— sfumato
part 2 of imprimatura.┊ part 3 𓈈 series masterlist┊ ao3 link.
pairing: worst!wolverine x f!reader. w.c. 6.4 k (whoops! ^^;) tags: logan's POV. 18+. masturbation, coming untouched, accidental voyeurism. reader is an artist. autistic!neighbor!reader. friends to lovers. light angst & fluff. wade blackmails logan (with good intentions). logan gets grumpy and jealous. crack premise taken far too seriously.
summary: after making the mistake of confiding in wade, logan's coerced into offering to model for you—the painter he has a terrible crush on. he has five days to do it. once again, things go as well as you'd expect. or: the three times logan (understandably) chickens out, and the one time he doesn't.
Logan spends the rest of the night lying on the couch, trying to sleep. It's far too warm tonight. He’s already made a permanent indent in the couch with his weight, and there’s a bulge of cloth that perfectly outlines his body.
Five days, he thinks, sliding his hands over his eyes in exhaustion. Five days to offer to model for her, or Wade’s going to pull his bullshit.
Jesus Christ. This is where confiding in a friend gets him: blackmailed into confessing a crush in the worst way known to man.
When he hears the creaky stuttering of the front door, he instinctively plays dead. Two sets of footsteps shuffle past his spot on the couch. He keeps himself still as a corpse until he’s certain Wade and Althea have gone to bed.
Out of a habit he can’t shake, he keeps listening.
Blurry clangs of distant construction drift through the window. The faint scraping of floorboards, the whispery wheezing of doors. The air conditioner sputters with great effort, puffing out air in pathetic intervals.
No screaming, no too-slow footsteps. Nothing dangerous yet.
Solemnly satisfied by what he doesn’t hear, he shifts to face the backrest, grimacing at the stickiness of the couch against his arm.
Restless, Logan lets his attention drift to the red pools of light bleeding past his eyelids. He opens them to gaze upon the only light in the smothering darkness— a familiar glowing rectangle above the front door, and the inverted ‘17’ standing out sharply against it.
Absently, he wonders if you’re asleep, yet.
He strains his ears once again, feeling a welter of anxiety when he hears nothing. Before he can think better of it, he’s lumbering his way across the room to press against the wall he knows is closest to your bedroom.
Only doing this to make sure she’s okay, he tells himself. He’d feel pathetic otherwise. He wonders if he looks pathetic too, sitting on the floor and trying to listen to a girl breathe like some kinda creep. Or worse— like some devoted guard dog you didn’t ask for.
A few excruciating moments pass when finally, at the edge of his hearing, he catches the sotto voce echo of a soft rhythm. He hones in, letting every other noise fade away as he registers the breathing as yours.
But something’s off. Instead of drifting out long and slow, each breath you take is rapid, drawn sharply. Almost like a whistle, or huffing through teeth in pain.
He stands impulsively, ready to bolt out the door and make sure you’re safe, but stops in his tracks when he hears your breath hitch into something unmistakable and startling.
When he hears it, Logan lurches away from the wall so abruptly that he nearly falls. Arousal jolts in his stomach as he stares at the wall for answers that he already knows.
You’re moaning.
He draws his breath, and it’s rapid and sharp like yours. The blood drains from his head, and a molten heat drifts downward until his cock strains against his sweatpants.
Dizzily, he grabs at his shirt and clenches a fistful of fabric in a desperate attempt to avoid doing anything rash, like kicking his pants off and—
He grinds his teeth. No. Stop it. You ain’t thinking about that.
Screwing his eyes shut, he wills himself to focus on anything other than the swelling, maddening impulse.
Skimming his mind, hoping to find some sort of distraction, he settles on a memory from just this afternoon:
You, sharpening your pencil. Your fingers wrapped around the length of the wood. The gentle gliding of your thumb as you pushed the blade to the tip. Smooth, practiced movements; like you’d done it many times before.
The memory morphs into a taunting image.
His tense thighs spread wide open while you sit between them. A teasing smile on your face, a knowing comment about how hard and needy he is for you. Nimble fingers, barely wrapping around him as you milk him dry.
You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, he thinks, leaning his head against the wall in exasperation.
