listen… this is such a strange and weird thought.. but Logan who’s dating a Persian princess.. the whole deal.. spoiled rotten, absolutely always gets what she wants and is so invested in her looks..
the whole “my dad got me this car Logan, but he got me the *wrong* color.”. I fee like he could put her in her place real good.
anon i don't know who you are but i hope your crops are watered and your skin is moisturized. this is EVERYTHING. i don't know what came over me (the answer is horniness)
f!reader below, also extremely inappropriate 18+ MDNI!!! or i will hunt you down 🫵
here's the thing: logan's seen shit. he's witnessed the horrors of war. took part in some of them. had telepaths poking around his head. known enough people to understand that life is complicated.
he should know. his life got ran over by a train, tumbled into a minefield, exploded—and he ends up where he is now.
so when he looks at you, he's like. sure. you're literally raised to be this way.
your daddy never said no to you. he tried, and you only needed to bat your lashes for his resolve to crumble. your mama probably put "make daughter pretty" on the top of her priority list.
so of course you turned out to be a spoiled brat. nurture won over nature.
but boy does it fucking aggravate him.
the vanity is one thing. yeah, you play with your hair a lot more than the average person, twirling it on a finger as often as you breathed. yeah, you change nails once every two weeks or whenever boredom strikes. yeah, you check yourself out at every reflective surface: the back of your phone case is a fucking mirror.
you're beautiful. he'll admit as much.
but what really grinds his gears is the entitlement.
it's the way you send food back with no hesitation even if it's only slightly wrong. (you demand a new plate with exactly two extra shakes of salt.)
it's the whine in your voice when you told him your daddy got you a car, but it's the wrong color. (you bought a new one immediately and complained about having to wait one business day for it to arrive.)
it's how everybody around you shuffles to meet your needs.
the tailors for your outfits ("i think the hem can be about half an inch shorter, don't you?"). the butlers and maids stressing out over the little details in your requests ("the vibes of the paintings in the hallway are so off... can we change them?"). your father not hesitating for even one second before granting your wishes ("thanks for letting me borrow the jet, daddy!").
nurture over nature means you're due for a course correction. an unlearning.
logan decides that he's the one to do it. because who else will?
getting in your bed is easy. you happen to want him, and you always get what you want. he lets you think that, at least.
but once he has you under him, oh, you best believe he's going to teach you what reality feels like.
with his cock.
or lack thereof.
you'd be on your stomach in bed, legs spread, three orgasms in. glistening with sweat. weak from the electricity that doesn't ever leave your legs.
he straddles your back, bracketing your hips with his thighs. the skin near your neck and shoulders are littered with marks—his.
you can feel the weight of it on your lower back but he still hasn't stuck his dick in you.
he'd ignore your begging—no matter how pretty they sound.
"please, logan, just want your cock..."
he'd tut and eat you out again like he didn't already make you come in his mouth more than once.
makes you cry real tears from overstimulation. you love his tongue, love everything he does to you, but it feels more and more like punishment because why won't he put his cock in?
"gonna show you what it's like when you don't have your way, for once," he growls, "gonna fuck you the way i want to."
and he does. whatever you ask for with high-pitched babbles, he's gonna do the opposite.
he's mean like that.
want him to finger-fuck you faster? he literally slows down like he's got all the time in the world. lets you feel every drag of his knuckles against your walls. demands you to memorize the shape of his fingers.
if you let slip a "please, more"? logan literally goes from two fingers back to one, making you squirm in frustration.
he doesn't tolerate misbehavior.
if he asks you to look at him and you don't, he'll literally grab both cheeks in one hand, squeezing and forcing you to face him properly.
if you're biting your lip to hold back a moan, he pumps three fingers out of the blue—messing up your insides just the way you like—and when you scream, he goes back to torturing you with one.
when he has his dick in you, though? that's when the real education begins.
he talks to you. makes you work for it.
your bodies are misted with sweat, and the room smells so strongly of sex you feel like you're hypnotized just by being in it.
he leans down, chest nearly touching your back, lips on your ear.
