lokinks

[lokinks]

I am today years old achieving my goals written my own black widow!reader x winter soldier fanfic series😭 oh my 2014 little me

black widow sisters + their signature move

[lokinks]

Ashes Behind Us

Chapter 1 : Ghost Protocol

Pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x Black Widow fem!Reader

summary: Forged in the Red Room and trained to be a ghost, you escaped with nothing but scars and a name you chose yourself. But when Fury is gone and HYDRA resurfaces, you won’t run. This time, the weapon strikes back—on your terms.

word counts: 3.2k

warnings/tags: Spy thriller, found family, redemption arc, slow character healing, subtle humor, relationships, mention of injuries, time skipping, soulmates, entering CAWS

a/n: This chapter written in prologue and mostly in narrative monologue, slow phased before the next chapter risen. I will try to update this series chapter once in a two week. No promises though hehe

series masterlist next chapter

You grew up in the Red Room.

A ghost of a girl—before you ever got the chance to be one.

You were trained before you were tall enough to reach the trigger. Sleep was a privilege. Mercy, a weakness. Kindness, a lie told in lullabies you don’t remember. You were taught to be silent, sharp, and surgical. A weapon with a pulse.

They told you the pain was proof you were improving.

The walls of the Red Room weren’t just made of concrete—they were built from control, sewn together with psychological warfare and repetition. Every day began with drills, ended with blood. The ballet was just choreography for discipline. The combat—your language. And every mistake was paid in bruises, bones, or worse.

Dreykov stood at the top like a god—cold, distant, always watching. He didn’t raise you. He refined you. Made you forget you had a name once.

By the time you were ten, you had already ended lives. By the time you were thirteen, you didn’t flinch at it. Your girlhood wasn’t stolen. It was dissected. Rewritten. Replaced.

They gave you a new name—Black Widow—but it wasn’t truly yours. It was a role, a warning. A signal to others: she is not someone you survive.

But somewhere deep, under the layers of programming and pain, something still breathed. A flicker that the Red Room couldn’t fully kill. Something waiting.

A name.

A face.

A choice.

Even if it had to be taken by force.

Friends weren’t allowed.

Affection was a liability. Trust—a flaw to be exploited. You didn’t reach out, didn’t laugh, didn’t need. You weren’t raised for warmth. You were designed to operate alone, or beside others only as long as the mission required.

The Red Room made sure of it.

Allies? Perhaps. Temporarily. Quiet, transactional, disposable. You could walk beside someone, bleed beside someone, and still keep your heart locked behind every inch of bone and steel the program grafted onto your soul.

But then—Yelena.

Blunt. Annoying. Loud, even when whispering. She wasn't careful the way you were taught to be. She teased you when you stared too long at maps and ignored your injuries. She rolled her eyes when you snapped orders like a soldier, and she laughed—really laughed—when you didn’t get her sarcasm.

At first, she grated.

Then she cracked you.

A stupid inside joke during a firefight. The way she called you by a nickname no one dared invent before. The way she didn’t ask if you were okay after a rough mission—she told you, “I’m staying,” and she did.

Then came Natasha.

The original.

She didn’t break through like Yelena. She waited. Observed. Understood the silence, spoke its language. She didn’t demand trust—she earned it. Not by what she said, but what she didn’t. The way she stood between you and your orders once, the way she offered you a choice where there had only ever been commands.

They didn’t ask you to change.

They just saw you, and didn’t look away.

And somewhere in the aftermath—in the stolen seconds between chaos and bloodshed—you stopped calculating escape routes when they entered a room. You let your guard down in degrees. A laugh. A meal. A moment.

Not friends.

Not yet.

But something close.

Something real.

Something the Red Room could never teach—

Hope.

The mission was never supposed to be an escape.

It was framed as routine—exfiltration in Budapest, neutralize a high-value target, recover data, and vanish. Just another red mark on the ledger. Just another mission where none of you were expected to ask questions.

But beneath the orders, something had shifted. Natasha was already doubting. Yelena was already defying. And you—quiet, calculating, precise—you had been watching the cracks form for months. The three of you were fragments of the same broken machine, and for once, all your fractures aligned.

So you planned.

Not openly. Never aloud. Just glances, half-sentences, a subtle shift in timing. Yelena swapped intel files when no one was looking. Natasha rerouted the evac. You disabled the tracker under your skin yourself—with a scalpel, shaking hands, and zero anesthesia.

The explosion was real.

The building collapsed.

The bodies found were burned beyond recognition.

Dreykov signed the report himself.

Three Widows. Dead. Clean kill. Closed file.

But you were alive.

Bruised. Bleeding. Free.

You regrouped in a safehouse five countries away, silent in the dim glow of a single bare bulb. None of you spoke for a long time. The weight of what you’d done—and what it meant—settled like ash.

Yelena was the first to laugh, dry and disbelieving.

Natasha cracked open a bottle stolen from the last safehouse.

You sat in the corner, back to the wall, heart pounding like it hadn't in years.

Three ghosts.

Three shadows resurrected.

Not Widows. Not yet sisters. Not yet whole.

But together.

And for once—free on your own terms.

2008

Budapest burned.

Not just in flames, but in memory. In bullet holes carved into concrete and into skin. In the sound of your boots pounding against cobblestones as you, Natasha, and Yelena ran through the winding alleys like wolves set loose from a cage.

And at the center of it—Clint Barton.

The man who was supposed to kill Natasha Romanoff.

The man who looked her in the eye, steadied his bow, and chose not to.

“I had the shot,” Clint told you later, quiet voice low over the crackle of a campfire, the city's chaos miles behind you.

You didn’t look at him. You were sharpening a blade with careful, deliberate strokes, but your silence demanded he keep talking.

“I saw her on the rooftop. Easy angle. Center mass. Would’ve dropped her in one shot. Clean.” He paused. “But she wasn’t running. She just… stood there.”

Yelena snorted from her corner of the clearing, biting into a protein bar like it had personally wronged her. “She probably wanted to see who was stupid enough to try and kill her.”

“I’m not stupid,” Clint said, amused. “I’m a good shot.”

“Pfft.” You flicked a glance his way. “You missed.”

“No,” Natasha said, her voice carrying over the wind, steady as ever. “He chose not to.”

You turned your gaze to her, then to Clint again. You studied his posture—relaxed, but not foolish. He wasn’t afraid of you. That made him brave or reckless. Maybe both.

Clint met your stare. “She could’ve killed me, too. But she didn’t.”

Natasha shrugged. “Was curious. SHIELD sent an assassin with a bow. Thought it was a joke.”

He grinned. “You’re hilarious, Romanoff.”

Back then, the mission was chaos.

Dreykov was in hiding, the Red Room scattered but not dismantled. SHIELD wanted a list of assets. Clint wanted to prove Natasha could be trusted. You and Yelena wanted blood—freedom—closure.

But mostly, you wanted to never run again.

That meant working extraction with Barton.

He held his own in combat, you’d give him that. He didn’t flinch when Yelena hurled a knife past his head to take out a sniper.

“You’re welcome,” she grinned.

“Gee, thanks,” he muttered, brushing glass from his shoulder. “Next time, maybe yell first?”

She just winked.

And Clint—Clint didn’t falter when you kicked open a door without warning, dragging a terrified data tech out by the collar and demanding, “Where’s the backup drive?”

He stepped in, calm and measured. “Hey. Let her talk. We need intel, not trauma.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “That’s the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.” His tone didn’t rise, didn’t challenge—but it pressed. “You’re not in the Red Room anymore.”

You blinked, a flicker of something stirring. It wasn’t anger.

It was memory.

Of orders. Of collars. Of fear.

He saw it.

He said nothing more.

You released the tech’s shirt and stepped back.

Later, when the mission was done—when the last safehouse was burned, and Dreykov’s files were in SHIELD hands—you sat on a rooftop beside Natasha and Clint. Yelena had passed out nearby, snoring softly under a blanket.

You watched the sunrise. You hadn’t done that in years.

“Why’d you help her?” you asked Clint quietly. “Natasha. Why risk it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back on his elbows and watched the clouds shift to gold.

“She wanted out,” he finally said. “You can tell, when you’ve been at this long enough. The ones who kill because they have to, not because they want to.”

“That’s not weakness?” you asked, honestly curious.

“No,” he replied. “That’s the part worth saving.”

You looked down at your gloved hands. Calloused. Scarred. Stained.

“Do you think there’s anything left of us worth saving?”

Clint’s answer came without hesitation.

“All of it.”

Natasha nudged your arm. “Told you he was annoyingly decent.”

You rolled your eyes, but said nothing more.

From that day on, Clint Barton was yours too.

Not in the way the Red Room trained you to use people. Not a tool. Not a pawn.

He was something else.

Something you didn’t have a word for back then.

But in time, you’d understand—

Trusting.

You don’t walk into SHIELD.

You are brought in—not in cuffs, but it may as well have been.

Natasha makes it look easy. She walks through the security checkpoint like she’s done it a thousand times—because she has. Yelena follows behind, arms crossed, gum popping. No tension in her stride, just pure defiance.

You trail them like a shadow. Quiet. Watchful. Ready to kill everyone in the room if it turns out to be a trap.

You don’t believe in kindness.

Only conditions.

“You don’t have to glare at every agent we pass,” Natasha murmurs, not looking back.

“They’re staring first,” you reply flatly.

Yelena tilts her head. “To be fair, you do look like you’re going to murder someone in the break room.”

“I might.”

She grins. “Then wait ‘til I get popcorn.”

They sit you in a sterile meeting room with mirrored glass and a cold steel table. Two cameras in the corner. Clint leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with that frustratingly calm look like he’s seen all this before.

He has.

“Relax,” he says. “Nobody’s throwing you in a cell.”

You say nothing.

Fury enters like a shadow wrapped in authority. Long coat. One eye. Zero bullshit.

“You were trained to dismantle governments and assassinate high-profile targets before you hit puberty,” he says without preamble. “Tell me why I shouldn’t drop you into a hole.”

You meet his gaze. “Because I’ve already crawled out of one.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“I like her,” Fury mutters to Clint. “She’s honest.”

You don’t sleep in your assigned SHIELD quarters.

Not the first week.

Not even the second.

The walls are too clean. Too quiet. No creaking floorboards. No shift rotations outside the door. No knives under the pillow.

Your body doesn’t know how to rest in safety.

So you train.

Every day. Every night. In the gym until your fists bleed.

You take down three agents during a sparring demonstration. The last one ends up on the mat, groaning in pain.

“You could’ve pulled your punch,” Clint says, stepping in with an ice pack.

“I did,” you reply.

He gives you a look like he’s both impressed and concerned. “Remind me never to piss you off before coffee.”

Yelena finds you that night on the rooftop.

“You’re not sleeping.”

You shrug. “Don’t need to.”

She sits beside you anyway, feet dangling over the edge. “We are not Widows anymore. We don’t have to be tools.”

You glance at her. “Then what are we?”

Yelena grins, sad but defiant. “Something new. Something alive.”

The building is silent at this hour. SHIELD doesn't sleep, but it slows—enough for you to move unnoticed, barefoot and sleepless, like muscle memory.

You don't need the light.

Your body remembers everything—door codes, ventilation layouts, which security cams have a two-second blind spot.

You're not sneaking out. You're not escaping.

But you could.

You always could.

You're in the gym again. Dim overhead lights hum above as your hands wrap in gauze. The wrap is too clean. White.

You hate white.

You begin with strikes—slow, then faster. The punching bag creaks on its hook as you throw your body into the rhythm. Jab. Cross. Elbow. Step. Reset.

There’s no music. No heartbeat monitor. No audience.

Just the raw echo of your own breath.

Each hit lands with the force of a history you never asked for.

The Red Room trained you to be flawless. Unstoppable. Disposable.

Now you're just… here. Trying to figure out what happens when you're no longer being pointed at someone else’s target.

“You always pick the weirdest hours.”

You stop mid-swing, sweat slick down your spine. Clint leans against the doorframe, holding two mugs.

“Caffeine or hot chocolate?” he asks.

You eye him warily. “How long have you been watching?”

He shrugs. “Long enough to know you're still carrying ghosts.”

You return to the bag. “They don’t leave.”

He walks over, sets the mugs down. “No, but they get quieter. Eventually.”

You scoff. “Not for people like me.”

He studies you. “You think you’re the only one here with blood on their hands?”

You don't answer. You don't need to.

Instead, your voice comes low:

“Every time I close my eyes, I see the little girl they handed me in training and told me to manipulate. She was five. I told her to stop crying or she'd never see her parents again. I didn’t even know if they were alive.”

Clint doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t offer false comfort.

“That wasn’t you,” he says eventually. “That was what they made you believe you had to be.”

You shake your head. “It was still me who said it.”

There’s a long pause. Then he speaks again, quieter.

“You want to punish yourself forever, fine. But at some point, you need to figure out whether you want to be what they made… or rewrite it.”

Later, you sit beside him on the floor, the gym dimly lit.

You sip the hot chocolate.

You don’t talk again.

But you don’t leave, either.

Few weeks later, you’re called into a full tactical briefing. Mission parameters. Intel sweep. Standard procedure.

Except it isn’t.

Because this time, they’re sending you alone.

Natasha reads the file first. She frowns. “This is a test.”

Clint glances at you, then at Fury. “You sure she’s ready?”

“I’m sure she’s dangerous,” Fury replies. “Question is who she’s dangerous for.”

Your jaw tightens. “If you’re not going to trust me, just say it.”

Fury gives you a long, unreadable stare. “I don’t trust anyone. That’s how I’m still alive.”

You don’t react. You’ve been judged harsher by men with colder eyes.

But when you stand to leave, Clint speaks quietly:

“Don’t do this to prove something. Do it because you want to come back.”

That hits you.

You nod once. Then walk out.

It’s supposed to be simple: surveillance, data extraction, and clean exfil.

But nothing is ever simple when your name is written in red ink across global kill lists.

You break into the compound with precision. No unnecessary kills. You stun them. You don’t even pull your knife.

You find the server room.

Then you hear it—a child’s cry.

You freeze.

Everything in you locks up.

A memory claws to the surface: a Red Room facility, a girl in a crate. Her mouth duct-taped. You remember the way you didn’t look at her as they led her away.

Now, in this present moment, a guard lunges at you with a blade.

And you hesitate.

You hesitate because you’re thinking. Because you’re not just a weapon anymore. You’re a person trying to make the right call.

He slashes your side. You go down hard.

But you recover. Disarm. Disable.

You don’t kill him.

You get the child. You carry her out.

You radio for evac.

Back at SHIELD, you collapse in the medical wing from blood loss.

You wake to Yelena holding a juice box over you like a trophy.

“Congratulations,” she says. “You didn’t die.”

You wince. “Barely.”

“Still counts.”

Natasha is at your bedside too, her hand resting lightly on your arm.

“She’s okay,” she says softly. “The girl. You saved her.”

You close your eyes.

And you feel something.

It’s not guilt.

It’s not anger.

It’s not fear.

It’s… something close to peace.

Later, as Clint sits beside you—feet on your medbay cot like the damn furniture’s his—you finally speak.

“I didn’t know I could do that.”

“Which part?” He asked.

“All of it. Not freezing. Not falling apart.”

Clint glances at you, then smiles. It’s small. Honest.

“That’s the part they couldn’t program out of you,” he says. “The part that kept going even when they tried to erase it.”

You take a breath.

For the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like you’re suffocating in your own skin.

2014

Clean cut.

That was how you liked it. No strings. No team. No complications.

