#logan Howlett x reader

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[froghatz]

Logan Howlett and Knotting?!!

Maybe there is a god in this universe OMG!!!

I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!

divider by angel @saradika-graphics!

it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...

The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.

It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.

It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.

He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.

His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.

By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.

He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.

The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.

"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.

Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.

You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.

Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.

You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.

Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.

Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent. 

The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.

“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”

Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.

The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.

You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”

Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”

You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.

“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”

The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.

You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.

Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.

You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.

In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.

He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.

You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.

“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.

“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.

Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts. 

Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.

He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.

Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”

The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.

Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.

Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more. 

He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you. 

It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved. 

The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.

His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.

“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure. 

The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.

Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.

He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.

Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.

Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”

Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.

But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.

He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.

“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.

The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.

“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."

He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.

Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. 

Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.

Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist. 

He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.

You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.

“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.

With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.

“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”

Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”

The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain. 

The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.

With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.

He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.

Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer. 

Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.

Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.

He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.

“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.

Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.

Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.

Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.

His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.

Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow. 

Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.

“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”

Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.

He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.

“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.

The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.

You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.

He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.

“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."

A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest. 

Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.

“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”

Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt. 

Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.

He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.

He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.

Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.

He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.

“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.

“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.

“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.

It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.

Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”

Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.

He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.

And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[themareverine]

— Parts of Me (teaser)

DoFP!Logan x wife!fem!reader

“What do you need me to do?” She’s uneasy, it’s in her voice. “Nothin’, right now. Just breathe—breathe for me, baby.”

tags: Mare's first cayenne pepper level spicy content, virgin reader (and writer, I don't know what I'm doing), first time, consider this like an R rating, Logan going waaaay slower than he's probably used to, me torturing this poor man, first time jitters, self-consciousness, wedding night themes.

a/n: in honor of someone I have truly come to respect and consider the best-friend character to my MC life, @bpmiranda you deserve this. I've been hesitant to put this out there. And I'm really not one to consider myself a smutwriter, as we all know, but in my brain, this isn't exactly smut. You've been curious about what I can produce for this type of thing for a while and because I know you have a birthday eventually, since you are in fact alive, consider this that level of a gift showing how much you inspire me and I care about you.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

“Quit thinkin’. Tell me what it feels like, baby.”

It’s more of a slow poison than she was prepared for, how it slips from him like warm honey. It’s dangerous, in honesty—that’s her first instinct. Nerves. Fear.

That prickly feeling along her spine, how her blood flames hot when his hand traces along the soft of her sides. His fingers skip along the cradle of her hip. Like a lover, slow and kind. All the ways he thinks he isn’t, hasn’t ever claimed to be.

And without thinking, her body reacts viscerally. Her back arcs off the mattress, which shifts beneath her in ways she didn’t think about. The world seems to echo, all she can hear is the sharp breath shes taken, how it burns in her lungs.

Balancing on the blade edge of anticipation, any second now—it will happen. Logan will take everything, finally. She’ll have given the one part of herself she can never reverse, the one beautiful thing God grants every woman to guardian, every man to protect.

Any heartbeat now, everything will change. Worlds will stop spinning in faraway galaxies. Mountains will sing, rocks will cry out. Time will stand still in her veins, and for a moment, just a minute, she will cease living while simultaneously being reborn.

Her toes curl, simply from the ghost of his hand to her inner thigh. Pebbling skin, teasing her in a way she’s only ever dreamed.

And she’s terrified this will be everything she’s ever envisioned. Everything and nothing, a sweet sword to fall on. Because if it is, it will be euphoric. A high with exploring until death. And if it isn’t—there’s no chance, not in hell. Not with the way he looks at her. The way she aches for him in places you don’t share.

Parts of her know it won’t be so simple, or so complex. That she has nothing to truly be afraid of, not with Logan. He’s chased every demon, defeated each of her giants. And he’ll do so, now until death—he’d promised. It’s sealed and in gold, in adamantium.

Somehow, it doesn’t ease the knot in her stomach, or the low hunger between her legs that’s been there since she could remember.

Logan.

She doesn’t realize she’s softly moaned his name until the tears are small infernos against her skin, until she’s worrying her bottom lip to the point of blood.

It will not be the first blood of the night, she realizes—and again, her spine pulses with nerves. She wants this. Badly.

He answers her, slower than ever. Closer than the blood in her veins, the breath in her chest. “I’m right here,” he leans low, his breath warm as he smiles against her skin, patiently worshipping.

“Breathe for me,” His voice is low, almost wolfish. Alarmingly dark, heavy. It’s everything, makes her smile almost wryly. “Need you to breathe for me, honey.” His hand gently brushes her cheek, eyes holding hers softly.

“You ready?”

He knows exactly what to do, what to say. It’s a small mercy afforded her from God, she thinks. She’s breathless, doubts she can speak.

Logan’s hand slips down her side, hovering low over her core. His knuckles ghost her entrance, and she writhes. It’s supernatural, maybe even fantastical.

Holding her breath, she attempts to breathe. It coils against her spine, painfully sweet.

“Yes,” it’s simple, almost pleading. Hungry. “Please.” Her toes curl into the duvet. She’s never been more terrified.

And it’s never felt so good.

[lostinlovingrevery]

All For You

Old Man Logan X F! Reader

His lap is where you belong

A/N: hi remember when i said i probs wont post anything today. I lied. I got possessed and wrote this half asleep in bed. Enjoy!

Warnings: SMUTTY SMUT. Mdni :) cockwarming, breasts worship (sorta), reader gets called a good girl. Kinda orgasm denial-ish

He sat on his chair, watching you stand over him.

All polite, with that sweet smile thats reserved only for him.

You handed him his cigar and lighter.

"Thanks darling." He reaches for them. Placing the cigar between his teeth,  he flipped the lighter, sparking the flame to life and burning the butt of the cigar until it turned black and ashy, and he tasted the woodsy smoke on his tongue.

He tossed the lighter aside, plucking the cigar from his teeth. He observed you. He tipped his hand towards you, "Why don't you take that pretty outfit off for me?" He suggests.

You smiled, a flash of excitement in your eyes. You carefully shed off each piece of cloth you were wearing, until you were down to your bra and panties.

You took those off teasingly, a smirk growing on Logans lips as unhooked your bra, slowly pulling the straps down your shoulders, before pulling it off completely. You did the same teasing dance with your panties, discarding both pieces to the side with your clothes.

You stood nude before him, and he regarded you with appreciation as he smoked the cigar. Finally, he pat his lap.

"Come ere, take me out." He says.

You tried not to seem too excited. It didnt matter, he knew how eager you were. You stepped forward, bending over to carefully undo his belt, and then unbutton, and unzip his pants.

You reached in and pulled him out. Standing at attention for you already, your mouth watered the sight of the vein that ran up his thick girth. You bit your lip, reaching out to grasp him in your hand, but he pushed it away.

"Not right now." He says. You stood up, a small pout on your lips. You eyes took him in hungrily, sitting relaxed in his chair as he smoked. His cock, heavy and erect, begging for your attention.

He finally tells you to sit in his lap, and you happily obliged. Your knees pressed into the cusion outside his thighs. Your bare pussy brushed up against his girth, but you made sure not to do anything unless he told you.

He set the cigar to the side, in a small glass tray that was dusty and filled with ashes from his previous smokes. His hands came back, resting on your hips, fingers pressing divots into your skin.

He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to one of your nipples. Then he moved to the other, giving that one the same sentiment. You moved your hands up into his salt and pepper hair, gently scratching his scalp as you arched into him.

He shut his eyes, continuing to press butterfly kisses all over your breasts. His tongue peaked out, pressing against a nipple, before he wrapped his lips around it, and began to suck, with his teeth softly grazing it. His hand came up and fondled the other tit, until he switches sides.

A soft moan escaped you as you tipped your head back.

"Lo..." You let out a soft whimper, fingers tugging his hair.

He removed himself from your breasts, leaning back into the chair, his knees spread farther apart, sitting you more comfortably in his lap.

"Missed you today baby." He coos softly, as one hand slips between your thighs, cupping your hot core. His fingers swiped through your folds, and brought them up to his face, observing the creamy slick he gathered from you. "All ready for me?"

"I'm always ready for you."

He smirked, sticking his fingers between his lips. Sucking off the taste of you first with a quiet moan. He brought his hands to your hips, gently encouraging you to sit up higher on your knees.

He lowered you down onto him. Deeper and deeper he went inside you. Filling every inch of you to the brim. The fullness uncomfortable at first, delving into something that felt so good. Complete, its almost as if you were made for him.

Small hitched breaths from every inch he gives and you tip your head back, thighs trembling and fingers digging into the skin of his shoulders. Your eyes heavy and lips slightly parted. Logan looked at you with nothing but love and admiration with his tired eyes.

"Like that darling." He rasps, his scarred hands massaging your shaky thighs. "Look damn gorgeous taking all of me like that." He tips his chin up to you, his lips looked inviting "C'mere, give me a kiss."

You leaned forward, sharing a gentle kiss with him. You started to rock your hips, but his hands stopped you, holding you hips and stilling your movements.

"No no baby." He tuts at you, "I just want you, like this."

You wanted to move, so bad. To ride him, make him feel good, make yourself feel good. Sitting still is going to drive you insane, however looking at Logans face told you there was no argument to be had. He was tired, aching from a long day at work.

So you were a good girl, and nodded.

A small smile stretched across his face. His hands moved down from your hips, sliding over your skin with rough callouses. He cupped your ass, giving one cheek a few gentle pats.

"Good girl." He purrs. You bit your lip, unable to help your smile at the praise. Your pussy clenched over him at the praise, and his jaw tightened at that sensation.

You were warm, sweet, perfect to bury himself into after a long day. He thought about nothing else but coming home to you, having a quiet smoke, and watch you squirm over him as his cock throbs inside you. He wants you to tell him about your day, as he watches your breath hitch, and feels your hands dig into him, as any slight movement sends a shock of pleasure up your spine.

He loved this sight. You were naked atop of him. Signs of his love marked into you from last night all over your stunning figure. Your peaked nipples, still wet from his gentle kisses. He could see where his cock spears you- your pussy was drooling all over him. It looked all puffy and absolutely delicious, as it sucks him in greedily, and he can feel the way your walls stretch and pulse around him, begging to be filled with his coitus.

Your eyes were heavy, lips slightly pouty. You hair was slightly tousled in the most beautiful way. He could tell by your heart breath, and your soft breaths that you were struggling to keep still. You'll get your reward in due time.

He reached over to the cigar, that had ashed in the small glass tray and brought it up to his lips. His eyes watched yours, as you traced his every movement. He puffed on the cigar, before blowing a cloud of smoke- not directly at your face, but you were still caught in its pathway as it filled your lungs and made your eyes water. The earthy smoke smelled incredible though, only because it smells like him.

"Tell me about your day, honey." He says in a low, soothing voice. His other hand stroked your thigh gently, soothing the occassional quiver that ran over you.

You chewed on your lower lip, thinking about what you did do today. Your mind was going numb, fuzzy from sitting on his cock.

"I went to that new bakery we saw last week." You finally remember. "I tried their scones. They're really good, I bought some, and I got you a slice of their cheesecake."

"For me? How nice of you." He says, taking another hit of his cigar. You nodded, your bottom lip began to quiver. As good as it felt to be full of him, not having any stimulation in which your body was screaming for was filling you in with frustration. You wanted to move, to glide up and down his cock. Your swollen clit was throbbing, begging to be touched- but you didn't because you knew that's not what he wants right now. You needed to be a good girl,

His good girl.

He noticed, you were never very good at hiding your emotion. His hand splayed over your back, gently encouraging you to lie on his chest. You nuzzled your face into his neck. Being even closer to him seemed to ease the ache. His hand gently rubbed up and down your back soothingly.

Sweet little thing you are, just putty in his arms. He knows what you want, but unfortunately- he likes the way everything is, just like this. You, split open on his cock, keeping him warm and wet while he relaxes for the evening.

He knows you'll take it though. You'll do anything for him, just like he'd do anything for you.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hey Gator 👋 I was going through your kinktober stuff and really liked your AOB concept for feral mutants. I was wondering if you could write something similar with maybe alpha Logan x alpha reader. no smut please, just want some like domestic headcanons and stuff

Thanks ❤️❤️❤️

Logan Howlett x male reader 

Headcanons 

For fun, I looked up different animals with a dominance-based hierarchy to base the reader on. This means reader was based on an elephant seal in my head, just for fun. But I tried to leave it up for interpretation. 

Like I've mentioned in the few things I've written about alpha/beta/omega dynamics in x-men, they don't actually have secondary genders like in omegaverse, but its more a hormone, hierarchy thing. 

But, you and Logan still have some internal wants and needs that will clash in the beginning.  

When you two first started staying at the x-mansion, the two of you would have to set up areas that were your “territory”. The other could still come and go, but that place was scented by the “owner” only. 

You both logically know you cant just decide to own an area of the mansion, or krakoa if its set there, but it helps calm some of the more antsy parts of your mutation. 

Logan is more of a prowler, whereas you like to lay and sunbathe for long periods of time. This means Logans “territory” is longer and thinner, as he paces different routes. But your area is a larger area in one place. 

Being feral mutants also means you guys can communicate in different ways compared to other mutants. 

None of the other x-men, except for maybe Hank, understand what you and Logan are doing when you two are grunting and huffing at each other. You two claim its feral telepathy, they wouldn't understand. 

This is only pushed further after you two become “mates” because you become so much more sensitive to each other's scents and minor actions.  

Logan scents you a lot more than you scent Logan. Like, he's constantly rubbing his mutton chops all over you, especially your head and shoulders. He might even lick you every now and then to really make his scent settle. 

You'll scent him back too, though not as much as Logan does. You sunbathe near his room or wherever he's staying instead, to stake your claim and tell possible challengers to buzz off. 

Neither of you guys purr or anything, and you don't built nests in the same way they do in omegaverse. You two will still burrow though.  

Like, when you guys are getting extra cuddly, you'll pile stuff up on or under the bed, and just cuddle down there, even if you get all sweaty and dehydrated. 

Becoming partners also means you guys don't feel any need to “compete” or stuff like that. 

Instead, you guys will prowl each other's areas, and scent it. Logan marks your territory more than you ever have, but you like it, it makes you feel pleased and comfortable.  

In the past, others knew where to look if they needed to find you, since you would always be in the same place. But now, you could be anywhere that Logan has marked his “territory” 

50/50 chance you are also just laying wherever Logan is or laying in your guy's shared room. 

I like to think Logan love nibbles, you know the thing canines do where they kinda nibble with their front teeth on stuff they like and love. You don't love nibble the same, but you'll bite Logan every now and then.  

You both have something like cuteness aggression, and you can actually act on it cuz you both like it biologically.  

I feel like you two end up living in a cabin together away from everyone else, but close enough that you can shuffle back and join team dinners or parties and stuff. 

[unlikeable-female-character]

I’m not proud of the amount of times I’ve re-read this today (I am proud)

𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐱

⬩ pairing(s) logan "wolverine" howlett x mutant!female!reader

⬩ warning(s) language, sparring/fighting, a little bit of plot, a super teeny tiny bit of angst, smut, dirty talking, masturbation (mentioned), competency!kink (aka logan liking someone that can beat him in a fight), penetrative sex (p in v), bodily fluids (mentioned), rough(ish) sex, no pussy eating but logan is still a munch, no protection (wrap irl pls), yearning!logan, hold the moan vibes, female anatomy/pronouns are used. minors dni/+18!

⬩ author's note imposter syndrome set in but we're posting anyway because the love for logan is real! not sure how i did with his character but it's okay because this is fiction :) dedicating this to @joannasteez @rae-gar-targaryen @heavenbarnes @kyletogaz and anyone else who needs logan howlett as badly as i do. reader's powers are sort of explained but pretty vague so you can imagine whatever you want outside of what's mentioned in the fic. more logan coming soon and i hope you enjoy <3

⬩ word count 3.9k

Six months. Six months ago you’d started as the new counselor. Six months, and Logan can’t get you out of his head. 

