pedroscurls

[pedroscurls]

oh. my. god. just the right amount of angst and smut and the idea of reader and Logan helping each other and finding comfort in one another??? I love it so much

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this. 

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here. 

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind. 

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor. 

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset. 

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff. 

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name. 

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same. 

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?” 

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.” 

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it. 

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy. 

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?” 

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand. 

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.” 

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief. 

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle. 

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far… 

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air. 

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small. 

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk. 

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door. 

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this. 

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better. 

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment. 

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang. 

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little. 

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat– 

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here. 

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.” 

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared. 

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.” 

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are. 

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway. 

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile. 

You respond in kind. 

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed –  like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago. 

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination. 

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day. 

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week. 

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support. 

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters. 

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front. 

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand. 

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts. 

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–” 

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after. 

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.” 

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply. 

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.” 

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead. 

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely. 

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.” 

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.” 

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place… 

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room. 

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare. 

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan. 

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze. 

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.” 

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” 

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips. 

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you– 

“Logan,” you breathe. 

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes. 

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth– 

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your… 

friends. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” 

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you. 

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction. 

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him. 

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit. 

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down. 

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine. 

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge. 

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt. 

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. 

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt. 

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin. 

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.  

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you. 

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.” 

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple. 

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall. 

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come. 

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions. 

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed. 

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

[pedroscurls]

I need more drover fics pls - this was sooo beautifully written and my god, drover doing that with thoughts of you??? hell ya

ੈ♡˳ 'lonely nights' - 18+ drover x gn!reader

summary: drover misses you while droving, imagining your body against his inside his tent. you're not here, so he supposes his hand will have to do. . . (700 words) tags: drover jerks off thinking of you, dirty talk, established relationship, breeding mention, no use of y/n, gn reader, drover fantasises about reader.

drover misses you, always misses you, but he keeps that thought to himself until he's tucked away inside the safety of his tent while on this particularly long drove. if the boys catch wind of him pining for you it'd be all over, he'd never hear the end of it. so he waits until he's alone, eyes fixed on the canvas material above him.

he thinks of you, envisions your body above him, nestled neatly into his lap right where you belong. drover swears he can almost feel you, feel the weight of your hips pushing down against his, your clothed heat throbbing with want, with need. it makes his head spin and his cock ache and, fuck, he needs you.

but you're not here. he's alone with his memories and the knowledge that you're miles and miles away, hopefully missing him too.

he wonders if you think about him, wrapped in warm sheets, head dotted with droplets of sweat, calling his name behind the palm clamped over your desperate lips as your eager hand works between your legs. . . is that what you're doing right now? teasing yourself with a touch you know will never satisfy you like he does?

are you hot for him? sweating and panting as you silently beg for his cock? how often, he wonders, do you find yourself grinding against your own palm, stealing glances at the space he used to occupy in bed?

before he knows it, he's palming himself through his boxers, coaxing his half-hard length to attention. it's not you, but it'll have to do. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, hand snaking beneath the material to give himself a squeeze.

drover paints pictures of you behind his eyelids, the curve of your body, the sweet sound you make when you moan, the warmth he feels when you wrap around him so perfectly - it creates an atmosphere so strong he swears you're really here with him.

his hand works his cock, pumping in a slow rhythm, imagining you bouncing above him with your hands planted firmly on his chest. 'that's it baby,' he'd say, 'feel good bouncin' on my cock? you miss me?'

raising his free hand towards his mouth, he bites down on a knuckle to muffle his groans. he's lost in the thought of you, the thought of fucking up into your eager hole, remembering the way you flutter around him when you get close. his thumb swipes across his sensitive tip, precum beading in anticipation of release.

god, what he wouldn't give right now to cum deep inside you. that was always his favourite part, the way you'd twitch and gasp as he fills you to the brim with his hot load. you took it so well, like you were made for him to breed you. . .

shit, his thoughts are in the gutter again, but it's easy for him to find himself there when he thinks of you.

hips rising, he finds himself bucking into his fist, a pistoning rhythm that threatens to send him over the edge. he's close, whispering your name, hoping it's quiet enough to get lost in the ambience of the still outback surrounding his tent. he imagines grabbing your hips, feeling the supple curves of your body, holding you down and filling you up.

it's all too much.

drover explodes, hot cum flooding across his chiselled tan stomach, dripping down along his hand as he works himself through his release. he gasps, head tilting back as his adam's apple bobs with every thirsty swallow. "take it, fuck. . ." he whispers under his breath, aftershocks rippling through his sensitive body.

the storm clears, the paintings of you behind his eyelids fading as he settles into the calm of the night, quelling his hunger for the time being.

but he still misses you, every day.

in a couple of weeks, drover'll finally see you again, coming home. that thought keeps him going on particularly taxing days. a smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the thought of taking you into the bedroom and showing you just how much he's missed you. what a mess he'll make of you, how he'll worship your body, litter kisses along your calf until he reaches the apex of your thighs, finding home in the body he knows as well as his own.

[pedroscurls]

i’m going to stab my eyes out because i can’t take it anymore

[pedroscurls]

PEDRO PASCAL sharing photos during the production of Gladiator II with Paul Mescal and May Calamawy

[pedroscurls]

@pascalispunk: Mémoire photographique

[pedroscurls]

I cannot, and will not be normal about this for the foreseeable future! Thank u very much 🥲

via pascalispunk on ig

[pedroscurls]

Say hello to actual Beekeeper Ezra please! 🐝🖤

Via Pedro's IG 🖤

[pedroscurls]

@pascalispunk: Mémoire photographique

[pedroscurls]

Pedro by Paul Mescal

[pedroscurls]

well good morning to me!!! this is my first marcus acacius fic I’ve read I think and I’m in love. so beautifully written 🥹

Prima Nocta

Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao

Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.

He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 

It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 

He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.

And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.

He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’

Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.

‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’

‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’

General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.

Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’

‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’

There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.

‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.

Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 

He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.

Sea salt.

You are here. 

Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.

And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 

Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.

Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.

The general is here.

Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.

Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.

Your future father-in-law will take you first.

The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -

But she won’t break you.

The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.

He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.

The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.

You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.

General Marcus Acacius. 

He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.

Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 

No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 

You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 

Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’

‘General,’ you answer steadily.

The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 

Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’

You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.

Your virtue is just a formality.

Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 

He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.

Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.

As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 

To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.

You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 

Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 

When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’

The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’

Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.

The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 

Your cheeks tingle with heat.

Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 

He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.

In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.

Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.

The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.

You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?

You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.

‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’

His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’

Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.

 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 

You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 

‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’

He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’

You frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 

Oh.

As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.

‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’

‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.

You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’

The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’

The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 

‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’

Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.

Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.

You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.

Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.

When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 

‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’

Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’

Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.

Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.

Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’

Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’

He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’

There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’

The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 

Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.

‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 

You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.

You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -

‘You should save it for your husband.’

You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 

‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’

‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -

Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.

‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.

Breathlessly, you shake your head.

‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’

‘Yes, general.’

Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.

More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 

Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 

‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’

All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.

Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.

‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.

And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 

Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.

Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.

‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.

And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.

And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.

Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.

‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’

And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.

The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.

‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.

‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’

‘And now you do.’

‘Yes, general.’

This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’

Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’

‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’

It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 

‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.

Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 

‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’

‘You did.’ 

And you have complete faith in him.

Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 

‘May I disrobe you?’

You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 

Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.

Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 

His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 

It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 

‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 

You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’

Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 

He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’

Your answer is a confident yes.

Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.

He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.

‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.

Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’

Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 

And closes his lips over you there. 

You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.

You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.

His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 

You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.

Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.

Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 

Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.

The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.

Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 

‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.

You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 

‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’

The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.

You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.

Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’

He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’

In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 

Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.

Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’

Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’

With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’

If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’

Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’

He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’

You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.

Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’

A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’

With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.

When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’

He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 

‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.

You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’

He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.

Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 

‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’

Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 

Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.

He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.

‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’

In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.

When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’

You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 

‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’

When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’

He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.

‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.

‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’

And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.

Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.

He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’

Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’

Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.

Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’

‘Please, Marcus, please.’

Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.

Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’

He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 

Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.

He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.

It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.

When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’

Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’

He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’

You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.

Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’

He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’

You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’

‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’

‘Yours, general.’

Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’

You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’

Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.

But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.

More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!

[pedroscurls]

idk where this is from but its the cutest thing ever ....the canon is wrong this is canon now

[pedroscurls]

Pedro and Joe today in Oviedo

[pedroscurls]

Did you see the video of Pedro with kids in Spain today? The cutest

I did! He’s just the sweetest, and I love him sm lol 🥹

[pedroscurls]

life is tough but at least i will always have this cute photoshoot of hugh

[pedroscurls]

https://www.tumblr.com/silverskyeline/767565992494792704/life-is-tough-but-at-least-i-will-always-have-this?source=share cutie hughy

omg I’m getting leopold vibes 🥹🥹

[pedroscurls]

oh my gosh I love this

please the way I screeched at this line: “Because if you would have me, I'd follow you anywhere," Logan replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.”

