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lilyarchived · 24 days ago

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REF!! DO SOMETHING

thinking about our roommates simon riley x reader again. (medical and military inaccuracies duh)

he left abruptly for deployment in the middle of the night, a frenzied call from Laswell and Price sending him jolting awake and to your bedroom.

“baby, ‘ey sweet girl, wake up,” he doesn’t have time for this, he knows it, but there’s no way in fucking hell he’ll leave without saying goodbye.

you’re dead asleep, body splayed out and sinking into the mattress. he uncovers your back just barely to rub your skin, pulling the balaclava above his nose and moving down to kiss your head. he needs to breathe in your smell- just in case, needs to put his lips on your hair.

“c’mon sleepyhead, just for a second.” he’s whispering in your ear, squeezing the warm plush of your skin. eventually your eyes flutter, quite frantically, head rubbing into the pillow.

“what?”

he knows you’re mad, but he’ll take that over what’s coming next. “didn’t want to wake ya, but Price called, I gotta go.”

“tomorrow?”

he sees the disorientation, the confusion. he never just leaves in the middle of the night.

“no baby, now, i gotta go now.”

the sobering up is immediate, and he thinks one of his ribs just cracked and faded away with the look on your face. “what?” your voice is high-pitched, crackly, scared and confused. you try and lean up but he shushes you, pushes you back down into the bed.

“don’t get up, it’s late.”

“why are you going?”

and so it begins.

“emergency deployment, ‘asn’t ‘appended to me like this in a long while but everything is gonna be just fine. it won’t be long.”

he sees defeat, sees the wet look in your eyes- the way they beg him so sweetly.

“how come you have to go?”

he sighs, dejectedly, and places his forehead against your temple, nudging your cheek with his nose. “you know why,”

and when you whine like that, fuck, he could fall to his knees in defeat.

“i know it’s a lot and i want to explain, but i ‘ave to go okay, already running behind. if ‘m any later Price’ll throw me out the chopper ‘imself.”

you nod, close your eyes, and he knows you’ll be awake for a while- but you’ve accepted it, and you’ll be waiting.

“now c’mon, give me a kiss for the road yeah?” he offers you his cheek, and you obey, grabbing his arm even when he starts to pull away.

“gotta go.” he whispers, hating the way your grip tightens, the way he has to pry your fingers from his skin.

hates how he hears you sniffle as he grabs his bag, cracks your door, and leaves.

emergency it was, and long- though he promised otherwise -it was.

he couldn’t contact you, once.

for weeks they were stuck in remote areas, and the mere action of stopping long enough to sleep was too dangerous.

he knows you’re pacing and crying, probably puking if he’s brutally honest with himself. he knows how you get when you’re anxious and he knows that this is going to cause so much more than that.

it feels endless, relentless, until the light at the end of the tunnel shines, and they’re on the home stretch.

they have what they need, and they’re oh so close to safety. he sees your face, hears your voice, and feels something akin to fire hit his back.

it pierces through his body, shooting white-hot pain into his veins that branches out all over the left side of his leg, his abdomen, his arm.

it’s so intense that he falls face first in the dirt, writhing uncontrollably. it’s not a bullet, he could’ve kept running in that case, but something touching him from his toes and up to his shoulder.

something that feels sharp everywhere and fucking hot.

his body is heavy and brain filled with fog, but he knows that something happened. something bad.

he lays there for a while he thinks, skin feeling as thought it’s melting from his bones. when it gets too unbearable, he thinks of you.

what would happen if this was it- the last time he breathed life into his lungs?

would you survive that? would the same lava inside his chest invade yours and destroy your life?

would you be able to stand long enough to speak at his funeral, to watch them cover his casket in the same dirt he’s laying in- no, he’d be ashes. would you have the courage to hold the urn for eternity between your palms and somehow still exist in reality?

he wouldn’t, he couldn’t.

which means he has to stand.

voices grow louder, but his ears are ringing. he can’t hear them properly, especially from his left ear, so he ignores them. he rolls onto his right side, clenching his teeth and tasting blood.

he pushes, hard, ignores how the utter agony encapsulates his body, and he makes himself stand.

he has to come home.

the exfil isn’t far. he can make it.

he will.

something crackles inside of his ear, possibly the comms, but when he reaches his hand up to touch them, something sticky takes place, and he remembers it being in his right ear.

every step is torture, every twitch of his foot sends him groaning, but he can see you through the fire and that’s enough.

there’s no definite time frame of how long it takes him, nobody knows.

the only thing they know for sure is he should’ve been dead.

it’s what the nurses tell the doctors and the doctors tell Price, Johnny, and Gaz.

they ramble about injuries and treatment, medications and bills, and finally, do any of you have contact with a-

your name. they all go still, silent.

we’ve found her on his emergency contact list- it’s his only listed family, but when we tried to call, no one picked up the line. we’ve left voicemails, however, i think it’s vital she know, vital that he has her here.

at this point, Price felt dizzy.

they knew you by now. known you for years. two, to be exact. and somehow in the midst of it all, no one had thought to stop by and check on you, to call and give an update. to tell you he’s alive, breathing.

Gaz watches from the chair, notices the hand his Captain rubs so defeatedly down his face, but it’s Johnny that surprises them both.

his face goes hard, and all of a sudden he’s bolting up, despite shattered ribs.

“johnny wait,” Gaz calls for him, races to catch up, but Price stops him with a warm palm on his shoulder.

“he’s not taking off Kyle, he’s going to get her. let ‘im.”

and he does.

he stands at your front door and he pounds. fist to wood over and over.

the place is silent, no footsteps or blaring television. no signs of you.

he starts calling your name. “c’mon bonnie, open up, it’s johnny.” he yells once, twice, when you don’t answer by the fourth he’s worried, heart hammering in his chest.

he has a spare key somewhere on a keychain, collecting dust. it’s never needed used because he’s always just been let in. your sweet smile and soft hands guiding him to sit, or simon, big and warm, handing him a beer.

the key has to be forced inside, wiggled around and manhandled, but finally, the door handle turns and he opens the apartment to a different atmosphere then he’s used too.

it’s just so dark, lonely, and utterly quiet. johnny isn’t used to quiet.

he goes to your room with hope only to find the same eery response. it clicks right then where you are now, and, in turn, he skips over searching anywhere else.

simon’s bedroom is across from yours and a couple steps down, the door is cracked, and when he pushes it open it’s like something inside of him screams for relief.

there you are, curled up on the bed, looking absolutely shattered. red cheeks and eye bags. you’re wearing one of simon’s shirts he thinks, an old black band tee, worn and faded.

there’s dirty towels on the floor, nothing but simon’s clothes, maybe one pair of yours.

you’ve been living in his bedroom, probably haven’t left since the last time you heard from him, which was almost three weeks ago.

johnny breaks just the same, clears his throat to try and stop crying. “oh bonnie.”

and you absolutely crumble at that. tears start flooding your cheeks, chest collapsing and eyes closing. “don’t tell me, please, don’t say it.”

the hands in his jacket pocket feel so useless, so he touches your shoulder, ever so softly, and he kneels down, forces his eyes within your line of sight.

“no, lass, he’s alive.” a sob he’s never heard before breaks through from your chest, and you bury your head in the pillow, shaking your head.

you’re saying something, repeating it like a mantra. he doesn’t understand, can barely hear your voice, but instead of trying to fish it out he just pulls himself to sit next to you on the bed, then gently tugs you up and into his chest.

“he’s alive, i swear.”

you’re barely breathing, hiccuping sobs shaking your shoulders. it’s a lot, he knows, so he’s steady. he waits, lets you ask questions. it’s all brief and scattered, and when you finally pull back, your eyes are wide and frantic.

it’s hit you, and you need to see him.

“i know, come on, put some shoes on.” he pats your back and steps away to allow you some space.

you move groggily, slipping on some mismatched socks of simon’s and he guesses a pair of house shoes.

he barely drapes your arms through a jacket before you’re bolting through the hall, mumbling to yourself as you scramble to grab your dead phone, keys you don’t need, a purse that opens up and spills all over the floor.

“shit,”

he calls your name but you’re on your knees, scooping miscellaneous items back into the bag. he knows what’s happening, used to be in the same position before you came along.

back when simon was reckless, and life was just another inconvenience, he’d wait in rickety chairs while they’d sew him up in tents.

but you changed something inside of him, altered the part that ached for death and fueled a fire johnny didn’t know his lieutenant had.

it’s why it’s killing him watching you cry like this, all because you found the skull you keep on your keychain, because you found a little note simon wrote you one early morning, followed by mint gum and gummy bears, over and over it was remnants of him.

“i know it’s hard lamb, but he needs ye now, it’s time to go.” the hand on your shoulder feels so stiff but he doesn’t know what else to do.

this wasn’t anything he could fix, you weren’t going to be okay until you saw brown eyes and a crooked nose. (truthfully, neither was he.)

if he could just get you there.

it takes thirty minutes to guide you out of the apartment and to johnny’s truck, the drive there even longer.

you were fidgety, quiet, things he’s used to but that somehow still feel so out of place. he feels out of place.

he made a promise once, to protect you, hold you, if anything were to ever happen to simon, but now that he’s having to fill the space it’s all wrong. and johnny doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the courage to touch you again.

every brush of your skin against his jeans feels like he’s being ripped apart, every time you push him away he’s being sewn back together.

you’re not made for him, not even in platonic, you’re simply simon’s. all of you.

he’s awake, waiting.

it hurts to exist right now, to blink even, the nurses tell him to rest. they offer meds and fresh blankets, lower overhead lights to dim lamps, but it’s all meaningless.

empty.

it’s all too quiet, too loud, too much and not enough.

the only thing his mind can comprehend is the fact that you’re not here to fill the space.

Price and Gaz have come to visit. two very large and very confused grown men standing awkwardly at the edge of the bed. they don’t talk, price grunts a few times, mumbles some things beneath his breath, but it makes no difference.

he can’t hear from his left ear anymore, that side of his body feels completely immobile. and somehow, someway, it still aches to touch you.

it’s like they can see it, because the second simon opens his mouth they answer.

“johnny, he uh, he went to get ‘er.”

simon nods, agony.

“‘ow long she been sittin’, wonderin’ where I am?”

“too long.”

anger rushes his veins, makes him weak. his heart rate spikes and nurses come to shoo the men away.

she tried once more to get him to rest, but there’s this familiar shuffling of feet echoing in the distant. he may be half deaf now, he may be delirious, but he’d know those footsteps anywhere.

on his deathbed, he’d know, and he’d come alive just the same.

johnny’s voice follows shortly after, and suddenly the monitor slows down, suddenly there’s nothing but tunnel vision and a rushing of blood in his ear as the door handle turns.

he tenses, probably cries out in pain, but then you walk through the door.

weary, broken, but his.

your eyes meet and you’re still.

he doesn’t know what he can say. there’s grief written along your features, heartache. he felt the same way when he realized he might not come back to you. it’s why he sees it, why his mouth moves before his mind can think and suddenly his good arm is stretched out, reaching. begging you.

please. come home.

you well up. bottom lip beginning to tremble. and just like he knew it would it all falls down right there.

“oh swee’eart.”

you try and hold it in, he can see it, but your eyes trace the bandages, casts, monitors, cuts and bruises, burns and blood, and you lower your head, breaking open into a closed-lip sob.

the pain from this is worse then the throbbing in his stomach. his baby isn’t whole, and he won’t be until you are.

with a small wiggling of his fingers he asks you again. “come ‘ere, c’mon,” you only cry, so johnny puts a hand on your back, pushes you forward.

you’re shaking and tired, but he wants you right there, just like that, right beside him. he wants to feel the way your lungs rise and fall. feel your warmth.

when you come to the bed, you won’t touch him, just stand there in his clothes, his jacket, you missed him.

his good hand flexes, the needle poking him sharply as a reminder to settle, he’s dead, but he keeps begging you to come to him anyway. come home.

finally, you look him in the eyes and with a light tug, fall into his good side, curling up as tight as manageable. you touch his skin, his face, trace your fingertips over every scar and fresh wound.

“thought you died.”

so did he.

“nah baby. ‘s just a scratch.”

but he knows better. oh does he know. “no,” the word is crackled by a soft cry and he watches as your eyelashes flutter, tears making them wet. they fall on his neck, where you’ve begun to hide away.

guilt rips through him like a train, tearing each organ apart and sending it up into his chest. it squeezes his throat tight, makes him clear it just to breathe.

“i know i scared ya lovie, but ‘m olright. everything is olright.”

calloused fingers squeeze your thigh, trying and failing to soothe the anguish resonating out of your skin.

“you can’t do that again simon, please tell me you won’t ever do that again.”

“never.”

this makes you move closer, makes you move your hand up to squeeze his neck. he doesn’t tell you the pain there, the way every graze of your finger sends bolts of lightning down his back. the warmth overlaps it and makes it bearable. you make it bearable.

for a while the two of you just sit there, until the sun dims and the hospital quiets down.

you’ve been sleeping he thinks, weeks of exhaustion creeping up and knocking you down. he stays awake and watches, memorizes every wrinkle, every freckle, all the curves of your features. it brands itself into his mind, permanent.

you’re permanent, so he has to be too.

later in the night, when the iv has been flushed, his meds have been administered, and he’s made them bring you food, you wake, chin wobbly when you remember where you are.

“sh, relax, ‘m ‘ere.”

“was dreaming, about you.”

he knows, he heard ya. “yeah?” his teeth flash, and he noses your hair. “tell me.”

you shake your head no, readjusting so you’re laying on your back now. “it doesn’t matter, it’s not real.”

“but i am.”

fire spits off your tongue. “and i need you to stay that way.” you look at him, really look at him, doe eyes wide and serious. and he looks back, just as dedicated. “simon, you can’t leave me. i can’t do it without you, i won’t make it.”

he sighs, shrugs. “sure ya will, you’re strong.”

“only because of you.”

“that’s not true, you were fine before.”

“i was a living hell before, you make me whole riley, what am i supposed to do without half of my soul? it’s not fair to leave me like that, it’s not.” you’re breaking again, facade cracking.

he’s starting to do the same.

he might be half of yours but your all of his. it’s impossible to breathe without you, nonetheless survive.

“yeah,” silence. “i know.”

only for a moment does he lose himself. it’s when he can hear you thinking, and his mind wanders. he can imagine you alone, in that apartment.

he doesn’t know how johnny found you, but by the state of you now, he knows.

“‘m gonna do better, gonna try. just gotta be brave for a little longer.” his chin lands on your head, and he stares at the beeping of his heartbeat. it’s yours.

“i’m not asking you to quit, i know this is your life. and i just have to learn to deal. but i need you to at least make it home, in one piece. i need you to keep a promise.”

it settles then. breaths evening out, skin meshing with skin.

for you, he’d burn. and so he lies.

“now tha�� love, tha’ i can do.”

#lily recs #cod #mwii #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fluff #simon ghost riley angst

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lilyarchived · 1 month ago

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needy pt.2

chapter summary: You're Scott's younger sister and for months you've been secretly dating Logan. How much longer can you and him keep the secret?

word count: 10.9k+ (19.3k+ total)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: don't ask how or why this is so long, it was meant to be be less than 10k words but it just kept going. i was having a lot of fun writing this, and if people want to see a continuation or some other part of the story with these two, don't be afraid to ask! for now, enjoy cause there are like 3 smut scenes

the notes and the tags are the same as part 1! this is the second part!

warnings/tags: smut, unprotected piv, slight exhibitionism, slight pain kink, creampie, age gap (that's obvi), oral (f!receiving), slight praise kink, fingering, secret relationship, jealously, some possessiveness, peter maximoff being a little shit, fluff, slight angst

❀ part 1 ❀

Your shirt was tossed to the floor, your skirt pushed above your waist, and Logan was currently kissing his way down your chest, rough hands gripping your thighs, his stubble scratching against sensitive skin in a way that made you shiver.

But every so often, his eyes flicked to the side.

At first, you ignored it, too caught up in the heat of his mouth, the way his fingers kneaded into your skin. But when he stopped—lips hovering just above your stomach, brow furrowed—you huffed out a breath.

“Why do you keep looking over there?”

Logan glanced up at you, then back to the side, exhaling sharply. “…That fuckin’ teddy bear keeps lookin’ at me.”

You blinked before glancing toward your bed—where the massive stuffed bear from the carnival sat propped against your pillows, its black button eyes staring blankly into the room.

You snorted. “Pickles isn’t looking at you.”

Logan pulled back slightly, expression scrunching in absolute bewilderment. “The hell did you just call it?”

You grinned. “Pickles.”

His face was priceless. “You named the goddamn bear Pickles?”

“Yep.”

He shook his head, lips twitching in amusement. “Why the hell would you name a teddy bear that?”

“Because,” you said, smirking, “he’s named after the fried pickles we got after you won him for me.”

Logan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus. That’s terrible.”

“You love it.”

“I really don’t.”

You laughed, but before you could tease him further, Logan suddenly sat up and reached over, grabbing the bear by its soft, oversized head.

Without another word, he turned it around so its face was pressed into the pillow, its back to both of you.

“There.” Logan exhaled, satisfied. “Didn’t want him seein’ what I was gonna do to you.”

You burst out laughing, but it was cut short when Logan pounced, his mouth crashing back against yours, his hands slipping under your skirt with zero hesitation.

Pickles had seen enough. And Logan had work to do.

He pushed a thick finger into you, slow, deliberate. Your head fell back against the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as he moved—one finger, then two, curling just right, dragging moans from your lips with every precise stroke. His calloused palm pressed firm against your aching core, dragging a friction that had your breath stuttering.

