kvntonq

[kvntonq]

𖤐 — mission: pads and patience

pairing - eddie alden ft. fem!reader

summary - what happens when you ask eddie to buy your pads during the red month?

contents - fluff, period talking, suggestive, dramatic eddie, playful banters, established relationship.

words count -  1493 words

zayn's note - heii guys!! sorry for not posting regularly. I just finished my final exams and yippee I'm glad to be back!! hope you guys will enjoy this and more fics will come soon!! <3

Eddie Alden wasn't supposed to be the kind of man who settles down.

He was the punchline to half of your stories. You've heard the stories—hell, you knew some of the firsthand when you two were just workmates. He was the man your coworkers warned you about: silver-tongued, the coworker who never turned down a party, always five seconds from convincing someone into bed. The man who gave advice no one should follow and got away with it because he looked like that and smiled like sin.

But somewhere along the line—maybe during one of those late nights when you were both tipsy and tired of pretending—Eddie stopped looking at other people the way he looked at you.

And he never looked back.

He's still dramatic. Still flirty. Still hopelessly, Eddie. But the late-night phone calls are only ever for you now. His toothbrush lives beside yours. And when he makes coffee in the morning, he doesn't even ask anymore—he just adds a splash of vanilla creamer, two sugars, and kisses your shoulder as he hands it to you.

The infamous womanizer Eddie Alden is someone's else. 

Rain taps gently at the window as you lie curled up on the couch, wrapped in your thickest blanket. A heating pad hums on your stomach, the cramps coming in steady waves. You've given up trying to move. Even scrolling on your phone feels like too much.

Then, your screen lights up.

Eddie: On my way home. Need anything, gorgeous?

You smile, even through the discomfort. Your uterus is staging a mutiny and the pad stash under the sink is depressingly empty.

You type back: Can you grab some pads? Overnight ones with wings pls :3

Three dots bubble on the screen and you could swear it takes him only THREE seconds to reply.

Eddie: OH NO. THAT MEANS WE CAN'T FUCK?!

You choke out a laugh so hard you nearly dislodge the heating pad. Immediately, you hit the call button.

He picks up on the first ring with a gasp. “Sweetheart,” he says, like he's delivering a eulogy. “Say it ain’t so.”

“Hi to you too,” you say, already laughing.

“Tell me I misread that text. Say it was a typo. Say you meant ‘peach wine’ and autocorrect betrayed us.”

“I meant pads.”

He groans. “I had plans tonight. And not just plans, babe. Schemes. Elaborate, x-rated choreography. And now… ruined.”

“They were never confirmed plans,” you say through your giggles.

“They were spiritual plans,” he argues, “plans of the soul. I was going to light candles, touch your thighs like a gentleman, and do that thing with my tongue—”

“Eddie!”

“—and now, because of your cruel and vengeful uterus, I must live in sorrow. And buy pads.”

You press your face into the pillow, shaking with laughter. The fact that you could actually imagine his reaction through the phone call is hilarious. 

“Do you know what it's like to walk into the feminine hygiene aisle with an erection and a broken heart? I'm a man on the edge.”

“You're a man getting pads for his girlfriend. Be brave. Plus, I'm not dying, you know,” you say once you can breathe again. “It's just my period.”

“Exactly!” he replies. “It's the just that hurts the most.”

You groan playfully.

A pause. Then his voice softens just a little. “The same purple pack, right? Overnight. Wings.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks, baby.” 

You're still smiling long after the call ends. The cramps are annoying, your body is betraying you, and the weather sucks—but Eddie's coming home. With pads. And probably way too many snacks.

That's enough.

You must doze off, because the next thing you hear is the soft clicks of the front door and the familiar sound of Eddie kicking his boots.

“Sleeping Beauty,” he calls, voice low and fond. “Your knight returns. Armed with provisions.”

You stir, blinking blearily, as he steps into the living room with the dramatic flair of a man who has never entered quietly in his life. Rain clings to his jacket, and his hair is damp, pushed back like he just stepped out of a rom-com poster.

He pulls out the purple pack like he's unsheathing Excalibur. “Ta-da!”

You squint at the package. “You really got the right ones?”

“Do you doubt me?” he asks, mock-offended. “I walked into that aisle with the confidence of a man who once had a threesome in the office stairwell and came out reborn as your humble pad-bearer.”

You laugh but your arms are already stretching open. It's automatic now—whenever Eddie's around, you want him close. Touch is like oxygen these days.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Ohhh, look at that,” he says, pointing with dramatic flair. “Cling activated. Look at you. Just a little puddle of neediness.”

“Shut up and hug me.”

“Needy,” he whispers, shaking his head like you've disappointed him deeply. “Desperate. Pathetic.”

But he's already walking over. Already dropping the bag on the floor and crouching down to your level. He slides an arm around your waist and pulls you in like he was born for it—like every cell in his body exists just to do this.

His scent hits you instantly. Rain. Leather. The lingering trace of his cologne.

“God, you're cold,” you murmur against his shoulder.

“God, you're clingy,” he retorts, but his hand is already at the back of your head, cradling it like he's soothing something fragile.

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admits easily. “Sick little koala.”

You breathe him in. He holds you tighter and neither of you moves for a while.

A soft, tired sigh leaves your lips. “Ugh, my stomach's killing me.”

Immediately, Eddie's hand rubs slow, calming circles against your back.

“I know, baby,” he says, quieter now. “I got you. We're gonna make it better, alright?”

His voice is warm and low, almost reverent. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and stays for a long beat before whispering, “Stay here. I'm getting your chamomile tea and snacks.”

Then he disappears into the kitchen.

You hear rustling, the fridge opening, and the kettle clicking on. When he returns, it's with a mug of chamomile tea, a snack bag full of chocolate, and—God help you—a duck-shaped heat pack.

“Why is it a duck?” you ask, your eyebrows raised.

“Because love makes you stupid,” he says. “Now take it. Don't say I never spoil you.”

You trade the old heating pad for the duck and the moment your hand wraps around the tea, you sigh. “You're being very sweet today.”

“I'm always sweet,” he says, sitting beside you and pulling you gently against his chest. “You just usually notice it after orgasms.”

You snort. “So noble. So selfless.”

“I know,” he whispers into your hair. “I should get a medal for being denied sex and still being this amazing.”

“You're so brave.”

“I am.”

Hours later, the sky darkened. The rain is softer now, a hush over the city. You’ve migrated to bed in slow, sleepy steps, your body still heavy with cramps, your heart just a little lighter.

Eddie slips under the covers first, stretching out with a content sigh, then opens his arms in invitation. “Come here, you bleeding goddess.”

You groan and crawl into his arms, finding your place against his bare chest like muscle memory. His skin is warm, his touch soft as he runs his fingers down your spine.

“Better?” he asks.

“Mm. A little.”

“I’d offer a back massage, but I fear I’d get too turned on.”

“Jesus, Eddie."

He grins against your hair. “I’m suffering, baby. I can’t even lie. But I’m being good.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” He cups your cheek. “Of course not. I mean, am I aroused to the point of spiritual crisis? Yes. But you’re bleeding. And in pain. And you still let me hold you like this. That’s more than enough.”

You blink. His voice is quieter now, the playfulness dialed down to something real.

“Seriously,” he adds. “I used to wake up alone next to people I didn’t even like. And now I get to wake up beside the love of my life. Period or not. That’s a win.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and press your face into his chest.

He lets a beat of silence pass, then says, “Still gonna write tragic poetry in my Notes app about it.”

You groan. “I knew you couldn’t help yourself.”

“It’s called ‘Red Tide of My Despair’—”

You squeak, pushing at him. “No.”

“A River of Lust, A Dam of Sadness—”

“No, Eddie—”

“The Crimson Abyss of Blue Balls—”

“Good. Night.”

He chuckles, then settles down again, arms locked tight around you, mouth brushing your temple.

You feel him relax as you drift. Safe. Warm. Held.

Even with the cramps. Even with the inconvenience. Even with the duck-shaped heat pack between you.

He’s here.

And he's yours.

reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!!

dividers by: @dollywons

tags!! @princessanglophile @themareverine @wchswift @dimlylittorch @mcrdvcks @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed!!]

[kvntonq]

𖤐 — his royal high(hair)ness

pairing - dad!leopold mountbatten ft. reader's daughter

summary - who would expect that even a Duke can become a Prince in his princess' eyes?

contents - fluff, soft and domestic, brief Disney-like storyline, humorous

words count - 1450 words

zayn's note - hii! first of all, I'm so sorry for being inactive these past few days, things were a bit rough for me, but all good now! soooo yepp!! this is my gift for y'all and I hope you enjoy <3

The clock ticked softly in the hallway, marking the late afternoon with unhurried grace. The day had wound down gently, as it often did in your household—dinner cleared away, toys scattered like colorful confetti across the living room rug, and the scent of soap and warm towels lingering in the air from your daughter's evening bath.

Upstairs, in the nursery, all was quiet—until a muffled giggle broke the stillness.

You padded barefoot across the floorboards, drawn by the familiar sound: a little girl's laughter, high-pitched and bubbly, like sunshine captured in a sound. As you peeked around the doorway, you had to press a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loud yourself.

There, seated with a kind of noble composure on the soft cream carpet, was Leopold—your Leopold—legs crossed, waistcoat off, sleeves rolled to the elbows of his linen shirt. His golden-brown hair, usually so carefully combed, was now being overtaken by a miniature stylist.

Your four-year-old daughter stood behind him, tongue poking out in concentration, holding a mint green bow in one hand and a comb in the other. Her curls bounced with every movement, and her small brow furrowed in the exact same way her father's did when deep in thought.

She was unmistakably his.