"you want my cock in this tight hole, baby?"
"mm-hmm," you nod, whimpering into the pillow, not knowing what else to do other than lay under him and clench at the sheets.
"gonna be a good fucking girl and listen to me from now on?"
"yes—"
"tell me who owns this pussy."
"you do."
"say my name when you answer, princess."
"you do, logan!"
then he slides his hard length into you, groaning as he does, and you nearly scream at the sheer size of him. his grip is tight on your waist as he bottoms out.
but then he stills. not moving.
you feel like you could come just like this. he's so big, so deep, stretching your pussy so good...
he chooses that moment to curl his arm around your neck, chin nestled on the inside of his elbow.
you choke out an exhale, feeling your airways constrict—not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough to let you know he's in charge.
he always has.
"little princess gonna let me do whatever i want to her, yeah?"
you nod, dazed, almost overwhelmed at the way he does a little thrust to kiss your womb for good measure, as if showing you that's how deep he can go. that and his bicep against your throat makes you dizzy.
then he smacks your ass with his other hand and you yelp into the pillow.
"use your words."
"whatever you want," you sob, "you can do whatever you want..."
"good. now listen to me. you're gonna be good and fuck yourself on my cock f'me, 'kay?"
"ngh—"
slap.
"ride me like you mean it. till my cock makes you dumb. that clear?"
"yes—"
"yes what?"
you mewl. "yes, sir."
then he releases his chokehold on you and guides your hips against his with both hands.
the sigh that escapes you is one of elation. he's secretly relieved too, watching with rapture as your beautiful body undulates to meet his cock.
that perfect arch. the friction. how your gummy walls clamp down on him like your pussy doesn't want him to leave.
god, your poor little pussy, he thinks. so used, but still wanting more.
your pace betrays how much you need to be stretched out by something other than his fingers and tongue. impatient. greedy.
he should stop you from feeling too good, teach you how to wait, how to follow orders. but the way your gummy walls wrap around his cock is too good. so are your pathetic moans.
he asks questions instead.
"gonna back talk after taking this cock?"
"no sir, never...!"
"want me to cum inside you? fill up this tight pussy?" he groans. "fuck, she's askin' for it, baby."
"yes sir, please, please—"
your reward is another orgasm and him leaking out of your hole down your thighs. his is hearing you beg him to do it again.
he didn't successfully educate you in the end.
you're still a spoiled princess.
at least you're a spoiled princess who'll do anything he asks.
TYSM! 😭😭 this is probably only my second time writing Logan as a bit of a brat-tamer, and still it's quite a mild instance. i'll see if i can write him a little meaner when the opportunity arises hehe
listen… this is such a strange and weird thought.. but Logan who’s dating a Persian princess.. the whole deal.. spoiled rotten, absolutely always gets what she wants and is so invested in her looks..
the whole “my dad got me this car Logan, but he got me the *wrong* color.”. I fee like he could put her in her place real good.
anon i don't know who you are but i hope your crops are watered and your skin is moisturized. this is EVERYTHING. i don't know what came over me (the answer is horniness)
f!reader below, also extremely inappropriate 18+ MDNI!!! or i will hunt you down 🫵
here's the thing: logan's seen shit. he's witnessed the horrors of war. took part in some of them. had telepaths poking around his head. known enough people to understand that life is complicated.
he should know. his life got ran over by a train, tumbled into a minefield, exploded—and he ends up where he is now.
so when he looks at you, he's like. sure. you're literally raised to be this way.
your daddy never said no to you. he tried, and you only needed to bat your lashes for his resolve to crumble. your mama probably put "make daughter pretty" on the top of her priority list.
so of course you turned out to be a spoiled brat. nurture won over nature.
but boy does it fucking aggravate him.