I Think You Know (logan howlett x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

wolverine/logan howlett x f!reader

Word Count: 12K (she’s long, but please still read this… grab a snack) 😅

Rating: E

Summary: After losing your job in Toronto, you return to your small town to live with your parents. While working for their guided fishing company, you meet Logan, a stoic man who works for your brother's logging company. As the days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months, the small town's charm begins to seep into your soul once more. And slowly, you start to fall for Logan.

Warning: origins!logan, human reader, slow burn, sexual tension, mutual pining, alcohol, language, jealousy, angst, mentions of violence (logan describing his past), pet names, flirting, fluff, feelings, brief insecurity, consent king logan, shyness, dirty talk (filthy logan), size kink, teasing, fingering, unprotected p in v sex

A/N: Spent weeks on/off writing this one. Also, inspired by @d1stalker's This is Ours and the theme of returning home and questioning if that's enough to make you stay resonated with me. I took creative liberties with the Wolverine Origins plot. So, if it at any point you’re wondering: ‘wait did that really happen?’ The answer is probably no lol. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging.

+ Logan Howlett / Wolverine Masterlist

xx

Halliburton, Ontario

The sun was setting as your dad carried the last box from your sleek, high-rise apartment in Toronto to the waiting pickup truck. You took one last look at the city skyline, a bittersweet knot forming in your stomach.

It had been your dream to work in marketing for Estée Lauder, and for a while, that dream had been your reality. After earning your MBA, you had landed what seemed like the perfect job, climbing the corporate ladder. You had worked tirelessly, creating impactful campaigns, and had been proud of your achievements.

But then came the dreaded words: budget cuts. The layoff had felt so impersonal, like a harsh slap from a faceless entity. You'd excelled at your job, and yet, that hadn’t been enough. The stark reality of corporate life hit hard as you found yourself suddenly jobless, with your pride slightly bruised.

Determined to get back on your feet, you applied to countless positions. But as rejections piled up and two months slipped by, you realized finding a new job would take longer than anticipated in this shitty job market. Reluctantly, you made the difficult decision to move back home to save money and search for a job from there.

And now, here you were, unemployed and defeated, moving back to your small hometown with your tail between your legs.

Arriving home, the familiar scent of pine and lake water greeted you, pulling you back to simpler times. Your old bedroom, a time capsule of teenage memories, felt both comforting and confining as you began unpacking your things. The posters on the walls, the childhood trinkets on the shelves—they all seemed to whisper, "Welcome back, loser!"

As you sank onto the bed, exhaustion and frustration mingling in your mind, your father knocked lightly on the door. "How are you holding up?"

"I feel like a failure, Dad," you admitted, unable to meet his eyes.

He sat down beside you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "It's just a bump in the road, honey," Your father gave you a comforting smile. "This is temporary. You'll find your footing again,"

You sighed, feeling slightly reassured but still overwhelmed by the uncertainty of it all. "I hope so Dad,"

"Is it wrong that I'm a little happy you'll be around longer than just a weekend or a holiday?" he asked.

You looked up at him, surprised by his honesty. A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "No, it's not wrong. I guess I'm happy too. It's been a while since I've spent much time at home,"

Your father nodded. "You'll be okay. Tomorrow, you can start helping your mother and me. We'll ease you back into things—maybe you can start by working reception and reviewing some of the accounting with her while I do some tours."

You nodded, appreciating his attempt to lift your spirits. The guided fishing company had been the backbone of your family's livelihood for years. Business had been good—Halliburton attracted a ton of tourists year-round, eager to experience the natural beauty and serenity of the lakes. During the busy seasons, your parents were able to run tours almost daily, catering to everyone from novice anglers to experienced fishermen.

However, there were times when business slowed down, particularly in the off-seasons. During these periods, your parents often helped out with your brother's logging and wood management company that he had started about six years ago. It was a family effort, everyone pitching in to ensure that both businesses thrived.

You said goodnight to your father and made your way to the bathroom, the tiredness finally catching up with you. As you brushed your teeth and got ready for bed, your phone buzzed on the counter. You glanced at the screen, and your heart sank when you saw the name: Remy, your high school ex-boyfriend.

Hey, heard you’re back in town. Long time no see.

You scoffed, feeling a surge of annoyance. Of course, word traveled fast in this small town.

You rolled your eyes and tossed the phone onto your bed. The last thing you wanted was to rekindle old flames or entertain the curiosity of people who were once part of a past you’d outgrown. The pettiness of small-town gossip already felt suffocating, and you’d only been back for a few hours.

Sliding under the covers, you tried to push the irritation out of your mind. This was just one more thing you’d have to navigate, along with job hunting and settling back into life in Halliburton. As you turned off the light, you took a deep breath and reminded yourself that this was only temporary. Tomorrow, you’d start fresh and figure out the next steps,

One fucking day at a time.

xx

A week had passed, and you’d forgotten how draining paperwork could be. Your parents' guided fishing company was in full swing, with tourists flooding in to experience the serene lakes and abundant fish. The summer rush meant you were slammed with bookings, schedules, and the constant buzz of the phone.

As you sorted through a mountain of invoices, receipts, and booking confirmations, you heard the familiar creak of the front door. Your brother walked in, bringing with him a gust of fresh air. But he wasn’t alone. Beside him stood a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a rugged outdoorsman's catalog. He had an imposing presence, his piercing eyes and disheveled hair giving him a wild, yet oddly magnetic look.

"Logan!" Your mother exclaimed, immediately crossing the room to wrap him in a hug. "How are you doing, dear? Settling in alright at your new place?"

Logan returned her hug with a genuine smile, his rough exterior momentarily softened. "Yes, ma'am, doin’ just fine. The place is nice and quiet, just what I needed."

You watched the exchange with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. It was clear that Logan was someone your mother knew, yet you couldn't remember ever meeting him. He seemed incredibly polite, his demeanor respectful and his words measured.

Your mother stepped back, still smiling. "Good to hear. If you need anything, don't hesitate to let us know,"

Your brother turned to you. "This is Logan. He moved here a few months ago and he's been a big help with the logging company,"

Logan gave you a once-over, his piercing eyes taking in every detail in a way that made you acutely aware of how out of place you felt in your designer outfit. Your tailored dress, stacked heels, lipstick, and styled hair suddenly made you feel ridiculous.

He looked every bit the part of a man who spent his days in the wilderness—tall, muscular, with a wild edge that was hard to ignore.

You extended a hand. "Nice to meet you,"

Logan's grip was firm, a contrast to your softer, manicured hands, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that was hard to ignore. "Likewise," he said curtly.

You bristled at his tone but forced a polite smile. "Glad to have you around."

Logan tilted his head slightly, as if assessing you, and then nodded. You could sense his hesitation—or perhaps his judgment—as he appraised you. There was an undeniable wariness, as if he was trying to place you in a box that didn’t quite fit.

"Hey, why don't you come out to McKeck's tonight?" your brother suggested, turning to you with a hopeful expression. "Me and my lady are heading over. It's been a while since we all had a good night out,"

Your brother was recently engaged, and his fiancée was someone you'd grown to love like a sister over the years. You sighed, shaking your head. "I'm not interested in bumping into people from high school. I've been trying to keep a low profile,"

"Oh, come on," he pressed, "it'll be fun. You can't hide forever. Besides, it might be good for you to get out and relax a bit,"

You hesitated, weighing your options. The idea of seeing old acquaintances was less than appealing, but the thought of sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself wasn't much better. Your brother and his fiancée had been one of the few bright spots in the chaos of your return home. You knew that a night out with them wouldn't be so bad. In fact, it might be exactly what you needed to lift your spirits. Finally, you relented. "Alright, fine. I'll go,"

"Great!" your brother said, visibly pleased. Then he turned to Logan, who had been standing silently. "Logan, you want to join us?"

Logan's eyes flicked to you briefly before he answered, his tone as cold as ever. "No thanks. Not interested."

You couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation. It was hard to tell if his response was simply in response to a bad day or… if he was just a fucking asshole.

"Suit yourself," your brother shrugged, clearly used to Logan's demeanor.

Logan glanced around the room before turning back to you. "I'll be in the car," he said abruptly, directing the statement more towards your brother than you. With that, he walked out, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Your brother watched him leave and then turned back to you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "He's an interesting guy, huh?"