From the proud tilt of her chin to the deliberate, meticulous way she chose each hair clip from tin beside her—she was every bit a miniature Leopold. Precise. Focused. Entirely unaware of how disarming that seriousness was when it came in such a tiny package.

"Hold still, Papa," she whispered dramatically, pushing his head slightly to the left.

Leopold, for all his impeccable standards and old-world elegance, did not resist. He sat perfectly still, like a statue under royal command—his back straight, his hands folded primly in his lap as if he were awaiting a portrait.

"I remain at your service, m'lady," he replied, his voice deep and warm, tinged with amusement and boundless patience that only surfaced in moments like this.

You leaned against the doorframe, heart blooming quietly at the sight.

This was the man who once hesitated to hold her, afraid of doing it wrong. The same man who read parenting manuals by candlelight and took notes like a university student studying for final exams. And now—here he was, allowing his daughter to turn him into a living doll, complete with tiny pigtails and butterfly clips.

He glanced up, and caught your eyes. And you swore there was a bit of sparkle in his eyes—a kind of soft surrender that had taken root since fatherhood entered his life.

"She's very committed to her craft," he said with mock-seriousness.

"She gets it from her father," you said with a smile, walking in slowly and sinking onto the edge of the rocking chair near the window. "You make a very graceful subject."

"She said I'm being made into a fairy prince," he added, raising one brow. "Apparently that comes with... hair accessories."

Your daughter huffed behind him. "You said I could pick any kind of prince."

"And I stand by that promise," he replied, bowing his head slightly under her comb.

A quiet hush followed—the good kind, the kind only a peaceful home can carry. Outside the windows, the sun drooped low behind the trees, painting the nursery walls in gold. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting it all soak in—the quiet hum of a sleepy house, the gentle clink of metal hair clips, your daughter's voice humming as she worked.

Leopold didn't move once, not even when she tugged gently at his hair to fasten another bow in place. He let her take her time, let her create her masterpiece on the canvas of his patience.

It wasn't just sweet. It was sacred.

And when she finally finished, she scrambled around to face him, clapping her hands with a proud nod. "Done!"

Leopold blinked with exaggerated seriousness. "May I see the result of your artistry?"

She handed him the small hand mirror from her dresser and he turned it over with care. His reflection looked back at him—pastel bows, a lopsided center part, and a single bright yellow butterfly clip dangling precariously over one temple.

"I must say," he said, adjusting the mirror slightly, "this is the most... whimsical hairstyle I've ever worn."

“You're magical, Papa! You look beautiful.” She insisted, climbing onto his lap and resting her small hands on his shoulders. “You look like a prince from the woods.”

Leopold wrapped his arms around her, a slow, secure gesture, not daring to deny her little princess, not when she looked so bright like this. “Then I am honored to serve in your court, my dear.”

You watched from the side, heart full. This man—once so reserved, unsure how to navigate the messy, bright chaos of parenthood—now allowed himself to be covered in glitter bows without blinking.

She nestled into his chest, thumb going into her mouth, her eyes starting to droop. “I think that's the last one,” she murmured sleepily.

“Then,” Leopold said, brushing a curl from her face. “I am complete.”

You rose and crossed the room, kneeling beside them to press a gentle hand over your daughter's back. “Ready for a story?”

She shook her head sleepily. “Papa tells better ones.”

Your smile faltered for the briefest moment.

You hadn't expected it to sting quite so much.

It was silly—she was four, and he was her favorite playmate, her protector, her prince. But for years now, storytime has been your quiet magic with her: your voice guiding her gently into dreams, your stories laced with love and softness. You'd woven fairy tales with her curled on your chest, just like this.

And now… she wanted him instead.

You let out a quiet breath, brushing a hand over her back, the ache blooming gently, playfully in your chest. “Oh,” you said, feigning a small gasp. “I've been replaced.”

Leopold looked up, the corner of his mouth twitched. “I believe this is a temporary coup. I'm sure the rightful queen of bedtime stories will reclaim the throne tomorrow.”

You shook your head and chuckled softly, letting Leopold take over for tonight. Leopold smiled at you. “Shall I attempt another original tale? Or would the Royal Highness prefer our sixth retelling of The Honey Moon Princess?”

“Sixth,” you whispered and he chuckled.

And so he began—right there on the nursery rug, in a crown of mismatched bows and the arms of a sleepy little girl. His voice dropped into the cadence of storytelling, rich and rolling, spinning a whimsical tale of a woodland prince, an unicorn friend, and a very brave little girl—a fairy tale he'd invented just for her.

As the story wound down, her eyelids drooped. You reached over and took her gently from his lap, cradling her close. She was heavy with sleep now, head tucked beneath your chin, her curls smelling faintly of apple shampoo and childhood.

Leopold stood carefully, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “Shall I… remove the adornments?”

“No,” you said with a grin. “You should leave them in.”

“You find this amusing, I gather.”

“I find it beautiful.”

He paused, something unspoken softening behind his eyes. Then he bent down, pressing a kiss to your daughter's forehead and another to your temple.

“She has your will,” he murmured.

“She has your heart,” you replied.

And with that, you carried her to her bed, tucking her on beneath the quilt she insisted kept nightmares away. Leopold straightened the stuffed animals at the foot of the bed, an old habit of his, precise and sweet.

After she was asleep, you both stood at the door for a moment longer, watching her chest rise and fall in that perfect rhythm of peace.

Then, quietly, he took your hand and led you back down the hallway.

You both ended up in the living room—a single lamp casting soft light over the furniture. You curled up on the couch while he poured two cups of tea, his hair still scattered with pastel bows.

“You're not taking them off?” you asked, amused.

He looked over his shoulder with an air of false dignity. “A prince must wear his crown.”

You laughed, head falling back against the cushion, warmth blooming in your chest. He joined you on the couch and passed you a cup, then leaned back beside you, one arm slipping easily around your shoulders. You rested your head against him, your fingers finding his, weaving together the way you always did.

Outside, the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. Inside, the warmth stayed. For a long time, you said nothing.

There was no need to.

You had everything you needed—right here.

tags!! @princessanglophile @themareverine @mcrdvcks @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed!!]

reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!!

dividers by: @dollywons

[kvntonq]

I'm so sorry 😭 but I'm a sucker for old man logan angst 😔 anyways!! don't worry I will write fluffy fics soon ;)

𖤐 — I miss you, I'm sorry…

pairing - old man logan ft. human!reader

summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.

contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.

words count - 1846 words

The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.

Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.

The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He lets his gaze linger.

You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”

You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.

“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.

Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.

“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.

“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”

His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.

“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.

Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.

“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.

“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.

Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.

“What happened?” she finally asks.

Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”

He swallows hard.

“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”

Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.

The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.

“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.

He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

FLASHBACK

Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.

“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.

He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”

You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”

He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”

You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”

The silence between you stretched.

“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”

And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.

“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.

“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”

He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.

The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.

Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.

Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.

“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Logan looks over. “To what?”

“To her.”

Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.

Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”

He doesn't meet her eyes.

“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”

For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.

He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.

“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.

Laura frowns. “Why not?”

A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”

Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.

“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”

He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.

Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.

“I'm sorry,” Laura says.

Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.

“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”

Somewhere inside him, something breaks.

“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.

“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.

“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”

“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”

Laura stares. “But she loved you.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”

“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”

And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.

He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.

Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.

“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”

At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”

The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.

Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.

“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”

Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.

Laura kneels beside it.

“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”

She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.

Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”

Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.

“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”

A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.

Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.

“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”

The wind moves around them, soft and warm.

“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”

He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.

“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”

He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”

He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”

Then, he stands.

Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.

And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!

divider by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)

[kvntonq]

😭😭 NAURRRR why would you reread itttt (thank you so much for reading!!)

𖤐 — I miss you, I'm sorry…

pairing - old man logan ft. human!reader

summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.

contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.

words count - 1846 words

The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.

Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.

The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He lets his gaze linger.

You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”

You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.

“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.

Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.

“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.

“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”

His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.

“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.

Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.

“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.

“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.

Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.

“What happened?” she finally asks.

Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”

He swallows hard.

“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”

Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.

The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.

“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.

He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

FLASHBACK

Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.

“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.

He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”

You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”

He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”

You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”

The silence between you stretched.

“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”

And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.

“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.

“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”

He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.

The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.

Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.

Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.

“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Logan looks over. “To what?”

“To her.”

Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.

Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”

He doesn't meet her eyes.

“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”

For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.

He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.

“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.

Laura frowns. “Why not?”

A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”

Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.

“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”

He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.

Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.

“I'm sorry,” Laura says.

Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.

“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”

Somewhere inside him, something breaks.

“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.

“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.

“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”

“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”

Laura stares. “But she loved you.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”

“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”

And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.

He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.

Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.

“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”

At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”

The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.

Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.

“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”

Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.

Laura kneels beside it.

“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”

She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.

Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”

Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.

“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”

A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.

Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.

“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”

The wind moves around them, soft and warm.

“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”

He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.

“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”

He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”

He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”

Then, he stands.

Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.

And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!

divider by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)

[kvntonq]

Thank you so much for your sweet words!! <3 🤍

𖤐 — I miss you, I'm sorry…

pairing - old man logan ft. human!reader

summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.

contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.

words count - 1846 words

The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.

Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.

The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He lets his gaze linger.

You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”

You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.

“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.

Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.

“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.

“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”

His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.

“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.

Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.

“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.

“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.

Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.

“What happened?” she finally asks.

Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”

He swallows hard.

“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”

Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.

The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.

“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.

He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

FLASHBACK

Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.

“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.

He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”

You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”

He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”

You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”

The silence between you stretched.

“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”

And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.

“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.

“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”

He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.

The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.

Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.

Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.

“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Logan looks over. “To what?”

“To her.”

Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.

Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”

He doesn't meet her eyes.

“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”

For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.

He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.

“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.

Laura frowns. “Why not?”

