#logan :(

[themareverine]

LOGAN I NEED A LOGAN

hate when people are like "trust your gut! listen to your intuition!" like okay well my gut is telling me every person i lay eyes on is hunting me for sport and my intuition is saying i should find a secluded cave and live there forever so what do you suggest i do with that information

[shybluebirdninja]

Bloodheat

Summary: His rough, feral mouth trails lower, and suddenly every vow you made to your husband burns away in the heat of Logan's desire.

Pairing            : Logan Howlett x Fem!Human-reader

Note                : Infidelity and cheating, cunnilingus, smut

The night air is thick, the kind that wraps around you like a heavy blanket, sticky and humid. The rumble of Logan's beat-up truck is the only sound cutting through the silence as he pulls off the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The cabin of the truck feels too small, too intimate, and your heart pounds louder than it should. You know this is wrong—so wrong—but fuck, the second Logan's hand brushes your thigh, all that guilt slips away like water through your fingers.

You glance over at him, his jaw set, eyes focused on the dark road ahead. There's something raw about Logan—something feral. His beard’s a little rougher tonight, and those strong hands gripping the wheel send a shiver down your spine. There’s no room for doubt, not anymore. You knew what you were doing when you climbed into his truck. You knew this wasn’t just a casual drive.

His voice breaks the silence, low and gravely, sending heat straight between your legs. “You wanna keep playin' house with him, or you gonna admit you’re already mine?”

That damn voice. It’s like whiskey and smoke, rich and dangerous. You don’t answer, but your body does, leaning closer, like it’s instinctual, like it’s always been him. Logan’s hand drifts higher on your thigh, his fingers rough and calloused, and you can’t stop the soft gasp that slips out.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and pulls the truck to a stop. The engine cuts off, leaving only the heavy sound of your breathing in the cab. His eyes meet yours, that familiar heat simmering just beneath the surface. “You got somethin’ to say, darlin’?”

You bite your lip, torn between the voice in your head telling you to run and the heat pooling low in your belly, making your skin buzz with anticipation. “Logan, this—” You try to speak, but he cuts you off with a rough, demanding kiss.

It’s not gentle. Nothing about Logan ever is. His lips crash into yours, a fierce hunger behind every move. His hands are everywhere at once, sliding over your waist, gripping your hips. It’s wild, untamed, and fuck, it’s everything you’ve been craving for weeks.

The guilt melts away, replaced by that electric fire he ignites in you every time he gets close. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers threading through his thick, dark hair, tugging him closer. You can feel the low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulls you onto his lap, his big hands sliding under your shirt, calloused fingers rough against your bare skin. Every nerve in your body is alive, buzzing with need.

Logan’s mouth moves from your lips to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone. He bites down just enough to leave a mark, and you gasp, arching into him. “Fuckin’ missed you,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick with need.

Your hands fumble with the button on his jeans, desperate, but Logan grabs your wrists, holding them still. “Not yet,” he growls, his eyes dark and dangerous, pupils blown wide. “I got plans for you first.”

Before you can process his words, he’s sliding you off his lap, pushing you back onto the worn leather seat. His hands are on your jeans, undoing the button and yanking them down in one smooth motion. The air hits your skin, cool against the heat radiating from your body, but that’s the last thing on your mind when Logan settles between your legs, pulling you closer with that trademark Wolverine smirk on his lips.

He spreads your thighs wide, eyes locked on yours, and the way he’s looking at you—like he’s about to devour you whole—sends a shiver of anticipation through you. There’s nothing rushed about the way he leans in, taking his sweet time, letting you feel every second of his lips ghosting over your skin. “You taste so fuckin’ good, y’know that?”

Your breath hitches as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, so close to where you want him, but not close enough. “Logan, please…” The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, need dripping from every syllable.

He grins against your skin, rough and teasing. “Beggin’ already?” He lets out a low chuckle, then finally—finally—his mouth is on you. His tongue flicks out, slow and torturous, and your back arches off the seat as pleasure floods your body. It’s like he’s claiming you with every lick, every pull of his lips around your clit, and it’s so fucking good you can’t think straight.

His beard is rough against your inner thighs, rubbing deliciously against your skin as he works you over with his mouth. You can’t stop the soft moans escaping your lips, can’t stop your fingers from tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. Logan groans against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your whole body.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips bucking up against his mouth, but Logan grips your thighs, holding you down with that impossible strength of his. His tongue moves faster now, flicking and sucking, and the tension inside you coils tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

It’s too much, too good. “Logan, I—” You can’t get the words out, and he knows exactly what you need. He sucks hard on your clit, and that’s it—you’re gone, your whole body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

The pleasure hits you like a freight train, intense and overwhelming, and you feel yourself gush, the slick wetness covering Logan’s mouth and beard. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, drinking up every drop like he’s starving for it, his growls vibrating against your sensitive skin. You whimper, overstimulated, but he just smirks, beard soaked and glistening in the dim light of the truck.