You rolled your eyes and snorted. "That's one way to put it,"

"I'm going to talk to Dad about a business expense real quick. I won't be long," he said, giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

You nodded. "Dad’s out back on one of the boats. He and his crew had some issues this morning with one of the parts. They’re working on replacing it now,"

Your brother gave a quick nod. "Got it. I’ll head out there and talk to him,”

As your brother headed off to talk to your dad, you turned to your mother, curiosity getting the better of you. "How do you know Logan?" you asked, trying to sound casual, opening up a water bottle.

Your mother glanced around, as if she was making sure no one else was listening, even though it was just the two of you. She lowered her voice, her expression becoming serious. "We actually found him naked in the barn a few months ago,"

Your eyes widened in shock. "What? Are you serious?" She had caught you off guard and you started choking a bit on the sip of water you had just taken.

She nodded, her voice still hushed. "Yes. It was at night, and we heard something rustling in the barn. When your father and I went to check, we found Logan there. He was... well, let's just say he wasn't in a good state."

You raised an eyebrow. "Not in a good state? What do you mean?" you sputtered after you got control over your coughing.

"He was naked and looked completely lost, like he had been through something traumatic," she whispered.

"That's... unbelievable. And you just took him in? You didn’t find that a little dangerous?" you asked, incredulous.

"We couldn't just leave him out there," she said softly. "We gave him some clothes, a meal, and a place to stay. He was so grateful, and once he started to recover, he began helping out around here and then we hired him at your brother's logging company,"

You shook your head, still trying to process the information. "But why was he in the barn?”

Your mother hesitated, then leaned closer. "He's a mutant," she whispered. "He has these... abilities. I don't know much about it, but I think whatever he was running from wasn't pretty,"

The revelation left you stunned. You looked toward the door where Logan had exited, your mind racing with questions. Your family had always been kind and welcoming, but taking in a mutant who appeared out of nowhere—naked and alone—was a whole new level of generosity.

It was also fucking crazy.

"Does Dad know about this?" you asked.

"Of course," your mother said. "Your father helped him find the cabin he’s currently renting. We both agreed that helping him was the right thing to do. I think he's had a rough life, but he's a good man, deep down."

You stood there, your mom’s revelation swirling in your mind, unable to fully grasp the implications of what she had just shared. The image of Logan—naked and vulnerable in the barn—was vivid and jarring.

Your mother must have sensed the shock lingering in your expression, because she leaned in closer, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "You know, I’m not usually one to gossip, but when we found him that night… well, let’s just say I saw everything." She raised her eyebrows at you.

You blinked, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. "Mom!" You exclaimed, horrified at what she was insinuating.

She shrugged, trying to hold back a smile. "Honey, I’m older, not blind. I saw what was, and let me tell you—he’s objectively a very handsome man. Especially in that state, I can appreciate that. If you know what I mean."

You felt your mouth drop open in disbelief as the imagery invaded your thoughts again. "Mom… Stop talking!"

She chuckled, clearly enjoying your reaction, and raised her hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, but you have to admit, he’s quite a sight. And, come on, a story like that adds a bit of excitement to our little corner of Halliburton, doesn’t it?"

You frowned, running your hands down your face in exasperation. "Oh my god,”

"Okay, sorry… I just thought you could use a laugh,"

You took a breath, letting her words settle. "I know. It’s just… a lot. A mutant? And now he's helping out. What are the odds?"

"Crazy odds, but isn’t that how life always seems to go?" she replied, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Yeah," you muttered, still processing everything. "Thanks for the distraction, I guess."

Your mom grinned. "That’s what I’m here for. Now, let’s get some lunch before the next tour rolls in."

xx

More time had passed since your unexpected return home, and despite the initial chaos of moving back in and jumping straight into the family business, life had settled into a strange rhythm. You were finding small pockets of joy in your daily routine—until it came to Logan.

Logan’s presence at the logging company consistently turned what should have been normal interactions into a confusing dance. He was unfailingly polite when your family was around, but whenever it was just the two of you, it felt like you were trying to engage with a brick wall. His responses were curt, one-word answers that felt both dismissive and annoying. It was as if he was solely determined to keep you at arm’s length, and it left you wondering what you could possibly have done to provoke such an aloof attitude.

You had tried making conversation, asking him about how he was adjusting to life in Halliburton, but every time, he managed to steer the interaction back into silence faster than you could follow. You remembered the last time you tried to engage him—asking about his work with your brother’s logging company. His eyes hadn’t even lifted from the pile of logs he was stacking. "It’s fine," he replied, barely looking your way. The encounter had left you fuming internally, as irritation swirled into confusion.

Back in Toronto, you would have chalked his behavior up to some sort of social anxiety, but it didn’t feel that way with him. He seemed comfortable enough with your family, but around you, he maintained a cautious distance, and that left you feeling like an outsider.

One particular morning, you decided to pay your brother a visit at the logging site. As you stepped out of your car, taking in the scent of fresh-cut wood mixed with the cool, crisp air, everything seemed to come alive with the sounds of machinery and laughter. Your brother spotted you and waved, drawing you into the action.

As you made your way closer, a couple of the loggers greeted you. They were a friendly bunch, used to seeing your face around for years. But today, one logger, Wade Wilson, stood out. He approached you with an easy grin. "Hey there, haven’t seen you in a while, Sugar," he said with a wink, lifting his head arrogantly.

You couldn't help but snap at Wade’s greeting. "Wade, I can't believe you’re still calling girls that. Isn't your wife expecting? How's she doing?"

Wade chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, she is. Due in a couple of months. She's doing great," he stammered quickly.

While his flirting was ‘innocent’, you couldn't help but be reminded of your past and why you were currently single. Your most recent ex-boyfriend had shattered your trust completely. He had been seeing someone else behind your back, and the betrayal stung deeply.

Men could be such assholes.

Your sass elicited a chorus of laughter from the other loggers. Their hearty chuckles filled the air, lightening the mood. You glanced around, catching sight of Logan. To your surprise, you saw the corners of his mouth lift slightly, as if he was fighting off a smile.

"Good to hear," you replied dryly. "You better be on your best behavior, then."

Wade laughed, dropping his voice a little and hovering just a little too close. "Always am."

Men, you thought, shaking your head.

With a brief wave goodbye, you walked toward the small clearing on the site where your brother was directing some work.

"Hey, I need a second pair of eyes on the budget for the new logging contracts. You got a minute?" He motioned for you to join him by a table stacked high with papers and plans.

"Sure," you replied, still feeling the lingering irritation from Wade's comment.

"How's the job hunting going?" your brother asked, clearly picking up on your mood.

"Not great," you replied tersely, unable to hide your frustration.

Your brother studied your face for a moment. "Looks like you could use some stress relief." He handed you the axe he was holding, the weight of it heavy in your hands. "Why don't you blow off some steam?"

"You think I need to blow off steam?" you mumbled.

Some of the loggers nearby paused their work to watch, murmuring among themselves. "This ought to be good," one of them said, not bothering to hide the skepticism in his voice.

You scrunched your eyes closed and your heart raced in irritation.

Before you could respond further, whispers floated among the loggers. "A woman swinging an axe?" one of them chuckled, while another piped in, “Hope she doesn’t drop it on her foot,”

Your brother overheard the comments and smirked, leaning in closer. "Yeah, I think you do need to blow off some steam. Now, go on, and show them what's up,"

His encouragement made your frustration turn into determination. You were not going to let their snickers—or their poorly veiled doubts—hold you back. Straightening your posture, you stepped away from the table, positioning yourself by an old, weathered tree log that had seen better days. Some of the loggers shuffled over, resting their arms on machinery, excitement dancing in their eyes as they anticipated the impending display.

You were wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and beaten-up Converse shoes—having decided to stop dressing as if you still worked for the beauty company that laid you off, and you grasped the axe with a determined grip, ignoring the murmurs around you.

With a fluid motion, you lifted the axe high above your head and brought it down with all your strength. It struck the tree log perfectly, the blade sinking deep into the wood with a resounding thunk. The loggers fell silent, clearly impressed by the clean cut. Even Logan, standing at a distance, seemed to raise an eyebrow, his usual guarded expression momentarily slipping.

Your brother grinned, turning to the men. "Just a reminder—our Dad raised her as if she was his second son,"

"Whoa! Nice shot!" one logger called out.

Another chimed in, "You’re stronger than you look!"

Logan stood slightly behind the group, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought you caught a flicker of approval in his eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, hiding behind that familiar mask of indifference.

xx

A few days later, you found yourself in the kitchen, helping your mother cook. The smell of freshly caught trout filled the air, as you had spent the day fishing and brought home a decent haul. Your brother’s fiancée was setting the table, humming a cheerful tune as she arranged the plates and cutlery.

You were lost in the rhythm of chopping vegetables when the doorbell rang. Startled, you wiped your hands on a kitchen towel and made your way to the door, not expecting any other visitors.

