loganficsonly

[loganficsonly]

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 5: slipping away ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 5.3k (the longest yet!)

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ MDNI!!!, masturbation, ANGST, hurt no comfort, unresolved sexual tension, a ton of negative self-talk, past trauma, death (imaginatory), just lots and lots of feelings

AUTHOR'S NOTE: gonna make this a/n a bit longer than usual:

first, a huge shoutout to @theworstwolvie who has been so gracious with her time and feedback. c, your comments on the chapters so far have been a great source of motivation and joy for me, and the fact that you enjoyed reading this one before i posted it is SUCH a relief for me—mainly because of how deep i had to dig for this chapter. THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU <3

second, i haven't the faintest personal experience with alcoholism and AA, and so i resort to reading things online to understand what it's like for the little bits of it that this series contains. i stumbled upon this blog post while writing this chapter, and i just want to share it with you for how honest it is. i hope the writer is living her best life right now!!!

this chapter took a lot out of me to write (i'm bruised in many invisible places), i hope you enjoy it.

Silver and bronze.

One heavy, rectangular slab each, about as long as a remote control. Clean cut. The metallic ingots sit quietly on the shelf of the living room, plain if not for the engraving of the name of your workplace and the accolade you received.

Reflected within their monolithic shine are bursts of animated colors from the television light, dotted with rambunctious laughter that settles down into mutters of concentrated small talk.

Yukio brought her Nintendo Switch and they’re playing a party game while you watch, sitting on the floor in front of the couch. Wade, Peter, Dopinder, and Negasonic Teenage Warhead—Ellie now, to most of you—are trying to “cook a cube of steak on all sides”, per the instructions of the game.

Vanessa’s behind you, her hair dipping down as she leans to giggle near your ear. The four players wrestle visibly with the controllers, moving it like they would a frying pan.

“They look like they’re jerkin’ off the air,” she covers her mouth, and you do too, biting back a grin because you see it.

When Wade first floated the idea of celebrating your win, you said no immediately.

It’s excessive—it was a team win, not your own. You’ve allowed yourself to feel proud of your achievements, specifically on the night of the award ceremony, which was almost two weeks ago. Life has gone on since then. Even at work.  

But Wade begged and pleaded.

“I promise it’s just for the first five minutes, honeybee. The rest of the night is gonna be us hanging out. Pretty please?”

Of course you couldn’t say no to that. So you relented. 

“We’re doing it at your place, though,” your ex-neighbor grinned, “a proper housewarming is long overdue.”

And Wade kept his word: nice things were said about you over toasts with raised Solo Cups, earnest despite your friends overtly not understanding what it is you do for work. After that, takeout boxes were drained dry, and Yukio asked if people were in the mood for games.

You’re watching the chosen form of entertainment play out when you feel it. A pang of loneliness, just a sliver of it, as soft as a petal landing on your hair.

Logan’s not here.

Eyes flit to the kitchen—he’s there, doing dishes. Slipping away temporarily in a way that’s familiar to you. Something in you relaxes.

Before you know it, you’re up on your feet, approaching him.

It’s been like this lately. You do your best to control yourself, to be self-aware—maybe a little too aware—in maintaining an appropriate distance with the best roommate you could as for, but you still can’t stay away.

You always look for him first when you enter a crowded room. Seek the meaning between the delicate lines that appear between his eyebrows when he tastes the food you make. Focus on the stir of his back muscles against flannel when he moves around the house. 

The moon probably feels the same way orbiting around Earth, you think. What pulls you to him is stronger than celestial gravity. 

A defeated part of you has long excused your physical attraction towards him. He is an attractive person, the internal voice reasons, nothing wrong with eating the eye candy. It’s an insult not to.

And you agree. You haven’t dreamed of him since, but once is enough. All it takes is one dream and suddenly he’s haunting all of your waking hours like a personal vendetta against you. 

He makes himself hard to ignore, whether he realizes or not. Always with the white tank tops and sweatpants. Biceps out. With any other person, you’d simply be fascinated at that level of fitness on a human body, but with him? Your mind wanders the way a child would in an amusement park. 

How are you supposed to function normally when the source of your maladaptive daydreams live five feet away from your door?

Can he blame you for slipping a hand under the blanket late at night, chasing subconscious sensations that felt so real to you? Would he despise you for pretending your fingers were his own, for lying to yourself—they’re his—the way you dreamed of? 

If he knew you gave yourself to him in secret, what would he do?

You have half a mind to think he notices—you were never the best pretender, and he’s lived with you long enough to get a bead on you. Stares poorly concealed. His every movement demands you to look: his fingers gripping a glass, how his eyes seem to change color under sunlight, the stretch of cotton over his undeniably sculpted chest… which come to think of, you still haven’t seen bare, to Wade’s surprise.

The worst part of this is that it’s not just his body. It’s more than that. More than eyes, hands, and his larger-than-life frame. 

It’s the way he looks at you when you come home from work and wordlessly take a tub of ice cream from the freezer. The way his fingers brush against yours when you reach for the popcorn bowl at the same time. And how he hugs you, warm and binding. You keep that memory filed away in a precious stack, that night he told you about his first AA meeting.

God, you miss his arms around yours. When can he hold you again?

Would he, if he knew the things you did while thinking of him?

Wade’s voice echoes in your head.

You’re really not gonna make a move on him, honeybee? Do you actually not like him?

You reply in your head. I think I’m past liking him, Wade. 

You know because alongside the dirty delusions about the rumble of his voice, you’ve started fantasizing about other things.

Things like telling him how you feel.

How it would happen—perhaps after a particularly charged movie night, or right before the mundanity of what to order for dinner. The kind of words you’d pick for him are hard to imagine, impossible to form with your mouth.

Language couldn’t contain the convolution that floods your lungs like flowers.

I want to be more than just friends. Do you? 

The way you’d cut your heart out from your chest and serve it to him on a silver plate, just to show him the way it beats. Messy and erratic when he’s around. You think it’s alright if he sees all of it, even the parts that you swear to hell and heaven you wouldn’t show anyone.

Your voice would be fraught with weakness because god knows you’re never good at declaring what you want.

And it stops short there, the fantasy.

You don’t allow yourself to think about what happens next. Whether he’ll pull you into a kiss that takes your breath away or shoot you an apologetic look like he spilled coffee on a white shirt. If the nosedive ends up in the cool waters of an aquamarine swimming pool, or broken bones on a pavement.

That line of thinking is forbidden. You know how dangerous it gets, how the less-kind voices whisper. They’ve already started, in the nooks and crannies of your idle mind.

He’s nice to you because he doesn’t see you that way.

If you tell him, you’ll make him uncomfortable in the apartment he calls home. Don’t be selfish.

He sees through you. How could he possibly want that?

So the daydreams end abruptly, a third act with no resolution other than the lucidity of a single thought. 

You just don’t want him to leave.

And if that means secretly surviving the stormy and turbulent, you’d do it. Day, after day, after day.

“I’d ask you to stop, but I’d be a hypocrite.”

The words tumble out of you quietly, standing by the sink near him. The party goes on, Vanessa’s and Wade’s laugh cutting through the noise.

He looks at you and does that huff—the one that’s not quite a chuckle, but just enough as an amused response.

“Caught me.”

“You don’t like the video game?” There’s a tinge of concern that weaves through the syllables. It’s getting rather loud and you don’t want him to feel bothered. 

“’s fine,” he replies, wiping his hands dry after putting away the last dish, “just not good at it, ’s all.” 

“You were great at the rowing one,” you smile, already replaying the fresh memory in your head.

It was rather miraculous that he didn’t swat away the offer to play in the first place. Maybe it was his soft spot for Yukio that did him in. He took the controller without a word and stared so seriously at the screen as if faced with an actual mission.

