it's been like 2 years. i havent touched it. never needed to. "you don't really have a choice," are you so swift to forget the recent past? Bitch i still use itunes to download mp3s to so i have them forever and any song i want, then my sister burns them to CDs. When boycotts rolled out my other sister got no thanks to scan what products we shouldn't buy. i still use corded headphones not because "its older" but because it's easier. a fool criticizes those who buy candles 200 years after the invention of the electric light until the power goes out. become ungovernable. you are not immune to propaganda. you've never had Chatgpt forced upon you, the only thing forced upon you is the idea that Chatgpt is forced upon you. why claim you need something today that you didn't need yesterday. little bitch.
Welcome to @yxtkiwiyxt and @lubdubology's Loveuary Challenge!
Kiwi and I were talking about how we'd both love to host a writing challenge, but had never done one. So, we put our brains together and came up with this! This challenge will star everyone's favorite loverboy, Logan Howlett!
To Enter:
For this challenge, we have two options for submission.
Option 1: Pick your own favorite version of Logan and write a Valentine's Day themed story.
Option 2: We'll assign you a version of Logan to write for AND give you a love song that you must use in some way in your story.
If you chose option 2, send @yxtkiwiyxt an inbox message and she'll assign you a Logan and a song.
Rules
Writing must be at least 500 words
If you choose option 2, your story must include the chosen Logan variant and use the chosen song in some way--you can use a lyric, the title or the general theme of the song, but it must be used in some way
Add proper tag warnings, if applicable
Have your story ready to post by February 14th. If life happens and you need to post after, no worries! You can also post earlier if you’d like as well.
Tag me and Kiwi and use the hashtag #klloveuary2025 so we can track all submissions and add them to a masterlist. The masterlist will be posted on February 15th
If you have any questions at all, please reach out to either myself or Kiwi. We promise we don't bite!
Tagging some mutuals who may be interested in participating or reblogging to spread the word!
tags: jealous/posessive!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, wingman!wade, flirting, feelings, (another short) miscommunication, immature humor, light angst, use of alcohol, threat of violence, use of alcohol and smoking, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, PiV, creampie
As the days pass, you think your time spent with Logan is pretty much perfect. Well... almost.
(Or - a dash of insecurity, some badgood advice from Wade, a near-fight at a bar, and the confession of overdue feelings.)
Those two nights spent with Logan turn into more.
The days are bleeding together, blurring. You fit well with him, you think. Together in Wade's apartment - spanning that space between their chatter and silence. Softening edges, though you think he's softened, too.
A stray cat coming around.
Bristling, with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Slowly learning that he can lean into your touch.
Your days since have been spent humming as you work. It had been an anchor once, this routine of yours. Getting up early used to give you something to get up for. Enjoying the whirlwind of prepping, measuring, making, decorating.
Now - you're grateful for how quickly the day passes because it means you can't overanalyze. Because it means by the time you catch your breath at the end of the day, you're already heading home to him.
Takeout was brought over to their apartment. A crappy movie with a hand curled around you, sending your heartbeat racing. The night ending at yours, hours between dusk and dawn spent learning every inch of each other.
You think it's pretty much perfect.
Well... almost.
“Do you think Logan likes me?”
It slips out of you. Something that’s been worrying at you, a splinter trapped just beneath your skin. You regret asking almost immediately - the sun glinting off the silver needle as you push it through the lycra suit.
“You mean the guy that’s been fucking your brains out for the past couple weeks?”
“Wade.”
“Oh, sorry.” He lines his knife up, poking a hole in the top of his styrofoam container - coaxing the waitress from lunch to give him a ‘take-home-margarita’. A cheerful “baby knife!” as he sheathes it again,” I mean the guy that’s been having totally-chaste-and-appropriate adult sleepovers with you?”
You understand what he’s getting at. Stalling, holding up his suit - another gash sewn shut with black thread, “You sure this is okay?”
“Mhmm,” He hums, “Gives me that bride-of-frankenstein vibe I’ve always wanted. Besides, anything is better than before.”
“You insisted, you helpless little man-baby.” Al adds, from her lounge seat, “Learn to dodge.”
Wade splutters - your lips twitching, as you work.
“See what I live with?” He gripes, “Maybe the two of you outta trade. It’d be cramped, but I bet the three of us could sardine it.”
“You wouldn’t last a week without Althea,” You snort. A beat, before you gather the courage to circle back to the topic at hand, “And besides, that’s just it. I’m not sure he wants to sleep with me."
The summer breeze feels better up here, on the roof. The whip of the wind cooling you, as you work your way across the once-again battered suit - propped up against the brick parapet.
“Okay, time out. Missing link here.” Wade gives you a sideways look, before his head pivots, "You cannot hit me with this fake virginal act when I literally heard you two fuck an hour after you met."
A beat, "And like, pretty much every day since then. I think I even heard a howl last night-"
Your eyes roll, "Wade. He’s not a werewolf, he did not howl-"
"Well, not anymore.” Wade smirks, “And funny that you assume I meant the Moan Wolf, but I could have meant you-"
You groan, head cradled in your hands, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we'll keep it down. It's just-"
It’s just you’ve been here before - this liminal space between an excellent physical connection, and more. You've done the hookup thing - casual, friends-with-benefits, lonely strangers. Thought you had learned how to keep your emotions in check, especially with those past experiences.