A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”

Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.

“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”

He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.

Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.

“I'm sorry,” Laura says.

Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.

“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”

Somewhere inside him, something breaks.

“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.

“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.

“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”

“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”

Laura stares. “But she loved you.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”

“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”

And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.

He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.

Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.

“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”

At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”

The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.

Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.

“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”

Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.

Laura kneels beside it.

“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”

She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.

Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”

Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.

“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”

A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.

Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.

“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”

The wind moves around them, soft and warm.

“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”

He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.

“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”

He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”

He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”

Then, he stands.

Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.

And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!

divider by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)

[kvntonq]

OH I GET WHAT YOU MEAN. TOTALLY GET IT. funny because that's actually what I meant by the way 💔🙏🏻 thank you for readingg!!!

𖤐 — I miss you, I'm sorry…

pairing - old man logan ft. human!reader

summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.

contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.

words count - 1846 words

The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.

Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.

The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He lets his gaze linger.

You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”

You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.

“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.

Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.

“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.

“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”

His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.

“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.

Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.

“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.

“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.

Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.

“What happened?” she finally asks.

Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”

He swallows hard.

“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”

Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.

The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.

“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.

He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

FLASHBACK

Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.

“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.

He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”

You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”

He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”

You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”

The silence between you stretched.

“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”

And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.

“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.

“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”

He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.

The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.

Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.

Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.

“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Logan looks over. “To what?”

“To her.”

Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.

Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”

He doesn't meet her eyes.

“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”

For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.

He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.

“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.

Laura frowns. “Why not?”

A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”

Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.

“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”

He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.

Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.

“I'm sorry,” Laura says.

Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.

“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”

Somewhere inside him, something breaks.

“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.

“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.

“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”

“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”

Laura stares. “But she loved you.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”

“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”

And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.

He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.

Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.

“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”

At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”

The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.

Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.

“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”

Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.

Laura kneels beside it.

“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”

She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.

Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”

Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.

“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”

A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.

Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.

“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”

The wind moves around them, soft and warm.

“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”

He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.

“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”

He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”

He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”

Then, he stands.

Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.

And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!

divider by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)

[kvntonq]

𖤐 — I miss you, I'm sorry…

pairing - old man logan ft. human!reader

summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.

contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.

words count - 1846 words

The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.

Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.

The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He lets his gaze linger.

You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”

You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.

“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.

Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.

“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.

“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”

His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.

“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.

Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.

“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.

“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.

Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.

“What happened?” she finally asks.

Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”

He swallows hard.

“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”

Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.

The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.

“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.

He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

FLASHBACK

Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.

“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.

He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”

You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”

He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”

You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”

The silence between you stretched.

“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”

And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.

“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.

“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”

He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.

The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.

Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.

Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.

“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Logan looks over. “To what?”

“To her.”

Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.

Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”

He doesn't meet her eyes.

“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”

For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.

He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.

“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.

Laura frowns. “Why not?”

A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”

Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.

“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”

He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.

Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.

“I'm sorry,” Laura says.

Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.

“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”

Somewhere inside him, something breaks.

“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.

“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.

“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”

“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”

Laura stares. “But she loved you.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”

“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”

And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.

He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.

Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.

“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”

At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”

The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.

Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.

“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”

Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.

Laura kneels beside it.

“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”

She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.

Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”

Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.

“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”

A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.

Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.

“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”

The wind moves around them, soft and warm.

“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”

He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.

“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”

He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”

He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”

Then, he stands.

Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.

And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!

divider by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)

[kvntonq]

𖤐 — not to me

pairing - old man logan ft. human!reader

summary - he says he doesn't deserve you, you remind him he doesn't get to decide that.

contents - protective!logan, a bit angst (typical logan), hurt & comfort, fluff, established relationship, brief mention of harassment.

words count - 1279 words

zayn's note - just wanna try writing angst a bit, well it's not fully angst but it's there. enjoy your reading lovelies!! <3

It was raining sideways the first time he saw you.

Some no-name town off a backroad in Texas. He'd stopped for gas, blood dried on his knuckles and too much noise in his head. You were out back behind the diner, hunched beside a busted-down car, cussing it out like it'd personally betrayed you.

He would've kept walking. He usually did. But something made him pause. Maybe it was the way you didn't flinch when he approached—just glanced up, squinted at him through the rain.

"Got a stare problem or are you gonna help?"

He didn't say anything, just shrugged off his coat, crouched beside you, and wordlessly started to work. Hands covered in grease, rain dipping from his nose, he expected silence.

Instead, you talked. Not about the car, but about music. Weather. How thankful you are for stumbling onto him in the rain. The kind of small, easy things no one asked him about anymore.

"You a mechanic?" you asked at one point.

He shook his head. "No," he replied gruffly, voice husky and deep.

"You're good with your hands."

And that made him look up. You didn't say it like a flirt. Just a fact and that threw him more than it should've.

The engine turned over ten minutes later. You grinned, all teeth and rain and relief.

"Guess I owe you a drink. The bar is alredy closed but I would make an excepton for you."

He should've said no. But he didn't.

That night, he followed you to the bar, silence and awkward. You slid him a beer and didn't ask questions. Not about the scars. The limp. The name he didn't offer.

You just sat there. Two ghosts passing time.

He left afterwards. But a week later, he came back.

Didn't know why then.

He did now.

The place was already buzzing when Logan slipped in.

He never liked the crowds—too loud, too many smells, too many hands reaching for things they didn't need. But he came anyway. Sat in the far corner, nursing a beer that'd long since gone warm. Watching you behind the bar, moving fast, smiling soft. That smile wasn't for him tonight—but he didn't mind. You were in your element. You always looked good in motion. Like the worlds couldn't touch you when you were working. Like you belonged there, even if he never felt like he belonged anywhere.

Until they showed up.

Three men—local drunks, loud and handsy. The kind who thought a tip gave them permission to linger, leer and make you uncomfortable. You dealt with it most nights. You were tough. Handled creeps like breathing. But tonight... they pushed it.

The tall one leaned over the bar, eyes too slick, voice slurred. "C'mon, sweetheart. Don't act like you don't like the attention."

You gave a tight smile. "I like respect. Think you got any of that back in your truck?"

His buddies cackled. He didn't. Instead, his hand slid over the bar—aiming for your wrist.

That's when you saw Logan stand.

You tried to wave him off, just a small shake of your head, but it was too late. The drunk grabbed your arm.

"Let go," you said, voice steel beneath the honey.

"Make me," he sneered.

And Logan moved.

One second he was across the room. The next he had the guy's arm twisted behind his back, face shoved into the sticky wood of the bar. The other two barely had time to register before Logan's claws snikted out, gleaming cold and sharp by the man's throat.

"Touch her again and you'll lose more than your drink."

His voice wasn't loud but the bar went silent. One of those silences that rang like a church bells in your chest.

The man whimpered. His friends scrambled. And Logan let him go—barely. You'd never seen a man soil himself out of fear until that night.

And you never looked away from Logan. His hands trembled. Like he wasn't actually aware of his reactions just now.

Later, Logan drove back in silence, jaw tight, knuckles white on the wheel. You didn't dare to say anything. You knew that look. Not rage. Not exactly. Just the old, heavy kind of guilt that sat in his bones like rust.

Now, he sat at the edge of the bed, brooding himself. You knelt in front of him, gently tugging his hands into yours. He flinched at first, but didn't pull away.

“Logan,” you said softly. “They started it.”

“I finished it like an animal,” he muttered. “You saw how they looked at me. Like I was a damn freak.”

You squeezed his hands, gently but hard enough to feel his presence. “You stopped them before they hurt me. That's not being a freak. That's being good.”

“Good,” he echoed, bitterly. “I don't even know what that means anymore. I scare people, sweetheart. I lose control. I've killed more men than you've met in your life.”

“And every time you've laid a hand on me? You've been gentle.” You looked up at him, hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Every time I've needed you, you showed up. Even when you didn't want to.”

He went quiet. His eyes looked too old, too tired. Like he'd been carrying the world too long and no one had offered to take even an ounce of the weight.

“You're not a monster to me, Logan. Not tonight. Not ever. You're the man that I fell in love with.”

That broke something in him. Not loud. Not messy. Just a quiet, unraveling breath as he leaned into your touch. He didn't move at first. Just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, like breathing near you helped keep the darkness at bay. His hands rested on your waist, tentative, unsure—like he was afraid even now he'd break something.

You didn't pull away either. 

“You okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Am I ever?” he replied, half a smirk, half truth.

You gave him a look. “Be serious.”

“I am.” He let out a breath. “You ever think I'm just too damn far gone for this? For… for us?”

You shook your head instantly, thumbs rubbing his cheek. “No. Not once.”

His brows knitted, guilt sinking deeper into his eyes. “You saw me tonight. What I'm capable of. That didn't scare you?”

“What scares me the most is the idea of a world where you didn't come for me.”

He stared at you, unmoving. Torn between self-loathing and something that looked like love—raw, old, too big for a man like him. Like it didn't know how to live inside him without tearing him apart.

So, you kissed him.

Soft. Familiar. Gentle in the way people only kiss when they already know each other—when it isn't about proving anything, just being with someone who makes the darkness feel less heavy.

He breathed into it, forehead resting against yours once again when you pulled back.

“I don't deserve you,” he whispered. Like always, like that was the only thing he had known to say whenever you were here.

“Good thing you don't get to decide that. I chose you back then and I will always choose you.”

And for the first time that night, he let out a soft laugh—hoarse and rough, but real. Like it hurts to let it out. But it healed something anyway.

Later, you lay curled up together under the thin blanket. Logan didn’t sleep much. He never did. But he held you close, one hand resting against your back, your steady breathing lulling the storm in his chest.

You didn't need to fix him. You just needed to be there.

