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charlesxavierthirster3000 · 1 month ago

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Loops and Steel — L.Howlett

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Reader

Summary: Your love for crocheting is apparent across the whole school, but a sense of reluctance clouds your vision at the thought of gift-giving towards Logan.

CW/Tags: fluff, kinda drags idk I'm sorry, REALLY stupid ending, not proofread I'm too lazy and it's sinus season, we have time manipulation powers guys, no use of Y/N, don't like don't read.

A/N: HELLO long time no fic guys (I'm going insane please help) this is honestly like so stupid idk why it's so FUCKING long hello???? Ik it's alr in the tags but the ending is like so extremely fucking stupid I'm humiliated....... Anyways guys try to enjoy this hahahaahhaha don't flame me pls

WC: 2.4K (holy SHIT girl) / Navigation

You had a thing amongst the X-Men— you were notorious for crocheting impromptu gifts for everyone, predominantly for winter use. No one in their right mind would voluntarily wear yarn in the summer, unless they had a thing for heat strokes.

Well, to be fair, the craft store situated nearest to the mansion only sold the hefty type of yarn, so you physically couldn’t make anything light. But still.

Your hyperfixation on fibre arts had reached most of them— Scott with earmuffs which could be worn comfortably over his visor without disrupting the toggle, Storm and her suit-complimenting beanies, and Rogue who had received so many pairs of gloves she had to dedicate a whole drawer for them in her room. At this point, you'd woven your way through the whole mansion, pretty much everyone having received a small gift; the students with a 70% chance of having a simple keychain.

Everyone, except Logan.

It's not that you weren't fond of him—in fact, he was even up there with Rogue and the others— it's just.. he was always so reclusive. Yeah, you could hold a decently consistent conversation with him without breaking a sweat, but he seemed the type to brush gifts or tokens of appreciation off without a second thought. That’s what made you contemplate bestowing your handmade offerings of affection upon him.

If you wanted to say you were afraid of impending rejection, it wouldn’t be true. You’d handed some keychains to a few uptight kids you taught, and the sight of the metallic glint attached to a scrap of vibrant yarn in the rubbish didn’t affect you. Perhaps it was because they were only a clique of immature youngsters, but your ego wasn’t usually even touched that easily no matter the level of maturity.

So why were you so uncertain?

Inwardly, you somewhat knew that there was a chance— you craved his validation. Which was really, very pathetic. Your ego was not nearly as inflated as his, but acknowledging the info would undoubtedly have an effect on it, so you kept the classified data under lock and key. Well, maybe Charles knew. But even if he did, he fortunately kept your dignity intact.

Nevertheless, you’d gotten tipsy humiliatingly early in the night after spending quality time with Ororo and ended up stumbling back to your room, determined to overcome your inner wimp and make something for Logan. You brainstormed for approximately 7 minutes before coming with a conclusion; gloves. Just like the many pairs you'd created for his ‘friend’.

‘I’m your friend, not your father,’ the idiot stated. Bullshit. Abso-fucking-lute bullshit. You heard them when passing by in the corridor on the way to a class and had to restrain using your powers to rewind that short burst of time just so you could shut Logan up and shove those words right back up his ass.

But unfortunately, you realised a little too much time later— after the alcohol-established period of boldness had subsided, of course— that you were still very much a pussy. Perhaps you were lost in the suppression of the alcohol, because you'd somehow already ended up with a pair of specialised gloves with slits, strong magnets fastened to the edges which accommodated the adamantium of Logan's claws.

If everything fell into accordance with your brainstorming, the magnets would automatically adjust to the position of the protruding metal under his skin every time he slid them on. Damn it, why weren't you this creative when you were sober? Maybe you should drink more. If only you had his healing factor; then your liver wouldn't be fucked for life.

You glanced up at the clock on your bedroom wall, bracing yourself for the ridiculously early time unavoidably displayed upon the aged face.

10:21 p.m.

Fucking hell. Basically the whole goddamn mansion was still up, the younger kids an exception. It was a weekend, after all.

After a short-lived interval of contemplation, you concluded two options. You had the option of using your energy and abandoning the project without physically undoing the whole thing; pretending it never happened, or B, actually fucking overcome your disconcerting fear of giving Logan a gift.

You'd deeply considered the first option.

Very. Deeply.

But in a self-ball-kicking resolution, you chucked your own uncertainty far, far down your throat and decided on simply marching over to Logan and handing him the navy pair of gloves.