"Fuck," you gasped, hips shifting instinctively.

Logan huffed a rough chuckle, his lips ghosting along the inside of your thigh. "That’s it," he murmured, voice low, thick with satisfaction. "Knew you’d be this fuckin’ needy."

Your fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles white as he set a slow, torturous rhythm, two thick fingers stretching you, filling you. Your legs trembled, thighs twitching with every precise curl.

"Logan," you breathed, half a plea, half a warning.

He hummed against your skin, tongue flicking over your hipbone. "What, sweetheart? S’too much?"

You shook your head, chest rising and falling in ragged motions. "No—just—just stop teasing."

Logan grinned against your stomach, lips rough from his stubble. "You think I’m teasin’?"

And then he pressed in deeper, his thumb brushing over your clit at the same time, sending a sharp jolt through you. Your back arched, a choked moan slipping from your lips.

"That’s what I thought," he said, voice smug, rough.

His fingers worked you over with ruthless precision, stroking that spot inside you that had your toes curling, your body writhing against the mattress. Every slow press, every drag of his thumb over your clit wound you tighter, hotter, until you were gripping his wrist, eyes fluttering.

"You gonna come for me?" Logan murmured, breath hot against your skin.

You clenched around his fingers in response, earning a low, pleased growl from him. He didn’t let up, didn’t stop, watching with dark, hungry eyes as you unraveled beneath him.

And when the tension finally snapped, your whole body tensed—then shattered, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your cry filled the room, and Logan didn’t stop until you were trembling, until every aftershock had been wrung from you.

Only then did he pull his fingers from you, slow, deliberate, watching as your body shivered from the loss. His gaze met yours, heated, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you again, his mouth crashing against yours, stealing every word, every thought.

His mouth was all heat and hunger, claiming yours in a way that left no room for thought—just sensation. His stubble scraped against your skin, rough and real, and the taste of you was still on his tongue, mingling with the whiskey he’d had earlier. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel owned.

But you weren’t about to let him have all the control.

With a sharp push, you shifted your weight, rolling him onto his back. He grunted in surprise, his grip tightening instinctively before he let you take the lead, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked up at you.

"Bossy tonight, huh?" His voice was low, rough with amusement, but his eyes—dark, hungry—told a different story.

"You don’t mind," you shot back, settling yourself over him, your thighs bracketing his waist.

His smirk widened, hands running up your thighs, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin there. "Hell no, sweetheart. Knock yourself out."

Your hands found his chest, tracing the solid lines of muscle, the ridges of old scars. Logan was all hard edges, rough hands, and sharp words, but right now, beneath you, there was something else—a quiet patience, a slow-burning restraint that only made you want to push him further.

You shifted, rolling your hips over the hard line of his jeans, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. Logan let out a sharp breath, fingers tightening on your thighs.

"Fuck," he muttered, his head tipping back slightly against the pillows. "You keep doin' that, I ain't gonna be responsible for what happens next."

You grinned, leaning down so your lips barely brushed his. "That a threat or a promise?"

His hands slid up, palms rough against your waist as he pulled you down the rest of the way, closing the distance between you with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and heat. His hands wandered, slipping beneath your bra, fingers teasing over sensitive skin, thumbs rolling over your nipples in a way that had you arching into him, your breath catching.

"You gonna take this off, or you want me to rip it?" Logan murmured against your lips, voice low, teasing.

You huffed a laugh. "Don’t you dare. I like this one."

"Fine," he said, but he still had that damn smirk on his face as he reached behind you, undoing the clasp in one smooth motion. The second the straps slipped down your arms, Logan's hands were on you, rough and greedy, palming your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples just to watch you shiver.

"Perfect," he muttered, his voice thick, almost reverent.

You rolled your hips again, dragging a groan from him, and the sound sent heat pooling low in your stomach. You could feel him, hard and thick beneath you, the friction between you just enough to tease, not nearly enough to satisfy.

Your hands trailed down his stomach to the waistband of his jeans. You slowly unbuckled his belt before tossing it to the side.

Then, your fingers worked the button of his jeans open, dragging the zipper down with deliberate slowness, teasing. Logan’s breath hitched, his hands gripping your hips just a little tighter, thumbs pressing into your skin.

"You’re playin’ with fire, doll," he muttered, voice thick, rough with impatience.

"Good," you shot back, fingers slipping beneath the waistband, pushing the denim down over his hips.

Logan lifted just enough to help you shove them lower, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against his stomach. Heat coiled in your belly at the sight of him—flushed, hard, already leaking at the tip.

"Fuck," you breathed, running a teasing finger along his length, just enough to watch his jaw tighten. "You’re already this worked up?"

Logan let out a low growl, hands flexing on your thighs. "You been grindin’ on me for ten fuckin’ minutes, what do you think?"

You smirked, shifting so you were straddling him fully, your bare core brushing against the head of his cock, dragging a sharp hiss from his lips.

"Then quit talking," you murmured, reaching between you to guide him to your entrance.

Logan’s breath was ragged as you sank down onto him, slow, deliberate, stretching around the thick length of him. He was big—he always was—but the burn was just right, just enough to make you shudder as he filled you, inch by inch.

"Christ," Logan rasped, his head tipping back against the pillow, fingers digging into your hips. "Tight as fuck—"

You exhaled a shaky breath, adjusting, rolling your hips experimentally. The stretch, the fullness—it sent sparks dancing up your spine, heat pooling low.

Logan groaned, eyes snapping back to you, dark, hungry. "Move, sweetheart."

You did. Slow at first, grinding your hips in slow, deliberate circles, feeling every inch of him drag inside you, your clit rubbing against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Logan's grip on your waist tightened, like he was fighting the urge to just flip you over and take control, but you weren’t about to let him.

Your hands planted against his chest for leverage as you lifted yourself up, only to sink back down, setting a rhythm that had both of you panting.

"Fuck, that’s it," Logan groaned, his fingers trailing up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, keeping you close. "You ride me so fuckin’ good, doll."

You leaned down, biting at his lower lip. "You like watching me fuck myself on your cock?"

His response was a guttural growl, his hips bucking up hard enough to make you gasp.

Your pace quickened, riding him harder, chasing the pleasure curling in your belly. Every drag of his cock inside you hit deep, the friction perfect, the angle just right. Logan was watching you, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every moan, every gasp.

"Touch yourself," he rasped, voice wrecked.

Your breath caught, but you obeyed, fingers slipping between your bodies to circle your clit. The added stimulation made you whimper, your thighs trembling as you rode him faster, harder.

Logan was unraveling beneath you, his muscles taut, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping your hips so hard you knew there’d be bruises.

"You gonna come for me?" His voice was strained, hoarse. "Come all over my cock, sweetheart?"

The tension snapped. Your orgasm slammed into you, stealing your breath, your whole body shaking as pleasure tore through you. Your walls clenched around him, dragging a curse from Logan as he thrust up into you, chasing his own release.

A few more erratic thrusts, and he was gone—his hips jerking, a growl tearing from his throat as he spilled deep inside you, fingers flexing against your waist, holding you down as he rode out every last pulse.

Silence hung between you, both of you catching your breath, bodies still tangled.

Finally, Logan exhaled a low, satisfied chuckle. "Pickles better not be lookin’ right now," Logan muttered, still breathless, his hands running idly over your thighs.

You let out a weak laugh, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as your body still hummed with the aftershocks. “I don’t think he’s judging you.”

Logan scoffed, his fingers trailing lazily up your spine. “He better not be. Ain’t gonna have some stuffed bear watchin’ while I wreck you.”

You groaned, shoving at his chest. “Can you not?”

Logan chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you in place. “What? You embarrassed now, sweetheart?”

You huffed, rolling off him and onto your back, still catching your breath. “No, I just think it’s weird you’re this bothered by a stuffed animal.”

Logan turned his head, glaring at the bear like it had personally offended him. “He’s just… there. Starin’.”

You threw an arm over your face, shaking with silent laughter. “Oh my God, you’re impossible.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, a soft thump.

You peeked out from under your arm just in time to see Pickles on the floor, face down, having been very unceremoniously shoved off the bed.

Logan stretched his arms behind his head, looking smug. “Problem solved.”

You snorted. “You are so petty.”

Logan just smirked, rolling onto his side to look at you. “Damn right. Now c’mere.”

You let out a squeak as he pulled you against his chest, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. His body was warm, solid, and you knew you should probably get up—clean up—but right now, wrapped up in Logan, you didn’t want to move.

---

“Hey. Would you mind checking the irrigation system? I just feel like something is wrong with it.” Ororo said, leaning against the counter in the kitchen while you ate a sandwich at the island.

You swallowed your bite and glanced at her. "What's wrong with it?"

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I don’t know exactly, but some of the plants in the greenhouse are drying out too fast. I checked the timers, everything should be working, but something’s off."

You nodded, already pushing your plate aside. "Yeah, I can take a look."

"Thanks." She gave you a small smile. "I’d check myself, but I promised the kids I’d help with their flight training today."

"No problem." You stood, grabbing your water bottle. "I’ll head over now."

As you turned to leave, Logan strolled into the kitchen, looking way too smug for no reason.

"Summers," he greeted casually, nodding at Ororo before his gaze flicked to you. "Goin' somewhere?"

"Irrigation system," you answered, reaching for an apple from the bowl on the counter. "Something’s off with it."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "You callin’ yourself an expert now?"

You smirked. "I literally have a degree for this, Logan."

His lips twitched, but before he could say something smart, Ororo let out a tired sigh. "You know what? Logan, why don’t you go with her? Two pairs of eyes are better than one."

You barely stopped yourself from choking on your water.

Logan blinked. "What?"

"You don’t have anything better to do," Ororo said, giving him a look. "And I’d rather not have to ask Hank to take apart the whole system if it turns out to be something simple."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Logan beat you to it. "Yeah, alright," he said, way too easily, like he wasn’t even remotely bothered. "Guess I could help out."

Ororo smiled. "Great. Let me know if you find anything."

With that, she left the kitchen, completely unaware of the absolute disaster she’d just created.

You turned to Logan, narrowing your eyes. "You are way too happy about this."

Logan smirked, grabbing a beer from the fridge. "What? I can’t enjoy a little quality time with my girl?"

"Not when we’re supposed to be keeping this quiet, you can’t," you muttered, grabbing your jacket. "Scott is literally somewhere in this house right now. You wanna take a wild guess at how bad things will go if he finds out?"

Logan shrugged, twisting the cap off his beer. "Guess we just gotta be real subtle then, huh?"

You groaned. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," he said, smirking as he followed you out the door.

---

The greenhouse was quiet when you got there, the sun filtering through the glass, casting everything in a warm glow. You walked over to the control panel, Logan leaning against the workbench beside you, watching.

"So, what’s the verdict, doc?" he asked, sipping his beer.

You rolled your eyes. "That’s not even remotely the right title."

He smirked. "Still hot, though."

You ignored him, pressing a few buttons on the panel to check the irrigation schedule. Everything looked normal—no skipped cycles, no errors. "Huh," you muttered, frowning.

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Bad ‘huh’ or just confused ‘huh’?"

"Confused," you admitted. "The system says it’s running fine, but if the plants are drying out, that means the water’s not getting distributed properly."

Logan tilted his head. "Could be a leak somewhere."

"Yeah, maybe." You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. "Looks like we’re gonna have to check the pipes."

Logan smirked. "So, what I’m hearin’ is, you need me to crawl around in the dirt while you stand there lookin’ pretty?"

You shot him a look. "No. What you’re hearing is that we both have to crawl around in the dirt because this system runs through half the property."

His smirk didn’t fade. "Still think you’d look real cute just supervisin’."

"Logan," you warned, crossing your arms.

He chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Let’s check your damn pipes."

---

After an hour of checking different lines, you finally found the issue—a cracked section of piping near the east gardens.

"See? Leak," Logan muttered, wiping dirt from his hands. "Told ya."

You huffed, brushing soil off your knees. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell Ororo she needs to replace this part of the system."

Logan stretched, rolling his shoulders. "You wanna tell her now, or you wanna take advantage of the fact that we’re conveniently outta sight?"

You turned, giving him a look. "We’re in the middle of the garden."

Logan stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Yeah. And?"

You swallowed, glancing around. The mansion was a good distance away, and the gardens were quiet. Still, it was risky.

"Logan," you started, but before you could finish, he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"Relax, doll," he murmured, his fingers trailing down your jaw. "Just sayin’, we got a little privacy."

Your heart pounded. You should’ve shut this down. Should’ve reminded him that literally anyone could walk by.

But then Logan’s hand slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, and every ounce of common sense you had went right out the window.

You let out a shaky breath. "You are such a bad influence."

Logan smirked. "And yet, you keep comin’ back."

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours—just a tease, just enough to make you chase him. Your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him in for real this time, kissing him like you didn’t care about the risk.

Because right now, you didn’t.

Logan hummed against your mouth, his grip tightening. "Told ya sneakin’ around was fun."

You sighed, pressing your forehead to his. "You’re impossible."

"And you love it," he murmured, kissing you again.

---

It was late at night when Logan snuck in through your window, one you conveniently left unlocked. It was around three in the morning—he knew you wouldn’t be awake at this time. Your room was dark, save for a soft glow from a nightlight in the corner. What stopped him was you curled up next to that damn bear—Pickles.

Logan stared, standing motionless beside your bed.

You were wrapped around the oversized stuffed animal, arms tucked beneath your chin, your face half-buried in the bear’s fuzzy head. One of your legs was thrown over it, keeping it locked against your body like it was an actual person.

Logan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

You shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, mumbling something incoherent. He watched as your fingers curled into the bear’s fur, pulling it even closer.

He narrowed his eyes. Then, with zero hesitation, he reached down and yanked Pickles right out of your arms.

A confused whimper escaped you as your grip slipped, but you didn’t wake up—just frowned in your sleep, instinctively reaching out to grab at something.

Logan smirked, tossing the bear toward the chair in the corner. Pickles landed with a soft thud, face down, abandoned.

“Not tonight, bub,” Logan muttered, sliding into bed beside you.

Without the stuffed barrier in the way, your body naturally curled toward his, your hand finding his chest, your head tucking beneath his chin. Logan huffed out something close to a laugh, wrapping an arm around you, his palm resting warm against your back.

"That’s better," he murmured against your hair.

He expected you to settle, maybe even murmur some sleepy complaint before drifting back off. What he didn’t expect was for you to suddenly mutter—half-asleep, barely audible, “bring him back.”

Logan blinked. “What?”

Your fingers twitched against his shirt, your face scrunching slightly. "Pickles. Give him back."

Logan stared at you like you’d just insulted his entire existence. "Not happenin’, sweetheart."

You let out a sleepy, frustrated sigh, shifting against him. "He’s soft."

Logan scoffed. "So am I."

You made a small, disgruntled noise, but didn’t argue—just burrowed deeper into him, apparently deciding he was an acceptable substitute.

Logan smirked. "That’s what I thought."

A comfortable silence settled, your breathing even, your body warm against his. He let his hand wander up and down your spine, slow, absentminded. Maybe sneaking around was a pain in the ass, but moments like this?

Yeah. Worth it.

---

In the morning, you found yourself still curled around Logan. His arm was slung lazily over your waist, his body warm against yours. His steady breathing tickled the top of your head, and for a second, you just stayed there, soaking in the quiet.

Then—his voice, still rough with sleep. "You know, if you wanted somethin’ to hold onto at night, you could just call me over instead of clingin’ to that damn bear."

You barely cracked an eye open. "Pickles."

Logan huffed. "Not callin’ him that."

You smirked, burying your face against his chest. "You’re just mad he’s softer than you."

"That right?" His hand slid down, fingers squeezing your hip. "You sure about that?"

You let out a soft laugh, shifting against him. "Mmhmm. You’re all muscle and stubble. Pickles is fluffy."

Logan muttered something under his breath, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your back. "Still don’t get why you sleep with that thing."

You hesitated for half a second before mumbling, "’cause he smells like you."

Logan stilled. You felt the way his fingers paused against your skin, the way his breathing slowed just slightly. Then—his voice, quieter this time. "Yeah?"

You swallowed, suddenly regretting saying anything. "Forget it."

His hand slid up, catching your chin and tilting your face toward him. His gaze flickered over yours, something unreadable in his eyes.

"Nah," he murmured. "Say it again."

You rolled your eyes, but your face was warm. "I said forget it."

Logan smirked, but it was softer this time, less teasing. "So what you’re tellin’ me is… every time you curl up with that stupid bear, you’re actually thinkin’ about me?"

"Don’t make it weird."

"Too late." He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. "That’s real fuckin’ sweet, doll."

You groaned, shoving at his chest. "Ugh, never mind. Give Pickles back."

Logan laughed, tightening his hold around you. "Nope. You lost stuffed animal privileges."

"That’s not a thing!"

"It is now."

You huffed, but you didn’t fight him. Not when he was warm and solid against you, not when his fingers were still tracing slow circles against your hip.

After a moment, Logan murmured, "you really don’t gotta wait for a goddamn stuffed bear to smell like me. Y’know that, right?"

You hesitated before answering. "I know."

His grip on you tightened, just slightly. "Good."

And even though he was an ass about it, even though you knew he was gonna bring this up at the worst possible moment just to mess with you—you still let yourself relax against him, letting his warmth, his scent, his presence wrap around you.

Because, yeah, you could’ve just called him over. But right now, he was here.

---

Later that morning, you were in the kitchen, making coffee when Rogue strolled in, looking far too amused for this early in the day.

“So,” she drawled, leaning against the counter. “Have a good night?”