After defecting from the Red Room, SHIELD gave you something no one else had: choice. And you chose to stay on the edges. Missions came through encrypted lines. You accepted them. Executed them. Clean, precise, detached. Always in, always out. No mess. No ties.

Even when Natasha joined the Avengers in 2018, you stayed solo. You watched her from a distance—sometimes shared extraction zones, exchanged dry jokes over scrambled comms, disappeared before anyone else arrived. That was enough. You weren’t made for spotlight heroism. You weren’t made for teams.

Until Fury died.

The message came through an encrypted ping—coded, cold, urgent.

“Nick Fury: Deceased. Possible inside job. Don’t trust anyone.”

You stared at the screen, unmoving. Your heartbeat didn’t even flinch. Years of training kept your expression unreadable, your muscles relaxed. But something cracked deep beneath the surface, like an old bone remembering how it broke.

You owed Fury. More than anyone knew. He didn't just recruit you—he protected your right to exist beyond the Widow. He buried your records, burned your Red Room trail, gave you a name the world couldn’t trace.

Now he was dead.

You were in Warsaw when it happened. The hotel room was already cleared, your bag packed. You left within four minutes, no trace behind. By the time sunrise touched the rooftops, you were on a train heading west, hair tucked under a hood, mind racing through every contact Fury ever trusted.

A voice crackled through your comm piece three hours later.

Raspy. Familiar.

"I know you're out there. Don't do anything reckless."

It was Natasha.

You pressed the button but didn’t reply. Not yet.

"You heard, didn’t you?" she added after a moment.

Still silence.

Then, finally—your voice, clipped:

“What do you need, Nat?”

A pause.

“Meet me in D.C. Things are bad. Steve’s involved. SHIELD might be compromised.”

You exhaled slowly. Your eyes narrowed.

“Define compromised.”

“HYDRA.”

Just that one word.

Everything inside you went still.

HYDRA. The whispered boogeyman of the Red Room. The one program even Dreykov respected. You remembered their name in briefings like a warning. A myth wrapped in science and death.

If HYDRA had bled into SHIELD, then Fury's death wasn't just a casualty—it was a move. A declaration of war.

You ended the transmission with a low reply, “I’ll be there.”

Clean cut. That was how you liked it.

But this?

This was about to get messy.

we will meet our man in next chapter, sorry if you think he is in here lolz

Bucky lovers Taglist:@pipo246 @lolainrainbowz @avengemepercy@ilovetaquitosmmmm @lovinqbella @hagiel29 @my-english-degree @imabsolutegarbage @lavbarnes @feynightlight @moonlessnight14 @nancybenson @putbloghere @cherrypieyourface @notsoliteraryavenger @starabellaa-reads @fanfictionecho @leysol @pollito-chicken @sflame15-blog @buckyinmyuniverse @katbarnes024 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @maplesyrizzup @buckysdoll85

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Ashes Behind Us

series masterlist (ONGOING)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x Black Widow fem!Reader

Summary: Before you ever had a name, you were trained to kill. Before you ever had a choice, you were taught not to want one. Escape was only the first battle. SHIELD says you’re free now—but freedom feels like sleepless nights and haunted silence. It feels like a trap. Then a mission unearths old enemies, the world burns, and the Winter Soldier stands in the ashes with you. Old instincts falter. Both of you were made to kill. Neither was made to love. And yet, in the chaos, you keep finding your way back to each other.

Warnings/tags: Spy thriller, found family, redemption arc, slow character healing, subtle humor, relationships, mention of injuries, time skipping, soulmates, CAWS, CACW, Infinity War, Endgame, TFAWS (more specific tags come along with each chapter)

bucky masterlist

taglist are open, comment below to be tagged

chapters:

Chapter 1 : Ghost Protocol

Chapter 2: Dead Languages

Chapter 3: Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 4: title TBD

Chapter 5: title TBD

Chapter 6: title TBD

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[lokinks]

This Quiet Life

An alternate ending of Between Sight and Silence⋆°｡⋆ [part 4] can be read as oneshot

pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader summary: Years after the war, the mansion is full again—of laughter, footsteps, and quiet joy. Logan and you, once haunted by loss and fear, have found peace in the chaos of parenthood, soft mornings, and late-night kisses. word count: 1k warnings/tags: Slow-burn, fluff, relationship, introspective mutant fiction, xmen team, found family, soft Logan, parenthood. a/n: my heartue... it's a short chapter... 2 parts left of this alternate ending

request are open

s.masterlist previous chapter next part

Years Later — Peace at Last

The mansion wasn’t quiet. It was never quiet anymore.

Not with the soft thud of running feet echoing through the upstairs halls, the rhythmic creak of doors opening and closing as little feet sought out new adventures, or the familiar murmur of voices filtering from the kitchen—morning, noon, or night. The radio played something old, bluesy and crackling, the kind of music Logan would’ve growled about once upon a time. But now, he let it play. Tolerated it. Even liked it—if only because it made you hum softly under your breath while you cooked or read or moved through the house with a peace in your step that had taken years to find.

This was home.

Outside the rebuilt Xavier Institute grounds, the world had moved on. The war was over—or at least, the worst of it. The land bore its scars, and so did they, but there had been time to breathe. Time to grow. The trees that once bore witness to battles and funerals now rustled gently with birdsong and summer wind. Their roots were deep again.

Erik hadn’t returned since the final ceasefire. He’d left a message once—with apology, a quiet acknowledgment of the cost they all paid. That was enough.

Peace had come…tentative, hard-earned, and far from perfect. But it held. Longer than anyone expected. And when Charles finally stepped down, when he handed over leadership to Scott with tired eyes and a trembling smile, no one questioned it. The world had changed. So had they. The X-Men were fewer now, but wiser. No more costumes. No more grand speeches. Just protectors. Just teachers. Just people.

The Danger Room sat quiet most days. Echoes of old battles still lingered in its walls, but the urgency had faded. Logan still trained—he always would—but not with the same fury. Not with the same ghosts chasing him. Now, the sessions were quieter. Softer. Mostly for the kids. Sometimes for himself. And sometimes, for the boy and girl who bore his blood.

On warm days like this, he didn’t train at all.

Instead, Logan stood on the back porch, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching the chaos unfold across the sun-drenched yard. Two children tore through the grass, barefoot and shrieking with delight, chasing each other with total abandon.

The boy—dark-haired, lean, already too clever for his own good—wore your eyes, your curiosity, your quiet stubbornness. The girl—his twin by minutes—was a storm in a sundress, all grit and mischief, wild hair and a toothy grin that was unmistakably his. Her laugh sounded like a rebel yell. Her knees were scraped. Her grin said she liked it that way.

They tumbled down the gentle slope toward the edge of the woods, covered in grass stains and laughter, not a care in the world.

“I'm gonna blame you when they ruin that shirt,” you murmured from behind him, arms slipping around his middle, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his back. Your voice was soft and amused, like the air before a summer rain.

Logan chuckled low, tilting his head just slightly. “Everything’s my fault now?”

“Yes,” you said, lips curving against his spine. “Absolutely everything.”

He turned in your arms, slow and steady, as if time didn’t hold the same weight anymore. His hands came to rest on your hips, eyes drinking you in. You looked the same and yet so different—still wearing that oversized cardigan you refused to give up, still tucking your hair behind your ear when you were nervous—but stronger now. Softer too. Like peace had finally touched you, molded something new from the ashes of all the battles you’d both survived.

You still wore the ring. Silver, simple, dulled by years of wear. He still caught himself staring at it sometimes, even now.

“You’re staring,” you said, teasing.

“Still can’t believe you’re real sometimes,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your jaw, rough fingers gentle in their reverence.

You blinked. Then laughed, nudging his chest. “You’re so damn dramatic.”

“You married me.”

“I did.”

“And you stayed.”

“I did that too.”

He kissed you then—soft, deep, and without hurry. Like there was no need to rush anymore. No danger waiting around the corner. Like this, here, now, was enough.

Because it was.

Later that evening, the house dimmed to gold. The children, finally worn out by sun and summer grass, had been bathed and tucked into their beds, curling up with their worn storybooks, one still whispering tales of knights and skyships, the other already asleep, hugging her stuffed wolf like a prize won from battle.

You sat at the kitchen table, barefoot and loose-haired, a mug of tea forgotten between your hands. Logan was at the stove, stirring something warm and sweet in a heavy old pot that had survived more than one kitchen.

You were watching him. Not just the way he moved, but him—his shoulders, his quiet hum as he worked, the way his brow furrowed in thought and relaxed again when he caught sight of you.

“What?” he asked, eyes flicking up, amused by the attention.

You tilted your head, lips curving slowly. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he teased, setting the spoon aside.

“Mmhm,” you hummed, chin resting in your hand. “I was thinking about the night you gave me the ring. Do you remember?”

He paused, then nodded once. “Every detail.”

“We were so scared,” you said softly. “So sure the next day might take it all away again.”

“Yeah,” he said, crossing the kitchen to sit beside you. “We were.”

You reached across the table and laced your fingers through his, thumb brushing the back of his hand.

“But we didn’t lose it,” you whispered. “We held on.”

Logan squeezed your hand. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“Me neither.”

The wind stirred outside, catching the curtains with a sigh. Trees rustled in the twilight. Somewhere upstairs, a quiet giggle echoed, followed by the creak of floorboards and a softly whispered, “Shhh, you’ll wake twins up.”

You and Logan exchanged a glance, smiling.

The mansion stood steady, weathered and worn, but full of life again.

It wasn’t quiet.

It didn’t need to be.

Because the quiet had been filled—

with laughter, with second chances, with the sound of little feet and soft humming and late-night kisses that didn’t have to end in goodbyes.

Peace, imperfect but true.

Love, unshakable and earned. And for the first time in a long, long while…

They were finally, truly, home.

see you in part 5 later

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[lokinks]

[lokinks]

I WANT MORE!! this one hits me right in the face and blinded with tears. With movie plot adapted into with, added with your story CHEFUE KISSEU 💋

A Ghost in The Present- DOFP Logan

A/N: First time writing for DOFP Logan! So, hopefully I can do him some justice! This will be in 4 parts (for now), so keep an eye out for the other parts! I'm focused today, part 3 might come out, too!!

Warning(s): major character death (yours, graphic depiction), intense battle and fighting scenes, extreme emotional trauma & grief, grim dystopian setting, strong language and profanity, deep emotional & romantic tension, flashback to Logan's trauma

Setting: The main flashback takes place in 2022 at the ancient temple in the mountains of China, a year before Logan's current timeline. The flashback of you two meeting takes place in a bustling airport, a direct reference to the post-credit scene of The Wolverine (2013).

Word Count: 2.4K

Timelines of Healing Desire series

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

He wouldn’t fail. The words were a promise, a desperate prayer. But promises meant nothing in the face of what had already happened. The fresh wound of it, a year old to the day, was all that kept Logan going. He closed his eyes, and the church, the forest, and the fragile present all fell away, replaced by the roar and chaos of a day he could never forget.

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The year was 2022. Outside, a perpetual storm raged, summoned by Storm herself, a swirling shield of wind and lightning around the ancient temple nestled in the mountains of China. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and wet stone, the atmosphere practically vibrating with the immense power it was wielding. Inside, the last of the X-Men resistance was a picture of desperate hope. Charles was hunched over Cerebro, his face pale with strain, his telepathic senses a strained wire-thin barrier against the Sentinel swarm.

"They've adapted", Charles rasped, his voice barely a whisper in their minds. "They've found a way through the storm."

Erik, with a sullen expression on his face, used his ability to reinforce the heavy doors, his hands trembling with the effort. "Then, we buy them time", his voice cold and hard. "Enough to get out."

Bobby and Kitty stood side by side, their hands intertwined. Bobby's body was covered in a thin layer of ice, a defense he was preparing, while Kitty's face was a mask of terror, and her grip on his hand was bone-white. "I can't phase us all out, Bobby," she whispered, her voice cracking with fear. "There are too many of them."

"We'll get them", Bobby promised, his voice hollow even to his own ears.

Bishop, his arms glowing with charged energy, paced like a caged tiger. He glanced at Colossus, who stood guard at the door. "Just give us the word, Piotr."

"I am ready", Colossus replied, his voice a deep, metallic rumble. "We will hold the line."

Blink, a blur of motion and power, was creating portals at the far end of the chamber, their shimmering, unstable edges a beacon of desperate hope. She stumbled, a trail of sweat and blood running down her face. "It's all I've got! The energy... it's draining me!"

In the center of it all, Rogue, her hands trembling, staring down at them like they were a curse. Logan stood close to her, his claws itching for release. But it was Y/N, his wife, who grounded him. Her hand found his, her fingers lacing through his with a comforting familiarity. "We'll be okay", she murmured, her voice a steady balm in the riptide of panic. "We always are."

It was a lie and they both knew it. This wasn't just another patrol. This was the end. He looked at her, at the strength in her hands, a different memory, older and gentler, flickered in his mind.

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The year was 2013. Logan was a nomad, a ghost, a drifter in a world that had forgotten hope. He had just went through the metal detector and x-ray scanner at the Montréal-Mirabel International Airport, and he saw them; Charles and Erik, two men he hadn't seen in decades, their faces a stark reminder of a past he tried to outrun. But it was you standing there along with them that had caught his eye. You were slender and agile, with an easy confidence that stood out in the bustling terminal. Your piercing gaze met his, and for a moment, his world tilted. He saw not a ghost, but a presence-a deep-seated strength that reminded him of his own.

You were part of their fledgling group, he learned, already a seasoned mutant with a unique emotional manipulation ability that was a source of comfort for them all. You also had the same healing ability as him, which he thought wasn't possible. Your scent was something fresh and wild, a mixture of pine and rain, and it made him take a deep, shaky breath. "You lost, big guy", you asked, your voice was low and calm, with a quiet strength that made him pause in his tracks. That was how it began; with a look, a question, and a deep, unspoken understanding.

It was among the rubble of a broken world that the romance between you two blossomed. The bond was forged in fire by the shared missions and the quiet moments in between. He was captivated by your strength and determination along with your unwavering optimism in the face of disaster. After a particularly harsh assignment, he would frequently find you with wounds and bruises all over your body. But like him, you would heal, your capacity for regeneration a secret pledge to live in a world that was out to destroy them all. He really saw you during one of those times, when he watched your wounds mend themselves.

The year was 2018, and you two have been together for 5 years at this point. The war was getting worse. The world was more broken, but you two had each other, and that's all that mattered. You two were in a small, cramped room in a broken down church in what remained of the American Midwest. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and fear. You were both exhausted, your bodies aching, but you were both still alive. Logan looked at you, the woman who had become his everything, and a wave of raw, unyielding emotion washed over him. He knew he couldn't live without you, not in this world or any other. He reached out with a shaky hand, and took yours in his. "Marry me", he said, his voice gruff but firm. "Marry me, and let's survive this together." You didn't hesitate. You looked up at him, your eyes sharp and intelligent, and you smiled. "Yes, Logan. I'll marry you."

You were married in 2019, in a quiet, intimate moment. You two stood before a young priest in the broken-down church, you both made your vows. Charles and Erik were there was witnesses to your union, watching in silence and support. You both promised to love, to honor, and cherish each other, to be one another's rock while the world was falling apart. You were not just husband and wife; you two were a symbol of the future, a promise that you two would fight for a world where you both could be happy. And as the priest officiated the union, Logan leaned in and kissed you. It was a kiss of raw, unyielding, emotion, a kissed that sealed the fate of you two, a kiss that would forever be apart of the love story you both shared.

