Summary: When Briar University's infamous right wing, John Logan, accidentally texts the wrong number, he expects a quick apology and a dead end. Instead, he finds a witty, sarcastic girl who isn’t afraid to put him in his place.
John Logan x F!Reader
Off Campus Masterlist
[ Incoming Message from Unknown Number ]
Unknown: If you don’t show up to morning skates tomorrow, Coach is going to have us doing suicides until our lungs collapse. Get your ass out of bed.
That text popped up at 6:12 on a Tuesday morning while it was still dark outside. Half awake, you stared at it for a second before answering.
Y/N: Bold of you to assume I have an ass, a desire to skate at dawn, or any idea who you are.
Unknown: Tucker? quit screwing around man
Y/N: Not Tucker. But tell Coach I said hi.
Unknown: Shit. Wrong number. My bad.
Y/N: Clearly. Next time, double-check the digits before you threaten someone with involuntary cardio.
Unknown: Idk, you handled the threat pretty well most people would’ve blocked me.
Y/N: Honestly this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.
Somehow, texting him became part of your routine. A stupid comment during class. A complaint while studying. A “you alive?” text at 1 a.m.
Unknown became Hockey Boy, and you became Wrong Number. You didn't exchange names, ages, or swap photos. It was nice talking to someone who didn’t expect anything from you. In the real world, you were suffocating under the weight of a brutal pre-law workload, surrounded by competitive Briar U students you couldn't stand. But texting him felt like a weirdly perfect escape.
When your coursework became too much, you poured it out to him.
Y/N: im actually going to lose my mind. if this man assigns one more 20 page case study im dropping out to become a hand model.
Hockey Boy: hey, breathe. your hands are probably too pretty for manual labor anyway just take it one page at a time. You're too smart to quit.
Y/N: You don't even know if I'm smart.
Hockey Boy: let's be honest. you’re absolutely the kind of person who color-codes notes.
You’d blush, hiding your face in your pillow, and vent back when he needed it most. Because as arrogant as he could be, Hockey Boy carried a lot of weight on his shoulders. He never talked about family, but the sheer pressure of his own future seemed to consume him.
Hockey Boy: Scouting reports are out again. The draft talk is getting loud, and everyone's looking at me to carry the line. It’s just a lot of noise. feels like if i screw up one game, everything i’ve done for the last four years doesn't matter.
Y/N: You’re the one putting blood on the ice, not the scouts. You play for you tomorrow. Block out the noise. You wouldn't be in this position if you weren't incredible.
Hockey Boy: Don't know what I'd do without you, Wrong Number.
Meanwhile, your actual, daily existence was being thoroughly ruined by one very real, very tangible person: John Logan. He sat exactly two rows away from you in your advanced ethics seminar, looking infuriatingly handsome in his Briar hockey jersey, usually spinning a pen between his fingers or whispering jokes to his teammates. You were bitter academic rivals, constantly fighting for the top spot on the grading curve, and you despised his effortless charm.
When the professor called out your name on a rainy afternoon, asking for a counter-argument on a complex case, you stood up and delivered a flawless, razor-sharp critique. As you sat back down, you caught Logan’s eye. He smirked, leaning back in his chair, and mouthed, 'Damn, killer. Chill.' You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your own brain, turning your back to him. God, he was insufferable.
It happened on a Friday afternoon. You were sitting in the campus coffee shop, aggressively typing out a text to your anonymous confidant (pen pal? I don’t know at this point) to complain about your day.
Y/N: I am literally going to murder the hockey golden boy in my ethics class. He just eye-rolled his way through my presentation and then had the audacity to ask for my notes. I hate him.
A few tables over, a distinct, familiar text tone went off. You didn't think much of it until you watched John Logan pull out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Hockey Boy: Let me guess. Arrogant? Thinks his jersey exempts him from reading the syllabus?
Your breath hitched. You looked up from your screen, your eyes locking onto Logan. He was still staring at his phone, a soft, genuine smile on his face—the kind of look he never used in class. You slowly typed a reply, watching him like a hawk.
Y/N: Yeah. His name is Logan. He’s a menace.
Across the room, Logan froze. He didn't just look at the message—he stared at it, his thumb hovering over his screen. Then, his head slowly tilted back, eyes narrowing as he started scrolling up. Fast. Past the rants about the 20-page case study. Past the complaints about the rainy afternoon presentation.
Logan’s head snapped up. His blue eyes scanned the coffee shop until they landed directly on you. You were frozen, holding your phone like it was a live grenade. He just stared at you, the cocky look dropped his face as the dots finally connected.
Because the worst part was realizing he knew that look on your face.
He’d spent months texting the person who complained about him nightly.
You stuffed your phone into your bag, bolted out of the coffee shop, and ignored his texts for the next twenty-four hours.
The next Monday, you walked into the ethics seminar with your guard fully up, fully expecting Logan to mock you, or worse, use your texts against you. Instead, when you got to your usual seat, you found a large iced caramel macchiato sitting on your desk. Sticky-noted to the side was a hand-written message: 'For the future hand model. Don't drop out just yet.'
You looked up. Logan wasn't sitting two rows away anymore. He was sitting in the empty desk right next to yours, and he didn't have his usual cocky smirk.
He looked nervous, which was somehow worse.
"Logan," you hissed, keeping your voice low as the professor started setting up. "What is this?"
"A peace offering," he murmured, his brown eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your stomach completely drop. "And an apology. For being an idiot in person."
"You lied to me," you whispered.
"About what though? I didn't know it was you! We never talked about US like that" Logan defended softly, leaning in closer. "But now that I do... God, Y/N, it makes so much sense. You're just as terrifyingly brilliant over text as you are when you're destroying me on the grading curve."
"I don't do cocky hockey players, Logan."
Logan smiled, but it was soft, vulnerable—the exact tone of the boy you had grown to depend on. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch away from yours on the desk.
"Then forget the hockey part for a second."
He glanced down at your coffee. “I’m still the person you text at 2 a.m.”
You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. The arrogance you usually hated was entirely gone, replaced by the boy who had stayed up until 2 AM comforting you through your midterms. Slowly, you reached out and pulled the coffee toward you.
"You're still an idiot," you muttered, though a tiny, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
Logan’s entire face lit up, a triumphant, breathtaking grin breaking across his face. He leaned back in his chair, pulling out his phone under the desk.
A second later, your phone buzzed.
Hockey Boy: I know. But I'm your idiot. Let me take you to dinner tonight? No hockey talk. Just us.
You looked over at him, and he gave you a slow, hopeful wink. Biting your lip, you slid your phone out to type back.
it has been a long time since you and logan had sex. you should show him that despite everything he hated about himself, you still craved him.
logan x afab!reader (smut, angst) + no use of y/n. english isn't my first language (!). gif credit to @/asgardswinter
it was a shitty place where you were living with logan. it was always dirty, no matter how many times you cleaned it, it was noisy, because despite being in the middle of nowhere, the train tracks were very close to it, and it was the least home-like thing in the world. both of you were working your asses off to get out of there as soon as possible.
in your free time, you helped caliban with the housework and took care of old charles xavier while logan spent the whole day out, driving and having to deal with one of the things he hated most in the world, people.
he always came home late, tired, with his whole body aching. some nights you would fall asleep while waiting for him and even though logan asked you to do it, to not to wait up for him, most times you stayed up so just to make sure he arrived safely. you waited for him curled up in bed. when he was a minute late, your heart began to beat faster and you imagined the worst. but then he would come into the room, dragging his feet and with his head bowed down.