Logan can’t help imagining what you look like sprawled beneath him, the expression on his face as he sinks into your warmth. Can’t help imagining the feel of your skin, shiny with sweat as your thighs wrap around his waist. How he’d make you whine mid–thrust as he intertwines his fingers with yours.
He kneels to sit before his buckling knees can give in. He’s never had that good of an imagination, so it's just his luck that he can vividly picture your expressions contorted with desire. What’s more, he knows exactly how you’d moan if he dragged his cock against your folds, and—
You’re moaning again, sounding needier than before. The noise has him stifling a whine. He presses his back against the wall, like the cornered animal he is.
It’s a good thing that he’s sitting upright, because otherwise he’d start thrusting up into the air. He writhes erratically instead, the floor too solid beneath him to provide any relief.
“Shit,” Logan curses, voice rough and ragged with a lust he can’t restrain. He rakes a shaky hand through his hair as guilt curls in his chest.
He’s your friend, for gods sake. He shouldn’t be doing this. Staying here, listening to the sweet little sounds you’re making would just be self inflicted torture. You don’t even know he’s listening.
But then, he hears the way you’re pleading. “Please, please—”
And all he can think about is how cute you’d sound begging for his cock, crying his name instead.
“Oh, fuck,” he chokes, strangling a moan. His body is flushed from head to toe. Rills of sweat are trickling down his back, and he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so fucking horny.
God, all he wants to do is storm out the door, barge into your apartment and take you. He wants to give you what you want, what you need, even though he knows he’s neither.
You don’t want him. You shouldn't, not a man like him.
But Logan wants you, and his mind doesn’t get the memo. He knows he’s close when one last taunting fantasy overtakes his mind:
He’s standing naked before you, and you’re looking up at him like he’s precious beyond measure. He melts as you press your lips against his ankles, his thighs, up to his stomach. Your touch, softer than silk as you reach to caress his cheek.
You kiss his neck, and you’re lovely, and he wants you, and you think he’s beautiful—
It doesn’t take longer than a second for Logan to go completely tense, overwhelmed by his release. His thighs tremble convulsively as torrents of pleasure overtake him.
Then, it’s over. Logan swallows harshly, engulfed in muggy air. Seamy come seeps through his briefs; an unwanted reminder of what happened. Exhaling in exhaustion, he drags a palm over his face.
As his swimming vision clarifies, and the pitched ringing in his ears fades away, a mortifying realisation dawns on him.
He just came untouched. Like a teenage virgin. Or some voyeuristic gimp. Two hundred years of living, and all it took was listening in on the sound of your pleasure.
It’s a nightmare, feeling young for once. And once again, he’s pining for a woman he can’t have.
Shame and embarrassment buzzes through his form like static.
What a joke.
With a snarl, he hoists himself to his feet. He runs a shower. He lets the water pelt him over the head. He turns the water as hot as it will go, then cold. He alternates the temperature in random intervals, never letting himself get used to the either extreme.
It’s a different kind of pain, but its numbing either way, and it works at washing away the physical evidence of his desires. He stares down at the drain, trying to swallow his heart.
When he’s done getting clouted over the head by the water, he spends the rest of the night thinking of you until the pale blue of morning shines through the curtain cracks.
God knows he’s not going to leave the apartment today. He’s not entirely sure he’ll even be able to look you in the eye after this.
Without thinking, he ghosts a thumb over his cheek and pretends it's yours.
Maybe Wade’s onto something, Logan thinks bitterly. I really do have it bad.
Logan smells you before he sees you.
It’s night time when he decides it's finally ‘safe’ enough to leave the apartment.
Not that he’s avoiding you. It’s just that he’s been paying attention to the sounds of your front door opening and closing, and scheduling the rest of his day around that.
(Maybe that is avoidance. Whatever.)
As he returns from the convenience store sometime after midnight, you’re the last person he thinks he’s going to run into. But the scent of your perfume lingering in the air is unmistakable, and upon entering the backstairs of the building, that sweet familiar scent only grows stronger.
Your pants of exertion echo from above, and before he knows it, his feet are moving on their own accord. Winding up the stairs, he follows his nose until he sees you in the flesh, just one flight ahead.
