#Logan fanfic

[nocturnalcharm]

Faking It (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

𐙚 prompt: charles forces you and logan to do a mission together in order to help you bond. 𐙚 cw: enemies to lovers, one bed trope, if this does well i’ll do a part 2 w smut ;) cussing, 𐙚 a/n:  thanks to everyone who's sent me req's! this wasnt a req but id already started it haha if youve sent a req ill try to get to it asap.... also so many ppl wanted to be added to a taglist but for the nsfw alphabet post i dont think it tagged like half the ppl?? so im sorry if u dont get tagged, im trying to fix it :)

18+ blog!! you are responsible for your own media consumption. if any of the above makes you uncomfortable, do not proceed.

“Professor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“(Y/N), it’s not me you should be apologizing to. It’s your team. That’s who you both let down.” He eyes flick between you and Logan.

“I’ll go apologize to them now.” You turn to leave.

“You too Logan.” Charles says.

On this latest mission, you needed to sneak into a factory and take down all of the enemies— But you and Logan were arguing so loudly, you alerted all of the rivals, turning a few quick sneak attacks into full blown fights. No one was badly injured but you still felt horrible about it.

“This is all your fault.” You mumbled, just loud enough for Logan to hear.

“My fault? You’re kidding.” He huffs.

“Shut up.” You walk ahead of him, on the way to the common room to see your team.

Everyone was sitting there, talking amongst themselves. Once you and Logan entered, they all stopped their conversations and looked at you.

“Guys. I am so sorry about this mission.”

“I’m sorry, extremely sorry, and I apologize for my behavior.” Logan mocked your expression of regret.

“You are such a child, Logan! I’m trying to apologize!” You raised your voice.

“I am too!”

“Can you two just stop?” Hank stood up, silencing you both. “Your attitudes have been getting in the way of every mission. If you guys can’t get along then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh..” You didn’t know how to respond. You couldn’t believe you let your dislike for Logan get in the way of your job, so much that they thought you shouldn’t be an X-Man anymore.

They all left the room, leaving just you and Logan to culminate in your thoughts.

“I think it’s pretty obvious we’re not going to get along any time soon.” He broke the silence.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, whatever you say.” He walked out, as you sat in the empty room.

The next day, Xavier called you and Logan into his office yet again. You were concerned, worried he might be kicking you off the team. But instead, he said he had a mission for you two.

“I need you to pose as a couple. You’ll be going to an upscale hotel in Manhattan. It’s a cover for a drug smuggling ring. You two will stay as guests in order to collect information. I need everyone that is there, guests and workers alike, to think you two are madly in love. We don’t know who could be involved, so we can’t have them think anything suspicious.”

“Professor, is that the best idea? We just blew the last mission because we couldn’t stop arguing.”

“If you two fail this mission, I will have no choice but to replace both of you. You are amazing at what you do, but your arguing affects everyone. Not just yourselves.”

“Okay. We won’t let you down.” Logan speaks up.

***

The trip to the hotel was long and frustrating. You two couldn’t agree on anything the entire time. You criticized his driving, he criticized what you put on the radio, and how loud it was. You called him an old man, which just resulted in the radio being turned off and continuing the last hour drive there in silence.

When you arrived, it was late afternoon. Logan, pretending to be your fiance, grabbed all the bags by himself and walked inside. The hotel was huge. It was upscale, classy. So fancy you were afraid to touch anything, in fear it might break.

“Hi! Checking in for Anderson.” He greeted the front desk clerk, giving his forged name. He dropped the bags on the floor and you wrapped yourself around his now-free arm, squeezing it.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson.” She smiled back, “Let’s see. You had the penthouse, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“We’re celebrating our engagement!” You beamed, holding out your hand, showing off your fake engagement ring.

“That’s lovely. Congratulations! We’ll have a bottle of champagne in your room for celebration.”

“Thank you so much!” You squeaked.

He finished the check-in process, then you headed to the top floor.

The penthouse was absolutely gorgeous. It was huge, the size of a decent apartment. Just like the lobby, you were afraid to break something.

“Wow.. This is amazing. Only time I’ll ever get to stay in a penthouse and it’s with you.” You said, as he shut the door.

“I was just thinking the same thing. Now, c’mon we gotta go to the pool. Get changed.” He handed you your bag.

You opened it, pulling out your bikini. It was the only one you had, admittedly from a few years ago. You didn’t have time anymore to relax by a pool or go swimming in the ocean, so this swimsuit had to do. It was a simple black string bikini.

You went inside the bathroom to change. Once you had your swimsuit on, you felt a little self conscious at the amount of skin showing, but figured it’d help with the whole ‘can’t keep your hands off your new fiance’ vibe you and Logan needed to exude for this mission.

You walked out of the bathroom, faking confidence you didn’t have. Logan had taken the opportunity to just change in the living space since he was alone. He was wearing black swim trunks. It was funny, it looked like you two had matched on purpose.

“Wow.” He said quietly, clearing his throat.

“What? You like what you see?” You joked at his clear uncomfortableness with seeing you in such little clothing.

“Whatever, let’s just go.” He spat, grabbing two towels, the key, and exiting the room.

The second you were out the door, you both had big smiles on your face. His arm was around you, holding your side as you headed to the pool.

It wasn’t too busy, just a few kids with their parents, and a bartender at the outdoor bar. You told him you wanted a drink, so that’s where you headed first.

“Hey, can I get two Mojitos?” Logan asked, handing him the room key “And can you just charge it to our room?”

“Of course,” He started working on the drinks immediately, while you two sat and people-watched. He finished the drinks, and gave you them and the room key back.

You said thank you as you walked off, hoping Logan would just follow. There was a small hot tub that was empty, so that’s where you went. You stepped in carefully, afraid of slipping, and sat down in the warm water.

“Really?” Logan whispered, a fake smile still adorned on his face.

“This is what couples do, Logan. And we’re a couple for this weekend. So sit down and act like you love me, sweetie.” Your grin was starting to hurt your cheeks.

He sat down across from you, and you mentally rolled your eyes. You got up, and repositioned yourself, sitting in his lap, “What part of ‘act like you love me’ are you not getting?” 

He was frozen for a moment, caught off guard but quickly acted like he was happy to have you there, to not draw suspicion. You both took sips of your drink, as you continued to nonchalantly looked around.

You two stayed at the pool for awhile, taking mental notes of the guests and employees you saw. Honestly, this hotel didn’t seem too strange. But Xavier said it was a front so you guessed that’s why it seemed so normal, for their cover.

Once your drinks were empty, and the sun had started to go down, you both decided to head back up to the room. He got out drying himself off before wrapping you up in your towel. He picked you up and carried you bridal-style to the penthouse.

“Logan!”

“What? Just acting like I love you.” He smirked.

Once inside the room, he set you down. “I’m gonna go shower.” You stated, not really knowing what to do. 

He just nodded, walking off to the kitchenette. You grabbed your bag and headed to the bathroom.

***

You mentally cursed yourself as you scrambled through your bag, searching for a pair of pajama shorts you thought you packed, but they were nowhere to be found. 

“This cannot be real.” You whispered. The only other clothes you brought were jean shorts, and you sure as hell weren’t going to sleep in those.

You pulled out your oversized sleepshirt, putting it on. The hem landed right above the middle of your thigh. It was a little shorter than the length of a nightgown, so you just hoped he wouldn’t notice. You slipped on a pair of panties, snatched up your things, and exited the bathroom.

You immediately bumped into Logan, who was standing right outside the door.

“What the fuck?” You raised your voice, annoyed. “Why are you right outside the door?”

“I was about to knock. You’ve been in there for over an hour.”

“It’s all yours!” You sassed.

You walked over to the small kitchen, and see he had already opened up the champagne. You had a glass as you sat on a barstool, writing down some notes about the people you’d observed earlier. Pouring yourself another glass, you headed over to the bed.

Just as you made yourself comfortable, Logan came out of the washroom, in just a towel. You stared at his wet torso for a moment, hypnotized.

“My eyes are up here.” He laughed.

You looked up, embarrassed.

“Forgot my clothes. Hey, wait, why are you in the bed?”

“…Because I’m the girl?”

“You're also the short one. I can’t fit on that couch.”

“Oh, c’mon. It’s a big bed. We can both fit just fine. Unless you’re nervous. Never slept with a girl before, Lo?”

He sighed, clearly not wanting to argue, before taking his clothes and escaping back to the bathroom. You silently celebrated your victory.

He came out a few moments later, turning off the lights, sliding under the blankets and getting comfortable. You both ended up facing the same direction. If he was any closer, he’d be the big spoon, but there was a few inches separating you.

You adjusted your body, and accidentally felt your ass rub against him. You went rigid from humiliation, before scooting away slightly, ignoring it since he didn’t say anything.

You tried to fall asleep, but it was difficult, for many reasons. One, you’re not used to having someone else in your bed. Two, he was breathing heavily. Three, you couldn’t stop thinking about how sexy he was.

Of course, you knew Logan was attractive, you’d thought that since the moment you first saw him. But today, probably because of the faux-gagement, the touching, the flirting, you saw him differently. He was still getting on your nerves, but the flames between you two… His body… It was unlike before.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You twiddled your feet, moving around your body nervously, before unintentionally grazing your ass against his crotch again.

“Y’know, if you keep rubbing your ass against my dick, I’m gonna do something about it.” His words sounded gruff in your ear, but they gave you butterflies.

“Maybe that’s what I want.” 

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[tteotlma]

Unspoken

to everyone he's the indestructible wolverine, to you he's just logan —

Bf!Logan/Reader (3.5kw)

a/n: I’m kinda over smut rn.. It requires too much thinking rn and I just want some love so…

tw: mild sexual content, suggestive themes, alcohol consumption, mild language, domestic fluff

---

Everyone wonders how exactly you managed to bring the bad boy home to mom. Okay, not exactly, but close enough. When you started showing up around Logan, everyone was thrown for a loop.

"This is Y/n," he would introduce you for the first time at a group outing. He unknowingly blocked you from his table of teammates, so you put a hand on his arm to move him over.

Smiling brightly at the group, you introduced yourself as his girlfriend. Scott and Jean were stunned, while Ororo just smiled. She moved, took out a seat beside her, and patted it. You'd look at Logan, and he'd give a curt nod before saying he was going to get you both a drink.

As he left, he placed a small hand on your back, and you smiled at him before he walked away. Settling beside Ororo, you made yourself comfortable.

"Alright, alright, now tell us the truth," Scott huffed, stuffing his face with the complimentary peanuts in the middle of the table.

"I'm sorry?" Your eyebrows squeezed together, making Scott chuckle.

"So you're really his girlfriend?" he asked, while Jean gave you a careful eye.

"It appears that way, doesn't it?" You turned away just in time to grab your drink from Logan, taking a sip before looking back at Scott.

Logan had told you a lot about Scott and their complicated relationship - a sort of "I have to like you because we're family" kind of thing. You'd never held any resentment towards Scott, but you were aware that sometimes it could seem like he thought less of Logan.

Scott didn't say anything further, instead continuing to munch on peanuts and occasionally cracking jokes, flashing you his award-winning smile. The group settled into casual chit-chat, with Logan's body pressed beside yours despite sitting in separate chairs.

His arm slung around the back of your chair, his thumb occasionally brushing against your arm - a subtle reminder that despite all the people in the bar, you could freely focus on whatever, knowing he had you.

As the night wore on, stories and laughs were shared, the alcohol doing a good job of loosening everyone up, especially you and Logan. You were still at a point in your relationship where everything felt fresh to the outside, so the idea of PDA was still nerve-wracking. Granted, you and Logan had touched each other a lot, but that was always behind closed doors. In public, Logan preferred to be more of a guard dog, always standing over you wherever you went.

It never bothered you. In fact, you relished the fact that Logan never left your line of sight; he made you feel protected and special. He never pushed your comfort level, and vice versa. You were acutely aware of Logan's character flaws, and mixed with the fact that it had been years since you'd dated anyone, it was nice not having to force the physicality between you two - it came naturally when it wanted.

Like right now, the comforting atmosphere and lightheartedness had you leaning into Logan's warmth. Your head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck, and his arm slipped off the back of the chair to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you in. His hand lightly tickled your side as you absentmindedly ran your nails up his denim-clad thigh, the repetitive motion and feel of the micro-grooves beneath your fingers keeping you grounded.

You tried paying attention to the conversation, but each time Logan laughed, your whole body would shake along with his, and the deep rumble of his laughter would erupt from his chest - a sound you wished you could melt into.

"So why are you with Logan?" Jean asked, her cheeks flushed as she stared between you and Logan, watching the way his fingers played with the fabric of your shirt.

You ripped yourself away from thoughts of your boyfriend and tried to focus on the question at hand. "I'm sorry?" you said, having heard the question but unsure how to answer.

"Why Logan?"

You shifted in your seat to stare at the beefy man beside you. He looked down at you, a small smirk on his lips.

"Why Logan..." you repeated, pondering how to put into words the way this man made you feel.

How do you even put into words the way this man makes you feel? As mentioned before you hadn’t dated in what felt like forever but with Logan everything fell into place. 

Everyone at the table probably assumes that Logan would be the most dismissive lover ever, a taker not really a giver but oh boy were they wrong. 

To you, it felt like you were the center of his universe. 

Whenever Logan would spend the night, you’d always wake up to an empty bed. At first Logan would run out of your place as soon as the sun would hit but one morning when you thought you were alone you slipped into one of Logan’s shirts you had lying around and when you pad to the kitchen you find the giant man surrounded by a rush aroma of coffee. And it’s been like that ever since. 

Whenever Logan stays over he’s always up before you. The smell of coffee wafting throughout the apartment coaxing you out of bed. Once in the kitchen there’d be Logan in all his morning glory, shirtless with sweats that hung dangerously low on his hips, pouring the hot liquid into your favorite mug knowing you’d never say no to it. 

He doesn't ask how you take it, he’s never had to. He just places the mug softly in front of you as you sit on a stool and watches you take a sip with a small smile. 

Placing the mug down, you return the smile, and like clockwork Logan rounds the counter, turns your chair, and places himself between your legs. Your hands find their place at his side as he holds your face in his hands, placing a tender kiss on your lips. These quiet morning moments are just one of the many things you cherish about your life with Logan.

But it's not just the gentle moments that make your relationship special. Logan's protective nature extends to all aspects of your life together, including the more practical ones.

There have been a few times you've come home thinking someone's broken in. Loud clanging could be heard as soon as you walked in. You grabbed an umbrella from beside the door and stalked quietly toward the sound. When you finally turned the corner down the hallway, you noticed the bathroom light was on. With the umbrella held tightly, you stepped closer to the bathroom. There you found Logan tinkering under the sink, the clanking sound coming from the metal against the pipes. He was muttering to himself, brows furrowed in concentration, his muscles constricting beneath his dark blue shirt.