You didn’t look at her. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Rogue smirked. “Uh-huh. Funny, ‘cause I coulda sworn I saw Logan sneakin’ outta your window when I got up.”

You sighed, sipping your coffee. “Mind your business.”

“Oh, sugar,” she grinned, “this is my business.”

You groaned, setting your mug down. “If I tell you to shut up, will you?”

“Nope.”

You gave her a flat look. “Fantastic.”

Rogue chuckled, stealing a piece of toast from your plate. “So, what’s the deal? You two ever gonna stop sneakin’ around?”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your mug. “It’s just easier this way.”

“For who?”

You exhaled, leaning against the counter. “Scott would lose his mind if he found out.”

Rogue raised an eyebrow. “And? He ain’t your keeper, Y/N. You’re a grown-ass woman.”

You shot her a look. “You don’t have a brother like Scott.”

“True,” she admitted. “But Logan’s actin’ like he’s gettin’ real tired of all the sneakin’ around.”

Your stomach twisted. “…He said that?”

“He didn’t have to.” Rogue smirked. “Man’s already borderline feral for you. Pretty sure the only reason he ain’t dragged you away yet is ‘cause he knows you’d feel bad ‘bout it.”

You swallowed. She wasn’t wrong.

Rogue nudged your shoulder. “Just think about it, sugar. Logan ain’t exactly patient.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “Yeah. I know.”

She gave you a knowing look before grabbing another piece of toast and walking off.

You sat there, staring into your coffee, Rogue’s words circling in your head. This was getting harder. And you had no idea how much longer you could keep up the lie.

---

Every month you and Scott had a designated night where you would play chess and ‘catch up.’ You weren’t sure when it started, or why the game you played together was chess, but you didn’t have it in you to argue or skip out on it.

You sat across from him in the study, the old wooden chessboard set up between you. A lamp cast a warm glow over the pieces, making long shadows stretch across the table.

Scott studied the board like it held the secrets of the universe. You, on the other hand, were barely paying attention. Because Logan was somewhere in the mansion. And you were painfully aware of it.

“You good?” Scott asked, glancing up from the board.

You blinked, snapping out of it. “Huh?”

Scott frowned. “You seem distracted.”

You forced a casual shrug. “Just tired.”

Scott didn’t look convinced, but he moved his knight anyway. “You’ve been acting weird lately.”

You tensed. “Weird how?”

Scott leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I don’t know. You disappear a lot. You keep missing training or showing up late. Jean said your heart rate spikes randomly during dinner—”

Your stomach dropped. “She what?”

Scott waved a hand. “Not in a weird way. She just notices things.”

Yeah. You were sure she did. You picked up your rook, trying to ignore the way your pulse picked up again. “Scott, I have a life outside of training, you know.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

You gave him a look. “Yes, I do.”

He huffed, moving a pawn. “Fine. Who is he?”

Your hand froze mid-air. “What?”

Scott smirked. “Who’s the guy?”

Your brain short-circuited for a full three seconds. “Why would you assume it’s a guy?”

Scott shrugged. “Because I know you. And the only time you get this distracted is when someone’s involved.”

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled for something, anything, to throw him off. “How do you know it’s not a girl?”

Scott snorted. “Because I know you, and if you were seeing a girl, I’d have noticed by now.”

You moved your rook without thinking, mostly just to keep your hands busy. “Pretty sure you just admitted you haven’t noticed.”

Scott narrowed his eyes at you, clearly not letting this go. “So there is someone.”

Shit. “I didn’t say that,” you said quickly, trying to sound bored, like this conversation wasn’t sending your pulse through the roof.

Scott leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “Then say it now. There’s no one.”

You hesitated for half a second too long.

Scott’s smirk widened. “Gotcha.”

You groaned, running a hand down your face. “Scott—”

“No, no, now I have to know,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Who is he?”

“There’s no—”

“Do I know him?”

You exhaled sharply. “Scott.”

Scott ignored you. “Is it one of the new recruits? Someone in town? Oh God, tell me it’s not Warren—”

“Ew, no!” You made a face. “Gross.”

Scott smirked. “That was a strong reaction.”

“Because that’s disgusting.”

Scott chuckled, moving his bishop. “Okay, so not Warren.”

You huffed, leaning back in your chair. “This conversation is ridiculous.”

Scott tilted his head slightly, watching you too closely. “So there is someone.”

You were going to kill Rogue. Somehow, this had to be her fault.

You inhaled through your nose, trying to steady your voice. “Not that it’s any of your business, but if there was someone, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

Scott frowned, his entire demeanor shifting from teasing to overprotective in record time. “Of course it’s a big deal.”

You groaned. “Scott—”

“I just wanna know who’s dating my little sister.”

You moved your queen, taking his bishop, and shot him a flat look. “And if I don’t tell you?”

Scott didn’t even blink. “Then I find out myself.”

Your stomach clenched. He wasn’t bluffing. And if Scott started looking—really looking—he’d figure it out. Fast. Logan wasn’t exactly subtle, and you were running out of ways to dodge questions. You needed to throw Scott off your trail, fast.

So, you did the first thing you could think of. You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Fine. It’s Peter.”

Scott blinked. Then he stared at you, his expression somewhere between disbelief and outright horror. “…Peter Maximoff?”

You nodded, keeping your face as neutral as possible.

Scott made a strangled noise. “Quicksilver?”

“Yeah.”

Scott recoiled like you’d just told him you were engaged to a war criminal. “No. No way.”

You shrugged, picking up your knight and moving it. “You wanted to know.”

Scott ran a hand over his face. “You cannot be serious.”

You fought the urge to smirk. “Why not? He’s nice.”

Scott groaned, pushing away from the table like the thought alone was physically painful. “He’s annoying.”

“He’s funny,” you corrected.

“He’s reckless.”

“He’s spontaneous.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “He’s immature.”

You shrugged again, making a show of considering it. “I think it’s kind of charming.”

Scott groaned again, rubbing his temples like this conversation was causing him actual pain. “How long?”

You tilted your head. “Hmm?”

“How long have you been…” Scott waved a hand vaguely. “Seeing him?”

You forced a thoughtful look, like you had to think about it. “A couple months?”

Scott let out an exasperated breath, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it,” you said casually, moving your piece. “Check.”

Scott didn’t even look at the board. “We’re not done talking about this.”

You smirked. “Pretty sure we are.”

Scott muttered something under his breath, looking thoroughly unamused, but he didn’t press.

You had successfully dodged the bullet. For now.

---

It had been four days since your little chess game with Scott, and while you’d managed to throw him off your trail with the whole Peter Maximoff thing, you were starting to regret it.

Because now, Scott was watching you and Peter like a hawk.

You knew it had been a bad idea the second Peter found out. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world. He kept winking at you during meals, slinging an arm around your shoulder whenever Scott was around, and making ridiculously suggestive comments just to see your brother’s eye twitch.

And Logan? Logan was not amused.

He’d barely reacted when you first told him, just raised an eyebrow and muttered, “you couldn’t come up with a better lie?”

But as the days passed and Peter continued to mess with Scott, Logan’s patience was wearing very thin.

So, when you walked into the rec room and found Peter sprawled out on the couch, grinning at Logan—who was standing over him with his arms crossed, looking one second away from snapping—yeah, you knew this was about to be a problem.

You sighed, closing the door behind you. “What are you two doing?”

Peter smirked up at you. “Hey, babe.”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose.

You shot Peter a glare before turning to Logan. “Please tell me you haven’t threatened him.”

Logan’s lips twitched slightly, like he wanted to smirk but was still too pissed. “Didn’t have to.”

Peter propped himself up on one elbow, grinning. “Your boyfriend is jealous.”

Logan’s head snapped toward him so fast Peter actually flinched.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Peter, I swear—”

“What? It’s true!” Peter grinned, looking entirely too entertained by the whole thing. “Big, bad Wolverine doesn’t like that Scotty thinks we’re together.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. “You enjoy makin’ my life harder, don’t you?”

Peter gasped, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Me? Never.”

Logan’s fists curled, and you could see the patience draining from his body. Before he could make a very bad decision, you grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the door. “Alright, enough.”

Peter snickered. “You guys gonna go make out now?”

Logan turned so fast that Peter actually rolled off the couch to avoid him. You yanked Logan out of the room before he could kill him. The second the door shut behind you, you sighed. “You cannot murder Peter, Logan.”

Logan’s teeth were clenched so tight you were surprised they hadn’t cracked. “Give me one good reason.”

You squeezed his arm. “Because Scott cannot find out about us.”

Logan exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, well, if that little shit calls you ‘babe’ one more time, I can’t be held responsible.”

You fought back a smirk, but you didn’t entirely succeed. “You are jealous.”

Logan scoffed. “Jealous? Of Maximoff?” He snorted. “You serious?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. That’s why you were about to throw him through a wall.”

Logan didn’t answer, just crossed his arms and looked away.

You stepped closer, tilting your head up to look at him. “You know Scott’s buying it, right? That was the whole point.”

Logan’s jaw ticked, but he still wasn’t looking at you.

You smirked. “Aww. You mad I haven’t kissed you in public?”

Logan’s eyes snapped back to yours, dark and dangerous. “Sweetheart,” he muttered, voice dropping, “you better be real sure you wanna start somethin’ right now.”

Your stomach flipped. You knew that look. You swallowed, pulse picking up. “Maybe I do.”

Logan’s smirk was all teeth. “Then get your ass upstairs.”

Your breath hitched. “Logan—”

“Now,” he growled, stepping closer, his body heat swallowing you whole. “Unless you want your brother to walk by and see me pushin’ you against this wall.”

Your face burned. You turned immediately, heading straight for your room.

Logan’s low chuckle followed you all the way up the stairs.

---

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since you’d started the fake dating Peter disaster, and while it had successfully kept Scott off your back, it had come with its own set of problems.

For one, Peter was still milking it for all it was worth. He’d taken to calling you babe and sweetheart in the most obnoxious ways possible, always just within Scott’s earshot. He threw an arm around your shoulder in the halls, made jokes about our song at dinner, and once—just to piss Logan off—winked at him across the room while sliding his hand into yours.

You’d nearly died. Logan had nearly killed him. The second problem? Logan was getting real tired of keeping things quiet.

It wasn’t just the usual sneaking around anymore. It was the way he was getting bolder about it. The way his hands lingered too long when he passed you in the hall. The way his eyes followed you across a room, sharp, hungry, like he didn’t give a shit who noticed.

And then there were moments like this. Logan had you pressed against your bedroom door, one hand braced above your head, the other gripping your waist. His mouth was at your ear, voice rough with frustration.

“This bullshit needs to end.”

You swallowed, your breath coming a little too fast. “Logan—”

He leaned in, his stubble scraping against your jaw as his lips brushed your skin. “Tell me you’re done playin’ pretend with Maximoff.”

You were done. You had been for days. But you still hesitated. “Scott—”

“Fuck Scott.” Logan’s grip on your waist tightened, his voice dropping lower. “You’re mine, Y/N. Not his, not Maximoff’s—mine.”

Your stomach flipped. “Logan…”

His teeth grazed your pulse, just enough to make you shiver. “Say it.”

You clenched your jaw. “We still have to be careful—”

“Sweetheart,” Logan growled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark, dangerous, “I ain’t ever been careful with things I want.”

Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling into his shirt.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Because Logan wasn’t just some stupid crush. He wasn’t just a fun secret to keep. He was… everything. And the longer you kept this hidden, the harder it was getting to breathe.

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, there was a sharp knock at your door.

Both of you froze.

“Y/N, open up.” Scott.

Logan exhaled sharply, stepping back. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

You shoved at his chest. “Go hide.”

Logan rolled his eyes but moved toward the closet, muttering, “déjà vu,” under his breath.

You smoothed out your shirt, inhaled deeply, and then cracked the door open.

Scott stood there, arms crossed, looking vaguely annoyed. “Why was your door locked?”

You gave him a flat look. “Because I was changing?”

Scott frowned, like he almost believed you, but not quite. “Right.”

You sighed, opening the door more. “What do you want, Scott?”

Scott hesitated, then ran a hand over his face. “Look. I just…” He sighed again. “I need to talk to you about Peter.”

Your stomach dropped. “Peter?”

Scott nodded, his expression tight. “Yeah.”

You felt the blood drain from your face, your heart pounding so loudly you almost didn’t hear what he said next.

“I don’t trust him.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Scott exhaled, crossing his arms again. “I don’t trust him with you.”

You almost laughed. That’s what this was about?

Scott continued, completely oblivious to the actual disaster happening just a few feet behind you. “He’s too reckless. He jokes about everything. I just… I don’t think he’s taking this seriously.”

You resisted the urge to rub your temples. “Scott—”

“I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Your stomach twisted. Goddamn it. You might’ve been lying to him, but Scott wasn’t the enemy here. He was just looking out for you. And you hated how guilty that made you feel. You swallowed, forcing a small smile. “I am, Scott. I promise.”

Scott studied you for a second longer before sighing. “Okay. Just… be careful, alright?”

You nodded. “I will.”

Scott exhaled, running a hand through his hair before finally stepping back. “Alright. I’ll see you at dinner.”

You nodded again, waiting until his footsteps faded down the hall before shutting the door and pressing your forehead against it.

“That’s it,” Logan muttered, stepping out of the closet. “I’m ending this.”

You turned, brows furrowing. “What?”

“I’m tellin’ him.”

Your stomach plummeted. “No.”

Logan scoffed. “Y/N—”

“No,” you repeated, stepping in front of him. “We can’t just tell him.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. “You really think he’s never gonna find out?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because you didn’t have an answer to that. And Logan knew it.

His expression softened just slightly. “Sweetheart…”

You swallowed, voice quieter. “I just… I don’t want to fight with him. I hate fighting with him. He’s the only family I have left.”

Logan’s gaze softened, but his jaw was still tight, his hands curling into fists like he was holding back every single thing he wanted to say.

“I know, sweetheart,” he muttered. “But lyin’ to him ain’t gonna fix that.”

You swallowed hard, arms crossing over your chest. “And telling him is?”

Logan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s gonna happen sooner or later.”

Your stomach twisted because, yeah, he was right. Scott was already suspicious, and keeping up this stupid fake thing with Peter was exhausting. But every time you thought about actually telling him—about watching his face change, seeing the way he’d probably look at you like you’d betrayed him—you couldn’t do it.

“I just need more time,” you said quietly.

Logan’s expression flickered, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “Time for what?”

You hesitated. “Time to figure out how to tell him in a way that won’t make him hate me.”

Logan scoffed, shaking his head. “You really think he’s gonna hate you?”

You pressed your lips together, looking away.

“Doll,” Logan muttered, stepping closer. “Scott’s a pain in the ass, but he loves you. He’s not gonna stop because of me.”

You exhaled shakily. “You don’t know that.”

Logan reached out, his fingers curling gently under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Yeah, I do.”

You swallowed, staring at him. His hand was warm, his thumb brushing slow against your skin, his grip solid, grounding. But it wasn’t that easy.

“I just…” You shook your head. “I don’t wanna lose him, Logan.”

Logan sighed, his forehead dropping against yours for a second before he pulled back. “You ain’t gonna lose him. But you keep this up, you’re gonna lose your damn mind.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, but it wasn’t really funny.

Logan studied you for a moment, then his fingers traced lightly down your arm before he let go. “You do what you gotta do. But I’m done sneakin’ around like some kid hidin’ from his girlfriend’s old man.”

Your stomach clenched. “So what? You’re just gonna start making out with me in the middle of the kitchen?”

Logan’s smirk was all teeth. “Hell yeah, I am.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Logan, I swear to God—”

“What?” he said, tilting his head. “I already told you, I ain’t sneakin’ around anymore. So if I feel like grabbin’ my girl and kissin’ the hell outta her in the middle of the damn kitchen, I’m gonna do it.”

Your stomach flipped, but you scowled. “You’ll get us caught.”

Logan just shrugged, completely unbothered. “Maybe.”

You threw your hands up. “That’s not a good thing!”

Logan huffed a laugh, stepping closer, backing you up against the edge of your desk. His hands landed on your hips, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Sweetheart, I ain’t the one lyin’ to your brother. That’s all you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You agreed to this.”

“Yeah, and now I’m un-agreein’.” His hands slid higher, thumbs brushing against your ribs. “Gettin’ real tired of pretendin’ I don’t wanna put my hands on you every time you walk into a room.”

Your pulse spiked, and he definitely noticed. His smirk widened, and you knew you were losing this argument.

You exhaled sharply, putting a hand on his chest. “Just—give me a little more time, okay?”

Logan’s jaw ticked, his grip tightening for half a second before he sighed, stepping back. “Fine. But I ain’t makin’ it easy for you.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Logan’s eyes gleamed with something downright smug. “Means if I wanna touch you, I’m gonna. If I wanna look at you like I’m thinkin’ about takin’ you apart right then and there, I’m gonna.”

Your mouth went dry. “Logan—”

“And if Summers gets suspicious?” Logan shrugged. “Not my problem.”

You gaped at him. “That’s literally the entire problem!”

Logan just smirked, brushing past you toward the door. “Better start thinkin’ of an exit plan, sweetheart.”

And with that, he strolled out of your room, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, brain short-circuiting.

---

You were, in fact, completely screwed. Because Logan wasn’t bluffing.

It started small—little touches, barely noticeable. A hand resting on the small of your back as he walked past, fingers brushing yours when he handed you something, his knee knocking against yours under the table at dinner. Subtle things that could’ve been brushed off if you didn’t know him.

But then he got bolder.

Leaning in close whenever he talked to you, his voice dropping low enough that it sent shivers down your spine. His hand lingering on your waist just a second too long. The way he looked at you across a room—dark, intense, like he was daring you to react.