Extraordinary was the word the Headmaster had used. Logan thought it was just Charles being Charles when he’d introduced you as such, though he soon finds his boss was correct. Understating, even.

The realization comes on your sixth day of employment. Ororo, Logan’s usual training partner and woman who could double as Mother Nature, was a few hours east with Jean and Scott. This left Logan to skip for the day and settle for a good run instead. Well, that was his plan until he catches you on your way to the gym.

He doesn’t mean to stare but fuck. The leggings you’re sporting could bring even the strongest mutants to tears. In his haze, the man forgets that you can spot him and probably already have as he attempts to follow you. You’re hearing is as good as his, if not better, and your super acute senses are just that–super and acute. Hell, you’re ability to feel what others have to search hard for is one of the reasons Charles hired you in the first place.

Logan knows he’s caught when you’re already laughing quietly to yourself upon his entry to the gym. The room would be empty if not for the two of you and he couldn’t feel luckier.

“Just wanted to make sure you got to where you were going.” It’s a lie and a bad one, but your ass in those pants has his head too fogged to think of anything better. “Easy to get lost in this place. Lotta rooms.”

You hum at Logan’s words, already knowing that he knows you aren’t buying it. “I appreciate that. Had a couple hours free, so I thought I’d check this place out. Gotta keep up with the rest of you guys, somehow.”

Logan’s eyebrows accidentally raise, and you tilt your head at him.

“Why the face?”

Shit. Shaking his head, Logan comes to join you where you stand on the large sparring mat in the middle of the room. Soon enough, he gives in. No point in lying if he’s already fibbed once.

“...just didn’t think a school counselor would be into that kinda thing.”

“And what makes you say that?”

Logan huffs out something similar to a laugh, as your rebuttal came quicker than he was expecting. He can see the gears in your head working and the smile threatening to break out, but it can’t be for what he’s thinking, right?

“I just–”

Only the two words slip from his lips before you charge in his direction. He catches on fast enough to counter the leg you try and slip around his, but can’t catch himself when you shove him into the mat from behind.

Logan crashes to his hands and knees, stunned. He whips his head to you from his place on the ground, face reading what the fuck? The way you stand over him with a pleased look doesn’t give him a chance to be angry, however. In a matter of a few short seconds, the man’s shaking with an unexpected round of laughter. 

“Well, fuck,” he exhales, finally standing with an impressed grin. “That’s one way to prove a guy wrong.”

Your shrug is interrupted by a pouncing Logan, who carries out the move you tried to execute to near perfection, causing your back to hit the mat with a short thud. When you blink yourself back to reality, you’re met with him dangling over you. Not that you really got any chance, but it’s his turn to gloat.

“Gotta sweep both legs, not just swipe at one.”

You roll your eyes, taking the outstretched hand he offers to help you up. Logan sniffs at the flame that shoots through his hand.

That’s how the next hour goes. One of you attacks, the other counters. Never with any true malice behind any of your intentions, but that’s not to say either of you don’t try to knock the wind out of each other once or twice. All of it is in good fun, concluding with the both of you panting atop the mat with matching grins.

“You’re good… and fast,” Logan sighs after catching his breath. “Where’d you learn how to fight like that?”

“...where we all did; surviving in a world that doesn’t like us very much.”

When you don’t tell him any more than that, he leaves it alone. You’ll tell him one day. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. He’s the last person to push someone back into memories they’ve obviously tried to forget.

This world is shitty enough. He’s searched enough to know there’s no sense in dipping behind locked doors.

“Same time tomorrow? Assuming Charles doesn’t need someone to save the world.”

Another laugh twitches Logan’s upper body as he peeks over at you. Your skin is damp after all your skillful offense and better defense. His eyes snake down your entire frame and linger for who knows how long. Lower lip sucking into his mouth, he has to flick his gaze back toward the ceiling before his dick can harden any further.

“Sounds like a plan,” Logan replies, hoping you can’t hear the wobble in his voice. You leave him a few minutes later with an aching member he hides all the way back to his room.

This becomes the routine. Once a week, the two of you meet in the gym, spar, and he runs back to his shower to pump one out over your competence. If the count he’s been keeping is right, you’ve got a slight edge on the matches–a fact he’d be surprised with if he didn’t already know the reason behind it.

You’re impossibly enthralling, even more so when you fight, and it really starts fucking with him the better he gets to know you. Like he said before, you’re fast. It keeps him on his toes, on and off the mat. What move will you counter with next? What story do you have for him today? What panties do you wear to keep those leggings so smooth?

Months pass and it gets harder to hide. Logan waits a little longer to push you off when you end up on top of him. His hands linger a little more when he’s pinning you to the mat with a victorious smirk. He stands a little closer when listens to you speak, your voice becoming a siren’s song that invades his mind into the hours past sundown.

Tonight is all the same, and as usual, a soda in the kitchen at midnight does nothing to help his attempts to sleep.

What that man would do for a cold beer.

He sits by himself at the counter, rubbing his eyes in half annoyance, half worked up. You had sparred with the man five days ago, and he’s still stuck on the move that made him tap out. Something with your thighs wrapped around his neck and squeezing until he smacks the mat. That evening, he rushed through dinner to finish grading exams before fucking one of his pillows for half the night.

Logan’s thrusted out of his daydream at the distant sound of footsteps, recognizing them instantly. He leaves his stool with an embarrassing swiftness but is able to collect himself as he travels through the mansion. The sound of your calming pitters is followed by Logan with ease, and the man finds his prize in record time.

“So it’s not just the kids that don’t get enough rest around here.”

God, it takes everything within Logan not to smile smugly at the way you pause and spin. Finally, you’re the one caught off guard for a change. It’s nice, the way you hide your squirm with a clearing of your throat and a tiny grin. You had to have heard him coming, so why the nerves?

“Hard thing to do when the mind’s always on.” The words come with a shrug that causes the straps of your loose tank to slip off one of your shoulders. Logan swallows at the sight of the skin, sucking in a quiet breath to keep an embarrassing noise from slipping from his lips. What would you think if he’d told you he’d dream about kissing that very spot? Inhaling against and sucking on it after at whatever time of day you’ll allow in whatever room you wish.

“And the mind’s a hard thing to turn off for people like us.” Logan eases to you, even steps echoing in the otherwise empty hallway. With a tilted head and barely-hooded eyes, the man’s growing somewhat drunk just off the smell of you. The thought of a good drink is somewhere else. It’s long gone as he breathes in your scent as deep as he can before continuing. “What’s keeping you up tonight?”

Logan waits patiently while you think. The subtle tick of your eyes to the right as you rack your brain is almost as stunning as when you glance back at him before dragging your gaze down to the crotch of his jeans.

“You don’t really sleep in those, do you?”

You haven’t moved your eyes. Why haven’t you moved your eyes?

Logan huffs out of astonishment more than anything, cocking one of his hips to the side. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before having to bite the same spot to keep his chuckle down.

“My, uh,” he grins a little. “My jeans are why you can’t sleep?

Logan swallows when you finally look back at his face. You stare something wrong into his soul, something he feels in the smallest divots of his otherworldly joints, in the very meaning of his existence. He doesn’t realize he’s drifted even closer until the heat of you raises the hairs on the back of his neck. The mutant stares at you, into you, a slight sway leaning his body to hang even closer to yours. 

“It’s… what’s under them that has me wandering the halls.”

Logan’s insides jump and twitch and flail as he processes your words. His mouth grows to feel extremely dry, and it seems impossible to say anything back. Somewhere deep down, he eventually finds it.

“Are we finally gonna do this?” Logan’s question hits out hard in the dimness of the hallway. Almost as powerful as the beats his heart pounds, a thudding ardor pulsing right alongside the blood pumping all the way down to his cock. He doesn’t hesitate in the gliding of a tender palm along your sides, hands settling to grip against your waist. He dips his fingertips, pressing into what he desperately wishes was your skin instead of the soft fabric of your shirt. “You finally gonna let me show you what I think about every time you walk into the fuckin’ room? Every time you knock me into that mat?”

There’s a vibration coming off your skin now, one that Logan feels rattle against his bones as your lips part in a slow grin. It doesn’t take more than a nod and soft yes from you to force a low growl from Logan’s throat. He almost sounds it again when you pull away to gather his hand into yours.

Logan studies you the entire journey to your room. It’s the furthest down the hall of all the instructors’ quarters, giving him ample time to dance lingering, heated looks at the way you move; it’s with such grace and attention, though the man knows you give it none. It’s just who you are, the slick moves and cunning ways that have him entranced.

The air inside your room is thick with want. A quiet clunk sounds when Logan shuts the door, his back resting against the wood in a slight lean.

“Nice place,” Logan comments quietly. It looks as put together as he thought it would. Tidy but lived in, and touches of you all over. You accept the compliment with a few strides to where Logan stands, and he welcomes the arms you snake around his neck with an embrace of his own.

“Can I kiss you?”

His badly stoked yearning makes the seconds it takes for you to bob your head seem like an eternity. The time it takes to kiss you, however, is second to none. Your faces sink together, tongues too impatient to wait before they meld together in a deep kiss. A moan slips from you, Logan drinking it with a groan of his own.

Logan drags his lips from yours, allowing you to breathe but only for a moment as he trails kisses down your jawline. His world glows golden when he finally makes it to your shoulder. The spot he’s wanted to feel against his lips oh so badly. He nips at and moans lowly against it, raising a round of goosebumps he can feel erupt across you. He’s doing that. He’s the one causing you to shiver like this, and it’s going to drive him crazy.

Logan snogs you the entire way to your bed, pushing you onto the mattress with a gentle flop.

“Off,” he commands, ripping off his tank in the blink of an eye before rushing to unbuckle his belt. “All of it.”

The two of you move quickly, ripping off shirts and slipping off bottoms in a single move. Your desperation forbids any kind of teasing, the two of you completely naked when Logan clambers on top of you. His cock noticeably twitches when it brushes against the skin of your stomach, but Logan’s too busy being slack-jawed as he stares down at you.

He could sob at your tits, and his hand has to tweak one of your nipples on its way down to your soaking lips. Right now, Logan doesn’t focus on taking his time, and you don’t let him. The man dives right in, incapable of waiting when such a ravishing meal like this is laid out like this before him.

A finger glides up your slit and just outside your entrance, collecting your already gathering wetness. 

“This all for me?” A gasp spills from you, right into Logan’s mouth. He breathes it down without hesitation, pressing his lips into yours as he slides the drenched pads of his fingers up and down your puffing clit. Your legs try to clench together as the sudden spark that zaps through you, but Logan easily parts them with a single swipe of his knee, keeping you pressed open for him with a little tsk.

All you can do is squeak out a small ahs, a pair of thick fingers rubbing you roughly, while Logan relishes the way your head throws back, mouth parting. Your hand finds its way to his chest, where you clutch his forearm, and squirm underneath him. Another smirk darkens Logan’s face when your writhes forge into determined grinds against his working digits, and he makes sure to burn the image of this into his very core.

“That’s it,” he breathes out. “Use me, baby. Don’t fuckin’ stop ‘til your pussy creams all over my hand.”

Logan could burst at how you do exactly what he said to; you use the fuck out of the hand he has clamped against you, whining and jerking, pussy leaking a devastating amount of your juices out to coat his fingers. He talks you through when your first orgasm ricochets through your body, jolting your limbs and wrenching ill-restrained wails from your lips. Instead of stopping, he hurries to kiss you when you release a particularly loud sound at the overwhelming sensation. Telling you how good you’re being for him. Coming for him so well. You cling to him your entire way down, kissing at his lips and chin lazily as he holds you.

He waits until you return with a heavy breath before removing his hand. You tense at the removal, your shivers quickly decaying when he returns the warmth in the form of his member nudging back against your slit. 

The head of his cock presses into you at an infuriating speed, but Logan can’t go any faster. Your center is a mess of wet and clings around Logan with a tautness that makes him pause halfway inside of you. He needs a second, or he’ll cum. Flood you before he gets a chance to feel you come around him first.

A lengthy oh draws from Logan, ending with a punched-out fuck only when his entire cock is entirely submerged inside your hole. He gives you both a moment to adjust, twining an arm under you to press a hand to your back while the other palms itself on your cheek. He clutches you close, testing a few deep strokes that he finds are the right move when you choke out a perfect whine.

Logan’s pace grows gradually, always angling his hips according to whatever makes you clench around him the most. You’re lucky your bed is bolted to the floor when Logan starts bucking with a new snap to his hips, a slick layer of cream appearing and glazing the cock that slips in and out of you.

“Fuckin’ take me,” he heaves above you, just over the slaps of his sopping thrusts. Every grind buries himself deep into your heat, Logan losing himself in the feeling. At this moment, it’s all he’s ever wanted–to rail you until neither of you can’t think straight. Logan’s already there, unable to form a single coherent thought that doesn’t revolve around you. He fucks you well, ignoring the way the muscles in his ass burn nicely every time he plunges himself into you.

Logan can see you staring back up at him, and he’s sure he looks something pitiful. He can feel his eyes trying not to roll back in his head when your body bounces back upwards to meet his thrust. The hair that usually sits perfectly on his forehead sticks to his skin now, and he’s sure that his face is stuck in an expression of pure, fucked out rapture.

“God, you’ve got a pussy on you, dont’cha? Fucking incredible,” Logan murmurs, the fat head of his dribbling cock spearing you open.

A little grin teases at your lips, taking just enough time to catch Logan off guard for you to use your legs to keep him from moving after his next sink inside of you.

“Oh, fuck,” the man shudders, eyes fluttering shut when you kiss him again. His world spins at your rolling over, head hitting the sheets at the way you stuff yourself full of him. Forcing his eyes open, Logan nearly closes them again. The sight and rush of you starting a leisurely rock is enough to inch him closer than he’s ready for.

“Shit, wait.” Even with the hand he squeezes strongly on the cheek of your ass, you keep steady in your grind. “Fucking wait.”

A low, forcing growl thunders through his voice, and he whips forward into a sitting position at a speed that has you seizing to grab at his shoulder. His grip finds the back of your neck, interrupting your gasp to yank your face just inches apart from his.

Your noses brush, eyes studying each other in a thick silence. Unable to help himself, Logan drags you into a long kiss. It steals whatever air is left in your legs, and doesn’t stop when he rolls his cock into you with a bite to your lip. It’s when you match his movements that the hand on your neck moves to the small of your back, helping you along.

“Attagirl. That’s better,” Logan praises between kisses, your hand sneaking under his arms to hook your grasp onto his wide shoulders. Your mouth slicks and pecks against Logan’s, waist easing into an intoxicating whine up and down his cock. “Fuck me, that’s it.”

Logan follows the words with a more forceful knocking of his cock into you, and he’s starting to lose it again. Before you know it, he’s flipped you onto your back once more, and your head almost hangs off the bed with the angle he’s contorted you both into.

Your bodies jerk and hump together with a new vigor. Logan can feel himself dwindling into nothing but a puddle of pitiful moans, eventually having to bury his mouth into the neck to muffle his strangled sobs. They rip from him anyway, vibrating with each flick of his hips.

All you can do is wrap your legs and take it, hanging on the man who’s got you seeing literal fucking stars.

“Fucking cream my cock, bub.”

You don’t have to tell Logan when you’re close. The harsh pulsing of your pussy around his dick alerts him well enough to rail you deeper. Pulling from your neck, Logan rises to watch as you look up at him, a mixture of lust and a hint of panic in your gaze.

“C-cover my mouth, cover my mouth,” you rush out, Logan barely sealing his hand over your lips before you’re falling apart around him. He fucks into you deep as you start to come, palm doing the bare minimum of dampening the long, loud moan that shreds your throat raw. Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves, clenching Logan then the sheets then Logan again while your body sputters under his with rough shakes.