“My handyman.” You tease, discarding the umbrella and leaning against the door frame watching him work. 

Without looking back at you he says “Someone’s gotta do it, darlin’.” You let out a small laugh, before walking away to get him a glass of water. When you come back he’s finishing up. 

He wipes his hands with a towel, and takes the glass from your hand. 

“My hero.” You say, finding your spot against the doorframe, smiling up at him, eyes filled with adornment for the man in front of you. He just pulls you in close and kisses your forehead. 

“Can’t have you dealin’ with this kind of thing.” He says. 

“Oh but sir,” You feign innocence, a small smirk growing on your lips. “I don’t get paid until Friday,” You hook a finger in his belt loop giving it a tug. “However, shall I repay you?” You cock your head to the side, and Logan quirks an eyebrow before playing along. 

“Didn’tya know? I take other forms of payment.” His voice is low as he grabs your hips guiding you backwards. You laugh as he quickly shuffles backwards into your room. 

The both of you stumble onto the bed, and Logan’s weight presses against you just enough to make you feel deliciously suffocated. His eyes are filled with mischief as he hovers over you, hands resting on either side of your head. 

“Oh my, what form of payment were you thinking of?” You ask, voice playful but becomes breathless as he leans in to nose at your neck, lips lightly brushing against the soft skin of your neck. 

He chuckles slowly, “I think y’already know sweetheart.” 

Before you can say anything he catches your lips in a deep, possessive kiss, making it clear how he plans to collect. 

His weight grounds you, as the teasing is forgotten, replaced with a slow electric pull of desire. Logan’s hand skims all over your body, gentle but firm, reminding you that you’re his in every way that counts. 

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Now, ‘bout that payment.. Don’t think that was enough, princess.” 

You bite your lip, giving him a coy smile as your fingers slide down his chest. “Well, I’d hate to leave a debt unpaid, Sir.” 

Logan leans down to brush his lips against yours, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Then you better make it worth while, buttercup. I don’t do all this hard work for nothin’.” He teases. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down. “Oh don’t worry. I always leave a generous tip.” 

With a grin, Logan kisses you again, deeper than before. His hands continue their exploration as the playful banter gives way to something more intense, and heated. And just like that, all thoughts are replaced with only the two of you tangled up in each other, lost in the moment. 

While these passionate encounters are exhilarating, they're not the only moments you treasure with Logan. In fact, your favorite kind of moments are often much quieter, born from the shared fatigue of long days and the comfort you find in each other's presence.

Your favorite kind of moments would have to be the days Logan comes over after a long day, the kind that left both of you feeling drained by the time the moon came over the horizon.

You’d flop onto the sofa as soon as you’d get home, letting the tension ease away from your muscles when five minutes later Logan opens the door, which you left unlocked for him. 

Without saying a word he flops beside you, causing your body to follow the cave of the cushions and melt into his side. You wrap your arms around his neck and he snakes his arm around your waist, heavy hand resting on your hip squeezing lightly. 

“Hi Baby.” You whisper, caressing his face. He looks down at you with hooded eyes and gives you a small smile. 

“Hi,” he murmurs, leaning down to give you a soft, lazy kiss before pulling back and resting his head against the back of the sofa.

 You hum contentedly, your arms tightening around him for a moment, the tenderness between you growing. Logan shifts beneath you, his large hands easily grabbing your legs, guiding them to rest over his lap. With a bit of maneuvering, he ends up leaning on his elbow, his arm still wrapped protectively around your waist, while you’re stretched out across the sofa, your legs draped over his, your bodies intertwined in the most comforting way.

He’s partially laying down now, with you tucked securely against him, and the gentle weight of his arm across you feels grounding, the two of you perfectly melted into one another.

“How was your day?” you ask softly, fingers gently caressing the back of his neck. Logan doesn’t respond right away— he instead lets out a low huff and buries his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. 

“Awe, the poor kitty.” You tease, patting his head lightly. Logan grunts, but the hint of a smile plays on his lips as his grip tightens around your waist. 

“Yeah, yeah.” he mumbles, clearly too tired to give much of a response. You smile, allowing yourself to soak in the warmth of him, but after a moment, the thought of washing the day away crossed your mind. 

You run your fingers through his hair one last time before sighing. “I should go shower,” you say, gently pulling away from him. Logan lets out a gruff dissatisfied grumble as you move to sit up, his arm still draped around you. 

“Stay here,” he mumbles, a hint of a pout in his voice as he watches you sit up.

You chuckle softly, stretching as you stand and walk toward the bathroom. “You could always come with me…” you say casually, your back still to him as you head down the hallway.

Logan’s eyes follow you, and he huffs, pushing himself off the couch. “You know I’m not saying no to that.”

Before long, you’re both under the warm spray of the shower, the day’s exhaustion melting away. Logan stands still, eyes half-closed, letting the water run down his body. His skin glistens under the spray, rivulets tracing the lines of his body. You breathe in the steamy air, heavy with the scent of soap and Logan's own earthy musk.

Squeezing shampoo into your palm, its crisp herbal aroma cuts through the steam. Your fingers slide through Logan's hair, now slick and dark as ink. He leans into your touch, a low rumble of pleasure vibrating in his chest. His normally guarded expression softens, the furrows in his brow smoothing as your fingertips work small circles against his scalp.

Logan leans into your touch, his broad shoulders loosening as your fingers work their magic. The taut muscles beneath his skin gradually unwind, melting under the warmth of the water and the gentle pressure of your hands. You can feel the subtle shift in his posture as he surrenders to the soothing sensation, his breath deepening and slowing in response to your careful attention. 

The steam swirls around you both, creating an intimate cocoon that seems to exist outside of time. You take your time, savoring the quiet vulnerability of the moment, your fingers moving with deliberate care through his hair.

"Mmm," Logan murmurs, his voice husky and low. "S'nice."

His eyes flutter open, meeting yours through the misty air. The look he gives you is unguarded, full of a tenderness that makes your breath catch. You continue your gentle massage, feeling the last remnants of tension melt away beneath your touch.

You guide him under the spray, watching as the water sluices away the soap, leaving his hair gleaming. Your hands trail down to his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him. The shower continues for a few more minutes, the rhythmic pattern of water creating a soothing backdrop.

Logan steps out of the shower first, wrapping a towel around his waist. He grabs your plush robe from the hook and helps you slip it on. The soft fabric feels warm and comforting against your skin, still flushed from the hot shower.

Logan's hands linger for a moment on your shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Cozy?" he asks, his voice soft. You nod, enjoying the simple comfort of the moment.

As you make your way to the bedroom, Logan settles on the edge of the bed while you rummage through the dresser. You pull out one of Logan's well-worn t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, slipping them on. The familiar scent of him envelops you, a comforting mixture of cedar, a hint of motor oil, and something uniquely Logan.

Despite countless cycles through the washing machine, his scent clings stubbornly to the fabric. It's as if it's woven into the very threads, resistant to detergent and hot water alike. You breathe in deeply, savoring the aroma that's quintessentially him - a scent that speaks of strength, of safety, of home.

The shirt hangs loosely on your frame, soft from years of wear. As you pull it over your head, you're wrapped in an invisible embrace, Logan's presence tangible even in this simple piece of clothing.

Turning around, you catch Logan absent-mindedly rubbing the towel over his head. You can't help but smile at the sight. "Here, let me help," you say, fetching the hair dryer from the bathroom.

You plug it in and step between Logan's legs, gently taking the towel from his hands. The dryer hums to life, and you run your fingers through his hair as you work, watching it become soft and fluffy under your ministrations.

"Look at you, all fluffy," you tease gently, running your hand through his hair.

Logan's eyes crinkle with amusement. In one swift motion, he pulls you close, guiding you to sit across his lap. "You're one to talk," he rumbles, nuzzling into your neck.

You laugh softly, your fingers still playing with his hair. It's so soft now, and you can't resist running your hands through it again and again. Logan lets out a contented sound, almost like a purr, leaning into your touch.

Gradually, you both shift to lie on the bed, limbs tangled comfortably. Logan's arms are wrapped around you, holding you close like you're the most precious thing in the world. You continue to stroke his hair, feeling the last bits of tension leave his body.

The room is quiet now, filled only with the sound of your synchronized breathing. As sleep begins to tug at the edges of your consciousness, you feel utterly safe and loved in Logan's embrace. His breathing deepens, and you know he's drifting off too.

Few moments out of thousands flash through your mind as you sit at the bar, Jean's question hanging in the air. "Why Logan?" The memories of tender mornings, playful banter, quiet evenings, and the feeling of absolute safety in his arms all blend together, forming your answer.

You look up at Logan, who's watching you with a mix of curiosity and affection. The warm glow of the bar lights catches the amber flecks in his eyes, making them seem to smolder. You can feel the solid warmth of his body pressed against yours, his familiar scent - a mixture of leather, pine, and something uniquely him - wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You turn back to Jean with a soft smile, the taste of your drink still lingering on your lips.

"It's hard to put into words," you begin, your voice warm with emotion. The words catch in your throat as a flood of memories washes over you - Logan's rare, genuine laugh that always makes your heart skip a beat; the feeling of absolute safety in his strong arms; the tender moments in the quiet of the morning when he thinks you're still asleep. You open your mouth, ready to pour out your heart, but then you catch yourself. The intimacy of those moments feels too precious to share in the bustling, noisy bar.

Instead, you simply say, "Let's just say, when you know, you know."

The conversation moves on, but you can feel Logan's eyes on you, sense his curiosity. As you both leave the bar later, the cool night air a refreshing contrast to the warmth inside, Logan gently tugs your hand, pulling you close.

"What were you really gonna say back there, darlin'?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. His breath, warm and smelling faintly of whiskey, ghosts over your cheek.

You look up at him, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the softness in his usually stern eyes. For a moment, you consider telling him everything - how he makes you feel, why you love him. But something holds you back. Maybe it's the lingering effects of the alcohol, or the magic of the nighttime city around you, but instead, you stretch up on your toes and press a soft kiss to his lips.

"I'll tell you someday," you murmur against his mouth, feeling his lips curve into a smile. "But for now, why don't we head back to my place."

Logan's arm wraps around your waist as you walk to his truck, and you lean into him, savoring the moment. The unspoken words hang between you, a promise for the future, as sweet and intoxicating as the night air.

---

a/n: quick! somebody call a dentist -- i think my teeth are rotting,,

[avengers-bucky]

Omg I wrote this after “Logan” came out and found it in my drafts 😭

Getting into an argument with Logan would include

- most of the time it's over something petty

- both of you think you're right

- and neither of you back down

- you: "fine" Logan: "fine" standing with your arms crossed

- Logan always storms out after

- you always chuck something at the door as he closes it

- you two don't talk for the rest of the day

- only making jabs at each other

- the team are used to it now

- you're already in bed, watching tv

- Logan always come back, takes a shower and gets into bed next to you

- you both refuse to break the silence as you both sit there staring at the tv with your arms crossed

- you always swipe him a look to see if he's still mad

- Logan is stubborn as hell

- but you admit to yourself how stupid the argument was

- you keep side eyeing him with a smirk

- Logan notices and angrily says "what"

- you move over and straddle him

- Logan still looks pissed

- you're smiling at him but Logan refuses to look at you

- you pull up the sides of his mouth

- "aw c'mon little pussy cat, you know you wanna smile"

- Logan always tries to fight back a smile

- "you know you can't resist"

- Logan grabs your legs and spins you over so he's on top of you

- he smiling as his lips are hovering over yours

- Logan always kisses you

- then starts tickling you

- "you're such an ass" he's says

- "so are you"

[mlmxreader]

Think Twice | Logan Howlett x trans!m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ YOO can I get uhhh no-op transmasc Logan and reader with brat taming AND mirror sex... ❞ - @orisquirrelking

: ̗̀➛ Logan isn't happy about it when he catches you being a bit too flirtatious with some of his colleagues, but luckily, he knows what can be done about it.

trigger warnings : ̗̀➛ swearing, choking, anal sex, anal fingering, praise kink, biting kink, jealous/possessive sex, Dom/Sub, slight edging, mirror sex, brat!reader

↳ WOMEN & MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

↳ reader's genitals aren't mentioned at all

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Logan grumbled under his breath as he watched you carefully and closely. His eyes narrowed; his jaw began to clench as he traced every little movement. He knew what you were doing, and you were never exactly subtle about it, either.

Making direct eye contact with him as you hung off of Gambit's arm; telling him how strong he was and how asking if you could touch his muscles. Logan wanted to scoff, really, but he knew why you were doing it; he had not exactly paid the most attention to you lately, and you acting out was just the right thing to force it back.

Even still, when Logan asked to speak to you in the private confines of his room, you kicked up a fuss; huffing and puffing and complaining.

A spoiled brat.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?" He hissed, planting his hands either side of your head. Trapping you between the door and his body.

You shrugged as you stared up at him. "Well, since you weren't going to give me attention, I found it somewhere else."

Logan's jaw clenched tightly, his breath getting deeper and harsher as it fanned across your face. His gaze drifted down to your mouth. "So you're just gonna whore yourself out? That it?"

You put your hands on his chest, gripping the fabric of his brown plaid shirt. "The thought might've crossed my mind."

He let out a harsh breath, heart skipping a beat. "You wanna be somebody's fuckin' boy toy, huh?"

You lifted your leg up, waiting for him to grab the underside of your thigh so he could pull it to his waist; copying the action as soon as you lifted your other leg. You lifted your hands up, clinging onto the doorframe as you leaned in.

Logan wasn't stupid, eagerly drowning you in an open-mouthed and breathy kiss; your hands went to his hair, gripping it tightly. He moaned softly, tugging you closer as he grunted against your mouth.

He waited for you to press your weight against him, easily guiding you over to where the full-length double mirror was; he pinned you down, letting you bite and suck at the skin of his neck before he fully pulled away and pinned your wrists above your head.

"You gonna be good?"

You shook your head, spreading your legs and grinning at him. "Now why would I wanna do that?"

Logan sighed softly, grinding down against you. "You might wanna rethink."

Slowly, you licked your lips, keeping your eyes on him. "Why don't you try to change my mind, old man?"

That was his breaking point. He flipped you over and delivered a hard smack to your ass; you grinned, softly moaning his name in response.

"You'll have to do better than that," you told him. So fucking sly, like you were some cunning fox merely stepping out of a snare. "Try again."

Logan gritted his teeth, smacking your ass even harder; you pushed back against him, the pounding sting made your heart pound, and your hips jerked. Another dare for him to go harder.