But you’ve never met someone like Logan before.
He makes you feel bare. Soft-hearted and stripped down - wearing your feelings on your sleeve. Opening yourself up - only for your fingers to brush up against a brick wall, in return.
Wade must catch your tone because he sets down the styrofoam container - the pink umbrella tucked against his ear.
"Alright Sugarbuns, tell Papa Bear what's bothering you."
You grimace at the names, another flicker of regret lingering in the corners of your mind. But you find yourself talking. Letting those worries flow from you in a rush.
But Wade would know, wouldn't he? It's his friend, after all.
"He leaves after."
His eyebrows raise, and you continue, "I mean, he'll stay for a bit but he always winds up on the couch by morning. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and he’s out there. I mean, I thought he'd want a bed, after where he's been staying, no offense-"
Thought he’d want to stay with you.
You nudged at it once. Getting nothing more than a grumbled excuse about not sleeping well, something about nightmares. Something you accepted, only to find him tucked in your bed a few days later - curled in your sheets when you had rushed back to the apartment after leaving your phone.
Hadn’t wanted to push, even if it confused you. Wouldn’t he want comfort, after a bad dream? You always did.
"Offense taken, Blind Al and I are excellent bedmates," Wade interrupts, "But please, continue."
His joke eases you a little. Risking a sideways glance, finding him already looking at you.
“I like him, Wade. I just really want this to work out.”
He hums, sympathetically. Knowing all too well the complexities of like and love. How you feel deeper than you’re letting on - he always was perceptive, after all.
A beat, before your head turns.
"Do you think it's me?"
He does laugh then, his shoulder leaning to bump yours, "Sugar, you have a two-hundred-year-old boyfriend who's gone through a massive amount of trauma and has an alcohol problem, and you want to know if it's you?"
"Fuck." The heels of your palms press into your eyes, "Okay, okay-"
"I literally traveled through the void with him, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-style. The John Candy to my Steve Martin, and even after saving the world he still wanted to kill me."
"Wait," Your head lifts, "Why would you be Steve Martin in that scenario?"
“He’s the main character, as am I.” He barrels past your question, "The point is, if he didn't like you, you'd know. You just need to be-"
"Patient." You finish, "Yeah, I know."
And you do know. Even since that first meeting, you've known that he's been eaten up inside. Cracks of the man beneath leaking through his gruff exterior, as you had sat together on that couch.
But Wade called him your boyfriend, but he's not. Not really - no conversation to indicate that's how he saw himself.
It just left you confused. Vulnerable. Enough that you did dumb shit like this - going to Wade for romantic advice. The man who proposed with a ring pop and thought that a prostate orgasm was a sign of being soulmates.
"Maybe you’re giving him too much. Withhold a little," Al interrupts, making you jump, "That's what landed me my second husband. Begged for it like a dog, and was married the next month. God rest his soul."
Wade mouths an exaggerated “what the FUCK" at you, before shooting a dark look in her direction - only just then seeing her smirk.
"Oh, you’re joking? She came to us for help and you’re joking-” A sniff, as Wade turns back, "So anyways, don’t do that. Do something normal. Like internalize it, until it makes you snap."
His face screws up, as he adds, “Or, maybe try it? That bricked me up a bit-”
"Or,” Al adds, “Maybe you should just talk to him, Sugar."
Althea always knew how to cut to the chase and give the hard advice you needed to hear. You just wish you weren’t afraid of the answer.
‘You’re both right,” Your head dips against Wade's shoulder, “I owe you. Again.”
Silence lingering, though it’s not uncomfortable. Leaving you to think about what he said.
The suit passed over to him, when you tie the final knot, “Done.”
“Thanks,” A beat passes, as he gives you a sideways look, “Any chance you want to cash in on that favor tonight?”
You know better than to agree without more info - an eyebrow raising as you wait.
“Vanessa is coming over tonight.” Wade gives you a meaningful look, “It would be great to have the apartment to ourselves for a bit.”
The serious tone does not last, as he smirks, “I fully intend to break my months of celibacy the second the opportunity arises.”
“Months?” You hadn’t realized it had been that long. Thought he would have moved on, in some ways.
“Years, actually,” He adds, casually, “Turns out my obvious romantic hangups plus this-”
A gesture at his face,” Are a total boner-killer. As well as having an elderly roommate, apparently. Especially one who won’t leave.”
You shoot him a sharp look at the self-deprecation, Al’s voice cutting through.
“I told you, I’m hitting the casino for singles night.”
“Okay. I can drop Al off and pick her up,” Your mind is already racing ahead, “And Logan and I can go out to dinner or something.”
The prospect is exciting. Despite the time spent together, you haven’t really gone on too many dates yet. After your long hours and his rotating work schedule, your meetings have mostly been late-night. Quick meals whipped up in your kitchen. A rotating pile of delivery menus.
“That would be great.” He smiles, “Thanks, Sugar.”
“Of course.” You smile, before adding, “What are you going to make?”
A frown, when he hesitates.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to wing it.”
