#hunter b-15

[lokimobius]

LOKI S01E02 “The Variant”

[textsfromthetva]

Loki + tumblr [319/?]

[paperbooart]

[lettingtimepass]

Loki Fam! Our very own Wunmi Mosaku is nominated for an Oscar for her role as Annie in Sinners! 🖤🖤

[hjbirthdaywishes]

July 31, 2025

Happy 39 Birthday to Wunmi Mosaku.

[mobius-m-mobius]

LOKI | 1x01 "Glorious Purpose" // 2x01 "Ouroboros"

[campfireconfessionals]

So Easy (To Fall In Love): Part 2

Summary: Loki recklessly returns to the jazz club.

wc: 3929

ao3 link

Miss Minutes is hovering an inch above Loki’s desk, bright, chirpy, and—unfortunately—fully powered.

“Question forty-two!” she says, voice pitched far too cheerfully for the hour. “According to page eighty-seven of the TVA Handbook, what’s the proper protocol for filing a post-mission anomaly variance report?”

Loki stares at her.

She blinks. Wide. Expectant. Unblinking in the way only an animated time mascot can achieve.

“No,” Loki says flatly.

Miss Minutes’ smile flickers like a neon sign on the verge of a short. “Aww, come on now, sugar. You said you’d review these.”

“I said no such thing,” Loki lies effortlessly. “Also, page eighty-seven is irrelevant, contradictory, and written by someone who had never seen an anomaly, let alone filed something about one.”

Her eyes go half-lidded in disapproval. “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say right before they fail the quiz.”

“It is not a quiz,” Loki mutters, flipping his notebook shut. “It’s a torment ritual.”

Miss Minutes floats closer, invading his personal space with alarming enthusiasm. “Ready for question forty-three?”

Loki reaches for the small volume control on the desk console—only to discover Miss Minutes hovering beside his hand, arms crossed.

“That ain’t gonna work,” she warns. “I’m synced to your station today.”

He gives her a long, murderous look.

From behind him, someone lets out a laugh.

Mobius leans against the doorway, coffee in hand, watching the scene unfold with the kind of interest one reserves for a predictable comedy show.

“Having fun?” Mobius asks.

Loki gestures vaguely at the hovering orange menace. “She’s broken.”

“I’m not broken,” Miss Minutes chirps. “I’m helpin’!”

Mobius sips his coffee. “She’s been at it for an hour. I was wondering how long before you snapped.”

“I have not snapped,” Loki says through his teeth.

Miss Minutes turns her face toward Mobius. “He got question four wrong and refused to accept it.”

Loki bristles. “It was a trick question—”

Loki slumps back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Surely, there must be a way to mute her.”

Mobius laughs again. “You’re stuck with her.”

Loki lifts his head slowly, eyes flashing with cold calculation.

“I’ve defeated gods,” he says softly. “I will outwit a clock.”

Mobius snorts. “Uh-huh. And how’s that going?”

Loki stands abruptly—more movement than necessary. “I need air.”

Mobius arches a brow. “Air? In the TVA?”

“Space,” Loki corrects, already moving past him. “Distance. Silence.”

Miss Minutes follows him a few inches. “Don’t forget! We’re pickin’ up at question forty-three—”

Loki flicks his wrist. A projected illusion swallows her whole—a giant, shimmering cube. It won’t hold her for long, but it buys him twenty seconds.

Mobius claps once, impressed. “Now that’s the most productive thing you’ve done all day.”

“I’m leaving,” Loki announces, voice clipped.

“Going where?” Mobius asks, suspicion creeping in.

“Anywhere she is not.”

Mobius snorts again. He tilts his head, grin spreading. “Just checking—you’re not sneaking off to see your singer friend again, are you?”

Loki doesn’t even break stride. He pretends he didn’t hear a word.

He’s already moved on—down the hall, around the corner, TemPad in hand.

He doesn’t allow himself to think about where his feet are taking him.

He doesn’t need to go back.

The timeline is fine.

Stable.

Predictable.

And yet…

His thumb taps in the coordinates before he consciously chooses them.

A familiar golden door opens, spilling soft light and the distant hum of New York streets. Loki steps into the time door before Miss Minutes can escape the illusion and resume her interrogation. 

The jazz club is quieter tonight, its usual hum softened to a low, velvety murmur. The rain outside has kept most people home, leaving the room dim and half-filled—small clusters of regulars hunched over their drinks, a few couples murmuring to each other, the band casually tuning up without urgency. Loki slips into a shadowed corner booth, unnoticed, the warm lamplight catching on the rain still clinging to his coat. There’s a stillness in the air tonight, a gentler rhythm than before, and he finds himself listening to it without meaning to. He shouldn’t feel anything at all about this place, much less a pull strong enough to bring him back—but something settles beneath his ribs the moment he steps inside, a strange, quiet tether he can neither name nor reject. 

Time moves strangely in the TVA—fluid, indistinct—so Loki can only guess that it’s been a handful of days on Earth since he last saw her, though it feels far longer to him.

She isn’t onstage yet. Instead, she moves through the room with a natural rhythm that has nothing to do with performing: leaning across the bar to tease the bartender about something he’s said, steadying a wobbling tray in a server’s hands with a quick, encouraging smile, and crouching to help an elderly man pick up the newspaper he’s dropped. None of it is dramatic or performative. It’s simply who she is when no one is looking. And somehow, that quiet humanity—the easy bend of her shoulders, the warmth in her voice, the way people soften instinctively around her—pulls at him far more than any song. He watches her without meaning to, his attention gravitating toward her like a tide pulled by something unseen.

What unsettles him most is the strange impulse that rises in him as he observes her: a thread of protectiveness he has no right to feel. She is so… mortal here. Vulnerable in ways she doesn’t seem to notice—laughing freely, trusting openly, moving through the world without the layers of caution he has learned to wear like armor. Each time someone brushes past her too quickly or speaks too abruptly, something in Loki tenses before he can stop himself. It’s ridiculous, he knows. She doesn’t need him, doesn’t even know what he is, and yet he sits in his darkened booth with his shoulders drawn tight, watching her as though he could stop anything that tried to dim her light. He hates how instinctive it feels. Hates that he can’t rationalize it. But as she tosses her head back in a laugh, silky hair catching the amber glow of the bar, Loki realizes the truth he doesn’t dare speak aloud: he isn’t just drawn to her voice. He’s drawn to her. 