“Such a good fucking girl,” Logan punctuates with matching thrusts, unable to stop his own wave from catching up with him. The first rope of cum spurts inside you when he bottoms out, the last of your peak squeezing him to a stomach-burning clench of his abs as he comes for you. The only thing that leaves his mouth are a slew of curses, all of them groaned with tightly shut eyes and a damp forehead pressing onto yours. 

Logan pumps and pumps, removing his hand from your face to keep him from falling as you milk him into nothing but tiny whimpers and flinching aftershocks. 

A hard, warm weight begins to sink against you, Logan’s breathing still shaky when you wrap an arm around his back. His cock remains inside you, twitching every now and again, some of his load seeping out of your still-stuffed center.

He doesn’t say anything for a while. He can’t say anything for a while, body feeling as if he’s floating. He can’t remember feeling this loose and free and adoring. He wants to sleep here. Can he sleep here?

“Can I sleep here?” Logan questions, voice hoarse with exhaustion. He smiles lazily at your answer.

“Only if you kiss me again.”

With the little energy he has left, Logan pulls his face to yours. He opts for your jaw first, kissing his way to your chin before planting a final kiss on your lips. This one is different, more careful than the rest. His eyes barely stay open when he retreats, pleased with the picture of your blissed-out expression.

Logan watches you attentively when he finally decides to pull out, his thumb reaching up to stoke at your cheek.

“Shh, shh,” he coos at your light gasp. “I know.���

“Still so big,” you groan quietly, and he shushes you with a peck to your head this time.

“I know, pretty, I know.”

He huffs when his cock falls all the way out, easing to lay next to you. His chest shines, damp, one of his arms folding behind his head while the other maneuvers you into his side. You give in to sleep fast, a cheek pressed into his built peck, and mouth open with steady puffs of warm air against his skin.

Six days, and he was yours. Six months, and you’re his–something certain when he wakes in the early morning to find you already staring back at him with those charming eyes and knowing twinkle.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[mcrdvcks]

tum hi ho (you are the one)

summary: You take Logan to a family wedding, where he also gets to experience part of your culture.

word count: 5k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: so... this is incredibly self-indulgent. i was trying to come up with ideas to write and then i had something pop into my head, "what if i took logan to a family wedding?"

it's a hell of a lot different than an american wedding, though not too different since they are incredibly americanized (at least the ones i've been to). so thus, this was born! enjoy reader taking logan to a family wedding and him trying indian food!

here are a few translations:

mone: boy

mole: girl

warnings/tags: reader is half white/half indian, reader has a younger brother, indian-american wedding, (southern) indian food

“All you need to do is look… nice.” You said, fixing Logan’s dress shirt collar. “Most of the guys—well, older guys—will be wearing kurtas. No one wears a suit.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, tugging uncomfortably at the collar you had just adjusted. “You could've warned me earlier, princess. I'm not exactly known for blendin' in at parties.”

“It's not a party,” you corrected gently, smoothing out a wrinkle along his shoulder. “It's a wedding. And I promise you'll be fine. They’ll love you.”

Logan snorted softly, a skeptical grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Right. A bunch of your distant relatives meeting your mutant boyfriend? Sure, what's not to love?”

You laughed, patting his chest playfully. “You know what I mean. They’re family. They're obligated to be nice. Besides, my dad’s already warmed everyone up, apparently.”

He raised his eyebrows again. “Your dad talkin’ me up, huh? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Yeah, I was surprised too,” you admitted, stepping back to admire your handiwork. The white button-down was perfectly tailored to Logan’s frame. You smiled appreciatively. “But he likes you. He thinks you're tough. And trustworthy. And he said you eat like a real Punjabi guy, so he's impressed.”

“Guess the ol’ man and I got somethin' in common after all,” Logan chuckled, relaxing slightly. “Does your mom have any pointers for me?”

You shook your head with a smirk. “Her exact words were ‘be yourself.’ But maybe... a less grumpy, slightly friendlier version of yourself.”

Logan sighed dramatically, feigning offense. “You callin’ me grumpy, sweetheart?”

“Not grumpy,” you corrected with a mischievous grin. “Just… intense.”

He leaned in closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You didn't seem to mind intense last night.”

You laughed, pushing him away lightly. “Behave. My dad's going to be there, remember?”

“Don't worry,” he assured, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'll be on my best behavior. For you.”

You looked up at him, softening as you met his warm eyes. “Thank you for doing this, Logan. I know it's not exactly your thing.”

He shrugged lightly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble. “I’d do anything for you, doll. Even sittin’ through a three-hour wedding ceremony where I don't understand a word.”

You smiled warmly, sliding your hands along his chest. “You won't be the only one lost, trust me. Even I don't always know what's going on. Just smile, nod, and eat everything my aunties give you, and you'll be fine.”

“Eat everything, huh?” Logan asked with a grin. “Now that, sweetheart, is something I'm good at.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “I'm serious, Logan. You're gonna get force-fed if you're not careful.”

He leaned in, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to your lips. “Sounds like my kinda challenge.”

---

The wedding reception was held in a large civic center. As soon as the doors opened, the smell of food and loud, overlapping talking washed over the two of you.

Logan paused in the doorway, eyebrows raised at the bustling scene before him. "You weren't kiddin' when you said your family was big."

"Technically, I think I'm related to maybe a quarter of these people," you admitted, scanning the crowded hall. "The rest are family friends, distant relatives, and people my dad probably hasn't seen since he was ten."

Logan let out a low whistle. "Well, darlin', you're already beatin' me. I can count my livin' relatives on exactly zero fingers."

You nudged him gently with your elbow. "You're part of my family now, remember? That automatically bumps you up by a few hundred."

He chuckled quietly, placing a warm hand at the small of your back as you both stepped into the lively hall. "Lucky me."

Almost immediately, your dad spotted you both from across the room and began waving enthusiastically. You laughed softly, raising your hand in acknowledgment. "Brace yourself. Here he comes."

Your dad reached you in seconds, grinning from ear to ear. "Y/N! Logan! Glad you made it. Come, come—I’ll introduce you."

He barely waited for a reply before guiding you through the throng of guests. You glanced back at Logan apologetically as your dad propelled you forward, but Logan just smirked and mouthed, "I'll survive."

Your dad stopped in front of a table crowded with smiling faces, all eyes turning curiously toward Logan.

"Everyone, this is Y/N's boyfriend, Logan. Logan, these are my cousins and their families."

Logan offered a polite nod and his best friendly smile, though you could tell he felt slightly out of his depth. "Nice to meet y'all."

An older woman with kind eyes and a warm smile immediately took his arm, guiding him gently toward an empty chair at the table. "Sit, sit! You must eat, mone."

Logan looked toward you for reassurance, eyebrows lifted. You laughed softly, nodding encouragement. "Go ahead, Logan. She's not going to take no for an answer."

He chuckled as he allowed himself to be led away, throwing you a playful glare. "Remind me again why I let you drag me here, princess?"

"Because you love me," you called back cheerfully, causing several relatives to chuckle good-naturedly around you.

Your dad watched Logan for a moment, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "He'll be fine, Y/N. Trust me."

"I know," you agreed warmly. "Thanks for prepping everyone."

Your dad shrugged modestly, eyes twinkling. "All I had to say was that he's tough, can handle spicy food, and makes you happy. That was enough."

You shook your head with a smile, watching as Logan cautiously accepted a plate heaped high with various dishes. "He's tougher than he looks. He'll survive."

Your dad squeezed your shoulder gently before wandering off to greet more guests, leaving you free to rescue Logan, who was now attempting to navigate the mountain of food he'd been handed.

You slid into the seat beside him, leaning in close with a grin. "How are you holding up?"

Logan glanced at you, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Not sure what half of this stuff is, doll, but it smells damn good."

You laughed, leaning closer to point at his plate. "That one's paneer, it's like cheese. That one's chicken tikka, and that's butter chicken."

"And the green one?" he asked skeptically.

"Palak paneer. Spinach and cheese. Trust me, it tastes better than it looks."

Logan smirked playfully, already scooping up a bite. "Long as it's edible, you won't hear any complaints from me."

You smiled fondly, watching him take a cautious bite. His eyes widened slightly, then softened with genuine appreciation. "Damn. That's actually pretty good."

"You sound surprised," you teased lightly.

He leaned closer, voice lowered conspiratorially. "Not surprised. Just didn't expect spinach to taste that good."

You laughed, resting your hand comfortably on his thigh under the table. "Stick with me, Logan. I'll expand your horizons."

Logan tilted his head slightly, regarding you warmly. "You already have, sweetheart."

You felt your cheeks warm, looking down shyly before meeting his eyes again. "You're turning into a real charmer tonight."

He shrugged lightly, a teasing glint in his gaze. "Maybe it's just the good food and the pretty girl sittin' next to me."

Your heart fluttered slightly, and you bit back a pleased smile. "Careful, Logan. Keep talking like that, and you'll start setting expectations around here."

He chuckled softly, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. "Wouldn't wanna disappoint your family."

Someone, one of your dad’s cousins and her husband, came over to you. “Would you mind watching Olivia? Amber is throwing a bit of a tantrum, and we need to calm her down.”

You nodded immediately, smiling gently. "Of course. I'd be happy to."

They gave relieved smiles, handing off a sleepy-looking toddler dressed in a small pink and gold lehenga before quickly disappearing into the crowd.

Logan glanced at you, raising a curious eyebrow. "Got yourself a plus-one there, sweetheart?"

"Looks like it," you laughed softly, adjusting Olivia comfortably on your lap. She blinked at Logan sleepily, clearly sizing him up. "Olivia, this is Logan. Can you say hi?"

Olivia stared at him silently, thumb in her mouth, seemingly unamused. Logan grinned slowly, leaning closer and softening his voice. "Hey there, kid. Tough crowd, huh?"

Olivia continued her quiet observation, large brown eyes unwavering.

"Don’t take it personally," you teased Logan, shifting Olivia carefully so she was comfortable. "She barely talks to me either."

Logan shrugged easily, continuing to eat with one hand. "I get it. Big scary guy, unfamiliar face. It takes some getting used to."

You laughed, gently smoothing Olivia’s dark hair. "She'll warm up eventually."

As the reception continued around you, Logan’s plate slowly emptied. True to your predictions, every auntie who passed by checked to make sure he had eaten enough. Logan gave polite nods and grateful smiles, even taking a second helping of naan and butter chicken to their enthusiastic approval.

Olivia eventually began squirming, fussing quietly in your lap. You bounced her gently, whispering soft reassurances. "Hey, mole. Your mama will be right back, okay?"

But the toddler was not having it. Her soft whimpers turned quickly into a louder, tearful wail. Logan’s attention snapped to you, a look of mild panic flickering across his face. "You okay there, doll?"

"Yeah," you sighed, trying to comfort Olivia, who had fully started crying now. "She’s just missing her mom, I think."

"Here," Logan offered gently, holding out his arms. "Let me give it a shot."

You hesitated, uncertain, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Are you sure?"

He chuckled, eyes gentle. "I ain’t completely helpless, princess."

You carefully transferred Olivia to Logan’s broad arms, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through your chest at the sight. Logan cradled the little girl gently, quietly shushing her in a soothing tone that made your heart flutter.

"Hey now, kiddo," Logan murmured softly, bouncing her lightly in his arms. "None of that. It ain’t so bad."

To your amazement, Olivia's cries quieted somewhat. She peered up at Logan through teary eyes, clearly confused by the unexpected stranger holding her.

"That’s it," Logan continued, voice gentle and low. "You’re alright."

You stared openly, unable to hide your soft smile. "You’re really good at that."

He glanced sideways at you, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve looked after plenty of young mutants back at the mansion. A toddler ain’t too different."

Your smile widened, watching him gently rock Olivia. She had now quieted entirely, sleepily snuggling against Logan’s chest.

Aunties around the table were already exchanging approving smiles and whispering appreciatively. You chuckled quietly, shaking your head. "Careful, Logan. Keep this up, and you'll be the star attraction."

He gave you a soft look, eyes warm as they met yours. "Long as I impress you, doll, I couldn't care less what anyone else thinks."

You felt your cheeks heat, heart skipping slightly at the quiet sincerity in his voice. You reached out to softly squeeze his knee beneath the table, unable to hide your pleased smile. "Consider me very impressed."

A comfortable silence settled between you as Logan continued to gently bounce Olivia, careful not to disturb her now-closed eyes. You found yourself leaning closer, lightly resting your head on his shoulder, taking in the tender sight of the notoriously tough Wolverine cradling a sleeping toddler.

"Maybe we should bring you to family functions more often," you teased quietly, eyes sparkling. "You seem to fit right in."

Logan grumbled quietly, though you could hear the smile in his voice. "Don’t push your luck, sweetheart."

At that moment, Olivia’s parents finally returned, looking slightly frazzled but visibly relieved at the quiet, peaceful sight before them.

"Thank you so much," Olivia’s mom whispered gratefully, gently taking the sleeping child from Logan's careful grasp. "I see she warmed up to you. She hardly sleeps for anyone."

Logan shrugged lightly, shooting you a subtle, playful smirk. "Guess I got the magic touch."

Olivia’s parents exchanged smiles, warmly thanking you again before disappearing into the crowd. You nudged Logan softly, smiling. "Magic touch, huh?"

He chuckled, wrapping a casual arm around your shoulders and pulling you close against his side. "You know it, princess."

You relaxed against him, feeling strangely content amidst the noise and chaos of the crowded hall. Logan’s steady presence beside you was comforting, reassuring.

Then, your dad and mom, along with a few others, walked over to you and Logan. “Ah! Look at you! You’ve grown up so much.” They said something else, but you couldn’t understand what.

Your dad chimed in, “this is my uncle. He asked if you’ve gotten any mango lassi or idli.”

Your great-uncle smiled warmly at you, speaking again in rapid Malayalam. You glanced helplessly at your dad, who chuckled softly.

"He said he remembers how much you loved idli when you were little," your dad translated patiently.

"Oh!" you said, brightening instantly as memories flashed back. "Yeah, I still love idli. It's one of my favorites."

Your great-uncle nodded enthusiastically, clearly pleased by your reaction. He turned to Logan, speaking again in Malayalam with a welcoming grin.

Logan raised his eyebrows slightly, giving you a questioning glance. You laughed gently, squeezing his arm reassuringly.

"He said he's glad you're here," your dad clarified, still smiling. "And he asked if you've tried mango lassi or idli yet."

Logan shook his head politely. "Haven’t gotten around to it yet, but it sounds like somethin' I shouldn't miss."

Your great-uncle nodded again approvingly, gesturing animatedly toward the tables laden with food. Your dad laughed softly, nodding along.

"He said you should both eat," your dad translated, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "And eat a lot. Especially the idli. He says it’s good luck at weddings."

"Then I guess we better not disappoint," Logan replied easily, giving your great-uncle a grateful nod.

You smiled warmly, leaning in slightly to whisper to Logan, "We should go grab some. Trust me, you'll love idli."

"Lead the way, princess," Logan murmured, sliding his hand warmly against the small of your back again.

You and Logan moved toward the buffet tables, weaving carefully through the bustling crowd. Logan kept a careful hand resting on your back, eyes alert as he navigated the unfamiliar setting.

"You really ate this stuff as a kid?" Logan asked curiously, examining the round white cakes as you reached the idli platter.

You nodded with an affectionate smile. “Apparently I really liked it as a kid. My mom even bought an idli maker so she could make it.”

Logan eyed the soft, round idlis carefully as he picked up one, clearly uncertain of exactly what to expect. “Looks like a fluffy hockey puck,” he muttered, glancing at you with mild amusement.

You laughed softly, reaching past him to spoon some sambar onto his plate. “Here. You have to eat it with this.”

He watched you carefully, eyebrows raised. “And this stuff is?”

“Sambar,” you clarified with a patient grin. “Kind of like vegetable stew, but spicy and tangy. You dip the idli in it.”