“Damn, you taste even better when you’re comin’ all over my face,” he growls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s far from done. He leans back, eyes raking over your still-trembling body, and the hunger in his gaze makes your breath catch. “Think you got another one in you, darlin’? 'Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

You can only nod, the words lost somewhere between the lingering pleasure and the heat building inside you all over again. Logan’s already got you addicted, and you know you’ll never be able to go back.

[mapofyourstars]

charles enjoyed being manhandled by logan (:

[proxy616]

‘I don’t need any damn angels, I got an Elf on my side’

Wolverine #5 (2025)

…..I think I cried a little.

[etiolatedmutant]

casual poolverine affection pt. 2 (electric boogaloo)

logan dragging wade’s long legs over his lap and absently stroking up and down his shins while wade talks. sometimes his fingers drift up to wade’s thighs, but it’s without expectation — he just likes how wade’s scars feel beneath his fingertips, and the touch grounds wade enough that he doesn’t lose his train of thought as often

wade rubbing the knots out in logan’s neck while they’re watching something. he’s always so tense there, muscles taut and hard as rocks, and so wade presses deft fingers against logan’s nape and the topmost notch of his spine until logan’s eyes are fluttering and he’s making soft little “hurts so good” noises low in his throat

wade “helping” logan cook dinner by sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the kitchen counter and dutifully accepting spoonfuls of Whatever logan’s making to “test” it. he doesn’t think logan actually needs a second opinion, and wade’s is skewed all to fuck anyway on account of the cancer ruining his tastebuds, but neither one cares. logan cups his palm beneath whatever utensil he’s pushing between wade’s lips each time, and wipes the mess wade’s tongue isn’t quick enough to catch with his thumb

logan initiating hand-holding literally all the time, even (especially) in public. and not teenybopper hand-holding, either, no — logan tangles their fingers together and holds on for dear life, partially because wade gets distracted and needs to be Dragged forward a little from time to time, but mostly logan just likes holding his fuckin hand. he’ll swing it up and around sometimes, draping one arm over wade’s shoulders and pulling him tight against his body while wade maintains their knotted fingers by keeping that hand fixed across his chest

i couldn’t tell you who initiates more kisses because they’re tied, i fear. before logan goes to work? he kisses wade once on the lips. when logan comes home? wade bounds up and smacks another kiss to his mouth. logan face down in wade’s stomach, half-asleep while the tv drones on in the background? wade’s sweeping logan’s hair off his forehead and planting a kiss there. logan little-spooning and stirring awake in the middle of the night because he has to piss? he’s kissing the side of wade’s face as apology for having to extricate himself from wade’s arms

[blurryhowlett]

The way his face softens.. I always love seeing Logan being soft with animals.

Logan with beer and a cat (X-2, 2003)

[heckcareoxytwit]

The two teams of X-Men along with Calico, Jubilee (in the wrong outfit) and Beast (who is oddly absent in the fighting sequence) are fighting off the Sentinel Hounds and the brainwashed Mutant Trustees in the corridors of Graymalkin Prison. They are bantering each other and fighting their opponents at the same time. Meanwhile, Kwannon and Nightcrawler are walking along the secret passage debating on which mutant prisoner to free. Nightcrawler knows that freeing Omega Red is a bad idea because he is unstable and is likely to turn on them any time. At the Prison Control Room, Warden Corina Ellis is throwing bitchy hissy fits by berating and slapping anyone around her for not doing their jobs right. Corina orders Phillip Scurvy the crippled psychic mutant to use more psychic powers on the X-Men.

Back to the corridor of Graymalkin Prison, the two exhausted X-Men teams have defeated the Sentinel Hounds and the brainwashed Mutant Trustees. Rogue and Cyclops start to argue each other on whether they could free Charles Xavier from the cell. Rogue wants to free Xavier from prison. Cyclops is against the idea because not only that he witnessed Xavier killing the innocent human astronauts (which Xavier was actually doing that to trick the Orchis into leaving the mutants alone by pretending to join them in helping to wipe out humanity), Cyclops was also gaslit by Xavier for years as an X-Man. Then, the squabbling X-Men are interrupted by Phillip Scurvy who uses his powerful force of telepathy on the mutants. Even though Juggernaut is wearing the helmet, he is struggling through the mental attack and he tries to pry the cell door open. However, Juggernaut stops doing that when he hears a familiar voice behind them. It turns out that Charles Xavier is not in the X-shaped cell and he is right behind them, walking alongside with Nightcrawler and Kwannon.