And you were.

that's it guys!! i hope you enjoy your reading!! give me your thoughts, feedbacks on this!! reblogs are appreciated too <3 till we meet again, then!

tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist!!]

[kvntonq]

hey i love ur logan pregnancy fics, can i request one with trilogy logan. just like fluffy him and the reader r having a baby plzzz

𖤐 — a pie promise

pairing - trilogy!Logan ft. pregnant!reader

summary - It wasn't just a pie. And Logan? He knew that. So he made a promise—and a mess.

contents - fluff!! just Logan being a good and domestic partner, light humor, brief cameo of Storm and Kurt, baker!Logan?? reader being fussy about a slice of pie (hormones guys, cut some slack!)

words count - 2280 words

zayn's note - hiii nonniee!! thank you for sending me the request because honestly I want to write this for trilogy!Logan but somehow ended up with old man Logan 😭 alsoooo, not me doing a whole research on types of pie!! just because of this fic LMAO therefore, I'm sorry if there are mistakes about the baking things here. can't you see that he's so domestic coded (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠) you can apply to any trilogy!Logan though I prefer X2 Logan. enjoy your reading!!

The scent of cinnamon still lingered in the kitchen when you passed through, one hand cradling the small of your back. You were heavier these days, slower too—your belly rounded and firm beneath the soft fabric of Logan's old T-shirt, which you had permanently claimed as your own. The fabric stretched over your bump now, worn thin and warm with his scent, like comfort stitched into cotton.

You hadn't meant to cry today. You'd promised yourself you wouldn't.

But it had been one of those days. The kind where your ankles felt swollen and sore before noon, where no position was comfortable long enough to matter. The kind where the baby rolled and kicked like they were doing gymnastics under your ribs, and everything—not just your body, but your mind—felt worn thin.

Still, you’d pushed through. You hummed while folding the laundry. You answered Logan's check-in call with a cheerful tone, even if it was a little forced. And every time something felt a little too heavy, too much, you whispered the same thing to yourself: just make it to the evening. Pie will make it better.

Storm had brought it over that morning—apple cinnamon, still warm when she arrived. She'd smiled and said something kind about how you deserved a treat. And she was right. You'd only had one slice and saved the rest, imagining how you'd curl up with it tonight like it was a reward for making it through the chaos.

So when your eyes landed on the pie dish now, and it was empty—only stray crumbs clinging to the plate like a bad joke—you didn't move for a long moment.

You just stood there. Blinking once.

Then again.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Just the tight little knot that climbed through your throat and refused to budge.

You tried to breathe around it. It's just a pie, you told yourself. It's fine. It's stupid.

But it wasn't stupid. It had been the one good thing. The one thing you'd clung to like a soft place to land at the end of a long, aching day. And now it was gone.

And somehow, that felt like too much.

Quietly, you turned off the kitchen light and walked to your room.

The hallway was still when Logan opened the door to your shared room, hair damp from a post-mission shower. It hadn’t been anything major—just enough to keep his muscles sore and his patience thin. He was looking forward to collapsing beside you, stealing a few peaceful minutes wrapped around the life you were building together.

But the moment his eyes landed on you, his instinct tugged.

You were curled up in bed, your back to the door, the blankets bunched around your body in a way that didn't quite look like sleep. The lamp beside the bed was on, casting a soft glow across the room, and yet the air felt heavy.

Something tightened in his chest.

“You still up, sweetheart?” he asked gently, his voice low and a little gruff.

There was a pause—barely a beat longer than usual—but long enough for him to notice.

“Yeah,” came your reply. Muffled. Dull. Not angry, but not right either.

Logan stepped further into the room, drying his hair with the towel slung around his shoulders. His eyes lingered on you—your posture, the way your shoulders curled slightly inward, the way your hand rested on your belly like it needed comfort.

He knew that shape. Not physical pain. Emotional. Quiet disappointment wrapped in fatigue. And it hit him hard—how often he missed moments like these, too tangled in his own thoughts or distracted by the next damn missions.

He slid under the covers and settled next to you, careful not to jostle you too much, his hand reaching to brush along your hip. Slow. Gentle. Like coaxing the truth from someone afraid to speak it.

“You okay?” he asked.

You mumbled into the pillow, “Yeah.”

Then, after a breath— “No.”

Logan's brows knit together. “What happened, my darlin’?”

There was a long silence. The kind that made his stomach twist.

And then you whispered, “Someone ate the last piece of pie.”

Logan blinked. “Sorry?”

You sighed, rolling over to face him. Your eyes were glassy, your voice cracking. “Someone ate the last piece of pie Storm made me. And today was awful, and my back hurts, and my bra feels like it's trying to assassinate me from the inside out, and that pie was the one good thing I had going and—”

Your voice broke into a tiny sob. “—and I just really wanted it.”

Logan's expression softened immediately. The mission tension in his shoulders drained away as he propped up on one elbow.

“C'mere,” he murmured, voice low and rough but gentle.

You curled up toward him without hesitation, cheeks flushed with heat and emotion. He wrapped an arm around you, one under your head, the other protectively draped over your bump.

“I'm sorry, darlin’,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “It's just a pie. But it wasn't just pie to you, was it?”

You shook your head. “I feel so dramatic.”

He smiled against your hair. “You're carrying’ a whole other human. I figure you're allowed a meltdown or two.”

You hiccupped a laugh and tucked your face into his neck, his scent grounding you—clean soap, leather, something faintly wild beneath it all, something uniquely his’.

“It's not that I'm mad. I'm just…” You sighed. “This pregnancy making me feel everything so hard. I cried over a baby sock earlier.”

“Was it a sad sock?”

“It was wrinkled.”

“Damn. Those'll get you.”

You pulled back just enough to see his smirk. “You're not helping.”

“Didn't say I was tryin’ to.” He chuckled, then kissed your forehead. His thumb brushed along your arm as silence settled again—comfortable, safe.

After a while, he murmured, “I'll bake you another pie tomorrow.”

You raised a brow. “You can't bake.”

“I'll learn.”

“Of course you will.” You smiled, eyes half-lidded.

“For you and this little monster in here? I'd do just about anything. You name it.”

Your heart swelled, full and aching with love. Logan might be rough around the edges, might grumble and scowl his way through most days—but in moments like this? He was pure warmth.

You pressed a hand to your belly, where the baby kicked softly against his palm.

He stilled, then smiled. “Think they're excited about the pie too?”

You laughed sleepily and closed your eyes. “Definitely.”

The afternoon light drifted lazily through the kitchen the next day. Logan stood by the counter, arms crossed, frowning down at the open cookbook like it had personally insulted him.

“I don't get it,” he muttered, holding up the measuring cup and squinting at the numbers. “What the hell's a ‘scant cup’?”

Kurt leaned over his shoulder, tail flicking as he peered curiously at the cookbook. “It means almost a cup. Not quite full.”

Logan glared at the cup with an annoyed frown. “That's stupid. Just say ‘not a cup’. Damn thing already makin’ this complicated.”

The kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour coated nearly every surface—like a soft dusting of snow after a blizzard—with ghostly handprints trailing along the edge of the counter. A sticky mixture of butter and sugar clung to a wooden spoon like it had given up on being stirred. The cookbook lay open, pages smudged with fingerprints and faint cinnamon streaks. Apples rolled across the counter like tiny rebels with a soft thump, unnoticed.

Storm walked in, took one look, and blinked. “Is this… a midlife crisis? What's going on here?”

Logan glared. “I'm baking, can't you see?” He let out a frustrated grunt and then threw his arms wide, hands caked in flour and dough like a living exhibit of “man vs. baking.”

“This,” he grumbled, “is what happens when you try to make a damn pie from scratch.”

Storm lifted a brow as she stepped into the kitchen. “Why, exactly, are you trying to make a pie?”

Kurt leaned closer, stage-whispering behind a barely concealed grin, “Someone ate the last one. He promised to bake a new one.”

Storm's expression shifted. The tease softened into something warmer. She crossed her arms gently. “Oh.”

Logan didn't look up, but his jaw tightened. “She was real quiet yesterday. One damn slice of pie and she looked like the world ended.”

“I know it did,” he said, softer now. “So, I'm fixin’ it.”

“She's pregnant, Logan. That pie probably meant more than you think.”

It took longer than Logan wanted to admit. The dough was a nightmare. Sticky one moment, cracking the next. Storm guided his hands with practiced patience, showing him how to work the butter into the flour with his fingers until it resembled coarse crumbs. Kurt teleported around slicing apples with dramatic bamfs and flair—until Logan threatened to throw the rolling pin if he kept startling the bowl.

At one point, Logan knocked his knuckles so hard against the counter trying to knead the crust that a chip splintered off the edge of the cutting board. He grunted, shaking his hand out. “This better be the best damn pie in history.”

Storm chuckled softly. “It doesn't have to be perfect. Just made with love is all that matters.”

The scent in the kitchen shifted slowly—first sharp and sugary, then warm and golden. Cinnamon swirled with caramelized apple, rich and cozy. By the time Logan slid the pie into the oven, the space had transformed into something else entirely.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded, sweat at his brow and flour in his hair, and for the first time all afternoon, he smiled—just a little.

You were nestled in the middle of the bed, swaddled in what Logan always called “the nest,” a loose page of your book resting half-forgotten on your belly. The room was dim and warm, lit only by the amber glow through the blinds. Everything felt still. Quiet. You had been dozing in and out, floating between sleep and thought.

Then, you heard him.

Heavy footsteps in the hallway. The familiar, careful kind he reserved for when he didn't want to wake you—or when he was nervous. The door creaked open a second later, and you blinked your eyes open.

There he was, standing in the doorway like a man caught holding a secret. His hair was a little tousled, and there was a faint smudge of flour still clinging to his ‘kitty’ hair.

