hair, and his hands find yours again. His grip is warm. Steady.
You lean into him and close your eyes.
And for once, the world doesn’t feel too loud.
Because it’s not just you in the shadows anymore.
It’s you, glowing.
And him — right where he’s always been.
Yours.
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© INEVESGF'S⠀⠀MASTERLIST⠀⠀
key:⠀⠀fluff ♡⠀⠀angst ♤⠀⠀18+ ♢⠀⠀humor ♧⠀⠀blurbs ★
requesting rules ft who i write for⠀⠀requests are currently closed.
daniel ricciardo ⋆·˚ ༘ *
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© inevesgf do not copy, plagiarize, translate, or claim any of my works as your own.
May I?
Just Logan
The worst Logan part ii
Logan Howlett x Reader!Loganverse| smut | 10k words
Summary: You return from the void ready to navigate your new reality with the not-quite-love-of-your life. Second Part to worst Logan.
Warning: Mentions of drugs, Canon Typical Violence, gratuitous Laura paternal love. smut, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, assplay mentioned.
AN: Fair warning my loves - this hasn’t been proof read… unless you’re reading this after the 26th August! I’m currently posting this on my phone at an airport 💖 I love you all so much and can’t express how much your love for my stories has meant to me!
Achilles once said “I would recognize you in total darkness, were you mute and I deaf. I would recognize you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times. and I would love you in all of this, until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion."
For seven excruciating years you’d been without him.
Eventually, time had dulled the ache, made it so you forgot what it was to have another hold you through the night, to make you feel safe and loved. Love was like a drug; one you had unknowingly spent the past half a decade weaning yourself from.
Then he appeared; ‘The worst Logan’ as Wade had not-so-affectionately dubbed him, and in one fell swoop undid years of hard work. He came and reminded you just how fucking good drugs were - that motherfucker was class-A narcotics and he was addictive as hell.
By mid morning you were already desperate for another hit, your eyes searching for him around every corner. Part of you was afraid you had gotten him all wrong, that perhaps you didn’t know this man as well as you thought you did. Though at the last second Logan had shown up, unfolding him from the boot of the Honda and joining the fray, every inch the hero he insisted he wasn’t.
You and Laura sliced a path through your enemies, side by side, the two of you moved in perfect synchronisation. In the years since his death, she had taken Logan’s position in your formation, and now the two of you fought together as naturally as breathing.
Logan couldn’t help but watch the two of you together for a moment, though after a knife to the ribs as reward for his lack of awareness, he shakes his head free from the indulgence of his ready-made-family and returns to the task at hand, carving his way through the enemy to get to Cassandra.
It had been a hard-won battle, though Laura had been extraordinary. You, yourself had been outmatched with the Juggernaut, only in a position to bend the light keeping yourself from sight as you inflicted shallow cuts with your blades along his arms and torso creating confusion and pain that allowed Laura to find her openings.
Your girl sliced through his Achilles bringing him to his knees before she ended his life with four claws through his chest.
In your eyes, as she stared down Goliath her soft features melted into a renaissance painting. A woman in her own right, overflowing with untold power, those shades making her look every inch the badass motherfucker you knew she was.
You can’t help your untimely realisation that your daughter has grown into a formidable woman as you propel her through the air with bubbles of psionic energy to deliver the helmet to her not-quite-father and Wade.
The brief moment of triumph as you overcome Cassandra’s men is followed in quick succession by the sobering loss of Logan for a second time, as he leaps through the golden shimmering portal.
It had been the plan all along, and yet you couldn’t quite account for the stone in your stomach weighing you down at the realisation he is gone yet again.
Laura’s deep brown eyes, all too often full of difficult emotions, are hidden behind the colourful sunglasses, though you can tell from the fall in her shoulders that your girl feels the same grief. She had held out childlike hope that the two of you would stay with him despite his earlier brush off and you are far too ashamed to admit you had been harbouring similar hopes.
To have gotten him back for a single day only to lose him again, for you it is painful. For her, it must be torment.
So, you put a pin in your pain for now. Loss is an old friend, one that will no doubt visit in the dead of night when sleep inevitably evades you, but Laura needs you.
Swallowing your grief deep down, you begin by tucking her wild dark hair back behind her ears and with the bone of your knuckle you wipe an errant splatter of blood from her brow.
Around you, your team bask in the defeat of Cassandra and her people, yet the two of you mourn losing yet another Logan.
“The time we had with him was a gift.” You whisper to her. The second you touch her palm with your finger tips; her claws instantaneously retract. You interlock your fingers with her own bloodied ones.
For a moment the two of you stand together like this, coming to terms with the loss. It doesn’t destroy you the same way North Dakota had, but it has certainly taken the air from your lungs.
“What now?” Laura asks, burying her emotions, more like Logan than you care to admit.
“Now we find a way to get back home, Cassandra’s not hunting us anymore, maybe we can-“
“Miss Y/LN, Miss- “At the sound of an unfamiliar voice your head whips round and you are armed with a knife before you even make the decision and from the telltale ‘snikt’ behind you so is Laura.
“Holster your weapons.” The agent shouts as the group of forgotten heroes turn their gaze on the TVA squad who have appeared from the orange glowing doorway. “You have been offered a pardon on order of the time variance authority - please come with us.”
Laura steps forward, though you place a steady hand on her shoulder stopping her in her tracks. “The last time we trusted you people, we ended up in this dump.” You shout across the gulf that the agents have left between you.
When has anything in life been this easy?
“Mr Howlett and Mr Wilson saved the multiverse. All they have asked in return is for a second chance for the people who helped them do it.”
Whilst remaining utterly compelling it still feels far too good to be true. You look at your daughter; she pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and nods once. She’s not a little girl anymore and she wants to go through the damn doorway. With little in the way of options you decide with a deep sigh to be an optimist, which is how you end up in Wade Wilson’s apartment.
Five people (six if you include Dogpool) living in a two-bedroom apartment was … to put it lightly, snug. Wade being the secret gentleman he was, offered up his room to you and Laura.
Nights he didn’t spend at Vanessa’s were spent sharing a bed with Al, much to her delight, which left Logan sleeping on the couch.
Logan: This Logan was nothing short of an enigma to you.
The two of you had been friendly, smiling and laughing, sitting together at the party Wade had thrown to celebrate saving the universe.
It felt good, easy even to joke with him and Laura. You had felt like a real family as you sandwiched the young girl between the two of you, taking it in turns to make her laugh.
When she had abandoned the two of you to talk with Yukio and Ellie, you had fallen into comfortable companionable silence. The simple fact of the matter was that you didn’t have much in the way of small talk, all of your talk was massive talk. A mountain you’d soon have to overcome, but neither of you wanted to break the spell.
So, you simply enjoyed each other’s company and when your knee knocked against his under the table, you didn’t bother pulling back. Instead, when he didn’t immediately recoil, you left it there pressed against the warm muscle.
This casual touching was new to both of you and you were drunk on it, occasionally you’d brush his plaid covered bicep as you leaned across to stroke the monstrosity that was Mary Poppins or you’d brush your fingers against his with a smile when you handed him a fresh beer.
It’s fair to say, you are both black belts at emotional avoidance.
Her abandoned airbed, more electrical tape than plastic at this point, lies deflated in the corner of the bedroom, dual holes from slender claws having led to its untimely end.
With a sigh you rise, stretching your aching back.
Wincing as it cracks from contorting on the edge of the double mattress- even in the goddamned void, you’d had more personal space than this.
Sparing a glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table, you see it’s 6:23am. In a vain hope you just listen to the sounds of the quiet apartment, no one else has awoken yet. You sigh with relief, desperate for some alone time, after living for a week with everyone underfoot.
Closing the bedroom door behind you as silently as possible, you tiptoe with bare feet with the honest intention of going to the kitchen for some coffee.
Only you’re sidetracked by the man sprawled across the sofa looking like he was carved from goddamn marble.
The blanket is wrapped around his plentiful jean covered thighs as his bare size twelves extend comically over the arm of the sofa. Logan’s thick, veined and extremely bare arm hangs off of the leather cushion, whilst the other clutches a pillow under his head. Logan is wearing a white vest that leaves very little to the imagination, so much so you’re unable to help the flashback of stroking the abs you know linger below the almost transparent white cotton. You’re unsure how long you stand there, but it can’t be more than 30-seconds before his eyes wearily blink open, startling you.
“Paint a picture, it’ll last longer, Bub.” When he speaks, his voice is even thicker than usual with sleep, it’s like honey on gravel and it makes your skin tingle.
