#of the first Logan fics I read

[grabthekitties]

reading poolverine fics and finding the point where you realize whether the author knows that a wolverine is not a wolf

[occasional-hobbyist]

Aftermath

[mercyisms]

i lock the door upon myself by thatyourefuse

Perhaps this is all it means to be his friend: you could, he could, you've chosen not to.

[measurelessdreamer]

Part II of my musings about my scogan kid fic idea (read part I here)

It’s very delicate. And Logan doesn’t deal with delicate. He can deal with force and dangerous and what-doesn’t-kill-you-makes-you-stronger. A four-year-old girl calling him “dad” is nowhere near any of these things.

And Summers must know how much of a deal this is because he’s quiet the whole time they walk to his office to talk, for which Logan didn’t ask but Scott offered anyway, without the typical stoic composure Logan was used to seeing on him.

Then they get there and neither of them can really sit down or start because where do you start after seeing something like this? After apparently living in a universe where time-travel is possible and it happens to be your damn luck that you have to live with its consequences?

And Logan realises that Scott could ask first. He wasn’t there when Logan talked about his timeline with Charles and as far as the little girl goes, calling Scott “papa” is on the same spot of “urgent” as calling Logan “dad” is.

But Summers speaks in the end and, surprising no one, he decides to be unselfish and asks Logan what he wants to know. Logan gives him a look that must speak for itself because Summers clenches his jaw but still waits and Logan hates him but not really and so he asks, “The girl. Who is she?”

And Scott says that her name is Kayla (because I happen to be a big fan of Wolverine: Origins and I always have been ever since I saw it when I was, like, thirteen, and despite all the sad stuff about Kayla, I loved the message of her words to Logan that he’s not an animal and I think it would be nice to have that message survive in a little girl who at some point learned to love him enough to call him dad because if that doesn’t say he’s not an animal, then I don’t know). It might warrant a reaction from Logan right away. He might know what the name means, the Logan of this timeline probably didn’t (but it’s possible he doesn’t know either).

So he asks who gave her that name, to which Scott replies that he chose it and Logan asks why they would let him and Scott says because he was the one who found her. There is something Summers isn’t saying, though, and although Logan can tell, he lets it go this time.

Found her? he asks next and Scott says I assume you’re familiar with the name “Stryker”, to which Logan lets out one of his claws, the middle one, akin to all those years ago on the Liberty Island and he doesn’t know what he expects, but the soft smile that graces Scott’s face before it is squashed down by the cold calculated look was definitely not it.

Then Scott reaches under his desk and unlocks one of his drawers and pulls out a thick file with the huge red stemp of “classified” written over it and he pushes it closer to Logan. It says “Weapon XII” on the front and Logan bristles and almost lets out all of his claws.

He doesn’t reach for the file and Scott probably didn’t even expect him to because he goes on, unprompted, and says that the project was meant to be a continuation of the previous one, of designing a mutant who would be able to hold and control multiple abilities at the same time. The previous project made them aware they could change one mutant. Now, they wanted to know whether they could fully create one and raise them to be their perfect soldier.

For that, they needed a suitable collection of DNA from mutants they knew existed because it turned out that not every ability was compatible with the rest of them.

When Logan asks how they found out, Summers says it’s in the file and then clenches his jaw when Logan just says he’s not reading it. Then Scott says there were multiple test subjects that were biologically engineered in different ways so they knew where to push their limits. At the time, Kayla was being referred to as “12.9” and she was the only one they found at the facility. The rest were defined in the file as “failed” and “closed” and Logan really feels slashing through something right now.

Scott says she was merely six-months old when she was found by them. They didn’t know who she was but the following days were a bit self-explanatory when she teleported a meter away right in front of their eyes and shot red beams from her eyes at a toy she didn’t particularly like.

Her powers were meant to manifest early so Stryker’s people knew if she could harness all the powers they engineered her with without dying. It was a long process of deciding which ones she had to have and which ones she didn’t. All of the children had Logan’s, though, and as much as there indeed is no adamantium in her body, it was the plan to put it into her once she grew up. Putting it into her now would prevent her from her natural development and result in her death. Logan says, “Don’t tell me they found that out the hard way,” to which Scott replies, “What do you think?”

So, what, is she a clone? Logan asks after Scott explains the rest and Scott says, Yes, in a sense.

What do you mean? She either is or she ain’t!

Clones are usually of “something” and are meant to resemble that something to perfection. She has so much of other people in herself that no one would be able to pin point what she is a clone of.

As much as it clears up a few things about her to Logan, there is a lot Scott doesn’t mention that day or the ones that follow. He doesn’t say that it was actually the two of them together who found her and not just Logan. He doesn’t reveal that her first days here were a pretty accurate depictions of hell and that Logan’s healing factor came especially in handy and she also sort of seemed to cry a lot less when she was in Scott’s arms compared to everyone else’s. And he doesn’t say anything about the fact that, yes, as much as her DNA is comprised of DNA of other mutants, the percentages vary and there are two sets of DNA she has more of than from others and there is a reason why her eyes are so blue and why she purposefully has weaker versions of all her mutant abilities aside from her healing factor and heightened senses.

Part III

[imeriayapping]

1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4

Pedro is cautious, he's always cautious when it comes to his rivals. No matter where they started that's all they are in the end. Rivals, a target to beat, someone to overtake on every chance presented to him. Pedro always tries not to get anywhere close to becoming friends just so it won't be a problem afterwards when he crushes them on his way up. Because he knows how often it doesn't work out, how it will hurt when they get angry at him for pushing till the limit.

So what to do when you start as friends? Pedro never managed to find a good answer, at first he tried his best to maintain neutrality and not let racing get between them even if it was the thing that brought them together. But at one point it gets tiresome, the effort feels too big for a relationship that is dying it's slow death.

At least that's how it looks to him.

So it's easier to convince your brain that it was never there, that he was always just a rival, that there was never anything but want to beat him. That just fully ignoring him is the most logical option until he stops being same person that you once knew.

And it works well, only takes a few averted gazes when he feels eyes on his skin and a bit of strategic stepping out of the way not to touch. Race after race his face gets blurred in Pedro's memories to the point of person next him on the podium doesn't look familiar and all goes well.

And then he gets to motogp and he doesn't even need to think about any of that. He has new goals to achieve, new heights to discover.

He's not there to make friends but somehow he finds himself a few and it feels different, not because those are "motogp stars" but because now everyone around isn't emotional teenager and personal relationships don't get shaken by on track actions as much. At very least they can just talk it out.

It all holds well and works just like he needs this system to work, season goes around without any turbulence.

And then winter break passes past him leaving Pedro absolutely unprepared for when he's sitting next to him in press conference and they are doing some stupid questions again. It takes a lot in pedro to continue his usual avoidance of others eyes with how long it was since the last time he needed to do it.

And then he gets pulled out of his thoughts when someone's phone rings loudly enough to distract everyone in the room. It gives him opportunity to catch rest of the question.

"-was gifted that wasn't racing related?"

He hears bezzecchi on other end of the platform starting to talk about some robotics dinosaurs that his friend gave to him and it's enough of a clue to understand that it's once again some unrelated question about birthday gifts. Pedro scrambles for any answer in his head, somehow pulling out dusty memory of some shark related book he was given once and takes initiative when other rider finishes talking just to fulfill his duty and move on with this conference. It continues to move along pretty ok until he hears voice on his left, somehow closer than physically possible with their sitting arrangements.

"To be honest it's a bit silly but once my friend saved up for it and gifted me Minecraft game because we both really wanted to play. Maybe it doesn't sound like much but when you are that young that effort and saving feels like a whole world"

It feels like pedro was dunked into bath gool of ice, change inside him so sudden that his head spinns. Soft tone and light laughter in words make him look up. Make him look for the first time in probably years and see.

See fermin sitting right next to him and smiling with creases around his eyes, not that visible but same as always so he remembers them. See fingers that are beating out rhythm of a catchy song that they once were singing for a week straight because it would not get out of their heads.

See fermin who is same person who he called friend, not a stranger, not just a rival, he's Fermin.

It takes just a second, small reminder of memory that happened a lifetime ago to crack everything Pedro managed to convince himself of. To start wondering if race track they build in there right after he gifted the game is still there, if fermin still uses the app at all. To start seeing person in front of him again after months of training to stop noticing.

All this turmoil happens in mere seconds but leaves pedro unprepared for the next question. And just to secure whole revelation fermin is refocusing question on himself to give pedro a bit of space to breathe, saving him in a small way that also feels familiar.

But now while whole conference is ending pedro just sits in his chair thinking about what to do with these cracked bits of his worldview that he not sure if he wants to put back together.

[imavikingo]

Headcanon that isn’t particularly mine nor particularly a headcanon really:

Most of the characters having a crush on Captain America at some point, but when they get to know Steve Rogers…

They have a bigger and more real crush on him.

Because he is actually funny? And not only nice but good and not the embodiment of “virtue”? He curses and gets angry, is sassy and a lil shit.

A great artist too, like damn.

He isn’t what they thought Captain America was supposed to be, because that persona doesn’t really exist, he’s just a really good guy with a lot of issues too, like any other normal person, but at the same time really caring and understanding guy who is loyal to a fault.

(He isn’t the judgmental man from the 40’s they thought he was. He isn’t only nice because thats what he is supposed to be. He isn’t just propaganda personified).

Most of them would love to have known Steve when he was a tiny ball of anger who punched bullies, even when he was the only one losing every single time.

He’s just really charming and they don’t understand how he’s still fighting and wanting to make the world a better place when he already lost everything, more than once.

And that makes them want to better themselves too.

Of course Steve doesn’t see this and doesn’t understand why everyone wants to talk to him or wants to listen to him outside of missions. He’s just a guy from the forties that’s is too overwhelmed to process everything all at once.

[change-your-view]

For class difference i did the typical knight and prince. Also my favourite trope is forbidden love so...

[hourcat]

IF YOU WERE MINE - the crossover you've all been waiting for from @wolfiemcwolferson and i ❤️

Charles has never talked about his boyfriends, and Pierre has never asked, and he’d been right when he said he can’t be that for Charles. He’s not a good enough friend to put their friendship first. He’s not sure if he ever will be.

read the latest update here 😽

[loveakii]

there’s something so twisted but expected about logan being a 2 time immigrant coming from a working class background, building up his empire, arriving at the top and then secretly talking shit about his grandchildren, who are 1) not blood related and 2) would not be considered by many white americans as legitimate americans the way french/british immigrants are, behind his son’s back about how they’re not real and not the bloodline… like european immigrants rebel against the crown just to create their own monarchy via capitalism blah blah blah that man was such bullshit “how much is a gallon of milk” when was the last time you did your own grocery shopping raggedy bitch

[hollywoodsargeant]

my favorite from the beginning is shark bait it’s what got me into loscar and your writing in general been kinda hoping for a sequel but i shall satisfy my craving for college loscar with boyish when we get to those chapters

i love shark bait!! i have no idea why it's called shark bait tbh but one of my friends loves to bully me about giving so many of my fics fish-related titles (see: the entire apex predator series, but that was very intentional (they're all predatory fish))

so not the point. i will be real i did consider a sequel to shark bait for like 0.2 minutes but idk what it would be so. like it's implied (i think? iirc) that they get together so. and they live happily ever after forever boom. lando makes fun of oscar as per. logan rushes whatever frat

boyish loscar will be in college... eventually... they do not go to the same college but things will happen. occurrences will occur. liam lawson will also be there bc i am predictable. and for the record i have another wip that's college loscar bc writing college aus is fun

[littlelioncub43]

Me:

100000/10

FANTASTIC GIVE ME 14 OF EM

— sugar, sugar

[part ii] | [part iii] | [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 6.5k

tags: asshole friend!wade, (sorta soft) roommate!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, flirting, mutual yearning, immature humor, a reference to while you were sleeping, wingman!wade and the worse way to meet someone, light angst, oral sex, swallowing, fingering, v. light ass play, unprotected PiV, appearance of The Claws, what’s a refractory period, sorta audible voyeurism (brief/humorous)

a/n: includes spoilers for deadpool & wolverine (which omg I loved - what was your fave cameo?)

Your eccentric neighbor Wade may drive you a little up the wall… but, you’re willing to put up with him if it means he’ll introduce you to his new, grumpy-looking roommate.

“You gonna introduce me?”

You’ve cornered Wade in the apartment’s laundry room - the door to the front-loading washer hanging open as he holds a bundle of red fabric up to his chest.

“You think this will wash out?” 

The suit in question looks like it had been run over by a truck and then set on fire, with the rips criss-crossed in the leather and the numerous charred holes scattered across the chest.

“Definitely.” Your eyes flicker down, and then back up, “So, will you?”

He bundles the suit up - flinging into the back of the washer, the laundry basket still tucked under an arm.

“Really? Not even ‘hello, Wade’? ‘Looking good, Wade’?” His voice pitches up, imitating yours, “Does our friendship really mean nothing to you?”

You wouldn’t necessarily call Wade Wilson a friend.

In fact, he’s honestly the worst neighbor you’ve ever had. 

Loud, obnoxious. Persuasive - the first night you met you had been banging on his door at three in the morning, yelling at him to shut up as music and a caterwauling voice blared through the shared wall.

Ten minutes later you were playing the drums on his late night session of Rock Band, using a banana and a wooden spoon in place of sticks. Only for Althea to stomp out of her room and shut everything down, scaring both of you out of your skins.  

But sometimes, you think - remembering the times he came through for you, a shoulder to cry on, helping him this slump he’s been digging himself out of - he might just be the best, as well.

And maybe that was friendship, after all. 

You sigh, leaning against the row of washers. Eyes flicking over him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You do look good, Wade,” There’s a tilt of your head, the smile widening, “Glad you lost the toupee, that really wasn’t your color.”

“Ah, ah. Repurposed,” He chides, cupping his crotch, “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed-”

“Ew, stop.” Your face scrunches, a hand covering your eyes as you shield your vision, “Will you please just answer my question?”

He throws a handful of shirts in the washer, “Which was...?”

Your head shakes - a hand on his arm as you reach for a glint of gold in the pile of clothes. Cringing as a handgun appears, held gingerly between thumb and forefinger as you set it on the side table.

“Good call,” He nods, “Dry clean only.”

You can't help a laugh then, even as your hands brace on your hips, “I want to meet your roommate.”

He frowns, “You’ve met Blind Al.”

“Jesus, Wade. Not Al." A hand waves, " I mean Mister Tall, Dark, and Brooding.”

You’ve seen the stranger in the hallways a few times in the month since he’s moved in. Scruffy and scowling the first time, a silent shadow behind Wade’s endless chatter. 

But in the weeks following, that look had softened. You’d stopped by twice with cookies to welcome him, but every time you’ve just gotten Al.

Not that you dislike Al, that’s not it at all. She’s sweet enough to you when it’s not 3 a.m. or if Wade doesn’t have her annoyed half to death.

But you certainly weren’t harboring a crush on her. Maybe even secretly hoping that maybe the new neighbor will get a little lost and end up at your door, instead of his new place.  

“Ooh,” The syllables draw out - detergent flung in, before he’s leaning against the washer too, facing you. “Yeah, Logan. He's great, got a mean ‘Hugh Jackman’ vibe, just without the singing. You’d like him.”

Something like hope flutters in your belly, but then he’s raising a finger - wiggling it at you, “Just one question though. What’s in it for me?”

That has you scowling, “What do you mean? You owe me. I covered for you when you had that barqueue in the stairwell.”

“God, that was great sausage.” Wade groans, thinking back, “Mmm, but I think Peter covered for me.”

“Who do you think got Peter?”

“Well, I don’t remember seeing you.” He shrugs.

“I was right-,” You pinch the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger, a sharp exhale of breath, “Fine. If you do this for me, I’ll do that thing you keep asking me to do.”

Wade gasps gleefully, “You mean you’ll make the triple decker-”

“-chocolate caramel cheesecake chimichangas. Yes.” You finish with him, arms crossing over your chest, “You’re lucky you heal fast because that should put you right into a food coma.”

“Right. Lucky me,” He smirks. A second as he thinks, before he snaps his fingers, “I’m having a little get-together tonight! You should come. Was gonna invite you anyway.”

The pounding in your head ratchets up at the thought that all this could’ve been avoided.

“Logan sleeps on the couch, though,” He adds, sagely, “So just letting you know that if the two of you decide to get your fuck on in my bed, according to the state of New York I am legally allowed to join you.”

“Thanks for the warning,” You grimace - even if you’re certain that cannot possibly be true, “But I do have my own apartment.”

“Oh, right.” There’s the faintest edge of disappointment in his tone, paired with a sigh.

You give him a sideways look, then.

“I saw Vanessa leaving yesterday. Things getting better?”

He sobers at that, eyes moving towards the sliver of a window. The glimpse of the street outside.

“Yeah.” Wade manages, “Yeah, I think so.”

There had once been a flicker of something. In-between your annoyance and exasperation, there were tendrils of tenderness. Long snuffed out, when you had seen just how banged up his heart was. How it’s always belonged to another. 

You had gotten over it. Gotten to a place where seeing him now, like this, makes you smile.

“I’m really glad to hear that.” 

He smiles, then.

“Thanks. Me too.”

“Hey, hold on.” Wade darts in front of his roommate, a leg kicked up high to block the doorway, “Where are you going? You can’t go out.”

Logan scowls, an arm already shoved into his leather jacket, “Sure I can.”

The blow against his shoulder might move a lesser man, but Wade’s fingers just grip the frame even tighter, “But I promised-, I got a friend that wants to meet you. There is some really important shit at stake here. I can’t let you go.”

An eyebrow cocks, “Can’t? I think we both know how that would go if you tried to stop me.”

It would be easy to get into this right here and now, but his suit is still in the dryer and he’s not about to spend another hour cleaning up blood.

“Wait, wait, wait,” He throws a hand up, “Aren’t you listening to me? A girl wants to meet you. She’s hot, she has a job, and she has an apartment. You’re only one outta three there. Can’t you see what a good opportunity this is? This is totally in your favor!”

Logan scoffs, his tongue tucking against his teeth. Hesitating for just a second, but it's enough that Wade knows he’s got him.

“I’ve met your friends,” He eventually acknowledges, “They’re good folk and all, but there isn’t anyone there I’d like to ‘get to know better’, yeah?”

“You haven’t met this one. She lives next door.”

The pause stretches longer this time. Dark eyes dart out into the hallway, and Wade can practically hear those rusted gears turning.

“Apartment 16 or 18?” Logan finally rasps, his arms crossing. 

Oh, he’s definitely got him. Just call him Wade Wilson, New York’s own personal Cupid. New life goal - get his friends laid. 