“I wasn’t winging it,” He protests, “I was going to hit up ol’ reliable.”
“For a second-first date? You can’t do takeout from Buns and Roses.”
A sigh, as you turn to face him, tugging out your phone, “You should make something nice. I have this recipe bookmarked for engagement roast chicken. I’ll help you-”
He tugs your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the eight-paragraph opener before the start of the recipe.
“Make this for her, show her you’re serious-,” You start.
Wade finishes, with a smile.
“-and there’ll be a cock ring on it before midnight.”
You keep catching yourself looking at him.
It’s almost embarrassing how bad you have it. Still not used to seeing Logan like this - away from your small apartment.
Seeing him at work was different - a very cognizant realization that you were on the clock. The counter between you like a barrier, even when you slip a coffee and pastry across it. A lightning-quick kiss pressed into his cheek. The relentless teasing from your coworkers, after.
But here - crammed in a booth, his hand slipping just under the hem of your dress, a palm curved against your thigh - it’s something else, entirely. Even in this dark corner, you have to resist letting your hands wander. Eyes flicking to the deep cut of his button-down flannel - dark hair peeking out from the curve of his white tank. The blue and grey pattern pretty against his skin.
A curl of smoke pours from his lips, a cigar fit between two fingers.
Logan had been curious to find you in the apartment when he got home. The aroma of the roast chicken wafting through the space, as you talked Wade through the last steps. The slow sweep of his eyes over the pretty sundress you wore, tugged from the back of your closet.
It hadn’t taken much convincing, when you asked him to get dinner out with you. Even with Althea in tow, safely dropped off for her night out.
“This is nice.” You smile, and his eyebrow lifts.
A glance around the room.
Dinner spent at a local pizza joint - stories shared, wound between updates about his new job at the local lumber company. About Laura, who you met two weeks ago. So much like Logan that it still catches you off-guard. Shared expressions, shared tempers.
You think that it must have been hard for both of them, this reunion. That comparison between the Logan in this world, those memories that stay with her. She views him the same - even you can see that. He’s told you it came as a shock, but it’s easy to see how he’s warmed, with time. Finding joy, within the shared grief.
The conversations spill over into a bar you know well. Unsure what to do with yourselves with the order of “staying away”, the sun still setting when you had stepped inside.
“Not sure nice is the word I’d use, sweetheart.”
“Anywhere is nice if I’m with you. I am sorry, though. I know it’s not-” Your hand waves, shyness creeping in as you lean into his shoulder, “Wasn’t sure where else to kill some time. Dopinder and Buck run a tight ship, it’s really not so bad.”
“Mm. Guess this is nice, then.” He corrects, a hint of a dimple as he smiles, “But you let me take you somewhere safer next time, yeah?”
“I’m safe with you.”
You miss the way he looks at you, as you take a sip of your drink. The brush of his fingers against your skin. His voice going low, goosebumps rising as he murmurs in your ear.
“How much longer do we have to stay out?”
A question that’s been on your mind as well.
“Well, Al’s thing is over at ten,” Your teeth worry at your lip, “But, I guess we could sneak back early. It’s just, Wade-”
“What about Wade?”
It’s unfair, how he crowds you in the booth. Torso twisting to face you. The warmth of his hand - how you’re aware of each and every movement he makes. It takes you a moment to answer.
“Wade is… Wade,” You manage, “But he doesn’t really ask for much. I owe him, you know?”
“You owe him?” He chuckles, “He’s lucky you stuck around after he tried to give you cocaine-”
“Hey,” You smile, “That was Al.”
That had been your second run-in with your neighbors. Only desperation had sent you over to the apartment, needing a cup of powdered sugar for a personal favor. Under-estimating how much you needed, in your rush to finish some cookies for a friend’s baby shower.
Meeting Al instead. The powdered substance swapped when her roommate had rearranged the apartment as a prank. Only Wade bursting from the bathroom, a towel slung low from his hips, had saved you from disaster. The nickname had formed when you hadn’t written them both off.
“And besides, Wade was the one who introduced me to you.”
Logan’s expression softens, “That is something, isn’t it?”
He holds your gaze for a long moment. Eyes drifting lazily down to your lips, with a low hum, then further. It sends a heat blooming in your cheeks, an unconscious press of your thighs together.
“I’m, um, gonna let Dopinder know we’re heading out.” You breathe, “He’ll worry if we irish goodbye.”
“You sure?” He husks, with another exhale of smoke - and you can feel the heat rising from your cheeks to your ears.
“Yes,” It comes out breathy.
“Um, yeah. You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”
Your elbows pressing into the sticky bartop as you wait - watching Dopinder work his way through pouring pints of beer for a crowd of bikers, all in dark leather.
A glance over your shoulder, finding the booth tucked in the corner. The dark head of hair, the expanse of his shoulders - a thick arm slung across the back - as Logan waits for you.
It makes you smile, and you almost miss the bump of a shoulder against yours.
“Oh!” You squeak, shifting to the side to make room, “I’m so sorry, I-”
The apology dies on your tongue, as you glance up at the man leaning against the wooden post at the end of the bar. Eyes drifting over the black field jacket, up to dark eyes.
“Been a while, darlin’.”