“Uh-” You’re lost for words after being caught ogling the sleeping man. All you can do is a quick apology as you carry on through to the kitchen.
When you’re safe from view, you slap palm to your forehead - Why? Why couldn’t you for once in your life just be smooth?
The second you're out from under his searing gaze a million infinitely suaver responses flood your mind. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ ‘Don’t tempt me.’
You’re nearly (Y/A+7 years) old, not the idiot girl that pined after the unattainable bad boy of the mansion. For the love of all that’s holy; two different versions of that man have been inside of you, and you ran away!
You’re pacing in front of the fridge when you hear his body slide against the leather of the couch. Honestly, you’re praying for the void to swallow you back up as you try to act casual, filling the coffee machine with water.
“Mornin’.”
“Good Morning, Logan.” You reply though you can’t quite meet his eyes as you flick the switch for the drip to begin.
“Back on the couch - Eh, I was just kiddin’ around, Bub.” He scratches his neck awkwardly.
“Oh. I, uh, I know.” You reply, finally meeting his eyes. Those hazel eyes stop you in your tracks as they scan your face for any trace of emotion. He’s as out of his depth as you are, and that thought alone calms you. “I’m sorry, If i’ve been strange the past few days… I thought…I just assumed I would never make it out of the void and I was there for months and uh-”
“Bub… y/n... I don’t hold you to what happened that night.”
“What?” You narrow your brows in confusion, you were only going to talk about the uncomfortable adjustment period to regular life.
“You were vulnerable, I look like your guy. I get it.” His voice is still deep and he’s trying to be so understanding and noble, you can’t help as you reach out and grab his bare wrist, your forefinger can't even meet your thumb as you hold onto his thick warm flesh.
“Logan, no that’s not what I meant at all. I-”
“-Mornin’ love birds! Don’t let me stop ya’ from takin’ care of that mornin’ wood, just getting some delicious nectar of the gods.” Wade comes from the bedroom wearing Al’s lilac dressing gown and what looks suspiciously like the older woman’s pyjamas, riding far too high up his shins to be his own for the much taller man. Wade leans against the counter next to you and the coffee machine, burying himself in the neck of the dressing gown and looking pointedly at your hand around Logan’s wrist and whispers. “Pretend I’m not even here.”
“God give me strength, Wade.” Somewhere along the way, Logan’s rage with the mouth has dampened to the point there’s no real threat behind the warning.
As there’s probably about a few teaspoons of coffee in the machine, every fresh drop plinks against the glass jug only enhancing the newfound silence in the kitchen.
“Good Morning, Wade.” You sigh finally, rubbing your thumb against the hair covered flesh of Logan’s wrist in a promise as you try to use your eyes to communicate; we will discuss this.
“Honestly, I’m not even here. Just go back to staring longingly at each other, talk amongst yourselves.”
“Fu-” Logan starts, his nose flaring at the man beside you, his finite patience already slipping.
“Incoming.” Wade sings-song lowly, as he drops his head onto your shoulder.
“What are we all doing in the kitchen?” Laura asks through a yawn, her bed head innately ridiculous standing up on all sides - probably from a night spent tossing and turning, kneeing you in the spine. When Logan tears his wrist away from your hand it stings a little, but you understand, the last thing Laura needs in her life is more confusion.
“There’s a line for the coffee, kiddo.” Logan gives her a look that's somewhere between a smile and a grimace. The man’s sharp edges were slowly being worn away again and he was really trying with his daughter, though a tiny growl leaves the young woman at his words.
“She’s not a morning person.” Is the only answer you have for him when he looks your way both confused and quite frankly a little frightened as your daughter takes the first cup of coffee and returns to her room slamming the door behind her with her foot.
“Teenagers, huh? Whatcha’ gonna’ do with them?” Wade sighs, still leaning his head on your shoulder having made no effort to stop the queue jumper.
Logan gives Wade a meaningful look and tilts his head towards the door, which the man currently invading your personal space bubble continues to ignore.
There’s something about Wade you can’t find it in yourself to be annoyed by.
Those years on the run with Charles, Logan and Caliban had been so hopeless, so void of laughter, that the man with the constant jokes puts you at ease, makes your heart feel lighter. Wade makes you smile which has been a rare commodity in recent years.
Perhaps it's the fact he makes the world feel a little lighter that makes you so willing to tolerate the overly familiar head on your shoulder.
The two men are having a silent conversation, as you stare at the fridge awkwardly.
“I…uh… I think I’ll jump in the shower.” You detangle yourself from Wade and place a meaningful hand on Logan's arm. “Talk later?”
He looks to your hand, and then to your face and simply nods.
Only, you don’t end up talking later, because after your shower, you return to your bedroom hell bent on getting dressed and heading out into the city for the day to get some distance before you start your new job tomorrow.
That’s when you find Laura twisting her hands and waiting for you. The second you close the door behind you, she stands.
“You alright, bug?” You ask, giving her the opening she so desperately needs.
“I, um, have some news.” She can barely meet your eyes, a trait you’re sorry to say she’s picked up from you.
“Yeah?” You prompt, taking her hand in yours.
“I want to join the X-Men.” Your mouth opens involuntarily to reply, but no words can find their way up your throat; you’re irrevocably thrown.
In the years since the devastation Charles had wrought on the manor, you hadn’t been able to muster the strength to return to West Chester.
“I know, you might not be sold on the idea but I want to use my powers for good, I don’t want to get a normal job - not that the coffee shop isn’t great for you - but I’m-”
“It’s great, Laura.” Your voice sounds wrong even to your ears. “I’ll do my best to get used to being back in the Mansion-”
“No.” You can tell it slips out, she honestly doesn’t mean it to. “I … I, uh, want to join the X-Men, me. I want to go alone.”
“Oh.” You can’t help the deflated sound of your voice, you hadn’t foreseen your daughter breaking up with you when you woke up this morning.
“No, mamá,” She takes your hand in hers, desperate to fix it. “I love you and I can’t ever repay-”
“No, Laura.” You tell her. She looks terrified before you rush to finish. “You don’t ever have to repay me. You are fucking magnificent, so you go be an X-Man. I love you so much.”
She wraps her arms around your middle, buries her face in your shoulder and squeezes, she's just as tall as you are now at nineteen years old and fuck if it doesn’t break your goddamn heart.. “If you get yourself hurt with those do gooders, I’ll fucking kill you.”
After dressing and many more tearful hugs as the two of you talk logistics, it's decided she’d be heading over to the mansion in the morning.
You start work and so does she.
Your heart drops when you hear she’s put off telling you for the past five days, ever since she’d had the offer from Ellie and Yukio at the party.
Later that evening telling Logan goes, well, about as well as you might expect.
“No.” He growls furiously. “Absolutely, no fuckin’ way.”
“Logan-” You try.
“You agreed to this?” He’s blind to reason as he turns on you. Al and Wade both sit in the living room, having called an ‘urgent family meeting’.
“I for one think it's a great idea! - not that we haven’t loved having-” One look from Logan does what you had up until this very moment thought impossible and shuts Wade up.
“Logan, she’s an adult - she wants to join them. We should be supportive.”
“Supportive?!” He’s incredulous as he laughs harshly, voice utterly brimming with condescension when he continues. “You forgettin’ what happened there, huh, bub? You and I are the fuckin’ sole survivors - Last of the class! How's your Storm doing? Your Hank? Your Scott? Oh wait, their all fuckin’ dead!”
Your Logan never spoke to you this way. Never directed that fire within him at you, it's unfair, the comparison, you know this but your brain is misfiring with shock.
Had your Logan ever truly cared about anything this much when you’d been together in those dark days? Had all the fight truly left him back then? Had the two of you just ended up together out of mere convenience?
When you don’t reply, he just stares your way, his nose flared still utterly furious, at you, your betrayal, at Laura, at this situation he’s not emotionally equipped to deal with. This Logan’s shoulders are squared like he’s preparing to go a few rounds with you and not in a sexy way.
It's not a situation you’re entirely sure you’ve been in before; you’ve never been his enemy. So you’re not sure how to approach this cornered animal, ready to swipe out at you in his fear.
“If I didn’t go to that school, I never would’ve met any of you. I would be back in Y/H/T (your hometown) and I’d be lesser for it.”
It utterly disarms him, he’d clearly been prepared for harsh words to combat his own.
Pacing like a tiger locked in a cage, he finally sighs rubbing his forehead irritability. Logan turns, grabbing his leather jacket making the doorframe shake as he slams it after himself.