He nocks a mental arrow - aiming, and then firing with his answer. 

“18.” 

Another beat passes, and then a sigh. 

“Alright.” The leather sleeve slips from his arm, drooping in his fist.

“Five minutes. That’s all I’m staying.”

Wade’s fist pumps. 

Bullseye, motherfucker. 

The apartment is packed and it’s been well past the allotted five minutes. Logan’s been nursing a beer for the last fifteen, eyes flicking over the people he’s grown to know well.

Offering a tight, half-smile when the big man claps him on the back, followed by Opposites Attract. Almost tempted to find that damn dog, just to have something to do. 

Or maybe, just bail all-together.

Starting to think this was all an elaborate prank. Some fucked up aspect of this Earth, unknown to him until now.

He’s too old for this shit. If he heads for the bedroom now, he might make it out the fire escape before anyone notices.

Logan is still entertaining this new thread of thought until he hears his name - called out over whatever fuck-face bullshit boy-band music Wade’s been playing. 

Ambiance, his ass.

The muscles of his crossed arms flex. Catching the way his roommate hauls a girl across the floor - the look of panic on her face as she tosses a container onto the nearest surface.

Wade hadn’t been lying, after all. It was Apartment 18 - that was about as much as he knew about you.

Other than the color of your eyes. The smell of your perfume in the hall. Your hair, your schedule - waking in the mornings to hear your door opening at 5 a.m., five days a week.

A baker. A damn good one, from the bits of cookie he’s snuck when no one was home. 

Had never thought to introduce himself, because he’s been through all this before. Knows better than to reach out in the first place - still nursing the old wound of heartache, one that still flares to life in his chest.

Better not to hope, or even think, at all. 

You stumble when he lets go, and Logan’s hands only curl tighter. Afraid to touch, now that you’re so close. 

A pretty young thing compared to him. This was a fucking stupid idea, his eyes darting away as Wade claps, his hands spreading wide. 

“Logan,” Wade’s tone is cordial, as if discussing the weather, “This is our neighbor, Sugar. She bakes a mean penis cake and likes emotionally unavailable men.”

A dejected sigh as he regards you, “Which is why it’s never worked out between us. I am just too available.”

Penis cake?

Logan shoots you a sideways look, an eyebrow cocked. Caught off guard by this unexpected intro, and it seems you are the same - gauging by the way your mouth drops open. 

Your face swimming with regret, as you hiss, “Oh my god. Wade. It was one time. Why do you have to put it like that?”

Wade’s smile widens, his tone still innocent, “Just skipping over the ‘getting-to-know-you’s, so you can know if you’re compatible.”

Already pivoting to face Logan with a little wink, his own scowl already deepening. Something like nerves flickering to life - as he wonders if this will all be over before it ever begins.

“And this is Logan. He’s from another Earth, is two-hundred years old, and has a metal dong.”

Jesus Christ. 

Logan’s teeth grit, before he snarls, “It’s not made of metal-”

Out of the corner of his eye, catches the curious dip of your gaze. Past the folded twist of his arms, the flannel, down to his thick belt buckle.

A knock rings out then, interrupting him from any further clarification.

“Ooh! Door,” Wade thumbs over his shoulder, “Go on now, we’ve got some good energy going here. Sugar and spice, I love it.”

A spin on his heel, and he’s leaving them alone. Silence a lingering companion for a long moment, before Logan turns.

“Nice to meet you.” He seethes, jaw working as he shoots daggers at Wade’s back. A hand extended - he’d manage that much at least.

Waiting for you to make an excuse and run, but all you do is fit your hand into his. Soft and strong and a near perfect fit.

Logan doesn’t touch people much anymore unless it’s a hand around a throat, or claws buried deep into a chest. Had almost forgotten what it was like, even if this meeting is close to his own personal version of hell.

“Nice to finally meet you, too.” Your smile is wry. Hands still clasped a moment longer, until he’s withdrawing. 

Your hands shove into your back pockets. The tilt of a head as you regard him, and he lets his eyes meet yours. 

They’re pretty, like the rest of you. Captivating even, if he could use such a word, and Wade’s words ring out in his head. 

She wants to meet you.

He’s wondering if that’s still true. Maybe you’re wondering the same, with the way you look at him. 

“So,” You begin, awkwardly - another unconscious flick of your eyes,“How does-”

“Uh-uh.” Logan’s head shakes. He’s picked up a couple things living with Wade. Never used to be a bargaining man, but he has to admit it has its uses. 

“If you wanna know, you gotta go first.” 

He hates you.

He must, with the way he’s scowling. Thighs spread wide as he sits on the couch you had gestured to, fingers in a vice grip around the bottle. No doubt plotting a dozen ways to ditch you the second he can.

Who wouldn’t, with a meeting like this? You could kill Wade, cheeks burning as you sink into the worn cushions next to him.

That is, until your knee knocks against his. The muscles in his thigh flexing - but Logan lets it rest, instead of pulling away. 

“You gonna-?” His voice is gruff, a low rasp that makes goosebumps raise across your skin. 

“Uh, sure.” Your fingers twist, “Which part did you want to hear about?”

His eyebrows lift. Those dark eyes beneath, almost a hint of amusement in them.

“Right,” The little laugh that bubbles from you is self-conscious, “Well, I don’t really like emotionally unavailable men, they just have a habit of finding me.”

His voice is low, “How would Wade know that?”

“Mm, how would he know about your-?” Your eyes flicker down for the third time, and he shifts. 

“You first.”

“Alright.” You huff, but you’re smiling now. Some of your discomfort easing. 

Logan is even more handsome than you had thought. You like the way his eyes dart away, only to come back and linger. 

It’s starting to make you think that maybe it’s not dislike that has so much of him hidden away. Maybe it’s just been a long time since someone tried to peel any of him back. 

Maybe he’s as nervous as you are.

“Well, he’s had to scare an ex or two away.” You shrug, “He only knows because I told him. And the cake, oh-, that was him, too.”

You turn then, to face him. A shoulder brushing the arm he has thrown across the back of the couch, a flicker in his eyes as you get comfortable beside him.

“Well, Wade had gotten ripped in half a couple years ago,” You nose wrinkles, a wave of your hand, “And it all like, has to grow back, right? It’s so creepy.”

Logan grimaces at your explanation, and you wonder if he understands. You think he must - you had thought he was like Wade, in some ways. 

Different. Special.

“Well, he uh, finished growing everything in,” You make a sweeping gesture over your lower half, “And the next year to celebrate his dickiversary, he ordered a penis cake from my shop.”

“His… dickiversary.” Logan repeats slowly.

The heat is back in your cheeks, but you nod, “Yeah, because it like, it came back and all. And he paid in cash, I couldn’t say no.”

There’s the smallest twitch of Logan’s lips, and it feels like a victory.

“Right. What flavor was it?”

Your smile widens with relief, “Strawberries and cream. It was so good. I’ll have to make it for you sometime.”

A second before you cringe, adding, “I mean, a normal one. Not…”

He hums then, close to a laugh.  

“Sure. You do that.”

You smile, letting your shoulder bump his, “And with that… I think it’s your turn.”

The bit of humor in his expression flattens. A searching look thrown your way, before he inhales a breath.

Setting it free. 

“I’m a mutant.”

Logan waits there, as if expecting something. You only nod, thinking of the ones you know. Colossus, Ellie, Yukio, Domino. Wade. 

“Wade said you were similar to him. I had assumed-” You encourage, waiting.

“Right,” He seems relieved, some of the tension ebbing, “My powers are regenerative, like his. But unlike him, I have these-”

There’s the jerk of his wrist, and three sharp metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. Your gasp is caught in your throat as you cling to his flannel shirt - the surprise bleeding into worry. 

They glint in the light, as his fingers flex. 

“Adamantium instead of bones. All of me is like this.”

The claws sheath themselves inside him again. His wounds smoothing over seconds later, as he scrubs his knuckles across his jeans, wiping away blood. 

Offering out his hand, after. Letting your grip unwind from his shirt, and press against his skin instead. Feeling the tendons in his hand, his wrist. The skeleton beneath utterly unyielding, a weight to his limb that is so unlike your own.

“Metal…” You trail off, as pieces click into place, “I get it now. So does Wade really think there’s like, an actual bone-?”

Logan huffs again, “Guess so.”

You laugh then. A thought sobering you after, as a fingertip drifts up to the dip between his fingers. 

“But doesn’t that hurt?” 

It makes you wince to even think about it. Much less how casually they sprung from him, no different than breathing. 

He shrugs, and it’s heartbreaking.

“Doesn’t even phase me anymore.”

“And, the two hundred years,” Another facet you put together out loud, “You’re still alive because you keep healing? Will it be that way forever?”

His hand flexes in your grip.

“Not forever. Apparently my powers will run out, at some point.” His eyes meet yours, “The Logan in this world is dead. Wade pulled me from another.”

Your brow furrows - always trying to keep up with the snippets that Wade has told you across the years - stories about time-traveling and mutants and even how he came to be. But this seems too deep. Surely Logan must be joking.

“Another world, huh?” You ask, head tilting - trying your best to roll with it, “Won’t they miss you in yours?”

Only now does his face falter. That sharp mask cracking, as his hand pulls from yours. Resting again on the back edge of the couch - his answer low and rough. 

“No. I don’t think so.”

Another jolt racks through your heart. You don’t know him know him yet, but you already can’t believe that could possibly be true. Your fingers fan out, hovering - before it folds into a fist.

“Well then, I’m glad you’re here.”

He doesn’t reply. 

The room is darker now, dim with the setting of the sun. Street lights outside pouring in a golden beam that cuts across his face. 

His eyes are hazel, you can see that now. A fading rim of green spilling into the brown, beneath the near-permanent furrow of his eyebrows. 

Yours caught in the glow of the flamingo string lights that curl out from the kitchen, stapled to the walls.

He breaks the silence, the words coming slowly. 

“Let me ask you one more thing.” 

“Sure. You know some of my worst secrets already.” You smile, a shoulder lifting.

His hand twitches, where it rests near your shoulder. The tip of a finger ghosting against skin.

Just the slightest brush but it feels like it radiates out, lingering after.

“Why’d you tell Wade you wanted to meet me?” 

His voice is still low, rough. But it’s lost that sharp edge. The combination has your stomach tied up in knots, suddenly more nervous that you’ve been the whole night.

Surely he must know? 

“Well…” You hedge. It’s your turn to look away, but then there’s the brush of his fingers again.

“Because I did want to meet you.” You admit, “You, you seemed like someone I wanted to get to know. In whatever capacity you’d like.”

“Is that right, Sugar?” Logan husks, and the nickname sounds even sweeter on his tongue, stealing your breath.

All you can do is nod, as his eyes darken. 

Voices rise behind you, ripping you out of this little bubble you’ve found yourself in. Nearly forgetting just how many people are here, how many eyes have been glancing your way since you’ve arrived.

“Not strip poker Wade, please.” The rough rumbling plea of Colossus’s voice rings out above the others, “You never wear anything under the suit-”

You didn’t even realize when he had changed, but he had - patches of bare skin on his ass showing through the holes. Your nose scrunches, before you turn back to realize that Logan’s eyes are still on you.

Dropping when your tongue peeks out to wet your lips - your words coming out in a soft hush. 

“You want to get out of here?”

You want him. You can only hope that he might just want you, too.

The corner of his lip twitches.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

It’s strange to have someone like Logan in your space. You can remember the last time you’ve wanted someone here.

His fingers still entwined with yours, from where you had reached back for him. Leading him through the dim corners of the room.

Thinking you had made it, only for the rousing cheers to rise when you had cracked the door open to slip through.

His grip tightening when you made to tug your hand free, in an urge to press it against burning cheeks. Letting you fumble with one hand, to open the lock next door.

It’s quieter here. A low echo of the music next door, as the darkness wraps around you again.

Here, his fingers move, but it’s only to skim up your wrist. To tug you between him and the front door, until your back presses against it. 

His nose brushes yours as he steps into your space, your lips already parting. Holding himself there for a moment, inhaling the scent of you as his arm braces above your head.

Leaving you to be the one that closes the gap. The tilt of your head and the press of your lips against his.

A rough hum when your arms wrap around his neck, fingers buried in his hair. His hand gripping at your waist, pulling your hips against his.

Tugging and pushing. A messy path from the front door through the small living room - a mirror-image of the apartment next door.

Through to the bedroom, wandering hands and the brush of his tongue against yours as he deepens the needy kiss. Until his knees are hitting the edge of your bed, and he’s letting you nudge him back onto the mattress.

He brings you with him - your hips cradling his as you settle yourself astride him. Hands flatten against his chest as you rock down - drawing a rough, mumbled “fuck”.

Grinding yourself down where he’s hard, the curve of his cock straining against his jeans. Letting your hands follow, as his own cup your ass. Squeezing, before slipping to press the heel of his hand against the seam at your clit.

You moan into his mouth, as your fingers curl around him. Eyes blown wide when you pull back, scooting your hips down. 

It’s here that he comes back to himself. 

Going tense as you fit yourself between his thighs, fingers at this belt as the other still cups him.

“You shouldn’t want this.” He rasps, those eyes glinting in the dark, “A man like me. You know that, right?”

Propping himself up on an elbow, so he can see your expression. So you can see the way his jaw grits, nostrils flaring. 

It’s a warning, wrapped up in silk. A last ditch effort to scare you away - knowing that once he has you, he won’t want to stop.

Your fingers slow - his zipper half-undone, baring skin and a dark shadow of hair beneath. 

The other pulling away, “You want me to stop?” 

He catches your wrist, jerking your hand back. His hips bucking into your palm, grinding himself into your touch. 

“The last thing I want to fucking do is stop.” It’s almost a growl, “But on my Earth, I-”

You sigh then, impatient, “Logan, this Earth isn’t all that great either. I lost five years of my life to the blip.”

He frowns, not understanding - but your head shakes as you continue, “I’m tired of being too scared to take chances. I’ve been trying to live each day to the fullest, and I’d like to end this one with you.”

And out of everyone - Logan knows a little something about second chances.

“Yeah,” He manages - the grip of his fist leaves you, “Yeah, okay.”

"Thank you,” You answer primly, just as you finish yanking the zipper down. 

His hand beats you in the race to ease himself out, fingers curling around the base. You can’t help it - you inhale a breath at the sight of him.

Heavy, with the way the flushed tip bobs in his grip. Thick enough that you’re already wondering if you’re going to be able to take him. 

The huff he makes turns into a groan as you start small - engulfing the leaking head with your lips. The first inch turns into another as his hips lift, feeding his cock into your waiting mouth. 

Only when he’s halfway inside you, bumping against your throat, does his hand drop. Letting you replace it with your own - squeezing, as drool slicks up his shaft. Your head bobbing in time with the twist of your fist.

That brief hesitance is quickly forgotten. Fingers brush at your cheek, curling around the base of your head as he guides you.

Leaving you eager for more. Another hissed groan when your mouth leaves him, your hand loosening as you strip your clothes away.

“Oh fuck yes,” He coaxes, when he realizes what you’re doing, “Let me see you, baby.” 

Your shirt and pants left to pool on the floor. A second of boldness as you unclasp your bra next, leaving you in your panties as you focus on his cock again. 

A bitten-back moan when your tongue slips across his swollen shaft - an low throb between your thighs as you rub them together, clenching around nothing. Resisting the urge to slip your hand beneath the hem to ease the ache. 

Instead, your keep your hands on him. Goosebumps raising as your nails scratch against the deep v of muscle at his hips. The others working him into your mouth, as he slowly comes more undone. 

His hips flex with each bob of your head, lips parted as he pants. The words a rough mumble, becoming almost desperate. 

“That’s it sweetheart.”

Another moan when you take him deep, hollowing your cheeks as you suck, “Oh fuck, gonna fill that pretty mouth.”

His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady as he bucks into your mouth. Those dark eyes fixed on you in wonder, all that pretty skin bared for him to touch, to taste. He’s mesmerizing like this - the weight of gaze. Jaw slack with pleasure, eyes aflame.

You did this to him. 

It sends something warm flooding through you, as his eyelashes flutter. The tipping back of his head, muscles ticking in his cheek as his teeth ground down. 

A sound still slips between them, as he floods your mouth with the next flex of his hips. Pulsing between your lips as you swallow him down, a choked sound ripping from his chest when you cup his sack to gently squeeze out every last drop. 

Logan melts into the mattress after, an arm thrown over his eyes as he catches his breath. His gaze focusing on you when he feels you squirm - dark, and hungry.

A lithe stretch of muscles as he moves - legs easing from beneath you. 

“Hands and knees,” He commands, head tipping towards the bed next to him, as he rolls off. Kicking off his jeans as you listen, watching over a shoulder as the flannel and white tank underneath joins your clothes on the floor.

Your eyes widen at how toned he is - muscles rippling, the bed dipping as he fits himself behind you.

His broad hand at the small of your back, pushing your torso down against the mattress. A pleased hum then, fingers trailing just along the elastic edge of your underwear.

“Could smell how much she needed this.” The tips of two press against the damp fabric between your thighs, making you gasp, “Even next door. You want it that bad?”

It should be embarrassing that he could tell how much you desired him, but at the moment all you can think about is him touching you more.

“Yes,” You agree, “Please, Logan.”

“So fuckin’ polite,” The fingers withdraw; but only so his nose can replace them. A ragged inhale, just before his tongue drags against your clothed slit.

A groan against your skin as you cry out, before a finger hooks around the fabric, baring you for him to taste.

The heat of his tongue flattens against you - lapping at where you drip with need, a rough rumble in his chest. 

“Sweet, too.” Another flick of his tongue, “Your name. ‘s fitting.”

You can’t manage words. Only his name, muffled against the sheets as your fists twist in them. Back arched as you resist the urge to grind yourself against his tongue, as it flicks against your clit.

It’s messy, how he eats you. You don’t think you’ve even had someone take you like this. Hungry, desperate even, as he devours you. The rumble of a groan against your cunt as his tongue delves inside you, stretching you open. Letting your slick smear into his beard, with how close he presses his mouth.

That need inside you thrumming. Winding tighter as he yanks your panties down your thighs. His palm flattening against your ass, holding you open as he licks you from clit to hole, then higher. Humming as you squeak, when his tongue flattens against your tight rim. 

A thick finger nudging against you then, as his tongue dips back to your clit. There’s no resistance as it slips deeper, into slick walls that clamp down around him.  It’s what you needed - that little bit more.

Unable to help rocking into the crook of his finger now. Whining when a second joins it, spearing deep and curling. Dragging against your walls, loud and wet and filthy with each plunge. 