You inhale a breath, in surprise. Close to two years ago, if you remember right. Numerous meetings spread out over months, before he slipped out of your fire escape and into the early morning.
No note, no text. Walking out just as suddenly as he had appeared.
It had never been anything serious - he had made that clear - but you can’t pretend that it hadn’t hurt.
“It has,” You agree, a low twist in your belly, “How have you been? Didn’t think I’d see you outside Hell’s Kitchen.”
Unable to help that flicker of worry, even after everything. It’s always been ingrained in you - thinking of others more than yourself.
“Should ask you the same,” His eyebrow arches, “This isn’t your kind of place. Taking up mercenary work, beautiful?”
“I’m here with someone.” It comes out clipped, a glance over your shoulder - the nerves eased when you spot his form.
“Mountain man?”
A scoff - lip curling over sharp teeth, “Taking you to a place like this… You can do better than that. You can do-”
“You?” It’s your turn for your brow to raise, “We both know how that goes, Frankie. This-”
A pointed finger, gesturing around the room, “Was my idea. Things are different. I’m different.”
There’s the hint of a smirk - dark eyes that drag slowly down. Flicking back up to yours, as his voice pitches low, “I’m sure some things are the same.”
Your head shakes, “Not like that.”
There are lingering shades of purple that fade to yellow across his cheekbone. Never was good with this. All that time spent glancing out your window, waiting for him to show up, battered and bloody like he used to. All he did was keep you out, keep you at arm’s length.
Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of it happening again. A little shake of your head - a reminder that you need to be patient like Wade said. Logan isn’t him.
“I know what I want, and it’s-” The words die, as you look for him, again. Finding only an empty booth - your stomach tying up into knots.
A palm touches at your hip, a chest pressing snugly against your back. Startling you, as you breathe, “Logan.”
“This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” It’s growled out, Logan’s eyes fixed on the other man.
“Nice guard dog.” There’s an amused appraisal - narrowed eyes, tongue trapped against teeth. “He do tricks as well?
The fingers at your hip curl, the smallest tug backward to bring you closer. The words ground out between bared teeth.
“You watch it.”
Christ. This was bad, you need to find your tongue - and quickly.
You twist, a hand resting on his chest. Only now does Logan’s eyes drop to yours, the tight pull to his features only just ebbing.
“This is Logan,” You smile, your palm pressing over his heart, “He’s, uh, my-”
And for a brief second, your words fail you. The tension is thick enough to cut, acrid in the air. Would labeling this right now send him running?
The man cuts through before you can finish.
“Frank Castle.” His eyes flick back to yours, as he adds, “Sure you can guess how we know each other.”
The muscles beneath your palm twitch. A light pressure against your hip, urging you away from the bar - the words low in your ear, “Alright. Let’s go.”
A nod, and you’re giving Frank a tight smile - letting Logan guide you towards the back. No more than a step taken before his voice cuts through.
“You still got my number?”
You shoot him an exasperated look, “Frank-”
“Gonna be back in town for a while, baby girl.” His arms cross, as he leans, “Call me when things don’t work out.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before a fist closes around the collar of his jacket. Logan stepping into his space, a forearm shoving Frank hard as he pins him against the post.
“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, bub.”
Fights are common in Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but you can’t say you’ve ever experienced one. Fear licks inside you, meeting Dopinder’s equally worried gaze as he starts to rush over.
Frank’s smile is dark, “You don’t want to start this.”
It’s met with a growl. Silver points peeking between the dips of Logan’s knuckles, the fabric straining in his tight grip.
“Fucking try me, you piece of shit.”
There’s a metallic click - the press of something cold against Logan’s groin.
“Should shoot your dick off for that.”
“Okay!” You shove between them, then. A hand on Logan’s arm, tugging - the other at his neck, trying to guide him back to you.
His hazel eyes are wild when they find yours. Face twisted in a snarl, deepened with the shadows cast in the dim room. Blinking, as he comes back to himself. A dark look as his arm eases - stepping away.
This time, it’s you that leads him towards the back exit. Something gritted out as you leave that you miss, but sends Logan bristling. An apologetic look thrown at Dopinder, before you’re stepping together through the swinging door, into the wood-paneled hallway.
Ducking down one of the hallways, next to matching doors leading to bathrooms, and a storage closet. An exit sign, gleaming red at the end.
The music and voices are muffled. His face silhouetted in the light of a vintage beer sign, his features outlined in gold as his back presses against the wall. A gritted, inhaled breath.
You haven’t seen him like this before. Seen him mad several times. Grouchy and annoyed with Wade. The sharp temper that hid his hurt when he thought you didn’t want him.
None of those moments match him now. You’re not sure what to make of it - the way your skin prickles. Something in your belly flutters, a warmth that drips from behind your ribs, settling low. You never wanted anyone to get hurt. But that look in his eyes, how quick we was to find you - it makes you inhale a breath.
“We-,” You start - your fingers still curled around his bicep, “We should talk about this. You okay, Logan?”
His eyes flick to yours, jaw working. The fury has bled from them, the sharp etches in his face easing, even as his expression stays guarded.
“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Logan rasps, “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
A beat, before it slips from him, “Was he one of the ones Wade scared away?”