“I think he’s secretly happy for you, Laura.” Wade’s voice is light and full of sarcasm.
“That went just about as well as to be expected.” Al huffs from her position at her side as she takes Laura’s hand in her own. “I’m sorry, Sweetie. He’ll come round to the idea.”
“Yes, he fucking will.” Seeing your daughter's face crumble as he storms off like a child is apparently your breaking point.
You follow after him, though as you’re a grown adult in charge of her emotions you simply allow the door to close behind you.
“Haha! - She’s gonna beat the shit outta’ him! Its gonna’ be like 454 when she-” You hear Wade cackle as you take off.
It doesn’t take long to find him, you know the man better than you know yourself, though it does certainly help that he’s predictable as shit.
The closest bar to the apartment is where he’s pulled up a stool, his nose flares the second he smells you.
“I mean it this time, I’m not looking for damn company.”
You ignore him, just as you did the time before.
“Two Corona’s please.”
“I don’t drink that shit.” he huffs. “Corona and a Blue Ribbon.”
It shouldn’t hit you the way it does.
Just like before, this miniscule insignificant difference, it utterly devastates you.
A simple fact; his favourite beer. The drink he ordered at every bar he entered without fail - is suddenly, without warning, repulsive to him.
It just serves to remind you that the man slouched on the bar stool beside you is a complete stranger wearing the face of your dead lover.
Perhaps your Logan drank it simply because he didn’t want to hurt your feelings?
Had he hated it all along?
Did he only drink it because you did?
Maybe the beer is a pertinent metaphor for your entire life.
He only drank the beer because it was there, just like he only fell for you because there was no one better around.
Your mind is moving a mile a minute, you’re only bought out of your spiral by a bottle being placed down in front of you.
Shaking your head, you will yourself to calm down. After a few centering breaths, Logan is looking your way.
“Thought you were comin’ to give me a talkin’ to.”
It's funny, in a way, your spiral actually has calmed you, reminded you that this isn’t your Logan.
He’s a different man with his own set of wounds, trying to navigate this awful situation just like you are.
“I was going to. You were a dick to her back there.” You sigh, taking a sip of your beer. “Then I remembered everything… everything you’ve lost and I thought maybe I could just cut you some slack this time.”
“That's generous.” He shakes his head, sipping his own beer. “This whole things a fuckin’ mess.”
You can’t help but agree with a nod.
The two of you sit in silence, which would appear to be the norm these days, you have so much to say to one another, yet you can’t seem to find the words.
Speaking to him, finding out more of the things that are different about him, terrifies you.
Little do you know, Logan is fighting a similar battle.
He hates the weight of your gaze, how it seems to hold the expectation of the great man you’d lost with every glance, it's a constant reminder how short he falls of the anchor being this world lost.
“Where am I in your world?” You ask the question you’ve had on your mind since meeting him. He knows almost everything about you, and yet you know so little.
“Dead.” He sighs rubbing at his eyes. “With the rest of them.”
“Did we ever?” He looks your way sharply at this question, then gives a harsh shake of his head.
It hurts a little to know you were always in the background for him - it's difficult to think of a world where you always loved him from afar, never getting to feel his skin on yours.
“I mean - you’d have had to pay attention to someone other than her for that to happen, I guess.”
“How the fuck’-” He growls voice filled with a new emotion, one you’re not quite familiar with. Bemusement? Disbelief? “-has this turned into me being the bad guy for not noticing you?”
“Eh - you were a real asshole upstairs.” Smirking, you take another sip of your drink. “Question for a question? - Take it in turns?”
“I don’t wanna’ know anythin’ about your world.” He snaps, turning his head back, though you can see him watching you in the mirror beside the booze.
It's like a countdown, you watch him battle his volatile emotions.
5, 4, 3 , 2, 1.
“Fine.” He grunts into his beer bottle. “How’d they die?”
That throws you, you’d expected how’d we meet? What happened to Charles? Instead he hits you with that straight out the gate.
“Uh - Charles had started showing signs of a degenerative brain disease. I mean, he was old, prone to seizures. We were desperate to find a way to control them. We were blind… to the reality of the situation.” You take a sip, resting your forehead on your hand as your eyes ache and threaten to water, this was the first time you’d ever discussed this out loud.. “Then, he had a fucking grand mal … it … it wiped out everyone within a 100,000 foot radius.”
Unable to help it, you pick at the skin around your thumb. “It was… devastating. He killed them all. All the kids in their classrooms, our friends and family. Not even Jean could stop him.”
“He… he killed Jean?”
You're a little ashamed of the flare of jealousy at his devastation about the woman you’d always come second to. But you push that deep down, it's not the time nor place.
“How’d you survive?” He questions.
“I was away. I’d heard of a neurosurgeon in Germany, he was developing… Well, it doesn’t matter now. But I was away, whilst everyone I cared about died.”
You’d never had a need to speak of it, Logan had lived it alongside you - there was something cathartic about saying it all out loud. You wipe at your cheek as you gulp down the last of your drink, a heavy stone weighing your stomach now.
“Your turn.” Logan’s voice is deep in thought as gestures to the bartender for another. He’s extending an olive branch, a kindness in the face of your vulnerability.
You think about it for a moment, what you’d like to know.
“We were friends at least?”
“Oh yeah, we were the best of friends, Bub. You were… uh … a lil’ younger back there, never really looked at you that way.” He scratches at his bearded chin, he’s avoiding looking your way again, uncomfortable sharing these parts of himself. “You… uh… you were gonna have pups with Pete.”
“With Maximoff?!” You squeak disbelieving, whilst taking a sip of your beer prompting a coughing fit to end them all, as you gasp for air.
Logan sighs, slamming his open palm between your shoulder blades. He rubs the spot he just hit in a circle pattern, reminding you somewhat of the last time he drew circles.
“I had a baby with Peter?” You push your hair back from your face. “...That's why he used to stare at me … y’know there was one time…”
You smile fondly recounting a time you caught him staring creepily across your classroom before you remember that sweet silver haired kid in your memories is dead. The smile drops from your face in an instant; you didn’t have children with him because he’s six feet under.
“No. You were pregnant when….” He grunts, his voice has a raw edge to it. For two people constantly at odds, your souls were in the same state of flux, continually aching for vastly different reasons, yet at the root, the same cause.
The two of you sit in silence for a moment or two, you’re processing the fact that you almost had kids with Quicksilver and he’s no doubt regretting ever playing this game.
The game.
“It's your turn.”
“This is why she shouldn’t join them, everyone we know is dead.” Logan has had enough of the game as he sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Being a goddamn hero gets you killed.”
“Logan.” You touch the back of the hand currently gripping the beer bottle neck like it owes him money. “She’s strong, stronger than me. Laura is you in every way that counts. She’s ridiculously stubborn, headstrong - even when she’s wrong - and she has a kind heart. She wants to use those gifts you’ve given her for good. How can you stand in the way of that?”
Logan’s hand flips over, his warm callused fingers coming to link around your own.
“The kind heart is all you, bub.”
The beers have loosened your tongue, made your anxieties seem a little further away.
“I don’t know. You have your moments.” His fingers dance along your palm, stroking the broken planes.
The two of you enjoy this easy intimacy you’d been forming over the past few days.
“How’d we get together?” Those instruments of death you’ve seen take countless lives, glide over the soft skin of your wrist. Your eyes, usually so afraid to meet his, can’t leave their hazel captivity as you process his blunt question
“Oh, uh…” Tucking your hair behind your ear with your free hand, your eyes dart to his fingers still drifting across your flesh.
“Don’t get shy on me now, bub.” He smirks, though his heart’s not in it.
That asshole.
Taking a deep gulp of your third beer, you rely on the liquid courage, before raising your eyes back to his.
“One night. It was a few days after everything, we had finally got a sedative for Charles. We had a moment to take stock of everything we’d lost. You … uh … he came to me and … he cried. The first time I’d seen it.” His hand pulls back, but you can’t help it, you refuse to release your hold. You don’t want to lose this connection. Your thumb dips, rubbing at his knuckle, at the joint where his claws always caused the bone to ache. “I held him and he kissed me, it was messy. It was desperate but I think we both needed to feel something that wasn’t grief.”
“And I thought I was special… ” His voice holds sarcasm though you can tell the sentiment behind it is anything but humorous.
“You are special to me.”
“Yeah.” His voice is dismissive, like he doesn’t believe what you’re saying.
“You are.”
“I look like the guy who’s special to you, darlin’. I’m not him, as much as you may wish I am. Hell I wish I was.” He has snatched his hand away as he slams cash down on the bar.