Your whimpers only grow louder. Needier, as his lips wrap around your clit. Fingers pounding deep, stretching you out. Leaving you babbling, your words slipping together. 

“Don’t fucking stop.” Tears prick at your eyes, each breath a rattling gasp, “Oh my god you’re gonna make me come-”

He has you gushing, with the next flick of his tongue. A pleased groan as he feels your pussy tighten around his fingers, hearing the wail that is muffled into your pillows. That sharp pace slowing, his thumb replacing his tongue to draw your orgasm out until your legs are shaking. 

His fingers sticky when they pull from you, only to slip between his lips - tongue curling around his knuckles, sucking them clean.

It leaves you floating above yourself. You can’t remember ever coming this hard, even by yourself. Only the tintest thread of disappointment as you drift, and it’s only that you won’t get the pleasure of his cock filling you tonight.

You would’ve liked to see what he can do with the rest of him. 

Perhaps you can convince him to stay until morning.

But he moves behind you, instead. His knee pressing against yours, spreading your legs further. The rhythmic shuffle of skin against skin, as his hand slips from between his lips to fist around his cock. 

“Tell me I can fuck you.” It’s not a plea, not with the harsh rasp of his voice. But it’s as close as you’ve heard, as he swipes the tip against your leaking pussy.

Smearing your slick on him, teasing at your waiting hole.

You don’t know how he’s hard again, but at the moment you really don’t care. Not sure if you’ve ever felt a need like this, your back arching further as you present yourself to him. 

A twist of your neck, so your eyes can meet his. 

“Fuck me, Logan.” 

He groans, broad hands squeezing at your ass. Slipping up to sink his fingers into the flesh at your hips. Holding you steady as he lines himself up. 

Your breath held, when you feel his cock start to breach you - muscles stringing tight.

“Relax, sweetheart,” He grits out, though not unkindly, “You can take it.”

Trying to hold himself back from filling you with a single thrust, with the way you’re already gripping him.

Easing himself into your heat. Two inches forward and then one back, and with each one you think you’ll feel the press of his thighs against yours. A low whine as your cunt makes room for him, that sharp stretch as it feels like he’s reaching into your belly.

Feeling full when he finally is flush, the weight of his sack kissing against your clit. His shoulders following the curve of your back, as a hand slips up to plant next to your head.

“Feels fucking incredible,” It’s mumbled against your skin, almost as if it hadn’t meant to say it. 

“Mm,” You grin, your face tipping up to his, “Should’ve met you weeks ago.”

He smirks, a low sound in his throat as his mouth presses to yours. Starting a slow rhythm that drags his cock against your walls. Slipping until he’s halfway out, only to sheath himself again. Pushing the air from your lungs as he flattens himself, knees digging into the bed as your thigh spread wider - forcing him deeper.

It’s almost too much. 

You hand shoots out, reaching. Wrapping around his wrist, nails biting against his skin. 

It feels like he’s surrounding you. Each thrust a heavy weight that presses you into the bed. Splitting you open, until all you can do is squirm beneath him.

That pressure in your belly building again, as his hips pound. His breath, hot and panting in your ear as he chases his own end.

“Fuck, Logan.” You sob, “Harder-”

His tendons flex under your grip. Knuckles pressing flat against the sheets as he makes a rough sound in his throat. 

Those claws unsheathing with his next thrust. Punching down into your mattress. Anchoring as he loses himself to the feel of you beneath him.

How tight and wet and warm you are, your arousal still sweet on his tongue. Fighting the urge to sink his teeth into your throat, as everything tightens up inside him.

“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning, rasped out. 

“Come in me,” You whine, “Wanna feel you.”

He does growl then, at the thought of filling you to the brim, until he's leaking out of your pretty little pussy. Hips snapping faster, pinning you to the bed as he ruts into you. Each squeak of the bed paired with the sharp rip of fabric as his claws dig in. 

Feeling how your body strings tight beneath him, how you clench down in anticipation. Wanting to feel you once more, before he gives in to his own desires.

“Come on, baby,” It’s hushed, murmured against your skin, “Fuckin’ give it to me-”

The sharp point of a canine scraping against your skin, his groan rough and throaty in your ear. 

Your fingers work down to wedge themselves between your thighs. The tips brushing where you’re speared open, before circling your clit like his tongue had.

He has you mindless. Fucked out - that soft glow from your earlier orgasm shining bright as he tips you towards a second.

Burning at that tightly wound thread inside you, until the ends fray, and then snap. 

It has you coming with his next thrust. A wail ripped from you as he buries himself deep, feeling the way your pussy clenches down around him. 

Fingers still swirling, drawing out the deep pulses that fan out from your core as your toes curl, vision going hazy.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He rasps, those sharp thrust slowing to a sloppy grind, “Make a fucking mess for me, there you go-”

Panting, as he groans. Another roll of his hips before he’s coming with you - teeth bruising skin as they sink into your shoulder. The sound he makes is broken as he spills into you, muscles clenching with each pulse that paints your walls.  

Marking you thoroughly with teeth and come, the saw of his hips slowing until you both finally go still. A breath finally caught. 

Blissed out, when he rolls you both to the side. His thighs still mapping yours, cock still notched deep. A thick arm thrown across your waist, his breath ragged in your ear as he catches his breath.

Your fingers drift, as you bask in your afterglow. Dipping into the rips in your mattress, knuckle deep.

There’s a grunt as you wiggle, the words low in your ear, “I’ll get you another, sweetheart. Just lost control for a moment.”

The thought doesn’t bother you as much as you’d think. In fact, you wouldn’t mind if happened again.

Only as your imagination runs wild, do you hear the muffled moan from the brick wall behind you.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

Dramatic and drawn out, paired with faint rhythmic noise. 

A beat - before you hear mumbled protesting. The voice of someone talking with their mouth full, “No. Back the fuck off Peter, I’m not going to share.” 

Eating. The fucker was eating his end of the bargain, ear pressed to the wall.

The next louder, “Alright, pay up everyone, Operation ‘Get Sugar Some Sugar’ was a success!”

You grimace, eyes rolling. Logan grunts behind you, the words mumbled out sleepily.

“Wish I could sew that goddamn mouth shut.”

There’s a faint “they already tried that!” before Logan’s fist bangs on the wall, shutting him up.

But you can’t help the smile. Your fingers fitting between the ones that rest just below your breasts, squeezing.

“He’s not so bad,” You admit, “Wade, I mean.”

Logan groans, “Don’t say his name while I’m fucking you.”

“You’re-” You start - but then you can feel him.

Still hard - as his hips cant slowly against yours. Your joined hands slip up to cup a breast - as his lips press against your neck, stubble scraping you skin.

“Again?” You breathe, disbelieving that he’d be up for a third time - your hips rocking back to meet his. The sound lewd with how he drips from you - but it only has him grinding himself deeper, “You sure you’re two hundred?”

“Regenerative powers, sweetheart.” Logan husks, the flash of teeth with a knowing smirk.

“Can’t say it doesn’t come with perks.”

I used to have the biggest fucking crush on wolverine, haha - so fun to watch a new movie with him!! 👀💕 thank you so much for reading! And please me know if you'd like to read any more for him! (like more one-shots,etc!)

[joelsgoldrush]

“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[sceletaflores]

slippin' and slidin' all over you!

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, sweating, mutual masturbation, sweat licking (i don't know???), not-so-dry humping, p in v, JUST THE TIP RAHHH, creampie, fingering (fem!recieving), oral sex (fem!receiving), come swapping, come eating, literally over four thousand words of pure nasty smut, this is gross lowkey, idk i'm h*rny, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: very much not the winner or even an option of the poll i posted last week but...shhh don't hate me. it’s october and over 80 every single day, what the fuck is that? only good thing that came from this heat is thoughts of nasty sweaty sex with logan. once again shoutout to my wonderful husband @ebodebo for reading this over for me (i successfully changed her vendetta against sucking up some man sweat...which was the real point of this fic tbh) go give her fics some love if you're a slut for ghost! kisses!

logan forgot to fix the ac...

It's too hot out to be alive. 36°C and sunny.

One of the hottest days in recent memory for Alberta, and you're really feeling it.

"Remind me," you say slowly, the first words spoken in almost ten minutes. "How many times did I ask you to fix the air conditioner?"

"Don't start," Logan says from his spot across the room. His head is tipped back to rest on the couch cushion, eyes slipped shut.

You ignore him, lazily rolling your head to the side to look at him through squinted eyes, your brows furrowed in thought. "Was it ten? Or maybe thirteen?"

Logan huffs a breath, slow and heavy, but he doesn't move--doesn't even open his eyes. “I said don’t start,” he mutters again, though there’s the faintest edge of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry baby," you say, voice pitched lower in a terrible impersonation of Logan. "I'll get to it, promise. Won’t get too hot for another couple months."

Logan finally cracks an eye open, just enough to give you a sideways glance, his mouth twitching with amusement. "You done?"

You hum noncommittally, the sound lingering in the air like the lazy summer breeze doing nothing to cool the temperature outside. Your gaze slips down the side of his face to trace the jut of his jaw, then lower to the sweaty column of his neck. 

Both you and Logan lost most of your clothes earlier in the day, too hot to bother wearing anything but underwear. You trudged around the house like zombies until you finally gave up on trying to be productive, you both ended up in the living room. 

All the windows are cracked open, trying in vain to let in any cool air. You claimed the armchair closest to the fan, refusing to be anywhere near Logan and the massive heat wave he constantly gives off.

Logan’s on the couch, stripped down to the thinnest pair of sleep shorts you’ve ever seen. His chest is bare, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that mats the dark hair dusted along his pecs to his skin. 

You can’t help the way your eyes follow the drops of moisture that slide slowly down the contours of his abs. A low heat starting to swirl through your gut when it disappears into his happy trail.

It's funny. When you basically peeled yourself off your mattress this morning, sex was the absolute last thing on your mind.

Now, as your eyes glide over the strong expanse of Logan's body on full display, you're having second thoughts.

Maybe it just comes with the heat. That sort of slow, syrupy feeling that slides along your overheated skin to pulse pleasantly between your thighs.

A bead of sweat slides down the length of your spine slowly, falling until it soaks into the damp waistband of your panties. You try to not notice how Logan is halfway across the room, not touching you.

You fail.

“It’s just a shame, though,” you start, fingers idly toying with the hem of your tank top. “If it was cooler, I could come over there.”

You slide a leg up, letting it rest against the wooden rest, newly exposed skin gleaming under the sunlight filtering in. 

The move isn't lost on Logan. You see his jaw clench slightly, the tiniest shift in his posture.

"Something you wanted?" Logan asks, his voice going low and teasing. "Looks like you've been gettin' yourself all worked up over there."

“Just thinking,” you reply, shifting slightly on the sticky leather of the chair.

Logan’s fingers twitch at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. His eyes slide the rest of the way open, his gaze heavy and lingering as it ventures down to where your thin shirt sticks to your skin, outlining every curve.

“Oh yeah?” he prompts, his voice a little rougher now. “Thinkin’ about what, baby?”

“You,” you say easily, fingers slipping down to your thigh. You bring your other leg up, perching it against the opposite armrest. Your thighs spread wide enough that you know Logan has a full view of the wet spot growing along the gusset of your panties.

The hitch in Logan’s breath has you stifling a smug smile, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you watch the way his chest starts rising faster.

"That's real sweet, sugar," he drawls, an unimpressed look on his face as he drags his eyes back up to your own. "But if you're tryin' to get me over there, you're gonna have to do better than that." His voice slides through the air heavy and warm like molasses.

You bite back a grin, enjoying the slow game that's unfolding between the two of you. 

"Maybe I don’t want you to come over here," you let your fingers trail a little lower, just to the edge of your panties, teasing. “Maybe I like you right where you are.”

Logan’s brow raises, his thighs tensing before he spreads them just a touch wider. The fabric of his boxers goes taut over the strong muscle, riding up to expose even more hairy skin to your greedy eyes.

"You're playin' with fire, kid," he warns.

The tent in his shorts is obvious now, the hard length of his cock pressing against the fabric where it lays across his thigh. Your other hand twitches by your side at just the sight, your pussy throbbing with the sudden need to be filled.

"Am I?" you murmur, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, just enough to make sure he knows exactly where this is headed. ”It’s not like you’re going to do anything about it, you’re too busy pouting."

With a deliberate slowness, you slide your fingers lower, brushing against your clit with just enough pressure to let out a soft gasp at the contact. You arch your back slightly, relishing in the way the air feels against your skin, hot and sticky.

You want him to see how badly you need him—how his heat is the only thing that could truly satisfy the insatiable ache building between your legs.

Logan's nostrils flare, jaw tightening and eyes darkening at the sight of you teasing yourself. His restraint is slipping, and you can practically feel the tension building in the room, thick and stifling like the oppressive summer heat. 

But he still doesn’t move, doesn’t rush over like you expect him to. Instead, he shifts his hips slightly, spreading his legs wider and letting his hand fall on his thigh. 

You can’t help the way your breath quickens at the sight, the way his fingers drift dangerously close to his own growing bulge, teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him. 

You tilt your head to the side, gazing at him through your lashes. “You're really just gonna leave me hanging?” you goad, fingers circling lazily around your sensitive clit. “Come on stud, whip it out.”

Logan chuckles low, a sound that sends shivers through you. "Is that what you want, baby?" he asks, voice thick and taunting, a smirk curling on his lips. “You want me to whip it out for you?”

“Yeah,” you murmur breathlessly, biting your lip as you maintain eye contact, your breath starting to come in short bursts. “I need to see you, Logan. Need to see how hard you are for me.”

“Need to, huh,” he muses slowly, fingers finally grazing over the hard length of his cock. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about this?” You slip your hand out from your ruined panties, fingers glistening with your own wetness as you hook your thumbs on either side and drag them down your legs.

You let the soaked cotton fall to the floor, leaving you completely exposed to him.

Logan’s pupils dilate, an inky black completely swallowing the warm hazel. He licks his lips slowly, the tip of his tongue running along his teeth like he wants to sink them into you. His cock twitches visibly beneath his shorts, the growing tension in the air between you thick enough to choke on.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice low and gravelly, more of a growl than a word.

You smile, shifting in the chair to give him an even better view, your legs spreading wider. "Yeah?" you purr, running your fingers over your slick inner thigh, feeling the heat radiating from your own skin. “You like what you see?”

Logan swallows hard, his hand finally slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts, palming his cock as he watches you. “You know I do,” he says, voice rougher than before. 

You let your hand trail back down to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles as you hold his gaze. “Then show me, Logan,” you whisper, your voice almost a plea now. "I wanna see you."

Logan lets out a low, rumbling groan, his fingers making quick work of shoving his shorts down enough to free his cock. It springs free to slap lewdly against his stomach and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips at the sight.

He strokes himself slowly to start, his eyes locked on you, watching your every reaction, feeding off the way your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.

"Like this?" he asks, his tone taunting as he strokes himself from base to tip, his thumb swiping over the head with a low hiss. “That what you wanted?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him, straining and in his hand. The sight of his thumb brushing over the tip of his cock sends a hot, electric pulse through your body, your hand between your legs moving in time with his slow strokes.

"Yeah," you whisper, voice trembling with need. "Just like that."

You slip your hand lower, sliding two fingers inside yourself with a low moan. Logan groans like he’s the one being touched, his hand speeds up, eyes glued to where your fingers disappear in your slick heat.

His cock leaks pre-come over his knuckles each time his fist passes over the dripping head, the wet sound of it mixing with the low hum of the fan and your own breathy sighs.

"You look so fuckin' good like this honey," Logan groans, his voice rough, strained. "All spread out, playing with that pretty pussy for me."

You whimper at his words, your body aching for more than just your own touch. You need him, need the feel of his rough hands on your skin, his mouth, his cock—anything.

Your fingers move faster, slipping deeper inside with each pump, but it’s still not enough. The stretch is nothing compared to taking Logan, to the feeling of him carving a place for his thick cock inside your pussy, hitting that spot inside you that your fingers can’t quite reach.

Your hips buck up towards your hand, your back arching off the chair as your free hand clutches the armrest tightly.

Logan’s pace quickens, his fist pumping his cock with a new urgency, heavy balls bouncing with every rough tug.

“God, look at you, such a needy fuckin’ thing” he growls, chest heaving as his gaze flicks between your flushed face and the glistening mess you’re making of yourself like he can’t decide where to look. “You want it bad, don’t you?”

"Please," you whine, desperation creeping into your voice. Too keyed up to draw this out any longer. “I need you inside me, Logan. I can’t take it anymore.”

Logan groans, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest. His hand falters slightly on his cock, squeezing hard around the base as your words push him dangerously close to the edge. His jaw clenches, eyes raking over you, and with a growl, he stands. 

The last threads of his restraint snapping.

 He crosses the room in two long strides, towering over you where you sit. His cock swollen and hard, sways between his legs with every step, glistening with pre-come that drips to the floor. His eyes, hooded and burning, drink you in as he reaches down, yanking your hand away from your slick heat.

“Thought you said it was too hot to move,” you tease breathlessly, unable to quit egging him on even when your legs start to tremble with need, spreading wider to welcome him.

Logan ignores you, tugging your hand to his lips. Your breath catches in your chest, a weak moan escaping you as he takes your soaked fingers in his mouth. His tongue swirling along your skin to taste you, his eyes never leaving yours as he does.

“Changed my mind,” he growls, strong hands rough and possessive as they drop your wrist and haul you out of the chair so he can spin around, collapsing into it with you in his lap. The wood gives a warning creak beneath you but neither of you care.

Not when his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding as he slides his tongue past the seam of your lips. The heat radiating off his body is suffocating, but you welcome it—craving the weight of him on you.

You melt against him, feeling the hard planes of his body against yours, every inch of him alive and pulsating with need. Logan’s hands find their way to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to send a rush coursing through you.

It’s intoxicating, the way he devours you, his hands exploring every inch of your back, grasping and pulling you impossibly closer. 

The hard jut of his cock presses against your thigh, a thick plane of heat that makes your pussy throb with need. You shift your hips, grinding down on him in messy circles.

“You feel that?” he growls, lips brushing against your ear. “That’s all for you, darlin’.”

“Need you,” you whimper, grinding down against him faster, desperate for the friction that sends pleasure rippling through you. “Please, Logan, I need you inside me now.”

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, sending sparks all up your spine.

He dips his head, capturing your lips again, while his hands roam hungrily down your sides, fingers curling around your thighs to urge your legs open wider. “You wanna tease me, you’re gonna have to get off just like this.”

Logan angles his hips so that his cock slips between your drenched folds the next time you roll your own down.