Logan didn't listen, kneeling behind you and grabbing the waistband of your tight shorts. "You changed your mind yet? Or are you gonna be a fucking brat all day?"

You wiggled your hips, inviting him as you looked back with a smile. "I've yet to even debate changing my mind."

Slowly, Logan peeled your shorts down, exposing your bare and raw ass before he pressed his middle finger to your rim; slowly, he circled your tight ass hole, just and just enough to tease you. Just enough to make you shudder and grind against nothing. He paused, licking his lips.

"Broken?"

"As if!" You protested, although your voice was ragged from the slowly boiling desire to feel him against you. "You'll never make me change my mind at this rate. Keep trying, Mister Howlett."

With a quiet huff, Logan grabbed you, positioning you on his lap as he sat facing the mirrors; he kept you just a little bit above him while he slipped his ring and middle finger into your ass.

"Are you ready?" He growled out, biting at the side of your neck.

You scoffed, quirking a brow. "More than."

He didn't waste time, quickly jamming them in and out as you gasped, squirming. He was so fucking rough, keeping your hips pressed to his body as he slammed his fingers in and out of your ass, practically pounding his hand into you.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Right there! Shit! Fuck!"

A smug smile came to Logan's face, waiting until you were right on the edge of your little glory moment before he withdrew his fingers, watching as you settled on his lap with a whimper and a quiet choked back sob.

"Why'd you stop?" You whined out.

Logan took your face, forcing you to look into his eyes through the mirrors. "Are you gonna stop being such a brat?"

You shook your head, bringing his hand down to your throat and pressing down on his fingers. "What'd you think, Logan? Doesn't your hand make such a nice necklace?"

He grumbled under his breath, doing everything in his power not to buck his hips up into you as he pressed down against your the sides of your neck gently. "You didn't answer my question."

You ground down against him, making sure that he felt the way your ass moved. "I think you already know the answer."

"I need to hear you say it," he growled.

You sighed, purposefully rolling your hips just to get a rise out of him. "What do you wanna hear me say? That if you fuck me hard enough, I'll stop being a brat and go back to being your personal little boy toy?"

"It's a start," he breathed out, teeth clamping down on the inside of his lip.

"Please, Logan," you mocked. "Please, please, fuck me until I stop being such a brat! Oh, please!"

"Enough!" Logan snapped. "Tell me what you fucking want, and be serious."

"Fine!" You hissed out, slightly annoyed and frustrated. "I want you to fuck me! Fuck's sake!"

He moved you so that you were on your hands and knees, facing the mirror; he was gone for a moment, although you knew where the second that you heard the lubricant bottle opening.

"Ready?"

You nodded. "Hurry up, old man, I haven't got all day."

Logan scoffed, although he didn't even try and bite back the smile that came across his lips the second that he slipped his fingers into your tight ass.

You clenched around him, and he used it to his advantage; slicking you up nice and easily and stretching you out as much as he could.

He squirted some lube on his hand, pumping his cock to get it nice and ready for you.

"Still gonna be a brat?" He asked lowly.

"Fuck me already," you spat back.

Logan didn't need to hear any more. With one hand, he grabbed your throat as he bent over, thrusting into your ass as he kept your focus on the mirror; making you watch as he fucked you.

"Fuck," you breathed out, pushing back against him as you clenched the mattress with your sweaty fingers.

Logan was rough, hammering into you as hard as he could and not caring that your body jerked forward with each thrust; he bit down on the side of your neck, all but claiming you as he grunted and growled against the soft skin.

The vibrations were too much, and you rolled your hips as you sought any and every single little scrap of him that you could; able to feel his sweat mix with yours so easily. The scent of it thick as you gasped and moaned his name between the encouraging grunts he let out.

He kept going, pounding into you until the sound of grunts and moans was completely drowned out by the wet slap of his skin against yours; you bowed your head, forcing him to pick it back up again so you could watch as he took you for his own.

You wanted to cry out, tell him to never stop and to keep going until you were fucking stuffed - but the words failed you as animalistic groans took over. You writhed and squirmed, trying to find the best angle you could to get enough of him.

"Feel so fuckin' good," Logan growled out against your neck, his teeth still firmly planted against your skin, although not enough to make you bleed. "Such a fuckin' good boy for me, ain't ya, huh?"

You nodded, earning you a firm smack to the ass. "Yes! Fuck! Yes!"

You weren't going to last long, and you knew it; the way he fucked you so eagerly and so hard, it was dizzying. Even more so when he pinned you against the mattress so you were flat on your stomach; he kept one hand on the back of your neck, making sure you could watch yourself whilst he used the other to brace against the mattress.

The loud squeaks were coupled only with your harsh and ragged begs for more and more and more. He stretched you out like nobody else ever could, and you couldn't deny that he was the best fuck you had ever had.

You wanted him to cum in you, wanted to take as much of it as you could until it leaked out and dribbled down your taint. Puddling onto the bedsheets until he fucked it back into you and donated another load to you. You wanted it, needed it, and craved it more than your own release and own orgasm.

Your legs shook, a sensitive and raw feeling budding in your twitching groin as you bucked your hips and cried out his name; your eyes rolled into the back of your head, tongue hanging out of your mouth and a thin whisp of drool hang from the tip. Your toes curled as you tilted your head back.

Logan kept going.

Fucking into you until he suddenly stilled, panting your name out and letting his own drool smack you on the neck; he took a moment to catch his breath before he fucked it back into you, not caring at how it dribbled out and splashed down when he pulled out.

A firm smack to your ass sealed the deal. He crouched down in front of you, gently kissing you.

"Was I too rough?"

You shook your head, lazily smiling at him. "Nah, you were perfect, don't worry."

Logan frowned a little, licking his lips. "I just worry."

"I know," you whispered. "It's fine, you're alright."

He nodded slowly, letting out a long sigh as he smiled back at last. "If you say so... oh, erm, before I forget - Kurt asked to see you tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, somethin' about some legal shit," he shrugged. "Said he wanted your input? I dunno."

You could only laugh as you shook your head fondly. "I'll talk to him... are you gonna get jealous, though?"

A glare was shot your way. "No. Big difference between you telling Kurt about your experiences and you actin' like Gambit's cock was worth more than oxygen."

You laughed a little louder. "What? You don't think me telling Kurt about all the mundane shit like gender certificates and ID changes is like as a no-op trans guy could be sexy?"

"You might wanna think twice about me answerin' that," Logan huffed.

Although he was pleasantly surprised when you dropped yourself into his lap.

"Logan," you hummed. "I'm your boyfriend. I only have eyes for you, I promise. I love you."

He nodded slowly, letting his hands rest on your sides for a moment. "I believe you, I do. I believe you."

"Come on," you whispered, getting up and offering him your hand. "Come shower with me and I'll show you how I really, really feel about you... unless you're scared."

Logan scoffed. "Like fuck am I scared."

༺═──────────────────────────────═༻

whilst I have your attention, I would like to point it towards Hani's family; Hani's family are trapped in Gaza, and need €5k each in order to escape and survive the genocide. if you could spare a few pounds, or even just one then it would really make a massive, massive difference. so, please, consider giving to Hani's family.

[themareverine]

MARE & THE WOLVERINE ▹ Good Poison

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: The Northern Territories were the last place Mare McAffery ever imagined herself, much less a prize fighting bar with characters the likes of the one they call the Wolverine. A logging community and living out of a Motel 6—it wasn’t exactly Shakespearean. But sometimes, survival calls for a tooth and nail fight—even for a preacher’s daughter.

warnings: AU, age gap, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, eventual romance, violence, angst, trauma, religion, self-insert, self-esteem issues, chance meetings, alcohol, grief/morning, mutual pining, falling in love, slow-ish burn, fluff and angst, canon-typical violence, virginity, reposted from my old account.

MASTERLIST| NAVIGATION | NEXT | PREVIOUS

“I’ve never met a more obsessive, religiously fanatical, irresponsible press professional in my entire career, McAffery—and I’ve been doing this thirty fucking years!”

“Told you to drop that mutant BS, McAffery—”

Blue light from her phone lights up the shadowed seat beside her, interrupting the cruel sting of thoughts lapping her brain like a pace car. Redlined and leading, her attention briefly drifts from the yellow lines of highway to the bright screen that lingers—to the text bubble with the little avatar face of who else but her mother, checking in on her for only the fiftieth time tonight. 

“I’m fine, ma,” she sighs to empty space around her. A glance upward through the windshield to the night sky canvases unfamiliar constellations, stars she’s never seen this far north. Living north all her life had prepared her for a lot of, well, Canada— but not the stars. There seemed to be more of them, dancing in troops that quickened the soul. They’d been hanging in the sky for hours, now, and every time her gaze flicked up—never saw the same cluster.  

Diiiing. The sound avalanches in the cab, almost. “Jeez, I’m fine, ” it’s more of a growl than anything as she reaches for the phone. Silences it. Practically tossing it to the cup holder, she shifts a little further against her seat, her ass into the three decade-old cushion just like she’d been doing for two days. Shoulders pressing back into the material of her seatback, a slight shiver races up her spine where frigid air snakes into the cab of the Jeep between gaps in soft-top canvas—irritates the hunger that’s been low simmering in her stomach since before the sun had disappeared. 

A quick GPS consult and civilization is less than ten miles on her course. It promises a bar, a Motel 6, some gas. Nothing fancy. Reading in-between trying to stay between yellow highway lines reveals that Laughlin City is a logging community, one of those let’s-film-a-cheesy-Hallmark-romance little sports that show up in romantic novels and on travel blogs. It’s quiet with a limited population, mountainside and traditional. Perfect. 

Starting directions to Laughlin City, you’re on the fastest route—-

“Considering I don’t see any freeways, I guess that tracks,” Frick, I’m turning into my mother talking to myself— and she had been, for two days. But that’s probably fine, better to keep herself company in the off-hours of radio. She couldn’t bear any more talk radio, didn’t have the caffeine or the patience to relive the same Shania Twain cassette tape for a twentieth time. 

Sighing, her head kicks back a little against the hard headrest behind her. Brightness from the GPS route is white-hot and blinding, has Mare McAffery turning her phone screen down to the fading 90s-print material of the passenger seat. She can see the little cloud from the hard breath she lets escape from between her lips, which subliminally raises the air on her arms. Sends a stab of cold through the bones in her hands. Even with air bursting from the defrost, it’s cold. Colder here, farther north, than her family’s quiet little farmland Minnesota home for this time of year—a t-shirt had felt like a good idea this morning at the truck stop. Splashing water on her face and smiling into sunshine. 

Her eyes drift to the dash clock as a hand reaches behind her to grope for the hoodie she’d abandoned. A little after 11—her time. Back home. Mare has no idea what time it is in Canada, under foreign stars and among unknown mountains. Though, really it doesn’t matter—time is a construct when you’re on the road. When you don’t really have anywhere to be in all that much of a hurry, when you’re getting out of Dodge and rethinking every strategic decision of your life.

God, what am I doing? Where are You in this? And the thought is random. Had been, for days. Quitting her job on the spot three weeks ago had felt like the move of the century, like a Neil Armstrong one-giant-leap-for-mankind on the moon type of deal. Once in a lifetime, defining. Must’ve been what the fathers of her nation felt, rising up to slay the Goliath oppressing them into submission—she’d bucked the power of corporate America, felt the sting of her whip for a final count. 

There’d never been more peace, more purpose about her life than in that moment, smiling down her nose at her boss. Knowing she’d left him in the lurch, had upset his canoe. Upstream without a paddle, take that you scumsucking piece of trash. Her guts had nearly risen up to her throat with the flood of pure adrenaline. Bolstered, like a shooting star— all hot and undiscerning strength. Every disgruntled employee in the history of the working class before her, caged within her bones. Finding justice in this one act, this flight. High flying and empowered, she’d crashed through the glass ceiling—unscathed, unravished. Free. 

Or so she prayed. 

Reality rose up to strike her like plague, chastened and vengeful. Leaving behind ghosts and midnight phantoms to haunt her even in sleep, her fears. Disease eating away at the flesh of her life, an insatiable predator unrelenting until satisfied. Picking its teeth with the bones of her future, the unknown. Grinning at her like a subtle, close-to-the-chest demon of her own making. Tapestry of her life began to unravel, unfurled by her own bravada, her own shield of faith in the unknown. Days bled eternally into weeks. Networking spiderwebbed away in the wind, disheveled and thin. Nothing aside from Oh-honey-I’m sorry’s and though-your-qualifications-are-impressive-we-regret’ s. 

Word traveled fast in rocks and cows country, not-the-Twin-Cities Minnesota.  Whoever didn’t look on her with sympathy dug her grave, or threw dirt on open wounds festering with her own shame. Nobody was eager to onboard the bloodhound trailblazing young lady with starry eyes and Superman hope. 

Singlehandedly she’d brought coverage of the community’s less-than-human population to hometown families and cropfarmers, faces nobody in her world desired. They’d kept the mutants at arm’s length, in the city and away from the grass that dances on the prairie; innocence of country living. Nobody wanted them in their ZIP code, their school districts—accidents raised taxes. No mayor wanted to address the subject at press conferences or on small city councils, no school board wanted funding for safe rooms or SPED. Better to lock them away in the concrete jungle of downtown, anonymous faces in a sea crying out for representation. 

Disarming a population’s ignorance had been a savage fight—soul crushing and abusive. Her head had been piked in every town-gossip-over-coffee table in the entire township, her family’s name raked over the coals in the editorials. Recklessly brave, but the greater good had come at a high, not-so-good price. Expensive for an under-thirty young little thing with bright aspirations, with a family standing behind her as pillars in a crumbling, paralyzed community.  

Better to turn a blind eye to the unfortunates than lend a hand likely to be bit, was the argument. Lambs to slaughter, all of her anonymous mutant sources had eviscerated from contact seemingly overnight—lost to anonymity, to the underworld of obscurity and fear. 

Foolish, simpleminded. White washed tombs, dens of vipers. Disheartened —didn’t they see—? 

A glance into the rearview and she’s able to make out the almost-cavernous upset digging trenches in the skin of her brow, the veil that’s overtaken once-bright eyes. All noted, even in the glare of blue light and shadows. She exhales deep and feels it, between her ribs. In, out—one, two, three; let it go, let it go let it go. That burning knot of lava that’s parked in between her shoulder blades shakes just a little, breaks apart. And for a brief moment, there’s cool relief that comes with another bite of May wind. Chases all the way down her spine, nips at her collarbones. 

