#teacher logan

[lixxen]

Since I am writing a feral dad Logan & Rogue fic and then a Teacher Logan fic on AO3, I want to come on here and talk about my favorite girl dad, Logan Howlett, and how I write him

Logan does not want kids of his own, as in biologically, because he doesn't think he would be a good dad and doesn't want to pass on the gene of living for hundreds of years. But, he has a soft spot for kids so he can't help it and starts to pseudo adopt Xavier's School students. He loves his kids

He is comfortable enough with his kids that he doesn't mind physical contact. He literally will pick up the younger kids like logs and carry them.

With that, he falls asleep on the couch a LOT with them. He doesn't have nightmares when he's passed out on the couch with all of his kids around him. They all have nightmares and this habit starts because he finds one or two on the couch and sits with them until they all fall asleep

He isn't the type of father figure you think he'd be. He keeps them out of danger, but not trouble. If they're doing something that he should 100% stop, he does. But he encourages them to be little shits to the other X-Men. They're allowed to bother them, but when it comes to Logan himself they gotta be good

With that, he's actually very tolerant with the kids. They poke and prod at him and make jokes towards him; he doesn't care. He can't be mad at them having fun because like... They're kids and teenagers

He will 100% sick em on Scott and Hank to bother them. Ororo and Jean he respects as equals and colleagues; Hank and Scott he does respect in the end, but not on the same level at the girls

Kitty and Logan are the equivalent of "why does ___ call you babygirl?" "Let's stop talking now" (also with Marie, but she does it less)

Logan doesn't want to be a teacher but he teaches on the side

The kids love Deadpool and Logan one day talks about their special forces days, without the bad details. They love his personality off the bat. Like. Too much. They want to dress up Deadpool because they know he'd go along with it because he's bored

Anyways I'm tired so that's all y'all get. Goodnight, tumblr.com

[puzzled-pegasus]

Hey so uh if anyone wants to read a Sanders Sides fic abt teenage Janus wanting to seduce Teacher Logan and Logan being completely icked and trying to very carefully Not Do That then possibly check out my ao3 which has a new chapter maybe uhh

It's called Teacher's Pet Snake by PuzzledPegasus

Also I didn't rlly explain the plot well lol

[loganswdc]

every day i learn something new about logan sargeant and his racing career, not just about his performance in f1 but in f2 and previous series, too. and every day i end up so sad because he genuinely has so so much potential and can do so much but he keeps being give a poor hand of cards. this guy out qualified his teammate in f2 TEN TO FOUR. and who was his teammate?? liam lawson. liam joined redbull’s driver academy in february of 2019 while logan only got to join an f1 team’s driver academy in october of 2021. that team was williams. which, as we know, hasn't exactly been the best performing team in recent years. oscar piastri got to join an f1 team’s driver academy in january of 2020 (the renault sport academy, later rebranded as the alpine academy). liam and oscar both got the opportunity to do f1 tests for YEARS prior to their f1 debuts in 2023. liam had 4 and a half years of experience in f1 cars before 2023. oscar had 3 years of experience in f1 cars before 2023. even if it was just testing and practice sessions, it's still something.

what did logan get? one measly fp2 session, post-season testing, and then jumped right in to pre-season testing in 2023. he already had a seat in williams then, so with the experience from before the pre-season testing in 2023 he got to do maybe 800km of testing in an f1 car. the others — in this case i mean oscar, liam, and heck even nyck de vris — had opportunities to drive f1 cars and gain experience for YEARS before logan. if you look at nyck de vris: he got signed to the mclaren young driver programme in 2010. he joined the audi sport racing academy in 2016.  granted, he left the mclaren programme in before the 2019 season and left audi after the 2019 season, too. but he then went to mercedes as a reserve driver and tester for 2020 and afterwards. this means he got just about a DECADE AND A HALF of teams putting their time and energy into training him to join f1.

logan got a year. one. single. fucking year. that is entirely incomparable to the other rookies from 2023, who had so much more experience before hand. and yet logan was jumped into f1 and the expectations were so high for a guy who hasn't had the chance to train and learn and gain experience.

and yet when we look at the 2022 f2 season, logan sargeant, a rookie, was 1 point off from his teammate —the one and only liam lawson — scoring p4 in the championship. he outqualified his teammate 10 to 4. he was the first american to win an f2 race (that is, of course, following the rebrand from gp2 to f2, but regardless, that’s still an important thing to note and an achievement of his that should be celebrated).

logan sargeant has so much potential and if only williams would show him a little more faith unlike what they’ve been doing, if only they’d give him the same upgrades as alex, if only they wouldn’t force him to drive a car 15kg overweight from that of his teammate’s car, if only they wouldn’t force him to use outdated rear and front wings from the season prior. then perhaps he would have a chance to show what he can do. perhaps if he wasn’t stuck in a team with a crap car who have shown zero faith (which has been vehemently obvious since the circus in australia) in him and made him absolutely miserable, a shell of himself — which you can clearly see in recent interviews and photos of him — then maybe he’d be able to show how good he really is. and maybe if williams hadn’t been so adamant about taking him out of f2 so quickly and let him develop for one more year, we’d be seeing headlines that say “logan sargeant, first american f1 driver on the podium since michael andretti in 1993.” and perhaps we could even see him winning races.

no matter what someone says about his current f1 performances — though most base that solely off of where he ends up on the grid rather than looking at his actual driving and seeing how good he is as a driver considering the crap circumstances he’s in — logan sargeant is a better driver than what everyone says. he is trying so insanely hard to get a car that is miles off from the rest of the field to place as high as humanly possible. no one can say that if you put another driver in that car that logan is driving they'd be doing better than he is now. the fact is, they wouldn't be. he's been given an absolute tractor and is expected to score points when that car isn't built for getting in the points. and yet logan managed to get p10 in the miami sprint race — which should be recognized and commended. because he was in an awful car and he absolutely shined that day. that was just the start of showing what he could do. but he hasn't been given the same resources as alex, those being the upgrades, so what more can he do compared to what he's doing now?

and i am actually sitting here crying as i type this because this is a driver who is giving it his all even when the entire world is against him, even when his entire TEAM is against him, and he is persevering to the best of his abilities. and i know exactly what it’s like to sit here, wanting to reach for your dreams and show everyone how good you are, but to have only your closest friends and family on your side, rooting for you. what it’s like to look everywhere around you and see everyone calling you crap and saying you should quit and that you aren’t and never will be good enough. to look around and see your closest friends and family cheering for you, yet feeling like crap because you aren't doing as well as you would want, feeling inferior to everyone around you.

news flash: logan sargeant is and will always be good enough. he just needs the opportunity to show it, and williams is ruining that for him.

and yes, i will defend him with my life. people who try to say otherwise can try to do the same hours — the WEEKS — worth of research that i’ve done about logan and his career because he IS a good driver and HE DESERVES BETTER.

any hate comments towards logan will be deleted, because i have neither the time nor the energy to deal with that and argue with logan haters. i've said all of what i know and can remember about him and his career above, and will add what i can as time goes on and i remember something else or learn something new. if you have the time to hate on logan, you have the time to do your research and examine the fact that he has the potential to do well, but is not in a position for that because of the abhorrent circumstances he is currently in.

thank you for coming to my ted talk. edit: i'd also really recommend reading this twitter thread!! it goes into some more depth on logan and his f2 / f1 career, and even a little bit about his f3 career. it's very informative and articulates much of logan's career and why he is a better driver than many believe very well. https://x.com/herrocult/status/1795747913588761027

[hellisagemini]

"hugh jackman was a P.E teacher"

me:

[theonottsbxtch]

TEACHER'S PET PT.1 | CL16

an: what's this? a student x teacher fic LOLOLOLOLOLOL if my dad had loved me i wouldn't be writing shit this unhinged i promise x

wc: 4.3k

warnings: mentions of infidelity

The first time she'd caught him staring, she thought it was an accident. The second, merely a coincidence. The third, however, she knew it was on purpose.

It wasn’t something she wanted to think about. Not really. In a class of nearly a hundred students, it seemed absurd to imagine that his attention could be directed at her—out of everyone. But there was something different about the way his gaze lingered. The first time, she’d been bent over her notebook, pen poised between her fingers, when a prickling sensation crept up the back of her neck. Her body had responded before her mind could. She glanced up and caught his eyes on her—just for a second—before he turned away, resuming his lecture as if nothing had happened.

She told herself it was nothing. Professors scanned the room all the time; it wasn’t unusual. But the memory stuck with her, burrowing into the quiet moments of her day, resurfacing when she didn’t expect it to.

The second time, it was subtler, but undeniable. She was seated toward the middle, further from the front than usual. Maybe she'd subconsciously chosen that spot to test it. To see if it would happen again. As he paced through the lecture, hands animated in the air as he spoke about the History of French Art, his eyes swept over the students, pausing just long enough on her to make her heart lurch. This time, she held his gaze for a beat longer than she should have, curiosity flaring to life. But just as quickly, he looked away.

Coincidence, she’d thought. It had to be.

By the third time, it wasn't a coincidence anymore.

It was late October, the air turning crisp as the days shortened. Leaves fell in lazy spirals outside the tall windows of the lecture hall, a cold wind knocking against the glass in soft, hollow gusts. She had arrived early, settling into her usual seat—closer now, near the front, where she could no longer pretend she was avoiding it. He arrived minutes later, his leather satchel worn but polished, the faint scent of coffee trailing him as he passed. He was always well-dressed, the kind of polished professional that seemed to belong to a different era—dark, tailored suits, pressed shirts, cufflinks that gleamed subtly under the classroom lights.

She had begun to notice the details: the curls in his dark hair, the way he absently adjusted his watch while answering questions, the deliberate, measured way he spoke, each word chosen with care.

But today, she felt him notice her. Before the lecture even started, his gaze found her. It was a quick thing, just a flicker in her direction as he arranged his notes at the podium. Her heart tripped in her chest, but she kept her face impassive, pretending to reread the passage in front of her, though she couldn’t concentrate on the words. When he began to speak, the room seemed to shrink around them. The voices of other students faded into the background. She found herself hyper-aware of the space between them—the few feet that suddenly felt like miles.

His lecture today was slower, quieter. He paced less, choosing instead to remain near the podium, his voice steady but subdued. She could feel his presence even when she wasn’t looking at him. When she dared a glance up from her notes, his eyes found hers again, not lingering too long but long enough to send a pulse of heat through her skin.

She tried to focus on what he was saying—something about Paul Cezanne and the nature of his art—but the words slipped past her. Instead, her attention drifted to the curve of his jaw as he spoke, the way his lips barely parted between words. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he know how often she thought of him lately? How she’d started to dread the days without his lectures, without that strange, invisible thread of tension pulling tighter each time their eyes met?

As the class drew to a close, she felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Everyone else began packing their things, zipping bags and rustling papers, but she lingered. Just a little. Her fingers slowly gathered her notebook and pens, her movements unhurried, as if she had nowhere else to be. She watched from the corner of her eye as the last few students filtered out, leaving only the two of them in the now-silent room.

She stood, slipping her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave, when his voice stopped her.

“Miss?”

Her name sounded different on his lips. Softer. She hesitated, her heart picking up speed, and turned slowly to face him. He wasn’t looking at her, not yet. His hand was poised above the chalkboard, chalk still in his grip, but he seemed distracted. He wiped at something absentmindedly, as though the motion was only a pretext to gather his thoughts.

“Yes?” she asked, keeping her voice steady, though her heart was anything but.

He turned to her then, his expression unreadable, the lines of his face shadowed by the dimming afternoon light filtering through the windows. His eyes, though, were sharp, studying her with a quiet intensity that made her chest tighten.

“You did well today,” he said, his voice low but clear, as if they were the only two people in the world just then. “Your insights during the discussion—they were... thoughtful.”