The hot, slick glide sends electric shocks of pleasure racing through you, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You gasp against his lips, fingers tangling in his hair as you push down, desperate for more.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, his voice dripping with lust as he watches your movements with hungry eyes. “Just for me, huh? She’s droolin’ just for me.”

You nod breathlessly, chasing the friction, craving the feel of him so close. You lift your hips and rock back down again, the blunt head of his cock brushing against your swollen clit, and you feel your body pulse in response. 

“More,” you plead, leaning in to nibble at his lower lip. “I need it.”

Logan pulls away, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Come on, tough shot,” he says, giving your ass a quick smack and kneading the tender flesh in his hand roughly. “You’re gonna come like this, you can do it baby.”

You whine, dropping your chin to your chest. Your hands find his shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into the strong muscle. Your chest slips slickly against his, the front of your tank almost entirely soaked with sweat.

Yours or his, it doesn't matter. The white cotton turned transparent enough that your breasts are on full display, nipples hard and visible.

You watch a single bead of sweat make its way down the length of his throat. It trickles down and down and down until it dips between the pronounced muscles of his chest.

You duck your head, dragging your tongue up the valley of his pecs. A deep moan bursts from your lips, pussy drooling more slick over Logan’s cock at the coarse feel of his thick hair on your tongue, at the heady taste of his sweat filling your senses.

Logan groans, hands tightening their hold on your waist. The dull ache his strength leaves behind is enough to let you know that two hand shaped bruises will be blooming over your skin by tomorrow morning. 

“Come on, girly,” he encourages, nipping at the sweaty column of your throat, the sharp points of his teeth scraping along the sensitive skin deliciously. “Fuck me, give it to me good.”

Your hips speed up, his hard cock sliding through the slick folds of your cunt faster. The tip bumps against your clit deliciously with every move, smearing pre-come along the way to add even more to the mess between your legs.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up,” he groans, breath puffing warm and hot agasint the slick skin of your lips. “Pump you so full of my come you’ll be leakin’ for a goddamn week.”

He shifts underneath you, the tip of his cock catching on your entrance just enough for it to push inside on the next grind of your hips.

The barely there fullness has you coming with a sharp cry, nails roughly dragging down Logan’s back hard enough to leave red welts that heal as you go.

The pain mixing with the pleasure of finally getting to feel the warm, wet suction of your pussy has Logan coming with a rough shout of your name. He throws his head back, hands tightening their grip on your hips enough to have your bones grinding together as he pumps you full of his come. 

“Logan…” you mewl, your pussy fluttering over the tip of his cock, greedy little clenches like you're trying to suck him the rest of the way in. Drunk on the way his release paints your insides, how you can feel each thick spray coating your walls to claim you in the rawest way.

Logan pulls back just far enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and smoldering as he watches you squirm in his lap.

"You’re not tapping out on me already, are you?" he teases, his voice rough and gravelly. "I thought you were tougher than that."

A weak, breathy laugh escapes you, but it’s cut short when he applies just a little more pressure, making your thighs quiver. "Not tapping out," you manage between shallow breaths, your head falling back against the chair. "But you’re—fuck—you’re insatiable."

Logan smirks, leaning in to nip at the sensitive skin of your throat, his teeth scraping just enough to send shivers coursing through you.

"When it comes to you, baby?" he murmurs against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over your pulse point. "Fuckin’ always."

A lazily smile takes over your lips as you tighten your core and push, the rest of Logan’s come leaking out over his fingers. Logan groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder to try and ground himself.

His cock throbs where it sways heavily between his thighs, still hard and ready to go even after he just came. His hand slips down your body, thick fingers running through the creamy mess of come and slick to messily push it back inside you.

“Fuckin’ shit, honey,” he groans lowly, pressing his thumb to your clit. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

Before you can respond, he stands again, gently placing your trembling form back into the chair and dropping to his knees in front of you.

Your breath hitches, legs widening despite the way your pussy shakes with overstimulation, like you can’t help but spread your legs for Logan anytime he wants.

Logan smirks up at you from between your legs, his lips already ghosting over the inside of your thigh. "Look at you," he growls, voice low and filled with lust. "Still so needy."

The slick heat of his tongue runs along your folds, lapping at the mess he just made of you. You let out a sharp gasp, thighs trembling as your fingers weave into his hair, tugging him closer.

The sensation is overwhelming—the rough, demanding pace of his tongue as it swirls around your clit, teasing you, while his hands grip your thighs with bruising force. Keeping you exactly where he wants you, keeping you spread open for his tongue.

Your body arches off the chair with a loud cry, every nerve alight with raw pleasure as he feasts on you, his growls vibrating against your sensitive skin.

"Fuck! Logan," you moan breathlessly, head falling back as you try to keep up with the sensations he's pulling from you.

The heat that was pooling low in your belly reignites, stoked by the way his tongue flicks faster against your clit, each stroke sending you higher.

Logan doesn’t let up, his tongue delving deeper, drinking in every moan, every shaky gasp as he drives you closer to the edge. He moans into your pussy, his own arousal clear in the way his hips buck into the air, seeking any kind of friction.

You tug on his hair harder, desperate for more, for release. "Logan, please," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with need.

"Atta’ girl," he rasps, his voice thick with desire as he watches your face contort with pleasure. "So fuckin’ pretty like this. You gonna give me another one, baby? Gonna come for me again?"

Every lick, every rough squeeze to your thighs, every teasing stroke sends you spiraling closer to that edge you’re dying to reach again. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath hot against your soaked skin and driving you wild.

“Logan, I—” You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, urging him closer, closer, closer. “I’m so close—”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, nose and jaw glistening in your juices.

"Give it to me," he growls, the rough rasp of his voice sending a shiver through your overheated body. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."

It’s all the encouragement you need. With a strangled cry, your body tenses, thighs quaking as the orgasm crashes over you.

Logan keeps his mouth on you, tongue working you through every pulse, drawing it out until you’re trembling and gasping, your body boneless in the chair.

When you finally come down, panting and spent, Logan pulls away. With one last kiss pressed over your clit, he makes his way up your body, not dropping eye contact as he settles over you.

His hand comes up to your face, thumbs meanly hooking into either side of your cheeks to gently force your mouth open. You part your lips willingly, the heat still radiating between you, a mix of lingering pleasure.

Logan leans in, and the intoxicating scent of sweat and sex surrounds you as he spits what he collected from between your legs back into your own mouth. 

Your cheeks burn with shame, a broken moan ringing through the space between you. Your glassy eyes stare into Logan’s, his own gaze so intense and all consuming you fight the urge to squirm.

"Swallow," he commands, unwavering. 

You hesitate for just a moment, caught off guard by the pure audacity, but the way his eyes darken with hunger makes your resolve crumble. With a breathless whimper, you obey, tasting the remnants of your own pleasure mingling with his, the act both humiliating and intensely arousing.

Logan watches you closely, his gaze never straying as you swallow, a dirty smirk creeping onto his lips. “That's my girl,” he praises, his tone thick with satisfaction.

As the taste lingers on your tongue, you can feel the weight of Logan’s stare like a physical touch.

“Think you can handle another round?” he teases, his voice low and sultry. “I don’t plan on letting you off that easy, kid. Not with all that mouthing off earlier.”

You catch your breath, shaking your head in exasperation. “You’re relentless,” you whisper, a hint of laughter in your voice, though your body betrays you, already craving more.

“Only for you, baby” he replies, brushing the strands of hair plastered to your sweaty forehead behind your ear. “Only for you.”

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mini nat's note: i started my period today chickens...that explains it...

[d1stalker]

This is Ours [Logan Howlett]

Summary: It's your first time back at your grandparents' farm in years, and while many things are the same, one thing is not: they've hired a new farmhand.

Warnings: fem!reader, SMUT, sexual tension, angst, fluff, lots of feelings WC: 18.8k - MASTERLIST

A/N: apologies for dropping another long fic but i literally could not stop writing the juices were flowing. i really hope you enjoy this! i think its my fave so far :)

----

For as long as you can remember, summers were synonymous with your grandparents' farm. It was a tradition, one you held close to your heart. To you, your time there embodied your entire childhood—days spent under the sun, where the air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and the soothing chorus of cicadas filling the long, golden afternoons.

Mornings began early, with you bounding downstairs to join your grandparents for breakfast. The kitchen was always filled with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee and pancakes. Your grandfather would be at the table, engrossed in his newspaper, while your grandmother hummed softly as she cooked, the sound of the morning radio playing faintly in the background. Your days were spent exploring the fields, helping with the chores and horses, or sitting on the porch with your grandmother, listening to stories from her youth.

It couldn’t get any more perfect than that. 

But as the years passed, things changed. After you graduated high school, the summer visits became less frequent. University took up more of your time, and you were always busy—first with classes, then with internships, and finally with starting your career. The farm, once the centre of your world, became a place you could only visit if you were lucky, and even then, it was never for long. 

You miss it.

This year, however, things were different. You found yourself in between jobs, with the first real break you’d had in what felt like forever. And when the moment the opportunity arose, you knew exactly where you wanted to go. 

—

The drive to your grandparents' farm is a journey into the past. The country road, lined with trees that stretched out like old friends, brings back a flood of memories from your childhood: where you’re sitting in the back of your parent’s car vibrating with excitement. You pass the same fields, still as vast and green as you remember, dotted with flowers swaying gently in the breeze, and the old oak tree where you used to swing as a child stands tall, its branches reaching up to the sky as if welcoming you back.

When you finally pull up to the farmhouse, the sight of it fills you with a deep sense of nostalgia. The white paint is more chipped than you remember, the porch sags a little more in the middle, and you can tell that it’s been a while since the grass was last trimmed. 

Stepping out of the car, the screen door squeaks open, and there’s your grandmother, standing on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s smaller than you remember, more fragile, but the smile on her face is the same—warm, welcoming, and full of love. “There’s my girl,” she calls out, rushing down the steps and into the driveway as fast as she can. 

“Grandma!” you exclaim, hurrying toward her to wrap her in a hug.

She pulls back to look at you, her eyes twinkling despite the lines of age etched on her face. “You’ve grown even more beautiful, but you look tired. We’ll fix that with some good meals, won’t we?”

You laugh, nodding. “I missed your cooking.”

“And I missed having someone to cook for,” she replies with a chuckle, patting your cheek. “Come inside. Your grandpa’s been counting down the days until you got here.”

You grab your suitcase from your car and follow her into the house, the familiar scents of fresh bread and old wood enveloping you the minute you step inside. It’s just as you remember—cozy, lived-in, filled with the glow of years worth of love and memories. Your grandfather sits at the kitchen table, a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he reads a book. He looks up as you enter, and the moment he sees you, his face breaks into a wide grin.

“There’s my favourite farmhand,” he jokes, letting out a grunt as he places one hand on the table, slowly pushes out of his chair. 

“Grandpa,” you say, meeting him halfway for a hug. 

“Got here just in time,” he says with a wink. “Plenty of work to do, you know.”

“I figured,” you reply, playfully nudging him. “I’m ready to get my hands dirty.”

“Good to hear,” he says, leaning back against the table for support. “This old back of mine isn’t what it used to be.”

Your grandmother sets a glass of lemonade in front of you and sits down, her eyes flicking toward the window. “We’ve had to make some changes around here, sweetheart,” she begins gently. “Your grandpa and I… well, we can’t do as much as we used to.”

You hum, listening carefully. Seeing your grandparents grow older is difficult—it's a constant reminder that time is slipping away, and the moments you have together are becoming more precious with each passing day.

“We’ve hired some help,” she continues. “A man named Logan. He’s been a blessing, really, taking care of the heavier work. But he’s… well, he’s not much of a talker.”

“Logan?” you ask, glancing out the window. 

That’s when you see him. Tall and broad-shouldered, he is out by the barn, carrying some hay. He’s wearing a worn-down flannel with jeans, and his dark hair is slightly tousled. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s strong—he looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

“Yeah, Logan,” your grandfather confirms. “Keeps to himself mostly, but he’s get’s the job done. Don’t mind his gruffness; he’s just not used to people fussing over him.”

“He’s been here since last spring,” your grandmother adds. “We needed the help, and he needed the work. It’s been good for both sides. You should go and introduce yourself after you unpack, dear. Maybe get in some work before we sit for dinner later.”

Nodding, you walk up the stairs in the house and make your way to your room. It looks exactly the same as the last time you saw it. Your old stuffed animals are organized neatly on the shelf above the bed, and the quilt your grandmother made for you, with patches of faded fabric from old dresses and curtains, is spread across the bed the exact same way it’s always been. 

The posters on the walls, the little knickknacks on the dresser—everything is a snapshot of your younger self, preserved in this room like a time capsule. It’s comforting, but also a little bittersweet, a reminder of how much time has passed since you had last visited.

After a few moments of reminiscing, you stand up and begin unpacking, carefully placing your clothes in the old wooden dresser. Each drawer creaks as you open it, the sound a part of this room’s charm. You smile as you come across some of the little treasures you left behind—a pressed flower between the pages of an old book, a seashell from a family trip to the coast, and last, a picture of you and your grandparents taken one summer when you were about ten.

You’re standing between them, beaming with a toothy grin, their arms wrapped around you in a warm embrace. The three of you are standing in front of the barn, with the sun setting behind you. You can almost hear your grandmother’s laugh as the camera clicked, your grandfather’s playful grumbling about having to pose for ‘just one more picture.’ The photo captures a moment of pure happiness, a snapshot of a simpler time.

Setting the photo down, you quickly begin to change into your designated farm clothes, and head out to meet the new face around here. 

The trek to the barn isn’t very long, just a few minutes away from the main house, and from the outside, you can hear the familiar sounds of work—footsteps crunching on the hay-strewn floor, the creak of wood as something heavy is moved. You pause at the doorway, taking a moment to observe him before stepping inside. He’s focused, his movements efficient as he lifts another bale of hay and stacks it with the others. 

You take a deep breath, and step into the barn. “Logan?” you call out softly.

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but with a slight pause and glance over his shoulder, his eyes, sharp and intense, meet yours, and there’s a moment where you’re not sure what to say. “I’m—”

“I already know who you are,” he grunts, cutting you off. 

His abruptness catches you off guard, but you quickly recover, nodding. “Right. I guess that makes sense.”

“If you wanna help, there’s a broom in the back shed,” he continues, going back to his work as if the conversation is already over. “You could sweep up the hay.”

You bristle, a little surprised at how quickly he dismissed you, but you’re determined not to let it rattle you. After all, your grandparents did warn you that he wasn’t much of a talker.  “Sure,” you say. “I can do that.”

As you turn to head toward the back shed, you find yourself lightly imitating his gruff tone under your breath, a flicker of irritation running through you. “There’s a broom in the back shed. Yeah, obviously, I know where the broom would be,” you mutter.

In the shed, the broom is in fact, exactly where you expected it to be, and you huff, grabbing it and walking back to the barn. When you return, Logan is still hard at work, stacking the hay, and doesn’t bother to acknowledge you yet again. You set to work sweeping, the rhythmic motion of the broom soon lulling you into a steady state. The barn is quiet, save for the soft shuffling of hay under your broom and the occasional grunt from Logan as he moves the heavy bales.

Time seems to pass slowly, the light outside growing softer as the sun dips lower in the sky. You’re so caught up in your thoughts that you barely notice when Logan’s footsteps stop. It’s only when his voice breaks the silence that you’re pulled back to the present.

“Your grandma called for dinner,” he says, causing you to jump a bit at the unexpectedness of his voice in the silence. Before you can respond, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with the broom still in hand. You let out a small sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders. This is going to be a long few months, you think to yourself as you return the broom to its usual place and jog back to the farmhouse.

Inside, the kitchen smells like a warm hearty stew. The table is already set, the familiar blue-and-white checkered tablecloth in place, and your grandparents are seated, chatting quietly as they wait for you and Logan to join them.

You slide into the seat across from your grandmother just as Logan walks over from the sink, two glasses of water in his hands. He places one in front of you with a quick nod, and the other at his own seat, beside yours.

“So,” your grandmother says, her eyes shining with curiosity as she looks between the both of you. “I take it you’ve introduced yourselves to each other?”

You hesitate momentarily, your mind flashing back to your brief encounter in the barn. “Yeah, we have,” you reply, managing a smile, if you can call it that. 

Logan doesn’t say anything, his focus on the bowl of stew in front of him. He doesn’t seem interested in joining the conversation, which only adds to the growing sense of awkwardness you feel. You glance at him briefly, wondering if he’s always this closed off or if it’s just his way of dealing with new people.

“Well, that’s good,” your grandmother says, either oblivious to the tension or choosing to ignore it. “Logan’s been a big help around here. We’re so grateful to have him.”

Your grandfather hums in agreement, scooping a spoonful of stew into his mouth before adding, “He’s got a strong work ethic. Doesn’t shy away from the tough jobs, that’s for sure.”

Nodding along, you feel the pressure to say something positive. “That’s great. It’s good to know the farm’s in good hands.” Even thought the words are definitely a bit forced, you mean it. 

As the conversation continues, your grandparents shift the focus to you, asking about your job search and what you’ve been up to since you last visited. You give them a brief rundown of the interviews you’ve had, the options you’re considering, and the challenges you’ve faced. You try to keep it light, not wanting to worry them with your uncertainty, but you can’t help but notice the man’s presence beside you, still silent. 

At one point, when you’re talking about finding a new apartment, you hear him let out a quiet scoff, and you cast a look over, catching the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, but it’s enough to make you pause. You want to ask him what that was about, to challenge him on whatever it is he’s thinking, but you bite your tongue. This isn’t the time or place, not in front of your grandparents who are just happy to have everyone around the table.

They continue to chat with you, asking more about your plans and offering their usual words of encouragement. When dinner finally wraps up, your grandmother insists on cleaning up, waving you off when you offer to help. “You’ve had a long day, dear. Why don’t you go relax? Logan can help me with the dishes.”

You smile. “Thanks, Grandma.”

He’s already started collecting the dishes by the time you stand up, but it’s like he refuses to recognize your existence, and that pisses you off. 

—

The next morning, you wake before dawn, the world still wrapped in the gentle embrace of night, and for a moment, you lie still, listening to the deep, pulsing of the house—the way the wooden floors creak slightly as they settle, the distant sound of the wind rustling through the trees outside. The comfort of knowing your grandparents are asleep down the hall brings a sense of calm that you haven’t felt in a long time.

Deciding to take advantage of the early hour, you slip out of bed, your feet brushing against the cool floor as you stretch, feeling the muscles in your body slowly wake. You dress quietly, pulling on a soft, worn sweater, and pad downstairs, careful to avoid the spots on the stairs that you know will creak.

You move through the kitchen as if on autopilot, your hands knowing exactly where everything is. You set the coffee to brew, and the rich aroma sills the room.