X-Men v7 #9, 2024

It seems that the artists who did the pages of the fighting sequence, forgot about Jubilee's prison outfit. Earlier on, Jubilee was wearing the prison jumpsuit in the previous chapters, yet in this issue, Jubilee is shown wearing the yellow coat and full black bodysuit.

Jubilee wore the red prison jumpsuit in X-Men #8 and Uncanny X-Men #7.

In this issue, Jubilee is shown wearing her yellow jacket and full-body suit in the fighting sequence.

Yet on the same issue, Jubilee is back to wearing the prison suit again except that it's yellow.

Besides the artists and colorists, it looks like the X-Editors are really sleeping on their jobs!

[bbybhr]

Edging with old man logan

Mainly a one-shot just to bust my confidence into publishing my fiction

Old man Logan had become a shell of himself, his mind consumed by the horrors he had witnessed and caused throughout his long, bloody history. The memories of the people he had lost and the things he had done had become a constant torment, an endless barrage of guilt and pain that haunted him every moment of every day. He had become a man of solitude, pushing away anyone who dared to get close,but still afraid of the darkness that followed him nonetheless.

And than you came around. A ray of hope in his never-ending torment. A light in his path he didn't thought he deserved. A chance to truly live, away from the shadows of death.

You were the last shred of control that he had left, the only thing that tethered him to his humanity. He was a man plagued by demons, haunted by a monstrous alter ego that threatened to consume him. In your presence, however, he found a sense of peace, a sense of control. And he had no intention of losing that.

That's why he kisses you with a passion that is nothing short of primal, a raw and unbridled desire that leaves you breathless. He would unleash the beast you tamed upon yourself, and You would fist his white shirt like it's the last thing that keeps you grounded while he tear up your dress in one move.

"Logan..."

You would call him with a desperate tune as you hear his claws, he hooks them under your bra tearing it apart. His claws millimetres away from your skin, moving down to your panties. His eyes devour you after he freed you from every piece of clothing. His claws retracting slowly to his knuckles as he stand on his knees between your legs. Standing there in his full clothing he didn't even unbutton his shirt, too impatient to have you this helpless under him.

"Fucking beautiful"

He whispered and leaned on you again. One hand steading his weight over you, the other kneading your breast, caressing your sensitive nipple here and there. Making your breath hitche.your hands come up, trying to grab his wrist hut he warns you.

"I don't want to see your hands on me tonight princess...do you understand?"

You nod as you grab the sheets with your fingers while you feel his thigh coming up slowly in between your legs, urging you to grind against it and get off as he was too busy working his tongue over your nipple.when you didn't move your hips (not as noticeable as he wanted to)he looked up,moving his head from your breast to your throat.

"Com'on...Don't keep me waiting sweetheart..."

He voiced in hoarse way,making you shiver.

"Hear, let me help you"

He moved his hand down to your core, leaving your poor nipple alone. He dragged his finger over your clit making you jump and squirm.

"Stay still"

He said with an unmoved expression, wanting way more than that. He moved his position, more on his knees now but still hovering over you. The hand he was leaning on to came and grabbed your jaw, forcing your lips open. He put his hand over your parted lips, the ulnar fleshy side of his palm under your teeth.

"Bite"

And as soon as you questioned what he said you got your answer, he pushed two of his fingers inside of you. Stretching your tight hole. You bite at his hand and mewl, feeling his finger pummelin inside you. You could hear the wet sound they made while moving in and out so clearly.

The knot in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter, but as the feeling of the familiar satisfaction approached, he stopped,suddenly pulling out his fingers leaving your hole empty.

Your eyes got widened. Looking up to him with tears in your eyes and his hand still on your mouth.

"Hmm... I don't think so"

He said nonchalantly, his hand over your cunt, fingertips traveling through your foldes, over your pulsing hole. Making you fist the sheets with so much force that beside your shaking legs they trembled too.

"I think you're in for a surprise darlin, too bad you can't beg for it now huh?"

You closed your eyes in the feeling of his fingers filling you again, but now instead of the cruel pace, they scissored inside you. His thumb came up, finding your clit, caressing it lightly at a circular motion.

Your eyebrows scrunched up, you were lost in the sensation of his fingers working on you. Your body begging for a release, your mind focused on getting the orgasm that it missed.

