#m: fics

[silversprings-mp3]

this is so sweet!!!! ugh i love it

sweet like honey ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

summary: logan ended up spending his evenings in the bar across the street from your bakery, watching you do your job. he never approached you, never talked to you, but he always kept an eye on you, until he has a bad feeling. pairing: logan x fem!reader warning & content: swearing, violence, reader almost gets assaulted (but logan saves the day), she/her pronouns for reader, wade being wade, unprotected p in v, fluff, angst, lots of baking and mentions of food, slightly ooc logan (if you squint), slow burn, sex in a bakery wc: 6k

a/n: i don't always write, but when i do, it's a fucking thesis. unedited.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Logan was never a fan of sweets. He hated chocolate, cheesecake, gummy bears — literally anything sweet. The only thing he could barely stomach was tiramisu, and only because it had coffee in it. Other than that, he steered away from sweets like they were the fucking plague.

Yet despite all that, he found himself enjoying the smell of freshly baked croissants, custard donuts, brownies, and whatever goods you baked in your little bakery, conveniently situated across the street from his go-to bar.

Cleverly named Flour Power, it was all pastel both inside and out, with little pots of hyacinths hanging from its window and a big sign above the entrance. Not that Logan ever went there, but he always walked past it when he went for a drink. Flour Power stood out from all the shops with its baby blue windowsills and bubblegum pink door. As much as he disliked vibrant colours, his eyes were always drawn to the bakery. But not because of how it looked or the way it smelled.

No, Logan strategically sat down by the window in the bar to see you. Every evening, he watched you sell everything you had on display, from wedding cakes to éclairs, greetings customers with a warm smile on your face. He watched you turn the sign from open to closed, lock the door, clean the display shelves, the counters, the only two tables and four chairs inside, and sweep and mop the floors. Then you disappeared in the back for a while, perhaps doing the dishes or preparing dough and frosting, before you walked out, locked the door again, pulled down the blinds over the big window on the right side of the door, and left.

It became a ritual for Logan to watch you. In a way, it brought him some peace, despite him never speaking to you. To him, you were innocence personified, the type of girl who made others feel better simply by being there, and he didn't want to disturb that peace.

Tonight was an ordinary night for the 200 year old mutant. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, drank it all, then went to the bar to ask for another round, killing time until you closed the bakery, then he could finally go back to the apartment. You closed at 7 for clients and left at 8:30 every evening except for Sundays, when you didn't work. Logan knew your schedule a little to well, even knew you opened for clients at 8 in the morning, but you were there much earlier, because he could smell the pastries at around half 6. This time, however, you seemed to have a bit more work. It was past 9, it was dark, and you still hadn't left, and Logan was slightly concerned.

He watched you like a hawk, how you tucked rebellious strands of hair behind your ear when you mopped the floor, how you wiped your hands on your cute little apron after you finished scrubbing the countertops. Logan thought you had extra orders from customers, perhaps a wedding cake. He scrunched his nose at the thought of having to try so many flavours only to pick a damn cake that he probably wouldn't enjoy anyway.

But finally, you were done.

It was almost 10 when you locked the door to the bakery, double checking to make sure it wouldn't budge. Then the blinds and off you went. Logan was satisfied to see you go, but the hairs on his back suddenly stood up, his nostrils filled with the scent of danger. Bitter, sour, it went straight to his brain, and so he finished his drink and left the bar, following you down the street but keeping a safe distance.

You walked past a group of drunk men, gripping your tote bag with your left hand and your keys with your right one. You've learned to place the keys between your fingers, like claws, in case someone attacked you. Going home at that time wasn't something you enjoyed, and you always tried to avoid working late, but sometimes that was inevitable. When you heard footsteps approaching you, you picked up the pace, but paranoia kicked in, and you didn't want whoever was following you to find out where you lived, and so you took a detour.

Logan was like your shadow, going everywhere you went, until he heard something drop in a dimly lit alleyway and he sped up, finding you round a corner, pinned to a wall by a man while another guy had his hand up your dress. It was too dark to see, but Logan didn't need eyes to know that was you. He could smell the vanilla extract and icing sugar and fear.

"Take my wallet!" You told the men, but they weren't there for the money. They wanted something else from you.

"Nah, doll, I'll take something else from you. Somethin' more precious than money." One of the men said, his breath reeking of alcohol, the cheap kind.

"Hurry up and fuck her, bro, I need my turn-"

Something flashed, then a shadow lunged at the second guy who couldn't even finish his sentence before he was struck down.

"Mike?" The man who pinned you against the wall asked, his hands trembling on your body. "Stop fucking around."

But Mike was seeing stars somewhere on the alleyway. It happened so quickly you couldn't understand what was going on. When your eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, you saw him, rough, handsome and very, very angry.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man asked, but all he got in response was a guttural growl. "Hey, man, I don't want any trouble. My girlfriend and I were just talking. Stay out of it." He grabbed you by the neck, dragging you away from Logan.

You seized the opportunity and wrestled out of his grasp by biting your assaulter's hand, dashing behind a bin.

"Ow! Fucking bitch!" He lunged at you, but Logan was quicker, piercing his claws through his shoulder and holding him in place.

"That's no way to talk to a lady." The mutant snarled, and you watched how his claws retracted before he punched the man in the face, effectively knocking him down.

He was the Wolverine. You had seen it all over the news, how he saved your universe, how he came from a different world. You couldn't believe he was the one helping you when you thought no one would save you in that moment.

"You alright, kid?" His raspy voice startled you and you barely nodded, still too shocked to move or speak. "You sure?"

You shook your head and tears rolled down your cheeks as you finally started to process what just happened. Logan scrunched his nose — comforting someone wasn't his strongest skill — and instead he picked up your bag and keys from the pavement.

"Shit, um, don't cry." He handed you your belongings, and you looked up at him with a frown.

How could you not cry when you saw your entire life flashing before your eyes? Logan swallowed a lump in his throat and offered his hand to help you stand up. You looked at his hand, reluctant to grab it. The only thing he could compare you with was a cat — cautious, yet curious.

"No claws." He said when he understood the meaning behind your eyes. "Come, I'll- um, I'll walk you home."

The invitation had you perk up and gain courage, and you quietly took the bag from his hand. He walked with you in complete silence, until you stopped in front of a building. You lingered, unwilling to go in. Logan asked if that was your place, and after you nodded, he offered to take you all the way to your apartment, which made you feel relieved. He could see it on your face when you sighed. You guided him up the stairs, constantly looking behind you to make sure he was there.

You stopped in front of a tall wooden door, keys in hand.

"Go on. I'll wait until you lock the door." Logan encouraged you.

"Can you stay?" You finally spoke, and your voice was sweet like honey, fitting for a baker.

"I don't know, kid-"

"Please." You looked at him with glossy eyes, pupils blown from the fear that hadn't left your body yet. The fear he could still smell.

"Yeah. Okay, I'll stay."

"Thank you."

Logan followed you in, and you flipped the light switch on before locking the door behind him. He looked around and, just as he expected, the apartment was a direct reflection of your bakery — clean, colourful and calm. There were recipes stuck to the walls with pink pins, and between them little paintings of sunsets, skies, flowers, cats. All things cute. They weren't framed, and so Logan figured they were hand-made, his assumptions confirmed by the easel in the corner of your living room.

Of course your sofa had to be colourful, too — mustard yellow with sage green cushions and blankets. Even your curtains were sage green. Despite the explosion of colours, Logan found himself enjoying being there. Not everything had to be brown, black and grey, he thought. Probably the only vibrant thing in his life was his suit, since the only people that brought colour were his friends, and they were gone.

"Drink?" You cracked the walls he put up around his heart with that sweet voice.

You shook a bottle of gin to get his attention and he nodded. Logan wasn't a fan of gin, but he didn't expect you to have any hard liquors. He watched you pull out two blue glasses from the kitchen cabinet, and of course they had to be funky, with white flowers on them.

"Where'd you get these?" He asked, swirling the drink in his hand.

"I made them. Kind of." You said. "Bought them from a charity store and painted the flowers. Do you want some tonic water?"

"Fuck no." Logan choked on his gin when you asked him that question. Simply being in a place so... colourful was enough. He didn't need a girly drink.

"I'm Y/N, by the way."

"I'm-"

"The Wolverine!" You cut him off a little too eager.

"-Logan. Call me Logan." He cringed when the beverage tickled his taste buds. It wasn't bitter enough for him.

"Logan. Thanks for tonight. Is there any way I can repay you?"

The question was riddled with innocence, but he couldn't stop the degenerate thoughts that popped in his mind when you asked him that. You were just so pure that he wanted to both protect you and ruin you.

"Don't mention it. I couldn't just walk past without doing anything." Logan lied, because, really, he wasn't just walking by, was he? No, it was downright stalking.

"I could bake something for you." You offered and he shook his head.

"I don't like sweets, kid."

"What?" You were baffled. "Everybody likes something sweet."

"Not me." He shrugged. "All I like is tiramisu and only if those biscuits are doused in coffee."

"Ladyfingers." You corrected him with a chuckle. "They're called ladyfingers."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious! Here!" You rushed to your pantry and pulled out a whole box of them, showing Logan the name.

"That's just stupid." He shook his head. "Who calls them ladyfingers?"

"Uh, everyone?" You laughed at his surprise, and the thoughts of your bad evening slowly dissipated, like a bad dream.

Logan truly was clueless about baking, but spent hours listening to you talk about types of sugar, extracts and their uses, and the difference between baking soda and baking powder in cooking. You rambled on and on and not once did he get bored. He could listen to you talk for hours with your voice soothing. Logan thought about it, and he genuinely never met someone like you before. The women in his life were all so different, but you took the cake. You were special in ways he couldn't understand. And he was just so drawn to you.

"I'm sorry, I haven't stopped talking once!" You apologised, realising how safe you felt with him there. You would never let a stranger inside your house, let alone talk about baking while having gin. But Logan wasn't a stranger. Not after he saved you.

"'s alright. It's not every day I learn about baking." He chuckled, finishing his drink. "Listen, I should get going."

"Right." You sighed, eyes darting at the floor. "No, of course. I've kept you too long."

Logan got up and you walked with him to the hallway. He was slow to put his leather jacket on, as if he was waiting for you to say something, anything, but when you didn't, he unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hey, Logan?" You tugged at his sleeve, whispering so you wouldn't wake your neighbours. "Are you sure I can't bake you something? Not now, I mean. I really want you to try something besides tiramisu. And that way I can repay you."

"Hell, why not?" He shrugged.

"Great!" You beamed at him like a child on Christmas day. "Stop by my bakery tomorrow at twelve. It's on Granville Street."

"I thought you didn't work on Sundays."

"Oh, how'd you know?" You quirked a brow at him.

Caught red-handed.

"Educated guess."

"Fair enough." His answer satisfied you. "Be there or be square!"

Sleep was for the weak. All night, Logan tossed and turned and abused his poor pillow with with punches. The mere thought of seeing you, no, interacting with you, had him wriggle like a worm on the mattress. It didn't help that Wade instantly noticed something was up.

"Oh, my, did you shower, peanut?"

"Not today, Satan." Logan poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Mmm, and what do I smell?" Wade sniffed the air. "Wait, is that my perfume?"

"Forgot to pack mine when I swapped universes." The Wolverine barked back.

"Hah!" Blind Al chimed in from the living room. "I think tall, dark and handsome here has a date!"

Logan rolled his eyes while Wade pouted, plopping on the sofa next to Al.

"You never called me that."

"That's cause you’re a degenerate." The woman snorted.

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it- ow! Stop hitting me with your cane, I know where you hide your nose candy!" Wade fought back.

"Touch it and I'll bust a cap in your ass!" Al scoffed.

"And I'll regenerate."

Logan used the opportunity to slip into the hallway, but his roommate was quicker, and blocked the door.

"You're not going anywhere until we have the talk."

"The talk?" The Wolverine snorted.

"Ah, they grow up so fast." Wade told Al. "Now, son, when a man and a woman love each other-"

"I'll give you three seconds to fuck off."

"Oh, but I need to know everything! Who is he?"

"She." Logan rolled his eyes.

"Oh my god, is this you coming out to us? Al, he's straight! I promise we love you anyway." Wade went for a hug and all Logan could do was accept it. He learned to live with Wade, even though he dislocated his jaw a few times after he moved in.

"Alright, that's enough."

"Nooo, we're just getting started. Name? Age? Occupation? We could do a double date with Vanessa-"

"Absolutely fucking not." Logan pushed Wade off of him.

"Okay, okay. Just make sure you wrap your willy, and if you need any advice, daddy's here." Wade opened the door for his roommate.

"Actually." Logan lingered in the hallway. "What kind of flowers do girls like?"

The blinds to the bakery were closed but you were inside, pastries in the oven and dessert in the fridge. You couldn't help yourself and prepared something savoury as well, in case he didn't like the lemon cake. A knock on the door startled you, and you rushed to check who it was.

Logan stood there, a bouquet of peonies in his hand. You welcomed him in with a smile, but he could tell it was different than the one you flashed your customers. It seemed more genuine. And it felt like a date.

"These are for you." Logan handed you the flowers, taking in the scent of pork pies. "I thought you were gonna bake something sweet." He flared his nostrils.

"I did, I just thought I should have a plan B in case you didn't like my cake." You placed the bouquet in a vase on one of your tables. "How did you know I liked peonies?"