⁠⊰⁠⊹ฺ

Mentally uttering repeated strings of curses, you approached his bedroom door— you figured that was where he was, anyway. He wasn't in his usual place; the grimy couch in front of the fireplace which was almost literally hanging on by a thread.

Earlier, you'd taken a glimpse at the contents of the fridge in hopes of a tasty Swiss roll miraculously appearing, but instead noticed the fact that there was no beer. To conclude, Logan was probably restraining himself from impaling Scott and fermenting him into his own ‘Cyclops-made Heineken’.

Your hands fidgeted with the stitches on the openings for his claws, thumb running over the cool, metallic surface of the small magnets. God, why were you stressing this so hard? Logan was just a guy with kitty claws and a half-assed personality. He wasn't that intimidating, especially when dormant and presumably partially asleep by now. He was—literally— an old man at heart. The dude probably couldn't even stay up past 11:30.

Ultimately, you took a sharp breath before raising your free hand and firmly rapping at the door twice. Your ears picked up the faint rustle of a page turning and the brief thud of a book cover falling shut.

He was reading? Damn, guess your old man description was accurate after all. A shift of position, and the creak of a wooden chair groaning under his weight. “It's open.”

You skeptically twist the knob and push on the door, poking your head through the crack before stepping in and gently pushing it shut behind you. He's leant against his table in a semblance of leisure, gaze fixed on the metal of his dog tags as he wipes them with a thin tissue.

Your own gaze drifts to his tousled sheets, zeroing in on the faint outline of a bulky book poorly concealed by the covers. You have to curb the grin threatening to spread onto your face at the sight. He's embarrassed.

Tragically, an unsuccessfully stifled sound somewhere between a snort, a giggle, and a spray bottle escapes your throat, “I didn't know you could read.”

The hands on his necklace halt as he looks up at you cautiously. “...What?”

You smile with feigned innocence, “I didn't know you read.”

He cocks an eyebrow, scoffing out a dry laugh. “That wasn't what ya said the first time. And I don't read.”

You suppress a snicker at his clearly veiled shame and nod over to the vague outline under his blanket. “What's that, then? Sure as hell isn't a woman.”

His eyes narrow in on you as he rises, sauntering over menacingly like he was in some type of slasher. Your smile only widens. You decide to just taunt him even more, even though it probably wasn't the greatest idea to do so to someone with metal claws. But even if you did get attacked, you could travel back and act as if it never happened.

He glares down at you, head tilted. You thought you glimpsed a twinge of humour behind the hazel, and it only adds fuel to the fire. “Whatcha readin’? Pride and Prejudice? Little Women? I presume it's a classic— y’know, considering your ag—”

An unprompted, somewhat restrained grin crawls onto his lips as he cuts you off, “Why’re you here, bub? ‘Cause 'm sure as hell you’re not here just to ask for a goddamn book review.”

Fuck. Gloves.

Heart abruptly starting to hammer in your chest, you nonchalantly shove a hand in your pocket and squeeze the coarse yet soft material of the acrylic yarn. You swallow thickly, fidgeting with a fuzzy you somehow already managed to get your fingers on, heat dragging down your ears and spreading across your face. Gosh, you probably look mortified right now.

You swear under your breath, fumbling the gloves out of your pocket. “Right—” you clear your throat, displaying them out in front of you like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. A flash of curiosity crosses his features; a cloud moving past the sun. Well, the other way round. If that was scientifically possible.

“I made these for you.” You toss them at him and he swiftly catches them mid-air, all while you stare at the fibre like you half expected each individual stitch to spontaneously combust. You unfortunately weren't Scott, so you couldn’t laser-eye the thing. “Figured freezing your fingers off might— uh—cramp your little ‘best there is at what I do’ thingy.”

He gives the intricate stitching a once-over, turning the solid navy gloves over in his hands. A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips and an eyebrow raises curiously as he regards the claw openings. “Made ‘em for me?”

The rhetorical inquiry makes your eyes almost instinctively roll. “No. Made ‘em for fucking Magneto. Of course it's for you. Who the fuck else has claws?”

He slips one on and hoists an accusing eyebrow at you. “Don’t get ya panties in a twist, Time Bomb. Look like Pyro jus’ blew a fire in your face.”

You defensively fold your arms in front of your chest, trying your level best to ignore the itch to lift a certain finger situated between your index and ring. “Hey, you're not exactly a joyride to talk to, let alone give a gift.”