He moved his hands from your mouth without looking away from how your hole swallowed his thik fingers, coating them with your wetness.

"Breath"

He reminded you, making you take a deep breath you didn't know you needed until now

But before you could exhale he put his hand back on. Making you sob as you pushed your head on the pillow in frustration.

"Look at you darlin...I would feel pity for you,princess ,if I didn't know how much you fucking love this"

Everything became so much, you swear you could feel Everything ten times better. But as that feelings build up, he again leaves you on edge. Taking his finger out and leaving your puffy nub alone. You hit your head on the pillow with frustration, overwhelmed by Everything.

"Imma give you ten seconds...cum or your gonna spend the whole night like this"

You quickly nod and he shoved his finger inside of you again picking up a relentless pace, his hand slamming against your cunt...ten seconds?you only needed five till you feel that mind blowing release, it snapped something inside you. And before you realise you gushed all over his hand

"There we go...my good fucking girl"

He moves his hand from your mouth but his fingers still inside of you, riding you down your high. But even after that he goes on.

"Please...logan"

You beg for it to stop only for him to smirk, taking your state in.

"We're not done even forplaying sugar"

He leans and whispers on your lips.

[keravnos-kori]

[themareverine]

Back off, morph. Saw him first

[linusbenjamin]

Oh, we're just gettin' started, bub.

[themareverine]

Only When It's Right | Logan Howlett x fem!OC

synopsis: "Does it always feel like this?" He chuckles, "Only when it's right, honey," dips low, worships her like every fucker in Alberta only prays to. "Only when it's right."

warnings: X1 Logan, mentions of noncon touch, gunfire, Logan being a little toxic.

a/n: DON'T ASK ME WHERE THIS CAME FROM IT'S JUST HERE, OK YOU'RE WELCOME. I’m going back to DOFP!Logan, now, byeeee.

He finds her underneath the stars. In the shimmer of a trying drizzle, between two headlights milking out a backdrop of what appear to be stacked logs. Sleeping giants in the ghosttown the lumberyard has become, dead with afterhours asystole. Chill in the air shows him his breath, and Logan can see the air through the high lamps on her parked Wrangler.

Guiding his truck along washed out ruts and lumberyard paths better navigated with heavy machinery, he pops the gearshift into park.

Sees her standing between the two milky swaths of light that cut across witchy darkness, legs akimbo. Arms drawn out into a diamond in front of her, hands wrapped around the fat grip of what he thinks is a Glock 43, but won't know until he eyeballs it, close and personal.

Figures she'd be somewhere, off alone. Probably to think. Girls don't claw through incidents like the one he'd witnessed hours before and get out without thoughts spinning their pretty little heads, and — he hasn't known her long, hell no. Doesn't have to. But what he knows of this particular case can be boiled down to two very simple little things.

She's a runner, and she's an overthinker.

He slaps the truck's door closed with a thunk, rattles the whole damn thing as he leans back through the open window to flick on high beams. Slips hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, retrieving a cigarette and his light. Probably mostly pointless, since it's trying to rain, but — Logan's never really cared.

The end of the cigarette smolders to life in a plume of fierce amber as he comes up on her, carefully. She's noticed, of course. Clocked him the second his headlights cut up next to hers, a quick glance over the shoulder. He'd never be able to miss those sapphire eyes for anything, even in the blanket of night.

Pop pop. Two shots, right after the other. Pause, follow through, recollect. Logan can see her take a breath, watches how her shoulder ripple with the muscle movement. Notices the exhale, watches how her wrist flicks with just the tiniest effort to pull the trigger back — click.

Empty. "What are you doing out here, Logan."

It isn't a question as she turns on her heel, pistol coming to her side. Mostly-wet curls hang loose, frizzed from where she's attempted to tie them back under the ballcap. A ratty Wyoming homage that's darkened with rain and wear, she wears it when she doesn't want to muss with hair, which is all the time.

A coveted possession, really, Logan's seen her change it out with others it a handful of times, but it's her favorite.

Girls. "Gotta have a reason?" He shrugs a shoulder and slips into one of the cuts of headlight, following her to the hood of the Jeep where she's got the pistol's case and a box of rounds perched in the wet air, "Just in the neighborhood, kid." Watches her pluck the greasy cleaning rag from the case, skip it over the water pooling along the blued steel.

Her ocean blues cut up to him like they are hot knives, slicing through butter his flash has become — the corner of her mouth ticks up, just so. Cheeks a pleasant red from the snap of cold in the air, a dewy film has risen up on her glasses, glistens as the light catches it at the right angle on the high of her cheekbones.