You schooled your giddy face as you watched him, stiff hand mimicking the rowing motion. Then he brought the team to victory and you were the first to cheer.

After nearly two months—god, where’d the time go?—Logan is still full of surprises, you decide. 

He shoots you a playful look, one that says I know you were looking. One that’s easy to miss, but his face already became a fluent language to you.

The Super Mario Party-induced bedlam continues to resonate mere feet away, and yet the kitchen feels like it’s just for the two of you, almost enclosed in a different reality.

You watch as he looks at you. Gentle, phantom strokes across your face. 

It’s moments like these that make you fall into that labyrinth. The maze that lies past your fantasies. It traps you into thinking that maybe, just maybe, he feels it too. Your heart aches with feelings that have no way out.

Logan opens his mouth then.

“And why are you escaping?”

You swallow, side-stepping to get to the fridge. I can’t, you answer in your head, not from you.

“I’m not. Just getting soda.”

The lightness in your voice had to be forced through the thickened air.

Can he tell? The same way you can tell what his grunts mean, if the frown on his face is one of upset or confusion, how he likes his coffee?

He watches as you cradle two big bottles of diet Pepsi, one in each arm. You try to ignore the way your spine tingles, reacting to the heat of his eyes on you.

You look at him one last time before passing him by, barely managing a smile on your lips.

He watches you walk away and digs a hand into the pocket of his jeans.

He feels it. An aluminum medallion.   

Light, the size of a poker chip, he reckons. With a swipe of a thumb he grazes its surface, busy with embossed letters, but larger words are pressed at the center. “1 MONTH”. Buried deep like a secret he didn’t mean to keep.

Windswept with the passage of time, he forgot about it.

There’s already a buzz in the air when he enters the room in the library.

Something much bigger is underway. Something he isn’t used to, much to his dismay.

It feels like the sky drops when the question does.

“Anyone here have thirty days?”

A sudden silence takes over. His head is anything but. Strange that he is so doubtful, as if he hasn’t been counting each day religiously.

He has thirty-five. Should he raise his hand? 

No, not yet. Maybe someone else hit theirs today—they should get to raise their hand first, not him, not when he feels like he hasn’t actually done anything real to get here—

Somebody does raise their hand.

Brent, he recalls. Young, a little younger than you, wearing baggy clothes and a little cowlick on his dirty blonde hair. He has a difficult look on his face as he starts to speak. The raised hand falls awkwardly back onto his lap, and then something in his eyes shines. Quiet. Steady.

“I’m Brent. I’m an alcoholic and I’m thirty days sober today.”

Pin-drop silence for a split second before the room erupts into cheers. People are clapping. Some of them get up from their chairs to embrace Brent in congratulations. The chairperson walks up to him, giving him the chip. The metal gleams red in the warm light.

What is more often than not an appropriately somber meeting, reserved in the first few minutes, dissolves into lightness and warmth. Like the shackles around each of their ankles are gone, just for the moment. Freedom in knowing that someone here—Brent—got to today, and that is enough for someone else in the room to get through their first 24 hours.  

The shift in the air seems to be enough to affect him, too. The voices in his head, the recitation of names that chant as soon as the memories creep—Scott, Jean, Rogue, Storm, Charles…—lack their bite of guilt and shame. He doesn’t feel like drowning, not like he used to. Images behind his eyelids flash, not of charred corpses and bloodied faces. Not today.

Today they smile, and he remembers fragments of his days with them, as beautiful as painted pictures.

The same image that made him cry for the first time in years.

In this room, with other faces who have gone through so much, regret doesn’t echo as loud. If his friends—no, his family—were here…

…they’d be proud of him too. He can’t lie to himself out of that fact.

He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know a part of him still remembers after countless cries since the day he lost them. But he does—hear their voice, see their smile, as if it were yesterday.

Jean and Rogue would hug him, their heads tucked in his chest and neck. Storm would, too, with a wide smile.

And Slim? Slim would be quiet for a while, gaze unreadable from behind the red visor, before finally circling an arm around his shoulder. 

Charles would be the only one with words. The warmth in those bright eyes could bring tears to his own.

We’re so proud of you, Logan.

That’s what he would say.

So a minute later, Logan swallows the lump in his throat and raises his hand.

He strokes the cool metal inside his pocket. He should tell Wade. Tell Laura.

Tell you.

He watches the living room from his spot at the island, trying to be present.

It’s your and Laura’s turn on the console. Somewhere along the way it turned into a fighting game, apparently. He can hear the banter, Laura mercilessly barraging you with attacks as a response to your playful goading.

When the killing blow plays in slow motion, you let out the loosest laugh he’s heard in a while, a hand running through your hair. Laura shakes your shoulders playfully, half-heartedly consoling you with a “of course I win, we play this at the dorms all the time”.

You sigh, the same sound that he usually hears after watching a great movie together. Entertained. Grateful. 

And then you turn to look at him, a bright smile on your face.

Did you see that? the pull of your lips seems to ask.

His heart rends in two at the sight.

This is what made him forget.

You. The greatest thing to stir up his emotions that drowned in a tar-like ocean of sin. 

Things are deceptively easy with you. A couple of conversations got you past that clumsy hump that comes with meeting a mutual friend, and after that, the road’s been highway-clear. The two of you coast like you know the way, like you’ve known each other for a while. 

Each interaction with you is a four-leaf clover, a smooth pebble, a scallop seashell��beautiful, natural little gifts that help convince him he was okay. That he no longer has to fight the world or himself, at least for the time being.

That he’s allowed to rest. 

Except he can’t.

Because in the past week, June has forced her temperature up a notch, and it has been nothing less than hellish torment. Suddenly your shorts become shorter, your t-shirts smaller, until they eventually turn into tank tops.

It’s not that he blames you for seducing him through the way you dress—you could wear a potato sack and he’d still want you—it’s his fault. He was the one who crossed that line, that night in the shower, thinking of you like that despite trying so hard not to.

You exist, blissfully unaware of his transgressions, and he’s tempted.

His eyes can’t help but hunger and he feels like a nasty animal, preying on you with his gaze while you’re around the house, a place where you feel safe.

Jaw clenching at your exposed legs as you walk around from one room to another. Hands balling into fists at the glimpse of your waist when you reach for the top shelf. Mouth salivating as you move your hair, exposing the nape of your neck.

That part of you should be so innocent, but the curve, your skin… it reminds him of the dress you wore.

It didn’t help that he bumped into you a few days ago, fresh out of the shower. You gasped when you collided into his chest and he had to put a hand on your waist to hold you steady, except he didn’t realize the only thing covering you was a flimsy blue towel.

Skin damp, smelling like a concoction of fragrances that made him want to take a bite out of you.

“Oh my god, sorry,” you breathed, escaping to your room without meeting his eyes. The door closed, and he was left alone in the hallway, accompanied only by his heart beating like it was begging to be let out of its enclosure.

It also didn’t help that he came home from work early yesterday, only to hear a buzzing sound. Too loud to be electricity. Faint and barely there, but more than enough for his enhanced hearing to pick up.

Above it, a sigh. Your voice. So soft he thought he imagined it.

Then a muffled whimper, and he knew it was real, because it was better than anything he could dream of.

His nerves jolted with hyper-awareness as soon as he registered what was happening. He could feel his body react as if it responded to yours, blood pumping south, his pants tightening.

A shaky exhale. You sounded so good, too lost to have heard him close the front door, but not at all loud, like you’re still trying to hold yourself back in case someone heard. Have you been sneaking around like this, taking advantage of the times he was away, trying to hide this from him? 

What if you thought about him when you touched yourself?

Fuck, he couldn’t believe that’s where his mind went. It was too late. Once he started picturing you picturing him, he felt dirty, but it wasn’t enough to make him stop.  