Reaching for the eggs, you crack a few of them into a bowl, and as you’re whisking, you let your mind wander, thinking about how to spend the day. The soft sizzle of butter in the pan gets your attention and you pour the eggs in, watching as they begin to set around the edges. 

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, the steam rising from the mug in delicate spirals, and you take a sip, savouring the warmth and flavour hitting your tongue, while your gaze drifts over to the window that faces the back of the farmhouse. 

Your grandparents’ own horses, and you recognize some of them from when you were younger. It makes you happy knowing that they’re still being well taken care of. The way the early light touches the land, and the morning dew covers the grass, you can’t help but smile into your mug. 

Slowly, you walk a bit closer to the window, eager to take in the view you had been missing all these years, when a figure standing over by the horses catches your eye. It’s Logan, a small surprise given the early hour—you didn’t hear him wake up—but he stands there, leaning casually against the fence, an apple in his hand. 

You watch as he holds out the apple to one of the horses, his rough hand moving gently over its neck as it eats. There’s something unexpectedly tender in the way he interacts with the animal, a patience and care that you didn’t expect to see from him, given how he acted yesterday. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another apple, offering it to the second horse, who hungrily accepts it. You continue to stare at the sight outside. This side of him—so different from the unapproachable exterior he’s shown so far—stirs something inside you, a desire to connect with him, to see if there’s more to him than meets the eye.

On impulse, you quickly turn off the stove, grab a second cup of coffee and some toast you’ve just buttered, and without overthinking it, you head outside. The morning air is cool against your skin as you make your way over to Logan. 

As you approach, he keeps his attention focused on the horses. You take a moment, then clear your throat lightly, holding out the coffee with a tentative smile. “Thought you might want some breakfast,” you offer, trying to keep your tone light and friendly.

He finally glances at you, his eyes briefly meeting yours. His expression is just as unreadable his had been in the last sixteen hours you’ve known him, and then he grunts, “Already ate,” and turns his attention back to the animals in front of him.

His curt, and honestly rude rebuffals really frustrate you. It’s not like you’re asking him to wipe your ass after you go to the washroom, so you have absolutely no idea why he’s like this. 

“Alright,” you mutter, lips pressed together in a thin line, and turn to head back into the kitchen. 

Once inside, you set the untouched coffee and toast back on the counter with a sigh. This is so fucking awkward. You’re going to be spending the next however-many-months with him, and you would love it if you could at the very least, get along. His rough-around-the-edges personality is not making this enjoyable for you, and you’re sure that he probably just see’s you as an annoying nuisance. 

And it’s not like you’re ever going to pull this card on him or anything, but you have been here longer than him, despite the fact that he’s acting like he owns the place. You get it, he’s been here for a for a while, and it’s only been him doing the work, blah blah. But you’ve been helping and doing the work your entire childhood—missing a few years doesn’t take away that fact. 

With a heavy sigh, you open a cupboard and pull out a plate, scraping the eggs off the pan and setting them on it. Because your grandparents’ are still asleep, all you can do is eat in silence.

—

You’ve decided that today you are going to trim the grass. There’s always something to do around here, and since the long grass was one of the first things you noticed upon arrival, you think it’s best to just get that chore over with, considering how long you know it will take. 

Once you’ve finished cleaning the dishes and pan, you go back upstairs into your room and get changed. Today, you put on a long sleeve, and a small vest over top. Your pants are some hand-me-down working pants from one of your older cousins, and you snatch a baseball cap from your closet for when it begins to get hotter out. 

Walking to the back shed, you grab some tools for trimming the lawn. A lawn mower, a string trimmer, and a rake for after everything’s been cut. Moving over to the back section of the lawn, you set the trimmer and rake against the barn and start using the mower. It’s the same one your grandparents have used since you were a child, so it’s a reel lawn mower instead of those newer, more electrical ones you’ve seen around the city. 

You can’t really complain about it, so you just begin, the steady repetitive action of moving the tool back and forth being somewhat therapeutic. The smell of freshly cut grass begins to hit your senses, and you truly feel at peace. 

As the minutes pass, the sun rises higher, its warmth spreading across the fields. You’re completely absorbed in your work, the rhythm of mowing and the occasional chirp of birds the only sounds around you. You’ve missed this. The sounds of cars honking and early morning city traffic has nothing on the serenity of country life. 

You’re just completing the first half when you sense movement nearby. Glancing up, you see Logan walking up to you, having grabbed the trimmer. He doesn’t say anything, just starts up the machine and heads over to the next patch of grass within the area.

There’s a brief moment of eye-contact, like a subtle unspoken recognition to the effort you seem to be putting in. He gives you a small nod, and turns to focus on his task. The two of you work side by side, the hum of the machines, the scent of fresh-cut grass, and the warm sun overhead creating a strangely comforting atmosphere. 

When you finally finish, few hours have passed, and you walk back over to the barn and grab a lawn bag and the rake. And because Logan’s machine was electric, he seems to have finished his section as well, so you begin raking up all the stray pieces of grass. 

You quick to find out how awkward it is to hold the lawn bag open with one hand while trying to rake with the other—the grass keeps slipping out of the bag, and you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous as you fumble with the task. You scan around, hoping Logan won’t notice, but of course, he’s right there, watching as you flail around.

You feel a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck, but before you can say anything, he steps forward. Like usual it seems, he doesn’t say a word, just holds out his hand as if asking for the rake. You falter briefly, not wanting to seem like you need his help, but at the same time you understand how much more efficient it would be if he joined. 

Reluctantly, you hand it over, and he immediately starts working with the same steady efficiency he brought to trimming the grass. With both hands free, you manage the lawn bag more effectively, holding it open as Logan rakes the grass into neat piles.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable; instead, it feels like a natural extension of the morning’s work. The sound of the rake scraping against the ground, the rustle of grass being gathered, and the occasional whinny from a horse nearby. 

After the last of the grass is finally raked and bagged, you tie off the lawn bag and glance over at him. He leans the rake against the barn wall and meets your gaze. There’s something in the way he seems to stare at you head on this time, rather than just a quick look, that makes your chest fill with satisfaction. 

You nod. “Thanks.”

Logan dips his chin in return, then turns and heads back toward the barn. The heat of the sun really starts to hit you now, and you take a peak at your watch, noticing that it’s already lunch time. Knowing that even if you tried to invite him, he’s probably say no, you just walk back to the farmhouse alone. 

—

The next couple of weeks unfold in the same way, moving with an almost predictable rhythm. Each morning, you wake before the sun, quietly slipping out of bed while your grandparent’s are still asleep. As you prepare and eat breakfast, you take your usual place by the kitchen window, watching as Logan interacts with the horses. 

Then, as the sun rises higher, you head out to begin your chores around the farm. Sometimes, Logan joins you without a word—his presence now a familiar and abating part of your routine—or sometimes, you find yourself working alone, but even then, you know he’s never far away. 

You’ve learned to read his silences, to understand that his gruff demeanor isn’t necessarily unfriendliness, but rather his way of navigating the world. And though he doesn’t speak much, his actions have a way of communicating more than words ever could.

One morning, as you’re finishing up breakfast, your grandparents announce their plans to head into one of the nearby cities for the day. “We need to run some errands and pick up a few things,” your grandmother explains, her hands busy packing a small bag. “But we were thinking it might be nice for the horses to get out and see some different scenery too.”

“They haven’t been to the pond in a while. It’s good for them to stretch their legs and take in some new sights.” Your grandfather chimes in. 

You nod, smiling at the thought. The pond is a beautiful spot, a peaceful place where the water runs clear and cool, surrounded by tall trees and soft grass. It’s the perfect place to spend a day with the horses. “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll take them out there for the day.”

Your grandmother’s eyes light up as she hands you a basket. “I packed some food and a blanket for a picnic. There are also a couple of towels in case you want to swim. It’ll be a lovely day for it.”

“Thank you,” you say, appreciating the thoughtfulness behind the preparations. You take the basket and head upstairs to get ready, the idea of spending the day by the pond filling you with excitement. It’s been a long time since you’ve been there last. 

In your room, you change into your bathing suit, a simple bikini that you’ve always loved for its comfort and ease. You slip on a loose shirt and shorts over it, then grab a few essentials before heading back downstairs. Your grandparents have already left, so you make your way out to the barn to prepare the horses.

As you start saddling them up, you notice Logan nearby, focused on his usual tasks. His presence has become so customary to you that you hardly think twice before calling out to him. “Hey, Logan,” you say, catching his attention.

“I’m heading to the pond with the horses,” you tell him, nodding toward the saddled horses. “Grandma’s packed some food and a blanket for a picnic. There are even towels if you want to swim. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

He hesitates, his gaze shifting to the horses, then back to you. After a moment, he mutters, “I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

The admission takes you by surprise, and you raise an eyebrow. “Really? But you’ve been here for over a year. I just assumed—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off. “I’ve always just walked alongside them. Holdin’ onto the reins is one thing, but I’ve never actually been on top of one.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “That’s okay,” you say gently. “You can still join us. You can walk alongside like you usually do, and tomorrow, if you’re up for it, I’ll teach you how to ride.”

Logan peers at you for a long moment, considering your words. Finally, he nods. “Alright. I’ll come with you.”

“Great,” you reply, your smile widening. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

With that settled, you both finish preparing for the trip. Logan helps you load the picnic basket, blanket, and towels onto one of the horses. You mount your favourite horse, and gently click your heels into its side, starting the trip as he begins walking, horses in tow, beside you. 

The journey to the pond is beautiful. The green trees that frame the pathway, the soft buzzing of nature, the sound of the horses’ hooves. You and Logan exchange a few words, but for the most part, it’s silent. 

When you reach the pond, the sight is just as picturesque as you remembered. The water sparkles under the sunlight, the tall trees casting dappled shadows across the grassy bank. You untie the horses, giving them plenty of room to graze and explore, before you grab the picnic basket, while he grabs the towels and blankets. Making your way over to the other side of the creek, you find a nice open patch of grass to set up on.

“I’m going for a quick dip,” you say as you go about stepping out of your shorts. Logan, who is sitting down, looks up, but his eyes seem to stop dead in their tracks when they settle on your body. You swear you can physically see his gaze darken as he takes in the sight of you stripping off your shirt. It’s subtle, but a small shiver runs down your spine at the attention nonetheless.

Without waiting for a response, you turn and and head toward the pond. The temperature is perfect: just cool enough to be refreshing without being cold.

You dive in, the reservoir embracing you as a much-needed relief from the heat. Everything feels perfect—the gentle current against your skin, the refreshing sensation of being submerged, and the weightlessness of floating just beneath the surface. 

But when you lift your head out of the water, you and Logan immediately lock eyes.

He’s lying back on the blanket, propped up on one elbow, and his focus is squarely on you. The intensity of his stare is like a physical force, pinning you in place. The world around you seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended in time. Your breath catches in your throat, and you can feel a heat build within you, starting in your chest and traveling down, deeper, and deeper…But then, just as suddenly as it began, he looks away, and if you were any closer, you may have been able to spot the red flush creeping up the back of his neck and to the tip of his ears.

The moment is over, but the enduring feeling of it stays with you as you swim back to the shore. Water drips from your body as you step out, and you reach for one of the towels your grandmother packed. Once you’ve dried off, you walk over to where Logan is sitting and drop down beside him on the blanket. 

You are aware of eyes on you again, though this time there’s a hesitation in the way they travel over your form, as if he’s trying to be discreet but can’t quite help himself. You pretend not to notice as you reach for the picnic basket.

“I’m starving,” you say, pulling out the sandwiches your grandmother packed. “Want one?”

He nods, sitting up a little straighter as you hand him a sandwich. After a few bites, curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to break the ice. “So,” you start, glancing over at him, “how did you end up here, working on my grandparents’ farm?”

He takes his time chewing and swallowing before he answers, his eyes focused on the food in his hands. “I was passing through,” he says finally. “Didn’t plan on stayin’. But your grandparents… they’re good people. Needed help, so I stuck around.”

You nod, taking another bite. “They are good people,” you agree, thinking of how much they’ve done for you over the years. “But where were you headed before that? Where are you from?”

Logan pauses for a moment, then looks over at you. “Alberta,” he says. “Grew up there, mostly. Been a lot of places since, but Alberta’s home—or was.”

You smile, finding comfort in the fact that he’s sharing a bit more. “Alberta’s beautiful,” you say, remembering the few times you’d traveled through the province. “Why’d you leave?”

He shrugs, glancing out toward the creek. “Needed a change. Wanted to see what else was out there. Guess I got used to movin’ around, never really settlin’ anywhere.”

You nod thoughtfully, taking in his words. “Must have been hard, never really having a place to call home.”

His gaze meets yours, and there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice quieter. “But your grandparents… they’ve made it easier. This farm… it’s good.”

You smile warmly at him. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ve been a huge help to them. And… well, I’ve liked having you around.”

He glances at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah, it’s been alright,” he mutters, a small, imperceptible smirk on his lips. You smile bashfully.

The next couple of hours pass by in a blur. Not much conversation happens, but rather, these weird periods of time where you feel as though your eyes are glued to him, and he you. It’s different—unexpected—and to put it frankly, you feel a bit shy underneath his gaze. 

Logan is attractive, anyone with eyes could see that, but it really wasn’t just his face that pulled you in, it was him. The way he would silently help you with chores, his soft moments every morning with the horses, the way he subtly looks over your grandparents’ when he thinks they arent watching. All of it. You want to spend more time with him, learn more about who he is, what he likes… all of it.

Soon enough, you both begin to pack up the picnic supplies, load up the horses, and head back to the farm. The horses seem content, having had a fun day grazing and napping by the pond, and you ride beside him as he walks. Every now and then, you catch him peeking up at you from under his eyelashes, his eyes lingering just a bit longer each time. 

You can see your grandparent’s car in the driveway as you near the farm, meaning they’ve also returned from their day in the city. Leading the horses back into the barn, the two of you go through the motions of the familiar routine of unsaddling them, brushing them down, and making sure they’re comfortable for the night. 

Once they’re all settled for the night, Logan steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans as he looks at you. 

“So ‘bout tomorrow…” He begins, shifting slightly, as if unsure how to phrase what he wants to say. “You really think you can teach me to ride?”

You grin excitedly. “Of course. I’ll come out after I’ve eaten breakfast.”

“Alright then,” he says, pivoting toward the doors, his lips twitching just barely, but enough. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

Your fingers are twitching at your sides as you watch him leave. You wait a few moments, then head out as well, closing and locking up the barn for the night. When you step into the house, you find your grandparents in the living room, their faces lit by the soft glow of a lamp as they relax on the chesterfield. 

“How was your day?” your grandmother asks, looking up from her knitting with a bright smile.

“It was nice,” you reply. “The horses loved it, and the pond was as beautiful as ever. We had a picnic, and it was really peaceful.”

Your grandfather, who’s been quietly sipping his tea, sets down his cup and regards you with a knowing look. “And Logan? Did he go with you?”

You nod, feeling a bit of warmth rise to your cheeks at the mention of their helper. “Yeah, he came along. He’s never ridden a horse before, so he just walked with us. But I’m going to teach him tomorrow.”

Your grandparents exchange a look, and your grandmother’s eyes sparkle with amusement and something more tender as she smiles at you. “That’s good, dear. He’s a bit of a mystery, that one, but I can tell he’s got a good heart. Sometimes people just need a little time to open up.”

Chatting with your grandparent’s a bit longer, you listen intently as they fill you in on their activities. You can faintly hear the sound of Logan’s footsteps upstairs as he gets ready for bed. The memory of his gaze on you makes your heart beat a smidge faster. 

—

Logan is unsurprisingly already at the barn when you arrive the next morning. He’s leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Morning,” you greet. “You ready to get started?”

Logan glances at the horses, then back at you. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

You lead him over to the horses, choosing one of the gentler ones for him to work with, and begin by showing him how to properly saddle the horse, explaining each step as you go. Logan watches intently, though you can see the slight furrow in his brow as he takes in all the information.

As soon as the horse is all saddled up, you hand him the reins. “Okay, now it’s your turn. Go ahead and mount up.”

He wavers for just a moment, his eyes on the horse as if weighing his options. But then, with a deep breath, he grabs the saddle and swings himself up with ease. He sits stiffly at first, his hands gripping the reins a bit too tightly, but he doesn’t look as uncomfortable as you would have expected. Definitely better than your first attempt.

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, moving to stand beside the horse. “Just relax. The horse can sense if you’re tense, so try to loosen up a bit.”

He takes another breath, visibly trying to relax his posture. It’s clear that he’s out of his comfort zone, but he’s determined to push through. You walk him through the basics of steering and controlling the horse, keeping your tone calm and encouraging.

After a few minutes, you guide him around the paddock, walking alongside the horse to make sure he feels secure. Logan follows your instructions with serious concentration, his movements becoming more and more natural as he gets used to the rhythm of the horse’s steps.

“You’re doing really well,” you tell him, smiling up at him. “Want to try picking up the pace a little?”

He glances down at you warily at first, but then he nods. “Yeah. Let’s give it a shot.”

You guide him through a gentle trot, staying close enough to offer guidance but giving him enough space to figure things out on his own. The horse picks up speed, and you watch as he adjusts, his body moving in sync with the animal’s movements. There’s a moment when he looks down at you, a spark of surprise in his eyes as he realizes he’s actually getting the hang of it.

As the morning progresses, Logan becomes more comfortable in the saddle, his confidence growing with each passing minute. You spend the next hour practicing different techniques, guiding him through turns, stops, and even a slow canter. He’s a quick learner, and despite the initial awkwardness, you can tell he’s starting to enjoy himself.

Eventually, you lead him back to the paddock, bringing the horse to a stop. He dismounts, still a bit tense but clearly pleased with himself. He hands you the reins, his eyes meeting yours with a look that’s both grateful and slightly sheepish.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” you say with a grin, patting the horse’s neck.

He huffs a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… you’re a good teacher.”

The compliment, simple as it is, makes your heart skip a beat. There’s something about the way he says it, the sincerity in his tone, that makes you feel a warm glow inside. He begins to walk toward the back shed, undoubtedly going to start on his morning chores, but you find yourself wanting to hold onto this moment just a bit longer. 

“Logan,” you call out, stopping him in his tracks.

He turns back, his eyes questioning.

“Thanks for this morning. I really enjoyed it.”

Logan studies you for a second, then he gives you a small smile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

—

The days come and go, blending into one another as your first month at the farm passes by in what feels like the blink of an eye. The sun seems to rise earlier and set later with each passing day, stretching the hours out in a way that makes everything feel both languid and endless, and the heat only intensifies, something you didn’t think was possible. 

