#logan howlett fanfiction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

logaenhowlett · 2 days ago

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TEACH YOU HOW TO GET TO PUREST HELL - L.H.

Summary: On the way to one of his cage fights, Logan's truck begins to break down and that's how he meets you, the owner of a repair shop in Northern Alberta. He promises to pay you with his winnings - but what he ultimately offers is far more interesting.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Fingering, Unprotected sex (against the cage), Aftercare, Logan's a snarky motherfucker (but secretly a softie)

A/N: The filthiest 4k I've ever written. I just know he was a menace during his cage fighter era. It's okay though, I'll still be clawing at the enclosure. Title creds to Radiohead. Hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

Smoke curls around him, bearing a semblance of warmth against the biting wind. Logan's grip on the steering wheel is loose, the other arm draped lazily across the window. He flicks his fingertips ever so often, the ashes of his cigar disappearing into the falling snow. Mile after mile, the same barren landscape stretches before him.

He's lost amidst the silence, having turned the radio all the way down in frustration at the nonsense plaguing the stations earlier. As sunshine glares through the windshield, he scrunches his eyebrows, vaguely entertaining some ideas swirling in his mind.

Hours pass by painfully slow. He tries to ignore the low rumbling that interrupts his flow of thoughts, body firmly protesting against this all-alcohol diet he'd unintentionally adopted. Logan skims a hand into the glove compartment, clicking his tongue when he discovers only a few wrappers lying inside. Slumping back into the seat, he takes another drag, disappointment etching onto his features.

An orange, flashing icon on the dashboard snaps his attention. His eyes dart to the blinking light, a sense of irritation washing over him when he recognises the ‘check engine’ symbol. In a haste, he pulls the truck over, slamming the door shut behind him as he ventures into the cold to inspect the issue. Though he has an extensive knowledge of motorcycles, by no means does that expertise carry over to whatever mess he finds beneath the hood. Logan returns with a sigh, recalling a faded road sign he'd passed ages ago - at least he isn't awfully far from his destination.

In the distance, the town welcome monument brings him some sort of peace. After driving by plenty of dimly lit diners and pubs, he reluctantly asks a stranger for directions to the nearest repair shop. Logan arrives shortly thereafter, parking at the entrance of this seemingly empty building. Curious, he scans the place, sliding out of his seat in search of anyone.

The distinct ring of metal hitting the floor has him spinning around. He fights back the amused huff at the sight of you, bottom lip slightly caught between his teeth in an attempt to stop the smirk threatening to break free. His eyes rake over your figure as you come closer - appreciating the way your overalls perfectly capture the slopes and curves of your body - before finally, rising to meet your unimpressed expression.

"What're you here for?"

There's a smidge of annoyance in your words, a reaction he very much enjoys being the reason for. He nods towards the truck parked out front, "Problem with the engine."

When you brush past him, Logan spots a name neatly embroidered onto your otherwise soiled clothes. Smiling, he follows after you, shamelessly dropping his gaze to your ass for a moment.

Waiting patiently while you poke around the hood, he steals glances at your profile, filled with the sudden urge to wipe away the grease stain remnants off your cheeks, "Yeah... looks like the head gasket needs replacing."

Logan groans to himself before agreeing with your judgment. He runs a hand across his face, stilling in brief confusion when you chuckle quietly.

"Somethin' funny?" He asks, noting how you browse the insides of his camper with a flair of barely-masked mockery.

"Just admiring the interior design."

That one almost draws a scoff out of him. Logan knows his living quarters are rather bare-bones in nature, at best, providing decent shelter for when he's on the go. Inside, a makeshift bed large enough for a man of his size and basic kitchen appliances - though he rarely uses those. It's all he cares for anyway, yet there's a tinge of self-consciousness he shakes before gruffly responding, "You can do it by tonight?"

"Tonight?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise, "Fine... but it's gonna set you back about three grand."

"I got half for now."

A sharp laugh pierces his ears. And even though it's undoubtedly fake, he thinks you look pretty like this - shooting what can't be anything less than a deadly glare just for him. The corners of his lips tilt up when your tone suddenly becomes stern, "That's not how it works, buddy."

"Listen, I got a fight later, I'll be good for it."

"What? You that sure you're gonna win?"

You're teasing him. You know it, and so does he. Logan studies the way your hand rests against your hip, a challenging glint behind your eyes while you consider this ridiculous suggestion. He moves one step closer and proudly welcomes the surge of satisfaction at the slight crack of your demeanour.

"Darlin', I always win." It's a whisper that leaves him, hushed and dangerously low. Giving your shoulder a playful nudge as he walks by, he circles to the trailer behind the truck, retrieving his motorcycle. He smirks, pleased to witness such a glimpse of weakness, "Eleven-thirty. O'Malley's. I'll see you there."

The engine revs with each twist of his wrist, the movement so precise and natural. As he sinks onto the bike, the suspension adjusting to his weight, he sends you a wink.

"And if you lose?" You shout over the blaring sounds.

With one final grin, "Just fix my truck, alright."

Even from outside, O'Malley's is deafeningly loud. The wooden door creaks lightly with the gentlest push, and a mixture of overly enthusiastic yells paired with the clashing of glass greet your presence. You're no regular here whatsoever, but the fights that occur in this bar are usually the talk of the town. And despite its reputation, you've never had much interest in being surrounded by a crowd of angry, intoxicated men - all drowning beneath the crude insults and empty threats tossed into the air.

Some of the patrons, customers you recognise from work, acknowledge you with a polite smile while you settle into a booth near the cage. As you observe the utter chaos around the room, it only cements your distaste for this so-called form of entertainment. The current match's loser staggers past your table, barely walking on two feet even with the support of his friends.

All you can think about is returning home with your hard-earned cash. It was a rather tiring day, running around salvage yards scouring for spare parts to tend to the old piece of junk he'd called a truck. Not to mention the unforgiving weather, which seemed determined to make your day more miserable. And to top it all off, the jerk wanted it done by nightfall - the audacity! Just the simple reminder of today's events has your body tensing from restlessness.

Behind you, a group of men sneer amongst themselves and between their slurring, the words "pretty boy" and "his ass kicked" grasp your attention. Turning around, you watch as they hand over money to some younger fella, taunting others to join the bet. Oh, that makes your blood boil. This Logan had strolled into your shop with nothing but a superficial promise for your services, and now, he's presumed to lose?

You stand up abruptly, peering across the space in search of him. A rush of fury courses through you at the same time you spot him casually lounging in the corner. As you approach, the faint glow of the bulb illuminates his face, a cloud of smoke momentarily hiding the smirk playing on his lips. His chuckle cuts through the hum of the jukebox he's leaning on, eyes crinkling with a kind of smugness at your arrival.

"You're joking." The bottle of whiskey between his fingers shocks you the most, "Are you seriously getting drunk before your fight?"

Logan grins at your concerned expression, eyes tracing you up and down, "You fix it?"

"Yes, I fucking fixed it. Took me all day!" Fists clenching, you stare at him intently, "Look, I did my job - you better do yours."

"Don't worry 'bout it, darlin'. I'm a man of my word." He dismisses you completely, taking a prolonged swig of his drink. A beat passes before he lazily holds up two fingers right to your face, "Scout's honour."

He laughs again when you roughly shove his hand aside, not sparing another second for this cocksure attitude. You grumble under your breath, making your way back to the booth, "It's three fingers, asshole."

A few matches take place over the next hour, and you're only getting more antsy as each of the competitors exits the cage with nothing short of bloody faces and broken bones. The audience roars all of a sudden, some even rattling the fence as this new person strides into the threshold.

Of course, he'd stripped his shirt off and the sight of his muscle-toned chest only serves to further fuel your irritation. Logan's eyes find yours immediately, looking past the crowd of hecklers now whistling at him. With a nod, he throws you a confident smirk and turns to his rival.

The man he's up against is much more burly and has a couple of inches on him. Though that doesn't seem to faze Logan in the slightest, instead he's flexing his arms almost playfully before adopting a fighting stance. Every punch and kick has you twitching in your seat, your feet firmly stuck to the ground in anticipation.

Remembering how he'd chugged an entire bottle of liquor earlier, you're astonished by the ferocity with which he attacks his opponent, dodging most moves with deadly precision. As he lands more jabs, the spectators begin to jeer and boo, swarming the enclosure of the cage in a tantrum. You peek over their shoulders, ducking away from the things they're flinging around. There's a collective gasp when he knocks out the other man, and you sigh in relief.

Leaning towards the cage, a cigar lightly pressed against his mouth, Logan's focus shifts to you. His chest is heaving from all the physical exertion, skin damp from the sweat. As he exhales the smoke, blowing a kiss in your direction, a satisfied expression returns to his face. He runs a hand through his wet hair, leaving the arena with no regard for the protesting crowd.

You follow after him, squeezing through the tightly packed space. He's settling a score with the owner, a wad of rolled cash passing between them as a reward. After a nod of mutual agreement, Logan faces you, tossing his leather jacket on. And while you're ultimately happy he won, there's also this urge to smack the cheeky look that seems to be glowing as you come closer.

What's more upsetting is the fact that he is undeniably gorgeous - especially like this, all sweaty and wound up from the adrenaline rushing inside. And of course, he doesn't miss how your gaze wanders to the sliver of skin peeking through his jacket, every slight movement only revealing more.

Logan grabs a few bills from the roll of money and stuffs them into his back pocket, holding the rest out towards you. As you reach for the cash, he swiftly draws his hand back with a teasing smile, "Have a drink with me."

"No."

"C'mon." He drags out, repeating the same thing when you try again, "No one needs their cute, little mechanic right now."

Watching you sigh triggers a thrill of excitement, an unspoken victory he claims with no shame. With a simple gesture, he leads you towards a secluded booth, determined to make this a worthwhile exchange. Despite your hesitation, he maintains a sort of relaxed energy, draping his arm along the seat - his eyes not straying from yours.

Two shots of vodka are placed on the table and Logan mirrors your action, slowly raising the glass to his lips. In no time, the air of unease dissipates, replaced by a comfortable silence while the drinks keep coming. As the night wears on, casual conversation flows between you and he asks a few things like how long you've lived here, why you became a mechanic and eventually, when he slides you the money, "What now, darlin'? You gonna leave?"

His voice, dripping with honeyed sweetness, sends a shiver down your spine. You can't exactly place the feeling, but it's a tangle of exasperation and something else - something you're not quite ready to define. Instead, you blame it on the drinks, the late hour, and the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man just inches away.

As frustration envelops your thoughts, you suddenly excuse yourself and head towards the bathroom. The alcohol, previously a gentle companion, now seems to be taking its toll. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you try to fight against the sensations running through your body. The splash of cold water does little to your state of mind, yet you're back outside in what feels like a tilted world, using all your strength to walk straight.

As you brush past the cage, someone collides into you. Desperate for balance, you reach out to grip the fence, but a strong hand lays steady on your lower back. With a gasp and a tilt of your head, you're caught off-guard when Logan comes into your view. His arm snakes around to gently hold your waist, his body now pressing into yours.

Overwhelmed by the sudden proximity, you tear your attention away from him and glance at the wire pricking your fingers, "This is fucking sharp."

He doesn't break the eye contact. A low hum vibrates through his chest as he leans in, the warmth of his breath dancing with yours. The space between you slowly shrinks, whatever lighthearted facade he'd worn earlier vanishes only to be replaced by something raw and inexplicable.

"How're you not bruised?" You whisper, remembering the way he'd been thrown against the cage earlier.

"Call it a special talent."

Despite your better judgment, you find yourself captivated by him, the intensity of his gaze reeling you in. And so, you decide to play his game, "Can you teach me?"

Logan pauses, "You wanna learn... how to fight?"

"Just a little punch or something."

A faint smile spreads across his face, you're absolutely sure he can feel the way your heart is pounding. When his lips lightly brush against your ear, a quiet rumble escapes and something flickers in your gut - a twist of exhilaration laced with a hint of caution.

There's barely anyone left in the bar at this point besides the one or two stragglers hanging around. Logan and you stand alone in the cage, seemingly tucked away in a little pocket of your own. He doesn't wander too far, remaining within an arm's distance while demonstrating the proper technique for a jab - the motion so fluid and effortless.

Your initial attempts to mimic his movements are clumsy and awkward, his amusement only growing more evident with each try. Slipping behind you, he sheds the jacket, once again exposing his glorious muscles and the thought of tracing his vein-riddled biceps with your tongue leaves you dazed for a moment. This time, he circles his arms around you and guides your hands into the correct position.

As you practice, your bodies nudge against each other, his breath fans across your neck and ignites a fire within you. The tension is palpable, the air thick with implicit desire. You can almost feel his gaze burning into you, every second posing a challenge to cross this imaginary line.

The rest of the patrons are ushered out the door, the owner nodding at Logan before disappearing into the back room. And the silence settles in, a stark contrast to all the commotion that lingered for hours prior. You notice the difference, inching towards the exit, "Looks like they're closing up."

Before you can move away, Logan's hand shoots out to catch your wrist, "And we got it all to ourselves."

"What?"

"Might've slipped the owner a little somethin’."

His fingers trail up your arm, thumb gently pushing your soft skin. Slowly, he brings you closer, his words just a whisper of heat on your cheek. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm echoing your own racing heart. Your voice, hoarse and strained, barely manages a response, "Is this how you budget? No wonder you're broke."

It's his laughter that breaks you at first, followed by, "You got a smart mouth, darlin'. Tell me, what else can it do?"

His lips hover mere inches above yours, there's a moment of hesitation hanging in the air - an out, if you don't want this. But, temptation is a dangerous siren and you're already ensnared by her song.

Fuck it.

Logan's dog tags hang pretty between the slopes of your breasts, his mouth moving against yours in a rough, demanding fashion. It's sloppy. It's wet. And it's goddamn heavenly when his fingers thread through your hair, the gap between you now completely erased. You cling to him as if he's an anchor, nails digging into his shoulders while he pins you to the cool metal of the cage.

He wants to touch you. To feel the warmth radiating straight off your body. The straps of your overalls fall from his force, he takes the opportunity to slide one hand through the side, kneading your waist with a kind of tenderness that surprises him too. When you take a second to breathe, Logan peppers kisses along your jawline, then some beneath your ear before grazing his lips on your neck.

The pulsing vein he finds nearly has him growling in pleasure, "Fuck, darlin'... feel so good already... can't wait to taste you when I'm done..."

He stills when you gasp, glancing up through his lashes and then quietly chuckling at your flustered expression. Yet, he can't revel in his victory for any longer than a blink, your palm tilts his head back before you fiercely capture his mouth once more.

His name rolls out your lips, drawn out and glazed with an obvious need. Taking a deep inhale, Logan feels the bulge in his jeans growing with each passing moment. You're only getting restless as his hands roam over your body, becoming nothing more than a whimpering mess all from his doing.

"Lemme hear you for real, baby... don't be shy." His fingers latch onto the cage, using it to thrust forward and deepen the kiss. Your clothes end up pooling at your feet, the barriers between you peeling away with every layer gone. Now, skin to skin, sweat glistening on your brow, you're left bare and vulnerable to his touch.

Logan reaches down, spreading your thighs wide enough till he can push your panties aside, stroking the outside of your entrance. Clenching his jaw when he's met with a distinct wetness, "Hidin' all this for me?" He almost laughs at how you curl forward and then whine his name, craving for any part of him to be inside you, "Hm... what'd you say to me before? Three fingers?

With no warning, he slides exactly three inside your cunt, pumping in and out as best as he can, "So fuckin' tight, darlin'... c'mon... show me you're ready for the real thing." He knows he's doing something right when you squirm at his actions, jumping at the invitation to delicately flick your clit before sinking his fingers back into you.

"Logan-"

Pain consumes you as he continues, tears springing to your eyes. You've never felt pleasure like this, so intense and so profound, words lost amongst the moans trembling out your lips. Your knees begin to shake under the pressure, and his free hand immediately cups your thigh, securing your body to his. As you call out for him, urging him to fuck you senseless, he tugs his fingers away.

The belt flies, jeans tossed behind in an instant and he grunts, freeing his hard length from his boxers. The tip of his cock teases your folds, the precum slicking down from the head. His nose presses against your cheek when your hand runs up and down - getting him all nice and ready. Breath hitching at the sensation, Logan involuntarily bucks his hips, your eagerness carrying him over the edge.

He's careless about lining himself up, giving it no more than a fleeting thought before thrusting into you. Whatever floods your brain at that moment is much more potent than anything you've ever experienced. It's vigorous, almost animalistic in nature, how hard he fucks you. The veins on his arms become more apparent as he hoists you up, pushing you against the cage. He can hear the little fibers of your skin tearing because of the friction, yet he does little to ease that pain, knowing you're enjoying the hurricane of emotions whisking you away.

Logan pants into your tits, nipping at the soft flesh, "Wanted to ruin that pussy since I saw you this mornin'... all dirty and pissed off at me - god. Thought 'bout somethin' else on your face too."

"Logan - don't... fucking stop. Feels amazing... wanna feel all of you." The words escape you - laboured and breathless - your eyes soften in delight, watching this sort of enraptured expression wash across his face, "So good for me, Logan."

So good.

For me.

And boy, if that doesn't spur him on.

Picking up speed, his movements turn greedy, grinding into you with a degree of passion he's never felt before. As you tug his hair, fingers raking through the dark tresses in a frenzy, Logan taps into the primal energy swelling within. His hands squeeze you further, your thighs constricting his waist as he drives up into you, "That's it baby... fuckin' perfect. Takin' all of me like a good girl... mhmm."

The way your body helplessly arches has him grinning, but that quickly gets swept away when his cock twitches inside you, aching to burst at any given moment. He tries his hardest to control himself, longing for your cries of pleasure as you finish. Thrusts weakening to a leisurely pace, Logan grunts into your neck, mumbling a string of curses while he rides out this wave. Thankfully, you're on the precipice as well, your body reaching its peak with a shiver.

His cum trickles out of you, thighs getting sticky as it seeps lower and lower. Lost in a daze, Logan thinks he can see the damn sun in your eyes. With a gentle swipe of your cunt, he sheepishly licks his own fingertips, a smile brightening his face.

The mattress, once a source of great discomfort, now feels like paradise as you cuddle into the crook of his neck, the soft rhythm of your breath soothing him to a state of peace. He'd carried you to his truck earlier, threatening you with a barrage of kisses when you dangled his keys in front of him. There was a rather short game of tag before you relented and collapsed into his embrace, tiredly blinking up at him. He'd tucked the loose strands of your hair back then tenderly caressed your cheek. It took all but one affectionate grin to convince you to spend the night in his camper.

Not a single inch of your body is free from his touch. He pulls you even closer, tracing patterns around the tiny scratches spreading across your shoulders. If you'd asked him yesterday, he would tell you he has no plans of sticking around this town, grown used to a life of impermanence. Yet, as he rests, tangled in your arms, Logan finds a reason to stay.

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wolvietxt · 24 hours ago

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𝓓RAWN TO 𝓨OU !

pairing : logan howlett x fem!reader warnings : reader has a cat mutation, fluff, hurt comfort, past traumas, shy!reader wc : 1.8k

logan’s first mistake was being nice to you.

you’d only been at the x-mansion for a couple of weeks, still getting used to the overwhelming energy of it all. after years of isolation and trauma, being thrown into a lively, bustling environment like this felt like stepping into a different world. you’d barely been able to keep up, senses overloaded with all the new faces, noises, and scents around you. everything was too much, too loud, and you felt like a stray cat caught in a storm.

it was one of those days when you were trying to find a quiet corner, somewhere to hide from the noise. the rec room was packed; laughter, conversations, the clatter of cutlery and plates filled the air, setting your nerves on edge. you sat in the corner, tail flicking anxiously, ears flattened against your head as you tried to drown out the chaos. you could feel your claws digging into your palms, a desperate attempt to ground yourself before you bolted.

but then you caught a familiar scent - woodsy, rugged, with a hint of cigar smoke. it cut through the haze like a lifeline, something steady to latch onto. you turned your head and saw him: logan, walking through the crowd with a beer in his hand, that permanent scowl etched onto his face.

you didn’t even think twice; you just got up and followed him.

he didn’t notice you right away. he was too busy glaring at the world, lost in his own thoughts as he made his way through the mansion. it wasn’t until he reached the stairs that he paused, glancing over his shoulder and finding you trailing behind him like a shadow.

“the hell’re you doin’?” he grumbled, eyes narrowing as he took in your anxious stance, the way your tail was flicking behind you, betraying your nerves.

you froze under his scrutiny, unsure how to explain it. a soft mewl escaped you, one you hadn’t meant to make, and his scowl deepened. but he didn’t tell you to go away. instead, he just let out a resigned huff, turning back around with a muttered, “fine, just... don’t get in my damn way.”

you stuck to his side after that.

logan found it annoying at first - he wasn’t exactly a people person, and having someone constantly following him around like a lost kitten was grating on his nerves. but no matter how many times he tried to shake you off, you’d always find your way back to him. it was like you had some kind of sixth sense for where he was in the mansion. if he was in the garage, you were there, perched on an old crate, watching him work on his bike with wide, curious eyes. if he was out back, smoking a cigar, you were sitting a few feet away, basking in the quiet comfort of his presence.

he didn’t get it.

“don’t you got somewhere else to be?” he’d grumble every now and then, but there was never any real heat behind it.

you’d just shake your head, a small, shy smile on your lips. “i like being here... with you.”

and maybe that was the turning point, the moment he stopped trying so hard to push you away. it wasn’t like you were causing trouble - you were quiet, easy to ignore when he wanted to be left alone, but always there when he needed an extra hand or just... someone to share the silence with.

the others noticed, of course.

“she’s like your little shadow, ain’t she?” rogue teased one day, leaning against the doorframe of the garage, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

logan just shrugged, wiping the grease off his hands. “she’s harmless,” he muttered, like that was enough of an explanation.

“she’s cute too.” rouge muttered under her breath, a smirk forming on her face. “hey, do you know why she’s even following you around in the first place?

“i got no fuckin’ clue. says she’s just drawn to me?”

the smile on her face grew tenfold, “oh logan...”

he shot her a confused look, her teasing eyes only twinkling more, a little snort that she seemed she couldn’t hold in forcing it’s way out.

things took a turn one night when you showed up outside his door, clutching a blanket to your chest, looking more skittish than usual. it was late, the mansion quiet except for the distant hum of the generator, and logan had been looking forward to some peace and quiet.

but then there you were, eyes wide and pleading, ears drooping like a scolded cat.

“what is it?” he asked, voice gruff, though there was a flicker of concern in his gaze.

you shifted on your feet, not meeting his eyes. “can i... stay here tonight?” you whispered, so soft he almost missed it. “i... i don’t want to be alone.”

logan stared at you for a moment, torn between his instinct to tell you to go back to your own room and the strange, unfamiliar urge to protect you. finally, he just let out a heavy sigh, stepping aside to let you in.

“fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “just for tonight.”

you nodded quickly, slipping past him and settling on the floor next to his bed, wrapping yourself in your blanket like a cocoon. he watched you for a moment, the way you curled in on yourself, small and vulnerable, before turning off the light and getting back into bed.

but it wasn’t just for one night.

you kept coming back, night after night, until your pillow and blanket became a permanent fixture in his room. logan didn’t say anything, just grunted in acknowledgment whenever you slipped in after dark, but he never turned you away.

“you know you could just take the bed,” he said one night, half-asleep, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.

you shook your head, though he could barely see it. “i’m fine here,” you whispered. “i don’t want to be a bother.”

logan just huffed, turning over, but he didn’t press the issue.

he didn’t realise how used to your presence he’d gotten until you weren’t there.

you’d gone on a mission with some of the others, promising him you’d be careful, but he couldn’t shake the bad feeling gnawing at his gut. he tried to distract himself, burying himself in his usual routines, but everything felt... off without you trailing after him.

when they brought you back, bruised and bloodied, something in him snapped.

“what the hell happened?” he growled, stalking over to where hank was tending to your injuries, his fists clenched at his sides.

“it was my fault, lo” you mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “i... i thought i could handle it.”

logan just shook his head, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “you’re not fuckin’ ready for this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

you flinched, your ears flattening against your skull, and he immediately regretted his harsh tone.

“dammit,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “i didn’t mean it like that. just... don’t scare me like that again, alright?”

you looked up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable, brimming with unshed tears, and he felt something tighten in his chest.

“i just... i feel safe with you,” you whispered through your watery expression, so soft he almost missed it.

logan’s expression softened, the anger draining from his face.

“yeah, well,” he muttered, looking away, “you are. safer, i mean.”

one night, as you were curled up next to him, your tail wrapped around his leg, you murmured something that made his breath hitch.

“i’ve never felt like this before... safe, i mean,” you whispered, your voice so quiet it was almost lost in the darkness.

logan went still, his heart pounding in his chest, but he didn’t pull away.

“yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, unsure of where this was going.

you nodded against his chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his skin. “with you... it’s different. i don't feel like i have to look over my shoulder all the time. i’m not scared when i’m with you.”

he was silent for a moment, trying to process the weight of your words. the confession hung between you, fragile and tentative.

“you mean that?” he finally asked, voice gruff, his hands tightening around you just a bit.

“yeah,” you breathed out, turning to look up at him, eyes wide and honest. “you... you make me feel like i’m not alone anymore.”

logan swallowed hard, the raw vulnerability in your voice cutting right through him. he wasn’t good with words, never had been, but he knew he didn’t want to mess this up.

“that’s all i need,” you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, and logan felt something warm and unbreakable settle in his chest.

logan swallowed hard, the raw vulnerability in your voice cutting right through him. he wasn’t good with words, never had been, but he knew he didn’t want to mess this up.

“i don’t know what the hell i’m doin’,” he muttered, looking down at you, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “but i’ll stick around if that’s what you want. i’ll try... for you.”

you smiled softly, leaning into his touch, your heart pounding in your chest. you could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he was still holding back, afraid to take the next step. so, you did it for him. with a hesitant breath, you lifted your hand to his face, gently tracing the rough line of his jaw with your fingertips.

“logan…” you whispered, your voice barely audible. his eyes softened at the sound of his name, and for a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you charged with something unspoken.

slowly, he dipped his head, bringing his face closer to yours. you could feel the warmth of his breath, the way it hitched slightly, as if he was still unsure. but then his lips brushed against yours, soft and tentative, as if he was afraid of breaking you.

the kiss was gentle, almost shy, a stark contrast to the rough edges that usually defined him. his hands cupped your face so carefully, as if you were something precious and fragile, something he never wanted to lose. your eyes fluttered shut, a soft sigh escaping you as you leaned into him, feeling the warmth and tenderness he rarely showed to anyone else.

logan’s thumb brushed against your cheek, a silent question, asking if this was okay, if this was what you wanted. you answered by pressing closer, your lips moving against his in a slow, careful dance that spoke of trust, of finding solace in each other.

when he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction, his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed. he stayed like that for a moment, just holding you, as if he was afraid that letting go would mean losing this fragile connection.