So yes, nothing helped. Certainly not you. You made it worse.

Made him picture you in your bed in a state of undress just shy of total nakedness, legs tangled between crumpled sheets, pressing a little vibrator against your clit while you slip your fingers into your folds. Made him want to break down your bedroom door and show you how he’d make you lose your mind instead of relying on that godforsaken toy.

Made him yearn.

He locked himself in his bedroom that day, hand around his cock, and thought about more than just the arch of your back when he sinks into you. Timing his strokes with your quiet gasps—perhaps hushed for human hearing, but more than enough for him—like he wanted to believe he was there with you, causing your downfall. 

A deeper need hummed incessantly through him. He should be startled at its revelation, but instead, he found it perfectly familiar. Maybe he’d thought of this from the very start.

Your face, wrecked with pleasure, cheeks flushed as you gasp up at him.

Logan, please, more.

He’d give you anything you asked for, drive deeper with the singular purpose of carving his soul into your very being. He’d leave a mark neither you or time can erase. You’d moan, lost in him, but your eyes would lock with his as you whisper, stuttered in between thrusts:

I love you—love you so much—

He came. Harder than any of the times he’s touched himself while thinking of you. Copious amounts of him spilled in his hand, on his stomach, forcing him to hold back a loud groan.

It felt wrong, his wayward mind twisting your voice to say those three words to him. He didn’t just cross a line this time, he violated it. 

What have you done to him? He thought he’d be content just living. The universe gave him a chance at redemption in the shape of a man in red tights, and as if that wasn’t crazy enough, he ended up with the cleanest slate he could get: a life in a different timeline with his friends and his daughter.  

But here he is, blood boiling with affection that laces his veins—for you. The prettiest, softest, kindest thing he’s ever seen, the person who stubbornly insists to be useful when you only need to exist for him to fall into that wretched feeling he hasn’t felt in a century.

You’ve turned him into a monster of greed, because now, living is no longer enough.

He wants you, wants to pull that laugh out of you, wants to make his shoulders comfortable enough for you to rest your head on, wants to spend a lazy morning in bed with you, cradling your face in his hands and showering kisses on your eyelids—   

“Logan? Do you wanna play?”

Hazel eyes snap back to reality at the sound of your voice.

The entire living room is looking at him. Laura and Wade look suspicious, while you still have that blameless smile on your face, holding your controller out as if it’s for him to take. 

Thoughts usually cease to exist when you look at him like that, beaming, but tonight it’s different.

Tonight he feels like he’s defiled you without having laid a hand on you, and the thoughts ring louder than ever, taking the shape of a voice he didn’t think he’d hear again.

Cassandra Nova’s.

There’s a cruel lilt to her voice, the same one he heard in the Void. That happened a lifetime ago, but it doesn’t echo—smooth and unmistakable. She’s still in there, in his head.

One good thing enters your life and you can’t keep your paws off her. Desperate pup.

You should see how you slobber all over her. A blind person could tell. I think she can, too. 

You think she’s going to kick you out? I think she’s too polite for that. She’d pretend everything was fine. That sounds like her, doesn’t it?

It feels like her grimy fingers are sinking into his brain again. As if they never even left.

He tries to shake it off, the sensation of nails scratching into the recesses of his brain. 

But oh, boy, when she finds out… a cold chuckle, give her two weeks and she’ll tell you she needs to move out for some bullshit reason, completely unrelated to you. Because she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. Never. She’s too nice, isn’t she?

The sensation sucks the air out of his lungs, an out-of-season chill up his spine.

She’s only nice to you because she feels sorry for you.

For a split second, he sees your face in the rubble. Bloodied in pallor, eyes blank.

Dead.

Don’t get too close, Wolvie. You know what happens when you get too close.

Fear.

How could he forget?

Has hitting thirty days of sobriety got him cocky, got him thinking he’s worth more than he really is?

What was he thinking, planning on showing a fucking coin to you?

It doesn’t change a thing. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s killed, spilled blood that could fill up a river. Pretending like his moral ledger is not in the red, like he no longer has enemies, debt-free, all set for a quiet life? What the fuck is he doing, playing house with a woman who has her entire life ahead of her? 

You’re probably doing this out of pity, anyway, the same pity that moves little girls to their core when they see stray cats stuck in the rain. The kind that can’t stand seeing someone cold and alone, unaware of the diseases he’ll bring. The teeth. The claws.     

He jumped timelines. Who’s to say others can’t, if they want to hunt him down so desperately? And god knows they’re out there, he just doesn’t know when they’re going to come for him.

If he’s sure of anything, it’s that his past always comes back to haunt him. Always.

And that you deserve better.

“Logan? Do you wanna play?”

He doesn’t answer your question. Grunts, footsteps padding across the room until he’s situated at the furthest corner away from you.

Doesn’t even look at you.

He’s quiet that way for the rest of the night, but only to you. You’ve spent most of your life reading rooms and sensing situations—you’re fairly certain of your assessment.

He’s upset.

About what, you don’t know. Your mind jumps to the conclusion it always does. Could he be mad at you?

Something heavy and invisible begins to make itself known in your gut. He’s only a little subdued, the way someone would after a long day at work. Afflicted with a kind of tiredness that his healing factor can’t fix.

Aside from that, he seems normal. Would be, to the average person. He even exchanged a few words with Ellie. Something about Japan. Yukio smiles, an easygoing bundle of joy next to her girlfriend.

You’re in a conversation with Dopinder—if you can call it a conversation, because it’s mostly him speaking at this point. His words are lost to you as you leave the asking of follow-up questions to Peter, while you’re left retracing steps and things said to Logan, in case something landed the way you didn’t intend it to, trying not to look over at him every three seconds.

You fail.

Glancing at him, you see him already staring at you back.

What do his eyes say? In that instant, you forget how to speak their language. 

He looks away.

Suddenly it’s cold.

There’s the taste of bile in your mouth.

“Hey… you okay?”

He’s on the couch, a faraway look on his place. You step closer, gathering the guts to sit next to him—not afraid of him lashing out, but the possibility of him not wanting you there. 

He nods, unmoving even as your weight sinks on the soft surface.

You’re so used to his presence, especially here in the living room. A sacred place where the two of you are free to blend into each other. Movie nights, easy laughter on your part and a snort or two from him. Assembling a store-bought shelf together on the floor, plywood parts surrounding you in a circle like it was actually a private little bubble—you and him against the world. Having dinner with him and Laura, talking shit about work, windows open, music in the background, …   

Now, there’s a wall. The air is thick in a way that suggests a coil being snapped, and not at all in the way you would like. Your skin tells you someone is getting hurt.

And you know who is.

“I was—”

“Did you wanna—”

The two of you begin speaking, only to stop at the same time. On another occasion, you’d laugh. Not this time.

“You first,” you look expectantly at him.

He wipes his nose once, leaning forward to rest both elbows on his knees. Doesn’t look at you when he speaks, his gaze glued to the black TV screen ahead despite you watching his every move. 

There’s a prolonged silence before he finally speaks.

“I was thinkin’ of movin’ out.”

He turns his head to finally look at you.

You wonder what he sees on your face, because you don’t know what emotions are running through you right now.

Surprise, because you aren’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t that. Doubt, because this whole thing is set up like a prank, except he won’t joke about this. Logan is straightforward, not needlessly cruel.

Most of all, you feel confused.

Did you get the signals mixed somewhere along the way?

The world sinks slowly beneath your feet, like your reality has been a poorly constructed sandcastle all along. Feet slipping, grains parting as you drop further downwards.

Maybe he wasn’t as comfortable as you thought he was, living with you. Maybe he didn’t like having to help you wrestle with wrenches and bolts. Maybe he only approved of the fried rice you made, and that asking him to taste test your other dishes got him annoyed. Did he really like the fried rice, or was he just trying to make you feel better about cooking?