She is human—fragile, fleeting, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lace every timeline—and yet something in him responds to her warmth with a quiet ache he doesn’t recognize. It isn’t desire, not exactly; it’s something older, quieter, and far more dangerous: the sense of belonging he has spent a lifetime pretending he doesn’t crave. He folds his hands on the table to keep them still, jaw tightening as he tries to sort through the unfamiliar press of emotion. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. But as she laughs at something the pianist says and touches his arm in passing, Loki feels that strange, human ache flare again—uninvited, stubborn, and impossible to ignore.

She’s sitting at the bar this time, not performing or chatting with the staff—just taking a quiet moment with a amber-colored drink in hand, her shoulders relaxed, her expression soft in the muted light. Loki assumes she’s unwinding before her set, the sort of brief solitude performers must crave. He intends only to observe from a distance, invisible in his shadowed booth. But then she turns—maybe at a shift in the room, maybe at nothing at all—and her eyes find him across the dim space.

The change in her is instant. Her face brightens in a way that’s unforced and unmistakably pleased, her lips curving into a surprised, open smile that sends a ripple of unwanted heat through his chest. She sets her drink down, tilting her head just slightly as though confirming it’s really him. And when she lifts her hand in a small wave—gentle, delighted, familiar—Loki realizes two things at once: she remembers him, and she is genuinely happy that he’s come back.

Before he can decide how he feels about that, she’s already sliding off the barstool, brushing a stray strand behind her ear, and walking toward him with that confident stride he’s beginning to recognize. 

She stops at the edge of his booth, warm, rich, spicy perfume drifting toward him in a soft, familiar haze, like she carries her own private glow through the dim room.

“Well, look at you,” she says with a teasing smile. “Back so soon? I was starting to think maybe I made you nervous last time.”

Loki blinks. “I assure you, I am not easily unnerved.”

She laughs—a bright, musical sound that feels different from the voice she uses onstage, lighter and more unguarded. “Mm-hm. I believe you. Mostly.”

His lips threaten to twitch, but he keeps his composure. Barely.

She leans a hip against the booth, one hand resting lightly on the table, her posture relaxed but not overly confident—simply comfortable in his presence. “It’s a slower night,” she says, her voice low and even. “Not many new faces.” Her gaze lingers on him for a beat longer than necessary. “So I was a little surprised to see you again.”

Loki lifts an eyebrow. “Surprised in a good way, I hope.”

Her smile curves, subtle and genuine. “In a good way,” she confirms. “Most people wander in once and never come back. Makes me curious what drew you here tonight.”

“I enjoy the atmosphere,” Loki lies smoothly.

“Mm.” She shifts a little closer to the table, her hand brushing the back of the empty seat beside him before settling at her side again.

Loki studies her for a moment, then asks, “Do you always sing here? Or is this just… one of many places?”

She blinks, surprised—not by the question itself, but by the fact that he asked it. “Mostly here,” she says after a beat. “It’s small, but it feels like home. And the people are kind. That goes a long way in this city.”

He nods, then adds, “You seem to know everyone.”

A faint laugh slips from her. “I try. Life feels easier when you’re friendly with the people around you.” Her gaze meets his, warmer now. “Why? Do I strike you as someone with too many friends?”

“No,” he answers honestly. “You strike me as someone people trust quickly.”

Her cheeks warm at that, the compliment landing more deeply than she expects. “That’s… nice of you to say.” She smiles. Then—casually, but with just enough interest to make his pulse stutter—she asks, “So… do you live around here?”

“I… spend time here occasionally,” he says, choosing each word with excessive care.

Her eyes narrow, soft but perceptive. “That’s a very vague answer.” Then Loki clears his throat lightly—redirecting.

“And what about you?” he asks. “Have you lived here long?”

She nods without hesitation. “My whole life, actually. Born and raised in Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn,” Loki repeats, tasting the word like it’s foreign. “You stayed.”

“I have,” she shrugs, “I can’t picture leaving.”

“You must care for it a great deal,” he says quietly.

“It’s home. And I know every corner of it—good, bad, and strange.” She lifts a shoulder in an easy shrug.

Loki nods, absorbing that—when she shifts her attention back to him with a softer, curious look.

She doesn’t linger on the moment, though. Instead, she leans just slightly closer, enough that he catches the faint sweetness of her scent—subtle, not overwhelming.

“And hey,” she adds lightly, eyes bright with quiet humor, “I meant what I said. I was surprised to see you again. In a good way.” She tilts her head.

Loki speaks before he can rein it in.

“Good. I’d prefer not to think anyone here was trying to compete for your attention.”

The moment the words leave him, his expression tightens—too late.

But her reaction is immediate: a soft inhale, her cheeks warming as she glances down with a startled, flattered smile she can’t quite hide.

Loki resists the urge to wince—he hadn’t meant to sound so forward, and part of him wants to mentally kick himself for letting it slip.

But when he sees the faint blush on her cheeks and the small, pleased curve of her smile, a subtle wave of relief washes through him despite himself.

“There’s no one else.” She whispers.

For a moment, Loki can’t stop the smile that slips onto his face—small, genuine, the kind that feels foreign on his mouth yet impossibly easy in her presence. He clears his throat lightly, steadying himself as he meets her eyes again.

“…Then I should probably know your name.”

“It’s Marianne… but folks around here just call me Mary.” He smiles wider. “And you? What should I call you?”

“Loki,” he answers.

Her eyes flicker with mild surprise, then soften into a small, approving smile. “It’s… different,” she says honestly, “but I like it.”

A voice cuts through their small pocket of space—one of the band members leaning over the edge of the stage, waving her over with an urgent flick of his hand.

“Mary! We’re up!”

She exhales a soft, almost reluctant laugh and turns back to Loki with an apologetic tilt of her head. “Well… that’s my cue.”

He inclines his head, masking the faint disappointment that tugs at him. “Duty calls.”

“It always does,” she murmurs, and for a moment she doesn’t move—simply stands there, watching him with an expression he can’t quite name. Warm, curious… lingering. Then she steps back, her smile gentle. “Don’t go anywhere, Loki.”