Her grip tightens on the wheel, highway stretched unforgiving. Mocks her, reminding her how far away she’s attempting to fly, to hide . Inky midnight fans out before her— a lover, shadowing the world beyond the headlights of the Jeep Wrangler. Promising to hide her away, in a new world. The Wrangler seems to roar, engine loud in the empty night air, humming and thunking like old horsepower does. Whether in protest or jubilation, she’s not sure. Doesn’t even know if she wants to be. 

A wing and prayer. She’s left on a wing, with a prayer—it’ll carry her. To Laughlin, at least. 

Tires eat pavement like a beast, thrum thrum, thrumming away underneatht the rig almost in perfect step with the rabbit heartbeat kicking in her chest. Hears every rotation of rubber against asphalt through the canvas top. Tastes the cold bite of May night seeping through gaps and vinyl windows, cooling that still-there heat between her shoulders, that ache in the back of her eyes. 

Fiddling with the radio for the local news distracts her from GPS directions for a heartbeat. Almost missing the turnoff, she more forgoes the stop sign than actually misses it, engaging the clutch and brake to downshift. Skirting by the blaring scarlet of the sign, there’s no sign of headlights any direction at the four way. Except, in the distance, maybe five or so miles.

Between trees that canopy and dart in the breeze, trying to keep civilization a secret from the unsuspecting. Warring against the moon for rights to illuminate, to pierce through the veil of night—mountain peaks like dark sentinels, threatening and breathtaking in the faraway. Sits like a lion, stirring at the presence of the intruding Daniel. 

Laughlin City. 

“Bingo.” 

Mopping droplets of sweat pearling up from between his facial hair hasn’t ever felt more like a chore than it does right now, in the flickering light of a too-late pub crawling with county lowlives and province nobodies.  Every muscle burns with adrenaline that pistons through his veins like a hot steamroller, flattening any thought other than sucking air into his chest. Logan Howlett swears to God he can feel his very bronchial tubes with every pull of thick, curling air—wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t label every cell, working in unison to stitch him back together. 

It’s a delicate dance, healing after a fight. Body goes to work even before new wounds hit home—recovering from old ones, almost anticipating where new ones will land. Takes a significant amount of energy, a high unlike any amphetamine can deliver. Hot, heavy, painful bliss. That feel-good, fuck-this-is-perfect way he’s only ever experience in one other way—and that’s cock deep, in the right woman, red lines flaming down the length of his back. It’s taken a lifetime to ignore the adrenaline, the feel good burn of flesh stitching itself piece by piece. Wounds numbing over as the body corrects. Blood cut off from oxygen, sealed behind skin and screaming behind new scars. Bones correcting from fracture, pulled together with God-perfect precision no ER could ever match. Marrow stretching, cartilage welding back together. Feeling coming back with just as much prejudice as it had when it went. 

And it’s no different tonight, after a fight. Adamantium in his hands trembles, quakes with every beat of his pulse. Cold, itching with a sensation that only means one thing— air. Oxygen. Oxygen that fuels rage, that feeds the fire of release that’s a blazing furnace almost carved into the length of his spine. Bones, their marrow, they want air — crave it like demons. Flogging his soul like Christ at the crucifixion, crucifying him to the never-ending torment of holding it all together. Of balancing the line of monster and man, mortal and mutant. Ravages his will, rapes him of innocence, even in his youth. Even as a boy, even as James— he’d never had innocence. What even was purity to a man born to die but forced to live? 

He’d always been this, this h eld-together-with-threadbare-stitches-of-his-own-resolve carcass aching to die. Searching to live.

And it takes will, to live. Will of the ages, hills. Steadfastness of mountains to maintain the barrier between resolution and absolution. To not let go —to deny the impulses that scream through his blood like phantoms. Even the very stones beneath his feet cry out for his blood, for justice. Justice that had been lost through time, as others pass away. As he lives. His sins fade with those in graveclothes, but they haunt him like shadows. Peaceless life, ravaged. An ever-present war that carousels about his psyche. 

Don’t let go, Logan—don’t let them see you. Light a cigar. Suck in some brandy. Drown out the memories, the tombstones of everything he’s ever felt in his life rising up from buried graves and nameless mantras. It’s not for you, it’s for them. Never for you, always for them—

“—hey, you. Yeah, you— Mutton Chops. Yeah. It’s Wolverine, right?” 

He would chuckle if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Mutton Chops? 

Fingers scratch through the longer hairs, the corner of his mouth teases up with an amused smirk. Figures, they are a little dated. But, he enjoys them—he likes the way looks, always had. Cut a fine figure, and if he didn’t let himself know it, the women did. Been mooning over him since God knew . If he didn’t hate the attention, if he didn’t hate being seen; mingling with the echelon of the common man—-he could have any tit and skirt he wanted, most places. A few years of fucking anything that walked had lost its charm swiftly, and with gusto. 

Logan had learned early that he needed very few things in life to live, to survive. Living demanded the basic essentials, and a man isn’t truly a man unless he makes his own way. Women, well—girls were a luxury . Rubies and emeralds among the silver and golds of the everyday. High prices. Precious things in the eyes of God and the male sex, to be worshiped. Certainly so, can’t argue with the Twains and Shakespeares, the Psalmists of the ages—but they weren’t necessary. Not to survive. Little delicacies to make the journey tolerable, but not necessary. Privileges never were.  

“Wolverine—I’m talkin ’ to you!” 

But the alias is familiar, but the voice isn’t. Logan tosses back the bite of brandy that burns all the way down, snaps his attention from the bottom of the shot glass to the guy coming up behind him. Feet heavy, he’s at least six-two, two-fifty at a glance guess. Beer gut and a bald dome, some redheaded tart from across the bar reaching to pull him back. May as well be Vegas neon. Trouble—double order, by the looks of it. 

Shoulda been my middle name, “In some circles,” warmth skates into his blood, pulling at the attitude simmering at the edges of his resolve, “who’s askin’?” Fixing the edge of his shirt around the waist of his jeans, Logan ignores the instinctual twinge of pain that ricochets between his knuckles. One slip of his self control and there’s hell to pay—bloody, tastes-like-cold-steel hell.

Instead, his arms find the smooth bartop, glass hitting the bar with a crack. Logan pushes it away knuckles first, fingers tapping for another round. The bartender, he knows her as Sue—an aging sixties belle, witchy hair that’s perpetually pinned up in a clip—breezes by and snatches it away, promising him another with a hoarse, been-smoking-for-four-decades rasp. In seconds and the dark liquid spills into the shot glass, crystalline and pretty. 

Logan waves her come with two fingers, easing a little deeper into his usual barstool—the barstool he’s been parked in for eight months. Rolls a shoulder. A delicious little burn of healing muscle, dissipating bruises. Common place after a fight in the cage—there’s not enough curiosity in the eyes that are watching him. And he’s counting the paces of Big Boy coming up behind him, can feel the man’s anger from here. Tangible and inbred, like he’s been sucking the tit of pissed off since toddlerhood. 

The man’s huge hand is on his shoulder, jerking him back enough that it makes the barstool swivel. Logan’s spine snaps with alarm, with the initial gut punch of response. And he’s surprised with himself for a few heartbeats, that he’s chosen to shrug off the man’s arm instead of separate it from his body. A low, rumbling thunder of a growl simmering in his chest is almost animal, and he narrows a glare at the stranger. 

Sweating like a stuck pig, the man’s face is red as a beet. He’s a blush from either absolutely going batshit or having a coronary—Logan isn’t sure which he’d prefer. “I lost four hundred bucks because of you, Wolverine,” the name leaves his mouth with hacking spit, on the crescendo of a trail of spit that hits the floor at Logan’s feet in a wet plop . 

And for a second Logan expected Shit-For-Brain’s to continue, but he just stands there, sucking air.

“Tough luck,” Logan’s brows pop tall before furrowing into a hard line, irritation snapping  his tone like a fractured bone. Palming the pocket of his leather jacket taking up space on the barstool next to him, he manages a cigar from the pocket, with the God-knew-how-old Zippo. His favorite, he’d had it since—well. He didn’t keep track of trinkets. “Long odds, I guess.”

“The fuck you say?” 

He sighs. Deeply. Almost from the depths of his patience God has bestowed. “Anythin’ I can say that’ll make you vanish, bub?” Beer Belly doesn’t even flinch, except the hinge of his jaw snaps open. It could almost sway in the wind. Another sigh, “Take my word for it. Cut your losses and get Little Miss Strawberry Tart outta here—maybe she’ll cut you a deal on the way out.” 

In a matter of seconds the guy’s face drops into a gape only a choking fish could probably manage, and he really isn’t that far removed with all his sticky sweat making him look like a drowned, overfat bass. He stops sucking air like an emphysemic, maybe too stupefied to remember how. Logan’s fingers flick the flint of the lighter, cigar between his teeth as it bobs into the flame. Almost immediately, the thick curl of smoke stings his nose—chases the brandy in his throat, something magnificent . Fucking delicious. 

Small mercies, God bless them. Breathing in a wave of the thick, hot tobacco, it settles in the mesh of his lungs in a way that would probably kill lesser men—men who couldn’t die, anyway. He could fucking orgasm with how good this smoke burns, bleeding into his blood like good poison, and the exhale he gives may as well whip fifty pounds off the back of his shoulder. His head kicks back, brow furrowing as it cants to the side, taking in the craft of the ceiling. Brass tile— pricy . Riz didn’t strike him as a man with taste, but, stranger things. Interesting. 

In a flesh of fat and hairless dome, the man’s fist is curled around the collar of Logan’s shirt—he plucks him off the stool as if he weren’t anything more than a sack of meat. Surprise drops his cigar to the floor at his feet, the toes of his boots scuffing boards—and one glance to the man’s flexed arm reveals it’s absolutely straining for Beer Belly to suspend his bodyweight in the open. The vein in his temple throbs, cheeks almost purple as he splutters for air. Spit flies. Mingles in Logan’s beard. 

Revolting, but, give it a few seconds and—-

His boots find the floor heartbeats later, unphased. Logan’s turn, and it gives him great pleasure backhanding the man with his knuckles. Turning his head, saliva flying in trails of thick spit that hit somewhere he couldn’t care less about. Drive him half a step back, bring him back with his fist in tubby’s shirt—and mutant strength makes him weigh next to nothing. A little weight there, but nothing much—Logan could separate his spine from the rest of him without hesitation, thinking. Would be as easy as fileting a fat trout. 

The burn in his muscles feels magical.  And in three, two, one—he releases. Blood springs from between his knuckles, dribbling to the floor in fat drops. Scarlet stains adamantium, pearling along blades that all but sparkle in the perfect-low of pub lights. The burst of adrenaline immediately ravages the burn of pain, his bones all but ringing, chanting jubilation. And it feels so good, sometimes—so good to not have to hold back, to embrace the pain of living . 

Milkwhite, the man’s eyes haven’t unwelded from the blades dripping with Logan’s blood as they hover a breath from the fat flesh of his double-chin. Logan can see his life flashing through his eyes, like a film reel—every man’s always does in the face of death, his face. He’s shaking, Logan’s muscle absorbs every earthquake that pulses through the man’s frame. Shakes more than most—and that says more than it would, to many. Coward’s heart. Shriveled and died before they even got a chance to respond, he’d seen it before. Always took the easy way out. Talked big, acted small. His date would have better luck with an idiot savant than a coward, if Beer Belly here wasn’t a two-for-one. 

King Solomon had it right. Nothing new under the sun. 

“Told you to cut your losses,” it’s a snarl. Gravelled and aged, like every time before. Less human than monster, but he likes the fear—the respect —floating up to the man’s eyes from his soul. Logan releases him roughly, sending him foot over foot towards his date, across the floor. “Take her home before you regret somethin’ else.” 

Strawberry redhead is at his side, looking him over before she turns to consider Logan. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-something, too young to be running with a greaseball nobody with male pattern baldness and a Viagra problem. But tears run freely down her face all the same, as if she cares— and she probably does, because that’s the way of things. People care. It’s a human trait.  

All Logan can see is her enchantment with him. She isn’t afraid. While her date may have a coward’s heart, she certainly doesn’t—no common sense, a dense head, sure. But no fear. Funny how that works.

He’d smile if he wasn’t so pissed off, tired. And she doesn’t look him in the eye—her gaze is rooted on his hand, now at his side. His blood hanging out on the floor.  She blinks, only looks up at his face when the adamantium on display disappears between his fingers, sliding home in a way that echoes throughout his entire frame. Evidence of them begins to disappear as his flesh works to hide away familiar wounds, correct old sins. 

Her mouth, too, gapes like a fish. Nothing new. “You’re….you’re— wow, you’re a—” 

“—nobody you should care about, kid.” And that’s the long and short truth of it. 

Logan watches her help—he’s discovered his name is Harold—stand to his full height. Helps him sulk into a corner chair like a whipped puppy, and even from here, the purple on his jaw is already dark. Probably broken, but there’s little to do about it. 

Brushing off his arm, Logan lifted his other hand to examine it—pearls of blood. Still fresh on his skin. Evidence of their birth long since healed, he stretched his fingers before his thumb rubs between each knuckle, feeling. As if he’s never felt them before—because every time, the pain feels like it’s genesis. The beginning, new. A thrill unlike any other, in a sadistic kind of way that gives him life. Hope—that he’s still feeling. 

Turning to retrieve his cigar smoldering on the floor, Logan replaces it in the corner of his mouth. Takes another full breath, sinks low onto the barstool. The sting in his hands has almost entirely dissipated into tingling numbness, and that’s good—Sue knocks his drink to a stop in front of him. Shakes her head as her eyes landscape him up and down, like they’re digging his grave. She isn’t mad, he knows that—Sue has seen him rough up more than one Tom, Dick, Harry in this place. It’s like the revolving sun—they come in. Fight the cage. They lose, get pissed, and he knocks them on their ass. Simple science, really. 

Less dangerous and more dangerous all at the same damn time. 

“Feel better?” Thin, vein-tracked arms fold in front of her gravity-inspired chest. Heavy laden with turquoise and other painted stones, she’s the picturesque woman of her age—all gypsy, little else. If they’d be deep south in States, Sue could be confused for a bayou witch. And, thinking about her stirring a little pot of potions and cackling on to swamp creatures would be something else entirely. 

He chuckles, the mental picture amusing. Leaning forward a little on his arms, his brow peaks up a little. “Now there’s a question if I ever heard one,” his lips purse into a slow smile before he sits back, scratches his fingers through his sideburns— mutton chops, poor Harold had called them. “What do you think?”  

A lesser man wouldn’t hear it, but that bottom hinge on the front door howls something terrible in the rain. Signaling another interloper in their midst, Sue’s eyes flick past him to consider the body. It lasts a heartbeat, maybe the flow of blood, before her gaze is back to him—obviously no threat. Except, her arthritic hands reaching for a towel moves her a little closer, and she nods towards the door. 