Maybe you misread his sharing past stories as a sign of openness.

Maybe in showing him pieces of yourself you'd never shown anyone else, you created pressure instead of safety.

Maybe you hovered too close. Pushed too far.

You hear a voice from the past. Nameless, faceless, an amalgam of a few persons you no longer keep around.

You need to lay off. You’re a bit much.

God, you know you get things wrong sometimes, but this? You feel sick, the ice-cold realization submerging you.

What if you projected so much of your infatuation towards him that your rose-tinted glasses made you blind? What if, this entire time, you didn’t see him at all?  

You’re the one to break eye contact, looking down at your lap. From your periphery, you can see his hands tightening around his knees like he’s holding something back.

He continues to speak, voice measured, slightly apologetic.

“Was thinkin’ I needed privacy after all, now that I can actually afford it,” he rasps.

“Space. Just for myself. Less awkward if I… have some company over.”

Something in you cracks.

You catch yourself just before breaking in the only way you can.

He watches as you look up at him, a smile on your face that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I understand. I appreciate you telling me in advance,” you reply, voice level. “Do you, um, know when you’re gonna move? I need time to find a new roommate.”

“Not sure, Wade and I got this mission that’ll last for a while. I’ll look around after.”

You nod. It’s quiet for a while.

“I’ll help you look, then.”

He nods this time, voice quiet.

“Thanks.”

You get up.

“Shower’s all yours. Good night, Logan.”

“...Night.”

He watches as you turn, disappearing down the hallway, your bedroom door clicking shut.

Hands clench around the fabric of his pants so tight, his knuckles turn white. He exhales, but there’s no relief. Instead, the pain intensifies, jagged wires constricting his chest and digging into his skin. 

Fuck, he doesn’t know why he said that. That part about company, as if you didn’t already have him wrapped around your finger, as if you hadn’t been the best person to be around, as if he wanted someone else. 

Felt like cutting his tongue off the moment the words escaped him. He hates it, he fucking hates it.

Hates the look on your face, trying to be calm and considerate of him. You didn’t even ask why and he lied to you, only to watch you mask the hurt like he couldn’t see through it. He can, he has a feeling you know he can. Instead, he watches you slip back to the past, like this was your first conversation with him.

Polite.

Like whatever the two of you shared this past two months didn’t exist in the first place.      

Logan ignores the pained caterwauling in his chest. His breath won’t go down his throat, tortured and stuck.

Absentmindedly, his feet take him to the hallway, gaze lingering at your bedroom door.

It’s dead quiet, his enhanced senses picking up nothing. Somehow he thinks it’s worse than hearing you cry.

He swallows before retreating into his own room.

It was the right thing to do.

So why does it feel like he’s still drowning even after it’s done?

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested @duckyyyx@hits-different-cause-its-you @mrfitzdarcyslover @snowlycanroc @teresas-lisbon

[loganficsonly]

thank you @mcrdvcks for tagging me <3 i take this test every year like it's a health check-up lol

i think most of these people are nerds or really smart 💀 wish i had half their brain power... especially chidi's. and it kills me that i'm not a lizzy bennet!!! something about being different flowers in a garden, am i right

amy santiago (brooklyn nine-nine) ・❥・ belle (beauty and the beast) ・❥・ monica geller (friends)

chidi anagonye (the good place) ・❥・ peggy carter (marvel cinematic universe) ・❥・ jane bennet (pride and prejudice)

katara (avatar: the last airbender) ・❥・ sailor mercury (sailor moon) ・❥・ charles xavier (x-men)

no pressure tags: (i'm sorry if you've done this already!) @theworstwolvie @tezooks @buckysleftbicep @buckyseternaldoll

✨ DESCRIBE YOURSELF WITH NINE FICTIONAL CHARACTERS ✨

Mia Dolan (La La Land) • Peter Parker (Marvel Cinematic Universe) • Francesca Bridgerton (Bridgerton) • Javi Gutierrez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent) • Rapunzel (Tangled) • Jonathan Larson (Tick, Tick…Boom!) • Rory Gilmore (Gilmore Girls) • Leopold Mountbatten (Kate & Leopold) • Eliza Schuyler Hamilton (Hamilton)

I wasn’t tagged by anyone but I saw people doing it and it looked like so much fun 😍

NPT: @damimami1994 @themareverine @lubdubology @matronmothercrone @sidkneeeee @lareinedulune @tezooks @rosenclaws @thevoicefromanotherworld @mcrdvcks @lostinlovingrevery + anybody who wants to play 💕

[loganficsonly]

jesus fuck? im supposed to go live life like everything's okay after reading this? i CAN'T I NEED THEM BOTH????

saw this post and was immediately haunted by the thought of logan and bucky <3

i also bring you the alternative: them making you bite down on their dogtags to keep you quiet because there’s only the fabric of an army tent separating your joined bodies from other soldiers— bucky complains about it under his breath the whole time because he loves hearing you, it’s one of his favorite things but you can’t afford to get caught because you don’t wanna take the risk of any of you getting dishonorably discharged. logan tells him to “suck it up, buttercup” and you giggle around the now-warmed metal of the dogtags in your mouth, a sharp little gasp leaving you when logan gives your cunt a little slap as a warning to behave, hazel eyes almost black from the dilation of his pupils— he’s a fucking sight to see, all sweaty and tense with his beard positively dripping with your slick from eating you out twice in a row. bucky isn’t any better; baby blue eyes swallowed up by his pupils and chest sweaty with exertion— he’s been holding you open for logan the whole time his friend went down on you, calloused fingers digging into the meat of your thighs and periodically moving downwards to play with your clit. it’s a challenge, keeping quiet, whenever they’re on you like this, but you love the adrenaline that comes with the fear of getting caught, something they’ve both teased you about multiple times— even though they can barely conceal their groans whenever they’re fucking you into the cheap mattress at your disposal.

[loganficsonly]

FUCK YOU"RE SO RIGHTTTT WHITE WOLF? WOLVERINE???

my type of guy

served in the military

experimented on against their will as living weapons by a division of the government or military

grumpy

much older than they look

emotionally constipated

stuck in a different time

physically stronger than the average person

burdened by incredible guilt for their past actions

named James

it all makes sense!

[loganficsonly]

°•✧ ✦ an independent woman ✦ ✧•°

series masterlist

worst!logan x f!reader, ongoing

As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

⚠️ please check chapter warnings!

ch 0: prologue ch 1: moving in ch 2: cleaning up ch 3: falling down ch 4: holding back ch 5: slipping away ch 6: coming soon!

[loganficsonly]

@theworstwolvie AHHHH C THANK YOU FOR THE REBLOG and i don't know how we got here BUT there's just something about the glimmer in his eyes in x1-x2 that we don't get to see as much now because of the EXTRA layer of trauma he had to go through 😭

@sweetdolliam @prettygirlpattinson thank you for reblogging 🫶

@logans-whore so do i, girl, so do i 😭

Loooord I just read the invisible mutant reader and Logan and I desperately need more! Like yes you did absolutely amazing on that peace! I need more like how he would react if she went invisible when she was embarrassed sweet fluff or smut I need it lmaoo

first part here!

idk if you're the same anon who sent the ask. thank you for sending it in, if so. it was so fun to write! anyway, i don't do requests but please treat the askbox like a suggestion box and spam it whenever you feel like it—if i get inspired i'll respond to your ask :)

18+ MDNI SMUT!!! (mirror sex), fem!mutant!reader, unedited (i'm sorry if this sucks lmao)

I can immediately see the gears in his head turning with schemes to test your reactions lmao especially Trilogy!Logan he’s a menace 💀

Quietly weighs which opportunities are worth taking when people are around. He likes to tease you, but not completely humiliate you in front of others. 

e.g. when the team orders takeout and you survey the spread, beaming.

