pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader
summary: Logan teaches you his mother's cooking tricks and the xmen are begging for another bowl.
word counts: 1.3 something
warnings/tags: xmen team, soft logan, bantering, cooking with logan
A/n: oh to be loved and to be fed by Logan, god send me his doppelganger.
Logan masterlist Series masterlist
It started in the east wing.
Rogue was the first to wrinkle her nose, pausing mid-conversation with Kitty. She sniffed again. “Do y’all smell that?”
Kitty blinked. “Smell what?”
“That. Like—like roast or somethin’. Meat. Real food. Not Hank’s protein shakes.”
Kitty paused. Inhaled.
“Oh my God, I do. Is someone cooking?!”
By the time they reached the corridor outside the library, they weren’t alone. Bobby had joined them, his nose twitching like a bloodhound.
“This isn’t just a normal cooking,” he said gravely. “This is... transcendent.”
It didn’t take long for word to spread.
Kurt teleported in with a bamf, looked around wide-eyed, and said, “Is there… stew?”
By the time the smell reached Charles’s study, there was a full-on parade down the hallway, people following their noses with desperate, wide-eyed hunger and mild betrayal.
“Who’s cooking and why haven’t we been invited?” Jubilee whined as they turned the final corner toward the source.
Storm joined in with a regal sniff. “That’s not just stew. That’s been slow-cooked. For hours.”
“Where’s Logan and Lumen?” Scott asked suspiciously.
“Probably smooching in their bed, forget them! Let's go to the kitchen before the food are gone.” Bobby ran to the stairs.
—-----
“I still don’t understand how you make it so good,” you said, arms crossed, hip leaning against the counter, watching Logan chop onions. “Same ingredients. Same steps. Mine tastes like a sad cafeteria lunch. Yours tastes like a holiday.”
Logan didn’t look up. “’Cause you baby it too much.”
“Excuse me?”
“You stir it too often. Pot roast ain’t needy. You let it sit, let the flavors marry. That’s what Ma used to say.”
You gave him a look. “Your mother taught you this?”
A gruff nod.
“She also used to whack me with a wooden spoon if I didn’t clean as I cooked. So if you’re gonna hover, hand me that towel.”
You rolled your eyes and tossed it at him, only for him to snatch it mid-air with mutant reflexes and smug flair. The kitchen smelled heavenly already—sautéed garlic, caramelized onions, beef browning in a heavy cast iron pot. The kind of smell that felt like home and made your stomach growl two hours before it was appropriate.
“No wine, right?” you asked, leaning in to peek at the counter.
“Nope. She never used it,” Logan muttered as he reached for the beef broth. “Didn’t like the taste of it in food. Said it made everything taste woozy afterwards.”
You snorted. “So what’s the secret, then?”
He tilted his head. “Brown sugar. Just a touch. With Worcestershire, tomato paste, and a little mustard powder. Gives it tang. But only if you do it in the right order.”
You squinted at the spice line-up. “This sounds made up.”
“Think I’d lie about roast?”
“Yes.”
He smirked. “That’s fair.”
You moved closer, brushing against his arm as you handed him a the mustard powder. “Teach me, then. Properly.”
So he did. With gruff instructions, calloused hands that were surprisingly gentle when he helped you press the garlic, and quiet little hums as he threw in a bay leaf like it was some kind of sacred ritual. The house began to fill with the low, warm smell of broth bubbling and meat melting into tenderness.
“You know,” he said after a beat, lowering the heat on the stove, “I never used to cook this for anyone.”
You blinked. “Not even for the others?”
“Hell no. You think I’d waste Ma’s roast on Beast who live on Cheetos?”
You laughed too loud at that. “That’s so mean.”
“Not if it’s true,” he muttered.
—----
“Back up—back up,” Logan growled, elbowing Bobby away from the stove. “It’s hot. You touch the lid again and you’re losing a finger.”
“I was just—” Bobby held his hands up like he’d been caught in the middle of a crime scene. “I wasn’t gonna touch it. I was just… appreciating the aroma.”
“You were hovering like a damn vulture.”
“Because you’re hoarding heaven in a pot,” Jubilee said, half-sitting on the counter, her eyes shining as steam curled from the dutch oven.
You sipped your tea in the corner and bit your lip to keep from laughing. “We’ve reached DEFCON 1, Logan. You might need to start dishing it out before they start sharpening forks.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Should’ve cooked this in the woods."
But he didn’t stop. He ladled the thick roast—beef so tender it barely held together, nestled in rich gravy with potatoes, carrots, and caramelized onions—into bowls like a grumpy bartender pouring drinks after hours.
Jean entered next, holding a book in one hand, nose in the air. “Who lit the smell alarm?”
“My Ma’s roast,” Logan said dryly, handing a bowl to Ororo, who looked at him like he’d handed her a sacred relic.
Jean closed her book slowly. “You cooked?”
“Yes,” you said brightly. “And he didn’t kill anyone.”
“Yet,” Logan added.
Jean smirked and floated over. “Do you take compliments or just grunts and threats?”
“Depends on the day.”
Scott, peeking the stove near the coffee machine, raised an eyebrow. “He’s never cooked for us.”
“You’re not special,” Logan grunted, without missing a beat.
The room howled with laughter.
You stepped around the fridge to grab more napkins, only to turn back and see Logan scooping an extra-large helping into a bowl and sliding it toward you with the most casual, completely-not-a-softie move imaginable.
“For you,” he said.
You blinked. “That’s… that’s a double portion.”
“You helped.”
“I stirred one time.”
“And you didn’t cry when the onions hit.”
“Progress,” you said, smiling. “I’m growing.”
He gave a small grunt. “’Bout time.” But there was warmth in it. That rough-edged fondness he always tried to hide behind sarcasm and grumbling. He didn't look at you directly, just down into his bowl like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You didn’t call him out on it. You just sat beside him, thigh brushing his, your bowl nestled in your hands.
Everyone had found a seat, either at the island or half-squatting on stools, or even sitting cross-legged on the floor like it was story time at mutant kindergarten. There was a moment of pure silence as they dug in.
Then came the chorus:
“Holy shit,” from Bobby.
“This is better than Thanksgiving,” muttered Kitty, already halfway through her carrots.
“I’d trade my entire comic book collection for this,” said Kurt reverently.
You leaned over to Logan. “You hearing this?”
He didn’t smile.
Not exactly.
But you saw it—barely there, tugging at the corner of his mouth like a well-earned secret.
“It’s just roast,” he said.
“Sure,” you whispered, bumping your shoulder into his. “And you’re just a grumpy janitor.”
He side-eyed you. “Don’t push it.”
You let yourself relax, soaking in the warmth of the food, the laughter, the sounds of your strange little found family gathered around a battered kitchen table. It felt like something carved out of a simpler time. Just… living.
Later, long after the roast was demolished, when most of the crowd had dispersed in food comas, Logan stayed behind, leaning against the counter with arms folded, watching the last curls of steam fade from the pot.
You crossed to him and nudged his hip with yours.
“You fed the entire mansion today,” you said softly.
He grunted. “Didn’t mean to. I was cooking it for us two only.”
“You did it anyway.”
He glanced at you, then down at his hands. “Ma always said food’s how you tell people you give a damn. Didn’t think I’d end up doin’ it for… this many people.”
“You made everyone feel at home.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there. You could feel it—the weight in his chest, heavy and quiet. You didn’t press. You just slid your fingers between his and gave a squeeze.
After a long pause, he murmured, “Next time… I’ll teach you how to make her biscuits.”
You smiled.
“And her chocolate fudge,” he added. “If you’re brave enough.”
“Oh, I’m brave, with my personal chef now.. i think i can make bubble sugar.” you said, grinning as you leaned into him.
Logan as a History Teacher [in public school] AU Oneshot
pairing: Logan Howlett!history teacher x fem!Art teacher reader
summary: Grumpy history teacher Logan and chaotic art teacher you can’t go five minutes without bickering—over coffee, glitter, or who’s ruining whose class. The whole school swears you’re secretly dating.
word counts: 9k hahaha who would read this one shot this long
warnings/tags: enemies to lovers ish, banter, empty threats, secret pining, teachers in public school, DoFP Logan, he kept his mutant a secret.
a/n: this is my first AU since a few of you like the short fic, your wish is granted, here is the one shot of Logan history teacher AU. Not much of teaching sessions in school but most of the plots centers the pair banters.
request open Logan masterlist
The faculty lounge was always a battlefield: stale coffee, stolen lunches, and teachers desperate for five minutes of peace before the next round of chaos. Logan had claimed his spot by the counter, pouring the last of the coffee into his chipped mug like a man at war.
That was when you walked in—bright scarf, messy bun, still dusted in streaks of paint from class. You stopped dead at the sight of the empty pot.
“Oh, come on.” You threw your arms up. “Logan, again? Do you have some kind of sixth sense for when I need caffeine most?”
Logan didn’t even flinch, just took a slow sip. “First come, first served. Maybe if you didn’t spend your mornings finger-paintin’, you’d beat me to it.”
“Finger-painting?” You scoffed, dropping your planner onto the table with a thud. “That’s called art education. You know, the thing that teaches your students creativity, empathy, expression—basically everything your history class crushes out of them.”
He turned, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Creativity don’t help when they gotta pass exams. My kids walk out knowin’ who started the Peloponnesian War. Yours walk out knowin’ how to glue macaroni to paper.”
There was a loud snort from the math teacher in the corner. You ignored it, leaning across the table until you were inches from Logan’s scowl.
“At least my students don’t need therapy after I grade their work.”
Logan raised a brow. “Funny. Thought therapy was half the point of art.”
“Oh, please,” you shot back. “Your class is just yelling about dead guys until the bell rings.”
“Better than babysittin’ teenagers playin’ with glitter.” He gestured vaguely at the smear of paint on your scarf. “Or are you the one playin’ with glitter?”
The science teacher coughed into her mug to hide her laugh. Someone else muttered, “God, just kiss already.”
You both froze.
Logan scowled. “Who said that?”
Nobody answered. The lounge was dead silent, except for the sputtering coffee machine trying to brew another pot.
You straightened, grabbed your planner, and shot him one last glare. “One day, Logan, you’re going to choke on that smug attitude of yours.”
He shrugged, heading for the door. “Better than chokin’ on glitter.”
The door slammed behind him, and the room exhaled all at once—half the staff snickering, half pretending they hadn’t been watching like it was prime-time TV.
You snatched up your planner, shoved your chair back with a scrape, and marched after him.
“Logan!”
He was halfway down the hall, mug in hand, walking like a man immune to authority, deadlines, or common decency. He didn’t stop.
“Don’t ‘Logan’ me,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Ain’t my fault you can’t handle a little caffeine shortage.”
You jogged to catch up, your shoes squeaking on the linoleum. “Little? That was the last cup. Do you even know what I deal with before 9 a.m.? Clay exploding in the kiln. Watercolors spilling on essays. Teenagers wielding glue guns like medieval weapons. I need coffee.”
He grunted. “Sounds like your problem, not mine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet—” he took another sip, “—still here, teachin’ history and drinkin’ coffee like a champ.”
You made a dramatic gasp, clutching your chest. “History champ? Oh, congratulations. Truly inspiring. Did you also win gold in the Grumpy Old Man Olympics?”
That got him to stop. He turned, glaring down at you with that infuriating half-smirk. “Better than winnin’ the Messy Art Teacher Pageant. Congrats on first place, by the way. You got paint on your shirt too. Again.”
You glanced down, cursed under your breath, then glared right back. “Better paint on my shirt than nothing in my soul.”
A group of sophomores walked by, slowing down to watch. One of them whispered, “Oh my God, they’re fighting again.”
Logan caught it. You caught it. And for a split second, both of you turned in perfect unison and barked, “Get to class!”
The kids scattered like pigeons.
You looked back at him, annoyed but also… annoyingly amused. “Truce until the bell?”
He raised his mug in mock salute. “Fine. But I’m not makin’ another pot if its empty later.”
“Good,” you snapped. “I wouldn’t drink your bitter swamp water anyway.”
You walked off before he could reply, but you swore you heard him chuckle—low, rough, and smug as hell.
The hallway outside the faculty lounge was unusually quiet during lunch. No kids yelling, no lockers slamming—just the hum of the vending machine and the faint smell of cafeteria pizza.
You sat on the bench with your lunch Tupperware balanced on your lap. Half a chicken wrap sat inside, tragically abandoned mid-bite. You’d meant to eat, truly, but exhaustion had other plans. Within minutes, your head tilted back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.
That’s how Logan found you.
He stopped dead in his tracks, coffee mug in hand, staring. The so-called “paint tornado” of the school—the one who could fire back at him with sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass—was… snoring. Softly.
He glanced at the half-eaten wrap, then back at your slack jaw.
“…unbelievable,” he muttered.
Still, he didn’t move on. Instead, he leaned against the opposite wall, watching like you were some kind of wild animal that might spook if approached. One of your students rounded the corner, spotted you, and opened their mouth. Logan shot them a look so sharp the kid froze, nodded frantically, and bolted.
“Sleepin’ in the hallway, huh?” he drawled low enough not to wake you. “Real professional.”
You stirred, mumbling something incoherent. A smear of paint was still on your wrist from class, and the sight tugged something strange and warm in his chest. He shook it off.
When you finally blinked awake, it took a second to process the scene: your cold wrap, your Tupperware askew, Logan standing there with his arms crossed.
You groaned. “Oh, fantastic. My nap had an audience.”
“Not much of a nap,” he said, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You were droolin’.”
Your eyes went wide. “I was not.”
“Could’ve watered a plant with it.”
You shoved the Tupperware into your bag, mortified. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
He took a sip of his coffee, looking smug. “Highlight of my day.”
You squinted at him. “Don’t you have papers to grade? Dates to memorize? Dead people to worship?”
“Don’t you have glue sticks to sniff?” he shot back.
The bell rang before you could retort. Logan tipped his mug toward you like it was a hat brim.
“Try not to nap through class, Picasso.”
You threw him a glare over your shoulder as you walked off, muttering, “Better than teaching like a caveman.”
And damn him—he was still grinning.