Despite the longer days and rising temperatures, you and Logan’s daily routines have now intertwined in a way that feels as natural as breathing. The once solitary moments you spent watching him out with the horses have now become something shared. Every morning, without fail, the two of you meet by the barn, where the horses greet you with soft nickers and eager eyes, ready for their daily ride.

He’s improved a lot. He no longer looks uncomfortable or stiff, and he’s able to guide his horse with an ease that surprises even him. You can see the subtle shift in his posture, the way he holds the reins with a sureness that wasn’t there before. 

And just like when you work on the farm together, sometimes, the two of you ride in a comfortable silence—the only sounds being the soft snorts of the horses and the creak of leather saddles. But more often than not, you chat about everything and nothing, your conversations easy and unforced. 

Logan, who once spoke only in short, clipped sentences, has begun to open up more, sharing bits and pieces of his past, his thoughts, and his observations about life on the farm. You learn that he has a sarcastic, dry sense of humor, one that often catches you off guard and leaves you laughing in spite of yourself. He even joins you for your usual morning breakfast of eggs and toast, something that started only a few days into your new morning ritual. 

Yet throughout all of this, there’s a something growing between you and Logan, simmering just beneath the surface. 

It manifests in the little moments, the stolen glances, and the accidental touches that don’t really seem to be as accidental as you may think. It’s in the way his eyes follow you when he thinks you’re not looking, how they intensify when you laugh, or how he seems to fixate on your hands as you work, as if he’s memorizing every movement. 

You’re not immune to it either. You find yourself hyper-aware of his presence, the way his proximity seems to alter the air around you. In one afternoon, you’re in the barn, and sorting through a pile of hay bales. It’s hard, sweaty work, but the it’s kind that leaves you with a satisfying ache in your muscles by the end of the day. Logan is beside you, lifting the heavy bales with ease, his shirt sticking to his back, outlining the broad expanse of his shoulders. You catch yourself staring, and quickly look away, but not before he flicks his eyes over to yours.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can see it in his eyes. It’s like they’re telling you that he knows exactly what you were thinking, where you were staring. 

And when you’re both tending to the horses, something happens again. You’re brushing one down, your fingers working through its mane, when Logan comes to stand beside you, so close that you can smell his natural musk. 

“Here, let me help,” he says lowly, not waiting for a response as he reaches out, his hand covering yours. You glance up at him, and he’s already looking down at you. You’re acutely aware of the feel of his hand over yours, the callousness of his skin against your own, and the way his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles as if testing the waters.

Another time, while fixing the fence out in the field, you’re both working in tandem, passing tools back and forth. At one point, you reach for a hammer at the same time Logan does, and your fingers brush against his. It’s a fleeting touch, but it feels like a spark in the summer heat, and for a heartbeat, you both freeze, caught in that split second of contact.

“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling your hand back, but the apology feels hollow in the face of what you’re actually feeling.

“No problem,” Logan replies, his voice gruffer than usual, as he hands you the tool. 

You can feel it. You’re not stupid. You know something is there, and you wonder how much longer you can resist it—how much longer you can pretend that everything is fine. But Logan is a hard man to read, and you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is reciprocated, or if it’s just wishful thinking on your part. So you stay silent, letting the tension simmer, hoping that one day, one of you will have the courage to break it.

—

You’re not the only who see’s it. 

“You know,” your grandmother says one afternoon, as you’re helping them with a puzzle. “Logan has really come out of his shell since you’ve been here.”

You blink, and glance over at her. “What do you mean?”

She looks up from the table, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” she says with a knowing smile. “He’s been here for over a year, and in all that time, we’ve never seen him quite like this. He’s always been polite, of course, but distant. Reserved. But now… well, it’s clear he’s become quite comfortable around you.”

Your grandfather places a piece in the board and nods in agreement. “She’s right, you know. Logan’s always been a bit of a mystery, keeps to himself mostly. But ever since you arrived, he’s been different. More… engaged, I suppose you could say.”

You feel a flush of heat rising to your cheeks, your heart skipping a beat at their words. “I-I don’t know about that,” you stammer, trying to brush it off. “We just… work together a lot. That’s all.”

Chuckling, your grandmother leans forward slightly. “Darling, don’t be modest. It’d be obvious to anyone that there’s something going on between the two of you. He’s practically a different man when he’s around you. Why, just the other day, I caught him actually smiling while you two were out riding. I nearly fainted!”

“You’ve managed to do in weeks what we couldn’t do in a year. Whatever it is, it’s good for him. And for you, too, I’d wager,” your grandfather pipes in, sending you a wink. 

Fidgeting with your hands, you feel like a deer caught in headlights, and you’re honestly not sure how to respond. “We’re… friends,” you say, though the words feel inadequate even as you say them. 

The woman across from you raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Hmm? Well, maybe so. But it seems to me that there’s potential for something more there, if you’re both willing to see it.”

“I… I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling flustered under their scrutiny. “He’s just… he’s a complicated person.”

“Everyone’s complicated, dear,” your grandfather says gently. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth the effort. Oftentimes, the best things in life are the ones that take the most time to understand.”

There’s a moment of silence as their words sink in, the weight of their observations leaving you feeling exposed and uncertain. You hadn’t fully allowed yourself to consider what you felt, let alone what Logan felt. But now, with your grandparents’ teasing remarks, it’s impossible to ignore the possibility that there might be something more between you and Logan than just a budding friendship.

Your grandmother reaches over and gives your hand a comforting squeeze. “Just take it one day at a time, sweetheart. Whatever happens, we’re here for you.”

—

The following week, you find yourself itching for something new—a change in scenery. While the farm has been everything you’ve wanted and more, you think it’d be nice to go on a drive, explore a small laketown you used to go to when you were younger. So, one morning, as you and Logan are unsaddling the horses, you muster the courage to extend an invitation that’s been on your mind for days.

“So…,” you begin, trying to keep your tone casual. “I was thinking… maybe we could take a break from the farm this weekend and go into town. You know, just to get out for a bit, see something different.”

He pauses in his work, his hand stilling on the brush as he peers over at you with a raised eyebrow. “The town?” he repeats, as if the idea is foreign to him.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to face him fully. “I need to pick up a few things, and I thought it might be nice to have some company. We could grab lunch, maybe do some exploring… It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just a change of pace.”

There’s a beat of silence as he considers your offer. His expression is guarded, as always, but you can see the wheels turning in his mind. It’s clear that the idea of leaving the farm, even for a day, is something he hasn’t done in a long time—if ever.

“I don’t know,” he eventually gets out, his tone uncertain. “Busy places are not really my thing.”

You feel a pang of disappointment at his hesitation, but you’re not ready to give up just yet. “I get that,” you say. “But it’s not about how many people are there, really. It’s about taking a break. You’ve been working so hard, and I think you deserve a day to relax. Plus, I could use your help carrying a few things,” you tease, hoping to coax him into agreeing.

Logan’s lips twitch as if he’s suppressing a smile, and for a split second you think he’s going to turn you down. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says, the word coming out almost reluctantly. “I’ll go.”

You beam, unable to hide your enthusiasm. “We’ll leave early on Saturday, okay?”

“Saturday it is,” he confirms.

—

The rest of the week passes quickly, your anticipation for the trip into town growing with each passing day. You find yourself planning out the day in your head, imagining the places you might visit, the food you might try, and most of all, the chance to see Logan in a different environment—away from the farm and the routine that has defined your relationship so far.

So, when Saturday morning arrives, you’re up before the sun, too excited to sleep in. You dress in your favourite casual clothes—something comfortable but a bit more put-together than your usual farm attire—and head downstairs, where you find your grandparents surprisingly already up and about.

“Off to the city today, are you?” your grandmother asks with a smile as she hands you a thermos of coffee for the road.

“Yep,” you reply, unable to keep the grin off your face. “and I’m dragging Logan along with me.”

Your grandfather chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, that should be interesting. Don’t think he’s much of a city slicker.”

“Be patient with him, dear,” your grandmother adds, laughing. “He’s stepping out of his comfort zone for you.”

“I will,” you promise, taking the coffee and heading out the door.

Logan’s already waiting by the truck, and when you see him, you can’t help but falter in your steps. The shirt he’s wearing clings to his muscular frame in a way that draws your eyes, accentuating the strength that’s always been evident. His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s an almost shy quality to the way he stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

You try to hide the fact that you were just checking him out as you ask, “Ready?” 

“‘Course,” he replies, climbing into the passenger seat as you slide behind the wheel.

The highways are empty and the sky is clear. You chat easily about the things you need to pick up, the cute boutiques you want to visit, and even a few memories of the last time you visited the place. Logan listens more than he talks, but you can tell he’s starting to relax, the tightness in his shoulders easing as the distance passes by.

When you finally reach the town, the energy along the streets is a stark contrast to the quiet calm of the farm. The buildings tower above you, and the sidewalks are crowded with people going about their day. 

Stepping out of the truck, you glance over at Logan. It’s clear that he’s out of his element, but there’s something cute about the way he takes it all in. “Where to first?” He questions. 

“Well,” you say, smiling at him, “I was thinking we could grab some breakfast at this little café I know, then hit a few shops. There’s a bookstore I love that I think you’d like too.”

He nods, his expression softening slightly at the mention of a bookstore. “Lead the way.”

You spend the morning wandering around, exploring the shops, and enjoying a nice breakfast together. At the bookstore, you lose track of time, browsing through the shelves and picking out a few titles that catch your eye. Logan surprises you by finding a book on woodworking, something he’s always been interested in but never had much time for. You can see the way his eyes light up as he flips through the pages, and it makes you smile, happy to see him enjoying something for himself.

After spending a few more hours of exploring, you suggest one last stop before heading back—a lookout point that offers a stunning view of the lake and the surrounding landscape. Logan agrees, and you drive up to the spot, parking the truck and leading him to a bench that overlooks the water.

The view is breathtaking. You both sit in silence for a while, just taking in the scenery, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. He is staring out into the water with a thoughtful expression when you decide to interrupt his stupor.

“Logan,” you begin, the gentle breeze from the lake rustling through the trees, “what did you think of me when we first met?”

He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting the question. Then he pauses for a moment, looking back out at the lake, as if gathering his thoughts.

“I thought you were different,” he says slowly, each word carefully chosen. “You didn’t act like you were above the work. You jumped right in, got your hands dirty. Most people wouldn’t do that.”

You smile at the memory, remembering how you started working together the moment you met. After all, you weren’t just a visitor—you were there to help, and you knew your way around the farm. “And now?” you ask, your heart beginning to beat just a little faster.

He remains quiet for a few moments, his focus still on the water. When he finally speaks, he’s timid, almost bashful, as if he’s revealing something he’s kept hidden for a long time. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” he admits, his eyes flickering back to yours. “I thought that the first time I saw you, too. It was one of the first things that hit me. But it’s more than that. Now… now I think you’re perfect.”

The sincerity in his words catches you off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless. Your mouth parts in surprise, and all you can do is gawk, trying to process the depth of what he’s just said.

Logan shifts slightly, his gaze dropping to his hands as he continues. “I was… cold at first,” he murmurs, “Didn’t know how else to act. You weren’t like anyone I’d ever met. I didn’t know how to handle it. But what really got to me was how you didn’t shy away from that—you didn’t let my attitude push you away. That changed somethin’ in me.”

You want to say something—you should say something—to acknowledge what he just said, bearing in mind that was probably the most amount of words to come out of his mouth in one go, but for some reason, you can’t. The only thought running through your head is that you want to reach out and touch him, to close the small distance between you.

“What about you?” His voice is slightly more tentative now, and he definitely just asked that to fill the silence that you were ungraciously leaving. “What was your first impression of me?”

His question snaps you out of your thoughts, and you gulp, now knowing that your first impression of him was very different to his of you. 

“Honestly? I thought you were rude as hell,” you say a bit nervously, watching as his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. “You were so gruff, so serious… I didn’t know what to make of you at first. But then I saw the way you took care of the horses, the way you looked after the farm, and… it didn’t take long for my opinion to change.”

He shifts, clearly caught off guard. You can see the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck as he takes in what you said, and it makes your smile widen. 

“And…You’re kind,” you continue. “There’s this gentleness about you that I wasn’t expecting.” You suck in a shaky breath. “I think you’re pretty perfect now too, if I’m being honest.”

The tint on his cheeks only deepens, and he looks away, flustered. It’s a rare sight—seeing him like this—and it makes you swoon. 

“I don’t know about that…” He mutters, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“I do,” you reply firmly. “You’re more than you think you are, Logan.”

The genuineness in your words makes him look back at you, his eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe, or confirmation that what you’re saying is real. Slowly, almost unconsciously, you both lean in closer, locked in a stare, your breaths mingling as the space between you shrinks. You can see the way his eyes flicker down to your lips, and you feel the same pull, the undeniable urge to close the distance and see what it would feel like to kiss him overriding all your senses.

Your chest pounds as you inch closer, until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. But just as your lips are about to meet, a loud, piercing scream shatters the moment.

You both jerk back, startled, and whip your heads around to see a kid nearby, his face scrunched up in disgust as he frantically wipes at his shoulder. “Ew! A seagull just pooped on me!”

The kid’s parents rush over, trying to console him as they pull out napkins, and you can’t help but burst out laughing at the absurdity of the interruption. The sound of your laughter is contagious, and soon Logan is chuckling a bit too.

“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” he mumbles under is breath.

You’re still laughing, the remnants of your almost-kiss still in the back of your mind, but you know the moment has passed. “Yeah,” you agree, trying to catch your breath. “Guess we should be thankful it wasn’t us.”

Logan grins, warm and wide. “Yeah, maybe we should.”

—

Driving back to the farm, neither of you say a word about what almost transpired at the lookout point, and you’re fine with that. There’s no need to fill the silence with words, no need to dissect the moment or what it could have led to. You don’t want there to be any sort of pressure between you, any expectations. Even if, deep down, all you want is to climb him like a tree, to feel the solid strength of him beneath your hands, and to finally give in to the attraction that’s been building throughout your time together. 

Pulling into the driveway and shutting of the engine, you turn to him, and turns to you, his eyes meeting yours. “Thanks for today,” he says sincerely “I… liked it.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. “Me too,” you reply, your voice just as soft. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, his gaze holding yours a hint longer before he turns away, his hand reaching for the door handle. “We should.”

—

A few days later, as everyone sits around the kitchen table after dinner, the evening suddenly takes on a new tone when your grandmother clears her throat and shoots an exchanges a conspiratorial glance at your grandfather.

“We’ve got some news,” she begins, her eyes shining with excitement. “Your grandfather and I have been invited to spend a week at the Summers’ cottage by the lake.”

You smile, genuinely happy for them. The Summers are longtime friends of your grandparents, and the idea of them getting a little vacation away sounds perfect. “That sounds wonderful! You two deserve some time to relax.”

“Well, we thought so too,” your grandfather says. “But that means we’ll be leaving the farm in your capable hands.”

It takes a moment for the full meaning of his words to sink in. You and Logan… alone… for an entire week.

Your heart skips a beat and you glimpse over at Logan, who’s sitting across the table from you, his expression neutral as he listens to your grandparents. But there’s a quick flash of something that suggests he’s as aware of the situation as you are.

A voice brings you back to the moment. “Now, don’t worry,” she says with a reassuring smile. “There’s not much that needs doing, just the usual stuff. And we’ll be back before you know it.”

Your grandfather leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he scans between you and Logan. “We trust you both to keep everything running smoothly,” he says, before he drops his voice to an embarrassingly low tone. “And to keep an eye on each other.”

You can’t help but blush at his not-so-subtle innuendo, and you quickly drop your gaze to your hands, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks. The thought of spending an entire week alone with Logan is both thrilling and nerve-wracking. The lack of a buffer—your grandparents—means that literally anything could happen. 

“Don’t worry,” you finally manage to say. “We’ve got this. You two just enjoy your time away.”

Logan, who has been uncharacteristically quiet during the conversation, finally speaks up. “Yeah,” he agrees, “We’ll take care of everything.”

—

Over the next couple of days, your grandparents pack their bags and make sure everything is in order before they leave. You help them with the small details, ensuring that the house is stocked with food and that all the usual chores are delegated properly.

Finally, the morning of their departure arrives. You stand by the front door, watching as your grandparents load their bags into the car. Your grandmother gives you a warm hug, “Take care, dear,” she says, kissing your cheek before hopping into the passenger’s seat. 

Your grandfather shakes Logan’s hand, giving him a firm nod. “Take care of things.”

He hums. “I will. Enjoy yourselves.”

With that, your grandparents climb into the car, and after a final wave, they drive down the long, dusty road that leads away from the farm. 

There’s a pause. 

Suddenly, you’ve become extremely aware of how close you two are standing. 

“So,” you start, hoping to ease a bit of the electricity beginning to spark. “I guess it’s just us now.”

Logan swallows thickly, his adams apple bobbing up and down. “Yeah,” he replies a bit deeper than usual. “Just us.”

“What should we do first?” you ask as casually as possible. 

He shrugs slightly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “Same old, I guess. Can’t let everythin’ fall apart right when they leave..”

“True. Let’s start with that.”

The two of you move into that familiar routine of farm work. Mucking out the stalls, hauling bags of feed from the shed to the barn, tending to the vegetable garden, you do it all. But even though you’re busy with work, there’s an underlying jitter to everything you do, a heightened awareness of each other’s presence that just wasn’t there before. And it’s impossible to ignore. Each time you make eyecontact it feels charged, almost like a promise of what’s to come, and it has your heart racing with exhilaration. 

That evening, after the chores are done and the sun has dropped below the horizon, you’re in the kitchen, preparing dinner while Logan finishes up outside. The quiet of the farmhouse feels different without your grandparents there—emptier, yet somehow more intimate. Domestic. You can hear the soft creak of the floorboards as he enters the house, the sound of him washing up in the sink.

And as the evening wears on, you find yourself drawing out cleaning the dishes, not wanting to end the day just yet. Logan stays close, drying the plates and placing them back in the cupboards.

“Long day,” he grunts.

“Yeah,” you agree, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “But it was nice. Peaceful.”

His eyes find yours. “Peaceful,” he echoes, though the word seems to hold a different meaning when he says it.

You both stay there, unmoving, until eventually, he takes a step back, as if sensing that the tension between you needs a moment to cool. “I’ll check on the barn,” he says gruffly. “Make sure everything’s locked up for the night.”

“Okay,” you reply, your voice softer than you intended.

Logan leaves to check on the barn, while he’s gone, your thoughts are a whirlwind of anticipation and nervous energy as you busy yourself with finishing up the remaining utensils. 