In his hands: a pie.

The crust was uneven in places, one edge darker than the other, and a bit of cinnamon trailed like a thumbprint along the side—but it smelled right. Warm and sweet and full of care. Like brown sugar and redemption.

He hovered for a second. Cleared his throat.

“I, uh… made you somethin’.”

Your brows lifted, and you slowly pushed yourself up, resting back against the pillows. “Is that…?”

“Pie,” he said gruffly, stepping inside and holding it like it was sacred. “Might not look like much, but—figured it might make up for yesterday.”

You stared at him, lips parting. “You baked?”

“I had help,” he admitted, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, still holding the pie. “Storm made sure I didn't light anything on fire. Kurt sliced the apples. I did the rest.”

You looked at the pie. Then at him. Your chest ached in that full, tender way that always came when he did something quietly extraordinary.

“You really didn't have to go through all that.”

“I wanted to.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking toward your bump before settling on you again. “You've been carryin’ our kid—deal with sore backs, swollen ankles, cryin’ over socks—I promised you I'd make a new one, right?”

Your throat tightened. Tears blurred your vision, again, and you let out a watery laugh. “You're really kind of amazing, y'know that?”

His smile turned lopsided, crooked in that soft Logan kind of way. He put the pie on the side table and turned his attention to you. His world. He thumbed away the tears like a gentleman.

“Come on, don't cry. I thought that pie would make your day better, hm?” He said, with a light teasing tone.

“Pregnancy hormones,” you huffed out through the last of your tears.

He chuckled and kissed your temple—slow and sure.

“Want a slice?”

“Only if you share it with me.”

Logan's smile widened as he nodded, slicing into the pie like it was a holy rite. Two uneven pieces on one plate. You fed him the first bite. He watched you with quiet hope as you tasted yours.

“... Logan.”

He held his breath, heart pumping wildly.

“This actually tastes so good.”

Relief flooded his face, and you could've sworn his shoulders dropped two inches. “Thank God.”

As you chewed, your gaze dropped to the pie and tears pricked again. “You baked for me.”

“I said I would.”

“And you didn't burn the kitchen down.”

He looked smug. “Close call.”

You giggled, wiping your eyes. “So, this whole pie is mine?”

“All yours. I'm lockin’ the door too, so no one steals the last damn piece.”

You kissed his cheek, heart full. “Thank you, Logan.”

He smiled, rough thumb brushing your cheek. “Anything for you and our baby.”

You smiled back, sat together, warm pie in your hands, the baby kicking gently beneath your dress.

And even with flour in his hair and burnt sugar lingering in the air—

It was perfect.

and, that's it!! ayo, this is so fun to write MY. HEART. MELTS. thank youuu once again nonnie for the request!! I hope you'll like it! give me your feedback!! reblogs are appreciated too <3 have a nice day loveliess!

dividers by @elleisdesigning

tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @themareverine @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @loganismybodyguard @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks

[kvntonq]

Introduction.

zayn. she/her. 20. virgo. editor. beginner writer. loves x-men. loves twd. loves anime. loves hugh jackman. old man logan enthusiast. eddie alden hot girlfriend.

What I write for?

all of hugh's characters. I still need time to write and develop my writing skills. I write fluff and angst. I don't write smut yet. please bear with me as a beginner writer :) kindly leave your feedbacks!!

masterlist is here!!!

Request?

I do take request! reach me through my inbox with your ideas! this will help me A LOT in expanding my writing :)

My editing page.

this is my editing page on instagram. share your supports! (i'm not forcing though, dw!)

[kvntonq]

Zayn's Masterlist.

from oldest to newest

ᥫ᭡ : fluff

☁︎ : angst

ᥫ᭡: love sounds like this... (leopold mountbatten ft. sick!reader)

☁︎: what's left of you (old man logan ft. human!reader)

ᥫ᭡: everything good I got left (old man logan ft. pregnant!reader)

ᥫ᭡: what I can't have... yet (old man logan ft. pregnant!reader)

ᥫ᭡: a pie promise (trilogy logan ft. pregnant!reader)

☁︎: not to me (old man logan ft. reader)

☁︎: i love you, i'm sorry (old man logan ft. reader)

ᥫ᭡: his royal high(hair)ness (leopold mountbatten ft. daughter)

ᥫ᭡: mission: pads and patience (eddie alden ft. fem!reader)

[kvntonq]

CACKLING. 😭 who takes control? you or him? 😏

𖤐 — what I can't have… (yet)

pairing - old man Logan ft. pregnant!reader

summary - you want him—badly, but Logan is holding the line… for now.

contents - suggestive!! PG-13, fluff, reader being a bit whiny, domestic!Logan, a slight continuation from past fic (everything good I got left).

words count - 961 words

zayn's note - writing this is so fun!! I did research about pregnancy and was totally amazed when I found out that pregnant women tend to be a bit horny (but I could be wrong). So I thought I'd give it a shot! you can read this as a standalone fic or a continuation from my past fic! enjoy your reading, lovelies!!

It's nearly 2AM when you shift again, dragging the blanket halfway off the bed.

The room is quiet, except for the soft whirr of the old ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of cotton sheets. Moonlight spills in through the blinds, silvering the edge of the dresser and catching on the framed photo by the nightstand—one from your wedding, all crooked ties and windswept hair. He looks younger there. So do you. But, it's still him, still you.

The bed smells like him—cedar and worn flannel, something a little wild tucked into the folds of domesticity. It used to swallow you whole, this old shirt you're wearing. Now, your belly stretches the fabric, buttons holding on for dear life.

You sigh again, pressing a hand to your stomach where your little passenger is doing slow somersaults, apparently wide awake too. Everything's been feeling bigger lately—your body, your emotions, your heart. You try to stay still. Really, you do. But it's hot and to top it off, your brain has decided now—of all godforsaken hours—is the perfect time to get… needy.

You groan softly and roll over again, trying not to disturb him. Again.

Too late.

Because Logan stirs behind you, voice thick with sleep. “You alright, darlin’?”

You pause, biting your lip. The quiet stretches out.

“I can't sleep,” you admit softly, eyes fixed on the dark walls of your room.

He's quiet for a beat. Probably trying to process your words, then—the mattress dips as he scoots in, his warmth wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. One of his arms slides over your side, his hand instinctively settling against your belly. Protective. Familiar.

“You hurtin’? Need me to rub your back or somethin’?”

You make a small noise in your throat, trying to find the right words. You could say your back hurts. Or the sheets feel weird. Or blame it on the baby again.

But instead, you groan softly and mutter into your pillow, “I'm… I'm horny…”

The silence that follows is so complete, you can hear the hum of the fridge down the hall.

Logan blinks—once. Twice.

“Oh,” is all that he says, voice hoarse. Then again, slower: “Oh.”

You bury your face to the pillow, internally screaming. Dying out of embarrassment. “Don't laugh.”

“I'm not.” He's totally laughing, but just under his breath. You feel the bed shift as he turns you over, facing him, one rough hand finding your arm. His eyes are heavy—lidded, still rimmed with sleep, but they're warm—wrinkled at the corners, a little worried, a little amused. The silver in his beard glints in the dim light, and you brush your fingers along his jaw.

“I'm sorry, I'm just…” You trail off, not sure how to say it.

He leans in, presses a slow kiss to your forehead. “It's okay. You don't have to say it. I know.”

You sigh, your fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself while Logan smooths his hand gently over your arm, his touch feather-light, like he's afraid he'll bruise you with too much affection. “I get it,” he says softly. “Believe me, I get it. Darlin’, if I thought for one second I could touch you without makin’ things worse, I'd have you flat on your back and singin’ my name.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “So, why won't you touch me?”

He smiles, a soft one, his hand brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I want to,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “God, I want to. But I won't. Not with the baby right there. Not with how tired you are, how sore you get. I ain't riskin’ it. Not for this.”

Your face softens. He always does this—carries every fear, every ounce of responsibility like it's stitched into his spine.

“But I'm telling you it's okay,” you whisper. “I feel safe with you. I feel like I'm gonna explode,” you continue. “You smell good and you're warm and you keep wearing those sleep pants that do nothing to hide—”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, pulling you flush against his chest. “Let's not get both of us sufferin’.”

You huff against him, arms wrapped around his middle now. “But, I'm not joking—”

He kisses your forehead again, breathing you in.

“I know, and that means everything, sweetheart. But let me take care of you by not givin’ in. Let me be strong, even when you make it real hard to be.”

You giggle, cheeks flushing. “That's a nice way of saying I'm a menace.”

“You're my menace.” He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—just a whisper of one. “And once this kid's here? I swear I'm gonna ruin you.”

You laugh, muffling it against his chest.

“I'm serious,” he murmurs. “Just give me the green light, and I'll remind you what you married. You'll be beggin’ me to let you sleep.”

You continue to laugh, head tucking under his chin. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he says, hand sliding down your back, warm and solid. “First night you're ready, you ain't getting a lick of sleep.”

“Now that's a promise I'll hold you to.” you murmur, one hand sliding up under his shirt just to feel the warmth of his skin.

As if on cue, there's a soft nudge between you two—a little foot or elbow pressing outward. Logan stills, then smiles against your temple.

“Feisty, just like their mama,” he murmurs.

The room is quiet again, but this time, it feels fuller. Safer.

He tucks you tighter to his chest, his beard brushing your hair. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just a little while longer.”

And in the safety of his arms, under moonlight and muscle and promise, you finally let yourself rest.

and that's it!! this baby is too short 😭 i tried to make it better but my brain didn't commit enough. soooo, i need to know your feedback!! <3 enjoy your reading! 🤍

dividers by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna get added or removed!]