“I think you’d better behave yourself,” she gestures with her chin towards the door, “new blood walkin’ in, Logan honey.” Nodding his understanding, he drags again at his cigar, then turns his head over his shoulder to eyeball the new body—- “Never seen her before. States girl, if I ever saw one,” Sue’s tongue clicks in the pocket of her cheek, “Poor thing’s wet as a drowned lizard. What she do, park half a mile away?” 

Drowned lizard? “Anyone ever told you you’re somethin’ else, Sue?” 

“Plenty—but don’t ask, Logan. Some things stay dead when you bury ‘em.” Her wink makes him snort, as if it’s something to joke about—and it is, really. To a man who flirts with death and defies it at every turn, nothing really surprises him anymore. The grave is little more than a calling card, and Sue knows that. Riz knows that. Everyone here knows this, but, chooses instead to look the other way—see him for what he is. 

Sue’s crooking a come finger at new blood before she’s even fully parted ways with him. “Hiya, honey. C’mere, sit down—we don’t bite.” Logan raises a Really? brow at her before Sue waves him off with a flapping hand. It takes everything he has not to smile at the old woman, but instead, he swivels a little. Back to the newcomer, who’s dropping into the corner barstool, well away from him and into the shadows. 

“Speak for yourself,” 

Sue whirls on him and tosses the towel she’s been keeping bar with at his face. Batting it away, he downs the brandy. “Oh, hush up!” Her chin gestures across the bar, to the cage—veiled in shadows, it’s little more than a knick knack without its lights, screaming crowds and humming jukebox that gathers every night at ten. Money changing, saliva flying—it sleeps like a tired beast until he rings the dinner bell.  “Well, most of us don’t bite—what’ll you have, darlin’?.” 

 If that wasn’t truth, well—Logan wasn’t sure what was. 

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[werdlewrites]

ł ฿Ɇ₵Ø₥Ɇ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ - ₱₳Ɽ₮ ₮₩Ø

masterlist - ao3 - twitter @ djomamma

summary: “Don't you got someone waitin’ for you?” The question leaves an odd taste on his tongue. It's bitter and foul–nothing sweet like her. He's almost begging for her to run out the door and into her lover's arms, just to save him the trouble and give his mind some rest in the night instead of wondering. warnings: alcohol, smoking, anaphylaxis, talks about grief and death wc: 3,671

Previous - Next

Life changes once darkness takes hold. The unstoppable force–the devil just over your shoulder wherever you go. No matter how far you run to hide from it. A reminder of what you've lost and what you'll continue to lose. Even if it's yourself. No matter if the loss digs so deeply that you'll never be whole again–or if you're staring down the clock of your own mortality. Nothing is as it was before Death.

She wonders where she would be now without it. Would she still be inside that little cabin on the hill? Nails coated with dirt and a heart never knowing someone else's love–other than her mother. Would she have known any differently if her mother hadn't become ill? The life that radiated and boomed within such a busy city. The windchimes, once a lullaby, are now replaced by the sounds of sirens. It’s frighteningly loud compared to the quiet of a far-off field. She makes peace with it for the sake of simple company. For the sake of a single voice to fill her space, rather than the emptiness her mother leaves behind.

Would she ever gain the guidance needed to survive what her eyes witnessed? The lingering souls of long-departed strangers as they roamed the earth. Unfinished business leaves them trapped until closure sets in or locked in repeated loops of time with an unsettled heart. Death stands at the girl's side, easing the pain of witnessing so much loss among the living. Unseen by all except for her.

Would she have gained a friend? A girl roughly her age giving up on the idea of finding another soul to share her space. Hoping to lessen the grief of money until Dawn shows up on her doorstep. “What?” She practically spits once the cigarette is pulled from between her painted lips. Dawn is so nervous that she forgets to speak. The paper crumbles in her fingers as she fights for the right words. 

“If you’re sellin’, I’m not buyin’.” Another long drag is taken, held tight in her lungs as she waves down the street to another building. “Don’t ask them. They’ll rob you blind. Buncha hagglers.” She warns. And within seconds, the door begins to shut in Dawn's face.

“Wait!” She cries out–a sudden rush of bravery that leaves the stranger stalled on the other side of the door. “Y-you’re looking for a roommate?”

The woman she would come to know as Charlotte narrows her eyes. “I-I was. How’d you know about that?”

Without hesitation, she offers up the newspaper clipping. An ad was put out for the public in case they were looking for a place to call home. All she ever found were perverts or untrusting women, ready to take all she had of value–which wasn’t much. Charlotte takes the tiny paper, and a smirk is seen on her face as she reads over the damaged print. “This is from months ago. How’d you-?”

“I found a newspaper in the trash,” Dawn states without thought. Thinking nothing of the action or the stares she received while elbow-deep in the bin.

Charlotte invites her in for coffee that day, and Dawn never leaves. They laugh through the brief interview, and it's an easy choice to welcome the girl under her roof. It had been years since she first stepped into that empty bedroom–now decorated with what a low salary could afford. 

Would she have ever met him?

The man with dark hair and a brooding atmosphere around him. An unseen barrier to keep all at bay–including the women who longed for company. They come and they go, and he seems mostly uninterested with his mind elsewhere. His replies are dull and douse the flames of any hope, leaving him by his lonesome at the bar each night. She sees him–but she's unsure if he sees her. Just a stranger too busy drowning his demons so he could survive another day–another second. 

She's lost track of how often he appears. Some nights he's long gone from her infrequent visits. Other times, he is miraculously there each night she makes her way through the front doors. Dawn's lived here for years now–her name comes easily to the bartenders as they smile and welcome her. A drink was already prepped and slid in her direction as she sat at the bar. Following the pattern they’ve built over time. 

“Happy birthday, kid.” Barry greets. His gentle smile was hidden away beneath a thick and aged mustache. His beard was untamed through the long and stressful hours of a rush, his fingers pulling anxiously. “It’s on the house.”

She gawks–jaw slacked with the quirk of a smile. “Really?”

The older man shrugs as he grabs a freshly cleaned glass, cloth wiping along the damp edges. “Call it a birthday gift.”

Dawn smiles and says her thanks, tipping the glass in his direction before he moves on with his shift. Some nights he stays to chat–barking orders in between the kindness he gives her. But with the business only half decorated for the holiday and the flow of traffic neverending, he’s needed elsewhere. She’s simply left to enjoy the comedown of a hectic day, oblivious to the early drunks and rambunctious conversations at her back as they challenge friends and strangers over card games and darts. Peace once looked like a quiet night by the fire–but as the years passed, she favored the noise.

It kept her mind busy.

“Celebratin’ alone?”

She doesn’t anticipate his voice–let alone to be looking in her direction, lips just hardly touching the glass filled with whiskey. Her face is warm–damn near scalding from his attention. For a moment she considers if he was speaking to another, but dark eyes peer just above the tilted glass, studying the lonesome woman with all intentions buried and impossible to read. Maybe the man had finally grown tired of the silence he was drowning in.

“N-no. I’m–well, it’s technically tomorrow.” She averts her gaze. The intimidation of his presence is dizzying, and she forces herself to focus on the chill of the glass in her hand, twirling it back and forth. “This is my ‘I’m stressed’ drink.” She ends with a laugh, risking a glance his way to see a lazy, crooked grin. 

He huffs out a laugh before the glass connects with his lips. The amber drink vanishes in one gulp. His tongue smacks against the roof of his mouth, sighing in questionable relief or bliss of the burn. “I’m familiar with those.” The empty glass sits small in his hand–extended outward in a silent plea for another round. Barry no longer hesitates in filling it, having spent many nights watching him stroll out into the night without swaying or stumbling. “I have a high tolerance,” he would claim, and prove it each time.

He speaks again, but his voice is lost in the excitement surrounding them. She’s not even entirely sure it was him, but the glass lowers with haste and spares a look his way, only to find him still locked on her. “D’you say something?”

His brow quirks in amusement. “I asked what had you so worked up.”

Hot air blows past her lips. The girl's mind scattered and raced as she relived her last few hours of work–and if she should confess it all to a total stranger. She was teaching class–boys and girls at their designated stations with bowls and ingredients, mixing and crushing. Combining everything into something delectable–something they could be proud of and eventually make on their own. 

A young girl takes a bite of her small cheesecake, immediately overwhelmed by the flavor and praise from her teacher, Dawn. But as the seconds tick on, her skin begins to flush. She complains about an odd itch on her tongue, and before anything else is said, Dawn takes the girl by the hand to whisk her down the hall to the nurse's office. The young girl is treated and her parents are called, while the teacher paces back and forth with a flickering focus as she searches for Death to show its face.

“Not this one,” she whispers on repeat. 

Maybe Death had heard her plea and chose grace–or maybe Fate had sewn together a long thread for the child. Expanding out into the universe until she grows old and weak. The girl is given epinephrine and carted to the hospital for overnight observation, but holds great promise for simply walking out by morning as if nothing happened. Despite her recovery, Dawn feels burdened by the guilt, all because of a Goddamn unlisted egg allergy.

“I failed,” is all that escapes her. The tone now shifted from something so lighthearted to something aching and painful. She feels the fist of disappointment clench around her heart, squeezing until it nearly ruptures. It brings a fresh wave of tears to just barely reach the surface before being wiped away. She’s already shed her sorrows once class had finished and on the drive home. It left her second-guessing if all she had worked for–all the trust she had earned–was for nothing. 

The stranger doesn’t seem to notice her sadness in the moment. By the time she looks back his way, he seems equally lost to wandering thoughts. Moving through his own journey that led him to where he was now. Demons were not left behind but instead clawed up his back to force a memory he wanted to forget. “Been there before.”

Dawn knows she should leave it. She should take this moment as a victory. The lone wolf finally peered outside of the shadows and into the light, and to simply leave it be. Corner an animal or push it beyond its breaking point, and you’ll only find the end of its claws dug through your skin and its teeth clamped around your throat. But she sees an opening–one that he’s carved out for her, and she takes the bait, entranced by the mysterious man who’s finally spoken more than six words.

“What about you?” She questions.

“What about me?” His tone is difficult to read–his expression even harder as his gaze lowers to hide in the shadows. 

She shrugs. A look of pure confusion and curiosity is written across her face as she leans in a little closer, folded arms stretched out across the space next to her. “What’s got you so worked up? Out here, drinkin’ by yourself?”

He meets her gaze again, though it’s faulty. Attention flickering between her and the cigar he pulls from a leather case just next to him on the counter. He lights it effortlessly–the flick of the lighter happening so fast, she barely notices until smoke is spilling from parted lips. “Who said I’m alone?”

Dawn reacts without thought–quick in response as she pulls back, swiveling in the stool to fully survey the busy bar and the idiots that cheered over their silly games. Her lips purse and her nose crinkles in dissatisfaction. Beer spills down their flannels and into their mud-covered jeans, eyes filled with the madness of intoxication. “Which one’s yours? I gotta be honest; you seem like a guy with better taste.”

It’s all fun and games–and he catches on quick. By the time she glances back his way, he’s smirking again but says nothing in return. “I mean, no offense.”

He snorts–a refreshing sound, and the sight of his laugh lines gives a certain spark of warmth in her chest. The tall walls he built were breaking down before her very eyes, crumbling to dust in the space between them. “I'm just tryin’ t'find my way.”

There’s an eruption of noise off in the distance. Broken glass scattered along the ground as two men meet with faces red and veins protruding from scarred skin. Some unheard arguments between the pair finally come to a head. But before they can exchange blows, security stands between them and escorts them out with fists locked around their shirt collars. He nearly dusts his hands of the problem once they are gone from his sight.

“You’re sure one of them isn’t yours?” She questions. His toothy grin is vibrant as he takes another long drag of the cigar. Maybe it’s stupid–maybe she’ll live to regret it, but she closes the distance between them; both now sat just at the corner of the bar. “I’m Dawn,” she greets with a timid smile. Half expecting him to slap money on the counter and bid herself and Barry a goodnight. No more pleasantries and forced conversations as the wolf retreats into the night.

To her surprise, he stays, though seems uncertain. She can see the flex of his fingers as they briefly tighten around the glass and the curious raise of his brow. A silent conversation brewing within himself. He releases his drink all too quickly, reaching far down to his right for an abandoned bowl of pretzels, sliding it between their places. “Logan.”

They laugh and drink together. Sharing stories–or rather, she seemed to be sharing stories. Dawn would ask a question to better understand this man named by her side, and he seemed to have some gift of twisting it around to know her instead. He learned she was a teacher, and she managed to squeeze out that he was a freelancer. Anything to make a buck while he looks for a safe place to land. 

“I'm working construction right now,” he confesses in a cloud of smoke, dark eyes on her as she downs the last remnants of her drink. Maybe his gaze lingered a little too long as the tequila and orange juice dripped down her chin. The lick of her lips and the quick swipe of fingers along her skin.

“D'you like it?”

Logan is suddenly embarrassed–ashamed? Caught like a child, red-handed as he studies every delicate feature. The shape of her cupid's bow and the slight indentations of dimples, growing deeper whenever she smiled. He shakes himself out of the daze, leaning forward on folded arms. “The construction? Or working for hire?”

She hums in debate. Her body visibly tilting back and forth in thought before answering, “Both.”

Another stale pretzel, and he answers with a shrug. “It’s good for now. There’s no shortage of busy work, so I don’t think I’ll get bored too soon.” His eyes are wandering at the sudden realization the crowd has somewhat changed, replaced by a more rowdy group–and she doesn’t seem to notice.

But he does, and maybe it's stupid to worry about a girl who's lived here for far longer than him–but he still tries to make her aware of the passing time. “Don't you got someone waitin’ for you?” The question leaves an odd taste on his tongue. It's bitter and foul–nothing sweet like her. He's almost begging for her to run out the door and into her lover's arms, just to save him the trouble and give his mind some rest in the night instead of wondering.

But her face twists up in disgust, laughing almost too loudly, and Logan feels himself deflating from relief in the stool. “No,” she scoffs–but the realization tastes unfavorable for her, too. Thinking back to just how long it’s been since she’s even held someone's hand. “No, I–there's no one. Just my roommate, but she works late.”

“Roomies, huh?”

“Yeah, why? Lookin’ for a place t’crash?”

He smirks against the glass, mumbling a “no” in reply as he envisions nothing but trouble and awkward conversations. Even questionable looks and rumors between neighbors as he moves beyond the threshold.

The girl doesn’t take the rejection to heart, still wearing a kind smile that is quickly pried apart by a sudden yawn. It’s embarrassing, and she knows she’s been caught with her hand raised to conceal it. His brow is raised–amused as he taps the ash away into the nearby tray. “Didn’t mean t’bore you, sweetheart.”