He doesn’t promise out loud.

He doesn’t need to.

She seems to know it anyway.

She heads toward the stage, weaving between tables with easy familiarity. Loki watches her mount the steps, exchanging a few quiet words with the pianist before she takes her place in front of the microphone.

The lights soften, dimming to a muted gold. The room hushes almost instinctively, the audience leaning in—not with awe but with the comfortable anticipation reserved for someone they’ve grown to trust. She glances once more toward Loki, as if checking he’s still there, before nodding to the band.

The first notes are nothing like the songs she sang last time.

This one begins low, steady, intimate in a different way. Not yearning. Not bright. Something simpler. Something honest. A melody shaped like a quiet confession rather than a performance.

The lyrics speak of small joys—of late-night walks, warm coffee on cold mornings, hands brushing by accident and the way little moments can change the feel of a week. A song about comfort, not passion. About familiarity, not longing.

He sits a little straighter, fingers curling against the edge of the table in a slow, unconscious grip. It occurs to him—not for the first time—that he doesn’t truly care for music. Songs have always felt like noise, distractions, embellishments on moments that never belonged to him.

But this…

this feels like being allowed into someone’s private world.

She closes her eyes on the softer lines, her voice dipping into a timbre that makes the small room feel smaller, closer, safer. People sway gently. Glasses stop clinking. The air seems to warm by a few degrees. Loki’s chest tightens. He has never heard anything like her.

When she reaches the final chorus, she looks toward him again, not deliberately, not dramatically—just a quiet glance across the room, like sharing a thought with someone who might understand it.

The moment her set ends, the club eases back into its usual rhythm. Loki remains in his booth, hands folded loosely, expression composed but inwardly shaken by how effortlessly her voice had settled beneath his skin.

He tells himself he isn’t waiting for her.

That she has no reason to seek him out again.

That it would be irrational for her to—

“Hey.”

Her voice cuts through his thoughts, soft and familiar, and before he can fully look up she’s already sliding into the booth beside him—uninvited, unhesitating, and entirely sure of her welcome. The movement startles him more than he lets show, his spine going taut as her shoulder comes just close enough to skim the air near his. Stage-warm and flushed from the lights, she settles in with an easy exhale, the scent of her shampoo and perfume drifting into the small space between them like a quiet claim on the moment again.

Loki straightens automatically. He hates how instinctive it feels.

She gives him a soft smile, eyes bright from performing. “I’m glad you stayed.”

“I said I would,” he replies, steady but quiet.

“And I believed you,” she murmurs. There’s something in her tone—a faint, flirtatious edge—that wasn’t there earlier.

Loki clears his throat, attempting to regain some sense of composure. “Your song was… different tonight.”

“Different good?” she asks, one brow lifting in gentle teasing.

He hesitates only a fraction of a second. “Good,” he says quietly. “Beautiful, actually.”

She blinks, the laugh that leaves her softer this time—almost shy. “Beautiful,” she repeats under her breath. “I’ll definitely take that.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and leans a little closer—not enough to crowd him, but enough to feel intentional. 

Mary’s knee brushes his beneath the table—accidental, probably, but it sends a jolt of awareness shooting up Loki’s spine. She doesn’t move away this time. If anything, she seems to settle closer, her shoulder just shy of his.

The booth feels impossibly small.

She watches him for a moment, searching his face with a steadiness that makes something in his chest pull tight. Then, with a quiet inhale—as though gathering the last of her courage—she says:

“Take me out to dinner.”

No coyness. No evasiveness. Just openness. It hits him harder than anything she’s sung. Loki’s breath stutters—so slight only he notices, but the panic flares hot beneath his ribs. Not because he doesn’t want to say yes. Gods, he does. The word perches on his tongue like it’s been waiting for a door to open. But something shifts at the end of his senses. 

A faint tightening in the timeline.

A flicker on his TemPad strapped to his wrist beneath his sleeve.

He glances down instinctively—and freezes.

The readout blinks with urgent text he should’ve checked an hour ago.

A recall ping.

Two warnings missed.

And the sinking realization that time here has flowed differently than he’d judged.

He is late.

Very late.

His throat goes dry.

Mary notices the change in his expression immediately. Her smile falters, worry flickering in her eyes. “Loki? Did I—did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he says fast—too fast. “No, it’s nothing you said, I just—”

The TemPad vibrates once. A sharp reminder he can’t ignore.

Loki’s composure cracks. He rises abruptly from the booth, almost knocking the table with his knee. Mary startles, straightening, confusion tightening her features.

“I have to go,” Loki says, the words rushed, hollow, wrong. “I’m… I’m needed elsewhere.”

Her brows pinch. “Right now? Did something happen?”

“I can’t explain.” He hates how stiff he sounds—how unlike himself, how cold. He forces his voice gentler. “It has nothing to do with you.”

The TemPad pulses again.

He’s out of time.

Mary stands as well, her expression open and bewildered. “Loki, I—if I asked too soon, if I made things weird, just tell me. You don’t have to run out.”

“It isn’t that.” He steps back, heart twisting painfully. “Truly, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then why are you leaving like I scared you off?”

He doesn’t have an answer he’s allowed to give.

And worse—she looks hurt.

Like she genuinely thinks she pushed him too far.

“Marianne—” His voice breaks soft around her name. “I meant what I said earlier. Your company… I value it.”

That flicker of hope in her eyes stabs him clean through.

Then the TemPad chimes again, bright and loud in the quiet corner of the club. A band of Hunters will arrive any minute to reset the timeline if he doesn’t leave now, and everything shared between them tonight will vanish.

The thought of her forgetting this night—forgetting him—pains him more sharply than he expects.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Before she can reach for him—before he can stop himself—Loki turns sharply and makes for the door, coat sweeping behind him. He hears her inhale like she’s about to call after him, but the sound never becomes a word.

He doesn’t dare look back.

The moment he steps out into the dark and lonely alleyway, he opens the time door. Golden light spills over the pavement, and he disappears into it before the door fully materializes.

Inside the club, Mary stands frozen beside the booth, heart pounding, breath shallow.

She presses her lips together, swallowing hard.