Finally, unable to stay inside any longer, you decide to step outside, hoping the cool evening air will help clear your mind. You sink down onto the old porch swing, and pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you observe the darkened landscape.

A few minutes later, you hear the soft crunch of gravel underfoot, and you glance over your shoulder to see Logan approaching the porch. He walks up the steps and pauses momentarily as if debating whether to join you. Then, with a soft sigh, he settles down beside you, his shoulder just barely brushing against yours.

It’s now or never, you think.  “We have the place to ourselves now,” you state. 

He turns his head slightly, giving you a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a small, knowing smirk. “Indeed we do,” he replies.

The simple acknowledgment—and the way he says it—makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t help the small huff of exasperation that escapes your lips. He’s always been so tame, so careful with his words, and while you appreciate the way he’s respected your space, you’re done with tiptoeing around.

“Do I need to spell it out for you, or—” But before you can finish the sentence, Logan moves. 

His hand reaches out, rough and warm, to cup the back of your head. Your eyes widen, and your heart thuds in your chest upon realizing what’s about to happen. And with a firm but gentle pull, he closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours.

You lose track of your surroundings—the night, the farm, everything—as you give yourself into feel of his lips against yours. It’s intense and claiming, a declaration of everything you’ve both been too afraid to say.

His hand tangles in your hair, holding you close as he deepens the kiss, his other hand coming to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if to ground yourself in the moment, to make sure this is real, that he’s really here, kissing you.

Moving your lips against his with equal fervor, you pour the longing you’ve been feeling all this time into it. The taste of him is intoxicating. It’s something that’s so uniquely him—so uniquely Logan—and you can’t get enough. You’ve imagined this moment in the dead of night, but nothing compares to the reality of it—to the way he kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters.

When you finally pull back, out of breath and a little dazed, Logan’s forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants. His eyes are smoldering and intense and his smirk is gone, replaced by a deep look of yearning.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits huskily. The way his voice has dropped three octaves isn’t missed on you. You can practically feel it vibrate down in your pu—

“You’re not the only one,” You whisper, interrupting your own thoughts. The connection between you has finally been acknowledged, and you feel a huge sense of relief.

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding, and his hand slips from the back of your head to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t think I can hold back anymore.”

You lean in, pressing another kiss to his lips. “Then don’t,” you whisper against his mouth.

The spark that has been ignited between you flares up into a full blown fire, and the next kiss quickly becomes more heated. Without breaking it, Logan’s grip on your waist tightens and you let out a soft gasp as he effortlessly lifts you onto his lap. Your legs straddle his hips, and you can feel the beginning of something growing underneath you. 

The sensation is dizzying, and you instinctively press yourself closer, your fingers curling into his hair. The swing beneath you creaks softly with the movement, but neither of you pays it any mind, too lost in each other to care.

You shift slightly on his lap, grinding your hips against him, and the movement draws a deep, throaty groan from him. He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, “God, you drive me crazy,” and then he’s on you again. 

It’s wild. Hot, and heavy, and utterly consuming. His hands move from your hips to grip your ass, guiding you to move against him. It feels so good, you release a relieved sigh into his mouth, before dropping your head onto his shoulder, too caught up in the pleasure. 

The sounds of your moans fill the air as he continues grinding you against him, his own hips bucking up into your core. 

Biting your lip, you lift your head slightly, a teasing smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as your eyes dart toward the open door of the farmhouse. “You know,” you begin tilting forward to bite his ear, your voice low and playful, “as much as I’m enjoying being out here, I think we should take this inside.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a sexy smirk. “As you wish,” he murmurs.

As you stand up, your legs a little shaky from what just occured, you peek back at him, and see that he’s already risen to his feet. Stepping closer, you slip your hand into his as you guide him toward the door. But just as you reach the threshold, a thought crosses your mind, and you pause, turning to look up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“We gotta go to your room,” you say, running your hands up and down his arms, feeling them flex underneath your touch.“I don’t think I’m ready to defile my childhood bedroom just yet.”

He raises an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face as he catches on to what you’re implying. “Oh, is that so?” he asks, his tone filled with mock seriousness. You wink in return. grabbing one of his hands and dragging him inside. 

By the time you reach his door, you’re practically vibrating with excitement, your breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. The room is simple, and the bed, neatly made, sits in the center of the room. You can’t help but laugh at the thought of how different it will look in just a few moments.

You turn to face Logan, but he doesn’t give you time to say anything, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that is both tender and possessive. His thumb traces the line of your jaw as he cups your face, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation.

But there’s none. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. The need for him, for this, is so overwhelming that it’s taking every ounce of strength in you to keep from throwing yourself onto him. 

His lips find yours once more, this time more urgent, more demanding than before. He pulls you closer, his body pressing against yours. “Are you sure about this?” he asks in between kisses.

“Absolutely,” you mumble breathlessly, your hands sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. The word barely leaves your lips before Logan reacts, a low hum rumbling in his chest as if your answer has unleashed something primal within him.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a force that makes the room tremble slightly, and in the same fluid motion, he pins you against the wall, lips never leaving yours as his body cages you in.

One of his thighs nudges its way between yours, the rough fabric of his jeans brushing against the sensitive spot between your legs. The friction is maddening, electric, and it hits just right, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine that rips a moan from your throat.

The sound only spurs Logan on, his own need evident in the way he moves against you. He moves his mouth to your neck, trailing up and down it with hungrily. The feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his teeth graze your pulse point, causes you to arch against him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for support.

You can feel the warmth of his breath as he presses his lips to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, as his hands explore your body. They’re everywhere—one gripping your hip, holding you steady against the wall, the other sliding up your side to brush against the curve of your breast. His fingers find the hem of your shirt, tugging it up, and you lift your arms to help him, the fabric sliding up and over your head before it’s tossed carelessly to the floor.

Bringing his lips back to yours, the kiss is fiery, stealing all the oxygen from your lungs as he pushes you even harder into against the wall, his thigh still working its magic. You can’t help the way your hips rock against him, the need for more—more pressure, more friction, more him.

Logan seems to sense your desperation, moaning when his hand slips down from your breast to the waistband of your jeans. He fumbles with the button for only a moment before he gets it open, his fingers slipping inside to brush against the soft skin of your lower belly. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze tempting and filled with a desire that matches your own. 

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “No idea why I waited so long.”

You can barely think, let alone form words, but you manage to breathe out, “Don’t need to wait any longer.”

The words seem to be all the encouragement he needs. In one swift motion, he slides your pants and underwear down your legs, his hands careful as he helps you step out of them. You’re left standing before him, bare and vulnerable, but the way he’s staring at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—makes you feel powerful, desired in a way you’ve never felt before.

He pulls you back into him, and this time, you can feel the hardness of his own desire against yours—bare— and it drives you insane. His grip finds you thighs as he lifts you off the ground and carries you the short distance to the bed. He lays you down gently on his bed, and breaks away long enough to strip off his own clothes. The sight of him—strong, muscular, yours—makes your breath catch in your throat. 

There’s a moment where he’s standing above you, just staring, his chest rising and falling with the effort to control himself. But then he’s on you again in an instant, his body pressing yours into the mattress, his lips claiming yours and leaving you dizzy.

You lean up into him, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin as he moves against you. The need for more builds up to a breaking point, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as he grinds into you, hard and insistent against your core.

“Logan,” you breathe out. “Please.”

His name on your lips seems to break the last of his control, a desperate groan ripping out of him. He begins travelling down your body, taking his time, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path, each kiss leaving a burning trail in its wake. His hands follow the curve of your waist, your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp. Your body is practically begging for him, and you know that you’re on the verge of begging too.

Once he makes it down to your thighs, he nudges them apart, giving him better access to you. He nips and bites at them, moaning along with you. And then, with a deep, almost possessive growl, he finally lowers his mouth to you, his tongue flicking out to taste you. You react immediately, a wave of pleasure coming over you, your hands fly into his hair, tugging at the strands as you try to pull him closer.

Logan’s hands tightening their grip on your thighs as he delves deeper. You’re lost in the sensations, the pleasure growing and growing until it’s all you can think about, all you can feel. Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alight with desire, and the only thing that matters is the way he is making you feel, the way he’s driving you toward a release that you know will be earth-shattering.

And then, just as you think you can’t take any more, he pulls back slightly, his lips still hovering over you as he looks up at you, eyes black. “Tell me what you want,” he commands.

You can barely think, let alone form coherent words, but you manage to breathe out, “You. I want–I need you.”

That seems to be wanted he wanted to hear, so with a final kiss to your inner thigh, he moves back up your body, connecting his lips to yours again. You can taste yourself on his tongue as his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you slightly to position himself at your entrance.

The anticipation is almost too much, the need for him so immense that you can’t hold back the whimper that escapes your lips as begins to push, the tip of him just barely inside you, teasing, testing your patience.

“Oh god,” you moan. “I need you. Please.”

And then, finally, Logan gives you what you’ve been wanting since that time at the pond. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushes inside you, filling you up completely. 

Everything seems to stop for a moment, the only sound the ragged gasps of breath between you, the only feeling the overwhelming pleasure of being joined together like this, of finally having what you’ve both wanted for so long.

He pauses, lowering his head in the crook of your neck as he lets you adjust to the feeling, his breath hot and heavy against your collarbone. And then he begins to move, slow and steady at first, each thrust driving you closer to the edge, the coil inside you tightening with every stroke. The feel of him inside you, the way he moves against you, is everything you’ve been dreaming of and more, and you can’t help the way your body responds to him, your hips lifting to meet his every movement.

The gentle, deliberate pace soon gives way to something more urgent, more desperate, as the need for release takes over. Each thrust drives you higher, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level, until teetering on the edge.

And then, he sends you over it. The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your entire body shuddering with the intensity of it, your voice lost in the cry of pure ecstasy that escapes your lips. Logan follows you a moment later, his own release crashing into him hard, his body trembling against yours as he buries himself deep inside you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as a loud, deep, groan reverberates in his throat. 

Neither of you can move, lost in the aftermath of your shared pleasure, your bodies still entwined, as you come down from the high. He tightens his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your temple as he tries to catch his breath. And when he does, he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes.

“You okay?” he murmurs. 

You nod, reaching up to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs gently brushing over the rough stubble on his cheeks. “I’m more than okay,” you whisper back, voice full of emotion. “That was… everything.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Logan’s lips, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his arms still wrapped securely around you. “Yeah, it was,” he agrees.

Eventually, he eases out of you with a tenderness that makes you sigh softly. He walks out into the washroom, and gets a warm towel, wiping you and himself down. After, he settles beside you on the bed, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close. The two of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, until the exhaustion of the day begins to catch up with you, and you feel your eyes growing heavy.

“Get some rest,” you hear, “We’ve got plenty of time… no need to rush.”

You nod sleepily, snuggling closer to him as you let your eyes drift shut, the steady pulse of his heart lulling you into a peaceful sleep. 

—

You wake to the feeling of warmth and security, Logan’s breathing against your ear, his arm still clinging possessively over your waist. The events of the previous night come rushing back, and a satisfied smile curves your lips as you snuggle closer to him.

But it isn’t long before that peaceful contentment becomes something more. As you move around, the feel of his skin against yours, the warmth of his breath on your neck, and the memory of the passion ignites a familiar heat low in your belly

He stirs beside you, his hand tightening around your waist as if sensing your thoughts. Pulling you closer, his nose nuzzles against your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin there. 

His voice is rough with sleep as he murmurs against your skin, “Morning…”

The simple word, spoken in that deep, gravelly tone, is enough to make you ache for him all over again. You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze, and the look in his eyes—dark and hungry—tells you that he feels the same way. 

The morning starts in the best way possible, the both of you breathless, spent, and with the knowledge that this isn’t a one-time thing. The connection between you is too strong, too consuming to be satisfied with just one night or even one morning. And as the day stretches out before you, the realization hits that this hunger, this need, will follow you both everywhere you go.

Throughout the week, the two of you are completely insatiable for each other. It’s like the floodgates have opened and have no intention of closing. Every moment you’re together becomes an opportunity. 

It starts innocently enough—just a kiss in the barn when you’re supposed to be checking on the horses. But that kiss quickly spirals and before you know it, Logan has you pressed up against the wooden wall, his lips on your neck, his hands roaming your body. The scent of hay and leather mixes with the heady scent of him as he takes you right there, the barn filled with the sound of your moans and the creak of the old wooden beams.

Or when you’re in the back shed, ostensibly looking for some tools to finish up some chores, the moment the door closes behind you, and you both know there’s no point in pretending. Logan’s hands are on you before you can even say a word, lifting you onto the workbench with ease as he claims your lips in a searing kiss. 

At the pond too, the tranquil, secluded spot now holds an entirely different kind of allure to what it had before. One afternoon, you find yourselves there again, the cool water calling your name. But as you strip down to swim, the sight of him watching you is enough to make it seem less inviting than the feel of his hands on your skin. You pull him in with you, the rippling water doing nothing to muffle the sounds of your shared pleasure.

By the end of the week, you’re exhausted but in the best possible way, your body and soul both filled with the kind of satisfaction that comes from truly giving in to what you want, to who you are together. And as the sun sets on the final day of your week alone together, you find yourselves back in Logan’s room, the place where it all began. 

The bed, once neat and tidy, is now a tangle of sheets and pillows, the evidence of your shared moments of bliss scattered around the room. Logan lies beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair as you rest your head on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“This week… it’s been more than I ever expected,” he admits quietly, his fingers brushing gently over your skin. “I don’t want it to end.”

You lift your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the same emotion reflected there—the same desire to hold on to what you’ve found together. “It doesn’t have to,” you reply. “We don’t have to go back to the way things were before.”

Logan’s hand tightens around yours, a small, almost imperceptible smile curving his lips. “No, we don’t,” he concurs. 

—

The morning your grandparents arrive, you and Logan are in the kitchen, finishing up lunch. Your grandmother is the first to step through the door, her face lighting up as she sees the two of you. “We’re back!” she announces, her voice cheerful as she sets her bag down by the door.

You rise to greet her, giving her a warm hug. “How was the trip?”

“Oh, it was lovely,” she replies, her eyes twinkling as she pulls back to look at you. “The cottage was just as beautiful as ever. And the Summers send their love.”

Your grandfather enters next, a gleeful smile on his face as he takes in the sight of you and Logan in the kitchen, together. “Everything go smoothly while we were gone?” he asks.

You blush. “Yes, everything was fine.”

Then they do that thing they’ve been doing the whole time you’ve been with them, where they exchange a glance—and share a look that speaks volumes. It’s the kind of look that only comes from years of understanding each other without words, and you can tell they knew exactly what they were doing when they left you and Logan alone for the week. 

“Well, that’s good to hear,” your grandmother says with a mischievous smile, her eyes flicking between you two in a way that makes you wonder just how much they’ve guessed.

“Seems like you two managed just fine without us.” Your grandfather says, patting Logan on the shoulder. 

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you steal a look at Logan, who meets your eyes with a small smirk. It’s a way to tell you that he’s just as aware as you are of what your grandparents are thinking. But there’s no embarrassment on his face, only a quiet confidence, a certainty that whatever happened between you was exactly what was meant to be.

—

The next month flies by, the routine of everything staying largely the same except for one thing. You and Logan are inseparable, drawn to each other like magnets, and with each passing day, it seems like that attraction only grows stronger. 

It’s not just the passion that binds you, though that spark is always there, and most often times doesn’t go ignored. It’s the little moments that fill your days—the way his hand brushes yours as you walk side by side, the way he rests a gentle hand on the small of your back when you’re working together in the barn, or the way his fingers grip your waist as he helps you mount your horse (even though you don’t need it). 

The work on the farm continues to get done, but there’s a new layer to everything you do—a sense of shared purpose, of partnership. And even though the days are long and tiring, you find yourself looking forward to each task, knowing that Logan will be there beside you, sharing the load, offering his quiet support and his easy, comforting presence.

As the sun begins to rise one breakfast, you grandfather announces that he needs to run into town to pick up some tools for a repair project. He’s heading out the door, and as he grabs his keys from the hook, he turns to Logan with a nod.

“Logan, why don’t you come along? Could use an extra pair of hands,” he suggests, his tone casual.

Your man agrees without hesitation, always ready to lend a hand. But as he follows your grandfather out the door, he pauses for just a moment, whirling back to look at you, and what you see on his face is insane—there’s a deep yearning, a longing that tugs on your heartstrings. It’s almost as if to say that he wishes he could stay, he doesn’t want to be apart from you, even for the short trip into town. 

You have half a mind to join them. 

The intensity of that look lingers in the air long after he’s turned away and stepped out the door, and your grandmother doesn’t miss a thing. Once the men are in the truck and begin to drive off the property, she turns to you with a teasing smile, one eyebrow raised in amusment. 

“He’s really got it bad for you, doesn’t he?” she says affectionately. “I’ve never seen a man look at a woman the way he looks at you.”

Your heart blooms in your chest. “I guess he does,” you reply, your voice soft,  breathless as the weight of your feelings for him wash over you. 

Your grandmother chuckles, stepping closer to place her hand on your arm “And you’ve got it bad for him too, I’d say.”

You laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

—

Several weeks later, it’s raining. That should have been the first sign that this day wasn’t going to go to plan. You’re sitting inside, curled up next to Logan on the old chesterfield, his arm wrapped around you as you both enjoy the warmth and quiet of the afternoon. 

But then you decide to go through some emails—just a quick check, nothing more, to clear out any lingering notifications. You unlock your phone and start scrolling through your inbox, Logan’s fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder as you do. Most of the emails are routine—newsletters, updates, the usual clutter—but then you see it, nestled among the others like a tiny, unexpected bombshell.

It’s an email from the company you applied to months ago, the one you almost forgot about in the blissful haze of farm life. The subject line makes your heart skip a beat: Congratulations! Offer of Employment.

Your breath catches, and you sit up a little straighter, your heart pounding in your chest as you open the email. The words leap off the screen: We are pleased to offer you the position, starting in two months.

You stare at the email, a mixture of shock and elation washing over you. This is it—your dream job, the opportunity you’ve been working toward for years. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, the kind of position that could set the course for your entire career. But as the initial wave of excitement begins to ebb, a heavy weight settles in your chest, pulling you back down to earth.

You glance over at Logan, who’s still relaxed beside you. His eyes are closed, his head resting back against the couch. The sight of him, so content, makes your heart ache, because with this job offer comes a harsh reality: accepting it means leaving him, leaving this life you’ve built together, at least for a while. And you don’t know when—or even if—you’ll be back.

Suddenly, his eyes flutter open in response to your shifting, and he looks over at you, concern flickering across his features. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I… I just got an email,” you begin shakily as you turn the screen toward him so he can read it for himself.