It immediately becomes clear to him that you’re burdened by far too many things to carry. Strapped to your back is a comically large board; one body tall and two bodies wide, wrapped in fabric. On top of that, you’re dragging a loaded trolley and a large tote bag weighing down your shoulder.
Logan hesitates, watching your painfully slow ascent. He’d spent the majority of his day hoping he wouldn’t have to look you in the eye knowing that he’d listened in on your very private masturbation session and gotten off to it.
Oh, what the hell. His desire to help you out overrides his guilt, anyway.
“Hey,” he calls out.
You spin to face him. Even from a distance, he can see how frail and fatigued you are; from your slouched shoulders, to the dullness of your sunken eyes. In spite of your exhaustion, you greet him with a warm smile nonetheless.
“Hi, Logan!”
“Need a hand?” Before you can object, he slings the board onto his back with ease, and wrests the trolley from your grasp.
“You don’t have to—”
“Nope,” he says, striding up two steps up at a time without looking back.
Logan can practically hear your smile as you exclaim, “Oh! Thank you!”
“What were you doin’ out so late with a painting so large?” he asks gruffly, shifting his weight in adjustment.
“Working late at the art studio. I’m bringing it home to work on it more tonight.”
A frown creases his forehead. “It’s past midnight.”
“Yeah, but I need to submit three more pieces to the gallery, and I’ve only got two weeks left to finish them. I can’t afford to waste any more time.”
Briefly looking over his shoulder, he takes in your trembling legs and hunched back. There’s a certain shortness to your breath, and a sheen of sweat across your face.
Logan grunts. “You’re gonna pass out. You’re barely walking straight.”
“I’ll be fine,” you laugh dismissively. “I’ll just paint sitting down.”
“Not my point, and you know it.”
Logan walks you all the way to your front door in silence, pointedly looking away as he hands you your things one by one.
“Thanks again!” you beam gratefully. “I don’t know how I would’ve made it to my floor without you.”
“It was nothin’. Rest up, start tomorrow.”
You salute playfully. “Will do!”
He lets out an affectionate huff of breath. He knows full well that you’re going to stay up tonight. Stubborn woman.
You open your mouth again, but hesitation shutters over your face and you bite off your words. “Have a good night!”
He catches the door before you can close it, wrenching it open again. He pulls his gaze from the floor to look you in the eye, concerned. “What were you gonna say?”
Your lovely smile curls inwards. He sighs, trying to relax his tense, rough features into something softer. “C’mon. You know you can tell me anything. Say it.”
You breathe in heavily, seemingly bracing for something. Then, very quietly, “Did I do something wrong?”
His breath snags in his throat. “What d’ya mean?”
You bite down on your lip, and say slowly, “I know you tried to avoid me today. You always get cigars on Sunday mornings, but you didn’t today. I saw you skirt around the corner behind me, just as I left for the art studio, and… you seem like you don’t want to look me in the eye.”
A jolt of regret snags at his heart as your eyes cloud over with tears. “Was… was it because I made things weird when I drew you?”
“No, it’s not that,” he sighs wearily. Logan’s about to reach out a hand to comfort you; maybe to curl a hand gently around your wrist in reassurance. But then, he catches the reddened scars between his knuckles.
He curls his hand into a tight fist instead. His hands have never been good for anything other than violence, after all.
“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Logan reassures, keeping his voice as gentle as he can.
A brief pause settles as you wait for him to keep talking. You both know how much he struggles with words, so he knows it's a kindness. But really, the concern behind your patient gaze is more flustering than anything else.
Logan struggles, stuttering through half–sentences. He can’t exactly tell you he heard you masturbating and got himself off just by listening. That said, he doesn’t want to lie to you either.
He settles for a part of the truth; forces the words out: “You called me beautiful. I’m just not used to being… flattered, and all that.”
To his surprise, your brow creases. “I wasn’t trying to flatter you.”
Logan studies your expression in confusion. When he doesn’t respond, you elaborate, “I just… know that you’re beautiful. Just like how I know Wade has a nice smile, and Peter’s belly piercing thing is kinda weird, and how you wheeze when you laugh.
“It wasn’t a compliment. You just are.”
He lets the saccharine meaning behind your nonchalant words sink in slowly. The back of his throat stings as if he’d downed a jar of raw honey in one go.