Logan made a small grunt of acknowledgment, placing another idli on his plate with cautious optimism. “If you liked it as a kid, it can’t be half bad.”

“Oh, careful there, Logan,” you teased softly, eyes sparkling playfully. “Trusting my childhood taste buds?”

“Never steered me wrong yet,” he answered lightly, glancing around before leaning in slightly, voice lowered teasingly. “Besides, even if it’s awful, I’ll pretend to like it for your uncle.”

You smiled warmly, nudging his shoulder affectionately. “You’re a good sport.”

He shrugged easily, walking with you toward an empty spot at a quieter table. “I said I’d survive, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you agreed, settling into your chair. “And you’re doing great.”

Logan picked up an idli, carefully dipping it into the sambar before hesitantly tasting it. You watched him closely, biting back an amused smile as his expression shifted from cautious curiosity to quiet appreciation.

“Well?” you prompted teasingly.

He swallowed thoughtfully, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “Damn. It’s actually good.”

You laughed softly, leaning closer with an affectionate smile. “Told you.”

Logan glanced sideways at you, lips curving into a playful smirk. “Alright, princess. You win. Your childhood taste buds pass the test.”

You smiled warmly, taking a bite of your own idli as a comfortable silence settled between you. Logan continued to quietly enjoy the new dish, relaxing slightly as the chaotic background noise became a distant hum.

Your dad appeared suddenly beside your table, smiling fondly as he observed the two of you together. “You both enjoying yourselves?”

You nodded happily, gesturing to Logan’s plate. “He’s officially a fan of idli.”

Your dad chuckled appreciatively, shooting Logan an approving nod. “Good choice. Idli is always a safe bet.”

Logan grinned lightly, setting down his fork. “Still got that mango lassi to try, though.”

Your dad raised his eyebrows with exaggerated seriousness. “Now, that you absolutely cannot skip. It’s mandatory at every wedding.”

Logan glanced at you with mild amusement. “Mandatory, huh? Guess I better get to it, then.”

Your dad patted Logan lightly on the shoulder, warmth clear in his expression. “I’ll grab a couple glasses for you two. Enjoy yourselves.”

As he disappeared into the crowd, Logan leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you quietly.

“What?” you asked softly, feeling suddenly shy under his gentle gaze.

He shook his head with a quiet smile. “Nothin’, sweetheart. Just didn’t expect to feel so… welcome here.”

“Of course you’re welcome,” you murmured warmly, placing your hand lightly on his thigh. “Everyone loves you already.”

He snorted quietly, eyes twinkling. “Only because you bribed me with idli and sambar.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “No bribery necessary. You’re doing all the charm work yourself.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice gently. “Must be your good influence rubbin’ off on me, princess.”

Your heart fluttered, and you smiled softly. “Maybe it’s mutual.”

His eyes softened as he took your hand gently, thumb brushing tenderly over your knuckles. “Maybe.”

You both turned at your dad’s return, smiling gratefully as he handed you each a tall, cold glass of mango lassi. Logan raised his glass with mock solemnity, eyes glinting mischievously. “To mandatory wedding drinks.”

You chuckled, clinking your glass lightly against his. “Cheers.”

Logan took a careful sip, pausing thoughtfully before raising his eyebrows appreciatively. “This is… damn good.”

Your dad laughed again, patting Logan’s shoulder proudly. “I knew you’d like it.”

“Careful, Dad,” you teased softly, taking your own sip of lassi. “You might spoil him.”

Your dad shrugged lightly, eyes warm with affection. “He’s part of the family now. It’s allowed.”

Logan shifted slightly beside you, a faint flush creeping across his usually confident expression. You squeezed his hand under the table reassuringly, giving him a warm glance.

As your dad wandered off again, Logan leaned toward you slightly, voice low. “He keeps sayin’ that like he means it.”

You smiled softly, eyes sincere as they met his. “He does. They all do. My dad doesn’t joke about family.”

Logan’s eyes softened further, a quiet warmth seeping into his gaze. He cleared his throat lightly, shifting a bit awkwardly. “Well, I… uh… appreciate that. Means a lot.”

You reached up, softly cupping his cheek. “You mean a lot. To me and to them. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He leaned subtly into your touch, eyes closing briefly before opening again to fix you with a gentle, affectionate stare. “Don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, doll.”

Your heart melted, and you smiled tenderly. “You’re just you. That’s more than enough.”

His mouth curled into a slow, genuine smile. “Careful. Keep talkin’ like that, and I might start thinkin’ I actually belong here.”

“You do,” you whispered softly, thumb gently brushing against his jawline. “You absolutely belong here. With me.”

Logan took a slow breath, something vulnerable flickering briefly across his features before his usual playful bravado returned. He tilted his head slightly, eyes twinkling. “Guess that settles it then. I’m officially keepin’ you.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head affectionately. “Oh? Glad we finally got that cleared up.”

He grinned softly, squeezing your hand lightly. “Me too, sweetheart.”

You leaned gently into his side, contentment spreading warmly through your chest as Logan’s arm wrapped comfortably around your shoulders. The joyful chaos of the reception carried on around you, but in that quiet, shared moment, nothing else mattered.

Then, your younger brother sat down next to you, tapping away on his phone. “What’re you doing?” You asked.

“I’m ordering food,” he mumbled, eyes still glued to his phone as he scrolled quickly through options.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “There’s literally mountains of food here, Jamie.”

He shrugged, not bothering to look up. “You know I don’t really like Indian food. There’s nothing for me here except naan, and I can’t eat just bread all night.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head affectionately. “Naan is delicious, though.”

Logan glanced at your brother curiously, smirking slightly. “You picky about food or somethin’?”

Jamie sighed dramatically, finally lifting his eyes from the screen to look at Logan with exaggerated patience. “Not picky. Just selective.”

Logan chuckled softly, giving you an amused glance. “Selective. Got it.”

You leaned closer, trying to peek at Jamie’s phone. “What are you ordering?”

“Pizza,” Jamie answered immediately, tilting the screen slightly so you could see. “Just cheese and pepperoni. Safe bet.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning back casually in his chair with a teasing grin. “Guess not everyone’s brave enough for spinach hockey pucks, huh?”

You laughed, gently nudging Logan’s shoulder with your own. “Hey, don’t knock my childhood favorites.”

Jamie rolled his eyes lightly, tapping the screen again to finalize his order. “You two can have all the spinach hockey pucks you want. I’m sticking to my pizza.”

“Well, what about this?” You reached over to the middle of the table and grabbed a papad, “you like these.” You held it out to him as he grimaced.

“No.”

“No?” You broke off a small piece before shoving it in his face. “Eat it.”

Jamie scrunched his nose, leaning back to dodge your persistent hand. “Y/N, seriously—stop it.”

“Just one bite,” you insisted, laughing as you chased his reluctant movements. “You ate this all the time when you were little. You even ate it at Uncle James’ house like a year ago!”

Jamie gave you a pained expression, leaning dramatically away from the papad you were practically shoving at him. “Y/N, stop. I'm serious—this stuff is so weirdly crispy.”

Logan chuckled quietly beside you, watching the sibling interaction with obvious amusement. He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed as he observed the spectacle. “Kid’s got a point, princess. Maybe he just doesn’t wanna relive his childhood right now.”

You shot Logan a mock glare, but your lips twitched into a smile despite your best efforts. “He’s just being stubborn.”

“I am not stubborn,” Jamie argued indignantly, finally snatching the papad from your hand with exaggerated annoyance. “Fine. One bite. Happy now?”

“Very,” you replied smugly, grinning as Jamie took a reluctant nibble, his face twisting slightly as he chewed.

“It tastes exactly the way I remember,” he admitted grudgingly. “Like crispy nothing.”

Logan barked a laugh, shaking his head at Jamie's pained expression. “Guess you ain't impressed, kid.”

Jamie shrugged easily, placing the papad back onto your plate. “Not really my thing. You two can keep your weird, crispy food.”

“Your loss,” you laughed softly, crunching on the papad casually. “This stuff is great.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jamie sighed, returning to scrolling through his phone again. “Pizza’s on the way, by the way. Thirty minutes.”

“Make sure you actually leave enough room for cake,” you warned playfully. “Aunt Kavya spent days on it.”

Jamie rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I always have room for cake.”

Logan chuckled softly, glancing sideways at you with quiet amusement. “Kid’s got his priorities straight, doll.”

You smiled, resting your head lightly against Logan’s shoulder, your hand finding his under the table again. His fingers threaded easily with yours, gently squeezing your hand. The soft warmth of his palm against yours felt reassuring in the chaos around you.

“So, Jamie,” Logan said casually, leaning forward slightly with a teasing smirk. “Any pointers for a guy who's still tryin' to figure out your family?”

Jamie glanced up, finally giving Logan his full attention. His expression softened slightly as he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Honestly? Just smile, nod, and eat whatever someone puts on your plate.”

Logan gave you a pointed look, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Sounds suspiciously familiar.”

“See?” You grinned, elbowing him gently. “Told you I wasn't exaggerating.”

Jamie shrugged easily. “It works. And if you're stuck, just look like you're enjoying yourself, and they'll leave you alone.”

Logan chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Good advice, kid.”

Jamie’s phone vibrated suddenly, and he looked down, eyes lighting up in relief. “Pizza’s here already. That was fast.”

He stood quickly, pocketing his phone. “I'll be back.”

“Good luck out there,” you teased lightly, watching him slip through the crowd toward the exit.

Logan shook his head softly, eyes dancing with amusement. “He’s somethin’ else, isn't he?”

“Yeah, he is,” you agreed affectionately, smiling as Jamie disappeared from sight. “But I wouldn't trade him.”

“Didn’t think you would, doll,” Logan murmured warmly, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your temple. “Family seems important to you.”

You looked up at him, smiling gently. “It is.”

Logan hesitated slightly, his gaze quietly thoughtful. “Never really had that myself, y’know? At least not one that stuck around.”

“You do now,” you murmured firmly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “Jamie might act aloof, but he already likes you. Dad clearly does too. Even Mom was talking about you earlier today. Face it, Logan, you're stuck with us.”

He chuckled softly, looking down at your intertwined fingers with a gentle smile. “Guess I can live with that.”

Before you could respond, an older woman appeared beside your table, beaming brightly at both of you. You vaguely recognized her face from family gatherings over the years, but you couldn't quite place her name.

“Beta,” she began warmly, her attention immediately drawn to Logan, “You’re not eating enough! You must try the gulab jamun—it's delicious.”

Logan blinked slightly, shooting you a subtle questioning look. You squeezed his hand again gently, leaning closer. “It's a dessert. Really sweet, but I think you'll like it.”

Logan smiled politely, turning back to the woman with a gracious nod. “Thank you, ma'am. I’ll be sure to try it.”

“Good, good,” she beamed, clearly satisfied with his polite acceptance. “You’re a very handsome young man. Y/N chose well.”

You felt your cheeks heat, and you ducked your head slightly in embarrassment. Logan glanced at you with a teasing smirk, his eyes sparkling. “Hear that, sweetheart? I’m handsome.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head affectionately. “Careful, Logan. Your ego's gonna start taking up space in the room.”

The older woman patted Logan affectionately on the shoulder, clearly amused by your interaction. “Very charming. Keep this one, mone.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Logan answered immediately, voice full of playful sincerity. “Ain't lettin' go anytime soon.”

The woman smiled warmly before wandering off to another table, satisfied with her matchmaking efforts.

You turned slightly toward Logan, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Look at you, charming all the aunties.”

Logan chuckled quietly, shrugging slightly with a small smirk. “Guess I just got a knack for it.”

“Clearly,” you teased softly, eyes sparkling mischievously. “You sure you don't secretly enjoy all this attention?”

“Maybe just a little,” he admitted grudgingly, a playful glint in his eyes. “But don't go spreadin' that around.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” you murmured warmly, leaning in closer.

A gentle voice interrupted the two of you, and you looked up to see your uncle approaching, his son and daughter trailing behind him. He smiled warmly as he reached you, affectionately squeezing your shoulder.

“Y/N, Logan,” he greeted warmly, nodding toward Logan. “It's good to see you both.”

“You too, Uncle,” you replied sincerely, smiling at your younger cousins, who immediately gave you polite, slightly shy nods.

Your uncle gestured to Logan warmly. “You holding up alright, Logan? These big family gatherings can be overwhelming.”

Logan chuckled softly, nodding appreciatively. “So far, so good. Y/N's been a good guide.”

Your uncle laughed lightly, clearly pleased by Logan's easy answer. “Glad to hear it. And don't worry—you're family now. Anything you need, just ask.”

“Appreciate that,” Logan replied sincerely, relaxing visibly at your uncle's kind words. “Means a lot.”

Your uncle gave you a gentle, approving nod, clearly happy with Logan’s comfortable presence at your side. “I'll leave you two be. Just wanted to check in.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” you murmured warmly as he turned away, ushering your cousins toward another table.

You glanced up at Logan, noting the quiet warmth in his expression. “You doing alright?”

He smiled softly, eyes tender as they met yours. “Better than alright, doll.”

You leaned comfortably against him, warmth blooming softly in your chest. Logan’s arm tightened subtly around you, pulling you just a bit closer.

“You were right, princess,” Logan murmured softly, brushing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “They really are a good bunch.”

You smiled contentedly, squeezing his hand gently. “Told you so.”

Logan chuckled quietly, shaking his head in amusement. “Should know better than to doubt you by now.”

“Exactly,” you teased softly, eyes bright with affection. “Stick with me, Logan, and I'll always steer you right.”

He gave you a warm, tender glance, his voice dropping to a soft rumble. “Trust me, sweetheart—I ain't goin' anywhere.”

You sighed contentedly, leaning your head comfortably against his shoulder, feeling perfectly at ease despite the joyful chaos around you. Logan's steady presence beside you felt solid, reassuring, and entirely right.

For tonight, you were happy just enjoying this moment together, knowing Logan had truly become part of your family.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hello! First off, I need to let you know you had made me the happiest person when I found out there was a marvel comic x reader writer and your writing is beautiful! I was wondering if you would write a hc of marvel comic Matt Murdock, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, and Julian Keller (idk if you write for him since he’s formerly x-men) reacting to reader kissing them out of nowhere/when they least expect it. Thank you!

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson & Julian Keller

Reply to anon: I'm a Marvel & DC Comic book fan first and foremost, so I wanted to write for this version of the characters and to be honest, I didn't expect so much love for it...SO I'M EXTREMELY HAPPY to receive your type of message! The headcanons for Matt come right after in the "Marvel Comics Characters" headcanons I will post <3 (Btw, I love Julian)

Logan Howlett

- Logan smells you before he sees you, that familiar, intoxicating scent that always seems to linger in the air long after you’ve left. He barely has time to turn before your lips are on his, searing and unexpected, a wildfire in the dead of winter. His entire body tenses—like something wild, something caged—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he goes utterly still, as if afraid that any movement will wake him from this impossible dream. He has lived lifetimes soaked in blood and regret, but this? This is something he never let himself believe he could have.

- The taste of you is an ache, something he knows will settle into his bones and never leave. His hands twitch at his sides, the animal in him howling to hold, to take, to claim—but you are not something to be taken. And so, he lets you lead. Your lips move against his with the kind of softness he has never known, and his mind screams that this is dangerous. He is dangerous. But then you sigh into him, fingers curling in the worn leather of his jacket, and he thinks—maybe—he could allow himself this one selfish thing.

- When you finally pull away, his breath is unsteady, rough, the remnants of your touch burning through his veins like whiskey. His eyes—dark, stormy, something unspoken lurking beneath them—search your face as if trying to commit every detail to memory. He should say something. Tell you this is a mistake, that he is too old, too broken, too much. But when he sees the way you look at him—like he is not a weapon, not a thing made for war but a man—his throat closes around the words.

