Bro I’m so sick rn I wanna cry. I also hate men rn. Is that weird? Like I’m so sick my brain only thinks about the statistics of how women are better and men ruin the world.
Unpopular opinion. Movie verse Jean Grey sucked. They did her *NO* mercy. Immediately made her the damsel in distress, made her sound whiney, and what's with the whole uniforms thing? Take a look at the comics. SHE'S LITERALLY SO BADASS IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY. YOU'RE TELLING ME SHE'S BADASS *AND* HOT?! SINCE WHEN! And let's talk about the apocalypse one. WTF. why did you change Scott, tf? Look at the Scott from the origins Logan movie! THAT is the Scott we need! And Jean's hair... Do her some justice. Please. 😭😭
tags & warnings - mentions of domestic violence and daddy issues, age gap, (reader is in her early 20s), mentions of logan being referred to as an 'old man' and him calling the reader a 'kid', fluff, itsy bitsy angst, time has softened logan a bit.
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The whiskey burns, but not enough. Never enough to dull the edges of memories that cut deeper than any blade could.
Logan sits at the kitchen counter of the mansion, darkness pressing in from all sides. His demons always seem to find him here, in these quiet hours when the world narrows down to silence.
Even the adamantium in his bones feels heavier tonight.
He catches your scent before he hears you—that vanilla body lotion you always use. Your bare feet pad against the hardwood floors, and he takes a long gulp of his Jack Daniels when he feels your eyes land on him.
Your eyes are full of worry, as they often are for him. You can’t help it. You both know he drinks too much, smokes too much, gets angry too fast and doesn’t sleep enough. You might be a lot younger than him, or seen half the world he has, but that doesn’t mean you are incapable of distinguishing his self-indulgent tendencies from self-destructive ones.
"You're brooding again," you murmur, voice soft in deference to the midnight hour. The gentle concern in your tone makes something in his chest twist uncomfortably.
"Ain't brooding, bub. Just thinking." The lie tastes bitter, worse than the whiskey.
"Same difference with you," There's no judgment in your voice as you pad closer. You slip onto the stool beside him, close enough that he can feel the heat of you against his arm. "Share your demons with me, old man."
Logan's grip tightens on the bottle, knuckles white. "They ain't your burden to bear, kid."
"Seems like they should neither be yours to carry alone anymore," Your hand finds his forearm, fingers gently coaxing his own to uncoil from the bottle. "They’re tearing you apart, Lo."
“I’ll heal,” his voice turns assertive.
For the first time since you walked in, Logan looks at you. There’s no real heat behind his hazel eyes, but the intensity of his gaze makes your mouth go dry.
Logan's the kind of handsome that gets better with age, with grey starting to streak through his dark hair at the sides. You've spent more nights than you'd care to admit thinking about running your fingers through that hair, wondering if it's as soft as it looks.
“There are some scars that can’t heal on their own.” Your voice catches, vision blurring as memories surface. His expression softens, recognizing your demons as they dance in front of your eyes.
You grew up in a small house on the outskirts of town, where the screams couldn't carry far enough for neighbors to hear. Your father worked construction, coming home with anger burning through his veins, fueled by whatever poison he'd picked up at the local store. The bruises started small—a grip too tight around your wrist, fingers digging into your shoulder. By thirteen, you'd mastered the art of layering clothes in summer without breaking a sweat.
Your mother watched it all happen through a veil of willful blindness. She'd whisper "I love you" while dabbing antiseptic on split lips, promising "things will get better" as she covered the marks with a drugstore concealer. But she never left, trapped in her own web of shame and financial dependence.
The day Charles Xavier found you was the day your powers manifested.
Your father had been in one of his rages, when something inside you finally snapped. The resulting telekinetic burst had sent him flying across the room. You ran, terrified of what you'd done, of what he'd do in retaliation. That's when the professor's black car pulled up, offering sanctuary within the walls of his school.
Xavier's became more than just an escape—it became home. A home with an unlikely collection of mutants who’d soon turn into family. As far as you were concerned, Charles Xavier was your father and Storm had taken on a motherly inclination when it came to you.
And then there was Logan… gruff, protective Logan who understood you without you having to explain. You both sat in this very kitchen the night you finally told him everything.
You'd watched his knuckles whiten, saw the rage build in the set of his jaw—not at you. Never at you. You remember thinking that your father wouldn't survive the night if Logan decided to pay him a visit. But instead of violence, Logan had offered something far more precious than revenge.
Understanding.
And that was the first time you fell a little for him.
Logan lets out a breath that shakes more than he'd like to admit. "Been thinking about Stryker. The lab." His voice roughens as he admits. "Sometimes it all just... comes back. Can’t close my eyes, for the life of me."
You don't flinch from the roughness in his voice—you know too well how memories can become monsters in the night. Instead, your fingers slide down to cover his hand, "Would you like to spend the night with me?"
"That's how rumors start, you know." The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his hand turns beneath yours, rough fingers catching against your skin. He shouldn't enjoy your touch this much, shouldn't let himself notice how perfectly your small hand fits in his giant one.
"You worried about your reputation, Howlett?" You lean closer, unable to help yourself. Everyone else might see your relationship as purely paternal, but the thoughts that race through your mind when he looks at you are anything but daughterly.
"Hell nah, never been." His voice drops lower, rougher, allowing himself this small indulgence. "You sure you wanna be associated with a sleazy old bastard like me?"
"I'm afraid it's too late for that." The words come out playful, but your mind floods with memories.