“Thank you,” she managed, though the words felt distant, automatic. There was a strange heaviness to the air, as though it was thicker, pressing in around them. The space between them felt far too small, too charged with things unspoken.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Is there something else?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He held her gaze, and in that silence, something shifted. His lips parted, just slightly, as if he might say more—but he stopped. She thought she saw the faintest flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished almost immediately.

“No,” he said, his voice even again, controlled. “That’s all.”

She nodded, a quiet acknowledgment, though the air still buzzed with what had not been said. And as she turned to leave, she could feel the weight of his eyes on her once more, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

-

The library was unusually quiet for a weekday afternoon. The familiar scent of old books and polished wood mingled with the faint hum of the heating system as they walked through the aisles, the muffled sound of footsteps against carpet the only break in the silence. She and Logan had come here to study—a common enough ritual for them when end of semester exams loomed, the weight of expectations pressing down like a lead blanket.

He slid into the chair across from her, his laptop open before she even had the chance to settle her bag down. Logan was efficient like that, practical. His blond hair was tousled from the brisk wind outside, and he gave her an easy, absent smile as he booted up his computer, already lost in his task list for the day.

"Ready to drown yourself in more French Literature?" he asked, his voice warm but distracted.

She nodded, though her mind was elsewhere. The conversation with Professor Leclerc still echoed in her head, like the ticking of a clock she couldn't silence. Her fingers itched with the memory of his eyes on her, that unreadable expression, the way he'd spoken her name as if it carried weight, like he knew something she didn’t.

She forced herself to focus, pulling out her notebook and the folder with her most recent assignment—an analysis of La Liberté guidant le peuple painting by Eugène Delacroix. She'd thought she’d done well, putting in extra hours at the library and wrestling with the dense material until it finally clicked. But when she unfolded the paper and saw the red scrawl at the top, her stomach sank.

52%.

Her breath caught, heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest as she stared at the number. Not even a C, but a D. How? She skimmed through the feedback—detached but firm in Professor Leclerc’s familiar handwriting. Unclear analysis. Lacking depth. The words felt like they were meant to hurt, stinging more than they should have.

Logan looked up from his screen, noticing the shift in her expression.

"Everything okay?" he asked, leaning forward slightly, his brows furrowing in concern.

She hesitated for a moment, then turned the paper around to show him. He glanced at the grade, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Ouch," he said, though his tone was still light, casual. "That’s rough. I know you spent ages on that."

"Yeah..." she muttered, unable to stop the flicker of frustration and disappointment from colouring her voice. She clenched her fists, crumpling the edge of the paper slightly as the words replayed in her mind. Lacking depth. The phrase stung more than the grade itself. What had she missed? And why did the criticism feel so much more personal than it should?

"You should talk to him," Logan said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Go to his office hours. You might be able to make a case, ask for extra credit or something."

She stiffened at the suggestion, the knot in her chest tightening. "I don’t know. He’s... strict about grades. I doubt it’ll change anything."

Logan shrugged, looking back at his screen. "You never know. Worst case, you get some feedback on where you went wrong. Best case, you convince him to give you another shot."

Her pulse quickened. Convince him. The idea of sitting in that small office with Professor Leclerc, discussing her work, his gaze on her again—it was unsettling, but not in the worst of ways. The very thought made her stomach twist in a way she couldn’t quite define, a mixture of anxiety and something else. Something that felt wrong but pulled at her nonetheless.

Logan looked up again, catching her hesitation. "Seriously, it’s no big deal. You’re one of his best students—he’ll probably just tell you what you need to fix. Maybe offer extra sessions or something."

His words felt innocent enough, completely unaware of what the suggestion stirred in her. Extra sessions. The thought sent an unexpected jolt through her. Her mind flashed briefly to the quiet, almost charged moments in class, the way Professor Leclerc’s voice dropped when he spoke directly to her, the way he lingered a little too long when he passed her desk.

She forced herself to shake it off. This was ridiculous. There was nothing going on—nothing she could even explain. She had a boyfriend who cared about her, who wanted her to do well, and all she could think about was how it felt to stand in that empty classroom, her professor’s eyes on her like she was the only one who existed.

"Yeah... maybe," she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice came out tight. She stared at the grade again, her mind a swirl of confusion, frustration, and something she didn’t want to name. "I’ll think about it."

Logan smiled at her encouragingly, leaning forward to squeeze her hand briefly. "Don’t stress. You’ve got this."

She returned the smile, but it felt thin, forced. As he went back to typing away at his notes, she couldn’t help but glance again at the feedback on the page. The red ink stared back at her, cold and unforgiving. But even more than that, the thought of confronting Professor Leclerc, sitting in his office alone, weighed on her in a way that made her throat tighten.

Could she really face him after everything? Would he look at her the same way he did in class? Would he push her in the same subtle way he had before, or would it be worse, with the closed door and the quiet of his office wrapping around them?

She knew she should go, knew Logan was right—it was just about the grade. It was practical. But the thought of those “extra sessions,” of being alone with him again, felt anything but simple.

And yet, despite the unease, she couldn’t deny the small, traitorous part of her that wondered what it might be like.

"Actually," she said, her voice quieter than she intended, "I think I’ll go to his office now."

Logan looked up from his screen, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Right now?"

She nodded, folding the paper neatly and tucking it into her notebook. "Yeah... I don’t want to let it hang over me all day. It’s better if I just get it over with, right?"

He smiled, a warm, easy grin that was comforting in its familiarity. "Good call. I’m sure he’ll understand. Just be confident—you’ve got this."

She smiled back, a little tighter than before, but she hoped he didn’t notice. The knot in her chest was tightening again, a strange mix of nerves and anticipation that made her feel a little lightheaded.

Logan closed his laptop, stood, and walked around the table toward her. He leaned down to kiss her, his lips brushing hers in a soft, reassuring goodbye. "Text me when you’re done?"

"Yeah, I will," she murmured, her heart not quite in the kiss. She tried to focus on the comfort of his presence, the safety of their easy rhythm, but her mind had already drifted, tugged in another direction by thoughts she couldn’t fully control.

Logan gave her a last, encouraging smile before turning back to his seat. "Good luck."

As she walked away, her fingers clenched the strap of her bag a little tighter, the soft echo of their parting kiss lingering, but quickly fading. Each step toward Professor Leclerc’s office felt heavier, the atmosphere around her shifting as she crossed the campus toward the quiet wing of the humanities building.

It wasn’t far—just a few minutes’ walk through the maze of lecture halls and corridors she’d grown familiar with over the last few semesters. But today, it felt different. The air was cooler, the fading autumn sunlight casting long, golden shadows across the stone walls. Her breath felt shallow, quickening with each step. By the time she reached the languages faculty office wing, the silence was almost oppressive, the only sound the faint click of her shoes against the floor.

When she turned the final corner, his office door was in view—closed but with the light seeping out from beneath it. She hesitated just a few paces from the door, her heart thrumming in her chest. She knew she had to knock, but something made her pause.

And then, her eyes drifted to the window beside his office door.

The blinds were drawn half-closed, leaving just enough of an opening to glimpse inside. At first, it was only the dim light that caught her attention, the low glow of a desk lamp casting a golden hue over the room. But then she saw him.

Professor Leclerc was standing behind his desk, his blazer tossed over the back of his chair, the crisp white sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His glasses, which she’d rarely seen him wear in class, perched on the bridge of his nose as he focused intently on something in front of him—papers, perhaps, or a book. The soft, thoughtful frown on his lips was different from the commanding presence he carried during lectures. It was quieter. Intimate, almost.

Her breath hitched as she watched him, her body reacting instinctively, against her will. The way his shoulders tensed slightly when he concentrated, the curve of his jaw in the low light, the way his forearms flexed as he absently adjusted his glasses—it all felt impossibly distracting. The mundane act of him rolling up his sleeves, of removing the formal layers she was used to seeing him in, suddenly felt... intimate. Personal.

Her heart sped up, pounding hard against her ribcage, and heat flushed through her chest. She knew she shouldn’t be standing there, peering in like this, but she couldn’t tear herself away. The way he looked—casual yet somehow more powerful without the blazer, the sharp lines of his face softened by the glasses—was doing something to her she hadn’t anticipated.

Her mind flickered back to the kiss Logan had given her just minutes ago, but it felt distant now, like a faint memory that didn’t belong to this moment. All she could think about was the quiet allure of Professor Leclerc, the slow burn of attraction that had been building for weeks now, whether she wanted it or not.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t go into his office feeling like this, her thoughts racing in directions they shouldn’t. She had a boyfriend. She was here to talk about her grade, to be professional, to fix a problem. Nothing more.

But as she stared through the narrow gap in the blinds, watching him shift slightly, leaning back to stretch his arms above his head, she felt that sense of professionalism slipping away. The tension in her stomach coiled tighter, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out to knock on the door.

Before her knuckles even made contact, his voice called out from the other side.

"Come in."

Her breath caught in her throat. He hadn’t even looked up, hadn’t seen her standing there, but the sound of his voice—low, calm, commanding—felt like it wrapped around her, pulling her in. She hesitated for a second longer, her pulse thrumming in her ears, before finally pushing the door open.

The office was warmer than she expected, the scent of old books and polished wood heavy in the air. The soft glow from the desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite its professional setting.

Professor Leclerc glanced up from his desk, his glasses still resting on his nose, and for a moment, their eyes met. Something flickered in his gaze—recognition, perhaps, or something else she couldn’t quite name. His expression remained neutral, but the intensity behind his eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

"Miss," he said, his voice smooth, like velvet brushing against her skin. "I didn’t expect to see you so soon."

The door clicked shut behind her, the sound louder than she expected in the quiet room. She felt a sudden rush of heat rising in her cheeks, her throat tightening as she stepped further inside. Professor Leclerc had returned his attention to the papers on his desk, marking something with precise strokes of his pen, but the moment she entered, his eyes flicked back to her, and she felt pinned under the weight of his gaze.

She stood there, frozen for a moment, unsure of where to place herself in the room that suddenly felt far too small. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, making it hard to think clearly.

"Have a seat," he said, his voice low but authoritative. It wasn’t a request.

Without thinking, she moved quickly toward the chair in front of his desk and sat down, too eager to comply. As soon as she settled, she realised how obedient she must have seemed—too quick, too eager. She swallowed hard, trying to compose herself, gripping the strap of her bag tightly in her lap. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she hoped he couldn’t see.

He took off his glasses then, placing them carefully on the desk, and leaned back in his chair. The gesture felt deliberate, a small act of removing a barrier between them, and she couldn’t help but notice how different he looked without them. His eyes—sharp and intense—were fully on her now, no longer obscured by the glass. The lines of his face were clearer, more defined in the soft lamplight, and her chest tightened at how attractive he was, especially like this—more relaxed, more... human.

"You came about your essay," he said, stating it like a fact rather than a question.

"Y-yes," she stammered, cursing herself for the shakiness in her voice. Her throat felt dry, and she shifted in her seat, trying to regain some composure. "I—um—just wanted to understand where I went wrong. I didn’t expect to... do so poorly."

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he flipped open the folder containing his copy of her work. His fingers traced the edge of the paper, his touch light but purposeful, and for some reason, her heart skipped a beat at the simple motion.

"You missed the core of the analysis," he said, his tone calm but firm. "Your analysis was surface-level. You wrote only about what we could see, but you didn’t engage how you felt. You didn’t deconstruct the painting—you only described it."

Her cheeks burned at his criticism. She bit her lip, nodding, though the words stung. She should have expected this, should have been prepared for him to be direct, but hearing him say it—especially in this setting, in this tone—made her feel smaller somehow.

He turned the paper toward her, pointing at a paragraph near the middle. "Here, for example. You’re focusing too much on the colours of the painting, but not enough on why Delacroix used them. You’re missing the underlying tension he’s working with—between art as a system of signs and the meaning that constantly escapes it."

His explanation was calm, almost gentle, but it still felt intimate, as if every word he said was meant just for her. His eyes lingered on hers, watching her reactions carefully, and she nodded again, barely able to focus on what he was saying, her mind still buzzing with the proximity of him, the quiet authority in his voice.