- “You got no idea what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. And yet, when you smile, soft and knowing, when your fingers trail the faintest touch against his jaw before you step back, he knows you do. You know exactly what you’re doing. And for the first time in a very long time, Logan thinks—maybe—he could let someone love him. Maybe he could love them back.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy never expects to be caught off guard. He is a man who thrives in the game of unpredictability, who lives in the art of mischief and charm, who always has the upper hand. And yet, the moment your lips press against his, he forgets how to breathe. His hands, so used to sleight of hand and stolen treasures, falter at his sides. He could swear his heart stops beating, just for a second, just long enough for the world to tilt beneath his feet. He has been kissed before, a thousand times over, but never like this. Never by you.

- When the initial shock fades, he reacts like a man starved. His fingers find your waist, his body pressing flush against yours as if he could sink into you, disappear into this moment and never return. He tastes of spice and something sweeter, something sinful, and you realize—Remy LeBeau does not simply kiss. He devours. He worships. His lips move with the expertise of a thief, stealing the breath from your lungs, the steadiness from your limbs, and he does it all with a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

- He doesn’t let you pull away easily. Even when you try, his grip lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours like a confession neither of you are ready to speak. His eyes, those crimson-burning embers, flicker over your face with a hunger that has nothing to do with the usual games he plays. “Ma belle,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, like the slow drag of a match before it sparks. “Y’gon’ be the death of me.” And yet, the way he smiles—half-dazed, half-drunk on you—tells you he would not mind dying that way.

- There is something dangerous in the way Remy looks at you now. Not the usual teasing, not the flirtation thrown so easily to the wind, but something deeper. Something reverent. As if he is looking at a gamble worth losing everything for. And as his fingers brush your jaw, tracing the ghost of your touch, you realize—you have just become the only game Remy LeBeau is willing to play for the rest of his life.

Kurt Wagner

- Kurt is not used to being touched so freely. Not like this. Not without hesitation. When your lips meet his, it is as if the world stutters around him, as if time itself takes pause to marvel at the impossible. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp, startled sound, and for the briefest moment, he forgets how to exist. His tail curls behind him in a sharp flick of surprise, and he nearly disappears in a reflex of instinct, but something about the warmth of your hands, the softness of your mouth, keeps him grounded. Keeps him here.

- When he finally gathers the courage to move, it is hesitant, unsure—his fingers hovering at your waist as if afraid to break something sacred. His lips, gentle, trembling with quiet reverence, move against yours like a whispered prayer. You are warmth, light, something divine in his arms, and he drinks you in like salvation. He has dreamt of this—secret, foolish dreams whispered into the lonely nights—but never dared believe it could be real. That you could want this as much as he does.

- When you part, his breath is unsteady, his golden eyes wide with wonder. He stares at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have rewritten the very fabric of his existence with a single touch. His tail coils loosely around your wrist, a subconscious tether, as if to reassure himself that you are real. That this is real. “Mein Herz,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “What have you done to me?” And yet, the way he smiles—soft, awestruck—tells you he never wants to be undone by anyone else but you.

- He does not know how to ask for more. Does not know if he is allowed to. But when you lace your fingers with his, when you press the faintest of kisses to his cheek before stepping back, he knows—he would wait a lifetime for you to do it again. And again. And again.

Scott Summers

- Scott lives by control. He has spent his life suppressing, restraining, calculating every breath, every movement, every word, because one wrong step can mean disaster. But when you kiss him—without warning, without hesitation—every ounce of that control shatters. His entire body stiffens, breath stolen, mind racing with the sheer impossibility of what is happening. He has dreamed of this, a thousand different ways, but none of them prepared him for the reality of your lips against his.

- His hands—gloved, always careful, always distant—hover at your sides, caught between instinct and hesitation. He wants to touch you, wants to pull you closer, but the fear of losing control, of breaking something irreparable, holds him back. And yet, you do not waver. You kiss him like he is not a weapon, like he is not something dangerous, like he is just a man. And for the first time, Scott Summers allows himself to believe it.

- When you finally part, he exhales sharply, as if he has been holding his breath for years. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, and he pushes them up with a shaky hand, his fingers brushing against his lips as if trying to chase the ghost of your touch. “I—” His voice falters, rare uncertainty cracking through his carefully built walls. He swallows hard, eyes hidden but gaze heavy. “I wasn’t expecting that.” But there is something else in his tone, something just shy of desperate. He wasn’t expecting it—but now he wants more.

- You smile, tilting your head, studying him with a knowing softness that makes his stomach twist. “Would you like me to do it again?” The question is playful, teasing, but the heat that flares in his chest is anything but. He swallows down a million responses, a million emotions threatening to spill over, and simply nods. Because yes. Yes, he would. More than anything, he would.

Jean Grey

- Jean has always been attuned to the emotions of others. She feels them like echoes in her own mind, the soft hum of sorrow, the sharp sting of desire, the quiet weight of longing. But when your lips press against hers, she feels nothing but silence—beautiful, breathtaking silence. The world, usually so loud, so overwhelming, fades into something small, something insignificant. There is only the warmth of your mouth, the way your fingers tangle in the red silk of her hair, the way your heartbeat thrums against her own like a perfect melody.

- She gasps against you, not out of shock but something deeper—something fragile. She has lived lifetimes within the span of a single moment, has seen the past, present, and future weave together like a tapestry, but she never saw this. Never saw the way you would tilt the world on its axis with a single touch. Her hands, delicate yet unshakable, find your face, her thumbs tracing the shape of you as if committing you to memory. She knows, in the depths of her soul, that she will never forget this.

- When you finally pull away, she exhales a laugh—soft, breathless, incredulous. Her emerald eyes search yours, bright with something that flutters on the edge of joy and disbelief. “You—” She stops herself, biting her lip as if savoring the taste of you, as if reluctant to let it go. And then she shakes her head, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips. “You really are full of surprises.” There is a lightness in her tone, but beneath it, something deeper lingers. Something that tells you she does not want this to be a singular moment.

- And then, before you can respond, she leans in—this time, she is the one to steal the air from your lungs. The kiss is softer now, slower, but no less consuming. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own. “I could get used to that,” she murmurs, voice warm as sunlight. And in the way she lingers, in the way she stays close, you know—she already has.

Ororo Munroe

- Ororo is a goddess, a tempest, a force of nature so powerful the very skies bend to her will. And yet, when you kiss her, she is caught in a storm she cannot control. Her breath catches, her usually poised frame stiffening for the briefest of moments as your lips mold against hers. She has always been the eye of the hurricane, calm amidst chaos, but now, she is swept away in a current she never anticipated.

- Her hands hover at your sides, unsure, not out of reluctance but reverence. To be loved by Ororo Munroe is to be touched by the divine, but for the first time, she does not feel like a goddess—she feels human. She feels the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers brush against her cheek, the way your lips move with something so tender it unravels her. The storm within her does not rage—it settles, it quiets, it softens into something resembling peace.

- When you finally part, her white lashes flutter against her cheeks, her breath uneven, her hands finally finding your waist as if to ground herself. She looks at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have harnessed the wind and commanded the rain. And perhaps you have. Because for the first time in a long time, Ororo Munroe does not feel alone. “You surprise me,” she admits, her voice a whisper of thunder, low and full of something unreadable. “And I do not surprise easily.”

- A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, rare and breathtaking, the kind of smile that shifts the seasons. And then, with a gentleness that contradicts her power, she presses her forehead to yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Do it again,” she breathes, and there is something almost dangerous in the way she says it. Because now that she has tasted you, now that she has felt this, Ororo Munroe is not sure she could ever let it go.

Rogue

- Rogue has spent her entire life fearing touch. She has spent years mastering the art of distance, of longing from afar, of never letting herself hope for too much. And yet, when your lips meet hers—soft, unguarded, reckless—she forgets to be afraid. The world disappears in the space between heartbeats, and all that remains is the impossible, the breathtaking reality of you kissing her.

- Her mind screams at her to pull away, to stop this before it’s too late, before she ruins something beautiful. But she can’t. She won’t. Her gloved hands grasp at your arms, her body leaning into yours as if she has spent lifetimes waiting for this moment. And perhaps she has. Because for the first time, she isn’t thinking about control, about consequences. She is thinking about the way your lips feel against hers, the way your breath mingles with her own, the way your fingers press into the small of her back as if you could hold her together.

- When you part, her chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, her wide green eyes searching yours with something almost desperate. “Sugar, you—” Her voice falters, thick with emotion, with something dangerously close to hope. Her fingers, still gloved, trace the ghost of your touch against her lips, and she swallows hard. “You don’t know what you just did.” But the way she looks at you—the way she stares as if you have rewritten the very fabric of her existence—tells you that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind.

- She should be afraid. She should be pushing you away, telling you that this is dangerous, that she is dangerous. But when you smile at her, when you reach for her hand despite the barriers she wears, she feels something shift. Something new. Something she is not sure she deserves, but something she wants all the same. And for the first time, Rogue wonders—what if she let herself have this? What if, just this once, she didn’t run?

Erik Lehnsherr

- Erik has built his life around steel and rage, around vengeance and pain, around the belief that love is a weakness he cannot afford. And yet, when you kiss him, every wall he has so carefully constructed crumbles beneath the weight of your touch. He stiffens, a sharp inhale slicing through the space between you, his entire body wound tight like coiled metal, but he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Because for the first time in a long, long time—he doesn’t want to.

- Your lips move against his with a softness he does not deserve, a tenderness he has spent lifetimes denying himself. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitant, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer. But when your fingers tangle in his hair, when your breath mingles with his, when you kiss him like he is not Magneto, not a man shaped by war and loss, but simply a man—he is undone.

- When you finally part, his breath is heavy, uneven, his storm-gray eyes dark with something unreadable. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching for you, from keeping you tethered to this moment forever. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, voice like rusted iron, rough and laced with something dangerously close to yearning. But there is no real warning in his tone, no true resistance. Only the weight of a man who does not know how to accept kindness, how to accept love.

- And yet, when you step forward, when you press your palm to his chest, when you look at him as if he is not a monster but something worthy—his resolve fractures. His fingers, finally, finally, find your waist, his grip firm yet reverent, as if afraid you might disappear. “Do it again,” he breathes, and in that moment, Erik Lehnsherr does not care if love is a weakness. Because if this is what it means to be weak—then for you, he will gladly fall.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier has spent his life knowing things before they happen. His gift is both a blessing and a burden, allowing him to read thoughts, anticipate words before they are spoken, sense feelings before they fully form. But when you kiss him, it is the first time in his life that he is truly, utterly surprised. For once, his mind is not a step ahead—it is caught in the moment, helplessly, beautifully ensnared in the warmth of your lips and the gentle insistence of your touch.

- His breath stutters as you tilt into him, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies. He has always prided himself on his composure, on the unshakable calm of his demeanor, but now he feels undone. Your lips are soft but certain, as if you have known this moment was meant to happen all along. His hands twitch against the arms of his wheelchair, caught between instinct and disbelief, between wanting to pull you closer and simply letting himself exist in this quiet, impossible wonder.

- When you finally pull away, his blue eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused, as though waking from a dream too precious to be real. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips, something warm and unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “That was unexpected,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, smooth but slightly unsteady. And yet, there is something else beneath his words, something deeper—an unspoken truth that has lingered between you for too long, now given breath at last.

- He reaches for your hand then, his fingers ghosting over yours in a way that is both hesitant and reverent. “Would you mind terribly,” he breathes, his smile deepening, “if I returned the favor?” And when he leans in, when his lips find yours again, there is nothing hesitant about it. There is only the weight of time, of longing, of something that was always meant to be.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda has spent her life walking the fragile line between control and chaos, between the known and the unknown, between the world as it is and the world as it could be. And yet, when you kiss her, all of it—the noise, the worry, the restless ache of her existence—disappears. There is only you. Only the impossible softness of your lips, only the warmth of your touch, only the way time seems to slow, to bend, to hold its breath for her.

- She does not pull away, does not tense, does not question. Instead, she melts into you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your clothing as if afraid you might slip through her grasp like so many things before. You taste like something she has spent lifetimes reaching for, something she has never quite believed she could have. And yet, here you are. Here she is. And for once, the world does not seem so cruel.

- When the kiss finally breaks, she does not move far. Her forehead lingers against yours, her breath mingling with your own as if unwilling to let go of the moment just yet. Her deep, sorrowful eyes search yours, dark with something unreadable—something aching, something vast. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” she whispers, and yet her fingers tighten their grip on you, betraying her own words. “It makes me want to believe in things I shouldn’t.”

- And yet, despite her protest, despite the ghosts that haunt her, Wanda does not step away. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you as if memorizing every detail, every curve, every fleeting second. And then, as if deciding something only she can understand, she kisses you again—slower this time, softer, as if weaving a spell that neither of you will ever escape.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff moves faster than thought, faster than light, faster than anyone can keep up with. He is a blur, a flicker, a storm that never settles, never stills. But when you kiss him—when you reach for him without hesitation, without warning—time stops. For once, he is not ahead of the world. He is not running. He is simply here. And it terrifies him.

- His entire body locks up, caught between instinct and shock, between the urge to retreat and the unbearable need to lean in. No one ever catches him off guard—no one. But you? You have done it so effortlessly, so completely, that he feels as though you have stolen the breath from his lungs. He forgets to move, forgets to think, forgets everything except the way your lips press against his, the way your fingers grasp at him like you have no intention of letting go.

- When you finally pull back, his silver lashes flutter, his bright blue eyes wide, wild with something unreadable. “Did you just—” He stops himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as if to make sure the sensation is real. And then, suddenly, he laughs—a breathless, incredulous sound, full of something sharp and breathless. “You’re either very brave or very reckless,” he murmurs, voice tinged with something teasing, something warmer than he meant it to be. “Maybe both.”

- And yet, even as he tries to turn it into a joke, his fingers twitch at his sides, restless, uncertain. He has never been good at staying still, never been good at patience—but for you, for this, he thinks he could learn. “Do it again,” he says, grinning now, eyes glinting with something wicked, something real. “I dare you.” And the way he looks at you—the way he leans in, as if already chasing the next kiss—tells you that this is a dare neither of you ever plan to back down from.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is a man of intellect, of reason, of science. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, in understanding the mysteries of the world through logic and deduction. But when you kiss him—when your lips press against his without preamble, without hesitation—there is nothing logical about it. His mind, so accustomed to analysis, simply stops. And for the first time in a long, long time, he is left with nothing but feeling.

- His breath hitches, a sharp inhale caught in the depths of his chest, his large hands flexing at his sides as if unsure what to do with them. He is a scholar, a thinker, a man who prides himself on his control—but here, now, he feels unmoored. Your touch is warmth against the cold edges of his mind, a spark that ignites something deep, something unexpected, something he cannot name.

- When you finally pull away, he does not move for a long moment. His blue eyes flicker with something complex, something vulnerable, something profoundly, devastatingly human. “That was… unexpected,” he finally says, voice rough with something you cannot quite place. And yet, despite his words, despite the shock that lingers in his expression, his gaze is soft when it meets yours, unbearably gentle.

- He exhales a slow breath, as if steadying himself, and then—almost tentatively—he reaches for your hand. His fingers are careful, cautious, as if afraid you might vanish like a fleeting hypothesis unproven. “Would you, perhaps, consider repeating the experiment?” he asks, a small, wry smile curling at the edges of his lips. And when you lean in again, when his hands finally settle against you with quiet certainty, you know this is an experiment he never intends to abandon.

Emma Frost

- Emma Frost has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one can touch her—not truly. Her mind is a fortress of diamond walls and razor-edged wit, a citadel where no one is allowed entry without permission. She does not startle easily; she does not allow herself to be vulnerable. And yet, when you kiss her—when your lips press against hers without warning, without hesitation—she falters. Just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel it.

- Her breath catches, but she does not pull away. No, Emma Frost does not retreat. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, allowing you just enough room to linger, to taste the cool, intoxicating sharpness of her. And yet, there is warmth beneath the ice, a slow-burning ember hidden beneath layers of frost. She is calculating even in this, assessing, analyzing—but there is something else in the way her fingers twitch against your arm, something unspoken in the way her lips part ever so slightly beneath yours.