Logan couldn't believe Wade was right about those damn flowers. And there he was, thinking roses would be better. Maybe the Merc with a Mouth wasn't so bad after all.

"I had a hunch." He shrugged. 

"Well, Logan, I love them! Now sit, sit!" You ushered him to his seat. "I hope you're hungry, because there's a lot for you to try."

"A lot? I thought you'll make me a cupcake or somethin', bub."

"A cupcake?? Don't be silly." Just as you said that, the oven made a loud ding sound, and you turned on your heels, heading in the back.

Logan waited patiently, observing every little detail from the front of your bakery, from the spotless display shelves to the neatly organised paper bags, to the fairy lights around the window. It was obvious to him that you had put your mind, body and soul into this bakery, and his expectations were quite high after all the fuss you made. But he decided to be nice not matter how the food tasted. He couldn't bear seeing you upset if he didn't like what you made.

You reappeared with a tray in your hand, and on it two plates, one with a small pork pie, one with a croissant, and a cup of coffee. Hell, even the cutlery was cute, with swirls engraved on the handles of the fork, knife and teaspoon.

"I decided to leave the cake for last." You said, placing the tray in front of him. "This is a simple pork pie, start with that." You urged him. "Careful, it's hot."

The Wolverine struggled with the cutlery, too small for his large hands, and the brief thought of slashing the pie with his claws crossed his mind, but he decided to be civil. You watched him butcher the food, eager to see his reaction, but he was taking his time.

"I'll let it cool off a bit."

"Ooh, that's probably a good idea." You nodded.

"Aren't you having some?" Logan asked.

"Noo, no. I like to bake for others, not for myself."

"So what do you eat, then?" He sipped on the coffee.

"Instant noodles usually. I'm too tired to cook when I get home. I do occasionally have leftovers, but whatever isn't sold I take it to the local shelter." You explained.

Christ, you couldn't be any kinder. Logan was stunned by your beauty and your soul, which was why he decided that after today, he will stop any interaction with you. He couldn't ruin you, not with his lifestyle, not with the danger that followed him everywhere.

The only problem was that the conversation flowed naturally, and he felt safe with you, just as you did with him. Like you were the missing piece to his puzzle. Logan pushed away those thoughts and decided to try the food. He took a large mouthful of the pie, chewed and swallowed, and you waited expectantly.

"Shit."

"What? Is it bad?" You jumped from your seat.

"Fuck, this is the best pork pie I've ever had." Logan wiped his mouth with a tissue you provided. "I'm serious, kid. Did you put drugs in it?"

You laughed, shaking your head as he finished the rest of the pie. He truly seemed to enjoy it, and you felt so satisfied. But the real test came after.

"Pistachio croissant." You said. "I thought about making almond ones, but I figured pistachio wasn't that sweet."

"Right, let's see." Logan took a healthy bite out of the pastry, and lo and behold, he closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. If heaven had a taste, it would be that damned croissant.

"Is it good?"

"Good? Jesus, this is the best one yet." He finished the rest of it, the pistachio cream tickling his taste buds in all the right ways. "Who taught you to bake like this?"

"My grandma. She was the best cook I knew." You smiled.

Logan noticed your use of past tense, and he didn't want to bring up any bad memories. He wasn't the nosy type, but something possessed him to ask you about your life, your family, your favourite colours. He needed to know more about you, and you answered all his questions, opening up to him like a flower in bloom. But when it came to him talking about himself, Logan was reluctant.

Talking to Wade was easier, because Wade didn't take anything seriously, nor did he ask personal questions. Well, he did, but in his own stupid way that provided Logan some distraction, as well as a reason to punch him. But with you it was different. He felt like he owed you serious answers that he wasn't yet ready to tell a stranger who made a mean pistachio croissant.

"The cake!" You spun on the chair, changing the subject when you saw Logan dodging your questions like bullets.

Although he didn't say it, he was grateful that you didn't put any pressure on him to talk. He wasn't a talker. That was definitely Wade. You came back with the whole cake, and it looked so good that Logan didn't want you to cut it. Perfectly round, a layer of cream in the middle and white frosting on top. You even went so far as to decorate it with all kinds of yellow flower petals and what seemed to be mint leaves.

"Alright, hit me. What's this one called?"

"I call it the Mojito Cake. The sponge cake has lemon zest, the cream is made of lime, mint and rum syrup, and the frosting is buttercream with a dash of actual rum." You explained.

"Shit, I can't tell if that sounds disgusting or incredible."

"Only one way to find out." You cut him a thick slice, and Logan wasted no time trying it.

"I think you found yourself a new customer."

"You're too nice."

"I'm anything but nice, kid." He took three more spoonfuls. "But I ain't a liar. This is delicious." Logan spoke with his mouth full and it made you chuckle.

"Oh, there's a bit of frosting on your face."

"Hm?" He used the tissue to wipe his chin. "Did I get it?"

"No, it's still- here, I'll get it." You leaned forward and delicately ghosted your thumb over the corner of his mouth, eyes locked with his.

Without thinking about it, you dragged your tongue over the frosting, and Logan couldn't look away from you even if he wanted to. A gesture so innocent, but it destroyed any form of restraint. He pressed his lips onto yours, tasting the rum and the cream, but before you could kiss him back, he pulled away.

"Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn't have-"

You gave him no time to finish his sentence when you placed your hands on his shoulders and kissed him with fire on your tongue. God, he hated being touched, but when you did it, he melted in your hands. Lust battled reason and prevailed, and you found yourself straddling Logan's lap, arms around his neck and chest pressed against his.

His large hands found their way under your dress, fingers digging in the plush of your thighs until a moan escaped past your lips. Logan could've sworn you were pure in all ways — a virgin — so, naturally, he was surprised to see you eager to jump his adamantium bones.

With the last shred of reason left in you, you glanced at the door and window to make sure they were covered, and pushed Logan's jacket off his shoulders, peppering his neck with soft kisses. He wasn't the gentle type, no matter how hard he tried, and he didn't need to be when he felt your hips grind in his lap. It was more than obvious that you wanted him then and there.

Logan lifted you up as if you weighed nothing and slammed you down the empty table. His roughness sent a chill down your spine, because you really wanted him to manhandle you from the moment he stepped foot in your bakery. He kissed you again, pressing his whole against yours until your back hit the table. You felt like a cornered animal with nowhere to go, and the thrill of it turned you on.

"Are you sure you want this?" Logan asked despite you unbuckling his belt.

"I don't want this, I want you. I need you to fuck me so hard I can't walk." You unzipped his jeans, and although he was taken aback by your sudden use of filthy words, he couldn't deny he enjoyed seeing that side of you.

"Greedy little girl." Logan's hand slithered between your legs, fingers rubbing circles over your clothed clit. "Shit, you're soakin' wet. Can feel it through your fuckin' panties already." He flared his nostrils, taking in the scent of your arousal.

With his jeans loose around his waist, you palmed his cock through his boxers, and it didn't shock you for a second that he was rock hard. What did shock you, however, was the size of it. It was probably the biggest you've ever taken, and you didn't want any other man anymore.

You tugged at the waistband of his boxers, making it clear that you didn't want to waste any more time. Not that you didn't want to suck his dick or explore every inch of his body and worship it the way a man like him deserved it, but you were impatient.

Logan got the hint when you whined and scoffed, and he tore the pink panties off of you, tossing them on the floor. At least he had the decency not to put them on the table, which you were going to disinfect anyway. He pushed his boxers down, and you propped yourself on your elbows to look at him, and it was a sight for sore eyes indeed. He had perfectly sculpted abs, you could see them under the half-lifted t-shirt, but it was his cock that made your mouth water.

"Like what you see?" Logan was smug, confident in his good looks.

"I need to permanently imprint this image on my retina." You told him, and he couldn't help the chuckle.

"Likewise. Now spread 'em."

"Yessir!" You very quickly obeyed, parting your legs for him, and Logan couldn't deny that he enjoyed being in control.

He wasn't one to take orders, nor give them, but watching you comply scratched an itch he couldn't get rid of. Logan pressed the tip of his cock against your slick folds, earning another whine from you. You bucked your hips, craving more, and he scoffed.

"That desperate, hm?"

"You have no idea." You dug your manicured fingernails into his shoulders, bracing for temporary pain, because you knew damn well it would hurt.

"I don't know, I didn't hear you say please." Logan frowned, and you understood what game he was playing. A game you yearned to be part of.

"Oh, please, please, please fuck me, Logan! I'll be so good for you! I'll do anything you want." You clung to his shoulders, bringing yourself closer to him. "I'll even take it in any hole you want." You whispered, dragging your tongue over his lips.

"Shit." Logan was weak in the knees from your words, and the worst part was that he believed everything you said. But there was a time and place for everything.

You were the perfect mix of sweet and spicy, and you begged so nicely that the Wolverine just couldn't say no. You felt the leaking tip of his cock push past your folds and you audibly gasped at the size of it, drawing blood from his skin with your fingernails.

"It won't fit-" You whined with lust in your voice.

"I'll make it fit." Logan promised, painstakingly slowly thrusting into you.

He gave you time to adjust to his girth, constantly checking if you were alright, if you wanted him to carry on or stop, and while you loved that he was so caring, you needed him hurry up and fuck you.

To assure him that you would survive his monstrous cock, you planted a soft kiss on his nose, and there it was again, the change in your personality, from sultry to innocent. It was as though you embodied everything he ever wanted, and his desire to never contact you again went down the drain. How could Logan ever leave someone like you?

"I'm ready." You nodded, and he pressed his forehead onto yours, slowly rolling his hips.

You weren't ready, because it hurt like a bitch when he stretched out your velvety walls. But the pain was soon replaced by pleasure, and Logan picked up the pace when your whimpers turned to moans, and the slight frown on your face disappeared.

"So tight." He hummed, forehead resting against yours.

Were you tight, or was he just so incredibly big? Either way, you were a panting mess already, clinging to him for dear life, and Logan forgot his worries, even if it was just for that one moment. You were too good to be true, with your parted lips and glossy eyes — a beautiful sight for his sore eyes.

"Fuck, I- fuck!" You wrapped your legs around his waist, the table screeching under you. Not a single coherent sentence could come out of your mouth. "Logan, shit, I-"

"What's the matter? Need something?" He cooed, fingers bruising into your hips. "Use your big girl words."

"Need it ha-harder!" You cried out but he slowed down, confusion written all over your face.

"Where are your manners?"

"Please, daddy, please give it to me harder!"

The term of endearment had Logan quirk a brow at you, but he wasn't surprised in the slightest that you had a daddy kink. And he basked in being called that.

"Are you sure you can take it?"

"Yes!" There was no hesitation in your response. "Fuck, yes!"

Logan growled when he felt your pussy clench around his cock, and he delivered, thrusting deeper, harder and faster into you, until the sound of skin on skin echoed in the bakery, and your breathing became heavier.

"Fuuuuck, I can feel it in my gut!" You threw your head back when the tip of his cock brushed against your cervix.

"Filthy. Little. Slut." Each word came with a thrust and a groan, and he filled you up so good, you became addicted to him.

Your toes curled up, and your legs began to twitch when you felt your orgasm build up. Each push and pull made your vision blurry, and Logan's grip on you tightened as his hips stuttered. He was feral, and he was close, you could feel it in your bones.

"Fuck, Logan, do- oh- don't stop!" Words spilled from your mouth incoherently, and after a few more thrusts, pure bliss rushed through your body.

"That's it, let go." Logan buried his face in the crook of your neck, slamming hard into you until all you could do was chant his name like a prayer.

You felt him fill you up, pussy hot and sticky and sore, and he slowly pulled out, eyes darting at the tissues on the table. He grabbed them, gently cleaning you up, and you couldn’t stop the grin on your face. There was just something about a man like him be so gentle. And you were absolutely delighted to have him take care of you.

"You know," Logan said licking his lips, "I'm beginning to think you didn't want me to just taste your pastries."

"True." You told him smugly. "But you liked them."

"I like you more." He blurted out without thinking.

You felt your cheeks burn at his sudden honesty, and after sliding up your underwear and fixing your dress, you planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

"I like you too, honey badger."

"Don't ever call me that again." Logan chuckled.

"Not happening. Now, could you pleaaaase help me clean up this place? The last thing I need is a surprise hygiene inspection tomorrow."

He couldn't even imagine what the inspectors would do if they found out you had sex in a bakery, and with a nod, Logan zipped up his jeans and began disinfecting the tables and chairs while you swept the floor.

In less than half an hour you were done, and the shop was squeaky clean. You were satisfied with the end result, and told Logan that you wanted him to have the rest of the cake, pies and croissants. He thought Wade and Al could eat something, and decided to accept your offer.

"Can I come with you? There's quite a few boxes of food." You told him, a sheepish grin on your lips.

"Is that your way of finding out where I live?"

"Maybe. I'll go home if you don't want me with you."

"No, you're good." Logan assured you. "Besides, I'm sure my roommate's gonna devour everything. He'll probably lock you up in our apartment and force you to bake for him."

"I don't know if that's a threat or a promise." You laughed.

"Both. It's both."

You walked with Logan down the street, boxes in your arms, and you were surprised to see him open up to you more. He answered almost every question you had, and you felt him more relaxed. And he was. Logan forgot how much he needed that kind of connection with someone. You were so easy to talk to, you didn't judge him, and most importantly, you listened.

He guided you up the stairs to his apartment and knocked on the door, because he couldn't reach his keys with so many boxes in his arms. You baked for a damn army.