And Scott? Scott was starting to notice.

He wasn’t outright suspicious yet, but his eyes would narrow every time Logan got too close, every time Logan made some offhand comment that sounded just a little too familiar. It didn’t help that Peter was still being an ass about the whole thing, grinning like he knew Logan was barely keeping it together.

And then came the moment everything almost fell apart.

---

You were in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, minding your own business when Logan walked in. You knew it was him before you even looked up—the scent of cigar smoke and leather, the way the air in the room seemed to shift.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped up behind you, real close, one hand bracing on the counter beside yours. “You sleep okay?” he murmured, his voice low.

You swallowed. He wasn’t touching you, not really, but the heat of him at your back had your pulse spiking. “Fine,” you said, keeping your voice even. “Why?”

Logan hummed. “Thought maybe you’d have trouble, seein’ as how I wasn’t there.”

Your stomach flipped. Before you could tell him to knock it off, Scott walked in. Logan didn’t move.

Your breath caught in your throat, but you kept your expression neutral, forcing yourself to casually step away from the counter and grab a glass from the cabinet. Logan still hadn’t backed up, still standing too close, but at least he wasn’t blatantly touching you.

Scott paused in the doorway, glancing between the two of you. You braced yourself. But instead of questioning anything, Scott’s frown deepened, and then he said, “I need to talk to you.”

Your stomach sank. “Me?”

Scott nodded. “Now.”

You hesitated, then set your glass down. “Okay.” You didn’t look at Logan as you followed Scott out of the kitchen, but you could feel his eyes on you the whole way.

Scott led you to the study, shutting the door behind you. He didn’t say anything at first, just turned and studied you like he was trying to read your mind.

You crossed your arms. “Okay, what’s up?”

Scott exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s about Peter.”

You barely stopped yourself from groaning. “Again?”

Scott’s expression tightened. “You know I don’t trust him.”

You sighed. “Scott—”

“No, listen,” he said, crossing his arms. “I get that you don’t wanna hear it, but I don’t think he’s serious about this. I think he’s just screwing around, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Guilt punched you straight in the chest. Scott thought he was protecting you, looking out for you. And you were standing here, lying to his face. You swallowed hard. “Scott, I told you—I’m fine.”

Scott frowned. “You don’t even look happy when you’re with him. And I don’t mean, like, in some overprotective big brother way—I mean you don’t act like someone in a real relationship. There’s no… I don’t know. No connection. It’s like you’re just going through the motions.”

Your mouth was dry.

Scott exhaled, looking at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “So tell me the truth. What’s really going on?”

Your heart pounded. You could lie again. Dig yourself deeper.

Or—

You took a slow breath. “Scott…” You hesitated, stomach twisting, then forced the words out. “It’s not Peter.”

Scott’s brow furrowed. “What?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not dating Peter.”

Scott just stared at you. “But—you said—”

“I lied,” you admitted, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. “I only said it to get you off my back.”

Scott’s expression darkened. “So there is someone.” You hesitated. Scott took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Who?” You opened your mouth—then shut it. Scott’s gaze flickered, sharp, calculating. And then, like a switch flipping, realization dawned across his face. His jaw clenched. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Your stomach plummeted.

Scott took a sharp breath, hands curling into fists. “It’s Logan.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. He knew. Your heart raced as Scott’s entire body tensed, his face twisting into something between anger and disbelief.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, voice dangerously low.

You couldn’t. And that silence? That was enough.

Scott exhaled sharply, turning away like he physically couldn’t look at you. His hands went to his hips, his head dropping forward as he took a moment, his breathing tight, controlled. Then he turned back, expression like stone. “How long?”

You swallowed. “Scott—”

“How long?”

You hesitated. “Eight months.”

Scott inhaled through his nose, like he was trying very hard not to explode. “Eight months?” You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Scott let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

You clenched your fists. “Scott, I—”

“No,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to explain this away.”

Your jaw tightened. “I wasn’t going to explain it away. I was going to tell you the truth.”

Scott scoffed. “Oh, now you wanna tell me the truth?”

You exhaled sharply. “Look, I get it, okay? You’re pissed, and you have every right to be. But I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react exactly like this.”

Scott threw his hands up. “How the hell did you expect me to react?”

“I don’t know, maybe without immediately jumping down my throat?”

Scott’s glare was sharp. “You’re seriously gonna stand there and act like I shouldn’t be pissed that my best friend has been sneaking around with my little sister?”

Your frustration flared. “Logan isn’t just your best friend—he’s mine, too. And I didn’t plan for this to happen, Scott. It just… did.”

Scott ran both hands over his face, pacing. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

You crossed your arms. “I know you don’t like it—”

“You think?”

You groaned. “Scott, I love him.” Scott’s pacing stopped. He turned, staring at you like you’d just said the most impossible thing in the world. You swallowed hard. “I love him,” you repeated, quieter this time.

Scott’s jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I need to talk to Logan.”

Your stomach twisted. “Scott—”

“No,” he said firmly, already heading for the door. “He wants to be with you? Fine. Then he can explain himself.”

And just like that, Scott was gone.

Your heart pounded as you stood there, frozen, bracing yourself for what came next. Scott was already storming down the hall, and you knew exactly where he was headed.

Shit.

You forced yourself to move, shoving away from the desk and hurrying after him. “Scott, wait—”

He didn’t. He was on a mission, his jaw clenched, shoulders tense as he turned the corner and entered the kitchen, where Logan was still leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee like he had all the time in the world.

Logan barely had time to look up before Scott was right in front of him. “You and my sister?”

Logan set his coffee down with zero urgency, his expression unreadable. “Guessin’ she told you, huh?”

Scott let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Eight months. Eight months you’ve been sneaking around with my little sister, and you never thought to tell me?”

Logan crossed his arms. “Didn’t think you’d take it well.”

Scott scoffed. “Yeah, no shit.”

You stepped forward, pulse still racing. “Scott, I—”

“No, you stay out of this for a second,” Scott snapped, pointing at you before turning back to Logan. “You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

Logan’s face remained infuriatingly calm. “And?”

“And you didn’t think that maybe—just maybe—I deserved to know?”

Logan exhaled slowly, like he was thinking very carefully about what he was going to say. “Look, Summers. You’re pissed, I get it. But me not tellin’ you? That was her call.”

Scott turned to you, eyes flashing. “Seriously?”

You squared your shoulders. “I knew you’d react like this.”

Scott threw his hands up. “Like what? Like someone who just found out his best friend has been messing around with his sister behind his back?”

Logan’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. “Watch it, Summers.”

Scott’s head snapped back to him. “Or what?”

Logan’s hands flexed at his sides, but he didn’t move, didn’t take the bait. Instead, he just held Scott’s glare, unmoving. “You really think I’d do somethin’ to hurt her?”

Scott clenched his jaw, saying nothing.

“C’mon, man,” Logan continued, his tone lower now, less defensive. “I get why you’re pissed. I do. But I ain’t some asshole just messin’ around.” His gaze flicked to you for half a second before he looked back at Scott. “I love her.”

Your breath caught.

Scott’s shoulders tensed. “You what?”

Logan exhaled sharply, like he hated repeating himself, but he still did. “I love her.”

Scott’s jaw was tight, his whole body still stiff, but for the first time since he walked in, he didn’t immediately fire back. He was processing.

You didn’t wait for him to figure it out. You stepped forward, voice quieter now. “Scott… I know this isn’t what you wanted, but it’s not your decision. I love him.”

Scott closed his eyes for a second, inhaling deeply. When he opened them, some of the sharp anger had faded, replaced with something more complicated. Frustration. Conflict.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I need a minute.”

You hesitated. “Scott—”

“I just—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I just need a second, okay?”

You exchanged a glance with Logan, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Scott sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out. The second he was gone, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, shoulders slumping.

“Well,” Logan muttered, reaching for his coffee, “that coulda gone worse.”

You shot him a look. “Are you kidding?”

Logan smirked. “No punches were thrown. I call that a win.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “He’s so pissed.”

“Yeah,” Logan admitted, taking a sip of his coffee. “But he’ll get over it.”

You exhaled sharply. “You sound real confident about that.”

Logan shrugged. “He’ll come around. Might take a bit, but he will.”

You swallowed, staring at the spot Scott had just been standing. You weren’t so sure.

---

Scott avoided both of you for two days.

Not in a dramatic, storming-out-of-the-room way—more like a tight-lipped, jaw-clenched, very obvious avoidance where he refused to be alone with either of you. If you walked into a room, he’d suddenly have somewhere else to be. If Logan so much as glanced in his direction, Scott’s entire body would tense like he was physically restraining himself from starting a fight.

And when he did speak to you, it was short. Civil, but distant.

It sucked.

Rogue had been the first to break the silence, dropping onto your bed the night after the whole blow-up with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well, sugar, I gotta say, it could be worse.”

You shot her a look. “How?”

She smirked. “He hasn’t tried to kill Logan yet.”

You groaned, rolling onto your side. “Yet.”

Rogue nudged your arm. “He’ll get over it.”

You exhaled sharply. “You sound just like Logan.”

She grinned. “Well, maybe he’s got a point.”

You sighed, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not just that he’s pissed. It’s like… I don’t know. Like he’s disappointed.”

Rogue’s smirk softened. “Scott’s a control freak, Y/N. He likes things a certain way, and you dating Logan? That wasn’t in the plan.”

You didn’t answer.

Rogue tilted her head. “You ever think maybe it’s not just about Logan?”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Rogue shrugged. “I think Scott’s got it in his head that you’re always gonna be his baby sister. That he can always look out for you, make sure you don’t get hurt.” She gave you a look. “And now? You don’t need him like that anymore.”

You hadn’t thought about it like that.

Rogue sighed, patting your arm before standing. “Just give him time. And maybe don’t rub it in his face too much.”

You huffed. “Tell that to Logan.”

Rogue snorted. “Oh, I did. He just smirked at me and said, ‘Summers already hates me. What’s the worst that could happen?’”

You groaned. “I hate him.”

“No, you don’t,” Rogue said with a grin, already heading for the door. “Night, sugar.”

You sighed, flopping back against your pillows. Time. You just had to wait.

---

It took four days. On the fifth, Scott finally cornered you outside, catching you by the greenhouse just before dinner. “Hey.”

You turned, heart jumping slightly. You hadn’t talked alone since he’d found out. “Hey.”

Scott shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “You got a minute?”

You nodded, following him to one of the benches near the garden. The silence stretched between you, awkward and heavy.

Finally, Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m still not… thrilled about this.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“But.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ve been thinking. And… you’re not a kid.”

Your lips twitched. “Glad you finally noticed.”

Scott huffed, but his expression softened. “I can’t say I like it. And I definitely don’t like Logan.”

You snorted. “Yeah, I got that.”

Scott gave you a look before sighing again. “But I know he’s not just screwing around with you.”

You hesitated. “No. He’s not.”

Scott’s jaw tightened for half a second, but then he nodded. “And I know you wouldn’t be with him if you didn’t really want to.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t just want to, Scott. I—” You hesitated before finishing, “I love him.”

Scott exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead like the very idea gave him a headache. “Yeah. I know.”

You bit your lip. “So…?”

Scott sighed. “So I’m not gonna fight you on it.”

Your chest tightened. “Really?”

Scott gave you a look. “I still don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“But… if this is what you want, then I’ll deal with it.”

Something in your throat clenched. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear that.

Scott sighed, shaking his head. “Just—if he does screw this up? I’m kicking his ass.”

You smirked. “I think you’d have to get in line.”

Scott snorted, finally—finally—cracking a small smile.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough. And for now? That was all you needed. With a quick dive, before he could push you away, you hugged him.

Scott stiffened for half a second—because, yeah, you weren’t exactly the most affectionate siblings—but then he sighed, relenting, patting your back once. “Okay, okay. That’s enough.”

You grinned, squeezing him tighter just to be annoying before finally letting go. “You’re such a softie.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, don’t spread that around.”

You smirked. “No promises.”

Scott exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “So… Logan.”

You sighed, already bracing yourself. “Scott—”

“I’m not gonna lecture you,” he interrupted, then paused. “Much.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s reassuring.”

Scott gave you a look. “I’m serious. Just… be careful, okay? Logan’s not exactly the easiest person to be with.”

Your stomach twisted, but you nodded. “I know.”

Scott hesitated, like he wanted to say something else, but then he just sighed. “And if he ever—”

“He won’t.”

Scott frowned. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do.” You met his gaze. “And he won’t.”

Scott studied you for a second, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. But if he does screw this up, I’m still kicking his ass.”

You smirked. “You can try.”

Scott scowled, but you could see the reluctant amusement in his eyes. “Alright. We good?”

Your chest loosened. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Scott nodded, then exhaled sharply, muttering, “Can’t believe you made me have this conversation.”

You snorted. “Hey, technically, you cornered me first.”

Scott huffed, shaking his head as he turned away. “Whatever. Just… don’t be weird about it.”

You grinned. “Define weird.”

Scott shot you a glare over his shoulder. “I swear to God, Y/N—”

You laughed, and even though he rolled his eyes, you caught the way his expression softened just a little. Maybe things weren’t completely back to normal, but it was close enough. And that was a hell of a lot better than days of radio silence.

---

Later that night, you were in your room, scrolling through your phone when a quiet knock sounded at your window.

You already knew who it was. Rolling your eyes, you got up and pulled the curtain back. Sure enough, Logan was standing outside, arms crossed, looking way too smug for someone sneaking in like a damn teenager.

You cracked the window open. “You know, we have doors.”

Logan smirked. “Yeah, but this is more fun.”

You sighed, but stepped back, letting him climb inside. The second his feet hit the floor, his hands were on your waist, pulling you close. “So?” he murmured, voice low, his breath warm against your temple. “How pissed is he?”

You leaned into him, resting your hands on his chest. “Less than before.”

Logan snorted. “That ain’t sayin’ much.”

You smirked. “Well, he didn’t try to kill you today, so that’s progress.”

Logan chuckled, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. “Told you he’d come around.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Logan’s lips skimmed your throat, his hands sliding lower. “You want me to tell you that you were right?”

You grinned. “It would be nice.”

Logan huffed. “Ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

You laughed, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him down into a kiss. His hands tightened on your hips, his body pressing closer, and suddenly, you weren’t thinking about Scott or the last few days or anything else. Just Logan—his mouth, his hands, the heat between you.

He pushed you down onto your bed, Pickles’ legs separating you from your mattress. Logan froze. You blinked up at him, still breathless from the way he’d kissed you. “What?”

His eyes flicked down, jaw clenching. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

You followed his gaze and nearly lost it. Pickles was wedged between you two, his oversized plush limbs keeping Logan from pressing you fully into the mattress. You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “What, is he in the way?”

Logan’s glare could’ve melted steel. “Move him.”

You grinned, making no effort to do so. “I don’t know, Logan. Maybe he wants to chaperone.”

Logan exhaled sharply, sitting back on his heels. “That’s it. He’s gotta go.”

Before you could react, he grabbed Pickles by the torso and chucked him across the room. The bear hit the chair in the corner, flopped onto the floor, and landed face down. You gasped, sitting up. “Logan!”

He just shrugged, completely unapologetic. “He had it comin’.”

“You are so petty,” you said, glaring at him.

Logan smirked, pushing you back down, his weight settling over you again. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, sweetheart?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m getting him back later.”

He chuckled, dipping his head to brush his lips against your jaw. "Not obsessed. Just don’t like sharin’." His teeth scraped against your skin, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "And you—" His hands slid lower, gripping your hips. "—are mine."

Your breath caught. "Yeah?"

Logan hummed against your throat. "Damn right."

You barely had time to register the shift before he had you flipped onto your stomach, your body pressing into the mattress as his weight settled over you. His hands smoothed over your sides, slow, teasing. "This okay?"

You exhaled shakily, tilting your head back slightly before repeating, "yeah."

Logan made a satisfied noise, his lips trailing along the back of your shoulder as his fingers curled around your wrists, pinning them against the sheets. "Good," he muttered. "Now let’s see if I can make you forget about that damn bear."

You barely bit back a laugh—before his teeth sank lightly into the side of your neck, and any smart-ass response you had completely disappeared. You were definitely screwed.

#lily recs #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett

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lilyarchived · 2 months ago

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Ok, these are the last doodles of my OC for now✋🤚

I was having awful cramps and felt sick during the first days of my period, so how do I cope? Give cramps to my OC and draw her getting comfort from my fav fictional men.

#lily admires #real #cod #mwii #john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley

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lilyarchived · 2 months ago

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prev. | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the last place he visits before being sent off on an assignment.

‘Jus’ need somethin’ to tide me over, yeah dove?’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he’s away, his rugged and calloused hands don’t feel like yours, can’t get off unless he pictures you.

Above him. Below him. On your knees. On your back. In your mouth. Buried in your cunt.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the first place he visits when the mission is finished, doesn’t even bother going home.

And you answer, despite it being three in the morning.

“There’s my girl.” He breathes. Relieved. Dropping his bags on the floor before lunging forward to cup your face in his palms.

The claim makes you whine quietly, digging your fingertips into his wrists, arching on your tippy toes to meet his lips halfway. It’s ravenous, leaves your breath ragged, and lips thrumming with swelling blood.

He hoists you in his arms, burrowing his hands under your thighs and ass, pinching the flesh so hard it’ll bruise, but he can’t help it. He’s greedy. Selfish. Hasn’t quite coaxed himself down from the harsh realities of being ‘Ghost.’