—how was your day?
logan grunted as he sat at the foot of your bed, you felt how the mattress sagged with his weight.
—did something happen?
you crawled to him and rested your chin on his shoulder. he let out a sigh of relief when your arms wrapped around his body and you hugged him from the back.
—just a tired fuckin' day, that's all.
you hummed, understanding. —well, now you are home so you can finally relax. would you like something to eat?
logan shook his head as he let it fall back and rest on your shoulder. he just wanted to stay like that a little longer with his body between your legs and his eyes closed. he placed one of his hands over yours resting on his stomach as you hugged him. one of his big hands was enough to cover both of yours.
—i've missed you, lo. i always miss you when you are away.
you placed a kiss on his neck. the first thing he did when he entered the house was to get rid of his shirt, keeping only the white tank top he was wearing underneath. his broad shoulders were at your disposal, his muscular arms and warm skin as well.
logan swallowed when he felt your lips on his neck. you noticed so you placed another kiss there.
—i miss you too. every second i spend away from you, i miss you.
you hummed, your heart gave a small jump of joy. while your love language was words of affirmation and you were always reminding him how much he was loved by you, logan was more of an act of service man. removing makeup from your face when you got home and were too tired to do it yourself, washing your hair and massaging your head when you showered, and leaving your coffee ready when he went to work earlier than you. hearing those words come out of logan's mouth meant the whole world.
your hands traveled down his abdomen until they reached the hem of his tshirt and easily slipped under the fabric. you felt his perfect abs under your fingertips and the hairs growing below his belly button as well. he took a deep breath, it had been so long since the last time he had allowed you to touch him like that.
you took your hands out of his tshirt and moved one of them to his neck to make logan turn his head resting on your shoulder and look at you. you connected your lips with his, his bushy beard pricked your face as you kissed him, but you didn't mind, it had been so long since you and logan had kissed so passionately that you could take it.
your tongue slipped past his lips and logan moaned, allowing his to go inside your mouth as well. you moved on the bed, putting one leg on each side of logan's body and sitting on his lap, all this without stopping kissing for a second. his hands now rested on your lower back, yours were on the back of his head to deepen the kiss.
his cock got rock hard the moment you sat on his thighs and you started to roll your hips timidly against his crotch. you felt his growing bulge rubbing against your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear. god, how bad you needed to feel him.
your hands slid down from his neck, caressing his entire torso, until they reached again the hem of his tshirt. you tried to pull the white tank top over his head, but logan stopped you. his lips parted from yours and he shook his head.
—it's okay. i want you, logan. i promise everything is fine.
you held his cheeks so he would look you in the eyes.
he was getting old, there was nothing left of the young and charming boy you met at charles' academy. his body had changed, his hair and beard were becoming whiter every day, and you were still young and full of light while he was fading away. yet you still loved and desired him, like the first day you craved his body. you found him just as hot, even hotter now, but you didn't want to force him to do something he wasn't going to enjoy.
you kissed him so he could stop worrying. —let me take care of you. i want you, lo, i need to feel you —.you mumbled against his lips. he let out a grunt when he felt you pressing your pussy harder on his bulge.
your hands traveled the same path down his chest one more time until you reached the edge of his tshirt again. you expected him to take your hands off him again but he not only allowed you to keep going but he also lifted his arms so you could pull the white tank top over his head.
—fuck —. you let out in a mix of moan and gasp. his body was breathtaking. your hands were quickly attached to his chest, hairy, hard under your touch, warm, with each of its muscles perfectly defined. abs, pecs, perfect broad and muscular shoulders, and wide strong arms, with veins running from his shoulder down his arms to the back of his hands. you ran your fingers along the thick scars that marked his body. —fuck, you're so hot.
with his hands on your back, logan gently pushed you to keep rubbing yourself against him and you moaned, he was harder if possible and you were so wet that you knew that your panties would be completely soaked. you kissed the crook of his neck while his fists clenched, clutching at the tshirt of his that you were wearing as your pajamas. logan fought against his instinct, against the animalistic way you were making him feel, but his grip became so tight that he ended up ripping the fabric.
—it was one of your favorite tshirts.
—don't care.
and logan kissed your lips as he ended up tearing the fabric completely and threw it on the floor. you grabbed the back of his head when his lips moved down your neck and collarbone. your nipples were already painfully hard when logan cupped one of your tits and wrapped his mouth around your sensitive bud.
all of a sudden you got up from his lap and he had to let your nipple go. he was worried about the way you had moved away from him, had he done something wrong?
now you were standing in the middle of the room, in front of him, only wearing your panties. your body was the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever witnessed, with scars very similar to his, with all those things you hated about yourself. was that how you felt about him? if it had not been for the pain in his whole body he would have fallen off the bed on his knees in front of you.
he huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes once you started swaying your hips from side to side while you slid your underwear down your legs. you laughed too, you felt stupid, but at least you had managed to make him smile. you two weren't the type to do those things, things were always more animalistic, more passionate, rougher. you walked towards him and leaned in to kiss him as your hands worked on the zipper of his jeans.
—you're beautiful —. he whispered.
logan helped you to straddle him again. you held your body over his thanks to your knees on the bed. with one hand you grabbed his hard cock resting impatiently against his stomach. he gasped because of your firm grip and squeezed your hips when you lined it up against your aching entrance.
you lowered yourself just enough for his tip to go in. he let out a deep grunt straight from his chest, you let out all the air you had in your lungs in a moan. you never forgot how big he was, the thickness of his cock, the patch of hair on its base, and the veins running along his shaft, but you did forget about the way it stretched you open, about the sting that his dick going deeper inside you caused.
—careful —. logan mumbled against your lips.
you kept taking him, closing your eyes shut and biting your lower lip, hissing every time you took a centimeter more inside of you. you rested your forehead against his and whined when his cock finally bottomed you. —i need a moment.
logan nodded. one of your hands sneaked in between your bodies and found your clit while his hands lovingly caressed your back. it had been so long since you had sex. logan wouldn't let you touch him, he was disgusted by his own body and he was afraid that you would see him the way he saw himself. that's why that night you decided that you would make him feel so good that he would never doubt the way you felt about him or his body.
you started by slowly rolling your hips as your fingers worked on your clit. his jaw tightened while he felt your body moving with his whole cock inside. his big hands on your hips helped you to move, setting a pace and keeping you from going faster so you wouldn't hurt yourself.
—that's it, take your time —. he said. young logan wouldn't have given you a second to get used to it, he would have fucked you mercilessly and you would have loved every second of it. but now, his eyes were focused on where your bodies became one, enjoying how your pussy adjusted to his size thanks to your fingers rubbing your clit.
he moaned once you lifted your body just a little and then dropped back onto him. you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his lips while you repeated that same move again and again. your cries and his moans mixed in your mouths. all his body jerked every time you lifted yourself a bit more and then sucked his cock completely inside you again.