“I knew it,” she mutters under her breath, embarrassed heat rising to her cheeks. “Too forward. Too fast. Of course I scared him off.”

She sinks back into the booth where he’d been sitting minutes before, staring at the empty space he left behind with his lingering scent of mint, her chest tightening painfully.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she whispers to herself.

Across timelines, Loki materializes back in the TVA, but the sting of her expression—hurt, confused, thinking she’d driven him away—follows him like a shadow he can’t outrun.

And for the first time since meeting her, Loki wonders if he’s made a mistake he can’t easily undo.

Loki barely steps through the time door before Mobius is in his face.

“Where the hell have you been?” Mobius snaps, his voice sharper than Loki has ever heard it. “Do you have any idea how long you were gone?”

B-15 is right behind him, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. “You went completely dark, Loki. No response, no signal feedback. For all we knew, you’d disappeared into the timeline or started another apocalypse.”

Loki bristles immediately. “I did no such thing.”

Mobius scoffs. Scoffs. “Really? Because staying in a timeline long enough for the Hunters to prep a full sweep sure feels like something close to that! We were two minutes from sending a retrieval squad after you.”

“And a reset order,” B-15 adds, her glare cutting like a blade. “Do you understand how close we were to losing that entire branch? How reckless you were being?”

Loki’s fists clench at his sides. “I was handling it.”

“Oh, handling it,” Mobius repeats, incredulous. 

Loki’s jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “I didn’t ask to be monitored like a child!”

“No,” Mobius fires back, “but you’re acting like one!”

Silence slams into the room—thick, stunned, vibrating with the aftershock of raised voices.

Loki flinches. Just barely.

Loki sighs, “I know my responsibilities.”

“Do you?” Mobius shoots back. “Because right now, it looks like you’re letting something—or someone—cloud your judgment. I know you went back to that club.”

His expression shutters instantly, defenses slamming back into place.

B-15 watches him—eyes sharp, unreadable. “Whatever’s happening, get control of it. Or next time? It won’t just be a lecture waiting for you.”

She turns and leaves with heavy, echoing footsteps.

Mobius lingers a moment longer, staring at Loki with something between frustration and worry. “Talk to me, Loki,” he says, quieter now. “What’s going on with you?”

Loki can’t answer.

Not without giving away too much.

Not without exposing something he isn’t ready to name.

Mobius waits.

Loki remains silent.

Finally, Mobius shakes his head and steps back. “Fine. But this can’t happen again.”

And then he’s gone too, leaving Loki alone in the dusty, dim corridor—chest tight, blood still hot with anger, and Mary’s hurt expression burned into the back of his mind.

Because for the first time in a long time, Loki realizes:

He’s torn.

And it’s already hurting everyone involved.

[striveattemptfail]

maybe it's a little too early (to know if this is gonna work) | Logan Howlett/Wade Wilson, 5.2k, M

@poolverine-week: Day 6 – Sharing Clothes

Summary: Five times Wade steals wears Logan's clothes, and one time Logan wears Wade's suit. Rated for allusions to sex, but nothing explicit. Takes place some time after the movie’s events; assume Logan and Wade are back-up X-Men. Read on Ao3

A/N: Thank you to B @broosepayne for helping out with random details + thank you to @fuckselfloveihatemyself for suggesting "impersonation" for the final scene. Shout out to the Manga Hoes server for listening to me bitch about finishing this fic lol. Un-beta'd and I apologize /o\ Title from You Look Good In My Shirt by Keith Urban—just be grateful I didn't give this fic the exact same name lmaooo

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Nothing / Wearing Wade’s Clothes ]

The first morning he wakes up in Wade’s timeline—his new universe—Logan has on nothing but a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a pair of highlighter pink Hello Kitty boxers. He desperately needs something to wear aside from what are basically undergarments because he came into this world with nothing but his X-Men suit.

Or what’s left of it anyway.

Which is why, once he finally gets up from the pull-out bed, he sees Wade trying on the jacket that the TVA gave him after they destroyed the Time Ripper. Wade is in front of the only full-size mirror in the apartment, twisting his body every which way to inspect the jacket.

Then, he catches Logan’s reflection in the mirror.

“Morning, peanut!” he greets, turning around to face him with a smile. “I’m trying this on to see how it fits on me.”

“Uh, yeah. I see that,” Logan says with brows furrowed. “Why?”

“I was thinking about grabbing you some clothes but need a reference for your size.”

“Bub, that jacket is too big even for me.”

“...okay, yeah,” Wade eventually concedes, “but it’s the only thing you own that isn’t shredded to pieces from the Time Ripper.”

Unfortunately, the moron has a point. As it is, the boxers Wade loaned him are a bit tight on his waist, and the collar of the shirt is snug on his neck, but it’s not like Logan’s in any position to complain.

“I have to swing by Target to grab supplies for Dogpool anyway,” Wade continues before making kissy faces at the dog in question. “We need to get you some treats, huh, little missy? Yeah! And then we’ll get honey badger some clothes that actually fit him!”

And, well, it’s not like Logan is keen on stepping outside of this apartment in the brightest colour he’s ever worn in his over 200-year existence. It’s also not like he even has the funds to buy himself a hotdog from the street vendor around the corner, much less purchase anything for a new wardrobe. So if Wade wants to go out and buy some clothes for him, Logan isn’t going to stop him.

He grunts his assent as he makes his way to the kitchen, muttering a gruff Fine as he starts on a cup of coffee.

Later, when Wade leaves for Target, Logan grabs the now tossed aside TVA jacket.

If he happens to take a sniff of it once Wade’s out the door (inhaling the scent of cloyingly sweet body wash, hot sauce, and something Logan is fast recognizing as Wade), it’s simply because he wants to know whether it already stinks after yesterday’s events.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: One Load of Staples ]

Luckily for Logan, Peter and Dopinder volunteered to help Wade clothes shop when he went to Target. Apparently, Wade wanted to buy all sorts of brightly coloured cutesy shit—like much of his own clothing, allegedly so the two of them could match—but Peter and Dopinder manage to rein him in and grab a few staples. T-shirts, jeans, sweatpants, boxers, socks, and a pair of shoes that’ll fall apart in about a month if Logan has to guess.