the vanity is one thing. yeah, you play with your hair a lot more than the average person, twirling it on a finger as often as you breathed. yeah, you change nails once every two weeks or whenever boredom strikes. yeah, you check yourself out at every reflective surface: the back of your phone case is a fucking mirror.
you're beautiful. he'll admit as much.
but what really grinds his gears is the entitlement.
it's the way you send food back with no hesitation even if it's only slightly wrong. (you demand a new plate with exactly two extra shakes of salt.)
it's the whine in your voice when you told him your daddy got you a car, but it's the wrong color. (you bought a new one immediately and complained about having to wait one business day for it to arrive.)
it's how everybody around you shuffles to meet your needs.
the tailors for your outfits ("i think the hem can be about half an inch shorter, don't you?"). the butlers and maids stressing out over the little details in your requests ("the vibes of the paintings in the hallway are so off... can we change them?"). your father not hesitating for even one second before granting your wishes ("thanks for letting me borrow the jet, daddy!").
nurture over nature means you're due for a course correction. an unlearning.
logan decides that he's the one to do it. because who else will?
getting in your bed is easy. you happen to want him, and you always get what you want. he lets you think that, at least.
but once he has you under him, oh, you best believe he's going to teach you what reality feels like.
with his cock.
or lack thereof.
you'd be on your stomach in bed, legs spread, three orgasms in. glistening with sweat. weak from the electricity that doesn't ever leave your legs.
he straddles your back, bracketing your hips with his thighs. the skin near your neck and shoulders are littered with marks—his.
you can feel the weight of it on your lower back but he still hasn't stuck his dick in you.
he'd ignore your begging—no matter how pretty they sound.
"please, logan, just want your cock..."
he'd tut and eat you out again like he didn't already make you come in his mouth more than once.
makes you cry real tears from overstimulation. you love his tongue, love everything he does to you, but it feels more and more like punishment because why won't he put his cock in?
"gonna show you what it's like when you don't have your way, for once," he growls, "gonna fuck you the way i want to."
and he does. whatever you ask for with high-pitched babbles, he's gonna do the opposite.
he's mean like that.
want him to finger-fuck you faster? he literally slows down like he's got all the time in the world. lets you feel every drag of his knuckles against your walls. demands you to memorize the shape of his fingers.
if you let slip a "please, more"? logan literally goes from two fingers back to one, making you squirm in frustration.
he doesn't tolerate misbehavior.
if he asks you to look at him and you don't, he'll literally grab both cheeks in one hand, squeezing and forcing you to face him properly.
if you're biting your lip to hold back a moan, he pumps three fingers out of the blue—messing up your insides just the way you like—and when you scream, he goes back to torturing you with one.
when he has his dick in you, though? that's when the real education begins.
he talks to you. makes you work for it.
your bodies are misted with sweat, and the room smells so strongly of sex you feel like you're hypnotized just by being in it.
he leans down, chest nearly touching your back, lips on your ear.
"you want my cock in this tight hole, baby?"
"mm-hmm," you nod, whimpering into the pillow, not knowing what else to do other than lay under him and clench at the sheets.
"gonna be a good fucking girl and listen to me from now on?"
"yes—"
"tell me who owns this pussy."
"you do."
"say my name when you answer, princess."
"you do, logan!"
then he slides his hard length into you, groaning as he does, and you nearly scream at the sheer size of him. his grip is tight on your waist as he bottoms out.
but then he stills. not moving.
you feel like you could come just like this. he's so big, so deep, stretching your pussy so good...
he chooses that moment to curl his arm around your neck, chin nestled on the inside of his elbow.
you choke out an exhale, feeling your airways constrict—not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough to let you know he's in charge.
he always has.
"little princess gonna let me do whatever i want to her, yeah?"
you nod, dazed, almost overwhelmed at the way he does a little thrust to kiss your womb for good measure, as if showing you that's how deep he can go. that and his bicep against your throat makes you dizzy.
then he smacks your ass with his other hand and you yelp into the pillow.