“you’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on your skin.

“maybe,” you whispered back, smiling softly, your eyes shining as you looked up at him. “but i think i found something special too.”

logan just held you tighter, his lips ghosting over yours once more, a silent promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.

🌀 logan howlett : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @rooroen

@lemoanaid, @correnz, @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @ohmystvrk, @y08h

@lovely-liliacs, @california-boys-and-sun, @omen-keke

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

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mcrdvcks · 2 days ago

Text

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1973 - we meet again my dear...

chapter summary: After leaving Team X behind, Logan finds himself back in New York City working as a bodyguard for various people. Until he finds himself acting as a bodyguard for you, a mobster's daughter.

word count: 18.3k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: i'm a sucker for the bodyguard trope (and also just dofp logan in general, that man makes me go feral), so you know i had to do it when given the chance! i had so much fun writing this version of reader, especially because this is the closest to 'modern' times that we've gotten and i didn't have to do a ton of research about this year. the tags might give away a little bit of the plot, but i promise it's gonna be a fun ride ;)

warnings/tags: fluff, angst, 70s!logan, mafia/mob, implied age gap, flirting, smut, thigh riding, unprotected piv, creampie, arranged marriage

series masterlist - chapter 4 → chapter 6

He left Stryker, Victor, and Team X behind, settling in New York City as a bodyguard, hired by various people: politicians, the mafia, anyone.

Logan was now getting his fifth job, protecting a mobster’s young daughter.

He was used to jobs like this by now, but something about this one felt... different. As he walked through the large estate, the details blurred around him. His focus was on the job—until the moment he saw you.

You were standing by the window, the sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over your face. There was something familiar about the way you held yourself, the way your hair fell over your shoulders. For a second, it felt like the air was sucked out of the room.

Logan’s chest tightened.

It was you.

Same face. Same presence. Same pull that had haunted him for over a century.

But you were different, too. This time, you weren’t a schoolteacher, a nurse, or a coal miner’s wife. You were his new job.

You turned, eyes meeting his, and for a brief moment, it felt like you recognized him too. That sense of familiarity flickered across your face before you smiled—polite, but distant.

“Y/N, this is Logan,” the mobster—your father—introduced. “He’ll be your new bodyguard.”

Your father’s voice faded into the background as Logan’s gaze remained locked on you. You gave a small nod, extending your hand. “Nice to meet you, Logan.”

Logan stared at your hand for a beat too long before taking it. That brief contact sent a shock through him, an old memory he couldn’t quite shake.

“Likewise,” he muttered, his voice rougher than he intended.

Your father clapped Logan on the back. “I expect you’ll keep her safe. There’s been some... tension with a rival family.”

Logan only nodded, but his attention stayed on you. You were right in front of him, alive. But you didn’t know him. Like always.

After your father left the room, you leaned against the window frame, crossing your arms. “So, how long have you been doing this?” you asked, your tone casual.

Logan leaned against the wall, watching you closely. “Long enough.”

You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That’s vague.”

He didn’t respond, and for a moment, silence settled between you two. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was something unsaid hanging in the air.

“What about you?” Logan asked, more to fill the space than out of curiosity. “How do you feel about having a bodyguard?”

You shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

That earned a faint, almost imperceptible smile from Logan, but he quickly covered it with a grunt. “Glad to hear it.”

A pause. Then you looked at him, your eyes narrowing slightly, like you were trying to figure him out. “You seem... familiar.”

Logan stiffened. “Don’t think we’ve met before.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “No, but... I don’t know. Something about you.”

Logan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his expression neutral. He couldn’t tell you. Not about the past lives, not about how many times he had watched you die.

You shrugged it off, smiling again. “Maybe I’m just imagining things.”

“Maybe,” Logan muttered, not meeting your eyes this time.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of introductions, schedules, and instructions from your father. Logan followed at a distance, keeping an eye on you, but his mind was elsewhere.

That night, Logan sat on the balcony just outside your room, staring out at the city lights. His thoughts raced, the weight of the engagement ring in his pocket feeling heavier than usual.

You were alive. Again.

But for how long this time?

---

You plopped onto your bed, the wire from your rotary phone stretching with you, “he is good looking though.”

You could practically hear Jennifer’s grin through the phone, “oh, yeah? Man, all your bodyguards are good looking. It’s not fair!”

You laughed, twirling the phone cord between your fingers. "He’s… different though. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He’s quiet, but not in the usual 'I’m-paid-to-watch-you' way."

"Is he mysterious?" Jennifer teased, her voice light. "Maybe he’s got some dark, brooding backstory. Mob families always hire guys like that—‘strong and silent.’"

You snorted. "Maybe. But he’s not like the others." You hesitated, leaning back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “There’s something familiar about him… like I’ve met him before.”

Jennifer paused on the other end of the line, then her voice softened. "You think he’s one of your dad’s guys from back in the day?"

You shook your head, even though she couldn’t see it. "No, it’s not that. It’s… weird, Jen. Like I know him, but I don’t. It’s been bugging me since I met him."

"Maybe it’s fate," she joked, but her tone had a hint of seriousness. "You’ve been going through bodyguards like they’re tissues. Maybe this one’s here to stick around."

You rolled your eyes but smiled. "Fate? You’ve been reading too many romance novels."

"Hey, a girl can dream!" Jennifer laughed. "But seriously, if you feel something, maybe it’s worth looking into. He’s hot, right?"

You smiled at that, though your thoughts wandered back to Logan. The way his eyes lingered on you, like he was seeing something no one else could. "Yeah," you admitted softly. "He’s definitely that. He’s probably as old as my dad or somethin’. But man, Jen, if you saw him you’d lose your mind.”

You twirled the phone cord around your finger, still smiling to yourself, but your thoughts kept circling back to Logan. Something about the way he looked at you—like he knew more than he was saying—stuck with you. It wasn’t creepy or overprotective. It was... familiar. Comforting, even.

Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Hey, don’t overthink it, okay? Enjoy the view for once. Not everyone gets a hot bodyguard with a mysterious vibe. Maybe he’s the silver lining to your dad’s whole ‘paranoia’ problem.”

You laughed quietly. “Yeah, maybe.”

You hung up not long after, still feeling the weight of that odd, lingering sense of déjà vu.

---

The next morning, Logan was waiting for you downstairs. Dressed in his usual dark clothes, he stood near the front door with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but alert. His eyes flicked toward you the second you entered the room.

There it was again—that heavy gaze that made it feel like he could see right through you.

“Mornin’,” you said, offering a small smile.

“Mornin’,” Logan replied, his voice gravelly.

Your father wasn’t home—out dealing with ‘business’—which gave you a rare moment to yourself. Well, mostly. You slipped on your leather jacket and glanced at Logan, your lips quirking up in a teasing grin. “What’s the plan, bodyguard? Gonna follow me around all day?”

Logan grunted, something close to amusement flashing in his eyes. “That’s the job.”

“You always this chatty?”

“Only when I meet interesting people.” His tone was dry, but there was the faintest flicker of a smile beneath it.

You snorted, heading for the door. “C’mon, hope you like running errands.”

Logan followed without complaint, falling into step beside you as you made your way to the car. The streets were quieter than usual, but the tension between rival families was palpable—something was brewing, and everyone knew it.

Still, Logan’s presence made you feel... safer. Like nothing bad could happen as long as he was there. It was strange. You barely knew him, but being around him felt easy. Natural. Like you’d known him for a lot longer than a day.

---

When you said you were going to run ‘errands,’ Logan hadn’t expected you to walk straight into an animal shelter. He followed you through the entrance, nodding politely at the woman at the front desk as you greeted her like an old friend.

“Morning, Lorraine!” you said with a bright smile.

Lorraine, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, smiled back. “There’s my favorite troublemaker. The pups will be glad to see you.” She cast a curious glance at Logan. “And who’s this?”

“My latest babysitter,” you said with a smirk, glancing at Logan. “Logan, meet Lorraine. Lorraine, Logan.”

Logan gave a curt nod. “Ma’am.”

Lorraine chuckled. “A man of few words. I like him already.” She waved you both toward the back. “Go on, they’ve been waiting for you.”

As soon as you walked past the front desk and entered the back area, the sound of excited barking filled the air. Dogs of all sizes pressed their noses against the bars of their cages, tails wagging furiously at the sight of you.

You crouched down in front of one of the kennels, talking softly to a scruffy little mutt as it whined and pawed at the bars. “Hey, buddy. Miss me?”

Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the way you scratched behind the dog's ears. There was something easy about the way you moved here, something soft. For a mobster’s kid, you had a surprisingly gentle touch.

"Didn't expect this to be part of the job," Logan muttered after a moment, his voice low but teasing.

You glanced up, grinning. "What, thought I’d be shopping for fur coats or shaking people down for cash?"

Logan raised a brow. "Somethin’ like that."

You laughed, standing up and dusting your hands off. “Sorry to disappoint. I’ve got a weakness for strays.” You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a small bag of treats, tossing some into the kennels. "These guys have it rough enough without me skipping out on them."

Logan watched as the dogs practically fought over the treats, barking happily at your attention. You moved from cage to cage, giving each dog a little affection. It was... unexpected.

Logan watched you toss the last treat into one of the kennels, the scruffy mutt practically vibrating with happiness. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, an amused glint in his eyes as you turned and dusted your hands off with a grin.

"You’re full of surprises," Logan muttered.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you folded your arms. “Oh, yeah? Disappointed?”

"Not exactly." His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile.

You took a step closer, tilting your head. "Well, what did you expect?"

Logan shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. "Spoiled. Entitled. Maybe a little dangerous."

You laughed, the sound light and easy, and Logan’s chest tightened in a way that felt too familiar. "Dangerous, huh? Guess I’ve got some layers." You gave him a playful once-over. "What about you? Big, scary bodyguard with a brooding vibe. Got any surprises I should know about?"

Logan snorted. "Not really."

You narrowed your eyes like you didn’t quite believe him, but instead of pressing, you motioned toward the door. "C’mon. I’ve got one more stop."

Logan fell into step beside you as you exited the shelter and made your way toward the car. You chatted casually, filling the silence with stories about your favorite dogs at the shelter. But Logan stayed mostly quiet, his mind racing. It wasn’t just your voice—it was you. The way you carried yourself, the way you teased him like it was second nature.

He stole a glance at you as you drove. God, it felt the same as always. Like gravity pulled him toward you whether he wanted it or not.

---

Logan should’ve expected the second time around that you weren’t taking him to a normal place for errands. He was even more surprised when you parked in a nursing home parking lot and got out with that same pep in your step.

The sliding doors opened as you walked up to the front counter, where a middle-aged woman with tired eyes peered over the top of a blocky computer monitor. Her name tag read Carol.

“Morning, Carol,” you chirped with an easy smile, tapping your fingers on the desk.

Carol looked up and brightened at the sight of you. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite visitor. Here to cheer up the old-timers again?”

“Always,” you said, flashing a grin. “And I brought backup today.” You gestured behind you to Logan, who gave a brief nod.

Carol gave him a once-over and arched an eyebrow. “Well now, you didn’t tell me you’d be bringing a tall drink of water.”

You smirked, glancing over your shoulder at Logan. “Yeah, figured I’d mix things up.”

Logan just grunted in response, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly—half amusement, half something else. Carol winked at you before waving toward the hallway. “You know where to find them.”

You led Logan down the hall, your steps light and familiar as if you'd been coming here for years. He followed quietly, his sharp gaze flicking between doorways and hallways, always alert.

“You spend a lot of time here?” Logan asked as you slowed near a door marked Activity Room.

You shrugged. “Yeah. Most of these folks don’t get many visitors. It’s nice to stop by and remind them they’re not forgotten.”

Logan gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. It was such a simple thing—volunteering at a nursing home—but it hit him hard. It was just like you to find the overlooked parts of the world and give them your attention, like the dogs at the shelter, like the people here. You always had that streak of kindness, no matter which life you were living.

You nudged open the door, stepping into the room. A group of residents sat in mismatched chairs, some knitting, others half-watching a daytime soap on an old television. At the sight of you, faces lit up.

“There she is!” one of the older women called, setting her knitting aside with a delighted clap of her hands. “I thought you forgot about us!”

“As if I ever could,” you replied warmly, walking over to give her a light hug.

Logan lingered near the doorway, watching as you moved through the room like you belonged there, chatting with each resident, asking about their week, their families—if they remembered them. His heart twisted, both with admiration and an ache that wouldn’t quit.

You noticed him standing off to the side and shot him a teasing grin. “Don’t be shy, Logan. They won’t bite.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not worried about them.”

You laughed, turning back to an older man with a deck of cards spread out in front of him. “Logan, meet Mr. Russo. He’s got a mean poker face.”

Mr. Russo gave Logan a once-over, then grinned, his false teeth gleaming. “You any good at cards, tough guy?”

Logan shrugged. “I can hold my own.”

You slid into the chair beside Mr. Russo, motioning for Logan to join you. “Care to test your luck?”

Logan hesitated for only a moment before pulling out a chair, the legs scraping against the linoleum. As he sat down, you dealt him a hand, your fingers brushing his in the process—a fleeting touch, but enough to send a jolt of familiarity through both of you.

You caught Logan’s gaze over the cards, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you. There it was again—that sense that you knew him somehow, though you couldn’t quite place it. It nagged at you, but you let it pass, offering him a playful smirk instead.

“Careful,” you warned. “I don’t go easy on anyone.”

Logan returned the smirk, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “Neither do I.”

---

After the game, which you won—barely, you said your goodbyes to the residents, promising to visit again soon. Logan followed silently as you made your way back to the car, the soft clinking of your keys the only sound between you.

“Not what you expected for today, huh?” you asked as you slid into the driver’s seat.

Logan leaned against the car door, arms crossed. “Not exactly.”

You smiled, starting the engine. “Bet you thought being a mobster’s kid would be more... glamorous.”

“Something like that.” He gave you a sidelong glance. “You like keeping people guessing, don’t you?”

You grinned, shifting the car into drive. “It’s one of my many talents.”

The two of you drove in companionable silence, the hum of the city filling the space between you. Logan rested his elbow on the window frame, glancing at you every so often. You were like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve—different from the others, yet still unmistakably you.

“Why do you do it?” he asked after a while. “The shelter, the nursing home. You don’t have to.”

You shrugged, your expression thoughtful. "Dunno. Just because I was born into this life doesn’t mean I like what my dad does. I guess sometimes I feel like I’m tryin’ to balance the scales."

Logan leaned back against the seat, his sharp gaze on you, but he didn’t respond right away. You could tell he was chewing on that—probably picking apart your words, trying to figure you out. He always seemed like the kind of man who noticed everything, even if he didn’t say much about it.

You flashed him a teasing grin, trying to lighten the mood. "What about you? Any skeletons in the closet? Or are you just a man of mystery with perfect timing?"

Logan snorted softly, his lips twitching in that almost-smile he had. "I’m no mystery. Just do my job."

"Oh, come on," you pressed, throwing him a playful look. "You gotta give me something. Favorite food? Ever been married? Deep, dark secret?"

He gave you a sidelong glance, amused but guarded. "Steak. No. And not a chance."

You huffed in mock disappointment, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel. "You’re no fun, Logan."

"Never said I was," he muttered, but there was warmth in his tone, like he didn’t mind your teasing at all.

The conversation paused for a moment, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between you. Logan’s eyes lingered on you a little longer than they probably should have—taking in the curve of your smile, the way your fingers tapped a rhythm on the wheel.

And damn, if you didn’t make it hard to stay detached. You were so... alive. Every glance, every smile, every little laugh. You carried yourself like someone who knew how fleeting things could be—and even though Logan knew you couldn’t remember, he remembered every time you’d slipped through his fingers. That thought settled heavy in his chest, like a weight he carried everywhere.

You shot him a grin. "You know, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you’re interested."

Logan’s lips twitched. "What makes you think I’m not?"

The boldness of his response caught you off guard for a second, but you recovered quickly, leaning a little closer, eyes glinting with mischief. "Careful, tough guy. You’re supposed to be protecting me, not flirting with me."

"Who says I can’t do both?" His voice was low, rough, and it sent a small shiver down your spine.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. "I think my dad might disagree."

Logan’s eyes darkened slightly, though his expression didn’t change. "Your dad’s not here."

There it was—that pull again, the quiet, unspoken gravity between the two of you. It was like standing on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling all at once. You felt it in the way his gaze lingered, in the weight of his words. He wasn’t just playing along.

You cleared your throat, breaking the tension with a teasing smile. "Well, if you’re planning on making a move, Logan, you better make it good. I’ve got high standards, y’know."

Logan let out a low chuckle—quiet, but genuine—and for a moment, you thought you saw something softer in his eyes. Something like... affection.

But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that familiar guarded expression.

"Noted," he muttered, shifting his gaze back to the road ahead.

You grinned, satisfied that you’d managed to chip away at his walls, even if only a little.

---

The two of you finished your errands without any trouble, stopping by a grocery store for some essentials and grabbing a late lunch at a small diner tucked away from the main streets. It wasn’t much—just burgers and fries—but sitting across from Logan in the booth, you felt surprisingly content.

He was quiet most of the time, but not in a way that felt awkward. It was... comfortable. Like he didn’t need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. And every now and then, he’d throw out a dry, sarcastic comment that made you laugh harder than you expected.

You leaned back in the booth, sipping your soda and watching him over the rim of your glass. "Y’know, Logan... you’re not half as scary as you look."

Logan raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "Disappointed?"

"Not at all," you replied, your smile turning a little softer. "I like surprises."

He held your gaze for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind those sharp blue eyes. And for a second—just a second—you thought maybe, just maybe, there was something familiar about the way he looked at you. Like you were more than just a job to him.

But before you could dwell on it, Logan glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. "We should head back. Your old man’ll be expecting you."

You sighed dramatically, sliding out of the booth. "Guess my fun’s over."

Logan chuckled, tossing a few bills on the table for the check. "For now."

You gave him a playful nudge as you walked past him toward the door. "Don’t sound too excited."

---

By the time you got back to the house, the sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting the streets in a soft orange glow. Logan followed you inside, his quiet presence grounding you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

"Thanks for today," you said, tossing your jacket onto a chair.

Logan gave a small nod, leaning against the wall near the door. "No problem."

You hesitated for a moment, then shot him one last grin. "You know, you’re not as bad as I thought."

"Same to you," he replied, that almost-smile creeping back onto his face.

And just like that, the unspoken connection between you simmered beneath the surface, waiting.

Maybe Logan was right. Maybe your dad would be pissed if he knew how much you enjoyed your new bodyguard’s company.

But standing there, watching Logan’s gaze linger on you for just a beat too long, you found you didn’t care all that much.

"Goodnight, Logan," you said softly, turning toward the stairs.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he replied, his voice low and steady.

And as you climbed the stairs, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the first time you’d said goodnight to him like this.

Not by a long shot.

---

Your dad told you not to leave the house today, which was fine by you, you had laundry to do anyways.

It had become habit to do your own laundry, even if you did have maids around the house. Nancy, one of the older maids, was the one to teach you that, along with cooking and cleaning since your mother has been gone since you were little.

You had a radio set on the washer, the familiar croon of 70s tunes filling the small laundry room as you pulled warm clothes from the dryer into a basket. You’d been at it for the better part of the morning, the simple domestic task giving you a sense of normalcy. The soft hum of the machines, the crackling radio, and the scent of clean laundry— it was all routine.

Routine helped keep your mind off the storm brewing outside your little bubble.

You sighed, swaying your hips a bit to the music as you lifted the basket. The house felt quieter today, with your dad off dealing with ‘business’ as usual. And Logan? He was somewhere nearby, probably lurking in the shadows like the brooding protector he was.

As if on cue, Logan appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He was dressed in his usual dark clothing, looking as stoic as ever. You wondered if he ever wore anything other than flannels and a leather jacket.

"You know, I didn’t take you for the laundry-doing type," he remarked, his gravelly voice cutting through the music.

You raised an eyebrow, throwing a playful glance over your shoulder. "What, you think I’m too spoiled to do my own chores?"

Logan's lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "Something like that."

You smirked, grabbing the laundry basket and turning to face him. "I like to surprise people."

"You’re good at it," he replied, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. There was something behind those eyes, something deeper, but as always, he kept it hidden beneath that calm, impenetrable exterior.

You tilted your head, leaning your hip against the dryer. "You sticking around or just checking on me?"

Logan shrugged, though his eyes never left yours. "Just making sure you're not running off anywhere. Your dad was pretty clear about staying put."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips softened the gesture. "I’ll be a good girl. Promise."

Logan grunted in response, pushing off the doorframe and walking closer. "You’re a lot of things, Y/N. Not sure ‘good girl’ is one of them."

You let out a laugh, swatting at him with a towel. "Hey, I can behave when I want to. It’s just more fun not to."

He caught your wrist with ease, holding it for a second too long before letting go. There was that familiar tension between you again, the unspoken something that crackled in the air whenever the two of you were close. He probably didn't mean to linger, but you could feel it—that pull.

"Maybe it’s the company," you teased, grabbing your laundry basket. "You bring out the best in me."

Logan didn’t respond immediately, but there was something in his eyes, something that made your breath hitch. He was quiet, but not in the usual way bodyguards were. With Logan, there was a weight to his silence, like he was always holding back, always watching.

You pushed past the lingering tension with a grin, heading toward the door with your laundry. "Come on, broody. Let’s get out of the laundry room before we both go stir-crazy."

As you passed by, you brushed against him—just lightly, but enough to send a small jolt through you. He didn’t move, but his eyes followed your every step, that silent intensity never wavering.

You stopped in the hallway and shot him a look over your shoulder. “You’re making this way too serious, you know. I’m doing laundry, not sneaking out of prison.”

“Old habits die hard,” he replied, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. “Besides, I think your dad’s idea of ‘safe’ is pretty different from yours.”

You rolled your eyes, hugging the laundry basket closer. “Right. Next, he’ll say I need an escort to the mailbox.”

Logan raised a brow, clearly amused. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

That earned him a laugh, and you shook your head, settling the basket on the table in the hall. “Guess you’re stuck with me then, bodyguard.”

“Doesn’t seem so bad,” he said, his voice softening as he glanced at you. His gaze was familiar in a way you couldn’t place, like he’d looked at you this way a hundred times before.

“Yeah?” You took a step closer, crossing your arms with a playful grin. “And here I thought I’d be driving you crazy.”

“You do,” he murmured, almost too quietly. His lips turned up slightly, but he looked away, that unspoken wall going back up.

“Good,” you teased, reaching out to poke him in the chest. “Keeps things interesting.”

Logan caught your hand before you could pull it back, holding it just long enough that you could feel the warmth of his touch, the quiet strength in it. There was something in his eyes that hinted at… more. Like he’d known you far longer than you could’ve ever guessed.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart thumped, but you kept your tone light. “Depends on what you’re offering, doesn’t it?”

His gaze dropped to your hand, still caught in his. He let go, but there was something in his expression that lingered. It was like he was searching for the right words, something he couldn’t quite say. Or maybe didn’t want to.

Instead, he settled back with that guarded look. “Better get used to me being around,” he said, nodding toward the front of the house. “Your dad won’t have it any other way.”

You glanced down the hall and shrugged. “Guess I can live with that. For now.”

Logan’s lips twitched, just barely. “For now,” he echoed, and there was something heavier in those words, something he wasn’t sharing.

You lingered for a moment, the silence stretching between you, before you picked up the basket again. “Well, I’ve got more laundry to fold. But if you feel like helping out…”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, shooting him a wink. “Fine. I’ll let you off easy this time.”

“Appreciate it,” he said with a smirk, but his eyes softened as he watched you turn to go, like he was holding back something he couldn’t quite name.

As you walked away, the light-heartedness of the moment stayed with you, but so did something else. It was that look Logan had, the one that made you feel seen, like he knew you better than anyone else ever had.

Maybe he did.

Or maybe, in some impossible way, he always had.

---

“No, no, no, cara. Give it to me.” Nancy took the mixing bowl away from you, stirring the batter while muttering something in Italian.

You leaned your hip against the counter, placing your head on Nancy’s shoulder with a pout. "I was doing what you’re doing.”

Nancy shook her head, stirring the batter with a practiced hand, her warm, familiar presence comforting. “No, cara mia, you were doing what you think I’m doing.” She shot you a look, one of those fond, chiding glances she’d perfected over the years. “And it was not the same.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Fine, but you’re teaching me bad habits. This is how I stay spoiled, you know.”

She chuckled, patting your cheek affectionately. “You think you need me to be spoiled? You do just fine on your own.”

Before you could respond, Logan’s familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, watching you with a slight smirk that was becoming all too familiar—and endearing.

“Careful, Nancy,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “She’s already hard enough to handle.”

You turned, hands on your hips, feigning offense. “Excuse me, hard to handle?”

Logan shrugged, crossing his arms with a smirk. “You said it, not me.”

Nancy chuckled, eyes sparkling as she looked between you and Logan. “Ah, Y/N, he’s right. You do have a little spirit.”

You scoffed playfully, giving Logan an exaggerated glare before grinning back at Nancy. “What? I’m an angel, and you know it.”

Logan snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Right. A real saint.” He gave you a knowing look, one that made your stomach flip despite yourself. That unspoken energy simmered between you two, even as you tried to keep it casual.

Nancy just shook her head, muttering something in Italian as she set the bowl down. “Angels don’t cause so much trouble,�� she teased, pinching your cheek. “I taught you better.”

You rubbed your cheek with a grin, leaning back against the counter. “I’m blaming Logan. His bad influence must be rubbing off on me.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “That right? Thought you didn’t need any help there.”

“Oh, I don’t,” you said, crossing your arms with a challenging look. “I’m fully capable of trouble on my own.”

Nancy watched the two of you with a satisfied smile, turning back to her baking. “Ah, I see,” she murmured, her voice light. “It’s good to have someone who knows how to keep you in check.”

The glint in her eye wasn’t lost on you, and you rolled your eyes. “You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of wild child.”

“No, no,” she replied with a grin, waving her hand. “Just that I think he knows you better than you think, cara.”

Logan’s gaze softened a little at that, and though he didn’t say anything, his look lingered, as if he were silently agreeing with her.

You cleared your throat, feeling the familiar warmth creeping up your neck. “Well,” you started, trying to brush off the moment, “if Logan’s going to stick around, he might as well help.”