Opening the door, you were surprised to see Logan standing there, looking quite different from his usual self. He was dressed in slacks and a clean shirt, holding a dessert in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

"Logan? What are you doing here?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious about your own appearance. You looked like shit.

"Your mother invited me," he said simply, head bowed down, shoving the flowers and dessert into your hands. "These are for her,"

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by his visit and the thoughtful gesture. "Oh, um, thanks. Come in,"

Logan stepped inside, his usual stoic demeanor intact. You closed the door behind him and led the way to the kitchen.

"Mom, Logan's here," you called out, handing her the flowers and dessert. You shot her a look that clearly said, what the fuck?

Your mother turned with a warm smile, catching your look and responding with a subtle, knowing glance of her own. "Logan, how lovely it is to see you. Thank you for these," she said, placing the flowers in a vase and the dessert on the counter. "Make yourself at home,"

You glanced at Logan, still taken aback by his presence in your home. Trying to push past the awkwardness, you offered, "Would you like a beer?"

"Sure," he replied, his tone neutral.

You handed him a cold beer from the fridge, noting the way his rough hands contrasted with the polished glass. "My brother and father are out in the backyard getting the grill ready so that they can make the trout in a bit. You can go help them if you'd like,"

Logan nodded, taking the beer from you. "I'll do that," he said, his penetrating gaze briefly meeting yours again. There was something in his eyes that you couldn't quite place—an unreadable expression that made you wonder what he was thinking.

About twenty minutes later, when the boys let you know the trout was almost finished, you decided to quickly get changed. You dashed upstairs and slipped into a light sundress, the soft fabric feeling refreshing against your skin. You contemplated putting on some makeup but then decided against it, opting for a natural look instead.

As you descended the stairs, the sounds of laughter and conversation grew louder. You entered the dining room just as everyone was starting to gather around the table. Logan was already there, his eyes catching yours as you approached. His gaze lingered a moment longer than usual, and you noticed a subtle shift in his expression. It made your heart jump in your throat. As you took your seat at the table, you couldn’t help but feel nervous for some reason.

Your father walked in just then, arms wide as he greeted everyone at the table. He approached your mother with a big smile and leaned in to give her a loving kiss on the cheek. "Alright, everyone, let's dig in!" your father announced, taking his seat at the head of the table.

As everyone settled into their seats and began to serve themselves, your father glanced over at you. "Thank you for getting us some fish today, honey,"

You felt your cheeks heat up slightly and waved off the compliment modestly. "Oh, it was nothing. Just got lucky, I guess,"

But your father shook his head, his smile growing wider. "No, it's not just luck. That's what's so great about having you home again—you always get the best catches,"

You could feel everyone's eyes on you, and you gave a small, embarrassed smile. Logan, sitting across from you, observed the interaction with a curious expression.

In Toronto, you sometimes felt like people didn’t know the real you—the one who grew up hiking through dense forests, fishing in lakes, and camping under the stars. In a town like this, you sort of had to be outdoorsy, and you loved every bit of it. Your mother used to get annoyed at your father for treating you like one of the ‘boys’. But over the years, she had come to appreciate it. And so did you because your father never treated you any differently than your brother, teaching you the same skills, and pushing you to be just as capable.

The food was incredible, freshly cooked and seasoned to perfection. Lively conversations erupted across the table, and laughter soon filled the air. You found yourself enjoying the company, but Logan remained somewhat of an outlier. While everyone else shared stories and jokes, he quietly participated but never truly engaged.

As the evening progressed and plates emptied, you found yourself catching Logan’s eye more than once.

At one point, your brother leaned back in his chair, looking contemplative. "So, Logan, any ideas for that upcoming contract with John Wraith?"

Logan nodded, his posture straightening as he spoke about the upcoming work. His voice became more animated, and for a moment, it was as if you were seeing a different side of him. You leaned forward, genuinely interested, as he explained the equipment they would be using and the strategies they’d thought of implementing.

"That sounds like a solid plan," you said, trying to engage him. "You seem to really know what you’re doing,"

Logan’s usual stoic demeanor softened for just a moment. "It’s not that special," he shrugged.

Your mother interjected, smiling brightly. "He’s being humble. Logan has been a huge help. We’re really grateful,"

Logan’s cheeks flushed slightly at the praise, and he returned to his beer as if it somehow had the power to shield him from any further attention.

As you began clearing the dishes and tidying up the table, Logan approached you with a soft clink of his empty beer bottle. "Need some help?" he asked, nodding toward the stack of dirty dishes.

You shook your head, offering a polite smile. "There's no need for that," You automatically argued. “You're a guest,"

"I want to," he replied, his tone firm but not unkind.

Taken aback by his insistence, you handed him a dish towel. "Alright, if you insist,"

Logan rolled up his sleeves and started washing the plates, methodically scrubbing them clean. You stood beside him, drying and stacking the dishes in silence. The quiet between you was surprisingly comfortable, a stark contrast to the awkwardness you had felt before.

From the living room, you could hear your family discussing which movie to watch, their voices mingling with the soft clatter of dishes being cleaned.

As you worked side by side, you occasionally stole glances at Logan from under your lashes. He was focused on the task at hand, but there was a subtle softness in his expression that you hadn't noticed before. The simple act of washing dishes together felt oddly intimate, a shared moment that seemed to bridge the gap between his guarded exterior and the person he was beneath.

When the last dish was dried and put away, Logan finally broke the silence. "Thanks for lettin’ me help,"

You smiled, feeling a genuine something in your chest. "Thank you for helping. It was nice,"

He gave a small nod. "Yeah, it was,"

"Why do you always act like you want nothing to do with me?" you found yourself asking, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He looked up, surprise flashing across his face but it was quickly replaced by the usual neutrality. Logan paused, taking a breath as if weighing his words carefully. "It’s nothin’ personal," he stated, and you caught a glimpse of uncertainty behind those piercing hazel eyes. "I’m just… not used to this," you frowned at his response, and he took notice. "to people. I’m workin’ on it, but it’s takin’ me some time."

"I get that," you replied, realizing you might have judged him a little too harshly.

He looked down, nodding slowly as if digesting your words. "It's just… different here," he admitted.

"Different can be good," you offered.

He met your eyes, the intensity capturing you once more. "Oh yeah?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Why not?" you replied, your heart felt lighter in your chest.

He stared at you for a long moment, perhaps weighing your comment against whatever doubts he had. "I guess you’re right," he said finally in agreement, and for the first time, you got to admire what would become one of your favorite sights. The white of his teeth and the wrinkles around his eyes that accompanied his big smile.

And that’s when you realized or perhaps were finally admitting…that your mother had been right.

Logan was fucking handsome.  

xx

A month had passed since Logan’s unexpected arrival at your home, and things had shifted. It felt as if the walls he had built around himself had begun to subtly crumble, revealing glimpses of a man that you were insanely attracted too.  

He had begun to open up, albeit slowly —he was still far from being the biggest talker, but the once awkward and tense encounters between you and Logan had gradually evolved into a comfortable familiarity.

Yet, there remained a question lingering in the back of your mind—what was he hiding? It didn’t escape you that he still had never mentioned being a mutant, nor did he ever talk about what led to his arrival in Halliburton. And then one crisp afternoon, he was forced to reveal it to you. You had decided to join him on a solo trip to retrieve supplies from the logging site. It was now officially the first day of fall. The leaves were in their peak season, vibrant shades of orange and gold illuminating the serene landscape around you. You took in the beauty of it all, walking slightly ahead of him, a sense of contentment enveloping you.

As you approached the equipment storage area, you noticed an old stack of wooden crates next to the shed.

"Logan, I’ll take that one over there," you said, pointing enthusiastically to one of the crates.

He paused, surveying the stack with a hint of concern. "Let me do it. They look unstable."

"Scared I can’t handle it?" you teased.

You went over and began pushing against one of the crates, feeling the weight shift slightly. Just as you leaned in for a better look, the entire stack began to teeter dangerously. Your heart dropped as the crates started to topple over, and within seconds, you found yourself trapped beneath one of the larger boxes. The slam of wood against the ground echoed sharply in the air, and your thoughts raced in shock.

You yelled, feeling the pressure of the wooden crate pinning you down. Panic surged through you as fear set in. The weight was heavier than you expected, and you struggled against it.

You were dimly aware of Logan’s movement beside you, his eyes widening in alarm as he rushed to your side. "Shit, hold on!" he shouted, and then his eyes sharpened with focus as he crouched beside you.

In one swift and fluid motion, he lifted the crate overhead with one hand, revealing the glint of something sharp protruding from his knuckles. Time seemed to freeze for an instant as your heart raced. Logan suddenly had metal claws—long, sharp, and glistening in the sunlight—extend from his knuckles.