"use your words."
"whatever you want," you sob, "you can do whatever you want..."
"good. now listen to me. you're gonna be good and fuck yourself on my cock f'me, 'kay?"
"ngh—"
slap.
"ride me like you mean it. till my cock makes you dumb. that clear?"
"yes—"
"yes what?"
you mewl. "yes, sir."
then he releases his chokehold on you and guides your hips against his with both hands.
the sigh that escapes you is one of elation. he's secretly relieved too, watching with rapture as your beautiful body undulates to meet his cock.
that perfect arch. the friction. how your gummy walls clamp down on him like your pussy doesn't want him to leave.
god, your poor little pussy, he thinks. so used, but still wanting more.
your pace betrays how much you need to be stretched out by something other than his fingers and tongue. impatient. greedy.
he should stop you from feeling too good, teach you how to wait, how to follow orders. but the way your gummy walls wrap around his cock is too good. so are your pathetic moans.
he asks questions instead.
"gonna back talk after taking this cock?"
"no sir, never...!"
"want me to cum inside you? fill up this tight pussy?" he groans. "fuck, she's askin' for it, baby."
"yes sir, please, please—"
your reward is another orgasm and him leaking out of your hole down your thighs. his is hearing you beg him to do it again.
he didn't successfully educate you in the end.
you're still a spoiled princess.
at least you're a spoiled princess who'll do anything he asks.
He bends you over the edge of the bed, his hands traveling up your sides, squeezing your flesh as they go. “So pretty f’r me, hm?” he murmurs in your ear, pressing his hips against yours.
“Logan, I don't have time right now—” you whisper, but he shuts you up.
“Shh, shh. I promise it'll be quick,” he says, kissing your temple, as he grinds his hips to yours.
You can feel the hard bulge in his pants, rubbing right against your pussy. You whine, pushing back against him, feeling the familiar ache of desire blooming in your womb.
“Yeah, see? There we go. Knew you'd want it,” he murmurs in your ear, grinding harder.
You're starting to whine, legs shaking, and you can hear his heavy breathing, can feel it against the side of your face.
He pushes you closer to your orgasm, your body trembling, and just when you're going to get there, he pulls away.
You gasp. “No!” you squeak, desperately pressing back, looking for the friction you need to come. But when you glance over your shoulder at him, you find he's moved a few steps back. And he's watching you, smirking.
“What—? Why—?” you stutter, and he chuckles.
He spanks your ass softly. “So you'll be wet and needy all day, thinkin’ ‘bout me. And if you decide you want me as much as I want you, you know where I am,” he says, giving you a little grin before walking away.
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
---
taglist - if you wanna be added to my Logan taglist, lmk 💛
SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”
OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble.
WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie.
A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3
The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.
Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.
Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.
Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.
But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.
Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.
When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.
Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?
Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.
He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.
And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.
If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.
But there’s no you in his past.
Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.
It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.
Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.
He meets you when he least expects it.
It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.
It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.
When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.
They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.
But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?
No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.
Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.
You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.
There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.
Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.
This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.
But, all good things come to an end, because—
“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.
You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”
He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”
“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.
The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.
This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.
You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”
That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”
“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”
Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”
You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”
It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.
“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”
Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.
“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”
Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.
He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”
“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.”
“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”
Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.
Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.
Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”
It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.
Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him.
Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?
Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?
Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?
A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?
You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”
Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”
“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”
“You drink while you drive?”
“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”
You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.”
For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.
And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.
You: Hi.
He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.
You: Are you working tonight?
You’ve got to be kidding him.
Logan: Why are you texting me?
He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual.
You: Why are you answering me?
Oh, you’re smart.
Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.
You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.
Logan: I’m busy.
You: Well, what time do you get off?
Logan: I work all night.
You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.
An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.
Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.
You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.
Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not.
What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.
He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.
Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.
But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.
Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.
There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.
In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.
You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.
He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.
Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.
“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”
I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.
“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.
Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.”