Your classroom was chaos in its purest form. Paintbrushes clattered in water jars, paper scraps littered the floor, and at least two students had somehow managed to get more clay on their clothes than on the sculptures in front of them.
You stood in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, gesturing dramatically toward the whiteboard where you’d scrawled Expression = Heart + Technique.
“Remember,” you told your students, “art isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing what you feel. If you want perfect, go ask the math department.”
That earned a wave of laughter.
The door creaked open.
Logan leaned against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand like it was permanently glued there. He scanned the chaos with one eyebrow raised.
“Looks like a crime scene in here,” he said. “Did a paint bomb go off, or is this just a normal Tuesday?”
You didn’t even flinch. “Funny, I don’t remember inviting cavemen to my class. Did you get lost on your way to the faculty lounge?”
The kids snickered.
Logan’s eyes flicked to them, then back to you. “Your students always this messy, or you teachin’ ‘em bad habits?”
“Messy means they’re trying,” you shot back. “Unlike in your class, where breathing too loud gets you detention.”
That drew louder laughter from the students. One kid whispered, “She got him.”
Logan gave the kid a look that shut them up immediately, then smirked at you. “Don’t know how you deal with all this glitter and glue.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “One day I’ll sneak some into your classroom. Your beard would sparkle beautifully with a little silver.”
The kids lost it.
Logan muttered something under his breath that definitely wasn’t school-appropriate. He turned to leave, but not before tossing you one last jab.
“Don’t let ‘em eat the paint, Picasso.”
“Don’t let yourself choke on chalk dust, Grinch,” you called after him.
The door shut.
Your students immediately erupted into chatter.
“Miss, are you two, like… married?”
“Why do you always roast him?”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
You held up your hands dramatically. “Children! Focus! The only romance here is between you and your unfinished projects. Now sculpt!”
They groaned, but the sparkle in their eyes told you everything—you’d never hear the end of this.
The end of the school day left you drained. Your classroom looked like the aftermath of a hurricane—paint splatters, abandoned sketches, and a suspicious glitter trail leading straight out the door. You sank into your chair, staring at the email again.
Which, in Principal Drew’s world, meant: Be there, or expect guilt-trips until retirement.
You groaned, kicking off your shoes. The last thing you wanted was to sit at a long table pretending to enjoy lukewarm chicken while fielding small talk about standardized tests.
Worse—Logan would be there.
Just the thought of sitting across from his smug scowl made your skin itch. He’d probably show up in his usual flannel, scaring the new staff into submission. You could practically hear his growl: “What the hell’s a canapé?”
Still… you knew if you skipped, the whispers would follow. “Oh, the art teacher thinks she’s too good for staff functions.” And truthfully, a part of you didn’t want to give Logan the satisfaction of calling you a no-show.
So, after about thirty minutes of dramatic pacing, you pulled yourself together. Hair brushed, shoes swapped for something halfway presentable, scarf swapped for one without paint stains. You caught your reflection in the mirror and muttered:
“God help me if they seat me next to him.”
You arrived, looking around. The cheap restaurant reservation dinner space, tablecloths and little floral centerpieces that looked suspiciously like they’d come from the dollar store. Teachers milled about with plates and glasses of wine, trying to look more civilized than they did during morning coffee brawls. You sighed. Cheap skate Mr. Drew, the school principal and the school funds.
And there he was, the man you like to pick fight with.
Logan, at the far end of the room, sleeves rolled, hair somehow more disheveled than usual, holding a plate like he wanted to throw it out the window. When his eyes met yours across the crowd, that damned smirk appeared.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just great.”
You straightened your shoulders, grabbed a glass from the passing tray, and stepped in. If you were going to survive this evening, you’d need two things: patience… and wine.
You slid into the crowd, clutching your wine glass like a lifeline, scanning for an empty seat far away from certain plaid flannels and scowls.
Too late.
Logan was already striding over, plate piled high with enough food to shame the buffet line. He stopped in front of you, looking you up and down like he hadn’t expected you to scrub up decently for once.
Then his mouth curled into that infuriating half-smirk.
“I was prayin’ you weren’t comin’ tonight.”
You took a slow sip of wine, savoring the dramatic pause. “Funny. I was praying you wouldn’t either. Guess God doesn’t like either of us.”
A couple of teachers nearby choked on their drinks, pretending not to listen.
Logan grunted, leaning a little closer. “Suppose this means we’re both doomed.”
“Only difference,” you quipped, tilting your glass at him, “is I look good while doomed. You just look… grumpy.”
He glanced down at his flannel, clearly not caring, and stabbed a fork into his potatoes like he was threatening them.
Before you could retreat to a safer table, the principal’s voice rang out:
“Alright, everyone! Please take your seats—yes, assigned seating. You’ll find your names on the cards!”
You froze. Logan’s smirk deepened.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” you muttered, scanning the tables until your stomach sank. There it was. Your name card. Right next to his.
Logan leaned in, voice low and smug. “Looks like we’re dinner dates, Picasso.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the centerpiece flowers. “This is going to be the worst night of my life.”
He raised his glass of water like a toast. “Cheers to that.”
You hadn’t even touched your food before Logan leaned back in his chair, all smug satisfaction, and muttered just loud enough for you to hear:
“Relax, darlin’. You’re makin’ that vein in your forehead pop.”
Your fork froze mid-air. Slowly, you turned, voice low but venomously sweet.
“Don’t. Call. Me. That. Are you crazy? People will think we’re dating. And that is the last thing I want.”
Logan arched a brow, completely unbothered, and speared a piece of chicken. “Trust me, darlin’, you ain’t the prize I’d be braggin’ about.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh, tossing your napkin onto the table. “Unbelievable. You can’t even eat without being insufferable.”
Across the table, the chemistry teacher leaned over to the science teacher and whispered (not nearly quiet enough), “They bicker like an old married couple.”
Both you and Logan snapped your heads toward them in unison.
“We are NOT a couple!”
Half the table jumped. The principal cleared his throat, smiling just a little too knowingly. “Well, it’s good to see the staff bonding.”
You slouched back into your chair, cheeks burning, stabbing at your salad like it had personally wronged you. Logan was still smirking, of course.
“You know,” he said casually, “keep shoutin’ it like that, and people’ll start thinkin’ you’re overcompensating.”
You glared. “One more word, Logan, and I swear I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill this wine on your shirt.”
He leaned closer, voice low, almost amused. “Wouldn’t be the first stain you’ve given me, Picasso.”
Your jaw dropped. The whole table erupted into muffled laughter.
Worst. Dinner. Ever.
…
You told yourself you wouldn’t actually do it. You told yourself you had self-control, maturity, dignity.
And then Logan made one more comment.
He leaned over, fork tapping against his plate. “Careful with that wine, Picasso. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ clumsy in front of the boss.”
That was it.
Your elbow jerked, glass tipped, and in one horrifying instant—deep red wine cascaded across the tablecloth and straight down Logan’s shirt.
The table gasped in unison.
“Oh my God!” you clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “I—oh no—Logan, I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t,” he growled, rising from his chair as the wine dripped down his flannel. “Whole damn glass, right on me. Real subtle.”
The principal, bless his optimistic heart, tried to smooth it over. “Accidents happen!”
Logan shot you a look that said he was not buying it. At all.
You grabbed a handful of napkins and shoved them at him. “Here, blot, don’t rub!”
“Oh, now you’re an expert?” He snatched the napkins, glaring as he pressed them to his shirt. “This thing’s ruined.”
“Maybe it’s an improvement,” you muttered.
A couple of teachers nearly choked on their breadsticks.
Logan froze, slow-turning toward you. “What’d you just say?”
You pasted on your most innocent smile. “I said, uh… it’s a bold look. Wine red really brings out your… temper.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting a smirk, and shook his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re overdramatic,” you shot back, though your face was burning.
The science teacher leaned over to the math teacher and whispered: “They’re definitely dating.”
Both of you snapped in unison: “WE ARE NOT!”
The room erupted in laughter, leaving you and Logan glowering at each other across the mess of spilled wine and napkins.
Logan was still dabbing at his shirt, scowling like he’d just lost a fight with a bottle of Merlot. You sighed, leaning closer so the other teachers wouldn’t overhear.
“I got a spare clean shirt in my car,” you murmured, still holding a wad of useless napkins. “It was my brother’s. He wouldn’t care if it goes missing.”
Logan froze, glancing at you like you’d just offered him your kidney. “What, you keep men’s shirts in your car for emergencies now?”
You rolled your eyes. “Yes, because that’s my hobby—stockpiling laundry in the trunk. Just take the shirt, Logan. You look like a murder suspect.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Your brother’s shirt, huh? Not some ex’s?”
Heat shot up your neck. “Are you seriously interrogating me right now?”
He leaned in, wine-stained and smirking, like the world’s most irritating outlaw. “Just makin’ sure I ain’t walkin’ into somethin’ I’ll regret.”
“Trust me,” you hissed, standing up and snatching your car keys. “The only regret here is me ever sitting next to you.”
And still—still—he followed you out of the restaurant, grumbling, but not enough to hide the fact that he was actually going to wear the shirt you brought him.
The night air was cooler than you expected, a breeze tugging at your hair as you unlocked the trunk. The overhead streetlamp buzzed faintly, making the whole scene feel more exposed than you liked.
You pulled out the folded plaid shirt and turned, holding it out. “Here. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Logan didn’t even hesitate. He just grabbed it, set it on the trunk, and started unbuttoning his ruined shirt like he was standing in his own damn bathroom.
Your jaw dropped. “You’re not seriously—Logan!”
“What?” he grunted, stripping off the wine-soaked flannel and shrugging it off his shoulders. “Ain’t like anyone out here cares.”
“I care!” you hissed, spinning halfway around, shielding your eyes with your hand. “This is a school function. People could walk out and—oh my god, you’re actually—”
“Relax,” he drawled, voice dripping smugness as fabric rustled behind you. “Ain’t like I’m givin’ you a show.”
“That’s exactly what it looks like!”
He chuckled low in his throat, pulling the fresh shirt over his head. “Then stop lookin’.”
You peeked—of course you peeked—and instantly regretted it. Broad shoulders. Muscles you had no business noticing. That scar along his collarbone.
You whipped your head back around. “Unbelievable. No sense of shame whatsoever.”
Behind you, the new buttons clicked into place. Then his voice, closer now: “Better?”
You turned slowly. He was grinning, faintly smug, looking far too comfortable in your brother’s old shirt. And—dammit—it did suit him.
You crossed your arms. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, tugging at the collar. “Already planning how I’m gonna ‘accidentally’ spill soup on you next time. Fair’s fair.”
You glared. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t I?”
Logan tilted his head toward the parking lot exit, already halfway thought to leave. “C’mon, let’s ditch.”
You folded your arms. “I can’t ditch. I left my handbag in there.”
He blinked. “...You’re kiddin’ me.”
“No, I am not kidding,” you said firmly. “That bag has my keys, my wallet, and my entire dignity in it. I’m not leaving without it.”
Logan gave a long-suffering groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really think anyone’s gonna steal it in a room full of teachers?”
“Yes,” you shot back instantly. “Teachers are theft professionals. Have you ever seen the staffroom fridge?”
That finally cracked him. His shoulders shook with a laugh he tried to smother, but the smirk slipped through. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”
“Thank you,” you said primly, brushing past him toward the door. “Now come on. I’ve got dessert and a handbag to reclaim.”
Logan muttered something under his breath—sounded suspiciously like “stubborn woman”—but followed anyway, still tugging at the borrowed shirt like it was the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to him.
Logan leaned one arm on the car roof, giving you that lazy, scheming look that always made your blood pressure rise.
“I could just grab your bag and leave. Say you’re already drunk and I’m driving you home.”
You squinted at him. “Why do you want me to join you in leaving the party early? I literally want a cheesecake. It’s free.”
His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a grin. “Cheesecake? That’s what’s keepin’ you here?”
“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “Do you know how often the principal actually spends money on decent dessert? Once a year, tops. I am not missing it because you’re allergic to socializing.”
Logan huffed, muttering, “Cheesecake. Unreal.” He straightened, giving you a mock-serious look. “Fine, but when everyone starts whisperin’ about us sneakin’ back in together, that’s on you.”
You rolled your eyes, striding toward the doors. “Good. Maybe they’ll think you’re too busy dating me to keep scaring off the cafeteria ladies.”
He smirked, following right on your heels. “Oh, sweetheart, if I was dating you—”
“Don’t,” you cut in, glaring at him over your shoulder. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”
But the grin on his face said he absolutely would—eventually.
You pushed the door open with a little too much force, practically marching back into the dining hall. The chatter dimmed just a fraction—just enough for you to feel it.
Logan strolled in behind you, casual as ever, tugging at the cuff of the plaid shirt like he owned the place.
Mrs. Henderson, the librarian, spotted him first. Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. “Logan… weren’t you wearing blue before?”
Every head at the table swiveled.
You plastered on a smile that screamed nothing to see here. “I stained the shirt. It was a… wardrobe emergency.”
Mr. Patel raised an eyebrow. “And you just happened to have a spare men’s shirt lying around?”
You felt your soul leave your body. “It’s—not what you think—”
Logan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “She insisted I take it,” he drawled. “Said I’d look good in it.”
Your jaw dropped. “I did not!”
The table erupted in laughter, forks clattering, wine glasses raised like they were toasting.
Someone shouted, “Finally!”
Another added, “Knew it was only a matter of time.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I just wanted cheesecake,” you groaned.
Logan leaned down, voice low and smug. “Told ya they’d talk.”
You peeked at him through your fingers. “I hate you.”
“Sure you do,” he said, snagging a plate of cheesecake from a passing tray and setting it in front of you with a wink.
The night had finally coughed up its last awkward toast and polite laughter. Teachers trickled out of the restaurant in clumps, still gossiping about you and Logan. You didn’t care. Your stomach was stretched to its limit, heavy with pasta and cheesecake, and the only thing you wanted now was sleep.
You leaned against your car, arms wrapped around yourself, head tipped back. “I’m too full to drive,” you muttered, groaning softly. “If I move, I’ll explode. They’ll find me in the parking lot, cause of death: tiramisu.”