- When you finally pull back, her expression is unreadable, a perfect mask of composure—except for her eyes. There is something dangerous in them, something bright and wicked and amused. A slow, knowing smile curls her lips as she tilts her chin, regarding you with the kind of gaze that makes people weak in the knees. “My darling,” she purrs, voice like silk and steel entwined, “if you wanted me, you only had to ask.”

- And yet, when her fingers brush against your wrist—light, fleeting, almost imperceptible—it is not just a challenge. There is something softer beneath the bravado, something she will never admit aloud. You have surprised her. And Emma Frost does not allow herself to be surprised. So when she leans in again, this time on her own terms, you understand the weight of it—the rarity, the quiet surrender hidden beneath the smirk.

Laura Kinney

- Laura Kinney is not accustomed to softness. Her world has been forged in blood and survival, in the quiet brutality of necessity. She has been trained to anticipate every attack, every shift in movement, every threat before it even takes form. But when you kiss her, there is no time to predict, no time to react—only the moment, sudden and unrelenting. And for once in her life, she is caught off guard.

- Her body stiffens on instinct, muscles coiled tight, but she does not pull away. No, she stays still, frozen in place as if trying to process something unfamiliar, something she has no protocol for. Your lips are soft against hers, warm and sure, and for a brief second, she forgets to breathe. It is foreign, this feeling, this intimacy that is not laced with violence or pain. And yet, it does not feel wrong. It feels… safe. And she does not know what to do with that.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks up at you, her gold-green eyes wide, pupils blown. Her breath is uneven, though she would never admit it. Her fingers flex at her sides, a silent battle between instinct and something deeper, something softer. “Why did you do that?” she asks, voice low, guarded. But there is no anger in it, no sharp edges of rejection. Only quiet curiosity. Only the echo of something she is too afraid to name.

- And then, as if deciding something in that precise moment, she steps closer. Not much, just enough for her breath to brush against your cheek. Her gaze flickers down to your lips, and when she speaks again, it is almost hesitant—almost shy. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is a challenge. And when you accept, when your lips find hers once more, she does not freeze this time. Instead, she leans in.

Wade Wilson

- Wade Wilson never shuts up. He fills the air with words, with jokes, with carefully crafted chaos designed to keep people at arm’s length. He is quick and loud and relentless, because silence is where the darkness creeps in, where the thoughts become too heavy, too real. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without preamble, without warning—he falls completely, utterly silent.

- His mind goes blank. It is a rare thing, for Wade to be lost for words, for thoughts, for anything but the sheer, staggering reality of this moment. Your lips are soft against his, warm, steady, real. And for once, he is not a punchline, not a joke, not a monster wrapped in red and black. He is just Wade, just a man who is suddenly, unexpectedly being kissed by someone he never thought would want to.

- When you pull back, there is a beat of absolute stillness. Then, suddenly, he sucks in a sharp breath and blurts out, “Was that a pity kiss? Wait, no, don’t answer that. Actually, do answer that. But lie to me if it was. Unless it wasn’t. In which case—” He stops himself, blinking rapidly, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. “Holy shit. You actually kissed me. I didn’t hallucinate that, right? Because, like, my brain is super messed up, and sometimes I—”

- But then, you kiss him again—shorter this time, softer, just enough to shut him up. And when you pull away, he just stares at you, his mouth slightly open, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. And then, slowly, his hands come up to his face, covering his mouth as if trying to hold something in. “Oh my God,” he whispers, voice slightly muffled. “I’m gonna have to marry you now.” He peeks between his fingers. “You cool with that? No take-backs.”

Julian Keller

- Julian Keller is not used to being caught off guard. He is sharp, quick-witted, arrogant to a fault, and always, always in control. People orbit around him, drawn in by the effortless gravity of his confidence, his charm, the raw, unapologetic force of his presence. But when you kiss him—when you take him by surprise for the first time in his life—his mind goes completely, devastatingly blank.

- For a split second, he doesn’t react. And then, his body catches up with him, his hands instinctively reaching for you, gripping your waist like an anchor. His breath stutters against your lips, and suddenly, he is no longer the Julian Keller who always knows what to say, who always has the upper hand. He is just a boy, completely and utterly at your mercy. And it thrills him.

- When you finally pull back, his lips are parted, his green eyes slightly dazed, like he’s trying to piece together reality again. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face—wide, cocky, but with something undeniably genuine beneath it. “Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his dark hair, voice rougher than usual. “That was… unexpected.” His grin sharpens, his gaze flicking to your lips. “You gonna warn me next time, or is this just how you say hi now?”

- And yet, despite the teasing, despite the bravado, there is something else in his gaze—something that lingers, something that betrays just how much that single kiss affected him. He leans in again, close enough that his breath fans against your skin. “You know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways.” But the way he looks at you—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in—tells you that, despite his words, he wouldn’t change a thing.

[superhoeva]

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

all my fics, blurbs, and other thoughts in one place! | (18+/minors dni)

𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘

MANNY CASTILLO ⋆｡°✩

⋆ late for work – manny has a meeting with superintendent reynolds. you... don't care. (+18)

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘

CAPT. JOHN PRICE ⋆｡°✩

⋆ sleep tight, love – john helps you fall asleep. (+18)

SGT. KYLE GAZ GARRICK ⋆｡°✩

⋆ suck – kyle asks a favor. (+18)

⋆ eat out – kyle doesn't understand. (18+)

SGT./CAPT. JOHNNY SOAP MACTAVISH ⋆｡°✩

⋆ making out – you and soap make out on simon. (+18; feat. soap)

⋆ moping – you help soap feel better (18+; feat. tf 141)

⋆ snacks – soap misunderstands you. (+18)

⋆ first date – you kiss soap on your first date.

⋆ sudoku – soap plays dumb.

L.T. SIMON GHOST RILEY ⋆｡°✩

⋆ THE RILEY FAMILY (1) (2) (3) – they're creepy and they're moody. mysterious and spooky. they're all together ooky. the riley family! (the addams family inspired au)

⋆ pillow – simon catches you in the act. (+18)

⋆ making out – you and soap make out on simon. (+18; feat. soap)

⋆ movie star (1) (2) (3) – you're simon's personal movie star. (18+)

⋆ 69ing – you have a competition with simon. (18+)

⋆ the pharmacy (1) – simon embarrasses himself. (+18)

POLY!141/EXTRAS/ETC. ⋆｡°✩

⋆ THE ESCAPE – your small sleepy town has never been enough for you. maybe that’s what makes it so easy for inmate soap, his cellmate ghost, ad their friends on the outside to convince you to help sneak them out of prison. (CONTINUED ON AO3)

⋆ casual dominance – the boys try to figure out dinner. (roomates!au)

⋆ nails – you take the boys to get their nails done. (roomates!au)

⋆ undies – soap is reprimanded for stealing your underwear. (18+)

⋆ tears – how the 141 would comfort you when you're crying.

⋆ sailor tats – the 141 "rescue" you.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑

CARMEN CARMY BERZATTO ⋆｡°✩

⋆ deep – carmen goes down on you. (+18)

⋆ v-lines – you show carmen a little appreciation. (+18)

⋆ dance – you and carmen try a some new things. (+18)

⋆ no work, all play – carmen distracts you from work. (+18)

⋆ roommate!carmen – life with carmen berzatto as your roommate. (+18)

⋆ after work – you help carmen after a hard day at the bear. (+18)

⋆ phone one in – carmen calls you with a throbbing dilemma. (+18)

⋆ frankenstein's bride – carmen loves your halloween costume. (+18)

THE BUNNY AND THE BEAR – the life of bunny and her boyfriend bear

⋆ hair - carmen helps bunny with her hair.

⋆ couch - carmen comes home to find bunny on his couch.

⋆ gentleman - carmen shows off his manners.

⋆ FRIENDSHIP ⇁ crying | first kiss | ladder | nickname | first sight

⋆ DATING ⇁ hot girl bunny | how long have they been together? | hand creams | carmen's hot gf | nervous!carmen | bunny and richie | carmen's tattoos | bunny's favorite spot | bunny's tattoos | birthaversary | favorite things | grizzly bear | why the tears? | nurse!carmen | come home pt. 1 | sick!bunny | easter eggs | sidewalk rule | punch | pretty boy | sleepy!bunny | tickets | smoking | hobbyist!bunny | 5 in 1 | short circuit

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐑

FRANCISCO FRANKIE MORALES ⋆｡°✩

⋆ THE STUDY (1) (1.5)– sexologist francisco morales has been given the green light to lead a scientific, seven-week study of the female orgasm and its effect on the body. you have agreed to be his test subject.

𝐗-𝐌𝐄𝐍

LOGAN WOLVERINE HOWLETT ⋆｡°✩

⋆ on his six – logan can't get enough of the xavier's school for the gifted youngesters' newest hire–you. (+18)

⋆ fridays – your fuck buddy makes his weekly visit. (+18)

⋆ busy signal – a phone call interrupts a relaxing logan. (+18)

⋆ rooftops – logan can't live without you. (+18)

OLDER BF!LOGAN ⋆｡°✩

⋆ older bf!logan sees how many times he can make you come

⋆ older bf!logan finds your vibrator

⋆ older bf!logan manhandling you

⋆ going down on (mean) older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan squeezing your soft parts

⋆ older bf!logan letting you take the lead

⋆ wearing a sundress around older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan being rough with you

⋆ older bf!logan helping you de-stress

⋆ older bf!logan walks in on you touching yourself

⋆ prone bone with older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan saying "fuck, i missed you"

⋆ older bf!logan being handsy

⋆ oiled massages with older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan fucking you right after a mission

⋆ you and older bf!logan welcome a new family member

⋆ you and older bf!logan have diner with your parents

⋆ "daddy, can you pass me the pepper?"

⋆ you and older bf!logan welcome a new arrival

⋆ older bf!logan is addicted to you

BOUNCER!LOGAN HOWLETT ⋆｡°✩

⋆ you make a deal with bouncer!logan

⋆ you bring bouncer!logan dinner at work

⋆ you clean bouncer!logan up after he fights in your honor.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒

⋆ slow – you're fiona's best friend. and the reason for lip's headaches. (lip gallagher/shameless; +18)

[wolvndmouth]

said every logan howlett x reader fic ever

him looking up at you with low lids and little hearts in his eyes while his nose is pressed to your cunt

[rosenclaws]

Okay—don’t know if this fulfills the type of prompt you’re looking for but: Marie asking Logan to play Barbie’s with her. He somehow ends up wearing a princess crown

Babysitting || Worst!Logan x Reader

warnings: fem!reader, she/her pronouns are used and the reader is referred as mom

a/n: Man I just love writing Wolverine being a dad omfggg anyways I hope you enjoy!!!

"You promise you don't mind?"

You're rushing around your apartment trying to get ready for work. Just your luck you got called in for an emergency and your babysitter wasn't able to come on such short notice.

In the midst of your panic Logan knocked on your door like a knight in shining armor. Though this knight was caring an empty tupperware that you had given him leftovers in.

Logan had heard you talking to yourself in a panic. He tries not to eavesdrop but you were being louder than usual so being the good...uh boyfriend? Friend, Neighbor? You haven't really figured that part out yet.

Anyways being the good person that he is he came down to see what was wrong.

"I'm sure, she's a nice kid how hard can it be?" He says with a shrug and you resist the urge to scoff. He was doing you a huge favor afterall.

"Pick up is at 3pm, I'll be home by 6 and I'll grab dinner." You grab your bag and hurry out the door.

Logan glances at the clock. It's almost 3 so he better get a move on. Maries school was a short walk from the apartment. He can't but notice just how much he stands out among the other parents here for pick up and drop off.

He winces when he hears the shrieking laughter coming from the playground. Parents come and go, collecting their kids and listening to them talk about their day. He glances to the side and sees a little boy staring at him with wide eyes. In his hands was a wolverine figurine. Logan just smirks, putting his finger up to his lips telling the kid to keep quiet.

"Kitty!" Logan looks up to see Marie running towards him.

"Hey kid, your mom had to go to work so it's just me and you for a couple hours." He lifts Marie up into his arms.

Taking her backpack and slinging it onto his shoulder. The damn thing fit just a little too tight around his biceps and shoulders. As he walks home she rambles on about her day. Logan listens as she plays with the collar of his shirt.

"And then we wrote about our favorite animal and we got to draw it and Ms. K put all of our drawings on the wall."

"Yeah? What's your favorite animal?" Logan asks as he digs around for the key you gave him.

"Kitty cats!" Logan flinches as she practically shouts in his ear.

"Oh yeah? I couldn't tell." As he opens the door he sets her down, placing her stuff near the door as she goes running to her room.

Logan sits on the couch and stretches out, pick up is done so now he just has to make sure Marie doesn't die or get a tattoo or do anything stupid. As soon as he reaches for the remote he hears the little pitter of her feet.

She pokes her head around the wall and looks at Logan with those puppy dog eyes. He groans, knowing she was about to ask him something he won't be able to say no to.

"Will you play Barbie's with me? Mommy promised me she'd play today." She asks. Pulling two dolls from behind her back. Logan just sighs, putting his hands in his head.

"Wouldn't you rather color or something? Or we can watch that show with that annoying blue dog." He tries to bargain but Marie stands firm. She wants Barbie's. It's that or nothing. So Logan just nods his head.

"Okay fine. But only for an hour. Max."

An hour max his ass because Marie wouldn't let him leave. Every time he tried to end Barbie dress up her little eyes would fill with tears and Logan would quickly promise to keep playing. Just the threat of her tears was enough to make him fold. So here he is. At the will of a 6 year old.

"Logan? Marie? I'm home!" He hears your voice and your footsteps get closer.

"Mommy!" Marie yells.

"I brought pizza it's on the counter..." Your voice trails off as you appear in the doorway.

Marie runs past you straight to the bathroom to wash her hands before dinner. Logan is sitting on the ground, having broken the small wooden chair Marie insisted he sit on at firs. A plastic princess crown sits on his head and he has pink glitter nail polish messily painted onto his nails.

"Barbie tea party?" You ask, trying to hide your laughter.

"Yeah. You've raise a very manipulative child you know that?" Logan says as he stands up.

"All you have to do is say no Logan." You reach over and fix the crown so that it rested evenly on his head. His hair tuffs sticking out of the crown just above the fake jewels.

"Well she's very convincing." He hums.

Your hands fall back to your sides but you don't move from the doorway. Something about seeing him so willing to spend time with Marie, to entertain her silly games and even let her paint his nails.

It just means a lot. Logan...he didn't sign up for all of this but he's willingly brought himself into your life and you don't want him to leave. But is he here for Marie? Or would he stick around for you too?

"How do I look?" He asks, snapping you out of your question sprial.

"Huh?" You ask. He shrugs and crosses his arms, his biceps bulging out of his flannel shirt.

"You're staring at me sweetheart, thought I'd ask if you like what you see." He purrs.

Your eyes widen as he slowly backs you against the wall. Even with the pink nails and the plastic crown Logan was all consuming. There's just something so attractive about his paternal instincts.

"You look good." You squeak out.

"Just good?" He asks and you swear your brain starts to short circuit.

"Mommy! I'm hungry." Marie's voice makes Logan jump back, his cockiness fades away as he reaches up and takes the crown off.

"I'll be right there baby. Just go sit down." You say with a smile. You glance back at Logan for a moment, a beat of silence as you stare into each others eyes. Your heart is still racing. He gently places the crown on Marie's bed and walks past you to the kitchen.

"Fuck." You whisper. What was that?

You pretend like you weren't pressed up against the wall by Logan just moments ago and serve everyone a slice of pizza. You listen as Marie tells you about her day and playing with Logan. It's so utterly domestic. But soon Marie's bedtime comes around and it's time to say goodbye.

"Kitty can you pick me up from school tomorrow?" Marie asks sleepily.