“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you should. You invited me.”
How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.
Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.
An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”
The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.
A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.
When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.
You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”
“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.
The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.
Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.
He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.
Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.
He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.
What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.
Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?
Are you truly that desperate for human contact?
Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?
Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.
Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.
His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.
When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.
It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.
“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations, but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.
Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.
You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.
Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.
You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.
There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.
Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.
He sincerely cares about what you have to say.
This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.
Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.
Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.
Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground.
Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.
He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.
Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive.
You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.
You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him.
“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.
He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.
Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.
Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”
Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?
Bad-tempered, sure.
A pain in the ass? Definitely.
But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.
It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.
He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice?
When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.
Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.
Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?
As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.
He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.
The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.
Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.
Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?
It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.
Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.
His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.
It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.
He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.
Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.
At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?
God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.
You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.
(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)
Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.
Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.
What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.
His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.
Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.
But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.
“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.
What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!
There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”
“My brain is just… off today.”
“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?
“Yeah.”
He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.
How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor.
“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.
Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.
He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.
“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no—
“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”
Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”
He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.
Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases.
I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?
His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”
“I asked you first.”
“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”
Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”
Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.
Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.
Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.
At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.
Indeed, he’s very much alive.
“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.”
His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.
He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.
Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.
This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.
You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.
He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.
“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.
Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.
“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.
He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”
Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath.
“Words.”
“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”
“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”
Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.
“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”
Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.
Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”
Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.
The water stains from flooding on the walls.
The supermarket list.
The rising price of gas.
The—
“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”
You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”
“I said I want you to fuck me.”
Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.
“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”
You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”
Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.
Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.
A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.
Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.
So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.
Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.
Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.
Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.
If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close.
What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—
“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”
The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency.
“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”
You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.”
His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.
With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.
Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.
Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.
Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.
Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”
Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.
Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.
Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.
Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?
“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.
“What is it?”
“I know.”
You do?
Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.
SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.
WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.
A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)
No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him.
“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”
Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”
“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”
“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces.
“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.
His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”
Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”
Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.
That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”
Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.
He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”
You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."
Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."
“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.
He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”
“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”
“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”
At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.
Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.
It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.
The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.
Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.
What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.
In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—
Alright. You don’t need this either.
Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.
But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.
“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”
“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.
You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.
When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”
“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”
He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”
“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.
After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.
You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”
If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”
“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”
“You fancy him, don’t you?”
Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”
His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”
“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”
“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions.
That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.
“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”
These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.
“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”
Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.
You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.
You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.
You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.
Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.
“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”
You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.
Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.
“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Huh?”
“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”
The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.
“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”
Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you? “I just—I want to be of help.”
“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.
When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.
Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.
It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.
As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.
And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.
He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.
It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.
Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.
You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.
Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.
To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.
The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.
Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.
It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.
Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.
During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.
One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”
His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.
While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.
Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.
An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.
Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.
“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”
“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.
As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”
“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”
The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.
Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.
There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.
“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.
Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”
“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”
“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”
The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.
“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”
He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.
You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.
The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—
Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.
The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos.
You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.
The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.
“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.
You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.
Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.
He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.
Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.
“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.
Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.
The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.
Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”
“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.
Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.
“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”
Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?”
Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”
“Ninety-somethin’.”
You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”
“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”
And so began a new chapter in your life.
The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.
Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.
“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.
“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”
“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”
Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.
Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.
The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.
There goes another piece of you.
You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.
He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.
On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.
But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.
Logan hasn’t come back home yet.
It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.
You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.
After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.
All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?
Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.
He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.
Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”
“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.
“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.
Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”
You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.
“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”
He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”
“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t—”
”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”
He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.
Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.
“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time.
“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.
Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”
You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”
“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.
“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.
Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”
You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.
Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.
That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”
If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds.
He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.
It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.
You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.
“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes.
Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”
You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”
“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.
Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.
You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.
Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.
You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.
Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.
Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.
Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.
“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”
“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”
You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.
“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.
Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.”
“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.
He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”
So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.
Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.
You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.
“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”
“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.
“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.
“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”
His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”
“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.
Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.
“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”
Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.
“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.
A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.