“Ah—Simon,” You whimper, huffing hot air against his lips, “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry, baby,” He smooths his hands, petting the backs of your thighs, “I just-”

The ‘missed you’ dies on his tongue, stops it from rolling off and filling the empty space between the two of you, but you know.

That night when he asks you to repeat him, tell him you’re all his, you don’t respond like usual. He tries his best to coax it out of your pretty lips orgasm after orgasm because he needs to hear it, but you don’t give him the pleasure.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, so he has no other option but to accept it because you’re not his. The lack of acknowledgment eats at his skin, brutal talons gnawing at his flesh when you slowly stop responding to his texts.

Shows up at your doorstep anyway because you don’t get to tell him when this stops. When you answer the door, you’re all dolled up, a tight little skirt hugging your figure, lip gloss smeared on your lips like you have somewhere to be other than on his cock.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at him, “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

You frown, “I have a date.”

He snorts, pushing past you, making a show of taking off his boots and placing them next to yours, has no intention of leaving.

“Simon,” You sigh, closing the door behind you, “I don’t have time for this right now. He’ll be here any minute.”

The statement alone pinches his temples with irritation, but that’s when he sees it, one small hickey adorned on your neck, just below your ear. His vision narrows, tunneling red, nudging you against the wall with one swift movement, tilting your jaw to get a better look at it.

“The fuck is this?” He snarls, runs his thumb over the bruise, and makes your breath hitch slightly.

“Nothing.” You mutter quietly.

“Your little date give you this? Huh?” He grits through clenched teeth, grip tightening on your jaw, drawing dimples in your skin.

“None of your business.” You spit back, but it’s far too gentle to have any real bite like it always does with him, pup with baby canines.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he seethes at the idea of another man inside of you, another man marking you as theirs when you’re his.

Sinks his teeth around the stupid mark, dragging sharp fangs against your delicate flesh, and sucks the skin viciously. Covers the ugly bruise with his own claim.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he presses you right up against your front door, so your date can hear him fucking you in two when he comes to pick you up.

‘Can yer little boyfriend fuck you like this? Huh, baby? Did he know jus’ how you like it?’

Fucks you messy and pretty, until your cheeks are tear-stained and your breaths are wrecked, hiccuping over your moans that’s he’s so mean, so cruel, asking you to say you’re his when he doesn’t even have the courage to say he missed you.

‘Be a good girl f’me, yeah? Tell me you’re all mine.’

And when you do finally say it, he carries you to your bed, fucks you slow and deliberate like he always does, like he really means it, and whispers the words against your skin.

@bbygirl9 @ailanbutterfly @amberbalcom14 @h0lydrag0ns

#lily recs #THE ENDING FAAAACK #cod #mwii #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut

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lilyarchived · 2 months ago

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Boyfriend!Johnny being drunk in his apartment trying to open his phone so he can get off to a photo of you, but he fat thumbs his password too many times and locks himself out

cut to him trying to sloppily draw you in his journal from memory. graphite smearing on the side of his hand as he tries to sketch you, poor chubbed up cock forgotten because, “Naw, tha’ nae right— got tae get their lips right”. he wakes up a couple hours later face pressed to his journal with a nonsensical picture of you, a little drool on the page

#lily recs #need that #cod #mwii #johnny soap mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish smut

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lilyarchived · 2 months ago

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Have you seen this man? Now you have!

#lily admires #john soap mactavish

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lilyarchived · 2 months ago

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Simon realising he has a problem pulling out.

We know he’d struggle at first with the intimacy of a long term relationship.

But when you both find yourselves in a more stable part of your relationship, the topic would come back up. In which his answer is to quite literally grab and kiss you, finally letting everything out that he’d been holding back on.

First, he’d have you in the bed, he’d take it slow…surprisingly gentle for a man with his rep. But you’re his woman, he would never cause deliberate harm to the one he loves.

The first time he sunk in so deep, he knew then and there he was both metaphorically and physically fucked. The way you clench around him would have him sinking his fingers into the sheets so hard he almost ripped into them.

“Fuckin’ hell, Love.”

“Tryna fuckin’ snap my cock?”

Every thrust would be slow, deliberate. Learning where and what makes you tremble and arch beneath him so beautifully. He’d take so much time in focusing on you that he’d almost forget how good it feels to be deep in your cunt.

Until you clench again, as if forcefully reminding him.

Simon has never considered himself a desperate man. he’s cocky, he can be arrogant. But desperate? That’s reserved for when you’re arching under him and sporadically fluttering around his cock like you’re trying to milk everything you can get out of him the moment you came.

In that moment, he can’t pull out. He knows he should, the risk is there…but you look so good and you feel even better…to the point he doesn’t know what to do with himself other than pump you utterly full of his cum.

“Please…god please take it…shit.”

Even when he can feel the overstimulation tugging at his nerves, he can’t get himself to pull out of your overwhelming heat. He’d stare down at where you join, watching the way his cock slowly fucks his cum back into you. His gaze holding an almost feral aspect to it.

“So fuckin’ pretty, Love.”

In a way it doesn’t feel like he’s talking to you, but more-so your flooded cunt.

He’ll keep moving, slower and more focused, even when his cock starts to soften. He doesn’t pull out, instead he’ll drop down onto you. His weight crushing you to the sheets as his hand slips under your lower back just to keep you completely connected to him.

“M’gonna stay right here, keep y’full.”

The words would escape with such finality there wasn’t much point arguing the fact, not when he was keeping you so desperately close to him. His hips giving small little rolls just to feel the way you flutter around him.

#lily recs #FUCK!#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley smut

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lilyarchived · 2 months ago

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Simon absolutely seems like the kind of man who tells you to use his rank in any sort of intimacy. Like, he’s so used to commanding respect, it turns him on to hear it whispered into the crook of his neck, low and breathy. You say “Lieutenant” and suddenly he’s grabbing your hips harder, muttering “That’s it” like he’s been starved for it. You don’t get to call him Simon—not until you’ve earned it. Not until you’re good.

Anyways, here’s my brain rot idk

⸻

He was already half-dressed when you stepped inside. Black tee clinging to his chest, mask rolled up just enough to show the hard line of his jaw. The door clicked shut behind you, but neither of you said a word.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just muttered, “Didn’t expect visitors.”

Your heart thundered, but your voice was steady. “I needed to see you.”

He turned then. slow, deliberate. The room dim and warm from a single lamp. You couldn’t read him, not through the way he looked at you, like you were something dangerous. Like you’d walked in here with bad intentions and he wanted to see you carry them out.

“What for?”

You swallowed. “I just…”

You took a step closer.

“…couldn’t sleep.”

That was a lie.

You came because you wanted him. Wanted that voice that always dropped a pitch when he used your rank. Wanted to feel his hands, his mouth, the command in his gaze.

He arched a brow. “Didn’t know I was your bedtime remedy, Sergeant.”

“You’re something.”

Your voice was softer now. Honest.

And when he closed the space between you, one hand slipping beneath your chin to tip your head back, your breath caught.

“Say my name, then.”

It was a test. A dare.

You hesitated. “Simon—”

He clicked his tongue, thumb pressing lightly to your lips. “No.”

His mouth was close now, breath hot, lashes low.

“Try again.”

“Lieutenant,” you whispered, obedient this time.

That did it. His grip tightened just enough to ground you, his mouth brushing your jaw.

“That’s it, love.”

A low growl.

“That’s what I like. Good girl.”

And you knew; oh boy you knew, wouldn’t be allowed to say Simon until your body was wrecked from obeying every filthy command that came after.

oh fuck me

#lily recs #MMMMMHM #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley smut

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lilyarchived · 2 months ago

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me, very high, just realized i unconsciously twerk when i’m baked. not like full ass clap or anything. just lil movements. lil grind. like my ass has a rhythm all its own.

and now I’m imagining being high with Simon Riley.

sitting on his lap, smoking, watching TV. chillin’. heavy thighs across his, ass comfortably posted. all chill. he's warm. a perfect human furnace

and outta nowhere you just start throwin’ it back. not even on purpose. just vibin'. slow lil grind. just a rhythm in your hips and you're too high to notice.

and Simon?? man’s stiff. quiet. doesn’t say shit. probably thinks you're just malfunctioning.

he's built like a fucking tank, and you can still feel him stiffen under you.

but you keep doing it. no awareness. you don't clock it, just baked and grinding.

and he’s under you, getting harder and harder, saying nothing not even daring to breathe. dying inside.

quiet. respectful. Suffering.

he doesn’t shift. doesn’t move you. just sits there letting you grind real gentle, real slow, like it’s nothing.

like it’s not driving him insane.

and then you shift a little more. sink down just a touch in his lap.

and you hear it.

a low. deep. barely there grunt:

"Fuckin’ hell..."

you pause. glance back.

"...you alright?"

his jaw’s tight. hands gripping your thighs just a little harder now. he clears his throat, looks away from you, and mutters something low that sounds like a prayer or a threat, hard to tell.

And you.

you just blink. Shrug. go back to watching tv like nothing happened, meanwhile he’s underneath you, chest rising hard, pupils blown, fists clenched just trying not to disrupt you.

Trying to be good.

he’s this close to snapping. but he won’t. not yet.

not while you're sittin’ pretty, high as hell, still lightly bouncin’.

unaware of driving a grown man to the edge of divinity.

#lily recs #relatable #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley smut

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lilyarchived · 3 months ago

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ੈ♡˳ 'i'm sorry' - logan x gn!reader

summary: logan would never hurt you, but in his nightmares he's often not able to control his claws - he's hurt you, the one thing he never wanted to do. (1k) tags: vivid descriptions of nightmares, war, slight blood, vague mention of suicidal thoughts, reader comforts logan, traumatised logan, hurt/comfort, angsty, established relationship, for the 'claws' prompt for logan promptober.

his dreams are seldom peaceful, even with you by his side. it's war, it's blood, it's loss. it's the same every damn night.

the visions drag him under, flashes of bright light, the rattle of ricocheting bullets, comrades screaming his name, pleading to the man who survives it all yet prays to god for it to end.

he's snarling, trapped, cornered like prey. he's a warrior, a soldier, a brother, aimed like a gun and twice as deadly. he's seen bloodshed, seen victory, stared death in the eye and watched it walk away. all claws and teeth, anger flowing like a steady river with no clear purpose.

it's not real, he tries to remind himself, yet it is, it was. it was once all he knew.

a scream and it fades away to black, his voice piercing the very fabric of his nightmare, dragging him back to reality. his claws are extended, ready, primed. it's an all too familiar feeling, but one he has never grown used to, waking up like this.

it's then you come into his view as if suddenly appearing, perched on the edge of the bed cradling your arm. your eyes are wide, your rate of breathing matching his quickened pace. logan is disorientated, one foot planted in reality and the other firmly stuck in his dream. it's not until the crimson-red liquid begins to drip along the length of your arm that he realises what he's done.

no.

"it's okay," you reassure him quickly though your voice shakes as you see the colour drain from his face, "baby, you didn't mean it, it's okay."

but he's already tearing himself apart, guilt eating him alive and spitting him back out. how many times does he have to learn this lesson before he locks himself away like he should? how many people is he going to hurt in a blind haze?

you can tell by the look on his face that he's falling apart, purposefully beating himself up inside that metal skull of his. "hey," you whisper, inching closer - but he flinches backwards.

"n. . . no," logan barks and shakes his head, "stay away, i. . ."

it breaks your heart to see him this way, he'd never hurt you intentionally. though he's known so much violence, he treats you with the tenderness only a man who's known loss can provide. you know he's not a monster, not the one he's told he is, not the one they built him to be.

"it's alright, logan," you whisper softly, inching closer, "you didn't mean it, i know that - it's alright, you're awake now."

he eyes you with a frightened gaze, the whites of his eyes prominent as he attempts to slow his breathing. he's tense, almost as though he's preparing to flee.

all he wants is your comfort, but he won't allow himself to have it.

"logan," you speak again in that same tone, "look, it's only a little cut. . ." you outstretch your arm for him to see. his eyes flit down to your wound, his body reluctantly and gingerly moving a little closer. you're right, it's not deep, the bleeding is lessening and it won't even scar. but it doesn't matter, because he still hurt you.

his lip quivers, a sight that has your breath hitching in your throat. he keeps his gaze on the blood as he takes your arm in his hands, "i'm. . . i'm so sorry," logan whispers shakily, unable to express the depth of remorse he feels. the calloused pads of his fingers trace across your skin, each touch a tender apology.

you shake your head, reaching out to cup his chin and tilt his head up as he surrenders to your touch, tears falling from his deep hazel eyes. "i forgive you."

those three words pierce him, he doesn't think he deserves it, doesn't deserve your forgiveness. you should run, run from the untamed animal locked inside him that rears its ugly head in the night. but you don't, you stay with the beast though he could break you. because you know he won't.

he breaks, nuzzling himself down into the safety of your chest as you hold him. "shhh," you coo, "that's it, it's alright. . ."

logan can't describe the security and serenity he feels in your arms. your voice can always reach him through the storm in his mind, the never-ending relentless torrent of thoughts and memories. you wade through, to find him at the edge of it all and bring him back. and he's always grateful.

he wants nothing more than to promise you that he'll never hurt you ever again, but he can't. you both know that. you accepted this the moment you fell in love, you'd walk through hell and back for him, and more.

and so would he, for you.

his body curls, seeking your warmth as he melds into your shape while you both lay back on the sheets. you run your fingers through his hair, your other hand tracing small shapes on his arm he has wrapped tightly around your waist.

"love you," he mumbles into your skin, breathing in your scent and letting it fill him, soothe him. god, he'd never get tired of saying that.

and as his chin tilts up, his gaze meeting yours above him, he melts in your embrace. he sees that love reflected in your eyes, so much of it. so much so that it overwhelms him in the best way.

"i love you too," you smile, leaning down to kiss his forehead as his eyes flutter shut. he reluctantly allows himself to fall back into the realm of slumber, encouraged by your soothing presence.

this time, he dreams of you, your future, the future he wants to create with you.

he dreams of waking up peacefully with you in his arms, of the morning sunlight rays seeping into the moment as it washes across you both. and he prays that this world will allow him this, prays to a god he no longer believes in, begs to be given the opportunity to simply exist with you.

he wants nothing more than that. the opportunity to love you for as long as he can, as long as you want him. and he hopes you want him for a while longer, because he's not sure if he'll ever know how to let you go.

#will read soon hehe

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lilyarchived · 3 months ago

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➽ summary: To love is to cherish, to endure, to fight. But to love is also to forget—at least, for you and Logan. Despite countless attempts to erase the part of yourselves that yearns to find completion in each other, you always end up back where it all began: the moment your eyes first met his—the moment everything changed.

➽ word count: 12.4k words

➽ warnings/tags: mdni smut 18+ angst. fluff. feels. enemies to lovers. petnames. multiple focalizors/POVs. memory loss. x1 logan. mutant!reader. flashbacks. dirty talk. oral (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. unprotected p in v. missionary. doggy. creampie. cum swallowing.

➽ a/n: inspired by “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind”, one of the most hauntingly beautiful (and life-changing) films ever made. i took some creative liberties when it came to charles' powers, so just follow along. i’d love to know your thoughts on this one, hope you like it as much as i do! <3

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned.

Alexander Pope.

Logan thinks Jean is speaking to him, but her words dissolve into fragments, lost before they reach him. Her reddish lips shape the vowels and consonants with precision, yet the meaning is drowned out by the pulse in his ears. She’s agitated, her long strides barely matching his pace, heels striking the wooden floor in a staccato rhythm.

A few children peek their heads out from their rooms, curiosity tugging at their expressions as the tension unravels in the hallway. Had it always stretched this far into eternity? It feels as though he’s been walking it for centuries now.

If Jean Grey is the embodiment of grace and intellect, then Logan carries the weight of all the world’s stubbornness. It clings to him like a birthright. Defying her beliefs—or anyone’s—is as instinctual as breathing. She’s trying to dissuade him, to talk him out of this reckless act: asking Charles to meddle in what she’s called his personal issues. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, focusing instead on the steady cadence of his steps toward the man’s office, each one heavier with purpose.

Jean’s voice grows sharper, her warnings echoing in his mind. This is a mistake. You’ll regret it. You’ll want to undo it. Don’t be stupid, Logan. Don’t do this to her—don’t do this to yourself.

But her protests are futile. The cards have already been laid out. Only meters from the door, he comes to a sudden halt. Jean, caught mid-stride, almost stumbles into his back. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers across her face. Maybe, just maybe, she’s convinced him to reconsider. A tentative smile begins to form on her lips, until he turns to her with a look so unyielding, it steals the breath from her lungs.

She has never seen him like this. This resolute, this… haunted. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed so tightly it seems etched in stone. There’s no trace of relief or satisfaction in his expression. Only the grim determination of a man about to pass a point of no return.

Why is he doing this? Soon, there will be hands prying into his thoughts, a marauder pulling apart his memories. Think about her. Now think about this moment. What do you remember? Each memory bearing your name, inked into his unconscious, will be inspected, cataloged, and then erased.

A mind already scarred will be stripped even further, the void swallowing everything. It has to come from a place of self-loathing, he thinks, because no reasonable explanation suffices. Perhaps he’s always been this broken, this damaged, and it was only a matter of time before he sought refuge in the very solution that had once been his calvary.

“I’ve made my choice,” he says with a tilt of his head which aims to deliver a tacit message: stay back. Don’t follow me. I have to do this. I need to.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks to himself, to willingly want to forget, to crave oblivion. To stop caring.

His fist hovers over the door, but he doesn’t have to knock. Charles’s been waiting for him. His voice resonates behind Logan’s eyelids, calm and inescapable. Come in.