Wade opened the door, and you were taken aback by his appearance, but it didn't scare you. Instead, you introduced yourself as Logan's personal baker, earning a chuckle from him.

"Come on in, Martha Stewart." Wade opened the door enough for you to walk through it with the boxes and not drop them.

"Wade." Logan came back from the kitchen with a croissant. "Eat. Seriously, eat."

You watched Wade wolf down the pastry without hesitation and his eyes lit up. He chewed and swallowed, then moaned, eyes rolling back. The look of disgust on Logan's face was priceless.

"Holy fucking shit, Y/N, what the fuck did you put in this?" Wade grabbed your shoulders, giving them a good shake. "It's so flaky and creamy and buttery, like a bunch of unicorns came in my mouth."

"I'm glad you like it." You giggled. "Try the cake."

"There's cake?!" He ran to the kitchen, leaving you and Logan in the hallway before coming back, a slice of half-eaten cake in his hand. "I am officially impressed. Can you make Rocky Road?"

"Yes."

"Dulce de leche?"

"Yep."

"Baklava?"

"Uh-huh."

"Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte?"

"Yes, Wade!" You rolled your eyes, then turned to Logan. "Sugar rush?"

"Oh, you have no idea. And this is him on a good day."

"Listen, sweet cheeks, if old man fuckface here won’t marry you, I will. Just don’t tell Vanessa." Wade whispered.

"Don’t even think about it, you degenerate limp dick."

"Ugh, fine. And here I was hoping all four of us could be a happy dysfunctional family. Five if you count Al. Six with Colossus. Wait, actually, eight with-"

"Wade, have you tried the pork pies?" You asked, effectively shutting him up.

Yeah, Logan could definitely get used to being around you from now on to sweeten up his life.

[overtake]

Post-Vegas Maxiel | 1.2K

The lead-up to Max’s fist on Daniel’s front door is a hazy kaleidoscope of memories.

Flashes of sponsor-branded tumblers with gin and tonics being pressed into his hands, which started the night steady and ended up shaky when they tried to sneak under Martin’s shirt and feel up his chest.

Fuzzier still: Martin pulling him into a hug and whispering something against Max’s sticky, sweaty temple about where Max really wanted to be. He can’t make out the words in his hazy memories, only their too-kind cadence, but he remembers the shape of the name Daniel on Martin’s mouth and the way he suddenly stopped wanting to kiss it.

His phone history highlights a costly change to his flight path, a car service for when he landed, typoed assurances to his team that he’d make it in time for Qatar, and four calls that Daniel never returned.

So Max is here in LA, knowing Daniel is probably warm and fast asleep in bed. He can picture the leg hanging off the side of his mattress. His white noise machine will be making Daniel’s bedroom sound like rain, a different shower than the champagne that was poured over Max’s head and down his throat.

He longs to be inside. To press his broad chest against the muscles of Daniel’s back. To kiss down the heated skin because Daniel keeps his bedroom warm like Perth summer and prefers flannel sheets.

Max’s whole body aches with every movement and the need to hold Daniel, even as a solid thrum of excitement keeps his spine rigid and eyes open. He wants to take what Daniel hinted could be theirs when all this was over, even though Max still has two more races and maybe more years left. He’ll be okay if Daniel isn’t ready, but the part of himself that was genetically designed to know Daniel tells him he’s allowed to try.

“Max?”

And then Daniel’s there, confused and squinting around the side of the house. Not asleep, the way Max pictured. He’s in shorts and nothing else, the side of his hand pressed to his forehead as he tries to ward off the sun’s glare and process what’s in front of him.

Max, little pieces of confetti still stuck to his cheek, holding nothing but his backpack and a phone on 10% battery. Max, bleary-eyed and mouth beginning to taste of hangover and death.

He knows he’s not a vision, that this isn’t the big romantic gesture he’d planned with dirt bikes under a Christmas tree. Instead, he hopes his flushed cheeks and mussed hair and the break of his face into the same kind of smile that lived under his helmet when he crossed the finish line … he prays those are enough, that Daniel is healed enough to let himself want Max now and like this.

“I won,” Max says dumbly. He wishes he remembered to grab a water bottle from the car service so the sentence wouldn’t dry tacky and cotton under his tongue.

“You won,” Daniel says, matter-of-fact. He’s not upset or elated. He’s not anything different. He’s Daniel, as himself as ever, looking like he expected this, like Max belongs here the same as the green grass and cement walls.

Max doesn’t feel ridiculous and fearful with Daniel holding him in the stare of his gentle eyes. They’re crinkled at the edges from all his years of laughing — many of the moments shared with Max adding to their depth since the skin there was taut with their shared youth. Max is developing his own smile lines, finally old enough for his skin to permanently imprint the joy of knowing Daniel.

“I have to leave for Qatar tomorrow,” Max says. He takes a step toward Daniel, then another, until Daniel begins to move too.

Max processes for the first time the way Daniel glows under the LA sun and considers that maybe he could make a home here too in Daniel’s joy. He’d seen him in Monaco. He’d been able to confirm for his own eyes that Daniel was taking ownership of this new life and thriving in it. He’d been too nervous then to do more than take Daniel to lunch and padel and observe him cautiously, trying to note every change in his month of healing.

He has the same relaxed and relieved demeanour now as he did then. Daniel is beautiful and belongs everywhere, but Max would make his home in LA just to watch the way Daniel lives so carefree under these palm trees and hundred lane highways.

His shoulders are even looser here than they were Monaco. When Max places a hand on Daniel’s bare, sun-warmed hip, he can feel the tiniest squish of where Daniel can finally eat all the schnitzel he wants. He’s a cactus built in the tough conditions of a sport that didn’t love him back, and he’s still blooming his flowers without it. Max wants to cup him like he’s something precious and be grateful that this sport didn’t make him bitter, that he was born so good that he could survive all this and love Max anyway.

“Guess you don’t need to get me a Christmas present after all,” Daniel jokes. His giggle ducks his head down to Max’s shoulder for a half second, hair tickling the nape of Max’s neck.

Max didn’t need his point to win, sure. But he liked having it; knowing that Daniel set a lap record as his final fuck you to the blind fuckers who quit on him, a lap that also gifted Max breathing room. He’d wished in the plane ride home after Singapore that fastest laps had something tangible for him to steal and hold in Daniel’s absentia. A trophy, a plaque, anything he could grip between his heat-swollen fingers to remember how his chest felt when his radio crackled with the news of Daniel’s triumph.

Max shakes his head, which sends a slightly dizzying wave through his dehydrated, sleep-deprived body. He adjusts his grip tighter on Daniel’s skin, a needed reprieve after the physical ache of wanting.

“You of course still get a Christmas present,” he tells Daniel. He briefly wishes his breath were fresher, but he doesn’t think Daniel will mind too much. “A real one, too, but also.”

He drops his bag on the grass then so his other hand is free to trace the contours of Daniel’s stubbled jawline. Max thinks that if Daniel is careful, Max will be okay to strap the seatbelt around his thighs this week even with the lingering beard burn.

Daniel gifts him the kiss instead, while Max is busy trying to memorize this moment inside his bleary head. His lips are wet against Max’s parched, chapped ones, but he doesn’t pull away from the reminder of Max’s night spent celebrating a world that Daniel was choosing to forget.

Instead, Daniel’s arms ensnare his waist and tug him closer until Max’s breath hitches and he forgets they’re in a front lawn and loses himself inside Daniel’s mouth.

“Congratulations, champ,” Daniel says, pulling away only long enough to speak the words. His nose brushes Max’s when he speaks and begins to tug Max toward the front door. “Let’s get you home.”

[louieshalo]

no faith left to lose

by louieshalo

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | M | [7.1k]

Louis shoves an album booklet — Harry’s album booklet — into Harry’s hands, folded open to a familiar page. “I need you to tell me that that goddamn song is not about me.” His voice cracks a little in his vehemence, and ice fills Harry’s veins as he glances down at the creased page. He doesn’t need to look closely to know what it is Louis is talking about — the title is printed plainly on the page, Second Chances, along with every incriminating lyric, line by line. It’s his most blatant offense off the entire album, probably; sickeningly indulgent and too obviously vulnerable to even defend himself against. The song is a surface-level dip into the fantasy world Harry toys with when the ache of loneliness gets to be too much in the middle of the night, the brief glimpse already toeing over the boundary he’d promised himself he’d set for his career. Most damning, though, is the tiny embossed dedication at the bottom of the page; “For who I’d be if I wasn’t afraid,” Louis recites, looking expectantly at Harry. “What the fuck does that mean?

or, the one where they miss each other more than anything.

written for the @newsecondtimesacharmfest

read it here on ao3

[212-apricity]

siren songs and stolen kisses, the forbidden zone

ssask masterlist main masterlist

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Twinkie rattled and groaned as it made its way down the dark, winding path toward Redfield Cemetery. The headlights cut through the fog, casting eerie shadows across the crooked headstones and gnarled tree branches. It wasn’t exactly an inviting scene, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins made it impossible to feel anything other than excitement.

“Alright, we’re here,” John B announced, slowing the van to a stop.

JJ, sitting in the passenger seat, turned back to look at the rest of us. His face was lit with that mischievous grin he always wore when we were about to do something we probably shouldn’t. “Grave-robbing. Just another Thursday for the Pogues, huh?”

“Do you ever stop joking?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Never,” JJ shot back, his grin widening. “It’s part of my charm, Princess.”

Kiara rolled her eyes from her seat beside me. “More like part of your problem.”

“Don’t act like you’re not charmed, Kie.” JJ smirked before turning his attention back to me.

I glanced at JJ, who was sitting beside me in the van. He flashed me a grin, clearly unbothered by the spooky setting.

The six of us climbed out of the van, flashlights in hand, and made our way through the creaky iron gates. The cold, damp air seemed to wrap around us like a blanket, and the crunch of our footsteps on the gravel path was the only sound.

“Nervous, Princess?” he teased, nudging me lightly with his elbow as John B explained who Redfield was to Kie and Pope, I stopped listening while JJ talked to me.

“Not even a little,” I shot back, trying to sound braver than I felt. JJ’s smirk widened, his blue eyes glinting in the low light.

“Uh-huh,” he said, draping an arm over my shoulders. “Just stay close.”, he looked around.

I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched into a smile despite myself. “I’ll be fine, JJ. Try not to get scared yourself.”

Kiara stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the old tomb at the center of the graveyard. “That’s it. Redfield.”

We stood in a loose circle around the entrance to the tomb at Redfield Graveyard, the cool night air heavy with tension. The ancient stone slab loomed before us, its surface cracked and moss-covered.

“Alright, so how are we gonna do this?” Pope asked, his hands on his hips.

“We can’t exactly just… bust it open,” John B muttered, running a hand through his hair as he examined the tomb. “It’s loud, and it’s stone. We need a better idea.”

“I can fit,” I said confidently, my voice cutting through the conversation.

JJ looked up sharply, his brows furrowing. “What?”

“I can fit through there,” I repeated, pointing to the narrow gap in the tomb’s side.

“That’s, like, half a foot wide,” JJ said skeptically, gesturing at the gap. “Y/n, you’re not a noodle.”

“Don’t need to be,” I shot back, already stepping forward to test the space. I turned to them with a smirk. “I used to do gymnastics, I’m flexible.”

“Yeah, well, flexibility isn’t gonna help if a snake bites you,” JJ said, crossing his arms.

Kiara stepped closer, inspecting the gap. “She might fit,” she said thoughtfully, glancing at JJ. “It’s tight, but it’s doable.”

JJ rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure. Let’s just risk Y/n getting wedged in a 200-year-old tomb. That sounds like a great plan.”

“Got a better one, Maybank?” I challenged, raising an eyebrow.

JJ opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again. “No. But that doesn’t mean I like this one.”

John B clapped JJ on the shoulder. “She’s our best shot, man. Let’s just keep watch while she goes in. If it goes south, we’ll pull her out.”

JJ sighed, shaking his head but stepping back. “Fine. But if you get stuck, I’m not crawling in there to save you.”

I smirked. “Noted.”

As I started squeezing herself into the gap, standing on JJ’s interlocked hands hoisting me up, he muttered under his breath, “You better not get bitten, I’ll lose my shit.”

After what felt like forever, I emerged, holding a parcel labelled, “For Bird”.

“Got it!” I said triumphantly, my voice cutting through the silence.

We all scrambled back to the Twinkie, fearing someone behind us, the atmosphere was buzzing as we sped away from the graveyard, the parcel sitting like a relic on the seat between John B and Kiara. The air felt electric, each of us buzzing with anticipation and pride for pulling off what felt like a legendary heist.

“Hell yeah!” Pope shouted, his fist pumping into the air. He turned to John B with a wide grin. “We’re unstoppable, bro!”

“Yeah, baby!” JJ added, his excitement infectious. His voice carried over the din of cheers, and I saw him glance my way, his grin lingering just a little too long before he turned back to the others. I thought nothing of it, too caught up in the energy of the moment.

We screeched into the driveway of the Chateau, all of us pouring out of the Twinkie like over-caffeinated kids. The parcel was carefully placed on the table inside, the reverence of the moment sinking in as John B opened it with careful hands. Inside was a tape recorder and a stack of notes, Big John’s voice crackling to life as John B pressed play.

Big John’s words echoed in the room, his instructions clear but cryptic, urging John B to follow the clues that would lead to the Royal Merchant and the gold.