"I see," she whispered, though she wasn’t sure she fully did. It was hard to think clearly when he was sitting across from her, the small space between them charged with something unspoken.

He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning forward just enough that she could smell the faint hint of his cologne—clean, subtle, but warm. It surrounded her, making it harder to breathe, harder to stay focused. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her bag, her knuckles white as she tried to ground herself.

"You have potential," he continued, his voice softer now, like he was letting her in on a secret. "Your writing is strong, but you’re holding back. You need to dig deeper. Don’t be afraid to get lost in the complexity of the ideas—that’s where the real analysis happens."

Her stomach flipped at the way he said it, at the way his eyes seemed to darken slightly as they met hers. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, but the air between them felt heavier now, like something was shifting. The quiet hum of the heater in the corner was the only sound breaking the silence, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiling tighter and tighter in the room.

"I’ll... work on that," she managed to say, though her voice felt weak, distant from her own ears. She could barely process his feedback, her thoughts too consumed by the way his gaze lingered on her, the way her body reacted to his closeness.

He sat back in his chair, his posture more relaxed now, though his eyes never left her. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Good. I’m here to help you with that. You can always come by during office hours if you need more guidance. I can set aside extra time for you if you’re struggling."

The words—extra time—sent a shiver down her spine, the implication innocent enough, but something about the way he said it, the way the room felt in that moment, made her pulse quicken. She could feel her cheeks growing hotter, her breath shallow, and for a moment, she was sure he could sense it, could see exactly how flustered she was.

This was wrong.

She shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not here. Not with him. She had a boyfriend—Logan, who loved her, who trusted her, who was waiting for her to text him when this was over. But as Professor Leclerc’s eyes held hers, steady and unwavering, it was impossible to deny the pull she felt, the quiet attraction that had been building in her chest for weeks now.

"I... I should go," she said abruptly, standing too quickly, her legs shaky as she gathered her things. She could feel her heart racing, the room suddenly feeling too small, too warm. "Thank you for your time, Professor."

He stood as well, watching her closely, but he made no move to stop her. His expression was calm, though there was something in his eyes—something she couldn’t quite name, but it made her chest tighten. He nodded once, his voice smooth as ever.

"Of course. You know where to find me if you need more help."

She nodded, barely able to meet his gaze as she turned toward the door, her fingers fumbling with the handle before she managed to push it open. The cool air from the hallway rushed over her as she stepped outside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Only when she was a few steps down the hall did she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her hands were shaking, her mind racing as she tried to process what had just happened—nothing inappropriate, nothing overtly wrong, but still, the way he had looked at her, the way he had spoken to her, made her feel like she was walking a fine line.

Her chest tightened with guilt. She had a boyfriend. Logan loved her, trusted her. And Professor Leclerc... he was her professor.

This was wrong.

part two

[boltwrites]

I haven’t recently thought about Hugh Jackman but this Movie has recently given me hunger™️

Reader/Logan fic hurt/comfort where Logan knew reader in his world (but reader never met Logan in their world) and tries to ignore them out of guilt but reader is persistently trying to be friends w him. Eventually Logan opens up about what happened in his world with reader…

A/N: so uh. i originally wrote this as headcanons in bullet point format but tumblr didn't like it so i had to redo some shit and uh. anyway. it's not my normal fic quality so i'm sorry for that.

in other author's note news - lmk if you want the recipe.

You smiled at Logan across the table as Wade rambled on about something or other. You didn't know him - well, other than what Wade had spouted off about him before inviting you to this make-birthday party after the first one went to shit - but you wanted to.

You didn't exactly know why you wanted that. Maybe just curiosity? Wade did say he'd be living with him for the foreseeable future, and as his neighbor, you should introduce yourself and be friendly, right?

But it was kind of more than that. He was hot. definitely, very hot. Maybe not your usual type - you weren't typically into older men. But there was just something about him. Something magnetic.

Either way, he'd definitely avoided you at that party. spent most of his time sulking in the corner, talking to Al or sometimes Colossus.

You'd walked up to him, smile on your face, and introduced yourself. He'd barely looked at you.

"Nice to meet you," he'd replied, his tone gruff and dismissive. By the way he spoke it sounded less like it was nice to meet you and more like you were inconveniencing him with your mere existence. Like he'd been dreading the idea of you coming over and introducing yourself.

"Wade says you helped stop the time ripper," you tried, willing yourself to ignore how shitty he was treating you. Wade had mentioned that this man - Logan - was a little rough around the edges. rude. A drunk, even. Maybe he just wasn't good with people in general.

"Yep," he replied, shooting you a glare over the glass of - was that pure fucking bourbon? - he was sipping out of. You tried your best not to let it get to you - but you also knew how to take a hint. He wasn't interested in talking. That shot straight to your stomach like a bullet made of embarrassment and guilt, but whatever.

It's fine. you were younger than him by a decent margin. He could probably tell just by the look in your eyes that you were interested in him as more than just a friend. He probably just wanted to shut that shit down as quickly and efficiently as possible. You weren't gonna blame him for that. You've done the same for several weird men in the past - including Wade, before he got the hint and the two of you became fast friends. You weren't necessarily interested in being his post-Vanessa rebound, and he respected that.

So, that's fine, you'd just be nice to Logan. He could be your friend, too. He was rooming with Wade and Al, after all. It would be good to make friends with him.

"Hey!" You smiled when he opened the door a few days after the party. You stood there, hands currently occupied by a tin foil-wrapped package.

"What do you want?" Logan asked, looking you up and down with more paranoia than you'd expected. You thought that maybe he was just uncomfortable with your advances, but this time, it was like he was searching for something. What, you didn't know.

"I just wanted to give you this," you replied, thrusting your gift into his hands - the smooth glass of the pie mold contrasting with the brief brush of his calloused hands. You tried not to shiver.

"It's a pie," you continued on, even as Logan stared off into the distance, at something you couldn't see. "When I saw what you were drinking at the party, I thought you might like it. It's a family recipe. Pumpkin pie with a shitload of bourbon. As a welcome to the neighborhood kind of thing."

You offered him an awkward sort of smile, a little shrug. He blinked, snapping himself out of his thousand yard stare only to glare at you like you'd just offered him a dead animal instead of a home-baked pie. Your blood briefly turned to ice as you wondered if maybe this man was actually sober and you'd mistake the iced tea in his glass as pure liquor. As if Wade ever had that sort of shit in his apartment.

"I-" he looked down at the pie, then up at you, taking a breath as if he wanted to say more, but instead shaking his head, like he was knocking some bit of cobwebs or old dust loose. "Thanks."

He nodded at you in acknowledgement, then slammed the door in your face. Great.

Wade wasn't much help either. He'd returned the pie dish and you'd wrung your hands and asked him if you'd done something that made Logan hate you. The dish was empty, but your stomach churned at the thought of the man just taking a knife and scraping the whole thing into the trash. You'd even made the crust by hand, too.

"Oh, fuck no!" Wade scoffed, shaking his head. "Are you kidding me? Listen, if there's anything I know about our not-so-furry friend, it's that he can put up with a metric fuckton of asinine shit. I mean - he's living with me! Do you know how many times he's used his little clawsies to hole-punch my organs? Like - so many!" Wade waved his arms for emphasis. "If he really hated you, he wouldn't just sulk around about it like a teenager - no! He'd hurt you! Like the kind of teenager that would shoot up their local high school!"

You rolled your eyes at Wade, but you knew that's just how he was. No filter, all idiocy. "Did he - did he at least try the pie," you asked, voice a little more hopeful than you'd meant for it to sound.

"Try it - fuck! That man has full-tilt sprinted at me on all fours and I've never seen him so animalistic. He was eating that pie like it would crawl inside his dick itself and pull out an orgasm. I swear - and may Thor strike me dead and then mourn my fried corpse - that he actually growled when I asked for a slice."

You didn't believe Wade for a second, but fuck. at least that made you feel better. You offered him your thanks and a sweet smile as you received your dish and promised to make him something "Wolvie" wouldn't hoard when you brought something over next. You promised to try your best.

Really, what you'd try your best at was winning this shy Wolverine over to your good side. You didn't want to force him to be your friend, obviously - but if you had made a bad impression, even if that impression was solely based on the fact that you were also friends with Wade - you wanted to make it right.

So you did everything you could. Baked and cooked and offered the results up whenever you could afford the extra ingredients. Made sure to snatch up any packages bound for Wade's apartment so your notorious Amazon thief didn't have the chance to. You even dog-sat that nasty looking creature Wade had adopted - she was very sweet, but you had nightmares about that tongue.

It all came to a head, one day. One day when you almost brained yourself walking up the stairs.

You'd been holding grocery bags - supplies to make your perfected mac and cheese recipe - head down as you ascended the steps. That was, until you ran into what felt like a brick wall. Or, an iron one. Your shoulder smacked whatever it was and you jolted backwards, gasping as you dropped the bag you were holding to cling to the railing-

Only to catch and grip tight at thin fabric as a firm, steel-strong arm wrapped around your waist. You finally caught your breath, lungs filling and then immediately vacating as you locked eyes with none other than Logan.

"Fuck."

Both of you said it. But you gasped, it, breathless and dreamy. Meanwhile he spat it, like he knew something like this would happen, and he'd been planning his whole day to avoid it.

As soon as you found your footing again, he threw his arm away from you like you'd burned him. Like your very existence was offensive to him, somehow. He manages to spin you around as he let go of your waist, disorient you as you sputtered, glancing after him.

The stairs were littered with groceries - blocks of cream cheese, butter, cookies for the crust - fresh fruit for the filling. A bag of sugar had exploded, its contents dusting the next landing like snow. All of this - ingredients you'd bought, with money you'd worked your ass off to afford - and the man you'd been trying to impress stepped in that puddle of sugar, granules crackling under his boot.

You damn near saw red.

"Logan!" you snapped, your voice harsh, crisp as it echoed through the stairwell. Fuck. You hated using that voice - but it made him freeze on the spot.

He turned to look at you - eyes wide, as if he was some child who'd been caught in a lie. But also - that gaze was knowing, somehow. Like he knew what you used that voice for. What it meant for him.

You sighed, tried to regain your composure. It was fine. You were fine. When you opened your eyes, you addressed him with even, annunciated words:

"Why do you hate me?"

Even as you tried your best to dull your voice of emotion, it slipped through. A waved of your throat, the hint of water in your eyes. You hated it - this man didn't hold that power over you. You just - you were used to being liked. That's all.

Logan looked at you like you'd shot him.

"What?" he asked, just as breathless as you felt. You thought you detected just a hint of hurt in that syllable.

"It-it's just-" you tried not to let yourself waver, but you stuttered as you spoke. "I've been trying to just - to be your friend, to be a good neighbor. Like I am to Wade, like we - we hang out, sometimes. But you- you're just - I feel like you've been kind of rude to me."

You sounded like a child.

Logan took a breath. A deep one, as if this were a confrontation that had been a long time coming (which it was) and that he was prepared to have a conversation he'd dreaded (which was really what got you - if he really just disliked you, why would he care enough to prepare something? What was going on?)

He turned around - gathered up all your dropped groceries - and started walking up the stairs, passing you and continuing his way to your shared floor. He'd previously been on his way out, so you didn't do much except stare at him until he was nearly half a flight ahead of you and your brain finally switched on again.

He led you to the apartment he shared with Wade, nodded as he held the door open for you. It felt strange - you hadn't been inside the apartment since the party. You'd always felt too nervous to ask Wade if he wanted to continue your usual game nights. Too intimidated by Logan.

He set the groceries on the counter, and practically sank into the couch. You perched on the chair opposite it, still not quite believing that he had let you in. That you were going to talk. He breathed in deeply, steadying himself before he spoke, eyes still glued to the floor.

"I'm not from here. 'M sure Wade told you that much," he glanced up, only to nod in your direction. You nodded back.