“How could they not want you?”
“They didn’t think like you do.”
“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”
Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”
There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”
You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”
“Come sit with me, doll.”
Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.
Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.
His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.
It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.
“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.
This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.
“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.
“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.
“Why?”
Goddamn.
“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”
Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.
He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”
You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—
With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.
“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”
It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”
“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.
Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”
“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”
“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”
“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.
A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”
The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”
You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.
The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.
Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”
A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.
“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.
“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”
“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.
Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”
He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”
It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.
“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?”
“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”
“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.
Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”
“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”
Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.
Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.
You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.
“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”
Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.
“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”
Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.
He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.
I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.
You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t.
Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.
You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.
He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers.
You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.
“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.
This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.
Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.
Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation.
“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs.
As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.
“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”
Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.
By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.
Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is.
“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off.
“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”
“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.
He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”
“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.
His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.
You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.
You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.
Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”
So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.
Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you.
“Logan, you mean?”
“Yes, my dear.”
You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”
“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”
Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“
“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are.
A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.
One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.
“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”
There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”
Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.
A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”
Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.
You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to.
“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”
Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.
Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.
He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.
“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.
“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”
Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.
You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”
Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.
Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.
So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.
“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”
Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”
“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.
How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?
Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.
It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.
Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”
“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.
You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.
When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.
But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.
You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.
He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.
And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.
This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.
You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.
After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?
I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.
The shit I’d for you.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
Not now.
The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.
It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.
But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.
Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?
Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.
Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.
“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.
As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.
“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”
Red. You’re seeing red.
“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”
At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”
“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”
Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.
There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.
His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.
“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.
Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”
“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.
“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”
The nerve of this man.
“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”
You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”
“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”
“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.
“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”
Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”
“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”
“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”
Oh.
You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.
Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?
“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”
His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.
You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.
Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.
This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.
“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”
You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”
“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”
“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”
His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”
Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”
Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.
Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.
The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.
He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip.
“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”
“I’m all ears.”
Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”
If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.
Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.
You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”
Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.
He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”
At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.
It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.
You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.
For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open.
Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”
“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”
As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.
He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length.
Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.
“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”
His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.
With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?
When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.
“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”
Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.
Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.
You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while.
Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.
“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”
You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.
This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.
One thing that makes Hugh the DILFiest of DILFS is his ability to grow an epic beard and now that it has turned from brown to grey, he as ascended to his position as DILF Prime. Pedro (love you hon) cannot grow one so bushy and lush, nor can Keanu (sorry babe, love you too). I present to you Jackman The Grey. 🩶🩶🩶
Hi Van !! I love everything you write !!! <3 can I request something for old man Logan? I just love the thought of him being really touchy and needy after a long day of driving people around or if he’s been gone for a few days. Can be smut or just pure fluff <3 thank you !!
Touch-Starved
Old Man Logan X F! Reader Blurb
A/N: You're are too sweet!!!! Thank you so much love, I hope you enjoy this! <3 Old Man Logan does smth to my soul lol. This is a little short, but sweet!
Warnings: Fluff, intimacy, kisses, lil silliness, established relationship
You woke up to the sound of the elevator of your apartment running.
The damn thing was so obnoxious. Your building was old, extremely old, and your landlord- a huge cheapskate asshole who won't do repairs, replacements, not even a simple paint job.
The elevator was nearly as old as the building, flickering lights, numbers worn off of buttons, and when it moves- the loudest clanking and grinding is heard throughout the entire place.
It's common knowledge- and courtesy throughout the residents to not use the elevator at night when everyone is sleeping. You silently cursed whoever it was, using your pillow in attempt to protect your ears from the sound and return back to your semi-peaceful sleep.
The noised ceased, and you relaxed back into the comfort of your bed. Until you heard something else- a noise that sounded like it was coming from the door of your apartment, before it stopped- and then heavy footsteps and creak of your floorboards.
Oh
You didn't make attempt to move, just listened to your door creak open, followed by silence, and then a familiar heavy, tired sigh.