“Coward.”

That’s the last thing he hears before he steps into the office, leaving her behind.

The first time you saw him, he was a contained storm, seconds away from coming undone in front of a rather small audience. Hardly the most convenient introduction.

You were in Charles’ office, attending one of his Physics lessons—not because you needed to. He’d already taught you these principles long ago, in a different time, under different circumstances. But lately, Charles had been trying to delegate some of his responsibilities, hoping to carve out time for the pressing matters that demanded his full attention. Ever the sweetheart, you’d offered to help, stepping in to take over this class.

Which is why you spent those past few weeks studying him—not just his teaching style, but the way he presented the topics: the analogies he drew, the subtle inflections in his tone. You’d promised yourself perfection, committed to live up to his standard, and that was exactly what you were working toward.

The sound of a door slamming shattered the flow of the lesson. A man burst into the room as though escaping from some unseen predator, shutting the door with a loud, final thud. He didn’t turn to face you. Instead, he lingered by the door, chest pressed against it, his ragged breathing filling the silence. The students abandoned whatever fragments of attention they had left for the class—this new stranger was far more compelling.

And, truthfully, he’d caught your attention, too.

You hesitated, fists clenching slightly at your sides, bracing for something you couldn’t name. A familiar voice cut through your thoughts, grounding you: This is the man I’ve been telling you about.

Apparently, this was Logan Howlett in the flesh. You certainly didn’t expect Charles’ newest recruit to look like this.

“Good morning, Logan,” Charles greeted him when the man finally spun around. From this distance, you could see the tension carved into his features, the crease in his forehead betraying his distress. Charles, still composed, redirected his focus to the students. “I’d like your definitions of weak and strong anthropic principles on my desk on Wednesday, all right? That’ll be all.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, gathering their belongings in a flurry of notebooks and murmured goodbyes, barely sparing you a glance as they shuffled out. You offered them a tight-lipped smile, lifting a hand in acknowledgment, but your attention was drawn elsewhere. Logan was looking at you—or rather, through you—with a gaze that felt assessing. You never quite met his eye.

He stood there barefoot, dressed only in a sweater and sweatpants, his breath still uneven. Disoriented. His eyes swept across the room, his expression distant yet guarded, as though he was questioning the reality of it all. Considering the way he carried himself, it almost seemed like this was his first encounter with other mutants—but you knew better.

At some point, Charles decided to break the tension. “I’m Charles Xavier,” he began, his tone inviting. “Would you like some breakfast?”

But, of course, his cordiality and kindness were dismissed, being met with a gruff, “Where am I?”

“Westchester, New York,” Charles replied evenly, maneuvering his wheelchair closer. “You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention.”

You hadn’t been part of the mission that led to this moment; that had been Scott and Storm. In fact, you hadn’t even met Logan or the girl they’d brought with him—Rogue, as you later learned. Although at the time, rooted in the aftermath, you stepped forward, bridging the distance between yourself and Logan. You extended a hand toward him, offering your name with a cautious smile. “Nice to meet you.”

The gesture lingered awkwardly in the air, refusing even the pretense of acknowledgment. His eyes locked on yours, piercing and unrelenting, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was his way of dissecting you. Then his gaze shifted back to Charles, impatience dripping from every word he uttered. “I don’t need medical attention. Where’s the girl?”

Oh. So that’s how he wants to play this. You withdrew your hand, doing your best to mask the sting of rejection as you pivoted on your heels and returned to your place beside Charles. “Jerk,” you muttered, low enough that it almost drowned beneath your breath, fussing with your sleeves in a vain effort to seem unaffected.

He didn’t miss it. His expression hardened, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Come again?”

To end the exchange right there, Charles cleared his throat, effectively steering the conversation into a different direction. Seizing the opportunity, he wheeled himself closer to the brown-haired man, his composure intact. What you admired about him was his self-control, something you’d tried to master in the years spent under his guidance without success. Yet, you couldn’t fathom how he managed not to tell Logan to just fuck off. “About Rogue, she’s doing fine.”

Logan arched a brow, his sneer cutting through the air like a blade. “Really?” You couldn’t grasp how he could hold so much bitterness toward a person he barely knew. His voice was thick with condescension, and a dozen sharp retorts swirled in your mind, each one eager to escape your lips. Your mouth parted to respond on Charles’ behalf, but he beat you to it.

“You’re in my school for the gifted. For mutants.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the dense air. Even the act of breathing felt strained, a soundless tug-of-war for the air around you. “You do know you’re not the only one with gifts, don’t you?”

“Is that what you tell those kids?” Logan’s scoff was a window into his beliefs. “That they have gifts?”

“It’s no more than the truth.”

“Yeah? Truth my ass.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The words escaped you before you could stop them, fury flaring in your chest. You stepped forward, the crackling heat of frustration coursing through your veins, ending in your fingertips. His blank stare only fanned the flames. “We took you in. We saved your life. How about showing a little fucking gratitude?”

Logan advanced, and his eyes bored into yours with a stinging glint of smugness. “I don’t remember asking to be saved.”

Your jaw tightened. You could’ve cracked a tooth as well. “Well, the least you can do is not act like a complete prick.”

A hand encircled your wrist, its grip firm but soothing. Charles’ touch anchored you, grounding you back in the moment. Your breath faltered, tearing your gaze away from Logan’s eyes to meet Charles’ calm expression.

“Don’t be so hard on our guest, my dear,” he murmured, as if the hostility in the room didn’t exist. It could’ve also been that he was too practiced at disarming it. He didn’t bother to glance at Logan, speaking as though the man was just a shadow. “Give him some time. He needs it.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you bowed your head. You sidestepped Logan without another word, avoiding his presence like he was a flame that threatened to scorch. The tension clung to your skin, and you flung the room.

From that day on, Logan becomes the only subject you seem capable of discussing.

It’s everything about him—his walk, his voice, the sheer audacity of his existence—that drives you to the brink of madness. You tell yourself to let it go, to not let it eat away at you, but your mind refuses to cooperate. Each day, it does a stellar job of reminding you that you now share the same roof as a man with forks for hands.

Logan is, undeniably, the source of your every frustration.

“He’s an idiot,” you grumble around a bite of your lunch, settling into one of the chairs in the kitchen. Scott, Ororo, and Jean are gathered around the table with you, savoring a rare break before the afternoon classes pull them back into their routines. “I can confirm it.”

“Trust me, we know,” Ororo snaps, her tone more cutting than you expected. The words catch you off guard, and you pause, napkin halfway to your lips, to lift your eyebrows in surprise. “Look, I’m sorry,” she continues, her voice softening just a fraction, “but could you please talk about something else? It’s been Logan this, Logan that, for weeks now.”

“I think I understand what she means,” Scott chimes in, his tone lighter, nearly playful. You lift your hand for a high five, and he obliges with a grin, stealing a laugh from you.

“See? He gets it!”

Leaning back in his chair, your friend shakes his head. “I must admit I don't like the guy either. He’s—”

Jean’s elbow shoots out, jabbing Scott in the ribs just as Logan crosses the kitchen threshold. Scott’s indignant “Hey!” is muffled by your exaggerated cough, though it does little to mask the smirk threatening to break across your face.

How does the saying go? Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Logan’s eyes sweep across the room, his silence louder than the faint hum of the refrigerator. He strides toward the cupboard with methodical ease, and Storm bites her lip to stifle a laugh once she catches you watching him far longer than you should have. His back muscles tense and flex as he stretches his arms, the white tank clinging tighter with every movement.

“Please, don’t stop talking just because of me,” he remarks, his voice gravelly as he rummages through the cupboard, his focus presumably on some elusive snack. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Your response comes out of instinct, words laced with irritation. “It’s hard not to,” you retort curtly, putting down your sandwich with a firm slap of your palms against your jeans.

That gets his attention. Logan turns around to confront you, a flicker of amusement twitching at the edges of his mouth. It’s that toothy smile of his that sets your blood simmering. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You jump to your feet, matching his intensity. “Such a pity I can’t say the same about you.” Without missing a beat, you step closer, snatching the bag of chips he’s holding. Hiding them behind your back, tilting your head in mock innocence, and then saying, “Oops.”

His brows draw upward, though his tone stays measured, as if speaking to a child. “C’mon,” he replies, making a half-hearted grab for the bag. “How old are you? Twelve?”

Unable to suppress the grin threatening to break free, you rest your back against the counter. “We both know you can do much better than that.”

Already preparing yourself for the lecture Ororo’s going to unload on you the moment he leaves, you watch as Logan exhales sharply. His irritation is palpable in the way he leans in, one hand planting itself on the counter behind you, his frame eclipsing yours. The proximity is electric, his scent, a mix of leather and something woodsy, fogging your senses. Hazel eyes, so deep you could drown in them, peer down at you, as he attempts to strip away every layer you’re desperately trying to hold together.

Safe to say, it’s working. Damn it.

“Alright,” he finally says, tapping his fingers against the cool surface. “What do you want from me?”

Your galloping heartbeat is a major detail you choose to ignore, instead turning to the others for support. With an exaggerated motion, you point to each of your friends in turn. “Ororo and Scott were the ones who found you that day,” you start, trailing off, “and Jean ran a ton of tests on you to make sure you were okay. Have you even bothered to thank them for their hospitality?”

You believe you can joke with him—it’s how you usually bond with others, how most of your friendships have started. But you can’t help questioning if Logan can even get your sense of humor. The room falls silent, and his eyes flicker, just briefly, to your friends.

“You’re right, you’re right. My bad, princess.” One of his big, manly lands on your shoulder, the pressure of it too casual, too familiar, working the muscle there. Your fingers slacken around the bag of chips, the feeling of his touch making it harder to maintain your grip. “Guys, I’m deeply sorry for my lack of amiability. Hope you can forgive me.” The sarcasm is thick in his voice, but it’s the sensation that clings to you, that doesn’t seem to fade—the warmth of it seeping through the layers of your clothes, pressing into your skin, stubbornly refusing to fade.

His hand leaves only when he yanks the bag from your grasp, and the warmth that had been just beside you evaporates with his retreat. In an instant, he’s already pulling away, his parting words a careless “See you around,” tossed over his shoulder.

No one dares to speak after that. Because to speak would be to acknowledge what has just happened. Your stomach has turned into a knot, that kind of knot sailors make that are impossible for beginners to undo. Logan’s fingers left a burn in your shoulder. Can you still smell him, the trail he left? Scott is the first to speak after a minute or so. “What… was that?”

“I have no clue,” Jean says between bites, staring reflectively at you. “Care to elaborate?”

Your tongue feels heavy, your throat parched. Even if you tried, a rational explanation wouldn’t come.

Ever since you were a child, you had yearned to grow up, to experience love as only adults could. In your young, unformed mind, it all seemed like a simple equation: adults dated; adults embraced love in the flesh; adults reveled in freedoms that children could only dream of, waiting patiently for their time to come.

And you did grow up. You did fall in love. But now he’s forgotten you, and nothing could have prepared you for that kind of ending. It wasn’t the closure you would have chosen, not the goodbye you imagined for you and Logan.

You find yourself caught in the in-between—not quite a child, yet not fully an adult either. Because surely, an adult would know how to handle this pain. An adult would find a way to cope. But you feel small. Weak. Hopeless.

It leaves you wondering just how much you are willing to forsake.

More weeks go by, and Logan remains in the mansion, defying the departure you’d expected. Part of you is relieved. He moves through the halls like a shadow, his eyes always on Rogue: checking on her, observing her interactions with the rest of the students at the mansion. She’s thriving, really. Blending in with her peers, forming bonds, especially with a boy named Billy. They are quite the pair.

Yet, despite Rogue’s happiness, Logan can’t seem to shake the grim air that surrounds him, an aura that emanates a quiet kind of disgust.

One night, you’re flipping through channels in the living room, stopping when an old love movie catches your attention. You place the remote down on a cushion, and pull your knees up to your chest, the murmur of the characters’ voices the only sound in the otherwise hushed room. You don’t think anyone else is awake at this hour.

“Can’t sleep?”

There he is again. Always intruding, always finding his way back to you. The predator creeping into the vixen’s nest. He moves closer, slowly, and you lift your gaze to him, replying, “Actually, I’m a sleepwalker.”

Your comment earns a half-smile from Logan as he drops onto the couch beside you, his leg brushing against yours momentarily, worn denim against bare skin. His attention shifts to the TV, to the grainy images of the film playing out. You steal a glance at him, tracing the hard lines of his side profile.

“Feelin’ romantic tonight?” he asks.

“Not precisely,” you retort, fingers toying with the frayed edges of the blanket pooled at your feet. “There’s nothing else on. Sometimes you have to make do with what’s there.” Your gaze drifts back to him, lingering just a second too long before you add, “What about you? Any ghosts keeping you up?”

“You could call them that,” he says after a pause, his face still angled away. It must be easier to speak to you with this thin, invisible wall between you. “I have nightmares.”

“So you’re the one screaming at two in the morning?”

“Exactly. That’s me.” He ends up meeting your gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, harboring an emotion he doesn’t voice. “M’sorry if I ever woke you up.”

“I’m usually awake at that time, too.” Your eyes flick to the screen. The couple in the movie bursts out of a building into the rain, their body language unmistakably revealing the heated argument unfolding between them. The man, clad in a raincoat, removes it to cover the woman, his supposed girlfriend. She’s visibly upset, but accepts the gesture nevertheless. “You can always knock on my door if you need anything. Unless I’m snoring—then I’ll be useless.”

Logan clicks his tongue, his focus shifting to the film as well. The man shouts, ‘Because I love you, for God’s sake!’ He casts a glimpse in your direction, his expression unreadable. “Same goes for you.” The woman in the film responds with a strangled, ‘Then prove it!’

“Anytime?”

“Anytime.”

The man cradles the woman’s face before kissing her. She throws her arms around his neck, and the music swells, evolving into a much more melodic song. A chorus of angelic voices replaces the earlier tense harmony. The camera lingers on every angle of their kiss, every desperate touch, as the world outside their embrace ceases to exist.

“This is cheesy,” Logan mutters, his heel bumping against the floor in repeated, short motions. Is he nervous?

“Yeah, so cheesy,” you reply quickly, pulling the blanket over your lap and curling into yourself. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking about kissing you, not even remotely, but you are.

A quiet yawn escapes you, and you rub your fist against your eyes, sleep beginning to take over your body. Logan catches it, his own yawn following like a reflex. “Looks like the movie’s workin’ wonders,” he quips.

You let out a drowsy giggle. “Shut up,” you murmur, but then he’s inching closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. His warmth seeps through, and after a few seconds of hesitation, you allow yourself to lean into his frame, resting your head on his arm. It’s awkward, your neck already protesting the angle, but you accept it. You’ll take the stiffness tomorrow without complaint, because this moment is worth it.

It won’t last long, though, this rare tenderness. These nights, the quiet ones, are when Logan opens up the most—when Jean and Storm aren’t around, when it’s just the two of you. That’s when he approaches you, like a wary black cat testing the waters. But he doesn’t need to tread carefully. Not with you.

“What if I were to fall asleep… hypothetically?” Your eyelids grow heavier with each blink, the pauses between each one stretching longer. Your cheek nuzzles against him, seeking warmth, and you feel the subtle tug of his hand as he pulls the blanket over his legs as well.

“Hypothetically,” he begins, rasping his words near your temple, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Within moments, sleep claims you. You never find out what happens after that, but he stays, trailing quietly behind. No nightmares or shadows from his past dare to haunt him that night.

It was inevitable that an encounter like that would spiral into something more. You weren’t naïve. You could connect the dots, and the picture was clear: Logan wanted you, too. Desire often walked a fine line, and from hatred to something else, it’s hardly a leap—just a small, barely perceptible step. It could change with the shift of light, from dawn to dusk. But you’d need the strength to cross that line, to be bold enough to make the first move.

And now, with the sun already dipped below the horizon, taking its long-awaited rest after a full day of burning up in the sky, you find yourself alone in the kitchen, though you hadn’t started that way. Scott had lingered for a while, insisting he didn’t mind keeping you company. You’d thanked him with a polite smile before subtly nudging him out. It hadn’t taken much—just a few hints. Simplicity at its finest.

At the table, a neat pile of student papers spreads before you. Your pen dances across the pages, leaving corrections and grades in its wake. It’s then that he appears. He doesn’t speak at first, but his presence saturates the room like a shadow stretching across the floor. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him; it must be the unspoken familiarity of how he fills a space. Or maybe it’s just how attuned you’ve become to his every movement.

Logan leans in behind you, close enough that you feel the heat he radiates at your back. His low hum sends a shiver down your spine as he peers over your shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be playin’ the teacher?”

Your grip on the pen tightens, a small tremor in your fingers giving away the tension pooling in your stomach. You exhale softly, blowing on the fresh ink. “Would you prefer to have me doing something else?”

Smugness prickles at the edges of your words, but the resolve in your chest is faltering.

“Now that you mention it…” His voice dips, grating next to the shell of your ear as his chest brushes your back. His presence is magnetic, the scrape of his beard scratching your skin while he tilts your head to one side. His fingers sweep your hair over your shoulder, lips mapping the nape of your neck, tasting your fevered skin. “I might have a few ideas in mind.”

Your breath hitches. You try for composure, but it wavers in your reply. “Really?” you ask, because playing dumb always has its merits, after all. “Want to show me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves deliberately, tracing a sensual, teasing path up your abdomen. His palm settles over one of your breasts, his thumb brushing the sensitive peak through your sweater. “I don’t think you’d want me to do it here,” he says, his voice thick with suggestion. “Too public for what I’ve got planned for you.”