You could hardly process the revelation as he pried the crate off you, using the claws to slice through the wooden slats from the side and releasing you from the weight. "Are you okay?" he asked urgently, dropping the crate and focusing on your face.

Confusion flooded your mind, mixing with the pain radiating from your shoulder where the crate had pressed down too hard. "I—Hmm, I think I’m okay?" you gasped, hating your clumsiness, and still in disbelief at what you had just seen.

Logan's expression shifted into one of concern as you tried to sit up. "Let me see," he said, carefully reaching for your shoulder. "That hurt?" he asked, his voice dropping slightly, softer now as he focused on you.

With a shake of your head, you breathed hard, your chest rising and falling quickly as you tried to make sense of everything. "No…just… a little sore," you managed to say, blinking through the haze of injury to ensure you were really seeing what was happening.

Logan's helped you sit up, his strong grip steadying you. As you sat up fully, you winced, checking your shoulder for any visible damage. "I think it's just bruised," you murmured, glancing back at him. "I didn't expect you to have… claws." Your voice trailed off, the reality of it washing over you with a newfound clarity.

Logan pulled back slightly, his body language shifting to something more guarded. "I’m sorry if I scared you,"

You steadied yourself, heart racing from the adrenaline and the shock. Taking a breath to calm yourself, you reached out and grabbed his face gently, fingertips brushing against his jaw. You quickly were becoming obsessed with the feel of his coarse hair beneath your fingers. His surprise at the gesture flickered in his hazel eyes, and he stilled under your touch.

"You didn’t scare me," you said, despite the turmoil of emotions swirling within you. "I just want you to know that." You wanted him to understand the sincerity behind your words. Logan seemed to relax at your touch, his posture less rigid as if he was finally allowing a crack in his armor.

"But I have to be honest with you," you continued, your heart pounding as you prepared to reveal what you knew. "My mom told me the first time I met you… that you were a mutant,"

A knowing smile crept across his face. "Oh, she did, did she?"

Your brow creased in confusion slightly taken aback by his reaction, but relieved he wasn’t angry. "Wait, how did you know she told me?"

"I could hear her the moment I stepped inside the car," he explained, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. "You’d be surprised what you can pick up when you listen closely." His grin deepened.

"Wait, you… you can hear things from far away?" you asked, a bit baffled.

"Yeah. My mutation isn’t just ‘bout…" he gestured towards his claws, which had retracted back into his knuckles, "this. I can see, smell and pick up sounds at distances that ordinary humans can’t."

You were captivated by his revelation, and it made sense, the intensity in his stare and the way he often seemed almost hyper-aware of his surroundings. "That’s incredible," you breathed.

Logan shrugged, a hint of bashfulness tinging his demeanor. "It’s more of a burden than a gift. Hearin’ what others wanna keep private? It can get overwhelmin’ sometimes," he confessed.

"So, you heard her talk about your…?" You trailed off, the memory of her earlier comment about seeing his fucking dick lacing your thoughts.

"What?" he pressed, a teasing edge creeping into his voice.

"Nothing," you said, but a laugh tugged at your lips, thinking about how your mother had spoken so freely… about him. "Let’s just say your appeal runs deeper than your good looks." You fumbled through your words.

Logan chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "Is that right?"

"D-definitely," you stammered, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you realized how intimately you were discussing him. "There’s clearly a lot more beneath the surface." You mused.

Logan raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your directness. "What else d’you think is beneath the surface?" he asked, his drop voicing an octave.

You felt a flutter of nerves at his question, uncertain of how deeply you wanted to delve into the topic. "Well," you began, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone while your heart raced, "you obviously have been through some shit." you said carefully. "You don’t just show up naked in a barn unless you’re running from something… or someone."

He remained still, expression unreadable for a moment, and silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken truths. "You’re right," he eventually admitted.

You pressed on. "You don’t have to share if you’re not ready. I just want you to know that you can trust me,"

He let out a breath, almost a sigh, as if your words had eased some unnamable weight on his shoulders. "I appreciate that," he said quietly. "But it’s not that easy. I’m not ready to dive into it all that just yet, sweetheart," Logan finally said.

The term of endearment was not lost on you.

You looked into Logan's eyes, feeling the depth of his struggle and the weight he carried. Gently, you said, "That's okay, Logan. I'll wait for you, whenever you're ready."

For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you, and he seemed to lean in slightly, his eyes flickering to your lips. But then, he shifted, and instead, he placed a caring kiss on your forehead. Your heart fluttered at the unexpected sweetness.

Logan pulled back, his expression a mixture of relief and something you couldn't quite name—perhaps gratitude. "Thank you," he muttered.

You smiled, feeling a sense of closeness and understanding between you that hadn't been there before. "Anytime,"

xx

After your vulnerable moment with Logan, the air between you felt charged with unspoken possibilities. But life had a way of interrupting heartwarming moments, and a couple of days later, you found yourself back in the rhythm of daily responsibilities. It was a crisp afternoon when your father announced he needed to run some errands in town, and you volunteered to accompany him. Your brother also decided to tag along.

Your father yapped as he drove, his good spirits infectious, and you found comfort in the mundane routine. City life had shaped you in many ways, and you had become a city girl in some respects, comfortable with the fast-paced lifestyle. But being back here, surrounded by the serene beauty of nature and the simplicity of small-town life, you realized how much you missed it… and loved it. You had spent so much time trying to leave this place, chasing opportunities, that you sometimes forgot how beautiful and grounding it was here.

As you approached the hardware store, the sun glinted off the glass windows, warming the autumn colors looming in the trees. You all parked and got out, but as you walked toward the entrance, your father paused, scanning the street before a small smile crept onto his face.

"Look over there," he said, tilting his head toward a little café.

You followed his gaze and felt your heart drop. There was Logan, standing by the entrance, chatting with Kayla Silverfox, a striking woman famed around town not just for her beauty but for her magnetic personality. She had a way of drawing people in, and apparently Logan was no exception. He wore a casual smile, his demeanor relaxed as he spoke with her, yet you couldn't ignore the way she leaned in closer, her laughter ringing out.

Suddenly, that intimate moment you’d shared felt distant and almost naive.

Your brother nudged your side with an elbow. "Looks like Logan's making friends,” he remarked, clearly pleased with the sight. "That's good for him. He could use a little more ‘sunshine’ in his life."

You forced a chuckle, plastering a fake fucking smile on your face. "Yeah, I guess so," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant when the reality was anything but.

Just as you were about to retreat into your own thoughts, you caught Logan glancing in your direction. His expression shifted for the briefest second — surprise and then something else. You couldn’t tell. But just as quickly, he reclaimed his focus on Kayla, who was animatedly speaking, her fingers inadvertently brushing against his arm.

"Seems like they are hitting it off," your father snickered, oblivious to the internal conflict brewing inside you. "Maybe we could invite them over for dinner soon," he added playfully with a wink.

The ache settled deeper in your chest. You wanted to believe that what you had shared the other day meant something significant, that something was there. But watching him talk with Kayla brought that hope crashing down.

"Sure, Dad," you replied, keeping your tone steady despite the emotions spiraling within. Your father and brother continued to chat about how they enjoyed seeing Logan integrate into the community, and while you nodded absentmindedly, your focus remained on her.

Kayla's laughter rang out again, and somehow it felt sharper this time, digging into your resolve, as if the universe was mocking you. Logan seemed enchanted, and despite the pull of your heart aching for him, you forced yourself to stay composed.

As you turned to head into the store, you caught one last glimpse of Logan. He smiled at something Kayla said, and your stomach twisted painfully.

What you felt for him, what you had shared—it couldn’t have been insignificant, could it? You wanted to believe there was more to the kiss on your forehead the other day. But logic argued otherwise. Logan was allowed to have conversations and interactions that didn’t involve you, especially if he felt more comfortable doing so with someone like Kayla.

"Let’s grab what we need and then head back," your brother suggested, pulling you from your thoughts. You nodded as you followed him inside the store, but inside of you, a storm raged.

The noises around you turned into a dull roar, and you settled into a methodical routine of browsing, mentally pushing aside your emotions.

"You okay?" your brother asked, glancing sideways at you as he picked up some supplies.

"Yeah, just thinking," you replied, avoiding his probing gaze.

Later that day, you were organizing supplies at your parents’ fishing tour company when you heard the creak of the front door and glanced up just in time to see Logan walk in. His boots thudded softly against the wooden floor as he approached, each step bringing him closer.

"Hey," he started, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. You wiped your hands on your jeans, trying to maintain your composure despite the jumble of emotions inside.

"Hey," you replied, deliberately keeping your tone light.

Logan glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot. "I saw you today,”

Your mind raced back to that moment, the sight of him laughing with Kayla still fresh. “Yeah. I saw you too,” you replied, hoping your tone conveyed indifference while your heart sank.