Logan came strolling up, hands in his borrowed plaid’s pockets, looking irritatingly unbothered despite being the subject of half the night’s rumors. “Told you to ditch.”
You cracked one eye open. “And miss three types of dessert? Over my dead body.”
He smirked. “Thought that’s what you just said happened.”
You let out a laugh, weak and muffled. “Don’t make me laugh. It jiggles the cheesecake.”
Logan shook his head, leaning on the car beside you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re smug.”
“Maybe. But I ain’t the one leanin’ against my own car like I need to be rolled home.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “Shut up. I’m savoring my victory.”
“Victory?” he echoed.
“I got my cheesecake,” you said proudly, eyes half-closed. “That’s a win.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. The quiet hum of the lot, the buzz of the streetlight above, and the warmth of his shoulder just a little too close—it all pressed in around you.
Then Logan chuckled low, glancing sideways. “Y’know, you’re somethin’ else.”
You smirked, without opening your eyes. “Don’t get poetic on me. I’m too full for compliments.”
He huffed, but stayed right where he was, shoulder brushing yours in the cool night air.
Logan tipped his head toward your keys dangling lazily from your fingers. “I could drive you home. We live in the same neighborhood.”
You cracked one eye open, squinting at him. “No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do,” he said evenly, like you were the one losing your mind. “I moved. Mid-year. It’s closer to school than my old place. Only fifteen minutes from my new lair.”
You straightened a little, suspicious. “Your lair?”
He smirked. “What else am I supposed to call it?”
“Uh, a house?” you shot back. “An apartment? Literally anything other than lair? People are going to think you’re plotting crimes in there.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
You rolled your eyes, still stuck on the first part. “Wait. Hold up. You moved? When?”
“Middle of the year.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Not exactly somethin’ I announce on the morning bulletin,” he muttered, giving you a sidelong look.
You frowned. “How come? It’s nosy neighborhoods everywhere around here. I thought you liked your old place.”
He was quiet for a beat, staring at the ground like the words weren’t his usual type. Finally: “Too far from school. Got tired of the drive. This place is easier. Quieter than it looks.”
That surprised you more than you cared to admit. You studied him for a moment, then smirked to break the tension. “So… what, should I expect to see you lurking around the corner store now? Brooding over cartons of milk?”
Logan snorted, shaking his head. “If I ever catch you in pajamas at the gas station, I’m takin’ a picture.”
You snort. “You wish I get out to get gas in my pyjamas.”
“Everyone does it.” he drawled, sliding you that infuriating grin.
You squinted at him, still leaning against your car. “Wait a second. Where’s your bike?”
Logan’s jaw ticked, eyes narrowing just slightly. “At home.”
“At home?” you echoed, incredulous. “Since when do you not roll up everywhere like you’re auditioning for Sons of Anarchy?”
He gave you a long look, then shrugged. “Can’t exactly park a Harley in a nosy neighborhood without everyone peekin’ out their curtains. Figured I’d drive a truck for once. Less questions.”
You grinned, unable to stop yourself. “So you’re hiding it. Like a secret girlfriend.”
His head snapped toward you, glare sharp. “It’s nothin’ like that.”
“Oh, it is exactly like that,” you teased, enjoying yourself way too much. “Poor bike, abandoned in the garage, wondering why you don’t take her out anymore—”
“Alright, enough,” Logan cut in, rubbing a hand down his face. “You makin’ fun of me, or are you always this dramatic when you’ve had too much cheesecake?”
You smirked. “Both.”
He muttered something under his breath—sounded like “smartass”—but you caught the faint twitch of a smile before he could bury it.
You barely noticed the jingle until your keys were gone. Logan twirled them around his finger like he’d won some kind of prize.
“Hey!” you protested, straightening off your car. “Give those back.”
“Nope,” he said, already unlocking the driver’s side. “You’re too full of cheesecake to drive. Last thing we need is you noddin’ off at a red light.”
You groaned, stomping around to the passenger side. “Unbelievable. I can drive just fine.”
“Sure you can,” he said, settling behind the wheel like he’d done it a hundred times. “You can also spill wine with pinpoint accuracy. Doesn’t mean I trust ya behind the wheel tonight.”
Sliding into your seat, you crossed your arms and huffed. “Thank you, chauffeur.”
He smirked, starting the engine. “Careful. Keep talkin’ like that, I’ll start chargin’ fares.”
You side-eyed him. “What, in sarcasm?”
“Nah,” he said, glancing at you with that irritating grin. “Cheesecake.”
You groaned, slumping back against the seat. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
And with that, Logan pulled smoothly out of the parking lot, looking way too pleased with himself.
The drive didn’t last long. You’d promised yourself you’d stay awake, maybe toss a jab or two at your so-called chauffeur. But the combination of full stomach, soft hum of the truck, and the faint vibration of the road lulled you under before you realized it.
By the time Logan pulled into your street, you were out cold, cheek tipped against the window, breathing even.
He killed the engine, the sudden quiet filling the truck. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at you like he wasn’t sure what to do with the peace.
You, quiet, wasn’t something he was used to.
The streetlight outside washed a faint glow across your face, softening every sharp edge of sarcasm he usually braced himself against. He caught himself thinking—dangerously—that you looked almost… easy to be around like this.
He leaned back in the seat, arms crossed, and let out a long breath. Could’ve shaken you awake right then. Didn’t. Instead, he waited. Gave you that time.
When you finally stirred, blinking groggily, he tilted his head toward your house. “Welcome back to the land of the livin’,” he rumbled.
You rubbed your eyes, catching sight of him. “Did I—? Oh my god. Did I fall asleep?”
“Out like a light,” he said, mouth twitching. “Didn’t even make it past the first stop sign.”
Mortified, you groaned, covering your face. “Fantastic. Real professional. My chauffeur probably thinks I drool in my sleep.”
He smirked. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”
You snapped your head toward him, wide-eyed. “Did I?!”
He only chuckled, low and warm, and nodded toward your door. “Go on. Before I start addin’ late fees.”
You were still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, fumbling for your bag, when Logan’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Come on,” he said, leaning an arm over the steering wheel, “don’t make me carry you inside.”
Your head snapped toward him, scandalized. “Excuse me?”
He gave a lazy shrug, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You look half-asleep still. Figured I’d save you the trouble of face-plantin’ on your own front steps.”
You scoffed, unbuckling your seatbelt with more force than necessary. “You are not carrying me. This isn’t some cheesy romance novel.”
“Could be,” he muttered, smirking as you froze with your hand on the door handle.
You whipped around. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing,” he drawled innocently, but his eyes glinted with mischief.
Rolling your eyes, you pushed the door open, mumbling, “I heard it,” as you stepped out.
He leaned across the seat, calling after you. “I’m serious—if you trip, I’m pickin’ you up. Won’t even hesitate.”
You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Try it, Logan, and I’ll dump a bucket of paint on your head next time.”
That earned you a low, satisfied chuckle that followed you all the way to your doorstep.
You slid your key into the lock, still muttering under your breath about smug chauffeur and cheesecake threats. The door gave its familiar little click—
And then came the crash.
A sharp, unmistakable thud from inside, followed by the sound of something toppling over.
You froze, hand still on the knob.
Logan was already moving. He straightened in an instant, shoulders squared, every line of him alert like a switch had flipped. “Stay here,” he muttered, low and firm.
You spun toward him. “Excuse me? This is my house.”
He shot you a look, fierce enough to pin you in place. “And if someone’s in there, it’s my problem now.”
Before you could argue, he brushed past you, pushing the door open with a cautious hand. His posture shifted—less school teacher, more predator.
“Logan—” you whispered, but he raised a hand, silencing you.
The air inside felt heavier somehow, every shadow stretched too long. He moved quietly, eyes scanning, muscles taut, like he’d done this a thousand times before.
You hovered at the doorway, heart hammering, torn between fear and the unsettling realization that you’d never seen him like this. Not just smug, not just irritating—deadly serious.
Another faint noise—something skittering deeper inside.
Logan’s jaw clenched. “Get your phone. Call police if I say so.”
You stiffened at the second sound, pulse racing… then squinted through the dim entryway. A flick of a tail, a sudden leap from the counter, and the culprit revealed itself.
“…No,” you exhaled, relief loosening your shoulders. “It’s only a cat.”
Logan paused mid-step, head tilting toward the blur of fur now perched smugly on your shelf. His gaze cut back to you, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Only a cat,” he repeated flatly.
“Don’t say it like that. She’s crafty,” you whispered, crouching to scoop the guilty little beast up before she could knock anything else down.
Logan stood there, arms crossed, watching you cradle the animal like it was a priceless artifact. His brows lifted. “So this is what had you ready to dive into a break-in.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You were ready to break someone’s neck over my cat.”
“Damn right,” he muttered, then looked away, clearing his throat like he’d said too much.
The cat purred in your arms, oblivious to the fact she’d just witnessed her owner’s favorite sparring partner nearly go feral over nothing.
You scratched the little furball’s chin and presented her like she was royalty.
“This is Snoofle. Snoof, for short. Very cuddly.”
Logan blinked at the cat, then at you. “…Snoofle?”
“Yes,” you said with complete seriousness. “She responds to it. Judge her, not me.”
He huffed out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Figures you’d have a cat with a ridiculous name.”
You hugged Snoofle tighter, lips twitching. “Don’t insult her. She has more charm than you.”
The cat, as if on cue, stretched one paw toward Logan like she was extending an olive branch. He eyed it suspiciously, then tentatively scratched behind her ear.
“…Soft,” he admitted reluctantly.
“See? Cuddly.” You smirked. “She likes you. That’s rare.”
Logan glanced at you, gruff but unable to hide the faintest grin. “Guess she’s got bad taste, then.”
You yawned, scratching Snoofle’s chin one last time before setting her down. She immediately circled Logan’s boots like she’d known him all her life.
You folded your arms, leaning on the doorframe. “It’s late. See you tomorrow at school.”
Logan looked down at the cat still purring against him, then back at you. “Your cat’s not lettin’ me leave.”
“She’ll survive.” You waved him off with a tired grin. “Go. Before she climbs your leg and you’re stuck here all night.”
He chuckled low in his chest, finally stepping back. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Goodnight, Logan.”
He gave you one of those crooked half-smiles, already walking away. “Night, Snoof. Night… trouble.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and you found yourself glaring at Snoofle.
“Don’t you dare fall for his act.”
She meowed. Which, unfortunately, sounded suspiciously like agreement.
Few weeks later.
You were shoving books into your bag, balancing your coffee like a pro, when Logan appeared in the doorway of the art room, leaning casually against the frame. His smirk was already in place, like he’d rehearsed it all night.
“Morning, Picasso,” he drawled.
You froze, glaring. “Don’t you dare.”
“Dare what?” He sauntered closer, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he owned it. “Callin’ me smug already? Or was that part of your morning ritual?”
“You know exactly what I meant,” you snapped, sliding your coffee onto the counter. “I mean don’t you dare call me that in front of students.”
He raised an eyebrow, grin widening. “Or what? You gonna throw that brushes at me?”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter. “Try me, Logan. One wrong move and this brush set becomes a weapon of mass destruction.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’d be a shame. I kinda like walkin’ around covered in your artistic disasters.”
“Don’t tempt me,” you warned, stepping closer. “Or I’ll start ‘accidentally’ tripping over your feet in front of everyone. Every day.”
He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping. “And if I start… catching you? What then?”
You smirked, tapping a finger against your temple. “Then you’ll have to deal with a full-scale vengeance campaign. Starting with your coffee tomorrow.”
His smirk didn’t falter. “Sounds… dangerous. I like danger.”
“Good. Then I’ll make sure your entire week is hazardous. Consider this a threat.”
“Noted,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I’ll be watchin’. You better be worth it, Picasso.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, tossing him a pointed glare before striding to your easel.
He lingered just a moment longer, smirk still in place, watching you go like a predator quietly enjoying the chase.
You were halfway across the classroom, arms full of sketchbooks, when his voice cut through like gravel dipped in smugness.
“Dinner with me?” Logan drawled, casual as if he was asking about the weather.
Your brain short-circuited. Feet tangled. And before you knew it—thud—one sketchbook hit the floor as you tripped over your own shoe.
“Smooth,” he muttered, bending down to pick it up before you could recover.
You snatched it back, cheeks heating. “Don’t. Say. Stuff. Like. That.” Each word jabbed the air like a dagger.
“What? ‘Dinner with me’?” He leaned on a desk, arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth. “You act like I just proposed marriage.”
“You might as well have shouted it through the school intercom!” you hissed, glancing at the door like a paranoid fugitive.
His smirk grew. “Relax. Not like the kids are listenin’.”
As if on cue, two passing students peeked in, whispering before giggling their way down the hall.
You groaned, covering your face. “I hate you.”
“Nah,” he said, voice low, with that infuriating confidence. “You just hate how much you’re thinkin’ about it now.”
You shot him a withering glare. “Threat still stands. Coffee. Tomorrow. Salt and rat poison instead of sugar.”
He chuckled, backing toward the door. “Better make it worth my time, Picasso. Friday night, seven.”
Before you could fire back, he was already gone, leaving you fuming—and dangerously aware your heart hadn’t stopped tripping since you did.
You nearly missed it—one break between classes, the hallway a thin ribbon of chatter and clattering lockers, and then Logan was at your table like he belonged there, two cold cans of soda clutched in his big hand.
He held one in front of you with that infuriating half-smile. “I’m serious, Picasso. Have one dinner with me. If it turns out shit, we won't talk about it ever again.”
You smack his arm before your brain could think better of it, the smack more theatrical than painful, then jabbed a finger into his chest and dragged him—yes, actually dragged him—into the small corner of your classroom that hid behind a stack of drying prints and a tall rolling cart.
The corridor noises muffled; the fluorescent light hummed; the smell of turpentine and wet paper wrapped around you like a familiar, messy blanket. “Shhh,” you hissed, voice low and sharp, because three passing sophomores had just slowed down and were obviously tuned to this exact frequency of drama. “Not out here, you idiot. We’re not a circus.”
He let you pull him until the corkboard hid most of him, and then tipped his head, soda can glinting.