Nancy gave a sly smile, turning to Logan. “What do you say, Logan? A little kitchen work wouldn’t hurt.”

Logan shook his head, holding his hands up in surrender. “You two are doing just fine without me.”

You shot him a grin, taking a step closer. “Oh, come on. Big, tough Logan afraid of a little flour?”

His smirk softened as he looked down at you. “You keep pushing, and I might just teach you a lesson in troublemaking.”

Your stomach fluttered at the way his gaze stayed locked on yours, that familiar pull tugging you closer. “Is that a threat?”

“Call it… a warning,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand brushed against yours, just for a second, but it was enough to send a spark up your arm.

Nancy cleared her throat, clearly amused. “Okay, okay. I don’t need you two making a mess of my kitchen.”

You stepped back, giving Nancy a sheepish smile, and Logan chuckled, the sound low and easy. “She’s right,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Guess I’ll just keep an eye on you from a safe distance.”

Nancy gave him a knowing look, shaking her head with a chuckle. “If only it were that simple.”

---

“Ah, stay still, cara.” Nancy chided you, taking out a roller from your hair.

You gave Nancy a pout, eyes skimming your reflection in the mirror with clear discontent. "I don’t like it." Your voice held more weight than just the hair and makeup, though, and Nancy seemed to pick up on it.

She clicked her tongue, smoothing out a curl before looking at you through the mirror. “Ah, cara mia, tonight is important to your father. Besides,” she added, eyes glinting, “you look beautiful, yes?”

You gave her a half-hearted smile, brushing your hands over the bright yellow fabric of your dress. The dress was elegant and too formal for your taste, the kind of thing you’d never have chosen if it weren’t for your dad’s insistence on making you ‘presentable’ for his associates.

Nancy sighed, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, it’s one night. Then you’ll be back to your regular clothes, hmm?”

You grinned, rolling your eyes. “Can’t come soon enough.”

Just as you were about to add more, there was a quiet knock at the door. You looked up, already expecting Logan’s familiar silhouette. He leaned against the frame, hands in his pockets, his usual air of calm doing little to hide the intense look in his eyes as he took in the sight of you in the dress.

“Looks like they’ve got you all dolled up,” he remarked, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

You shot him a look, half annoyed, half amused. “Yeah, laugh it up, tough guy. Bet you’re glad it’s not you in this thing.”

Logan chuckled, stepping further into the room. “You could say that.” His eyes met yours, and for a brief second, there was something in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite put into words. But just as quickly, he looked away.

Nancy gave you a knowing smile, patting your shoulder before stepping back. “Logan,” she said, with a gentle warning in her voice, “take care of her tonight, yes?”

Logan’s expression softened, his gaze turning protective as he looked at you. “Always do.”

Nancy winked, then left the room, leaving you alone with him.

You let out a sigh, reaching for the hem of your dress as if you could somehow make it less constricting. “Do I really have to go down there?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You think your dad’s throwing this party for fun? Whole point is for you to be seen.”

“Great,” you muttered, moving toward the door. But as you passed him, Logan placed a hand on your shoulder, stopping you.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, his voice lower, more reassuring. “They’re not expecting anything from you. Just show up, smile, let them know you exist.”

You looked up at him, searching his face. He was steady, calm, his expression soft in a way he rarely let others see. You didn’t know why, but having him there made you feel a little more at ease. “Guess I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Nope,” he replied, his mouth twitching into that almost-smile.

With a resigned sigh, you squared your shoulders. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

---

The party was everything you’d dreaded: formal, suffocating, and filled with people whose only interest in you was as your father’s daughter. You’d stuck close to Logan most of the night, exchanging quiet remarks whenever the chance arose, his presence the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. But as the night wore on, a few glasses of champagne and the tension of the evening started to wear on you.

You tugged on Logan’s sleeve as you leaned in close. “Think anyone would notice if I snuck out?” you murmured, your breath warm against his ear.

Logan chuckled low, his gaze flickering over you. “Considering your dad’s been watching you like a hawk? Probably.”

You rolled your eyes, letting your hand brush his arm. “Figures. He can’t just let me have one night off.” You shifted closer, feeling his warmth through his jacket, and gave him a mischievous smile. “Bet you didn’t sign up for babysitting duty.”

“Didn’t realize you’d need it,” he replied with a smirk, his voice barely loud enough for you to hear.

You nudged him playfully, letting your hand linger on his arm. “I don’t,” you said, a little more insistently. “You just don’t know what to do with me.”

His eyes met yours, and there was something dark and unspoken in his gaze. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice dropping. “I might take you up on that.”

The hint of challenge in his tone sent a thrill through you, and you leaned closer, your hand settling on his chest as you whispered, “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

You could feel his heartbeat, steady beneath your hand, but his expression gave nothing away. He looked down at you, his jaw tight, but his eyes held that familiar intensity, the kind that had always made you wonder just how long he’d been watching you. It was intoxicating, that pull between you, and tonight, with the champagne loosening your guard, you felt bolder than usual.

When you finally pulled away, you could feel his gaze following you, but you didn’t let yourself look back. Instead, you mingled through the crowd, smiling politely, pretending to listen to conversations while stealing glances at Logan across the room.

After what felt like hours, your father’s attention finally shifted, and you took the chance to slip away to your bedroom.

As you walked up the stairs, Logan trailed behind you, like always. You were tired of this, of the flirting, how he did it back to you, but how nothing ever happened.

Well tonight you were done with that.

You opened your bedroom door and sat on the bed, quickly slipping off your heels and tossing them carelessly across the room. The muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses filtered up from downstairs, where the party raged on. Logan stood in the doorway, as he always did, watching you in that silent, intense way that had been driving you crazy for months.

You looked up at him, your fingers playing with the hem of your short yellow dress, the fabric brushing against your thighs as you shifted on the bed. “You comin’ in, or are you just gonna stand there all night?”

Logan didn’t respond right away, his jaw ticking as his eyes flicked over you, taking in the sight of you sitting there, legs crossed, your dress riding up just enough to tease. He sighed, stepping into the room but staying near the door. “Your old man’s got half the city downstairs, Y/N. This ain’t the time.”

You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Since when do you care about my dad? He’s not your boss.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, the leather of his jacket creaking. “He pays me to keep you safe, not… this.”

You stood up from the bed, taking a step toward him. “This?” you repeated, voice playful, but you could feel the tension in the air thickening. “And what is ‘this,’ Logan?”

He didn’t answer, just stood there, his eyes dark and unreadable, but you could see the way his body tensed when you got closer, the way his gaze flicked down to your legs before snapping back up to your face.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the rough material of his flannel, and you could feel the heat of his body through the layers of fabric. He stiffened, his hand catching your wrist, but it wasn’t harsh. Just enough to stop you.

“Y/N, don’t,” he warned, his voice low, rough.

You tilted your head, stepping even closer until your body was almost pressed against his. “Why not?” you asked softly. “You’ve been following me around for months. Always there, always watching. What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” he muttered, but his grip on your wrist tightened just a little, like he was holding himself back. “You’re too young for this. I work for your dad.”

You pulled your wrist free, undeterred, your hand now resting against his chest. “I’m not a kid, Logan. And you don’t work for him—you work for me. You’ve been protecting me, haven’t you?”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“Then what do you mean?” you shot back, moving even closer, your fingers trailing up to his shoulder, over the leather of his jacket. “You’ve been pulling away from me every time I get close, but you keep coming back.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, his hands hovering near your waist, as if he was afraid to touch you. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” you said firmly, your voice steady. “And you know that.” You pressed a little harder, your lips just inches from his jaw, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “You don’t have to keep pretending like you don’t want this.”

His hands shot up to your shoulders, gripping you tightly, but he didn’t push you away this time. His breathing was heavier now, the muscles in his arms tensing as if he was fighting against himself. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, your lips brushing the stubble on his jaw as you spoke. “But I know what I want.”

Logan groaned low in his throat, his fingers tightening on your shoulders, but still, he didn’t push you away. His resistance was crumbling, you could feel it.

“You’re not a kid,” he repeated quietly, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“No,” you whispered back, your lips ghosting along the side of his neck, your hands moving to his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not.”

In a swift movement, you pushed him back toward the chair in the corner of the room, his legs hitting the edge as you guided him down. He sat heavily, his hands falling from your shoulders to your hips, still trying to hold onto that last bit of control.

You straddled his thigh, your dress riding up as you settled against him, the heat of your body pressed against the denim of his jeans. His hands moved up to your waist, holding you in place, but the look in his eyes told you he was barely holding on.

“Y/N,” he rasped, but his voice was shaky, uncertain.

You didn’t give him time to think. You started moving, rocking your hips against his thigh, slow at first, testing. His grip on your waist tightened, his eyes darkening as he watched you, the tension in his body radiating through his hands.

He wasn’t stopping you.

You bit your lip, your breath hitching as you pressed harder against him, the friction sending a jolt of heat through you. Logan groaned, his hands sliding down to your hips, holding you steady as you moved. His control was slipping, and you could feel it.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his head falling back against the chair, his eyes squeezed shut.

You leaned forward, your lips brushing his ear. “Still think I’m too young?”

Logan’s jaw clenched, his hands gripping you harder as you rocked against him, the rough fabric of his jeans rubbing against the thin material of your underwear. Every movement sent sparks of pleasure through you, and you could tell from the way his breathing quickened that he was feeling it too.

His hands slid up your sides, fingers digging into your skin as he tried to pull you closer, but you were in control now. You pressed your lips to his neck, kissing the exposed skin, feeling the tension in his body as you kissed down toward his collarbone, your fingers tangling in his shirt.

Logan groaned, his hands gripping you tighter as you moved faster, grinding against his thigh with more urgency. The heat between your legs was almost unbearable now, the pressure building with every movement, every gasp that escaped your lips.

Logan's eyes were shut tight, head thrown back against the chair, his hands gripping your waist like he was the one trying to stay grounded. But you weren’t stopping, not after all the months of back-and-forth, all the moments you’d caught him watching you with that dark, unreadable look. The friction, the heat pooling between your legs, was everything you’d been waiting for, and it was clear from the roughness of his breathing that he wasn’t far behind.

You pressed harder, your hips rolling against his thigh as you gripped his shoulders to steady yourself. The thin fabric of your dress had ridden up, and you knew he could feel just how soaked you were through the denim of his jeans. His hands were at your waist, digging into your skin in a way that bordered on painful but only made you push down harder, rocking your hips with more insistence.

Logan’s voice was rough when he finally spoke, his hands tightening as if he was trying to keep himself from pulling you in closer. “Y/N… you’re playin’ with fire here,” he growled, the words thick, like he was barely holding back.

You ignored him, pressing a little harder, your lips hovering just over the edge of his jaw as you breathed, “Maybe I like the heat.”

His jaw clenched, but his hands slid up, settling just under your ribs, holding you steady as you moved. Each shift of your hips brought another groan out of him, the sound vibrating through his chest and sending a thrill straight through you. You could feel yourself getting closer, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the pressure built, the heat between your legs almost too much to bear.

“Logan,” you whispered, your hands slipping up to tangle in his hair, pulling his face closer. You could see the restraint etched across his face, the way his jaw was clenched tight, like he was struggling to keep himself from giving in. “I need you.”

His hands tensed on your waist, fingers digging in harder, his breathing growing rougher with every word that slipped from your lips. But he didn’t pull away; if anything, he held you tighter, letting you grind against him, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against you in a way that left you breathless, desperate.

“You know what you’re doin’ to me?” he muttered, his voice barely more than a growl as his eyes met yours, dark and full of something you’d been longing to see for months.

“Maybe,” you replied, a small, breathless smile tugging at your lips as you kept moving, kept pressing closer, feeling the tension between you both thicken until it was almost unbearable. “Maybe I want to see how far you’ll let me go.”

Logan groaned, his grip tightening as his eyes fell shut again, his hands shifting to guide your hips, helping you keep up the steady rhythm that was driving you both closer to the edge. You leaned forward again, your lips brushing against his neck, pressing soft kisses along the exposed skin as you rocked against him, the heat building with every second.

“Y/N,” he rasped, his voice so low it sent a shiver through you. “You’re… you’re so damn—”

You cut him off, pressing your lips to the spot just under his ear, feeling the way his breath hitched as your hips ground down harder. You were close, every nerve ending on fire, and you could feel that he was, too. His hands were everywhere, sliding up your back, pressing you closer, holding you tight like he was afraid to let go.

And then, finally, the pressure broke. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders as your hips stilled, your body shuddering against him. Logan’s grip on your waist tightened, his own breath hitching as he held you steady, his hands warm and solid as you rode out the waves of pleasure.

He was quiet for a long moment, his breathing heavy, and you could feel the way his body had tensed beneath you, the strain in his hands as he held himself back. Slowly, you looked up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch all over again.

Without a word, Logan shifted, his hands sliding down to hook under your thighs as he stood, lifting you with a strength that sent another thrill through you. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he carried you to the bed, the heat in his gaze leaving no room for second thoughts, no hesitation. This was it, and you were ready.

He laid you down, his hands lingering on your thighs, his fingers brushing over your skin as he looked down at you, his expression a mix of hunger and restraint. You reached up, tugging him closer until he was hovering over you, his weight pressing down just enough to make you feel secure, safe.

This was what you’d been waiting for, what you’d both been skirting around for too long. Logan’s hands slid up your sides, his fingers trailing along the fabric of your dress, and you felt your breath hitch as his gaze darkened, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

His thumbs brushed the exposed skin just above the low neckline of your dress, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You watched him, eyes locked on his as he leaned in, his jaw tight, the hunger in his gaze barely restrained. The room felt smaller, warmer, like the air had thickened between you.

And then, finally, his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was desperate, wild, like he was making up for lost time. His lips claimed yours with a roughness that sent a shiver down your spine, his hands moving to cradle your face, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t stand the distance. You gasped against his mouth, your fingers finding their way into his hair, tugging him down harder.

It had been seventy-three years since he’d last kissed you—nearly three quarters of a century of holding back—and the intensity of it showed. It was all-consuming, like he was trying to make up for every second he’d denied himself this.

Logan groaned into your mouth, a deep, almost pained sound, and the desperation in it made your blood race. He kissed you like he was starving, like he needed this, needed you, and you felt your body melt into him. His hands slid down your body, rough and sure, stopping at your hips to pull you flush against him. The heat between your legs was almost unbearable, and the friction of his jeans against your thighs only made it worse.

You broke the kiss for air, your breaths coming fast, but Logan didn’t stop. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your throat, teeth scraping against your skin just enough to make you gasp. His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, gripping you with a possessiveness that sent a thrill through you.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice breathless, needy. You tilted your head back, giving him better access as his lips continued their descent, leaving a path of fire along your skin. Your hands fisted in his flannel, pulling him closer, and he groaned again, the sound vibrating through your body.

“God, Y/N,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire, like he was barely holding on. His hands slipped under your dress, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your thighs, and you shivered, your breath catching in your throat. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with need. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, but the words were laced with something softer, something that made your heart skip.

You didn’t reply, just pulled him down for another kiss, this one just as desperate as the first. Your hands roamed over his chest, slipping beneath the open flannel to feel the heat of his skin, the hard muscles that tensed under your touch. Logan shivered, his breath catching as your fingers brushed against his bare chest, and you felt a rush of satisfaction at the way he reacted to you.

His jacket slipped from his shoulders, landing somewhere on the floor, but neither of you paid it any mind. Your hands were already pushing the flannel off him, revealing more of his skin, and Logan helped you, shrugging it off with a growl of impatience. The white beater he wore beneath clung to his chest, and you could see the way his muscles flexed beneath it, the way the fabric stretched taut over his shoulders.

He leaned back down, capturing your lips in another searing kiss, and you moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. Logan’s hands were back under your dress, sliding up, leaving trails of heat in their wake. His touch was rough, calloused, but so incredibly gentle in a way that made your heart ache. You arched into him, your body pressing closer, desperate for more, for everything he was willing to give.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, his hands sliding higher until his thumbs brushed the edge of your panties. He paused, breathing heavily, his eyes searching yours, looking for any sign of hesitation. But there was none. You were all in, had been from the moment you’d first seen him.

You reached down, grabbing his wrists and guiding his hands further up, silently urging him on. Logan’s breath hitched, and his eyes darkened even more, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, and you could feel your heart pounding as he tugged, the thin fabric slipping down your legs.

"Fuck, Y/N," he growled, his voice thick with need as his calloused hands slid back up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. "You're so damn wet already."

You gasped as his fingers brushed against your center, your hips jerking up instinctively. "Logan, please," you whimpered, reaching for him.

He leaned down to kiss you hard, his tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers began exploring you properly. The roughness of his hands contrasted with how gently he touched you, like he was afraid of breaking you. You moaned into his mouth as he slid one thick finger inside, your hands gripping his shoulders.

"That's it, darlin'," he murmured against your lips. "Let me hear you."

Your dress was bunched around your waist now as Logan worked another finger into you, stretching you carefully. Your earlier orgasm had left you sensitive, making every touch feel electric. His thumb found your clit and began rubbing slow circles that had you writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you gasped, your nails digging into his skin through his beater. "I need—ah!—I need more."

He growled low in his throat, curling his fingers inside you. "Tell me what you need, Y/N. Say it."

Your face flushed but you met his eyes. "I need you inside me. Please, Logan. I've wanted this for so long."

Something dark and possessive flashed in his eyes. He withdrew his fingers, making you whimper at the loss, and reached down to undo his belt. The metal clinked as he pulled it free, the sound sending a thrill through you.

You sat up enough to pull your dress over your head, leaving you in just your bra. Logan's eyes raked over you hungrily as he pushed his jeans down his hips. The obvious bulge in his boxers made your mouth go dry.

"Come here," he growled, pulling you into another searing kiss as his hands found the clasp of your bra. It took him only seconds to undo it, and then you were bare before him, your nipples hardening in the cool air.

Logan's mouth moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks as his hands cupped your breasts. You moaned as he rolled your nipples between his fingers, your back arching into his touch.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he muttered against your skin, his voice rough. He shifted to take one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak as you gasped and squirmed beneath him.

Your hands found the hem of his beater, tugging insistently until he pulled back long enough to yank it off. The sight of his bare chest, all hard muscle and dark hair, made heat pool between your legs. There were old scars scattered across his skin - remnants of wounds time hadn't quite erased.

You reached for his boxers but he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. "Not yet," he growled, his free hand sliding down between your legs again. "Want to make sure you're ready for me."

His fingers found your clit again and you cried out, oversensitive and desperate. "Logan, please," you begged, trying to buck your hips up against his hand. "I'm ready, I swear. I need you now."

He studied your face for a long moment, his eyes dark with desire, before releasing your wrists. "Take them off," he ordered, nodding to his boxers.

Your hands shook slightly as you pushed the fabric down his hips, freeing his cock. He was huge, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, and Logan's breath hitched.

"Careful, darlin'," he warned, his voice strained. "Been wanting this too long to end it early."

He pushed you back onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs. The head of his cock brushed against your entrance and you both groaned. Logan braced himself on his forearms above you, his eyes locked on yours.

"You sure about this?" he asked, his voice rough but gentle. "Once I start, I don't know if I'll be able to stop."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "I'm sure. Please, Logan. I want you."

He kissed you hard as he began pushing inside, swallowing your gasps as he stretched you open. The burn was intense but perfect, your body gradually adjusting to his size. Logan moved slowly, giving you time to adapt, but you could feel the tension in his muscles as he held himself back.

"Fuck," he groaned when he was finally fully seated inside you. "So tight, darlin'. Feel so good around me."

You clutched at his shoulders, panting. "Move," you urged. "Please, I need—"

Logan pulled back and thrust forward again, setting a steady rhythm that had you seeing stars. Each stroke hit something deep inside you that made pleasure spark through your whole body. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he fucked into you with increasing force.

"That's it," he growled, watching your face contort with pleasure. "Take it, Y/N. Take all of me."

Your nails raked down his back as the pressure built inside you again. Logan's thrusts grew harder, faster, driving you both toward the edge. The headboard banged against the wall with each movement but neither of you cared about the noise.

"Logan," you gasped, feeling yourself getting close. "I'm gonna—ah!"

"Come for me," he ordered, his voice rough. One hand slid between your bodies to rub your clit. "Want to feel you come on my cock."

The added stimulation pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Logan growled, his rhythm faltering as your walls pulsed around him.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic. "Where do you want—"

"Inside," you gasped, still riding the aftershocks. "Please, Logan. Wanna feel you."

He cursed, his hips snapping forward a few more times before he buried himself deep with a growl, spilling inside you. You could feel him pulsing, filling you up as he collapsed onto his forearms above you.

For several long moments, the only sound was your heavy breathing. Logan's forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he caught his breath. You ran your hands up and down his back, feeling the sweat-slick skin under your palms.

Finally, he pulled out carefully and rolled onto his side, pulling you with him. You winced slightly at the soreness between your legs, but it was a good kind of ache. Logan's arms wrapped around you, holding you close against his chest.

---

Logan let out a low groan as he woke, the bed beneath him feeling far too comfortable, unfamiliar in a way that immediately set him on edge. It took a second for his mind to catch up, piecing together where he was and, more importantly, who he was with.

He didn’t need to look over to feel the warmth beside him, or the way your hair fanned out across the pillow. It hit him all at once—the heat of your skin against his, the way you’d leaned into him last night, confident, unrestrained. He opened his eyes, gaze finding you lying beside him, face soft and peaceful in sleep, an arm draped over his chest as if you’d claimed him in the night.

Logan sighed, glancing at the ceiling, but couldn’t help looking down at you again, still asleep and blissfully unaware of the storm in his head. He’d known it was a bad idea from the start, coming upstairs with you last night, letting his guard down. But damn, when you’d gotten close, pushing him toward that chair with that look in your eyes—he’d been gone the second you’d touched him.

He was even further gone when he had finally kissed you—it was one of his biggest regrets the last time he had seen you back in 1943—he never held you the way he wanted to. Too afraid that maybe he was the problem, the reason you kept on dying over and over.

And because of that, he hadn’t been this close to you since 1900.

It was strange, being here like this—letting his guard down after all those lives, all those memories of watching you fade out of his reach. A part of him had always tried to keep a distance, to save himself from the heartbreak he knew was coming. But last night… last night, he’d been weak.

He brushed a thumb over your arm without thinking, lost in thought. It was impossible not to wonder, with you lying beside him like this, what it would be like if this time were different. If, just once, he could hold onto you, let himself believe you’d stay.

But he knew better.

His hand lingered on your skin a moment too long, and he felt you stir, your lashes fluttering as you slowly opened your eyes. A soft smile touched your lips when you saw him, and he felt his resolve crack just a little more.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, his voice rougher than he’d meant.

“Mmm,” you hummed, still sleepy, your fingers tracing a lazy pattern over his chest. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.” You said it lightly, but there was a hint of something else there—relief, maybe. “Guess I finally wore you out.”

Logan huffed, his lips tugging into a smirk. “Guess so.”

You shifted to look at him, your eyes bright with that familiar mischief. “So, what’s your excuse this time?”

He raised a brow. “Excuse?”

“Yeah. For pulling away,” you said, your tone casual but pointed. “You’ve always got one.”

Logan’s jaw clenched slightly, and he broke eye contact, looking away. “It’s complicated, Y/N.”

You reached up, cupping his face and guiding his gaze back to you. “That’s what you always say. Doesn’t mean it has to be.”

He was silent for a moment, searching your face. He could feel the weight of his past with you, all those memories stacking up like a dam holding back a flood. But he couldn’t let you in on that. Couldn’t make you carry the burden of knowing you’d lived—and died—so many times before. It was his cross to bear, not yours.

“Maybe I just don’t want you getting hurt,” he finally said, his voice quieter, a touch raw.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Please, Logan. You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Logan just shook his head, but he couldn’t help the small, amused smile that crept onto his face. “You’re a handful, you know that?”

“I’ve heard that once or twice,” you teased, running your hand along his chest. “Lucky for you, I don’t scare easy.”

That hint of defiance in your voice tugged at something deep inside him, and he caught your hand, holding it in his as he looked into your eyes. “You say that now. But I’ve got a way of… complicating things.”

Your gaze softened, but there was still a spark there, unyielding. “Good thing I like complicated.”

Logan’s eyes darkened, and for a second, he felt that familiar pull, the urge to tell you everything—to let you in on the truth of why he was here, why he couldn’t stay away. But he stopped himself, the weight of all those lost lifetimes bearing down on him again. He couldn’t do that to you, not this time.

“Then I guess I’m stuck with you,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, even though his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly.

“Guess so,” you replied with a grin, shifting closer. You tilted your head, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you ever gonna stop acting like you’re some kind of curse?” Your voice was soft but firm, like you were daring him to argue.

Logan went silent, his gaze flickering away from yours. You’d hit closer to the truth than you knew.

“Don’t know if I can,” he admitted after a pause. “It’s… complicated.” He shrugged, hoping you’d leave it at that.

But, of course, you didn’t. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep proving you wrong,” you murmured, pressing a light kiss to his jaw, a warm reassurance that only made him feel the pull of his past even stronger.

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, letting himself savor this one small, stolen moment with you. Just this once, he’d allow himself that. Because deep down, he knew he’d always lose you in the end.

And this time, he was determined to make it last as long as he could. Maybe, just maybe, even put that ring to use.

---

You were back at the dog shelter, this time staying a little bit longer since one of the workers, Amelia, was out sick.

Lorraine handed you a few leashes, “mind taking some of ‘em out for a walk?”

You happily grabbed the roped leashes, “of course.” Then you glanced over at Logan, who had been eyeing the dogs with a mix of amusement and reservation. “You up for walkin’ some too?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, then at the leashes in your hand, but there was a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Didn’t take you for a dog wrangler, Y/N.”

You laughed, clipping one of the leashes onto a small brown mutt who was practically bouncing with excitement. “Come on, Logan. What’re you afraid of? They don’t bite—well, not all of them, anyway.”

Logan chuckled, reluctantly stepping forward. “Right. Long as they don’t try to drag me down the street.”

You handed him a leash attached to a shaggy, medium-sized dog with big brown eyes, looking up at him expectantly. “Here. This one’s named Ringo. He’s a sweetheart.”

Logan eyed the dog suspiciously before giving the leash a little tug, testing the waters. “Ringo, huh?” He knelt down and patted the dog’s head, a faint smile crossing his face as the dog leaned into his touch. “Guess you’re alright.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “See? He likes you already.” As you finished leashing up a few more of the dogs, you handed the leashes to Logan. “Think you can handle these guys too?”

Logan took the leashes without complaint, looking down at the little group of dogs at his feet. “Guess I don’t have much choice.”