And she almost looks like creamy starlight, fading in and out of midnight smoke in the air that signals fire.

Logan decides immediately that she is definitely not a kid. The name no longer sticks.

"Ain't really a neighborhood," her hand gestures beyond, a nod of her head following to the darkness beyond the headlights spotlighting them, "but whatever. If you came to talk, don't bother. Heard it all before."

And she thinks she knows. Maybe she does. There's really only a handful of things you could ever say to a soul that's been publicly castrated, humiliated and backed into a corner. He'd seen grown men go weak in the from less, but women — women. They were a different breed. Stand there and let you skin them alive without so much as a flinch, probably smile. Offer you the knife.

She'd simply just stood there, quiet, and managed to gracefully change the subject like some untouchable thing.

Clearly, she isn't as untouchable as she wanted everyone — including him — to think.

"Not here to talk, champ. There a law against checkin' in on people?"

She snorts. "This is Canada, right? Ya'll have more laws than God." It takes work not to smile, and Logan fails, managing a smirk. "And after what just happened in there? Yeah, there is." Her eyes lift to him, icy flash arctic enough to stop his blood. "Don't bother playing dumb with me, Logan, I know you ain't stupid."

"Never with you, darlin'." Pausing, her hand stops mid-air. Logan watches her weigh the weight of the world in her eyes, fighting the urge to look at him. Loses, she does — she sums him up, quickly.

Popping out the magazine, she begins loading. Falls back against the brush guard of the Jeep, booted feet crossed at the ankles as she works bullets with raw, chilled fingers.

"Just further evidence to me that it doesn't matter how hard you work, how much you change, it's never enough for them."

The way her eyes move beyond him, into the ether — he gets it.

Vitriol snakes in and out of her words from her back teeth, which, if clenched any tighter, the bones of her jaw would rake together in a song that would wake the dead. Taking a drag on his cigarette, wishing to God it was a cigar, he nods. Understanding. Because if anyone understood what trying to be different — with living among the unlivable — means, it's him.

Wolverines, after all, don't exactly live in society. "He was an asshole," coming up beside her, he kicks back against the brush guard himself, cigarette hanging low in the corner of his mouth as his hands slip into his pockets, this time his jeans. "Most men are, you probl'y know that."

Snapping the magazine back into place, her head doesn't lift from considering her boots, strewn with mud and water stains from the wet dirt. "Yeah. Just didn't appreciate the way he grabbed me, either."

That was news. How'd you miss that, Logan? "That asshole touched you?"

"Mhm. Hips. It's whatever."

His brow snaps up. "It ain't whatever, sweetheart. It's fuckin' pathetic," the edge of his tone is almost bitter, like the cold blade of a knife. "I would've seen 'im, would've driven him through the fucking floor."

Another long drag on his cigarette does little to soothe the itch in his blood, instead just sends his pulse pistoning between his ears. Kicking his foot over the other, he settles against the Jeep a little harder, feels it sway with his weight.

Color creeps up her neck, her eyes drag away down to the toes of her boots in the mud, playing with a little stone. "Nobody's ever done that for me, Logan," she chuckles, looks beyond the headlights, to the log backdrop before them, "but the thought is nice. Thanks."

Pushing herself from the Jeep, she moves back between the cuts of light, not giving him room to respond. And he isn't sure if he would, should. They're friends, colleagues.

She works the cage, ringmaster and snatching cash from easy-as-candy-from-babies gamblers and the entertained.

He takes the hits. Watches her parade around in her jeans that fit tight and fucking amazing, cowboy boots, and that ratty ass ballcap. All moxie and gusto, she was born for a stage, he thinks. Recall reminds him that she naturally belongs in places he only tolerates, everywhere he's fought tooth and claw to struggle.

Effervescently, she does it with an air that's almost sick. And she's never made a big deal of sexualizing her way in and out of pocketbooks — came with the gig, the cage. Even for an unconventional, curvy little thing like her.

Hammed it up, actually, stuffing money in her tits, in painted-on jean pockets that cut her curves like a damn roadmap. Had become a persona, a sort of calling card — you bet right, you get to choose where your cash came from.

Like some all-curves, sapphire-eyes fucking ATM.

Her alias. It wasn't supposed to work for him.

The guys around the cage had started calling her the Honeybadger — because while she was sweet to look at, sweet to touch, there were teeth. Claws. A ferocity that trembled beneath the surface like spidering ice.

More than once, Logan had seen her shove off over eager hands. Threaten a man within an inch of his dick.

Honeybadger and the Wolverine. Pff.