Dawn’s eyes widen at the sudden nickname, her heart pounding as the name sinks in like an anchor in her unsteady waters. Some form of stability as the winds carry waves high into the clouds. Her face is flush, and her fingers are tight around her forearm to remain focused. Nearly getting lost in all of the excitement. “I’m not bored.” She defends. “You try waking up at 6 AM t’take care of kids all day.”

He eyes her carefully, thinking of that certain sparkle of pride seen in her eye when she mentioned working at a school. There was clear passion in it–a love that couldn’t be described. Yet, there’s a twist of frustration in her tone. “Thought you liked it?”

“I do! It–it’s just-”

The young girl’s look of fear fills her vision. Splotchy red skin spreads like a virus as her lips swell up in seconds. If she had waited any longer, her throat would have tightened, and that color would transition to purple and blue as she gasped for air on the floor, in Dawn’s arms. It would have been her fault.

Her fault.

Death meets her when the school bell rings. They stand out in the cleared hallways with the face of someone unknown. A woman–though all Dawn can see is the flickering creature using her as a puppet to make nice with any strangers to pass by. It’s a frightening sight at first. Dawn takes a step back with a hand clutched to her chest, her other arm guarding the door. A protective instinct, despite the room now being empty. 

“Jesus Christ,” she gasps, and with a subtle smile from the well-dressed woman, her shoulders relax, and she pulls at her bag a little tighter. “You couldn't have knocked, or something? Any warning at all.” Dawn moves without hesitation, knowing the space just at her side would fill with the Being that always crept in her shadow. 

“ɎØɄ'ⱤɆ ₦Ø₮ ₩ɆⱠⱠ.” It states in her mimicked voice. Eyes warm and welcoming–a complete contrast to the void of brilliance. The enchanting halo of light you follow into the afterlife. “ł₴ ł₮ ฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₲łⱤⱠ?”

Dawn nearly laughs–just nearly. Her lip twisted up into a scowl with a huff passing through anxiously bitten lips. “I thought you were going t’take her.”

“฿Ʉ₮ ł ĐłĐ₦'₮.” Death states plainly, reaching for the girl's elbow to halt their barely begun journey toward the exit. Their expression is unchanged at the sight of glistening eyes–reliving the fear and what could have been and what eventually will be. “ł₴ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₦Ø₮ Ɇ₦ØɄ₲Ⱨ?”

It was never enough. 

Dawn had put her trust in this Creature–her guidance through the horrors she had been forced to witness at such a young age. A mentor as she bends the darkness she once could not control. Taking a lost girl in a big world and giving her a purpose as the right hand of Death–a master of the undead.

But trust couldn't douse the fear of love and loss. To grow with someone and learn every flaw and gift, only to watch their soul stripped by the very thing that took such a fragile girl beneath its wing, and it was unstoppable. There was no malice or guilt–Death simply acted on what it was made to do. Granting peace to those suffering.

She sees this man as another heartache–whether by his hand or not. Another loss among the friends she gained she would have to tread through if Death didn't take her first. “It can just be tiring.” She continues with a weak smile. “Everyone has a limit, right?”

The man takes another hit, his focus unwavering and all too intimidating. “S'pose they do.”

“And right now…my limit is one Tequila Sunrise. Charlotte is going t'be a force t’be reckoned with by morning.” Regrettably, she’s easing herself away. Stepping down from the stool, though, in his direction to give him a final opportunity to stop her. Yet he doesn’t.

“Your roommate? Not even going t'let you sleep in on your birthday?”

She takes her time. Sliding her coat on with care, just to spare another second before reaching for her heavy book bag, filled to the brim with notes for class and little projects she’s constructed for the children. “It's Halloween. There's lots t'do.” 

Dawn begins to teeter in place–chewing at her lip as the reluctance to leave builds. It’s stupid to be so worried; she may never see him again. He’s still only a stranger and intends to keep it that way by how much he keeps to himself. Yet it doesn’t keep her from grabbing at a napkin and an abandoned pen for tipping and scribles down the address for him. “We’re having a party.” 

The paper is slid in his direction. Brown eyes follow its movements until it’s trapped beneath a single finger, pulling it in closer for inspection. He says nothing, but the smirk around the cigar is telling, along with the raise of a brow. He’s interested–or amused at least that she would be so bold. The napkin is folded up and tucked away into his pocket.

“Please don’t be a serial killer.” Dawn teases. Her knees are weak, legs reluctantly pulling away from the mysterious man who refuses to break eye contact with her. Maybe just to get one last look–not knowing if he'll see her again, despite the invite. “Goodnight, Mr. Logan.”

Finally, he breaks. Head dipped low just to hide a childlike grin as he spares a small wave in return. His fingers hardly lifted from the countertop, keeping it casual regardless of wishing she would change her mind and stay. But is that truly what he wanted? Needed? Another girl to confuse and break on his path of self-discovery, forgetting her name the moment he’s gone from the shared bed by morning.

Her name seems to stick like candy. Sweet with something sour–something to leave him wanting another taste, mouth-watering. Goosebumps of desire race along too-hot-to-touch skin as he speaks it again–just once more. “Happy Birthday, Ms. Dawn.

That was how it all began, but far from where it ended.

[come-along-pond]

SUNSHINE. Chapters 8| liberty. part two

update banner by @juliaswickcrs <3

summary: Samantha Claremont is a mutant, an empath, and a member of the X-Men. She feels useless, unable to hold her own in a physical fight, or even leave the X Mansion. Her psyche is weighed down, overwhelmed by what those around her feel, her own feelings getting muted and becoming numb. When she meets Logan, ‘The Wolverine’, she wants to feel something. She wants to love him.

warnings: canon typical language, violence and themes, implied self-harm.

AO3 | Wattpad | Quotev

When they can no longer see Logan, Sam lets a tear slip, looking up at the torch where Rouge was. She needed to reach her, to let her know she wasn’t alone, that they came for her.

If Rouge died, Sam wouldn’t let her be scared.

She reaches out again.

taglist:  @arrthurpendragon @bravelittleflower @ginger-grimm @dancingsunflowers-ocs @foxesandmagic @shrinkthisviolet @wordspin-shares @oneirataxia-girl

Send an ask/message if you wish to be added or removed!

[nocturnalcharm]

omg, need to write a logan fic with one of theseeee. send me a req (-ε- )

-:“You’re so oblivious to my feelings and I can’t stand it anymore” Oblivious x Pining prompts:-

(OK BUT THE LAST ONE????????TAG MEEEEEE IF YOU WRITE IT FUCKKKKK)

By @me-writes-prompts

Dropping subtle hints such as lingering touches and a bit too long of an eye contact, but the one doesn't seem to notice it at all.

Person C asking Person A if they are in love with Person B, but Person A having to deny because they aren't ready to face their feelings for them just yet.

"What the hell was back there?" "What?" "Why were you glaring at my date like you wanted to murder them?" "No, I wasn't." "Do not try to deny it, you clearly were." "...I-" "Why?" "No reason."

"You like them, don't you?" "I-...no. Possibly. Maybe. Fine, yes." "Hmm, why don't you tell them?" "I can't, I don't want to ruin what we have for what I wish to have. They wouldn't. They could never like me back like that."

"I wish you knew just how much I liked you, you idiot." They think as they console their friend who has gone through yet another break up.

"I...I'm not worth of their admiration, their love. They don't like me back, [name]." "I'm sure someone out their loves you, admires you, and wants to be with you. You are worth everything and do not let anyone else tell you otherwise." "Do you really think there is a person out there who would like me for who I am?" "Yes. They could be anywhere and everywhere. They could be in front of you. You just have to see them. Feel their love and devotion."

Person A and B going out to an amusement with the same matching outfit, and people keep asking if they are a couple to which Person A denies and says they are "just friends". Person B can't it, and decide to leave them.

^^"Why did you leave me like that back there?" "Because." "Because, what?" "Because, your dumbass can't figure out how much it hurts me when you say that we're "just friends." "Why...why would you be hurting?" "Because I like you! I have feelings for you, and you won't stop stomping on them." "Oh, I..."

"What was that idiot doing back there? Flirting with you like the world was ending, tch." "Huh, and why would you care of all people? I mean, it's not like we're together, right? Because you said it, quote unquote that 'We would never be anything more than friends. We're just really close and make out sometimes as friends. Nothing more, of course." *TAKES DEEP BREATHS* (sad music from a broken radio suddenly plays in the background while they stare at each other)

[inkubadoramagica]

Looks like the Wolverine has nightmares, thank God Wade is there to comfort his babygirl.

[nocturnalcharm]

You’re My Slut (Wolverine x Fem!Reader Drabble)

𐙚 prompt: logan is a kinky bastard. 𐙚 cw: porn without plot, smut, name calling (slut, princess), spanking, orgasm denial, degradation 𐙚 a/n: thanks for the req! <33 not proofread soz for any mistakes

18+ blog!! you are responsible for your own media consumption. if any of the above makes you uncomfortable, do not proceed.

His thrusts into your body were unlike anything you’d felt before— so fast you couldn’t think straight; so brutish. His hips were unwavering.

“L-Lo— Please—” He already knew what you wanted.

“No. You’re not gonna cum for me till I tell you to. Got it, princess?” He growled in your ear.

You just groaned in response, unable to speak. You didn’t want him to stop, but if he didn’t, you were definitely going to cum soon…

He could tell how close you were, so he pulled out, and flipped you over on your stomach. He grabbed a pillow and slid it under you, propping you up so his cock could fuck you at just the right angle.

He forced his way back inside you, continuing his rapid pace, just like before.

“Lo—”

He slapped your ass so hard, a red handprint was certainly going to appear soon.

“Yeah, princess? That feel good? My cock fillin’ you up?”

“Mhm!” You moaned, and he spanked you again.

“Use your words.” His voice was gruff, full of arousal.

“S-so good! Feels so good, Lo!” You nearly screamed, not caring if anyone could hear you.

“Such a good slut for me, huh? Tell me you're my slut.” His raspy groans of pleasure sounded so good in your ears.

“I-I’m your slut.”

“Louder!” He demanded.

“I’m your slut, Lo!”

“Fuck. You’re close, huh princess? Cum for me.” He grasped your hips, pounding into you even more fervently than before, making you see stars.

After a few more seconds, you could feel your orgasm building up. Before you could speak, Logan said, “M’gonna cum, too.”

“Cum inside me, please! Need your cum.”

You feel his dick start to twitch as he fills you up, continuing to fuck you as he empties himself. Feeling is hot seed inside of you was enough to push you over the edge. You clawed at the bed while your orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck,” He pants breathlessly, “I love you.”

[tteotlma]

Missed Every Inch

Older Bf!Logan x Reader (3.2kw)

a/n: got this idea based off this post ^ bc i’ve been thinking a lot abt old man logan lately.. so enjoy 3k words of pure smut.

tw: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, overstimulation, rough sex, light degradation/teasing, power dynamics, breeding, kink/multiple orgasms, slightly aggressive behavior (e.g. tearing clothing), cockwarming, heavy on missionary, p in v, pw/op

—

Alternatively, older bf!logan doing the whole “fuck, I missed you” thing when he slides inside you after not being able to for a whole two weeks.

How he ever let that happen he doesn’t know, schedules became hectic, nights became short, and fourteen days later he’s as riled up as a bull seeing red — well not exactly but either way Logan is not about to let this continue any longer.

Sure the both of you had small moments here and there, like your shared morning showers, warm embraces and passionate kisses at the door before either of you left for the day, video calls during lunches that usually ended with Logan teasing you about giving him something to keep him going and you complying by quickly flashing the camera. Giggling shyly when Logan would let out a whistle. And all would be great until you hang up, or leave his sight and he remembers how long it’s been since he’s really felt your true warmth. God the more he thinks about it, the more he’s gonna blow his load right in his plaid pajama pants.

He paces back and forth shirtless in your shared bedroom. He’s been home alone for three hours now, and you messaged him thirty minutes ago saying you were on your way home meaning you should be walking through the front door any second.

He has one hand stroking his chin and the other hand low on his hip trying to decide if he should be nonchalant or just say to hell with it and jump you as soon as you walk in the door.

He hears the door to your shared apartment open, and he jumps out of his skin. He’s acting so out of character but — he’s really desperate. He says to hell with it and he swings open the bedroom door only to run right into you.

“Hi,” You look up at him, with a small smile.

Logan looks at you for a brief moment before he breaks and he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in and using the other hand to cradle the back of your head. He pulls you in for a heated kiss, the kind that ignites the heat in your chest that slowly spreads to the tips of your fingers.

You become pliant in his arms, letting your weight and balance rely solely on Logan as he continues to move his lips against yours. He pulls away for a second allowing you a chance to wrap your arms around his neck and pulling him in closer.

A long moan leaves your lips as he slowly drags his tongue along the inside of your mouth. He gives your tongue a slow and gentle suck before he pulls away.

“Hey baby,” He says, a smug look on his face. He wraps both arms around your waist, hands resting on the swell of your ass as he starts to walk the both of you back into the bedroom.

”What’s gotten into you?” You ask, as he begins to nose at your temple.

“I’m just glad you’re home now.” He says trailing kisses from your temple to your neck. Your hand snakes from around the back of his neck, and slowly trails down before stopping on his bare chest. Your palm catches the faint beating of Logan’s heart rapid, and pulsing.

“Did I make you wait long?” You ask, tilting your head back, a soft sigh leaves your lips as he places tender kisses along the sensitive parts of your neck.

He doesn’t say anything, instead he grabs your hand on his chest, and drags it further down, the heat radiating off his body practically scolding your hand. He brings your hand down his front all the way down to the bulge in his pants.

“You tell me.” He teases, pulling back to look down at you. With one hand still around his neck, keeping him close you take his dick in the other and fondle the man through the thin fabric of his pants.

“Aw,” You coo, “Did I make the poor baby wait too long.” You teased, the motions of your hand unrelenting. A shuddering breath leaves your boyfriend’s lips as his hips buck as much as he tries to hold back.

“Sorry sweetheart,” Logan hooks his hands below the curve of your ass and quickly lifts you off your feet. He swiftly spins you around and tosses you on the bed. “None of that tonight.” He says, grabbing your ankle and yanking you close as he climbs on the bed fitting himself between your thighs.

You let out a loud sigh as his heavy hands clench the clothed flesh of your thighs. His hands trail up to the belt loops of your jeans and he gives them a tug.

“Strip,” He orders. His hand sliding down the front of your legs, hiking your thighs on his hips as he goes to untie the drawstring around his waist. The pants slide down even further, exposing his adonis belt.