It’s enough for him to survive on until he can buy more clothes, and enough to produce a load of laundry once the day arrives. Luckily, the apartment has a washer-dryer combo in the unit, so he finishes the single, meagre load of clothes he owns in no time. He’s bringing them to the bedroom to put away when he finds Wade already inside, standing there in nothing but the smallest pair of tighty-whities Logan’s ever seen on a man.

“What the fuck,” is all he can say.

“Hey, honey badger!” Wade greets, normal as ever, as if he’s not exposing miles of skin and taut muscle that Logan would love to—

He messily dumps his clothes onto the bed, scowling at Wade.

“Why the fuck are you naked?” he demands.

“Oh, please, I’m hiding all the goods,” Wade brushes him off. He turns back to the heap of clothes on the hamper, presumably to find something that doesn’t smell like wet dog or weeks old nastiness.

Shit. The damn briefs aren’t even large enough to completely cover Wade’s ass, and Logan can see a hint of cheeks peeking through.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Logan rolls his eyes, hoping that his frown hides the conflict inside him.

With a smirk that can only spell trouble, Wade faces him again to thumb at the waistband of his underwear. “Would you rather I take them off?”

Logan snarls, averting his gaze to the small mound of clothes he has to put away. He angrily starts folding things, breath coming out in huffs that he hopes convey annoyance.

“Jeez, who pissed in your coffee this morning, kitty cat?” Wade complains, letting go of the waistband. “It’s not like I’m rubbing one out in front of you.”

“Shut the fuck up, bub,” Logan spits, throwing down another folded shirt.

The problem—like most things—is because of Wade.

It’s hard enough to share any amount of space with him, much less sleep in the same bed together every night, and Logan’s only a man. He might be too proud to admit it out loud (especially to a blabber mouth like Wade), but god fucking damnit somehow the fucker’s gotten under his skin. He makes Logan crave for more than innocently spooning in the early hours of the morning, want more than stolen glances when he thinks Wade isn’t looking.

It doesn’t help that Wade flirts with him constantly. People used to chastise Logan for how aggressively he pursued Jean back in the day. Now, he knows it’s nothing compared to the constant boner Wade has towards anything that speaks to him.

Logan needs to stop this train of thought—thinking about Wade’s boner is only going encourage his own.

“So, why are you naked?” he asks, probably angrier than acceptable for a conversation like this but, fuck, does Wade bring out the asshole in him.

“Technically, I’m not—”

“Fine, almost naked, you annoying prick.”

He looks up to find Wade with narrowed eyes, shooting him a dubious look that can only say, Are you serious?

“Obviooouslyyy,” he drawls out, rifling through the hamper again, “I thought I had more clothes left.”

Logan looks at the mountain Wade’s digging through. “Wait, you’re completely out of clean clothes? How the fuck did that happen?”

“I don’t know!” Wade throws his hands up in exasperation. “Ask the author!”

“I have no idea what that means,” he admits. “Anyway, why are you only in underwear?”

“What? You want me to steal some of Blind Al’s shit?” Wade pauses then, clearly mulling it over. “Actually, now that I think about it, her tracksuits would look great on me. They’d fit like baby clothes on a high schooler but it could be like a Y2K revival. Juicy Couture à la Wade. I’d smell like mothballs and old lady all day but it’d be worth it, I think!” He ends the rambling with a toothy grin.

Logan doesn’t dignify that with a response. He scrubs a hand over his face with a sigh.

“Just... put on some damn clothes, bub.”

“Fine.”

Wade—probably in an attempt to piss him the fuck off, as usual—stares at him with a piercing gaze, maintaining eye contact with Logan as he grabs a white t-shirt from the folded pile and slides it on.

Logan just glares at him, jaw clenching tight.

The worst part is that he’s not even mad that Wade’s grabbing shit that he just folded. For some fucking reason, there’s a small but very loud part of Logan deeply satisfied to see Wade in his clothes again. He hasn’t worn anything of Logan’s since trying on the TVA jacket that first day home, but seeing him in one of Logan’s tees is apparently doing something for him.

Wade spins in place, and Logan notices that the hem of the t-shirt barely covers Wade’s crotch, skims the peak of Wade’s pert ass. Once he faces Logan again, he pinches the sides of the shirt like he’s holding a skirt, dipping into a small curtsy.

“Is that better, oh, prudent majesty?” he taunts.

Logan finally snaps.

Before he’s even conscious of it, he’s striding over to where Wade is still staring at him, his expression turning confused though still playful.

“Woah, big boy, I didn’t think you’d be that pissed—”

Logan grabs his face and cuts him off with a kiss, Wade making a surprised noise against his mouth before finally kissing back. Even though Logan is leading, Wade still gives as good as gets, his tongue darting into the cavern of Logan’s mouth when he gasps for air. He’s not sure how long they suck face for, but when Logan finally pulls away, a satisfied noise rumbles through his chest at Wade’s stunned but amused face.

“Finally got you to shut up,” Logan teases, words coming out shallow and thin.

“Oh, it’ll take a lot more than that, old man,” Wade quips back, and another purr builds in Logan’s chest when he hears the gravel in Wade’s voice. Wade throws his arms over Logan’s shoulders and crashes their lips together again.

Neither of their laundry gets finished for a long while after that, both of them too caught up in seeking pleasure from each other. Most of Logan’s freshly laundered clothes lie wrinkled on the bed for hours until he remembers to put them away. Wade doesn’t even start on his own laundry until Logan tells him that Althea would definitely kick his ass if he wore her stuff.

But he continues wearing Logan’s shirt until his own clothes are finally clean, so Logan can’t complain at all.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Half Complete + A New Suit ]

They’re suiting up for an X-Men mission when Wade snatches the Wolverine cowl before Logan can put it on. He’s still in the middle of zipping up when he spots Wade grabbing it out of the corner of his eye, and he doesn’t even need to turn around to know that the dipshit’s already wearing it.

“Give it back,” he says absentmindedly, buckling in the last straps of his suit.

He turns around and shoots Wade a flat look, correct in his assumption that Wade put it on. Typical Wade, he’s wearing his Deadpool mask underneath the Wolverine cowl.

“How do I look?” Wade asks, voice lilting with anticipation.