“Wow, these portions are so big.”

“Just the way you like them, sugar?” he quips next to you. Storm—unfortunate enough to be within earshot—slowly turns to the two of you, a pleasantly scandalized look on her face before stepping away. 

You don’t break. Not yet. He smirks at the way you furrow your brows.

“Logan.”

He tilts his chin at the box of orange chicken, cubed, sauced, looking extremely succulent. There’s a glint in his eyes.

“Bet you can fit a couple of those in your mouth just fine.” 

You turn to hit him playfully in the chest, but he catches your wrist before you can make contact.

Pulls you in closer, warm breath fanning your ear. His voice drops to that deliciously low rumble. Rough, only for you to hear. Reminds you of a different time and place he’d use this voice…

“Just like the way I made my cock fit in your mouth—”

You let out a squeak before cloaking yourself out of reflex, turning invisible with the intent of running away.

Of course you never stood a chance. He already has a grip on your wrist. It tightens, the other arm easily finding your waist despite your invisibility, and he locks you in place just like that.

Motherfucker actually chuckles. You wonder if this is predator behavior, playing with their food.

“Stop bullying her,” Jean calls out lightly from the other side of the room. Logan can feel the stares of an amused audience. Scott actually looks slightly concerned.

“Help me,” the words are half-laughed, half-groaned. It hitches into a peep when he presses you into his chest, lips curled against your temple as he whispers against your hair.

“But you liked it so much last night, princess.” 

It’s not always inappropriate teasing that gets you, though.

The first time he sees you dressed up for a black tie date, he has to clench his jaws to stop himself from salivating.

You look like someone poured you into a glass, wearing that dress with your hair done like that. He’s aware that he’s staring, but why’d he want to look away? Especially when you smell like that, hell—

“You okay?” you ask, a smile on your face. Your voice is saccharine sweet, though the look on your face tells him he should know better.

Your smile fades a little at the way the hazel in his eyes is swallowed by dilating pupils. He stares at you like his reality is being rewritten. Rewritten, until what’s left is only you. Right at this moment.

“Turn around,” he says softly. You oblige.

Bare. Delicate straps criss-crossing your lower back. Feeling exposed, you turn to face him again. The look in his eyes has changed into something indecipherably molten and soft.

His palm on your cheek is the same—calloused, but gentle. Thumb brushing across your skin tenderly. A man holding treasure he isn’t sure he deserves.

When he speaks, it’s quiet, unflinching, real.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

That’s when you feel your heartbeat stutter, jerking errantly against your ribcage in one wild thud. You don’t even know you disappeared for that split second. His widened eyes tell you.

“Thank you,” you reply breathlessly.

And just like that, gone are his ambitions of teasing you to the point of invisibility.

Why would he, when the thing he loves the most is to see you? And not just in the physical sense of the word, but every meaning it holds.

He sees you—sees the difference between a polite smile and a real one. Sees what kind of mood you’re in just from the way you say ‘hi’ to him. Sees you when you don’t want to be seen, but you let him in anyway.

Still, his desires are a torment for you, and he collides into you again. At the end of the night, in wanting you to see what he sees, he places you in front of a mirror in his bedroom.

You know you’re going to suffer, but you welcome it anyway.

He keeps you on his lap throughout, chest against your back, holding you tight while his hands roam and his mouth lavishes your ear, jaw, neck, talking you through it.

“So beautiful, look at you. Know how many people were starin’ at you, princess? Too bad they don’t get to see you like this, yeah?”

The dress is hiked up past the point of decency, your hair framing your face messily. You let him trace his lips on your bare shoulders while his hands cup your breasts. His eyes meet yours through the mirror, and you feel incredibly feverish.

“Want you to watch yourself when I take you, see how pretty you are,” is what he says when he finally teases your slit. A whimper escapes you in response.

Fabric bunched up high on your waist, underwear hanging low on your ankles, your breasts exposed thanks to the way he pulled your neckline earlier. And now he’s lifting you, holding you so that your dripping core hovers over his length—

“A-ah!”

Eyes closed, head drops, but only for a moment, because his hand is immediately at your jaw. Strong fingers force you to look forward.

“Open your eyes, baby,” he rasps, face twisted in agony from holding back. He stills, only allowing his tip to enter you, adding onto the overflowing dam of desperation you have for him.

“Please, Logan—want you—”

“Then watch, pretty.” 

You finally gather the willpower to, chest heaving at the sight.

He sinks in with a wet sound, a mercy for the two of you as your moans intertwine. You can’t hold back like this, not with your reflection painted lecherously on the mirror. Goosebumps bloom at the sensation of being so full, and the unadulterated view of his cock in your cunt is too much.

You look at yourself. Make-up smudged, hair a mess. God, you’re wrecked, and he barely did anything…

His eyes meet yours again and you flicker, vanishing every other microsecond, an airy mewl dragged out of you just from the eye contact.

“Remember what I taught you before, sweet thing?” he holds you in place before bucking up into you, watching as you phase in and out of visibility again, overwhelmed with the way he stretches you.

“Disappear and I’ll stop,” he murmurs against your ear.

“This time, I’ll stop if you look away, too, m’kay?”

[loganficsonly]

ahhh thank you for the tag @buckysleftbicep! 😭 i always feel nervous about doing these tag games because i have this weird thing where i feel the need to post more actual work before reblogging tag games...

name: uni

age: late 20s

relationship status: long-term rs

sexuality: hetero

crush initials: you already know their full government names lmao ⚰️ james howlett and james buchanan barnes

followers: 305

favourite friends: everyone i met on here 😭💕 but especially @tezooks for talking about fics and fandoms w me, @theworstwolvie for being beyond gracious with feedback, @buckysleftbicep for responding so nicely to comments where i basically froth at the mouth and lose my shit lmao

birthday: 8 june

favourite song: changes every day or so but right now its talullah by jamiroquai

no pressure tags: anyone who wants to do this!!! @tezooks @theworstwolvie @buckyseternaldoll

Go here (I couldn’t reblog it again)

@annoying-atom-ace @sebastianbeanz @blueandbetaraptors @saturnidiot @i-had-a-bad-feeling @the-lucky-charm @atrprkr @thatone-midgardian @parasite-the-symbiote @jade-lopez-maximoff @procrastinatingwritersblog @buckyfan-fluid @spiderboi-parker @wind-the-music-box @daisydaisies23 @oswildin @luniimunii27 @plasmas-arcade @chekko-the-boi @thenameswinter99 @dollface-xoxo @merc-with-a-mouth-69 @allie-the-cinnamoroll @watermeezer @multifandomneeerd @kayotical @a-study-of-the-stars @over-usedlittlespoon @avastarr-official @im-feeling-blue-today @vesperinaofsin @sunbeesol @birdboycrow @insomniac-lifestyle @wifeduplokilaufeyson100pc

[loganficsonly]

fuck elle NEVER APOLOGIZE because you are so right??? 😭

also just the thought of these two people hanging out is enough to make me spontaneously combust from excitement because i have so many questions. do they know each other from their army days? is it mainly silence when they're around each other like do they talk? if they do, what would they talk about? where would they hang, like in bars? can't they just share one girl and can't that girl be me—

Logan loves your scent. LOVES IT. Like anything about you drives him crazy. Your hair? The smell of your shampoo? He loves burying his face in your hair to relax when he lays next to you. The yummy vanilla lotion you bought the other day? He'll lick your skin and kiss you fucking dumb. He loves trailing kisses up your legs, arms, stomach, nose softly brushing against your skin. You make him feel safe. He doesn't even need to see you when you come into a room, he can just smell you. And your pussy??? Oh good grief that's his favorite. It drives the poor man nuts. Sometimes he'll just be working on his motorcycle, you're perched up on his work bench, getting all hot and bothered by watching him and he loves that fucking smell from between your thighs. If you cross your legs, he won't even look at you, he'll just reach a hand out to pull your legs back apart so he can smell you while he works. Teasing himself with what he'll be eating later. HE LOVES IT.