The air was thick with emotion when the recording ended. For a moment, none of us spoke, the weight of what we’d just heard settling over us. Then, in true Pogue fashion, the tension broke with a cheer, each of us swept up in the joy of what we’d accomplished.

“Man, we’re really doing this,” Pope said, shaking his head in disbelief as he grinned at the rest of us.

Kiara pulled John B into a hug, her voice filled with pride. “Your dad was onto something big, JB.”

We all started hugging, caught up in the moment. JJ grabbed me, lifting me off the ground in his excitement.

“Put me down, you idiot!” I laughed, smacking his shoulder as he spun me around.

He laughed, his grin widening before finally setting me back on my feet.

When we pulled apart, his hands lingered on my arms, his blue eyes catching mine under the dim light of the kitchen. For a second, everything else faded, his gaze softening as he looked at me.

“What?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head like he was shaking off a thought.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

“Hey,” JJ said suddenly, coming up behind me as I was throwing the old moldy bread away, breaking the silence.

I glanced back at him. “What?”

“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the door.

“What are you doing?” I asked, startled.

“Just come on,” he said, his fingers warm around mine.

As he led me outside, I could hear the others laughing behind us.

“Oh, this is happening,” Kiara called, her voice dripping with amusement.

“Finally!” Pope added, and I groaned.

“Shut up!” I yelled over my shoulder, my cheeks heating as JJ pulled me further away from the house.

“Let them talk,” JJ said, laughing as we made our way toward the beach.

The moon hung low over the water, casting a soft silver glow over the sand. We walked in silence for a while, the sound of the waves filling the space between us. JJ’s hand was still holding mine, his grip steady and warm.

Finally, he stopped, turning to face me.

“Okay, what’s this about?” I asked, my heart pounding as he looked at me, his usual smirk replaced by something more serious.

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not great at this kind of thing, so just… bear with me, alright?”

“JJ…” I started, but he cut me off.

“No, let me say this,” he said, his voice firm but nervous. “I like you, Y/n. I’ve liked you since we were kids. When John B and I were running around causing trouble, and I’d see you hanging out with Kie and Sarah. You’re the one thing in my life that’s always made sense, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel this way.”

I stared at him, his words washing over me like a wave.

Finally, I found my voice. “JJ, I like you too,” I said softly. “I think I always have.”

The relief on his face was instant, and before I could say anything else, he stepped closer, cupping my face in his hands as he kissed me. His lips were warm and soft, and the world seemed to stop as I kissed him back.

When we pulled apart, I grinned at him. “You know this breaks your no Kook rule, right?”

“Shut up,” he said, laughing as he pulled me into another kiss. “You’re a Pogue now.”

I pulled back just enough to smirk at him. “What about the no Pogue-on-Pogue macking rule?”

JJ groaned, rolling his eyes before kissing me again, harder this time, effectively shutting me up.

Cheers and whistles erupted from somewhere behind us, and we broke apart to see the rest of the Pogues watching from a distance, grinning like idiots.

JJ groaned, burying his face in my neck. “They’re the worst.”

I laughed, grabbing his hand. “Yeah, but we’ll get them back someday.”

He laughed, lacing his fingers through mine and as we walked back to the Chateau, I couldn’t stop the smile on my face. For the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Twinkie was a moving disaster zone, as usual, bumping and groaning over the backroads. John B was at the wheel, one arm slung out the window as the wind whipped through his hair. Kiara sat in the passenger seat, holding the map, while Pope and I were squished in the back seat. JJ lounged across the floor of the van, his legs stretched out, his knife flicking open and closed in one hand, and the other hand working on rolling a blunt.

“Alright, so let’s talk this through again,” Kiara said, pointing at the map. “The coordinates lead to somewhere here,” she gestured vaguely at the red mark on the paper, “which should put us right in line with the wreck. But we need to figure out what these notes mean.”

“I mean, it could be anything,” Pope said, squinting at the faint writing. “Big John was cryptic as hell.”

“Understatement,” John B muttered from the front.

I was half-listening, leaning back against the van’s side panel with my legs crossed. JJ’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation.

“Hey, Princess,” he said, looking up at me with a grin that was both lazy and wicked. “C’mere.”

I raised an eyebrow but shifted closer. “What?”

He held up the blunt he was rolling, the paper balanced delicately between his fingers. “Lick it for me.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“C’mon,” he said, smirking. “Don’t act all shy now. You’ve seen worse things in this van.”

Pope groaned. “Can you not?”

Ignoring him, I laughed at JJ’s false joke, knowing it was directed to make Pope uncomfortable, but leaned in anyway, reaching the blunt in his hands. His gaze lingered on me, his smirk softening into something more teasing as I licked the paper not breaking eye contact.

“There,” I said, trying not to let the heat in my cheeks show. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” JJ said, his voice low. He took the blunt, sealing it with a quick twist, and lit it with a flick of his lighter. He took a slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled lazily in the small space.

He held it out to me.

I accepted it, taking a quick drag before handing it back to JJ. He winked at me as he took another hit.

“Alright,” John B said, breaking the silence as he squinted at the map. “So, according to this, the coordinates lead us… somewhere around here.”

“Great,” Kiara said, rolling her eyes. “Middle of the ocean. Super helpful.”

John B shot her a look. “It’s not exact, but it’s a starting point. We’ll figure it out.”

“Famous last words,” she muttered, leaning back in her seat.

JJ nudged me lightly with his elbow. “What do you think, Miss Cameron? You ready to join the ‘Shipwrecked and Stranded Club’ when this inevitably goes sideways?”

I smirked at him, crossing my arms. “Oh, I’m ready. Are you? Or are you going to start whining the second you get a little wet?”

“Touché,” he said, chuckling. “But if I drown, I’m haunting you specifically.”

“You’d haunt me anyway,” I shot back, laughing.

“Damn right,” he said, his grin widening.

“Can you two stop flirting for like five seconds? Please? Is that too much to ask?” Pope interjected, glaring at both of us.

I tried to supress, my laughter but locking eyes with JJ betrayed me.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Twinkie rattled to a halt near the edge of the salvage yard. The towering piles of rusted metal and abandoned cars loomed over us, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. We huddled together by the side of the van, quickly hashing out a plan.

“Alright,” John B began, keeping his voice low. “Kiara, Y/n, you’re on distraction duty. Keep the security guy busy. The rest of us will grab the drone.”

Kiara raised an eyebrow. “Why do we always get the boring jobs?”

“Because you’re the least suspicious,” JJ chimed in. “And because John B’s too scared to do it himself.”

“Shut up,” John B said, smacking JJ lightly on the arm.

Kiara and I exchanged a look before heading toward the small security booth near the entrance. The guard looked up as we approached, his suspicious eyes narrowing.

“Hey there!” Kiara said, putting on her most innocent smile. “Our boat’s tyres burst, can you help us please?”

As Kiara spun her tale about how the tyers deflated, I chimed in with details. Meanwhile, the boys disappeared into the maze of scrap metal behind us.

When they finally returned, the drone tucked securely under John B’s arm, JJ’s expression caught my attention. His eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if he were fighting to hold back tears.

“JJ, what’s wrong?” I asked, rushing over to him.

He sniffled dramatically, his shoulders shaking. “It’s just…Your…”

My heart sank. “What? JJ, my what?”

JJ couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst out laughing, doubling over as I glared at him.

“You’re the worst,” I said, giving him a shove, though I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Pogues were sprawled out across the Chateau, each of us busy with our own pre-party rituals. Kiara was rummaging through my pile of clothes, tossing items over her shoulder as she muttered about finding something decent to wear.

“Are you sure this isn’t a waste of time?” Pope asked, lounging on the couch. “It’s just going to be a bunch of Kooks, drunk off their parents’ liquor, pretending they run the island.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Which is why we’re going. It’s a good alibi and we get in with no trouble thanks to Y/n. Also free booze, bad decisions, and maybe a good laugh or two.”

I emerged from the bedroom, zipping up a sundress and JJ’s eyes immediately locked on me, his smirk growing.

“Damn, Princess,” he said, pushing off the counter and walking over to me. His hands found my waist, his fingers grazing the fabric. “Who are you trying to impress?”

I grinned up at him. “Maybe I’m trying to outshine you for once.”

“Good luck with that,” he teased, leaning in to kiss me lightly.

“Alright, lovebirds,” John B said, appearing in the doorway with an exasperated look. “We don’t have all night. Let’s move.”

“Hold on, hold on,” JJ said, turning back to the mirror to adjust his hat. I grabbed it off his head, putting it onto mine instead.

“Much better,” I said, spinning around and heading for the door.

JJ caught up to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said, tugging me closer.

The party was already in full swing by the time we arrived. The Kooks had outdone themselves, as usual, turning their sprawling estate into a sea of lights, music, and expensive liquor. JJ stuck close to my side, his hand resting lightly on my lower back as we navigated the crowd after a good hour of drinking and dancing.

I spotted Sarah near the drinks table and made my way over to her, JJ following closely.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing a cup of whatever questionable concoction was being served. “How’d you manage to sneak out this time?”

“Wheezie,” she replied simply, taking a sip from her own cup. “Blackmailed her.” She glanced at JJ, raising an eyebrow. “I see you brought the rebel boyfriend.”

“Nice to see you too, Sarah,” JJ said, grinning at the new title.

Before she could respond, Topper appeared, pulling Sarah away for something. I sighed, taking a sip of my drink.

“Wanna get out of here?” JJ asked, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

I nodded, letting him lead me up to the rooftop. The cool night air was a welcome relief, the noise from the party fading to a dull hum. We sat close together, sharing a blunt as the stars twinkled above us.

“What would you do with the gold?” I asked, resting my head on his shoulder.

JJ exhaled a cloud of smoke, his expression thoughtful. “Get out of here. Buy a boat, sail wherever I wanted. No more running, no more debt. Just… freedom.”

I smiled faintly. “That sounds nice.”

“What about you, Princess?” he asked, turning to look at me. “What’s your big dream?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess the same thing. Travelling.”

JJ shifted, lying down so that his head rested in my lap. He looked up at me, his blue eyes soft. “We’ll go together” he said simply, closing his eyes, “Surf trip.”

My heart lurched at his words, “As long a you wax my board J.”

I reached down, running my fingers through his hair, a content smile spreading across his face.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The smell of eggs and toast filled the air as I cooked breakfast for the group the next morning. JJ hovered beside me, stealing bites of toast whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.

“JJ, if you eat one more piece of toast, I’m gonna stab you with this spatula,” I warned, swatting at him playfully.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in closer.

“Try me.”

He laughed, his hands settling on my hips as he leaned in to kiss me. I felt a rush of warmth as his lips brushed against mine, but before we could get carried away, Pope walked in.

“God, can you two not?” he groaned, shielding his eyes.

JJ and I broke apart, laughing. “Jealous, Pope?” JJ teased.

“Not in the slightest,” Pope shot back.

JJ grabbed his keys from the counter, pulling me in for one more kiss before heading out with Pope to do Heyward deliveries while Sarah and I went to the mainland to shop, John B avoided DCS and Kie was at work at the Wreck.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

part three done!!

i dont wanna go to school tmrw omg

taglist: @harryssideboobz @onelonelybitch

[mairaiscarrierofthepaperclips]

Happy Hiatus, Take A Hot Forty

Well. That was. That was an episode.

🫠

I just... I can't. With the-

And then the-

Nope. Not gonna do it. Nope.

OKAY.

In an attempt to stay partially sane until fucking MARCH, here is some nonsense.

Turns out that I've officially posted 40 fics for our beloved Wee Woo show! 🥳 What a time.

In honour of that achievement (because dang, I worked hard to make these two idiots realise they're being idiots!), here's a handy dandy list for anyone who would like to read some Buddie nonsense.

(P.S CHRIS FUCKING GO HOME AAAAH)

Buddie Fic Bonanza:

when deeds and words are in accord (my whole world is transformed) - Eddie sings to Buck. It goes about as well as expected.

hard kick, slow burn - whiskey, dancing, and Dr. Linda being the real MVP.

Buddie Flufftober 2023 - 27 fics of soul-mates, only one bed, AUs . . . we have it all, folks!

i opened my eyes (and all i saw was you) - the Meddie friendship fic that helps Eddie to realise he may actually get everything he's ever wanted.

paradise under a pine tree - speed run friends to fiances!

take my hand (take my whole life too) - Buck thinks he's allergic to Eddie.

take this life and make it yours (take this heart and let it love again) - the one with the angst. And the punch.

leave it out there, no regrets - oblivious!Buck and close to losing his mind!Eddie.

the clarification of equilibrium - RomCom inspired (IYKYK); Eddie gets jealous concerned.

let the bough break, let it come down crashing - Buck breaks up with his soulmate on a Tuesday.

no others, before thee - kidnapping a god's husband is really not the way to go. Especially when the god finds out.

each note a chapter - Buck needs to find the perfect scent.

and i cannot, cannot go - a lot of pain, a lot of love.

Updates taglist - @idealuk @vronmitchell @inell @happyhauntt

[paragonrobits]

It was an honest question, and not meant in mean-ness or disrespect. So Auxillary Arch-Sciencewretch Bongo paused, a cup of tea up to his mandibles.