Up until now, some part of him still thought that you only meted out innocuous compliments to be nice. After all, you’re an artist who’s no doubt seen and painted much more beautiful people than him.
But he’s wrong. You’re not saying things to be nice, or to make him feel good, or even to flirt. In your mind, it’s an objective fact— you know him to be beautiful.
And fuck, if that doesn’t make things so much worse. That you see beauty and good and things worth cherishing in him, when he’s knows he’s anything but.
“So, are we good…?” you ask, shifting your weight from leg to leg in a way that almost looks shy.
He struggles to breathe in the smothering air as he offers you a smile. “Yeah. We’re good. And you don’t have to change a thing about yourself, doll. Not for anybody.”
You beam, your eyes alight under the glow of the hallway lamps. You’re tired, and the lighting is a gritty, rusted yellow, and he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as you.
In the silence, he looks at you, longing to lean in and… well.
You’re beautiful, too, he thinks.
You gesture towards your art supplies, “I should probably put these back where they belong. Have a good night, okay?”
Your lovely smile flickers like a buffeting flame, and then you’re closing the door.
Logan lingers, staring at the white chipping paint of the door. A flake the size of his finger hangs precariously at eye–level, revealing the ashy wood beneath.
He exhales. “Yeah. Night.”
His words hang in the air, lingering long after the sound of his voice has disappeared.
Logan gets home, steadily ignoring the pointed look Wade shoots him as he makes his way to the couch.
He’s not sure why, but he keeps his footsteps light, his breathing quiet. He strains his ears for any sign that you’re going to sleep tonight.
He waits, leaning against the wall he knows is closest to your bedroom. Even as he drifts into a dreamless sleep, he never hears the creak of your bed.
You’re the first thing on his mind as he awakens into bleary lucidity. You definitely didn’t sleep last night.
Without bothering to brush his teeth or wash his face and whatnot, he hastily changes into something that doesn’t smell like sweat and musk, and then he’s striding out and knocking on your door.
He waits, and waits, tapping an untied boot impatiently. When the door swings open, he’s met with the sight of your completely dishevelled hair, sunken red–rimmed eyes, and smears of dried paint streaked across your cheek. A strap of your apron dangles off your shoulder as you look up at him.
He glowers, watching your expression contort into sheepish guilt in a matter of seconds.
“You look like shit,” he snarls.
And because you’re just as blunt as he is, you burst into laughter without taking offence. “Look who’s talking! You haven’t even washed your face yet.”
An unamused growl rumbles from his throat. Roughly kicking off his boots, he sidesteps past you and strides into your apartment uninvited without a second word.
“Did you even eat last night before leaving the studio?” Logan interrogates, fully knowing your answer before you reply.
“Yes?” you lie blatantly. Right on cue, your stomach promptly rumbles with all the ferocity of an earthquake. He chuckles in vindication, relishing in your embarrassed expression.
He rips open the fridge, and finds himself scowling at the complete lack of food within. Two brown eggs and a lonely leek left in the corner. A fruitless search of the rest of the kitchen only yields three cup noodles up in a cabinet.
“You shouldn’t eat these,” he reprimands, giving one of them a disdainful shake. “Instant shit’s bad for you.”
“You’re the one drinking whisky everyday!” you complain.
Roundly ignoring your comment, he rips the plastic packaging off with a sigh.
“Go wash the paint off your skin,” he orders. “And don’t tell me you don’t have time to.”
You grumble under your breath, but he knows you’ve acquiesced because not long after, the sound of water running resounds through the pipes.
His mouth twitches into a private smile.
Two eggs, cup noodles and a leek. He’s never been good at making meals. Back in his universe, he’d been too clouded with grief and vengeance to sit down and eat anything proper. He’s eaten something like this hundreds of times before, but serving you the cheap shit doesn’t sit right with him.
Impulsively, Logan leaves your apartment door slightly ajar and makes a mad dash. In less than forty seconds, he successfully storms Apartment 17, leaving the fridge a wreck and returns with an armful of raided goods.
I’ll get groceries later, Logan justifies, satisfied with his spread of ingredients. He’s got more to work with now, and you’ll end up with a healthier meal.
The stove blazes to life with a crackle. Logan rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.