He looks like someone threw up primary colours on his head and decided to call it a mask.

“You look like someone threw up primary colours on your head and decided to call it a mask.”

Wade gasps, clearly offended. “Rude!”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Just hand me my fuckin’ cowl, bub.”

“Mmmmm, no.”

He never makes shit easy. Logan can only sigh.

“Wade, we gotta leave for the mission brief,” Logan reminds him. They’re about to leave on time for once, and that never happens. “Gimme my goddamn cowl.”

Wade ignores him, as he often does, sauntering over to Logan with a sway in his hips, and Logan quirks a brow at him. He knows what that walk means, and suddenly heading to the X-Mansion for a mission is becoming the last thing on his mind.

Wade drapes his arms over Logan’s shoulders, and Logan automatically places his hands on Wade’s hips. Even beneath both masks, Logan can tell that Wade is waggling his non-existent eyebrows at him once they’re pressed close together. “Wanna inspect the wind resistance on these blowjob handles yourself, peanut?”

Logan snorts. “No, because I don’t wanna see my own mask sucking my dick.”

“Aww,” Wade whines, and Logan can hear the pout in his voice even if he can’t see it, “you’re no fun!”

“‘Sides,” Logan murmurs in his ear, low and sultry, as he pulls Wade closer, “I like seeing your face when we’re together, bub.”

He moves a hand from Wade’s waist to slightly lift his Deadpool mask at the collar. He then ducks his face into the curve where Wade’s neck meets shoulder, mouthing at the now exposed skin there. He smirks when he feels the catch in Wade’s throat.

“I thought we had to leave for the mission brief?” Wade mocks, but it comes out breathy and very pleased by the turn of events.

Logan hums mischievously, nipping at Wade’s neck. “Don’t give a shit anymore.”

“Cool cool cool,” Wade babbles, body pressing against Logan’s, all hot and eager. “I just—oh, fuck, honey badger—I was just thinking—”

“If yer thinking, then I ain’t doin’ this right,” he grumbles, words starting to slur together because there’s something else he’d much rather be doing with his mouth. The hand he still has on Wade’s waist travels to his crotch. Wade bucks his hips into Logan’s open palm with a husky groan, already half-hard.

“You’re doing everything so, so right,” Wade gasps, hips rutting into his grip. “It’s just—ngh—you better be the one taking off this suit, because I did not spend five whole minutes and half a thing of baby powder squeezing my ass into it just to—oh, shit!—strip it off again.”

With a final lick to his pulse point, Logan pulls away just enough to look at Wade. He smirks at the way Wade is panting, puffs of breath hitting his face in needy bursts despite the fabric covering Wade’s mouth.

“I gotta take off your clothes?” he confirms. Wade nods jerkily. “S’not a problem with me.”

And he drops to his knees, unbuckling Wade’s utility belt to do just that.

They do eventually get to the X-Mansion—just 30 minutes late, and they completely miss the briefing. Colossus looks at both of them in disappointment when he relays the abridged version of the mission objectives while they fly to their destination on the X-Jet. Frankly, Logan only half listens to the giant, completely unapologetic in his lack of focus. Being distracted is well worth it as he mulls over the events of the past hour.

Because Logan discovers that, while he might not get off on seeing his own cowl blowing him, he doesn’t mind when he’s on his knees looking up to see it thrown back in pleasure.

At least as long as Wade’s the one wearing it.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Signature Items Acquired ]

The next time they leave together, it’s to meet Vanessa and Dermot for bowling. Logan’s ready before Wade is, waiting in the living room because apparently how long it takes Wade to decide on an outfit completely depends on how he’s feeling.

Thankfully, today isn’t too awful. He’d only worn the Deadpool mask in the morning because he, quote, “felt like skewered chicken intestines,” and nearly cancelled on bowling altogether. But after an orgasm from Logan and cuddling from Mary Puppins, his mood had turned around.

All of which means that Wade is now in a mad dash pulling an outfit together. Logan knows better than to try and help him or force him to hurry up, so he’s left on the couch quietly grumbling to Mary about how he thinks Wade looks good in basically everything he wears.

He’s proven absolutely right when Wade finally steps out of the bedroom. Logan barely registers the full outfit because he’s completely focused on one item.

“How do I look?” Wade asks with a sly grin, walking over to the mirror to inspect himself. He twirls in front of his reflection while smoothing down the leather of the jacket he’s wearing.

Logan’s jacket.

He’s unable to put words together with the way his brain is currently short-circuiting. He grunts in response anyway, knowing that Wade will keep talking even if he doesn’t reply verbally.

He’s proven right yet again because Wade continues without missing a beat. “You think I should switch styles? Give yours back and get my own? Jackets aren’t really my thing though... Oh! What if I got a cape instead? It’d help for ‘no capes’ AUs to actually shed a cape, huh? Has there ever been a DP with a cape? I don’t remember seeing one when we fought the Corps.”

He hums a contemplative sound as Logan stands up from the couch, making his way over to Wade.

“Maybe I need to test trial this,” he continues to ramble, “maybe I can borrow Cable’s shawl-cape thing!”

Even Logan is surprised when he immediately interrupts Wade’s babbling with a stern: “No.”

Wade’s eyes snap to his, confused by the sudden harshness and increased volume in his tone. He makes a questioning noise and shoots Logan a displeased look.

Remembering that Wade will only ramp up how annoying he is if Logan bosses him around, he shakes his head and tries again. “I mean, just—you can, uh, keep mine.”

He clears his throat, eyes darting away to take in how the jacket fits on Wade. It’s a little loose on him, a little too broad because Logan’s chest is a bit wider than his, but it sits well on his frame nonetheless. After awkwardly patting Wade on the shoulder, Logan’s hand slides to Wade’s bicep, then down to cuff where Logan thumbs at the leather there. His fingers bump Wade’s hand and he feels electrified by the touch.

When their eyes meet again, Logan’s relieved to find Wade’s face as red as his own cheeks feel. He’s not entirely sure who leans in first but their lips meet halfway. The kiss isn’t demanding or dirty, neither of them trying to turn it into something that would lead to sex for once. It’s different from when they usually make out, just soft and lingering, and Wade gasps when Logan’s tongue gently licks at the seam of his lips.