Logan has started the short walk back to the apartment, cutting through the alley.
He’s hurt, burying it deep beneath the rage. His anger is an old friend. One he’s comfortable confronting.
“I’m done with your stupid games. I’m done with it all. Haven’t you got the memo? I’m the worst Logan.”
“I’m so fucking sick of that! You’re so goddamn cruel to yourself.” You cry out at his leather covered shoulders, that in itself seems to stop him in his tracks. The Y/N from his world was a mousy wallflower through and through, nothing he’d seen from this world led him to believe you were any different and yet his ears weren’t deceiving him. “I loved my Logan - I fucking adored him. Yes, sometimes it's hard to separate the two of you, but I care for you.”
He stands motionless in the alley as you bare your soul.
“I’ve known you for a week. I can’t love you the same because you’re not the same person, not entirely, but my soul knows yours. You’re Logan.” You’ve closed the distance but he still wont turn around and perhaps that's what makes it easier to say the things you’ve been desperate to say for days. “I look in your eyes and I feel safe, when you touch me everything feels like it's going to be okay. You’re not the worst, you’re not the best. You’re Logan; you’re just Logan.”
Logan is on you instantly, silencing your words with a scorching kiss. It's the kind you see in movies, desperate, filled to the brim with passion, usually taking place in the rain.
His hands find your lower back, pulling you to him as your wrap your arms around his neck, making sure he can’t escape from your grasp, as he growls and pushes you against the brick wall.
Your nose aches from the pressure of his cheek pressed against it as he devours your mouth with his own. He is claiming your mouth with a week of pent up emotions. He grips your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist, pressing the hardened bulge of his jeans against your core.
“Mom? … Logan?”
There in the street light Laura is illuminated. Her face gives nothing away, she may as well be wearing those sunglasses for all you can garner from her expression.
“Hey Love! - I.. We…uh-” Logan slowly releases your thigh, slyly adjusting his jeans in an attempt to hide his erection. You do your best to stand in front of the -ahem- sizeable bulge.
“How's it going?” You ask with a faux air of casualness as you place your hands on your hips, though your voice has a weird edge.
“Pretty good. How’s it going for you?” Her own voice has a coy little smile to it, which puts you at ease just a little.
“Great, I’m great. Logan? You great?”
“Great.” He grunts behind you.
“Great! - Everyone’s … great.”
The three of you stand in silence for a second or two, processing what's just happened or perhaps trying to decide if great is still a real word.
“You’re so weird.” Laura snorts. “For the record I’m happy that you both pulled your heads out of your asses.”
“Baby-”
“Kid-” You and Logan speak in sync. Your eyes lock as you both try and decide how the other was going to finish that sentence.
“Laura - me and your Mom… uh… things are complicated… and we don’t want to drag you into this.” Logan, the man of very few words, has managed to find them. You’re stunned into silence as he takes control of a conversation… about feelings… with his daughter.
This is not any Logan that you know.
Laura looks to you, waiting for your seal of approval on the message.
“I know how confusing things are already, Bug.” You close the distance between the two of you, linking your fingers with hers. “Me and your dad, we’re working through some things.”
You notice Logan’s shoulders setting straighter at his new title, like a welcome weight has been placed upon them. She nods at your words, smiling devilishly.
“It was just a matter of time, Mama. He has a staring problem.”
“No, I fuckin’ don’t.” He growls from behind you both. Your heart feels lighter than it has in a decade as the two of you cackle at his defensive response.
He digs his hands into his pockets glaring your way, though it has no heat whatsoever behind it, in fact he looks like he’s fighting a smile.
With your hand still firmly in Laura’s you pull her back towards the apartment, linking your arm through Logan’s warm, thick leather clad one. He doesn’t take your hand, but he also doesn’t pull away as the three of you walk back to the house.
“Can we get pizza? - For emotional trauma?” She questions.
“Baby, I’ll buy you all the pizza in New York.” You reply rolling your eyes.
“Not with fuckin’ pineapple on.” Logan groans.
“Pineapple on pizza is objectively delicious!” Laura defends from her place on your otherside, she pulls on your hand still hanging between the two of you. “Back me up.”
“I will always have your back … but…. pineapple on pizza is in fact a crime against humanity.”
Logan lets out a guffaw of victory, as Laura snarls his way. You take a mental picture, the warmth in your chest, bracketed in by your two favourite people in the world. Life is good.
Laura leaves the next morning.
It is a difficult pill to swallow, after seven years by her side. You can’t quite make the leap to take her to the mansion, it's something she understands. So when you embrace her at the doorway after Ellie reassures you for the 30th time she’ll look out for her, you find it hard to let go.
There hasn’t been a day you’ve been without her since you first met the scrawny 12-year old in Mexico. Laura is an extension of you, like your heart is on the outside of your body and you’re not ready for your heart to go to West Chester without you being there to protect it.
At that moment you understand why she needs this independence, she’s 19 years old. She needs her own life, to experience everything it has to offer but that doesn’t make letting go any easier.
“You call if you need anything, anything at all.” You tell her as you push her hair behind her ears. “Don’t stay up too late but also don’t go to bed too early to make friends but make sure you get plenty of sleep.”
“I will get the perfect amount of sleep, don’t worry.” She grabs your wrists, removing your hands from her hair.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” You sigh, your anxiety is eating away at your stomach. She’s not the vulnerable child being hunted anymore, you try to remind yourself. “If you need me-”
“-If you need us. We’ll be there.” Logan cuts you off, interjecting his own amendment.
In a show of affection you’re not quite expecting, he hugs the girl. It's somewhat awkward and clumsy, the two have known each other for a week, but when they pull back, you can see the gesture was all that really mattered.
He hands her her backpack, which she throws one strap over her shoulder. The two smile at each other in their silent language, both such quiet souls.
When she turns back to you, you ask. “We can walk you down?”
“Stay here? It’s easier this way.” She looks so small as she pleads with you.
Taking mercy on her, you nod.
“Okay.” Waving you watch her turn for the door. You don’t expect however when she turns back and barrels into your chest for a final time, burying her face in your neck.
“I love you, Mama.” She whispers, you can’t help it as your eyes water. You wrap your arms around her, squeezing her tightly to your chest.
“I love you. You are my world.” You know she needs you to let her go for her to be able to walk through that door. So with a deep inhale of her hair for the road, you pull back gathering your strength. You pull her other strap onto her shoulder and push her hair back from her face. You wipe her tears from her cheeks and give her the biggest smile you can muster, despite your teary eyes and broken voice. “Give them hell, baby.”
Laura nods, giving her own matching teary smile. Her back straightens and her shoulders square as she follows Yukio and Ellie down the hall. The duo waving at you as they descend down the stairs.
You’re so busy watching your world disappear down the hall you barely feel the heavy warm hand wrap around your shoulder in comfort. You melt into Logan’s side as your heart shatters.
You wait for him to leave in a hurry, only he does the last thing you expect of the Wolverine. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you to his chest. You close your eyes as the tears begin to fall against your will.
Logan strokes your back. He doesn’t offer any words of comfort, but he doesn’t need to, his presence alone is enough.
His trimmed beard, bristles against your hair as he places a kiss on the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair as he holds you.
It's hard to say how long the two of you stand there like that. Only when your body stops shaking do you finally look up through tear streamed eyes. Logan looks down at you, his face is lined with concern.
“You good?”
“I will be.” Your voice is broken from crying. “I-”
“I know, Bub.” He smiles your way, one you’ve not seen, perhaps ever.
It's soft, sympathetic but filled with adoration. He pushes the strand of hair, now sodden with tears, back behind your ear. His finger lingers on the curve of the bone for a moment or two before he pulls back.
“Bar?”
“Bar.”
Things change when Laura leaves. Not massively, and not entirely for the worst.
You and Logan had started sharing the bed, not like that (unfortunately), but sleeping next to one another. It was comfier than the sofa and his body curled around yours made you sleep a hell of a lot more soundly. Suddenly years of insomnia were cured by his muscled warmth curled around you like a safety blanket.
He never made a move to further it, even if you had once or twice tried to entice him by grinding your backside against his morning wood. The man was nothing if not resilient as he rolled away, grunting.
The two of you had been getting to know one another, you had resolved to treat him like a whole new man. This revelation meant that their differences weren’t such a blow anymore, you didn’t actively compare the two of them as much.
You had created a clear picket line in your head and it seemed to be working. They were two different versions of the same man, each with their own merits and disadvantages.
They weren’t to be compared.