He’s not about to let your shit go to waste, so he uses your cup noodles, albeit ditching the powder packet in favour of making his own broth. Sliced carrot pieces, shredded leftover chicken, chinese cabbage, one soft boiled egg and the other fried— it’s not a traditional meal of any culture by any means, but hopefully you’ll like it.
By the time he’s finishing up, he catches the scent of your body wash. Before he can mentally prepare for the sight, you’re already drifting into the living room.
Your damp hair sheers the shoulders of your gauzy t–shirt, giving him a glimpse of the skin underneath. The oversized shirt tucks into the tiniest dolphin shorts, putting a tempting stretch of your bare legs on display.
He swallows, flicking his eyes away from your plush thighs. Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice the way he was looking unabashedly at… well, all of you.
“You’re done already?” you ask gaily, patting your hair gently with a cloudy looking towel. “That was quick!”
“Yup,” he says shortly, his heart pounding as he pushes a bowl across the table. “Not a cook, so keep your comments to yourself. Eat up before the noodles get soggy.”
You look down at your noodles, then up at him with surprise. “You made my eggs different than yours!”
He shrugs. “You never eat boiled eggs. It’s the texture, right?”
“Yeah,” you say with an undecipherable expression. “The egg white’s too slimy soft boiled, and—”
“—too rubbery when it's hard boiled. Figured frying it was the safest option. You like crispy food, yeah?”
You stare at him for a few moments more. He lets himself admire the sparklingly affectionate smile that blooms on your face. “Thank you, Logan. It looks good; really good.”
It's a good thing he chose a bowl big enough to hide his flushed face. He pretends to busy himself with his own bowl of noodles as he waves you off, “Yeah, yeah.”
And then, you’re eating together. He waits anxiously for some sort of feedback. To his relief, you gush with your mouth full, “It tastes really good!”
He lets himself grin, relishing in your approval. “Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
He laughs softly, idly splitting thick blobs of oil with his chopsticks. “If ya like it, I can make it again.”
“Really?” He notes the excitement in your eyes, the pleased lift of lips.
“Only if you go take a nap.”
Your joyous expression flattens into dull exasperation. “Right now?”
“Yup,” he drones. “Right now.”
You huff, so he continues, “Trust me, you’ll feel better after. You’ll be working faster after, too. No use burning the candle from both ends.”
“Twenty minutes,” you supply, as if you’re bidding at an auction.
“Nope.”
“Twenty three?”
“Denied,” Logan rejects flatly, grabbing the bowls and carefully placing them in the sink.
“…Twenty five?” you ask hopefully.
He sighs grudgingly. “Fine. But I ain’t leaving ‘til you’ve fallen asleep. So don’t think about faking it; I’ll know.”
Bewildered, you stare at him with bleary eyes. “But… what about the dishes?”
“I’ll do ‘em. Get some actual rest, this time,” he urges.
You nod slowly. The two of you linger in silence. It occurs to him then, that this could be a good time to act on what Wade threatened him to do, and offer to model.
But then, you speak up, “Thanks for doing this, Logan. It means a lot.”
Despite your persistent objections against getting proper rest, you sound genuinely grateful. It would be bad timing to bring modelling up now.
Logan knows how much art means to you. You paint like it’s your goddamn lifeline; like it's the only thing you know how to do. Your eyes grow clear and lucent when you answer his questions about your favourite artists, and it's mesmerising how you seem to glow every time you start talking.
And then there’s that look you make when you’re staring down your canvas. The moment you lift your brush, you’re untouchable— blazing and fervent. It’s riveting to see you that way; completely focused on perfecting your craft.
But sometimes, you’re a little too focused. He’s seen it happen time and time again; how you end up not taking care of yourself because you’re ‘almost done’. Sometimes, you skip meals, or forget to drink water for hours on end. If you’re not reminded, you’ll go without sleeping for days until you inevitably pass out.
You love painting, and he fucking loves the way you love it.
But somebody’s gotta take care of you. And if that person can’t be you today, he’ll happily be the one to do so.
A smile comes easily to him as he says, “No problem, doll.”
A soft click resounds as your bedroom door closes. He sighs. He’s still got two days— he’ll ask tomorrow. For now, you deserve to rest.
It’s a cold day in New York; bitter air stinging his face.