At some point, they wrap their arms around each other, because when they finally part for air Wade’s cupping Logan’s jaw and his hands are on the small of Wade’s back.

He eventually grumbles out, “Keep it, it suits you.”

“Oh.”

It takes a moment for Wade to shake the dazed look off his face, but he recovers by flashing Logan a knowing grin. Logan rolls his eyes fondly.

Of course, the little shit did it on purpose. He should’ve known the moment Wade stepped out with that giant smile.

Afterwards, when they finally meet with Vanessa and Dermot at the bowling alley, Vanessa’s smirk and raised eyebrow are well worth it because Wade keeps the jacket on.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Full Closet ]

Logan’s been gone for almost a month because of an extended X-Men mission. Between stakeouts, recon, strategizing, and actually nabbing the bad guy, it’s the longest he’s been away since Wade and Althea’s apartment became his home.

He walks in and unceremoniously dumps his duffle bag and the rest of shit by his shoes, throwing his keys on the sidetable by the door. Despite it being well into the afternoon, the apartment is surprisingly quiet. He figures Althea is out for “bingo” (likely a coke exchange) but Wade and Mary Puppins’ lack of noise makes him suspicious.

Until he hears the snoring.

He pads over to the pull-out bed to find Wade and Mary napping together. Wade’s curled around her, snoring with his face buried in her very sparse amount of fur, and Mary’s tongue sticks out as she huffs out quiet, little snuffles of her own.

But what catches Logan’s attention is Wade wearing one of his flannels.

It’s one of the thickest he owns, made for colder weather and blistery autumn breezes, a dusty yellow and blue with snap buttons. It’s large on him—like everything else Logan owns whenever Wade wears his clothes—but this particular flannel is loose on Logan, so the fabric almost drowns Wade in a pattern of faded checks.

And like every time the moron steals his crap to wear, Logan’s stomach flips in a way he can no longer ignore.

He’s not sure if they’re exclusive or not. They fall into bed together as easily as they fight side-by-side on missions. But it’s impossible for Logan to tell if Wade is serious about half the flirtations streaming out of his mouth when the idiot’s easy affection gets directed at anyone that looks at him twice.

And as much as he’s loathe to admit it, Logan wants so much more than that. He wants Wade’s lingering looks to mean something other than platonic nothings. He wants the softer kisses they share to be more than a break from sex. He wants Wade to need him the way Logan needs him. Hell, he wants Wade to annoy him in ways that Wade would never bother anyone else, because at least then Logan would know that he means something different to the motherfucker, something more than a roommate he hooks up with.

He wants just Wade, all of him, full stop.

He gingerly sits on the mattress, trying not to jostle the two napping Deadpools too much with his weight, and he reaches over to gently stroke Wade’s cheek with a thumb. Feeling emboldened when Wade doesn’t stir, he leans down to press his lips onto Wade’s forehead.

“Well, g’morning to y’too, honey badger,” Wade slurs at him, voice thick with sleep.

Logan abruptly jerks away, eyes wide, and the movement is enough to jostle Mary Puppins from her slumber. She hops off to nap in her own bed after a grumpy growl, leaving Wade alone on the mattress. He attempts to swallow the sudden lump in his throat before clearing it with a cough.

“S’four in the afternoon,” Logan mumbles. Pinching his lips into a flat line, he awkwardly sits next to Wade rustling around in the sheets. His eyes catch the flannel falling open to reveal that Wade is also wearing one of his tank tops.

Logan takes a deep, stuttering breath.

Eyes still closed, Wade blindly flaps his hand around until finding purchase on Logan’s shirt. He tugs Logan back down, and Logan curls over to kiss him softly.

“Welcome home, peanut,” Wade breathes onto his lips. “Missed you.”

He touches his nose to Wade’s. “Missed ya too, bub.”

Wade’s face splits into a slow, easy grin, pulling Logan into laying down. Logan follows him without a thought, gathering Wade into his arms.

“You’re wearin’ my clothes again,” he whispers.

Wade hums, nuzzling into his chest. “S’cold, and it smells like you.”

A pleased purr escapes Logan before he has a chance to stop it, and Wade giggles at him, kissing his collarbone before falling right back to sleep.

They don’t talk about what they are after that, but it’s at that moment when Logan finally realizes that maybe, somehow, Wade feels the same way about him too.

❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛❤️💛

[ Wardrobe Status: Wearing Wade’s Clothes (Again) ]

The TVA brings them in because they need help with some lady going after Deadpool variants. It would be a fruitless endeavour since Deadpools can’t die (well, except Nicepool) if it weren’t for the fact that the fucker apparently stole a weapon that disintegrates things to oblivion.

“Shouldn’t the law of physics stop that from happening?” Wade asks, gesturing at the screen when B-15 presents the mission to them. “‘Matter can’t be created or destroyed’ or something like that?”

“That’s energy, idiot,” Logan corrects him.

Wade just shrugs. “Hey, don’t blame me for failing physics twice!”

He turns to Wade with a confused grimace. “Who else would I blame then?”

“The teachers, duh!”

“Anyway,” B-15 interrupts, hitting a button to show another slide, “this variant’s got a fascination for destroying the indestructible, but she’s going after Deadpools because she has tritanopia, or blue-yellow colour blindness. She can see shades of red the easiest, hence, sticking with Deadpools as her target.”

“That’s so stupid,” Wade says and Logan can only agree. “There are, like, dozens immortal superheroes in red and she chooses li’l ole me? Seems like the writer copping out of coming up with a better plot, I-M-O.”

“We also believe Mary was double-crossed by the Deadpool in her timeline, giving further motive to go after his variants.”

“Hmph! Now isn’t that just convenient?” He crosses his arms. “Wait, ‘Mary’?”

“Yes.” B-15 shows another slide, this one a close-up of the woman—Mary’s—face. “She’s a Typhoid Mary variant. Have either of you encountered her before?”

“Not in my world,” Logan answers.

“I admittedly did not keep up with Netflix’s Daredevil long enough to meet Bloody Mary, no,” Wade says.