—you make me feel so good, logan. always have, fuck—. you purred in his ear. his hands, previously resting on your hips, slid all the way to your ass your hands and squeezed it. in those little details you could see how he was gaining confidence, which encouraged you to keep moving without changing your pace. it was slow, passionate, intense and intimate.
between moans and cries, you kept worshiping him, telling him how much you had missed feeling him inside you, how your fingers were no comparison to his cock, how you didn't want to share these moments with anyone other than him. there was no one like him. you didn't care about his scars, his moodiness, the gray of his hair, there would never be another one for you but logan, you did not want another one.
you were close, he could feel it in the way your walls were squeezing his cock and he knew he wouldn't last longer. logan wrapped his arms around your body, pressing you against his hard chest, and your fingers knotted into his hair. he groaned, your little jumps became irregular, your legs began to shake. logan hugged you tighter and sunk his teeth into your shoulder, getting a little choked cry from you.
—cum inside me, lo. fill me up, please, i need it. let me have it, please.
oh god, your words were driving him insane and after how well you had treated him, who was he to deny your wishes?
logan held your body down on his cock as he came, hugging you tighter against him. you buried your head into the crook of his neck, moaning into his skin while your legs shook and your pussy clenched around him. it was too much. as he released himself inside you, his claws came out and trapped you between them and logan's body, you had no escape. he groaned when he felt the pain of the adamantium ripping the skin off his knuckles mixed with all the pleasure of cumming inside you.
—shit —. he immediately put the claws away when he realized. —i haven't hurt you, have i?
you shook your head, still coming down from your high. he exhaled with relief. once you had caught your breath, you straightened your back, still sitting on his lap and feeling his cock getting soft inside you. you brought his hands to the front.
—are you okay? that probably hurt —. you caressed his knuckles.
—felt too good to even think about it.
you smiled proudly and kissed him. when you broke away, he noticed the mark of his teeth on the skin of your shoulder. —'m so sorry, fuck.
—don't be. i wish you had bitten me harder.
he shook his head, keeping himself from laughing. —you're a freak.
summary: Logan gets a haircut. You collapse like it's a funeral. Name his lost hair Greg. Mourn for 3 months straight. Refuse to cook him full meals. Threaten the barber. Sighs like a widow. Greg starts growing back. You weep with joy.
word counts: 1.3k
warnings/tags: Domestic chaos, hair-related betrayal, and unholy levels of fluff, soft logan
a/n: Logan is nothing without his floof hair, when he cuts short like in gif he bite the apple, i also mourned the floof. (LIES, he is hotter in that haircut too. GAHH)
Logan masterlist
The cabin was quiet.
It had been for most of the morning. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the trees. The stream gurgled gently a few yards off. A pot of something simmered on the stove behind you. You’d been waiting for him all day. He’d gone into town to pick up supplies, maybe stop by the mechanic, probably take forever as usual.
So when the pickup finally rumbled up the gravel path and crunched to a halt outside. You opened the door expecting the usual — the faint smell of pine, maybe cigar smoke, definitely something like leather and gasoline. The heavy sound of his boots on the porch. A grunt. A kiss on your cheek. Standard Logan-returning-home protocol.
Only, instead of Logan and all his glorious, familiar, slightly-greasy forest-man disarray—
You were met with a war crime.
He stepped out of the truck. Stretched. Tugged a couple of grocery bags from the back.
And you froze.
Solid.
Mid-step.
Mid-breath.
You blinked.
Then blinked again.
He turned casually toward you, unaware that your soul had already begun the process of evacuating your body.
“Hey, sweetheart—”
Your legs gave out.
Fully and dramatically.
You dropped to your knees like a mourning widow in a historical drama. A hand clutched your chest. Your mouth opened soundlessly, like you couldn’t find the words. Like there were no words that could possibly articulate what you were witnessing.
Logan’s brows pulled together. He dropped the bags on the porch and stomped over, crouching next to you, strong hands on your shoulders.
“Hey—hey, what’s wrong? You okay?”
You just… stared.
At the crime scene that was his head.
“…What,” you croaked, pointing slowly. “What is that.”
“What?” He reached up and ran a hand over the buzzed sides and shortened top, like he hadn’t just committed absolute treason. “It’s just a haircut. Got it cleaned up a bit. Too hot for the mop.””
“Just a—?”
You staggered to your feet. Backpedaled like you’d seen a ghost. Then turned dramatically toward the woods, as if needing to scream into the void.
Cleaned up a bit was an understatement.
The glorious floofy mane — that unruly, thick, half-curling mess you spent years defending from clippers and teasing your fingers through every time he laid in your lap — was gone. Now he looked like Calvin Klein live ad. Not Your Lumberjack Logan.
Slain. Sheared. Betrayed.
You made a sound that could only be described as emotional collapse.
“I trusted you,” you said in a shaky voice. “I loved your stupid floofy hair. I named it.”
Logan blinked. “You named it?”
“Greg.”
“You named my hair Greg.”
“You’ve killed Greg, Logan!”
His face twitched.
“Look, it was hot. It kept fallin’ in my eyes—”
“IT WAS SUPPOSED TO FALL IN YOUR EYES. THAT WAS ITS PURPOSE. IT’S LITERALLY WHY I EXIST. TO BRUSH IT OFF FROM YOUR EYESSS!”
“I needed to see, darlin’.”
“Oh, God,” you whispered. “It’s worse than I thought. You sound like a cop. It had bounce. It had shape. It had volume. It looked like a shampoo commercial and now you look like you’re about to enlist.”
“C’mon, sweetheart, don’t be ridiculous—”
You looked over your shoulder, heartbroken. “Do you even know what you took from me?”
He leaned in the doorway, clearly trying not to grin. “You’ll live.”
“I won’t. I won’t live. I’m going to fade into dust like Spider-Man in Infinity War.”
He made a confused face. “What the hell is that?”
“Exactly. You’ve hurt me beyond explanation.”
That made him snort, despite himself.
But you were not laughing. You were fully spiraling. You turned back to him, dramatic as ever, tears nearly welling in your eyes.
“I’m gonna have to learn how to love you again. Like I’m with a stranger.”
He stepped forward, grabbing your waist and pulling you into him, grounding, steady. You smacked at his chest weakly.
“This is betrayal,” you murmured, burying your face in his shirt. “This is emotional terrorism. You should’ve warned me. Sent a text. Let me say goodbye to Greg.”
“You want me to apologize to the hair on my head?”
“No, I want you to apologize to me,” you snapped, pushing him off and storming toward the truck. “And I want the name of the man responsible.”
He jogged after you. “Where are you going now?”
“To town,” you said over your shoulder. “To confront Carl the Butcher and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing, endangering civilian relationships like this.”
“You’re gonna scare the barber.”
“GOOD. Maybe next time he’ll call me before committing an atrocity.”
He caught your arm gently before you could get in the truck. Turned you around. That damn smirk barely hidden beneath the roughness of his voice.