“Fine. Corner of shame it is. But are you gonna say yes, or keep playin’ coy while you stew about dessert choices?” His gaze was ridiculous—serious and teasing all at once—and for a beat you forgot how to sound clever.
You crossed your arms, like armor, and recited terms with the solemnity of a treaty negotiator.
“One dinner. One. No tricks. No 'darlin’. You don’t bring it up at faculty meetings. If it’s awful, we walk away and pretend it never happened, and if it’s good—don’t get smug—then we’ll talk about it like normal idiots.”
You watched his mouth, waiting for the predictable scoff, the grab for leverage, the dramatic refusal.
Instead, he tipped the can toward you like a toast and his expression softened just enough to be dangerous.
“Deal. No ‘darlin’ in public.” He paused, then added in that gravel voice that scraped right across your defenses, “But if it’s good, I reserve the right to be smug in private.”
You rolled your eyes because of course you rolled your eyes, because of course he said that, but the tiny, traitorous part of you that loved the idea of being the cause of his smugness stirred and didn’t bother to hide.
“Fine,” you said, because you always did. “This Friday. We meet at seven, Jim Smoke House. And you’re buying dessert.”
He let out a sound that might have been a laugh, then bumped your shoulder with his in a faux-affectionate shove.
“Seven. Prepare to be underwhelmed.” He shoved the soda back at you as if that made it official and then turned to walk out, already slipping into the corridor.
You stayed in the corner a second longer, watching his broad back disappear between lockers, and somehow the room seemed a little less loud and a lot less lonely.
Friday night, you showed up early. Too early. The little restaurant you’d picked wasn’t fancy, but it had good cheesecake, and you’d convinced yourself it was the perfect middle ground: casual enough to downplay how much your stomach had been somersaulting all week, but nice enough to pass for a real date if anyone asked.
You sat at the corner booth, hair done, outfit picked after an embarrassing three outfit changes, and the soda can he’d handed you during break replayed in your head like a charm you couldn’t shake. This is ridiculous, you told yourself, drumming your nails against the table. It’s just dinner. It’s not even a real date. Just dinner.
The waiter came by once. Then twice. You ordered water just to look occupied.
Half an hour passed. Then an hour.
Your phone stayed stubbornly blank. No calls. No texts. Every minute your excitement soured a little more, like fruit left in the sun. The giddiness that had carried you all week curdled into a heavy, tight knot at the base of your throat.
By the time you finally stood, your legs stiff from sitting, disappointment burned hotter than any of your banter with him ever had. He hadn’t just been late. He hadn’t come at all.
No message. No excuse. Nothing.
You drove home in silence, every streetlight slicing through your windshield like it was exposing you. Like it was laughing at you. Snoofle met you at the door, purring, twining around your legs. You sank down on the floor, shoes still on, head pressed into her fur.
“Guess he thought it was funny,” you whispered.
Your phone buzzed once—just a junk notification. Still no word from him.
And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like sparring, or joking, or trading jabs. You felt… played. Like the punchline of a joke you hadn’t seen coming.
You switched your phone off, tossed it onto the couch, and muttered into the quiet, “Never again.”
Weekend, no news from him. Your mood worsen.
By Monday morning, his empty chair in the staffroom was impossible to ignore. Tuesday, the whispers started. it was like a game of hot potato—every teacher you passed seemed to ask you first.
“Any word from Logan?”
“You two are always at each other’s throats, don’t you know where he went?”
“Didn’t he tell you anything?”
At first you smiled thinly, deflecting with jokes. Maybe he ran away from grading papers. Maybe he finally lost a battle with the copy machine. Anything to keep your voice steady and your face neutral.
But by lunch on Wednesday, sitting in the lounge with your untouched sandwich, the dam cracked. A younger teacher leaned in, eyes curious, and asked, “So seriously—are you sure he didn’t tell you? You’re closest with him.”
Closest.
Something inside you snapped.
You slammed your Tupperware shut, the sound sharp enough to startle the poor girl. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t care where he is. And for the record, he’s not my responsibility. He’s a grown man who makes his own choices.” Your voice rose louder than you intended, brittle as glass. “So stop asking me like I’m his damn girlfriend.”
Silence swallowed the lounge. A couple of teachers looked down at their lunches; another suddenly found the bulletin board fascinating. Heat burned your face, your pulse hammering in your ears.
You shoved your bag onto your shoulder and stormed out before anyone could say a word. The hallway was blessedly empty, but your chest still ached with the weight of everything you hadn’t said.
He stood me up. He disappeared. And now you the fool who have to answer for him.
Snoofle would get an earful when you got home.
Thursday morning, just as you were pinning up a row of student sketches, you heard it. The gravel of his voice. Low, careless, too familiar.
“Morning, Picasso.”
Every muscle in your back went rigid. You didn’t turn. You didn’t breathe. You clipped the last sketch into place like he wasn’t even there.
He lingered in the doorway. You could feel him watching, could almost picture that infuriating half-smirk. “Nothin’? Not even a jab about my hair?”
You set the stapler down harder than necessary and crossed the room to grab another stack of work. Your silence was louder than shouting.
“Alright…” His voice shifted, softer now, like he wasn’t sure of the ground he was standing on. “I deserved that.”
You stacked the papers neatly, lined up the corners, anything to keep your hands busy and your eyes down.
He moved closer, boots heavy on the linoleum. “Hey—”
You finally looked up, your gaze cutting sharp enough to stop him mid-step. But instead of saying all the things that had been clawing your chest all week—Why didn’t you show? Why didn’t you call? Do you think I’m some joke to you?—you let the iciness in your eyes speak for you.
Then you brushed past him without a word.
The silence you left in your wake stung worse than anything you could’ve said. The last bell rang. You beelined to the door, with your handbag. Not forgetting the thumbprint time at the staff exit door. Screw him your heart screamed.
You didn’t even hear his truck behind you until you were fumbling for your keys at your front door. Then—his voice, close, gravelly, careful.
“Don’t—don’t shut me out like this.”
You spun, every wound from the past week bursting open. “Don’t you start like that. You vanish for days, stood me up at the damn restaurant, make me look like a fool in front of everyone, and now you follow me home? Are you out of your mind?”
He tried to step closer. You backed up, jabbing your finger at him like it was a blade. “Stay there, Logan. I mean it. You don’t get to just stroll back into school, throw a nickname at me, and pretend nothing happened!”
He exhaled, sharp through his nose, and in two strides he was past your defenses, pushing the door open, guiding you inside with a grip that was all calloused warmth and quiet force.
“Sit,” he growled, pressing you down onto the sofa. His hands bracketed yours, heavy and grounding, rough thumbs brushing over your knuckles like he was afraid you’d bolt.
Your chest heaved, fury bubbling hotter than embarrassment now. He crouched low enough to meet your eyes.
“Okay. Listen.” His voice softened, the growl thinning to gravel. “I’m sorry I stood you up. That’s on me. That’s a shitty part from me. But I had an emergency back at my family. I didn’t get a choice.”
You scoffed, bitter laughter tearing free before you could stop it. “That’s convenient. No call? No text? Not even a scrap of an excuse? Just gone? What, you expect me to swallow that and—what—pat you on the back for showing up now?”
His jaw clenched. He didn’t flinch at that jab. He let the words hit him like punches and stayed exactly where he was, his hands warm and steady around yours, like he’d decided he wasn’t letting go until you heard him out.
His grip tightened around your hands, steady but insistent. His eyes—harder than usual, darker—held yours like he was anchoring himself.
“I’m a mutant,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing how they sounded out loud.
You blinked. Then scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. “And I have magic hands that can paint. Very funny. Real original, Logan. You stand me up, disappear for a week, then come back spinning comic book excuses?”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just stared, every line of his face carved in stone.
The silence hit harder than his words.
“…You’re serious.” Your voice dropped, unsure now.
“I ain’t jokin’ about this.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, rough but careful. “It’s why I disappear sometimes. Why I screw things up. Why I couldn’t—hell, why I didn’t show that night.”
You pulled your hands back, hugging them to your chest like you’d been burned. “So what, you expect me to believe you’re some kind of… enhanced guy?”
His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Yeah. ‘Cause I am.”
The air thickened between you, your heartbeat loud in your ears, the part of you that wanted to laugh it off fighting the chill that ran down your spine when you realized he hadn’t even blinked.
Your breath caught, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Like the mutant…”
It landed heavy in the space between you. The news, the whispers, the politics—those mutants. The ones parents ranted about at school board meetings. The ones half the staff whispered slurs about in the break room.
Your knees felt weak, and you lurched to your feet, putting distance between you and him. “Oh god.”
Logan’s head tilted, eyes tracking you as you backed away. No smirk now. No smart mouth. Just quiet, bracing himself like he’d seen this scene a hundred times before.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, gravelly. “Like the mutant.”
You pressed a hand to your forehead, pacing a short line across your living room. “No. No, this is insane. You can’t just—drop that bomb like it’s nothing. You—” Your voice broke, sharper now. “You should’ve told me. From the start. Instead of… this.”
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze heavy. “Ain’t exactly the kinda thing you drop over coffee, darlin’. Don’t go down easy. Not for people like you.”
“People like me?” You snapped, spinning on him, hurt clawing under your ribs.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, weariness carved deep in the gesture. “Normal people. Teachers with neat little lives who don’t gotta hide half of what they are.”
Your throat tightened, words tangling somewhere between fury and fear.
Your voice cracked sharp, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run uphill.
“People like me? That’s rich. I ain’t like them. The ones that sit around at PTA meetings screaming about mutant kids in schools. Or the board members writing policies to shove you outta sight. You think…”
You swallowed, hard, words catching on the lump in your throat. “You think I hate you? Your kind?”
Logan’s brows knit, that unshakable mask of his slipping for the first time tonight. His mouth opened, then shut again, jaw working like he was chewing glass.
“Don’t matter what I think,” he muttered, gravel in his voice. “History’s taught me people don’t stick around long once they know.”
You stepped forward before you realized it, fists balled tight at your sides. “You arrogant ass. If I hated you, I’d have said it months ago. God knows you’ve given me enough reasons. But I don’t.”
For the first time since you’d met him, Logan looked caught off guard. Like he hadn’t prepared for this response—your anger, your disbelief, and the blunt edge of your honesty all tangled into one.
His jaw flexed, that familiar tight line when he was fighting something in himself. His claws hadn’t come out, but the weight of them sat between you, unspoken. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to yours, amber and raw, like they could cut through your anger if you let them.
“You really think I don’t know the difference?” His voice was gravel, low, edged with something that almost cracked. “I’ve smelled hate. I’ve lived in it. Waded through it ‘til it choked me. That ain’t what’s sittin’ in front of me right now.”
You swallowed hard, arms folding like a shield. “Then stop treating me like I’d break the moment you told me. I knew mutants are not all bad.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling rough. “Ain’t runnin’ from you… I was runnin’ from the mess that follows me everywhere.” His gaze softened, almost pleading. “But if you’re sayin’ you ain’t like the people who want to banish my kind… then prove it.”
"I thought mutant would be smarter than human... but you still slow at this, guess you're human with extra gene. That's all."
That earned a low, incredulous laugh from him, rough around the edges. He leaned back just slightly, shaking his head like you’d managed to punch a hole right through the storm brewing in him.
“Smartass,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it—just that rasping affection he never knew how to say straight. He leaned forward again, closer now, eyes narrowing at you. “So, what—you ain’t scared? Not even–..”
Before he could launch into another sarcastic retort—you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. Just a quick, sharp claim at first… and then a second, longer one when you felt him hesitate.
He froze for a heartbeat, hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Then a low, vibrating hum rumbled in his chest, vibrating right through your own heartbeat.
When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His amber eyes darkened, dangerous and warm all at once.
“You—” he started, gravelly and rough, but you silenced him with the tiniest brush of your finger against his lips.
“Still a man to me,” you warned, voice low, teasing, but your chest still racing.
He chuckled, a soft, almost feral sound that made your stomach twist in ways words never could. “Mmm… fine,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer, as if daring you to test him again.
Snoofle meowed loudly from the armrest, judging both of you. You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, letting the quiet hum between you linger, dangerous and sweet.
Your defiance melted the moment his lips pressed against yours again—this time slower, deeper, a kiss that demanded attention, that claimed every ounce of tension between you.
You leaned into him without thinking, letting the anger, the frustration, the week of disappointment and fear wash away. His hands framed your face now, rough, warm, grounding. Every brush of his thumb along your jaw, every press of his chest against yours whispered that he wasn’t just sorry—he was here, completely, and this was real.
A low hum vibrated through him, deep and satisfied, vibrating straight into your chest. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, letting the heat of him anchor you.
When he finally pulled back just slightly, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling, uneven, intimate. “Better?” he rasped, eyes soft but edged with that signature growl.
You smirked, heart still racing, feeling the warmth of his hands lingering on your skin. “Yeah… better,” you admitted, almost breathless, almost daring him to push further.
After that last, lingering kiss, Logan didn’t pull away completely. Instead, he cradled you against his chest, arms heavy and firm, like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip. Every rough edge of him softened in the way he held you—every muscle taut, yet careful, anchoring you as if you were the only thing keeping him steady too.
You let your head rest against his shoulder, heart hammering, every ounce of anger and tension from the week draining out in the steady beat of his chest beneath your ear. His hands cupped your sides, thumbs tracing absent patterns over your back, holding you like you were fragile, like you were all that mattered in the world right now.
“You… you’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice low, gravelly, almost a growl that carried warmth instead of warning. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face a little further into him. “You act like I’m about to dissolve.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to,” he muttered, tightening just slightly, enough to make the point without hurting. “Not ever.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled into his chest, though you didn’t move an inch out of his hold.
“Mm. Been called worse,” he grunted, chin resting on the top of your head. His hand slid up your back, warm and steady. “And you’re stayin’ put, so I’d say I’m winnin’.”
You tilted your head just enough to smirk at him. “Don’t get used to this. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to hating you again.”
His mouth quirked, a half-smile you almost missed. “Sure you will, Picasso. Sure you will.”
“Stop calling me that,” you groaned, smacking his chest lightly.