"My world - timeline, whatever the fuck - I killed it. Everyone I loved, everyone I cared about - they all died. Because of me."

You sat in rapt attention as his shoulders tensed, his jaw flexed. This was a lot, for him. You didn't really understand why he was telling you about it, but it was important to him. So you listened.

"Every timeline is different. At least, that's what the science says. Ones that are closer together - might have the same people show up at around the same time. Might be - people I knew. People I - cared about."

Logan glanced up, again. Caught your eyes with his and swallowed harshly.

"You're - one of them. One of the people I lost."

"Oh," you breathed, because now it all made sense. The strange looks, the curt conversations - even the thousand yard stare. You were triggering his memories of a horrible time of his life with every step you took in his direction. And you didn't even know it.

"I'm so sorry," You whispered, trying your best to quell any tears that might form sympathetically. No wonder he kept pushing you away. You were a walking PTSD trigger.

"No-" he gasped, shaking his head as he stood up, like he'd been shocked upright. "No, it's not -"

He cleared his throat, shook his head like he was trying to find the right words.

"I know I was pushing you away. And it is - hard, to see you again. But - I want to see you. I want to get to know you, again," if you didn't know any better, you'd think that there were tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

"You made the pie, you know. The pumpkin pie. I was only there for the one Thanksgiving, but I remember it. You swore you'd cooked off all the liquor, but Xavier made you promise only the adults would get a slice."

He grinned at you, then - wide, real. It was pretty, that smile. You could imagine recognizing it, in another life.

"None of the kids got any. Too good for them, anyway," he took a step towards you, and you rose from your seat, legs only a little wobbly.

"That's good," you breathed, voice as shaky as your knees. "I use vodka in the crust, too."

"I know," Logan grinned, a hand grasping yours, his smile somehow wider than before.

You wondered, as you strode forward into a crushing hug against his chest, if it felt so right in every universe.

[twilightkitkat]

LMFAOOO this is a stupid thought I had but the recent wave of "Logan shows the X-men he's moved on and they realize how they've treated him" fanfiction reminds me of those "Peter Parker takes a Field Trip to Stark Industries" fanfics. Like exact same setup, except instead of Peter showing off to his highschool class that he's an intern and Iron Man's "son" we have Logan showing off to his ex teammates how he's capable of being tender and settling down with Wade as his "husband." ...We've come full circle.

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about Wade saying "Sorry. The intrusive thoughts won"

After chopping all his fingers off "to see what would happen"

After punching a random grandma "because I can"

After electorcuting himself because he wondered if the bathtub and toaster thing was true.

After stabbing Logan for simply standing too close to him. "Because he's going to hurt you"

After stepping into traffic because they said it would "be fun"

This, however, is very different from his impulsive thoughts.

Like buying a 900$ lego set.

Deciding to say fuck it and just... leaving.. school. Completely walking out on his class of 25 students because his brain thought it would be more fun to go take a nap.

Deciding to take puppins out on a walk at 3 am or eating an entire bag of chips.

This of course is different from when he simply forgets about stuff

Like accidently standing up Vanessa on their date

Forgetting to pay the electric bill

Forgetting to take out puppins so she has no choice but to pee on the kitchen floor and then whine at Al for forgiveness when she slips in it

When he forgets that he needs to eat and its been 16 hours since hes even drank anything

These are all very different. And should be treated so.

[rip-quizilla]

While in This World

Logan Howlett (Wolverine) X Teacher!Reader

Summary: A purely self-indulgent one shot where Teacher!Reader and Logan frequent the same bar, and when Logan comforts reader after a rough day at work, they get to know each other a lot better.

WC: 7k

Tags: 18+ SMUT🔥🔥🔥, Reader has female anatomy, p in v sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), dom/sub undertones, grumpy/sunshine dynamic, Hozier references, X-Men: Evolution references

Minors DNI. All divider credit goes to @saradika-graphics

Logan only knew two things about you: you were a teacher at the local high school, and you drove a yellow Honda Civic. 

The latter was easy for him to figure out; that car was hard to miss, and whenever he saw it parked outside of Dusty’s when he’d pull up for a pint, he knew you’d be sitting at the bar when he walked in. 

The former, he didn’t even have to ask about for you to tell him. In fact, he never asked you anything, never so much as spoke to you. But did that stop you from talking about whatever happened at work that day? Fuck no. You’d yap about it unprompted every damn time. 

It was like you’d created a game of it. He’d walk into the bar, wearing an expression that clearly says ‘Don’t fucking talk to me’, sit down on the same barstool he always sat at, order a drink… and just when he’d start enjoying the silence you’d start in on him.

“Damn, today was brutal. Was it brutal for you too?”

“Whew! Wednesdays, am I right?”

“Well you look chipper this evening! Good day today?”

He never answered. You knew he would never answer, you just seemed to love ruining his peace and quiet. 

In the face of his silence, you would usually just carry on the conversation alone. You’d tell him about some kid who’d been particularly annoying that day, or a student who’d finally understood a concept you’d been spending weeks trying to teach them. 

You’d ranted to him about how Kash from your second period class never turns in his homework, which drove you nuts because you knew how smart he was. 

You’d told him about Lily, whose essays were some of the best you’ve ever read from a sophomore even though the kid had convinced herself that she hated history. 

You’d vented to him about Lindsey, the math teacher next to your classroom who complained about every little thing- including the students- careless of whether or not they were within earshot. 

…Okay, so maybe Logan knew more than two things about you. Wasn't like he wanted to, though. 

Today, he knew enough about you to be absolutely sure that something was wrong.

He was sitting at the bar, already down to the last couple sips of his drink, and you hadn’t said a word since he’d sat down. Nothing. 

He fought the instinct to look at you so badly, he really did- but he couldn’t help himself. He’d half expected you to be waiting for him to do so, grinning smugly when your prediction proved correct. Instead, when he finally succumbed to the urge to glance at you out of the corner of his eye, all he saw was your profile wearing an expression he had never seen on you before: stern.

He swiftly turned his attention back to his drink when the bartender emerged from the back and wordlessly started pouring Logan another glass of bourbon before going to crack open another beer for you.

“Something stronger, please.” you sighed. The bartender stopped, a beer bottle already held in one hand with an opener poised and ready in the other. “What he’s having is fine.” you added, nodding to Logan’s fresh glass. 

He and the old bartender both raised an eyebrow at you simultaneously. You didn’t usually order ‘strong’. You usually got something bubbly with a perfectly reasonable ABV. 

A second passed before the bartender simply shrugged and did as you asked, exchanging the bottle in his hand for a larger one and pouring you a glass of liquid amber. You sipped it, wincing slightly before taking another. 

Don’t ask. Logan thought, Don’t say a word, you fucking softie-

“Rough day?” Logan mumbled, his voice like sandpaper after barely using it all day. 

Weak-ass, he cursed inwardly.

You didn’t look at him, just nodded. Logan cringed; he wasn’t good at carrying conversations- that was usually your job. You were so good at it, too, he never even participated and still you always carried on completely unphased. He wished you’d at least give him something to work with here.

“Some kid mouth off to you or somethin’?” 

You shook your head and took another sip of bourbon. “No,” you mumbled, “kids were great. Phenomenal, even.” 

Logan exhaled a soft sigh of relief through his nose, fogging the side of his glass. At least you were talking now. He waited silently for you to continue; he knew you had more to say than that. 

“I taught this lesson yesterday…” you paused before chuckling under your breath. “...I think it might have been one of the best I’ve ever taught. The kids got so involved with it, they practically ran the class themselves.”

Logan watched your shoulders sink sullenly as you sighed. “As a way of helping them relate to the issue of race as it was being discussed during the Civil Rights Movement, I printed out articles for them to read about the issue of Mutants’ Rights.”

Logan didn’t let it show on his face, but that was surprising to say the least. The topic of mutants- outside the walls of Charles’ school, of course- was taboo. It was an important issue, yes, but he didn’t expect it to be brought up in classrooms, at least not while it was still in the news.

“I mean, they’re already seeing it on the news- anti-mutant crime is increasing, advocates for mutants’ rights have started earning followings all over the world. They’re already discussing this topic amongst themselves, so why not use it to help them understand that less than a century ago, their grandparents were discussing policies not much different than the policies being debated today?”

Little did you know, mutants’ rights were also being discussed even then. Being discussed in rooms full of important men who had the power to change the future- for the better or for the worst. Logan remembered it well; he'd been alive when those talks had happened.

“So what happened?” Logan asked, before he realized he’d said the words out loud.

You scowled. “Some kid went home and told their parents what they did at school yesterday. Next thing I know, I’m in the principal’s office getting told off about sensitive topics and keeping politics out of the classroom. How can they expect me to teach U.S. History and keep politics out of the classroom? It’s ridiculous!”

Slamming another gulp of whiskey down with a shudder, you seethed and stared at the wooden bartop like you were trying to set it on fire. “And I’m not even angry for my sake. I’m angry for the sake of the mutant kids that go to that school- and I know there’s got to be at least one, I’ve seen the statistics. They aren’t as rare as people want to think they are, and if even one kid in that classroom is a mutant then they’re about to learn they aren’t even allowed to be themselves at their own school.”

Logan was quiet- as per usual- before replying. “They knew that already.”

Your brow crinkled. “What?”

“They already knew they weren’t allowed to be themselves at school.” Logan said. “Hell, a lot of ‘em aren’t even safe enough to be themselves in their own homes. Parents throw their kids out when they learn they’re mutants, happens all the time. I’m sure your statistics showed you that.” 

This was the most Logan had ever spoken to you. You were rapt with attention, clinging to every word as protective fury for all of those uprooted children clenched your fists. Your fingernails dug into the skin of your palms while Logan contemplatively brushed his thumb over the grooves between his knuckles.

“A mutant in this world learns pretty quick that it isn’t safe for them to be themselves. What you just taught them is that not everybody thinks less of them. Not everybody wants them gone.” Logan hadn’t looked at you this whole time, just kept his eyes forward. Now, as he brought his glass to his lips, you saw his hazel eyes glance your way. “You taught them that at the very least, they’re allowed to talk about this shit at all.” 

You blinked. You gulped. You blinked two more times. All the while, Logan’s eyes stayed trained on you.

“Thanks.” you whispered, too stunned that he had just comforted you to say anything else. 

An awkward sort of silence settled between the two of you. Normally, silence was difficult for you to sit with; you felt this compulsive need to fill the quiet with words. Now, though, silence felt right. You allowed it into your mind to calm the raging typhoon of resentment toward the bitter world you lived in and instead focus on smaller things. You let the sweet burn of your whiskey warm your insides and trickle down to your nerves. You took deep, mindful breaths through your nose and exhaled through your lips, taking note of the way that the air smelled smoky sitting next to your drinking buddy.

It occurred to you now that you’d never actually learned his name, so you asked him. 

He chuckled, grinning ruefully out the corner of his mouth in a way that made your heart sputter. “You don’t wanna go down that road, kid.”

You smirked, acting a bit more like your usual spunky self. “And what road is that?”

“Knowing about me.”

You threw your head back and cackled. “Wow, you’re really committing to that dark and brooding act, huh?” He shook his head but you caught the glint of a tooth as he smiled into his final sip of bourbon. “Fine, I’ll guess. Josh?”

He raised a single eyebrow at you and said nothing. 

“Not Josh, then. What about Eugene? You look like you could be a Eugene.”

“I am not a Eugene.” He grunted. 

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Geez, sorry, not a Eugene then.”

He sighed, throwing you a hard sidelong glance before muttering, “It’s Logan.”

“Logan.” You threw back the last of your bourbon and let the taste of it mingle with the feel of his name on your lips. Both burned deliciously. 

“You gonna give me yours?” Logan asked, his voice rough and quiet, like lonely tires on an empty gravel road. 

You held your glass up in the dim lighting, turning it this way and that to admire the way the image of the neon Michelob Ultra sign behind the bar warped when it shined through.