Sounded fuckin' ridiculous, like some circus sideshow. People liked it, though. Rolled off the tongue good. Made him a shit tonne of cash, she never complained about her cut, either. Her theatricality cocktailed with his unbeatable, unkillable mutation made for one hell of a gig.

Half the time Logan wasn't sure if crowds were betting to see him throw cuffs, or because she was so damn pretty. Ultimately it didn't matter, the circumstances.

What mattered was the way he almost came un-fucking-glued in that damn bar, watching that fuckin' toad make eyes at the sweet little thing he'd been dreaming about for four fuckin' months.

Her, someone who, over their knowingship, had become his friend. An unlikely ally in the fight to outlive this Canadian log town and its phantom populace. Somewhere along the lines of her life, God had taught her to hang the moon and stars, stop the world every time she smiled. And she was a prized student, he knew — divine, probably.

Aphrodite waters of a kind he'd never tasted, but thirsts for. Enough to make his heart stop, his lungs more adamantium than his bones.

Logan didn't usually go for girls like this. Sweethearts. He went for the poisonous, the dangerous. Ladies of the neon, the women who lurked on corners or hung on your arm, drunk and doe-eyed in that fuck me kinda way. Not the soft and sweet honeychilds of the sunkissed morning, who looked good in sundresses and lipstick and challenged the glory of the very stars.

Always a man who could never burn, he didn't mind the taste of the hot and heavy, the pits of the noncommittal.

Liked the quick fucks and heavy makeup of drunken nights and neon, the veil that hid away the person, instead just another nameless, same-face Barbie doll to ease his desires.

Vixens and painted women tasted a kind of good that he'd learned to crave over the long, cold years of outliving. A stable sex diet, for sure. Where there was one, there would be another, and the universe never stopped churnin' out tit.

He'd be fucked before he ever considered anything lasting. With someone worth a shit, any of his tries. Questions if anyone like that even exists on this rock, anymore.

And Logan shouldn't be so pissed at how nonchalant she is about being touched, but he is. Feels his guts fill with that molten hot rage that gets him in trouble, that stokes the fires of his mutation like a damn forge. All he can think about is hammering that fucker through the damn floor, send him to hell in tiny little pieces the devil wouldn't even know how to sort.

Crushing a mental picture of that asshole's hands on her, in all the wrong places that guys know, his jaw tightens. Only a little, only to the point of boneshattering.

Pretty sure he could rip the brush guard right off this Jeep and eat it for breakfast and not even feel it.

Beyond the reach of headlights, Coke cans and water bottles lay littered along the muddy earth before the backstop of logs, a handful or so still propped up in various places. Challenges. Thinking about her crawling up there to place empty cans and other trash pieces for target practice eases some of the roil in his blood, the rage creeping up in scarlet at the corner of his vision.

It takes her a minute, but she spends another twelve rounds, hot brass kicking to the ground at her feet. Pop pop pop. One by one, shots ring off aluminum cans, crumple plastic bottles. Sends them to the earth in a rain. Others hit the logs, hard thwacks that bury deep.

She ain't a tough shot, by any means. He'd seen a lot of gunfire in his years, fucking centuries, knew men who weren't as precise. Had watched them die.

She sends the magazine out of the grip, back into her hand as she turns around, smiling at him a little crookedly as she looks up over the rim of her glasses, almost coy. As if she's proud of herself.

His brow lifts, amused. Mostly impressed, a little turned on.

She comes back to lean against the Jeep, closer this time. Close enough that he can smell the tinge of sweat lingering under her clothes from a night of work. If he's careful, he can taste the salt he knows skips around her tongue, from a let's do shots, Lo! tequila. Unmissable, that perfume she swears to God never stays around but is triggering every animal instinct he has.

Turning, she gently tosses the pistol back to its case. Flips the lid closed with a flick of her fingers. Crossing her arms over her chest, she props one foot back on the grille of the Wrangler, head angled just enough for Logan to catch sparkling traces of the air's moisture on her cheekbone. It's almost fantastic, he thinks. Fairytale. That shit they put in movies.

It goes straight to his cock.

"I've never been touched like that before, Logan," and it couldn't be more out of nowhere if it materialized right in front of them. Blinking, Logan finishes his cigarette. Outs it on the heel of his boot, flicks the end away as if it's plague. It isn't far removed, but she doesn't seem to care.

It's probably more information than he needs to know. What did they call it? TMI. Yeah, too much information. But somehow such a turned stone leaves him curious, like a cat with a mouse. Could beg at her feet like a slavering dog for more, if she'd be willing.

For months he'd watched her, trailblazing up and down the floorspace of his cage like some kind of goddess, deserving of high worship. Figured it came natural, because for someone like her, it should.