He chuckled, low and gravelly, squeezing you tighter like he was daring you to wriggle free. “Not a chance. Fits you too damn well.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t fight his hold, not really. “One day, Logan, you’re gonna choke on all that smugness.”
He leaned down, brushing his lips against your temple in a way that was too tender to ignore. “Worth it.”
And just like that, you knew—you’d never live this down ever.
Hope you guys love the ending but i think it a bit cliffhanger, no?? thinking of part 2 where you will meet the mutant students at Xavier's school... ugh.. need to write it tho- can you all just imagine the plots in your head HAHAHAHA
The sun was warm but filtered through tall pines, casting dappled shadows across the clearing. The cabin sat nestled between the trees, worn around the edges, but homey. Lived in. Quiet.
Logan had dragged you out here for some so-called “peace and breathing space.” You’d agreed, albeit suspiciously, because the last time he said that you ended up helping him fixing a leaky roof and chasing off racoons with a broom.
But today?
Today had started nice.
You and Logan had been sitting on the small stream river bank couple yards away from the cabin, feet dunked into the cold, clear stream that babbled lazily past. The water was shockingly cold even in July, but you didn’t mind. Your toes curled against smooth stones, and Logan leaned back on his arm. “Not bad, huh?” he muttered, eyes half-lidded behind dark lashes.
You hummed. “Almost makes up for the mosquito bites.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You brought me into a forest.” You fake a exhausted face.
“You said you liked nature.”
“I like air-conditioning more...”
He chuckled low in his chest, gave your foot a tug that nearly yanked you into the stream. You shrieked, kicked at him half-heartedly, and the sound of your laughter bounced off trees that had stood longer than either of you.
It was perfect.
Well…not really..
Until you tried to help.
Specifically; until you decided, against every single warning Logan had given you over the years, to chop the firewood.
“I’m perfectly capable,” you said, already marching toward the stack of logs and the very large, very sharp axe sitting on the stump.
Logan didn’t even look up from where he was crouched, fixing the water pump valve. “Don’t touch my axe.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“I am when it comes to weapons that could take your foot off.”
“Logan, please,” you rolled your eyes. “It’s just an axe. What’s the worst that could happen?” Raising the axe.
What happened was: you missed the log entirely, hit the edge of the stump, lost control mid-swing, and sent the axe soaring…..straight into the side of the shed.
THUNK!
The birds flew away. Even the stream sound seemed to quieten down. Logan looked up so slowly, turning his whole body like a guy who just heard someone talk shit about his mom.
You smiled sheepishly. “So... funny story.”
He walked over, pulled the axe free with one annoyed tug, and stared at the dented siding.
“I told you not to touch it.”
You crossed your arms. “I was trying to help!”
“You were tryin’ to maim our only damn tool shed.”
“I missed one swing.”
“You yeeted my axe.”
You gasped. “Did you just say ‘yeeted’?”
“I’m serious,” he grumbled. “Go away, go inside, sulk somewhere else. You just gave me an extra hour of work.”
“Oh, I’ll sulk,” you snapped. “And don’t expect me to talk to you until tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“Logan!”
That was mistake number one. He didn’t take you seriously and think you were just bluffing about sulking.
“That’s why I said to leave it—”
“I know…I heard you loud and clear.”
He raised both hands in surrender, still grinning. “You’re gonna break somethin’ next time, sweetheart. Might be the cabin. Might be yourself.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I am right and you know it. you’re banned from anything sharper than a kitchen knife from now on.”
That was mistake number two. Rubbing the salt to your mishap.
You didn’t say anything else. Just turned on your heel and stormed back into the cabin, where you proceeded to declare emotional war in the most passive-aggressive way possible.
Other words, you can be petty when you want to.
You made lunch.
But only his half was missing salt.
You made your favorite dessert and ate all of it.
You washed your plate and left his in the sink.
You curled up on the couch with a book and very obviously put your feet on his favorite blanket.
When he tried to sit beside you, you scooted over like he smelled bad.
He sighed dramatically. “You mad at me?”
Silence.
“C’mon, I was teasin’.”
More silence.
“Gonna make me beg, huh?”
You didn’t even blink.
By dinner, he’d tried three separate apologies — including offering to let you drive the ATV around the woods (you refused), taking over dishes while silly dancing (you ignored), and bringing you a wildflower crown he made out of sheer desperation.
That one almost cracked you.
Almost.
By the time the sun set and the cabin filled with the smell of woodsmoke and leftover stew, Logan found you curled up on the sofaby the fire, face illuminated by soft fire light. Still pretending he didn’t exist.
He stood behind you for a long minute, just staring. Then, finally…
“You know,” he muttered, voice rough, “I only tease you ‘cause I like the way you look when you get all riled up.”
You didn’t move.
“But I don’t like it when you’re quiet.”
Still, nothing.
“…I miss your mouth.”
A pause. “Not like that—well. Also like that. But mostly the way you never shut up.”
And that… that did crack you.
You turned just enough to glance at him, one brow arched.
Logan perked up slightly. “You smirkin’?”
“No,” you muttered, nose in your book. “Just picturing throwing the axe at you next time.”
He chuckled, moving closer until he take a seat next to you. “You win, alright? I’ll teach you to chop the firewood. Properly. With supervision.”
“And no teasing?”
He hesitated. “Limited teasing.”
You eyed him.
“…Fine. No teasing. Swear.” Logan exhaled.
You set your book aside and climbed into his lap like you hadn’t been ignoring him for eight straight hours.
He welcomed you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist like they belonged there, tucking his face into your neck with a quiet sigh.
“I still hate you,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But you hate me less when I’m warm and carry heavy things for you. And kissing you in bed.”
“…True.”
“Please add seasoning to my breakfast.” He murmured.
It was quiet now, you breathing slowed down into a calm rhythm. He smooches your temple, slowly stand up, carrying you with him.
Entering the bedroom, lying you down under the soft quilted cover. Brushing your hair after he takes off the hair tie and headband.
You were already sound asleep by the time he whispered, “Love you, honey.”
And he didn’t even mind that you hog all the blanket that night.
Between Sight and Silence ✿⛈/found family [completed]
summary: After years of hiding, you begin to find your place at Xavier’s—quietly, cautiously. Then Logan arrives. Gruff, guarded, impossible to ignore. You clash, you train, you resist what’s building between you. But something’s changing. Neither of you says it. Not yet. Only time will tell.
CAUTION !! Slowburn, very slow pace plots !!
Oneshots
Let’s leave Magneto to his Arts and Crafts ✿✴
summary: One fine day, Erik breaks Charles’s priceless heirloom during a shouting match with Logan— over you, of course. You walk in mid-macho meltdown, armed with sarcasm, a very personal flashback, and no sympathy for grown men throwing emotional tantrums near antiques.
I loved your stupid floofy hair! ✿⛈
summary: Logan gets a haircut. You collapse like it's a funeral.
Don’t Walk Away ⛈
summary: After Logan walks out following a painful fight, you wait– but he never comes back. When he finally does, it’s too late.
Too Late for Maybe ⛈✴
summary: You loved him quietly for so long, deep, unshakable, and impossible to hide. Everyone sees it. Even he does, through glances, through silences, even through ‘almost’ and ‘maybes’ he left behind. But when you finally confessed, Logan pushed you away, too afraid of what it meant and too broken to believe it could ever be real.
Echoes of Heart ✿ request
summary: Logan being hyperaware of the reader’s heartbeat, scent, nervous ticks, and using it to tease or corner. What if giving Reader the same power.
“You sure as hell know how to drain someone dry..” ⛈✴
prompt: 70's Logan with Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo (entry for rosenclaws one year anniversary)
"Get a clue will ya?" ✿ request
summary: oblivious reader makes Logan questions her brain fuction
She’ll always be with you ✿comfort/request
summary: dying pet and Logan comforting you
"Don’t Let ‘Em Eat the Paint, Picasso" ✿⛈
summary: Grumpy history teacher Logan AU and chaotic art teacher you can’t go five minutes without bickering—over coffee, glitter, or who’s ruining whose class. The whole school swears you’re secretly dating.
“You thinkin’ of runnin’?” ✿⛈
request #250withlokinks
summary: You almost left—sitting at the bus stop, watching buses come and go, wondering if leaving would free him or break him.
“I’m sorry… for leaving you at the altar.” ✿⛈
knight AU version
request #250withlokinks
summary: You almost left—sitting at the bus stop, watching buses come and go, wondering if leaving would free him or break him.
"Didn't save a pie for me?" ✿
Small town AU
request
summary: After a brutal fight, a wounded Logan collapses in a quiet forest and is taken in by a small-town local who knows nothing of mutants. Waking in a safe, ordinary home, he’s torn between feral suspicion and the disarming kindness of someone who sees only a man in need.
"This one belongs to me." ✿
request
summary: Jean is trying to get cozy with Logan in the common room but you shut her down quick and lecturing Logan turn into makeout session, traumatizing Rogue
Atlas in Disguise (comfort fluff) ✿ request
summary: Even the strongest people need someone to lean on. Sometimes it’s not grand gestures but quiet moments.
Drabbles
One Year with Him ✿
summary: Domestic life with Logan, in all its quiet, unexpected tenderness. In seasons.
"Weapon X?" "No. He is my husband." ✴
summary: When government agents try to reduce Logan to “Weapon X,” you step in, declaring him your husband—not a weapon, not their asset.
Paperwork, Patience, and Poor Life Choices (crack drabble) ✿ request #250withlokinks
summary: Logan find you in the kitchen, spraying the toaster.
Another baby cot ✿
summary: you try to put up another baby cot because Logan breaks them three times already
You tried to surpise Logan, but he knows.✿⛈
summary: Logan beat you to it from telling a big surprise... he gets emotional over the news
Drunk and stargazing ✿
summary: Drunk and stargazing your ceiling
“You’re real.” ✿⛈
request
summary: Logan wakes up shaken — he had seen a world where the reader didn’t exist. No soft voice patching him up, no half-rabbit nurse who always looks away shyly when he grumbles. When he returns to the mansion, seeing her alive hits him hard, and he can’t shake the feeling of how much emptier that world was without her.
pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader
summary: Bucky dropped by at the mansion and decide to ruffle both Logan and you until Logan start doubting your past with Bucky.
word counts: 1k
warnings/tags: Bucky Barnes/winter soldier cameo, xmen team, jealous logan, bantering, threatening but not on reader, sassy Bucky, doubting Logan
A/n: ohoho wrote a cameo Bucky in this series and i think i'm gonna write a new series of these 3 in future....
Request open
Logan masterlist Series masterlist
The first time Logan met Bucky Barnes, it was by accident. Charles had called in a favor. Something about temporary shelter, intel exchange, yada yada international cooperation—none of that mattered to Logan.
Because the moment Bucky stepped into the common room, black tactical gear still clinging to him like sin, you smiled.
Just a little too wide.
And Logan, who had been minding his damn business on the couch, suddenly went still.
"Who's the stray?" Logan asked flatly, not even pretending to be subtle.
Bucky, unfazed, extended a gloved hand with that annoyingly smooth nod. “James Barnes. You can call me Bucky.”
“I won’t.” Logan scoffed.
“Oh, you’re one of those,” Bucky said lightly, setting his duffel on the floor with a thud. “Short on words, long on claws.”
“Logan,” you said in warning, glancing between the two men. “Play nice.”
“I am playing nice,” Logan growled. “Haven’t stabbed anyone yet.”
Bucky glanced at you. “He’s cute when he threatens homicide.”
“He’s like this with everyone,” you deadpanned.
“I don’t mind,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Guy like this? Gotta growl to make up for the emotional repression.”
You stifled a laugh. Logan did not.
“So,” Bucky said, circling the room like a damn panther in combat boots, “this is where you’ve been nesting. Cozy. A little dark, a little dusty. You always did like your corners sharp.”
“It’s home,” you replied simply.
Bucky turned to face you, eyes twinkling. “You still keep that field knife under your pillow?”
Logan stood.
“Oh, for—” you muttered.
Bucky didn’t look away. “Kidding. Mostly. Though, I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t expect to walk into this. You and Wolverine, huh? That’s... one hell of a surprise.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “That a problem?”
Bucky held his hands up. “Not at all. You do look like someone who could use a lot of patience.”
You raised a brow. “So did you.”
Bucky chuckled. “Touché.” He stepped a little closer—not into your space, but just near enough to make Logan twitch. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I get the appeal. The gruff thing. The brooding. It’s like dating a thundercloud with abs.”
Logan’s fists clenched. “You tryin’ to get your jaw wired shut?”
“C’mon, man,” Bucky said. “I’m just talking. You remember what that is, right? Or does she have to translate your grunts for you?”
“Bucky,” you warned.
He turned to you, all faux-innocent. “I’m just catching up. You and I have history, don’t we? All those long nights, shared intel, stolen whiskey...”
Logan took a step forward. “You wanna walk out with your legs or in a bag?”
“I’ll take the legs,” Bucky said, tilting his head. “Though I think you’re projecting a little, Logan. All this puffed-up chest stuff—it’s not for me. It’s ‘cause you saw the way she smiled when I walked in.”
And that—that—was the final straw.
You stepped forward before Logan could.
“Alright,” you said, voice like ice wrapped in velvet. “That’s enough.”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“You had your reunion. You poked the bear. Congratulations. Now get the hell out of my living room.”
He held up a hand. “Okay, okay. I get it. Touchy subject.”
“I’m not a subject, Bucky. And this isn’t a joke.”
For once, he went quiet.
You folded your arms. “You came here for intel. You got it. Now respect the people in this house, or take your snarky commentary somewhere it’s still 2018 and charming.”
Bucky exhaled, a little slower. “Didn’t realize I was stepping on so many toes.”
“You weren’t,” Logan muttered. “You were tripping over your damn mouth.”
Bucky looked between you both, then gave a tight, slightly embarrassed smile. “Alright. I’ll go. Don’t want to overstay my welcome. Or end up with adamantium in my ribs.”
“Smart,” you said.
Later, when Bucky left and Logan was still scowling at the door like he could burn a hole through it.
The tension was thick enough to cut through with claws.
Even after Bucky had left, even after the door had closed with a final click that echoed through the foyer like a gunshot, you felt the weight of it pressing down on your lungs. You didn’t need heightened senses to know Logan hadn’t moved an inch. Not even to breathe properly.