Ever since you joined the team, Logan's been your shadow, protecting you during every mission. You think of training sessions in the gym, how good his hands feel when they’re adjusting your stance. You think of the day he carried you through the mansion when your leg broke after a mission gone sideways. You'd been mortified at first, but when you felt him cradle you against his chest, you'd buried your face in his neck.
When it comes to Logan, it's more than just physical attraction. It’s the way he’ll jump in any fire to save you. It's the way he'll sense your fear and comfort you whenever you have nightmares. It’s the way he can make you laugh just by raising that eyebrow in exactly the right way at exactly the right moment.
You felt safe with him. You wanted him to know he could feel the same with you too.
Logan watches you lose yourself in thought, fighting the urge to brush back the strand of hair that's fallen across your face.
He's spent too long trying to convince himself that his feelings are purely protective, that the way his chest tightens when you smile at him is just paternal instinct. But there's nothing fatherly about the way his body responds when you're close, about how often he finds himself thinking about the sound of your laugh.
"And call it daddy issues or whatever," you add with deliberate casualness, though your heart is hammering against your ribs, "but I like older men. So you're in luck, old man."
Logan knows he should say no. Should keep his darkness away from your light. But when you stand and offer your hand, he takes it, letting you lead him through the silent halls like a ship following a lighthouse home.
He has been in your room before, though never like this. Your room is almost the same as his. Almost, with bits and pieces of you sprinkled throughout. A huge antique bookshelf, courtesy of Charles, is one of them, covering an entire section of the four-walled space.
You watch Logan from your perch on the bed, the way his hands are curled into loose fists at his sides. "It's okay," you let him know softly. "Let me help."
He draws a breath at your words. His hand falls from the doorframe, and the door closes behind him with a soft click, separating the two of you from the rest of the sleeping world.
The mattress dips beneath his weight when he finally sits. You resist the urge to immediately touch him, letting him arrange himself comfortably, until he's lying down with his head in your lap.
His breathing is too measured, too even to be natural. You watch his hands, curled still into loose fists against his chest, and wait.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the rigid line of his spine begins to soften. He drapes his left arm over your legs, and your fingers find their way into his hair. And fuck, if it isn’t as soft as you imagined.
"Is this okay?" you ask softly, working your fingernails through his scalp; The first stroke sends a shiver down his spine.
He responds with a barely perceptible nod.
"You're safe here," you murmur, tracing patterns against his scalp. "No labs, no Stryker. No pain. Just you and me."
His eyes flutter close, though he fights it at first but all protests die in his throat. Your fingers continue their gentle journey through his hair, across his scalp, and you feel him surrendering inch by inch to the comfort he's denied himself for so long.
"Those memories? They're just ghosts now. They can haunt you, but they cannot touch you. They can't hurt you anymore, because you survived. You got out, Logan. You're here. You're loved. You're safe."
A soft whimper escapes him. Slowly, so slowly he almost doesn't notice, the tension begins to leak from his muscles. The metal in his bones feels lighter now, smoothing the worried crease between his brows.
"That's it," you whisper, and he feels the smile in your voice. "I've got you, Wolfie. Rest now."
Wolfie, he smiles sleepily. The nickname is the last thing he registers before sleep claims him whole.
Some good marvel strategies when your character has nothing else about them. (Joking but also marvel does this).
*Make their future (kids, wife, their death)
*make them a woman
*make them a woman but with their future
*MAKE THEM GAY. (Like, I'm not even kidding. Look at wolverine comics from marvel, and they literally have him with Scott and nightcrawler. LIKE PLEASE)
(this is totally not an excuse to be a nerd about this)
Don't y'all hate when people rush fics? Like, COME ON! they rush the plot then make 90% of the fic smut. If you're gonna write a fic with plot, put some actual effort into it. I don't want a half assed fic. If you want one where it is mainly smut then put something that says that!
Don't y'all ever get sad and bored when you've read every fic, texted every bot, and daydreamed every dream, about a character you love? Like, milk the content only to get sad when there's no more?
A/N: basically decided to cave, and actually write. Starting innocent first, and starting from there. I AM NOT AT ALL AN ACTUAL WRITER JUST CLINICALLY ILL
Anywho, I hope you enjoy a fic of reader just being smothered by love
You and Logan have been together for at least a year now. He has in every way shown you how to be cared for. Everyone would think he would be less attentive or be a huge mess due to his commitment issues. In all actuality, he's probably the best out of there. Clingy too, going from holding onto your hand to holding you in a crushing embrace. He would kiss your face any chance he'd get. He'd hold you in his lap like a little porcelain doll, stroking your hair and pressing kisses to that sensitive spot behind your ear and making you giggle. When you complain about something being sore, he would spend as much time relieving it. Massaging it, kissing it, icing it until you were better. When you'd hurt yourself he'd immediately be concerned. Even if he won't admit it. He'd walk over after hearing your hiss and hold the wounded limb, checking it and tending to it. Just to press a kiss to it and then your lips. When it was a particularly bad wound, he'd pull you away and kiss it all the same. He'd kiss away the tears if you were crying, or kiss your neck in a way that made you giggle until he was satisfied. When you had one of those bad days, he'd spend every moment making it better. He'd take you to your favorite restaurant, buy you new things, treat you, only to come home and wrap you up in a blanket with a blanket and hold you close until you smiled. When it was *his* bad day, you would never see the light. He'd keep you holed up in bed, hiding in your chest while you stroked his hair. He couldn't have it any other way, just loving and holding onto the person he absolutely adored.
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