With his hands shoved in his pockets, he strides down the street like he’s preparing to get jumped; glancing around every shady corner and studying every passing pedestrian for peculiarities. For the past three days, Wade has been suspiciously out of the picture. There’s been no ambushing (‘cameos’, as Wade puts it), no stalking, no obnoxious 10–feet banners hanging in public urging Logan to take action.
Finally getting some fucking quiet would be something to celebrate, but knowing Wade? This is just the peace before the storm. The asshole’s gonna go for broke soon, and Logan’s warier than ever.
His mistrust melts away at the sound of your lovely voice ringing out from behind him: “Logan! Wait up!”
Logan stops in his track, turning around. He feels his eyes soften at the sight of you running up to catch up with him. You’re wrapped in oversized clothing from head to toe—fluffy earmuffs, a cream–coloured turtleneck, and a long pleated skirt. You’re looking cozier than ever, and his hand resists the desire to test if your cardigan feels as soft as it looks. fill itself with the cloudy wool of your knitted scarf.
“Hey, sweets. That’s cute,” he gestures towards your knitted scarf, which you’ve tied into a big bow at the front.
You look down bashfully. “Thanks!”
He’s about to speak up when he catches a glimpse of a suspicious figure behind you, about two streets over.
With a sinking suspicion, he stares past your shoulder as subtly as possible, so that he doesn’t worry you. Sure enough, he spots Wade leaning against a lamppost.
Their eyes meet. Logan furrows his eyebrows in a silent threat; something along the lines of ‘if you even fucking think about pulling shit in public, I’ll make sure your ass won’t live to see tomorrow’.
Daringly, his piece—of—shit roommate waggles his eyebrows conspiratorially and, to Logan’s absolute horror, starts fingering the air with his index and middle finger.
“How’s your morning been?” he hears you speak.
He watches his idiot roommate throws his head back in a silent moan as he bullishly thrusts his hips back and forth.
Without looking away, Logan replies tersely, “Good. You?”
“I’m okay! Gonna go to the art studio in a few hours and…”
Akin to ants avoiding an obstacle, pedestrians leave a halo of empty space around Wade (currently in the process of grinding his crotch against the lamppost fervently) as they hurriedly walk past.
“…Are you okay?” you ask, clearly concerned. “You look really tense.”
“I‘m fine,” he grits out, voice cutting like a serrated knife. Wade goes the whole hog and pretends to eat ass, waggling his tongue and maniacally flinging his head side to side.
Eyeing him with that puppy—like tilt of your head, you ask, “What are you looking at?”
Logan’s eyes widen in panic. “Uh, you don’t wanna see this, darl—”
Before he can dissuade you, you’re turning to look. Thankfully, Wade drops any sign of sexual crudity the moment you spot him. Your face lights up at the sight of his roommate, and you excitedly tug on his sleeve. “Logan, look! It’s Wade!”
You wave cheerfully at Wade, who sidles up and blithely slings an arm over your shoulder. A thick, hot jealousy sinks over Logan as he eyes it. “Hey girl, how ya been? Funny seeing you and lover boy here!”
You tell him you’re alright, ignoring the ‘lover boy’ comment entirely. He’s not sure if he should be thankful that you did.
“You’re getting coffee from down the block, right?” Wade asks all too innocently, cocking his head like a puppy. “Funny, I was just on my way there! Wanna hang?”
Silently, you look a question at Logan. It softens him immediately: you’re checking if he’s okay with Wade tagging along. You seem genuinely happy that Wade’s here, so the fact that you’re considering his feelings is… it’s sweet.
A fond smile works its way onto Logan’ face as he gives you a slight nod. Wade shoots a look at him that he thoroughly ignores.
“Sure!” you affirm.
It doesn’t take longer than a second for Logan to regret his decision. A sharp unpleasant feeling jolts through him—like piercing his chest with his own claws—as he watches Wade take you gently by the wrist.
Ignorant to the stormy tension rolling off of Logan, Wade pulls you ahead, already running his mouth. He doesn’t get a single word in as Wade keeps you busy with a seemingly endless list of questions. The worst part of the whole ordeal is that the street isn’t wide enough for three people to walk abreast.