“What?” It takes you a long moment to remember. Your brow pinching, as you shake your head,” Frank? No. It was-”
The pull of his brow is back, his frown deepening with your explanation.
“It was just casual.” You finish, lamely, “It wasn’t anything. Never was.”
“Didn’t sound that way.” It’s gritted out.
His head turns, eye contact dropping. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back, “Listen. If you want to go with him, it’s fine.”
You’re left stunned for a moment. His jaw working, hands jamming into his pockets. It’s defensive - it’s familiar.
“I don’t want to go with him-” You start, but it only makes him sigh.
“Then what were you gonna say, Sugar?” The look he finally gives you is searching, “I’m your, what-, your neighbor?”
“No!” You cry, “I was going to say you’re my boyfriend, but you’ve never-”
Logan’s pitches low, “I’ve never what?”
Your shoulders droop. Curling around yourself, as you lean into the wall next to him. He leans, matching your height - trying to catch your eyes.
“I don’t know, Logan.” It’s almost too quiet to hear. He might have, if he had been anyone else. “I told you I liked you the day after meeting you. But you…”
A little shake of your head, “You keep everything so close to your chest. You leave in the night. It’s okay, I just… sometimes I don’t know what to think.”
When his arms cross this time, there’s something in his eyes. A dark glimmer, the tug of his lips.
“You think that I don’t like you, sweetheart?”
A tilt of his head, a sharp edge slipping into his tone, “You think I wasn’t ready to tear that asshole limb from limb for talking to my girl that way?”
Something low in your belly twists, desire thrumming in an echo that radiates through you. A sharp inhale of breath at his words.
“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You manage, transfixed.
It’s easier, this time, for him to step into you. Hands ghosting along your neck. Tipping your face to his, so you can’t look away. Can’t miss what he tells you.
“If-, if I open up.” It comes out hushed, his words soft and low, “You won’t like what you see, Sugar.”
You reach for him - fingers curling around his wrists, “I like what I see just fine.”
He huffs. The barest hint of a smile, before his expression goes solemn.
“This,” The word is punctuated by the way his thumb sweeps against your cheek, “Never goes well for me. Sleeping on the couch puts me between you and anything coming through that door.”
Your pulse races with the remorse in his words. He’s touched on the barest of details of his past. Those small moments shared in the night you met, riddled confessions in the late nights that have followed.
“And the things I dream about-,” His eyes go hazy - lost in a memory, “They pull me back. I don’t want to hurt you because I can’t tell them from reality.”
The words slip from you automatically, without thought. Guilt floods through you, an ache from wondering - doubting.
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I will.” He breathes, “Sweetheart, I will. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”
Your head shakes - a stubborn set of your jaw, “You won’t. Please don’t shut me out, Logan. Please try…”
He huffs - eyes dropping to your mouth, as he leans. Hands slipping to cup your head, angle you to meet the press of his lips. A soft sigh that you swallow, something tender in the way he draws you to him. A hand curling around your back, splaying between your shoulder blades.
“Give me some time, okay?” Logan murmurs, when the kiss breaks, “Let me draw out the first good thing I’ve had in a long time. Just for a little longer.”
“Don’t have to draw it out.” Your body still curves to his, anchoring yourself to him. A hand touching his jaw so this time, his eyes have to stay on you.
“You deserve good things, Logan.” Your mouth brushes his, “Let me give them to you.”
The sound he makes is almost wounded, as if he wants to protest.
As if he wants to believe you.
Breath ragged, as his hands trace down to grip at your hips. Leaning into you, your touch. What you offer him. A thigh fitting between yours, nudging against your core - and you think surely he must see how your eyes darken.
The rapid flutter of your heart, how it races for him and only him.
“Yeah?” He husks, as if reading your mind, “You ready to get out of here, Sugar?”
“Bathroom.” You breathe.
“Can’t wait that long.”
He’s on you the second the door swings shut. Fingers twisting at the lock, as his head dips - mouth finding yours again.
There’s a desperation to his kiss this time. One that you match with the way your palms trace up his chest. Fingertips at his neck, tugging him to meet you.
A thrill shoots up your spine. You’ve never done anything quite like this before. The space behind your ribs is soft and tender from his confession - already breathless before he deepens the kiss.
Backing you up against the old, chipped vanity that lines the wall. The stalls hanging open - empty as his hands trail down your spine. Fitting beneath the curve of your ass, tugging you up to fit on the counter.
Finding your jaw again - guiding your lips to his, meeting the sweep of your tongue as he fits between your thighs.
“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night.” He breathes, against your lips, “So fucking pretty, you know that?”
It sends a pulse through you, down to where you’re already responding to his touch. Your knees close around his hips, urging him closer.
“Logan, please,” You hum, fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A palm pressing against the front of his jeans, where his cock strains against the denim.
His moan is ragged, bucking into your touch. Fingers tracing up your waist. Letting your tits fill his palm, as you work him free.
It’s hard to hold back a moan of assent, when his lips presses against your neck. Open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, the scrape of teeth pressing into your jugular.
“Good,” He growls against your skin, “Would’ve bent you over that fucking bar if you’d let me.”