"I wanted to clear the air," he blurted out, and you felt your back straighten up at his words. "What you saw... it isn’t what you think."

Your pulse quickened, curiosity mingling with frustration. "What do you mean? I mean, you can talk to whoever you want, Logan. It’s not like I have a say in it." You forced a casualness into your tone that felt brittle.

His expression shifted, a frown passing over his features. "You’ve got it all wrong. I—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "I don’t want that."

"She’s very beautiful," you said, trying to mask the hurt in your voice.

"I guess," Logan shrugged, "but I don’t want her. She’s not who I’m interested in."

Your heart skipped a beat, the intensity of his gaze drawing you in. "Who are you interested in, then?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

Logan took a step closer, his voice lowering. “I think y’know that already.”

The admission caught you off guard. "What do you want?" you asked, genuinely curious.

Logan stepped closer. "I wanna talk to you. Can you come over to my cabin tonight?"

You hesitated, your heart racing at the unexpected invitation. "Why?" you asked cautiously.

He ran a hand through his hair as he spoke, visibly processing whatever thoughts were swirling inside. "I wanna cook you dinner and talk," he finally said, his voice low and edged with something deeper.

"Talk about what?" you pressed.

"Bout’ the night I showed up at your parents' barn," Logan confessed, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his expression.

"You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to," you said.

"No," he insisted, his tone firm yet gentle. "I do. I wanna be honest with you,"

"Okay," you finally said, swallowing your nerves. "I’ll come over,"

"Good," he replied, a cascade of relief washing over his features.

The remainder of the day edged on with a flurry of anticipation. You tried to focus on your work, yet thoughts of the evening filled your mind.

When the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dock, you left work with a mix of nerves and excitement. After a quick change into a maxi skirt and sweater, you made your way to Logan’s cabin, feeling your heart flutter in anticipation.

You knocked on the door, and when Logan opened it, the glow of his cabin welcomed you in. The smell of something delicious wafted through the air, and Logan smiled, that familiar kindness creeping into his eyes. Logan was dressed in a well-fitted, dark red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms. He paired it with a pair of jeans that looked comfortably worn-in, and his usual boots.

"Hi," he said lightly, extending his hand to beckon you inside.

As you stepped in, the door behind you closed. Logan’s cabin was cozy, with rustic charm and hints of his personality scattered around—fishing gear leaning against the walls and photographs of nature framed on the shelves.

"I hope you don’t mind," you said, holding up the bottle of red wine you had brought with you, "I thought this might pair well with whatever you’re cooking."

"Thank you, you didn’t have to do that,"

You followed him into the kitchen, settling onto a bar stool by the counter as he pulled out a corkscrew. "So, what exactly are you making?" you asked, watching him with keen interest.

"Just a little pasta," he replied, the cork popping free as he extracted it with ease. "Nothin’ fancy. I hope you’re not picky," he said with a smirk before turning his full attention back to the bottle.

"I’m not—I’m sure it will be good. Smells amazing," you replied, clearing your throat awkwardly.

Once he poured two generous glasses of wine, he slid one toward you, your hands brushing together as you took it. The brief contact sent a pleasant jolt through your system.

"Thanks," you said, looking at him for a moment longer than usual.

Finally, when dinner was served, you sat together at his dining table adorned with candles. It kind of felt like…a date. Is that what this was? The food was incredible – his homemade sauce was to die for. The man could fucking cook. As the night wore on, the lighthearted chatter gradually faded, replaced by a more serious atmosphere. The weight of the conversation you had both been avoiding hung in the air.

"My real name is James,” he began.

You felt your heart skip a beat at the unexpected revelation, sensing the significance of what he was about to share.

"I haven’t told anyone that in a long time," he admitted, shifting in his seat, his eyes locking onto yours.  "I used to work with a man named Stryker who recruited mutants with unique abilities. We were brought together to form what he called Team X,"

You could see the shadows of his past lurking behind his eyes, and your heart ached for him as he continued. "We completed missions abroad, but they were far from honorable. During one mission in Nigeria, Stryker ordered us to kill villagers who wouldn't cooperate. I couldn't stand by and watch that, so I intervened, stoppin’ them from killin’ a woman."

He leaned back slightly, his eyes darkening at the memory. "The violence, the lack of humanity—it wasn't somethin’ I could keep doing’. So, I quit."

Your stomach knotted at the intensity in his tone and the anguish etched on his features was hard to bear.

Logan's expression grew even more somber. "Years after I left, Stryker tracked me down. He told me one of my old teammates had gone rogue and was hunting down the rest of the team. He convinced me to undergo an adamantium transfusion procedure to take him down. The process was excruciating—I had metal grafted to all of my bones."

A chill ran down your spine as you imagined, the pain he endured, the helplessness in his voice making you wish you could take his pain away and comfort him.

Logan's hands clenched into fists as he spoke, the memories clearly painful. "Once the procedure was done, I realized the truth. Stryker had tricked me. I wasn't there to stop my teammate. He had already killed him and the rest of the team—I was a test subject. Stryker wanted to see if the adamantium bonding could be done, and once he succeeded, he was gonna kill me to cover his tracks."

You wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, to somehow make it right, but you remained rooted in place, holding onto his piercing gaze.

His expression hardened, a flicker of anger crossing his features. "But I wasn't going to let that happen. So, I killed Stryker and everyone else in that facility. I broke out and escaped…and that was the night I ended up in your parents’ barn."

As Logan finished his story, you could see the fear in his eyes, the worry that you might see him differently now. It was the most talking he had ever done.

You took a moment, allowing his words to sink in. "I think the name Logan suits you," you said softly. "I can’t believe everything you've been through."

When you reached across the table, resting your hand over his, he seemed momentarily stunned by the gesture. "So, the people that were trying to kill you, they’re all dead?" you asked softly.

"They’re all dead," he repeated.

"So that means you’re safe?" you pressed, wanting to reassure him that you understood.

"Yeah, I guess it means I’m safe," he confirmed, though the tension in his posture suggested he was bracing for your judgment.

"Good," you said firmly, your eyes locking onto his with unwavering support.

A flicker of surprise crossed Logan’s face, quickly followed by a wave of relief. He let out a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, and his shoulders relaxed slightly.

"You’re not… afraid?" he asked.

You shook your head, squeezing his hand gently. "I’m not afraid," you said, your heart racing as you spoke. "Logan, I understand why you did what you had to do. You were trying to survive, to protect yourself. Sometimes… things aren’t so black and white. That doesn’t change who you are or how I feel about you."

"How d’you feel bout’ me?" he asked timidly.

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding as you met his eyes. "I think you know that already," you replied with a small, reassuring smile playing on your lips.

His fingers trembled slightly as they reached for your hand. Logan kissed the palm of your hand and then bowed his head to take your other hand to kiss your knuckles.

In that moment, you realized just how much he meant to you, and how deeply you cared for him.

It was fucking terrifying.

And then like nothing had happened, the two of you spent another hour talking. When it was time for you to go, Logan gently took your hand, guiding you out of the house and toward your car. The cool night air wrapped around you both, but his touch kept you warm.

The silence between you was comfortable.

As you reached your car, Logan paused, turning to face you. You both lingered there, neither one of you wanting the night to end. He opened the car door for you. "Good night, Logan." you said softly.

He nodded. "Good night," he breathed your name, and you felt the intensity of the moment.

Before you could slide into the driver's seat, Logan leaned in, his hand still resting on the car door. He kissed the corner of your mouth, a gentle, lingering kiss that sent shivers down your spine.

As he pulled away, you looked up at him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. With one last, tender squeeze of your hand, he stepped back, allowing you to get into the car. He lifted his hand in a wave that you returned shyly. As you drove away, you couldn't help but glance in the rearview mirror, watching as Logan stood there, illuminated by the porch light.

xx

The next day, you received an unexpected email from L'Oréal. You had been interviewing with them for a while and had completed the final round interview about a week ago. Since they knew you were living at home, they had graciously accommodated virtual interviews, so you hadn't felt the need to mention it to anyone just yet.

The email detailed an exciting twist—L'Oréal was not only offering you the job, but they also wanted you to consider taking the role at their headquarters in Paris. The position came with a title bump and almost double the compensation of your old job. You were shocked and overwhelmed by the prospect of this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Reading through the email, your mind raced with the implications of such an incredible offer. L'Oréal was going above and beyond to make the transition as smooth as possible. If you accepted the role, they would handle your relocation and assist you in finding housing in Paris.

Unable to keep the news to yourself, you found your mother in the living room, folding laundry. The sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow on the room.

"Mom, I have something to tell you,"

She looked up, her eyes filled with curiosity. "What is it, dear?"

"I got a job offer from L'Oréal!" you exclaimed, holding up your phone to show her the email.