[loganficsonly]

Loooord I just read the invisible mutant reader and Logan and I desperately need more! Like yes you did absolutely amazing on that peace! I need more like how he would react if she went invisible when she was embarrassed sweet fluff or smut I need it lmaoo

first part here!

idk if you're the same anon who sent the ask. thank you for sending it in, if so. it was so fun to write! anyway, i don't do requests but please treat the askbox like a suggestion box and spam it whenever you feel like it—if i get inspired i'll respond to your ask :)

18+ MDNI SMUT!!! (mirror sex), f!mutant!reader, unedited (i'm sorry if this sucks lmao)

I can immediately see the gears in his head turning with schemes to test your reactions lmao especially Trilogy!Logan he’s a menace 💀

Quietly weighs which opportunities are worth taking when people are around. He likes to tease you, but not completely humiliate you in front of others. 

e.g. when the team orders takeout and you survey the spread, beaming.

“Wow, these portions are so big.”

“Just the way you like them, sugar?” he quips next to you. Storm—unfortunate enough to be within earshot—slowly turns to the two of you, a pleasantly scandalized look on her face before stepping away. 

You don’t break. Not yet. He smirks at the way you furrow your brows.

“Logan.”

He tilts his chin at the box of orange chicken, cubed, sauced, looking extremely succulent. There’s a glint in his eyes.

“Bet you can fit a couple of those in your mouth just fine.” 

You turn to hit him playfully in the chest, but he catches your wrist before you can make contact.

Pulls you in closer, warm breath fanning your ear. His voice drops to that deliciously low rumble. Rough, only for you to hear. Reminds you of a different time and place he’d use this voice…

“Just like the way I made my cock fit in your mouth—”

You let out a squeak before cloaking yourself out of reflex, turning invisible with the intent of running away.

Of course you never stood a chance. He already has a grip on your wrist. It tightens, the other arm easily finding your waist despite your invisibility, and he locks you in place just like that.

Motherfucker actually chuckles. You wonder if this is predator behavior, playing with their food.

“Stop bullying her,” Jean calls out lightly from the other side of the room. Logan can feel the stares of an amused audience. Scott actually looks slightly concerned.

“Help me,” the words are half-laughed, half-groaned. It hitches into a peep when he presses you into his chest, lips curled against your temple as he whispers against your hair.

“But you liked it so much last night, princess.” 

It’s not always inappropriate teasing that gets you, though.

The first time he sees you dressed up for a black tie date, he has to clench his jaws to stop himself from salivating.

You look like someone poured you into a glass, wearing that dress with your hair done like that. He’s aware that he’s staring, but why’d he want to look away? Especially when you smell like that, hell—

“You okay?” you ask, a smile on your face. Your voice is saccharine sweet, though the look on your face tells him he should know better.

Your smile fades a little at the way the hazel in his eyes is swallowed by dilating pupils. He stares at you like his reality is being rewritten. Rewritten, until what’s left is only you. Right at this moment.

“Turn around,” he says softly. You oblige.

Bare. Delicate straps criss-crossing your lower back. Feeling exposed, you turn to face him again. The look in his eyes has changed into something indecipherably molten and soft.

His palm on your cheek is the same—calloused, but gentle. Thumb brushing across your skin tenderly. A man holding treasure he isn’t sure he deserves.

When he speaks, it’s quiet, unflinching, real.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

That’s when you feel your heartbeat stutter, jerking errantly against your ribcage in one wild thud. You don’t even know you disappeared for that split second. His widened eyes tell you.

“Thank you,” you reply breathlessly.

And just like that, gone are his ambitions of teasing you to the point of invisibility.

Why would he, when the thing he loves the most is to see you? And not just in the physical sense of the word, but every meaning it holds.

He sees you—sees the difference between a polite smile and a real one. Sees what kind of mood you’re in just from the way you say ‘hi’ to him. Sees you when you don’t want to be seen, but you let him in anyway.

Still, his desires are a torment for you, and he collides into you again. At the end of the night, in wanting you to see what he sees, he places you in front of a mirror in his bedroom.

You know you’re going to suffer, but you welcome it anyway.

He keeps you on his lap throughout, chest against your back, holding you tight while his hands roam and his mouth lavishes your ear, jaw, neck, talking you through it.

“So beautiful, look at you. Know how many people were starin’ at you, princess? Too bad they don’t get to see you like this, yeah?”

The dress is hiked up past the point of decency, your hair framing your face messily. You let him trace his lips on your bare shoulders while his hands cup your breasts. His eyes meet yours through the mirror, and you feel incredibly feverish.

“Want you to watch yourself when I take you, see how pretty you are,” is what he says when he finally teases your slit. A whimper escapes you in response.

Fabric bunched up high on your waist, underwear hanging low on your ankles, your breasts exposed thanks to the way he pulled your neckline earlier. And now he’s lifting you, holding you so that your dripping core hovers over his length—

“A-ah!”

Eyes closed, head drops, but only for a moment, because his hand is immediately at your jaw. Strong fingers force you to look forward.

“Open your eyes, baby,” he rasps, face twisted in agony from holding back. He stills, only allowing his tip to enter you, adding onto the overflowing dam of desperation you have for him.

“Please, Logan—want you—”

“Then watch, pretty.” 

You finally gather the willpower to, chest heaving at the sight.

He sinks in with a wet sound, a mercy for the two of you as your moans intertwine. You can’t hold back like this, not with your reflection painted lecherously on the mirror. Goosebumps bloom at the sensation of being so full, and the unadulterated view of his cock in your cunt is too much.

You look at yourself. Make-up smudged, hair a mess. God, you’re wrecked, and he barely did anything…

His eyes meet yours again and you flicker, vanishing every other microsecond, an airy mewl dragged out of you just from the eye contact.

“Remember what I taught you before, sweet thing?” he holds you in place before bucking up into you, watching as you phase in and out of visibility again, overwhelmed with the way he stretches you.

“Disappear and I’ll stop,” he murmurs against your ear.

“This time, I’ll stop if you look away, too, m’kay?”

[loganficsonly]

Oh. Oh my gosh, I am clutching my chest. This is so tender it aches.

I absolutely love your characterization of Logan. I feel like I haven't read enough fics where he's actually this soft, but you pull it off in a way that feels very natural for him without making a teddy bear out of him.

A date is simple, but you write such a wealth of insight into Logan's attitude throughout. Great great job 🥹💕

Logan asks you out - Part 2

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now Logan’s standing outside your door, knuckles raised like he’s been frozen mid-thought, mid-motion, mid-what-the-hell-am-I-doing. He knocks once. Then again. Then shoves his hands in his pockets like that’ll somehow keep him from turning and leaving.

He nearly does.

But then you open the door.

You’re not dressed up. Not really. Just you, soft around the edges, looking at him like you see him. And he forgets how to be nervous.

“You’re early,” you say, smiling.

“You’re worth showing up early for,” he replies before he can stop himself. Then clears his throat, like he wants to swallow the words back down.

But you don’t tease him for it. You just tilt your head a little, and he thinks maybe he’d say it all again if it meant you’d look at him like that one more time.

The restaurant is quiet. Warm. He holds the door for you and doesn’t say anything when your shoulder brushes his on the way in, but his eyes follow you to the table like it’s instinct.

You don’t talk much at first. He’s not good at small talk. But you don’t push. You just sit with him. Let him breathe. Let him get used to the fact that you’re really here, across from him, choosing this.