You disentangle yourself from him, slipping off the chair with an unsteady grace, but Logan doesn’t give you time to find your feet. He smashes his lips with yours, the force of his kiss almost sending you reeling. His tongue presses insistently, seeking entry, as if the urgency in his touch could dissolve every barrier between you. He grabs your cheeks, holding you in place as though you might slip away, drawing you so close there’s barely space to breathe.

You’re caught off guard, not knowing where to put your hands, searching for purchase. The cold metal of the refrigerator handle digs into your lower back as he backs you against it, his groans reverberating through your mouth like a growled confession.

“My bedroom,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “Take me to my bedroom.”

Logan obliges, intertwining his fingers with yours. Together, you ascend the stairs, your laughter mingling in the noiseless night when he missteps and stumbles, momentarily breaking the spell. But he recovers quickly, finding your room in mere seconds.

The door clicks shut behind you, and he presses you against the wood with a force you’d never experienced, his hands sliding down to grip your ass and knead the supple flesh with a possessive fervor. It all helps to feed the fire pooling in your core.

“Quiet, baby,” he whispers, slipping his fingers beneath the back of your sweatpants. His nails trace fiery lines along your skin, igniting your every nerve. “Don’t want anyone wakin’ up to those pretty sounds you make. They’re just for me, right?”

You nod frantically, longing for more, arching into his hands as your hips grind against his, your body moving with a will of its own. The friction is exquisite, a tantalizing promise. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his words laced with unfiltered hunger. “I’ve thought about havin’ you like this ever since I met you.”

His confession sends a surge of pride through your chest, an ache that feels equal parts affection and astonishment. Ever since the beginning? When he could barely look at you without scowling, his disdain practically tangible? “You hid it well,” you reply, breathless as you trace the outline of his erection over his jeans. The way it twitches under your undivided attention makes your pulse race. “I thought you hated me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “I thought the same about you,” he counters, before crushing his lips to yours once more. This time, you can’t help but smile into the kiss, your bodies moving as one, the pent-up tension between you unraveling in waves. “Guess we were both wrong.”

Your pants hit the floor in an unceremonious heap. It should embarrass you, how desperate and utterly needy you sound, the pleas spilling from your lips like the filthiest confessions. But the hunger in you is too vast, too insistent, drowning any possible flicker of shame. Decency was abandoned the moment you crossed that threshold. Logan nudges your legs apart with his knee, and the instant you feel him against your center, a contained sigh escapes you, half-resignation, half-surrender. Thought dissolves, leaving only instinct as you rock against him in slow circles, seeking relief.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” He toys lazily with the waistband of your panties, like he has all the time in the world. You don’t give him an immediate answer, choosing instead to grind harder against his thigh, your breath hitching at the pressure. “Don’t go all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, dipping his head to mouth at your collarbone, the scent of his cologne heady and intoxicating. “Judging by the way you’re basically humpin’ me, I’d say it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember,” you blurt out, your head thudding against the door when his teeth nip at the delicate curve of your neck. Your pulse thrums beneath his lips, and you’re seconds from biting your tongue just to keep from crying out. “Stop teasing.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a wicked smile against your skin, his knee retreating only to be replaced by his fingers, trailing them along the fabric covering your heat. “I like it when you get bossy. It reminds me why I like you so damn much.” He tugs the fabric of your underwear aside, the cool air hitting your wetness for only a moment before his fingers glide over your arousal, testing your patience. One digit slides into you, curling slightly as his palm presses over your mouth, muffling the whine that falls from your parted lips. “So wet for me, princess.”

Your legs shake under the weight of sensation, threatening to give out as you lean into the door for balance. His fingers move inside you with a sharp rhythm, hitting that spot with each furious thrust. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, and it’s overwhelming, but then he drops to his knees, and the sight alone sends a jolt through your core.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds is molten. He laps at you with long strokes, his pace never faltering, pumping his digits in sync with the flick of his tongue, coaxing every sound you’ve tried so hard to stifle. “Oh, fuck. Logan—”

He groans against your core, his eyes remaining locked on your face, soaking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His focus is relentless, as though your reactions fuel him. You rake your hands through his hair, clutching at his dark locks with haste whenever his wet muscle lavishes extra attention on your clit, the intensity of his ministrations making your voice break, a choked gasp dying on your lips.

Your climax teeters on the edge, faster than you anticipated. “Close,” you manage to huff, the obscene noises he elicits driving you wild. “I’m gonna come. Please, come here—”

Logan detaches himself from you, standing tall with a fierce determination in his eyes. He’s set on pushing you over the edge with his fingers alone. His lips crash against yours, biting and licking, swallowing every desperate mewl that falls from your mouth, spit glistening down his chin. Three knuckles deep, coaxing your body to respond, your walls tighten around him, shuddering as he corners you against the door, the sharp edge of pleasure sending your knees buckling. Your orgasm washes over you, rendering you boneless in his hold. Limp and spent, you can barely return his kisses, panting harshly against his mouth, his arms the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

As you steady your breath, a satisfied smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes flicker down to his slick palm, and a rush of pride floods you. "That was amazing," you breathe, your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, reaching for his belt to tug at it. “My turn now.”

He ends up with his back pressed against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. You’re positioned between his legs, stimulating him over the fabric of his boxers. “It won’t take too long,” he says, and you feel the weight of his words more than hear them as you pull him free, revealing the hardness beneath. He’s already swollen, the tip wet with precum that coats your thumb as you stroke him once, feeling the heat pulse beneath your touch. A shiver runs through him, his legs stiffening as though on the edge of restraint. Bewitched by the size of him, you lean forward to slip the leaking head past your lips. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s difficult to take all of him at once, but you push through, your mouth stretching to accommodate his size. As you work him with your hand, your tongue traces the veins that snake along his length, feeling him throb. Logan’s body betrays him, his fists tightening around the sheets as if holding on to his last thread of control, desperately keeping his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck up into you.

“Honey, pull out,” he warns, stroking your back. “M’not jokin’. You’re gonna make me come.” But you don’t stop. Instead, you deepen your movements, cheeks hollowing as you take him with more enthusiasm, pushing him toward the back of your throat. When he realizes what you’re doing, a moan escapes him, laced with a dark laugh. “Filthy girl. So that’s what you want? To choke on my cum? Should’ve asked for it sooner.”

Not long afterwards, you feel the first splash of his release hitting your tastebuds. Ropes of his seed flood your mouth, some of it dribbling out to stain the corner of your lips. He watches, his thumb gently swiping over the edge, collecting what’s spilled, his eyes never leaving yours as he moves.

“Show me,” he asks, still breathless. You lean closer, your faces a whisper apart, and then you part your lips, revealing the evidence of your devotion like a masterpiece on display. His fingers find your chin, holding you there as he bites into his lower lip, the pressure turning the skin pale. “Now swallow,” he commands, and you obey, the motion deliberate, your satisfaction mirrored in the curve of his grin. He kisses you languidly, as if savoring the moment. “Where have you been all my life?”

The question invites countless answers, but you choose to murmur, “Down the hallway.”

“Logan, are you even listening?”

Charles’ voice slices through the playful moment, forcing Logan’s hands to still against your sides. The team sits around the table, embroiled in serious discussions that demand focus and discipline. Yet Logan’s fixation on you has rendered him deaf to anything beyond the sound of your laughter. Not a single word of the last hour and a half has stuck, his mind entirely preoccupied by the warmth of you perched on his lap.

He’d insisted he was much more comfortable than any chair, and you’d indulged him, leaning into his chest as his fingers danced teasingly along your ribs. “Of course I am,” Logan drawls, though the way his hand resumes tracing lazy circles on your stomach says otherwise, his entire attention remaining fixed on you.

“I don’t think you are,” Charles counters, leaning forward with both palms flat on his desk. His sharp gaze locks to you, narrowing faintly. “Do I need to seat you two on opposite ends of the room, or can you manage to behave?”

You stiffen in response, the easy comfort of moments ago evaporating. Sliding off Logan’s lap, you settle into the nearest chair, your departure catching him off guard. Your eyes meet his subtly, and you offer him an apologetic smile. Beneath the table, your fingers squeeze his knee, a silent reassurance. Finally, you direct your attention to Charles, straightening in your seat as if to demonstrate your newfound focus.

Logan, however, is less cooperative. His arms cross over his chest, and a crease forms between his brows, the picture of rebellion. Nothing that Charles says registers in his brain. All he can think about is how much better it felt to have you on his lap, where you weren’t bothering anyone. He contents himself with watching you now, contemplating your profile and the way your fingers absentmindedly tap against your notebook.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. It’s not the same. You’ve been dating for a month, much to the surprise of everyone in the mansion. It’s as if the idea of the two of you together had never even crossed their minds. Not even Rogue believed it when she came to ask Logan if the rumors were true. He hadn’t known how to respond to her, caught between mirth and disbelief himself.

It’s been decades since he’s felt this alive. He’s head over heels for you in a way that’s exhilarating. Seeing you, even across a crowded room, lights a fire in him, and he has to actively fight the urge to walk over, pull you close, and kiss you senseless right there in front of your friends.

As the meeting finally draws to a close, Charles asks him to stay for a while. “I just need to have a quick word with you,” he says, waiting until the others leave.

Once you’re out of earshot, Charles sighs, shaking his head like an exhausted parent addressing his wayward child. “Look, I’m glad you two worked through your differences,” he begins, a note of cautious joviality in his tone, “but this... well, this is the opposite of that.”

Logan exhales wearily, rolling his eyes before he can stop himself, and regretting it instantly. Don’t shrug him off, his inner voice scolds him. “C’mon, Charles. You’re overreactin’.”

The man arches a brow. “Am I? Watching the two of you cuddling during a meeting feels like chaperoning teenagers. Honestly, I must admit you’re even worse than them at times.”

That remark lands harder than Logan expects. He opens his not-so-smart-mouth, ready with a retort, but no words come out. For once, his quick wit fails him, leaving him standing there in uncharacteristic silence.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Charles’ eyes fall shut. “Just… try to be more present, alright? And don’t distract her, or yourself, too much. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Later, when he recounts the conversation to you, you start pacing nervously across his bedroom, your teeth worrying at your nails.

“Maybe he’s right,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Darlin’—”

“I just don’t want him to be angry with us,” you cut him off, arms dropping to your sides in defeat. Turning toward him, you sit down on the edge of his bed, your shoulder brushing his as your eyes bore into the carpet. “Do you think we should... give each other some space?”

Your suggestion feels like a punch to his gut. He sits up straighter, hands finding their way to your hips as he guides you onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. “I think we’re fine the way we are,” he says, tipping his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a loving gesture, coaxing a small smile from you. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Are you happy with me?”

You nod—once, twice, like it’s the only answer you could possibly give. “I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling, your lips curving into a smile that he feels against his own when he kisses you.

“God,” he grumbles against your mouth, long fingers tightening on your hips. “I never get tired of hearin’ that.” Logan cups your ass through your clothes, rocking you against him, and a groan escapes his throat as your center presses against his half-hard cock. “Say it again,” he rasps, his voice wanting.

“I love you,” you breathe, your head falling back when his hands move to unbutton your shirt, his touch reverent and greedy all at once. “I love you so much.”

Before you know it, he’s rolled you onto your back, hovering above you as he peels away the layers between you. He can’t comprehend how he got so lucky, how he gets to have you like this every day, so pliant and eager beneath his body. Your whimpers grow softer, more airy, but even then, you’re still whispering how madly in love you are with him.

This is a memory he’ll hold on to when Charles inevitably asks him to reconsider—to think about what’s best for both you and him. Fragile moments like this will slip through his fingers, but for now, they’re his to cherish.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

It turns out that love doesn’t come neatly wrapped in perfection. No—it’s a chaotic blend of tender glances and fiery clashes, of whispered promises and cutting comebacks. It’s arguments that sting as much as they heal, moments that don’t glitter but still matter, making the difference.

“Fuck off!” you snap, shoving the door against its frame, trying to shut him out. But Logan’s hand wedges in the gap, his strength effortlessly outmatching yours. “Get out, Logan.”

“No.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he grits through clenched teeth, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Behind him, Jean calls your name, but he doesn’t turn. “Not now, Jean!” His voice echoes down the hall, and the sound of her retreating steps leaves the air tense.

You’ve already crossed the room, standing by the window. The sunlight filters through, painting your silhouette in warm flickers. Outside, the kids are in their break, passing a ball, their laughter carried by the breeze. Logan moves toward you, his presence heavy, and you hold up a hand to stop him.

“I’m going on that mission,” you say firmly.

“No, you’re not.”

Your head snaps toward him, a storm unraveling in your gaze. “Charles wants me there. The team wants me there,” you shoot back, jabbing a finger into his chest with each word, “and most importantly, I want to go. You don’t get to decide for me.”

Logan doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch. He can’t understand how you don’t see his side of things, how the thought of you being in danger like this twists his insides into knots. “I can’t lose you.”

“Logan—”

“No, you don’t get it!” The words burst out of him. “What if something happens to you? What if you get hurt, and we can’t get you back in time?” His fists clench at his sides, fighting the need to pull you into his arms, to feel that you’re still here with him, still safe. “It’d kill me, because I love you with everything that I am. Just thinkin’ about losin’ you makes me sick.”

Your expression softens, but only for a moment. You take a step in his direction, closing the space between you. There’s no hesitation in your tone when you speak, leaving space for conviction. “I had a life before you, Logan. I’ve been here since I was a child, learning how to fight, how to survive. I’ve gone on missions for years—missions that were just as dangerous as this one. I don’t need you to protect me like this.” Your voice wavers, just barely. “I appreciate that you care, but I’m just as capable as you are.”

How long can someone hold their breath? Logan doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until your arms encircle his waist, your embrace melting the tension that’s been coiling in his chest. You bury your face against him, your breath steadying, and he draws a long breath, pressing his lips to your forehead like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a softness that feels almost out of place after the heated exchange.

“You get so bossy sometimes.”

"I thought you said you liked me bossy," you answer, your voice low, laced with mixed feelings, as you look up at him through hooded eyes.

Logan’s lips twitch into what aims to simulate a smile, but it’s weighed down by the sadness pooling in his gaze. It doesn’t reach the crinkle of his eyes, doesn’t carry the warmth it usually does.

“I do,” he says, his voice rough, barely audible, brushing a thumb across your cheek. The words hang between you, carrying a plea for things to feel less heavy, for this closeness to fix what words can’t.

The arguments come more frequently now. The love hasn’t faded—of course, it hasn’t—but it feels buried beneath the noise. You and Logan clash over everything, over nothing, over things neither of you can quite name, all the fucking time.

It’s a cycle that none of you can seem to break, passion feeding the fire until it burns too bright, too hot. One of you always storms out, slamming doors or throwing words that linger in the air like acid smoke. And yet, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how lost you both feel, the love is still there. Aching, waiting for the dust to settle.

You tell yourself it’s just a rough patch. That love like this isn’t easy, that it’s supposed to be messy. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too long after another fight, you can’t help but wonder how much more the two of you can take before something breaks for good.

Lust becomes your apology, an untamed collision of anger and desire that you can’t resist. It’s not gentle—it’s frenzied and blazing. The bed creaks beneath you, the sounds of your moans and the slap of his hips against your ass enveloping the room. Every thrust drives you closer, the ferocity of it making your head bump into the headboard, but all you can think about is how full he makes you feel.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry out, drooling all over the pillow, ass high up in the air as Logan continues to pound into you. He pulls out all of a sudden, making you gasp in protest. That’s when you feel his tongue against your slit, eating you out from behind, spreading your cheeks to see just how much further he can go. Your hand flies back, pressing him into your skin. “So good, baby. F-fuck.”

There’s no leaving him, not even in your wildest dreams. When he spills inside you, you always ask him to hold you close, whispering for him to stay there. To keep you full of him. And he does, fusing your body with the mattress, his weight anchoring you to the pleasure he knows how to grant you.

But then, it’s morning. The sun filters through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, and you’re tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare at the ceiling, your mind crawling back to the fight, to the anger that seemed so vital only hours ago. You have to force yourself to remember why you were so mad in the first place. As his hand slides over your hip, pulling you toward him, the memory slips further away.

Dating Logan means understanding the darkness he carries, the nightmares he has almost every night. Usually, you’re woken by his movements, his rambling, the tremors that run through his body. You’ve perfected a way of rousing him gently, pulling him from the grip of whatever horrors his mind conjures without causing him more harm.

Though tonight, you must’ve been drained. You didn’t notice the moment the nightmare began.

“Honey? Oh, fuck. Wake up, c’mon.” His voice pulls you from the depths of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open and adjust to the dim light, the first thing you see is Logan, sitting rigid, staring at your arm as though it’s breaking him apart. The pain in his gaze is nearly palpable.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice groggy as you sit up, still partly disoriented. “Logan, are you okay?”

Then you see it: Blood. Dark stains seeping into the sheets, trailing from a jagged cut running the length of your forearm. It isn’t deep, and oddly, it doesn’t even hurt that much. But Logan looks stricken, his eyes flickering between your wound and his own hands.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,” you assure him as you fumble to grab the ruined sheets, bundling them up to contain the mess. Reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, you switch it on, bathing the room in a golden glow. That’s when you notice the droplets of blood on his knuckles, the torn skin where his claws must have pierced through. This has never happened before. Neither of you know what to say or how to react. When you reach for his hand, he recoils, shaking his head like he’s trying to will the scene away. “Hey, don’t do that.”