“You really liked it that much, huh?”
You huffed. Crossed your arms. “You think I date you for your sparkling personality?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he grinned, leaning in. “You do.”
“…Shut up.”
He kissed your forehead anyway. “It’ll grow back.”
“I’m not speaking to you until it does.”
“Bet I can change your mind.”
“You can try, but Greg would’ve done it better.”
He laughed, fully now. “You’re ridiculous.”
You sniffled and stepped back into the cabin, ignoring him for the rest of the day. You only made your plate at dinner. You ate the entire last slice of pie. You refused to look at him except to sigh dramatically.
Still, that night — after he crawled into bed, after your legs found their way to tangle with his on instinct, after you ended up tucked against his chest despite yourself — you mumbled against his collarbone:
“…I miss Greg.”
Logan sighed.
“I’ll grow him back for you, baby.”
You smiled, triumphant and half-asleep.
“Good.”
Three months. No Greg. Only grief.
You’d sighed so much over the past three months that Logan was beginning to suspect you’d forgotten how to breathe any other way.
Not dramatic, over-the-top sighs either. No — these were long, suffering, resigned sighs. The kind that came from somewhere deep in the chest. The kind that sounded like the world had disappointed you so thoroughly that recovery was no longer an option.
They followed him everywhere.
In the kitchen? Sigh.
On the porch? Sigh.
In bed, right before you rolled away from him like a widow in mourning?
Sigh.
At first, he thought you were being a little shit about it on purpose. That it was your weird, emotional revenge for the haircut heard 'round the world. And maybe it was at first.
But by week three, he started to worry.
Because now you weren’t even being vocal about it anymore. You didn’t say anything. Just watched the top of his head like you were waiting for spring to return after a nuclear winter. Some days, you even patted it. Once, he swore he caught you whispering “grow, damn you” under your breath while watering the garden.
“I can literally regrow limbs, sweetheart,” he muttered one night, holding you when you finally allowed it again. “Hair ain’t the problem.”
“Yes it is,” you mumbled into his neck. “Greg’s soul hasn’t come back yet.”
“Baby, I—”
“Shh. Don’t speak. Just suffer with me.”
And he did.
He endured.
He took the way you handed him dinner with a withering look and a soft, distant sigh. He took the way you stroked old photos of him like a grieving widow in a telenovela. He even tolerated the time you made a tiny gravestone out of a rock, planted it in the garden, and labeled it RIP GREG — You Were Lush, You Were Loved.
But the worst part?
The gasp you let out when, finally, after exactly three months and two days, you opened the bathroom door and found him toweling off after a shower — his hair slightly damp and finally long enough to flop back into his eyes again.
You didn’t speak.
Just stood there, one hand braced on the wall, eyes wide and glassy like some long-lost soldier had returned from war.
“…Is it—” you whispered hoarsely, “Is it really you?”
Logan raised an eyebrow.
“It’s back, ain’t it?”
Your knees buckled. Again, hugging his legs with joy. Your floof Greg is back.
summary - you crave weird foods. he craves quiet. but somehow, in the middle of mashed potatoes, aching backs, and slow dancing in the kitchen—you both get exactly what you need.
zayn's note - so sorry if this is actually weird because i don't know much about pregnancy thing!! do i want kids? no. do i want Logan's kids? YES. ABSOLUTELY. the idea of Logan as a dad has been in my head, brainrotting me so i need to let it out. enjoy your reading!!
The door creaks open a little after nine.
It's subtle, but enough to make the house shift.
From the kitchen, you pause—spoon mid-stir, wrist flexed over the pot—and listen.
The sounds follow like clockwork.
Click. Keys hit the counter.
Thud. Boots drag across the worn hardwood.
A long, ragged sigh drapes itself across the air, low, and exhausted. The kind that sounds like it started at the base of the spine and clawed its way up, just waiting for a quiet room to collapse into.
Then:
Clang. His keys land in the ceramic dish by the door.
You don't turn around. You don't need to.
You feel him like the weather.
Even from here, you can sense the weight draped over his shoulders, that familiar gravity that follows him after long days. It's in the way the air stills, in the slight creak of the floor under his step. He carries the city with him—its chaos, its noise, its ache.
Still, you stir the pot again. A strange, lumpy mixture of mashed potatoes, crinkle-cut pickles, and a splash of maple syrup. Horrifying to anyone with a normal sense of taste, but to you, tonight, it smells like salvation.
There's a flicker of hope in your chest. You keep it tucked down low, but it's there—fluttering under your ribs like wings.
From behind you, a voice rumbles out, low and rough like gravel under tires.
“That smell better not be what I think it is.”
You smile—small, private. Eyes on the pot. “Define ‘what you think it is.’”
You hear him move again. Slower now. Closer.
Logan steps into the kitchen like a man emerging from war. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms streaked faintly with city grime and tired veins. His hair is a mess—pushed back like he ran a hand through it a dozen times but didn't win. His eyes, half-lidded and red at the corners, scan the room with practiced fatigue.
But when they land on you—
There's a pause.
He sees it. Sees you.
Back still turned, hips shifting softly with your stir, one bare foot tapping idly to the music playing low from the old radio. You're wearing his shirt—faded white cotton, soft with age, hanging off you like it's trying to remember the body it used to belong to.
It used to hang past your thighs.
Now?
Now it stretches—just barely—over the gentle swell of your belly.
That sight knocks something loose in his chest. He stares, the ache of the day giving way to something warmer, deeper. Something that clenches behind his ribs and makes his hands ache to touch.
“If you're gonna tell me that's mashed potatoes and pickles,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “I'm walkin’ straight back outta here.”
You glance back over your shoulder, grin already blooming. “You're not. You can't. Because I'm pregnant. And adorable. And you're too tired to pretend you have boundaries.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. Not quite a laugh—but close.
You turn back to the pot, acting unaffected. But your cheeks are warm.
Behind you, he's still staring. His shirt. Your belly. The sound of the spoon clinking gently against the side of the pot.
The smell, however cursed, feels like home.
He takes a step. Then another.
You don't look, but you feel him coming closer—his body heat blooming like a campfire behind you. That familiar scent of worn leather, road salt, and cheap diner coffee follows him in.
Then—
Arms.
Warm. Rough. Careful.
They slide around you from behind, one at a time, the way someone might pick up something fragile and half-asleep. His palms settle under your bump, large and calloused, cradling the weight like he's still amazed it's real.
His chin dips to your shoulder. Beard grazes your cheek.
He exhales again, softer this time.
He looks older now. The three years of marriage have been a mosaic of quiet mornings, loud arguments, tearful make-ups, sleepless nights, and hands held through it all. He's grayer—silver streaking through his thick hair and in the beard that brushes your cheek. There are more lines around his eyes, more silence in his movements. But also more steadiness. More love.
“You make a damn science project every time you eat,” he mumbles.
You hum, content. “I like to think of it as art.”
He snorts against your skin. “Art that smells like regret.”
You laugh softly, leaning back against his solid chest. Warm.
He shifts slightly, pressing the tip of his nose to your temple. He doesn't kiss, not yet. Just rests there.