You swallow louder than you intended , and he chuckles lowly. You rid your upper half of any thing that could possibly stop the feel of your lover's calloused hands on your body. Logan rips the front of your pants open, tearing the seam and ripping the button off and across to who knows where.

“Oh, babe I really liked those.” You moan out softly, under any normal circumstance you would’ve been upset, but as Logan licks up your stomach as he’s pulling your pants down you figure the pants can come third. You lift your hips and yank the fabric off as Logan finally frees his poor aching cock from the prison that is his pajamas.

He sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth, and whether it was from pain or pleasure the look on his face was enough to make you cream right then and there. You began to squirm in anticipation, trying to press your thighs together but Logan puts heavy hands on your knees and pries them further apart.

You let him, face flushed and chest panting.

”That’s it babydoll, show me that pretty pussy, hmm?” He teases you, and your face burns bright with embarrassment. You grab his arm as he pulls you flush against his bare skin. His cock slides against your slick folds, and a whine escapes both your lips.

“Fuck.” He grits out as he gyrates his hips, watching in awe as your juices coat his pulsing dick. Your fingers squeeze tighter around his arm.

“Logan.” You breathe out, your hips rising to get more friction.

“Hold on baby, you gotta give me a minute.” He’s out of breath as his hands roam all over the meat of your legs. He hikes your left ankle over his right shoulder and he pulls away.

The both of you breathless, you prop yourself on your elbows and watch as Logan guides the tip of his cock at your entrance. He pauses, leans back on his haunches and looks down at you.

“What are you waiting for, big guy?” You lean in and grab his dick, giving it a few strokes.

“It’s been two weeks and I am not a minute man.” He huffs out, watching the movements of your hand.

”You never have been.” You whisper, guiding the tip inside. Logan shudders as he leans over your body once again. His arms caging you in as his chest heaves. Your ankle slides off his shoulder, as he slowly sinks his dick further into your tight hole.

“Oh yes,” You hum, feeling absolutely stretched. Reaching out to grab Logan’s face you bring him in for a sloppy kiss.

“That’s it baby, give it to me just like that.” You purred, fingers cradling his head, foreheads pressed together, breaths mixing as Logan pulled back slowly, snapping his hips forward.

“Fuck, I missed you.” He moans, and you swallow his words.

Logan's thrusts start slow, deliberate, dragging out each movement as if savoring the feel of you. Every inch of him feels like it’s filling you up completely, and you can’t help the needy whine that escapes your lips. He grunts softly in response, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Missed this too," you whisper between pants, your body rising to meet his rhythm. Each snap of his hips has you keening, your nails digging into his back, urging him for more. Logan’s pace starts to quicken, his control slipping as the tight heat of your body pulls him in deeper.

"Shit... you're so perfect," he groans, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His mouth trails along your neck, lips brushing over your skin, leaving wet kisses as his hands tighten their grip on your waist, anchoring you to him.

Your thighs tremble around him, your body arching in response as your hands move to grip the sheets. You’re close, so close, the coil in your belly tightening with every deep thrust.

"Logan... please, don't stop," you beg, your voice breathless and needy.

Logan’s breath hitches as you tighten around him, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. He’s right on the edge, but instead of pulling out, he leans over you, his lips brushing your ear. His hand grips your thigh, keeping you locked in place as he pushes back in, slowly, torturously deep.

You whimper, feeling him stretch you all over again, and he moans in response, the sound almost desperate. He pulls out just enough to thrust back in, the head of his cock dragging against that sweet spot that makes you see stars. The rhythm is slow but deliberate, his hips grinding into you with an intensity that has your body arching into him. Each time he pulls back, it’s only to push deeper than before, making you gasp and claw at his back.

"Logan... fuck," you moan, overwhelmed by the feeling of him filling you completely. He’s breathing hard against your neck, his body trembling with the effort to stay in control. But the way his cock moves inside you—deliberate, steady, dragging out the pleasure—makes it clear he’s savoring every second.

His need is palpable now, his body pressing against yours as if he can’t get close enough. "I’ve missed this... missed you so much," he mumbles, his voice hoarse as he picks up the pace just slightly. The sound of your skin meeting fills the room, the slick heat of your bodies moving in sync, every thrust hitting deeper, making you writhe beneath him.

You feel the tension in him, the way his muscles strain as he fights to hold back. But then his control starts to slip, his pace quickening, each thrust harder and faster, his hips snapping into you with a hunger that leaves you breathless. The coil in your belly tightens again, the pleasure building higher and higher, and you know he can feel it too.

"Fuck, you’re so tight," he groans, burying his face in your neck as his hips drive into you harder. His voice cracks with raw need, his movements becoming frantic. He’s so close, teetering on the edge, but instead of letting go, he keeps pushing you both further, refusing to pull out. "I’m not done with you yet," he gasps, his hands gripping your hips, keeping you in place as he thrusts deeper, hitting that perfect spot over and over.

Your body clenches around him, and you cry out, your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. Logan feels it, groaning as your walls flutter around him, and you think he’s going to come too, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slows just enough to keep himself in control, his hips rocking into you in a rhythm so slow and precise it makes your head spin. He pulls out slightly before pushing back in, bottoming out with every thrust, the sensation keeping you on the edge.

"God, I love you," he mumbles, his voice breaking as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips brush against your cheek, your temple, as he keeps up that slow, torturous pace. "I’m so obsessed with you... I need you, baby, I need this," he groans, his voice thick with emotion, as if the feeling of being inside you is overwhelming him.

You can feel him trembling, hear the soft, needy sounds he makes as he moves inside you, and it sends another wave of pleasure through your body. Your hands find his hair, tugging gently as you pull him closer, pressing your lips to his in a sloppy, desperate kiss. "I’m here... I’m yours," you whisper against his lips, your body still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm.

Logan’s thrusts slow even further, until he’s barely pulling out, just rocking into you gently. But every time his cock drags against that sweet spot inside, it sends a jolt of pleasure through you, leaving you trembling. It’s softer now, more intimate, but still just as intense. Your body is so sensitive, every touch, every movement feels like too much and not enough all at once.

His moans turn softer, more broken, and you can feel his control slipping as he edges closer to release. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice hoarse as he whispers, "I can’t stop... you feel so fucking good."

Logan feels you tighten around him with what he thinks is another orgasm, his thrusts becoming purposeful, and he groans deeply, his body shaking as his release crashes into him. His cock throbs inside you, and you feel the warm flood of him filling you up, but just as you expect him to pull out, he surprises you.

“Wait, baby… not yet,” he rasps, his voice rough with need. Before you can respond, his hips push forward again, grinding deep, his cock still hard inside you. The overstimulation sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, and you let out a sob, clutching meekly at him as he starts moving again, slow but firm. The sensation is overwhelming, but Logan’s grip on your hips tightens as if he can’t let go.

You cry, tears forming in your eyes, your body still trembling from your orgasm, but Logan keeps going, his breath ragged and desperate.

“Fuck, I need more,” he mumbles against your skin, his lips brushing over your neck as he starts to thrust again. His movements are a little rough, his need palpable, and you can feel him building up again, his body already close to another release.

He thrusts faster now, deeper, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, and you can’t help the way your body reacts.

“Oh, Logan~” you cry out, overwhelmed by the feeling of him filling you over and over, the slick sound of your bodies meeting echoing in the room.

He’s panting now, his breath hot against your skin, and you feel him tense up again. His hips slam into you one last time, and he groans deeply, spilling into you for the second time. But even then, he doesn’t stop.

“Oh god… not yet,” he whispers, almost like a plea, his cock twitching inside you as he keeps rocking his hips. His pace slows but doesn’t stop, the overstimulation almost too much to bear, but at the same time, it feels so damn good. His thrusts become shorter, his cock pulling out just enough before pushing back in, keeping him buried deep inside you.

Your body is on fire, sensitive and trembling as Logan chases yet another orgasm. His voice is low, needy, as he presses his forehead to yours, groaning softly.

“I can’t stop… I need to come again… fuck, you feel so good,” he mumbles, almost like he’s talking to himself, completely lost in the sensation of being inside you.

Your legs shake as he thrusts slowly, hitting deep inside you with every roll of his hips. You’re not sure how much more you can take, but the pleasure is overwhelming, and soon, the coil tightens in your belly again. “Logan, I’m gonna—” you cry out, your body tensing as another orgasm rips through you, this one so intense it leaves you seeing stars.

Logan moans with you, his hips snapping forward one last time as he comes again, filling you up even more. His body shakes, his breath heavy as he holds himself deep inside you, his hands gripping your waist tightly like he never wants to let go. You both stay there, trembling and panting, the room filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing.

Even after three orgasms, Logan’s still inside you, his cock softening but not pulling out. He’s so needy, so desperate to stay connected to you. His lips brush against your ear, his voice soft and broken. “I’m obsessed with you,” he whispers, his hips still moving just enough to keep him inside you.

He leans down to lazily kiss you, lips enveloping his. You stroke his hair, running your fingers through the damp strands as you hold him close, your body finally starting to relax. Logan’s breaths begin to even out, his thrusts slowing to a stop, but he stays buried inside, his body pressing down on yours in a protective, possessive way. His arms wrap around you, pulling you in tighter as he rests his forehead against your shoulder, completely spent.

“Still with me?” he mutters, his voice low and gruff in your ear, the heat of his breath sending a shiver through you.

“Barely,” you tease, your fingers still idly combing through his hair as you try to catch your breath.

Logan huffs a small laugh, pulling back just enough to look down at you. There’s a softness in his gaze, a mix of exhaustion and something deeper. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not ready to move yet.”

You smile, the weight of his body grounding you. “Not like I’m complaining.”

He dips down to kiss you again, slower this time, a quiet hum escaping his lips as he pulls you closer. His grip tightens, keeping you pressed together, like he’s savoring every last second of this. He grabs the extra duvet from under the pillows and wraps the blanket around your frames.

“Don’t go falling asleep on me,” he murmurs against your lips, but there’s no urgency in his voice. He’s just as close to passing out as you are.

“I won’t,” you whisper, though your body feels heavy, every muscle finally unwinding.

Eventually, you both roll over, Logan keeping you snug against him, still inside you as he wraps his arms around your waist. The room grows quieter, the sound of your breaths mingling as your heartbeats slow.

“Stay here,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper now, almost lost in the haze of sleep. His head rests against your chest, his body relaxing completely.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reply softly, pressing a kiss to his temple, your hand resting on his back. You can feel the last bit of tension leaving his body as he lets out a deep sigh.

Within moments, you both start to drift off, the warmth of his body against yours pulling you deeper into sleep, completely spent but content.

—

a/n: did i make logan too needy?

[jay-wasstuff]

-

Bonus: the old man (+insp)

[mlmxreader]

Ready | Logan Howlett x trans!m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hi!! I was wondering if you could write a Logan X male reader fic :) and if it's not your thing that's fine but if you could make the reader a trans guy that would be double cool.

Bottom reader with a desperate need for praise :) Thank you so much!! ❞

: ̗̀➛ You and Logan decide that you're both ready to have sex.

trigger warnings: ̗̀➛ swearing, Daddy Kink, anal fingering, anal sex, lubricant, choking kink, praise kink, dom/sub, smoking, mentions of alcohol consumption

↳ WOMEN & MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

↳ brief author's note: no explicit mention of reader's genitalia is made.

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

You and Logan spoke about it early on, wanting to take sex at a slower rate; you wanted to be ready for it, which he understood, and in all honesty was also glad to hear.

It had been a while since he had had actual feelings for anybody, and when sex was also thrown into the equation, he wanted to slow it down and put on the breaks. It wasn't like Logan minded that you were trans - you were a man, and that was all that mattered.

But what he didn't want to do was put you into a situation where you were uncomfortable or unsure about what was happening.

Still, sat together on your soft with your knee against his, he couldn't help but steal quick glances at you; it was just a date, but the sweat dripping down your neck was hard for him to ignore as he swallowed thickly and sucked in a harsh breath.

"Logan?" You hummed, putting your hand on his arm. "Everything alright?"

Logan shrugged as he shook his head. "Fine."

You frowned, doing the worst thing possible and moving to sit on his lap; you forced him to draw his attention to you as you planted your hands on either side of his head.

Sweaty palms clinging to the old brown leather and making it squeak. By instinct alone, he put his hands on the sides of your thighs. Your gaze went to his lips.

"You don't seem fine..."

He was breaking as he clenched his jaw, breath picking up pace as he grunted out softly. "I'm fine. Honest."

He couldn't resist, moving one hand up to cup your jaw as he leaned in to steal a kiss; you kissed back, adjusting yourself on his lap as you moaned softly.

You wanted him, you just weren't sure how to say it properly; even when he gently moved you to lie down on the sofa, looming over you as he kissed you harshly, you weren't sure how to say it.

"Baby?"

You hummed. "Yeah?"

"Somethin' you wanna tell me?" He asked lowly.

You nodded, working up the ability to say the words you wanted to. "I... Logan, I think I'm ready."

He nodded slowly, getting off of you so he could help you remove your shirt; he wriggled around a little, mouth hovering over your nipple as his hot breath brushed against the sensitive skin.

"Can I touch you here?" He asked.

You let out a breathless agreement, moaning softly when he took your nipple into his mouth and flicked his tongue against it; he moved onto the next shortly after, using his hand to keep it stimulated as you writhed and moaned beneath him.

He moved down, hooking his fingers at the edge of your waistband. "Can you flip over for me?"

You did as he said, pulling your knees up slightly. "Don't stop, Logan..."

"I won't," he promised softly. He pulled your trousers down, exposing your ass as he licked his lips and let out a shaky breath. "Can I touch?"

You agreed eagerly, gasping out and pushing back against him when he slipped two fingers into your tight ass; pumping them in and out slowly as he used his other hand to palm at his hard cock through the thin fabric of his shorts.

"Daddy-"

He paused for a split second. "Can you call me that again?"

You let out a low growl as you pushed back against nothing, needing friction and his touch more than anything. "Please, Daddy."

"Good boy," Logan grinned, rewarding you with a soft slap against your ass before he pushed his fingers back in. He moved them in a scissor motion for a moment, trying to open you up as much as he could. "Lube?"

You let out a frustrated grunt, feeling so fucking empty. "Top drawer by the mirror."

He was gone within an instant, leaving you wishing that you had grabbed it earlier and laid it out; you waited, taking the opportunity to get your breath as you waited.

Anticipation weighing heavily on your shoulders until you felt the sofa behind you dip down.

"You ready?" He asked lowly.

You looked back at him for a moment, and smiled. "I'm ready."

He didn't say anything, pushing his shorts down and lubing up his cock before doing the same to your ass; he started to massage it into you, drawing little moans from the back of your throat as you pushed back against him and tried to get fucking anything you possibly could. Wishing he would hurry up.