“Good answer,” you teased, giving him a wink before heading toward the door. You led the way outside, the two of you walking side-by-side with the dogs trotting happily along. It was a warm day, and the sun was shining down, casting a soft glow over everything.

Logan glanced over at you as you moved down the sidewalk together, the dogs tugging excitedly at their leashes. You had a carefree smile on your face, and he found himself watching you more than the path ahead, the memory of a few nights ago still vivid in his mind. The thought of it sent a thrill through him—yet at the same time, a pang of dread.

“You always this happy walking dogs, or is it just ‘cause I’m here?” he teased, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

You shot him a playful look. “Guess you’ll never know.” You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. “But if you keep coming with me, you might find out.”

He let out a small laugh, his gaze softening as he looked away. Even after all these years, you could still surprise him—like the way you’d drag him to places like this or the way you talked about the little things with such enthusiasm. It was one of those qualities he remembered about you from lifetimes ago, and it hadn’t changed. It made him feel like maybe, somehow, this was different.

As you walked a little further, one of the dogs—a scruffy little terrier—yipped and tugged at Logan’s leash, trying to chase after a pigeon. He grunted, holding the leash tightly and muttering, “Settle down, mutt. You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

You laughed, glancing over with an amused smile. “Ringo’s got more energy than you’d think, huh?”

Logan shook his head, but he couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, well, maybe I should be takin’ notes from him.” He looked at you then, and his expression softened. “You’ve really got a thing for these dogs, don’t ya?”

Your smile faded into something more thoughtful as you looked down at the furry pack in front of you. “I dunno. I guess they’re just… easy to be around. They don’t care about who my father is or what I do—they just want someone to be with them, you know?”

Logan nodded, watching the way you interacted with the dogs, your fingers lightly brushing over their heads, your voice soft as you spoke to them. You’d always had that kindness about you, that gentleness that made him want to believe in something better, something… safe.

“You’re good with ‘em,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You looked up at him, a smile in your eyes. “You know, you’re not so bad with them either, Logan.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, I think I’ll leave the dog-wranglin’ to you.”

For a while, you walked in comfortable silence, the bustling city around you fading into the background as you wandered through the neighborhood with the dogs. Finally, you reached a small park, and you stopped to let the dogs sniff around.

As they explored, you took a seat on a nearby bench, patting the spot beside you. Logan hesitated for a second before joining you, stretching his legs out in front of him.

You looked over at him, your expression soft. “Thanks for coming today. I know this probably isn’t your ideal way to spend an afternoon.”

Logan shrugged, trying to act casual, but he couldn’t hide the warmth in his gaze. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t wanna be,” he said, his voice low.

The sincerity in his words made your heart skip a beat, and you looked away, feeling a little bashful. You fiddled with one of the leashes, clearing your throat. “You know… the more time we spend together, the more I wonder how long you’re planning to stick around.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he considered his answer. He wanted to tell you the truth—that he’d been watching you, waiting for you, for so many lifetimes. But he couldn’t. Instead, he reached out, his hand covering yours where it rested on the bench.

“As long as you’ll have me,” he said quietly.

The words hung between you, and for a moment, it was like the whole world had faded away. You looked up at him, your eyes searching his, trying to read the depths of his expression.

A soft smile touched your lips, and you squeezed his hand. “Then you’re gonna be around for a long time, Logan.”

He felt a strange, hopeful ache in his chest at your words, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, this time, things could be different.

The dogs barked, breaking the spell, and you both laughed, pulling away as you got up to wrangle them again. But even as you continued on your walk, he stayed close by your side, his hand occasionally brushing yours as you walked—almost as if he was reminding himself that you were real, that you were here with him.

---

Late one night, you lay beside Logan in the dim light filtering through the window, the city’s night sounds a steady hum in the distance. Your head rested on his chest, your fingers tracing lazy circles over the skin above his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath your touch.

Logan shifted slightly, his hand coming up to rest gently on your back. For a long time, he just lay there, watching you in silence, his thumb brushing along your spine. You could tell he was relaxed, but there was something else—a quiet intensity in the way his gaze lingered on you, a heaviness in the air that made your heart race.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” you murmured, letting your fingers trail up to his collarbone. You glanced up at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile as he met your eyes.

“Just… wonderin’ how I got roped into all this,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. But the glint in his eyes gave him away, and you saw something softer there.

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem like you mind too much.” You smirked, giving his chest a light pat. “I’d almost say you’re gettin’ attached.”

He snorted, pulling you a little closer, his arm tightening around you. “Could say the same for you,” he replied, his voice low, almost teasing. “You’re insatiable, y’know that?”

You laughed, and the sound was soft in the quiet room. “You’re the one who keeps showin’ up, Logan. If you wanted me to behave, you’d stay away.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe I don’t want you to behave.”

Your fingers stilled on his chest, and you looked up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “So you like me like this, then? A little reckless… a little spoiled?” you teased.

He chuckled, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Think I do.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, and you settled back against his chest, letting your hand rest over his heart. For a while, neither of you said anything, the silence comfortable, his warmth grounding you. It was a rare kind of peace—one that you’d come to cherish whenever you were with him.

But then, curiosity got the better of you, and you lifted your head, giving him a thoughtful look. “Logan,” you began, your voice hesitant. “How long are you gonna stick around? I mean… I know my dad thinks you’re just here for protection, but… it feels like more than that.”

Logan’s gaze darkened, a flash of something unreadable passing over his face. He glanced away, his jaw tensing as he seemed to search for the right words. “As long as you want me here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “Then don’t,” you whispered, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “I don’t want you to.”

He didn’t say anything in response, but his hand slipped up to cup the back of your head, pulling you down into a slow, lingering kiss. There was something different about it this time, a quiet desperation that made your pulse quicken, like he was trying to hold on to this moment, to keep it from slipping away.

When you finally pulled back, you searched his eyes, wondering what was going through his mind. “You’re not gonna let me go, are you?”

A small smile tugged at his lips, though his gaze was still shadowed. “Not a chance, darlin’.”

You felt a surge of affection for him then, this man who’d somehow become both your protector and your closest confidant. He was rough around the edges, guarded and distant with everyone else—but with you, he was different. You brought out a softness in him, a warmth that felt as though it had been buried for a long, long time.

Without thinking, you reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, your fingertips lingering against his skin. “You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be my bodyguard, you’re doing a terrible job at keeping things professional,” you teased, though there was no bite in your words.

Logan let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re the one makin’ things complicated, Y/N.”

“Maybe.” You smirked, your fingers still tracing over his chest. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

He looked at you then, something fierce in his eyes, and for a moment, you saw a glimpse of the man he’d been—a man who’d loved and lost, who’d carried scars from lifetimes past. You wondered if he would ever tell you his story, if he would ever let you in on the secrets he guarded so closely.

But for now, you were content with the silence, with the feel of his heartbeat beneath your hand, with the quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

As the night wore on, you lay there together, wrapped up in each other, the world outside fading away. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

---

Your father had asked you to come to his office in the spacious house. At first it was nothing but muffled voices from outside the door, until Logan heard your father speak again, for a longer period of time, causing your own voice to rise.

While Logan couldn’t make out the words you were saying even with his enhanced hearing, he could tell you weren’t happy. Your voice carried that sharp edge you only got when something really struck a nerve, and judging by the way you didn’t hold back, it had to be serious.

Logan lingered just outside the heavy, mahogany door of your father’s office, his fists clenched as he heard your voice rising behind it. It was clear you were upset, and whatever was being discussed inside, you didn’t like it. He’d seen you frustrated, angry even, but never like this—there was a desperation in your tone that sent a chill through him.

Moments later, the door flew open, and you stormed out, cheeks flushed with anger, eyes flashing as you spotted him. You barely paused, brushing past him, but Logan caught your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low. “What happened?”

You turned to face him, anger and hurt swirling in your eyes. “He’s… he’s marrying me off, Logan. To that family. After everything he promised me—he said he’d never force me into something like this.”

Logan’s expression hardened. “What are you talkin’ about? He can’t just… marry you off like some kind of deal.”

Your hands were shaking as you brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, struggling to keep your composure. “Apparently, he can. There’s been this feud with the Romano family for years, and he says this is the only way to keep the peace. To protect me. Protect us.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. He felt a familiar anger rising in him, a deep, protective instinct he’d been fighting to keep under wraps. “So, he’s just gonna throw you into a marriage you don’t want? You don’t even know this guy, do you?”

You shook your head, looking away. “I met him once. He was… polite enough. But that’s not the point, Logan. I don’t want to marry him—or anyone like this. My father always said he’d let me choose, that he wouldn’t… sell me off.” The bitterness in your tone stung, your gaze distant as if replaying the conversation.

Logan searched your face, feeling an ache he couldn’t put into words. “And he knows how you feel about this?”

You swallowed, nodding. “I told him, but he says I don’t understand the bigger picture, that this is what’s best for everyone.” You gave a hollow laugh, looking down. “For everyone but me.”

He felt a pang of guilt, knowing he was just a bodyguard, technically part of the arrangement meant to keep you safe from any threats. But you were more than just a job to him, and the thought of you being forced into something like this made his blood boil. He let out a rough breath, stepping closer. “Y/N, you don’t have to go along with this. Not if you don’t want to.”

Your gaze softened as you looked up at him. “And what am I supposed to do, Logan? Run off in the middle of the night?” You gave a small, bitter smile. “I don’t even know where I’d go.”

He didn’t hesitate, his voice dropping low. “Then we go together. If you don’t wanna go through with this, we’ll figure somethin’ else out.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment, the anger and hurt seemed to fade, replaced by something warmer, more uncertain. “You’d really… leave everything?”

He shrugged, almost nonchalant, but there was a fierce determination in his eyes. “I got no reason to stay here if you’re not here, too.”

You hesitated, torn between the depth of his offer and the weight of the decision you knew would follow. Finally, you gave a small nod, as if grounding yourself in the moment. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, Logan, but… I just need to know you’re here. That I’m not going through this alone.”

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Y/N. You got my word on that.”

There was a silence between you, thick and charged, each of you processing the weight of everything unsaid. His gaze stayed locked on yours, and for a moment, the anger and fear in your eyes softened, replaced by something closer to relief. And then, almost impulsively, you took his hand, squeezing it tight.

“Thank you, Logan. I… I needed to hear that,” you said softly, glancing away before meeting his gaze again, vulnerability written all over your face. “Just… don’t let go, okay?”

He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not a chance, darlin’.”

---

Nancy was doing your hair once again for the dinner with the Romano family. You had tried everything over the past few weeks, trying to convince your father that this didn’t have to happen. That he promised you he would never do this.

But no matter what you did, he was firm in his stance, "you're getting married to Clyde, and that's final."

You sat still, staring at your reflection in the mirror as Nancy pinned up the last of your curls. Your face looked composed, serene even, but beneath it, there was a storm brewing—a knot of anger and dread you couldn’t shake. Every time you thought about that dinner tonight, your stomach twisted. Clyde Romano. A stranger. And yet, your father had decided this was your future, and nothing you said seemed to change his mind.

Nancy, sensing the tension, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "It’ll be alright, Y/N. You’ll be surrounded by family."

Family. Right. But none of them seemed to understand how trapped you felt. You forced a tight-lipped smile, nodding. "Thanks, Nancy."

As she stepped back, there was a light knock at the door. You turned to see Logan standing there, looking slightly uncomfortable in his formal attire but as steadfast as ever. His gaze softened as he took in your appearance, though he quickly masked it.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt," he said, glancing between you and Nancy. "Just wanted to make sure you’re ready."

Nancy finished adjusting your hair and excused herself, leaving you alone with Logan. You looked at him, searching his face, hoping for some kind of lifeline.

"Logan," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like I’m being dragged somewhere I can’t escape from."

He stepped closer, his expression darkening as he listened. “You’re not alone in this, Y/N. You know I’m with you, whatever you decide.” His hand reached out, brushing against your arm, his touch grounding you.

You drew in a shaky breath, steadying yourself. “What if I decide to just… disappear?” you asked, half-joking but mostly serious.

Logan’s eyes met yours, and you saw the unspoken resolve there. “Then I’ll be right behind you. Doesn’t matter where.”

For a moment, you let yourself believe it—that you could simply run, with Logan at your side. But reality crashed back in, and you dropped your gaze.

"I wish it were that simple," you whispered, clenching your fists. "But if I leave, it could tear everything apart."

Logan’s hand settled over yours, his grip firm and reassuring. "Then we make it through tonight. And tomorrow, we figure out the rest. You’re not facing this alone, darlin’. Not as long as I’m here."

You looked up at him, finding strength in his gaze. He’d been your rock through all of this, his presence steady and unwavering. And tonight, that was what you needed most.

“Alright,” you murmured, giving him a small, grateful smile. “Let’s go face this… together.”

He nodded, his grip on your hand a silent promise. Whatever came next, you knew he’d be there, just as he always had been. And with that thought, you found the courage to head downstairs to face your family—and the Romanos—one more time.

---

The dinner was at an Italian restaurant, one your father owned as cover for his business. Your dad sat at the head of the table while Clyde’s father sat at the other end. In front of you was your uncle Ermanno, who was also your dad’s consigliere, while Clyde sat next to you.

Logan, along with the other bodyguards, stood watch at the entrance of the private dining room, their silent gazes sweeping the place. He wore his usual hard expression, though his eyes softened just a touch when they found you across the room. He’d been watching you all night—catching every little shift, each moment you looked down or forced a smile, every subtle tightening of your hand on the tablecloth.

Clyde Romano leaned in a little closer, his arm casually brushing against yours as he tried to make small talk. "So, Y/N, I hear you’ve been helping out at a shelter?"

You nodded, barely meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I volunteer with the dogs mostly. It’s…nice to get away from all this sometimes.” You forced a smile, trying to keep things polite. You could feel your father’s gaze on you, watching for any misstep.

Clyde smiled back, but it felt too rehearsed. “Well, once we’re married, you won’t have to worry about shelters or anything like that. You’ll have enough responsibilities as a Romano.”

You felt your stomach twist at his words. Logan’s gaze sharpened from across the room as he picked up on the slight shift in your expression. You shot him a quick look, your eyes pleading for any kind of rescue. Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, he almost looked like he’d step in. But he stayed put, his hands clenched behind his back.

Instead, he looked for the smallest opening. Just as Clyde’s attention was pulled away by his father, Logan slipped into view, leaning down beside you. “You alright?” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

“Not even close,” you whispered back, your eyes fixed on your glass. “He’s already talking about our future like… like it’s set in stone.”

Logan’s eyes flickered with something fierce. “We’ll get through this, Y/N. Tonight’s just another show. Nothing more.” His fingers brushed the back of your chair, the barely-there touch sending a wave of calm through you.

But Clyde’s voice cut back in before Logan could say anything more. “Y/N, we were thinking of heading to Italy for the honeymoon. It’ll be a good chance to meet the rest of the family there.”

Your heart sank further. Italy. An entire ocean away, away from everything you knew, from everyone who mattered to you. “Italy,” you echoed, your voice strained but steady.

“Yeah. The Romano estates are beautiful—beaches, vineyards… a real paradise.” He seemed oblivious to your hesitation, already dreaming up plans you’d had no say in. Your father looked pleased, nodding his approval from his end of the table.

Logan straightened, but the look he gave you was unmistakable: You don’t have to do this.

You swallowed, shifting in your seat as Clyde rambled on. When his focus shifted to his own father again, you leaned back just enough to whisper to Logan, “I’m not sure I can keep pretending.”

Logan’s expression softened, and for a second, he let a hint of his guard down. “You don’t have to, darlin’.” His voice was low, almost tender, meant for you alone. “Say the word, and we walk outta here. Right now.”

The thought made your heart skip, but your gaze drifted toward your father, seated across the table with a look of satisfaction. Leaving wasn’t just about you; it would mean defying him, challenging the life he’d molded for you. The thought felt like a mountain on your shoulders.

“I can’t just walk away,” you said quietly. “He’s… he’d never forgive me.”

Logan’s hand brushed yours under the table, a quiet show of support. “Maybe he’s the one who should be asking for forgiveness,” he murmured, his thumb tracing a light circle over your knuckles. The warmth of his touch settled something in you, steadying your breath.

You gave a tiny nod, squeezing his hand for just a second before pulling away. Logan straightened, stepping back to his post but still keeping his gaze on you. Clyde was oblivious, caught up in a conversation with his father about future business plans, each word feeling like a nail in the coffin.

Dinner dragged on, a blur of forced laughter and stiff conversation. Every time you felt yourself sinking, you looked toward Logan. He was there, solid and watchful, like a silent promise of something real in a room full of facades.

Eventually, the families began to wind down, talk shifting to more casual chatter. Clyde, emboldened by the night’s success, reached over and took your hand, his grip possessive. “Soon, you’ll be part of the family, Y/N. You’ll see. You’ll come to love it.”

Your mind screamed at the thought, every fiber of you wanting to pull away. But you held still, not daring to make a scene. Logan’s gaze narrowed, his jaw set as he took in the sight of Clyde’s hand around yours.

Finally, as the night came to an end and the families started to stand, Clyde leaned in with a smug smile. “Ready to go? I thought we’d take a walk, just the two of us.”

Before you could answer, Logan was there, stepping in with a casual yet firm presence. “Mr. Romano,” he said, addressing Clyde but looking right at you, “your father asked to speak with you in private before you head out.”

Clyde frowned but nodded, reluctantly releasing your hand. “I’ll be back soon, Y/N.” He disappeared toward the far end of the room, leaving you alone with Logan.

You let out a slow breath, the tension finally loosening from your shoulders. “Thank you,” you whispered, looking up at him, gratitude spilling from every word.

Logan gave a slight nod. “Couldn’t let him drag you out there without a say.” His voice was rough, but his eyes softened as he held your gaze. “You’re not alone in this, Y/N. Whatever happens… you got me.”

The weight of the night lifted just a little, and for a moment, you almost believed you had a choice in all of this.

---

“A week?” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper as you stood in your father’s office. The weight of the word seemed to pull you under, even as you fought to keep your voice steady.

Your father’s expression was impassive, arms crossed as he looked at you. “Yes, Y/N. The Romano family wants to move quickly. They think it’s best, and I agree. It’s time you take on this responsibility for the family.”

Your jaw clenched. You remembered the promises he made, back when you were younger, that he’d never force you into something like this. “I just… I don’t understand. You always said—”

“People change, Y/N,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “This is what’s best for you and for us. For the family.”

You shook your head, feeling a rush of helplessness. “And what about what I want? I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks that I don’t want this, and you’re not listening.”

He exhaled sharply, the kind of sigh that signaled his patience was running thin. “This isn’t about what you want. I didn’t raise you to be selfish.”

“Selfish?” The word stung, and you couldn’t help the surge of anger that rose within you. “I’m asking for my life. How is that selfish?”

He frowned, unyielding. “Enough, Y/N. This is happening. We’re done discussing it.”

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stay composed. The walls of the office seemed to close in on you, the reality of it settling heavy and cold. You had a week—seven days—to either submit to this life he’d chosen for you or… what? You didn’t even know.

Without another word, you turned and left, fighting the urge to slam the door behind you. The hall felt stifling as you walked out, your thoughts churning.

When you reached your room, Logan was there, waiting. The moment he saw your face, he stiffened. “What happened?” His voice was a low rumble, the concern clear.

“A week,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “I have a week before he marries me off to Clyde.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and you could see the flash of anger in his eyes. He stepped closer, his hand moving to rest on your shoulder. “So that’s it, then? He’s just… throwing you to that bastard?”

You nodded, the words catching in your throat. “I don’t know what to do, Logan. I tried everything, but he won’t listen. He’s set on it.”

Logan’s hand slipped down, finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze, his rough fingers warm and grounding. You tightened your grip, the frustration and helplessness boiling inside you finally having somewhere to go.

“I’m supposed to just go along with it,” you muttered, bitterness seeping into your words. “Act like I’m thrilled to be Clyde’s obedient little wife. Like my life’s just… his to take.”

Logan’s gaze darkened. “It’s not. You know that. And anyone who tries to take it without your say? They got me to deal with.” His voice was low and dangerous, a promise just for you.

You looked up, searching his face, a flicker of hope stirring. “But what can we do, Logan? He’s not going to listen to me. And if I push back too hard… I don’t know what he’ll do.”

“Then let me get you out of here,” Logan said, leaning in closer. His voice softened, gentler now. “We can leave, right now if you want. Just say the word.”

Your heart twisted painfully, the temptation so fierce you almost said yes then and there. But reality clawed its way back, the weight of your father’s expectations and the tight grip he kept on every part of your life. Leaving would mean giving up everything—and, deep down, you weren’t sure you could risk it.

“What about my dad?” you whispered, feeling the weight of it pressing down again. “He’s… he’d see it as betrayal, Logan. And what if he goes after you?”

A flicker of something familiar crossed Logan’s face, a shadow from a life you couldn’t remember but that he clearly did. “Y/N, don’t worry about me,” he murmured. “Been through worse.” He squeezed your hand a little tighter, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture so tender it nearly undid you. “And if he’s got a problem, then he can take it up with me.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the anger and fear give way just a bit. “You say that now, but you haven’t seen how he gets when people cross him. He’d never forgive me, Logan. He’d never forgive us.”

Logan’s hand moved to cup your face, his touch steadying you as his eyes met yours. “Then we don’t need his forgiveness. We get you out, and I keep you safe. Whatever comes after, we face it together.”

The fierce certainty in his voice sent a warmth flooding through you, your resolve hardening under his gaze. “But Clyde, the Romano’s… they won’t just let it go.”

A smirk tugged at Logan’s mouth, the edge of defiance clear. “Then they’ll learn what happens when they mess with you. Ain’t nobody’s right to take away your freedom, Y/N. Not your old man, not Clyde, not anyone.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, his hand still warm against your cheek. Your fingers tightened around his, and for a second, all the anger and dread faded, leaving just you and him in the quiet of the room.

“What about… us?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and for a second, you held your breath, waiting for his reaction.

Logan’s eyes softened, his gaze never leaving yours. “What about us, darlin’?” He brushed a thumb along your cheek, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You think I’d just leave you here to face this on your own?”

His words sent a rush of warmth through you, and before you knew it, you were leaning into him, his presence steady and unshakable. He let out a low sigh, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer, his other hand tracing gentle circles over your back.

“You’re all I’ve got in this,” you whispered, feeling the tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “I can’t lose you, too.”

“You won’t,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hold tightening just enough to reassure you. “Not now, not ever.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped up in his embrace, the weight of everything slipping away in his arms. But eventually, reality crept back in, and you pulled back, catching the flicker of resolve in his gaze.

“If we do this…” You paused, steadying yourself. “If we leave, we need a plan.”

Logan gave a small nod, his hand still resting on yours. “We’ll figure it out. Tonight, we’re just gettin’ you through this.”

It was a promise, simple and unbreakable, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of hope stirring deep inside you.

---

The rehearsal dinner was held in a private room at the church a few days later; a grand, echoing place with gilded walls and tall stained-glass windows that cast colored light over everything. Clyde, his parents, and your family were all gathered, discussing wedding arrangements like it was a done deal, each word chipping away at any illusion of control you had left.

Logan and the other bodyguards stood at a respectful distance, keeping watch. He tried to keep his gaze neutral, but his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary, catching every forced smile and stiff nod you gave.

As the minister went through the motions, you and Clyde practiced exchanging vows. You held his hands, repeating words that felt like a foreign language—lifeless, meaningless. Your eyes drifted toward Logan, and he gave you the barest nod, grounding you with that single, unspoken promise.

After the vows, Clyde leaned in close, his voice low and smug. “I think you’ll come to love our life together, Y/N. Just give it time.”

You forced a polite smile, biting back the words you wanted to say. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Logan clench his fists, his face darkening.

Finally, as the rehearsal ended and people began drifting off, you made your way to a quiet corner, needing a moment alone. Logan slipped over to you, his movements subtle as he came to stand beside you.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softer now that it was just the two of you.

You shook your head, feeling that familiar knot of dread twist tighter. “Logan, I don’t think I can go through with this. But I don’t know if I can run, either. I’m… I’m stuck.”

He took a deep breath, his gaze intense as he looked down at you. “What if I told you that you didn’t have to decide tonight?” he asked quietly. “That we could just… take it one day at a time. You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

The tension in your shoulders eased a bit, and you met his eyes, finding strength in the certainty there. He wasn’t pushing you, wasn’t forcing anything on you. He was just… here, with you, in whatever way you needed.

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding slowly. “One day at a time.”

Logan gave a small, reassuring smile. “That’s all we need, darlin’.” His hand brushed your shoulder, lingering just a second longer than necessary before he stepped back.

---

The day of the wedding had arrived, and you were dolled up, your makeup and hair were perfect, and your wedding dress was heavy, constricting, and large.

Once the makeup artists and hair stylists left, you had fled to the bathroom in the bridal suite and were currently hunched over the toilet. You hadn’t thrown up—yet—but you could feel the nausea and anxiousness rising.

You braced yourself against the counter, taking deep breaths as you tried to calm the twisting feeling in your stomach. The dress felt like a vice, heavy and restrictive, pressing on every nerve, suffocating in a way that went beyond fabric and lace. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping the queasiness would pass.

A knock at the door pulled you from the spinning in your head.

“Y/N?” Nancy’s soft, steady voice filtered through, full of that motherly concern you’d come to rely on all your life.

You took a steadying breath, swallowing hard before calling out, “Come in, Nancy.”

The door creaked open, and Nancy stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. Her gaze immediately softened as she took in the look on your face, her expression a mix of sympathy and something else—resolve, maybe.

“Oh, cara mia,” she murmured, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t look well. This whole business—it’s too much, isn’t it?”

You managed a shaky nod. “I… I don’t know if I can do this, Nancy. Every time I think about it, I just…” You trailed off, not sure how to put into words the suffocating dread that had settled over you.

She gave you a small, encouraging squeeze. “You know,” she said quietly, “there are other paths besides the one your father chose for you. And you don’t have to walk it alone.”

Your heart skipped at her words. “You… you’d help me? Even if I…?”

Nancy nodded, a spark of fierce protectiveness in her eyes. “Logan’s already got your things in his car,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “If you’re ready to go, he’s waiting.”

You blinked back tears before grabbing one of her hands, “y- you want me to go?”

“SÌ. Your father is a bastardo, breaking that promise him and your mother made.” She squeezed your hand, “Logan’s a good man. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He won’t let you down.”

You swallowed hard, Nancy’s words settling like a quiet fire in your chest. She was right. Your father had broken his promise, and you didn’t owe him your life just because he controlled every other part of it.