And eventually, he starts to speak.

Little things. The way the food reminds him of a place he barely remembers. The story behind the scar near his collarbone. The way you always tug your sleeves over your hands when you’re trying not to fidget.

He’s watching. He always watches.

But tonight, he lets himself look.

You catch him once. He doesn’t look away.

“Something on my face?” you tease.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just making sure this isn’t some dream I’ll wake up from.”

The food comes and neither of you finishes it. The conversation’s too good. And somewhere between the last sip of water and the check arriving, something in his chest starts to settle. Like he’s not bracing for you to leave anymore.

He walks you home.

Not because he thinks he should, but because he wants to. The sidewalk is cracked and uneven, and when you stumble just a little, he reaches out. You don’t need him to, but you let him anyway.

At your door, you turn to him, soft smile still playing on your lips.

“I had a good time,” you say.

He nods once. “Me too.”

There’s a pause. One of those thick ones that hum with the weight of something unsaid.

“I’m glad I asked,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You lean in, just close enough for your forehead to brush his. “Took you long enough.”

And he laughs. A real one. Low, warm, a little disbelieving.

When you kiss him, it’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s quiet. Steady. Like him.

Like something that matters.

And when you pull away, he doesn’t move, just watches you step inside, lips parted like he might say something else.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t need to.

You already know.

He wants this. He wants you. And now—he’s got you.

part 1

[loganficsonly]

my type of guy

served in the military

experimented on against their will as living weapons by a division of the government or military

grumpy

much older than they look

emotionally constipated

stuck in a different time

physically stronger than the average person

burdened by incredible guilt for their past actions

named James

it all makes sense!

[loganficsonly]

@lokisloverisnthere omg thank youuuu lmao this reaction image 😭

@rxphaelsantiagos @tomhollandfavwife thank you for reblogging 💕

Omg omg love your writing and I think you would absolutely be the best person for this but Logan dating reader whose mutation is to turn invisible and while he’s fucking her she turns her like stomach invisible so they can both see his member inside of her 😂😂

anon anon anon, you have a beautiful mind, but i have a counter-proposal under the cut that I hope you can enjoy...

18+ SMUT MDNI, f!reader

You’re prone to lose control of your mutation when under... intense circumstances.

Like right now. You’re a panting mess, sweat making hair stick to the sides of your face, your lips glossy with that beautiful swollen shade of red he likes—proof that he’s kissed you silly. You lost your clothes while he made you lose your mind with his mouth, and that was not too long ago.

Ruined. That’s how you look. He loves it.

Hasn’t even put his cock in yet and you’re already gone. Came twice. He didn’t give them to you easy. Made you beg and say all sorts of dirty things (“Tell me this pussy belongs to me, honey,” he commands with two fingers curling deep), and even then he didn’t let you succumb fast. You had to earn it by being a good girl for him.

Yeah, he is in some kind of mood tonight. One that yearns to make things last longer, especially torment.

Not that you’re complaining.

When he finally stretches your cunt with his cock, your jaw goes slack, eyes glazing over. God, he’s so big, it feels like the first time you had him all over again. He watches closely, hot breath fanning the side of your face as eyes flicker down to where you’re joined.

His favorite view.

“Feels good, huh?” he taunts through gritted teeth, finally bottoming out and feeling you squirm with pleasure beneath him. “You’re drenched, pretty girl, takin’ big cock so good.”

“L-Logan—”

It doesn’t take long till he thrusts. The movement is shallow, pulling back only halfway before driving his hips into yours, but it’s enough to make you cry out. Your blood sings, nerves alight, and he sees you phase in and out of invisibility, appearing and disappearing a few times in a second like a short-circuiting light.

He laughs breathlessly. Even when he can’t see you, he can feel your tight hole clenching around him.

But that won’t do.

A hand flies to your unseen face, fingers squishing your cheeks. You reappear. The look you wear is delicious—drool escaping the side of your lips, a bead of sweat dripping down your brow, hypnotized eyes...

Heat burns under his skin.

Yes. This is what he likes to see. A true feast for his eyes.

“Focus, sugar,” he purrs, fucking into you again, his hand still forcing you to look up right at him. Your eyes clench shut at the friction of his veiny cock against gummy walls, a wet sound lewdly ringing in your ear. Shit, he feels so good—

You phase out again. Logan huffs. It looks like he’s humping air like this, except for the fact that his dick is clearly sunk into something—the best thing he’s ever had.

Slowly, he pulls out of you, and you sob at the emptiness while your bare body flickers back into sight.

“Don’t fuckin’ hide,” he growls, the hand on your face trailing down to your neck, gripping there. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you the power he has over you.

A languid smirk enters his face.

“If you disappear, I ain’t movin’.”

You whine, a wordless protest—it’s not that you’re doing it intentionally.

“Wanna see this perfect body when I fuck you,” he breathes, hips thrusting into you again, harder this time. You let out a throaty groan, but manage to control your powers to remain visible.

“Turn you into a cock-drunk slut,” he rasps between thrusts. He brushes against a deep spot in you that sends sparks flying in your veins, and you disappear for a split second.

Mercilessly, he takes his cock out all the way, and you feel tears forming in your eyes. The words escape you, airy and rushed.

“Please I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—”

The chuckle that escapes him is dark and threatening, but the way your stomach churns signals something other than fear. Excitement.

“Gonna be a looong night for you, sweet thing,” he murmurs against your mouth, teasingly pressing his tip against your soaked slit.

[loganficsonly]

OH MY GOD. DYING AT THIS. SO GOOD, SO VALID. THIS IS MY TRUTH NOW. FUCK YOU'RE SO GOOD @unnamedrose !!! 🥹 now I'm stuck fantasizing about being asked out by him in this way for the next 3 business days. Fuck!!!

Logan doesn’t ask the way other people do.

He doesn’t stumble over his words or make a grand gesture. He doesn’t rehearse a speech in his head or try to charm you with practiced lines. That’s not him. Never was.

He just waits.

Waits for the right moment, when the world goes quiet. When you’re beside him, not talking, just being. Maybe it’s after a long day, your shoes kicked off at the door, your body curled up on the couch like you always do. Maybe you’re laughing, head thrown back, sleeves pulled over your hands, and he’s watching like he always does. Like he’s memorizing it all for later. Because he is.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Not at first. His voice is low, rough around the edges like it always is, but there’s a softness threaded through it that only comes out when he talks to you.

“You wanna go out sometime? Just you and me.”

No nickname. No teasing. Just truth.

And when you glance up, brows raised, heart fluttering, he finally meets your eyes. Steady. Certain. There’s no smirk, no wry grin, just a look that says he’s thought about this. That he’s been thinking about this for a long time.

Logan doesn’t ask unless he means it. He doesn’t let himself want things, not often. But he wants this. You.

He shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal, like your answer won’t shake something loose in his chest.

“I remember you like that Thai place on Fifth. I figured we could go there. If you want.”

But you see it. The way his fingers curl slightly. The way his foot taps once against the floor. The tiniest tell. Because this matters.

Because you matter.

And he’s not asking just to take you out.

He’s asking because he wants to be the one who gets to.

[loganficsonly]

Omg omg love your writing and I think you would absolutely be the best person for this but Logan dating reader whose mutation is to turn invisible and while he’s fucking her she turns her like stomach invisible so they can both see his member inside of her 😂😂

anon anon anon, you have a beautiful mind, but i have a counter-proposal under the cut that I hope you can enjoy...

18+ SMUT MDNI, f!reader

You’re prone to lose control of your mutation when under... intense circumstances.

Like right now. You’re a panting mess, sweat making hair stick to the sides of your face, your lips glossy with that beautiful swollen shade of red he likes—proof that he’s kissed you silly. You lost your clothes while he made you lose your mind with his mouth, and that was not too long ago.