The two of you had started a ritual of movie nights, evenings where you’d sit a little too close on the couch and pretend it wasn’t happening. He’d share a blanket he knew he didn’t need just to get close to you. It was a little uncomfortable when Wade asked to come under the blanket but you enjoyed the time spent with the clown,
In fact, your favourite night had been when you, Wade and Al had all sat down to watch the Notebook - the movie Logan point blank refused watch.
Yes, the movie he objected to so strongly, then proceeded to watch from behind the couch, standing awkwardly on the threshold of the lounge. Where he lingered for the first half an hour pretending to have no interest in it.
When the end credits came around he was back under the blanket with you and Wade, utterly refusing to admit that he’d cried.
That argument with Wade had gotten heated and he’d put three little tears in your blanket, but it was one of your fondest memories in this apartment.
It had been three weeks now. Only two of them had been spent hunting for a room that you could afford on a barista’s salary, which was the only job you were qualified for after dropping off the planet for the past ten years.
Colossus had offered you your old teaching position though you didn’t want to cramp Laura’s style and you didn’t think you could face stepping foot back in that mansion, too many of your ghosts lingered there. The same could be said for Logan, though he had found much better paying work at St Margarets.
He and Wade did odd jobs, merc work to pay the rent. They killed bad guys and got paid for it, and boy they got paid a hell of a lot more than you.
The coffee shop below Wade’s apartment, or waking hell, as you’d come to know it was your slice of a regular life; trying to push your circle peg into a triangle hole.
Its a 24-hour coffee shop, cause who doesn’t need caffeine at 3am? Tch. New York. You’re leaning on the counter a million miles away, contemplating if the graveyard shifts are worth the illusion of paying your way when Logan makes up most of your share of the rent anyway.
Your singular customer is a young guy typing away on his laptop, desperately trying to finish what looks like a college essay. He’s eleven espressos in and has been here since before your shift started at 5pm. You haven’t been told if you can cut someone off, but surely that much caffeine must count as overserving.
The bell above the door tingles loudly, the warm lights illuminate his red mask.
Wade.
“Hey angel baby!” He comes to the counter, pretending to read the board as if he hasn’t been here a million times before.
“Hi Wade.” You smile tiredly at the man. “What’cha want? It's on the house!”
“Ooooh, gimme’ a Caramel Macchiato but hit me with like 6 shots espresso, extra caramel and don’t skimp on the whipped cream - I like to call this the don't stop til dawn.”
“Your insides must be a mess.” You shake your head and get to making his drink.
“How’s the soul crushing service industry treating ya?” He asks, leaning one hand on the counter.
“It’s okay. A little boring, but not so bad, nobody's shooting at me.” You motion downwards with your eyes to the fresh bullet holes in his red suit.
“Ha! Yeahhh. But it's good old fashioned fun, beating guys to a pulp, saving kids from trees, taking candy from cats.” You roll your eyes at the man. “But they say, if you love your job you never work a day in your life! And boy, I love my job.”
You're steaming the milk when he speaks up again, shouting loudly over the machine. “You should come and work with me and Logi Bear. He’s 10% less of an old grumpy fuck when you’re around.”
He’s still shouting when the machine quietens, making your cringe a little as the kid looks your way. This isn’t the first time Wade’s broached the subject with you.
“I get you wanna move out, we love having you, but I get that Al’s old lady smell can get sorta’ overwhelming after a while.”
“Wade.” You sigh, admonishing his jokes about the lady who you’ve grown to care for in the past month. “If you didn’t live in a two bed, I’d love to stay, but it's just too small and I want you to have your bedroom back. I hate feeling like a burden.”
You secure the lid to his drink when its finally complete. “One heart attack in a cup.”
“My favourite.” His mask contorts around the eyes showing his smile. “Oh Wolvie’s upstairs in bad shape. Something took a fuckin’ chunk outta him.”
“What the fuck Wade?! Why didn’t you lead with that?” You’re pulling off your apron and halfway around the counter before you remember your shift isn’t over for another hour.
“Cause’ then you wouldn’t have made my fast juice.”
Ah fuck it.
“Don’t steal the cash register.” You warn the kid looking your way. “He’ll hunt you down and beat the crap out of you.”
Wade waves at the kid behind you, he has his macchiato in one hand and baby knife in his other for special effect. The kid gives a look of ‘Jeez’ before returning to his work.
“You coming?” You ask when your almost half way through the door.
“Nah - saving innocents makes me hungy. Fork hands has his healing factor. He'll be fine.” Wade replies dismissively.
Huffing you turn on your heel and practically run to the apartment.
A chunk out of him?
Logan's healing factor was significantly better without the adamantium poisoning but surely he could die. In an instant you’re back in North Dakota, holding his hand as he fades away.
Your breath is heavy as you take the steps two at a time.
Not again.
The door is thrown open and instead of chaos you find the lights dimmed, candles all over the apartment and there Logan stands in a new plaid buttondown and his finest wranglers. He’s holding a bouquet of sunflowers in those veined hands you love so much. It's like something out of a Danielle Steel novel and you utterly melt.
The panic that had clutched your heart recedes. Your anxiety releases its grip on you.
“You’re not hurt?”
“No, bub. I’m fine. Sorry for the clown. He offered to help and I…”
You shake your head and smile at him, hesitantly you take a step forward. When you’re close enough he hands them your way. “I have it on good authority, they’re your favourites.”
“They are.”
“I wanna give you what you deserve, sweetheart.” He starts, it's like he’s rehearsed it in his head. Little do you know it's all his thought about for the past three weeks. “You deserve more than a romp in the woods, or an alley.”
He seems to cringe at this before continuing.
“I’m not like the other guy. He was a goddamn anchor being, hero through and through from what I hear about him. I’m angry, I kill people and I drink too goddamn much, but when you look at me, I feel like I could be him.” For the first time, it is him that takes your hand in his much larger one. “Do you know how jealous of that asshole I am, Bub? That he got you first? That he got to have your uncomplicated love. If you’d been older in my timeline, I would've’ met you first, I wouldn’t have looked twice at another and I’d have fallen for you the second you looked up at me from beneath those eyelashes, how could I not when everything about you is so easy to love?”
You’ve always been a crier, and this is no different. The man is stamping down every single one of your insecurities, reassuring you as you go. Making you feel more loved then you’ve ever felt before.
“I adore you. From your crappy cooking-”
“-Hey.”
“Your porny books you think I don’t see, to the way you cry at movies, how much you love our daughter. I fuckin’ love you Y/N. Its messy and complicated, I’m not sure if you could-”
In a total role reversal it is you who cuts him off, grabbing his face in your palms and dragging his face down to yours. Your mouths join for the first time in weeks, it is hot and full of desire and love. It's like the two of you are releasing all of your tension into this kiss, finally the air has been cleared and it's rejuvenating.
You press your forehead to his, gasping for breath as his kisses steal the air from your lungs.
“Lo, I guarantee every version of me loves you, even if you were too blind to see it in your world.”
“You were a married woman in my world, bub.”
You gasp theatrically. “Adulturerer.”
“You’ve spent too much time with that fuckin’ idiot.” He kisses your lips, though you don’t let it turn into anything deeper, as you pull back rubbing your nose against his.
“Fornicator.”
“tch… stop.” He groans, grabbing your ass pulling you into his bulge, you bite his lip with a giggle. “Why do you have these lined up?”
He never gets his answer as he picks you up, wrapping your legs around his back and carries you through to the bedroom. You pull away from his mouth, looking over to the set dinner table.
“The food… you went to all that effort!” He is kissing your neck, nipping and lathering the bites with his tongue.
“Can’t cook for shit, darlin’. It’s take out, we can heat it up. I’m hungry for your fuckin’ sweet cunt right now. “
Your lower stomach clenches at his positively filthy words, you join your lips back to his. His teeth nip at your lip as he plunges his tongue into your mouth, running the tip along your teeth.
Before there had been need, but now, you’re both desperate. You’ve had a mere taste of what the other has to offer and now you’ve starved yourself for months.
“Not gonna’ last long on the first, darlin’.” He groans into your mouth as your hand works its way into his pants. He is eager as he throws you back onto the bed and is already working at peeling your black jeans down your legs. “Those fuckin’ shorts you sleep in, fuck. I’ve been dreamin’ about buryin’ myself in ya’ for weeks.”
“Please, Lo.” You’re not sure what you’re already begging for but you are desperate. You’re left in your uniform tee and panties, as he slowly unbuttons his button down, slowly revealing the white undershirt beneath. You’ve never found collarbones particularly attractive, but the tanned skin stretched across his is quite frankly delectable.