He scoffs, sliding the other glove on and flexing his fingers. “You tryna bend my bones? I can feel ‘em followin’ the magnets. Neat trick, though.” Unexpectedly, he pops his claws out with a snikt, prompting you to reflexively flinch and step back. “Jeez, Claws! Watch the face.”

He groans, “God, you're a diva.”

“What can I say? Sort of a package deal with the whole ‘Time-Waster’ schtick. You're way more of a diva than I am anyway,” you grin sarcastically bright.

There's a glimmer of amusement in the green-ness of his eyes, and you unfortunately find yourself reveling in it.

Turning on his heel, he clicks his tongue once and nods in a gesture for you to get on the bed. The action takes you aback by the unbridled directness of it, but you end up crawling up onto the cool covers regardless. “I was just here to give you those, y’know? I can leave if you want.”

He somewhat shakes his head as he settles on the chair opposite your position perched on the edge of the bed. “Stick around, ‘s not like I mind,” the words are delivered in his usual sardonic tone, but you detect an underlying sense of insistence.

Fuck. Was he laying the charm on real thick tonight, or were you just delusional?

You bite the inside of your cheek, scooching back and settling in a little more confidently. “Stick around?” you echo, teasing lilt in your tone despite how much his reassurance affects you. “Since when do you enjoy company? Or do you just wanna sit over there and brood while I talk my tongue off?”

He huffs, the noise more entertained than anything. “Don’t mind when it's yours. Quieter than anythin’ else anyway.”

The words hit you like a blow to the gut with how casual the delivery is— as if he was just making his usual comment on the tactics he could use to get rid of Scott. Inevitably, the warmth already lingering on your face strengthens as you find a response.

“Quieter? High praise. I'm flattered, Howlett. And here I was under the impression that I’m ‘Most Likely to Talk Your Ear Off’ according to my old yearbook,” you laugh dryly, attempting to ease the nearly tangible tension hanging in the air between the two of you.

That half-smirk makes its way back onto his lips as his gaze turns a touch more intent, “Ain't news to me. Still want ya to stay.”

Holy shit. Is he trying to cause you an agonisingly slow death? You were clearly trying to manage this whole interaction with sarcasm, but he wasn't letting any of it slide.

You swallow cautiously, throat suddenly a narrow pathway leading down to your rapidly flipping stomach. Hauling your legs up onto the bed and placing your weight back onto the headboard, you try to alleviate the voice in your head convincing you this was something further than platonic. “Wow. If I knew you were this sentimental I would've prepared a speech before I came in here. Gloves can't nearly be enough.”

He snorts, “Don't push it, bub.”

You raise your hands in feigned surrender, a grin spreading across your lips. “Okay, okay. Fine,” you mutter, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeve in a futile attempt to compose yourself. “How do you like the gloves anyway?”

He looks down at his hands in his lap like he'd just realised he was still wearing them. “Warm.”

You gawk at him incredulously. “Warm? C’mon, I deserve better than that, Log. I crocheted ‘em drunk. Practically risked my fingers. Y’know how I am under the influence— could’ve found a way to fucking impale myself with the hook or something.”

He grunts absentmindedly— gaze seemingly too focused on your face as if he was admiring you more than the gloves. But like him snapping out of a trance, his attention is almost immediately diverted back to the stitching when he processes your statement. “I'll be usin’ ‘em. Smart move for the claws. Don't have to destroy ya hard work when I pop ‘em out.”

Sighing dramatically, you lean back against the back of the bed with your arms splayed behind your head. Taking on your usual route, you taunt him in a flat tone, “Guess that's the highest form of Logan Howlett appreciation I'm gonna get tonight. Have I reached my quota? It's a shame; I'm such a thoughtful, empathetic, charisma—”

A low chuckle graces his reaction as he cuts you off, “God, really testin’ your luck tonight, aren't ya?”

You shrug, a giggle bubbling up your own throat— some of the emotion-filled tension lifting off the atmosphere as you get back to your usual banter, “What can I say? Maybe next time I'll make you a tophat— perhaps a red tailcoat to go with it, if I'm feeling real dedicated.”

He glances up at you skeptically, an eyebrow once again raised as he scrutinises your expression, “Oddly specific, Time Bomb. Ya know somethin’ I don't?”

You beam at him, observing the way it only enhances his skepticism. “Possibly. Somewhere in the far, far future, you're one of the greatest there are.”

Special credits to this song for making me push through the final stretch of this fucking fic 😭😭😭😭

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