With a shaky exhale, you gave her a nod. “Alright… I’ll go.”

Nancy’s face softened, relief mingling with pride. “Good girl. Now, take this.” She pressed a small envelope into your hand. “Cash. Just in case.”

You looked down at it, blinking back tears. “Thank you, Nancy. For everything.”

She pulled you into a hug, her hand stroking your back gently. “Go, cara mia. Go live your life.” She pulled back, eyes glinting with fierce determination. “And don’t look back.”

You nodded, holding onto that resolve as you slipped out of the bathroom and made your way down the hall, heart pounding. Every step felt heavier, weighed down by fear and the voice in the back of your mind that told you this was dangerous, reckless. But when you stepped outside and saw Logan waiting by his car, the weight lifted.

He looked up, his gaze intense but soft, like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had. “You ready?”

You hesitated, just for a moment, before giving him a small nod. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

Logan opened the passenger door for you, helping you in, his hand lingering on yours for a second longer than necessary. He closed the door, then climbed into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a low rumble that matched the pulse pounding in your ears.

As he pulled out of the church’s parking lot, the weight of the decision hit you again. You were leaving everything behind—the security, the expectations, the people who’d shaped your entire life. But with each passing second, the fear melted away, replaced by a strange, liberating sense of excitement.

Logan glanced over, noticing the small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t look so panicked now.”

You shook your head, unable to hide your grin. “I’m not. Not with you here.”

He gave a soft chuckle, that familiar warmth in his gaze. “Good. Because we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

You settled back, feeling more at ease than you’d felt in months. There was silence for a moment, comfortable and charged, before you turned to him, voice barely a whisper.

“Where are we going?”

Logan smirked. “Anywhere but here.”

You laughed softly, relaxing into your seat. The road stretched ahead, open and endless, and for the first time in a long while, the future felt like something you could shape.

logan is 141 years old and reader is around 23-25 years old

what!? is that a happy ending? who would've thought... next up, is origins!

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time

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themareverine · 3 days ago

Text

DESIGNATED DRIVER

—oldman!Logan x namelessfem!OC

SYNOPSIS: “Hey driver!” Tits, yeah—counts two of 'em. What Logan can't quite shake isn't the drunk-off-her ass's $20,000 tit job, or even the way his passengers embarrass themselves with shameless come-ons, stupid amounts of money. something else, entirely—a pretty little thing all done up in makeup and curls, wishing she were anywhere but third-wheeling a drunk hen party. "Sorry about my friend, she's—" "Didn't even notice her, honey."

warnings: this is so offensively long, I'm SORRY. flirting, drunkenness, flashing, maybe some oldman!logan inappropriate thoughts, maybe a kiss, general shyness/awkardness of that girl, language, not proofread, mentions of oral sex, OC has blue eyes.

a/n: and finally, after many weeks, it's here. not entirely sure how i feel about this, it's very self indulgent. let me know what you think, and maybe there needs to be a part two?

There’s a lot of things about this fucking limo that Logan hates.

For one, you couldn’t ask for a shittier lease agreement, and if such a hellish thing dared to exist, Satan holds the pink slip. Two years ago it had seemed like a good fucking idea, leasing some long black experimental piece of Chrysler shit that was heavy off the line and a low fatass—hot as fuck though, with chrome plated lugs. Midnight metal flake showed every piece of God’s earth, the color of sin. Washed the fucker every other day. Couldn’t make green with a dirty rig, and he was an anal retentive sonuvabitch like that to begin with. And the interior, fuck that, it would tell secrets it showed every damn piece of filth that fell into it. Paid or otherwise.

This shitpiece had a tendency to run hot and burn crude, but, she got the groceries—brought home bacon, if that was even still a thing in this century. Toss up between this and the Navigator the color of bad ideas, he’d flipped for the Chrysler. Industry standard, turned heads, attracted the upper echelon. No intention of hauling around fucktards into the suburbs—black paint looked good under Vegas neon on the strip.

But the biggest fucking thing he hated about this rig— fucking privacy partition. Busted worse than a fat lip and had been since the jump. Any serious driver, that would’ve been the first thing to check. Separate him from the sin—hot piece of ass that slid into the backseat looking at him like he’s dinner, a couple too deep in on the red to think straight, the fucker on business hiding his wedding ring in his dick pocket as he picks up an STD.

The first God-awful time he’d went to use it, the damn thing had all but stood up and shrieked in his ear. Grinding gears, the knock of a seized electric motor—scared the shit out of the handsy blonde who’d been trying to get his dick wet since the moment she’d dropped into the back of the Chrysler, tits all but popping from what looked like at least a size too small black—thing. Hadn’t been a dress, he’d seen plenty of them slide in and out—she’d made a spectacle of showing off the little lace number squirreled away for the right price. And it wasn’t that he’d been preening for a look, wasn’t his style—but when it’s right there. Plain as the nose on anyone’s face, and he’s been chaste as a priest for fucking years. It taking up all the glass of his rearview, looking like a felony—the devil had all but welded his attention between her legs.

”Looks like you’re stuck with me, hm?”

Fucking partition. A business-only kiss landed two hundred green ones between his abs and the elastic of his Calvins. A handful of hours of rack and many shotglasses later had put him on the scent to hell, the damn dealership. Four hours from the border, four hours from any kind of work—he’d all but flown the thing into the service bay. Demanded a new partition. And, Logan had been laughed out of a lot of places the last two centuries he’d been sucking air—laughed, jeered, driven out with pitchforks. Circumstances aside, it all ended the same. Vamoose, pissed off his rocker.

An astronomical estimate later, with the fucked-in-the-rear-end isn’t covered by warranty—his fist had collided with the service writer’s nose faster than his patience had evaporated for the blonde. All but jammed the prick’s deviated septum up into his brainspace—Logan had felt it between his knuckles. Only thing keeping his patience held together, keeping the claws in, the man’s crunching cartilage had given him a high not much removed from amphetamine—it had felt good. Feel some asshat’s blood on his hands, staining his skin. See it hit the floor in fat, thick drops. Feel the warmth of it fade as he brushed it away, coppery scent an idea beneath his nose so familiar it may as well pay rent.

Didn’t get his partition, though. Just a bad taste of customer service and the satisfaction of seeing a grown man cry.

Logan isn’t a man to complain—never did change the cards dealt you at the gametable of living. Better to shut up and play, make due with what you’ve got than wish away opportunities. Sure, an almost-lemon of a leased Chrysler with a busted partition wasn’t great, but, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d have given his right nut for the chance to work, much less actual green. Put up and shut up had been the mantra since he’d all but popped out of his mother, and it had, for all intents and purposes, kept him this side of the dirt. Sucking air and feeling, if nothing more—and what was surviving, if not sucking air and feeling?

Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

Music that’s been muffled most of the ride tonight suddenly isn’t, the back door of the rig flinging open, a wide arch, revealing the world beyond. Neon bleeds across the black leather of his interior. A smack of humidity rushes in, almost immediately fogs the passenger windows— he keeps it ass-in-winter cold, A/C all but screaming full bore. Likes it that way, keeps him awake. Keeps them awake, he isn’t hauling anyone’s ass anywhere because they fell asleep in his seats.

And while he isn’t startled—there isn’t fucking anything that could scare him, he doesn’t think—Logan’s spine pulls into a straight line against his seat at the sliver of night outside the door. Alarm bells sound off in the back of his head, eyes narrowed on the rearview—hand all but lava, hovering over the gearshift. He’s been here before, on the jump. Ready to rock and roll, ready to kill—should killing need be. He’s lived two centuries on this edge, this cliff. Walking the line between reflex and ready. It’s almost carved into his skin, alarm—comes as naturally as the crest and fall of his chest.

Logan relaxes a little when a peek of skin slips hurriedly into the back seat, familiar stiletto heels. Air in the limo immediately snaps to an all-soldier attention, flustering—like a disturbed hen rustling her chicks. Something isn’t right, isn’t stable—nuclear, almost. Dangerous. The car shifts a little with incoming weight as one of the night’s passengers whisks into the back. Curl and makeup and the familiar whiff of peaches escorts her in as she pulls the door closed, all too quickly for this to be a normal, unbothered arrival.

Her. Muscle in his jaw ticks off, it takes willpower not to wriggle in the front seat, shift his weight a little. Usually it helped shake off the hot weight of sex rolling around the base of his gut, desire. Carnal things he’d learned to live without, suppress. Animalistic and snapping at his spine like frothing wolves. Most times, it was easy to not notice—girls, women, came and went in their short dresses and makeup. Pretty to see, but venomous little things. Maneaters, trouble on stilts. None of them were pretty–pretty in the way that mattered, pretty souls. Ugliness shot behind their eyes like bullets, low and cold. Dimes and dozens, nameless and unnoteworthy as they slipped him tips, batted their lashes, kissed him like he was their plaything because who’s he to fight a pair of tits? Forgettable is understating it.

But her? He hasn’t been able to unglue her piercing eyes from his brain matter. And, he’s tried—like it or not, he’s tried bailing water out of this canoe, a canoe that’s been hallowed and empty for God knew how long. But it’s like emptying water back into the ocean—it only comes back, heavier and heavier.

No dice. Close, but no cigar–unlucky bastard.

She’d slipped into the limo before the night had even been an idea, one of three who’d decided to split fare for a sober ride. Pharmacy, first, for little more than IVs of electrolytes and fluids—never had seen girls guzzle so fast, but, whatever. Mile-a-minute chatter he hadn’t even bothered to pace had kept them busy most of the ride into the metroplex, and Logan should’ve prayed they’d ignored him. Kept his fat trap shut and just let them guide him, but God, no. He’d asked—asked for directions. Where they were going.

Had asked, and fuck him, that had sent things off with a bang. As if they hadn’t realized he’d been there, all three of them had locked eyes with him in the rearview, surprised thrown over the air like a stifling blanket. Heartbeats later, awkward and thick, one of them had leaned forward. Arms over the seat, showing off everything God had given her as she’d all but pumped her bedazzled phone in his face as if it were a shotgun.

He’d clocked her noticing he wasn’t wearing a ring. Was jacked as fuck under an two-undone button shirt and jacket that fit him like sin. Deliberate choice, but–she’d all but started drooling right there on his lap, hungry like a starving man at banquet.

Asking God for some shred of mercy had done little—the look on her face. He’d never forget it, had seen enemies look at him with more mirth and pity. Shit. Hungry, in the eyes. Desperate, like a dying woman choking on her own libidol. After rattling off the address, it would've been faster if he’d just hit the brakes and sent her flying forward through the window. Skulking back into her seat as if it were an X-rated shot, she’d eye fucked him hard until she’d been dragged back into hushed, schoolgirl conversation. Gross.

And that was it, the beginning of the end. Eyes glued to the back of his head like some kind of anchor—Logan could’ve tasted them from here. Was hell trying not to make eye contact in the rearview, feeling their gaze hunting him like wild banshees. Spiking adrenaline, heady plumes of pheromones. Arousal, unlike anything he’d ever wanted to scent—stunk up the air like God knew. Half-starved vixens, all low and bedroom eyes, begging for trouble in all the right little ways that leave men slobbering fools. Had they been parked and out of the Chrysler, the two of them would’ve been on their knees, if not on his cock.

He’d blasted the air again, because the air in the damn car was so thick he would’ve cut it in halves.

Low lashes, smoky eyes. Lips the color of cherries. Tight black dresses and heels higher than heaven, they’d been dressed to kill—maybe a little less. Lobotomize, maybe. Cut out hearts, certainly—blue ball, absolutely.

Pity the bastard who gets the taste of these tarts, pity, and probably mercy.

Bachelorettes, he’d guessed off the gun. Correctly, too—not two blocks from CVS and out came cheap accessories. FUCK ME may as well have been written in lipstick on Stuck-In-the-Middle’s forehead, he assumed she was the future betrothed. By the look of her, much less the smell, she’d been aching for tonight. Primed and desperate, like an oil-starved pistol. Clawing for it, walking the heat of the desert for change. Something else, something new, something dangerous—cock. Dick. Be it Tom, Harry, or some other poor fool—Logan could clock it from anywhere. She’d been sitting on this for a hot minute. Maybe since she’d been born.

And Logan’s uncertain who to pity more—her or the mediocre cock she’s about prowling for—the lopsided tiara, tacky dimestore BRIDE sash out of a CVS bag were just warning signs. Red flags, if you were smart about it. Darkness in her eyes would make any man second guess the two carats on her finger, if men weren’t animals. And they were, every one of them—and she’s far too drop-dead to not demand attention, to not homewreck and ruin some poor, unsuspecting fool’s evening.

Watching her slip those two carats into her handbag, he’d just shook his head.

Silence to stir the dead had followed after they’d eye fucked him into celibacy. Blissful, sweet as the Nile quiet. A creak of movement, the slip of skin on leather—her. Short brunette curls with highlights, icy blues. Defined collarbones in a hardly-strapped dress, big earrings. Sparkles, everywhere, blended into makeup that’s been on awhile but still looks good. And she, she isn’t like the rest—not by a mile. How she moves, the way her lashes flutter. Doe-eyed and sweet. Doesn’t smell like sin, the kiss of color on her cheeks isn’t blush, either.

Peaches, this one smells like fucking peaches. Something floral.

She’s sweet. Saccharine, sugary. Like everything Logan’s forgotten. Pretty, in that girl-next-door kinda way—the way he’s always noticed, the way nobody else ever does. And what a pretty thing like her is doing in the back of his sinwagon, riding with Jezebels, hunting for trouble—he’ll never know.

Hours before this, she’d leaned forward, pretty hands on the back of his seat. Done up nails that looked fake, but not cheap. This close, he could see her contact lenses replacing nine-to-five frames, the permanent little indentations on her nose were unmissable. Ocean eyes smiled at him through the glass of his rearview, as if it were a game. Good at it, she won—he blinked first.

Offered him a little half smile, that dust of color on her nose darkening to an almost strawberry. When his eyes hit hers again from the road, icy blues ramped up like pulsing neon, unlike any he’d ever seen in two fucking centuries. Difficult to think, he’d had to realize he was holding his breath in the pocket of his cheek, hot against his molars. She’d reached across the back of the seat to gently nudge him with her elbow—hey. It should’ve sounded like something you gave to horses, but it was—considerate.

Nearly fucking polite.

You got the address okay, sir? If his tongue hadn’t swollen to the size of his balls he’d have dared to laugh at her. Sir. If he thinks hard, Logan can’t remember the last time he’d been seriously called sir, from a place of consideration, behind the ribs. He’s been alive for hundreds of years, seen a lot of shit and blood, but has been called a professional and crisp sir all but five times in his existence on God’s planet.

Shaking himself out of it, he tells himself she isn’t the first pretty skirt to grace the leathers of his Chrysler. To look pretty and smell good, to stir up his cold blood. Wouldn’t be the last, by far. Part of his marketing was that he was safe. Stuck around, even when the witching hour faded into bleeding colors of morning. Fair & There, as if he were a fucking marketing guru.

She’d slipped out of the limo with her friends even though he’d wanted her to stay. Wanted to smell her and look at her all night, mull over all the things in his life he’d abandoned. Think about how, maybe, in some other world, bend of time, something that sweet could belong to him. But, she’d thanked him. Obviously the designated sober of the night, she’d arranged to text fifteen minutes before they wanted to leave in case he wanted to get a drink or took another gig.

I’ll be here all night, and that wasn’t a lie. The flask burning a hole against his heart had enough whiskey to last him until morning, another bottle tucked under the seat for safekeeping. He was safe, he was there, and too damn tired to even try to think about driving around the city on a time schedule.

It’d been two hours, parked under the neon at the curb. Not even midnight. Normal clients would just be breaking stride, setting paces. At the gate, snorting like stallions in heat. Rutting like animals, working the game. Nothing he didn’t know all too well, he’d lived his wild years a lifetime ago—he knew what sex and booze, a good time smelled like. Could clock it every time, wasn’t daft. Had witnessed his fair share of back-alley fucks, the straightening of a hemline. Crooked buttons and tented-out slacks.

Tonight wouldn’t be different, he assumed—well. Had assumed. Which, as the saying went, made him an ass.

Her heartbeat from the frontseat is almost tangible, hard and fast. Jackrabbit—as if she’d dropped it in his hands, bleeding and raw all over his fingers. Logan’s eyes fall away from the rearview for a beat, ticks back to her when she slides across the seat. Straightening the end of her dress, which hits below the knee–or would, if she were upright, but now pulls at her thighs. And the way she fiddles with it suggests it’s shorter than it was earlier in the evening, when sin was exciting and didn’t slap like a bitch.

Tucked in against the opposite door, looking out tinted glass like it’s a skyline worth seeing, not just a lot of nothing. And something’s off, he can feel it in the little pulses of electricity of the air, the heat in her blood. Anger. The tick tick tick of frustrated fingernails on the edge of the window. Upset. It buzzes in her blood, which he can feel thumping against her bones from here. Slick scent of sweat between her thighs, swirls of alcohol and pyrotechnic smoke mixed with fairy dusting drugs. It’s enough to make him shift, crack the window.

Long gone are the peaches and florals, now she just bleeds with heat and virility enough to stir the gods. Fucking perfect.

How long’s it been, old boy? Dull pangs in his cock make him shift up in his seat, stir some blood into his feet. Eyerolls, gaze hitting the pavement out his window, sick fuck. Just a girl, just like the rest. Reaches inside his breast pocket for a cigar and a light.

And as much as he wishes it isn’t true, Logan can’t quite shake that she ain’t just a girl—not by a shot, long or short. He’s seen a thousand of them, sure—seen and tasted and fucked senseless. Yeah. But—none like this. None that make him burn at the drop of a hat and a smile. None that twist his guts like a corkscrew, rip him open like he’s a fresh kill. He didn’t even know her name, anything about her. He swore to God he wasn’t this type of man, couldn’t be bought with some pretty eyes and cherry lipstick. Happened to wet-behind-the-ears boys only ever hoping their balls dropped into manhood, not guys like him. Not men that had seen a thing or two, not men who had sampled the female sex from every fucking era the last two hundred years had presented.

Not men with demons, not men with metal bones and rust spinning through his cells like Satan’s blood. Not him.

But it doesn’t seem to matter, because her presence in the limo upsets his sensibilities like an earthquake. Seemed to fillet him like a fat bass, pull his ribs back to watch his heart beat. Everything he didn’t know, everything she could be—choked the life out of him, those wicked blues heavy as steel. If he weren’t careful, she’d see through him, like—like memories. And she, like everyone else, wouldn’t like what she saw lurking in his bones, in the organ behind his ribs.

All his life hiding who he is, years hiding from everything the world wanted to label him, only to—

Fuck. Yeah. Something’s off—is his leg bouncing? The fuck is that about? Fuck, fuck. His fingers card through his hair, cough aching in his bronchial tubes. Shit.

Another glance in the glass reveals she isn’t even looking at him, thoughts out the window in the shifting low lights of the limo’s interior. Maybe a million miles from here, but nonetheless—she’s everywhere, every damn where in the space of the Chrysler, this sinwagon that’s messing with his head. Everything about her. Her scent, her pheromones playing him like a fucking game, the heat along her spine. Blood in her veins, ripping through her heart, the pull and push of arteries and cardiovascular muscle. Mesh of her lungs, rising and falling. He’s tuned into it like it’s the fucking evening news.

And everything about this is wrong, his guts swim with it.

Fingering the cigar between two swollen knuckles, Logan ignores pain that zings. Rips through the adamantium in his arm like it’s starving, hunting for air. And Logan is maybe considering that he’s lost his mind, that it’s somehow taken up residence in his dick, when—-a sniffle.

Good fuck. Is she crying? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It’s magic, the little breathy thing girls do when they’ve been crying, but don’t want you to flag it. Witchraft, maybe. Men will never understand how they do it, cry without tears, but—it’s a thing. Definitely, confirmed by science somewhere, some egghead in a lab taking notes on female specimens and how they manage such emotion while still looking like she does. Vaguely his memories spin with all the girls he’s known throughout his life, and how every single one of them have this ability hardwired into their core being, mutations aside.

Biting the cigar between his teeth in the corner of his mouth, he flicks the lighter between his thumb and index finger, holding it up in line of sight. His head angles to look up at the rearview, a rough cough rattling the mesh of his lungs enough to trigger her attention. And sure enough, she has been crying—her knuckle gently brushes at the trails of tears all but neon on her face beneath the limo’s lights, eyes flicking to the rearview to meet his.

Coughing, he eases his back against the seat. Hot muscle burns a little as tension bleeds away, “You care if I smoke?”

And why he asks, Logan isn’t sure—he’s never asked before. Then again, he’s never had to ask, because it’s a standing policy to not smoke on a gig. Tonight, though, he needs something to do with his hands, to calm the magma rushing through his blood, the cold sweat bubbling up on the back of his neck. Staining his white fucking shirt. Even a blush from the grave and exhausted, slowly dying away from whatever is inside of him, he isn’t an idle man. If he doesn’t do something, he won’t be able to help himself—he can barely fight back the urge to not lose whatever sanity’s buried alive and get himself off, right here and now.

Anything to masquerade the scent of whatever’s slick between her legs. You are a sick, perverted fuck, Logan. True, probably. But it’s been years, a lot of years. And he hasn’t wanted a lot of women, hasn’t clocked many that he’d actually enjoy rousting up a fantasy over. And she smells like a good time, something he may not actually regret. That would be a first.

Tucking a little tighter against the door, her eyes close as she gently shakes her head. Curls flick around her features as she does, and she cracks her window before reaching forward to slip off both shoes. Logan had noticed them—yellow, bright highlighter yellow so jovial they may as well have smacked him upside his head. So out of place, but they were sexy as hell—he’d always appreciated a well dressed woman, and as impractical as they were, high heels did add a punch of something that made him a little hard in the dick.

“I do, but go ahead,” it’s a little sigh, one he’s all but five-star VIP familiar. “One of us should enjoy ourselves, anyway.”

In zero to none he flicks the lighter to life, burns the edge of the cigar until it’s hot. Thick, it rides his throat perfectly—chases that gut-twisting urge that’s coiled around the base of his spine like a viper. Through his blood it goes, ramping up the rust and poison and years that kill, and he heaves a sigh—falls back a little rougher against the seat. That ache in his cock twitches, but she retreats.

His eyes fall closed, heart settling down behind his bones. “You wouldn’t happen to sell those little bottles of booze in this rig, would you?” Makes him start a little, and Logan blinks. A little surprised, he angles to look over his shoulder at her, arm lifting to drape over the bench seat. Brow raised, she elaborates, obviously reading his expression. “You know, the luxury part of ‘luxury accomodations’?”

“Not a part of the deal, honey.”

“Ah, you don’t like money, then,” the corner of her mouth ticks up with a smirk when he shifts a little more in his seat to study her. He catches what she lays down, without thinking. “And I ain’t anyone’s ‘honey’, so don’t be an ass and assume. Please.” Blinking, Logan can’t remember the last time he felt his stomach actually lift with amusement—the little way she says her ‘o’s’ is dangerous, suggests the north–either Canada. Minnesota, Wisconsin. North Dakota maybe? Anywhere but this far on the border, the edge of the world. Interesting.

Fucking Calliban. Knew he’d regret the hard copy that albino had suggested, but, it was too little too late. Surprised, he manages a little growl of complaint before he leans forward, hand fumbling against the floorboard carpet of the passenger’s side. Knuckles nudge the bottle of Jack Daniels, and he grabs the neck of it before allowing it to dangle between his fingers. Amber liquid dances like a tornado through the bottle, sloshing against the glass like a dream.

Unstopping it, he pulls back a sharp drink of it. “Have at it,” it’s rough, raw. Irritation peeks through the teeth of it, but it’s more resigned than anything.

Leaning forward, her eyes hold his and she hesitates to snatch the bottle away, hand hanging in the air. She’s got lithe fingers, bigger hands—hands that look strong. His attention cocks slightly when he notices the callouses, the scars on her knuckles. They aren’t polished, nine-to-five office hands like ninety percent of the girls who pass through his service. Briefly he wonders what her fake nails would feel like curled against skin, but dismisses it when she plucks the bottle from between his fingers.

“Thanks,” her chuckle comes from her gut, almost a growl of relief that says finally! as she puts the cool class to her lips. Guzzles back a full shot. Rights, her cherry lips part into a small smile as she hands the bottle back, passing her thumb over left behind lipstick. “Good God that burns,” managing a little cough, Logan replaces the stop and pops it between his thighs. “But it’s good. Takes the edge off.”

I bet it does. He manages a growling mhm, settling back into his seat. Thinking that’s the last of it. Content to look out the window and smoke his cigar, not think about the heat ricocheting off the adamantium in his pelvis. How it stirs up his blood, how her voice is that perfect lilt of low and just high enough.

Head swimming with the mental picture of her beneath him, breathless and hot, he bristles to attention when her arms drape over the front seat. Very suddenly all Logan can smell is the heady smell of woman and sweat rolling off of her like a locomotive.

She mutters under her breath something Logan can’t quite track, bit the way she picks at a nail with her teeth, gaze anywhere but inside the low limo’s lighting, would imply negatives. And she could’ve started reciting the phone book, he wouldn’t have noticed—far too busy noticing cleavage and the valley of her collarbones to be able to think straight.

But his stare gets heavy, she notices the thick air that’s smothering the limo like a wet dream–her eyes find his, a little smile at the corner of her mouth when his flick away. Oh, good fuck. Her eyes bore into him through the rearview. Uncapping the Jack, he takes another sharp pull of it. It chases the warmth in the back of his throat, blooming in his chest like he didn’t know what.

More pregnant silence. She shifts against the leather, hot skin sticky against it. Reaching to put the car in accessory, Logan fiddles with the A/C. He clocks her swiping her heels from the floor, wrangling them back on her feet—hadn’t she just taken the damn things off?

“I should go get them before either of them do something they’ll regret,” her eyes cast to the clock on the dash, which isn’t terribly far from his ID information, which is offensively just there. “It’s late.” It isn’t, not really. Logan thinks this has to be the most conservative hen party in the history of such things, but his jaw clamps shut.

If he can bail them out of his car early, he may be able to catch a few hours of sleep before the early-hour rush. That hour when last call sends boozers into the streets, looking for rides. That’s where the money was, after all—and God knew he could use the dough.

Her hand floating over the handle of the door, as if she’s waiting for his consent. “Paid by the hour, darlin’,” and Logan does not miss the way darlin’ hits her—sharp eyes flick down to his mouth for a fraction of a heartbeat, a little plume of color lifting to the apples of her cheeks that definitely isn’t rouge. Blush, they called it now. She has plenty of it on her face, but it darkens something pretty in a way that, usually, would amuse him.