What a fuckin' shame. "Yeah?" God, the things he could do to her.

"Mhm. And now I'm not sure I want to be, if — if that's what it's like."

And all at once, the air is sucked out of the world that's opened up between them. She's quiet and small, shrunk into herself with hunched up shoulders and lowered eyes, like some kind of whipped dog that's done inexcusable wrong.

It so isn't her.

Supposed to burst with life, make him question the cold black void in his chest. She's supposed to sing when the earth sits at her feet, like spring waits for the cold of winter to flatline into a dead carcass of itself. Should light up the room with her all-sunshine, big voice that shakes him all the way down, makes him forget his own fucking name.

Whatever this broken, insecure shadow of a thing she is, it's — it's a crime against the world.

Makes him want to fillet any single soul that would even fucking breathe in his direction.

Brow cutting into a hard line, he reaches between them and takes her chin in his hand. Forces her attention on him.

He's done this before, from place of posturing, hamming up audiences and getting her to simmer the fuck down, doll! when she's too deep into the booze or angry, feasting on souls.

But now, it feels different — his fingers burn with a fire he's never really understood, the stuff they write about. He can feel electricity in her blood, the painful thud thud thud of her heart against the bones in her chest.

But she doesn't make to move away. Doesn't even fucking flinch.

Interestin'.

"That ain't what it feels like," his tone drops to that whiskey dark that tastes good, that rattles up his chest. Echoes off bone, had gotten him more than one fuck in his life. And it works, too. Always has.

Will it work with you, honey?

Swallowing a little breath, "It isn't?" slips off her tongue like wet sin. Compliments the little flutter of her eyes, how she shifts nervously under the weight of his attention.

The long column of her throat constricts on the words, like a serpent squeezing for purchase any sense of the moment, anything to hold. Punches him in the gut something beautiful. And if he were a lesser man, he'd throw her right up against the fucking headlights of this Jeep and show her what he means.

But that would defeat his whole damn point. Easy, Logan. You sick fuck.

But she looks so good, standing there. In comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt and jacket, slick with the attempts of rain hanging in the air. That Wyoming cap that blocks out the night, casts long shadows over her eyes. Somehow darkens the depths of sapphires that already don't have ending.

Lifting his other hand, he rubs a fallen curl between his fingers before the pad of his thumb gently skips over the curve of her bottom lip. Chapped, like his. Plush. Fucking edible.

Managing a chuckle, she shifts on her feet at the low of his tone. Nervous. It's delicious.

Leans in close, and Logan can almost feast on the dew of her skin. And he knows exactly what he's doing, what they like. Whether they're a siren of the night or Sunday morning's pretty skirt in church, women really just all want the same damn thing. To be chased. Desired, lusted for. The hunt.

It's all part of the chase, honey.

"Mhm-mhm," off a chuckle, one that ticks up the corner of his mouth into a keen, quicksilver smirk. "Not when it's right, when you wan' it. Feels good." Drinking in the design of her face, every lash and little thing that makes her her, his head angles just enough. Oh, just enough —

"So fuckin' good, honey." Fuck, he is breathless. That never fuckin' happens.

Logan expects her to pull away. But her pupils dilate to the wide of the moon, drinking in light like thirsting men on the Sahara. He's never seen such visible lust in the face of the opposite sex, hasn't ever felt its jaws snapping the air like hungry wolves.

Pretty sure this is as close to being eye fucked as it came, but he wasn't complaining.

She should walk away, the way he's looking at her. Like her soul is on sale, like she's the last fucking pair of tits the world will ever produce. And Logan would encourage her, any other time, to leave his sorry, lustful ass in the mud and go on with her life. Find someone worthy of everything God's given her. But at his base, he's a selfish man. Greedy. Hungry.

Too busy being split open by her eyes, sapphire knives that cut him between the ribs and drive a stake straight to the heart like the fucking Dracula he is, trying to suck the life out of her.

Waiting for the impact of the moment to lay her out like a stoned Goliath, he doesn't realize his breath comes shallow and heavy. Doesn't bother feeling the snap of cold wind chasing the heat off his skin, how her eyes skate over his features. Or even how she's managed to turn into his touch, how she's pulled to his side like an adrift little thing on cosmic shores.

And if she misses the let me show you pacing the lines of his better judgement, she's got one hell of a poker face to take to Vegas. He can feel the little shifting of her jaw in his fingers. How her tongue skates along her back teeth, her breath catching in the back of her throat. The pulse in her blood spins like a wicked thing, heart jackhammering through her ribs as if it's trying to cut to hell.