“You eat?” he murmurs, voice still gravel and smoke.
“Mhm.”
“You sit today?”
“I did.”
“You rest?”
“I did not,” you reply, tilting your head back with a mischievous smile, “and you can't prove otherwise.”
Logan lets out a slow, tired groan and drops his head forward, forehead resting against your hair.
“Darlin’, I swear to God…”
“But I did do some very pregnant things,” you offer innocently. “Like crying over a car commercial.”
He doesn't react right away. Just breathes in your scent—then, he lifts his head just enough to ask:
“Was it the one with the dog gettin’ older?”
You nod and he chuckles, voice warm with something unspoken. “Shit. Yeah. That one got me too.”
He goes quiet then.
But you feel his hand shift again—just a slight curl of fingers against your belly, like he's checking to make sure everything's still there. That the world hasn't slipped while he was out driving strangers around in the dark.
You take that moment to turn on his arms.
He lets you. Always does.
Now facing him, you get the full picture.
Logan Howlett—your Logan—looks every bit of his years tonight.
The years are mapped in the creases around his eyes, the furrow in his brow that never fully relaxes. His hair is longer now, thick and wild, streaked silver at the temples and in the beard that lines his sharp jaw. There's a tiredness in his eyes that sleep doesn't fix. But beneath it, always, is something else—something deep and steady and there.
He's the kind of tired that comes from surviving. And somehow, still showing up.
You place your hands on his chest, fingers splaying across the worn shirt stretched over muscles and old scars.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Now the real craving.”
He blinks like he missed something, “...What else could you possibly want?”
You lift your chin, full pout engaged. “I want to dance.”
There's a beat of silence.
He blinks again. “Dance?”
“In the kitchen.”
“You're serious?”
“I'm pregnant, hormonal, and barefoot,” you say, lifting one foot with exaggerated drama. “I deserve one romantic-ass kitchen dance.”
He looks down at you like you've grown a second head.
“Baby,” he rasps, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I just drove around the city for ten hours. Got called ‘hey driver’ by a guy in a flamingo suit. I'm runnin’ on fumes and one questionable burrito.”
You pout harder. Weaponized. The bottom lip trembles just enough to be deadly.
“But I wanna dance.”
He stares. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Rubs a hand down his face. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“Nope.”
“Darlin’, my back hurts.”
“My feelings hurt.”
Logan groans—long and low. You're pretty sure it's not frustration anymore. It sounds dangerously close to surrender.
And then you pull the ace.
You rest your cheek against his chest, voice dropping low. “Please, Logan? Just one slow song.”
That does it. Not the silly argument, not the pout—the soft, tired way you say it. He can hear the ache under your voice. You don't want much. You just want him.
He closes his eyes, runs a hand down your spine like it might steady him more than you. And then—he lets out a breath, soft. Tips his head back. “God, help me,” he mutters before reaching for your hand.
The music's already playing—something bluesy, quiet, like it's been waiting too.
He pulls you in. One arm around your back, one hand clasping yours like he’s done it a thousand times. His steps are clumsy at first.
“I haven't danced in thousands years,” he mumbles into your hair.
But your body knows his. The rhythm finds you. Swaying slowly in a warm kitchen, under yellow light, surrounded by the scent of mashed potatoes and pickles and home.
You're warm in his arms. Breathing steady. Baby between you.
“You okay?” he whispers, because he always asks. Because he always needs to know.
“I am now,” you whisper.
He nods before closing his eyes, just for a moment.
“I've been worried,” he confesses. Quiet. “About you. The baby. This whole thing.”
You lean back to look up at him, hands on his chest.
“You've been incredible, Logan. You worry too much.”
“Someone's gotta,” he says. Not joking. Not even a little. “You're carrying everything good I got left.”
You reach up and brush his jaw with your fingers. “Then, I'm keeping it safe.”
He smiles, before lowering his head and presses a long kiss to your forehead—slow, grounding. One that says ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I'm not going anywhere’.
The song ends.
But he keeps holding you anyway.
You smirk into his chest. “So… mashed potatoes and pickles?”
He groans like a dying man. “This kid's got a cruel streak.”
You laugh, soft and free. “Takes after their father.”
He snorts, laughing. “Very funny.”
He turns off the pot before gently guiding you toward the table, still holding you like you might float off without him. “Let's feed you and your weird little alien baby, then I'm crashing on the couch like the old man I am.”
You loop your arm around his. “You are an old man.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your hair. “But I'm your old man.”
that's it!! i hope you enjoy! do let me know about your thoughts on this! feedback are appreciated! reblogs too <3
tags!! @princessanglophile @mcrdvcks @wchswift @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @briseroyawritingsblog @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks [lmk if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist!]
𐙚 prompt: charles forces you and logan to do a mission together in order to help you bond.
𐙚 cw: enemies to lovers, one bed trope, if this does well i’ll do a part 2 w smut ;) cussing,
𐙚 a/n: thanks to everyone who's sent me req's! this wasnt a req but id already started it haha if youve sent a req ill try to get to it asap.... also so many ppl wanted to be added to a taglist but for the nsfw alphabet post i dont think it tagged like half the ppl?? so im sorry if u dont get tagged, im trying to fix it :)
18+ blog!! you are responsible for your own media consumption. if any of the above makes you uncomfortable, do not proceed.
“Professor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“(Y/N), it’s not me you should be apologizing to. It’s your team. That’s who you both let down.” He eyes flick between you and Logan.
“I’ll go apologize to them now.” You turn to leave.
“You too Logan.” Charles says.
On this latest mission, you needed to sneak into a factory and take down all of the enemies— But you and Logan were arguing so loudly, you alerted all of the rivals, turning a few quick sneak attacks into full blown fights. No one was badly injured but you still felt horrible about it.
“This is all your fault.” You mumbled, just loud enough for Logan to hear.
“My fault? You’re kidding.” He huffs.
“Shut up.” You walk ahead of him, on the way to the common room to see your team.
Everyone was sitting there, talking amongst themselves. Once you and Logan entered, they all stopped their conversations and looked at you.
“Guys. I am so sorry about this mission.”
“I’m sorry, extremely sorry, and I apologize for my behavior.” Logan mocked your expression of regret.
“You are such a child, Logan! I’m trying to apologize!” You raised your voice.
“I am too!”
“Can you two just stop?” Hank stood up, silencing you both. “Your attitudes have been getting in the way of every mission. If you guys can’t get along then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh..” You didn’t know how to respond. You couldn’t believe you let your dislike for Logan get in the way of your job, so much that they thought you shouldn’t be an X-Man anymore.
They all left the room, leaving just you and Logan to culminate in your thoughts.
“I think it’s pretty obvious we’re not going to get along any time soon.” He broke the silence.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, whatever you say.” He walked out, as you sat in the empty room.
The next day, Xavier called you and Logan into his office yet again. You were concerned, worried he might be kicking you off the team. But instead, he said he had a mission for you two.
“I need you to pose as a couple. You’ll be going to an upscale hotel in Manhattan. It’s a cover for a drug smuggling ring. You two will stay as guests in order to collect information. I need everyone that is there, guests and workers alike, to think you two are madly in love. We don’t know who could be involved, so we can’t have them think anything suspicious.”