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The temple's heavy doors blew inward as a thunderous shriek ripped through the air, sending Sentinel components rushing into, their bodies morphing and bending to fit the cramped space. The initial wave was merely a distraction. Bishop yelled as the smaller sentinels blasted a barrage of plasma fire into the air, absorbing the energy and retaliating. Three of the machines were engulfed by the rift that Colossus made as he slammed his fist into the earth. However, they were only postponing the inevitable.

The second wave, a single, towering Mark X, moved with a silent and terrifying purpose. Its form was an unholy combination of metal and alien technology, its face a blank malevolent visor that seemed to be able to see right through all of their defenses. "Rogue!" Charles's voice was a telepathic scream in all of their minds.

The Sentinel's hand reached out, a blinding arc of energy that was meant to incapacitate the young girl. Rogue cried out, her powers flaring uselessly.

But Y/N was faster.

"Rogue, get down", you yelled, your body a blur of motion as you threw yourself in front of her.

The blast, a flood of pure energy, slammed into you. Logan's blood ran cold as he watched your healing factor struggle to keep up, your skin sizzling and flesh trying to repair itself even as it was being torn apart. It wasn't just his blood that ran cold, everyone else's did, too. Charles's mind shrieked in silent agony, his face pale and tear-stained. Storm, her face contorted with rage and grief, unleashed a whirlwind of lightning, a futile assault against the machine's impenetrable form.

For a split second, a choked gasp was heard. Not from Rogue, but from Logan. The man didn't just watch you die. He roared, a primal sound of pain and fury, his claws unsheathing from his knuckles. He charged the Sentinel, but it had already learned from his previous attack. The machine's form shifted, a new energy weapon forming on its arm. A blast shot out, a blinding arc of energy that slammed into her once again. Logan's claws were buried in the machine's chest, but it was already too late. The machine simply twisted and and threw him aside like a rag doll. He landed hard, his body slamming against a stone pillar, the impact having cracked his ribs. He tried getting back up, but the Sentinel was already adapting, shifting its form once again, a new energy weapon forming on its arm.

"No!" Erik screamed, his hands shaking as he tore a support beam from the ceiling and hurled it at the Sentinel. "You will not take her away from me, too!" He had seen you as more of a daughter, despite you being centuries older than him.

It had adapted. It fired, and the blast was focused, continuous, a devastating current of power that was meant to overwhelm even healing factors. Your body spasmed, your healing factor pushed to its absolute limit. "Go", you managed to choke out, your eyes locking onto Logan's. A final, heartbreaking plea.

Your voice was the last thing he ever heard. With a final, agonizing shriek that had ripped through the minds of everyone in the room, the Sentinel's blast intensified and your body wasn't torn apart, but utterly consumed. Not even a whisper of ash remained.

The screams afterwards were not one from a battle, but from a profound, collective grief. Kitty collapsed, sobbing, her grip on Bobby's hand going limp. Charles’s mind shrieked in silent agony, his face even paler and more tear-stained. And Logan stood there, frozen, his claws buried in the charred wood of the floor, his scream a silent, internal agony that would forever burn at the core of his soul. You were gone. Not killed, not broken, but erased.

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Logan's eyes snapped open, the memory's blackness shattering like glass. He returned to the present, but not the one he had left behind. The scent of pine and earth filled the crisp, cool air. You were standing directly next to him at the edge of the woodland. You turned to look at him again, your eyes keen with interest and something more profound, reflecting the agony that had suddenly engulfed him. You sensed what he had just gone through, even though you had no idea what he had witnessed. Unspoken between you was the weight of his sorrow, the icy fear that suddenly enveloped him like a veil. He felt the weakness of his impenetrable bone claws for the first time in his long life, the weight of two timelines gripping him like a vice. It was a stark reminder of the life he had just lost, and an even starker reminder of the life he had yet to live.

You reached for his hand, your fingers lacing through his, a comforting gesture that was now tinged with an edge of anxiety. "Hey", you whispered, your voice so soft that it barely carried through the still air. "What's wrong?" The feelings flowing from him were so raw and so intense that they felt like an unpleasant weight in your chest, even though you were unaware of what exactly you were feeling. His love, his anger, and his grief were all intertwined into a tight, cruel knot that you could feel.

He recoiled and pulled his hand away from yours as though your touch had scorched him. He couldn't do this. Not with you. He wasn't sure he could even safeguard this version of you, so vibrant and full of a future. "Nothing", he growled, a low growl with a harsh, merciless edge in his voice. "Let's just go."

You gazed at him, the anguish you were experiencing reflected in your eyes. "Don't lie to me", you gently commanded, your voice holding a silent strength. "I can sense it. You feel as though the entire world is resting on your shoulders."

He turned away form you, his shoulders slumped and the weight of his sorrow palpable in the cool air. He couldn't be honest with you. He couldn't tell you about the future, about the Sentinels, about the war, or about the fact that he'd have to watch you die a second time. It was a secret that he would have to carry alone for the rest of his life.

But he had a goal, a commitment to fulfil. A future to change, and a wife he was going to save. He had no time to get sidetracked. He needed to concentrate, to drive the memories of the past back into the shadows of his mind, and to focus on the present, on the living, breathing version of you standing right beside him now.

As he turned to face you, his eyes reflected the anguish that he was feeling. "I can't tell you", he admitted in a gruff yet firm voice. "I can't tell you, but I promise you, I'll protect you."

You were at a loss for words. You simply gazed up at him, your eyes conveying the anguish you were feeling from him. But you understood. The words weren't necessary for you to know. His promise, love, and pain were all entangled in a tight, harsh knot that you could feel.

And for the first time in your young life, you experienced a love you were now starting to comprehend, as well as the weight of a future you hadn't yet lived. You were prepared, even though the road ahead was unpredictable. You were prepared to fight, to love, to hope, to alter the course of events. You were prepared to be his pillar of support, his motivator for battle, as well as his rock.

The walk back to the X-Mansion was silent, the unspoken weight of Logan’s grief hanging heavy in the air between them. As the two of you entered, Charles was waiting, and the immense, agonizing psychic scream of Logan’s sorrow hit him like a physical blow. Logan flinched, his shoulders hunching as he tried to block the telepathic intrusion, his desperate need to be alone overriding everything else. Without a word, he turned and walked away, a ghost in his own timeline, leaving a palpable wave of grief and despair in his wake.

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A/N: Hope y'all enjoyed this! I don't typically write angst, but it was actually pretty interesting to write! It was a challenge!

[lokinks]

#logan fic angst

A Future's Echo- DOFP Logan

A/N: First time writing for DOFP Logan! So, hopefully I can do him some justice! This will be in 4 parts (for now), so keep an eye out for the other parts! I'm focused today, part 2 may come out today, too!!

Warning(s): A little angst/emotional trauma, eventual smut (in 3rd chapter), tender DOFP Logan, grieving DOFP Logan, Mutant Fem Reader, you were Logan's wife in the 2023 timeline, character death mention (your death in Logan's timeline), your abilities are quick regenerative healing (Like Logan's) and subtle emotional manipulation, sexual tension, implied violent past, adult language. Lemme know if I'm missing anything!

Setting: Set in 1973, when Logan is sent back in time. After waking up in that bed with the other woman, but before going to the X-Mansion.

Word Count: 1.3K

Timelines of Healing Desire series

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

The church was like a tomb, its cracked, stained glass filtering the cold light of a dying sun. Logan's boots crunched as he stepped on broken debris as he stepped inside, his senses on high alert. The metallic stench of rusted hinges with the faintest hint of mildew, but it wasn't the decay that had him on edge and made his jaw tighten. It was the silence-the kind that comes before a nasty storm.

He moved like a shadow, his powerful frame coiled tight, every muscle in his body getting ready to spring. The claws in his hands itched for release, but he forced them to stay at bay. This wasn't the future he left behind-not yet, at least. He just needed to stay sharp.

A soft rustle broke the eerie stillness. His head snapped towards the sound, his nostrils flaring as he took in the scent.

Mutant. Female.

The scent was familiar, though he couldn't place why. It tugged at something deep, something raw and aching. His chest tightened as he stepped closer, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor.

"You lost, big guy?" The voice was low, calm, and it had quite an edge to it-a quiet strength that made him stop. The figure stepped into the dim light, the figure silhouetted against the shattered window. Slender, agile, with piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

His gaze locked onto the figure, the person before him, and for a moment, the world tilted. You. It couldn't be. You looked different-younger, fiercer-but there was no mistaking that presence. It was you, not his version of you. This was someone else entirely, yet the same in ways he couldn't explain.

"Not lost", he rumbled, his voice gravelly from disuse. "Just lookin'."

You tilted your head, studying him with a mix of curiosity and caution. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"You could say that." He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something about the way you held yourself-unafraid, unyielding-that stirred something primal deep within him. His hand twitched, begging to reach out, just to see if you were real.

You didn't flinch as he closed the distance between you two. If anything, you lifted your chin, a silent challenge in your gaze. "You've got a lot of baggage for someone who's 'just lookin'.'"

Logan's lips tugged into a faint smirk, his signature smirk. "Got a talent for sniffing out trouble", he said, his tone dry, but not unkind.

"Or maybe trouble's just drawn to you", you countered, your lips curving into a small smile. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it had hit him like a punch to the gut. That smile... it was yours. It was yours.

He swallowed hard, the memory of you-of his you-flashing behind his eyes. The way you'd look at him, the way you'd laugh, the way you had died-protecting someone else, protecting Rogue, always putting others before yourself. His chest heaved as he tried to push the image away, but it clung to him like a shadow.

"You okay?" Your voice softened, concern flickering in your eyes. You stepped closer, your hand brushing his arm as if you were testing the waters. To see if he was okay with that. The contact was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through him regardless.

"Fine", he growled, the words coming out rougher than he intended them to. He didn't pull away, though. Your touch was grounding, pulling him back from the edge of something dark and endless.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you two crackled with unspoken tension, thick and heavy. Your gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his eyes, and he felt it-the pull, the undeniable draw. He wanted to kiss you, to lose himself in you, to forget the future he was trying to erase.

But he didn't. Instead, he took a step backward, his jaw tightening. "We should get moving", he said, his voice gruff but firm.

You nodded, though there was a flicker of something in your eyes-disappointment? Curiosity?-before you turned and led the way out of the church.

As the two of you walked, Logan couldn't shake the feeling that your presence had stirred inside him. It was more than attraction-it was recognition. In this version of you, he saw glimpses of the woman he'd loved and lost, and it scared the absolute hell out of him because he knew one thing for certain:

He couldn't lose you again. The thought resonated through him like a second heartbeat, raw and unrelenting. As you two continued to walk, the weight of two timelines was carried on his shoulders-the future where he'd lost everything, and the fragile present where you stood beside him, alive and breathing. Your scent lingered in the air, a mixture of something fresh and wild, grounding him despite it bringing forth memories he tried to bury. His version of you-your laugh, your touch, the way you'd look at him like he was worth a damn-flashed in his mind, a ghost he couldn't ever outrun. This version of you was different, yet achingly familiar, and it terrified him with how much he wanted to protect you, to keep you safe from the horrors he knew were coming.

Your steps were light, almost silent, but he could still feel your presence like a physical force. Every now and then, you would glance back at him, your eyes sharp with curiosity and something deeper, something that he couldn't quite name. It wasn't the mission alone that tied you two together; there was a thread of understanding between you two, unspoken but undeniable. You didn't know him, not really, but he saw the way you watched him- like you were trying to piece together the puzzles of his silence, the weight he had to carry. And God, if you only knew the truth, the pain that clawed at him every time he looked at you.

Logan clenched his fists; the sharp ache of his bone claws beneath his skin was a cruel reminder of where and when he was. 1973. The time before the adamantium, before everything that hardened him and made him the man he had become. He wanted to tell you everything-the future, about you, about the love he'd lost and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could rewrite it all. But the words had stuck in his throat, the fear of altering things too much, too soon. He couldn't risk it, not yet, at least. So, he stayed quiet, his gruff silence a fragile shield against the constant storm raging inside him. The weight of two timelines pressed down on him like a fucking vice, and for the first time in his long life, he felt the vulnerability of his unyielding bone claws, a stark reminder of the life he hadn't yet lived.

As the two of you reached the edge of the forest, the tension between y'all had intensified. You paused, facing him fully. Your gaze was steady, searching, and for a moment, he felt as if he were stripped bare under your scrutiny. "You're carrying a lot", you said softly, your voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "I can feel it. Whatever it is... You don't have to shoulder it alone."

Your words hit him harder than he expected, and he had to look away, his jaw tightening as he had fought to keep his composure. You don't know, he reminded himself. You can't. But God, it hurt to hear you say it-to feel you reaching out to him in a way that mirrored the future he'd left behind.

He couldn't lose you again. That one truth burned brighter than anything else, a beacon in the darkness that guided his way. As you two moved forward, Logan swore that no matter what it took, he'd find a way to change the future. Not just for mutantkind, but for you. This time, he wouldn't fail.

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A/N: Hope y'all enjoyed this! Typically, I don't write angst, but there's a first for everything! 🩷

[lokinks]

 Too Late for Maybe (oneshot angst/tension)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader summary: You loved him quietly for so long, deep, unshakable, and impossible to hide. Everyone sees it. Even he does, through glances, through silences, even through ‘almost’ and ‘maybes’ he left behind. But when you finally confessed, Logan pushed you away, too afraid of what it meant and too broken to believe it could ever be real. word counts: 5.5k (i went a little overboard and emotional wreck) warning/tags: slow angst, emotional tension, quiet heartbreak, mild language, arguments/yelling, mentions of trauma, themes of fear a/n: ohohoho this one were in my draft since 18 July, finally reread & fixed the repetition rambling, ignore if there repetiton plots in here🤏. enjoy my howlett sweethearts, get tissues ready for your snots. i chose violance when writing this fic.

Logan masterlist

The hallways of Xavier’s were rarely quiet.

Between training sessions, clattering boots, and the occasional explosion in the danger room, silence was a rare thing. But tonight… Tonight was different.

You found him alone for once. Logan, leaning against the wall with a half-smoked cigar in hand, half-shadowed by the low amber light of the corridor. His posture was relaxed—shoulders loose, arms crossed—but you knew him better than that. He was never truly at ease.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t stop walking.

Maybe that’s why your heart climbed into your throat.

Maybe that’s why your voice betrayed you.

“Logan,” you said—quietly, like a secret—but it still sounded too loud in the stillness.

He glanced over, brow furrowed. "Yeah, bub?"

You opened your mouth, and the words spilled faster than you could catch them.

“I like you. I mean—I really like you. Probably more than I should. Maybe I even love you, I don’t know. All I know is, I can’t keep pretending like I’m not waiting for you to walk into a room. Like my heart doesn’t twist every time you look at me, even when you’re not trying to.”

He didn’t say anything.

Your throat tightened. “I know there’s a huge age difference. We both know it. But I couldn’t hide from you anymore. I just—needed to say it, once. Just once.”

Logan exhaled, a slow, heavy breath that seemed to carry years behind it. He stepped forward, close enough now that you could see the flicker of something like regret in his eyes.

"Wait, wait...we already talked about this.." he muttered, raising a hand, palm up like he could stop the crash of your heart with it. “I’m... I’m way too old for you, kid.”

He said it like he was trying to sound firm, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Regret. Restraint. Something deeper he wasn’t letting himself say.