“That depends, are we getting another round?”

We. The word was new to Logan in the context of you and him. He liked the way it sounded on your tongue. 

“Another bourbon?” he asked you.

“Rye this time, please.” you purred. “That bourbon was a little too sweet.”

You were definitely the first to tell him that his drink of choice was too sweet. 

Shaking his head and fighting a grin, Logan ordered two glasses of rye whiskey as you continued telling him about the lesson you’d taught yesterday. 

He noticed a shift in you as you described the way your students had discussed social issues with the fervor of seasoned politicians. He clocked the way your posture straightened and your eyes sparkled when you told him how proud you were of those teenagers in those moments- how it was like they had all been waiting for someone to simply give them permission to discuss the intricacies of their social structure and how little it took for people to turn against each other when standing by their neighbor became something controversial. 

Before you both knew it, hours had ticked past while the two of you sat at that bar. As usual, you did most of the talking, but a crucial change that had set this conversation apart was Logan. This time, his hazel eyes never left yours. He listened- really listened- to every word you said. He’d never taken the time to learn the way your lips always looked like they were about to quirk up into a laughing smile. He’d always thought that you were funny- pretty, too- but he’d never known that when he actually laughed with you, you got this triumphant look in your eyes like making him laugh had been your only goal all along. 

He was noticing a lot of new things tonight- like the tattoo on your upper thigh that only showed when your dress rode up over your crossed legs. He noticed the dimple that appeared when you smiled wide enough. Noticed the looks you threw his way when you finished laughing that made him feel… something. 

By the time you’d both had three rounds of neat whiskey, it was nearly two in the morning. The bartender had given you both sweating glasses of icy water as a silent reminder of closing time. 

“Don’t you have to get up early, teach?” Logan asked as you gulped down your water at a speed he knew would freeze your brain. 

“I do,” you acknowledged, wincing from the passing brain freeze. “...but I’m a natural night owl.”

Logan grinned teasingly. “That’s pretty irresponsible… aren’t teachers supposed to be role models?”

“What can I say,” you shrugged, “I like my whiskey neat and my bed at three.” 

Something in Logan’s eyes darkened then. “Your bed, huh?”

You caught his drift; you were already drifting that way, too. Your knee drifting closer to his as he reached for his wallet. His hand drifting to the small of your back as he walked you out of the bar. Your eyes drifting to his lips while you struggled to maintain eye contact.

That was how Logan ended up slamming you against the front door of your little townhouse at quarter past two in the morning. 

“Fuck-!” you exclaimed, arching against the chipping white paint and gasping at the feel of the cold glass window as the skin of your back prickled. Logan’s hands- large and grasping at the soft material of your sweater- pulled your torso closer to his as his mouth devoured the lingering spice of rye on your lips. 

For a man of few words, he was suddenly louder than anything else- his noises, his touch, his scent, his taste…

“‘Fuck’ what, doll?” He grunted as his lips traveled behind your ear and down your neck, “You never run out of things to talk about, is this all it takes to shut you up?”

“-ngh… That depends, are you trying to shut me up?” Your voice was breathy, blood racing through your veins as his lips teased the skin where your neck met your shoulder. Logan made a noise that sounded almost like a growl just before biting down on your heated flesh, ripping a surprised moan from you that came straight from your core. 

“Nah,” he grumbled into your shoulder, licking the abused spot that would bloom darker tomorrow. “I wanna hear everything.” 

You whimpered. Actually whimpered at the way you could feel his voice rumbling through his chest as his solid pecs pressed against you. Cradling your face in both hands, he brought your gaze to meet his own. The dim porch light shone through the windows just enough that you could make out his smoldering hazel eyes as he brought your lips to his. 

The kiss was tender this time; richly sweet and intentional as he captured a sigh before it even left your mouth. You relaxed into him, melting into the kiss and letting the heat of his touch unravel the tension that still lingered in your muscles from the day’s stress. His hands left your cheeks, caressing down your shoulders and arms until they found your hands and lifted them to encircle his neck and shoulders. He grunted, grabbing your hips before tapping them in a wordless command to jump. Which you did.

With a little hop, you found yourself wrapped around Logan, ankles locked behind his back and his stubbled jawline prickling your fingertips as you held his face and kissed him hard. You mumbled directions into his lips while he maneuvered the two of you through the house until he found your bedroom at last. 

Mere seconds passed before you were practically thrown onto the bed, and you propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as he yanked off his flannel. Your mouth watered at the sight of his arms- not a lightswitch had been flipped since the two of you had entered the house, so the moon remained your only lighting as it filtered in through your gauzy bedroom curtains. Logan was haloed by a bluish, moonlit glow that made him look ethereal as he stood over you in only his jeans and white undershirt. 

Something sparkled under that moonlight… around his neck, you noticed he wore a piece of jewelry that glinted silver. Funny, you thought, he doesn’t seem like the jewelry type. 

You were soon granted an up-close view of it when he crawled over you on the bed. As he leaned in to kiss you again, the cold bite of metal hit your collarbone and you recognized what it belonged to. Dog tags. You made a mental note to ask him about them when you weren’t so preoccupied. 

You gasped suddenly, feeling his hand start to creep up your bare thigh beneath your dress. Your breath hitched in your throat when his warm fingers started to trace the intricate patterns of lace on your panties. 

“Those feel fancy.” Logan’s husky voice whispered into your ear, “Can I see?”

You nodded, eyes blown wide with lust and submission. 

“Talk to me, baby, tell me I can touch them.” he reminded you.

“Yes, you can touch them.”

You could barely see Logan’s face in the dark, but you could tell that he was grinning. His fingers slid into the waistband of your underwear, working them off your hips as he repositioned himself between your legs.

“Good girl.” He purred as he pulled them down your legs and off of you completely. Then you felt him pushing your legs further apart before-

“Holy shit-!” 

One lick up the center of your bare pussy was all it took to rip the expletive from your mouth and reduce your muscles to gelatin. 

“Mmmh..”  Logan’s muffled growl from between your legs sent a wave of pleasure through you, synchronizing with the way his tongue flicked over your clit. You could feel your pussy getting wetter just from hearing him, weeping into his mouth as you unraveled under his ministrations.

Your eyes rolled back with ecstasy as his tongue continued its work- you moaned and arched your back with every lick and every noise he made that sent chilling vibrations through your body. It didn’t take long for you to feel that familiar mounting pleasure rising inch by inch within you.

“Fuck, Logan,” you sighed, “If you keep that up, I’m gonna cum.”

Those were the magic words. Logan looked up at you from between your legs with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat and your walls clench- which he felt, since your admission of how close you were was all he needed to slide two fingers inside of you.

He worked you like it was his full-time job, tongue and fingers working in tandem to pull noises, movements, and delicious pulls of his hair from where your fingers had snaked down to his locks. His fingers drove into you, veins and muscles bulging from his forearm as his tongue circled and flicked your clit at a breakneck pace. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasped, letting overstimulation devour you in waves as you clamped down on his fingers and came hard. “ohfuckohfuckI’m…I’m cumming-!”

It was music to his ears; his fingers kept going, pumping into you and keeping pace with your release. Someone would have to physically rip him away from you to get him to stop before you told him to. It took him a second to register that something wet was dripping down his forearm, and it was you. 

When he finally felt your spasms starting to slow, he gently removed his fingers from your pussy and held his arm up to the light. 

“Damn, baby,” he whispered, his husky voice full of awe and admiration. “Did my fingers make that pussy cry? She needed to cum for me that bad?” 

You watched, wide-eyed and panting as Logan’s tongue caught the bead of your arousal from where it had dripped down to his elbow, all the way up to the tips of his fingers. His eyes closed for a moment as he savored your taste.

“So fucking good…” he sighed, almost to himself, before his hands reached for his belt. “I’ve gotta feel you, baby, you have a condom?” 

You nodded, reaching for your bedside table. You knew you still had some in there, but you’d bought them what seemed like ages ago- you hadn’t brought anyone to your bed in quite some time. 

Feeling around in the nightstand drawer, you finally found the box of condoms… and the single remaining condom inside. 

“I have one left.” You said, holding out the small square package to Logan.

You heard him huff out a little chuckle. “Busy girl.” 

“No, ah… quite the opposite, actually. It’s been a while. I’m lucky I had some left in there, really.” you laughed nervously. 

“If anyone’s lucky tonight, it’s me.” Logan whispered, kicking off his jeans and underwear after yanking his undershirt over his head. You cursed the darkness of your room, wishing you could see more than his moonlit silhouette standing over you in your bedroom- but God, was it a silhouette. Broad shoulders lined in bluish-white light, sweat-sheened pecs and a strong jawline that dipped half an inch when he saw the way you were gazing at him.

Unlike you, Logan could see everything. The night sky was littered with stars beneath a full moon, and all of it graciously allowed him a gorgeous view that practically left you glowing- but he knew you could glow brighter if you bared the rest of yourself to him right now. 

“Clothes off, doll. Let me see you.” 

It wasn’t a suggestion- this was a command. A command you eagerly obeyed as he got to work ripping open the condom wrapper and sliding the rubber down his cock. He was so ready for you, even the soft touch of his own hand rolling the condom on made him twitch as he watched you remove layer after layer until you wore nothing but the moonlight. 

“Goddamn beautiful.” he swore. 

You gazed at him through thick lashes and heavy lids, propped up on your elbows and smiling demurely as you slowly widened your legs for him. 

He couldn’t take much more of this; a growl resonated in his chest as Logan practically pounced on you, enveloping your mouth in a molten kiss as he lined himself up with you and plowed into you without warning. 

“Holy shit-!” you yelped into his mouth, the size of him surprising you as you took his whole length at once. You hadn’t realized how empty you had felt until you suddenly had something to fill you wholly and completely- the stretch was overwhelming and beautiful all at once. You moaned wantonly, clutching at his bicep with one hand and his shoulder with the other. 

Logan groaned as he slowly began pumping in and out of you, reveling in the pleasure he received with every fraction of a movement he made inside of you. You were so tight, muscles already primed and contracting from the first climax he’d brought out of you. 

“You tell me what feels good, baby.” He said, working one arm under your head to cradle it with his forearm, and using the other to lift one of your legs up to hook around his lower back. Once again, his tone left no room for argument. 

“Okay.” you agreed meekly, all the fight you normally had in you suddenly gone now that you had this man seated deep inside you. One thrust and you’d become putty in his hands. 

Logan pulled out about halfway before slamming into you, and the sharp moan you gave him as you clutched his shoulder drove him forward like a war cry. Every thrust was harsh and powerful enough to make you see stars, and you wondered briefly if it was possible for a dick to shatter someone from the inside. 

“What did I say?” Logan grunted into your ear as he fucked you, “I told you to tell me what feels good, baby, didn’t I?” His movements started to slow. “If this doesn’t feel good I can stop-”

“No!” you whined, actually pouting despite yourself. You were a grown ass woman, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d pouted. Apparently he could see it, because Logan chuckled as he lifted your leg from around his back to reposition it over his shoulder, opening you wide for him. 

“Then if this feels good, you better tell me, doll.” 

One thrust in that position was all it took for you to know he’d have you cumming in minutes, maybe seconds. 

“Holy-!” you yelped, and the bastard had the gall to laugh as he speared into your pussy over and over again, hitting that spot each time without fail. “So deep… oh my God, you’re so fucking deep, it feels so good, I’m…” Your voice trailed off as your back arched, pelvis pushing into him as his cock drove into you repeatedly while you moaned loud enough that it didn’t even sound like your own voice anymore. 

“That’s it, baby,” Logan sat up on his knees, cock still sheathed inside you as he looked down and spat onto your pussy. He lifted both of your legs this time, hooking them both over his shoulders before swiping his thumb through the glob of slick that sat cooling on your clit and moving it in little circles as he continued to mercilessly rail you. The movement was even smoother now, allowing him to hit that spot deep inside you that had you seeing God with every thrust. He felt you getting tighter, his dick combined with the soft, wet movements of his thumb were working you into a blithering mess. “You gonna give me another one?”