“Professor, is that the best idea? We just blew the last mission because we couldn’t stop arguing.”
“If you two fail this mission, I will have no choice but to replace both of you. You are amazing at what you do, but your arguing affects everyone. Not just yourselves.”
“Okay. We won’t let you down.” Logan speaks up.
***
The trip to the hotel was long and frustrating. You two couldn’t agree on anything the entire time. You criticized his driving, he criticized what you put on the radio, and how loud it was. You called him an old man, which just resulted in the radio being turned off and continuing the last hour drive there in silence.
When you arrived, it was late afternoon. Logan, pretending to be your fiance, grabbed all the bags by himself and walked inside. The hotel was huge. It was upscale, classy. So fancy you were afraid to touch anything, in fear it might break.
“Hi! Checking in for Anderson.” He greeted the front desk clerk, giving his forged name. He dropped the bags on the floor and you wrapped yourself around his now-free arm, squeezing it.
“Hello, Mr. Anderson.” She smiled back, “Let’s see. You had the penthouse, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“We’re celebrating our engagement!” You beamed, holding out your hand, showing off your fake engagement ring.
“That’s lovely. Congratulations! We’ll have a bottle of champagne in your room for celebration.”
“Thank you so much!” You squeaked.
He finished the check-in process, then you headed to the top floor.
The penthouse was absolutely gorgeous. It was huge, the size of a decent apartment. Just like the lobby, you were afraid to break something.
“Wow.. This is amazing. Only time I’ll ever get to stay in a penthouse and it’s with you.” You said, as he shut the door.
“I was just thinking the same thing. Now, c’mon we gotta go to the pool. Get changed.” He handed you your bag.
You opened it, pulling out your bikini. It was the only one you had, admittedly from a few years ago. You didn’t have time anymore to relax by a pool or go swimming in the ocean, so this swimsuit had to do. It was a simple black string bikini.
You went inside the bathroom to change. Once you had your swimsuit on, you felt a little self conscious at the amount of skin showing, but figured it’d help with the whole ‘can’t keep your hands off your new fiance’ vibe you and Logan needed to exude for this mission.
You walked out of the bathroom, faking confidence you didn’t have. Logan had taken the opportunity to just change in the living space since he was alone. He was wearing black swim trunks. It was funny, it looked like you two had matched on purpose.
“Wow.” He said quietly, clearing his throat.
“What? You like what you see?” You joked at his clear uncomfortableness with seeing you in such little clothing.
“Whatever, let’s just go.” He spat, grabbing two towels, the key, and exiting the room.
The second you were out the door, you both had big smiles on your face. His arm was around you, holding your side as you headed to the pool.
It wasn’t too busy, just a few kids with their parents, and a bartender at the outdoor bar. You told him you wanted a drink, so that’s where you headed first.
“Hey, can I get two Mojitos?” Logan asked, handing him the room key “And can you just charge it to our room?”
“Of course,” He started working on the drinks immediately, while you two sat and people-watched. He finished the drinks, and gave you them and the room key back.
You said thank you as you walked off, hoping Logan would just follow. There was a small hot tub that was empty, so that’s where you went. You stepped in carefully, afraid of slipping, and sat down in the warm water.
“Really?” Logan whispered, a fake smile still adorned on his face.
“This is what couples do, Logan. And we’re a couple for this weekend. So sit down and act like you love me, sweetie.” Your grin was starting to hurt your cheeks.
He sat down across from you, and you mentally rolled your eyes. You got up, and repositioned yourself, sitting in his lap, “What part of ‘act like you love me’ are you not getting?”
He was frozen for a moment, caught off guard but quickly acted like he was happy to have you there, to not draw suspicion. You both took sips of your drink, as you continued to nonchalantly looked around.
You two stayed at the pool for awhile, taking mental notes of the guests and employees you saw. Honestly, this hotel didn’t seem too strange. But Xavier said it was a front so you guessed that’s why it seemed so normal, for their cover.
Once your drinks were empty, and the sun had started to go down, you both decided to head back up to the room. He got out drying himself off before wrapping you up in your towel. He picked you up and carried you bridal-style to the penthouse.
“Logan!”
“What? Just acting like I love you.” He smirked.
Once inside the room, he set you down. “I’m gonna go shower.” You stated, not really knowing what to do.
He just nodded, walking off to the kitchenette. You grabbed your bag and headed to the bathroom.
***
You mentally cursed yourself as you scrambled through your bag, searching for a pair of pajama shorts you thought you packed, but they were nowhere to be found.
“This cannot be real.” You whispered. The only other clothes you brought were jean shorts, and you sure as hell weren’t going to sleep in those.
You pulled out your oversized sleepshirt, putting it on. The hem landed right above the middle of your thigh. It was a little shorter than the length of a nightgown, so you just hoped he wouldn’t notice. You slipped on a pair of panties, snatched up your things, and exited the bathroom.
You immediately bumped into Logan, who was standing right outside the door.
“What the fuck?” You raised your voice, annoyed. “Why are you right outside the door?”
“I was about to knock. You’ve been in there for over an hour.”
“It’s all yours!” You sassed.
You walked over to the small kitchen, and see he had already opened up the champagne. You had a glass as you sat on a barstool, writing down some notes about the people you’d observed earlier. Pouring yourself another glass, you headed over to the bed.
Just as you made yourself comfortable, Logan came out of the washroom, in just a towel. You stared at his wet torso for a moment, hypnotized.
“My eyes are up here.” He laughed.
You looked up, embarrassed.
“Forgot my clothes. Hey, wait, why are you in the bed?”
“…Because I’m the girl?”
“You're also the short one. I can’t fit on that couch.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s a big bed. We can both fit just fine. Unless you’re nervous. Never slept with a girl before, Lo?”
He sighed, clearly not wanting to argue, before taking his clothes and escaping back to the bathroom. You silently celebrated your victory.
He came out a few moments later, turning off the lights, sliding under the blankets and getting comfortable. You both ended up facing the same direction. If he was any closer, he’d be the big spoon, but there was a few inches separating you.
You adjusted your body, and accidentally felt your ass rub against him. You went rigid from humiliation, before scooting away slightly, ignoring it since he didn’t say anything.
You tried to fall asleep, but it was difficult, for many reasons. One, you’re not used to having someone else in your bed. Two, he was breathing heavily. Three, you couldn’t stop thinking about how sexy he was.
Of course, you knew Logan was attractive, you’d thought that since the moment you first saw him. But today, probably because of the faux-gagement, the touching, the flirting, you saw him differently. He was still getting on your nerves, but the flames between you two… His body… It was unlike before.
You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You twiddled your feet, moving around your body nervously, before unintentionally grazing your ass against his crotch again.
“Y’know, if you keep rubbing your ass against my dick, I’m gonna do something about it.” His words sounded gruff in your ear, but they gave you butterflies.
a/n: so sorry about the hiatus, started university and midterms are already here, crazy. anyway, enjoy this little idea i had, inspired by a real life situation. xox
wc:3.1k
MDNI !!! 18+, AGE GAP, SEXUAL CONTENT, ALCOHOL USE
summary: Y/N is growing needier with every one-night stand her hot neighbour brings over, one night she decides to be his next.