"Oh baby Logan's very busy-"

"I don't mind" Logan cuts in.

"Gives me something to do during the day. As long as you don't mind." he adds on the last part quickly. Before you can answer Marie does it for you.

"Yes!" She squeals.

"Marie wait!" You call but she's already gone to her room.

"Are you sure Logan? I know it's a lot. That we can be a lot."

"Sweetheart, I like spending time with her, with you." Logan says softly.

He's really grown to care about Marie and you. A lot. More than he's willing to admit out loud right now. The two of you aren't a lot to Logan. In fact you're just what he needs. This normalcy and kindness. Being around the two of you makes him feel like he really can be more than the man he used to be.

"Okay, thank you Logan. You don't know how much everything you've done means to us." You place your hand on his arm, squeezing it gently.

"See you tomorrow sweetheart." He throws you a wink as he shuts the door.

He stays for just a moment. He hears your footsteps get farther away and he lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. As he heads back to his apartment he starts to feel dread creeping up his throat. Who is he kidding? Can the Wolverine really go and play babysitter? He's not...he's not good for you or for Marie. But he cares about the two of you and he's too selfish to let you go now.

"How was your date with the hot mom downstairs?" Wade asks as Logan steps into the apartment.

"It wasn't a date I was just helping out." Logan mumbles as he opens the fridge and searches for a beer, only finding a root beer instead.

"Hey we listen and we don't judge. Everyone has a type. Yours just happens to be MILFS."

Logan shoots daggers at Wade as he pops off the top of the bottle.

"Shut the fuck up." A surge of jealousy hitting him like a truck at the idea of Wade even thinking of you like that. Wade just smirks, loving just how easy it is to push his buttons.

"Man you're just racking up those father figure roles aren't you Hugh." Wade sighs. Logan choose to ignore whatever nonsense Wade was spitting from his mouth and head right to bed.

Closing his eyes he just wonders how far he'll let himself sink into your lives. A small part of him hopes forever.

[dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes]

So sweet and sexy

Can you write about flat!reader x any Logan, where she is insecure of basically having no tits (like me) so she wants to keep a shirt on during sex and stuff and Logan notices and stuff lol

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI, fem!reader, dirty talk, mirror sex, doggy style, creampie, insecurity, the reader says self deprecating things about themselves, light choking, breast play

a/n: YES YES, I'm flat as fuck and I am super self conscious about them. These mfs look like mosquito bites on god. (I hate them so much bro just let me get some work done PLZ) Anyways Im doing this with Worst Logan bc I love him. Anyways.

Sometimes it was hard dating a man like Logan. It wasn't hard to love him, no not at all. Even with the baggage he claimed to have come with, it wasn't hard to deal with the nightmares or the moments of deep loathing and insecurity. You loved him and because of that being able to help him through it all was easy.

What was hard was dating a man who was over 200 years old and looked like a Greek fucking god.

The first time you ever saw Logan without his shirt was when you were visiting Wade. Logan walked out in nothing but pajama pants. You shamelessly eye-fucked the man before you. He was ripped. Strong arms, a six pack, big thighs, and a handsome face. Even after you started dating and managed to get him on a diet that was more than whiskey and cigars he was still unbelievably hot. You should feel lucky to have a man like that worship you and you love and appreciate him to death. The problem is that you felt like you couldn't compare.

Logan loves you and you know he does but when you're looking in the mirror you can't help but notice you're lacking in one specific area. Your boobs. You were flat and the world seemed to never let you forget it.

Cute tops you could never wear because your chest couldn't keep them up. Jokes about being flat as a board. You couldn't even hold them in your hands. You hated them. Logan never said anything about them but you were always too afraid to bring it up.

So you sat in this limbo of deep insecurity.

"Sweetheart? You still in there?" Logans muffled voice comes from behind the bathroom door.

Shit you didn't mean to be here for so long. A shower had turned into staring at the mirror. You covered them in your hands, pushing them together and huffing when they just looked sad. The events from earlier in the night replaying over in your head.

Ever since Logan showed up in the universe he had garnered some attention. The Wolverine was hard to hide. People would point and whisper whenever they saw him. Gossip about who he was and why he was here. It was all pointless to Logan. Still in the bathroom of the bar you managed to catch a conversation.

Two beautiful women talking about your boyfriend and how badly they wanted him. Talking about flirting with him and taking him home. It just hurt a little. Sure Logan could care less about anyone's advances but yours but they had truly gotten into your head.

Would Logan want someone who had...better assets?

Would he want a woman who's breasts he could hold, squeeze, rest his head on? It was silly but they were the one thing that you honestly just didn't like about yourself so it was hard to think logically about it.

"I'm coming in." Logan's voice calls again. You curse quietly as you scramble to get a shirt on. The last thing you wanted was for him to see you like this. Logan's eyes shamelessly look you up and down as he enters the bathroom. A small smirk growing on his lips as he leans against the door. You bite your lip as you look down towards the counter.

"Sorry, I just wanted to take an extra long shower." You lie, smiling at Logan.

He hums and pushes off the door. He comes to stand behind you, his arms snaking around your waist. You were dressed in nothing but a shirt and underwear and Logan liked it. A lot.

"Should've joined you. Could have helped get your back." Logan purrs, his growing bulge pressing against your back.

“Oh please we’d still be in the shower if you had joined me.” You tease, slipping out of his grip. Logan furrows his brows as he follows you like a puppy to bed.

"You say that like it's a bad thing sweetheart."

As you lay on the bed Logan crawls in-between your legs, resting his head on your stomach. He purrs as you reach and run your fingers through his hair, scratching his head in all the spots you know he loves.

"Not a bad thing honey, but our water bill isn't a fan." Logan gets up on his knees, a devilish smirk appearing on his lips as his hands snake up your legs.

"Fuck the water bill, If I want to fuck my gorgeous girlfriend I will." You giggle as he dips his head down. The scruff of his beard tickles your skin as he nibbles on your thighs.

"Fuck baby, I can't get enough of you." He kneels between your legs and his hands slip up your body. The moment his hands go under your shirt you flinch. You didn't mean to flinch but you did. It was a small movement but it was there and Logan felt it immediately.

"What's wrong?" He asks as he takes his hands away.

"Nothing." You smile and reach up to pull him closer but he doesn't budge. Curse his super strength. He gives you a look and you sigh.

"It's nothing Logan, it's stupid and small."

"Sweetheart you gotta talk to me," Logan huffs. He's been working on this whole, communication thing and while he's not known for his empathy he can clearly see there's something bothering you.

"I just..." He looks at you again and you fall back into the pillows.

"Its these!" You say pointing to your chest.

"Huh?" "They're small and stupid and I hate them!" You lift your shirt up and huff in frustration. Logan's eyes widen as he stares at your bare chest. A stupid smile forming on his lips.

"I'm not seeing the problem." You put your shirt down and he pouts.

"I'm serious Logan. They're small and flat and...and..." You struggle to find the words as Logan just chuckles.

"So what?"

"It's not funny!" You snap and Logan's face morphs into concern.

"I just, I wish they were bigger is all. I mean sometimes I see other women and...It's hard sometimes." You curl into yourself, your arms covering your chest protectively. It felt silly to bring up right now but the thoughts wouldn't go away.

"Hey, look at me sweetheart." Logan coos. He lays next to you. Gently snaking his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

"Please?" Reluctantly you turn your body to face his.

"There's my pretty girl." He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes.

"Look I'm not the best at this but I can tell you one thing. You're fucking perfect." He leans in and kisses your neck gently. Your eyes flutter close as he gently rolls on top of you.

"You are beautiful, gorgeous, hot. I could go on and on sweetheart." His hand slips up your shirt and you let him slowly peel it off you. He grins as his lips move down to your chest. His thumb comes to play with one of your breasts while he latches onto the other.

"Logan..." You moan as he teases you like he loves to do.

"I know you hate them but I fucking love them. I could spend hours playing with them, looking at them, sucking on them if you let me." You bite your lip at his dirty words. The insecurities being pushed out Logan's hands.

"I don't care how big they are, what the look like. Because they're attached to my girl and I love my girl." Logan reaches down and rips your panties off of your body. You gasp in surprise as he takes your legs and spreads them.

"Feel how fucking hard you make me." He groans as he grinds his cock against your body.

"Get on your knees baby." You don't hesitate to listen. You get on your knees and face the headboard but Logan has other plans.

"No, I want you to watch your pretty tits as I fuck you." He growls in your ear as he moves you to face the mirror on the wall.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head at his gruff voice. Fuck he's hot. You're practically dripping onto the sheets already and Logan plans on taking full advantage of that. Slowly he slides his cock into your cunt, taking his sweet time as he stretches you out.

"So good, taking me raw." He says with a smirk. He wraps his hand around your neck to help support you as your legs shake at the feeling.

"I know baby, almost there just a little bit more." He praises.

You nod furiously, wanting to take all of him no matter what. When he fully bottoms out you let out a small cry. He shushes you softly, pressing kisses to your cheek as you get used to the stretch.

"Feel alright sweetheart?" Logan asks and you nod. Slowly he moves his hips, soaking up every whine that falls from your lips.

"Fuck, you're just made for me aren't you pretty girl." You can't take your eyes off of the mirror.

It's pure and utter filth. You're disheveled, tears pooling in your eyes, Logan's hand is still wrapped around your neck. You look fucking hot. You can see his muscles flexing with each devastating thrust. The look of pure desire on his face as he fucks you.

"Logan please I'm gonna come." Your hips start to move to meet his thrusts.

Logan growls as he grabs onto your hips and pushes you into the mattress. All you can do is watch yourself take it as he fucks the life out of you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as Logan breaks you apart. Your body feels fuzzy as your orgasm washes over you. Logan lets out a loud groan as his hips slam into you and stay there as he comes.

"Fuck...Look at you." Logan sits back, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you up. You hum as your head falls onto his chest. A tired smile on your face.

"So fucking perfect." Logan hums.

"Right sweetheart?" You mumble something unintelligible and Logan taps your face.

"I want to hear it." You shiver at the intensity of his voice.

"I'm perfect." Logan tilts your head up.

"All of you?" He asks.

"All of me." You repeat after him.

"Good," He kisses your temple.

You sigh as Logan starts to massage your shoulders. The insecurities have been washed away, only bliss left in its wake. Logan couldn't comprehend your dislike for your body, he saw you and only saw the best.

But if you needed a reminder every now and then, he would be happy to give it to you.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Audience

Worst Wolverine X F! Reader

You put yourself in a dangerous situation and Logan didn't appreciate it

A/N: This is just a silly lil fic, it was originally planned to be smth else but I changed my mind but didn't want to get rid of what I had!

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Marvel cameos, blood mention, Reader having no survival instinct lol, Logan gets mad at reader, fluff at the end! suggestive ending ;)

You’re not quite sure what happened.

You were just enjoying a simple afternoon at your favorite coffee shop. You got your sweet treat, a caramel cider, and a strawberry donut - delicious. It’d been a nice day, sunny, warm, so you sat outside at one of the little tables offered out there. Took the day off from work- just because. Someone complimented your new dress! 

The only bummer was that your boyfriend couldn’t make it. Logan called, his voice being more unusually angry than it is on the phone, told you he wouldn’t be able to make it to your planned coffee date. Said that something came up- you swear you heard Wade in the background during this conversation. Decided to not ask why, if it involves Wade, you don’t wanna know. Logan promised he’d make it up to you, and knowing him, he will.

So you enjoyed your solo coffee date, while you did miss Logan, it was quiet- rarely do you get a moment to yourself. Then you heard the sounds of fighting- a few screams, and people running away. You stood up from your chair, eyes searching for the supposed chaos that was happening. All you saw was people running, some looking more disheveled than others. You caught one woman by her arm, 

“What’s happening?”

“A bunch of those-..UGH! mutant freaks are fighting it out!” She shakes her head, escaping your grip and continuing to run. 

Mutant-? 

Oh.

Against your better judgement, you had to confirm her words. You ran against the crowd, people shoving you to the side but you ignored it, too curious- wanting to see what was happening. If it’s what you think it is, you couldn’t miss out. 

You reached the corner, an intersection. When you looked left, that’s when you saw it. Cars tossed on their side. Multiple police cars, police barricades, a few swat trucks. 

A really big dude with a helmet on, a guy with a metal arm- 

no, not that one, the other one, 

a familiar asshole in red spandex, a second guy in re- holy shit, is that Spiderman? 

The scene was chaotic. Some of the costumed heros you didn’t know, all of them fighting against the big dude, and if you knew your lore right- you could guess that it was Juggernaut. When Wade would go on his drunken rants about his adventures with a groups of misfits, he mentioned that he had no clue what happened to Juggernaut after he was well…You rather not repeat how Wade described it. 

You saw a flash of yellow, and you recognized it as your man, and you were quickly vexed. You knew better though, this was dangerous- you should leave. 

As you turned to run down the street, you heard a commotion, and then a car landed right in front of you- inches from your face. You couldn’t even let out a sound. You way was a bit….blocked, so you opted to hid yourself behind a street tree and watch the fight go down- and see Logan in action. 

The fight was intense. Juggernaut was strong, fast. You watched him power through multiple cars and barricades, tossing various heros aside as he charged after Logan. His stomping rumbled the ground below you, and your heard the windows of the apartment building behind you shake with each step, threatening to break.

You gasped as he reached Logan, but instead of Logan getting pummeled to death, he holds his own. Snarling with gritted teeth, he threw the first punch. The metal clang the echoed through the street sent made you wince, putting your nerves on edge.

Logan may have metal bones but that could not have felt good. 

A few punches are thrown at each other- both taking them well. Logans claws came out, as he roared. One leap and hes on Juggernauts back, stabbing his claws into the giants shoulders. Spiderman (woah!) comes swinging in, using his webs to wrap around his legs, knocking Juggernaut down to the ground. 

You really wanted to cheer- but decided that you should probably keep your mouth shut since you don’t believe anyone has spotted you yet, best to be kept that way. Logan probably wouldn’t appreciate you putting yourself in a potential path of danger just because you wanted to be a fangirl. 

The victory didn’t last long. Spidey’s webs quickly torn as the Juggernaut pulled Logan off and tossed him to the side- which he landed into the side of the car, creating an ginormous dent into the metal and breaking the windows. He lunged after spiderman, who jumped away. Wade charged after him next, sticking his katanas into his side. Juggernaut- seemed unaffected, grabbed Wade and-

You looked away, not wanting to see his arms be torn off. Again.

Logan snarled again, having removed himself from the car, he lunged onto Juggernauts back once as he drops Wades limbs to the ground. You watching his arms hooks around his shoulders, locking his arms from being able to grab Logan again.

You couldn’t deny, seeing Logan fighting- way hotter than it should be. You’ve seen him fight before, typical bar fights, usually ones where he gets pissed because some guy had the nerve to check you out right in front of him.

While you didn’t believe the fighting was neccessary, you did love Logan defending your honor. 

This time though, there was something particularly attractive. Maybe it was the suit. You never saw it on him completely- Only the pants and the cowl. The first time you met, he and Wade had walked by your apartment as you were leaving, looking like they came out of hell. You didn’t even know Logan got his suit repaired, a suspicion that Wade was likely behind it.

Either way, Logan looked damn good with that suit. 

Logan seemed to have frozen for a moment, and you watched with confusion as he hold on the Juggernaut loosens, who eventually grabbed Logan and throws him across the street, right next to you.

 He slams into the brick of the building, creating a divot in the wall, as pieces crumbled around him. He groaned, cursing under his breath and his head lfits up- and sees you staring back at him with wide eyes. 

You smile awkwardly, and gave him a small wave. 

“Hi baby-” 

“What the hell are you doing here?!” He snarls as he pushes himself out of the building. Stomping over to you, pieces of brick and dust fell off his shoulder. You cowered, like a child being scolded. In the background, Spiderman, Cable, and a few others attempt to fight off Juggernaut. Wade was spinning around- armless, and blood shooting out, he was thrusting his shoulders forward side to side as if he was throwing punches with his arms, abandoned nearby.