Your mother's face lit up with joy. "Oh, honey, that's incredible! I'm so proud of you!"

She took the phone from your hand, her eyes scanning the email quickly. As she read through the details, her expression shifted from joy to surprise.

"Paris?" she asked.

"Yeah… Paris," you replied with apprehension in your voice. Your excitement was tinged with a hint of anxiety. "I'm thrilled, but... I'm also scared. It's such a big change, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for it,"

She set down the laundry and walked over to you, wrapping you in a comforting hug. "You've always been the bravest one in the family," she said softly, pulling back to look into your eyes. "You moved out at 18 and went to university, something nobody else in this family did. Paris will be another incredible opportunity,"

Your father's reaction to your decision to move to Vancouver for your undergraduate studies after you received a full-ride scholarship was one of shock and confusion. While your mother was supportive, he had always imagined you would stay close to home, much like your brother, and help with the family business. The idea of you leaving the province to go to university was something he hadn't anticipated, and it created a point of contention in your relationship for a while. He struggled to understand why you wanted to go so far away.

However, as time passed, he saw how determined and capable you were, and he gradually got over his initial disappointment. When you later moved to Toronto for your MBA and work, it brought him some relief. Toronto was only a two-and-a-half-hour drive away, which meant you were still close enough for regular visits.

"But what if I fail? What if it's too much?" you confessed, your voice trembling slightly.

Your mother smiled. "Honey, you won't fail. You've worked so hard for this. And even if things get tough, you'll figure it out. You always do. But right now, this is your chance to spread your wings,"

"Aren't I too old to be spreading my wings?" you asked, a hint of uncertainty in your voice as you pulled back slightly to look at your mother.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Oh, honey. Life is full of opportunities at every age, and this one is tailor-made for you."

Her words began to chip away at your doubts. "But what about everyone here? What if I miss something important?"

Your mother cupped your face in her hands, her eyes filled with reassurance. "We'll be here, cheering you on every step of the way. This is your chance to have an adventure. And no matter where you go, this will always be your home,"

You nodded, feeling reassured by her words but also conflicted. Your mother sensed your hesitation and tilted her head slightly, studying you. "Is this about Logan?" she asked gently.

You felt a flush of surprise and shook your head quickly. You hadn’t told your mother about your feelings for Logan, but deep down, you knew she knew. Mothers always seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense these things, and yours was no exception.

She gave you a knowing look, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "It's okay to be worried about leaving people behind. But you have to think about what's best for you, too,"

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you processed your mother’s words. "It just feels complicated,"

Your mother leaned against the wall, her expression turning thoughtful. "Life is all about change, honey. Sometimes it’s messy and confusing, but it can also lead to beautiful experiences,"

xx

As the evening set in, you decided to head over to Logan's cabin, determined to share the news with him. The drive was filled with a mix of anticipation and anxiety, your mind replaying the conversation with your mother and the emotions it stirred within you.

When you arrived at Logan's cabin, you found him sitting on the porch, a thoughtful look on his face as he watched the sun dip below the horizon. He glanced up as you approached, a beautiful smile spreading across his features.

"Hey," he greeted you softly, standing up to meet you.

"Hey," you replied, your heart pounding as you stepped closer.

Logan could sense something was on your mind. "Everythin’ alright, sweetheart?" he asked.

You opened your mouth to tell him about the job offer, about Paris, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you found yourself lost in his eyes.

Without thinking, you closed the distance between you and kissed him gently. Logan seemed momentarily surprised but quickly responded, wrapping his arms around you and deepening the kiss, tongue slipping past your lips. He didn’t hesitate to grab your face, and kiss you like his life depended on it. The world around you faded away, and all that mattered was the feeling of being in his arms.

When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the cool evening air.  Logan's hands gently cupped your face, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. "I've lost count of how many times I've thought bout’ this," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion. "Holdin’ you, kissin’ you..."

"You haven’t thought about something else?" you teased with a giggle.

Logan barked out laughter that shook you both. "Well, maybe a few other things," he admitted, his voice low and intimate.

You smiled, your fingers threading through his hair as you leaned in to kiss him again. He groaned into the kiss and quickly grabbed your waist, anchoring to you and kissed you back feverishly as he licked into your mouth with urgency. As you kissed Logan, you were enveloped by his scent—a mix of pine and earth, with a hint of something uniquely him. It was comforting and intoxicating all at once. His lips tasted faintly of the whiskey he clearly had been sipping earlier, slightly smoky, mingling with the natural sweetness of his breath.

The combination of his scent and taste heightened your senses, making the moment even more intense. He moved to your neck, and you felt the roughness of his beard against your skin and Logan's hands moved down to your lower back, drawing you closer as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

You pulled back slightly. "I have something important to tell you." you whispered, your voice filled with emotion.

Logan's grip tightened slightly; his eyes filled with concern. "What is it?" he asked softly.

"Logan, I got a job offer," you said, finally locking eyes with him. "In Paris."

He was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he processed what you were saying. "Paris?" he echoed, the word hanging heavily in the air.

"Yeah,"

And then a broad smile indented his beard. "That's amazin’. I'm so happy for you," his voice filled with genuine excitement.

You felt a pang of disappointment at his reaction, expecting something different. "You're... happy?" you asked, trying to keep your voice normal.

Logan nodded, his smile unwavering. "Of course, I am. You deserve this. I know how long you’ve been lookin’ for a job."

"But... what about this?" you asked, pointing between the two of you. It felt silly to say it out loud, considering you two had only shared your first kiss a couple moments ago.

Logan's expression shifted, and he took your hands in his. "You could tell me you were movin’ to Japan, and it wouldn't matter," he said gently.

"Why wouldn’t it matter?" you asked, your heart pounding.

"Because if you would have me, I'd follow you anywhere," Logan replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you felt a rush of overwhelming emotion. "Why would you do that?" you asked, your voice trembling as you looked up at Logan, searching his eyes for any hint of doubt.

Logan's gently wiped away a few tears that had escaped down your cheek. "I think y’know that already," he said, his voice steady and filled with sincerity. Logan's expression grew more tender as he continued, "I knew that you bein’ here was always going to be temporary. I always assumed you'd go back to Toronto at some point." He paused, a playful glint in his eyes. "And while Paris isn't Toronto, I could be convinced," he added with a hint of sarcasm, his lips curling into a teasing smile.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, the tension easing from your shoulders. You bit your bottom lip, struggling to find the words. The weight of the moment pressed down on you, making it hard to speak. The idea of a man coming with you on this journey felt certifiably insane. You had always prided yourself on being independent, making decisions based on logic and practicality. But as you stood there, looking into Logan's eyes, something shifted inside you. For some reason, you wanted to take that chance with him. Maybe, just maybe, this was the moment to let your heart lead the way.

"What? What aren’t you sayin’ baby? Tell me." His breath was labored, as if he could sense the turmoil within you and was ready to do whatever it took to ease your mind.

You couldn't help but wonder what this incredibly attractive man saw in you. The doubt gnawed at you, making you feel vulnerable and exposed.

"C'mon, use your words." Logan urged gently, his eyes filled with patience.

“I want you," you whispered while looking up at him. You heard him groan and he leaned into you and placed a quick, wet kiss on your lips.

"I want you too," he murmured, his lips brushing softly against yours as he spoke.

"Then make me yours," your voice filled with longing and certainty.

When you said those words, Logan looked absolutely wrecked. He breathed heavily and looked downright criminal looking into your eyes. He looked so tall and sexy, you felt yourself get wet at the sight of his eyes dropping down to look at your lips. You kissed his heart over his flannel and breathed in his scent as his hands started running down your body, skimming the sides of your breasts and resting above your ass.

You grabbed his hands and put them on your ass. You felt him squeeze back.

"Baby, you’re killin’ me," he groaned as he kissed you again and grabbed your ass possessively. He pushed you against the door and lifted your arms up above your head as he stared deeply into your eyes. He trailed hot kisses down your throat, and you melted against the door while Logan took the opportunity to swirl his tongue at your pulse and then started nipping at your neck.

Logan then gently took one of your raised hands, his grip warm and reassuring as he began to lead you into his cabin. He paused briefly in the living room, kissing you softly below your ear and then leaned down to capture your lips with his again.

He groaned into your mouth and with each kiss, he guided you toward the hallway, the space growing more intimate with every step. Logan’s fingers began to explore, deftly slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch igniting your skin. You could feel him smirking against your mouth as he maneuvered you closer to his bedroom.

Once inside, the atmosphere shifted, thick with desire. Logan stepped back slightly, just to admire you, a hungry look in his eyes. "You’re so beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. In one swift motion, he pulled your shirt off over your head, his lips never leaving yours. The cool air brushed against your skin, and you gasped into the kiss as his hands caressed your waist, fingers exploring the soft curves of your body. With a playful nudge, he turned you around, guiding you gently toward the bed, his kisses trailing down your neck and across your shoulders.