"-Oh fuck, keep going!" A muffled voice cried between the rhythmic thumping noises that came from the ceiling above you.
You bit down on your lip, shifting needily on your sofa.
"Here we go again" You mumbled to yourself, glancing at the clock on your microwave.
8:37 PM.
"Earlier than usual... Do you have to be somewhere early tomorrow?" You pressed the mute button on your TV remote to get a better listen.
The intrigue in your neighbour's activity had been a shameful recent development. He'd have company over almost every night now; which meant constant, rough sex.
The shared two-story house was old, and the walls were poorly insulated, which surely didn't aid your newfound obsession. Your unit was the basement suite: a homely one-bedroom, one-bathroom with a large kitchenette and living room. Even though you both lived in the same quarters, you both had your own respective spaces and entrances, which meant you rarely crossed paths.
You knew little about the man upstairs, only that he lived alone, wasn't the talkative type, and rode a Harley Davidson that was equally as loud as his one-night stands.
Though it was ill-mannered of him to be as careless as he was, you couldn't stop yourself from being attracted to him. He might've had a good twenty years on you, but that didn't matter in this case.
The man was in phenomenal shape for his age; You had come home one day to him working on his bike, shirtless. His physique was composed of thick broad shoulders that counterbalanced his narrow waist and muscular biceps that bulged beneath his skin, flowing seamlessly into veiny forearms. Dark curls of hair stretched downwards from his brawny chest, over his chiselled abs and disappeared into the denim waistband of his wranglers.
To pair with that irresistible body, was a charmingly rugged face. Thick, untamed eyebrows cast a shadow over his piercing hazel eyes, while dense sideburns traced the sharp angles of his jawline. His short, spiked hair flared into two distinct tufts on either side of his head, adding to his wild, primal look.
"-Logan! I'm coming!" The voice screamed. Since this all began, you found yourself feeling rather bitter. Not only was it rude and annoying but from what you managed to pick up, most nights they would be playing out the very type of fantasies you'd always had but never got the chance to experience.
You let out a heavy sigh, feeling that excitement slowly pool in your lower stomach. You knew this would end soon, Logan seemed to have quite the routine, so your impending neediness wouldn't go any farther.
His partners were usually dead silent for the rest of the night, presumably busy sleeping off the intense sex, which made the inconvenience somewhat tolerable. The only time they would potentially disturb you again was as they made their exit down the stairs the morning after. You could catch glimpses of them as they passed in front of your kitchen window, usually around the time you'd be having your coffee.
From the looks of it, he had a type: girls your age. They'd always be dressed in last night's skimpy outfit, with knotted hair, but somehow still looked gorgeous. As they stumble their way to the taxi at the edge of the driveway. You'd observe them closer pressing up the glass, often spiking your jealousy.
The first few you had laid eyes on made you snicker a jaded"How original." But you were well used to it by now.
Logan was your typical walking mid-life crisis; Bringing home adventurous young women, fucking their brains out, sending them away in a yellow chariot and never talking to them again. From the frequency of these one-night stands it looked as if he was trying to satisfy a hunger he couldn't seem to fulfill. Almost like preparing for hibernation.
He was living the bachelor life that men his age could only dream of having, but there was something about the whole routine that felt...off. It was as if every conquest left him more empty, more distant and detached from everything and everyone around him. It wasn't just women that Logan indulged in, he was also a heavy drinker. You could tell by the recycling bin, always overflowing with liquor bottles, and the fact that the few times you'd been to The Black Lodge—the only bar in small-town Burns, Alaska—you had seen him there
You watched from your bar stool, careful to remain unnoticed. The brief exchanges between him and the bartender made it clear he was a regular—no need for small talk, just an easy, practiced silence. Logan's eyes, however, never lingered on the glass of neat whiskey in front of him. Instead, his gaze swept over the crowd, scanning for his next target, his posture relaxed but predatory. Despite his intimidating exterior, there was something magnetic about the way he worked the room, luring them in with lustful glances. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was built to win.
His trophy shelf was overflowing, yet there was no trace of happiness in Logan’s eyes.
You couldn’t help but wonder if this was the Logan everyone else saw—rough around the edges, careless, chewing through women and booze as if they were nothing more than fleeting distractions. Or was there something deeper, a hidden tenderness that only emerged behind closed doors? He never had family or friends over, just a revolving door of women. His life seemed lonely, private, and it made you wonder what demons gnawed at him when the nights grew quiet and the distractions faded away.
Was it trauma?
Regret?
Or just the inevitable realization that his time was running out?
A part of you cared and wanted to be there for him, but it wasn't as simple as ringing his doorbell, he was unapproachable. During the few interactions you shared, he made it unmistakably clear that he had no interest in forming any kind of relationship with you. His responses were dry and curt, laced with a dismissive tone that cut down any hope of connection. Each word felt like a brick wall being built between you. He practically didn't look at you the entire time, keeping his eyes focused everywhere else but on yours. You couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment with every exchange, it was as if he was purposefully keeping you at arm's length.
Through your confusion, you understood why. You weren't what he was interested in, you couldn't contribute to his unfaltering hunger. You were more than happy to not be categorized with what he'd bring home from the bar, but a slight part of you wished that for one night, you would be.
The selections were slim in Burns and you were newer to the area, which made it impossible to call for a late-night booty call, unlike him. It had been a long time since you'd last been with someone and the constant exposure to Logan's fruitful sex life made you grow needier by the day, which is where your obsession initially formed.
It began with something small, almost too innocent to notice. You found yourself paying closer attention to his everyday routine, drawn by curiosity. You’d glance out the window to check if his motorcycle was parked in the yard, and when you heard the faint sound of his footsteps starting the day, you’d instinctively check the clock taking mental notes of his wake-up times.
Before you knew it, your interest had evolved into something deeper, something far more personal. You began noticing his trash in your shared waste bin; discarded remnants of his life blending into your obsession. At the liquor store, you found yourself buying the same brand of beer he preferred, curious to experience the taste that would linger on his lips if you kissed him. At the supermarket, you began to choose the same detergent, not for practical reasons, but to breathe in the scent that clung to his skin.
There was a day that he left his Johnny Cash shirt outside. He tossed it on the ground carelessly after working up a sweat while fixing something in the yard. When he left, you ran out and took it. As your compulsion grew, so did your need for closeness to him. The shirt became more than just a relic of him—it was a trigger.
You began wearing it late at night, feeling its used fabric against your skin. While the sounds of him having sex filtered through the thin walls. The rhythmic creaking of his bed upstairs, the faint moans, you’d inhale it deeply, lost in his scent. You'd thrust your fingers deep inside of you, following along with his rhythm, imagining it was him inside you—picturing how Logan would take control, filling you with the intensity you longed for. In those moments, it was as if he belonged to you, even if just in fantasy.
Your cheeks flushed red as you listened along, It was become too much to handle. You unmuted your episode and got up, needing to find some distraction.