[kvntonq]

oh my! thank you so much!! I am glad you love thisss <3

𖤐 — what I can't have… (yet)

pairing - old man Logan ft. pregnant!reader

summary - you want him—badly, but Logan is holding the line… for now.

contents - suggestive!! PG-13, fluff, reader being a bit whiny, domestic!Logan, a slight continuation from past fic (everything good I got left).

words count - 961 words

zayn's note - writing this is so fun!! I did research about pregnancy and was totally amazed when I found out that pregnant women tend to be a bit horny (but I could be wrong). So I thought I'd give it a shot! you can read this as a standalone fic or a continuation from my past fic! enjoy your reading, lovelies!!

It's nearly 2AM when you shift again, dragging the blanket halfway off the bed.

The room is quiet, except for the soft whirr of the old ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of cotton sheets. Moonlight spills in through the blinds, silvering the edge of the dresser and catching on the framed photo by the nightstand—one from your wedding, all crooked ties and windswept hair. He looks younger there. So do you. But, it's still him, still you.

The bed smells like him—cedar and worn flannel, something a little wild tucked into the folds of domesticity. It used to swallow you whole, this old shirt you're wearing. Now, your belly stretches the fabric, buttons holding on for dear life.

You sigh again, pressing a hand to your stomach where your little passenger is doing slow somersaults, apparently wide awake too. Everything's been feeling bigger lately—your body, your emotions, your heart. You try to stay still. Really, you do. But it's hot and to top it off, your brain has decided now—of all godforsaken hours—is the perfect time to get… needy.

You groan softly and roll over again, trying not to disturb him. Again.

Too late.

Because Logan stirs behind you, voice thick with sleep. “You alright, darlin’?”

You pause, biting your lip. The quiet stretches out.

“I can't sleep,” you admit softly, eyes fixed on the dark walls of your room.

He's quiet for a beat. Probably trying to process your words, then—the mattress dips as he scoots in, his warmth wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. One of his arms slides over your side, his hand instinctively settling against your belly. Protective. Familiar.

“You hurtin’? Need me to rub your back or somethin’?”

You make a small noise in your throat, trying to find the right words. You could say your back hurts. Or the sheets feel weird. Or blame it on the baby again.

But instead, you groan softly and mutter into your pillow, “I'm… I'm horny…”

The silence that follows is so complete, you can hear the hum of the fridge down the hall.

Logan blinks—once. Twice.

“Oh,” is all that he says, voice hoarse. Then again, slower: “Oh.”

You bury your face to the pillow, internally screaming. Dying out of embarrassment. “Don't laugh.”

“I'm not.” He's totally laughing, but just under his breath. You feel the bed shift as he turns you over, facing him, one rough hand finding your arm. His eyes are heavy—lidded, still rimmed with sleep, but they're warm—wrinkled at the corners, a little worried, a little amused. The silver in his beard glints in the dim light, and you brush your fingers along his jaw.

“I'm sorry, I'm just…” You trail off, not sure how to say it.

He leans in, presses a slow kiss to your forehead. “It's okay. You don't have to say it. I know.”

You sigh, your fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself while Logan smooths his hand gently over your arm, his touch feather-light, like he's afraid he'll bruise you with too much affection. “I get it,” he says softly. “Believe me, I get it. Darlin’, if I thought for one second I could touch you without makin’ things worse, I'd have you flat on your back and singin’ my name.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “So, why won't you touch me?”

He smiles, a soft one, his hand brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I want to,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “God, I want to. But I won't. Not with the baby right there. Not with how tired you are, how sore you get. I ain't riskin’ it. Not for this.”

Your face softens. He always does this—carries every fear, every ounce of responsibility like it's stitched into his spine.

“But I'm telling you it's okay,” you whisper. “I feel safe with you. I feel like I'm gonna explode,” you continue. “You smell good and you're warm and you keep wearing those sleep pants that do nothing to hide—”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, pulling you flush against his chest. “Let's not get both of us sufferin’.”

You huff against him, arms wrapped around his middle now. “But, I'm not joking—”

He kisses your forehead again, breathing you in.

“I know, and that means everything, sweetheart. But let me take care of you by not givin’ in. Let me be strong, even when you make it real hard to be.”

You giggle, cheeks flushing. “That's a nice way of saying I'm a menace.”

“You're my menace.” He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—just a whisper of one. “And once this kid's here? I swear I'm gonna ruin you.”

You laugh, muffling it against his chest.

“I'm serious,” he murmurs. “Just give me the green light, and I'll remind you what you married. You'll be beggin’ me to let you sleep.”

You continue to laugh, head tucking under his chin. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he says, hand sliding down your back, warm and solid. “First night you're ready, you ain't getting a lick of sleep.”

“Now that's a promise I'll hold you to.” you murmur, one hand sliding up under his shirt just to feel the warmth of his skin.

As if on cue, there's a soft nudge between you two—a little foot or elbow pressing outward. Logan stills, then smiles against your temple.

“Feisty, just like their mama,” he murmurs.

The room is quiet again, but this time, it feels fuller. Safer.

He tucks you tighter to his chest, his beard brushing your hair. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just a little while longer.”

And in the safety of his arms, under moonlight and muscle and promise, you finally let yourself rest.

and that's it!! this baby is too short 😭 i tried to make it better but my brain didn't commit enough. soooo, i need to know your feedback!! <3 enjoy your reading! 🤍

dividers by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna get added or removed!]

[kvntonq]

𖤐 — what I can't have… (yet)

pairing - old man Logan ft. pregnant!reader

summary - you want him—badly, but Logan is holding the line… for now.

contents - suggestive!! PG-13, fluff, reader being a bit whiny, domestic!Logan, a slight continuation from past fic (everything good I got left).

words count - 961 words

zayn's note - writing this is so fun!! I did research about pregnancy and was totally amazed when I found out that pregnant women tend to be a bit horny (but I could be wrong). So I thought I'd give it a shot! you can read this as a standalone fic or a continuation from my past fic! enjoy your reading, lovelies!!

It's nearly 2AM when you shift again, dragging the blanket halfway off the bed.

The room is quiet, except for the soft whirr of the old ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of cotton sheets. Moonlight spills in through the blinds, silvering the edge of the dresser and catching on the framed photo by the nightstand—one from your wedding, all crooked ties and windswept hair. He looks younger there. So do you. But, it's still him, still you.

The bed smells like him—cedar and worn flannel, something a little wild tucked into the folds of domesticity. It used to swallow you whole, this old shirt you're wearing. Now, your belly stretches the fabric, buttons holding on for dear life.

You sigh again, pressing a hand to your stomach where your little passenger is doing slow somersaults, apparently wide awake too. Everything's been feeling bigger lately—your body, your emotions, your heart. You try to stay still. Really, you do. But it's hot and to top it off, your brain has decided now—of all godforsaken hours—is the perfect time to get… needy.

You groan softly and roll over again, trying not to disturb him. Again.

Too late.

Because Logan stirs behind you, voice thick with sleep. “You alright, darlin’?”

You pause, biting your lip. The quiet stretches out.

“I can't sleep,” you admit softly, eyes fixed on the dark walls of your room.

He's quiet for a beat. Probably trying to process your words, then—the mattress dips as he scoots in, his warmth wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. One of his arms slides over your side, his hand instinctively settling against your belly. Protective. Familiar.

“You hurtin’? Need me to rub your back or somethin’?”

You make a small noise in your throat, trying to find the right words. You could say your back hurts. Or the sheets feel weird. Or blame it on the baby again.

But instead, you groan softly and mutter into your pillow, “I'm… I'm horny…”

The silence that follows is so complete, you can hear the hum of the fridge down the hall.

Logan blinks—once. Twice.

“Oh,” is all that he says, voice hoarse. Then again, slower: “Oh.”

You bury your face to the pillow, internally screaming. Dying out of embarrassment. “Don't laugh.”

“I'm not.” He's totally laughing, but just under his breath. You feel the bed shift as he turns you over, facing him, one rough hand finding your arm. His eyes are heavy—lidded, still rimmed with sleep, but they're warm—wrinkled at the corners, a little worried, a little amused. The silver in his beard glints in the dim light, and you brush your fingers along his jaw.

“I'm sorry, I'm just…” You trail off, not sure how to say it.

He leans in, presses a slow kiss to your forehead. “It's okay. You don't have to say it. I know.”

You sigh, your fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself while Logan smooths his hand gently over your arm, his touch feather-light, like he's afraid he'll bruise you with too much affection. “I get it,” he says softly. “Believe me, I get it. Darlin’, if I thought for one second I could touch you without makin’ things worse, I'd have you flat on your back and singin’ my name.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “So, why won't you touch me?”

He smiles, a soft one, his hand brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I want to,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “God, I want to. But I won't. Not with the baby right there. Not with how tired you are, how sore you get. I ain't riskin’ it. Not for this.”

Your face softens. He always does this—carries every fear, every ounce of responsibility like it's stitched into his spine.

“But I'm telling you it's okay,” you whisper. “I feel safe with you. I feel like I'm gonna explode,” you continue. “You smell good and you're warm and you keep wearing those sleep pants that do nothing to hide—”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, pulling you flush against his chest. “Let's not get both of us sufferin’.”

You huff against him, arms wrapped around his middle now. “But, I'm not joking—”

He kisses your forehead again, breathing you in.

“I know, and that means everything, sweetheart. But let me take care of you by not givin’ in. Let me be strong, even when you make it real hard to be.”

You giggle, cheeks flushing. “That's a nice way of saying I'm a menace.”

“You're my menace.” He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—just a whisper of one. “And once this kid's here? I swear I'm gonna ruin you.”

You laugh, muffling it against his chest.

“I'm serious,” he murmurs. “Just give me the green light, and I'll remind you what you married. You'll be beggin’ me to let you sleep.”