The way you looked up at him then- eyebrows pulled together helplessly over starlight eyes and bottom lip reduced to a quivering, spit-shined pillow- it was the stuff of dreams. Logan did everything he could to commit this moment to memory; he filed it all away and prayed to whatever god was listening that he never forgot the way you looked like an angel as you writhed under him, whimpering as your second orgasm crashed into you and made your pussy spasm around his cock- somehow feeling strong and soft and wrapped in fire all at the same time. Logan knew his own release wasn’t far behind, and the blood that was rushing to his cock drove him into you deeper and harder until-

Snap!

You both felt the rubber snap open inside you. It launched your eyelids open, had Logan’s movements reluctantly slowing as you looked up at him in alarm. 

“Fuck.” Logan muttered. That had been your last condom; he felt his heart start to plummet as he pulled out of you, inspecting the condom with his hands and sighing frustratedly through his nose when he felt nothing but his bare cock covered in your arousal. 

“Um…” you piped up, your voice small and breathy beneath him. “We can still keep going… if you want.” 

Hell yes. Logan began rolling the broken condom off his cock, perking up at the thought of fucking you raw. He tried not to make a habit of unprotected sex, but if you were on the pill…

“I have an IUD,” you added, as if you could read his mind. 

Logan had forgotten those were a thing. Moments like this always reminded Logan how fucking old he was… he tried not to dwell on that right now. 

“...You sure you’re alright with that?” Logan said softly. “We can stop if you aren’t comfortable.” 

You smiled, running a feather-light hand down his forearm. “I’ll feel a lot more comfortable when you’re back inside me.” 

Something darkened in Logan’s eyes as he looked down at you, lying bare and sweat-sheened on your bed beneath his looming form. He’d been getting closer before, but now that he knew he’d get to savor you without a barrier, without anything to numb the pleasure of feeling you completely… he wanted to make this last. 

“You want it?” 

Logan’s tone was different now; there was a dominant edge to his words that made your heart skip a beat. You suddenly felt the urge to play dumb, to eagerly grant him whatever he asked for and beg him for all the things you wanted from him. Your dignity was fading with every second you spent underneath this man.

“Yes,” you nodded, “yes, I want it.” 

Logan looked down at you appraisingly, making you feel smaller in the best kind of way. He gave a little nod. “All fours then, doll.” 

A thrill rushed through you as you rose to line your mouth up with his cock, before he stopped you with a click of his tongue. 

“Other way.”

Oh. 

Slowly, you shifted, spinning around until you were on your hands and knees facing away from him. Your cheeks heated, knowing how exposed you were to him this way. It made you feel like you were under a microscope, but for some reason that part turned you on even more. 

You shivered as Logan’s hands came down to rest on the flesh of your ass, caressing and squeezing without hesitation. 

“You know how many times I’ve watched this ass walk away?”

You waited for him to continue, but his silence told you that he actually wanted you to answer the question. “Uh… more than I’d ever noticed, I’m guessing.”

You gasped as his hand came down on your ass with a slap. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, just enough to surprise you. 

“Every time you left the bar before me, sweetheart.” He said, his voice gruff and thick with lust. “And sometimes I’d go home and think about this ass in this exact position… my fantasies didn’t do you justice, baby.” 

You jolted at a second slap that he delivered to your other ass cheek. Knowing he’d fantasized about you, the feeling of presenting your ass to him like this, the fact that you couldn’t see him from this angle- all of it was overwhelming enough that you actually yelped in surprise when you felt Logan’s tongue on your pussy again. 

“Oh my God-!” You half-gasped, half-moaned as his tongue slid over your lips, into your hole, around your clit. You almost whined when his mouth left you, but definitely whined when you felt him spit on your pussy before slapping your ass again. 

“Good girl,” Logan growled, “keep being loud for me.” 

That was the only warning you got before he plunged his dick into you raw and started pounding you relentlessly from behind. 

You did as you were told, that was for damn sure. Your moans, your cries- all of them merged together into a train of incoherent wailing in rhythm with Logan’s ruthless thrusting. He felt so good, his length reaching places at this angle that made your eyes roll back and your mouth hang open- at one point you might have even drooled. 

Logan was enjoying himself too, grunting and growling as he felt every inch of you squeezing him tighter, tighter. You cunt clung to him, and the soft, wet heat of you was driving him crazy.

“Such a sweet thing,” he muttered, and he was so quiet you couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or to himself. “Always so sunny… so- fuck- dirty now… were you always this dirty, baby? Or is this just for me?” 

You moaned a response, but the mounting pleasure within you muffled your words into more babbles into your sheets. 

Slap!

Logan rubbed the spot on your ass cheek that was inevitably turning red now. “Words, baby, answer me.” 

“Just you-” you moaned, suppressing a sob of pleasure as you felt yourself reaching your third climax of the night. “No one’s ever- ah!- fucked me like this- mmnh!” A strangled moan cut your sentence short as Logan felt you start to spasm around him. Those words, your hot cunt squeezing him tighter than he thought possible- it was enough to push him over the edge as well. 

“Aaahgh- fuck!” Logan’s pleasure overtook him, and he continued his relentless pace as he filled  you while you came around him. Your moans intertwined in that moonlit bedroom, and by the time you were both completely spent your knees had given out, leaving you sprawled on your stomach beneath Logan’s exhausted form curled over yours. 

A couple of moments were all it took for you to wonder what happened now- if Logan was the ‘stay the night’ type, or if ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ was more his style. You had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t a fan of cuddling after sex, so you shouldn’t get your hopes up about him staying the night. Besides, you worked tomorrow, so it wasn’t like the two of you would be getting breakfast in the morning anyway-

“What are you thinking about?” 

“Huh?” You rolled over, turning until you and Logan were both on your sides facing each other on your bed. “Nothing.”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I know what you look like when you’re thinking about something, you know.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that. All those nights at Dusty’s when you’d chattered on and on just to see if you could coax him out of his brooding silence.… you’d just assumed that you annoyed him, that he’d been trying to ignore you.

 But maybe… maybe he’d actually been listening this whole time. 

You sighed, conceding. “I’m wondering if I should ask you to spend the night, and if you’d even want to.” 

Logan looked at you- really looked at you- then slowly leaned toward you until his lips softly touched yours in the gentlest kiss he’d given you tonight. 

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll let me, doll.” he said when he pulled away, before placing one more of those soft kisses to your forehead. 

You woke the next morning to the sound of your alarm and the smell of coffee. 

It was still dark, and you followed the scent of morning brew like a zombie until you found yourself standing in the kitchen with a mug of hot coffee in your hand. 

With Logan, who also held a mug of coffee. 

Wait…

Oh shit. 

The events of last night flooded your mind, and when you finally registered that not only had Logan stayed all night, but woken up before your alarm and made you coffee? You felt like you were dreaming.

“...Good morning.” you mumbled, your voice croaky as it always was in the morning. 

Logan smirked at you, taking in your bed head, your smudged makeup from the night before, your sleepy eyes- all of it was endearing to him. He nodded, raising his mug in a toast. “Morning, doll.” 

You stared at his mug, then yours, focusing on it as if it were a puzzle you couldn’t solve. “You made me coffee.” 

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I did.” 

You took a sip before staring at the mug again. “How’d you know I like it black?”

He shrugged, “Figured anything else would be too sweet for you.” 

You chuckled, inching closer to him and tilting your chin up to meet his in a sleepy kiss. “I have to be at work in an hour.” you groaned.

“I have to be at work in half an hour.”

You gasped, “Oh my god, are you going to be late?” to which he simply shrugged.

“They’ll wait on me. Boss is a softie.” 

“That’s something you two have in common, then?” You grinned, knowing he’d probably hate being called a “softie”, what with his gruff exterior and strong, silent type vibes.

Logan rolled his eyes, pairing them with a wolfish grin. “Is that what you’d call the way I fucked you last night? Soft?” 

You felt a rush of heat at the reminder of last night- you’d be thinking about this encounter for a long time. “That was definitely not soft.” you said, sighing wistfully. “Waking me up with coffee, however-” You clinked your ceramic mug against his and smiled up at him smugly. “-soft. In a very good way.” 

Logan grunted, shaking his head with a rueful smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it.”

Logan had left soon after that, leaving you to shower and get ready for the day. You hadn’t had a very in-depth conversation with him about where the two of you went from here… but you put that out of your mind for now. You’d have plenty more evening’s at Dusty’s with him to DTR. 

The day hit the ground running at work, keeping you busy enough that the night before only crossed your mind when you sat down and felt the echoes of Logan’s thrusts between your legs. Everything seemed normal for the most part- until fourth period, that is.

“Excuse me,” murmured Kurt, one of your quieter students. “Can I go to the front office?” 

Kurt had seemed off since he’d walked into your classroom that day; nervous for some reason. He was stumbling through his words, his German accented English tumbling from his mouth clumsily. 

“What do you need to do in the office?” you asked him gently. 

He seemed fixated on his watch, fiddling with the dials obsessively and refusing to meet your eyes. “Someone is dropping something off for me. I really really need it.”

Something strange happened then. Kurt’s features- his raven hair, his pale skin- glitched. For a second, his skin was royal blue and his eyes shifted to a golden yellow. Then, as quickly as the changes had appeared, they changed back and Kurt was Kurt again. He glanced down nervously at his watch again. 

Realization dawned on you then, Logan’s words at the bar last night echoing in your head.

 A mutant in this world learns pretty quick that it isn’t safe for them to be themselves.

Your eyes must have widened dramatically, because Kurt went from nervous to frantic. He looked like he was about to try and salvage the situation somehow, but you stopped him. 

“This-” you gestured to Kurt’s watch. “-does it help make school safer for you?”

His eyes were nervous saucers as Kurt bit his lip and nodded. 

“And it’s acting up, so someone from home is coming to help?”

Kurt nodded again. 

“Would you feel better if I walked down there with you, or worse?”

He thought about it for a moment before nodding again. “Better.” 

It only took a moment for you to ask the teacher next door to you to watch your class while you walked with Kurt down to the front office. The whole time, your mind rolled through anything and everything that you knew about Kurt.

He was one of the kids from that Xavier Institute that you always drove past on your way to work. Not much was known for sure about the strange boarding school. Officially, all you knew was that some students learned every subject at the school and rarely left, while others studied their core subjects here at the public school and got all of their other credits from the Institute. The rumors, however… they were much more elaborate than that. 

There were several rumors floating around about the Xavier Institute, but the most common one you’d heard was that it was a school for mutants. 

Kurt came from that school, and you were starting to wonder how much truth there was to those rumors. 

“Oh danke Gott!” 

Kurt’s relief was evident as he entered the front office, running immediately to…

Logan?

“Dammit, Elf, I told you to have Hank look at this thing weeks ago- oh.”

Logan’s sentence was cut short when he saw you frozen in the entryway. Slowly, his wide eyes and surprised expression shifted into a devilish smile of recognition. “Hey you.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips. “Hi.”

Kurt looked bewildered as he tinkered with his watch, fitting an attachment onto the face of it that he’d grabbed from Logan the second he saw him. “Do you two know each other?”

Your mouth opened and closed, not quite sure what lie to tell before Logan swooped in with, “All teachers know each other, kid.”

Kurt seemed to accept that answer, shrugging and turning to face the front desk and ask the secretary if she had a screwdriver. You took the opportunity to inch a little closer to Logan.

“You’re a teacher? You didn’t tell me that.” 

Logan shrugged. “You didn’t ask.” 

You smiled ruefully, shaking your head. “Well whatever you teach at that Xavier place…” You beamed up at him.  “they’re lucky to have you.”

He looked back at you, a tender smile stretching his lips just enough to crease the outer corners of his eyes. “They’re lucky to have you too.” 