You pull your shirt over your head, all too eager to be rid of the reminder of the job you should by all rights be at right now. Your bra is quick to follow.
“Those gorgeous tits, been thinking of these every fucking night.” You groan at his admission. He himself is shirtless, you have half a mind to return the same complement as your hands brush against his perfectly sculpted pecs.
This man was the perfect specimen, it was unfair, t shirts should be outlawed for him. He grabs the waistband of your panties.
‘Snikt’ and a rip sound and you are utterly bare before him, laying across Wade’s bed.
Those gorgeous strong hands trace the planes of your body, circling your nipples before his mouth takes their place.
He groans as his hands descend to your core. “All this for me? I’m gonna’ fuckin’ slide in, Baby.”
And he does, two fingers push through your tight slick opening, three weeks of foreplay have left you soaking wet and wanting. How can you live with a man who looks the way he does, who consistently works out in the living room shirtless and not have the ocean in your panties.
It seems Logan has had all he can take as he slides a third finger in, pumping it in and out of you, rubbing at your clit with his thumb. Gasping you grab at your sheets desperate to anchor yourself.
He kisses up your breast, lavishing your chest in kisses and bites. Never enough to leave a mark but just enough to excite you.
When he’s at your neck he leans in, whispering into your ear. “I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin that pussy.”
You can’t help it, maybe you’re a whore for this man, but you don’t fucking care. Your legs part even further on the bed.
“Please, Logan. I need you to fuck me.”
He grins savagely, pushing his already undone belt and jeans down his hips. He’s back up and claiming your mouth, your legs wrapped around his ass, pulling you down to him before he knows it.
One hand is bearing his weight as the other disappears, he lines himself up at your entrance, the head of his cock breaching your folds. He’s thick, thicker than you remember, but there isn’t any discomfort this time. He settles for a moment, his forehead against yours. His mouth dips to join your lips, his tongue lashing out and fucking your mouth as his hips leap forward spearing you on his cock. The bed creaks with the power of his hips as he fucks you hard into the matress.
Skin slapping on skin is all that can be heard as he readjusts onto his knees, he’s desperate to be as deep as possible and you need the same thing.
“Lo-”
“I know, darlin’.” He grabs your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing at all and flips you over. Suddenly you’re astride him, your knees either side of his hips as his head rests in the pillows.
His eyes are distracted by your tits as he smirks, happy with the view.
You ache for him, so you reach down, lining his thick purple headed member with your core before you sink down in one stroke, his extended groan absolutely wrecks you as his big hands come to rest on the meat of your hips.
You rest your hands on his amply hair covered chest, using his pecs as leverage before you raise your hips before slamming back down and bottoming him out.
He’s so deep inside you, the tip of him must be brushing your goddamn cervix as you raise yourself once more, until he almost slips out before meeting his hips once more.
Logan’s strength never fails to surprise you as his hands follow your lead yet help lift you through the manoeuvre.
You’re bouncing on his cock, quick rise and fall sporadically grinding your clit deliciously into his pelvis.
Logan feels fucking amazing inside of you, maybe its been the buildup of weeks but you find yourself heading towards the dive faster than ever before.
“Ride my cock,sweetheart. That’s it, make yourself feel good.”
Gasping at his words and the change of position as he sits up, wrapping his arms around you and claiming your mouth. The second you find the angle that feels amazing against your clit, you hit it again and again, grinding hard against him.
“Lo - I’m gonna … I’m gonna -” You crash before you can get the words out, your toes curl by his knees and your whole body seizes in ecstasy. The world feels right as the stars appear behind your eyes.
The world stopped for you for a moment but not for Logan. He has bought his knees up and is pistoning his hips into your contorting body. He’s holding you against him, groaning into your neck as he continues to fuck your clenching pussy relentlessly.
“Oh fuck … your so fucking tight. Fucking perfect cunt- made - for - me.” He growls into your neck, but you’re too cock drunk to hear it properly, as he frantically thrusts his powerful hips up and into you.
“Where? ” He pulls back, never slowing his hips as he grabs your cheeks with one hand. Your sweat laden face, vacant and looking back at him, your cunt hasn’t stopped clenching around him as he plunders your depths, his voice is strained as he asks again “Darlin’...you gotta … tell me … where?”
“...inside, Lo. Please come inside me…” Your so overstimulated, you could cry. The sound of his balls slapping against skin as he thrusts upwards deep inside of you, whilst he pulls your body down. He’s so fucking deep inside of you, your pussy squelching from a mixture of precum and your arousal.
With another string of lewd words he’s coming hard, Logan’s head has fallen back against the headboard exposing the thick chords of muscle, you can't help sinking your teeth into it, you dip your hand and rub at your clit clumsily, you’re so fucking overstimulated from watching him you follow him over the precipice once more, giving him an insanely tight sheath to come in.
“That’s it, take it all, sweetheart” He groans as he continues to slowly pump his seed deep within you
Gasping you fall slack in his arms, your bones are jelly and your muscles ache, you really are a pillow princess.
“Still with me?” You manage to nod your clammy forehead against his pec, you currently have your cheek squished against. He chuckles, as he lies back against the pillows, leaving his cock still inside of you, you can feel him leaking out of you as he softens a little, recovering for what you imagine will be another enthusiastic round if history is a teacher.
You are utterly fucked out as you lie on his chest, listening to his breath with his cum slowly leaking from your abused hole.
The two of you have never needed words, you lie against his chest, the hands you adore so much, come out to stroke your hair.
Rubbing soothingly at your scalp before running his calloused fingers through the locks and repeating.
When you’ve finally gathered enough strength you lean on your hands, looking up at him.
“Welcome back, bub.”
“Hello.” You smile shyly, like you hadn’t just sunk your canines into his neck whilst wantonly riding his cock to oblivion.
“You okay?” He asks, his hand rising to stroke your swollen bottom lip.
“Someone fucked me brain dead - but yeah, I’m good.” You smirk, nipping at his thumb.
He grins wolfishly and chuckles with his whole body, the movement causes his cock to move inside of you. Slowly you feel him hardening once more.
“You can still talk, Darlin’. Means I haven’t done my job properly.” The predatory gaze in his eyes excites and scares you in equal parts. Though you’re probably asking for trouble when you take his thumb back in your mouth.
It's light outside when you finally have to tap out.
Your pussy is aching, your ass is stinging from the new sensation, your jaw throbs and your entire body is boneless.
You can’t quite catch your breath and your cunt is leaking so much cum, that you’re probably 10% Logan at this point.
The Wolverine has utterly devoured you, making up for three weeks of torment in one night. Though he’s not all bad as he feeds you noodles from chopsticks as you lay on his muscled hair laden thighs.
When Logan had suggested food, you’d had to stop him from eating Wontons from your belly button as none of your holes were currently operational.
The two of you have dressed, though that is a strong use of the word as you’re wearing only his button down and him only his underwear.
You’re lazing on the couch watching reruns of Friends as your bed sorely needs fresh sheets and a new base. Poor Wade, you’d have to replace it before you move out. Like he could read your mind, Logan begins.
“I found a new place, its nothing fancy but its got four walls and no roommates.” You smile at him around your mouthful of noodles as he takes his own bite.
Sitting up you smile. “That’s great news, Lo.”
“I uh- wanted to see, if you’d wanna come with me.”
You can’t help your grin.
fin.
I am currently posting this at the airport before my flight. I love you all! 💖
Pink
dominic fike x reader
warning(s): smutty smut smutt yo, try at some plot yet again, lil long and all that…this filthy yall
a/n: there's for sure a ton of grammar edits that need to be made, so bear with me while i work on them! i can never seem to catch them all first day
enjoy, thanks to this yummy ass freaky ass request lmao 💗 sorry it took so long, i'm a slow writer...
¥
You sit between Dominic, your thighs spread and thrown over his legs.
He lays back against the headboard, pink blankets, and furry throw pillows around the two of you as he trails his hands up your quivering legs.
Your canopy, a sheer pink fabric floating above your bed, does little to hide the two of you.
His warm palm contradicts the chill of the rings littering his fingers–and it makes you jolt when they caress your inner thigh.
He’s fully dressed.
A well-worn leather jacket, its surface scuffed and softened with time, hangs open over a plain fitted t-shirt, showing his solid build underneath. And jeans, their denim rough against the smooth skin of your legs.
The build-up to this wasn’t the most ideal. A lot of pent-up frustration.
He’d asked you to come with him to his YSL after-party. Usually, you'd be ready to transform yourself into his arm candy for the night, the touch of his hand lingering on your lower back as you walked into the club with him.