Instead, now, he just lifts a hand to slot through the openings on the Chrsyler’s steering wheel, ignoring the ache between his knuckles.

He can’t have arthritis, can he? Popping the latch, he twists out of the limo. Crosses around the front through the headlights to her side. A flick of his fingers and he pulls open the door, highlighter yellow heels spilling out to the pavement in that Hollywood way.

He doesn’t do this— he makes a habit not to touch customers. Usually his hand finds his pocket, as a rule. But for some reason, her eyes skating through the dark, panning around the street and the front of the club, lights the mesh of his lungs on fire. Offering her his hand, its appearance before her drops a rod through her spine—she straightens, blinking at it once before her fluttery lashes look up at him.

He wonders if the little flick of muscle in her jaw actually takes muscle memory. Looking at him with a look that’s uncertain, that’s you sure? heartbeats pass and make the moment uncomfortable. Shuffling his weight on his feet, his hand falls from the door and to his pocket, palming the lighter against his thigh. Phlegm and whatever else God created in the human body rattles around the poison in his chest, a low cough echoing off his bones.

It takes her a second to collect, looking between him and his hand. “By the hour. Right,” her eyes skate down his chest, over all of him, as if she’s making sure. Her hand slips into his too lightly to matter, as if she’s making an effort to limit contact—and that’s a good thing, because Logan is fairly sure the world had stopped spinning, the electrical pulses of his body kicking to overdrive at just how alive her skin feels. Senses heightened to infinity. He could count stars, maybe, with the way her nails deliciously press into his palm, rough and hard. Warm, the scent of peaches all but punches his lights out—he can’t even taste his cigar, body enamored with the way she smells, how her hand all but boils in his.

The fuck, Logan.

Stepping out, sharp eyes navigate the front of the club, and a blackhole of the universe suddenly opens between them when her hand falls away. Heels tick against the concrete as she turns to face him batting the door closed. Hands in pockets, he kicks back against the Chrysler. Waiting.

“Thanks,” her smile is small, eyes casting down to the filth of midnight on the concrete, “It shouldn’t be long.”

He shrugs, “‘S your money, honey,” is followed by a grunt as she nods, turns on her heel. Sashays back into the front of the club before flashing a wristband to the bouncer. Between the help eyeballing her in that dress and Logan unable to stop ogling just how it clings, highlights every curve of her, it’s a miracle either of them are still standing.

Reappearing fifteen minutes later with girlfriends in tow, Logan folds them into the limo politely, without incident. Giggling, traces of the night have painted both of her companions—long gone is the bride sash and dimestore plastic tiara. Replaced by smudged-and-attempted-to-be-fixed makeup. Teased hair, ruffled clothes. Nobody could miss that hickey for anything, it would take stock-market shattering amounts of base to cover it up—Mars would have a better time trying to see needles in haystacks. No amount of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes, sweat hanging out as an idea under his nose could cut through that unmistakably sweet musk of sex, sweat.

Before Logan can ask where to point the Chrysler, the other girl pops off an address from her phone to what is most definitely not their hotel, or anywhere remotely in the neighborhood of partylife. Brow raised, Logan peeks the rearview to see his companion whirl so quickly in her seat, he wonders how her head is still attached. Look on her face says everything words don’t, but she asks anyway—”Where the hell is that?”

Trying not to overhear, but it’s impossible, he fiddles with the temperature controls again when the one lifts the hair from the back of her neck. “It’s a hotel,” no shit, it’s the most expensive district in the area. Highbrows stay here—he’d picked them up on the opposite side of the metro, in the middle class accommodations. Sour bile splashes up the back of his throat, jaw setting–he knows what’s about to happen.

“No, really? And here I thought it was the frickin’ monastery,” lunging over her friend stuck in the middle, she plucks the phone from her friend’s hand—laughing hysterically, face flushed with alcohol and tipsy giggles, her jaw opens fully on its hinge. Rapt attention almost has his heart exploding, he nearly misses the stop sign—pops the brake a little hard.

She studies herself against the door, eyes flicking to him for half a second. Phone flipping screen first to her friend, she nods to it. “Who the hell is Mike?” Lowering the phone to her lap, her eyes skate between the two friends, hard. Heavy. Fast. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me—”

“It’s just a fling,” her name rolls off her friend’s tongue sourly, like cold venom. If Logan weren’t so invested in the outcome of this conversation he’d think it was almost melodic, a unique name. Fine and perfect for the sweet little thing currently erupting in his backseat. Too busy pacing traffic, his tongue skates along over his back molars, “don’t get your panties in a twist, honey. It’ll just for a few hours, to have some fun.”

“A few hours?” The actual squeak in her tone was laughable, “You’re joking—you’re actually kidding me. You can’t just go fuck some random guy you met in a bar, you’re getting married.” Offensive hangs in the words like a hot iron, branding itself into the atmosphere with weighty judgment enough to make her chest rise and fall with rapid, uneven breaths. “I won’t let you—”

Eyeroll extreme, Logan could’ve flinched with how much it snaps like a whip. “Oh my god, would you just chill out?” Looking to the other friend, who’s phone is still held captive on her lap, Logan bites the inside of his cheek. Like black cobras their chests fan out, both of them turning to cast frigid judgment to their third, who is pressed against the door to create distance from the very idea of the two of them. For fuck’s sake, “It’s just oral, honey—”

He snorted. All their eyes trip to him, but Logan is nothing if not suave—covering with a cough, he bites back a smile into his lower lip, looking down to his lap. Holy shit, they were actually having this conversation. In the back of his limo. If he weren’t so amused, it could be hot. Smokin’.

But the look on his companion’s face is too horrified, too innocent for him to take any enjoyment out of the topic of conversation flitting beneath the lights of the limo. It’s scandalousm, really. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but, it just—it didn’t fit. Without knowing anything about much, he knows this isn’t her. Neon Heels, brunette curls. Lipstick barely upset, smelling like peaches of sweat. He could feel it in the very adamantium slowly flogging life out of his body.

Color drains out of her face, milkwhite like a ghost. He’s fairly certain she’d rather cut out her tongue and serve it to him on a silver platter than actually go through with such things. Logan knows a thing or two about life, he’s studied humanity for a lot of fucking years—he knew the good ones when he saw them. Pure, untouched.

Or, at the very least, good.

“Just oral?”

“Would you just stop, ok? Nobody is asking you to come up. Don’t need to be all, all pissy just because nobody noticed you at the bar,” and it’s hot, like acid. Cutting to bone. Logan watches the words cut like knives through the mesh of her chest, and if his collar wasn’t absolutely on fire, he’d have the audacity to smack some decency into whatever the fuck this chick’s problem was. “It’s not your thing. That’s fine. It’ll be just fine,” leaning forward, the bride informs him that once he’d dropped them at the hotel, he can take her back to their hotel. We’ll just Uber back in the morning.

“Fine by me.”

And it makes more sense, the longer he thinks about it. Explained the tears, the fluster in the atmosphere. Pushing the Chrysler through traffic, the tension in the atmosphere snaps like a rubber band—she doesn’t even flinch. In fact, her jaw clenches. Muscles ticks off bone, and she hands back her friend’s phone before falling back into the seat, eyes cast out the window like they’ve been welded to the darkness. Wind out of her sails, her elbow props on the windows ledge, subconsciously her hand covers half of her face. Quiet as death, unmoving as a sarcophagus.

Logan had never seen someone’s soul die while they were still alive, but he figures this was close.

Silence enough to make the dead uncomfortable follows for a few seconds. He focuses his attention on driving the limo rather than looking in the rearview, because noticing the look on her face, actually caring, is so far out of his pay grade that it’s laughable. To her credit, he doesn’t think she’s actually crying—hell would sooner freeze over, he reckons—but her brow is set in such a hard line, that he can almost read the regret on her face in red letter clarity.

Ensuing conversation about how the bride’s tits look in her hardly-there dress has him almost disinterested. Guiding the Chrysler up to the curb of the hotel, he almost misses "Hey driver!" that's more giggle than it is anything else. Eyes tracking to the rearview, Logan isn’t nearly as surprised as he thought he would be when she rips down the front of what was once, probably, an investment dress—tits, yeah. Nice ones, too—bought and paid for by the looks of it. Tits that size don’t just sit up at attention without a calculated surgeon’s hand.

“Like what you see?”

Puffing out a little nervous chuckle, his brow trips up. He shakes his head, amused. Erupting into a fit of snickers and snorts, their cheeks darken with heat. Falling against themselves, the two of them think they’re fucking hilarious as they begin to discuss the course of their adventure. May as well be full fledged pornography in the back of his rig, the things that fly—it sparks up his blood, empties his mouth of any moisture Jack Daniels may have rousted.

God couldn’t have brought up the hotel’s curb any faster, he thinks. Dropping the Chrysler into park, he angles to pop the latch on his door. Misses completely the moan of leather, the little rock of moving bodies shifting around the backseat.

Logan all but jumps when two hands come around him from behind. “Maybe you should come upstairs, driver—bet you could show a young bride a thing or two, huh?” Fuck, fuck fuck—hands that palm down his chest, snake under the buttons of his white shirt are hot. Hot, practiced. Soft and deliberate, one of their nails flick against his nipple, beneath his undershirt—he grunts back a sharp breath, head all but braced against the Chrysler’s hard headrest.

Adamantium kisses the flesh of his knuckles, and it takes effort not to let loose—more brainpower than he wants to admit, fighting back the reflex. Hand shaking on his knee, he inhales an uneasy breath and presses the heel of either hands onto his knees, biting the corner of his chapped lip. Hand drifting lower, almost to his abs, he snatches her wrist with a speed he doesn’t remember. Couldn’t, hadn’t, for as long as he can think back.

“Somethin’ tells me you know plen’y, honey,” his eyes narrow in the rearview. “Plus, I don’t do free fucks.”

She chuckles, pleased. “Who said anything about free?” Lifting her hand away from inside his shirt, he throws her off—cackling like the little witch she is, she folds out of the limo with her friend, “Very professional of you, driver,” he couldn’t miss the darkness in her tone if he’d tried as she winks at him from his window, “drive safe. Precious cargo, back there.”

Could’ve fooled him.

A wiggle of her fingers goodbye to her friend in the backseat, the hotel’s thick doors swallow both of them whole. Vanishing in a twirl of hair and makeup, Logan turns in his seat to consider his last passenger. She hasn’t moved, merely has kicked off her heels—but she has allowed herself to cry. Fresh tears fall down the length of her cheeks, but she doesn’t sniffle. They’re silent, powerful. Say everything words don’t need to—it’s a deep knife, one that bleeds. Logan can see the film reel running through her brain, on repeat. As if it has subtitles. A black and white horror show of just exactly what had happened, how she’d ended up here.

Curling a leg up under herself, Logan watches her shrink into as small of herself as she can, forehead resting against the cool glass of the limo’s window. And it’s tragic, really—someone who looks like that, reduced to a teary, smoldering shell of a person by mere words. Logan knew people were cruel, he’d seen the worst of humanity up close and personal. His own life was hell trapped in bones and flesh, his own history more horrific than anything Hollywood could dream up.

He drives. That’s what he does, that’s who Logan is now. A driver.

It’s another 20 minutes across town. And the ride is ominous, a mummified tomb that’s suffocating no matter how much air whisks into the limo from open windows. Trapped between wanting to say something and unsure of how to react, he relaxes a little when she finally slips earphones in—mindlessly scrolling a cell phone. Swiping at tears that ruin makeup she no longer cares about. Alone in her own little world of music and heartache, he watches the night fall away from her—her hair goes back into clips, away from her face. Earrings come off. Out come the contacts, replaced instead with glasses from the purse she’d left on the floorboards. Gum, more scrolling on her phone. Heels set on the seat beside her–finally her eyes close as she rests against the cool glass.

Gently rolling the Chrysler to a stop at the curb, she sits up. Breathlessly, she stretches a little, lashes fluttering behind frames that accentuate the shape of her face. And Logan doesn’t remember thinking anyone has ever looked good in glasses, but she topples such ideology when she beats him to the punch—she pops the latch on the door and steps out, barefoot. Heels tucked under her arm, purse hanging off her shoulder, she meets him at his door when he slips out of the front seat.

Handling cash had never felt so cold, bitter. She doesn’t look at him as she counts it into his hand, more than they’d agreed. Slipping the remainder of it back into her bag, she steps back, smiling at him softly. Resigned. Apologetic. Light from the overhang of the hotel sets off whatever shine is on her face, tear stains all but left behind—replaced instead with pink cheeks and sad, swollen eyes.

“Should be square,” she nods to the cash in his hand, “you can count it again if you want, I won’t be offended.” Briefly Logan thinks to care if her friends had managed their parts of the fare, but he dismisses it when she bites the inside of her cheek, tongue skating over her bottom lips as she shifts awkwardly on her feet. “Thank you so much for tonight—you have a beautiful limousine. The whiskey was great, thank you.”

Nodding once, he shrugs a shoulder. She’s buying time in that awkward little way people do when they’re not sure what to say, but think they have to say something. She doesn’t, wouldn’t ever—but he wants her to, strangely. Logan could stand here and listen to her come up with things to say the rest of the night, if he knew it wouldn’t deepen the color on her face, drive a little deeper the knife that’s still gutting her in the ribs.

Sucking in a sharp breath, her eyes track up to his from her feet standing on the warm concrete. “Listen, Logan—” she remembered his name, “I’m sorry about my friend. She’s really wasted, and it totally wasn’t alright for her to proposition you like that. It was actually gross—but that’s not who she is, not really. I’m sorry. She’s just—”

“—didn’t even notice her, honey.” He lies. What else is there to do but lie to this pretty little thing, bloodletting her own pride out at his feet? For a long set of years, Logan has believed there’s very little good left in the human species—very few people who are worth giving two fucks about. But she’s so galiant, defending some slut’s non-existent honor, drowning in her own humiliation and everything he can only imagine happened during a hen party gone sideways.

“Oh, uh, well—” oh. How she says it, the little curve of her mouth. That accented “o”. It’s enough to make him insane, honestly. He’s been with her two hours and can hardly think past the twitch of his cock, the little ache that niggles in the back of his head. Behind his eyes. It gets a little hard to fight, the snapping air between the two of them—for a man who knows what it feels like, it’s difficult. She couldn’t be more nonplussed. Which says more than it needs too, makes it all the more sweet. “Sorry, oh my gosh. I’m just a little—I don’t do things like this.”

And that is honorable, even if there’s very little honor left among the thieves of humanity. She is honorable. So saccharine and pretty it physically hurts him, drying out the back of his throat and knocking at his ribs like a damn jackhammer. Her eyes holding his, searching for anything else, are so deep and alive, bright in the way only Polaris could ever challenge—he suddenly forgets where he is, what century it is. How he got here, what he’s doing, reaching for the thin strap of her dress.

The back of his knuckle gently skips over her skin, the strap of the dress. And before Logan can even manage a breath, his hand moves under her chin, tips it up a little. Unmoving, her eyes widen like two bright moons, light catching them and opening them up like oceans fully unpassable to the known universe. From here he can feel her pulse flying through her blood, and couldn't miss the butterflies in her stomach if he’d been on a different planet. And maybe she’s never been appreciated like this—maybe she’s never felt seen.

Fuck, the things he could do to her. “Quit apologizin’ for bein’ sweet,” he manages a low rasp, the corner of his mouth ticking up with a little grin, “very few pretty things left in the world that’re sweet,” tipping her chin up a little further, his lips hover over hers. “And I bet you taste as good as you look, honey.” Tucking some hair behind her ear, he rubs one of her curls between the calluses on his fingers.

He gets back in his car, and Logan drives. Because that's what he does—he drives.

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00 @th3mrskory @blossoming-hotch

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briseroyawritingsblog · 1 day ago

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𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔

𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒎𝒂𝒏!𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

• +18 minors do not interact. faul language, inappropriate thoughts, mutual attraction, large age gap, etc.

𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 / 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

divider by @anitalenia

Working in red light district was nothing but dangerous. Even though it paid your bills perfectly you hated your job. You hated the fact that men gawked at your body, sticking their drunk ugly faces on the window. Your job was to stand behind the glass and to lure more men inside the pleasure house. It was called bordello but it was a bar, strip club, and much more. It was filthy, men were disgusting. Treating women like objects. You would never let men treat you that way or even touch you. Applying cherry lipstick to your lips it was your turn to stand behind the glass— few hours of misery. This time there was a chair where you could sit but you had to give a little show to desperate married men who came in and threw dollar bills at your box because you were so damn pretty for them. Behind all that makeup and pretty stockings was just a normal woman. A woman who had a normal soul and who was never touched by a man before.

Logan groaned as he parked his black Chrysler just in front of the bordello. Your gaze immediately landing on the men who were stepping out of the limo. Chatting and holding bottle of dark liquor. The driver seemed to be a tall man dressed in black. His grey hair complimented his outgrown beard and the specs on top of his nose only added to his handsomeness. You sat down on your chair, parting your legs biting your lower lip. The men which came out of his limo were already glued to the window swooning at your legs and your high heels. One of them even licked the window and you smiled. Logan met your gaze, your beauty mesmerised him— you were there like a doll. So small.. he grunted shutting the door on his limo lighting a cigar leaning against his car. He was told to wait so even if he would wait for hours he was getting paid for it. He didn’t mind that- it just really gave him some time to drink away his worries and aches in his body. Holding the cigar between his lips he looked at his phone. The more you observed him, the more he reminded you of someone. Taking your time to observe his trembling hands, his cough gave you a tiny worry. Maybe he was sick? But why so much liquor?

“Come on sweetheart give us a twirl maybe bend over so we can see those pretty thongs are you wet for us? Are we getting lucky? look at you let me pay you for the night. How much do you want?” One of the men approached your glass and you smiled. How did you want? You wanted to get out of the box and just go home. “I am not a toy” you replied making him chuckle gulping on the whiskey which he held in his hand telling his friends that somehow he wants only you. “Of course you’re a fucking toy, now get out of the glass and suck my dick.” Logan heard it, oh he heard what they were saying. Choosing to ignore the thunder in his chest he sighed. You looked at the man by his limo and then back at the rude men tears filling your eyes. How long did you have to endure this torture. Your line of work came with so much hatred. “Nah dude she’s not going to move, let her go. Let’s go inside” you sighed with a relief as they disappeared inside the club. Your heart nearly jumping out of your chest.

Logan didn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you because you were too beautiful to look at. You were a sin and he was an old man who would never have a chance to be graced by your presence. You weren’t a stripper for sure and you weren’t a ‘working’ girl either. You were just… you.

The next following days you had the same customers coming to the bordello. You cringed at the sounds which could be heard from the down the hall as you walked out your closet. You wore a black mesh dress, your neck occupied black beads with a cross. Your hair was straightened this time and you had a black matte lipstick on your lips. Stepping inside your box you gazed outside, men were standing outside drinking and smoking and there it was. The black limo parked just opposite the club, smoke coming out the window. Logan was watching you again, he waited until you came on. He could indulge gazing at you all night long if time would allow him. You were gorgeous— your outfit was different and he understood that you had to dress up to meet men’s expectations but hell you looked like a sin. The way your lips wrapped around the cross he groaned and looked away. Why was he even there? Why did he stay? You knew he was looking at you and it was nothing wrong with it. In fact he was giving you a sense of safety. You were desired and hungered for but this man was different wasn’t he?

Finishing your shift three hours later, you changed out of the clothes which you hated the most and slipped on a pair of jeans. An oversized shirt, pair of fluffy socks and uggs. Wrapping yourself in a hoodie you grabbed your bag and car keys to leave. Like this you were almost unrecognisable— walking out the club using the back door of course you heard men nearby. You hurried to your car until they stopped you by pushing you against it.

“Here she is! Are we getting what we want tonight?” You wanted to scream. A hand came up to your lips shushing your whimpers and screams tears rolling down your cheeks. No.. you didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to be hit. Closing your eyes you prayed..

Oh god.. help me..

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silverskyeline · 17 hours ago

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me: why can't i write, i can't be burned out, why would i be burned out

also me: wrote 33k combined for promptobers last month

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loganhowlettshousewife · 3 days ago

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animal

chapter 5.5

friendly reminder that i am not a writer, i'm just a girl who loves logan howlett and wanted to write something exploring his animalistic side since i so rarely see it done. my first language is also not english, so please do not be rude when giving me any feedback.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, introspection

series masterlist │my masterlist

“did you mean it? when you said you would want me even if i was more like,” a pause, “like an animal?”

you hum, cuddling further into his side, chasing the warmth of shared body heat. “of course. i kind of miss it, actually. there’s something weirdly attractive about you acting on just pure instinct, you know?”

he doesn’t know, actually. his entire life he’s been told to behave in a certain way - there were those who wanted him to be an animal, a violent killer with no human morals or thoughts to interfere with his orders, and those who told him he needed to reign in the feral aspects of his mutation, who called him a monster for the way he was born.

even amongst mutants he wasn’t always treated well. they had interesting abilities, beautiful things that belonged in movies or books or fairytale stories. they could control the elements and create things from practically nothing, while he only knew how to destroy. he brought chaos and bloodshed everywhere he went.

he was the kind of mutant that made people uncomfortable, the kind of mutant people saw as a freak of nature, a mistake. people like him were the reason mutants would never be accepted within society. he was too violent, too dangerous, too much of a threat.

they would fight for mutant rights, but turn right around and tell him to hide who he was, to be gentle or kind or better, whatever they decided that meant. because his nature made everyone uncomfortable.

and he understood that. because logan hated himself as much, if not more, than they all seemed to hate him. he’s always hated his instincts, hated how it made him feel, hated the way he felt that he couldn’t always control himself, hated what they made him.

so he’s always hidden parts of himself, never fully revealing who he is to anyone. in return, he finds people who love him, or at least who claim that they do, and the need for acceptance that presses down on his heart lessens into a bearable weight.

it was why he’d been so ashamed when he’d started to regain his memories, flashes of his past showing up in his dreams. for months he’d acted on his natural instincts with you, every lesson he’s ever been taught temporarily erased from his mind. he’d allowed himself to be wild, feral, a disgusting beast that doesn’t qualify as human. a monster.

and yet here you are, telling him that you find it attractive, smiling at him as if he hasn’t spent his entire life running from himself, being hunted down for his mutation for one reason or another, either to kill or to use. he’s a weapon to some, an uncontrollable animal to others, a mutant to be trained for a new purpose every time someone new finds him.

but to you, he’s just logan.

you don’t run or hide from what he is, you accept him with open arms. and that’s terrifying, the trust that you’ve placed in him, because all he’s ever done is hurt people, and you have absolutely no defences, nothing to protect you when he inevitably fucks up again.

he doesn’t think he’ll be able to let go of everything he’s taught himself just like that, let go of the control he’s spent centuries honing and perfecting to allow his instincts to crawl to the forefront of his mind. not after so long. but it physically hurts him to hold back at times, and the thought that maybe he’s finally found a place where he doesn’t need to deal with that pain, a place where he doesn’t need to hide - it makes the constant ache in his chest lessen just the slightest bit.

he’s still traumatised and plagued with horrible memories, anger still runs in his veins like blood, but all of that feels easier to cope with when he kisses and bites at your neck, scenting you, claiming you. and you let him, giggling with your hands in his hair.

your scent is happy, bright and warm like a sunny afternoon. he’s making you happy like this, the animal in him is making you happy like this.

taglist: @mystiquesvendetta @raeinyourdreams @babey-fruit-bat @meetmypointlessaddiction @kneelforloki @deaky-with-a-c @hypermarvellove @littlepeanut03 @the-ruler-of-death @aliengutzstuff @misscrissfemmefatale @mynamesstevenwithav @teaganthemorningstar @blackkatzz @leryg0 @fries11 @forksloree @i5uckersblog @dragovegogrimborn @quillycrow @melday0105 @just-a-little-cellist @scorpiosaintt @akasha157-blog @insanesosciopath @eridektbh @trickstergabriel69 @lord-bingus666

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mrshowlettsgarden · 2 days ago

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Imaginary Concerts: Logan Howlett - the one when Logan comes home to an amazing sight

─➭ pairing: lumberjack!Logan Howlett x professor!fem!reader

─➭ prompt #14: They pull them close by their waist and whisper in their ear "You had no business looking that good back there."

─➭ content warning: non-mutant au, tooth-rotting fluff, abrupt ending(?)

─➭ a/n: the lyrics are from "Love Today" by MIKA and "Cosmic Love" by Florence and the Machines; this was requested from @kellyxo1 link here

●∘◦❀◦∘● ●∘◦❀◦∘● ●∘◦❀◦∘● ●∘◦❀◦∘●

You pulled out the duster and other cleaning supplies from one of the hallway closets. It was finally your day off from a chaotic work week and cleaning was something you’ve been wanting to do. You then grab your phone and earbuds to help you wind down and let loose.

“Been cryin’ for so long! Fightin’ tears just to carry on!” your voice rang throughout your home as you swayed to the beat of the song.

It felt so good to let go of your crazy dance moves while you wiped off the counters in the kitchen then vacuumed the whole house. And now, you’re finishing up with dusting. You were jumping, swaying your hips and head to the beat of one of your favorite songs, all while holding the swiffer duster in your hand.

“But now! But now, it’s gonna wait!” you continued to sing out loud.

You had the music near blaring into your ears as you continued to clean and sing to your heart's content. Being lost in your own world had you forgetting that your husband comes home around this time from work.

Logan had just pulled up and parked in the driveway of your home. He let out a sigh as he unbuckled his seatbelt then exited the car. Today wasn’t particularly a hard day but throwing an ax into trees thicker than rawhide is very tiring on the body. Especially knowing that you’ve been home without him all day was dragging him down to.

Even after smothering you with kisses before he left the house wasn’t enough. But he’s home now and he’s about to smother you in kisses again.

He unlocked the door with another heavy sigh before freezing with an amused look on his face. There you were jumping on the couch and singing (screaming) out a bunch of lyrics while you dusted the wedding pictures on the walls. A sweet smile graced his lips as he continued to admire you and your wonderful dance moves while he took off his boots and set down his tool bag right next to them.

You still haven’t noticed him being busy with the imaginary concert you got going on with yourself yet. He moved closer to where you are in the living room, stopping just close enough so he can continue to watch you. As he leans against the wall with his armed crossed you let out a particular high-pitched sound as you sang out loud.

“The stars! The moon! They have all been blown out!” you sang, “You left me in the dar-r-r-k!”