You felt your cheeks heat at his praise. Eager for something else to look at, you watched Kurt as he expertly worked the dials on his watch. “Kurt’s a great kid. Super smart.” You raised an eyebrow when you noticed the way Logan was watching him, too- proud, fatherly admiration was evident in his gaze. He had been the one Kurt called when he’d needed help…

“You wouldn’t happen to be his…” you asked, to which Logan replied with an immediate-

“No!” he shook his head quickly, “No, far as I know, I’m nobody’s dad.” His voice was low and gruff as he chuckled the question away. He glanced back at you with a twinkle of mischief in his eye before lowering his lips to your ear, only speaking loud enough for you to hear his whispered addition.

“‘Course, I don’t think I’d hate it if you called me ‘daddy’-”

“Okay, Kurt!” you practically jumped away from Logan, face feeling hot as the summer sun. “You almost done with that thing? Mrs. Smith can’t watch our class forever, can she?”

“Just a second!” Kurt mumbled, still focused on his watch.

Your eyes darted to Logan for a moment, taking in his smug little grin and the way his pecs puffed up when he crossed his arms over his chest-

Damn. Barely twelve hours after he’d fucked you into your mattress and you were already horny for him again. 

Taking a deep breath to bring yourself back to earth, you grabbed a post-it note and a pen from the receptionist’s desk, scribbled your number onto it, and handed the little neon pink paper to Logan. 

“Here. In case…” Your eyes flitted around in search of a reason other than in case you want to fuck my brains out again. “...in case this isn’t the last time something like this happens.” 

Logan grinned, tucking the post-it into his jeans pocket. “Of course.” he tapped a sarcastic finger to his temple. “Smart thinking.” 

“Okay!” Kurt said, jogging over to the two of you from the front desk. “Alles gut! We can go back now.”

Logan nodded to Kurt. “Then that’s my cue to leave. See ya, kid.” Then turning to you, he added, “Ma’am.” He dipped his head as if tipping a hat, pulling a small involuntary giggle out from under your breath. 

“Sir.” you replied, mimicking the gesture. Logan’s eyes darkened in the most delicious way when you called him that, and he looked to be biting the inside of his smirk as he turned and exited through the front doors. 

You hadn’t even made it all the way down the hallway before you felt a buzzing in your back pocket. Upon checking your phone, you saw a text had been sent from an unknown number. The content of the message, however, left no question as to whom the sender was. 

Drinks tonight?

You grinned giddily as a schoolgirl, quickly typing out a reply and hitting send just before you re-entered the classroom. 

Do you even have to ask?

A/N: I've never written for Logan before, so I hope his characterization feels right! Writing this felt like walking around in brand new shoes- still breaking them in. If you enjoyed this, let me know! ❤️

Taglist (just a few people I thought might be interested): @the-unforgivenn @ghost-proofbaby @pastel-pillows @munson-blurbs @hellfire--cult

[rocksalt-and-pie]

for all you fanfiction writers out there who aren't sure which role to put him in, you heard the man

[loganslowdown4]

Roman: Logan, mon amour, can I kiss you?

Logan: *never not a teacher* I don’t know, Roman, CAN you?

[horrorhick]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Deadpool (Movieverse), Marvel Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Logan (X-Men)/Wade Wilson, Logan | Worst Wolverine (Deadpool Movies)/Wade Wilson Characters: Logan | Worst Wolverine (Deadpool Movies), Logan (X-Men), Wade Wilson, Blind Al (Deadpool), Dogpool | Mary Puppins (Deadpool Movies), Laura Kinney, Charles Xavier, Vanessa Carlysle Additional Tags: art teacher logan, merc with a mouth wade, Slow Burn, anger but so much more love, First Time, First Kiss, Getting Together, Roommates, and there was only one... couch?, Domestic Fluff, heightened senses, Logan centric, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Moving In Together, Kinda, they match eachother's freak, Autistic Logan | Worst Wolverine (Deadpool Movies), to me!, copious use of the word 'fuck', Fade to Black Summary:

Logan didn't know how he ended up like this. Didn't know how he ended up going from being the ‘Worst Wolverine’ to the thing holding an entire universe together. Didn't know how he went from being alone to inheriting the chaotic friend group and seemingly senile roommate of one Wade Wilson...

-or-

The one where Logan becomes an art teacher and he and Wade dance around each other for weeks on end before something finally snaps.

[spoondoodles]

I blacked out and more Logince HS AU appeared on my canvas idk what happened (also ty @oatmeal-stans-the-trash-rat for some inspiration sorry it took so long to make a post about Them <3)

[theonottsbxtch]

TEACHERS PET PT.3 | CL16

an: did someone say his pov? i apologise in advance for how this ends. also im trying to pump out as much content as i can before i start my real girl job at the start of novemeber

wc: 4.5

warnings: MUCHO infidelity

part one | part two |

Charles gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly as he pulled into the parking garage beneath his apartment building. His mind was racing, filled with images he shouldn’t be indulging in, and yet, he couldn’t seem to push them away. The moment outside her apartment—the way she’d looked at him, the way she’d let him kiss her—had been playing on a loop ever since he’d driven off.

He parked the car and sat there for a moment, staring at the concrete wall in front of him, trying to gather himself. He shouldn't have kissed her. He knew that. But the attraction had been building for weeks, simmering beneath the surface in every glance, every stolen moment, every excuse he found to keep her after class.

He could still feel the heat of her body against his, the softness of her lips, the way she’d kissed him back like she’d wanted it as much as he had. But she had a boyfriend. And he was her professor.

This is wrong.

The thought echoed in his head, but it felt distant, as though it was someone else’s voice whispering it to him. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to shake the memory of her lips, the warmth of her breath against his neck, but it was no use. Even as he walked up the stairs to his apartment, he could still see her standing there in the streetlight, her chest rising and falling with the same breathless anticipation he’d felt.

He unlocked his door and stepped inside, the silence of his apartment suddenly oppressive. The dim lighting and sleek, modern décor felt cold compared to the heat still pulsing through him. He tossed his keys onto the counter, trying to focus on anything but her, but his mind betrayed him almost immediately.

He imagined her here. Walking around his place, barefoot and wrapped in nothing but one of his shirts, the fabric brushing her thighs. He pictured her wandering to his kitchen, her hair mussed from sleep, a sleepy smile on her lips as she padded toward him. Maybe she'd laugh softly as she caught him staring, her eyes playful, like she knew exactly what kind of power she had over him. And for a minute he felt jealous of her silly little boyfriend who probably got to see that sight often.

Damn it.

He cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair, trying to push the fantasy away. It was dangerous to let himself think of her like that, but the image wouldn’t leave him. She was so young, so off-limits, and yet, he couldn’t stop himself.

He sank down onto the couch, staring blankly at the dark screen of his TV. The room felt too quiet, too empty, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake this feeling alone tonight. He needed a distraction. Something to get her out of his head, even if only for a few hours.

His hand instinctively reached for his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, stopping on a name he hadn’t seen in a while: Olivia. They had a history—nothing serious, but comfortable. She was someone he could call when he needed to forget, when he needed to lose himself in something physical, without the complications of attachment.

His finger hovered over the screen for a moment, hesitating. He shouldn’t call her. He knew that. It wouldn’t solve anything. But right now, it felt like the only way to stop thinking about the one person he shouldn’t be thinking about at all.

He tapped the screen, bringing the phone to his ear. It rang twice before Olivia answered, her voice warm and familiar.

"Well, well," she said with a teasing lilt. "It’s been a while. What’s the occasion?"

"I was thinking about you," he lied, his voice low and smooth, trying to push down the guilt gnawing at him. "Are you free tonight?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then a soft laugh. "You’re lucky I don’t have plans. I’ll be over in twenty."

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the coffee table as he leaned back against the couch, trying to force himself to relax. But as the minutes ticked by, all he could think about was her. The student. The girl who had walked into his office that first day with a shy smile, who now occupied far too much of his thoughts. He could see her face so clearly, her lips parted as he leaned in to kiss her, the way her body had instinctively pressed against his.

His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. A twisted part of him hoped it was her. It was a message from Olivia: "Almost there."

He stood up, running his hands through his hair as he tried to shake off the images swirling in his head. This wasn’t about her. Tonight was about forgetting. About getting some distance from whatever had ignited between him and his student.

When Olivia knocked on the door, he opened it with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She stepped inside, giving him a once-over with an approving smirk before leaning in to kiss him. It was familiar, comfortable. But the moment her lips touched his, all he could think about was how different it felt. How wrong it felt.

They moved to the couch, her hands on his chest, her lips trailing down his neck, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. Even as Olivia’s fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, he couldn’t stop picturing her.

What would she be like here, in his apartment?

He imagined her standing in his bedroom doorway, her eyes heavy with the same desire he’d seen in them earlier tonight. He pictured the way she’d blush as he undressed her, the way her breath would hitch as his hands found her bare skin. The thought made his pulse quicken, heat pooling low in his stomach.

"Uhm, Charles hello? Are you even here" Olivia’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he blinked, realising he hadn’t responded to her in at least a minute.

"Yeah, sorry," he muttered, but even as he said it, his thoughts drifted back to the wrong person.

Olivia pushed him until the back of his knees his the sofa and she straddled him, shifting on his lap, her hands moving more insistently, but it wasn’t enough. None of this was enough to drown out the fire burning in him for someone else. He kissed Olivia, trying to lose himself in the moment, trying to block out the guilt. But as his lips moved against hers, all he could think about was how much he wished it was someone else.

Her lips. Her skin. Her breath.

No matter what he did, she was there in the back of his mind, haunting him, tempting him. And as Olivia’s hands roamed over his body, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if they were her hands instead. How she’d gasp at his touch, how her body would respond to him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to silence the thoughts, but they only grew louder.

Eventually, Olivia pulled back, her brow furrowed as she studied his face. "Okay, what’s going on?" she asked, her voice edged with irritation. "You’re not really here, are you?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice thick with frustration—frustration at himself, at the situation. "It’s just...been a long day."

Olivia huffed, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. She stood, grabbing her jacket from the chair and slinging it over her shoulder. "Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you’re not into this tonight, just say so. I didn’t drive all this fucking way for you to act like this"

He stood up, guilt settling heavily in his chest. "It’s not you," he said, trying to smooth things over, but she waved him off.

"Yeah, I know it’s not me," she said sharply. "Whatever’s going on in your head, you need to figure it out."

Without another word, she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a loud slam.

He stood there in the silence of his apartment, the weight of his thoughts crashing back over him like a tidal wave. His mind immediately returned to her—his student. The one person he shouldn’t be thinking about, shouldn’t be wanting.

But he did.

And as he sank back onto the couch, staring at the empty space where Olivia had been, he knew that nothing was going to make this go away.

-

Charles sat behind his desk, trying to focus on the stack of papers in front of him. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow over his office, but he barely noticed. His mind was still a mess from the night before, from thoughts of her. He hadn’t been able to shake the memory of their kiss or the way his body had betrayed him, craving her even as he tried to distance himself. Even calling Olivia hadn’t worked; it had only made everything worse.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back in his chair. It had only been a few hours since he’d been in the office, but she was still there, in the back of his mind, haunting him. Every time he tried to focus on work, her face appeared, her lips parted slightly, her eyes dark and teasing.

He needed to get a grip. This was crossing lines—lines he shouldn’t even be near. She was a student. She had a boyfriend. But the thought of her in his office again made his pulse quicken in a way that was becoming all too familiar.

A soft knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. He cleared his throat, straightening in his chair. "Come in."

The door creaked open, and there she was—her. Standing in the doorway with that familiar mix of confidence and shyness that always threw him off balance. She was dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, but somehow, it felt different now. Everything about her felt different now.

"Professor Leclerc," she said, her voice soft as she stepped into the office, closing the door behind her. "I was hoping I could ask for some help with an assignment."

His heart skipped a beat, the way it always did when she was near. He forced himself to remain composed, giving her a nod as he gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Of course. What’s the issue?"