You blinked, once.

“I know,” you whispered. Trying to reason with him about whatever going on between the two of you have let on ages. “But that doesn’t mean we both don’t feel it.”

He sighed, dropping his gaze. “Maybe try your luck on someone younger. Someone who ain’t lived through the shit I have. Someone who doesn’t wake up remembering how it felt to kill men with their bare hands. I ain’t built for… whatever you’re askin’ for.”

You tried to smile.  

“I wasn’t asking for anything. Just wanted you to know.”

That, somehow, made it worse. Because he believed you.

Logan looked at you again, jaw tight, like he was trying to hold something in that might splinter if he let it go. Something soft. Something dangerous. He looked away.

“I wish you hadn’t,” he said finally. “Not ‘cause I don’t care. But because now I gotta carry it too”

Your breath caught. And you nodded. Once.

Then you turned, heart cracked down the middle, and left him standing there—still shadowed, still silent, still unreachable.

Behind you, Logan closed his eyes.

He didn’t smoke the rest of the cigar.

The hallway hadn’t changed. Same shadows along the corners, same dim bulbs humming low in their sockets. But it felt different now.

Because now you know what rejection feels like.

And he knew what it sounded like.

You hadn't seen much of him since that night. Logan disappeared into routine—early morning runs, long nights outside, Danger Room training sessions that went on too long. It wasn’t subtle, but then again, Logan was never one for finesse when it came to avoidance.

You weren’t sure which was worse: the silence after your confession or the ache of seeing him go on like you hadn’t said anything at all.

Until now.

You were in the rec room after dinner, pretending to read. The pages of the book in your lap were still crisp, unmoved. The lamp cast a warm circle around you—and then you felt him.

The air shifted. Like it always did with him.

He didn’t say anything when he entered, just made a slow path to the far side of the room, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and leaned against the kitchen counter. Watching.

You didn’t look up.

“Thought you were still hiding in the woods or something,” you muttered.

He grunted. “You’re the one hiding.”

You glanced at him then, sharply. “Excuse me?”

“You said your piece. Then you ran.”

You scoffed, setting your book aside. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have waited around for more of your heartfelt wisdom? Maybe a ‘thanks, kid, but no thanks’ etched into a beer bottle?”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, the tension in his jaw got worse.

“I told you the truth,” Logan said, voice low. “What’d you want from me? A lie?”

You stood. “No. I wanted... I don’t know. Something real. Something human.”

He stepped forward slowly, beer forgotten on the counter behind him. “You think I don’t feel things, huh?”

You froze.

“Think I didn’t hear you, every word? Think I didn’t want to say somethin’ back?” His voice was rough, something dangerous curling beneath it.

You swallowed, hard. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I don’t get to have nice things,” he growled. “Because the last time I got close to someone, I buried them. Or they buried me.”

His words hit like a punch to the ribs. Not anger. Just raw honesty.

“But you—” he added, taking another step toward you, “you come in here with your damn heart wide open and make me feel like maybe… maybe I could have somethin’ more. Somethin’ better.”

You didn’t dare breathe.

He stopped, barely a foot away now. Looking at you like he wanted to reach out but didn’t trust himself to survive it.

“I didn’t run,” you whispered. “You pushed me.”

He looked away, jaw clenched.

Silence fell like ash. But then—

“So what now?” you asked, defiant. “You gonna keep calling me ‘kid’ just so you feel better about wanting me?”

Logan’s head snapped up. There it was—tension thick enough to choke on, eyes locked in a stare that could have shattered glass.

“I call you ‘kid’,” he said low, stepping closer, “because if I stop, I’ll forget why I shouldn’t kiss you.”

Your breath hitched.

And then you laughed. Soft, wounded, disbelieving. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah? Well, I ain’t exactly Shakespeare.”

“No, you’re a growly Canadian hermit with commitment issues.”

He counters. “And you’re a reckless brat with a hero complex.”

The space between you pulsed like static.

“But you’re also the only damn thing I’ve wanted in a long time,” he muttered, softer now. “And it scares the hell outta me.”

Your chest ached, full and tight. But not broken. Not this time.

“So stop running,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just… stop.”

For a long second, he stared. Then, slowly, Logan reached up—rough fingers brushing your jaw, calloused thumb just beneath your cheekbone.

He lean in. But the silence said everything.

His hand was still at your jaw.

But he didn’t kiss you.

You didn’t lean in, either.

It hung there—undone, unbearable—the kind of moment that pressed too hard against the walls of your chest.

His touch lingered a heartbeat too long, like he couldn’t quite let go. But he did. Eventually.

Logan pulled back with a sharp breath through his nose, like he'd just stepped too close to a flame and regretted it.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s it,Logan?” you asked, voice cracking just enough to give you away. “You come in here, drop a half-assed confession, and then what—”

He cut you. “You think that was easy for me to say?”

“No. I think it was selfish.”

His head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed. “Selfish?”

You crossed your arms, something hot and bitter uncoiling in your chest. “You show up, tell me I’m what you want, but somehow still make it about how hard it is for you?”

Logan’s voice sharpened like a blade. “I never said it wasn’t hard for you.”

“No—you just acted like your pain was the only one that mattered. Like I haven’t been twisting myself in knots every time you look at me like I mean something, only to be reminded that I’m just a damn kid in your eyes.”

He stepped closer, that growl building in his throat again. “Don’t twist my words.”

“I’m not. You said it yourself.”

“I said it to protect you.”

Your laugh was cold. “No. You said it to protect yourself. Because maybe—just maybe—you feel something and it scares the hell out of you.”

That hit. You saw it in the way his face shifted—tightened.

“I’ve lived through things you can’t imagine,” he said, voice low, strained. “You get close to me, it won’t end well.”

You took a step toward him now. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to choose for both of us.”

“Maybe I do,” he barked.

“You don’t,” you snapped back. “You’re not some noble martyr, Logan. You’re too scared to admit that you want something you think you can’t have.”

He stared at you, breathing heavy. The silence was deafening now. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides like he was holding back a storm.

And then—he turned. Just like that.

“Forget it,” he muttered, walking toward the door.

“Of course,” you called after him, voice laced in something brittle. “That’s what you’re good at, right? Walking away?”

He froze.

And turned slowly.

“You really wanna do this?” he asked, voice flat, controlled—but his eyes burned.

“Maybe I need to,” you said, stepping forward again. “Because I’m tired of dancing around this thing like it’s not real.”

His voice dropped, rough as gravel. “You think this isn’t real for me?”

“I think you want it to be, but you don’t know how to let yourself have it. So instead, you push. And push. Until what—until I break?”

Logan closed the space between you in two strides, chest heaving. You could smell the wild scent of him—metal and leather and pine sap and grief.

“You think I don’t lie awake every damn night trying to forget how your voice sounds when you laugh? Or how your face looks when you think no one’s watching?I want you so bad it makes me hate myself,” he growled.

“Then say it, say it.” you said, daring, breathless.

“I can’t,” he bit out.

“Then that’s on you,” you said, softer now, but the anger hadn’t left. “Because I did. I did say it. And you threw it back at me like it was poison.”

He stared at you, caught between the urge to lash out or fall to his knees.

“I don’t know how to be loved without looking for the catch. That’s on me, not you. And you still want me?” he asked, quieter this time—like he didn’t believe it.

You blinked, eyes burning. “God help me, Logan… yes.”

He backed away a step, like the truth of it hurt more than a blade. “I want you. I think about you more than I should. But wanting ain’t the same as deserving, and I... I don’t deserve you. I never did.”

The room felt like it was cracking in half.

You turned. So tired of this back and forth. Shoulders squared. You were halfway to the door when his voice stopped you.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

It wasn’t barked or barked through gritted teeth.

It was quiet. Raw. Vulnerable in a way that didn’t suit a man built from scars.

You stopped. Spine rigid. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as the air thickened behind you, humming with unspoken words and restrained instincts. You could feel him—his presence, his guilt, the turmoil radiating off his body like heat. You turned.

He stood there like a man caught in the middle of a war he didn’t know how to win. Not on the battlefield—he knew how to bleed and kill and survive. But here, in a room echoing with truths neither of you wanted to say out loud, he was lost.

“I’m not walking away,” you said quietly. “I’m trying to survive you.”

His head lifted sharply, eyes flicking up to yours with something like guilt—or worse, recognition. As if he knew exactly what he was doing to you and couldn’t stop it.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he muttered. The words sounded like they were pulled out of him with force.

“Well, you did.” You took one step forward. “And not with claws, Logan. Not with the things you try to protect me from. You hurt me with everything you don’t say. With the way you look at me like I’m something you can’t have, then walk away like I was never anything at all.”

He looked away.He looked at you then—and it hit you, how tired he was. Not physically. Soul-tired. Grief-tired. Tired of being alive for too long and never getting to hold onto anything.

Logan inhaled sharply. “That ain’t fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you asked, voice shaking now. “Because I have watched you look at me like that. And I’ve tried—God, I’ve tried—to act like I don’t notice. To be the good teammate, the loyal X-man, the one who keeps their distance. But I can’t anymore.”

“I never asked you to—”

“No. You never asked anything. That’s the problem,” you snapped. “You just stood there, thinking I’d eventually stop feeling this way. That if you kept calling me ‘kid’ enough times, it would bury what’s underneath. But it didn’t.”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to love without destroying things.”

You took a trembling breath. You looked at him then—not just as the Wolverine, not the haunted soldier, not the legend. Just the man. And it tore you. “And I don’t know how to keep chasing someone who won’t even try.”

He blinked like he’d been struck. You saw it—right there behind his eyes. that desperate impulse to pull away, to run, to protect whatever fractured piece of himself he hadn’t already buried. You didn’t let up.

“You think you’re the only one scared? You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering what the hell I’m doing, being in love with a man who thinks he’s not allowed to be happy?”

“That’s not what this is about,” he argued.

“No?” You took a step forward. “Then what is this about, Logan? Because I confessed everything I had—every raw, humiliating inch of my heart—and you gave me a pity speech about your age and your past.”

He looked up again, eyes flashing. “It wasn't a pity. It was fear.”

“Why not trust me with the ugly parts?” you demanded.

“Because you deserve better than someone who can’t give you peace,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve killed. I’ve bled. I’ve lost everyone I ever—”

“And you think that makes you unlovable?” you cut in. “You think love is a prize given to people with clean hands.”

He shook his head, turning away from you again. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you said, louder now. “I’m asking you to want this. To want me.”

“I do!” he shouted before he could stop himself. The words hung there, sharp and desperate. “You think I don’t want you? I do. Every damn second. I think about you when I’m alone. I look for you in every room. I wake up hearing your voice in my head and I go to sleep missing you even when you’re down the hall.”

Your throat clenched. You wanted to run to him. You wanted to punch him. Instead, you stayed frozen.

“Then why push me away?”

“I was trying to protect you.” His voice cracked. “From me.”

You stared at him, something hot and cruel rising in your throat. “You don’t get to decide what I need protection from. You don’t get to burn the bridge and then cry about the distance.”

“I do when it’s me,” he snapped, then turning his back to you, like the conversation hurt to face.

You took another step. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night? That pushing me away is the noble thing?”

His fists tightened.

“You think I haven’t seen it?” you pushed, voice growing louder. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you disappear for days? When you won’t look at me in meetings?”

Logan turned then, slow and dangerous, like something coiled.

“You think this is easy for me?” he hissed. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering what it’d be like to touch you without breaking you? To keep you? To hold you and not have it end in blood?”

Your breath caught.

“Then why not say that?” you asked, soft and furious. “Why not trust me with that truth instead of feeding me your age-gap bullshit and pretending you’re doing me a favor?”

“Because you deserve more!” he growled. “More than a man who wakes up screaming from things he’s done. Who’s killed with his bare hands. I’ve hurt the things I loved. Over and over. That’s who I am. If I let myself have this—have you—I won’t be able to let go. I don’t do things halfway. And if it goes bad, if something happens, if I hurt you—”

“You’ll hurt me either way, Logan,” you said. “Because this limbo? This waiting, again. For years? It’s already killing me slowly. I can’t keep doing this. I’ve waited. I gave you space. And all I got was silence after we get better again. I’m done whispering into a void. I’ve tried. I’m tired.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath his worn tank top. The room felt tight. Pressurized. Like one wrong word would break it all open.

But he didn’t move.

You shook your head, disappointed. Crushed, even. “You always said you were a fighter.”

“I am.”

“No, Logan,” you whispered. “You’re just good at surviving. That’s not the same thing.”

The words were a wallop between you. He stood there breathing like he’d just survived a fight. Chest rising and falling like he couldn’t get enough air. Like you were the only thing left keeping him grounded, and he wasn’t sure if that terrified or saved him.

You turned again, slower this time. Gutted. And this time, you really meant to leave.

He looked at you then like he finally understood the damage he'd done.

And all he could do is called your name.

You heard his voice behind you—rough, torn, honest.

“Stay.”

You paused.

He sounded wrecked.

“Why?” you asked, not turning. “So you can break me a little more?”

“No,” Logan said quietly. “So I can try to stop breaking myself.”

The silence held.

You stood in the doorway, heart aching.

And behind you, Wolverine stood still for once, mask off, defeated.

You gave one last look before you disappeared into the hallway.

No warm resolution.

Just two broken people who had finally said what needed to be said—and stood staring at the wreckage it left behind.

You weren’t avoiding him.

Not consciously.

But there was a new rhythm to your movements around the mansion now—hallways you didn’t linger in, common rooms you slipped out of when you sensed him coming, team briefings where you kept your eyes down and your voice even.

You spoke when spoken to. You worked harder in the field. You laughed when it didn’t hurt.

But not with him.

Never with him.

And Logan noticed. He noticed everything.

But he said nothing.

Not until tonight.

You’d just finished a late patrol run with Jean and Scott—covert recon downstate. You were tired, bruised, and sweaty, ready for nothing but a shower and sleep. The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out into the hallway.

He was already there.

Leaning against the wall outside your room like he’d been waiting hours. Probably had.

You froze. You stopped walking, tired and sore from patrol. Jean and Scott had already peeled off for their rooms, leaving you alone with the one person you’d been trying like hell to avoid. Your heart thudded. But your face? Calm. Professional.

“Logan,” you said, coolly. Flat.

“Hey.”

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t harsh. Just… empty.

You stepped past him to reach your door.

He didn’t move. But he spoke again—quietly, so quietly you almost missed it.

“You gonna pretend I'm not here, bub?”

Your hand paused on the door handle. You didn’t turn.

“I’m not pretending. I’m adjusting.”

That stung. You heard it in the silence behind you.

You brushed past him toward your door, but he stepped forward.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

You turned slowly. “Yeah. You didn’t ask for anything. You just pushed and pulled until I didn’t know which way to bleed.”

His eyes narrowed. “So what, this is it? You're done?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Done? Logan, I was never allowed to start any. You made that really clear, remember?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“And I never asked you to.” You mutters.

“I didn’t want to wreck you—”

“Then why do I feel like I’m crawling out of a goddamn car crash every time I see you?” You face him.

He flinched.

“I gave you everything,” you whispered. “Every ugly, soft, honest part of me. And you looked at it like it was some kind of trap.”

His voice was hoarse when he answered. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“You didn’t want to,” you corrected. “Because then you’d have to admit you wanted it, too.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, quietly, “I saw you earlier,” he said.

Your brows knit. “What?”

“Outside. With that guy. The new recruit.” He looked away, voice stiff. “You smiled at him.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

He didn’t blink. “You smiled at him.”