It’s possessive. It makes you shiver - a sweep of his tongue, the suck of lips as he marks you. The sharp sting of his bite fading into sweet bliss.
“Need you.” Your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking. The lightest of tugs to bring him closer, your thighs inching further apart.
He groans, “You have me.”
The pretty dress you wear is pushed up to your waist. His palm cupping you, feeling your warmth before he’s tugging the fabric of your panties to the side.
Need rushes through you. A heave of your chest against his as your mouth meets his, greedy. A tilt of your hips, a leg lifting to hitch around his waist. Your hand curling around the edge of the counter, the other guiding the tip of his cock against your slick folds.
“Hold on, honey.” Logan’s fingers slip against your pussy, nudging inside, “Gonna be sore.”
“I can take it,” You insist, pleading, “I can take you, wanna feel it.”
His eyes darken. A little inhale of breath, watching as your lips part as two fingers press deep. Your teeth already sink into your bottom lip, muffling a whine.
Slipping them free, after crooking inside you. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough stroke to smear your slick around him. Lining the tip up with your opening, as his hands fit against your waist. His hips pressed snugly against the chipped counter, as he begins to tug you to meet him.
You can feel every inch, as he moves you. He splits you open, your shoulders arching against the dirty mirror as your nails bite into the laminate. A hand pressed against his chest, as you urge him to go slow.
A held breath coming in a rush, as he slips deeper inside you with a grunt. Filling that ache you’ve been carrying - your eyes dropping down to watch the slick shine of his cock. Sinking into you with the slow saw of his hips, a clink of his belt with movement.
“Just for me, yeah?” He rasps, a hand drifting down. Fingers splitting where he fills you, drawing slick tips up to circle your clit.
“Just you.” You nod, breathless. Rocking into his touch, taking more as you adjust to the weight of him inside you.
His teeth flash white, in the dim room.
“That’s my girl.”
The moan you’ve been holding back slips from you, as you clench down hard around him.
He hums, “You like that?”
“Yes.” You whine. Reaching for him, as he tugs you closer. The slow plunge of his hips turning into a shallow grind.
Fingers circling and pressing, in rhythm with the heady drag of his cock against your walls. Your fingers grasping onto his arms, his shoulders - the kiss is messy when he meets the tilt of your head.
Leaning into you as his tongue licks into the cup of your mouth, your tits pressed up against his chest. A broad hand slipping from your waist, curving against the swell of your ass and squeezing.
“That’s it,” He rumbles against your mouth - eyes half-lidded. A groan when you nip his lower lip - grinning at the way you gasp, when his hips surge forward, “Atta girl, taking me so well.”
Each swipe against your clit feels like a countdown - hips angling until he finds that spot inside you that makes your teeth click together. That slickens him up even further, until he’s pounding into your wet, tight heat.
Your fingers pinch down. Breath going short, until you’re panting. Unable to do more than buck into his touch, as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.
“Couldn’t even wait to get home,” Logan growls, “Needed this cock so badly, didn’t you?”
“Needed you,” You whine, hips rocking to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut, as the winding pressure builds, “Fuck, needed you. Gonna make me-”
The words break on a bitten-back whimper. Your muscles go stiff, bracing yourself in his arms.
“Want you to look at me, sweetheart.” He coos, with that steady roll of his hips. Nudging deep inside you each time, as his fingers circle against your clit, “Eyes on me when you come, alright?”
Your answer is a breathless nod, as you listen.
You don’t think you could look away if you tried. Not with him right in front of you. So close you can see the pull of his brow in concentration, the pretty shade of his eyes.
Fixed on you, as his lips part. The soft pant and grunt as desire throbs in your veins, your fingers curling into a fist in his flannel.
“Come for me, baby.” He urges, “Wanna feel you, let me fucking feel you come.”
It’s there, swirling inside you. Liquid heat between your thighs, yanking you to an invisible edge. Leaving you to dangle, breath held -
“Oh my god, Logan-“
You’re falling - clenching down hard around him. His name is a chanted prayer as he fucks you through it - a ragged, pleased sound rumbling in this throat as you pulse around his cock. The slap of his hips growing louder, more wet as your release coats his cock. His base and balls sticky, when they press flush to your cunt.
“That’s it,” He growls. Fingers leaving your clit, so he can grip your waist. Drive into you harder, chasing his own impending release.
“Come on, that’s my girl.”
It’s pulled from you, sweet and smooth.
“Yours.”
Logan’s moan is ragged, coming from low in his chest. His pace stutters - the steady thrust turning sloppy. A messy rut of his hips, grinding himself as deep as he can before he finds himself again.
You forget the dingy bar. The flickering overhead lights. Filth and phone numbers scrawled on the walls. Everything narrows down to him.
How he holds you. Looks at you - so much said in the way they soften. You don’t know how you ever could have doubted.
Blinded with uncertainty. Fears from before, that will no longer have a hold on you.
“Logan,” You sigh, your heel digging into the curve of his ass. Eyes still on his, as your plea slips from you, “Fuck. Don’t pull out.”
You want to feel him. The throb of his cock when he comes deep inside you. How he lingers, slick and dripping from you - now, and later, and tomorrow.