She walked over, moving with a slow, deliberate grace that set his nerves on edge. She sat down, crossing her legs in a way that drew his attention for a brief second before he snapped his eyes back to her face.

"It’s for another module," she said, sliding her notebook onto the desk between them. "Professor Gasly’s class, actually. It’s...similar to what you taught us last term, his is the History of France through Literature, so I thought maybe you could give me some advice."

"Gasly?" Charles raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his voice neutral. "He’s more than capable. Why didn’t you go to him?"

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering up to meet his in a way that made his pulse jump. Then, she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough to send a ripple of tension through him.

"Because you do it better."

His throat tightened, and for a second, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly. "Pardon?"

She gave him a soft, almost playful smile. "You teach better."

He swallowed, trying to maintain control, but the way she was looking at him, the way her words lingered in the air—it was impossible to ignore. There was something different about her today. Something deliberate in the way she spoke, the way she held herself. And then, almost as if to confirm his suspicions, he felt it—her foot. It slid up against his calf, just lightly, but enough to send a jolt of awareness through him.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes flicked to hers. She was still smiling, that same soft, teasing smile, but now there was something else in her gaze. Something that told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Is...is that so?" he managed to say, his voice a little rougher than he intended. He should stop this. He knew he should stop this. But the warmth of her foot against his leg, the subtle pressure of it moving higher—it was making it difficult to think straight.

"Yes," she said, her voice almost a purr now, her eyes never leaving his. "I always seem to understand things better when you explain them."

He shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the way his body was reacting to her touch. His pulse was racing, heat pooling in his stomach as her foot continued its slow, teasing movement up his leg. He should stop her. He should say something, push her away, remind her that this was completely inappropriate. But the words stuck in his throat, and instead, he found himself leaning forward, his hands gripping the edge of his desk as if he needed to hold on to something solid.

"What’s the assignment about?" he asked, his voice tight as he tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

She leaned back in her chair, her foot still resting against his leg, but now she seemed to relax, as if she’d gotten the reaction she wanted from him. She reached for her notebook, flipping it open casually as if nothing had just happened.

"It’s about narrative structures," she said, her tone suddenly more professional, though there was still a glint in her eye. "Professor Gasly is focusing on how different forms of storytelling can influence the reader’s emotional response. But his examples are so dry, you know? I thought you might have a better way of explaining it."

He stared at her for a moment, trying to ignore the lingering sensation of her foot against his leg. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, his skin still buzzing from her touch. But he forced himself to focus on the task at hand, even though every fibre of his being was screaming at him to do something else entirely.

"Well..." He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. "Narrative structures are...complex. There’s a lot to unpack. It’s not just about the form, but how it interacts with the content—"

As he spoke, he felt her foot move again, this time trailing up his calf in a way that was both subtle and devastatingly effective. His words faltered for a moment, his hands gripping the desk tighter as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"You seem tense," she said softly, her lips curling into that teasing smile again.

He shot her a sharp look, his mind torn between wanting to stop this and wanting to see where it would go. "This isn’t appropriate," he said, though his voice lacked the firmness he intended.

She tilted her head, her eyes locking with his, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them. "Maybe not," she said, her foot moving higher, "but I don’t think either of us wants to stop."

The tension between them was palpable now, thick and suffocating. He could feel the pull of her, the magnetic attraction that had been building for weeks, and it was taking everything in him not to close the distance between them. But then, a sharp buzz interrupted the moment, and his eyes flicked to her phone, which had lit up on the desk between them.

Her gaze shifted to the screen, and suddenly, her expression changed. The teasing light in her eyes flickered out as she stared at the message.

Logan: Have you seen my laptop charger?

For a moment, neither of them moved. The reality of the situation crashed down on them like cold water, and he could see the guilt flicker across her face, mirroring the same guilt that had been gnawing at him for days.

“I’m going to go, I need to help him.” Even though he had seen the message, she didn’t have to clarify who him was.

She stood up slowly, her notebook tucked under her arm, the teasing smile still playing on her lips. The charged moment between them hadn’t dissipated, even as she turned toward the door, ready to leave his office. Charles sat frozen in his chair, his heart still pounding from the subtle pressure of her foot against his leg, the warmth of her touch lingering on his skin.

This was wrong. He knew it. But as she reached for the door handle, something inside him snapped—something primal, something that had been building between them for weeks, tightening with every stolen glance, every brush of hands, every lingering look.

"Thank you for the help, Professor," she said, her voice soft, almost too casual, like she wasn’t aware of the storm she’d just stirred in him.

He stood up without thinking, his chair scraping against the floor, the sound cutting through the tension. She paused, glancing over her shoulder at him, a question in her eyes.

His pulse roared in his ears as he stepped toward her, his chest tightening with the weight of everything he shouldn’t be doing, everything he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do. But his feet moved on their own, carrying him toward her, the space between them shrinking with every heartbeat.

She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, his hand was on the door, pressing it shut behind her. The suddenness of it made her inhale sharply, her body instinctively turning to face him, her back against the door. They were inches apart now, the air between them thick, heavy with unspoken tension.

"Wait," he said, his voice low, rough, as if it had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

She blinked up at him, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. Her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. Instead, her eyes darted to his, and in that moment, he saw it—the same desire, the same need reflected back at him.

This is wrong, the voice in his head screamed, but his body wasn’t listening. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers curling into the soft strands of her hair, and then, without another thought, he pulled her toward him and kissed her.

The kiss was fierce, desperate—like all the tension, all the forbidden longing between them had finally exploded into something they could no longer control. She gasped against his lips, but instead of pulling away, she pressed into him, her hands gripping the front of his shirt as if she’d been waiting for this moment just as much as he had.

Her lips were soft, warm, moving against his with a hunger that mirrored his own. His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, until he could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest.

He kissed her harder, deeper, his mind a blur of want and need. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched into him, her body responding to his in a way that sent a surge of heat through him.

But even in the midst of the kiss, a small voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to stop. This was a line they couldn’t cross—a line they were already crossing. She was his student. He was her professor. And this...this could ruin everything.

But her lips, the way she kissed him back with the same reckless abandon, the way her body fit so perfectly against his—it was intoxicating, and for a moment, he didn’t care about the consequences. He didn’t care about anything except the way she felt in his arms, the way she was clinging to him like she didn’t want to let go.

He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against hers as they both stood there, gasping for air, their bodies still pressed together. Her eyes were closed, her lips swollen from the kiss, and the sight of her like this—breathless, flushed, in his arms—made his pulse race all over again.

But the moment the reality of what they’d just done hit him, a wave of guilt crashed over him.

This was wrong. So wrong.

He loosened his grip on her waist, his fingers trembling slightly as he stepped back, putting a sliver of space between them. She opened her eyes slowly, looking up at him with a mixture of shock and something else—something that made his heart clench painfully in his chest.

"Professor..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady his racing heart, trying to gather the words he knew he should say. But all he could manage was her name, soft and broken, as if it was a plea. A prayer.

The air between them had shifted completely. The kiss, which had started as a release of tension, was now spiralling into something much more dangerous. Her body was pressed against his, her hands gripping his shirt tightly, pulling him closer, as though she couldn’t get enough of him. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out any rational thought.

Charles could barely think past the feel of her lips on his, the heat of her body against his. This was wrong—he knew it with every logical part of his mind—but his control had snapped. Every line he had drawn, every moral boundary he had tried to maintain had been washed away in the wake of her kiss, her touch.

Her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it free from where it had been neatly tucked into his trousers. The feel of her hands slipping under the fabric, cool against his heated skin, sent a shudder down his spine. He groaned against her lips, the sound deep and guttural as he kissed her harder, more hungrily.

His own hands began to roam, unable to stop themselves. They found her waist, then slid upwards, brushing over the soft fabric of her blouse. Before he knew it, he was fumbling with the buttons of her shirt, his fingers trembling slightly, fueled by a need that felt like it had been building for far too long.

She made a small, breathy sound when his fingers brushed against her skin, and it only spurred him on. One button, then another. Her shirt was opening, revealing smooth skin, and his mouth was suddenly desperate to taste her, to explore every inch of her that he had only imagined in fleeting, guilty fantasies.

Her hands moved frantically now, pulling his shirt free and sliding up his torso, nails lightly scraping his skin. The sensation sent a shockwave through him, and he kissed her harder, deeper, feeling like he was on the brink of losing himself completely. He should stop. He knew he should stop. But the way she was responding, the way she clung to him, told him she didn’t want to stop either.

Just as he pulled her shirt open further, his lips trailing down her neck, a loud, jarring sound broke through the heated fog of the moment.

The alarm on his phone.

The sharp, persistent beeping pierced through the haze of desire, yanking them both back to reality in an instant.

For a moment, they both froze, their bodies still tangled together, his hand halfway to her bare skin. The sound was so out of place, so intrusive, that it felt almost surreal. His phone buzzed relentlessly from his desk, a sharp reminder that there was a world outside of this office—one that didn’t care about the chaos unfolding inside it.

He pulled back slightly, his breathing ragged, his forehead still resting against hers. His shirt was rumpled, her blouse half undone, and for a split second, neither of them moved, as if caught in the aftermath of a hurricane.

Charles inhaled deeply, the reality of the situation crashing down on him, but instead of feeling guilt or regret, all he felt was impatience—a need to pick up where they had left off.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark, her lips swollen from their kiss. There was no awkwardness in her gaze, no second-guessing. Only desire. The kind of desire that made everything else fade away.

The beeping of his phone continued, insistent and irritating. His eyes flickered to the device, and then back to her. His next lecture. Of course. Duty called, but so did she, standing in front of him, half undressed, looking at him like she wanted nothing more than for him to finish what they’d started.

For a moment, he considered ignoring the alarm, cancelling everything for the rest of the day just to stay here with her. The temptation was overwhelming.

But then he let out a soft, low chuckle, dark and husky. "This...isn't over, mon ange."

She bit her lip, a flush spreading across her cheeks, but she didn’t move, didn’t try to fix her shirt. Instead, she stood there, still so close that he could feel the heat radiating off her, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

He leaned in, his lips grazing her ear, his voice a rough whisper. "Come back tonight. Six p.m."

Her breath hitched, her body leaning into his without hesitation.

She pulled back slightly to meet his gaze, her eyes wide, filled with heat and something else—anticipation. Her lips parted, but no words came out, just a nod, subtle but unmistakable.

The look in her eyes sent another surge of need coursing through him, but the persistent beeping of his phone was a reminder that the world wouldn’t wait for him, no matter how much he wanted to lose himself in this moment.

Slowly, he released his grip on her, forcing himself to step back, though every instinct told him to pull her back into his arms. The space between them felt like a physical ache, but the promise of later hung between them, heavy and electric.

He adjusted his shirt, trying to bring some semblance of order to his appearance as he crossed the room to silence the alarm on his phone. His fingers shook as he dismissed the reminder for his next lecture.

"Six," he repeated, his voice firmer now as he met her gaze once more.

She stood there for a moment longer, her blouse still undone, a look of raw hunger in her eyes. Then, she nodded again, turning toward the door, her movements slow, deliberate. She buttoned up her shirt but didn’t bother to tuck it back in as she left his office, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

Charles stood there for a long moment after she was gone, staring at the closed door, his chest still tight with everything he was feeling. His hands trembled slightly as he ran them through his hair, his mind already racing ahead to what would happen later tonight.

Six o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.

part four

[warnadudenexttime]

Logan: Everytime one of you raises your hand to speak instead of just talking over me, you will receive points towards getting stickers for your good behavior.

Roman: Stickers?! We aren’t 6, Logan.

Logan: I have Disney stickers in my reward box.

Roman:

Roman: *raises hand slowly*

Virgil: You got any My Chemical Romance ones in there-

[hauntingoldhouses]

I'd see you in the hall like "hello, hello"

Up against the wall like "let's go, let's go"