You continue to laugh, head tucking under his chin. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he says, hand sliding down your back, warm and solid. “First night you're ready, you ain't getting a lick of sleep.”

“Now that's a promise I'll hold you to.” you murmur, one hand sliding up under his shirt just to feel the warmth of his skin.

As if on cue, there's a soft nudge between you two—a little foot or elbow pressing outward. Logan stills, then smiles against your temple.

“Feisty, just like their mama,” he murmurs.

The room is quiet again, but this time, it feels fuller. Safer.

He tucks you tighter to his chest, his beard brushing your hair. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just a little while longer.”

And in the safety of his arms, under moonlight and muscle and promise, you finally let yourself rest.

and that's it!! this baby is too short 😭 i tried to make it better but my brain didn't commit enough. soooo, i need to know your feedback!! <3 enjoy your reading! 🤍

dividers by: @elleisdesigning

tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna get added or removed!]

[kvntonq]

147 notes for my recent fic??!! oh my god guys, thank you so much ☹️☹️🤍 some might say this is overreacting but idc, i must say that im so grateful! 🙏🏻 i started writing for fun since editing is my main focus but this is SOOOO motivating.

I WILL CONTINUE TO WRITE AND SERVE YOU GUYS WITH GOOD FICS!!

[kvntonq]

aww, thank you for readingg!! 🤍

𖤐 — everything good I got left

pairing - old man Logan ft. pregnant!reader

summary - you crave weird foods. he craves quiet. but somehow, in the middle of mashed potatoes, aching backs, and slow dancing in the kitchen—you both get exactly what you need.

contents - fluff! fluff!! domestic!Logan, pregnancy, weird cravings, married life, humor, slight angst, happy ending.

words count - 1637 words

zayn's note - so sorry if this is actually weird because i don't know much about pregnancy thing!! do i want kids? no. do i want Logan's kids? YES. ABSOLUTELY. the idea of Logan as a dad has been in my head, brainrotting me so i need to let it out. enjoy your reading!!

The door creaks open a little after nine.

It's subtle, but enough to make the house shift.

From the kitchen, you pause—spoon mid-stir, wrist flexed over the pot—and listen.

The sounds follow like clockwork.

Click. Keys hit the counter.

Thud. Boots drag across the worn hardwood.

A long, ragged sigh drapes itself across the air, low, and exhausted. The kind that sounds like it started at the base of the spine and clawed its way up, just waiting for a quiet room to collapse into.

Then:

Clang. His keys land in the ceramic dish by the door.

You don't turn around. You don't need to.

You feel him like the weather.

Even from here, you can sense the weight draped over his shoulders, that familiar gravity that follows him after long days. It's in the way the air stills, in the slight creak of the floor under his step. He carries the city with him—its chaos, its noise, its ache.

Still, you stir the pot again. A strange, lumpy mixture of mashed potatoes, crinkle-cut pickles, and a splash of maple syrup. Horrifying to anyone with a normal sense of taste, but to you, tonight, it smells like salvation.

There's a flicker of hope in your chest. You keep it tucked down low, but it's there—fluttering under your ribs like wings.

From behind you, a voice rumbles out, low and rough like gravel under tires.

“That smell better not be what I think it is.”

You smile—small, private. Eyes on the pot. “Define ‘what you think it is.’”

You hear him move again. Slower now. Closer.

Logan steps into the kitchen like a man emerging from war. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms streaked faintly with city grime and tired veins. His hair is a mess—pushed back like he ran a hand through it a dozen times but didn't win. His eyes, half-lidded and red at the corners, scan the room with practiced fatigue.

But when they land on you—

There's a pause.

He sees it. Sees you.

Back still turned, hips shifting softly with your stir, one bare foot tapping idly to the music playing low from the old radio. You're wearing his shirt—faded white cotton, soft with age, hanging off you like it's trying to remember the body it used to belong to.

It used to hang past your thighs.

Now?

Now it stretches—just barely—over the gentle swell of your belly.

That sight knocks something loose in his chest. He stares, the ache of the day giving way to something warmer, deeper. Something that clenches behind his ribs and makes his hands ache to touch.

“If you're gonna tell me that's mashed potatoes and pickles,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “I'm walkin’ straight back outta here.”

You glance back over your shoulder, grin already blooming. “You're not. You can't. Because I'm pregnant. And adorable. And you're too tired to pretend you have boundaries.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Not quite a laugh—but close.

You turn back to the pot, acting unaffected. But your cheeks are warm.

Behind you, he's still staring. His shirt. Your belly. The sound of the spoon clinking gently against the side of the pot.

The smell, however cursed, feels like home.

He takes a step. Then another.

You don't look, but you feel him coming closer—his body heat blooming like a campfire behind you. That familiar scent of worn leather, road salt, and cheap diner coffee follows him in.

Then—

Arms.

Warm. Rough. Careful.

They slide around you from behind, one at a time, the way someone might pick up something fragile and half-asleep. His palms settle under your bump, large and calloused, cradling the weight like he's still amazed it's real.

His chin dips to your shoulder. Beard grazes your cheek.

He exhales again, softer this time.

He looks older now. The three years of marriage have been a mosaic of quiet mornings, loud arguments, tearful make-ups, sleepless nights, and hands held through it all. He's grayer—silver streaking through his thick hair and in the beard that brushes your cheek. There are more lines around his eyes, more silence in his movements. But also more steadiness. More love.

“You make a damn science project every time you eat,” he mumbles.

You hum, content. “I like to think of it as art.”

He snorts against your skin. “Art that smells like regret.”

You laugh softly, leaning back against his solid chest. Warm.

He shifts slightly, pressing the tip of his nose to your temple. He doesn't kiss, not yet. Just rests there.

“You eat?” he murmurs, voice still gravel and smoke.

“Mhm.”

“You sit today?”

“I did.”

“You rest?”

“I did not,” you reply, tilting your head back with a mischievous smile, “and you can't prove otherwise.”

Logan lets out a slow, tired groan and drops his head forward, forehead resting against your hair.

“Darlin’, I swear to God…”

“But I did do some very pregnant things,” you offer innocently. “Like crying over a car commercial.”

He doesn't react right away. Just breathes in your scent—then, he lifts his head just enough to ask:

“Was it the one with the dog gettin’ older?”

You nod and he chuckles, voice warm with something unspoken. “Shit. Yeah. That one got me too.”

He goes quiet then.

But you feel his hand shift again—just a slight curl of fingers against your belly, like he's checking to make sure everything's still there. That the world hasn't slipped while he was out driving strangers around in the dark.

You take that moment to turn on his arms.

He lets you. Always does.

Now facing him, you get the full picture.

Logan Howlett—your Logan—looks every bit of his years tonight.

The years are mapped in the creases around his eyes, the furrow in his brow that never fully relaxes. His hair is longer now, thick and wild, streaked silver at the temples and in the beard that lines his sharp jaw. There's a tiredness in his eyes that sleep doesn't fix. But beneath it, always, is something else—something deep and steady and there.

He's the kind of tired that comes from surviving. And somehow, still showing up.

You place your hands on his chest, fingers splaying across the worn shirt stretched over muscles and old scars.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Now the real craving.”

He blinks like he missed something, “...What else could you possibly want?”

You lift your chin, full pout engaged. “I want to dance.”

There's a beat of silence.

He blinks again. “Dance?”

“In the kitchen.”

“You're serious?”

“I'm pregnant, hormonal, and barefoot,” you say, lifting one foot with exaggerated drama. “I deserve one romantic-ass kitchen dance.”

He looks down at you like you've grown a second head.

“Baby,” he rasps, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I just drove around the city for ten hours. Got called ‘hey driver’ by a guy in a flamingo suit. I'm runnin’ on fumes and one questionable burrito.”

You pout harder. Weaponized. The bottom lip trembles just enough to be deadly.

“But I wanna dance.”

He stares. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Rubs a hand down his face. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“Nope.”

“Darlin’, my back hurts.”

“My feelings hurt.”

Logan groans—long and low. You're pretty sure it's not frustration anymore. It sounds dangerously close to surrender.

And then you pull the ace.

You rest your cheek against his chest, voice dropping low. “Please, Logan? Just one slow song.”

That does it. Not the silly argument, not the pout—the soft, tired way you say it. He can hear the ache under your voice. You don't want much. You just want him.

He closes his eyes, runs a hand down your spine like it might steady him more than you. And then—he lets out a breath, soft. Tips his head back. “God, help me,” he mutters before reaching for your hand.

The music's already playing—something bluesy, quiet, like it's been waiting too.

He pulls you in. One arm around your back, one hand clasping yours like he’s done it a thousand times. His steps are clumsy at first.

“I haven't danced in thousands years,” he mumbles into your hair.

But your body knows his. The rhythm finds you. Swaying slowly in a warm kitchen, under yellow light, surrounded by the scent of mashed potatoes and pickles and home.

You're warm in his arms. Breathing steady. Baby between you.

“You okay?” he whispers, because he always asks. Because he always needs to know.

“I am now,” you whisper.

He nods before closing his eyes, just for a moment.

“I've been worried,” he confesses. Quiet. “About you. The baby. This whole thing.”

You lean back to look up at him, hands on his chest.

“You've been incredible, Logan. You worry too much.”

“Someone's gotta,” he says. Not joking. Not even a little. “You're carrying everything good I got left.”

You reach up and brush his jaw with your fingers. “Then, I'm keeping it safe.”

He smiles, before lowering his head and presses a long kiss to your forehead—slow, grounding. One that says ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I'm not going anywhere’.

The song ends.

But he keeps holding you anyway.

You smirk into his chest. “So… mashed potatoes and pickles?”

He groans like a dying man. “This kid's got a cruel streak.”

You laugh, soft and free. “Takes after their father.”