“I knew it’d happen eventually.” He’s spiraling, rising to his feet. A man trying to escape himself. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his chest and back, his body tense with the effort of holding his pieces together. Turning to face you, his expression is the embodiment of torment. In his eyes, it’s as though the prophecy has been confirmed, irrevocably, by his own doing. “I hurt you. I told you it was going to happen.”

“Why are you acting like this?” you ask, pushing yourself off the bed to meet him. You’re tired, too tired to be arguing like this. “It won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure? You said the same thing before, and now look. Look at where we are.”

You’re at a loss for how to calm him. The exhaustion weighing on you makes your thoughts sluggish, and you’re afraid of saying something you’ll regret. But giving up isn’t an option—not with him, not because of this. Slowly, you step back and spin in place, letting him see you fully, the wound and all.

“You see? I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m not hurt. Please, Logan, believe me when I say I’m okay.”

He doesn’t respond, but the uncertainty etched into his face lingers. For a moment, you think you’ve reassured him, as he lets you guide him back to the bed. Together, you pull the sheets up to cover your bodies, and he leans into the pillows with a weary sigh. He mutters something about being sweaty, so you don’t rest your head on his chest as usual, settling into the curve of his shoulder instead. The rhythm of his breathing, uneven at first, begins to steady.

At some point, the warmth of his body disappears. You stir faintly, but your mind is too clouded by sleep to register it as anything more than the remnants of a rather vivid dream.

Logan remains standing, staring at Charles, refusing the invitation to sit down. “You told Jean,” he says, and the other man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even attempt to deny it. “I asked you to keep it between us.”

“I thought she might help you reconsider,” Charles answers, looking more serious than usual, his piercing eyes fixed on Logan. “Logan, I still don’t believe this is the right path for you. It’s not the solution to your problems. You can’t run from her, from this—relying on forgetting won’t bring you peace.”

Who really knows what’s best for him? Logan certainly doesn’t. After all these decades of walking the earth, what has he truly learned? His long life feels like a cruel irony, offering time without clarity. What use is immortality when you’re paralyzed by indecision, unsure of what you truly want?

“I can’t leave her. At least, not willingly,” he explains, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the arm of a chair, the gesture lacking finesse. “She’ll get over it. She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“You’re deciding for her.”

To that, Logan has no reply. He only looks away.

“When I got here, you told me you’d help with whatever I needed.” Logan crosses the room, lowering himself into a chair by Charles’ desk, his posture stiff. He lifts his chin slightly, trying to convey a confidence he doesn’t actually feel. “This is what I need you to do. Today.”

“Let’s start with your most recent memories and work backward from there.” Charles rolls himself closer, his chair nearly brushing Logan’s legs. “There’s an emotional core to every memory, and when you eradicate that core, it begins to degrade. By the time I’m done, those memories will have withered, as in a dream upon waking.”

Logan’s throat tightens at the description. There’s no comfort in Charles’ words. It doesn’t sound like a dream. It sounds like a nightmare.

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Yes.” Logan’s reply is immediate, though it scrapes his throat like gravel.

Charles nods once, solemnly. “Then tell me your most recent memory of her.”

I think I was preparing a class when she burst through the door, uninvited. I’d been trying to keep my distance from her, because of... well, all of this. But it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to leave, so I let her stay. She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and asked if I had much left to do. I told her everything else could wait. Big mistake.

We were lying on my bed. Somehow, we always ended up there, tangled together. It wasn’t strictly... sexual. There’s something profoundly vulnerable about sharing that space. Snuggling, you could call it. Now that I think about it, she likes resting her head on my chest. Says it’s the best way to hear my heartbeat and find out if it matches hers.

“Focus, Logan.”

Yeah, I know. You’re right. Anyway, she asked me if I believed in soulmates, and I laughed. Obviously, she thought I was mocking her, so I had to convince her I wasn’t. I just thought the question was funny.

“Why did you laugh?”

Because it was exactly the kind of question she’d ask. She hadn’t before, but I’d been waiting for it. She told me she thought soulmates existed, and that I was hers. And I laughed again, and she threatened to leave. I held her tighter.

I told her I didn’t know if soulmates were real. I didn’t have that kind of certainty. What I did know, I said, was that I loved her. That was the only thing I was sure of. Soulmates or no soulmates, I loved her. I was right where I wanted to be. Those were my exact words.

“When did this happen?”

Yesterday. Before she left with Ororo and Scott for their mission. That’s why I’m choosing to do this now.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you again. Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Yes, Charles. Please, don’t ask me again.

Throwing open the mansion’s entry door, you let it swing wide as you step inside. You could use a shower, but right now, all you care about is finding him. Where is he?

Before starting your search, a cluster of students rushes toward you, their arms wrapping around your waist. Their laughter fills your senses as they chatter excitedly, hugging you tightly. “We missed you!” A boy exclaims, and you can’t help but smile, ruffling his hair.

“Have you seen Professor Logan?” you ask, crouching to meet the eye of one of the younger girls.

She grins, her innocent smile spreading, and she points toward the kitchen. “He’s in there.”

You thank her and make your way to the kitchen, your heart beating a little faster. You find him standing by the counter, slicing bread. His movements are methodical, his posture calm, but something feels off. You pause in the doorway, scrutinizing his face for a sign, any sign, that he’s happy to see you.

But his gaze flicks to you for only a brief moment, cool and detached, before returning to his task.

“Hey,” you call softly, tilting your head. His shoulders tense, and he doesn’t stop cutting. “I’m back,” you add, stepping closer, hoping for some sort of acknowledgment.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, and when he does, his voice sounds flat. “I see.” He opens a drawer, pulling out a fork. “Good for you, I guess.”

The words hit you like a slap. A joke, surely. But why? You take a hesitant step forward, your brows furrowing. “Logan, why—”

Before you can finish, a hand grabs yours, yanking you out of the kitchen. Startled, you turn to see Jean, her expression pale and stricken.

“Jean?” you ask, confused. “Is this another one of Logan’s pranks?”

Her lips twitch, and tears glisten in her eyes when she swallows thickly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I tried to stop him. I really did. But he—he wouldn’t listen!” Her hands tighten around yours, quivering. You’ve never seen her like this before.

“Wait—slow down,” you urge, your stomach twisting.

“I swear, I tried to talk him out of it,” she pleads, each of the words she utters rushing out like a flood. “You know how stubborn he can get.”

It doesn’t take too long for her panic to feel contagious. The pit in your abdomen deepens as you glance back toward the kitchen, where Logan stands just out of sight.

Something is wrong—terribly wrong.

“Jean, what did he do?”

Despite all his wisdom, Charles had known this moment would come the second he agreed to help Logan.

The door to his office flies open, slamming against the wall with a force that reverberates through the room. You storm in, your strides long and charged with anger, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Madness blazes in your eyes. “You did what?!”

“My dear—”

“You erased me from my boyfriend’s memory!” The words erupt from you, shaking the very air. You fling your arms wide, your fury spilling over. Before he can respond, you turn on his bookshelf, yanking ancient, cherished volumes from their resting places. One by one, you ignite them, flames devouring their fragile pages in an instant.

Then, there’s a momentary pause—a flicker of silence before you seize another book. This one you hurl in his direction, not quite at his face, but close enough to graze the air near his shoulder before it hits the floor with a heavy thud. The sound echoes, a physical punctuation to your rage.

“You made me disappear! He doesn’t fucking know who I am!”

His expression, pained and weary, holds no exasperation—only regret. “He asked me to do it.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” The question hangs underlined by the tears that stream down your face. Your voice breaks, the pain behind it cutting deeper than any accusation. “You could’ve said no, Charles. How many times have you denied me things?”

“You didn’t see him in the way I did, he was—” He stops himself, faltering. No words can repair what he has already destroyed. “I’m sorry.”

You stand there, breathing hard, the space between you filled with smoldering ash and a silence so loud it feels suffocating. The remains of his books lie scattered, the faint scent of burnt paper lingering in the air. Charles watches you, but he doesn’t move to stop you. He doesn’t fight you.

The fury ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache that takes its place in your chest. “If you’re so willing to erase love like it’s nothing, then do it for me, too.”

Charles’s brows knit together. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Logan doesn’t remember me. I walk into a room, and he looks right through me. Like I’m a stranger, like I never mattered. So tell me, what’s the point in remembering him if he’s already forgotten me?”

“I don’t believe forgetting will give you the peace you’re looking for.”

“Is that what you told him as well? Clearly, it worked out well.”

Touché.

“I’ve already hurt you enough,” he whispers.

“And you’ll keep hurting me if you don’t do this. I can’t carry this alone.” You kneel in front of him, clutching the edge of his wheelchair. “If you could take it away from him, you can take it away from me, too.”

Charles stares down at you, his mouth tightening, as if the weight of your words presses down on him. His hands, usually so steady, shift uncomfortably in his lap. It’s clear he can’t believe this is the second time he’s found himself in this situation, faced with the same desperate request. “Are you sure?”

You nod your head. “He wanted to forget me. Now, I want to forget him.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. “All right,” he says softly, though his voice carries a sadness he doesn’t try to hide. “But I need you to understand… once it’s done, there’s no going back.”

“That’s the point.” You wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, as though erasing the tears could also erase the doubt creeping in.

“Then sit,” he counters, motioning to the chair Logan sat in days ago.

You hesitate for a moment, the finality of the act looming large. Slowly, you lower yourself into the chair, gripping its arms with all your earnest. Charles wheels himself closer, and the reality of what’s about to happen sets in.

“Tell me your last memory of him,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes, and the image surfaces instantly: Logan, holding you close, whispering that he loves you. No soulmates, no destiny—just love. You let out a shaky breath, your heart breaking all over again as you begin to recount it. “The last time he looked at me like I was his whole world.”

Charles nods, his expression unreadable, placing his hands on your temples. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I had to leave the next day, so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. My things were already packed. I walked into Logan’s room and asked him if he was busy. A week isn’t a lot, but ever since he moved here, we hadn’t been apart from each other. I was anxious about that. I thought it’d be so hard to fall asleep without him at night. What—oh, God, what’ll happen now?

“I need you to keep going, darling.”

Don’t call me that.

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

I convinced him to lie in bed with me. I had my head on his chest, and he kissed my forehead. His beard scratched me in the right way. It never hurt or bothered me. I had once dated a guy who had a beard, and it was just so uncomfortable. But that wasn’t Logan’s case. He would kiss me and hug me, and it felt like the best thing in the world.

There was a question I’d been meaning to ask him. It was about soulmates, and the existence of them. I thought Logan was my soulmate, and I said it to him. I asked if he believed in them, but he laughed. He told me he wasn’t making fun of me or anything, just that he thought the question was funny.

Logan said he didn’t know whether soulmates existed or not, but he knew for a fact that he loved me. He didn’t care about anything else. He loved me. He really did. Do you think he loved me, Charles?

“Yes. I do believe so.”

Then why did you take that away from me?

“I’m sorry.”

I hate you.

“I know.”

Your head pounds, an ache that feels like it’s splitting you in two. It’s a pain unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink repeatedly until the world around you sharpens into focus.

Four blank walls. The stark, colorless void offers nothing but the oppressive weight of emptiness. This must be your mind, stripped bare. Somewhere in the depths of this space, Charles is at work, pulling threads and unraveling every memory of Logan.

You push yourself off the cold floor. A soundless shift disturbs the space—a door appears out of nowhere, its frame faintly glowing, and without hesitation, you reach for the handle and swing it open.

On the other side is a fragment of your past: that night months ago, sitting in the living room, watching a movie. Logan had decided to join you. The memory pulls you in, and suddenly, you’re no longer standing—you’re on the couch. Your clothes have altered to match that night. Logan sits beside you, the warmth of his presence impossibly real.

This moment feels untouched by time, but deep down, you know the truth. Charles is erasing it even as you relive it. Soon, this too will vanish.

The scene begins to warp. It’s no longer the movie on the screen. The couple has been replaced by you and Logan. You’re watching yourselves from a third perspective, your bodies framed by the flickering light of the TV. It’s deeply unsettling, but in this fragmented state of consciousness, it doesn’t feel worth questioning.

“Logan?”

“Tell me.”

You grab a cushion and smack him on the arm, the motion instinctive. “You idiot!”

“What was that for?” he asks, laughing as he takes the cushion from your hands, tossing it aside. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You erased me from your memory!” you accuse him, even as you know the futility of it. He’s merely a fragment, a faint echo of who he once was to you. A lingering shard of memory caught in the tangled wires of your brain, sparking as it teeters on the edge of a short circuit. “You’re not even real, are you?”

“No,” he admits, his voice tinged with something like regret. “I’m just in your mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’re just what’s left.” You lower your gaze, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How long do you think it’ll take Charles to erase you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. The words you long for, the closure you might crave, are swallowed up. His lips vanish mid-formulation, and then you’re staring at a blank void where his mouth used to be. The rest of his features begins to fade—his eyes dissolve into nothingness, followed by his nose, his brows, the lines of his face. All that’s left is the space where he once sat, and even that feels tenuous.

You’re on your own now. The memory of him—of that night, the first time you truly shared an intimate moment—has been swept away like smoke in the wind. You collapse onto the floor, trembling as sobs tear through you, your hands pressed tightly against your face, attempting to contain your anguish. “I don’t want to forget you,” you choke out between hiccupped breaths, the sting of tears burning your eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“I know,” a familiar voice murmurs behind you, and there he is—Logan. This time, he’s wearing his suit. His claws are unsheathed, gleaming. “I shouldn’t have done it first. I don’t know what I was thinking’.”

You push yourself to your feet, drawn to him. When you move to hug him, he takes a step back, raising his claws as if to protect you from getting harmed. “I can’t retract them. If I hug you, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, pressing forward and slotting yourself between his arms, ignoring the danger. Your face finds its habitual place against his chest, and you inhale deeply, inhaling his scent. “I just want you.”

His arms fold around you hesitantly, careful yet incomplete. You feel a sharp pain, a searing slice along your ribs that rips a scream from your throat. The agony is blinding, drowning your world into darkness.

When you open your eyes again, you’re somewhere else entirely. The bed feels soft beneath you, the sheets tangled around your legs. Logan is there beside you, his body warm against yours, both of you naked under the sheets.

“You’re lost in thought,” he says, his voice tender, taking a strand of your hair, twisting it gently before tucking it behind your ear. “You alright?”

His face won’t stay still. Beard, no beard. A moustache that fades as quickly as it appears. Hair long, then short. Sideburns one moment, smooth skin the next. He’s a shifting mosaic of himself. You realize you can’t remember what he looked like the last time you saw him.

“I’m forgetting you.” Your fingertips trace the curve of his cheek, memorizing each detail. “I don’t think I can stop it now.”

He’s seconds away from crying, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels both desperate and resigned. “Stay here with me,” he whispers against your mouth, his hands sliding over your arms, your stomach, your legs. “Don’t let me go.”

“You did it to me first,” you say, voice thick with emotion, pulling him closer, down until his body presses fully against yours. His weight feels real, but you know it’s not. Nothing about this moment is.

His voice breaks, repeating the same mantra. “Stay here with me. Don’t let me go.”

The touches multiply. It’s no longer just his hands on your skin. It’s as if the entire universe is reaching for you. The cacophony of touches, the overlapping voices—“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—swirls into a suffocating chaos.

Logan begins to blur, like a photograph left too long in the sun. His face fades first, then his body, until all that remains is a ghost of his shadow. Then even that is gone. The bed disappears beneath you, leaving you adrift in an empty expanse. You can’t tell if you’re still there, or if you’ve vanished with him.

You exhale slowly. Silence, at last.

The second first time you see him, he’s sitting alone outside on a weathered bench, his shoulders slightly hunched. He’s completely alone, and you pause a few steps away, studying him for a moment. He doesn’t seem like someone you would’ve missed at the mansion. Charles mentioned he’d recently joined the team, a mutant who had spent too long wandering the earth.

You clear your throat, trying not to overthink it. “Mind if I take a seat?” you ask, your hands clasped behind your back as you wait for his reply.

He shifts to one end of the bench, leaving you more than enough room, though his movements seem cautious. You sit down, exhaling softly as an awkward silence stretches between you. His demeanor isn’t exactly inviting, and you wonder how to bridge the gap.

After a moment, you stretch out your hand, offering a polite smile, giving him your name. He glances at your hand, then takes it. “M’Logan,” he says simply, though you already knew that from your previous talk with Charles. His fingers are rough, calloused, yet they linger a beat longer than necessary before letting go. “The other day, I was in the kitchen, and you walked in. You were acting… strange.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Really?” Your gaze flickers between his face and your hand that still feels warm from his touch. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?”

Logan hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought so… but maybe not.” His lips press into a thin line, shrugging. “Never mind. I could be wrong.”

Tilting your head, you study him. There’s something familiar that you can’t quite place. “Have we met before? Outside this place, I mean. It’s just… I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t figure out where.”

His eyes meet yours then, like your question has triggered something dormant. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxing as he lets out a low chuckle. “Funny you’d say that. I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but… I got the same feeling.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” His lips quirk into a smile, one that matches yours.

Inside the mansion, Charles and Jean watch the scene through the window. Jean folds her arms across her chest, her expression caught between awe and disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“Don’t get me started,” Charles replies.

“They don’t know what happened, but they still feel it. Like they’re connected.” She peers down at Charles, her voice quieter now. “You erased everything, didn’t you? Every memory, every trace.”

Charles keeps his eyes on the scene outside, his features softening as he watches the two of you talk. He sighs, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re asking me for an explanation I don’t have. I guess some things… refuse to be forgotten.”

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.

Friedrich Nietzsche.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

#lily recs #i crode #fav movie and fav xmen character #what could go wrong #logan howlett #logan howlett angst

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