He gently put the cup down and folded several of his arms together, contemplating how to proceed. First he wondered if it was important to correct the ambassador on the mistake of referring to him as human. He decided to dismiss it; there was generally a growing period for species new to the galactic community where they were prone to thinking of broad, species-based groups. The error of species-as-society. In time, they'd adjust to the idea of a society being bigger than a single species, of forms of identity on a shared cultural basis in a way different than they might be used to.

He was not human in a technical sense, but as the humans had begun what was generally called the Pansolar Coalition, an interplanetary governing body and representative democracy of many species, it was pretty common to conflate humans with the group as a whole.

And to be fair, his own species had been made on Earth; uplifted arachnids, and he was among those who had chosen to go about piloted a humanoid robotic chassis to interact with larger beings, which also looked like a big humanoid spider-thing because he had an aesthetic and by God he was going to STICK TO IT.

The ambassador was a robot; not an organic being using a chassis or a voluntary cyborg, nor was he a sapient artificial intelligence installed into a robotic platform. His kind were naturally occurring robots; Bongo wasn't sure how that happened, but there they were.

Bongo said, carefully, "That question is more delicate than you may realize."

"How so?" The ambassador's optics flickered in a way conveying genuine puzzlement, so Bongo chose to take things easy on him.

"Well, is not terraforming something done by your people?"

"Ah. Yes, but not as much as you; we don't need to adapt a planet to suit ourselves to it, we just adapt ourselves."

"Indeed. Well, I am afraid the majority of my... well, not my species exactly, but my kind, or rather the fellow kin among the Coalition, we can't adapt as easily as you. And there's ethical concerns."

"Ethics? In what, exactly?"

"Tell me. What do you know about the religious concept of stewardship?"

"Hrm. I think I had a briefing about it. Isn't the idea of sapient beings given a charge by divinity to protect and care for the world as they know it?"

"Quite so."

The ambassador hesitated. Bongo gave off the impression that it was self explainatory, but it seemed a mystery to him. "I'm not sure I follow?"

"As being with the ability and power to do so, we feel it is an obligation to care for our worlds; we have hundreds, yes, and that is because we are prepared to spend so much time and resources caring for a single world, and we apply that to all our worlds. Great damage has been done in the past, during a more thoughtless age. Now we are wiser, and we understand that it is our duty to care for the worlds."

The ambassador was quiet.

Eventually he said, "So its like gardening, I think?"

"Yes, that's a way of looking at it. We're not seperate from the garden; we're a part of it. We're all part of a vast and flowing network of life and death, birth and rebirth. We cannot be seperated from it, and so it is bad, to us, to exert power over it. If we spend many resources to do just that, it is simply our way."

The ambassador was quiet, again, this time for a while.

"I think," he said carefully. "I still don't quite understand, but I think I would like to."

There were some who disputed that the ambassador's people were ready to join the galactic community. But in the ambassador's words, Bongo saw hope for the future yet.

"You humans have hundreds of planets under your control, so why do you waste so many resources trying to make that Earth planet habital? I genuinely don't understand."

[sadundefinedbread]

PLEASE

Can someone recommend any s1 Dean/s4 Cas fics? Or just a Destiel fics set in s1, anything will do!!

[inkandtension]

Idiot.

request-

Okay, it's actually inspired by 'something never changes' from frozen 👉👈 I imagined Hyunjin as Kristoff(😭) and he was pondering how to explain how in love he is with her(although they were together). Since it is a day before the kingdom's annual dinner, the reader is busy with the preparation and he always misses his chance to tell her. So, he talked to his puppy about that.

I'll leave the ending to you 🫢 You can change anything if you want 🕺. Have fun writing it!

requested by- @minniebbang

I had fun writing it!

…

It had started bright and early in the dining hall, where she was overseeing the arrangement of the banquet tables. The grand space was alive with activity, sunlight streaming through tall windows, casting a golden glow on the polished floors. She was a vision of focus and determination, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she directed a team of servants to perfect the table settings. Every detail mattered to her, from the alignment of the silverware to the precise angle of the centerpiece flowers.

Hyunjin lingered in the doorway for a moment, the velvet box clutched in his sweaty palm. His heart was pounding against his ribs, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of anticipation. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times—no, a thousand. The words were simple enough: "I know things are busy, but there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. Will you marry me?" Simple. Straightforward. Foolproof.

At least, that was the plan.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the bustling room, his boots barely making a sound on the polished floor. "Hey," he said softly as he sidled up beside her, hoping to catch her in a rare quiet moment.

"Just a second," she replied, not looking up as she meticulously adjusted a napkin. Her brow furrowed slightly, her focus absolute.

Hyunjin waited patiently. And then, less patiently. He glanced around, fidgeting with the box in his hand, feeling the velvet grow damp from his nervous grip. The chatter of servants, the clinking of plates, and the rustle of fabric as they moved past him filled the room. He shifted from one foot to the other, running through his mental script one more time.

Finally, she turned to him, a tired but genuine smile softening her features. "Okay, what’s up?"

This was it. His moment. His opening.

But just as Hyunjin opened his mouth to speak, a deafening crash echoed through the hall. Both their heads snapped toward the sound. One of the servants had tripped, sending a tray of goblets tumbling to the ground. The sharp shatter of glass silenced the room for a heartbeat before chaos resumed.

"Oh no," she gasped, her eyes widening. Without hesitation, she darted toward the mess, her hands already motioning for others to help. "I’m so sorry, Hyunjin. Can we talk later?"

"But I—" His voice caught, the carefully rehearsed words slipping from his grasp like sand through fingers.

"I’ll find you, okay?" she called over her shoulder, her tone distracted but warm. She was already crouched beside the servant, murmuring reassurances and delegating the clean-up.

Hyunjin stood frozen, the ring box still burning a hole in his palm. Around him, the dining hall buzzed with activity, but he felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. His carefully planned moment, his foolproof proposal, had evaporated before it could even begin.

With a heavy sigh, he slipped the box back into his pocket, glancing at her one last time as she moved with her usual grace and command, entirely in her element. For now, he’d wait. He had to. But his chest tightened as a thought struck him—what if later never came?

Determined, Hyunjin tried again a few hours later in the kitchen.

"Hey," he said, leaning casually against the counter.

She glanced at him briefly. "Don’t touch anything."

"I wasn’t going to!" he protested.

"Good," she said, returning to her work.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to—"

Before he could finish, Kkami, who had snuck into the kitchen unnoticed, leapt onto the counter and landed in a bowl of powdered sugar.

"Kkami!" she yelped, scooping up the now-white chihuahua.

Hyunjin grabbed a towel, his heart sinking as she wiped the dog clean. "I didn’t mean for that to happen—"

"It’s fine," she interrupted with a strained smile. "But maybe keep him out of the kitchen?"

"Yeah," he muttered as she handed him the sugar-dusted pup.

"And Hyunjin?" she added, already turning back to her cake. "We’ll talk later, okay?"

By mid-afternoon, Hyunjin was getting desperate. He caught her in the ballroom, where she was supervising the hanging of the velvet curtains.

"Princess!" he called, jogging over to her.

She turned, looking flustered but pleased to see him. "Hyunjin! What’s up?"

This was it. No interruptions. No disasters. Just him and her.

"I, uh, I’ve been wanting to ask you something," he said, stepping closer.

"Of course," she replied, giving him her full attention.

Hyunjin reached into his pocket for the ring. His heart raced. This was it. This was finally—

"HYUNJIN, NO!"

A worker’s shout startled him just as the ladder behind him wobbled precariously. Without thinking, Hyunjin lunged to catch it. Instead, the ladder caught him, knocking him over and sending a cascade of fabric down on top of both him and her.

When they emerged from the pile of curtains, her hair was sticking up in every direction, and Hyunjin looked like a ghost in velvet drapes.

"Are you okay?" she asked, biting back a laugh as she fixed her hair.

"I’m fine," he mumbled, pulling the fabric off himself.

She shook her head, smiling in that exasperated way she always did when he got into trouble. "We’ll talk later, alright?"

The next time Hyunjin saw her, she was in the study, surrounded by a mountain of papers. She was reviewing the guest list with the royal advisor, her brow furrowed as she debated seating arrangements. Hyunjin lingered near the doorway, clutching the ring box like a lifeline.

He waited until the advisor stepped out for a moment before he cleared his throat. "Hey, can we talk?"

She glanced up, her face softening. "Hyunjin, not now. The guest list is a mess, and if I don’t fix it, there’ll be nobles sitting next to people they hate."

"It’ll only take a minute," he urged, stepping closer. "I’ve been trying all day to—"

She held up a hand, cutting him off. "Hyunjin, I can’t. Not now."

His chest tightened. He hadn’t planned on blurting it out, but the words slipped past his lips anyway. "You’re more important than all of this."

She froze, her pen hovering over the parchment. Slowly, she turned to look at him, her expression unreadable.

"Are you saying I don’t care about what’s important?" she asked quietly.

Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. "What? No! That’s not what I—"

"Because if that’s what you think," she continued, her voice growing sharper, "then maybe you don’t understand how much pressure I’m under."

"Princess, please," he tried to explain, reaching for her hand, but she pulled away.

"I can’t deal with this right now," she said, shaking her head. "I have too much to do." She grabbed the guest list and walked past him, her shoulders tense with disappointment.

Hyunjin was left standing there, the ring box growing heavier in his pocket.

Desperate to make things right, Hyunjin found her later that evening in the ballroom, directing a team of workers as they adjusted the massive chandeliers.

He marched up to her, determined to clear the air. "Princess, we need to talk."

She barely glanced at him, her focus on the workers above. "Hyunjin, can it wait? The lighting is all wrong, and if we don’t fix it—"

"It can’t wait," he interrupted, stepping in front of her. "I need you to hear me out. Earlier, when I said you were more important—"

"I know, Hyunjin," she said, her tone clipped. "You think I’m putting all of this above you."

"No, that’s not it!" he exclaimed, his frustration boiling over. "You are important to me. You’re everything to me. I’m just terrible at explaining—"

Before he could finish, a loud clang echoed through the room as one of the workers accidentally dropped a wrench. She spun around, rushing to check on the commotion.

"Are you okay?" she called to the worker, her attention completely pulled away from Hyunjin.

He stood there helplessly, his heart sinking as she addressed the workers and began giving orders again. When she finally turned back to him, she looked tired and strained.

"Hyunjin, I can’t do this right now," she said softly, her voice tinged with disappointment. "We’ll talk later, okay?"

And once again, she walked away before he could explain.

By the time he caught up to her again, she was in the courtyard, overseeing the delivery of decorations. Hyunjin approached cautiously, unsure if he was walking into another disaster.

"Princess," he started hesitantly.

She turned to him, her exhaustion evident. "Hyunjin, what is it?"

"I just…" He faltered, struggling to find the right words. "I don’t want you to think I don’t understand how hard you’re working. I do. I just wish I could—"

"Wish what?" she interrupted, her tone sharper than intended. "That I wasn’t so busy? That I wasn’t—" She hesitated, frowning. "That I wasn’t me?"

"What? No!" he said quickly, alarmed.

"Because if that’s how you feel," she continued, crossing her arms, "then maybe we need to rethink this whole thing."

Hyunjin’s heart stopped. "Wait, what?! That’s not what I meant at all!"

But she was already shaking her head, her disappointment clear. "I don’t have time for this, Hyunjin. Not now."

And with that, she walked away again, leaving him standing in the courtyard, utterly defeated

…

Hyunjin sat slumped against a haystack in the stables, his golden hair glinting in the late afternoon sun. In his lap sat Kkami, a tiny chihuahua who looked far too smug for someone his size.

"Kkami," he sighed, tilting his head back dramatically. "I’m doomed. DOOMED."

Kkami, ever loyal but hopelessly unhelpful, barked once.

"I’ve been trying to propose to her all day!" Hyunjin groaned. "But every time, something goes wrong. It’s like the universe wants me to fail." He grabbed the puppy by its little front paws and held it up. "What am I doing wrong, huh? Is it me? Do I look like a guy who can’t propose properly?"

Kkami licked his nose in response.

"Great," Hyunjin muttered. "Even you think I’m hopeless."

"I swear, Kkami," Hyunjin sighed, letting his head fall back against the hay. "I’ve tried everything. She’s impossible to pin down today."

Kkami tilted his head, his big round eyes brimming with judgment.

Hyunjin pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don’t look at me like that. You wouldn’t do any better. You don’t even have words."

Kkami barked once, sharply.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. She’s busy." Hyunjin rubbed his face with his hands, groaning dramatically. "But does she have to be this busy?”

"I think she hates me."

Kkami barked in protest, wagging his tail.

"Okay, maybe not hates," Hyunjin conceded. "But she definitely thinks I’m an idiot."

The chihuahua tilted his head as if to say, And she’s wrong?

Hyunjin groaned, flopping onto his back. "I just wanted to ask her to marry me. How did it turn into this?"

Kkami huffed and nuzzled into his lap, as if to say, You’re pathetic, but I’m here for you.

"Thanks, buddy," Hyunjin muttered.

The door creaked open, and Hyunjin bolted upright, his heart racing. She stood there, her expression softer now, though the day’s stress still lingered in her eyes.

"Hyunjin," she said gently, stepping inside, "what’s going on?"

He blinked at her, then at Kkami, who barked as if to say, Go on.

Taking a deep breath, Hyunjin stood up and reached into his pocket. "There’s something I’ve been trying to ask you all day," he said, his voice steady despite his nerves. "And I keep messing it up, but I need you to know…"

He dropped to one knee, holding out the velvet box.