"You're doing so fucking well," Logan praised, getting himself lined up. "Think you're ready to take me?"

"More than ready," you agreed.

He pressed his tip against your ass, waiting for you to tell him to keep going before he pushed in to the hilt; he stilled, giving you time to decide to keep going as well as adjusting to his size. He was so fucking big, and you were so fucking tight. He waited.

"Fuck," you let out at last. "Fuck me."

"You sure?" He grumbled.

You let out a seethe. "Please."

He waited for you to push back against him and roll your hips before he leaned over you, his mouth just behind your ear as he bucked his hips into you, slowly at first.

"You're taking my cock so well," he praised quietly, more grunting than anything else. "Doing so fucking well already."

You squirmed, trying to get as much of him as you could, pressing your back against him as you gripped his wrist and brought it to your throat; you asked, and Logan was happy to wrap his hand around your throat.

He didn't squeeze down. Just let it rest there as your sweat mixed with his.

He picked up his pace a bit, going a little bit harder and faster and grinning when you told him to keep going; you wanted to hear him praise you again, desperate for it as you grunted and growled beneath him.

"That's it," he coaxed. "You're so fucking good for me."

You begged him to go harder and faster, jerking forward with each thrust he delivered; your tongue fell from your mouth, drool leaking down onto the brown leather beneath you as you tried your best to keep up with him.

Logan praised you with every other thrust, knowing that he was only coaxing you further and further into getting what you wanted; he couldn't deny it, he was fucking enjoying himself.

The sound of skin slapping against skin was impossible to ignore, so fucking loud as it bounced off of the walls; mixing with the harsh grunting and growling and moaning.

Logan pinned you down, fucking into you so hard that you could only moan out the word "Yes" as loud as your voice would allow; he kept fucking you, even when his cum was dribbling and drizzling out with his thrusts.

He gritted his teeth when you told him you were close, doubling down his efforts as you let out a choked moan. Words began to fail.

You were so fucking close, your ass clenching around his cock as you spasmed and jerked beneath him; erratic movements of your hips as your toes curled.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you called out his name. Your legs began to shake, getting weak as you begged Logan not to let you go.

He kept hold of you, kept thrusting into you until you were ready for him to get off; he was slow, praising you gently as he helped you to lie down on your chest.

"You okay?"

You grinned as you licked your lips. "I need a cigarette."

Logan laughed softly as he nodded. "On it... you want a beer?"

You nodded back, laughing quietly. "You know me too well."

"Ain't it my job?"

༺═──────────────────────────────═༻

whilst I have your attention for the moment, I'd like to direct it to Hani's family; they are still in Gaza, and Hani is organising donations to get them evacuated somewhere safe so that they can survive the genocide. if you have even just £1 to donate, please, please consider doing so. this family is in desperate need of aid.

[maandarinee]

desperately want a fic where Logan drops a "being a mutant, amirite?"

and Wade flippantly goes "oh I wasn't technically born a mutant lol", and proceeds to tell (a kinda horrified) Logan about how he signed up to be a science experiment to save his girl, how they tortured him until something happened, lmao right? (but at least he got to hunt them down for revenge ^_^)

And Logan, well, he hadn't expected to relate to Wade even more but wow can he relate very specifically to all of that

[werdlewrites]

ł ฿Ɇ₵Ø₥Ɇ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ - ₱₳Ɽ₮ ₮ⱧⱤɆɆ

masterlist - ao3 - twitter @ djomamma

summary: He couldn’t live in peace knowing what he'd done. Unable to enjoy a stupid party with a pretty girl without the flashbacks of war plaguing his mind. He wasn’t the kind of guy anyone should want–or have. Logan was a monster. warnings: alcohol, smoking, brief NSFW, mentions of blood and death wc: 2,341

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The night was long–nearly endless. Dawn had made it home safely without trouble like she always did with the presence of Death creeping at her back. The apartment echoes with emptiness–soon filled by tumbling shoes as she kicks them off, and the heavy sighs of relief. Charlotte doesn't stumble through the door until her roommate is already tucked into bed, yet knowing she's still awake, she calls out, “I'm home!” She only receives a mumbled reply in return.

Dawn lies awake for most of the night. Tossing and turning with her mind replaying the events of the day, her heart nearly beating free from her chest as she debates over what will happen to her come Monday morning. Cast out of the school and shamed, unable to show her face again. It leaves her chest aching–constricted and emptied of air, yet filled with consuming fear. It fills every space, leaving her in a momentary panic.

It’s October–but her body is burning up. Dawn kicks away the sheets and flips onto her stomach, arms clung tightly around a folded-up pillow for a sense of comfort. It’s not nearly enough. Her heartbeat is somehow louder and more disruptive. Thoughts fuzzy and unfocused–until something familiar creeps in. 

The smell of earth–nature. The smell of wood caught on fire–a delicious spice on her tongue as she drinks it in. A tired mind fights for recollection–a moment in time where she could place it. It’s there, just barely. In the dim light of night, the moon casts a glow through an uncovered window, adorning clothes from only hours ago laid out over the edge of a hamper. It’s a bizarre sign from the universe. Taking an unsettled mind and forcing it to think on something that brought her some joy–even if it was brief. 

The smell of Logan lingers, as does his rough but soothing voice. That particular look in his eye that says he’s curious–but keeping some distance for either his or her protection. It’s insanity the way his smirk suddenly fills her mind. Or the way his tongue glides along his lips after a shot of whiskey to collect the remnants.

The warmth of overworked nerves is replaced by something else–a scorching need building up in the pit of her stomach, spreading outward like a fire until she's squirming, seeking something–anything. She doesn’t even notice the sudden rotation of her hips. Acting on autopilot to quench a thirst–a desire between her thighs.

The gentle movements are enough to spark that small fire until it’s burning up her insides. The air sucked from her lungs as the smoke of lust creeps in–all-consuming and suffocating. Her cheek is damp from open-mouthed whimpers, but it's the last worry on her mind as desperation forces her hand. A gentle touch glides along the front of her underwear with thoughts drifting to him and what his hands would feel like. 

Was it soft and delicate? Sweet kisses masked by the scratch of his beard, heavy breath along her neck with passionate words pulling her in closer. Would he treat her like this? Knowing exactly where to touch and what to say. Letting her grind down into his hand until she’s come down from her high, whispering reassurance.

Was it rough and heated? Barely giving one another the chance to strip their bodies of clothing before she’s bent over and onto her knees. Would her skin grow flush from the contact of his hand? Bite marks of temporary claim that would be long gone by morning. Their bruises would be the only reminder it had ever happened. Would she ache for that breathless feeling? Chasing after one another until they’ve exhausted every ounce of strength.

By morning, Dawn is glowing. You couldn’t tell the girl had lost an ounce of sleep, smiling from ear to ear. Her roommate pried for the details over coffee–not getting a solid enough answer, which only aggravates Charlotte more. She wears a look of pure annoyance, glancing in the other woman's direction as they decorate for the upcoming party. It’s when she asks about the potential of meeting someone that Dawn finally breaks and confesses the details of her night. No matter how small they were.

“You invited him over?” She asks with a look of pure joy and surprise.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

Charlotte leans against the door frame, arms folded across her chest with streamers hung from her fists. “You’re over here smilin’ like a schoolgirl with a crush, and it’s not a big deal?”

Rolling her eyes, Dawn steps down from the ladder, rolling away the spare pieces of tape stuck to her fingertips. “I hardly know him. It’s just…fun, s’all.” 

Fun is hardly how she would describe it. She was antsy–fidgeting or pacing nonstop as she searched for something to do–anything to pass the time. Dawn was giddy and full of excitement about the possibility of seeing him. The entire scenario is playing out in her head like a silly movie. She’d be lost in the music–no longer focusing on his arrival as she takes another shot, and he’d part the dancing bodies like the sea.

But by the third hour of the party–the real party, he’s not there. There’s no thunderous knock of his large fist against the door or the smell of his cigar. He’s not standing just at the corner of the room, watching and imprinting every sight to memory. The man named Logan is simply a story, and she can’t hide from the look of pity Charlotte gives her as she pours another drink into an empty cup.

Maybe she's a little hurt–maybe she feels foolish for being so affected by his absence. He's a stranger, after all. But she's already tipping that red cup back and singing along to another song. She's living without care–or is it a mask to hide the fear? A wary eye on the image of Death, hoping the night won't end in tragedy with a friend splayed out across the floor, blue in the face.

The following day, he's a distant memory–at least, for a short while he is.

Dawn is too lost in her hangover to acknowledge the ache of disappointment in her chest. Already forgetting hazy dreams where she reaches out to him, just to feel the heat of his body. But her bed is cold just like the day before–and long before that. In some way, it almost feels like every smile he spared was only a figment of her imagination. There had never been a Logan she shared salty snacks with at the bar. She chased after a hallucination. Thighs dampened by an illusion.

But the smell of his cigar stuck to every fiber of her coat, taunting her as she debated over tossing it into the washer with the rest of her dirty laundry. It’s the only proof she has of him.

When the day passes and the apartment is cleaned, she makes up some excuse to brave the cold winds of November. Charlotte is too tired to question–laid out along the sofa with legs dangling over the edge. She simply waves her hand dismissively, eyes half-opened, as she fights off an overdue nap.

Dawn can’t help but scold herself for the slouch of her shoulders once she enters that bar. There’s no leather jacket and wisp of black hair among the crowd. New faces and familiars fill up the space–but it surprisingly feels empty. He’s gone–and it’s disheartening. Why is it disheartening? The woman knows little to nothing about him, yet there’s still a tug on her heart, seeking to pull her right out the door and into the night. Maybe it’s just the excitement of something new. She can’t quite understand it.

She takes up her usual spot on the stool with a defeated sigh. She was slumped forward between two bodies that engage in separate conversations, loud and full of energy. There’s a forced smile in Barry’s direction, shaking her head as he holds up a glass suggestively. One Halloween and birthday bash was enough for the remainder of the week.

“I'm just tryin’ t'find my way.”

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was all it ever would be. Just two souls passing in the night, and she’d have to accept that. Add his face to the list of people she admired but could never touch.

Maybe it was better that way.

Iced water lands before her, kindly offered by the owner with an all-knowing smirk of just how intoxicated she had been the night before. She tilts the glass in thanks, and as it hits her tongue, something in the air seems to shift. The bell above the door chimes as another customer strolls in–the smell of something deliciously familiar in the distance. That familiar spice filling her senses and washing over her tongue. She’s hardly given the chance to inspect before his voice pulls her from scattered thoughts.

“Lookin’ for somebody?”

He stands tall at her back–an intimidating presence with a smirk on his face. She could hear it in his tone.

“That depends,” she begins. Her body easily twists to get a better look at him, proving her suspicion right as the cigar hangs from between his lips. “Do I have somebody t’look for?”

His smile is unwavering, though his gaze shifts to the stranger at her side. Smoke comes spilling out as he speaks, “Hey, bub.” A firm tap on the man's shoulder, luring in hazy eyes and seeming almost startled by him. “D’you mind if I-?” His finger gestures towards the girl and the occupied seat, his tone suggesting but eyes demanding–and the man doesn’t hesitate.

“Oh! Yeah, here.” He pulls himself away, beer in hand, as he effortlessly transitions back into his previous conversation, though casting a glance or two over his shoulder, unnerved by the once silent bystander.

“You didn’t show.” 

The words fly past her lips before she’s even thought it all through. Not even a “Hello” before she’s digging through misplaced feelings and biting her tongue. He doesn’t seem bothered, though. A thick brow raises with curiosity, a silent encouragement for the woman to continue. “I was looking forward t’see your costume.”

He chuckles, and it’s like a song. Working every string in her soul until she feels the flutter of soaring notes within her chest–a choir. A familiar feeling from that night creeping in, leaving her cheeks flushed before she was downing her water in large gulps, desperate to beat the heat.

“Do I look like a costume kind of guy?” he questions before taking another drag. It's an awful habit some women turn their noses up at. But there's an odd sense of comfort in the smell–thinking back to cozy fires in a home that no longer existed.

“Maybe.” She answers with a casual shrug. “Maybe like a…pirate or something.” 

He gives her a pointed look. Amused by the thought of where her mind has wandered in their short time apart. “You'd look good in a patch.”

It happens before she can stop it. A sudden drop of the lowest level compliment possible, and still, she has to turn away and hide her embarrassment. Unaware of the crooked grin he wears or the sudden spark in his dark eyes. Dawn wanted to crawl into a hole and forget it ever happened. While he found it endearing and sweet.

“You think so? No hook or nothin’? Peg leg?” 

She swallows her pride, along with the racing heart that is suddenly lurched up into her throat, just to face him again. She wears a brave face, but the stutter and weariness in her voice betrayed her. “D-dancin’ with a peg leg sounds…hard. Especially while drinking.”

He snorts, averting a blazing stare down toward the end of the bar, a simple raise of his fingers asking for a drink. It’s a well-known look for the frequent flyer. “M’not really a party kind of guy.”

“Then what kind of guy are you?”

The glass meets his palm, filled with ice yet still warmed by the water from being recently cleaned. He thinks of the fresh blood on his hands–he can see it even now. The blaring music turns into the sound of gunfire and the clash of blades–the crackle of a roaring fire. The eruption of laughter at his back transitions into the cries of pain and horror from his past–the thing he runs from. 

The lives he's taken–whether by his own hand or from a failure to ever speak up until it was too late. Until the body count had grown and towered high above him and every mercenary he stood alongside. He couldn’t live in peace knowing what he'd done. Unable to enjoy a stupid party with a pretty girl without the flashbacks of war plaguing his mind. He wasn’t the kind of guy anyone should want–or have. Logan was a monster.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” she begins, successfully pulling him out from the darkness of his mind, looking to the ray of sunlight at his side. “I think you enjoy the noise. You do busy work–loud work. Nonstop, all day. But you don’t go home–you come here instead. Then, when you get home, the radio goes on. The TV, anything–but it’s low. Loud enough to keep your mind busy, but quiet enough t’let you fall asleep on the couch. You just hate socializing.”

It’s the first time his smile falls in her presence–though not out of offense or disturbance, more so…intrigue. “And you’re sayin’ I could be the serial killer?”

“I’m sayin’ I know the type.” Her body tilts away from him, now facing forward to study their muddled reflection in dirtied glass. He’s got his eyes on her, lips parted and words stolen right from his tongue–and she sees something else standing in the distance. A familiar creature with dancing stars where a heart should be. The thing that she searches for in moments of uncertainty–yet despises for the pain it brings. “Because I’m the same way.”

[happy74827]

Oh the Deadpool tag is trending? I wonder why—

… oh