He stood still—shoulders squared, spine rigid, his jaw so tight it looked carved from stone. There was no noise except the quiet hum of the hallway lights and your own pulse, which seemed far too loud in the silence.
You didn’t speak first this time.
You waited.
But when the silence stretched, painful and long, you exhaled and walked past him—slow, deliberate, controlled. Not to retreat. Just to give him space to follow, or not.
He did.
Eventually, he followed you to your shared room and closed the door behind him with more force than necessary. It wasn’t aggressive. It was restraint. The kind that trembles under pressure.
You turned to him.
“I didn’t expect to see him here either,” you said. “He must’ve been called in through SHIELD.”
Logan didn’t respond at first. Just started pacing. Like if he didn’t move, he’d explode from the inside out.
Then finally,
“How long were you working with him?” His voice was rough. Controlled.
You took a breath. “About a year. Off and on. It was field work, off the grid, high-risk. I was good at going invisible—literally and figuratively. He was good at keeping me alive.”
That hit harder than you meant it to.
Logan stopped pacing. He turned slowly, meeting your eyes.
“Better than I would’ve been?”
“No,” you said immediately, voice low. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into a competition. This isn’t about him being better. He was there when I didn’t think I was worth saving. You’re the reason I stopped living like I wasn’t.”
Logan looked at you like he wanted to believe that. Like it scraped against every deeply buried fear he still carried in silence.
“He looked at you like he still thought he had a shot.”
You looked away for a moment. “He probably did. For a long time, I didn’t give him a reason not to. But I never let him close, Logan. Not like you.”
There was silence again.
And then, quieter:
“Did you ever care about him?”
You hesitated, because you respected Logan too much to lie.
“I cared that he survived. I cared that he didn’t fall apart in the dark the way I almost did. That’s the kind of caring you feel for someone who went through hell beside you—but it wasn’t love. It wasn’t even close.”
He took that in slowly. Like it still burned a little going down.
“Funny,” he muttered. “Because when I saw the way he looked at you, I wanted to bury him in the yard.”
You snorted despite yourself. “We don’t have a murder yard, Logan.”
“We could make a murder yard.”
A beat passed, and then you both let out a reluctant, humorless laugh.
But the ache was still there. Underneath the tension, the old wounds, the pride and the history—there was still something raw. And real.
So you stepped forward.
Carefully.
“Do you know what scared me the most?” you asked. “When I saw him again?”
Logan tilted his head, waiting.
“That maybe I’d feel something. That I’d forget everything I’ve built with you. But I didn’t. I felt… nothing. Just memories. Old dust. Like walking through a burned-out house you once lived in, but you don't mourn it anymore.”
You reached up, brushing your thumb across the line of his brow.
“And then I looked at you,” you whispered. “And all I could feel was the life I have now. With you. The one that doesn’t feel like running.”
Logan’s breath hitched just slightly.
“You should’ve told me,” he said, softer this time.
“I know,” you murmured. “I wasn’t hiding it because I thought you'd be angry. I was hiding it because… that version of me? The one he knew? She scares me too. And I didn’t want you to see her.”
His hand came up, rested against your jaw, fingers rough and warm.
“I’ve seen all the versions of you. The soldier. The survivor. The one who screams in her sleep and pretends she doesn’t. The one who makes me eggs and sings off-key at 7AM.”
He leaned closer.
“I don’t want just the easy parts, honey. I want all of it. You gave me all of it. Don’t take it back now.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
And in that quiet space, you felt something unclench. A weight lift. Not completely. Not magically. But enough to breathe.
And when you opened your eyes, you found him still there.
“How do you kill something that’s already dehydrated?!"
pairing: Van Helsing x fem!reader
summary: You and Gabriel Van Helsing survive a chaotic mission in the Paris catacombs, fighting mummified corpses and arguing the whole way.
prompt: Location- Catacombs | Monster/Character-Zombie
word counts: 5k
warnings/tags: action comedy?? if you squint, monster hunting, gothic humor, indiana jones but in mummy vibe lol, banter, zombies, Carl thirdwheeling, estabilished relationship, fluff banter??
a/n: yay finally wrote first fic for Gabriel Van Helsing. this fic inspired by the movies: van helsing, the mummy trilogy. ANDD this is also for @lareinedulune's hughlloween >3
request open masterlist
The air only grew colder the deeper you went. Moisture beaded on the walls, dripping in steady rhythm like the heartbeat of something ancient and patient. The torch hissed when a drop struck it, the flame sputtering, casting your shadow in jittering fragments across the bones stacked high in alcoves. Skulls grinned from their cradles of stone, empty eyes fixed on eternity—or on you.
The catacombs had a way of making you feel small, unimportant, as if the centuries that built this ossuary had been waiting just to swallow you whole.
Gabriel moved like a shadow ahead of you, his long coat brushing the edges of the crypt stones. He barely made a sound, though the weight of his weapons could have rattled a skeleton apart. You, on the other hand, weren’t built for this kind of creeping about. You preferred plans—maps, routes, contingencies—not crawling through a maze of death and rats the size of small dogs.
“Remind me again,” you muttered, stepping over a pile of bones, “why you need me down here instead of up there keeping your escape route clear?”
He turned, the light from his torch catching his features—sharp, weary, a hint of amusement curling the edge of his mouth. “Because last time I went in alone, you said, and I quote, ‘You should’ve waited for the rest of your brain to catch up before you jumped in.’”
You squinted at him. “And you listened to me? That’s new.”
“I’m trying to change,” he said, deadpan. “Thought I’d start by bringing the smart one.”
Carl, somewhere behind you both, huffed while juggling a crossbow and an armful of holy water vials. “And the underappreciated genius, thank you.”
The tunnel split ahead, two archways, both swallowing darkness. The distant sound of something dragging echoed faintly. You froze, hand instinctively brushing the revolver holstered at your thigh. Gabriel’s head tilted slightly, that uncanny hunter stillness overtaking him.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Left or right?”
You crouched, touching the stone floor where faint tracks marred the dust. “Right. Left side’s undisturbed.”
“Good.” He drew one of his pistols, handing you the torch. “Stay behind me,” he said.
You exhaled slowly, muttering under your breath, “I’ll stay close, not behind. There’s a difference.”
He didn’t deny it—only smiled that infuriatingly calm smile and started down the right-hand path.
And that’s how it always went. He hunted the monster. You made sure neither of you died doing it.
A whisper of movement came again, ahead and to the right. You felt it before you heard it—the way the air changed, the torch flame bending as though exhaled upon.
Carl’s breath hitched. “Please tell me that was you breathing.”
“No,” Gabriel murmured. “That was it.”
You knew it the moment that rancid, dusty air hit your nose—the kind of stench that made bile crawl up your throat and prayers sound like curses. It was death’s perfume: sweet rot, old linen, and the copper sting of centuries-old decay. The torchlight jittered across the alcoves, revealing the first of them clawing free from their rest—skin like shriveled parchment stretched over bones, eyes reduced to black sockets that reflected firelight like tar. Or shortly, mummified zombies.
“Oh, not these again!” you groaned, clapping a hand over your nose. “Why is it always mummified corpses with you, Van Helsing? Why can’t we ever get something pleasant, like… a banshee or a ghost who just wants to talk?”
“Less complaining, more shooting!” Gabriel barked, already firing into the horde that was dragging itself out of the catacomb alcoves. The gunfire echoed off the stone, deafening, and the torchlight carved terrible shadows across half-rotted faces.
The first one lunged at you, dry skin cracking like parchment as it reached out with a sound like tearing cloth. You spun, jammed your torch straight into its mouth, and yelled, “How do you kill something that’s already dehydrated?! They’re basically jerky! Forbidden JERKY!”
“Burn it!” Gabriel shouted, driving a silver stake through another’s chest, though you weren’t sure what that was supposed to accomplish—the thing just screeched louder. “Or decapitate it!”
“Oh, decapitate it! Sure, why didn’t I think of that!” you yelled back, swinging your machete with more frustration than grace. The head came off, rolled a few feet, then burst into a puff of rancid dust. “You see this?! This is why I write the plans, and you don’t!”
Carl, from somewhere behind a pillar, shouted, “You two argue like an old married couple!”
“Shut up, Carl!” you both roared in unison as another wave of the mummified dead surged forward.
Gabriel pivoted, his movement unnervingly graceful for a man armed to the teeth. One pistol shot, one spin—the creature’s spine snapped like dry twigs. “You said you wanted to come along this time,” he reminded you, tone maddeningly calm as he reloaded.
You buried your machete in another corpse’s chest, yanking it free with a wet crack. “I said that so you wouldn’t die alone! Not so I could smell a thousand-year-old armpit!”
Something grabbed your sleeve—skeletal fingers clamping tight. You spun, slammed the creature into the wall hard enough to send bone dust cascading from the ceiling, then jammed a silver dagger through its skull. The thing went still, head lolling forward before crumbling entirely.
Gabriel stepped up beside you, blood and dust smeared across his cheek. “You all right?”
You glared at him. “If you ever ask me to go underground again, I’m mummifying you myself.”
He gave that half-smile—the one that usually meant trouble wasn’t over yet. “Then you might want to save your energy.”
You wiped a streak of dark dust off your cheek, gagging at the smell that still clung to your gloves. The catacomb was quiet again—or as quiet as it could be with bits of undead jerky scattered across the floor. Carl was somewhere in the back, muttering prayers and collecting the few vials of holy water that didn’t explode during the fight.
You leaned against a cracked pillar, chest heaving, torchlight dancing weakly in your hand. “Gabriel,” you said, voice hoarse from yelling and breathing in corpse powder. “Next time, leave me in the living world where people breathe clean air. Preferably near sunlight. Or a bath.”
He looked over from where he was cleaning his weapon, utterly unbothered, as if you hadn’t just fought off a horde of ancient corpses that smelled like moldy parchment and regret. “You handled yourself fine.”
“Oh, sure,” you said, gesturing at the carnage. “If by ‘fine’ you mean I’ll have nightmares about desiccated toes for the next decade.”
He holstered his pistol, walking past you with that infuriating calm stride. “You exaggerate.”
You followed after him, still grumbling. “You know what I exaggerate, Gabriel? How pleasant you are to work with. Because if I told people the truth—that you drag your partners through crypts, covered in mummy dandruff—”
“Dandruff?” he repeated, amused now.
“—and expect them to thank you for it,” you finished, glaring at the back of his head.
He gave a low chuckle, the kind that never failed to annoy you and make your pulse skip at the same time. “Would you rather I brought your sister down here?”
“She would’ve cried and fainted at the first smell,” you said flatly. “At least I only threatened you.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said, picking up his pace. “You’re coming again next time.”
You stared at him, horrified. “Gabriel Van Helsing, I swear on every holy relic Carl’s ever invented—”
“Save it,” he said over his shoulder, that smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ll be there.”
And damn it—you knew he was right.
You dragged yourself up the last set of uneven stone steps, every muscle in your body screaming mutiny. Your clothes were caked with dust and unidentifiable black sludge; your lungs burned from breathing centuries of tomb air. Behind you, Carl was wheezing like a dying bellows, clutching what was left of his satchel.
Gabriel, of course, looked like he’d just stepped out of a bloody cathedral painting, coat barely torn, hair only slightly mussed, eyes bright and irritatingly calm.
You squinted at him through the haze of exhaustion and grime. “Gabriel,” you rasped, pausing to spit out something that might have been mummy residue, “just shoot me.”
He turned, one brow arched, gun still in hand. “Tempting, but I’d rather not have to explain that to the Cardinal.”
“I mean it,” you groaned, waving a limp hand. “Right here. Right now. I’d rather be a sainted corpse than smell like one.” You tugged at your sleeve, which made a horrible cracking sound. “What— is that— is that fossilized goo?”
Carl leaned against the wall, panting, “I told you both we should’ve brought more holy water!”
You glared at him. “Carl, unless holy water doubles as perfume, I don’t want to hear it.”
Gabriel smirked, reloading his pistol with deliberate calm. “You always complain the loudest after surviving.”
“That’s because surviving with you feels like being personally bullied by fate,” you snapped, stumbling after him as he started walking again.
He glanced back at you, eyes glinting under the torchlight. “Would you prefer to stay behind next time?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
“Liar,” he muttered, almost fondly.
You stopped, staring at him, too tired to even throw a rock. “You know, one day, when one of these undead horrors finally gets me, I want you to remember this conversation. When you’re standing over my body thinking, ‘Maybe she was right about staying in the living world.’”
He gave a quiet chuckle, the sound warm in the cold air. “If that ever happens, I’ll make sure your tomb smells better than this one.”
You pointed at him weakly. “You are the worst partner in existence.”
“Mm,” he said, holstering his weapon, “and yet, somehow, still your favorite.”
You groaned into your hands. “Gabriel, I’m serious. Just shoot me.”
He just smiled faintly and handed you a flask of water. “Drink first. Then we’ll negotiate.”
Without a word, he brushed a bit of cobweb from your hair, then tried to smooth the wild strands that had escaped your braid. His gloved fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long before he pulled back, eyes narrowing at the wall ahead.
“And,” he said finally, in that maddeningly calm voice, “we are lost.”
You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
He pointed with his torch toward the forked tunnel. “We’ve been walking in circles. The markings I left—gone.”
You stared at him, slack-jawed. “You? The great Van Helsing, hunter of werewolves and slayer of unspeakable horrors, lost in a catacomb?”
He looked faintly defensive. “The tunnels shifted. Or the map was wrong.”
You pressed a hand to your chest in mock horror. “No, no—this is too good. I should write to my father about this. He’ll be thrilled to hear the Vatican’s finest monster hunter can’t tell his left from his eternal damnation.”
Gabriel’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Remind me why I brought you instead of Carl?”
“Because Carl cries when things rot near him,” you shot back. “And I only complain. There’s a difference.”
He leaned against the wall, torchlight throwing gold across the hard lines of his face. “You’re sure of that?”
“Utterly,” you said, planting your hands on your hips. “Now, fearless leader, since you’ve heroically led us to nowhere, what’s the plan? Dig upward? Befriend the skeletons? Send for divine intervention?”