"Will you marry me?"

For a moment, she just stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a radiant smile.

"Hyunjin," she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes, "you’ve been driving me crazy all day. But yes. Yes, I’ll marry you."

And as she pulled him into a hug, Kkami barked triumphantly, as if he’d known all along how it would end.

The moment she said yes, the air seemed to shift. Hyunjin was still kneeling, holding the ring, his heart racing in disbelief. Her smile was soft, her cheeks flushed from both exhaustion and joy.

"You—" he stammered, blinking up at her. "You said yes?"

She laughed lightly, pulling him to his feet. "I said yes, you dork."

Hyunjin didn’t wait another second. He cupped her face in his hands, his forehead leaning against hers as if grounding himself in the moment. "You have no idea how badly I wanted this," he murmured.

"I think I have some idea," she teased, eyes sparkling.

He chuckled, his voice low and warm. "No, you don’t." And before she could respond, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was soft yet filled with every ounce of love he’d been bottling up. She melted into him, her arms winding around his neck, and for a moment, everything—the misunderstandings, the chaos, the busy day—faded away.

When they finally pulled apart, her nose brushed against his. "I think that was worth waiting for," she whispered, smiling.

He grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Only the beginning."

as the castle buzzed with the final preparations for the dinner, she found herself slipping into Hyunjin’s cozy little house near the stables.

"This is highly unorthodox for a princess," she said, her tone playful as she looked around. The house wasn’t big, but it was warm and inviting, with Hyunjin’s sketches pinned haphazardly to the walls and Kkami’s tiny bed tucked into the corner.

Hyunjin set down a kettle on the stove and turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, and staying here because your castle is ‘too noisy’ is perfectly normal?"

"Perfectly," she said with a dramatic flourish, kicking off her shoes and collapsing onto his bed. It was small, clearly meant for one person, but she didn’t seem to care.

Hyunjin stood there for a moment, watching her with a mix of amusement and awe. She looked so at home, lying there in his space, as if she belonged there.

"What?" she asked, catching his gaze.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head with a smile. "Just… I can’t believe this is real."

She patted the bed beside her. "Come here, Mr.Idiot”

They lay side by side in the tiny bed, her head resting on his chest as his arm wrapped securely around her. Kkami had hopped up at some point, curling up near their feet. The warmth of the moment made it feel like the world outside didn’t exist.

"So," she began, her voice soft, "about what happened today…."

Hyunjin groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Don’t remind me. I don’t think I’ve ever been more of an idiot in my life."

She laughed, poking his side. "Oh, you were definitely an idiot. But I’m listening."

He sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before starting. "Okay, first, the rose garden. When I said ‘things would’ve been better in a different situation,’ I meant if you weren’t so busy. Not—"

"Not a different person," she finished for him, her tone teasing.

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, groaning again. "And then the guest list thing. I didn’t mean you were putting everything above me. I just wanted to say you shouldn’t overwork yourself."

She hummed thoughtfully, her fingers tracing circles on his chest. "You’re terrible at phrasing things."

"I know," he said, his voice sheepish. "And the ballroom? When you thought I meant you weren’t enough? That one hurt, Princess. You’re more than enough. You’re everything."

Her teasing expression softened at that, and she tilted her head up to look at him. "You’re really bad at communicating, you know that?"

"Trust me, I know," he muttered.

She smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly. "But you’re also pretty amazing. And I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else, even if you are a little hopeless sometimes."

He grinned against her lips, pulling her closer. "Hopelessly in love with you."

She rolled her eyes, laughing as she settled back against him. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

Kkami barked softly in agreement, and they both laughed, the tension of the day melting away as they drifted off to sleep in the warmth of each other’s arms.

[crushh-existz]

Masterlist ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

ꕥ: Angst 𐦍༘⋆: Fluff. ◡̈: Hurt & Comfort

The Last of Us

Series:

Back At The Station 𐦍༘⋆ ellie x reader - modern AU (Coming Soon!)

Headcanons:

Oneshots:

The Recital 𐦍༘⋆ ellie x reader - modern AU (Coming Soon!)

Blurbs:

Arcane

Series:

Headcanons:

Oneshots:

Blurbs:

Violet & Powder (ꕥ)

Life is Strange

Series:

Headcanons:

Oneshots:

Blurbs:

More to be added 💕

[silversprings-mp3]

this is so so so GOOD!!! really hot but really sweet too

“I’ve hurt more people than I can count, sweetheart.” “I know,” you sat up next to him, slightly leaning over him, “but I also like to think that you have helped more people than you’ll ever realize.”

like this almost made me cry ngl

To Love You Is To Know You ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

♡ Pairing: Logan Howlett/female!Reader

♡ Word Count: 7.3k

♡ Rating: Explicit 18+

♡ Warning/Tags: smut, minor dni, good mix of fluff & angst, brief mention of mutant abuse, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, p to v sex, fingering, oral sex, FLUFF FLUFF, cross-post from AO3

♡ Summary: "Logan has never been an open person. Despite you wanting to love him with everything you had, how could you if he continuously kept you at an emotional arm’s length?"

♡ Note: I haven't written in FOREVER and I got locked out of my old writing account @printedpeterparker from 2 years ago! But dare I say?? We're sooo back! Might even post some revised posts from my previous account.

The sounds of the city seemed amplified tonight. You were drifting in and out of sleep, never finding a rhythm. You were close to finding that rhythm until the sounds of old floorboards and the creaky bedroom door filled the room as well.

He was home.

3:56 A.M.

Heavy steps slowly waltzed into the room. The door was softly closed behind them. Logan never liked to wake you, yet he always did. The blame wasn’t entirely on him and his inability to be discreet in this old apartment. Logan’s apartment was particularly loud. If it wasn’t the furnace rattling, it was police sirens flooding the night. You couldn’t stand being here alone. But with Logan? There was a sweet comfort when you got to hear his heart rate slow when you lay on his chest.

At this point, you had spent multiple nights at Logan’s while your apartment building was being fumigated. Your night would be going well until you saw him get a text or call from Wade. He’d tell you that he had to leave and would be back as soon as he could. Every time, he got better at dodging your questions. You would try and wait for him, but you never could make it past 1:30.

And just like all of the nights before this one, he would immediately head toward the bathroom for a shower, not wanting you to see him in his present condition, you assumed. The shower ran, steam and light slipping into the room from the crack door. He never wanted to get into what he was doing with Wade under the cover of night. Wade would jest that they were simply partaking in the world’s oldest profession as “men of the night.” Logan would snark, but it was always clear that he didn’t want to talk about it— not with you, at least.

“I don’t want you to know me like that.”

“And if I did?”

“It’s not something I like to think about.”

The conversation rang in your mind like a broken record as the shower ran. Pressing the issue during the witching hours didn’t seem like the time then. Then again, it never felt like the time. You weren’t native to what Logan could do or had done. You could only imagine what he was actually doing. There were times where he selected to be more forthcoming about his past, probably still sparing you the worst of it. The worst of him, maybe. 

But you’ve seen the remnants of blood, never sure if it’s his or not, in the bathroom, despite Logan’s best attempts to not leave a trace of his night. As the water stopped, you could always listen for the inevitable groans of Logan and the ripping of paper towels, an unique part of his night shower regiment. The bathroom light eventually turned off, only the glow from the street lights outside draped the room. You felt the slight breeze on your back and Logan lifted the comforter, shifting the weight of the bed as he climbed in.  He instinctively pulled you close to his bare chest, wrapping his arm around your abdomen At this point, you both knew you were awake.

A deep and throaty sigh escaped his lips, one he had probably been holding in since he made it home. You melted into his embrace, the city only seemed to whisper— finally feeling at rest.

You lifted his hand from your abdomen, softly laying two kisses in gaps between his knuckles. Your hand laid over his before placing it back on your abdomen. An act that made Logan flinch the first few times you did it had now fully stripped him of every defense. 

No words were spoken. Yet, his words still rang.

Logan hadn’t fully woken up. His eyes still remained shut, but he was alone. His hand lazily swept where you had laid; warmth still radiated next to him. With furrowed brows, his eyes tried adjusted to the gleam of the sun

“I was going to let you sleep a little longer, Lo” your voice was barely above a whisper His eyes swiftly found you standing in the doorframe of his bathroom, fully awake now. Logan propped himself up to admire you in your red shorts, white t-shirt, and the sweetest smile as you sauntered over to his side of the bed. “You got in pretty late.” 

“Yeah, didn’t think I’d be out that late…” His words dropped off as he watched you take a seat next to him, running your hand across his defined chest. “It’s mostly Wade and his damn mouth that holds us up.” 

“Hm, wanna talk about it?” you hummed, perking yourself up a little. 

Logan’s lust-filled eyes had been unchanged since he spotted you in the doorframe. A look that made you think he would tear your shorts off with his teeth if he had to.  He wanted to.

He sat up further before snaking his arm around your waist, fingers pressed into your side. “Now why would I talk about that bum when I got the sweetest thing right here? C’mere.” A short gasp escaped your lips as he swiftly pulled you onto his lap. As you straddled his hips, he steadied your hips with one strong hand while the other ran under your tee and up your spine. You felt like a schoolgirl with the way he made you blush. 

Before you could mutter a word, Logan’s hungry lips were already on yours. You couldn’t help but to cup his breaded cheeks into your hands. Soft moans and grunts mixed between your lips, but your mind began to drift, knowing Logan evaded your question without missing a beat. Regardless, your body felt like it could only react to his touch, especially while his lips slipped down to your pulse. You felt your breath hitch in your throat.

Sometimes, you hated how good he was at getting you going.

“Logan…” Every part of you wanted that to come out sternly. It definitely didn’t. You were still trying to catch your breath. In fact, hearing his name fall from your lips only lit a flame in him

“C’mon, baby,” Logan’s voice was low against your neck, tracing your pulse with his lips, “tell me what you want.”

“I-I want…” You couldn’t even think straight, but if you didn’t get this out now, you might as well just surrender, “I w-want you to tell me why-y there are so-o many bloody towels in the garbage.”

Logan paused for a moment. You took the moment to lean back to meet his furrowed eyeline. He was shrugging, “Just from cleaning up this morning. I’ll take the garbage out, alright?” He pulled you in again, but pulled back, still eyeing him.

“Logan, what were you doing last night? Or any of those other nights?” you softly asked, trailing your hands over his shoulders. His hands still lazily sat on your waist and, now, your lower back. 

“Baby, I don’t wanna get into it this morning,” he matched your tone while slowly rubbing your lower back. You sighed before rolling off of him. Logan groaned due to the loss of contact. “What? C’mon, sweetheart.” He reached for you, but you swatted at his hand. 

You faced Logan, sitting criss-crossed on the bed. “Then when? When can we get into it? This afternoon? This evening? At least before you leave again tonight?” You knew you were tuned up just from our own thoughts at night. You had played this conversation over and over again in the head last night.

To your misfortune, unlike your surprise, it wasn’t going how you had wanted.

He wiped his face with a groan before crossing his arms. “I work. I get paid.”

“Doing what?”

Logan’s face was now firm as was yours. Every ounce of romance had been replaced with tension, but your question hung in the air like a cloud threatening rain.

“I told you, I—”

“Don’t want me to know you like that,” you finished, “but I want to know you, Logan. All of you! You’re my boyfriend and my favorite person to be with, and I don’t even know what you do for work! Doesn’t that sound a little ridiculous?” your voice was slightly raised, your tone short. You were digging your heels in.

But so was Logan.

“Wade gets us jobs; they’re all different. Do you want me to detail every still job I’ve ever done?” his voice was raised slightly higher. “You don’t trust me or something?”

You rolled your eyes before completing getting off the bed, “I trust you to be you and trust that you’re trying to sell me some version of the truth in order to make me feel better or at least shut me up. And I know it’s because you care, Lo. I can only imagine what you’re doing, there’s literally bloody towels in the bathroom, for Christ sake! More than I’ve ever seen. But I wouldn’t have to imagine if you just talked to me! I want you to trust me enough to talk to me, confide in me,” you felt like you were begging; you ought to be on your knees at this point.

“Well, if I need ya, I’ll let ya know.” As soon as the words whipped off his lips, he regretted it. You huffed, frustrated tears quickly brimming your eyes. Logan immediately got up, but you were already heading toward the bathroom. “Look, baby, I’m sorry,” Logan was able to catch your arm. You immediately pulled it away and turned to face him. Despite your best efforts to hold in your tears, one broke away.

“I want to love you so bad, Logan, so fucking bad, but you make it so goddamn hard sometimes.” You didn’t even want to wait for his response. You stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door in Logan’s dejected face. He wanted to follow you, but it would only make things worse.  All he could do is listen to your back slide down the door while soft sobs left your lips.

You wish you could’ve stormed out of the apartment, not face Logan for the rest of the day. You ended up taking a shower, mainly because you needed one, but also to drown out any remaining frustrated, tearful sniffles. You knew Logan could hear you before, but you meant what you said.

Despite you wanting to love him with everything you had, how could you if he continuously kept you at an emotional arm’s length? 

Although you never wanted to push him, getting Logan to open up by any degree was like pulling teeth. When it came to his past, you didn’t expect him to tell you everything overnight. It was obviously painful; some nights, he was still plagued with nightmares. But every time you soothed him after a nightmare,  with every comforting hand kiss, you thought Logan was learning to trust you, finding comfort in you. 