You turned to face the source of the noise, sitting up in bed. Logan stood in the doorway, nearly hidden by the darkness of your apartment.
"Lo..." You smiled at the sight of him.
"Hey princess." He greets, his voice soft, a difference from his usual surly tone.
"I didn't know you were coming home tonight."
You pulled the blanket off, climbing out of your warm bed to greet him in the doorway. You stood on your tiptoes, pecking his lips. His hands cupped your face, keeping you close and drawing the kiss out longer.
"Came back early." He mumbles into your kiss. "I missed you.
Your hands went to his hips, stepping closer. "I missed you too. "
He moved to wrap his arms around you as he buried his face into your neck. He took a deep breath, and you could feel the tension in his body beginning to subside. "Want something to eat baby?" You ask gently, sensing that Logan had what was probably a rough few days.
"No." He mutters into your neck.
"How about a shower?"
"I just need you." You could barely hear him with the way he was pressing himself into you. You smiled, pulling him closer you let him hold you a little longer, before tapping his side.
"Lets get to bed then." You encourage softly, turning to peck his cheek.
He grumbled in agreement, but made no attempt to start moving.
"C'mon old man." You teased as you stepped back from him. He grunted, brows creasing together and frowning at your nickname. He kept his hand on you, as you led him further into the room, only stopping before the bed to face him again. He leaned down to kiss you once more.
You begin to help him undress- gently tugging off his jacket and letting it fall to the floor. Your hand came up to undo the buttons of his shirt, nothing rushed- just gentleness as you welcomed him home. You parted from his lips, only to lean forward to press kisses against his neck as you continued working the buttons. His hands rested on your hips, until you pulled off the shirt, and then moved to tug his undershirt off.
He let out a content sigh, leaning into you as your hands ran over his aching body, running them over his arms and up to his shoulders, before bringing them down and gently scratching down his chest and belly until you reached his belt. You undo it with a gentle clink, and unzip his pants and pushing it down. He kicked his shoes off, and then his pants.
You pulled back the blanket, climbing into bed and opening your arms up to him. A faint smile appeared on his face, as he climbed in after you, inserting himself between your legs and burying his face into your neck once again. Your hand curled into his hair, softly scratching at his scalp where he let out a deep sigh- something akin to a purr. He ran his calloused hand over your body, feeling, memorizing every inch of you.
"You're just a big baby, aren't you?" You tease.
"No." He growls quietly, but his arms tugged you closer, nuzzling into you.
Silence enveloped the both of you, as you continued to gently scratch at his back and enjoy the feeling of him by your side again.
"You used the elevator." You finally spoke up, breaking the quiet..
He was silent, and a small chuckle escaped him. "I'm old darling, I'm not using the damn stairs."
I will be going to Hugh's final show on October 4th, 2025 at 8PM. I would like to make something to give him and I thought of this idea--I would like to compile letters from fans and present it to him in a book.
Here are the guidelines:
Write your letter on standard paper (8.5 inches x 11 inches)
Fold the letter into thirds so it finds into a standard envelope
Send your letters to the following address:
PO Box 14381 // Milwaukee, WI 53214
I will collect all letters and place them in a photo album with 4x6 inch slots. Next to each slot is a space for writing. Please include on a separate piece of paper your name and social media handle and I will write it next to your letter.
I will NOT read your letters. I will only open the envelopes to place the letters within the photo slots.
Please keep your letters respectful and appropriate. This gift is meant to show to Hugh how loved and appreciated he is. I'm asking for honor system here since I won't be screening the letters.
If letter writing isn't your thing, that's fine! Just send something that will fit into a 4x6 inch slot! Picture, drawing, whatever!
In order to make sure I receive your letter, please post them NO LATER than September 24th.
Any questions, please let me know! I'm best reached here on Tumblr or on Twitter (@lubdubology there as well)
Please spread this around! Here on Tumblr, Instragram, Facebook, Twitter--wherever!
izzy806
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
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