He snorts, laughing. “Very funny.”

He turns off the pot before gently guiding you toward the table, still holding you like you might float off without him. “Let's feed you and your weird little alien baby, then I'm crashing on the couch like the old man I am.”

You loop your arm around his. “You are an old man.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your hair. “But I'm your old man.”

that's it!! i hope you enjoy! do let me know about your thoughts on this! feedback are appreciated! reblogs too <3

tags!! @princessanglophile @mcrdvcks @wchswift @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @briseroyawritingsblog @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks [lmk if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist!]

[kvntonq]

AWHH YOURE A MOM?? congratulations!! 🤍 i hope i did well with the pregnancy things in here 😭😭 BUT THANK YOU FOR READINGGG 🤍🤍

𖤐 — everything good I got left

pairing - old man Logan ft. pregnant!reader

summary - you crave weird foods. he craves quiet. but somehow, in the middle of mashed potatoes, aching backs, and slow dancing in the kitchen—you both get exactly what you need.

contents - fluff! fluff!! domestic!Logan, pregnancy, weird cravings, married life, humor, slight angst, happy ending.

words count - 1637 words

zayn's note - so sorry if this is actually weird because i don't know much about pregnancy thing!! do i want kids? no. do i want Logan's kids? YES. ABSOLUTELY. the idea of Logan as a dad has been in my head, brainrotting me so i need to let it out. enjoy your reading!!

The door creaks open a little after nine.

It's subtle, but enough to make the house shift.

From the kitchen, you pause—spoon mid-stir, wrist flexed over the pot—and listen.

The sounds follow like clockwork.

Click. Keys hit the counter.

Thud. Boots drag across the worn hardwood.

A long, ragged sigh drapes itself across the air, low, and exhausted. The kind that sounds like it started at the base of the spine and clawed its way up, just waiting for a quiet room to collapse into.

Then:

Clang. His keys land in the ceramic dish by the door.

You don't turn around. You don't need to.

You feel him like the weather.

Even from here, you can sense the weight draped over his shoulders, that familiar gravity that follows him after long days. It's in the way the air stills, in the slight creak of the floor under his step. He carries the city with him—its chaos, its noise, its ache.

Still, you stir the pot again. A strange, lumpy mixture of mashed potatoes, crinkle-cut pickles, and a splash of maple syrup. Horrifying to anyone with a normal sense of taste, but to you, tonight, it smells like salvation.

There's a flicker of hope in your chest. You keep it tucked down low, but it's there—fluttering under your ribs like wings.

From behind you, a voice rumbles out, low and rough like gravel under tires.

“That smell better not be what I think it is.”

You smile—small, private. Eyes on the pot. “Define ‘what you think it is.’”

You hear him move again. Slower now. Closer.

Logan steps into the kitchen like a man emerging from war. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms streaked faintly with city grime and tired veins. His hair is a mess—pushed back like he ran a hand through it a dozen times but didn't win. His eyes, half-lidded and red at the corners, scan the room with practiced fatigue.

But when they land on you—

There's a pause.

He sees it. Sees you.

Back still turned, hips shifting softly with your stir, one bare foot tapping idly to the music playing low from the old radio. You're wearing his shirt—faded white cotton, soft with age, hanging off you like it's trying to remember the body it used to belong to.

It used to hang past your thighs.

Now?

Now it stretches—just barely—over the gentle swell of your belly.

That sight knocks something loose in his chest. He stares, the ache of the day giving way to something warmer, deeper. Something that clenches behind his ribs and makes his hands ache to touch.

“If you're gonna tell me that's mashed potatoes and pickles,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “I'm walkin’ straight back outta here.”

You glance back over your shoulder, grin already blooming. “You're not. You can't. Because I'm pregnant. And adorable. And you're too tired to pretend you have boundaries.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Not quite a laugh—but close.

You turn back to the pot, acting unaffected. But your cheeks are warm.

Behind you, he's still staring. His shirt. Your belly. The sound of the spoon clinking gently against the side of the pot.

The smell, however cursed, feels like home.

He takes a step. Then another.

You don't look, but you feel him coming closer—his body heat blooming like a campfire behind you. That familiar scent of worn leather, road salt, and cheap diner coffee follows him in.

Then—

Arms.

Warm. Rough. Careful.

They slide around you from behind, one at a time, the way someone might pick up something fragile and half-asleep. His palms settle under your bump, large and calloused, cradling the weight like he's still amazed it's real.

His chin dips to your shoulder. Beard grazes your cheek.

He exhales again, softer this time.

He looks older now. The three years of marriage have been a mosaic of quiet mornings, loud arguments, tearful make-ups, sleepless nights, and hands held through it all. He's grayer—silver streaking through his thick hair and in the beard that brushes your cheek. There are more lines around his eyes, more silence in his movements. But also more steadiness. More love.

“You make a damn science project every time you eat,” he mumbles.

You hum, content. “I like to think of it as art.”

He snorts against your skin. “Art that smells like regret.”

You laugh softly, leaning back against his solid chest. Warm.

He shifts slightly, pressing the tip of his nose to your temple. He doesn't kiss, not yet. Just rests there.

“You eat?” he murmurs, voice still gravel and smoke.

“Mhm.”

“You sit today?”

“I did.”

“You rest?”

“I did not,” you reply, tilting your head back with a mischievous smile, “and you can't prove otherwise.”

Logan lets out a slow, tired groan and drops his head forward, forehead resting against your hair.

“Darlin’, I swear to God…”

“But I did do some very pregnant things,” you offer innocently. “Like crying over a car commercial.”

He doesn't react right away. Just breathes in your scent—then, he lifts his head just enough to ask:

“Was it the one with the dog gettin’ older?”

You nod and he chuckles, voice warm with something unspoken. “Shit. Yeah. That one got me too.”

He goes quiet then.

But you feel his hand shift again—just a slight curl of fingers against your belly, like he's checking to make sure everything's still there. That the world hasn't slipped while he was out driving strangers around in the dark.

You take that moment to turn on his arms.

He lets you. Always does.

Now facing him, you get the full picture.

Logan Howlett—your Logan—looks every bit of his years tonight.

The years are mapped in the creases around his eyes, the furrow in his brow that never fully relaxes. His hair is longer now, thick and wild, streaked silver at the temples and in the beard that lines his sharp jaw. There's a tiredness in his eyes that sleep doesn't fix. But beneath it, always, is something else—something deep and steady and there.

He's the kind of tired that comes from surviving. And somehow, still showing up.

You place your hands on his chest, fingers splaying across the worn shirt stretched over muscles and old scars.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Now the real craving.”

He blinks like he missed something, “...What else could you possibly want?”

You lift your chin, full pout engaged. “I want to dance.”

There's a beat of silence.

He blinks again. “Dance?”

“In the kitchen.”

“You're serious?”

“I'm pregnant, hormonal, and barefoot,” you say, lifting one foot with exaggerated drama. “I deserve one romantic-ass kitchen dance.”

He looks down at you like you've grown a second head.

“Baby,” he rasps, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I just drove around the city for ten hours. Got called ‘hey driver’ by a guy in a flamingo suit. I'm runnin’ on fumes and one questionable burrito.”

You pout harder. Weaponized. The bottom lip trembles just enough to be deadly.

“But I wanna dance.”

He stares. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Rubs a hand down his face. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“Nope.”

“Darlin’, my back hurts.”

“My feelings hurt.”

Logan groans—long and low. You're pretty sure it's not frustration anymore. It sounds dangerously close to surrender.

And then you pull the ace.

You rest your cheek against his chest, voice dropping low. “Please, Logan? Just one slow song.”

That does it. Not the silly argument, not the pout—the soft, tired way you say it. He can hear the ache under your voice. You don't want much. You just want him.

He closes his eyes, runs a hand down your spine like it might steady him more than you. And then—he lets out a breath, soft. Tips his head back. “God, help me,” he mutters before reaching for your hand.

The music's already playing—something bluesy, quiet, like it's been waiting too.

He pulls you in. One arm around your back, one hand clasping yours like he’s done it a thousand times. His steps are clumsy at first.

“I haven't danced in thousands years,” he mumbles into your hair.

But your body knows his. The rhythm finds you. Swaying slowly in a warm kitchen, under yellow light, surrounded by the scent of mashed potatoes and pickles and home.

You're warm in his arms. Breathing steady. Baby between you.

“You okay?” he whispers, because he always asks. Because he always needs to know.

“I am now,” you whisper.

He nods before closing his eyes, just for a moment.

“I've been worried,” he confesses. Quiet. “About you. The baby. This whole thing.”

You lean back to look up at him, hands on his chest.

“You've been incredible, Logan. You worry too much.”

“Someone's gotta,” he says. Not joking. Not even a little. “You're carrying everything good I got left.”

You reach up and brush his jaw with your fingers. “Then, I'm keeping it safe.”

He smiles, before lowering his head and presses a long kiss to your forehead—slow, grounding. One that says ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I'm not going anywhere’.

The song ends.

But he keeps holding you anyway.

You smirk into his chest. “So… mashed potatoes and pickles?”

He groans like a dying man. “This kid's got a cruel streak.”

You laugh, soft and free. “Takes after their father.”

He snorts, laughing. “Very funny.”

He turns off the pot before gently guiding you toward the table, still holding you like you might float off without him. “Let's feed you and your weird little alien baby, then I'm crashing on the couch like the old man I am.”

You loop your arm around his. “You are an old man.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your hair. “But I'm your old man.”

that's it!! i hope you enjoy! do let me know about your thoughts on this! feedback are appreciated! reblogs too <3

tags!! @princessanglophile @mcrdvcks @wchswift @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @briseroyawritingsblog @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks [lmk if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist!]