Meaning, Logan spends the rest of the journey glaring at the back of Wade’s head, forced to follow the two of you like an envious shadow.
He’s fucking touching you, too. It’s subtle, and casual enough to pass off as friendly, but it irks him all the same: the way Wade swung an arm over your shoulder, the way he leans in to whisper in your ear…
The way he guides you through the café doors with a gentle hand placed on your lower back.
The idea of reaching out and touching you feels impossible to him. seeing Wade do it so easily, and so brazenly…
Logan works at his clenched jaw, barely suppressing the anger roiling within him. The prick absolutely knows what the fuck he’s doing. He’s doing this on purpose to get a reaction out of him, and Logan would rather die than give him the satisfaction.
So, he sits and stares daggers at his coffee. This entire ‘hangout’ has him feeling like a speed limit sign—stock-still, silent and completely ignored.
What the fuck am I still sitting around here for? Logan wonders broodingly, taking a sip of coffee that isn’t half as bitter as he feels.
He could go. He could walk out the door and clock in for work, and—judging by the way you’re giving Wade your undivided attention—you wouldn’t even notice.
His grip tightens around the mug’s handle as he hears you laugh brightly; no doubt because of some stupid joke Wade’s telling. Logan’s never made you laugh half as much as Wade has in the past twenty minutes.
(Has he ever made you laugh? He can’t recall, and it stings.)
Despite how annoying he can be, Wade’s gifted with a genuine talent for connecting with people. He’s disarmingly charming, and knows how to make people feel comfortable around him; a skill he uses on both friends and foe. Hell, it even worked on him.
Logan’s nothing like Wade. He doesn’t tell jokes. He doesn’t waste time making small talk with people he plans on killing. All his life, he’s been perfectly happy stabbing first and talking never.
He couldn’t have cared less about socialising the ‘right’ way. But then he met you.
He likes you—really likes you—and the last thing he wants to do is scare you off with a few ill–chosen words. Now that he has a reason to care, its become an insecurity that every conversation he’s a part of ends with someone grimacing.
Maybe you prefer Wade’s company over his. After all, you’ve known him longer than he’s known either of you. If makes sense that you’d want to hang out with someone more funny and warm and sociable, instead of slumming it with a grouch who leaves every room colder than it was before.
Brooding over the prospect, he’s chugging his coffee down when he hears Wade speak:
“So, draw any naked people recently?”
Logan sputters his drink, shooting an incredulous glare at him. What the fuck is he up to?
Logan didn’t think he could hate his roommate any more than he already does, but apparently records are being broken today.
“What?” you say justifiably.
Wade continues, completely ignoring your confusion and Logan’s murderous stare. “Any preferences for the model? Big tits? Big dick? I know a friend who ticks both boxes,” he grins, blatantly looking at Logan, who’s in the midst of contemplating whether it’d be appropriate to stab Wade in front of you.
You slowly lower your drink from your mouth, beginning to look very confused. “I don’t choose my models based on appearance,” you explain slowly, as one does when talking to a moron. “Attraction isn’t a factor. It’s more about studying the figure and honing observation than anything else...”
“Oh, interesting! Interesting,” Wade says, casually resting his head on his hand. “I thought artists fucked their muses all the time!”
“That’s just wish fulfilment,” you laugh. “There have been cases of artists falling in love with their muses, but I don’t think it happens in real life all that often.”
Logan deflates, defeated.
“Well, thank god this isn’t real!” Wade exclaims to nobody in particular.
(“Who is he talking to?” “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”)
“Are you gonna draw people naked again? In a hypothetically very near future?”
“Well, I have to for my project…”
Wade abruptly stands up, screeching the chair legs against the floor. “The one due in two weeks for the gallery, right?”
You nod hesitantly. Logan absently inches his hand towards the table knife as Wade leans closer to you. “Really? When! Tomorrow? Are you free tonight?”
“I’m free tomorrow? I don’t get what this has to do with—”
“Perfect! You hear that, peanut?” Wade grins wide. “Tomorrow! Man, that’s convenient. Ain’t the writer of this thing just a goddamn hero?
“One last question—and I swear this is the last one—”
Wade jerks his head towards Logan. “Would ya fuck him?”
Logan feels his heart stop.