He takes the phone from your hand, his eyes scanning the email. You watch his expression carefully, searching for any sign of what he’s feeling. At first, there’s no reaction, just the steady, focused way he reads the words. Yet as he reaches the end, you see it—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the pinching together of his eyebrows. 

He hands the phone back to you wordlessly.

Then, “This is what you’ve been waiting for.” His voice is steady, but there’s a sadness there too, a heaviness that you can’t ignore.

You nod, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah… it is.”

There’s a long stretch of nothing, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence between you. Logan looks away, his gaze fixed on the fire as if trying to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, measured. “You have to take it.”

You swallow hard. “But what about us? I don’t know when I’ll be back… or if I’ll even be able to come back.”

Logan’s hand tightens around yours, his grip firm, grounding. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, though you can hear the strain in his voice, the way he’s trying to hold back his own emotions for your sake. “You’ve worked too hard for this to pass it up.”

His words are supportive, encouraging, but you can see the the way he’s starting to close in on himself, as if already bracing himself for your departure. The thought of being apart from him is unbearable.

You lean into his touch, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close. “I don’t want to leave you,” you whisper as the tears finally spill over.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there as if trying to convey all the things he can’t bring himself to say. “I don’t want you to leave either,” he admits. “But I’ll be here when you get back. However long it takes.”

And so begins the countdown to your departure. You always knew it was going to come, always knew you were going to have to leave your grandparents again, but you didn’t expect to find the love of your life here, and that makes it so much harder.

—

The remaining two months become a bittersweet blend of cherished moments and a looming sense of inevitability. Each day feels both precious and fleeting, a constant reminder that your time together is running out, and it shapes every decision, every action, every word between you. 

In the past, your days had been filled with the rhythm of farm life—early mornings, long hours of work, and evenings spent in each other’s arms, exhausted but content. But now, there’s a conscious effort to carve out time just for you two, time that’s not dictated by chores or routine. You start taking more trips to the pond or into town, something you hadn’t quite as often before. 

These dates are different from the intense, passionate moments you’ve shared on the farm—they’re softer, more tender, as if you’re both trying to imprint each other’s presence into your memories. You hold hands as you walk on the streets, your fingers intertwined, and every now and then, Logan will pull you close, pressing a kiss to your temple or your lips, as if he needs to reassure himself that you’re still there with him.

Even the way you make love changes during these months. The hunger and desire that had once defined your physical relationship are still there, of course—Logan’s touch still ignites a fire in you, and the need for each other still burns as hot as ever—but now, there’s a new dimension to your intimacy, a slow, sensual depth that hadn’t been there before. 

Your grandparents, upon hearing the news, immediately noticed the change too. While they were so extremely happy for your new job opportunity, they also knew what it meant. They’ve seen the way you and Logan have grown closer, the way your connection has deepened, and there’s a quiet sadness in their eyes whenever they see you together. 

It’s not a sadness for themselves, but for the both of you. 

They don’t say much, but their understanding is palpable. They seem to give you more grace when it comes to doing work around the farm, trying to volunteer and do as much as they can so you two can spend time alone. No matter how much you refuse, they insist, pushing you two out the door with picnic basket and blankets. 

Sitting on the porch one evening after a long day, your grandmother comes out to join you. She sits beside you, Logan’s arm is draped around your shoulders, and for a brief second, the three of you just sit in silence, watching the sunset.

“You know,” your grandmother begins, her voice soft and filled with emotion, “I see the way you two look at each other. It reminds me of your grandfather and me when we were young.”

You smile, leaning into Logan’s side as you listen to her. “You two have always been such an inspiration,” you say, meaning every word.

She chuckles, a wistful sound. “It wasn’t always easy, you know. There were times when we had to be apart, times when I wasn’t sure if we’d make it through. But we did. And looking at you two now… I know you’ll find a way.”

Logan squeezes your shoulder gently.. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, echoing the promise he made when you first told him about the job.

Your grandmother nods, reaching out to pat your knee. “I believe you will. But just know… it’s okay to be sad, to be scared. That’s part of loving someone.”

The words resonate with you, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

She smiles, a small, sad smile that holds a lifetime of wisdom. “You’ll be alright, my dear. Both of you.”

The days continue to slip by, and as the final weeks approach, your chest constantly feels tight. You try to make yourself feel better by lying in each other’s arms at night, whispering about the future, about the dreams you have, and the plans you’ll make when you’re together again. But still, it’s sad. 

—

Your last day creeps up on you like a shadow at dusk—inevitable, inescapable, and suddenly there, looming over everything. You wake up with a rock on your heart, the realization that this is it—your final day on the farm, your last full day with Logan before everything changes.

He is still asleep beside you, holding you close, his face peaceful in the early morning quiet. For a moment, you just watch him, memorizing the lines of his face, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the way his hair falls across his forehead. You want to remember everything, to carry this image of him with you when you leave.

With a soft sigh, you carefully slip out of his embrace, trying not to wake him. You pad quietly to the window, staring out at the familiar landscape that has become so dear to you. The fields, the barn, the trees swaying gently in the breeze—it’s all so beautiful, so full of memories.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the wetness on your cheeks, and you quickly wipe the tears away, not wanting to start the day with sadness. But as you turn back to the bed, you see that Logan is awake, his eyes open and watching you. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says it all—he knows what today means, and he feels it just as deeply as you do.

Wordlessly, you crawl back into bed, curling up against him, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, grounding you in the moment.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” you whisper back, your voice trembling slightly as you press your face into his chest, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to fall..

You just lie there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the day pressing down on you both. Eventually, Logan pulls back slightly, his hand cupping your face as he looks into your eyes. “Let’s go to the pond,” he says delicately. “Just you and me.”

You nod, unable to find the words to respond. The pond has always been your special place, a sanctuary where you’ve shared so many intimate moments, where it feels like it all began, and so it’s only right that would spend your last day there, away from everything else, just the two of you.

You decide to walk to the pond. Logan’s hand is warm and solid in yours, and you hold on to it tightly, physically unable to tear yourself from his touch. And when you reach it, a fresh wave of emotion crashes over you. 

You and Logan stand at the water’s edge, just staring out into the pond. Then, you turn to him, your eyes filled with tears, and without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

The kiss that follows is desperate, full of the need to feel connected, to hold on to each other for as long as you can. It’s not like the slow, sensual lovemaking of the past weeks—this is something desperate. Stumbling back toward the soft grass by the water’s edge, Logan gently lays you down, his hands trembling slightly as he undresses you, tears stinging behind his eyelids. As he moves over you, his body pressing against yours, there’s only this moment. 

With his skin against yours, his breath on your neck, your bodies move together. Tears spill from your eyes as you hold him tight, your hands unable to stay still, running over every part of him you can touch, needing to feel him, to anchor yourself. His lips find yours again, and the kiss is deep, full of all the love, all the emotion that neither of you can put into words. 

It’s a kiss that says goodbye, that says I love you, that says I’ll wait for you.

After reaching the peak of pleasure, you cling to each other, the tears flowing freely now, a mix of sorrow and love and everything in between.

Logan holds you close, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged, his eyes wet with tears. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” you choke out. “More than anything.”

—

Driving away from the farm was probably the hardest thing you've ever had to do in your entire life. Harder than moving away for university, harder than securing your first full-time job, harder than living alone in a city where you knew no one. This was different—this was leaving behind a piece of your heart, a part of your soul that you knew would never be whole until you returned.

Your hands grip the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles white as you try to focus on the road ahead, but it’s impossible to shake the image that’s burned into your mind—the image of Logan and your grandparents standing on the porch as you drove away. The sight of them, standing there side by side, watching you leave, is something that will haunt you for a long time. 

Logan, his stoic expression barely masking the pain in his eyes, his hands clenched at his sides as if holding himself back from running after you. Your grandmother, her face a mixture of sadness and pride, eyes glistening with unshed tears. And your grandfather, standing tall and strong, but with a heaviness in his gaze that spoke of understanding, of experience, of knowing just how hard this had to be.

The tears that had been threatening to fall finally break free, streaming down your face as you drive, blurring your vision and making it hard to see the road ahead. You swipe at them angrily, frustrated with yourself for breaking down like this, but it’s no use. The emotions are too strong, too overwhelming, and soon you’re bawling your eyes out, the sound of your own crying filling the car. 

You can barely catch your breath, each sob wracking your body with a force that leaves you feeling drained, exhausted, and utterly broken.

—

The time apart is worse than you ever imagined it would be. In the beginning, you and Logan make every effort to stay in touch. The calls and texts are your lifeline, little threads that keep you connected to the farm, to him, to the life you left behind. 

At first, you talk every day. his voice a comfort, a reminder that you’re not alone, that he’s still there, waiting for you. He tells you about his days, about how he still rides the horses every morning, just like he used to when you were there. 

But as time goes on, the time between each call grows. Your demanding work schedule, and the unreliable service in the countryside, make it harder and harder to find moments when you’re both free to talk. The texts, once long and filled with details about your lives, become shorter, more practical. You try to stay connected, but the distance feels like a growing chasm between you, one that neither of you can quite figure out how to bridge.

Years pass by in a blur. You have no time to spend at the farm, with it being too far away for just a weekend trip, and other commitments seem to always get in the way. 

Then, one day, the call comes—the call you’ve dreaded but somehow always knew would happen. It’s your grandmother, her voice trembling as she tells you that your grandfather has passed away. 

You take leave from work immediately, making arrangements to drive back to the farm and spend a night. The funeral is simple, attended by a few close friends and neighbours, but the absence of your grandfather is felt deeply by everyone.

And he’s there too—Logan. He’s standing off to the side, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, his face etched with grief. When your eyes meet, it’s as if no time has passed at all. You walk over to him, and without a word, he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly as if afraid to let go. 

The few years apart, the pain of the distance, all of it melts away in that embrace. You bury your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him that you’ve missed so much, and the tears you thought you had run out of begin to fall. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, everything hitting you at once—the loss of your grandfather, the years you’ve spent apart, the life you could have had together.

He hugs you tighter, his hand gently stroking your hair. “I miss you,” he murmurs thickly. “Every damn day, I miss you.”

You spend the rest of the day together, holding each other, talking, catching up, and remembering your grandfather. Logan tells you about the farm, about how he’s kept things going, but you can hear the weariness in his voice, the toll that time and loneliness have taken on him. It’s clear that the farm hasn’t been the same without you, just as your life hasn’t been the same without him.

Later that evening, after the guests have left and the house has grown quiet, your grandmother pulls you aside. Her eyes are tired, full of sorrow, but there’s a calm acceptance in her expression. “I’ve made a decision,” she says softly, her voice steady. “I’m going to sell the farm.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but before you can protest, she continues. “Not to just anyone,” she adds quickly. “To Logan. He’s been more than just a farmhand, you know that. This place is as much his as it was ours. But… I need to move into permanent care. I can’t manage on my own anymore.”

You nod, understanding but feeling a deep sadness all the same. The farm has been a part of your life for so long, and the thought of it changing hands, even to Logan, feels like another loss. But there’s also a sense of relief, knowing that it will be in good hands, that it will stay in the family, in a way.

That night, you’re tangled in Logan’s arms. Leaving him the next morning is just as hard the second time as it was the first.

—

Five years since that fateful summer have passed, and in that time, your life changes in ways you never expected. You’ve built a successful career, made some amazing friends, travelled the world, but the hustle and bustle of city life has taken its toll. The stress, the strain, the dissatisfaction—it begins to weigh on you more and more. 

So, you make a decision.

You quit your job, find something remote, something that allows you to work from anywhere, as long as you can drive into the city every few weeks to drop off documents. It’s a drastic change, but it’s one you need. You realize that the life you want, the life you’ve been yearning for, isn’t in the city. 

It’s back at the farm.

As you step out of your car, you see him. He’s by the paddock, feeding the horses apples, just like he used to. His back is to you at first, but then he turns, and his eyes meet yours, and time stops. 

There’s a lifetime of emotions in that look—love, longing, hope. Most of all, there’s recognition, as if both of you know that this is it, that this is the moment you’ve been waiting for all these years.

And when you’re finally standing in front of him again, he reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek the same way it did all those years ago. 

----

[claymoresofinfamy23]

Not me thinking for a second this was about Logan Paul 💀💀💀💀💀 I need to watch X-Men again.

i just need to be idk, babied by logan, even though he knows that twenty something isnt a baby, hes showing you how to smoke properly, your sitting on his lap and taking sips of his drink, he lets you lay your head in his lap and cuddles up to him at night with ur cheek against his stomach and he just like, takes care of you? like he pets and humours and tolerates and when ur fucking hes so caring, stroking hair and kissing ur cheeks and forehead ur honour i want him so bad

And you get it soooo fucking bad because the idea of him being so paternal with you is something that just rots me to my coreee you guys. And there's a semblance of casual dominance about it that just makes me sob.

He's in the middle of fucking you. His chest pressed to your back, his skin flush to your own as he stands curved over you on your hands and knees on his bed. He keeps an arm wrapped around your chest, keeping you upright as he rolls his hips into, pressing a long kiss to the back of your head.

You'll be at the counter in the kitchen late at night, working on whatever when he wanders into the room in a grey hoodie and sweats. He makes his way to lean against the countertop, peering over at your notes. "Y'need anything, baby?" He'll eventually ask, running his knuckles over your forearm as you continue to write. "Mm, maybe water," you say, almost jumping out of your seat before you're being pushed back into the leather cushioning of the chair. "Let me do it fr'ya, sweetheart." And you don't get your glass of water until after he's "secretly" stolen a sip. He stands next to your seat at the counter until you're all done.

He's the first time you experience smoking. The smell of tobacco is heavy in the air while he sits on the front porch of the mansion. You've always been one to try new things and Logans never been one to deny you almost anything and so of course he holds the blunt of the cigar to your soft lips and lights the tobacco while you look all pretty fr'him. Takes you a couple tries and a few lessons in watching Logan easily breathe in the smokey tar, but you catch it eventually, earning a "atta' girl." From Logan.

Has you sit in his lap during movie nights at the mansion while he nurses a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He keeps a hand wrapped around your hip and the other on the neck of the bottle. Ever so often, you'll motion towards the bottle, and Logan'll hold you by the chin and tilt the bottle to your lips only for a second before pulling it away. You try to reach for it back, and he's pushing your hand away with a "C'mon, kid, that's enough." And you better not argue, it'll start an hour long discussion on how he knows best.

Or how the two of you will be lying on the couch after finishing a movie. You're resting against his chest as he runs the tips of his fingers up and down your back softly. And he'll just start giving you quick pecks here and there over your cheeks and on the tip of your nose and your forehead and chin before pulling back to look you over. He'll soothe the palm of his hand over the soft apple of your cheek, whispering softly "Yr'my baby, huh."

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3

a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3

”what are you listening to?”

your seat is close to the heater. 

it was nothing but a lucky draw, on your part. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks on your first day, and so he gave you the first choice; one you had no trouble making, latching onto the chair in the very back, right by the window. right by the sole heater of the room. vital for surviving your chilly winter classes. 

so there you sit. warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs; your feet tap and tap on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, planets out of orbit.

through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones safe and snug and covering your ears, muffling all grating noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.

”… hey. did you hear me?”

gojo is being particularly chatty, today.

out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude; he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.

with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. just to meet his gaze, the blurry shine of your own visage, reflected in his circle-frame glasses. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face. like an excited puppy.

”what are you listening to?”

you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one of the heavy cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper. monotone. loud.

it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.

gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own reflection, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.

with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.

”… do you like music?”

the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for just a moment.

then he gives you a shrug.

”i guess?” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”

ah.

your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.

silence overtakes you both, once more. 

”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”

(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)

before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats. 

on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two blue pools, flecked with white, like frozen puddles in the street. 

and then he’s strolling away.

gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.

but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams. 

”page 27, from the top.”

your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.

but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.

without it, gojo wouldn’t bother to stop by your desk.

nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.

then he’s leaving, again.

that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.

though if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.

(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)

the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.

but now you wish you had.

(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)

with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.

”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”

you nod. 

geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.

”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”

…

you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.

”… what kind of music does gojo like?”

silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.

then he parts his lips.

”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. ”i see.”

heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.

”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”

you can’t help but deflate, at that.

geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”

a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him. 

”… huh?”

”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”

…

(you haven’t got a clue.)

geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”

(… that’s a good question.)

he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing. 

thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.

”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”

but that’s where he’s wrong.

satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour. 

geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions — and that’s all.

when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world. 

that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…

(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)

”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?” 

geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to his circumstances. a chameleon, tilting his head at you.

… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.

”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.

”… okay,” is all you end up whispering, a soft lull of your tongue. ”i’ll try… thank you.”

geto rewards you with a full smile.

”don’t mention it.”

spring is closer than you thought.

it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw. 

in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.

”did you bring your card?”

your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence. 

it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.

”huh? was i supposed to?”

”… are you kidding me?”

you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers. 

someone taps your shoulder.

geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.

a silent cue.

he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.

and then you realize what he’s done.

gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing. 

more importantly…

it’s just the two of you, now.

you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, for you to follow, taking your place beside him while staring right ahead. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it — only continues to walk.

”… that’s so unfair.”

gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.

”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”

you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.

he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.

”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”

”… mm.”

from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again. 

”… i can buy some for you, though.” 

(you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought.)

he clears his throat.

”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”

you can’t help but blink, at that — lashes fluttering in rapid succession, wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out. 

”… why?”

it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.

(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)

gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.

gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does. 

”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”

another series of blinks. 

gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.

”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”

you stay silent.

he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be. 

geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.

(why do you think that is?)

gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so. 

(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)

geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway. 

if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?

would that be okay with you?

(words that should be left unspoken.)

”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck. 

all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —

” — i don’t listen to anything.”

gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.

he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him. 

”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”

you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down. 

”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”

the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.

but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.

white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side. 

if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.  

”i see!”

a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.

”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”

a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.

(… if you can even call it that.)

geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.

”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”

”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.

you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.

spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.

you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter. 

you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay. 

”i’ll take it things went well, then?”

geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.

you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.

”i’m glad.”

the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.

”won’t that moron get cold?”

ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing. 

you’re wondering the same thing.

geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders. 

”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”

you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.

an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”

… another tilt of your head.

geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.

”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”

ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe. 

ah.

gojo can keep himself warm.

the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…

(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.

gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)

…

you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, that blooms in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks. 

as if sensing your thoughts, or maybe just noticing your embarrassed expression, geto laughs — soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.

in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.

spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in. 

(but you aren’t worried.)