B-15 presents them with further details: Typhoid Mary’s known abilities and weaknesses; how she has dissociative identity disorder on top of her colour blindness; how she managed to acquire the worst weapon available from the arms dealers she was supposed to take down; how her alter apparently took over and decided to go after invincible mutants until she finally got even with her world’s Deadpool. The TVA did try to intervene, but she ended up killing every agent that went after her before stealing one of their TemPads and consequently going on her multiversal manhunt. B-15 makes it absolutely clear how imperative it is that they do not kill Mary or destroy the weapon so the TVA can keep them both under tabs.

Then, she reveals the TVA’s plan to capture her: They want Logan to pose as a Deadpool variant in the timeline they believe she’s going to strike next. Typhoid Mary’s current M.O. doesn’t account for superstrength so he should be able to break out of anything she traps him in. Meanwhile, Wade will be in the shadows, using a tranquillizer gun to incapacitate her once she’s busy with Logan.

Logan groans internally while Wade claps his hands in delight.

“Ooh!” he practically squeals, patting Logan on the shoulder with unrestrained excitement. “Finally, it’s my turn on the other side of this trope!”

B-15 shakes her head and sends them on their way.

The suit the TVA provides him fits perfectly, and he notes Wade’s heated, lingering gaze on him once he steps out of the dressing room. Luckily, another agent gets them through a portal before Wade starts on a tirade that would no doubt be filled with inappropriate innuendoes about Logan.

The mission is executed almost laughably easy. Typhoid Mary’s telekinetic and telepathic abilities are so low-level Logan’s shocked that the others she went after were able to be taken down so quickly.

(“Plot armour, peanut,” Wade said when Logan had asked B-15 about this. “She needed to last long enough to meet us!” As usual, Logan had chosen to ignore him.)

Like the TVA discovered, she lures Deadpools by spreading rumours he can’t ignore, adding a honeypot stash filled with weapons he loves. Geared up in Wade’s suit, Logan “falls” for her trap: entering an abandoned warehouse meant to shelter an upcoming gang targeting Deadpool, but secretly only houses her. Once Logan finds the crate of weapons meant to entice Wade, Typhoid Mary wastes no time in capturing him. She points a giant ray-gun of sorts at his face after wrapping him in the warehouse’s chains with her telekinesis.

He feels the faintest compulsion to stay still, which is probably her telepathy trying to subdue him. But she’s nowhere near the level of other telepaths Logan’s encountered, like Jean or Cassandra Nova, and the compulsion is easy to ignore. The chains are slightly harder to deal with in comparison, but he’s certain he can get out of them without too much trouble. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Wade moving into place.

During Logan’s silent assessment of the situation, Typhoid Mary apparently began monologuing. He doesn’t let her get a chance to finish though, breaking out of the bonds around his torso with sheer force and grunting at the exertion. He slices the chains around his ankles with his claws, the metal cutting like butter against the adamantium.

“What?!” she screams. “A Wolverine-Deadpool variant? How?!”

Logan doesn’t even open his mouth for a reply because Wade shoots a tranq dart in her neck. She falls to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Wooh! No scope oneshot K/O, baby!” he hollers, skipping over to pick up the weapon Typhoid Mary dropped. “God, I’d love to take this home with us,” he bemoans as he assesses it, “I can finally stick it to Cable and show off my own badass, futuristic gun!”

“That won’t be necessary,” B-15 announces, suddenly next to them. A group of armed TVA agents begin to file in from the portal behind her, a few of them attempting to grab the weapon from Wade while others lift Typhoid Mary away for custody.

The aftermath of the mission would be just as easy if isn’t for Wade bitching about giving up the gun. After B-15 debriefs them, she and Logan spend entirely too long demanding that Wade hand it to her.

“I’ll give it back if we can keep this suit for pookie here,” Wade eventually offers, pointing at Logan.

“What?” Logan asks. The suit’s not bad but he has no reason to wear it again once he takes it off. “Why—?”

“Deal,” B-15 immediately agrees.

Wade begrudgingly relinquishes the gun, giving it a flying kiss goodbye before taking Logan’s hand. B-15 opens a portal to their apartment and guides them through. “Thanks for the help, gentlemen!” she says, waving a hand at them. They both wave back, and the portal closes.

Logan looks down at the Deadpool suit he’s still wearing. “Why the hell did you want—mmph!”

His lips are suddenly bombarded with hot kisses, and he growls when Wade opens his mouth his tongue. He didn’t even notice that Wade took off his mask.

“God, you look so fucking good in my colours,” Wade moans, hands roaming all over Logan’s body. “Is this how you feel whenever I wear your things?” Logan makes a noise of assent, too busy mouthing at Wade’s jaw to give a proper answer. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Logan starts moving them towards the bed—Christ, he hopes Althea is gone because there’s no way he’s stopping what Wade’s started. His cock is already taking interest, and only gets harder when Logan bumps his hips into Wade’s. They tumble onto the pull-out in a feverish heat with Logan straddling Wade’s thighs.

He’s licking at Wade’s pulse when the dumbass gasps, “Oh my god, I’m gonna fuck a variant of myself.”

Used to Wade’s non-stop yammering even during sex, Logan mindlessly replies, “‘S still me, bub, I ain’t a variant of you.” Foolishly, he adds, “Besides, that’d be weird.”

“What? Why?”

With Wade groping his ass, Logan actually has to pause getting his hands under Wade’s suit to think about an answer.

He finally lands on: “It’d be like fucking your own clone.”

Wade actually stops everything he’s doing—hands no longer kneading his cheeks, mouth pulling away from him. Logan groans, knowing his brought this on himself, and dips his forehead to rest on Wade’s shoulder.

“What? You wouldn’t?”

“No, because that’s weird.”

“I’d fuck my clone.”

“Course you would.”

“T-B-H, I’m so pro-clone fucking I’d just have an orgy with all of them. Who’d be better to fuck me than me, right?”

This, by far, is one of—if not the—stupidest conversation Logan’s ever had with a person. Somehow, his dick doesn’t flag, and he’s still irrevocably fond of Wade’s random chatter. He kisses Wade before he can start on another tangent, cupping his perfect idiot’s face softly.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, but knowing the smile he’s got on, Wade isn’t going to listen to him.

Wade’s answering smirk is a challenge. “Make me, peanut.”

——————————————

(More notes on Ao3.)