A deep and profound silence settles over the table.
Logan shoots you a panicked glance. For a brief second, your widened eyes meet his, but you duck your head down, clearly flustered.
“Yes or no,” Wade asks solemnly, bracing his palms in preparation to crawl onto the table like the ghost from ‘The Ring’.
Your mouth hesitates between opening and closing. Logan’s fury spills over the brim before you can answer.
“We’ll be back,” Logan mutters hurriedly, pulling Wade by the collar of his shirt and rounding on him in a shadow–choked alcove.
When he's sure they're out of sight, he slams him against the wall. Wade raises his hands defensively. “Uh, wrong person, peanut. I mean, she’s literally right there—”
“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses.
“Moving the plot along,” Wade shrugs, mouth quirking into a devious smile.
Logan stares, completely at a loss for words. In the split second before he can drive his claws through Wade’s stomach, he takes a hard dive to the right, rolling under his arms into the light. “Try not to get us banned from this café, yeah? You owe me for this, by the way!”
Before Logan can ask what the fuck kind of favour Wade thinks he’s done for him other than overstep every social convention known to man, he’s already running out the door.
Conflicted, he looks back and forth between the doors Wade escaped through, and you, sitting alone at the table. “I’m gonna kill him,” he swears under his breath, realising there’s no way he can leave you alone.
Shaking with rage, he picks his way back towards the table and slowly sits himself across from you.
“Sorry about that. He had to go shit himself,” Logan seethes, feeling thoroughly humiliated as he glares down at the table.
“But there’s a bathroom right there!”
“Occupied,” he lies steadily, blood boiling in his veins. “He had to go before he spewed it all over himself.”
“Oh.”
Logan runs a palm over his face, groaning. “Sorry. Again. For… everything. Mainly his questions.”
“It’s okay,” you shrug, looking as apologetic as he feels. “He’s really off today. I didn’t know he was interested in modelling.”
“He’s not,” Logan snaps, his heart rabbiting at what feels like two hundred miles per hour. “He’s just a clown.”
You fiddle with your hands, avoiding his gaze as you run your fingers over your painted nails. He swallows, trying to get rid of the too warm, too oily feeling at the back of his throat.
“I’m sorry too,” you speak up, your lips a tight line. “For not including you in the conversation early on. I felt really bad, but I didn’t know how to interrupt him. He talks so quickly.”
He huffs a weary laugh. “Yeah. He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about either.”
“Well, he wasn’t talking complete nonsense,” you hum. “I do need someone to model for me. I’ll just hire someone this week.”
Logan goes cold. “Hire?”
“Yeah?” you smile awkwardly, stirring the froth of your drink. “I still need about two more pose references for my painting.”
“Isn’t that pricey?” he asks, already dreading what Wade’ll do if he doesn’t go through with posing for you.
“Yeah, but I’ve done it before! I’ll get the specific poses I have in mind this way, and I can control certain aspects like lighting as well.
“Besides, its not like I can ask my friends to strip naked for me,” you laugh.
Recklessly, he finds himself saying:
“I’ll do it.”
Your lift your head, looking utterly taken aback, and the blood drains Logan realises how badly he needs to lie down.
Dizzy with the rush of impulse, he realises all too late how completely unprepared he is for what he’s offering to do.
“You’re offering to model?” you finally ask, looking at him searchingly. “For me?”
Logan shrugs as casually as he can, feeling helpless as he looks away. Hoping his voice sounds steady, he says, “You’ll save money that way.”
Your brow creases in contemplation; probably to gauge whether he’s joking again. Then, your face slackens into neutrality. “Are you sure? I’m not going to insist if you’re uncomfortable. You’ll have to…”
He steels himself, taking a deep breath. “Yeah. I know.”
“And you’re still offering?” you ask with all the stillness of a lake at midnight.
Logan flicks his eyes to meet your implacable gaze. He nods, levels his voice:
“Yeah. I am.”
Silence spreads between the two of you. You smile, and the clouds part as Logan finds himself staring moonlight in the eye.
“Okay!”
a/n: thank you so much for the comments on last chapter! sorry it took so long. T_T college is about to start and i had to prepare! next chapter will be the last! taglist: @unificsation @tezooks @the-quick-red-fox