“Wow. Didn’t realize I needed your permission to smile at someone. You told me to move on.”

“I didn’t think you’d do it that fast.”

“Why? Because I’m supposed to sit around pining for the man who looked me in the face and told me I wasn’t worth the risk? For the love of-.... it’s been a month.”

His breath hitched. “That’s not what I said.”

“No,” you bit, stepping closer. “You said you were too old. That I should find someone my age. That you’d ruin me. But you never once gave me the chance to decide for myself.”

You stared him down, breath trembling.

“And now you want to throw a fit over a smile, Logan?”

“I ain’t throwing a fit,” he snapped. “I’m telling you I see the way you look at him, and it sure as hell ain’t how you look at me anymore.”

You scoffed. 

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“No,” you said, stepping past him toward your door. “You came here to pretend you give a damn until I get too close again.”

“Don’t twist this.”

“I don’t have to twist anything,” you said, spinning around to face him. “You’ve already decided what we are. Or aren’t.”

He took a step toward you. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No,” you said. “I think it’s easier for you to act like nothing’s there than to admit it scares the hell out of you.”

That landed. He took a step closer, voice sharp. “You think you know me so damn well, huh?”

“I know when someone’s afraid,” you said. “And I know when they’re hurting.”

His voice dropped, tense. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, sweetheart. You ain’t my therapist.”

You blinked.

And then you laughed — hollow and short. “Right. Because feeling something real must be so uncomfortable for you, you’d rather shut down than deal with it.”

“I never asked you to fall for me.” Logan counters back.

“No,” you whispered. “But you let me.”

Silence.

And then—his face changed. Defenses flaring. Eyes hardening in that way you knew too well.

He laughed once. Short. Cruel.

“You’re not in love,” he said, low and sharp. “You’re just—what, twenty-something? You’ve got a thing for broken guys in leather jackets and you think that means something.”

You froze.

“Don’t—” you whispered.

But he didn’t stop. “You follow me around like some desperate freaking girl trying to fix a stray dog. So fucking desperate for someone to choose you.The truth is you don’t know what you want. You get all starry-eyed and cling to the first guy who throws you a bone.”

The words slapped the air between you.

Your breath hitched like he’d punched it out of you.

Even Logan seemed stunned he’d said it. His mouth parted slightly, a breath catching — too late.

“…Shit.”

Your arms dropped to your sides. The ache came in sharp, hot waves behind your ribs. Your fingers tingle to pull your skin.

“Wow,” you said, voice trembling.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No, no—you did. You meant it enough for it to come out like that. You said I’m desperate.”

He stepped forward, guilt crashing down fast. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I got angry—”

“You got scared,” you cut in, tears threatening. “And when you’re scared, you bite. That’s what you do, right?”

He reached for you, but you pulled back.

You weren’t trembling. You weren’t yelling. You were just done.

“I wasn’t chasing a stray, Logan,” you said quietly. “I was falling in love. I let you in,” you went on. “Every version of you. The tired, wounded, angry one who sleeps with one eye open. The one who flinches when someone says his name too softly. The one who kept asking me to stay but never once gave me a reason to believe that I should. I put my feelings in your hands and trusted you with them. I waited, even when you pushed.”

He opened his mouth, but you are too worked up to let him.

“I just wanted something real. Even if it was just a little. Even if it was broken. But you’d rather torch the whole damn thing than admit you want to try this relationship with me.”

“And you know what?” you added more , your palm tapping your on your aching chest. “I wasn’t desperate. I was honest. I was just hopeful for you.”

His voice finally broke through—quiet, hoarse. “That’s not fair.”

“No, Logan,” you said, tears stinging now. “What’s not fair is getting my hopes up just to be called desperate because you couldn’t handle being cared about.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said quickly.

“But you said it.”

And he did.

You stared at him, your breath unsteady, your entire body vibrating with the weight of what he’d done—and what you’d let happen.

“You want me to stop wanting you?” you asked. “Congratulations. You just made it really  fucking easy.”

You stepped back and opened your door without another word.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move.

As the door shut behind you, Logan was still standing there. Staring at the spot where you’d been. Jaw tight. Hands shaking. And for the first time in years, Logan didn’t just feel haunted. He felt cruel.

Not with anger. But with regret.

And the awful truth that this time, he couldn't blame you. This time, he was the one who ruined it.

He thought you’d cool off.

He thought you’d slam the door, cry it out, and be back at breakfast the next morning pretending it didn’t hurt as bad as it did.

But not this time.

It had been weeks. Maybe a month. Maybe more. Time didn’t feel right anymore for him.

The mansion was still loud with students and missions and life—but quieter, somehow, in all the places that used to hum with your presence.

No more laughter with him in the common room at 1am. No more footsteps in the hallway after patrol. No more ghosting into the kitchen barefoot just before dawn, hair a mess, smiling softly with him when you thought no one was looking.

Logan noticed.

God, he noticed.

He told himself it was fine. That you were just giving him space. That you'd come back.

You were still around the mansion. Still part of the team. Still sharp and quick and capable in ways that made everyone trust you. You trained, you taught, you laughed in the kitchen with Kurt, and threw soft jabs at Scott during meetings. You passed him in the halls with that same steady expression, nodded if someone said your name, joked with Bobby, sparred with Ororo.

But you never looked at him anymore. Not like before. Not like he mattered.

Not like he was something soft you wanted to hold. Now, you looked through him.

Because you were done. And he only finally understood that when he saw you.

Really saw you.

It was during a post-mission debriefing. You walked in last, not late—just… uninterested in rushing. You were dressed in blue, sleek and sharp, not a strand of hair out of place. Professional. Composed. Untouchable.

You sat across the room from him like he was no different than anyone else on the team. Like he hadn’t once been the center of your entire gravitational pull. You didn’t flinch when he looked at you. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even blink.

You smiled at the joke Alex said to his older brother, Scott. A small, cheeky smile.

And Logan felt his chest seize like he’d been punched.

Because he hadn’t seen that smile in months—and now it wasn’t directed to him.

After the briefing, he found you in the hallway near the storage wing. You were pulling on your jacket, talking to Ororo. You didn’t see him at first. Ororo noticed him.

Ororo gave you a look and stepped away without a word.

Logan stood a few feet from you, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like a teenager, every word he should’ve said now a brick in his throat.

“You look good,” he said finally, awkward.

You blinked at him. “Thanks.”

Just that. No softness. No warmth. Not cold—but distant.

“You been okay?” he gruffly asked.

“I have,” you replied, folding your sleeves. “Been keeping busy.”

“Right. I noticed.” A pause. He cleared his throat. “Can we talk?”

You looked at him for a moment. Not searching. Not uncertain. And then you nodded once.

“Okay,” you said. You followed him outside. Past the back gates, down to the quiet tree line where voices couldn't reach others.

He turned, finally facing you. “I’ve been trying to find the right words.”

You crossed your arms gently, softly let out a sigh. “I don’t need them, Logan.”

He frowned. “Yeah, well. I still do.”

You waited.

His voice was strained. “I’m sorry.”

You offered a tired smile. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he murmured. “That night.”

You didn’t answer. He went on.

“I was scared. I—look, I’m not good at this. I hurt you, worse than I meant to.”

“I know that too.”

“I thought if I pushed you away first, it’d hurt less when you realized I wasn’t worth it. I regret every damn second I spent thinking I’d be protecting you by pushing you away.” Logan explained.

There it was.

But your face didn’t crack. You didn’t break.

You just breathed in. And let it out.

“I spent so long loving the part of you that was trying not to be loved,” you said, voice calm. “When I said I was done. I begged for something real from you, and you gave me fear in return.”

Logan’s throat bobbed. He looked away.

“But the thing is…” you went on, “Now that I’ve let go, I won’t crawl back just because you finally miss me.”

He looked back at you now, and for the first time—you weren’t the one breaking. He was.

“I loved you,” you said. “Hell, I probably still do, somewhere. But I’m not waiting for you to wake up and love me back.”

His breath caught.

“I let go, Logan. Weeks ago.”

The wind rustled the leaves. A bird called somewhere above. Life went on. Just like you do.

“You meant it,” he said hoarsely.

“I did.” You gave a sad smile. 

There was a pause. A long one.

And then, softly he broke it, “Is it too late?”

You didn’t answer right away. You stepped closer—not with affection, but with the kind of care you give someone you once would’ve bled for.

“It’s not too late for you,” you said gently. “You can still change. Still figure it out.”

He nodded slowly.

“But it is,” you added, “too late for us.”

He closed his eyes.

You leaned up slightly and kissed his cheek—just once. Soft. Warm. Final.

And then you walked back toward the mansion.

He didn’t follow. This time, he couldn’t. His eyes follows you.

Because now, finally, he understood clearly.

You weren’t punishing him. You weren’t playing hard to get. You were done.

And that was the worst thing of all. Because he’d spent so long fearing your love, he never realized how much worse it would feel to lose it.

Logan stood there, surrounded by everything he could’ve had—

But didn’t choose.

a/n: I kissed the brick covered tears & snot before throwing at you guys who read this till the end xxx, my pillows are cold tonight

Taglist for my lovely logan lovers: @pipo246 @vivi-ale @tezooks @snowyminty @grumpyahjumma @lostinlovingrevery @fluff-lover @kds1999@cigars-and-claws @unlikeable-female-character@ohhowelllovely@roi-du-poison @biscofflattes@anime-lover1717 @darkcrimsonrose17 @macarenaonlaine@ohmystvrk @nourlh@love4logie @hazelwebsterboo2 @nanamisleftcheek @harkeni@fangirl-4-life415

dm me if you want tags removed

[lokinks]

[lokinks]

thank you for the tag @lolainrainbowz

np tagging: @tezooks @pipo246 @vivi-ale @rosenclaws @fluff-lover @snowyminty and whoever wants to join the game

Tag Game purely bc I’m nosey about my moots ♡

go on Pinterest (or other website of your choice) and find your fav movie, tv show, album, non-fiction book, fiction book, colour, animal and season (i am a visual learner and bored) and then tag 5 others ♡

np tagging - @leclecrism @honeyandthunderstorms @moonydanny @dogboymark @paint-it-red-and-black @gingerf1 @lucinatural @atevanfool @shinblack713 @yukalovestopgungays @riptide4812 @holdmygum @bangpop91 @thepinkcrayon @niko-central @leashybebes @gaybirdnerd @grapegiuce @fake-mouthstatic @iicaro @theotherbuckley @raibabyrai @jamieroyjamieroy @nuclear-caffeine-addiction @fefevanilla @thedaughtersoflilith @chandelier-book @dashing-disaster

[lokinks]

This is exciting, i would like to try on oneshot & moodboard. Logan ofc. Challenging myself choosing a song🎵

Spin the Wheel! (1 Year celebration!)

August 19th marks the 1 year anniversary of my blog! To celebrate I wanted to do a little creation challenge.

Deadline is August 31st!

Rules:

♥ This is a creation challenge meaning any art forms are welcome! (Writing, Poems, Mood boards, drawing, you can even make a playlist if you want!)

♥ You send me the type of art you want to make for this + a wheel. Either the Logan Wheel or the Hugh character wheel. The hugh wheel does have Logan on it too lol.

♥ I will assign you a prompt based on either a song, an AU, or a dialogue prompt! You can ask for a specific one

♥ That's it! Just write or create whatever you want and post it to the tag #rosensoneyear and tag me in!

♥ You can participate as man times as you want!

Feel free to ask me any questions

People on the Hugh List:

Logan - Leopold - Eddie - Charlie - Drover - Jack - Van Helsing - Robert Angier - Jean Valjean

[lokinks]

This is amazing, because Logan...his character who is more connected and associated with the ground, so flying puts him a little in an uncomfortable situation everytime.

𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒.

𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓 who is grateful for his healing factor. he is, really. but he still feels pain. and yet, knowing he won't be affected as much as his colleagues without the ability to heal, he lacks the instinct to protect his body. it doesn't matter that much to him. he's grown used to pain being a constant in his life, be it the soaring ache of his claws ripping apart the skin between his knuckles or emotional pain — the mistrust he harbors for the outside world due to him having been used, rejected or abandoned by others for his whole life.

logan who accepts it to be a part of his character. he may even value it to an unhealthy degree, retrieving to sacrificing himself for others all over again without it ever being acknowledged. he is his pain, and it is his healing factor that nurtures it. his healing factor that enables him to leave behind any limit and fight, not for himself, not really, but for the x-men. the x-men that he doesn't truly feel he is a part of. logan howlett who is grateful for his healing factor — it is a crucial part of his character after all. makes him who he is.

logan who is way more affected than he ever thought he would be by wounds that do not heal as easily as skin. by pain that isn't as much of a common occurrence in his daily life as the one of a broken bone.

logan who hates to admit it, but gets terrible motion sickness. it's embarrassing, really. he, the wolverine, worn out by a short flight in the x-jet. it's not as if it's his first time on a plane, either. during his years on special forces they had made the soldiers fly a lot. and it made him just as nauseous then as it does today. it's always the same torture. until... it's not. today, it's the comfort of your body next to his own. your delicate hand lying on his tigh, reassuring him with your mere presence. a silent i know.

logan who has tried to cope with motion sickness countless times, finding new techniques that never work. today he realizes he won't need those anymore. because concentrating on your face makes him forget about the speed of the jet, about the height and the harsh movement. because you make everything slow down, and he loves you for it.

logan who reaches down to intertwine his fingers with yours. they jot together perfectly. and in this moment he doesn't mind the pain — not as long as it is the best feeling in the world to be patched together by you.

logan who used to think that while broken skin might heal, broken hearts rarely do. he's not as convinced anymore, now.

logan who could endure any pain knowing you will await him when it's over... his bleeding heart in your gentle hands.

[lokinks]

 Too Late for Maybe (oneshot angst/tension)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader summary: You loved him quietly for so long, deep, unshakable, and impossible to hide. Everyone sees it. Even he does, through glances, through silences, even through ‘almost’ and ‘maybes’ he left behind. But when you finally confessed, Logan pushed you away, too afraid of what it meant and too broken to believe it could ever be real. word counts: 5.5k (i went a little overboard and emotional wreck) warning/tags: slow angst, emotional tension, quiet heartbreak, mild language, arguments/yelling, mentions of trauma, themes of fear a/n: ohohoho this one were in my draft since 18 July, finally reread & fixed the repetition rambling, ignore if there repetiton plots in here🤏. enjoy my howlett sweethearts, get tissues ready for your snots. i chose violance when writing this fic.

Logan masterlist request are open

The hallways of Xavier’s were rarely quiet.

Between training sessions, clattering boots, and the occasional explosion in the danger room, silence was a rare thing. But tonight… Tonight was different.

You found him alone for once. Logan, leaning against the wall with a half-smoked cigar in hand, half-shadowed by the low amber light of the corridor. His posture was relaxed—shoulders loose, arms crossed—but you knew him better than that. He was never truly at ease.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t stop walking.

Maybe that’s why your heart climbed into your throat.

Maybe that’s why your voice betrayed you.

“Logan,” you said—quietly, like a secret—but it still sounded too loud in the stillness.

He glanced over, brow furrowed. "Yeah, bub?"

You opened your mouth, and the words spilled faster than you could catch them.

“I like you. I mean—I really like you. Probably more than I should. Maybe I even love you, I don’t know. All I know is, I can’t keep pretending like I’m not waiting for you to walk into a room. Like my heart doesn’t twist every time you look at me, even when you’re not trying to.”