Logan’s eyebrow raised with an impressive look on his face as he watched you use the duster as a microphone as you sang the lyrics. You jumped off the couch still dancing to whatever beat you’re listening to as you continued your dusting endeavors over to the bookcase. He loves coming home to this part of you. Don’t get him wrong, wanting to smother you in wet kisses all over your face makes his day but seeing you like this; still with bed head hair, lounge shorts, and one of his white t-shirts, all while singing to your favorite music is heaven itself.

You were spinning as you jumped to the song before you lout out a startled yelp seeing your hunk of a husband standing against the wall with a real smile on his face.

“Fuck, Logan,” you giggle as you pull your ear buds out, “You can’t just scare me like that.”

A breathy laugh comes out as he continues to stare you down with admiration, “Keep dancin’ baby,” he nods to your phone in a teasing tone.

A wave of embarrassment rushed through your body and into your cheeks. He’s been watching you this whole time. How long has he been home?

“Oh my- ugh!” you laugh with a groan, “You’ve been watching me this whole time?”

Logan laughs as he moves off the wall to walk towards you. “Well, not the whole time,” he says with a smile, "Just long enough to see you throw your hips back."

You groan in embarrassment again as he reaches towards you. “That is something I’ve never wanted you to see,” you laugh as you run your hands up his chest.

“We’ve been married for over five years. I will always want to see you dancing like that,” he chuckles, feeling you playfully push him away to walk away with a roll of your eyes and a sweet smile, “Hey, where you goin’, huh?” he smiles as he grabs your waist and pulls you back to his chest. You giggle, feeling him nuzzle his face into your neck with feather-like kisses leading up to your ear. “You had no business lookin’ that good back there, you know" he whispers.

“You’re a stalker for staring at me for that long,” you say sarcastically while you smile and wrap your arms around his neck. Logan hums brushing your comment away as he continues his kisses along your shoulder. Your fingers run through his hair as you take in a deep breath. “You smell,” you murmur before kissing his cheek, once, twice, then three times.

You felt Logan’s body shake from his laughter before he pulled away just far enough to look at you. His eyes rake over your bare face with a smile. “Take a shower with me then. Show me those moves,” he says.

“God you’re annoying,” you laugh with a shake of your head.

"Come on, sweets," he smiles ashe runs his hands up and down your back, "That was quite the concert you were throwin' there."

You groan again but louder this time and walking away from his embrace. "I'm never doing that again", you bite your smile.

"No, no. Dance for me again, sweets. Come on," Logan chases after you.

#lumberjack!logan #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett fanfiction #x men origins wolverine #james logan howlett #x men movies

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nymphoniah · 1 day ago

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2 words.

logan. boobkink.

I need logan to be absolutely obsessed with my titts. doesn't even have to be sexual but I just want him to do everything to my titts that give him comfort.

would be amazing if you write about this thanks love<3

omg!!??!! like logan is basically like a lil’ cat. not only is it the claws, but he’s got the tufts of hair to prove it. and like any other cat, he loves to paw at you! (also written with origins logan in mind just bc he gives off super domestic vibes :3)

content/warnings: fluff, afab!reader, femme pronouns used

lazy mornings with logan consists of him spooning you, his bulky arms wrapping you in a tight embrace. his hands start to wander, making their way up your chest, resting them on your soft mounds, kneading the flesh with his fingers.

“my own lil’ stress balls,” he’d joke, letting out a hearty laugh as you squirm at his touch.

you try to curl into a ball, bringing your legs to your chest to stop his ticklish assault on your breasts, but it’s no use. one hand stays squishing your breast, while the other pushes your legs back down.

“nuh-uh, you’re all mine today,” he whispered, his tone low, voice still riddled with the morning drowsiness he faced. “we never get time for this,”

he isn’t wrong. when you’re finally back home from work, it’s 11pm. and by the time you settle in bed, logan’s already sleeping. and by the time you wake up, logan’s already out the door getting ready to cut some wood with a group of douchebags.

it’s moments like these where he absolutely turns soft. though logan seem like a grouchy, rugged old man, he’s actually a complete softie. for a man who’s lived for 200 years, he knows exactly how rough life can get—which is why he cherishes these moments with you.

“my sweet girl,” logan coos, continuing to knead at the soft skin of your breast. “let’s just stay like this a little longer, please?”

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shybluebirdninja · 2 days ago

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FADING BONDS: PART 2

Summary: Two broken souls—Logan, an aging hero, and a young woman overlooked by her own family—find solace in each other’s silent company, forming an unexpected connection that challenges their emotional walls.

Pairing : UberDriver!Logan x Fem!Reader

Genre : Angst, Fluff

It’s funny how silence can start to feel like company. You’ve been riding with Logan more often now, enough that you know his truck better than you’d like to admit.

The way the passenger seat squeaks if you shift just a little too much, the faint smell of old cigarettes and something like motor oil, and how the heater barely works, so you’ve taken to bringing a jacket even if the night’s warm.

He’s still as closed off as ever, his gruff demeanor acting like a shield against any real conversation. But there’s something about the way he drives, something about the heavy weight in the air between you, that feels... familiar.

Like the two of you are on the same wavelength. No questions, no forced smiles, no bullshit. It’s a strange, fragile kind of comfort.

One night, after your shift, you climb into his truck. He glances at you, eyes flicking up and down like he’s just making sure you’re still breathing. Not that he’d ever admit he cares.

“Busy night?” you ask, more out of habit than anything else.

“Same shit, different day,” he mutters, his voice low and gravelly. His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles taut, like maybe if he squeezes hard enough, he can keep the world from crumbling around him. “Kids puking in the back, people yellin’ at me ‘cause I’m ‘too slow.’ You’d think drivin’ was easy for these assholes.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Sounds like a blast.”

“Yeah, real fuckin’ dream,” he grumbles.

And that’s it. That’s all you need to say. There’s a comfort in the way Logan doesn’t push, doesn’t prod. Everyone else—your parents, your sister, hell, even the occasional friend—they always want to know more.

They want updates on your life, your career (or lack of one), your plans for the future. They don’t get it. They don’t understand that sometimes, it’s enough just to exist.

With Logan, there’s no pressure to be something you’re not. No expectations. Just two people, broken in different ways, sharing space without needing to fill it with bullshit.

The drives continue. Night after night. Sometimes you’ll trade a few words, sometimes not. Logan’s grumbles are often the only sound breaking the silence, usually about how “kids these days don’t know shit” or how “people can’t drive for crap.” You’d laugh if it weren’t so damn true.

But every once in a while, he’ll let slip something from his past. It’s always brief, like he’s catching himself before he says too much.

“Used to know a guy,” he mutters one night. “Real pain in the ass... but smart. Smartest guy I ever met. Could’ve done a lot more if the world hadn’t chewed him up and spat him out.”

You don’t ask who. You don’t need to. You’ve heard enough by now to piece together fragments of the puzzle. You know about the loss, the pain, the countless people he’s watched die, one way or another.

There’s a heaviness in his voice that tells you this guy, whoever he was, meant a hell of a lot more to Logan than he’ll ever admit.

The nights bleed together. You start finding reasons to see him more. Sometimes you’ll tell yourself you’re just tired of the bus, or that you’d rather ride with someone who doesn’t force small talk. But deep down, you know it’s more than that.

There’s something about Logan—something that pulls at you, like you’re both just two lost souls floating through the same fucked-up world.

One evening, you catch him parked outside the diner after your shift, though you haven’t called for a ride yet. He’s leaning against his truck, cigarette hanging from his lips, staring off into the distance like he’s a million miles away.

“You waitin’ for someone?” you ask, stepping out onto the curb.

Logan glances at you, doesn’t bother with a smile or any of the niceties people usually fake. “Nope.”

“Didn’t think so,” you murmur, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The air’s cool tonight, biting at your skin. “Mind if I bum one of those?” You nod towards the cigarette between his fingers.

He grunts but hands you one, along with a beat-up lighter. “You smoke?”

“Not really.” You light the cigarette anyway, taking a drag and coughing a little as the smoke burns your throat. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Logan chuckles, low and almost imperceptible. “Figured.”

You both stand there in the quiet, leaning against his truck, watching the night stretch out before you like some endless void. The city lights blink in the distance, casting a faint glow over everything.

For a moment, you wonder if this is what life’s supposed to be—just one long stretch of nothingness, broken up by small moments that don’t really mean anything.

“Why do you keep drivin’?” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence.

Logan doesn’t answer right away. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyes focused on something far beyond the here and now. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, almost resigned. “Ain’t much else I’m good for these days.”

You don’t know why, but his words hit harder than you expected. You’d always seen him as this untouchable force—someone who’s been through hell and came out the other side, bruised but still standing. To hear him say he’s got nothing left... it stirs something inside you. Something painful.

“Feels like we’re both just tryin’ to survive, huh?” you say quietly, staring at the ground.

Logan glances at you, and for a split second, you swear you see something flicker in his eyes. Something vulnerable. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

He doesn’t respond, just takes another drag of his cigarette and tosses the butt to the ground, crushing it under his boot.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Something like that.” You stand there a little longer, both of you too broken, too tired to say anything else. There’s nothing to be said. Not really.

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thinkinonsense · 4 hours ago

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Sweet Temptations.

logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: fingering, oral (f receiving), innocence kink, inexperienced reader, darkish!logan

a/n: hi! sorry i've been gone so long! i have plenty of stuff in the works but for now here's this. i'm working on making a mini-series of dark!logan x inexperienced!reader so i hope everyone enjoys! <3

to think, logan almost went out to the bar tonight. almost left to find a one night stand or come home and fuck his hand. tonight could've had so many different outcomes but luckily, he ended up with the best one.

there's a light knock on his bedroom door. he knew it had to have been you since everyone was on a field trip a couple hours away for the night. logan obviously wasn't interested in going and you were busy working on an experiment in the laboratory.

in all reality, logan just wanted an excuse to stay here alone with you overnight. ever since he joined the x-men and met you down in the lab in that cute white coat and pretty smile, he's had a crush on you.

"hi, logan." you smile softly when he opens his door.

"hey, dollface. you need something?" he asks, leaning against his door frame and eyeing that short little nightgown of yours.

"can we talk?"

"sure."

the two of you walk into logan's room and sit on the end of his bed. you sit up on your knees, facing him. he can tell that something is on your mind but you're unsure on if you should confide in him or not.

"is everything alright?" he asks, growing concerned.

you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

"whatcha wanna talk about then, sweets?"

logan's large hand rubs your knee softly, almost coaxing the words out of you.

"would you do me a big favor?" you ask, avoiding his hazel gaze.

"of course."

there's slight hesitation. you were afraid of logan's reaction to your request. after a deep breath, you remind yourself that it's just logan. the same logan who trains with you every morning, the same logan who plays with your hair when he's board, the same logan who praises you for all your hard work in the laboratory. there was nothing to be afraid of.

"c-can you take my virginity?"

the question almost killed logan. he though he had died and gone to heaven. you finally look at him with a twinkle in your eyes and he feels the need to adjust the tent growing in his pants.

"where'd this idea come from, sweetheart?"

"well, i was seeing a guy a while ago who acted really weird when i told him i was still a virgin then when i told storm and jean, they told me that if i'm ready to do it, than it should be with someone i trust." you explain so innocently to him. "i just figured since you've always been so gentle with me and i trust you so, i was kinda hoping you wouldn't mind."

never in his wildest dreams could logan have imagined this happening. you sitting pretty on his bed, practically begging him to take your virginity. god, logan couldn't even remember the last time he was with a virgin. must've been decades ago.

"that's real sweet, dollface. 'f course i'll do it." he says, watching your smile grow with excitement. "first i need to know what you've already done."

"i've kissed while sitting in someone's lap, given a hickey twice... maybe three times? some nights i'll rub myself against one of my pillows."

even though he knew the answer, he had to ask,"ever fingered yourself?"

"no." you shake your head, almost making logan moan at just the thought of being the first person to do that to you.

"want to try it?"

"s-sure but i thought we were gonna–"

"we will." logan assures. "need to get you loosened up first if you want me to fit inside of you."

a small gasp exists your lips, making him chuckle. logan leans, testing the waters to see how you kiss. he's a bit shocked by how you pull him closer to deepen it. you moan into his mouth while your hands roam his hair. he sits you in his lap and lets you grind yourself on top of him, showing him what you know.

"let's see if you're nice and wet for me." logan hums, lifting up your nightgown and feeling the wet spot over your underwear. "very good, dollface."

without thinking, you let out a tiny moan next to his ear because of his praise. he can't help but pull your head from its hiding spot in his neck to look at you.

"you like when i tell you how good you're being for me?" he ask, watching your face contort as your hips keep moving. one of his hands rests on your waist, stopping you from moving. "c'mon, you can tell me."

"mhm..." you nod. "love when you praise me."

suddenly, your back is pressed flat against his sheets as he kisses all down your body. leaving little marks here and there until he reaches the waist band of your pretty pink underwear.

"did you wear these just for me, princess?" he asks, placing a kiss right over the cotton covering your button.

"y-you said i looked p-pretty in pink."

as the words stumble out of your mouth, logan feels a warmth spread across his heart. a couple months ago, you were wearing a new pink dress and as logan passed you by, he mentioned how pretty you looked in the color. it meant a lot to you.

"you still do." he says. "can i take these off of you, baby?"

you nod, lifting your hips a little to help him. logan tosses the pink cotton somewhere behind him. lifting up the nightgown to your tummy, eyes glued to the spot in between your legs.

"didn't think you could get any prettier." logan mumbles to himself.

his intense gaze made you feel a bit vulnerable, trying to close your legs but his large hands stop you.

"don't hide from me, princess." he says, capturing your attention. " 'm gonna make you feel good."

logan carefully drags his thumb through your slit, collecting the arousal and circling it around your button. the feather like touch sends your head back and whimpers to fall from your lips. gently, logan pushes his middle finger past your velvet walls, groaning once you clench around him.

"atta girl, princess." he smirks watching you swallow up his finger. "takin' it so good."

logan watches in awe as your head fall back and the arch in your back. slowly he inches his face closer and licks a thick stripe up your fold before sucking softly on your button. you feel logan muffle 'fuck' against you, only resulting in more arousal to spill out of you.

"o-oh, logan." you moan, hips chasing his tongue feverishly.

since this was your first time, logan went easy on you, not making you work for your orgasm. he feels your cunt clench down on his one finger as it hits deep inside of you until you are seeing stars. with logan's other free hand, he paws at your tit and rolls it in his palm.

"need m-more!" you whimper with glossy eyes and lips. "p-please, lo."

in an attempt to give you what you want, logan struggles to hit another finger inside of you. he wasn't sure what he did to deserve this type of heaven but god, was he thankful for it.

"i can't, sweetheart." he groans, kissing your hip bone as he speeds up the finger inside of you. "you're too tight for two of my fingers. there's no way i'll be able to fit inside of you tonight."

before you could whine in protest, this indescribable wave of euphoria washes over you. smooth silky legs wrap tightly around logan's head. thighs covers his ears, blocking out the sweet sounds you were making. logan goes back to sloppily making out with your cunt until you weakly pull him off and drag him up to your lips, tasting your own release on his tongue.

"thanks, lo." you smile in a daze at him.

"anytime." he says. "i think you'll need another lesson soon though if you want to take all of me. do you want that, princess?"

he could feel your heart rate increase eagerly. you blush intensely and avoid his gaze as you nod.

"alright." he chuckles darkly. "but first, you gotta show me how you get off on your pillow."

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flowersforbucky · 22 hours ago

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wip wednesday !!

here's another snippet from my old man logan x healer reader fic! thanks for the tag @joelsgoldrush ♡

You take a few small, tentative steps forward. Your eyes never leave his, an unreadable expression on your face. Logan can't tell if you're trying to decide if he's real, if you’re about to jump into his arms, or if you're about to yell at him to get the fuck out of here.

You come to a stop on the bottom porch step.

“What's the deal with the limousine?” You nod towards the vehicle behind him.

“I'm uh - I'm a limousine driver,” he answers lamely.

“A limousine driver,” you repeat with raised brows, though it doesn't sound like a question. “You know, there have been a lot of nights that I've stayed awake wondering where you're at and what you're doing. Of all the possibilities, I never considered limo driver.”

no pressure tags: @embbarnes @mistyorchid @1800-fight-me @eloquentlytired @elvenrin @eupheme & anyone who wants to play along :)

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #old man logan #old man logan x reader #logan #wip #work in progress #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine #wolverine x you

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logansbaby · 15 hours ago

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wip wednesday <3

this may or may not be for the second part of worst logan 🙂‍↕️ anyway im so sorry ive been behind in my posting, life is just so hectic rn!

˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚

Love does not exist.

It’s not a matter of opinion from a pessimistic mind, but rather a fact. Love is a concept, an idea created by some delusional individual who read far too many stories. Love can’t be real when it creates so much suffering.

Logan knows love is not real. He knows it because each time bared his soul to someone, vulnerable in his feelings, he was destroyed. He knows it’s not real because he’s been told that he’s not worth it, that people mess around with the dangerous guy, but marry the good guy, and he is not the previous.

He always wondered why he wasn’t ever enough. He tried not to think of that moment because even though he’s over it all, over lost faces and old friends, it reminds him he’s never been good enough.

Never been suitable for love.

He knows love is not real in the way all the people he’s called family, his closest companions, were ripped and taken before him. Love cannot exist in a world so deeply embedded in hate.

In the two hundred years of Logan’s life, he’s been stuck in cycles of unrequited feelings and emotions far too many times, so he knows. He’s accepted he’s broken, far too gone to repair, and utterly undeserving of love, so he knows.

He knows love does not exist.

But then Logan meets you and it’s like every ideal he holds is threatened by your mere presence.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett xmen #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #logan xmen #wolverine x you #x men movies #logan howlett fic #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine fanfic #x men wolverine

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marifilue · 2 days ago

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Part 6: Thin Thread

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Warnings: Explicit language, Violence, Blood

WC: 7.7k

<- Part 5

The morning greeted you with a dull, relentless headache that pulsed at your temples, a buzzing ache that had been your unwelcome companion through the night. You’d tried ignoring it, relying on the painkillers Logan had slipped you last night, but the reprieve had been temporary. Now, as the sunlight filtered through your blinds, the ache roared back, louder than before.

You sat up in bed with a groan, pressing your fingers to your temples in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. A glance at the clock on the nightstand made your stomach drop. 9:00 a.m. Shit. You were supposed to be up an hour ago.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face to wake yourself up. The mirror reflected the exhaustion etched into your features—the dark circles under your eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead. You pushed the thought aside, finishing your routine quickly before heading downstairs for breakfast.

The kitchen was quiet, the usual chatter of students absent, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator to keep you company. You grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat at the counter, eating mechanically, the food doing little to ease the fog in your mind. By 10:00 a.m., you were already bored, the monotony of your restricted days weighing heavily on you.

With the collar limiting your abilities and activities, Charles had given you a break from teaching. “Take the time you need,” he’d said. You hadn’t argued. A day off, especially one where you weren’t feeling well, wasn’t something you’d pass up. But now, with nothing pressing to do, you found yourself wandering the halls aimlessly, searching for a distraction.

The library called to you like an old friend. The quiet space had always been a sanctuary for you, a place where the noise of the world faded into the rustle of pages and the scent of ink on paper. It wasn’t the same as your old life, back when you’d spent hours organizing shelves and helping readers find their next favorite story. But it was close enough.

You stepped inside, the familiar stillness wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The rows of books stretched out before you, their spines a comforting reminder of simpler times. Running your fingers along the shelves, you let your mind wander, the weight of the headache momentarily forgotten.

One title caught your eye: 1984 by George Orwell. Your fingers hesitated before plucking it from its place. The worn cover felt familiar under your touch, the pages yellowed with time. You’d read it before, years ago, but something about it called to you now. A story about control, about power, about losing oneself to forces greater than you, a theme that felt all too real these days.

Clutching the book to your chest, you left the library and stepped into the yard. The afternoon sunlight was bright but not overwhelming, the kind of warmth that invited you to linger. You found a quiet spot under a large oak tree, far enough from the students that you could sit undisturbed.

Settling into the grass, you opened the book, letting its familiar words draw you in. The headache still pulsed faintly at the back of your mind, but here, surrounded by nature and the quiet murmur of life around you, it felt manageable.

For a little while, at least, you could lose yourself in the pages, in the world Orwell had created, and let the weight of your own reality slip away.

••••••••••

The memories drifted through your mind like whispers from another life. You could still picture the shelves of your old job, rows upon rows of books arranged just how you liked, each with its own story, waiting to be found. You’d been happy there, in that quiet space, finding purpose in your work as a librarian. But your father had never seen it that way.

“Wasting your potential,” he’d say, the disgust clear in his voice. To him, every day you spent outside the military was another day you failed him. He couldn’t fathom why you’d choose books over bullets, college over combat.

You were supposed to follow in his footsteps. He’d trained you to handle a rifle from a young age, pushing you to perfect your aim until you could shoot as easily as you could breathe. He’d always wanted you to enlist. When you turned 18 and told him you wanted to study English, to build your life in your own way, the disappointment in his eyes had been searing.

Nine years passed. You’d found your own stability, your own peace, a steady job, an apartment you paid for yourself. You kept your distance from your parents, seeing them only on occasion, which kept the resentment at bay. But when you visited them that day, you hadn’t known your life would take a turn.

You still remembered the way your father had mentioned it over thanksgiving dinner, casual and offhanded, as if it were nothing. “I’ve got a friend coming over tonight. Wants to talk to you about an opportunity.”

That “friend” had turned out to be Dr. Emmy Killebrew, a name you would come to loathe. His glasses caught the light as he studied you, his expression unreadable but oddly pleased, like he’d found exactly what he was looking for.

“We’ve got a guy in the Marines who could use your particular skills,” he said. “It’s just a two-year contract, short and simple. Your family could really use the money.”

The words echoed back now, a dark, hollow promise that had lured you in. You’d wanted to help your parents; you’d agreed, believing it would be a standard military experience. Six months of training, intense, but doable. You thought you’d be home soon, maybe a little stronger, with stories to tell.

But instead, the injections had started.

There had been no way out once they began, no choice in the matter. They told you it was necessary, part of a new program to build “better soldiers.” You remembered the searing pain of each injection, the way it tore through your system, altering you, until you could feel it in your bones. Your father’s betrayal hit you harder than any training ever could. They’d manipulated your DNA, spliced it with something beyond human, the Wolverine's genetic material. You didn’t fully understand it at the time, but within weeks, your body began to change.

You were no longer just a soldier. You were a mutant, immortal, nearly indestructible. You could heal from any wound. The realization had terrified you. But to them, it was a success, proof that you were now a weapon, unbreakable, expendable, and no longer your own.

••••••••••

The sharp snap of fingers brought you back from the haze of your mind. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, the yard of the X-Mansion coming into focus around you. Afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows over the green grass. Logan was standing in front of where you were sitting, one eyebrow raised.

“You’re lost in there, varmint?” he asked, his gruff voice tinged with something like concern.

You scowled, brushing the memory away. “Stop calling me that.”

You stood up clutching the book, avoiding his gaze. The children in the yard caught your eye, some of them whispering to each other as they watched you. Some looked sympathetic, others fearful, their expressions reminding you of the weight of your condition. You glanced away, not wanting to see the pity in their eyes.

Without a word, you turned, walking toward the open expanse of the lawn, hoping Logan would leave you alone. But he didn’t. You heard his footsteps a few paces behind you, steady and unrelenting.

“Jean asked me to get you,” he said. “she and Hank needs to see you in the lab.”

You stopped, shoulders tensing. The last thing you wanted was to go back inside, to face whatever new test or evaluation they’d thought up for you. But you had no other choice. With a sigh, you turned, reluctantly heading toward the mansion. Logan kept his distance, letting you lead the way, but you could feel his presence, a steady shadow.

As you neared the doors, you heard more whispers from the students who lingered nearby. Their eyes followed you, wide and nervous. You caught a few of their words, murmurs of sympathy mixed with fear, as though they were hoping they’d never end up in your position.

Logan threw a sharp glance at the kids, his expression darkening. “Get back to class,” he ordered, and the whispers stopped instantly.

With clenched fists, wishing you could forget the eyes on you, forget the memories that still felt so fresh.

As you walked straight back to the library, the book still clutched in your hand. Logan followed close behind, his boots echoing against the polished floors. He couldn’t seem to help himself, his gruff voice breaking the silence. “Where are we going? They need to see you in the lab.”

“I’m putting the fucking book back!” you bit out, lifting the book over your shoulder for him to see without turning around. Your tone was sharp, your frustration bleeding through. You didn’t care if it sounded rude—your patience was wearing thin.

Logan snorted, clearly unfazed. “Shit, whaddya have for breakfast? Bees?”

You knit your eyebrows together, ignoring his remark as you pushed the library door open and stepped inside. “What do you care? Stop following me like I’m gonna fall on the floor any second,” you shot back, your words clipped.

Reaching the shelf where you’d found 1984, you slid the book back into its spot with more force than necessary. The neat rows of books, once soothing, only served to agitate you now. You turned on your heel, intent on leaving the library and Logan behind, but he wasn’t letting this go.

“You look like you’re about to,” he said, his tone dropping the playful edge and adopting something more serious.

You froze mid-step, glaring at him over your shoulder. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t move, just stood there watching you, his expression unreadable. Something in his gaze made you uneasy—not pity, but something close to concern, and it only made you want to push him further away. Without another word, you stormed out of the library, refusing to let him see how much his words rattled you.

As you walk through the mansion’s hall, you heard a small voice calling your name. It was familiar, one you’d heard just a few nights ago. You looked up, and there she was—Maya, the little girl you and the team had rescued from one of Killebrew’s facilities. She ran toward you, her short legs carrying her as fast as they could. Barely reaching your waist, she threw her arms around you in a tight hug.

Maya looked so much healthier than the day you’d found her, her face glowing with a newfound vitality. Smiling, you knelt to her height, returning her embrace with a gentle hand on her back.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her small voice laced with concern.

You managed a soft smile, touched by her care. “I’m okay, Maya. Do you like the school?”

Her face brightened, eyes sparkling with excitement. “I love it! I have two BFFs now! ‘Best friends forever,’ they said!” She beamed, and you reached out, stroking her cheek and running your fingers through her long hair. The relief of seeing her safe, healthy, and happy here filled you with a warmth you hadn’t expected.

"Yeah? What are their names?" You smile widely

"Ellie and Carter!" She exclaimed, announcing her new two BFFs to you.

“I’m happy to hear that, sweetheart,” you replied softly. You squeeze her shoulder gently. She glance down at the collar around your neck and place her tiny hand on the cold metal.

"What is this for?" She asked innocently. You sell her another smile this time didn't quite reach your eyes. "It's something like a necklace, but not a good necklace. I'm goin' to take them off." You told her reaching his arm on your collar. “I need to go now, okay?” You said as you rise from your knees.