But this time, a different kind of excitement bubbled within you – your best friend's birthday party.
You'd promised weeks ago to go clubbing with her and some friends, and the thought of letting her down felt worse than seeing the frown that started creasing your boyfriend's forehead.
A tense silence stretched over the two of you.
"You're going out with them again?" his voice was flat, a stark contrast to his usual playful tone. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms.
"It's Aria's birthday, Dom," you say, jutting your hip and leaning your weight to your right leg. "I promised weeks ago."
"This is the third time this month you’ve blown me off," he countered, sucking his teeth. "It's a big night for me. You fuckin’ know that man!”
A part of you understood, a nagging guilt prickling at your conscience. Maybe if you’d mentioned her birthday earlier, things could have been different.
But you also had a life, commitments you couldn't break at the last minute. Silence stretched between you again before you stated you were going for a shower, not having the energy for an argument.
You came out of the bathroom to an empty apartment, and anger started to simmer beneath your skin.
No goodbye kiss, no I love you.
Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself. Tonight was about Aria. Not you, and not your pissy boyfriend. You wouldn't let his actions ruin your night.
Glancing at your phone, you switched it off. Letting silence and your disconnect speak for you. You hope he got the message.
He did.
Swaying slightly, you walked back into your apartment, the gems stitched into your tight two-piece glimmering in the warped light of the city skyline that was bleeding in through your windows.
It was your skimpiest set, one that usually earned a cheeky ass grab from Dominic.
You’d only worn it once and promised only to wear it when going out with him.
Which is why he clenched his jaw and exhaled through his nose when he saw you saunter in through the door at two am in that same set—reaching for the wall to peel off your boots.
Completely oblivious to his presence.
He watched as a giggle escaped your lips when you turned to look at yourself in the hallway mirror.
Your mascara and eyeliner smudged and the glitter eyeshadow you'd swiped from Aria’s makeup bag, migrated into tiny, shimmering stars under your eyes.
Your eyes are red and lidded, a remnant from the blunt you and Aria hotboxed her car with before she dropped you off.
Combined with the tequila swirling in your system, you were in a heady euphoria. Ready for sleep, the comfort of your pajamas, and your bed.
Breathing a content sigh, you turned towards the living room, and your playful smile vanished the moment your eyes met your boyfriend's sprawled form on the couch.
The two tequila shots sloshed comfortably in your stomach, but the weed buzzed a different kind of energy through you. Your limbs felt light, almost detached, and the edges of the room seemed hazy,
Dominic being the only thing your mind was processing.
Your argument replayed in your mind, a sour note against the fuzzy high. He sat with his hands clasped loosely in his lap, legs sprawled, and his posture slouched.
His gaze roamed your body, lingering a second too long on your nipples poking through the thin fabric of your top, before flicking back up to meet your eyes.
He looked pissed, and a chill of satisfaction wisped over you.
With a sway in your hips, you walked over to him, ready to piss him off more than he already looked.
The closer you got, the air hung heavy with the acrid scent of a strain you’re familiar with. He was high, pupils dilated and glassy, mirroring yours.
There was an edge to him, a dangerous undercurrent, and it only fueled your ego. A twisted knot of pleasure growing in your chest knowing you were the reason for it.
You grinned, throwing one leg on either side of his thighs, straddling him on the couch. Dominic lifts his eyes to yours, staring you down despite being under you.
You feel his body flex under you.
“Awh, you look pissed baby.” you pouted, voice dripping with mock sympathy. You tilted your head to the side raking your acrylics through his hair, and pushing it back from his face. His eyebrow piercing glinted when his head knocked to the side under the aggression of your hand.
The saccharine dripping from your voice was enough to curdle milk. "What’s wrong? You can tell Mama." you cooed, nodding with fake concern.
Dominic's jaw clenched, a flicker of something like a warning sparking in his eyes before he let out a humorless laugh, licking his bottom lip and looking away from your face.
His leg started to bounce, a telltale sign of his patience wearing thin.
You weren't sure where this new attitude came from, but a thrill snaked through you as you realized you were effectively getting under his skin.
The earlier fight still hung heavy for you, and you found yourself reveling in this power trip.
Before he could pull away, your hand tightened around the fist full you had of his hair and yanked him back to face you.
"Oh, I think I know," you purred. "Is Dommy mad that I turned my phone off?" You pouted again, the childish facade at odds with the glint in your eyes.
"Yeah, that's what it is, isn't it? Or is it because I wore your favorite little two-piece without you?”
You pulled his head back so his adams apple was barred, “Maybe next time don’t leave without acknowledging me first, yeah?”
You leaned in, lips hovering over Dominic’s. You could smell the mint and alcohol in his breath, before moving to his ear.
“Fuck you.” You whispered, patting his cheek with a smile.
Pleased, you moved to get off him but halted when his hand grabbed at your hips and squeezed tight, forcing you back. You gasped at the sudden pressure, wincing slightly when he pressed harder over the bone.
“Are you fucking stupid?” Before you could sass him back, Dominic’s hand flew to your neck and pressed at the pleasure points on the side of your throat.
“Oh come on, you didn’t expect me to let you talk to me like that?” Your clit pulsed, this is a side of your boyfriend you’d never seen. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t getting worked up by his attitude. You pressed down on his lap and felt his dick hard and poking under his jeans–a grin spread across your lips.
“But you like it,” You wrapped your fingers around his hand on your neck, and slightly squeezed, not breaking eye contact. “Don’t you Dommy?”
And now you’re in your current position.
“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Dominic mutters. The hand that’s not working your thigh, sliding down your tank top to fondle your tits. Your nails dig into his leg, a whimper leaving your lips.
“You know better than that.” He flicks your clit through your shorts, and a pathetic squeal comes out of your throat at the pain. This was a side you weren’t familiar with, a side of him you didn’t know he could tap into. You’re unsure how to act, but a sick thrill washes over you.
“Dom please,” You breathe, “I didn’t mean—.”Dominic tuts, and muffles you with the palm of his hand.
“Yeah, you did, baby.” Dominic slips his hand into your shorts and presses two fingers against your swollen clit, rubbing soft circles that causes your breath to catch. He’s barely applying pressure, just toying with you.
“No panties huh?” he tilted his head back, nostrils flaring as he expelled a long breath. The movement sent a shiver down your spine, and your stomach lurched.
You suck in a shaky breath, lips parting in a defensive retort when his fingers tap on your lips with surprising force. He pushes them through and lets his middle and index fingers press down your tongue.
“Learn to just shut the fuck up.” he runs his tongue along the top of your ear and is quick to move his hand up from your shorts–pressing on your abdomen to bring you down when your hips buck up.
“Fuck!” you whine around his fingers, head lolling to the side, hand squeezing at his leather jacket.
He chuckles and tugs your shorts off, and he lands a smack against your sticky cunt before you can sigh in relief at finally having your shorts off.
Your vision blurs for a second, the sharp sting lacing through you. Your eyes fly shut, a surprised gasp leaving you. Fingers twitching. You’ve never felt this before, and your pussy tingles in want at the pleasured pain.
“You really wanted to piss me off tonight, huh?” his voice comes out scratchy and low. Like a threat, and you can’t help the way your cunt throbs. “Just needed everyone’s fuckin’ attention.”
You try to jerk your thighs close, but Dom’s quicker than you. Firmly gripping the meat of your thigh, and forcefully pressing down your right from the left.
His fingers still loosely hang out the side of your mouth, your spit slick across the side of your face. Your pussy leaks, both from pain and arousal, and you’re desperate for more.
Moving you around so that your legs are spread wider Dom pins you firmly against his chest.
“You don’t even deserve this.” he finally applies pressure to your clit, and your chest stutters. Sweat coats your body in a thin sheen making you appear dewy under the lit skyline pouring through your room window.
Dominic hooks his chin over your shoulder and peers his eyes down to your soaked cunt. He spreads your lips with his pointer and ring finger, the sound lewd. Your juices glimmer in the low light and Dom’s cock twitches in his jeans.
“Fuck, look at that,” he whispers, using the pad of his middle finger to just barely brush over your pearl. Your body quivers, fingers spazzing when you throw your head back against Dom’s shoulder.
“I—” You stutter, trying to find words.
“Hm?” He taunts, pulling his fingers away from your pussy and to his lips. You whimper at the loss of contact, eyes blown wide when Dominic makes a show of sucking off fingers. He opens his eyes just barely, and peers over at you. “Where’d all that mouth go?”