Gabriel tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You could always pray.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Oh, I’ll pray, all right. That next time my father rethinks ever sending me off with a man who calls being lost ‘an unexpected opportunity.’”
He laughed quietly under his breath — that low, warm sound you hated to admit you liked— and straightened his coat. “Come on. If I’m wrong, you can mock me all the way to back.”
You sighed, grabbing the torch tighter. “Oh, I will. And I’ll make sure everyone knows.”
You froze. For a second, you thought you misheard him. But no—Gabriel Van Helsing, the ever-composed, ever-infuriating man who usually lectured others about faith and action—had just clasped his hands, bowed his head slightly, and prayed.
You blinked at him. Then again. Slowly turned toward Carl, who looked like someone had just told him holy water was out of stock.
“Is he—?” you mouthed silently.
Carl, wide-eyed, whispered back, “He is.”
Gabriel muttered something low under his breath, Latin rolling smooth and solemn, his torchlight flickering over his face like he’d stepped right out of one of those ridiculous church murals—except he was covered in dirt, blood, and mummy dust.
You leaned toward Carl. “We’re doomed.”
Carl nodded gravely. “Absolutely doomed.”
When Gabriel finally opened his eyes again, there was a faint creak of stone from somewhere down the tunnel. You and Carl both jumped. A heavy slab shifted in the wall, the grinding echo rumbling through the catacombs.
Gabriel turned toward the noise, looking unfairly calm. “See?” he said, holstering his gun. “Prayer works.”
You gawked at him. “You—You prayed, and the wall opened?”
Carl clutched his cross, muttering, “Oh dear, oh no, it actually worked.”
You pointed accusingly at Gabriel. “No. No, I refuse to accept that divine intervention just rewarded you. You got us lost!”
He glanced back, that infuriating smirk ghosting across his mouth. “And yet… here we are. A way out.”
You stared at him, half in disbelief, half in begrudging awe.
He shrugged. “You prayed for a miracle. I just pray it louder.”
Carl groaned softly. “Remind me to never doubt again. Or maybe always doubt louder.”
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “Next time, I’m writing ‘no divine shortcuts’ into the mission plan.”
The grinding echo of stone gave way to a rush of air—fresh air. Cold, crisp, mercifully alive air that sliced through the stench of decay like salvation itself.
You stared into the dim moonlight filtering through the narrow opening ahead, and for a heartbeat, you weren’t sure if you were hallucinating. But then Carl let out a wheezing sob of relief, and you knew it was real.
“By the grace of all saints…” Carl gasped, clutching his knees as he stumbled forward. “We’re… we’re out!”
You just stood there for a second, letting the breeze hit your face. You could’ve cried. Or kissed the dirt. Or both. Instead, you turned slowly toward Gabriel—who was standing smugly, as if he’d planned this entire ordeal.
You pointed at him, still half-delirious with exhaustion. “Don’t. Say. A word.”
He smiled — that small, knowing smile that could drive you straight into blasphemy. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Yes, you were,” you shot back, dragging yourself toward the opening. “You were absolutely going to say something self-righteous like ‘Faith always finds a way,’ weren’t you?”
Carl snorted, half-laughing, half-wheezing. “He was going to. I saw it on his face.”
Gabriel only gave a quiet hum, stepping aside to let you and Carl climb out first. His coat was torn, his gloves blackened, but his voice still managed to sound infuriatingly calm as he said, “Ladies first.”
You hauled yourself up through the crumbling stone gap, knees scraping against the rocks, and tumbled out onto damp grass. You lay there, staring at the stars. Real stars. Not torchlight. Not moldy ceilings. Actual, celestial, clean sky.
“I can smell the night air,” you whispered in awe. Then, louder, “I could kiss the dirt!”
Carl collapsed next to you, arms spread wide, muttering, “I may join you.”
Gabriel climbed out last, landing with that annoyingly graceful thud beside you both. He took one long look at the horizon, then down at you — hair wild, covered in ancient grime, glaring at him like you might still bury him in a shallow grave out of spite.
“See?” he said simply. “Told you I’d get us out.”
You groaned, covering your face. “Gabriel, if I ever hear you say the word faith again, I’ll bury you right back in there.”
He chuckled under his breath, offering you a hand to stand. “Noted.”
You took it — mostly because your legs had stopped working — and muttered, “Next time, we’re taking the scenic route.”
He smirked. “You mean the one without corpses?”
“Exactly.”
Carl raised a finger weakly from the ground. “Hear, hear.”
And as the first light of dawn started creeping over the hills, you swore to yourself that if Van Helsing ever said “let’s explore the catacombs” again — you were absolutely quitting.
You said it before you even realized it came out of your mouth — tired, flat, and carrying the kind of truth that only exhaustion can sharpen.
“Catacombs. Paris.” You dragged a hand through your tangled hair, eyes unfocused on the horizon. “It’s very traumatic.”
Carl, who was still sprawled face-down in the grass, made a muffled sound of agreement. “I think I’ve inhaled enough ancient dust to qualify as an artifact.”
Gabriel chuckled softly beside you, which only made you turn and glare at him. “Don’t laugh. You didn’t have to pull mummified fingers out of your sleeve. I’m going to smell like historical suffering for a week.”
He was cleaning one of his pistols, calm as ever, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You handled yourself well.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t patronize me. My soul is halfway to confession just from the words I said down there.”
“I’m sure Heaven will forgive your language,” he said lightly.
“I’m not worried about Heaven,” you muttered. “I’m worried about ever going underground again.”
Carl finally rolled onto his back, waving a limp hand toward the stars. “If anyone mentions catacombs in my presence again, I’m joining a monastery. A quiet one. With windows.”
You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “See, Carl gets it. Normal people don’t crawl into the underworld for fun.”
Gabriel slid his weapon back into its holster and gave you a look — half amusement, half something softer. “You’ll still come next time.”
You turned toward him, incredulous. “Gabriel. If next time includes tunnels, bones, or the faintest scent of mildew, I swear—”
He cut you off with a faint grin. “I’ll bring more torches.”
You groaned loudly, throwing your arms up. “Traumatic,” you repeated, as if saying it enough times might ward off the next adventure. “Completely, utterly, emotionally traumatic.”
Carl sighed, closing his eyes. “Can we at least have breakfast before you two start planning the next one?”
Gabriel chuckled quietly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Breakfast first. Promises of trauma later.”
You glared at him one last time, but the edge softened as you caught the faintest warmth in his eyes. He looked as exhausted as you felt — and somehow, that made it bearable.
“Fine,” you muttered. “But I’m picking the next mission.”
“Agreed,” he said smoothly.
You paused. “And it’ll involve sunlight.”
You stood in the middle of the clearing, hair still full of dust and pride completely gone, and pointed a trembling finger at him. The words came out with all the solemn fury of a courtroom decree.
“Gabriel. I demand separation.”
Carl, halfway through checking the remaining supplies, froze mid-motion. His head snapped up like someone had just fired a gun. “Oh… oh dear.”
Gabriel paused from tightening the strap on his satchel, one brow lifting with infuriating calm. “Separation?”
“Yes!” you declared, gesturing wildly toward the horizon as if the very moon would back you up. “You and I. Professionally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Geographically. I refuse to share a five-foot radius with you for at least a month. Or two.”
He crossed his arms, that faint smirk already forming — which only made you glare harder.
“I mean it!” you pressed on. “We’ve been chased by vampires, drowned in sewers, and now buried alive in Parisian catacombs full of mummified nightmares. I’ve reached my limit, Van Helsing. I’m divorcing you.”
Carl coughed behind his hand, clearly trying not to laugh. “You two aren’t married…yet.”
“Exactly,” you shot back. “And look how bad it already is!”
Gabriel tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting in the firelight. “You’re serious?”
“Utterly.” You folded your arms, trying to look dignified while covered in grime. “From this moment forward, I shall pursue solo monster-hunting endeavors that involve fresh air, reasonable hours, and absolutely no undead with a fondness for hissing.”
He stepped closer — close enough that you caught the faint scent of gunpowder and leather beneath the dust. “And when the next beast threatens to devour half of Europe?”
You hesitated. “...Then I’ll supervise from a distance.”
He smiled, low and knowing. “You’ll be there.”
“I will not.”
“You always say that,” he murmured, brushing a stray bit of cobweb from your shoulder like he had in the tunnels. “Then somehow, you always show up.”
You glared at him, but your heart betrayed you by skipping a beat. “That’s because you get lost without me.”
“Precisely,” he said, far too pleased with himself.
Carl sighed, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “If you two are quite finished announcing your dramatic separation, could we perhaps find breakfast before you start practicing your vows?”
You groaned, turning away, muttering under your breath, “Trauma and blasphemy. That’s what this partnership is built on.”
Gabriel’s quiet chuckle followed you as you stomped toward the road. “And faith,” he added.
“Keep talking, and I’ll test yours,” you shot back over your shoulder.
It was morning by the time you reached the nearest tavern—a crooked little inn tucked between fog and farmland, the kind of place that smelled like coffee, wet boots, and mild regret. The owner took one look at your group—the dirt, the bandages, the faint lingering aura of catastrophe and didn’t ask a single question. Just pointed to a table by the window, shoving two keys and left you to your own peace.
You slumped into the chair with the weight of someone who’d fought both the undead and their emotions. “This,” you muttered, grabbing the nearest cup, “is the breakfast of freedom.”
Carl, still yawning, mumbled from behind his mug, “You mean heaven.”
You pointed at him. “Exactly.”
Gabriel, of course, looked maddeningly composed—coat cleaned, hair tied back, not a trace of exhaustion in sight. He sat across from you, knife in hand, calmly slicing through his bread like you hadn’t just declared professional divorce twelve hours ago.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re awfully smug for a man whose partner quit.”
He looked up, feigning surprise. “You quit? I thought that was just another one of your post-catacomb outbursts.”
“Post—?! Outbursts?” you sputtered. “That was a formal declaration!”
“Filed with whom?” he asked dryly. “The undead council?”
Carl nearly choked on his drink.
You leaned across the table, jabbing a finger toward him. “You think this is funny, don’t you? You drag me through the underworld, make me inhale six centuries of mummy dust, and you think this is funny.”
Gabriel’s lips twitched, betraying a smirk. “A little.”
You slumped back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. “I should’ve stayed home. I could be teaching somewhere warm. Maybe sketching. Not dodging corpses.”
He watched you for a moment, quiet, that faint flicker of amusement in his eyes softening. Then, almost gently, he said, “You wouldn’t be happy sitting still.”
You glanced up, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “You thrive on the chaos. You plan, complain, improvise — and somehow make sure we don’t die doing it. You say you want peace, but you’d be bored within a week.”
Carl nodded sleepily. “He’s right. You’d start hunting trolls for sport.”
You scowled. “You’re both insufferable.”
Gabriel smiled faintly. “And yet, you’re still here.”
You went silent for a beat. The morning light hit the window, catching the faint silver in his stubble, the tired warmth behind his eyes. You hated that you noticed.
Finally, you muttered, “This doesn’t mean we’re un-separated.”
“Of course not,” he said smoothly, clearly lying.
You reached for the breadbasket. “Good. Because next time, I’m charging extra for emotional trauma.”
He raised his coffee in salute. “I’ll add it to the expense report.”
Carl groaned, dropping his head onto the table. “Both of you still at it.”
“I don’t want to court you.” You muttered.
Gabriel’s head snapped up from where he was cleaning his revolver, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re what?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard you right. The calm tone barely hid the flicker of disbelief in his eyes.
You didn’t even pause to answer—too furious, too done. Your boots echoed against the old stone floor as you made your way toward your room, coat swishing behind you like punctuation to your outrage. “I don’t want to court you anymore, Helsing. I value my sanity and my sense of smell more than this relationship,” you snapped, gesturing dramatically toward the dirt still caked under your nails from the catacombs.
Carl, somewhere behind you, muttered an uncertain prayer and quietly slid out of the dining room the inn tavern provided.
Gabriel sighed, the kind of sigh that came from chasing vampires and you in equal measure. “You’re being unreasonable,” he called after you.
You turned on your heel, fire in your eyes. “Unreasonable? You dragged me into mummified corpses and crumbling tunnels for six hours, Gabriel! You prayed to the walls because you got us lost!”
He stood, stepping closer, tone lowering. “And yet, you’re here. Alive. Because we made it out together.”
“That’s not the point!” you exclaimed, pointing a finger at him. “Next time, I’ll stay with Carl and the gadgets. At least he doesn’t try to exorcise limestone when he’s panicking.”
A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “So you are planning to stay.”
You groaned, glaring at him as you reached your door. “One more word, Van Helsing, and I’ll court Carl instead.”
“Blasphemy,” he murmured with a faint smirk.
You slammed the door.
You were halfway through angrily tugging off your boots when the door creaked open again — not even a knock. Typical Van Helsing.
“I'm not sharing my room with you,” you muttered, throwing one boot in his direction. He caught it midair, of course, looking far too smug for someone who’d gotten you lost among corpses earlier.
He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. “You can’t stay angry forever.”
You glared. “Watch me.”
“I did. For the entire walk back. You’ve got quite the talent for silent fury,” he said, stepping inside despite your warning glare. “But, for the record, I didn’t get us lost — the map was incomplete.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” you said sarcastically, standing to face him. “You— the great monster hunter, scourge of the underworld— undone by poor cartography.”
He grinned faintly, closing the door behind him. “You’re adorable when you’re dramatic.”
You blinked. “I am furious.”
“I know,” he said, walking closer. “That’s why I came to convince you otherwise.”
“Convince me? To what— keep risking my neck following you into undead-smelling tombs?”
He stepped close enough that you could smell the faint hint of gunpowder and rain on his coat. “Convince you that you belong with me — in the field, in the chaos, wherever I end up. Because you keep me alive just as much as I keep you that way.”
You faltered, hands frozen mid-gesture. His words hit with that quiet sincerity that made it hard to stay angry.
Still, you crossed your arms. “Flattery won’t work, Helsing. Not after today.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Then perhaps bribery will.” He pulled something small from his coat pocket — your lost compass, the one you’d dropped in the catacombs.