You felt his warmth against your back as he undid the clasp of your bra, letting it fall away before his hands were back on your skin, exploring every inch of you. Logan pulled you back against him, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "Need to see more of you." He pressed a soft kiss along your collarbone, while his hands worked skillfully on the buttons of your jeans, taking his time as he lowered them, leaving kisses along the skin that was revealed, as he helped you step out of your jeans.

"Now, it’s your turn," you huffed at him, and Logan started quickly shedding his own shirt and pants, tossing them on top of your abandoned pile of clothes. He revealed a strong, toned body beneath, and your breath hitched at the sight, the allure of him stirring something deep inside of you.

He was so beautiful, it hurt. Moisture and heat started pooling between your legs.

With a gentle but insistent pull, Logan guided you both onto the bed, where he settled over you, your bodies fitting perfectly together. His fingers crept up your leg, his thumb kneading along your inner thigh. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply mentally trying to talk down your fears. You were slightly trembling.

"Hey," he said, nuzzling his nose with yours. "Look at me, baby..."

You opened your eyes slowly and saw an expression you hadn’t seen on his face before.

"You nervous?"

"I am," you admitted.

"Nothing has to happen, we can just… lay here together," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.

"It’s not that," you started, "I just...it’s just…you’re so…" It was hard to articulate what you were feeling. 

A man that looked like Logan must have been with tons of women who looked like supermodels. And here you were, lying beneath him, feeling a million miles away from that ideal. Suddenly, you became hyper-aware of every flaw of yours. You swallowed hard, an urge to hide creeping up inside you.

Logan must have sensed the tension in your body as you laid beneath him, your heart pounding in your chest. His thumb stilled on your thigh, and he cupped your cheek gently, tilting your face up so you would look at him.

"You’re just really fucking hot, Logan," you said, biting your lip, feeling flustered by your clumsy choice of words, and mentally smacking yourself for the slip up.

Logan chuckled. "You think so?" He raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming on his lips. "I do appreciate the compliment, but I can assure you that you're way out of my league,"

You shook your head, unable to suppress a smile. "You're ridiculous. Look at you,"

He leaned in closer, his forehead resting against yours as he growled, "And look at you. You're sexy as hell,"

Feeling the heat flood your cheeks, you instinctively raised your hands to cover your face, a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief washing over you. The soft fabric of Logan’s sheets brushed against your skin, and you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Nobody had ever called you sexy before.

Logan's laughter was like a soothing balm, cutting through your anxiety, and you could sense his amusement at your reaction. He gently pulled your hands away, his touch feather-light, and when you finally peeked between your fingers, you were met with his hazel gaze, filled with tenderness. You could really see the green in his eyes tonight.

"Don’t hide from me," he murmured, his voice soft and inviting. "I wanna see you," he said swooping his head down to attack your neck, sucking softly at your skin there, making you whimper.

As you lowered your hands, he smiled, an expression that made your insides flutter.

"Seriously, you’re breathtakin’ baby," he continued, bursting you out of your little bubble of anxiety.

You swallowed hard, still feeling a twinge of vulnerability, but his sincerity made it easier to breathe.

"Now, how about we get back to what we were doin’ before?" he teased, his lips curling upward into a cocky grin. You couldn't help but laugh, your previous embarrassment easing into excitement.

"I think I can manage that," you replied, a newfound confidence blooming in your chest.

Logan pulled back to stand on his knees and slid his boxers down. Your eyes got wide, and you gasped at the size as you saw his cock spring up, thick and leaking with arousal. It was big. It was really big. You honestly wondered how he was going to fit inside of you.

You noticed that Logan found himself unable to look away as he noticed the damp stain growing in your underwear. "Your panties are all wet. I think I should take these off you." he grinned wickedly as he slid them down your legs and threw them off the bed.

His eyes skated up and down your naked body, studying every inch of you. "Look at this pretty fuckin’ pussy," He ran his fingers between your legs, feeling the wetness coming out of your leaking cunt, teasing you, but never entering inside of you.

"Jesus, this all for me?" he grunted, "you’re so fuckin’ wet," Logan admired with his lips parted.

You gasped his name and tried to muffle back the noises you were making.

"Don't hold back. Let me fuckin’ hear you. I wanna hear all your pretty sounds." he urged, his own breaths heavy and uneven.

You cried out when he started to dip just the tip of his finger inside of you, teasing the fuck out of you. He then drew small circles around your clit with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours as he stared at your mouth. He finally dipped his finger inside of you.

You whimpered, arching your back as pleasure coursed through your body. "Logan," you breathed, unsure of what you could even say or ask for in this moment.

"God, baby," he moaned lightly into your collarbone, "you don't know how bad I want to fuck you right now." His lips touched your jaw, and your skin was burning from his touch.

"Fuck," you whined, goosebumps prickling your skin, his touch felt like it was everywhere.

He pushed harder against your sensitive spot, almost harshly with tight circles and he added another finger to curl up inside you. Obscene wet sounds of his fingers going in and out of you continued to fill the room. You cried out loudly, jerking his face towards you to meet his lips and plunged your tongue deep into his mouth to avoid screaming. His tongue nudged against yours as you grabbed fistfuls of his hair and breathed him in.

You couldn’t wait any longer. It had been months of waiting at this point.

"Please, I’m ready." you pleaded desperately against his mouth. "Please… Now." you begged and pinched your eyebrows together.

Logan let out a half-chuckle and a half-moan, his head dipping to your breast, taking the peak lightly in his mouth. His tongue caressed it softly, and as he released it, a strangled moan escaped your lips.

"Now, normally I'd prefer to take my time," he sighed, smiling mischievously, "But since, you’re beggin’ for it, I’ll allow us to skip a few steps, just this once."

You whined, your words barley coherent when he pulled his fingers out of you that were glistening with your slick. You watched him lift his hand to his lips, slipping his fingers into his mouth with his wet tongue, and he hummed and grunted like it was the best damn thing he had ever tasted in his life.

"Don’t keep me waiting," you teased, your voice sultry and laced with impatience as you squirmed beneath him.

With a low growl, Logan positioned himself between your legs, leaning close to kiss the tip of your nose. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and your body responded eagerly, a rush of anticipation flooding through you. He searched your eyes for reassurance — a silent confirmation.

You managed a breathless nod and watched as he slowly disappeared inside you. You gasped at the overwhelming sensation—the stretch, the heat, and the delicious friction as your slick soaked his cock. Logan’s eyes darkened further, the raw need in his expression making you feel desired.

"You feel so good," he groaned as he pushed further, burying himself fully inside you. He paused for a moment to let you adjust, both of you breathing heavily. "Can’t believe I waited this fuckin’ long to have you,"

"Logan, oh God," you gasped, feeling every inch of him, your nails scraping over the taut muscles of his back, pulling him closer as if you would melt into him entirely.

"I know, baby," he grunted, his voice a low growl. "Look at you, so perfect and just for me," he murmured, cock throbbing inside of you.

"I’m yours," you gasped, the words slipping from your lips. "I’m yours, Logan."

His eyes darkened with that confession, and he thrust into you, almost possessively, as if he were staking his claim. His hips pinned you down to the bed with slow, deep strokes, and Logan leaned down to capture your lips with his. The kiss was messy, all tongue and teeth, an exchange of heat and hunger. You could taste the desire in him, sweet and intoxicating. You knew this wasn’t just sex. It was more than that.

You were lost in this moment.

You were lost in Logan.

You were lost together.

You didn’t know this tonight, but one day you would sit down with your son and daughter, nestled in the dream house Logan would build for you in Halliburton once you both returned from Paris. There, you would share the beautiful story of the first time their father told you he loved you—a moment that would take place on the first day you both moved to Paris. It would happen at the Seine River, under the soft glow of the city lights reflecting on the water. Logan, with a heartfelt and tender look in his eyes, would tell you that he loved you.

"What a coincidence," you would tell him, linking your hands behind his neck. "Because I love you too, but I think you know that already,"

xx

Logan moving for you? Logan telling you he loves you in Paris? Logan building you a house? I’m deceased. This story was really random, and low-key some hallmark type shit. But your girl was in her feelings, and I needed to bring some fluff into my life. I hope this resonates with people. I loved writing it <3.

^I couldn't find a picture of him with his beard. So, let's pretend Logan gets a haircut in Paris and they take his beard away and you almost cry - however you let him know that he still obviously looks very handsome. He grows it back for you (and for him), because he knows how much you like feeling the burn of his beard between your thighs.

[pedroscurls]

Pedro in Spain for Fantastic Four