But if you didn’t have trust, you weren’t sure what the two of you had. Maybe you weren’t ready to admit that to yourself.

The comforting warmth of the shower was running cold now. After hopping out, you slowly moved into Logan’s room. He wasn’t there but the bed was made. You got yourself dressed but stopped and wondered if it would be best just to pack your things. Maybe it’d be better to stay with a friend for a while. For now, you just needed to leave.

You could hear Logan rattling on the other side of the door. You began dreading the imminent conflict. If it wasn’t going to be confrontational, it was at least going to be awkward. After throwing on some jeans and a black t-shirt, you took a breath before opening the creaky door.

You didn’t immediately see Logan, only the empty living room. You walked out toward the door, but his voice calling your name stopped you dead in your tracks. The call was soft; nevertheless, he called for you as if he had been nervously preparing for your arrival. You turned toward the kitchen to see Logan, also in jeans and a t-shirt. He had two large coffees in front of him and a white paper bag.

“Are you trying to bribe me into staying,” you asked lowly, but Logan could sense the hint of humor in your voice. 

“More like a bribe to get you to talk to me, again, “ he lifted one of the coffees toward you with a nervous chuckle, “well, me talk, you listen. But if you still wanna leave…I won’t stop you either.”

You nodded with a mumbled okay before moving to the coach. Logan silently joined you, handing you both the coffee and the bag. You took a peek into the bag to see two cinnamon muffin tops— your favorite. You took a sip of the coffee. Sure enough, that was perfect too. You placed the bag and coffee along with Logan’s on the table for the time being.

“You have my attention,” you slightly smiled. A part of you wished you could stay mad at him for longer. 

Logan smiled too as if he could breathe a little better. A part of him wished he could stand you being upset with him, even just a little bit.

You both sat silently for a moment, waiting for the other.  Logan leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees and rubbing his palms. After seeing him take multiple short deep breaths, you realized what you were witnessing.

Logan was nervous. 

You had only seen Logan nervous on one other occasion. When he picked you up for your first date, he didn’t realize that the camera in front of your apartment door activated when someone approached it. You watched him run the same routine from the breathing to the palm rub.

“Look, I’m not good at this,” Logan began, “Not just the talking bits but making the right choices like what I tell, what I don’t tell you— how much versus how little. Because the last thing I want is to scare you off and lose you. But this morning, for a second, that’s what I saw happening.”

You stayed quiet, not wanting to interrupt what probably was a conversation Logan ran through his head multiple times over this morning. Instead, you provided a reassuring smile.

Logan leaned back onto the couch with his arms crossed, “So, what do you wanna know? Whatever you wanna know, I’ll tell ya.”

Despite having questions running through your mind multiple times over for the past few nights, your mind drew a quick blank. You took a quick sip of your coffee, hoping the caffeine would guide your mind a little better.

“You say that Wade gets both of you these jobs. Typically, what are the jobs?” you asked, leaning back onto the couch with him.

Logan cocked his head back, staring at the moving ceiling fan instead of you. “They really can be anything. Everyone’s got problems. We don’t accept every job. Still, it can be small like scaring off an intense ex for a girl to something not so small like uh, taking down a trafficking ring. The one with the ex, no one gets hurt; it really doesn’t take much to scare punks like that, y’know? The other? It can get…messy.”

You nodded and leaned back with him, turning to face him instead of the fan, “And last night?”

He took a deep sigh and shook his head. The room fell silent again for a beat too long. The question obviously hit a sour spot in him; it probably hit worse when he was unexpectedly asked this morning.

Your hand snaked down to your side. You wrapped your hand over Logan’s, rubbing your thumb over the very visible veins. His head tilted to the side to meet your soft stare with another reassuring smile.

“If it’s too much right now, Lo, w—”

“You know that there are actual mutant trafficking rings?” Logan bluntly asked you. Your reassuring smile lessened; Logan could read the concern all over your face as your hand gripped his. 

“Not just adults but kids. We got this job to bring this mutant kid back to his parents. The money seemed like a lot upfront but hey, if I had a kid, I’d do anything to make sure they were okay. But when we found this kid, what he told me and Wade…the kid showed us where they’d really take him, not the bullshit address we were told to bring him. All these kids…” His eyes closed as the memories flashed before him. His jaw was clenched, his hand fisted under yours. Your sympathetic hand moved up his forearm, hoping to soothe his thoughts. Once Logan's eyes opened again, your gaze was still on him. Logan found himself a little more grounded not only by your touch but your eyes— eyes that never had to see the horrors that he had but were understanding, nonetheless. His fist relaxed back into an open hand. 

“I think I just lost it. We got ‘em all out, but everyone else there, the guy that hired us? I killed them. Not me and Wade; just me. I saw a version of myself, one I haven't seen in years.” Although Logan had admitted to details about his life, situations that he had found himself in, you couldn’t remember a time that he was so blatant about his actions. There were no assumptions to be made this time; just the truth. And it was clear that sitting with the truth was hard for Logan. Whether it was the action itself or admitting that he alone committed a slaughter, his continuously clenched jaw was proof of the struggle to discuss it.

“And you deserve to know the type of guy you’re with, sweetheart.”

You furrowed your browline and removed your hand from his, placing it on his cheek. Reactionarily, he leaned into your touch. This didn’t stop him from still scanning your face for any hint of hesitation, disgust, horror— perhaps originate to your plan of leaving. He didn’t find any of that.

“I do, it’s all I wanted to know,” you sighed, slowly caressing his jaw. “And I got the best guy, no question.” You softly kissed his cheek, a small smile crept on Logan’s face, but part of him didn’t believe you. As much as you meant it, he struggled with believing it himself. 

“I’ve hurt more people than I can count, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you sat up next to him, slightly leaning over him, “but I also like to think that you have helped more people than you’ll ever realize.”

You pressed a small kiss to his lips before lifting up one of his hands, “And these,” you pressed two kisses around the knuckles like this morning, “they’ve also helped more people than they’ve hurt��and on occasion, the hands themselves have been know make a girl feel good.” You received a genuine, deep laugh from him only causing you to laugh as well.

Again, it fell silent. This silence was comforting. You kept his hand in yours again as you gazed upon your gruff man. His face was now more relaxed and soft. You’d swear that you had memorized every detail of his visage in the months you had been together. You hadn’t even realized that Logan was studying you as well.

You lightly lifted the peaks of his hair before tracing his hairline, “You’re a good guy, Logan. Complicated but good.” Your lips shortly met his for the second time that day, this time with no alternative motive or your mind racing— just Logan’s slow lips against yours.

The coffee and pastries on the coffee table were long forgotten, both warming and cooling to the same temperature. Reminiscent of earlier, your legs hugged his bulky thighs as you straddled him. His hand traveled from your lower back to the tops of your thighs, wishing you had opted out of putting on jeans for the day. You gripped his shoulders for balance, but it was hard not to have at least one hand travel to his solid chest. Even the slightest movement felt nothing short of perfect to Logan. A throaty moan escaped his lips but was quickly drowned out by your own moan.

“Logan,” you muttered against his lips, your words almost being drowned out as well. He positively hummed in response. You paused for a beat. You lifted Logan’s chin with your fingers, effectively removing his lips from yours. His uncertain eyes looked into yours as he was sure he was about to be teased again today.

“I love you,” you whispered as if it was a secret between the two of you. On the contrary, you would love to scream it to the world, too. Logan was taken aback.

He didn’t think it would take three simple words strung into one of the most common phrases to put him at a loss for words. It wasn’t the words that left him awestruck— it was the woman saying them.

You.

Logan knew he could be abrasive, cold, distant, frustrating. Regardless of his best efforts, you saw those sides of him, especially in the beginning of you knowing him. Like today, those traits he tried to deeply bury when with you would rear their ugly heads at times. 

When that would happen, Logan would give you the same spiel, along the lines of ‘I’d understand if you wanted to end things’ or ‘You deserve some who…’ . Not because he didn’t want you; you’d become everything to him in such a short amount of time. He just wanted you to be sure.

Despite those conversations, you didn’t leave. Despite Logan’s fears that you’d wake up one day and realize you were making the worst decision by being with him, you straddled his lap, hands rubbing his shoulders, and telling him that you loved him. 

Him.

It wasn’t until now that Logan realized that he was probably staring at you like a dumbfounded idiot for way too long. You sat up a little straighter, the shame of rejection started to creep into your mind. You offered a soft smile anyway.

“You don’t have to say it back, but you should know. Even when you don’t, I love you, all of you.”

Logan couldn’t even stand the fact that you thought, even for a second, that he didn’t feel the same. He caressed your cheek before quickly pulling you into a passionate kiss that sent a chill down your spine and to your core. Even if he didn’t say it, you could feel it in the kiss. The slowed down tempo was different as if Logan was savoring both the moment and taste of your lips. You slightly pulled his t-shirt, pulling him a little deeper.

His hands traveled down your back until they were spread across your ass. You couldn’t help but to grind your hips against his growing cock. You tugged his shirt upward, feeling Logan’s broad, haired chest. With a short separation, you lifted his and your tops, forgoing your bra as well, tossing them in a direction you paid no mind to at the time. With your bare chests pressed together, your lips joined again. Logan guided your hips against his. Each snap of your hips made the strain on his jeans tighter, increasing the contact with your clit. Your hips, your moans— they danced with each other in harmony.

With a quick hoist, Logan lifted you with his stance, his hands more firmly on your ass. Your legs instinctually wrapped around his waist while gripping his shoulders. Your laughing lips vibrated against his. 

Logan mumbled something against your lips that you can’t quite seem to make out. It was short, maybe your name. You break away from his lips, his forehead resting on yours. Before you could tease him as planned, Logan planted one more kiss on your lips.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, baby. Y’know that?” Logan whispered, his lips dangerously close to yours. This felt like a secret of his own— one that made your heart flutter, and more surprisingly, your panties soaked. 

“It’s not just the fact that I’m a topless girl that you have by ass right now making you say that?” you teased with a hand running through the back of his hair.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he huff looking down at your exposed chest, nodding to himself. Smart ass. You playfully snorted before slightly tugging at his roots causing Logan’s eyes to roll back with a groan. Slight pain, all pleasure. Your lips were immediately attached again.

A mix of messy open mouth kisses and moans had you both feeling like teenagers as Logan moved you both to his bedroom. The creaky door to the room bounced off your back. Logan was quick to gently lay you onto the center of the bed but even quicker to join you, his knee pressed between your legs. With his lips attached to your neck, hands palming your breasts, and the slight pressure to your pulsing cunt, you whimpered. You scooted yourself further onto Logan’s thigh, temporarily satisfying the ache between your legs with a slow grind. You were cursing the denim the both of you were wearing. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” Logan warned against your warmed skin. He peppered kisses from your neck to your collarbone to the tops of your breasts, nipping your skin along the way. His flattened tongue dragged down to your nipple, wetting and flicking his tongue against it. He paid the same attention to your other breast, alternating between both. “Hmm, so goddamn beautiful,” he breathed between your wetted mounds

You were a whimpering mess as you watched him, arching into his touch. You still couldn’t help but to ride his thigh, the denim hitting your clit just right. You let your head fall back onto the mattress, taking in every sensation. Your hands choose to grasp the flexing muscles of his back, riding his thigh a little less than haphazardly.

Logan’s attention moved away from your chest when he began to notice you trying to get yourself off again. He moved further off the bed, causing you to lose the desired contact with his thigh. Your head shot up with a groan only to see Logan undoing your jeans.

Logan shook his head as if he was scolding you. “If you’re even thinking about coming,” two fingers on either side rimmed the waistband of your jeans and underwear. The slowness of his action only grew your impatience and neediness, “I wanna feel it all, baby.” 

He was slow to pull down your jeans, knowing the pace was agonizing, knowing your pussy was pulsing with anticipation. Your breathing was ragged, your mind foggy. You quickly shuffle your jeans past your ass, keeping your legs lifted, but Logan only wanted to tease you and watch you wither.

“Baby, please, I need you.” It felt like your whines were falling on deaf ears as Logan was admiring each inch of your newly exposed skin from your stomach to your hips to your thighs. Wet kisses were placed on each area, inching closer to where you needed him most. You couldn’t even focus on the dirty whispers he lied behind each mark.

It wasn’t until your jeans slid down toward your knees that you felt Logan’s grip on your thighs ever so tightened, his breathing becoming uneven, and a throaty ‘fuckin’ christ’ escape his lips. He could smell the sweet scent of your arousal on your cunt ever since you were grinding on his cock on the couch, but with every barrier surrendered and centimeters from his face, every primal instinct in his body came alive. 

Logan made quick work of removing both your jeans and underwear, to your surprise and pleasure. “The sweetest fuckin’ thing, I swear.” It came off like a growl from his lips as he hiked both of your legs over his shoulders.

Before another begged whimper could leave  your lips, Logan’s tongue was desperately lapping up the wetness from your slick core just for it to remplish with the same speed. There was no sweeter taste in the world to him. 

Your volume was lost on yourself. His neighbors would just have to understand. The brief contact had you embarrassingly close to your climax already, and it sounded like it.

With his lips on your clit, you felt his index finger slick up against your folds before plunging into your soaking heat. Logan’s lust-filled eyes made contact with your needy ones. Without even thrusting his finger, just like his thigh, your hips grinded against his finger. You were practically begging him for another digit. 