You blinked. “You— found that?”
He smiled softly, placing it in your palm. “Maybe I’m not as hopelessly lost as you think.”
You tried not to smile. Failed miserably. “You’re still not sleeping on the bed,” you said firmly.
“We will see about that.” he murmured, far too pleased with himself.
You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him as he set his coat down beside your chair — the quiet victory written all over his face.
There was a long pause in the dark — just the soft crackle of the fireplace and the muffled howl of wind against the shutters. You lay cocooned under the blanket, staring at the ceiling, teeth almost chattering. The bed was big, too big, and every creak of the old inn made you jump just enough to regret your pride.
“…Gabe?” you whispered into the dark. No answer. You sat up, squinting toward the chair near the hearth. His broad frame was barely visible, slumped in that ridiculous way he always did when pretending he was comfortable anywhere but a battlefield.
You sighed, tugging the blanket tighter. “Gabriel,” you tried again, louder this time. “You asleep?”
Nothing. Just the low pop of burning wood.
“Fine,” you huffed, sinking back into the pillow. “Be that way.”
A minute passed. Then two. Then—
“...I take it back,” you mumbled to the dark. “Please sleep over here. It’s freezing.”
The chair creaked. Then came that quiet, amused voice you knew too well. “I thought I was supposed to suffer on the chair for my sins.”
You groaned into your pillow. “You’ve atoned enough, Van Helsing. I’m frustrated, not merciless.”
You heard him chuckle — a deep, tired sound — before heavy footsteps crossed the room. The mattress dipped under his weight, and warmth immediately followed, wrapping around you like an unspoken apology.
“Better?” he murmured, settling beside you.
You turned, burying your cold nose against his shoulder with a small, indignant hum. “Only if you stop being smug about it.”
He smiled in the dark, arm sliding around you as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Not a chance.”
You muttered something unintelligible about arrogant hunters, but he was already drifting off — heartbeat steady, grounding, warm enough to chase away the chill of both the catacombs and your wounded pride.
“Gabe?” His name left your lips in a whisper, soft as the flicker of the firelight.
Gabriel stirred, half-asleep. “Hmm?” came his low reply, voice rough with fatigue and warmth.
You hesitated for a beat, tracing the seam of his sleeve with your fingertip. “Don’t… go anywhere tomorrow. Not without me.”
He cracked one eye open, studying you with that faint smile that was equal parts exasperation and tenderness. “I thought you were demanding separation?”
You sighed against his shoulder. “That was before the near-death smell experience and the frostbite.”
He chuckled quietly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You’re getting predictable, love.”
“Good,” you murmured, eyelids fluttering shut. “Otherwise, you’d get bored.”
Gabriel said nothing, only tightened his arm around you, the rough pad of his thumb brushing your arm in absent reassurance. For all his stoicism, there was something reverent in the way he held you, as if you were a fragile secret in a world full of monsters.
Just before you drifted off again, you heard him whisper, almost to himself, “Wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without you.”
pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader
summary: Alex Summers being Alex Summers in the mission, Logan and you gets tired of his antiques as usual.
word counts: 1k
warnings/tags: Alex Summers, Scott Summers, xmen team, bantering, Alex still being a big flirt and teaser, Logan hates flying, Summers brothers betrayal, mention of HYDRA
A/n: I really love Alex Summers being a pain in the ass just like in the movie first class. at this point Logan might barricade the younger Summers door from the outside to piss him off
Request open
Logan masterlist Series masterlist
“Can you not dive like that?!” Logan barked, one hand braced against the side of the cockpit while the other clutched the headrest of your seat like it personally wronged him.
Alex grinned without shame, flicking a few switches above him and leveling the jet like it was nothing. “Relax, Grandpa. I’ve flown this thing more times than you’ve had birthdays.”
Logan groaned, low and feral. “I’ve had a lot of birthdays, Summers.”
You leaned forward between them from your seat in navigation, trying to keep the mission brief on your tablet from bouncing out of your hands. “Can both of you not crash us into a mountain today? That’d be real hot.”
“Oh, she said hot,” Alex said over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. “Logan, you hearing that? She’s into near-death experiences now. You’re rubbing off on her.”
Logan shot him a death glare. “You tryin’ to impress her by flying like a jackass? That it?”
“Who says I need to impress her?” Alex leaned back slightly, just enough to send the Blackbird into another slight dip. “Maybe she already likes me.”
“Alex,” you warned, glancing at the altimeter, “I swear to God—”
“—what? Gonna tell the Charles on me?” he teased, mock-innocent.
“I am,” you snapped, grabbing the overhead bar as turbulence hit. “You’re just a golden retriever with an energy blast.”
Logan snorted. “That’s generous. Golden retrievers have brains.”
“You’re just mad ‘cause I fly this baby better than you ever could,” Alex shot back.
“I don’t fly,” Logan growled. “I like the ground. It don’t spin, it don’t buck, and it don’t drop out from under me when you’re showin’ off.”
“Oh come on,” Alex grinned wide. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?”
“I will gut you,” Logan said, dead serious.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “God, you two are like divorced parents arguing over the thermostat.”
Logan leaned back in his seat and muttered, “If he was my kid, I’d drop him out the cargo hatch.”
“Rude,” Alex said with zero offense taken. “She’d never let you. She likes me.”
“Don’t test me, Summers,” you warned, lips twitching.
“Oh, I’m definitely testing you,” he grinned. “You get this flustered when Logan growls at me. What happens if I wink?”
“Try it and I’ll set your hair on fire,” you said sweetly.
Logan cracked his knuckles. “Only thing stoppin’ me from takin’ over this damn plane is the paperwork I’d have to file after I bury you in a crater.”
“Guys?” you said, staring at the screen, deadpan. “We’re literally five minutes out from a HYDRA compound and you’re both bickering like it’s Thanksgiving dinner.”
Alex lifted the nose of the jet just slightly and said, “Hey, Logan started it.”
“I will end it,” Logan hissed.
You just sighed and muttered to yourself, “Next time I’m flying solo.”
From the back, Logan muttered, “Next time I’m walkin’.”
—-
The Blackbird hissed as it touched down on a rocky plateau just shy of the old HYDRA facility nestled deep in the valley. You were first to step off the ramp, tugging your jacket tighter against the wind and checking your wrist display.
“Thermal readings say minimal activity inside,” you said, eyes scanning the horizon. “But that place has enough metal underground to make Logan twitch.”
Logan disembarked behind you, stretching his arms out like he needed to feel solid ground again. “Not just my senses. Whole damn place stinks of a trap.”
Alex clomped down the ramp last, sunglasses on, chewing gum like the mission was a casual afternoon stroll. “You two worry too much. We’re in, we’re out, no problem.”
“You said that last time,” you muttered, not even bothering to hide the glare you threw over your shoulder.
Logan’s voice was a low grumble as he passed Alex, shoulder bumping his a little too hard to be accidental. “Stick close. If somethin’ jumps out, I’m not wasting time dragging your ass.”
Alex shot you a look and mouthed he’s so dramatic behind Logan’s back. You bit your lip to hide your laugh.
The compound’s front entrance was half-buried in frost and vines, a relic of the Cold War and bad intentions. You led the trio through the side access hatch, flashlight glinting off rusted panels and peeling insignias.
It wasn’t long before the tension began building.
“Left corridor’s clear,” you called softly, crouching behind a support beam. “Multiple rooms up ahead. Two heartbeats. They’re calm.”
“Could be scientists,” Alex whispered, peeking through a small viewing slit. “Or HYDRA guys who haven’t gotten the memo that they’re supposed to be extinct.”
Logan was dead silent behind you. You could feel the way he moved—calculated, coiled like a spring. He tapped your shoulder, signaling you to wait, then motioned for Alex to flank right.
But of course, Alex improvised.
He didn’t wait for a signal. He kicked the door in.
“—Surprise inspection!” he grinned, light pulsing in his hand.
There were two people inside: one old lab tech who shrieked and another—a younger woman—who raised her hands quickly in surrender.
“What the hell are you doing?!” you hissed, rushing in behind him. “She’s unarmed!”
“I checked,” Alex said innocently, tossing a glance at the younger one. “Nice eyes, by the way. Very—”
A very low growl from behind you made the air drop a few degrees.
Logan’s voice was steel wrapped in barbed wire: “Keep flirtin’. Let’s see if you still have those eyes by the end of the mission.”
Alex didn’t even flinch. “What? She’s cute. Not my fault you’re allergic to charm.”
“I’m allergic to you,” Logan bit back.
You stepped between them, sighing. “We are not doing this right now. Can we not traumatize civilians for once?”
Alex winked at you. “Oh, come on. Admit it. The tension’s kinda hot.”
You rolled your eyes. “Only if you want a concussion.”
The lab techs were quickly restrained and left tied near the entrance for pickup. You continued into the main facility, tension high and Logan very quiet. Too quiet.
You finally caught his arm as the others went ahead. “Logan.”
He turned slightly, jaw tight. “What?”
“You’re jealous.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. His eyes did all the talking.
You smirked, leaning up just a little. “You know I only have eyes for grumpy, brooding Canadian men with claws and emotional repression, right?”
He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Cute.”
“Seriously, you were one eye twitch away from punching Alex through a wall.”
“Was tryin’ to be nice,” he muttered. “Didn’t wanna get blood on your boots.”
You grinned. “Awww.”
Logan deadpanned, “Keep pushin’ me. I’ll kiss you in front of him.”
You blinked. “That’s not a threat, Logan.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Wasn’t talkin’ to you, sweetheart. He’s the one I wanna ruin.”
From up ahead, Alex yelled, “Are you two making out or plotting my murder?”
“Yes,” you both called in unison.
—-
Alex stormed into the Xavier mansion like a man wronged. Jacket half-off, hair tousled from turbulence and tension, and still muttering under his breath about “territorial claw-wielding mountain men with anger issues.”
Trailing just a step behind, you and Logan entered looking a little too smug.
“You are both unhinged,” Alex declared, spinning dramatically in the foyer. “I’ve flown Blackbird missions across continents. I’ve taken down sentinels with style. But this? This was abuse.”
“Yeah?” Logan grunted, dropping his gear to the floor with a heavy thud. “Should’ve flown smoother. Almost left my stomach back in HYDRA.”
“I’m sorry that not all of us fly like retired grandpas on a Sunday cruise!”
You raised your brow. “You did a barrel roll in the clouds. For no reason.”
“I was feeling the vibe!”
“Was the vibe vertigo?”
Before Alex could launch into another impassioned defense of his aerial artistry, he spotted Scott heading down the corridor with coffee in hand and a suspiciously calm aura.
“Finally!” Alex waved his arms like a man lost at sea. “Scott. Brother. Blood of my blood. Talk some sense into your emotionally stunted war-beast of a teammate.”
Scott didn’t even blink. He took one sip of his coffee, turned to Logan—and held out his fist.
Logan bumped it.
You tried not to laugh as Alex’s soul visibly left his body.
“You’re fist-bumping the guy who threatened my retinas.”
Logan shrugged, completely unbothered. “Told him I might. Didn’t say I will.”
Scott smirked. “Sounds like you earned it, Alex.”
Alex’s mouth fell open. “Et tu, Cyclops?”
“You did try to flirt with a HYDRA lab tech during recon,” you added helpfully.
“She was cute!” Alex pointed back.
“She was wearing an ankle monitor and probably had a poison capsule in her molar,” Logan deadpanned.
Scott gave Alex a once-over. “And you did nearly kill Logan with that aerial stunt over the canyon last month.”
“EXAGGERATION.” The younger mutant went on.
Logan lifted one brow. “I had to stab the seat to anchor myself.”
“I thought the screams were dramatic flair!”
Scott just walked off sipping his coffee, calling over his shoulder, “Next time, let her fly.”
Alex groaned and pointed at you. “You’re no help. You were laughing when he say he wanted to kiss you just to ruin my day.”
You threw your hands up. “It’s Logan. That is his love language.”
Logan’s arm slid casually around your waist as he murmured, “Could show you more of my dialect later.”
Alex made a strangled noise and turned on his heel. “I’m filing a complaint.”
Hello Mia, can i request a headcanon Logan as a chef? Pairing with a waitress ofc. Thank you bye bye. Congrats on your graduation last week!
Hi! Ooooh this is interesting request, i shall deliver... Ah thank you so much heheh 💓 hope you love these, sorry for late update yeah, got few request piled..
Diner Chef!Logan x Waitress!reader headcanons
Logan masterlist
Chef!Logan runs the kitchen like a battlefield — knives sharp, orders barked, no room for hesitation. But the second you walk in with that notepad and smart mouth, he softens in ways that make the line cooks snicker.
Chef!Logan has opinions about customers and he’ll mutter them under his breath while plating. You’re the only one who hears him — “Guy ordered his steak well done, practically a crime, who ate that chews like rubber..” — and you bite back a laugh every time.
When the rush gets bad, Chef!Logan always checks if you’ve eaten. He’ll slide a plate onto the pass with your name scrawled on the ticket, a burger or pasta dish meant only for you.
If a rude customer gives you attitude, Chef!Logan will storm out of the kitchen, apron still on, and stand behind you with that glare of his. Instant silence. You don’t even need a manager when you’ve got him.
The rest of the staff jokes that you’re the only one who can calm “Chef Wolverine.” If he’s snapping too much, one word from you and he simmers down.
Chef!Logan's knife skills are terrifying to watch, but he gets oddly soft teaching you how to chop without losing a finger. His hands linger on yours longer than necessary.
On nights off, he cooks for you in silence. It’s intimate, almost domestic — no shouting, no clanging pans, just him sliding a plate across the counter of your shared studio with a quiet, “New recipe, your idea last Wednesday.." watching your reaction more than the food.
You beamed, eyeing the dish with awe. Spooning carefully and moans the savory hits your taste buds. "Come on.... People will be asking for thirds if you put this on the menu." Nodding your head as you spoon for a second mouthful.
Chef!Logan shrugs. "I don't want to put this on the menu. This will be your other favourite dish. Won't sell those to people, sweetcheeks." He took a mouthful spoon you offered. "Hmm, not bad. Good idea on adding thymes and bell pepper."