Maya nodded, waving her tiny hand as she backed away. “Bye-bye!” she chirped, a sweet, innocent grin on her face. You waved back, matching her smile. “Bye, Maya.”

As she turned, she saw Logan standing a few steps behind, watching the two of you. She greeted him with a cheerful, “Bye, Mr. Howlett.”

He gave her a nod, his gruff voice softening as he replied, “Bye, kid.”

For a brief moment, you caught the look in Logan’s eyes as he watched Maya skip away down the hall. Something flickered there, a warmth, a tenderness. But as quickly as it appeared, he turned his attention back to you, that familiar, steely expression returning.

You walked through the winding halls of the X-Mansion, descending the staircase toward the basement. Logan was still following a few steps behind you. His heavy boots echoed softly against the polished floors, a constant reminder of his presence. You couldn’t help but wonder why he was trailing you. Surely, you could handle this on your own—Jean and Hank were waiting in the lab, and whatever test needed to be done, they had it covered.

Unless...did Hank need Logan for another one of those dangerous tests? The kind that required someone who could withstand extreme damage? You tried not to dwell on it, focusing instead on the approaching double doors.

••••••••••

As you entered the lab, the faint hum of machinery filled the air. Both Jean and Hank turned their heads as you arrived, their expressions tight with concentration. Jean offered a small, reassuring smile, but Hank’s focus was on a small device in his hand—a thin, rectangular chip that fit neatly between his fingers.

“Take a seat,” Hank instructed, gesturing to the chair in the center of the room.

You sat down, feeling Logan’s presence just a few feet away. He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. Always observing, ready to step in if needed.

Hank moved closer, holding the chip up for you to see. “This is the latest iteration. It’s designed to interface directly with the collar’s locking mechanism. If it works, it should override the suppressive controls.”

You nodded, a flicker of hope sparking in your chest. God, you wanted this to work. Four days of living with your powers suppressed, your body weakening, and that persistent ache in your head, it had been pure misery. You gritted your teeth, refusing to let the desperation show, but deep down, all you wanted was an end to this nightmare.

Jean placed a comforting hand on your shoulder as Hank moved closer to the collar. “Just stay still,” she murmured.

“Got it,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tension tightening your throat.

Hank worked carefully, sliding the chip into the thin slot along the collar’s edge. The device emitted a faint beep as it connected, and the three of you waited, watching and listening for any sign of change. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. The collar remained silent.

Hank frowned, his brows furrowing as he adjusted the device. Still nothing. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, his tone tinged with frustration. He pulled back slightly, checking his equipment. Jean leaned over to assist him, her telekinetic abilities lifting tools to his side as they inspected the chip.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” Logan’s gravelly voice broke the silence.

“It shouldn’t,” Hank admitted, his voice tight. “But these things are notoriously difficult to bypass. I thought—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I thought this would work.”

You sat there, staring ahead as the hope you’d clung to began to fade. Jean placed her hand on your shoulder again, her touch firm but comforting. “We’ll figure this out,” she said softly, though the strain in her voice betrayed her own frustration.

“I know,” you said flatly, your hands gripping the edges of the chair. You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your emotions in check.

Hank straightened, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’ll go back to the drawing board. There’s still more we can try—”

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “Not today. I need...I just need a break.” You said as bringing your finger again to rub your temple.

Jean and Hank exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond. Logan, however, stepped forward, his sharp gaze locking on yours. “Then take one,” he said simply. “You don’t have to sit here feeling sorry for yourself. Hank’ll figure it out. You just focus on holding up until then.”

It wasn’t the most comforting thing anyone had ever said to you, but somehow, it helped. You nodded, slowly standing from the chair. “Let me know if you make any progress,” you said to Hank and Jean before heading toward the door.

Logan didn’t say anything as he followed you out, but the quiet strength of his presence was enough to steady you, at least for now.

••••••••••

You paced back and forth in the kitchen, the glass of water in your hand trembling slightly as you brought it to your lips. The headache was relentless, a dull thrum that echoed with every beat of your heart. You knew the painkillers Logan had given you earlier had worn off, but you weren’t about to ask for another. Not with him looming behind you like an immovable shadow.

Logan leaned against the counter, silent but watchful, his arms crossed over his chest. His presence only added to your growing irritation. You didn’t need his pity, and you certainly didn’t need him following you around like some overprotective watchdog.

The sound of footsteps broke the tense silence as Storm walked into the kitchen. She glanced between you and Logan, her expression curious but calm. “Good, you’re both here,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “Charles wants us in the meeting room. It’s important.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as if the motion could banish the ache in your head. “Can’t it wait?” you muttered.

Storm’s gaze softened slightly, but her tone remained resolute. “It’s urgent.”

Logan pushed off the counter, his boots scuffing against the floor as he straightened. “Let’s go, varmint,” he said gruffly, his tone almost teasing. Almost.

You shot him a glare but said nothing, setting the glass down with more force than necessary before following Storm out of the kitchen. Logan trailed behind you, his heavy footsteps matching yours as the three of you made your way to the meeting room.

As the three of you walked down the hall toward the meeting room, Ororo turned her head slightly, her brow arching in curiosity. “What is a varmint?” she asked, directing the question toward you.

You shrugged, your tone dry. “I don’t know. Ask Logan.”

Ororo’s gaze shifted to Logan, who smirked and muttered your name. “She is. She’s a varmint.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Ororo’s lips quirked up as she observed the exchange. Something in the way Logan’s smirk lingered and the way you rolled your eyes told her everything she needed to know. You two were a fifty-year-old and a hundred-seventy-year-old mutant, yet somehow, the two of you bickered like high schoolers.

She chuckled softly, the sound low enough for only the two of you to hear. Both of you snapped your heads toward her, your glares sharp enough to cut through steel.

“What’s so funny, ‘Ro?” Logan growled, his tone defensive. “Nothing,” Ororo said smoothly, though the amused glint in her eyes betrayed her. “Absolutely nothing.” You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed with a knowing smile, turning her attention back to the hallway. “Let’s not keep the others waiting, shall we?”

Logan muttered something under his breath, and you let out an annoyed huff, but neither of you pressed further, though the irritation simmered between you like static electricity. Ororo, on the other hand, kept her quiet amusement to herself, thinking that perhaps this tension was more entertaining than it should have been.

•••••••••

The meeting room was brightly lit, the long table surrounded by familiar faces. Professor Xavier sat at the head, his serene expression tinged with quiet determination. Ororo took a seat to his left, while Scott stood at the opposite end, a tablet in his hand. Logan pulled out a chair next to you and sat down, his proximity both grounding and irritating.

Scott cleared his throat, tapping the tablet to project an image onto the wall behind him. It was a grainy photo of a familiar figure: Dr. Emmy Killebrew.

“We’ve got a lead,” Scott began, his voice clipped and professional. “Killebrew was spotted in Manhattan last night. Intel suggests he’s attending a private gala tomorrow night, hosted by the Manhattan Medical Research Society.”

“What kind of gala?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

“A high-profile event for medical professionals,” Scott explained. “The guest list includes pharmaceutical executives, genetic researchers, and biotech innovators. Killebrew’s name wasn’t on the list, but sources confirm he’ll be there.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Logan asked, his tone low but focused.

Scott glanced at the professor, who nodded before continuing. “We’ll infiltrate the gala and confront Killebrew directly. The goal is to extract information—discreetly if possible, but we’re prepared to use more... aggressive measures if necessary.”

You shifted in your seat, the headache pounding harder with every word. Before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. “Do you even need me for the mission?”

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to you, and for a moment, you wished you could take the words back. But you didn’t. You held your ground, even as Scott’s expression hardened.

“No,” Scott said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This mission requires precision and subtlety, and you’re not in any condition to—”

“Then why am I even in this meeting?” you interrupted, your voice rising. Frustration flared, both at Scott’s dismissal and the relentless pounding in your head. “If you’re not going to let me help, maybe just leave me out of it!”

“Enough,” Xavier’s calm voice cut through the tension like a knife. His gaze was steady, his tone gentle but authoritative. “You’re here because this mission involves a key figure in your past, and we believe you deserve to be informed. That said, Scott is correct. This is not a mission you should undertake.”

Your hands curled into fists under the table. You wanted to argue, to demand that they let you go, but the professor’s words left little room for debate. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, exhaling sharply as the tension in the room eased slightly.

Scott continued, his focus shifting back to the group. “Logan, Ororo, and I will handle the infiltration. Jean will provide remote support. The priority is information. We need to know what Killebrew’s planning and if he’s connected to any larger operations.”

You tried to focus on Scott’s words, but the room felt stifling. The headache pulsing in your skull grew sharper, your breaths shallow. The walls seemed closer, the lights too bright.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cut through Scott’s explanation, and you stood abruptly, the scrape of your chair echoing in the room.

“I—uh—please continue,” you said, your tone soft but hurried. “I just need some air.”

Without waiting for a response, you stepped out of the room, your pace quickening as the door slid shut behind you.

Logan’s gaze didn’t leave you, his eyes locked on the door long after you’d disappeared. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind his sharp features.

Outside, you leaned against the cool wall, closing your eyes and focusing on your breathing. The tension in your chest loosened slightly, but the frustration remained. You hated the way they dismissed you, how powerless you felt, and most of all, how much you wanted to prove them wrong.

Back inside the room, Scott exchanged a brief glance with Logan. “We should move on,” he said, though his voice held a tinge of unease.

Logan didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening. Finally, he muttered, “You all know she’s tougher than you think,” before shifting his attention back to the plan, though his thoughts lingered elsewhere.

•••••••

The equipment room was filled with the familiar scent of gun oil and steel. It was your refuge, the one place you could let your thoughts quiet and just be. You moved between the racks, your fingers grazing the cool metal of various firearms until you stopped at the DSR-1.

You grabbed the rifle, hefting its weight and feeling the sting in your side flare. The dull ache from the wound still hadn’t eased after four days, making you limp slightly as you adjusted the weapon in your hands.

“Fuck,” you cursed under your breath, the frustration bubbling up as you hung the sniper rifle back on its rack. Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Logan stepped into the room, his presence unmistakable. “Knew I'd find you here” he said, with voice low and steady.

Your focus was on the DSR-1 still on its rack. “I was on sniper duty with this gal,” you said, your tone distant. “DSR-One. Guarding George H.W. Bush. Back in the 90s.”

Logan raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting you continue.

“He was visiting New York. I was stationed on one of the tallest buildings, just watching, waiting for a threat.” You traced a finger along the rifle’s edge. “Long hours. Quiet, but tense.”

Logan nodded slightly, his eyes not leaving you. After a moment of silence, he spoke. “If you really want to go on the mission tomorrow... I could convince the team. As long as you’re under my watch.”

You froze for a second, the offer catching you off guard. It wasn’t what you expected from him. Intriguing, maybe even tempting. After all, it was a simple gala—just find Killebrew and get information. You’d already thought of ways to hide the collar, like covering it with a scarf.

But reality set in as quickly as the idea tempted you. You shook your head, more at yourself than at him. “No, that’s dumb. I can’t risk the team any further.”

Your gaze landed on a Mini Uzi. Its compact frame was sleek and practical, perfect for your current state. You picked it up, sighting down the barrel with ease, satisfied with how manageable it felt.

Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could see through the lie you just told yourself. “Well,” he said with a shrug, “I just thought you could use a night out.” His nonchalance was infuriating and, somehow, comforting.

“Ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head at his suggestion, though you couldn’t deny the flicker of interest it sparked in you.

Logan smirked faintly, stepping aside as you moved toward the door. “Just say the word.”

You shot him a look "No." As you kept walking, heading to the indoor shooting range.

The muffled echo of gunfire filled the indoor shooting range as you fired the Mini Uzi, each shot sharp and precise. Your arms were steady, the stance you’d perfected over years of experience still second nature. The paper target at the far end of the range was riddled with neat, tight clusters—proof that, even with an annoying wound and a relentless headache, your accuracy remained impeccable.

Logan leaned against the doorframe behind you, arms crossed as he watched in silence. His eyes weren’t just on your shooting. If eye-fucking were a crime, Logan would’ve been guilty without a trial. The way you stood, with both arms raised, your figure outlined by the loose t-shirt tucked into your jeans, the sweats on the back of your neck made Logan notice a visible mark there.

With your hair in high ponytail, he stare the mark, it was a tattoo. But also looked like some codenames, he can't see clearly but they're a few bunch of random numbers. It held his attention far longer than it should have.

The faint dip of your waist, the slight shift in your stance as you adjusted between rounds—it drove him mad in a way he couldn’t quite name, and the way those jeans hugging your hips didn’t help. He’d never admit it aloud, but he’d lost track of how long he’d been staring.

The last of the bullets left the barrel, the magazine clicking empty. You lowered the Uzi and set it down, your hand instinctively rubbing at your temple. The gunshots noise didn't exactly help your headache, in fact they're worsen now.

“You should really ask Jean to look into those migraines,” Logan said, breaking the silence. His voice was flat, casual, but his eyes hadn’t softened from their earlier intensity.

You jumped slightly, startled by his presence. “It’s not a migraine. Just a headache,” you snapped, dismissing him as you turned to put the Uzi back in its place. “What are you still doing here?”

“Watching,” Logan said, shrugging lazily. “I like guns.”

You turned a sharp look over your shoulder. “No, you don’t. They’re not even your style.”

He smirked, the kind of smirk that made you want to wipe it off his face—or kiss it off. You couldn’t decide which. “Who are you to judge what my style is?” he countered smoothly.

You rolled your eyes, turning away again as you began walking out of the shooting range. He followed, his boots heavy on the floor behind you.

“Oh boy, does It not written all over your face,” you said, voice clipped but teasing.

“Really?” Logan asked, his tone carrying a challenge now. “Tell me, then. What is it?”

You stopped abruptly, swinging around to face him, your hands on your hips. His sudden stillness told you he wasn’t expecting you to turn.

“You think guns are toys,” you said evenly, holding his gaze. “A joke.”

Logan didn’t reply immediately, his expression unreadable. You could see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, though. Part of what you’d said rang true, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Guns weren’t his style—they never had been. He’d always relied on raw power, his claws, and the ferocity that came naturally to him.

“You don’t respect them,” you continued, your tone a little sharper now. “You think they’re a quick fix, a lazy shortcut. Like pulling a trigger is the easy way out instead of doing the work. You think it’s all about power, but you don’t understand what it takes to handle a weapon. Guns are precise. They’re not for show. They’re tools for survival. But you, you think they're some kind of crutch. You think they’re for people who can't fight their own battles face to face.”

You paused, watching his reaction. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his resistance, like you were pushing him into a corner he didn’t want to be in. “Thought so,” you muttered, half to yourself, but you knew he’d heard.

But there was something about the way you held them, the precision in your movements, that gave him pause. He didn’t know if it was respect, admiration, or something much more dangerous but whatever it was, it had him hooked.

His eyes lingering on your retreating form. You didn’t look back, but you felt his gaze like a weight on your shoulders.

He stood there for a moment longer, trying to decide whether to chase after you or let you go. But then he finds another reason to jab about, to chase you again wherever you go this time. He wants you to get checked. He's worried, or maybe even cares in the oddest way.

••••••••••

As Logan followed you into the medbay, the sharp scent of antiseptic stung your nose, mingling with the sterile chill of the room. You moved with purpose, throwing open cupboards and rummaging through their contents with a single-minded desperation. Your fingers tore through boxes and bottles, pushing aside anything that wasn’t what you were looking for.

Painkillers. That was all you needed.

The buzzing ache in your skull was relentless, a cruel reminder of your vulnerability. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt anything like it. Not after being thrown across war zones, not after enduring blasts that should’ve killed you. Back then, nothing had fazed you. But now, your head throbbed, sharp and insistent, as if mocking you for being weak.

Behind you, Logan entering the room, observing the frustration clear all over your face. His sharp eyes followed your frantic movements. He hated to ask, but he could see it—the way your hands shook as they rifled through the shelves, the tension radiating from your rigid posture.

“Are you okay?” His gravelly voice broke through the silence, laced with something unfamiliar: concern.

You didn’t stop, didn’t even look at him. “No!” you snapped, your voice sharp and raw. “Fuck, this headache is driving me crazy. I… I can’t even” You broke off, shoving another drawer closed with more force than necessary.

You kept moving, invading every inch of the inventory as frustration clawed at your chest. “Where the fuck is it?” you muttered, your voice trembling with barely restrained anger.

Logan stepped further into the room, his boots heavy against the tile. He scanned the shelves calmly, his sharp instincts making it easy to locate the bottle you so desperately needed. Without a word, he pulled it from its place and turned toward you.

“I can’t fucking do this anymore,” you said, your voice cracking as you slammed another drawer shut. “I hate it. I hate being h-” Before you could finish the sentence, a sting in your throat deepened, and for a moment, you froze, your hand gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself.

Logan stepped closer, holding the bottle of pills in front of you. “Here,” he said simply, his tone steady.

You glanced down at his hand, at the label reading Painkillers, but didn’t reach for it. The tears you’d fought so hard to hold back began to blur your vision. Logan’s eyes met yours, his gaze unwavering, and something in the quiet strength of it made the walls you’d built start to crumble.

“You hate what?” he asked, his voice softer now, coaxing. His eyes stayed locked on yours, searching for an answer you were barely holding onto.

Your throat tightened, and you shook your head, your hand finally trembling as it took the bottle from him. “I hate being human,” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them.

There it was. The admission hung heavy in the air, as raw and unfiltered as the tears that threatened to spill.

Logan didn’t flinch. He didn’t pity you. Instead, he nodded slightly, like he understood. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “But bein’ human ain’t all bad.”

You scoffed bitterly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand before they could betray you further. “Feels like it is right now.”

He leaned against the counter, his rough exterior softening just a little. “Bein' human is bearable, when you don’t have to carry this alone, y’know. Let someone help for once.”

You looked at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his words lingered, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I’ll think about it,” you muttered, shaking a pill from the bottle into your hand and swallowing it dry.

“Good,” he said simply, straightening up. He stayed close as you leaned against the counter, waiting for the pain to ebb. “You needs to get checked for those headaches.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you said quickly, hoping to end the conversation. Logan wasn’t having it. “What about tonight? After dinner.”

“Why the rush?” you shot back, trying to mask the fear bubbling beneath the surface. The idea of knowing made your stomach churn. You weren’t ready for answers, not yet.

“The sooner we know, the better,” Logan muttered your name, his voice gentler this time., and the way he said it made the tension in your chest tighten.

You didn’t respond immediately, letting his words hang in the air between you. Part of you wanted to argue, to push back, but the quiet insistence in his tone softened your defenses. “C’mon,” he urged, his voice low and coaxing. “I’ll keep you company.”

“What if Hank asks you to be the guinea pig for another experiment? I bet you won't be there.” you asked playfully, recalling the last time he got jolted by the electricity from your collar.

Logan’s lip twitched, but his tone was reassuring. “I don’t care. I’d still be there.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “Did you secretly enjoy it? Being electrocuted?” He scoffed, his head tilting slightly as he shot you a deadpan look.

“Ha! Knew it! I knew you’d be one of those freaky masochists,” you teased, slapping his shoulder lightly with the back of your hand.

“That’s a little far-fetched, don’t ya think?” he grumbled, avoiding your playful accusation, though the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest smirk.

The brief exchange pulled a smile from you, easing some of the tension lingering between you two.

With a heavy sigh, you finally relented. “Fine, after dinner.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his gaze never leaving yours. The intensity of it made you break the contact first, looking down as you pushed away from the counter. “I’ll see ya,” he said, his voice almost teasing but laced with relief.

You nodded, your throat tight as you headed toward the door. “See you,” you murmured, stepping out of the medbay and making your way to your room, trying not to think about what you’d just agreed to.

••••••••••

The team gathered around the long dining table, a comforting spread of food filling the air with warmth and familiarity. Charles was at the head, his serene expression softening as he listened to Hank animatedly discuss a recent breakthrough in his research. Scott interjected occasionally with skeptical questions, while Jean tried to keep the conversation light. Ororo added her own input with quiet humor, her calm presence a counterbalance to the lively exchange.

Logan sat across from you, his usual gruff demeanor softened by the glow of the evening. He wasn’t much of a talker during meals, but his sharp gaze flickered to yours more times than you could count. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on picking at your food and chiming in when necessary.

“Logan, you ever consider shaving that beard?” Scott asked, smirking as he sipped his drink.

Logan raised an eyebrow, chewing deliberately before answering. “You ever consider mindin’ your own business?”

The table erupted into laughter, Ororo shaking her head as Charles chuckled lightly.

“You two are like oil and water,” Jean teased, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Logan’s gaze flicked to you again, and you felt your stomach tighten. He was watching you more than he should, and it wasn’t helping the creeping anxiety in the back of your mind.

The meal ended too soon for your liking, and as the others began to drift away, you found yourself trying to stall. Rising to your feet, you looked to Ororo, who was gathering plates. “Here, let me help with the dishes,” you offered quickly.

Ororo raised a brow but handed you a stack. “If you insist.”

Jean passed by, placing her glass in the sink. “Don’t forget about your check-up,” she reminded you, her voice tinged with gentle concern.

You hesitated, focusing on the plates in your hands. “I’ll be there in fifteen,” you said, keeping your tone light.

Logan knew immediately what you were doing. He's still sitting by the dinner table, his arms crossed. “You can’t keep puttin’ this off.”

“I’m not putting it off,” you replied briskly, focusing on scrubbing a plate. “It’s just a little delay. Fifteen minutes won’t kill anyone.”

Ororo glanced between you and Logan, sensing the charged air. She gave you a knowing look, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she patted your shoulder. “Alright,” she said lightly, though her eyes lingered on yours. “I’ll let you two talk. Maybe Logan can help with the dishes instead of lecturing you.”

The air grew heavier the moment Ororo left, leaving just you and Logan.

“You’re scared,” he said, his tone calm but insistent.

You clenched your jaw, scrubbing harder at the dish in your hand. “I’m not scared. I just don’t like being in that lab. It’s not exactly my idea of a fun night.”

“You’re lying to yourself,” Logan pressed, standing from his seat. “You’ve been draggin’ your feet on this. What are you so afraid of?” He said as he walk closer.

You turned to glare at him, your fingers still gripping the sponge tightly. “I’m not afraid of anything, Logan. I just—”

“You just what?” he interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “You’re tougher than anyone else, but right now, you’re actin’ like a damn coward.”

The word hit you like a punch to the gut, and you slammed the dish back into the sink. “Coward? Do you have any idea what it’s like to think something might be wrong with you? To not be able to fix it? To not even want to know because you’re terrified of what you’ll find out?”

Logan didn’t flinch, his eyes boring into yours. “So, admit it. You’re scared.”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. The vulnerability was suffocating, but his relentless gaze refused to let you off the hook. Finally, you exhaled shakily, your voice breaking.

“Yes I'm fucking scared!” you confessed. “For the first time in my life, I’m scared...”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that pulled you under and made it hard to breathe. Logan stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between shock and something softer.

“Then let them help you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Do this for the sake of yourself, you deserve to know.”

His words struck a chord, and you glanced away, blinking back the sting of tears. “I don’t know if I can handle it, Logan.”

“You can,” he said firmly, stepping closer. Muttering your name with his gravely voice. “And you will. C’mon, finish up here, and we’ll head to the lab.”

You sighed, picking up the sponge again.

Logan stayed close, leaning against the counter as you finished your task. His presence was grounding, even as your nerves buzzed with the weight of what was to come.

When the last dish was placed on the drying rack, Logan gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Let’s go.”

You nodded reluctantly, wiping your hands on a towel. As you walked toward the medbay, his steady presence at your side, you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of fear and comfort. Whatever the outcome, you wouldn’t face it alone.

The lab was dimly lit, the hum of machinery filling the quiet air. Jean gestured for you to take a seat near the MRI machine, her expression calm but tinged with concern. You followed her instructions, lying back and allowing the machine to begin its scan. The cool metal beneath you felt impersonal, amplifying the knot in your stomach.

Halfway through the procedure, Hank and Charles entered the room. Their quiet murmurs with Jean were a background noise you tried to tune out. As the scan concluded, you sat up, waiting in tense silence while the machine processed the data.

Fifteen minutes passed like hours. You stared blankly at the ceiling, your mind a mess of chaotic thoughts. Across the room, Jean and Hank hovered over the printed results, their conversation too quiet to hear. You could see the shift in their expressions—the furrow of Hank’s brow, the way Jean’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Your chest tightened when their eyes flicked to you, their gazes heavy with hesitation. Jean finally walked the results over to Charles, who studied the scan in silence. He didn’t look up, his expression grim.

Logan, standing off to the side, watched the exchange. His body tensed as he stepped closer to the group, his voice low but demanding. “What’s goin’ on?”

Jean glanced at him, her words too soft for you to catch. Whatever she said made Logan’s expression darken, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked toward you. Sympathy radiated from his gaze, and you hated it.

You couldn’t sit still any longer. You stood, your movements stiff as you approached the group. “What is it?” Your voice was sharp, demanding an answer.

Jean turned to you, the scan in her hands. She hesitated, as if weighing how to say what she needed to. “There’s... a glioma. A mass of cells growing around the right side of your brain.”

Your breath caught. “It’s a damn cancer, isn’t it?” you asked flatly, cutting through her attempt at a gentle explanation.

Jean glanced back at Hank and Charles for support. The professor moved forward in his wheelchair, his tone measured but serious. “Yes. We believe it’s a brain tumor.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Your voice came out hollow, stripped of emotion. “How long do I have left?”

Hank adjusted his glasses, clearly uncomfortable as he answered. “Approximately six months.”

Charles rolled closer, his gaze steady. “We’ll find a way through this. Don’t you worry,” he assured you, his voice calm but filled with determination.

Your chest tightened, your breathing shallow. The words felt distant, like they were happening to someone else. You wanted to break down, to cry or scream, but all you felt was a cold hollowness.

Logan moved to your side, his presence grounding even as your world spiraled. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, his hand brushing yours for the briefest moment.

“You’re not facing this alone,” he muttered, his voice gruff but steady.

You couldn’t meet his gaze, afraid of what you’d see there. Instead, you stared down at the scan in Jean’s hands, the shadow of the tumor a stark reminder of what was coming.

“I’m dying,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

Jean stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “We’ll do everything we can to fight this. You’re not out of options.”

But you barely heard her. All you could feel was the weight of the diagnosis settling in, an immovable force pressing down on your chest. Logan’s hand finally rested lightly on your shoulder, the simple touch anchoring you just enough to keep you from falling apart.

For now.

Part 7 ->

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