“Well I- I was just in the neighborhood and I saw you-” 

“You should not be here!” His voice turned low and angry. You press your lips together.

“Well-” You stammered, trying to think of an excuse, gesturing to him and the fight happening besides you both on the street. “What about you- You canceled our date for work?!”

He stares at you incredously. You sigh, dropping your shoulders, “That’s not gonna work.…”

He stuck a finger in your face. “Go home. We’ll talk about this later.” He sneers, but honestly,it only turned you on more. The anger, just barely concealed by his mask with his lips curled back and his teeth bared, the way he towered over you. The suit stretched over his muscles…

You noticed his nostrils flare, but before he could say anything, a large piece of debris was thrown at you both, in which he grabbed you and dodged it, careful to make sure no harm came to you.

“You need to get the hell out of here-” He says, concealing you from the fight. He looks around, searching for a safe and quick escape route for you. Just then, Spiderman had landed next to the both of you. “You-” He pointed at him, waving him over.

“Oh- Yeah? Mr.Wolverine sir?”

“Just…Wolverine.” Logan shook his head. “Take her home.” He motions to you with his hand. 

“I can get home by myself-” You stopped, and looked at the spider hero with confusion. “Are you a teenager?” You ask, upon hearing his slightly higher pitched voice. 

“No!”

“You couldn’t even stay away from a fight!” Logan snaps at you. You put your hands on your hips.

“Lo- Wolverine- Don’t you talk to me like that!” You snapped back. 

“Uh so what am I doing?” Spiderman says awkwardly, clapping his hands together and bouncing on the heels of his feet. 

“She lives on Elm street.” Logan says. Actually, you both live on Elm street. You were going to correct him- for no real reason, but was interrupted.

“You-” 

Juggernaut lets out a yell, and starts charging towards you three. Logan snarls, getting into position to fight.

“Take her!”

“Right!” Spidey, grabs onto you, “Hi ma’am!” 

He shoots a web, and you’re before lifted off the ground just into time, as Juggernaut slams into Logan and the fight continues. You’re screaming, clinging to the young hero in fear as he swings from building to building. 

“So, like- are you and Wolverine a thing?” He asks amidst your screams. 

You’re back home now. You’ve been anxiously cleaning, doing laundry, even cleaned out the fridge. Waiting for Logan- and the inevitable scolding he was going to give you. You were preparing all sorts of arguments. Like, why didn’t you tell me you were going back to superhero business? 

Which you were a tad butthurt about. He canceled your date, that doesn’t upset you- but he could have been honest about why.

Just as you sat down, thats when the door to your apartment opened and Logan stepped in. He was still wearing his suit and cowl, although it was a bit torn and dirtied up now. 

You stood up from your chair, fiddling with your hands nervously as you looked at him. He stepped inside, a frown on his face as he slammed the door shut behind him. He turned, making sure to click the lock shut. 

“Logan-”

“Save it.” 

He walks over to you, and you made yourself smaller to him. Looking up at him with big, innocent eyes. You pout your lip. 

“Don’t make yourself cute.” He shook his head. “That was stupid. That was really fucking stupid. You could have gotten killed! What if I wasn’t there? The others couldn’t stop him! What if he went after you, you-” He stopped himself, a small shake of his lips, a flare of his nostrils- you could see he was trying to calm himself down.

“I-” You opened your mouth to defend yourself, and closed it. Surprised to see so much emotion coming from him. “Yeah, I know.” You looked down, with a dejected tone. “I was originally going to leave and then this car got thrown at me and-” 

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t have been there.” His tone becomes less angry, and more firm. “What was the point? Huh?” 

“Well I….” You bit your lip looking away. “I just, I guess I wanted to see you in action. Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?” 

He stares at you, and lets out a sigh. He pulled down the cowl, so you could see him completely. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s dangerous.” He says. “Everyone….Everyone I knew that was apart of this stuff. They….”

You stepped closer to him, putting a hand on his chest. “I’m fine Logan. Aside from that terrifying trip with Spidey-”

“Spidey?” 

“He’s a pretty sweet kid actually.” 

Logan sighs. “I could smell you. While I was fighting, and it fucking terrified me. I didn’t know how or why you were there. Didn’t even know where you were till I finally saw you.” 

“When the fighting started I ran to see what was happening. I thought maybe it was Wade pulling his usual antics, or the X-men. I actually didn’t expect to see you.” You explain. “It was kinda cool to see you in action though…”

“Bub, listen.” He puts his hands on your arms, pulling you closer. “You can’t be doing that shit. It’s dangerous. You could get hurt, or worse. I can’t have that.” 

You looked at him, hearing the sincerity of his voice, the concern. It’s not something you heard from him before. Logan was always a bit gruff, had a bit trouble talking about his feelings but you were okay with that because you were always willing to put in the effort to make things work. Slowly, you nodded.

“Lo?” You say his name softly.

“Yeah?” 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask. “I thought you said you were done with the superhero stuff. After everything you’ve been through.” 

He was silent. Not answering initially, You could see he was thinking in his head what he wanted to say. You half-expected a bullshit excuse, or him blaming Wade, dragging him into it or something.

“You.” He says. “I’m doing it for you. To be better.” 

You took in his answer, and once processed, you didn’t hesitate to kiss him. Your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. He immediately returned the sentiment, wrapping his around you tightly. His lips moved eagerly against yours, before nipping at your bottom lip- eliciting giggles from you. 

“Still pent up huh?” You muttered against him. 

“Want to find out?” He grumbled, pulling your hips against his. 

“Mm…I love the suit by the way.” You hummed. “Mister Superhero.”

“Ah- Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, Wolverine.”

“Better. Much better.”

[geeeemmmmmmm]

Everything

A/N:I hate writing summaries and warnings, it's so hard for no reason but anyways as always sorry for any mistakes and enjoy!

Summary:Logan was helping you practice your newly learnt ability from your mutation and a small accident happened making him rethink everything.

Warnings:Blood, angst if you squint, Logan's hiding his love for you, fluff

WC:1.5k

The birds chirped as the leaves seemed to be rustling in tune as you were humming along, smiling brightly as you practiced with your new gear gifted from the Professor that's meant to help you both create wind gusts but stop any no matter where they originated. You were thankful you had nothing on today so you could be relaxing in the field outside while all the kids were in their classes. Hours and hours of practicing, seeing how much you could move the tree branches as the wind bounded from your fingers with ease. The soft green grass was like sitting on a couch as your back rested against the tree you once disturbed as you were catching your breath again. The side effect from your mutation that affects you the most is how out of breath you get from using your power, but it makes sense you're taking air from your body and forcing it out so you weren't that mad about it.

"So this is where you've been" a voice towered over you as you jumped pushing a gust of wind out directed at the voice before you could react and stop yourself. "Shit Logan I'm so so sorry" you tried to plead for forgiveness as if Logan could ever hate you. "Don't sweat it Bub" he replied as he smoothed his hair back after the gust you sent messed it up a little but he gave up and sat next to you with a sigh as he reached the ground. "What's this?" he nodded to your new fingerless gloves you had on, you moved your hands off your knees "They help get me more airflow as I force the gusts out and for when I stop them it's so my hands don't get forced back too much" you explained but to be honest with yourself you didn't really hear the Professor and Hank explain the exact things they do as you were so overjoyed with the fact they had gifted them to you. You rested your head on Logan's shoulder, your touch sent a jolt through him as he tried to play it off but in reality his heart was racing that you willingly rested your head on him like you haven't rested against him multiple times before and he hasn't done the same to you. "I need practice with stopping wind" you said in a tone that hinted you needed Logan's help "what do I need to do" he said with hesitation just wanting to do anything to make you happy as you jumped up the moment that sentence left his lips, putting your hand out to "help" Logan up but you just wanted yet another excuse to touch him and he was shocked you wanted to as he gently took your hand and held it just for that second longer than needed as you let a wide smile take over your face.

It took Logan a couple explanations from you to figure out what he needed to do which was swing his class as fast as possible to try to generate some air directed at you. You could've just went to the danger room to get some actually challenging wind but you wanted to be outside and to some of your luck you knew Logan would seek your company after a while because you were his closest friend at the mansion and to not your luck it was a breezeless day so practicing stopping gusts outside was impossible as you don't know to make gusts you make come back to you to stop. While Logan was only producing small amounts of wind with swinging his claws it was at least something you could stop. You were ecstatic and easily stopping the gusts, while they were small at least you could stop them. 

A bright idea came upon you as you took a couple steps forward closing the metre or two distance between you and Logan to see what's your range from stopping wind. Logan wasn't concentrating on his movements and instead on the way your face was lit up with such an expression of happiness as you laughed in glee. He didn't care how stupid he must've looked to anyone watching, he'd do anything in order to see that beautiful smile of yours. It was an extra extension of his arm as he swung. The tiniest graze against your forearm as your arm was in front of him. You yelped as you jumped back examining the cut down your forearm as you winced while moving it. Logan cursed himself for every decision he's ever made especially signing up to get adamantium claws which can so easily slice through anything even the one thing he wanted to protect most. You. He stopped himself running to you and pulling you into his embrace just wanting to kiss you better, he stood as his lips trembled just a bit. He was rethinking everything in that moment his mind was telling him "this is just the start of hurting her" and that thought pained him not wanting lose you nor hurt you. You laughed as you said "Got me good there Lo" clearly not mad at him but he was enraged with himself that he hurt you and wondering how stupid he could be.

"Can you help me with cleaning this up" You said with a concerned expression noticing how uncomfortable Logan looked but he just replied to you with a small nod as he followed you into the mansion keeping his distance in case he somehow managed to hurt you. The good part was that all the kids were in class so you got into your room without anyone asking what happened. The cut was a clean one and it didn't hurt much so you only winced at the suddenness because of your keen reflexes. "Come in here" you called to Logan not caring that you left your door open and made your way to the bathroom, yet again Logan stayed silent just rewatching him cutting your arm over and over again but he replied with a nod as he came in and stood waiting for a command from you. "Would it be ok for you to clean this up for me?" you asked hesitantly while looking at your arm dripping blood everywhere "A-are you sure, I don't wanna hurt you again" he stuttered quietly not looking at you "Lo, you didn't hurt me, it was accidental thing and I know you would never do this on purpose" you told him quietly as you stood up holding your arm. 

Logan just hesitated and managed to get out a quiet "I could've reacted faster and stopped myself-" "I could've as well its ok, this means nothing to me" you cut him off before he could say anything else and reached forward to cup his face with your hand watching as his eyes looked so sad as he tried to avoid your gaze but he ever so slightly leaned into your touch. "Now let's fix this up before my bathroom looks a murder scene" you declared looking at the trail of blood you left all throughout not just your bathroom but your bedroom too. After a couple minutes of convincing Logan it's ok to touch your arm he finally gave in and got a small bandage and some gauze, still moving slowly and looking at you for a nod of approval every time he was about to touch your wound. Finally you were bandaged up and ready to tackle cleaning your blood out of your room so you and Logan got to work scrubbing everything clean and peeking out your room to make sure you didn't drop any blood in the halls, luckily you didn't. That whole process of cleaning up was filled with silence with Logan being too scared to talk again for a while and you not wanting to scare him off as he seemed more quiet than usual even after you tried to comfort him.

You sat on your bed and gestured for Logan to sit next to you. Logan had only ever been in your room a couple times mainly to wake you up if you were about to be late to teach your classes, just simple stuff but he'd never fully taken in all the decorations you have around your room with photos of family and friends pinned all around your walls. "Thank you for doing all this for me today" you told him as you patted his shoulder "Anytime doll" he whispered back in reply and Logan's eyes lit up as he saw you blush slightly at what he said. "You could never hurt me" you admitted to him trying to meet his eyes this time you smiled as you watched him try hide a grin while he played around with his words for a second finally managing to get out a brave "I'll never hurt you again" as he finally gave into himself and pulled you into his side while he rested his head on yours hearing a little "Don't be silly today was nothing" from you as your voice was muffled by his arms wrapped around you but he felt you smile widely against him. But to Logan today was everything and he just sat there holding you wondering if he could ever confess his love to you and what'd you'd even do at the thought of him telling you, but something told him that maybe you feel the same way.

A/N:Hope you all enjoyed! Thank you for reading:)

[romanarose]

Lotion

Logan Howlett x gn!reader

Summary: You're tired, Logan puts lotion on you.

Warnings: Fluffy <3

AN: Literally just a quick drabble I thought of while putting lotion on after my shower

***

"UUUGGGGGHHH!" You flop, stomach down on the bed, still dripping from you shower, butt ass naked. "I'm ssoooooo tired Logan."

Logan, still in his day clothes on the BED which he knows drives you insane, looking over at you. "You're actually go'n to bed this time, right? No more 'Oh, Logan'" He mimicks your voice. "I need to put a load of laundry in at 10 at night!"

"Well actually-"

"No." Logan flicks your head and you pretend to bite at him. "Go t'bed. Yuh need t'rest."

"Fine. Just pull the blanket over me, I'm calling it."

He raises an eyebrow at that. "No lotion?"

Usually, putting lotion on was a definet part of a nighttime routine. You HATED feeling like your skin, especially your feet, were dry, even if missing one night wouldn't be the end of the world.

"Forget it." You mumble into the bed and Logan chuckles. "I'll do it it the morning."

But Logan is already getting out of bed and grabbing your lotion. "Nope. Not happening. Lord knows you'll wake me up at 3 am putting lotion on."

"Or rubbing my dry ass feet together like a cricket."

"My little cricket." He lightly smacks your ass, then globs on the cerave lotion from the jar.

Despite his teasing, Logan is tender as he rubs you down. Arms, shoulders, even getting your back which you can't reach by yourself. Over your ass, he doesn't forget to stop for a squeeze because that is who he is as a person, but covers the whole length of your legs down to your feet, where he is sure to give a little massage to sooth your aching arches.

He comes back up, rolling you on your back. Getting you face lotion, Logan massages it into your skin, releving the muscles from a day of laughter and joy.

"feels nice..." You murmer, starting to drift off to sleep.

Logan gets off the bed, stripping down himself and crawling under the covers with you.

"Warm enough?" He asks, considering your not in pjs.

"Yeah. Your like a fucking furnace." But you make no effort to move away from resting your head on his chest. It's nice here.

"Go to sleep, yuh brat."

A big yawn. "I'm too sleepy to make a come back. Figure one out on your own."

You can feel the rise and fall of Logans chest as he laughs. "Noted. Now go to sleep. We got the rest of our lives tomorrow."

***

pleasse consider reblogging <3

@miraclesabound @3koboldsinahoodie @del-ightfulling @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @hornystan @lunarmoonanons

[loganspet]

Holy shit

Old man Logan p☆rn links

A porn link post dedicated to old man Logan because he IS the hottest Logan and I'm ovulating so badly rn I gotta satisfy this craving somehow if I can't actually have him😔

You can find part 1 by clicking here

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• No matter how many times you cum on his cock, old man Logan needs you to give him one more, he loves seeing you cum for him.

• The best things that come with having sex with old man Logan are the intimate, naked cuddles afterwards.

• The closer you and old man Logan get to cumming, the needier and sloppier your kisses become.

• The way you run your hands through his greying hair while you make out has shivers running down old man Logans spine (this is literally the hottest video i have ever seen guys this is getting me too horny, if I can't kiss my man like this i dont want him)

• Old man Logan is more than cabable to drive the limousine with only one hand if his needy girl sits next to him.

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You guys loved the first part, so here is a second. I know, I may sound deprived, but WHO THE FUCK is the guy in the first few videos? Asking for a friend I need to know ASAP🙏🏻

I can't stop watching the fourth video its making my stomach do flips ya'll I wanna make out w Logan like that for hours. Why is life so unfair

Born to be old man Logans wife, forced to write fanfics about him and cry