You try to speak again, but your mind blanks when the sound of Dominic’s belt unclasping filters through your ears. In a swift movement, he’s sliding out from behind you and removing his hand from your mouth.
Immediately you find yourself missing his heat and the heavy pressure of his fingers on your tongue.
Cool air rushes to your back where he once was and you shiver.
“God, you really don’t deserve this.” he reiterates, as he removes his jeans. His shirt and jacket follow suit. You watch him in a daze, thrumming in anticipation.
Just moments ago you were asserting dominance, and now your brain can’t process anything but the man undressing at the foot of your bed. He’s a stark contrast to the pink of your room. He looks out of place, despite being right where you need him.
He crawls back to you, and for the first time today, Dominic catches your lips in a searing kiss. Your mouths clash in a hungry mesh of spit and tongue. Your highs make everything sloppy and disoriented, and so so good. Blindly grabbing, and taking each other apart.
Your hand tangles in his curls, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck and earning a grunt that you eagerly swallow.
Take take take. You want all of him.
You wander your fingers over the expanse of his body, nails dipping into the ridges of his stomach before slipping into his boxers, and wrapping your hand around his dick.
Dom's body shutters, and he pulls away from your lips to grab your wrist–his grip tight in warning.
“You don’t learn.” His breath fans hot over your lips, slick with your shared spit.
“Please Dom, just, please.” You’re downright whimpering at this point, pleading for him. Gone is your attitude from earlier, and Dominic laughs right in your face. It’s pitiful and he grins.
“Awh, what's wrong princess?” His forehead creases, mock concern seeping out of his words, and then he dips his head down to nose at the sensitive spot of your neck, just under your ear.
“You can tell Daddy.” He nods, curls tickling your cheek.
Dominic mocks your words from earlier, moving your wrist above your head. Your free hand twitches under his chest, not quite touching, just hanging in the air. Unsure if he wants you touching him.
You’re scared, and so turned on. Pussy fluttering around nothing.
“Oh, I think I know.” Dom releases your wrist and yanks you back by your hair, baring your throat out to him. Just like you did.
“You want me to fuck you. That it?”
You do. So bad. You’re not sure how much more you can take anymore, which is why you’re surprised when you feel your eyes get hot. You’ve never been brought to this point before, and you weren’t sure if you ever wanted to leave this headspace.
You nod your head rapidly, tears glossing your eyes over. “ Yes, please, Dom. “I’m sorry.” You whisper, peering up at him with how he has your head positioned, and swallowing when you watch the side of his lip twitch up.
Dominic tilts his head to the side, hair sliding to the right with him. He simpers and says nothing. You feel your face start to burn, feeling so small under him like this, a hot tear streams down the side of your face.
You watch Dom’s eyes follow it with rapt attention, and you part your lips ready to say something, anything, when his eyes snap back to yours and you feel the tip of his cock pushing its way into your throbbing pussy.
Your eyes roll, and your mouth hangs open. A silent gasp stuck in your throat.
You’ve fucked your boyfriend many times before. But this, this, is new. Feeling him like this was new, the bated breath, the heat, the intensity of it all.
You feel him everywhere all at once, your body pulsating, ears feeling as if they're stuffed with cotton.
You feel hot, molten almost, but you’re shivering.
Dom bends your neck back further and nods his head while pushing himself in. Inch by inch you feel him filling you up.
His face is hovering over yours, as he watches you. Lips open and brush over your own as he loses himself in your heat.
“Mhm, that’s it, baby. You feel me?” Dominic mutters against your mouth, and you wither, mindlessly lifting a hand to grab hold of his in your hair.
You can’t speak, your brain is mush. Not a single thought processing. You feel full, the stretch one that you’ll never get enough of. He’s thick and heavy, and it’s almost too much.
Then he snaps his hips, and you slur out a curse. A long drawn-out whine works its way out your throat and you squeeze your eyes. If you were in your right mind, you’d almost be embarrassed that such a sound left you. But you aren’t.
Dominic snaps his hips one more time, and then he’s fucking you as if he’s on borrowed time. His hips grind quick and hard. He untangles his hand from your hair and interlaces it with one of yours, before tucking himself securely in your neck.
He presses closer to you, and you wrap your legs around his waist. Ankles locked tight, and his heavy grunts fall into your neck.
He’s a mess of praise and curses, your bodies sticking together and the smell of sex hot in the air.
Your body jolts up with each thrust and you use your free arm to wrap around Dom’s back. Your acrylics scratch into his skin as you try to ground yourself.
But you need more.
“More, Dom,” You whimper out. “Please.”
Dom’s manhandling you around before your mind could process it. Head lifted from your neck as he turned you over on your stomach in a heated frenzy.
Your face is mushed into your pillows at the foot of your bed, ass perked up.
“Never satisfied are you?” Dom grunts, slipping back inside you and giving you just what you asked for. He leans down so he’s molded to the shape of your back, and grabs hold of your throat from behind.
You’re being fucked dumb, have no idea what you’re saying. If you’re even saying anything at all. Body tingling everywhere.
“You feel so good, baby. So good for me.” Dominic praises, reveling in how good your pussy sucks him in. How warm and gummy you feel around him. Squeezing him just right.
You’re both intertwined with pleasure, in a conjoined headspace that you hope never ends. You don’t even know how you both got to this point anymore. What you were arguing about in the first place. Just that you want to keep fucking like this, want to always feel him like this.
You start to feel yourself getting lifted off the mattress and then you’re on your knees, Dominic’s front molded to your back. He reaches around and squeezes your right tit, fingers rolling your nipple.
You reach back and grip his hair when he starts leaving messy kisses down the side of your throat.
“Look. Look at yourself while I fuck you.” Dom orders, his voice vibrates through you and it takes all you have to peel your eyes open to see yourself through the mirror.
It’s in the corner of your room, and you can only see the side of you and Dom as he drills into you. Your eyes lock with him through the mirror. He’s already staring at you through his lashes, hair wet and sticking to his forehead. His gaze is primal, something wicked and you feel your stomach start to tighten, pussy spazzing around him.
“Oh fuck m’ gonna cum. Gonna cum.” you slur.
“Yeah? You gonna cum for me?” He moves down to start rubbing tight circles on your clit, and you arch your back, throwing your head back against his shoulder. A chorus of yes’s.
“Look.” He grunts again, hand moving off your neck to firmly grip your jaw and force your face back to the mirror. You look a fucking mess.
That coil in your tummy tying a knot so tight, you’re not sure you’re ready for it to snap. But you need it too. Need it so fucking bad.
You bring a hand to grip Dom's arm that's resting on your abdomen, toes curled tight.
“Right there, right there!” You squeal, feeling yourself weaken in his hold. Dom feels it too, and pushes you back down into your sheets, his pace harder in the new position. His arm is still wrapped around your waist, holding your middle half in a slight arch.
“Cum for me, you can do it. Make me cum.” He’s whispering in your ear, “So fuckin’ close, cum with me baby.”
And the pleasure that’s been brewing, thrumming throughout your body, breaks.
You cum hard, Dominic’s name high-pitched and breathless when you reach down to tightly grip the corner of your mattress. Back arched high like a cat.
Your pussy clamps down on Dom, walls spasming around his dick, and it sets him off. His eyes close but lidded open as he drunkenly loses himself in your pussy, chasing his orgasm.
You watch him through your mirror with lidded eyes. Watch as his mouth drops open. Watch as he drops onto you, squeezing you tight when he finally cums. Painting your walls white, and filling you up.
You're both panting, trying to catch your breath. Dom starts to pepper kisses on the side of your face, and you turn your head to catch his lips. It’s slower than the one you shared earlier. Heavy with I’m sorry, and I love you.
You pull away first, watching as a smile takes over his face. The position you’re in is awkward, but you both couldn’t give a fuck right now. You reach around as best you can and brush his hair back from his eyebrow, softly rubbing your thumb over the piercing.
“So, how was clubbing without me? Boring huh?” You grin a shit-eating grin, and Dom rolls his eyes when you start laughing.
“Fuck off.”
CARLANDO THEY COULD NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU
Lando Norris & Carlos Sainz Jr. celebrate their results together 2024 Mexican Grand Prix
MAX IS SO CUTE AND FOR WHAT
how are these 9 whole ass years apart
Being a girl is pt.2: deciding you’ve read enough fics for the moment and swiping out of the app just to re-open tumblr or open wattpad/ao3
"Ao3 will be down for three hours for a scheduled maintainance."
You should've just killed me.
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You think you're the painter, but you're actually just the canvas
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