She doesn't feel cold, but her eyes snap with a fierce chill he's never seen before. Isn't sure if it's confidence, or fear. But he likes this look on her, this feral little thing so worthy of the name every man this side of Alberta wants to fuck into her.

Honeybadger. It's so ridiculous that he'll fuck the name out of her himself.

Sweet like smooth, golden honey from the vine. Forbidden fruit in the Eden he would move mountains to taste.

And just as damn savage.

For what he assumes is the first time in her life, she doesn't say a word.

Instead, she lifts a hand to snag nails through his facial hair, eyes traveling the planes of his face like he's something to remember. He might be, for the first time in his life. And it feels like white-hot fire, the slip of her skin against his, such perfect fire that he would willingly burning at the stake of her feet without hesitation, fight. Keening into her touch, his hand slips down the column of her throat, to tip her chin up just enough to compliment the angle of his.

Her other hand pulls him closer by the front of his jacket, her melding against him in that perfect way God had in mind when he created Eve straight out of Adam's marrow.

You could stone the crows, she kisses him first. Tentative and slow, like milking starlight out of the hand of God. And he was fucking right how she tastes like salt and tequila and sweat, her scent so overwhelming that he could drown in her and die a happy, fucking thrilled, man.

All the way down to this core he feels her, almost chokes on just how fucking far her tongue shoves down the back of his throat.

And if he could feast on it the rest of his living days, he'd still starve to death.

World spinning by in a haze of color and lust, he isn't thinking clearly when he pins her up against the grille of the Jeep, pelvis to pelvis, every ounce of blood in his body rushing straight to his cock that's already hard enough to drive her to God. Grips the slick cool of the brush guard with all the resolve of the world, absolution a thin veil between right and wrong, black and white and oh my God, how she tastes.

His arms haven't visibly shaken with restraint in any sort of timeframe that he recalls, most certainly not in the arms of a woman.

He'll take back everything when she pulls at his hair, nails all but driving canyons into his scalp.

It comes naturally, his fingers burying into the thick flesh of her thighs. Hauling her up to the hood, the Jeep racks with her weight, headlights swaying as she reaches for him like he's the last hold on the crumbling rock of resolve, of composure.

And the poor thing shakes, hardly breathing — any second now he could expect her to burst, but instead, she takes his face between her hands, nails biting into his facial hair as she leans down to brush foreheads with him, taste him. He lifts his head, brushing hot breath against her racehorse pulse, the nuclear explosion of her lungs battering against his ribs a delightful way to wonder about the grave.

Pulling back enough to look her in the eye, he smiles. Cool, cleancut. Enough to rip her heart out, he sees it. It's balanced and bleeding between his fingers, his own plaything. Wolverines and Honeybadgers — it's laughable, really. If it wasn't so right.

"How's it feel?" It may as well not even be there, almost carried away by the little hitch of her breath when he skates his mouth against her jaw, bites softly at the pulse in her neck. "Feel good, honey?"

Her nose nuzzles his facial hair. "So many feelings, Logan," and it's barely there, a whimper. A hint of an idea. "Does it always feels like this?"

Lacing fingers through hers, he presses a kiss to the heel of her hand, slow and deliberate. Relishes in the faraway taste of steel, bullets. Gun oil and sin. Props a foot up on the Jeep's guard, steps up like it doesn't even matter.

And oh, if she doesn't know what she's doing she'd burn in hell for lying, the way she leans back on her elbows, like a graceful little thing. Staring up at him like he's heaven descended.

A rush of power he can't explain fills his blood, before he drops low and crawls over her. Chases her up the hood until they're both at the windshield's glass, breathless and hazy.

He chuckles, "Only when it's right, honey," dips low, worships her like every fucker in Alberta only prays to. "Only when it's right."

@sidkneeeee

@thevoicefromanotherworld

@misscrissfemmefatale

@eternallyfrustratedwriter

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@laaadygisbooornex3

@itsafullmoon

[hot-claws]

I wonder what Logan and Itsu would have named Akihiro.

[themareverine]

HE'S STUNNING I WANT

Cage-fighter Wolverine. Every year I tell myself I'm going to try and do more painting and lighting practice, so this year I'm starting it off with some.

[tomhockstetter7-111]

Does Logan post-memory loss have the mind of a teenager? Like, in the first movie, Charles mentions he’s been drifting around for fifteen years with no idea of who he was. Do you think he lost his memories but kept the emotional maturity or was it all taken away when his memory was wiped?

Him having a teenager’s mind is lowkey my headcanon but I’m curious about what everyone else thinks.

Asking for character development science purposes…….