A gritted-out groan, as the sharp tempo increases. Fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, and you’ll wear him there, too - fading marks against your hips.
“Yeah?” Logan husks - that look back in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, as his lips part with a groan, “Gonna be my good girl, gonna fucking take it?”
“Mhm,” It pitches high, as you nod.
“Fuck.”
It comes out choked, as he loses himself in you. One, two, three thrusts, and Logan is growling - hands slipping down to tug you flush against him, as he spills inside you with a muffled shout.
Hips grinding himself deep into you, his words a rough rasp in your ear, “Take it. Just like that.”
He pulses inside you, filling you with each twitch of his cock. Marking you fully, as he tests his teeth against your shoulder. A moan, as your thighs hitch around his hips - nudging him deep, where you’re wet and warm and wrapped around him.
Leaving him to grind every last drop into you, slumping back when his grip finally loosens. Your limbs feel like liquid lead, head tipped back against the glass. A groan muffled against your neck, as your fingers slip beneath the tugged-open flannel.
Nails scratching along his back, the tight muscles beneath easing.
“Boyfriend, huh?” Logan hums when he finally leans back - and you already miss his hands on you, as they shift to brace against the counter.
It feels cruel that he teases you like this. When you swear you can still feel the throb of his cock inside you. When he’s still sheathed to the hilt.
You groan, “Don’t make fun of me, Logan.”
“‘m not sweetheart,” He huffs, eyes going soft.
“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”
There’s something off about your apartment - he can sense it the moment they make it to the landing.
This is exactly what he had been trying to tell you. The when, not if, something will go wrong. His senses flickering into overdrive, nostrils flaring.
Catching the light that creeps from under the door, when he knows you clicked it off. His hand automatically leaves yours, reaching out to tuck you safely behind him.
“Logan?” There’s confusion in your voice, a hand at his shoulder.
He shushes you, his words a low growl.
“Someone’s in your apartment. Stay here, sweetheart.”
There’s the soft snick of his claws, your fingers untwisting from his shirt. A breath, and then his hand is closing around the knob - a sharp jerk of his fist as his shoulder slams into the wood.
Teeth bared, as he bursts into your apartment with a snarl.
All that fury bleeds to relief, and then disappointment.
“How’d you get in here?” Logan grits, his claws sheathing.
Your voice joins his, from where you had peeked around the doorframe, “You okay, Wade?”
Hazy, morose eyes peer back at him - a hand lifting to wiggle “baby knife” at him. A newly-opened bottle of your cooking sherry in the other - a plate balanced on his chest, filled with a half-eaten chicken breast and vegetables. Legs stretched out on your sofa, Dogpool curled between his ankles.
“She didn’t show,” Wade mutters, with a miserable smile, “Didn’t want to be alone.”
Logan can’t help the soft flicker in his chest when you go to him. Sinking to your knees by the couch - moving the plate to the coffee table, lifting Dogpool into your arms. She licks your chin as Wade lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh - flipping to face the back of the couch.
"What was the point of the first two movies?" The words are muffled into the fabric, "Why would Disney do something like this? We were picking out baby names for fuck’s sake-"
“I’m so sorry,” You soothe - a hand on his back, “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?”
Wade’s head turns to the side, with a long sigh.
“Thor’s phone number.”
“How about I take this,” You tug at the bottle, until it loosens, “And I text Peter? We can have a movie night, okay?”
He turns further, until he’s facing you again, “Even that one you hate?”
"Don’t hate it." You sigh, “It’s just so sad. I don’t know why it’s your favorite.”
“It’s not my fault they made that tree star look so goddamn delicious.”
You’re beckoning Logan over, a gesture to take his place. You hand on his arm, beseeching - but you don’t have to beg this time. The snarling dog inside him calmed - the fury from the bar and from the hallway ebbing at your touch. He can still feel your lips against his, when his eyes close.
The uncomfortable itch of opening up oneself still lingers, but it’s soothed by the way you smile at him in thanks. By the words that he still clings to.
Logan has to fold himself into the space, knees folding. Mary Puppins tucked in the crook of his elbow - his other hand patting against a curved-in shoulder.
Sincerity, as he offers, "Tough luck, bub.”
“It’s her loss.” You call, thumbs tapping away a message.
“Her loss.” Logan echos, “You’re… you’re a good man, Wade. It’ll work out.”
It comes out clumsy. It always does - he never had a silver tongue like the Professor did. His edges as sharp as his claws, never one to waste words if his fist could do the job.
Wade flips back over. The hint of a smile, “That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Before his eyes are flicking over to where you pace, voice lowering.
“And I gotta ask, did you maul Sugar? What is with that mark on her neck?”
Logan huffs, lips twitching.
“We’re all set,” You smile, “Your Emotional Support Peter is on his way. He’s bringing Al and some ice cream.”
A glance his way, the question written so plainly in your eyes - the lift of your brow. “That okay?”
It’s not the way he imagined this night going.
Had thought he’d take you to bed when he got back. Take things slower, this time.
Using his touch and the greedy press of his mouth to make sure you understand that he heard every word you told him. That he meant each one he said back - make sure you never made the mistake of thinking he didn’t care for you again.