He didn’t say anything.

Your throat tightened. “I know there’s a huge age difference. We both know it. But I couldn’t hide from you anymore. I just—needed to say it, once. Just once.”

Logan exhaled, a slow, heavy breath that seemed to carry years behind it. He stepped forward, close enough now that you could see the flicker of something like regret in his eyes.

"Wait, wait...we already talked about this.." he muttered, raising a hand, palm up like he could stop the crash of your heart with it. “I’m... I’m way too old for you, kid.”

He said it like he was trying to sound firm, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Regret. Restraint. Something deeper he wasn’t letting himself say.

You blinked, once.

“I know,” you whispered. Trying to reason with him about whatever going on between the two of you have let on ages. “But that doesn’t mean we both don’t feel it.”

He sighed, dropping his gaze. “Maybe try your luck on someone younger. Someone who ain’t lived through the shit I have. Someone who doesn’t wake up remembering how it felt to kill men with their bare hands. I ain’t built for… whatever you’re askin’ for.”

You tried to smile.  

“I wasn’t asking for anything. Just wanted you to know.”

That, somehow, made it worse. Because he believed you.

Logan looked at you again, jaw tight, like he was trying to hold something in that might splinter if he let it go. Something soft. Something dangerous. He looked away.

“I wish you hadn’t,” he said finally. “Not ‘cause I don’t care. But because now I gotta carry it too”

Your breath caught. And you nodded. Once.

Then you turned, heart cracked down the middle, and left him standing there—still shadowed, still silent, still unreachable.

Behind you, Logan closed his eyes.

He didn’t smoke the rest of the cigar.

The hallway hadn’t changed. Same shadows along the corners, same dim bulbs humming low in their sockets. But it felt different now.

Because now you know what rejection feels like.

And he knew what it sounded like.

You hadn't seen much of him since that night. Logan disappeared into routine—early morning runs, long nights outside, Danger Room training sessions that went on too long. It wasn’t subtle, but then again, Logan was never one for finesse when it came to avoidance.

You weren’t sure which was worse: the silence after your confession or the ache of seeing him go on like you hadn’t said anything at all.

Until now.

You were in the rec room after dinner, pretending to read. The pages of the book in your lap were still crisp, unmoved. The lamp cast a warm circle around you—and then you felt him.

The air shifted. Like it always did with him.

He didn’t say anything when he entered, just made a slow path to the far side of the room, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and leaned against the kitchen counter. Watching.

You didn’t look up.

“Thought you were still hiding in the woods or something,” you muttered.

He grunted. “You’re the one hiding.”

You glanced at him then, sharply. “Excuse me?”

“You said your piece. Then you ran.”

You scoffed, setting your book aside. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have waited around for more of your heartfelt wisdom? Maybe a ‘thanks, kid, but no thanks’ etched into a beer bottle?”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, the tension in his jaw got worse.

“I told you the truth,” Logan said, voice low. “What’d you want from me? A lie?”

You stood. “No. I wanted... I don’t know. Something real. Something human.”

He stepped forward slowly, beer forgotten on the counter behind him. “You think I don’t feel things, huh?”

You froze.

“Think I didn’t hear you, every word? Think I didn’t want to say somethin’ back?” His voice was rough, something dangerous curling beneath it.

You swallowed, hard. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I don’t get to have nice things,” he growled. “Because the last time I got close to someone, I buried them. Or they buried me.”

His words hit like a punch to the ribs. Not anger. Just raw honesty.

“But you—” he added, taking another step toward you, “you come in here with your damn heart wide open and make me feel like maybe… maybe I could have somethin’ more. Somethin’ better.”

You didn’t dare breathe.

He stopped, barely a foot away now. Looking at you like he wanted to reach out but didn’t trust himself to survive it.

“I didn’t run,” you whispered. “You pushed me.”

He looked away, jaw clenched.

Silence fell like ash. But then—

“So what now?” you asked, defiant. “You gonna keep calling me ‘kid’ just so you feel better about wanting me?”

Logan’s head snapped up. There it was—tension thick enough to choke on, eyes locked in a stare that could have shattered glass.

“I call you ‘kid’,” he said low, stepping closer, “because if I stop, I’ll forget why I shouldn’t kiss you.”

Your breath hitched.

And then you laughed. Soft, wounded, disbelieving. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah? Well, I ain’t exactly Shakespeare.”

“No, you’re a growly Canadian hermit with commitment issues.”

He counters. “And you’re a reckless brat with a hero complex.”

The space between you pulsed like static.

“But you’re also the only damn thing I’ve wanted in a long time,” he muttered, softer now. “And it scares the hell outta me.”

Your chest ached, full and tight. But not broken. Not this time.

“So stop running,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just… stop.”

For a long second, he stared. Then, slowly, Logan reached up—rough fingers brushing your jaw, calloused thumb just beneath your cheekbone.

He lean in. But the silence said everything.

His hand was still at your jaw.

But he didn’t kiss you.

You didn’t lean in, either.

It hung there—undone, unbearable—the kind of moment that pressed too hard against the walls of your chest.

His touch lingered a heartbeat too long, like he couldn’t quite let go. But he did. Eventually.

Logan pulled back with a sharp breath through his nose, like he'd just stepped too close to a flame and regretted it.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s it,Logan?” you asked, voice cracking just enough to give you away. “You come in here, drop a half-assed confession, and then what—”

He cut you. “You think that was easy for me to say?”

“No. I think it was selfish.”

His head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed. “Selfish?”

You crossed your arms, something hot and bitter uncoiling in your chest. “You show up, tell me I’m what you want, but somehow still make it about how hard it is for you?”

Logan’s voice sharpened like a blade. “I never said it wasn’t hard for you.”

“No—you just acted like your pain was the only one that mattered. Like I haven’t been twisting myself in knots every time you look at me like I mean something, only to be reminded that I’m just a damn kid in your eyes.”

He stepped closer, that growl building in his throat again. “Don’t twist my words.”

“I’m not. You said it yourself.”

“I said it to protect you.”

Your laugh was cold. “No. You said it to protect yourself. Because maybe—just maybe—you feel something and it scares the hell out of you.���

That hit. You saw it in the way his face shifted—tightened.

“I’ve lived through things you can’t imagine,” he said, voice low, strained. “You get close to me, it won’t end well.”

You took a step toward him now. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to choose for both of us.”

“Maybe I do,” he barked.

“You don’t,” you snapped back. “You’re not some noble martyr, Logan. You’re too scared to admit that you want something you think you can’t have.”

He stared at you, breathing heavy. The silence was deafening now. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides like he was holding back a storm.

And then—he turned. Just like that.

“Forget it,” he muttered, walking toward the door.

“Of course,” you called after him, voice laced in something brittle. “That’s what you’re good at, right? Walking away?”

He froze.

And turned slowly.

“You really wanna do this?” he asked, voice flat, controlled—but his eyes burned.

“Maybe I need to,” you said, stepping forward again. “Because I’m tired of dancing around this thing like it’s not real.”

His voice dropped, rough as gravel. “You think this isn’t real for me?”

“I think you want it to be, but you don’t know how to let yourself have it. So instead, you push. And push. Until what—until I break?”

Logan closed the space between you in two strides, chest heaving. You could smell the wild scent of him—metal and leather and pine sap and grief.

“You think I don’t lie awake every damn night trying to forget how your voice sounds when you laugh? Or how your face looks when you think no one’s watching?I want you so bad it makes me hate myself,” he growled.

“Then say it, say it.” you said, daring, breathless.

“I can’t,” he bit out.

“Then that’s on you,” you said, softer now, but the anger hadn’t left. “Because I did. I did say it. And you threw it back at me like it was poison.”

He stared at you, caught between the urge to lash out or fall to his knees.

“I don’t know how to be loved without looking for the catch. That’s on me, not you. And you still want me?” he asked, quieter this time—like he didn’t believe it.

You blinked, eyes burning. “God help me, Logan… yes.”

He backed away a step, like the truth of it hurt more than a blade. “I want you. I think about you more than I should. But wanting ain’t the same as deserving, and I... I don’t deserve you. I never did.”

The room felt like it was cracking in half.

You turned. So tired of this back and forth. Shoulders squared. You were halfway to the door when his voice stopped you.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

It wasn’t barked or barked through gritted teeth.

It was quiet. Raw. Vulnerable in a way that didn’t suit a man built from scars.

You stopped. Spine rigid. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as the air thickened behind you, humming with unspoken words and restrained instincts. You could feel him—his presence, his guilt, the turmoil radiating off his body like heat. You turned.

He stood there like a man caught in the middle of a war he didn’t know how to win. Not on the battlefield—he knew how to bleed and kill and survive. But here, in a room echoing with truths neither of you wanted to say out loud, he was lost.

“I’m not walking away,” you said quietly. “I’m trying to survive you.”

His head lifted sharply, eyes flicking up to yours with something like guilt—or worse, recognition. As if he knew exactly what he was doing to you and couldn’t stop it.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he muttered. The words sounded like they were pulled out of him with force.

“Well, you did.” You took one step forward. “And not with claws, Logan. Not with the things you try to protect me from. You hurt me with everything you don’t say. With the way you look at me like I’m something you can’t have, then walk away like I was never anything at all.”

He looked away.He looked at you then—and it hit you, how tired he was. Not physically. Soul-tired. Grief-tired. Tired of being alive for too long and never getting to hold onto anything.

Logan inhaled sharply. “That ain’t fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you asked, voice shaking now. “Because I have watched you look at me like that. And I’ve tried—God, I’ve tried—to act like I don’t notice. To be the good teammate, the loyal X-man, the one who keeps their distance. But I can’t anymore.”

“I never asked you to—”

“No. You never asked anything. That’s the problem,” you snapped. “You just stood there, thinking I’d eventually stop feeling this way. That if you kept calling me ‘kid’ enough times, it would bury what’s underneath. But it didn’t.”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to love without destroying things.”

You took a trembling breath. You looked at him then—not just as the Wolverine, not the haunted soldier, not the legend. Just the man. And it tore you. “And I don’t know how to keep chasing someone who won’t even try.”

He blinked like he’d been struck. You saw it—right there behind his eyes. that desperate impulse to pull away, to run, to protect whatever fractured piece of himself he hadn’t already buried. You didn’t let up.

“You think you’re the only one scared? You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering what the hell I’m doing, being in love with a man who thinks he’s not allowed to be happy?”

“That’s not what this is about,” he argued.

“No?” You took a step forward. “Then what is this about, Logan? Because I confessed everything I had—every raw, humiliating inch of my heart—and you gave me a pity speech about your age and your past.”

He looked up again, eyes flashing. “It wasn't a pity. It was fear.”

“Why not trust me with the ugly parts?” you demanded.

“Because you deserve better than someone who can’t give you peace,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve killed. I’ve bled. I’ve lost everyone I ever—”

“And you think that makes you unlovable?” you cut in. “You think love is a prize given to people with clean hands.”

He shook his head, turning away from you again. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you said, louder now. “I’m asking you to want this. To want me.”

“I do!” he shouted before he could stop himself. The words hung there, sharp and desperate. “You think I don’t want you? I do. Every damn second. I think about you when I’m alone. I look for you in every room. I wake up hearing your voice in my head and I go to sleep missing you even when you’re down the hall.”

Your throat clenched. You wanted to run to him. You wanted to punch him. Instead, you stayed frozen.

“Then why push me away?”

“I was trying to protect you.” His voice cracked. “From me.”

You stared at him, something hot and cruel rising in your throat. “You don’t get to decide what I need protection from. You don’t get to burn the bridge and then cry about the distance.”

“I do when it’s me,” he snapped, then turning his back to you, like the conversation hurt to face.

You took another step. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night? That pushing me away is the noble thing?”

His fists tightened.

“You think I haven’t seen it?” you pushed, voice growing louder. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you disappear for days? When you won’t look at me in meetings?”

Logan turned then, slow and dangerous, like something coiled.

“You think this is easy for me?” he hissed. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering what it’d be like to touch you without breaking you? To keep you? To hold you and not have it end in blood?”

Your breath caught.

“Then why not say that?” you asked, soft and furious. “Why not trust me with that truth instead of feeding me your age-gap bullshit and pretending you’re doing me a favor?”

“Because you deserve more!” he growled. “More than a man who wakes up screaming from things he’s done. Who’s killed with his bare hands. I’ve hurt the things I loved. Over and over. That’s who I am. If I let myself have this—have you—I won’t be able to let go. I don’t do things halfway. And if it goes bad, if something happens, if I hurt you—”

“You’ll hurt me either way, Logan,” you said. “Because this limbo? This waiting, again. For years? It’s already killing me slowly. I can’t keep doing this. I’ve waited. I gave you space. And all I got was silence after we get better again. I’m done whispering into a void. I’ve tried. I’m tired.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath his worn tank top. The room felt tight. Pressurized. Like one wrong word would break it all open.

But he didn’t move.

You shook your head, disappointed. Crushed, even. “You always said you were a fighter.”

“I am.”

“No, Logan,” you whispered. “You’re just good at surviving. That’s not the same thing.”

The words were a wallop between you. He stood there breathing like he’d just survived a fight. Chest rising and falling like he couldn’t get enough air. Like you were the only thing left keeping him grounded, and he wasn’t sure if that terrified or saved him.

You turned again, slower this time. Gutted. And this time, you really meant to leave.

He looked at you then like he finally understood the damage he'd done.

And all he could do is called your name.

You heard his voice behind you—rough, torn, honest.

“Stay.”

You paused.

He sounded wrecked.

“Why?” you asked, not turning. “So you can break me a little more?”

“No,” Logan said quietly. “So I can try to stop breaking myself.”

The silence held.

You stood in the doorway, heart aching.

And behind you, Wolverine stood still for once, mask off, defeated.

You gave one last look before you disappeared into the hallway.

No warm resolution.

Just two broken people who had finally said what needed to be said—and stood staring at the wreckage it left behind.

You weren’t avoiding him.

Not consciously.

But there was a new rhythm to your movements around the mansion now—hallways you didn’t linger in, common rooms you slipped out of when you sensed him coming, team briefings where you kept your eyes down and your voice even.

You spoke when spoken to. You worked harder in the field. You laughed when it didn’t hurt.

But not with him.

Never with him.

And Logan noticed. He noticed everything.

But he said nothing.

Not until tonight.

You’d just finished a late patrol run with Jean and Scott—covert recon downstate. You were tired, bruised, and sweaty, ready for nothing but a shower and sleep. The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out into the hallway.

He was already there.

Leaning against the wall outside your room like he’d been waiting hours. Probably had.

You froze. You stopped walking, tired and sore from patrol. Jean and Scott had already peeled off for their rooms, leaving you alone with the one person you’d been trying like hell to avoid. Your heart thudded. But your face? Calm. Professional.

“Logan,” you said, coolly. Flat.

“Hey.”

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t harsh. Just… empty.

You stepped past him to reach your door.

He didn’t move. But he spoke again—quietly, so quietly you almost missed it.

“You gonna pretend I'm not here, bub?”

Your hand paused on the door handle. You didn’t turn.

“I’m not pretending. I’m adjusting.”

That stung. You heard it in the silence behind you.

You brushed past him toward your door, but he stepped forward.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

You turned slowly. “Yeah. You didn’t ask for anything. You just pushed and pulled until I didn’t know which way to bleed.”

His eyes narrowed. “So what, this is it? You're done?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Done? Logan, I was never allowed to start any. You made that really clear, remember?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“And I never asked you to.” You mutters.