"It’s almost over," you told yourself, trying to ignore the urge to grab his shirt and take care of things right then and there. Instead, you walked over to the unpacked boxes in the corner of your living room, hoping to find a distraction.
As you opened the cardboard, you started sifting through the mismatched stuff crammed inside. Your fingers brushed against something soft and bristly, sparking your curiosity. You tightened your grip and pulled it out for a better look. To your surprise, it was an old wig from a Halloween costume—vivid and wild, a memory you had almost forgotten.
The faint sounds you were trying so hard to ignore managed to slip through anyway, sparking a devilish idea as you twirled the wig in your hands. You were going to get his attention, whether he liked it or not. A mischievous grin spread across your face; this could be your way in. It was time to shake things up and show him a side of you he hadn’t seen yet.
It was the next day, and you knew for sure that Logan would be at that bar, just like he was every Thursday. You stepped inside, adjusting the wig discreetly, tucking away any hint of your natural colour, determined to become someone new for the night. This was a wild idea, but desperate times called for bold measures. You were dying for some relief and he was the only remedy for this ache you couldn’t shake.
The bar buzzed with energy, a lively crowd which meant you had competition. But tonight, you were set on one thing: going home with him, and anyone else.
You’d dressed the part—skin exposed, tight-fitting clothes that hugged your curves just right, making you feel both powerful and vulnerable at the same time.
You scanned the bar, your heart racing as you spotted him in his usual seat. The moment you walked in, his eyes locked onto you, holding your attention captive. You averted your gaze and took a shaky breath, your feet guiding you across the room, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Pretending not to notice his gaze, you played coy, an enticing smile dancing on your lips. You slid into the seat across from him and reached for the black menu that lay before you, feigning interest in the options. Your eyes traced the words, but your mind was elsewhere—focused on the weight of his stare and the electric tension building between you.
The bartender approached, and you quickly ordered the first thing your eyes landed on, feeling a rush of nerves. You folded the menu neatly, deliberately turning your attention to the crowd, avoiding his gaze, you weren't playing his game, you were playing yours. The thrill of the chase sent a shiver down your spine. The bar chattered around you, laughter and conversation creating a lively backdrop as you focused on maintaining an air of nonchalance, even as you could feel his eyes on you, studying you with that intensity.
A beautiful stemmed glass slid in front of you, snapping your attention to your hands. You mumbled a thankyou and you took a sip, savouring the sweet burn as it slid down your throat. It gave you a moment to gather your thoughts. Just as you were about to steal a glance his way, you noticed from your peripheral that he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. That confident look told you he knew exactly what you were doing.
"Nice wig," he said, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the noise of the bar like a knife. The compliment sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, but you kept your expression cool, shooting him a sidelong glance as if you were just as unfazed by him.
“Thanks,” you replied, forcing a casual tone. “Just thought I’d switch things up a bit.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. The game was on, and you were ready to play.
Logan leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “It suits you, it's different.”
You felt a thrill at his words, the compliment warming you in ways you hadn’t anticipated. You kept your composure, but inside, your heart raced. “I like keeping things interesting,” you replied, matching his playful tone.
The atmosphere around you shifted slightly, the crowd fading into the background as you locked eyes again. The moment felt charged, filled with unspoken possibilities. You could sense the magnetic pull between you intensifying, and it was exhilarating.
He took a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. “Well, you're doing a good job of doing that."
You smiled, feeling a rush of confidence. “It's just a little bit of fun for a Thursday night. What about you? Same old routine, I bet?”
His smirk widened a glint of challenge in his eyes. “You could say that. But maybe I’m looking for something different tonight.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, sending a thrill of anticipation coursing through you. This was the moment you’d been waiting for. You leaned forward, pushing your breasts together. “Well, that's hard to imagine. What’s your idea of different?”
Logan’s eyes dropped to your cleavage. “How about we take this conversation somewhere a little more private?” His voice was low, rich with promise, and it sent a jolt of anticipation through you.
You raised an eyebrow, feigning casualness even as your heart raced. "And where would that be?”
He chuckled softly, a deep, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “How about the upstairs at your place?”
The two of you made your way up the narrow staircase, the familiar creak of the wooden steps echoed in the silence. You could feel the heat radiating off him, each step heightening the anticipation of what was to come. You both reached his door, and his keys jingled as he unlocked it.
The door swung open, and you stepped inside as he held the door open for you. The soft light from his living room illuminated the space, casting warm shadows that danced along the walls. The place was surprisingly tidy, with the scent of cedar and booze lingering in the air.
Logan followed you in, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click that sent a thrill down your spine. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, his voice low and teasing.
You didn't know what you expected but it wasn't this. You took in the details of his space—artwork hung at odd angles, a well-worn couch sat invitingly in the center, and an empty whiskey glass perched on the coffee table. It was comfortable, lived-in, and spoke to the kind of man he was.
“Nice place,” you said, trying to sound casual, but your pulse quickened as you caught the intensity of his gaze. A beat passed.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, a hint of seriousness threading through his playful tone.
Your heart raced at the implication of his question. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” you replied biting your lip, voice steady from a boldness surging through you.
Logan smirked, his expression shifting from playful to something more primal and dark.
“Good. Because I don’t plan on holding back. Gotta teach you a lesson after all,”
Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you, backing you against the wall with a firm press of his body. The warmth of him enveloped you, and you felt your breath hitch as he leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from yours. As he grabbed your face, his calloused fingers dug into your cheeks roughly, parting your lips open.
“I know you took my shirt, you fucking freak,” he murmured, his voice thick and husky.
You were unable to form words as you felt the threat of what was to come flood your senses. Your heartbeat stammered in your rib cage, fear overcoming you but there was a thrilling undercurrent of excitement that was hard to ignore. Logan’s intense gaze held you captive, and the edge in his voice sent the tension crackling in the air between you.
“You didn’t think I’d notice?” he continued, a low chuckle escaping his lips, laced with a hint of danger. “A man owns about three good shirts and is bound to notice when one goes missing.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, making your breath hitch again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to respond.
“You’ve been watching me,” he stated, his voice dropping even lower. “Spying on me like some lovesick teenager. It’s cute, but it’s also… a little sick.” The intensity in his gaze softened slightly, a flicker of something deeper behind his fierce exterior.
You swallowed hard, the words caught in your throat. “I—”
“Save it,” he interrupted, his grip tightening around your jaw just enough to keep your attention focused on him. “Don't give me excuses. Tell me why.”
The question hung in the air, heavy and charged. What could you possibly say that would explain the tangled web of emotions and desires that had led you here? His proximity was intoxicating, and the conflict between fear and yearning made your head spin.
“I... I just wanted to understand you,” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I hear you with the women you bring home... and I want that. ”
Logan's smile grows somehow even darker. "So ya' got all dressed up for me because you want me to fuck you like I do with the others? That right, sweetheart?"
The only thing you could do at this moment was give him an eager nod, the ache between your legs growing shamefully larger by the second.
“I’ll give you what you want kid', but you need to know something first.” He paused slightly, the air between you thick with tension.
“I’m the best at what I do, and I don’t do it very nicely.”
cliff hanger I know, but i'm such a slut for teasing.