But when he looks at you - how you’re ready to sweep into the kitchen to make some popcorn, he thinks-
That he might just prefer this. Even as messy as it is.
He smiles back.
The couch is crammed with far too many people. Five squeezing into a space meant for three at best. You’ve been half perched on his lap all night, his arm slung over your shoulder - tempted to pull you the rest of the way.
A couple months ago, his skin would have crawled to be this close to others. Would have peeled himself away with a scathing word and a sharper bite.
But something softened him, during his time in this world. Days, to weeks, to months.
Couldn’t go back, he knows that now. All the wishing and TVA TemPads couldn’t undo what was done - he’s known that for a while. It would take a long time, but he could try to come to terms with what happened. Try to do better, moving forward.
Starting with himself. A scrap of paper - snatched from a bottom of a flier with a brightly-printed 12-step program, shoved deep into his leather jacket pocket. Relearning how to be patient with others, and even more so with himself. Trying to listen what you and Wade told him.
He’s done walking away from things. You make him believe that whenever, if ever, he manages to open that tightly-sealed lid… you’ll stay.
The thought is one that he'll cling to.
“Alright. Enough bullshit.”
It’s announced, as the credits roll - breaking him out of his thoughts. A creak of the couch as Wade shifts - crammed between you and Al, his head twisting on her shoulder to peer over his way.
“‘m being serious now.” He insists, though the words slur together - the bottle stolen back during the movie and drained, “I’m so happy my two besties are falling in love, even if I am a jealous little bitch.”
A gasp, as he remembers - a reaching over to pat Peter’s shoulder, “Not that I’m forgetting about you, sugar bear. You too, Blind Al. I’d be just as happy if you two were dating. It'd be like a less fucked-up Harold and Maude."
A derisive snort from Al.
Peter smiles, “Just happy to be here, pal.”
“Anyways, life sucks balls. Big, fat, sloppy, wet, balls, but goddamn if seeing you two happy doesn’t fill me with hope.”
Logan can hear the hitch in your breath. The pressure of your fingers, entwined with his. Embarrassment flickering across your face, when you are unable to help glancing his way.
Exasperation and something else mixing in when you meet his gaze. Something soft and tender and directed so solely at him, that for a moment - he forgets to breathe.
Falling in love, huh?
Yeah. He might just be.
a/n: i adore frank castle, haha. i thought he would be a fun person to pull in for a jealous!logan scenario - and thank so from the bottom of my heart for all the love on sugar, sugar - I honestly had no idea so many of you would like it, and I can’t tell you how much it means to read your sweet asks and comments 💖 this is all I have planned for them right now, and will be catching up on some comments/reblogs/fics this weekend! thank you for letting me share this series with you!!! (though I am definitely not done writing for logan!)
Also applies to editing. I was recently talking to another writer whose editor (at a publisher) almost destroyed her desire to keep writing. Writers, know the signs of a shitty editor versus one who actually wants to help you achieve your vision, and don’t be afraid to ask for a different one. (Or fire a bad one if you’re indy.)
I remember fondly the people who read things that I read and told me how to make them better.
I remember with less fondness the people who read a short story I was really proud of in about 1984 and told me that it was facetious nonsense and I would save myself embarrassment by not even submitting it for publication. I put it away and was vaguely relieved that those people had saved me from making an idiot of myself.
20 years later, I found the carbon copied typescript and read it wondering if there was anything that could be rescued. I thought it was really good, so I typed it into the computer, shortened the title, sent it off to be published, and won the Locus Award for Best Short Story of 2005 with it.
All of those children would be alive and happy had hamas not attacked Israel. That's who you should blame.
Alive and happy? But for how long?
Will they be alive and happy just to endure the next Israeli aggression on Gaza, projected to happen just within a year, the 5th or 6th one they have endured in their lifetime, which they have spent the entirety of living under Israeli siege in an open air prison?
Israel kills children without provocation. We are able to see it because we understand Israel to be a settler colonial state that adopts a settler colonial mindset. This genocidal mindset is embodied by the infamous colonel Chivington quote "kill them all, big and small, nits make lice!"
As a settler colony, it is a moral imperative - a duty - for Israel to kill off the native population. There's a reason why maternity wards in Gaza’s hospitals were destroyed and infants in incubators have been left to rot and decay. The same reason why Israel had killed over 230 children in the West Bank since 2023 alone.
What I believe you really want to say is: these children would have been alive until Israel decides to kill them.
A woman reaches under a block from the apartheid wall trying to hold the hand of her mother on the other side. Many families have become segregated after the Israeli occupation regime completed the construction of the wall which runs through Palestinian lands. This is just one of thousands of cases.
if that strikes you as naive or nonsequitur, i want you to put yourself into the shoes of a palestinian in the gaza strip, suffering untold famine and trauma at the hands of israel and the US empire, living through a genocide of everyone you've known and loved.
now imagine that the only food that you can eat is food that violates your religious dietary restrictions, sent straight from the people who are supplying the bombs and guns for you to be killed.
is that not, too, a form of ethnic cleansing? of erasure?
Hello there. @steve-harringtons-ass - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
gummygunk
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
discoholicmusic
dededos
dailybridgerton
jacobvanloon
areudirty
2087
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