“I didn’t want to wreck you—”

“Then why do I feel like I’m crawling out of a goddamn car crash every time I see you?” You face him.

He flinched.

“I gave you everything,” you whispered. “Every ugly, soft, honest part of me. And you looked at it like it was some kind of trap.”

His voice was hoarse when he answered. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“You didn’t want to,” you corrected. “Because then you’d have to admit you wanted it, too.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, quietly, “I saw you earlier,” he said.

Your brows knit. “What?”

“Outside. With that guy. The new recruit.” He looked away, voice stiff. “You smiled at him.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

He didn’t blink. “You smiled at him.”

“Wow. Didn’t realize I needed your permission to smile at someone. You told me to move on.”

“I didn’t think you’d do it that fast.”

“Why? Because I’m supposed to sit around pining for the man who looked me in the face and told me I wasn’t worth the risk? For the love of-.... it’s been a month.”

His breath hitched. “That’s not what I said.”

“No,” you bit, stepping closer. “You said you were too old. That I should find someone my age. That you’d ruin me. But you never once gave me the chance to decide for myself.”

You stared him down, breath trembling.

“And now you want to throw a fit over a smile, Logan?”

“I ain’t throwing a fit,” he snapped. “I’m telling you I see the way you look at him, and it sure as hell ain’t how you look at me anymore.”

You scoffed. 

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“No,” you said, stepping past him toward your door. “You came here to pretend you give a damn until I get too close again.”

“Don’t twist this.”

“I don’t have to twist anything,” you said, spinning around to face him. “You’ve already decided what we are. Or aren’t.”

He took a step toward you. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No,” you said. “I think it’s easier for you to act like nothing’s there than to admit it scares the hell out of you.”

That landed. He took a step closer, voice sharp. “You think you know me so damn well, huh?”

“I know when someone’s afraid,” you said. “And I know when they’re hurting.”

His voice dropped, tense. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, sweetheart. You ain’t my therapist.”

You blinked.

And then you laughed — hollow and short. “Right. Because feeling something real must be so uncomfortable for you, you’d rather shut down than deal with it.”

“I never asked you to fall for me.” Logan counters back.

“No,” you whispered. “But you let me.”

Silence.

And then—his face changed. Defenses flaring. Eyes hardening in that way you knew too well.

He laughed once. Short. Cruel.

“You’re not in love,” he said, low and sharp. “You’re just—what, twenty-something? You’ve got a thing for broken guys in leather jackets and you think that means something.”

You froze.

“Don’t—” you whispered.

But he didn’t stop. “You follow me around like some desperate freaking girl trying to fix a stray dog. So fucking desperate for someone to choose you.The truth is you don’t know what you want. You get all starry-eyed and cling to the first guy who throws you a bone.”

The words slapped the air between you.

Your breath hitched like he’d punched it out of you.

Even Logan seemed stunned he’d said it. His mouth parted slightly, a breath catching — too late.

“…Shit.”

Your arms dropped to your sides. The ache came in sharp, hot waves behind your ribs. Your fingers tingle to pull your skin.

“Wow,” you said, voice trembling.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No, no—you did. You meant it enough for it to come out like that. You said I’m desperate.”

He stepped forward, guilt crashing down fast. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I got angry—”

“You got scared,” you cut in, tears threatening. “And when you’re scared, you bite. That’s what you do, right?”

He reached for you, but you pulled back.

You weren’t trembling. You weren’t yelling. You were just done.

“I wasn’t chasing a stray, Logan,” you said quietly. “I was falling in love. I let you in,” you went on. “Every version of you. The tired, wounded, angry one who sleeps with one eye open. The one who flinches when someone says his name too softly. The one who kept asking me to stay but never once gave me a reason to believe that I should. I put my feelings in your hands and trusted you with them. I waited, even when you pushed.”

He opened his mouth, but you are too worked up to let him.

“I just wanted something real. Even if it was just a little. Even if it was broken. But you’d rather torch the whole damn thing than admit you want to try this relationship with me.”

“And you know what?” you added more , your palm tapping your on your aching chest. “I wasn’t desperate. I was honest. I was just hopeful for you.”

His voice finally broke through—quiet, hoarse. “That’s not fair.”

“No, Logan,” you said, tears stinging now. “What’s not fair is getting my hopes up just to be called desperate because you couldn’t handle being cared about.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said quickly.

“But you said it.”

And he did.

You stared at him, your breath unsteady, your entire body vibrating with the weight of what he’d done—and what you’d let happen.

“You want me to stop wanting you?” you asked. “Congratulations. You just made it really  fucking easy.”

You stepped back and opened your door without another word.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move.

As the door shut behind you, Logan was still standing there. Staring at the spot where you’d been. Jaw tight. Hands shaking. And for the first time in years, Logan didn’t just feel haunted. He felt cruel.

Not with anger. But with regret.

And the awful truth that this time, he couldn't blame you. This time, he was the one who ruined it.

He thought you’d cool off.

He thought you’d slam the door, cry it out, and be back at breakfast the next morning pretending it didn’t hurt as bad as it did.

But not this time.

It had been weeks. Maybe a month. Maybe more. Time didn’t feel right anymore for him.

The mansion was still loud with students and missions and life—but quieter, somehow, in all the places that used to hum with your presence.

No more laughter with him in the common room at 1am. No more footsteps in the hallway after patrol. No more ghosting into the kitchen barefoot just before dawn, hair a mess, smiling softly with him when you thought no one was looking.

Logan noticed.

God, he noticed.

He told himself it was fine. That you were just giving him space. That you'd come back.

You were still around the mansion. Still part of the team. Still sharp and quick and capable in ways that made everyone trust you. You trained, you taught, you laughed in the kitchen with Kurt, and threw soft jabs at Scott during meetings. You passed him in the halls with that same steady expression, nodded if someone said your name, joked with Bobby, sparred with Ororo.

But you never looked at him anymore. Not like before. Not like he mattered.

Not like he was something soft you wanted to hold. Now, you looked through him.

Because you were done. And he only finally understood that when he saw you.

Really saw you.

It was during a post-mission debriefing. You walked in last, not late—just… uninterested in rushing. You were dressed in blue, sleek and sharp, not a strand of hair out of place. Professional. Composed. Untouchable.

You sat across the room from him like he was no different than anyone else on the team. Like he hadn’t once been the center of your entire gravitational pull. You didn’t flinch when he looked at you. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even blink.

You smiled at the joke Alex said to his older brother, Scott. A small, cheeky smile.

And Logan felt his chest seize like he’d been punched.

Because he hadn’t seen that smile in months—and now it wasn’t directed to him.

After the briefing, he found you in the hallway near the storage wing. You were pulling on your jacket, talking to Ororo. You didn’t see him at first. Ororo noticed him.

Ororo gave you a look and stepped away without a word.

Logan stood a few feet from you, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like a teenager, every word he should’ve said now a brick in his throat.

“You look good,” he said finally, awkward.

You blinked at him. “Thanks.”

Just that. No softness. No warmth. Not cold—but distant.

“You been okay?” he gruffly asked.

“I have,” you replied, folding your sleeves. “Been keeping busy.”

“Right. I noticed.” A pause. He cleared his throat. “Can we talk?”

You looked at him for a moment. Not searching. Not uncertain. And then you nodded once.

“Okay,” you said. You followed him outside. Past the back gates, down to the quiet tree line where voices couldn't reach others.

He turned, finally facing you. “I’ve been trying to find the right words.”

You crossed your arms gently, softly let out a sigh. “I don’t need them, Logan.”

He frowned. “Yeah, well. I still do.”

You waited.

His voice was strained. “I’m sorry.”

You offered a tired smile. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he murmured. “That night.”

You didn’t answer. He went on.

“I was scared. I—look, I’m not good at this. I hurt you, worse than I meant to.”

“I know that too.”

“I thought if I pushed you away first, it’d hurt less when you realized I wasn’t worth it. I regret every damn second I spent thinking I’d be protecting you by pushing you away.” Logan explained.

There it was.

But your face didn’t crack. You didn’t break.

You just breathed in. And let it out.

“I spent so long loving the part of you that was trying not to be loved,” you said, voice calm. “When I said I was done. I begged for something real from you, and you gave me fear in return.”

Logan’s throat bobbed. He looked away.

“But the thing is…” you went on, “Now that I’ve let go, I won’t crawl back just because you finally miss me.”

He looked back at you now, and for the first time—you weren’t the one breaking. He was.

“I loved you,” you said. “Hell, I probably still do, somewhere. But I’m not waiting for you to wake up and love me back.”

His breath caught.

“I let go, Logan. Weeks ago.”

The wind rustled the leaves. A bird called somewhere above. Life went on. Just like you do.

“You meant it,” he said hoarsely.

“I did.” You gave a sad smile. 

There was a pause. A long one.

And then, softly he broke it, “Is it too late?”

You didn’t answer right away. You stepped closer—not with affection, but with the kind of care you give someone you once would’ve bled for.

“It’s not too late for you,” you said gently. “You can still change. Still figure it out.”

He nodded slowly.

“But it is,” you added, “too late for us.”

He closed his eyes.

You leaned up slightly and kissed his cheek—just once. Soft. Warm. Final.

And then you walked back toward the mansion.

He didn’t follow. This time, he couldn’t. His eyes follows you.

Because now, finally, he understood clearly.

You weren’t punishing him. You weren’t playing hard to get. You were done.

And that was the worst thing of all. Because he’d spent so long fearing your love, he never realized how much worse it would feel to lose it.

Logan stood there, surrounded by everything he could’ve had—

But didn’t choose.

a/n: I kissed the brick covered tears & snot before throwing at you guys who read this till the end xxx, my pillows are cold tonight

Taglist for my lovely logan lovers: @pipo246 @vivi-ale @tezooks @snowyminty @grumpyahjumma @lostinlovingrevery @fluff-lover @kds1999@cigars-and-claws @unlikeable-female-character@ohhowelllovely@roi-du-poison @biscofflattes@anime-lover1717 @darkcrimsonrose17 @macarenaonlaine@ohmystvrk @nourlh@love4logie @hazelwebsterboo2 @nanamisleftcheek @harkeni@fangirl-4-life415

dm me if you want tags removed

[lokinks]

𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝚰𝐄.

pairing. trilogy!logan howlett x reader

wordcount. 3.5k

synopsis. there’s two rules to friendship. firstly, friends know each other in and out. secondly, they don’t kiss - that would only complicate everything. so what happens when both of those principles cease to apply to the relationship you share with logan?

content. pure fluff, friends to lovers, implications of the reader experiencing social anxiety

masterlist.

vivis note. this was loosely inspired by isabel larosas song, it's where i got the title from. also, it's my first time writing a longer piece in years — i'm really excited, feel free to tell me what you think!

logan howlett keeps to himself.

it hasn’t always been a choice, but it most certainly is a crucial part of his character. even though he is a man of many names and faces, this is a steady constant. he’s lived enough lives to know that he’s better off alone.

only now, there’s you. but one face against century old habits? doesn’t suffice to change them… right?

you thought you knew what you were getting into when you sat next to logan that day shortly after his arrival at the x-mansion, clearly planning to befriend him. the stray mutant that the professor had taken in intrigued you. there was more to him than untamed violence — there had to be.

to you, logan was a riddle. on the in– and outside, his adamantium skeleton being just as much of a mystery as the memory loss and his apparent gruffness.

turns out, you had no idea which path you chose that day. if logan was a puzzle, it was one with multiple layers. pictures that were only made visible if you arranged all pieces in the right order, only for the composition to make no sense at all in the end. and before you could even start to ponder where everything went, you had to fulfill countless side quests.

in short, a game impossible to win.

and you thought you were okay with that. hell, he didn’t even remember his past. if he really were some kind of multidimensional puzzle, he probably wouldn’t know the image he was supposed to form himself.

and your heart tightens at the idea of having to play a game in order to get a grasp on your identity, without knowing so much as the rules.

poor logan…

understandably, you were overjoyed as the two of you began to grow closer. you wanted to make it easier for him. maybe you were naive, but you had set your mind on supporting him with your friendship. he seemed so unused to being cared for, and god, did he need someone to.

you were convinced that everyone did deserve a friend.

but friendship had certain rules.

firstly, there had to be a balance to it.

and secondly, friends didn’t kiss. never, nuh-uh, not under any circumstances.

hence your confusion when he broke both of them — eagerly, at that.

the first rule

push and pull. this is what being with you felt like. and fuck, he was getting tired of it. frankly, with his life experiences and the people he’s met so far, the friends he’s had, he’s more used to shove and hit.

in a way, relationships are like fist fights. they are to logan, anyway. someone punches you right in the face - and this can mean anything. maybe they throw some kind of information at you, tell you about themselves. it could also be a compliment. or an insult.

of course, it works in the literal sense, too.

sometimes it’s expected, sometimes it leaves you flabbergasted. then there’s a short moment of contemplation. a pause, time to breathe.

finally, you take a swing at them in return. and that’s how it’s supposed to be. sure, it leaves you bleeding more often than not, but at least there’s some kind of a rhythm to it.

that he could work with. he’s a good fighter!

but it’s completely different with you. no fistfights, no time to breathe. instead, a constant push and pull.

he has no idea how to deal with that.

you always thought you were good at friendship. great, even. people were drawn to your bright personality, and you never completely understood the concept of enemies. sure, you didn’t like everyone, but why show them that? it’s not only nicer but easier to treat even the people you aren’t fond of with kindness.

however, being logans friend came with complications. whenever you thought you had decoded one of his layers, he shed it, only for you to be met with another one. it didn’t help that he seemed to have no problem at all with making it extra hard for you.

sure, you were content with your interactions, with the occasional talk.

yet you couldn’t help but feel that the balance was off.

logan seemed to know everything about you while you only had a shred of information to account for. and you didn’t even realize that for the longest time!

it struck you unexpectedly, when the two of you were chosen to chaperone for some of the older kids and accompany them on a shopping spree in the nearest city.

you knew the mall wouldn’t be empty. but the calm life of serenity at the mansion had somehow softened your shell. consequently, the sheer mass of people strolling around during afternoon rush felt overwhelming. they were everywhere, looking through the windows of shops, talking, moving. all at once.

it made a wave of nausea wash over you.

of course, the kids had already split to discover the halls of the building on their own, forming small groups. the light in their eyes as they took in the very same chaos that caused your feeling of unease made the trip worth it. a taste of a normal teenage life - they surely deserved it.

still, you wished someone else could have gone with them. this was just too much. you weren’t cut out for this unending overstimulation!

fortunately, you weren’t alone.

“you okay?”

it was his voice that pulled you out of your thoughts, rough but with a certain calmness to it.

you blinked, focusing on him to blend out the overall motion and noise around you.

“uh, yeah. it’s just…”

you trailed off, not sure of what you even wanted to say. you didn’t want to appear lame, either. hell, you were a part of the x-men. you had fought too many battles to be worn out by one visit to the mall.

“…a lot of people?”

you looked up at that, mildly surprised, only to find him already looking at you. his brown eyes were calming and you couldn’t help but feel that there was something more swimming in his sympathetic gaze.

“yes,” you sighed in defeat. before you could add anything, his hand curled around your bicep and he pulled you to the side of the crowd, so you stood shielded by the wall on one side and his body on the other.