Ruined. That’s how you look. He loves it.

Hasn’t even put his cock in yet and you’re already gone. Came twice. He didn’t give them to you easy. Made you beg and say all sorts of dirty things (“Tell me this pussy belongs to me, honey,” he commands with two fingers curling deep), and even then he didn’t let you succumb fast. You had to earn it by being a good girl for him.

Yeah, he is in some kind of mood tonight. One that yearns to make things last longer, especially torment.

Not that you’re complaining.

When he finally stretches your cunt with his cock, your jaw goes slack, eyes glazing over. God, he’s so big, it feels like the first time you had him all over again. He watches closely, hot breath fanning the side of your face as eyes flicker down to where you’re joined.

His favorite view.

“Feels good, huh?” he taunts through gritted teeth, finally bottoming out and feeling you squirm with pleasure beneath him. “You’re drenched, pretty girl, takin’ big cock so good.”

“L-Logan—”

It doesn’t take long till he thrusts. The movement is shallow, pulling back only halfway before driving his hips into yours, but it’s enough to make you cry out. Your blood sings, nerves alight, and he sees you phase in and out of invisibility, appearing and disappearing a few times in a second like a short-circuiting light.

He laughs breathlessly. Even when he can’t see you, he can feel your tight hole clenching around him.

But that won’t do.

A hand flies to your unseen face, fingers squishing your cheeks. You reappear. The look you wear is delicious—drool escaping the side of your lips, a bead of sweat dripping down your brow, hypnotized eyes...

Heat burns under his skin.

Yes. This is what he likes to see. A true feast for his eyes.

“Focus, sugar,” he purrs, fucking into you again, his hand still forcing you to look up right at him. Your eyes clench shut at the friction of his veiny cock against gummy walls, a wet sound lewdly ringing in your ear. Shit, he feels so good—

You phase out again. Logan huffs. It looks like he’s humping air like this, except for the fact that his dick is clearly sunk into something—the best thing he’s ever had.

Slowly, he pulls out of you, and you sob at the emptiness while your bare body flickers back into sight.

“Don’t fuckin’ hide,” he growls, the hand on your face trailing down to your neck, gripping there. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you the power he has over you.

A languid smirk enters his face.

“If you disappear, I ain’t movin’.”

You whine, a wordless protest—it’s not that you’re doing it intentionally.

“Wanna see this perfect body when I fuck you,” he breathes, hips thrusting into you again, harder this time. You let out a throaty groan, but manage to control your powers to remain visible.

“Turn you into a cock-drunk slut,” he rasps between thrusts. He brushes against a deep spot in you that sends sparks flying in your veins, and you disappear for a split second.

Mercilessly, he takes his cock out all the way, and you feel tears forming in your eyes. The words escape you, airy and rushed.

“Please I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—”

The chuckle that escapes him is dark and threatening, but the way your stomach churns signals something other than fear. Excitement.

“Gonna be a looong night for you, sweet thing,” he murmurs against your mouth, teasingly pressing his tip against your soaked slit.

[loganficsonly]

guys i have important news

i found alpine

like literally alpine

[loganficsonly]

@selfcarecap @grumpyahjumma @theworstwolvie thank you for reblogging! we all need our back cracked and broken by him lmao

Logan hugging reader it’s been a little since they’ve seen each other and he hugs her a little tighter than normal and cracks her back (in a good way, she had been needing it) but he thinks he cracked something or hurt her and panics

oh my gosh lol this is so funny (gn!reader)

Logan's poor heart would DROP at the distinct crack as he instantly lets go of you, eyes wide and scanning your body for any signs of hurt.

But then, a loud sigh. And you laugh.

"No, why?" you whine playfully, already reaching out for another hug.

"What was that?"

You hum, sinking into the hug more, voice muffled into his chest.

"My back."

Eyebrows scrunch, looking at you as you press yourself up against him, content. His hesitant hands hover over your back, but eventually they come to rest, keeping you close.

"It didn't hurt?"

"No, it felt good, actually," you murmur. "Didn't know you had chiropractic talents."

"You sure you okay?" he presses, still not relaxing.

"Logan," you look up, eyes meeting his, "please just squeeze me."

He lets out a weak chuckle before doing exactly as you say, gathering you into a strong hug. Your voice is small, buried in his shirt.

"Missed you."

A kiss on your temple.

"Miss you more."

[loganficsonly]

thank you for writing my request @mcrdvcks 😭sorry i was on anon because i didn't wanna out my main!

this is incredibly soft and makes my heart hurt. i can see myself revisiting this like a craving. please god. kissing his knuckles??? goodbye. logan deserves this AND MORE!!!

congratulations on 2k!!! 💐💕

logan always seem like a giver, i wonder how he'd react having a significant other who adamantly takes care of him? maybe not in the same way he takes care of others, but in small, soft ways?

logan is the type of person who says he's "not a hero" yet his actions consistently proves his words are lies. same with him saying that he's "not a good person." like?? you protected rogue and were willing to sacrifice your life for a teenage girl you just met?

anyways, this is a bit short, but i hope you enjoy it!

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: established relationship, soft!logan, fluff

Logan’s not used to being taken care of. He’s the one who patches people up, does the heavy lifting, and quietly steps between others and danger. It’s instinct. Automatic.

So when you start doing it—bringing him water after a mission, setting out fresh clothes without a word, making sure the heater’s on when his joints are stiff—he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

He notices immediately, though. You fold his laundry the way he likes. You learn how he takes his coffee without asking. You remember he sleeps better when there's rain sounds playing. It makes him blink, still and quiet, like he's not sure how he earned it.

He tries to wave it off at first. “Don’t fuss,” he grumbles, even as he lets you rub tiger balm on his shoulder. But the way his eyes flutter shut? The soft noise he makes when your fingers find a sore spot? He loves it.

The first time you run your fingers through his hair to help him sleep, he jerks like he’s been shocked. Then he goes completely quiet. Eyes closed. Breathing even. Gone.

You always have something warm waiting when he comes back from patrol. You leave his boots near the heater when it’s snowing. You slip a protein bar into his jacket pocket when you think he’s skipped lunch.

He’s rough around the edges, but the first time you kiss the scars on his knuckles instead of commenting on them, he stares at you like you’ve just spoken another language. Doesn’t say a word. Just pulls you in and breathes you in like a prayer.

He’s weirdly flustered by quiet affection. You press a kiss to his temple. He grunts. Looks away. But later, you find him still touching the spot absentmindedly like it’s some kind of talisman.

He starts catching himself checking for you in every room. Not to protect you—though that’s always there—but just… looking. For your presence. For your little rituals. The cup of tea cooling by the window. The folded towel left for him by the shower. The way your hand finds his wrist and squeezes once when you pass him in the hall.

He keeps trying to repay every act of care tenfold. You bring him soup when he’s sore? He chops wood for two hours. You tidy his flannel drawer? He fixes the leaky sink in your bathroom before you notice it’s dripping. (You have to sit him down and explain that it’s not a competition. That taking care of him isn’t a job. It’s love.)

He has to learn how to receive. He’s not used to the idea that someone would choose to take care of him, without expecting him to carry it all. So he fights it at first. Shifts his weight, changes the subject, mutters “m’fine.” But you keep showing up. Keep being steady. And eventually, he starts to believe it.

When you run errands, you always come back with something small for him. A new bar of the soap he likes. A snack he thought no one remembered he liked. “Thought you said you weren’t one for soft stuff,” he teases. “I’m not. I’m just nosy,” you reply. But you both know it’s love.

You started rubbing lotion into his knuckles one night without saying a word. He sat there completely frozen like a bear being tamed by the gentlest trap. Didn’t say anything, just stared at your hands and thought about kissing them. He did, later.