He hummed against your clit, the vibration sending shockwaves to your core, “That’s it, baby,” With the addition of his middle finger, the pace of your grind quickened, riding Logan’s fingers and tongue, “show me how bad you want it.”

“Bad…I need you so bad, baby,” you cried, feeling you were mere seconds from bursting like a dam. Your juices were streaming onto Logan’s fingers and into his palm as you gripped around his fingers; the dam was already burst at the seams, “S’close, baby.”

Logan already knew, allowing his fingers and tongue to get you off exactly how you needed now.

“S’fucking pretty when you’re drippin’ all over me,” Logan muttered between licks, curling his fingers to reach your spot, “Give it to me, baby.”

That was all you needed before you felt the dam burst. Your hands were all throughout Logan’s hair, bracing yourself. Your road Logan’s fingers through your high, knowing you were making a mess all over his hand and mouth. A mix of profanities and his name fell from your lips like prayers— prayers that had finally been answered as you came down from your high. Your knees relaxed over Logan’s shoulders, letting your legs fall to his sides. You came out of your daze to see Logan sucking the remnants of your orgasm from his fingers, the visual made your pussy pulse again.

“Don’t worry about the mess,” Logan jested before planting a kiss to the inside of your thigh. He stood up from the bed, reaching for his belt; you could tell his cock was aching.

Feeling your second wind, you sat on your knees on the bed, reaching for Logan’s belt as well. Always more than willing— really loving— to return the favor, Logan knew exactly what he needed. Yet, he let you work.

You looked up at him through your lashes, undoing his belt, button, and zipper anyway. Your hand brushed over her constrained cock, earning a moan from Logan. He softly gripped your wrist, your innocent-looking eyes still gazing upon him. By the tilt of your head, he knew that you knew what you were doing; you always did. It still made his cock twitch.

A smirk crept on your face as you rolled your wrist out of Logan’s hand, “Then you tell me what you want, Lo,” you softly spoke, running your hands on his chest and pressing a kiss between his pecs.

He lifted your chin, capturing your lips into his, “I think you can taste what I want,” Logan muttered against your lips. You definitely could. You pulled him closer by cupping his cheeks, feeling remnants of your juices bedded in his beard. 

The ache between your legs returned. At this point, it felt greedy to want Logan this bad after the intense finish you just had. 

Your lips never left his as Logan finished pulling off his jeans and briefs. It took more than willpower not to reach for his cock, knowing it was already leaking with pre-cum.

“Lay back, sweetheart.” You were quick to comply, but Logan was quicker to join you. Before you could even fully position yourself, Logan’s face was in the crook of your neck, leaving marks he’d probably pepper sweet kisses on later. He propped your legs for you, his cock slightly grazing your folds. Felt like he was at heaven’s gates.

He wetted his cock on your slicked cunt, running against your clit. Your knees fell to your sides, opening yourself further to him. Your breath hitched in your throat before bracing yourself, arms wrapped around Logan’s back. He removed himself from your neck. If there was one thing Logan needed to see, it was seeing every part of your face fall into pleasure when he slid in you.

“I know, baby, I know,” Logan cooed before slowly beginning to slip into you. No matter how many times you felt his cock inside you, it felt like he was splitting you like a log. Yet, it was the sweetest sensation. No matter how much you tried to relax, you would immediately start gripping around Logan’s thick cock. 

“Holy fuck, Lo,” you gasped as your nails dug into his skin. You wished you could see those marks, but already, they were simply a memory.

As he bottomed out, Logan’s lips met yours again in another searing kiss. He could fully appreciate the pulsing of your velvet cunt, just warming him. For you, the feeling of being stuffed to the brim? You were bound to make another mess.  

Slow and steady, Logan began thrusting into you. Every inch of your body responded, particularly your hips that began to find a groove with Logan’s. With your eyes closed, you felt like you were blindfolded with pleasure. Your ragged breathing, soft moans— they were music to Logan.

Only dressed by the morning sunlight streaming through the window, you were a vision to Logan in this moment. Your mouth gaped, never finding the words that were so clearly written all over your face. Your hair was disheveled all over his pillows— the pillows you insisted Logan needed when he finally got his own place. 

His hand steadily moved up your abdomen, smoothing over the valleys of your breasts. Logan had been inches deep in you more times than he could count. But today, he never felt closer.

“Look at me, baby,” he lowly grunted, his hand caressing your cheek. Your eyes fluttered open again, met with a smirk of a man who knew he had you hooked, “I need to see you.” 

Like a reward, his hips snapped a little deeper, hitting your spot just right. “Oh my god,” you cried out with an arched back. Logan placed a supportive hand onto the middle of your back, making you sit on your legs and lifting you up to his chest. His hungry eyes met your lust-blown ones. You felt weightless as he dipped you on his cock. You gripped his shoulders, taking control of your bounce.

“Fucking made for me, baby.” he groaned, watching you practically bounce on his cock, quickening the tempo. With his other hand on your back, the other gripped your hip. “Take me so goddamn well.”

You were running like a faucet, feeling your own arousal run down your thigh. You savored every inch of his cock as Logan pumped into you, feeling that familiar pit in your core grow.

Logan could feel you tighten around him, chasing your own finish, “Fuck, sweetheart, if keep doing that, I won’t last too long.”

You wrapped your arm around his neck, nodding with a breathless smile, “I’m counting on it.” 

That’s all Logan needed to hear. With a long growl, Logan removed his hand from your hip to ass, taking control of your movements. Your other hand reached for your clit. The pressure on your clit combined with the rhythmic plunges of Logan's cock was sinfully over stimulating. Your mind was hazy, your legs were beginning to tremble.

Logan was not far behind you, his thrusts becoming sloppy and moans hard to contain. “C’mon, baby, love seeing you come all over my cock. Fuck, I just love you, baby. Always you.”

Both of you were done for. A few final pumps later, the last deep in your cunt, you unraveled all over Logan’s cock, locking in the ropes of cum currently painting your walls. It took everything in Logan to not have his claws unsheathed themselves but coming with you that close to him was worth it. With every pulse, you knew you were milking every drop. You practically collapsed onto his chest, the ache between your legs officially satisfied. 

Panting was the only sound filling the old bedroom. Logan was still buried deep in you. You knew if you didn’t move soon, he’d be rock hard again. It was hard to leave the moment though. Compared to the early events of this morning, this was bliss.

You felt Logan softly press kisses on your shoulder as you leaned against him. You smiled, pulling yourself up to meet his softened stare. You caught a quick kiss from your man before pulling him off. You both sighed at the loss of contact. 

You pulled the navy blue blanket— another item you told Logan he just needed to have in his room— off the end of the bed, wrapping yourself in it. With a mouthed c’mere, you pulled Logan down to lay with you. You covered the both of you as you made yourself comfortable. 

“I need you,” Logan sighed as you placed your  arm and head on his hard chest. 

You huffed and giggled in disbelief, looking up at him, “Again? I’m gonna need a minute…or 30.”

“No, no,” he chuckled. It wasn’t the worst idea though, Logan thought. “Earlier, I said that if I needed you, I’d let you know. And…I need you.”

Your lips tugged into another smile as you rub his chest, “I need you, too. And when you leave, I know you’ll physically be fine, but here?” Two of your fingers pressed between his brows, causing him to furrow them, “Sometimes you get stuck in there, and I don’t want to lose you, in any way.”

It never occurred to Logan that you could have the same fears he had.

“You won’t, sweetheart,” Logan pulled you closer, planting a chaste kiss to your forehead, “You won’t because I do love you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, sending vibrations through Logan’s chest. His head tilted with narrowed eyes.

“You have a real nice habit of telling me that when I’m naked.”

“Put something on, and I’ll tell you again.”

You both were laughing now. The sounds of your laughter were soon joined with the ringing and vibrating of Logan’s phone from the floor in his jeans. Besides you, Wade was the only other person who had Logan’s number. It was comical to you how annoyed he could get by a simple call from someone you knew he considered a friend; Logan wouldn’t admit though.

You began reaching for his jeans on the floor, stealing his vibrating phone from the back pocket.

“C’mon, I’m sure he wants nothing,” Logan grunted as he sat up. He grabbed your arm to stop you and the blanket from falling off the bed. When he pulled you back up, you sat up with him and were already answering the phone.

“Then he can bother me with it,” you smiled at Logan before raising the phone to your ear. “Morning, Wade!”

“Oh, it’s Mr. Wilson if you’re nasty,” he quipped. Logan rolled his eyes as you chuckled, “And what a pleasure to be greeted in a way I won’t have to tell my therapist about. Is the hairy guy around?”

You looked up at Logan with a small smile, “He’s actually a little preoccupied at the moment.” Logan laid on his forehead on your shoulder, muttering a soft thank you. “Can I take a message?”

“Nothing crazy, just a little bit of work I think he’d be interested in.” You looked over at Logan again. It was clear he could hear Wade as well as his head shot up from your shoulder. “But you tell him that there’s no shame in you being the breadwinner in that relationship; he’d make a great trophy wife. Really has the tits for it.”

“Couldn’t agree more, but uh, let me see if I can get him,” you muttered before muting the phone. “It’s work,” you jested.

Logan gave you a small smile before running his large hands over his face, preparing himself for the impending conversation with Wade. You handed him the phone but not before placing a kiss on his cheek. You rolled off the bed, only leaving Logan under the blanket. Vocalizing a loud groan from his chest, he’d prefer watching his girl get dressed than talk with a man who was currently whistling the Jeopardy! think song.  

With your underwear on, as you pulled up your jeans, you shot a playful look at Logan who was clearly just ogling you at this point, “Talk to him!”

Annoyed, Logan immediately took Wade off of mute, “What?” his tone was a 180 compared to a few minutes ago.

You smiled as you left the room to find the rest of your clothing and finally eat something. You didn’t hear much coming out of Logan. You assumed he was just listening to whatever ‘work details’ Wade had. 

After slipping all your clothes back on, you delved into the muffin tops you had neglected this morning. You didn’t know how hungry you were until you took a bite of your favorite pastry. It was enough to make your eyes roll. 

With your coffee, a pastry, and Logan’s shirt, you leaned against the counter, on your phone. Truthfully, you were listening in on what Logan was saying, but he was a man of few words in the conversation. Most of his words were ones of confirmation and insults hurled at Wade.

The only thing you heard that truly mattered to you was what he said at the end, “Yeah, see you in 20.”

You heard Logan shift off the bed and grab his jeans, preparing to leave again despite only being home for about 5 hours. Although you were in a better place than you were earlier in the morning, it still made you a little sad to know that he was leaving again so soon. It would’ve been nice to have the morning together.

Logan called for you as he exited out of the bedroom. It was your turn to ogle him as your shirtless man adjusted his belt before turning toward you. He smirked when he saw you because you weren’t being very subtle. You dangled his shirt in the air.

“I’ll be back in like an hour or two,” Logan told you as he took his shirt back, swiftly throwing it on. You straightened out the wrinkles on it, but you both knew it was just an excuse to have your hands on him.

Logan wasn’t complaining. It gave him an excuse to place his hands around your waist.

“This mom— her ex is getting out of prison today, and she thinks he could use a, uh, reminder to not come around anymore.”

You nodded, picking a piece of lint off his shoulder, “I imagine you’re scarier than any restraining order,” you joked.

He huffed with a chuckle, “Probably.” Logan had to admit that this felt a whole hell of a lot better than sneaking out of the apartment, vaguely stating that he’ll be back. It was definitely better seeing your smile up at him than with disappointment.

“And now you have all your clothes on,” he teased, pulling you closer to him. You rolled your eyes, but you could feel your cheeks reddening, “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too, Lo,” you smiled before pulling him down into a kiss. It was supposed to be quick, but Logan couldn’t help deepening the kiss. You smiled into the kiss, amused by how those 3 words seemed to really get Logan going.

“Someone out there needs you, babe,” you muttered against his lips before pulling away. “Now, go be the man I know you are.”

He smiled before leaving a kiss on your forehead, “Yes ma’am.”

The goodbye was quick; you knew he’d be back sooner rather than later. But you were right: you had the best guy, no question.

note: the inbox is always open for requests♡

[poetryvampire]

I need more celebrimbor fics so bad. Papa's got such warm cozy autumnal date vibes I neeeed it to survive

[eliaca]

Parenthood: On care and other improvised affections

Perhaps it's her way of keeping chaos at bay, her particular way of facing a world that tends to crumble. Like at Slough House, where she always keeps a close eye on that peculiar group whom, without intending to, she has come to love, making sure none of them gets permanently lost. Irony settles on her face as she looks at Jackson, who now occupies her sofa as if he owned it; she knows it's because of that absurd need she feels for him that she's let him stay.

-

Summary: Catherine and Jackson never planned to be parents, much less to a group of stray spies who need them more than they would ever admit. A story about improvised parenthood and the different shapes love can take.

Relationships: Jackson Lamb & Catherine Standish, Jackson Lamb/Catherine Standish

Tags: Found Family, Parental Figures, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Post-Season/Series 04, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Team as Family, Dysfunctional Family, Protectiveness

[chodzacaparodia]

It's frustrating that you can come up with the plot of an entire fic in just a few seconds, but writing it all down can take anywhere from never to forever.

[silversprings-mp3]

oh my god oh my god OH MY GOD i'm so in love with this, it was so beautiful and bittersweet and really hot

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.” “Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

like these two parts in particular......goddamn

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[the-coffee-fandom]

Had to make a meme to describe me currently