“c’mon, let’s grab something to drink.”

eyes darting down to meet yours, as if to make sure you were okay with his proposal, he pulled you along and into a coffee shop a few steps away.

he didn’t let go of your arm, and his mere presence made you feel grounded.

inside the café, he immediately spotted a table in the corner, walking you over there without speaking another word. it was a pretty spot he chose. if you were alone, you’d probably have chosen the same place to sit.

despite being integrated in the mall which didn’t quite offer an extinquished ambience, the room seemed cozy. clean, too, you thought as you slid into the stainless red leather booth to sit near the brick wall.

“thanks, logan. that was a great idea,” you breathed out in relief, already feeling more at ease than you did out there.

unbeknownst to you, he had noticed it too - your eyes seemed brighter now that you weren’t surrounded by as much noise as you were just moments prior.

you could have sworn that you saw a silent smile play around his lips, but before he could answer, the waiter arrived, ready to take your order.

you felt your heart rate spike — those interactions had a habit of making you nervous when you were already tense from the mall situation. your eyes darted over the menu, frantic, given that you’d barely had time to see what they offered.

“what can i bring you today?”, the young man asked.

he looked like he was in his early twenties, a little younger than you, maybe. a keen one, flashing you a charming smile. the small wink was meant for you, specifically, but being in a hurry, you didn’t recognize it.

logan did, though. and he wasn’t all too happy about it.

as if sensing your discomfort, logan cleared his throat and spoke up, ordering without ever taking his eyes off of you while the waiter jotted down his words.

“she’ll have a caramel latte with two shots of espresso.”

you eyes shot up, surprise written all over your features. how did he know your order?

you were just about to check if they served your preferred style of coffee, but he was quicker.

although, you thought, you’d probably have blurted out some other thing that you didn’t really want but could be completely sure they had. anxiety made you do that sometimes, acting in the most convenient way and so that you could escape longer interactions.

you couldn’t even remember an instance were you had told logan how you liked your coffee. it’s not really something worth talking about in the face of serious problems and catastrophies that have to be prevented. maybe a mention in passing, at most.

the waiter asking logan what he’d like to drink snapped you out of your haze.

“i’ll go with a cup of black coffee," he husked.

you missed the last disappointed look the blonde gave you, seemingly accepting you being with logan as he went back to the counter, leaving you alone with the mutant facing you.

he looked a little out of place, to say the least. of course, the two of you wore civilian clothes instead of the black uniforms, but still. the place was rather fancy — for some shitty mall, at least — and his leather jacket and roughed up appearance didn’t quite meet the atmosphere.

it suited him nonetheless. made him stick out a little.

now being able to focus on logan, you relaxed a little, shoulders visibly sinking as you threw a shy smile at him.

“how’d you know my order?”

he only shrugged at that, meeting your gaze nonchalantly.

“i know a lotta things about you.”

that day turned out to be a lot of fun. admittantly, given how isolated you were at the mansion and the preoccupance with fighting villains or helping ensure a calm political climate, outings in your free time were a rare occurance. it was nice to spend some time with logan away from the school.

certainly good for strenghtening your friendship, as well.

your heart beat faster when you thought back to how he immediately recognized your sensory overload without you saying anything. normally, you did your best to conceal it if you were anxious, so him spotting it felt really special to you.

and the mere extend to which he knew you… that was unexpected.

yet it also left you feeling a little thrown back.

how did he know all those facets of your personality, reaching from quirks like feeling out of place in crowds to your favorite hot beverage? and how could it be that you, in turn, knew so little about him?

… had you failed to learn about him and thus made your friendship onesided in terms of intimacy? god, you certainly hoped not.

in friendships, you’d usually cling to some rules you thought met the concept. it should be balanced, you had told yourself. this didn’t feel really weighed out anymore… was it your fault?

it was just so hard to get details out of logan! that man was a mystery, closed off as can be. maybe time would change it.

you’d certainly make an effort to get something out of him, anything, so you could reciprocate - that was for sure.

the second rule

honestly, logan didn’t mind the grip you had on him all that much. he’d thought so, in the beginning, but now… things had changed somehow.

maybe it was the way you never let go of him, the way your mere presence managed to make him hold his breath. one of your sweet smiles thrown at him when no one else is bearing witness and he’s choking, unable to stop his face from heating up.

a little embarrassing, really. how you made him lose his cool like that.

he wasn’t even sure if you knew the power you had over him.

in the beginning, he himself missed how his nerves were alert at all times, how his thoughts spun around you and only you. so there might be the slightest chance you register it, either.

in a way, he’s come to cherish it. before you, it was rare for him to catch a break. that certainly remained the same. however, the pain and suffering that occupied his mind was replaced with fleeting images of you, and if that wasn’t something…

he didn’t want a break from you.

not when you laughed in that specific way that made time stand still and not when you were nearing a mental breakdown at the mall. he’d gladly be by your side anytime.

while he loved how you allowed him to see all those facets of your personality, how you never held back around him, what really shook him was how you knew more about him than anyone else. you actually made an effort, you always asked back. most people, when met with his hard edges, didn’t even bother to pry.

two centuries of living and no one had picked up on all of his little habits.

well, it wasn’t like he itched to tell people about his favorite color — moss green, like the broad canadian forests covering the rugged mountains where he grew up — but it was nice to have someone ask those innocent questions about his mundane life.

logan loved to be your friend — and at the same time, he hated it. as elated as he found himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it just wasn’t enough. no… regularly, he found himself yearning for more.

dusk had to be your favorite time of the day.

another day ending, cicadas chirping in the garden around the mansion… it was magical.

this short window of time, when the sun bathed the sky in an orange hue and bid the clouds goodbye, made you long for just a few more minutes of ethereal golden glow.

since most of the children where in their dorms already — those who slept, at least — it was one of the rare hours to rewind, a moment of calmness and rest.

it was also the time you usually spent with logan. maybe that added to the liking you took to the evening hours.

apart from busy missions and days spent teaching, logan was a different man. less stressed. his facial muscles relaxed and his usual frown smoothed out as he closed his eyes to listen to the wind rustling through the trees that stood nearby.

it was nice to see him this peaceful, you thought as you stepped out onto the porch where he sat and smoked a cigar, undisturbed.

“hey,” you mutter as you sit one the wooden step next to him, the old planks creaking under the light movement.

“i brought you some lemonade.” the bottle clinks against yours as you hand it out to him. it had become a ritual between you, sneaking out to join him for some quality time. you know he prefers beer. he’s told you that he doesn’t mind, really, that lemonade is just as good as alcohol. if he gets to share it with you, at least. although he kept that part to himself.

wordlessly, logan accepts the glass bottle, opening it to take a swig after putting out his cigar on the wood. for a few seconds you’re in a trance, eyes fixed on his adams apple bobbing as he downs the red liquid.

he sets the bottle down and the clearing of his throat makes you focus on his eyes again. you hope he didn’t notice how distracted the slightest action on his part made you feel.

precoccupied, you miss the way he forces himself to look away from the rosy tint of your cheeks, eyes darting across the meadow. time seems to stand still in the quiet moments, and you enjoy it, its eternal flow surrounding yet not once brushing against your little bubble. you watch the sky darkening in comfortable silence.

after a while, you begin to grow a little restless. the sun had taken away most of the warmth in its leaving, and you hadn’t bothered to grab a jacket as you left the mansion since it was early summer. it seemed that despite the heat of daytime, temperatures dropped quite low at night.

you do your best to hide it, not wanting the moment to end already.

logan notices, anyway.

“you cold?”

his eyes dart down to meet yours, a hint of worry swimming inside. he seems to genuinely care, as always with you.

“a little,” you admit bashfully, nimble fingers rubbing your bicep to keep the cold away.

“c’mere, then.”

his voice seems milder than usual as he pulls you in close. your head rests on his shoulder now, and his arm is slung around your neck, shielding you from the chilly air.

your feel a little giddy as he hugs you to his body. this is… nice. you can feel his breath fanning down your hair, and being surrounded by his body like that makes you feel secure. logans skin is warm despite him only wearing a white shirt.

you stay like this for a while, no words needed. gaze directed at the sky, it almost feels as though the stars are smiling down at you, adoring the intimate embrace that consumes your thoughts.

the steady beating of his heart calms you and you try to direct your senses inwards. you swear you can feel your soul leaving your body and floating into his. it is hesistant at first, cautious as it reaches out to touch his, leaving only inches to be crossed, whenever he’s ready.

“pretty.”

it’s mumbled into your hair, almost too quiet to hear, carried away by the breeze. but you do hear it. and it brings you back to earth.

you pull away, hastily creating room between him and you. breathing, to collect your mind.

logan looks confused. his brows furrowed, brown eyes on you, unyielding. the hint of insecurity that shimmers in his brown eyes for a second, masked immediately, makes you feel a little bad for acting so impulsively.

he seems to wait for you to say something, not taking back the compliment.

“i… sorry.” you look down at the wooden plank beneath your feet, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

“i just… i don’t think it can go on like this.”

peeking up shyly, you’re met with a frown. he’s turned towards you a little, his back leaning against the railing.

“what d’you mean?” his voice is gruff and he seems closed off again, as if shielding himself.

you sigh, eyes softening as you look up.

“this, us. i mean… with you, i never know what’s on your mind. you seem to read me like a book but i don’t even get yours to reveal its pages! sometimes…”

your voice grows quieter, almost a whisper, as if you’re scared to say it out aloud.

“sometimes i feel like you hate me because you don’t let me in. one moment you treat me like the others, then in the next second you casually mention things about myself that nobody else even knows. i… friends don’t get this close."

all throughout your rambling, logan listens attentively, his gaze never leaving you as he takes in the entirety of what you have to say. only when he’s sure that you’re finished does he speak up.

the words that follow are earnest, rumbling deep within his chest, as if coming straight out of his heart.

“you know you’re my weakness.”

“…what?”

your brows crease together in a frown as you turn towards him. this, you didn’t expect. you thought he might leave, push you away, but not… this. whatever it means. you don’t even know.

your adorable abashment makes his eyes soften. there’s a quiet smile on his lips, barely noticeable, but breaking his gruff exterior nonetheless. it’s a rare look on him.

“that friendship thing. maybe we should just quit it.”

a beat as you look at him, eyes wide. logan quips his brow, and then you know. in a fraction of a second, your expression changes from worry to understanding.

he clears his throat.

“c’mon, you know what i mean. stop playin’ dumb, sweetheart. you’re terrible at it.”

you raise your brow at that, leaning in closer so that your faces are only inches apart when you flash him a teasing smile.

“…you don’t wanna be my friend?”

“you know what i want,” he hums absentmindedly, mesmerized by your lips.

“uhuh?”

logan looks up at that, his expression almost cocky.

“eyes don’t lie, princess. i don’t think i could make it anymore obvious.”

you smile sweetly, finally crossing the last bit of distance between you.

“well, then you’re lucky i want the same thing.”

your words are swallowed by his lips, but you don’t care. he heard it.

he knows, and that’s all you need to let go and drown in him.

suddenly, breaking rules doesn’t feel so bad.

the end. thank you so much for reading! be sure to leave your opinion in the comments! ♥︎

[lokinks]

I’m honestly awed. This was so soft, it wrapped around me like a quiet ache. The writing feels gentle but powerful, and the way Logan’s inner world unfolds is just… beautiful. Every detail, ughh. the floral scent he misses, the way he notices the absence like it’s personal — it’s so him. Subtle but deeply emotional.

IT'S GODDAMN BEAUTIFUL VIVI!!😭😭 can't wait for moreeeeee AAaahh

'Will add this in my recs list later uwuu

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐚 — 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐘𝐨𝐮

𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴" 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦! 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦.

You were doing it again.

He couldn’t be the only one who noticed you disappearing, right?

Logan huffed, leaning back in his lawn chair. They were having a party. Again. Honestly, he didn’t understand why there had to be celebrations all the time at the X-Mansion. Sure, a festivity was nice once in a while and he didn’t mind everyone being happy — it was just a lot of happiness in a short amount of time. He liked his peace and quiet. (Still, he’d gotten Rogue a present for her birthday barbecue a while ago. The girl deserved her friends showing her how much they cared, after all she wasn’t used to being close to people without fearing to hurt them. He knew that feeling all too well.)

However, Scotts third successful solo mission this month was where he drew the line. Was a huge party really neccessary? Apparently. The Professor had even prepared a speech. Children were running around, playing games, laughing, even the teachers seemed to be having a great time. Storm had come over to his corner a while ago, trying to convince him to join the others. He wasn’t feeling like it. Clearly, he only came for the free beer.

And maybe, just a tiny little bit, in hopes of seeing you.

That had not worked out. Naturally, Logan stayed sitting under his tree alone and brooding.

It gave him time to think, though. And the more he pondered why you may have decided not to attend, the weirder your absence appeared to him.

It was just not like you to let an opportunity like that pass. Every time a party was thrown, you weren’t far away. A social butterfly, truly. More often than not you were the one organizing it. You’d use your powers to create living flower decorations: bands carefully woven into trees, delicate crowns and even seats made of roots that broke out of the earth for people to sit in.

Today, he missed that. This stupid chair wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the ones you made.

He missed you, too, even though he didn’t want to admit it. Lately, he’d missed you a lot. You didn’t come to the meetings anymore. They were fucking boring without you. Your whole presence had made it bearable to sit through them. Actually, you were the sole reason he attended all. Now, waiting for you to arrive, eyes trained onto the door, only for you to not show up was cruel. He couldn’t really leave once the meeting had begun, so he sat through all of them. Time seemed to flow agonizingly slow in those hours. And still, he was there again in the same seat the next day.

It had started almost unnoticeably. Your disappearance. Logan doubted that anyone even noticed — but how could they not? To him, it was like a gaping hole in the day. His heigtened senses didn’t pick up on the floral scent wafting trough the air regularly anymore. No soft evenings, when he sat on the terrace smoking a cigar and saw you wandering around the garden to bid the plants goodnight as their petals turned inwards to shield their little faces. The meadow was big, but you still gave every tree a hug personally. It warmed his heart to see you like that. In your nightgown, barefoot, you looked just like one would imagine a fairy. In a way, you were one.

He wasn’t sure if you knew of his presence. If so, you didn’t seem to mind. You continued your nightly walk with his gaze trained on you. Deep down, he waited for the day your steps would carry you to him at the end of your round, for a whispered “good night” carried away by the breeze or even a kiss on his cheek.

He knew it was wishful thinking, but still. It certainly sweetened his evening smokes. That day wasn’t fated to come, after all. No… instead, it was like he had dreaded from the first meeting you missed. You were gone. His worst case scenario. He'd pictured it since you didn’t come to the library last week in your designated reading hour. Logan almost felt guilty — he wasn’t stalking you or anything. He just happened to have picked up on the time... Fortunately, it was relatively common knowledge that you went there in the late afternoon.

You had a windowsill you liked that no one else sat in, with a view on the garden. He’d seen your concentration on the pages fade from where he sat near the fireplace, pretending to read a book himself. Your gaze would stray from the letters and sweep over the grass outside instead regularly. After watching the trees sway in the gentle wind for a moment, you’d go back to reading with a shimmering smile on your face. As if just this short glance at nature was enough to recharge your energy.

He found you especially beautiful in those moments. Your eyes aglow, sitting all cozy in the round window with a pillow and your knitted blanket, book in hand. You seemed to drown in stories like you usually only drowned in nature.

With a sigh, Logan pulled himself out of his thoughts. The party was still in full swing, but he couldn’t bear it anymore. The lawn chair creaked as he got up, leaving his half empty beer bottle behind.

He had to find you.

This was getting impossible to endure.