James Potter: seventeen, hair got struck by lightning at age
four and hasn’t sat down since, knuckles that jut out, holds his wand between
his teeth to impress girls- to impress the
girl, doesn’t own one pair of matching socks, the kind of attractive that
fills the ribs, fills the shoulder blades, fills the heart, Sirius painted his
nails once and he kept the polish on all week, sees the girl before registering anyone else in the room, young organs
pumping young blood, wired to himself, to his boys, to the girl, can tell what you’re about to say before you say it, he’s
just sort of like that, has a habit of leaning arms on peoples shoulders, starts
the trust fall before anyone realises they’re meant to be catching him
Sirius Black: seventeen, eats whipped cream by the fork
full, rolls up the sleeves of his robes, begins most conversations with: you absolute fuck, column of his throat
running down the neck like water, leaves his text books all over school, made
of gut feeling, of instinct, of starting before you know how to finish, a part
of him still stuck in that house, with the door slamming, with his mother
yelling, with the world ending, he is
the bomb going off in the swimming pool, he has probably made a bomb go off in
the swimming pool, smoking just outside the door- look- you can see the smoke,
you can see the shaking hands.
Remus Lupin: seventeen, jumpy, long eyelashes, the sullen quiet of fog
in winter, scars up the arms, round the neck, across the chest, eyes that stare
as if they are waiting for permission, plays the same records until he’s mouthing
the words in his sleep, gives out flowers for gifts, sarcasm that could stop
the heart, soft, like the skin above your collar bone, like stained glass
windows with light through them, like seeing a star in a textbook, knowing
that something that good is out there
even if it is far away, often has wind billowing through his baggy t-shirts, pulls
out his bottom lip when thinking, at night wakes up sweating, dreaming of blood
in his mouth, the kind you get when you rip an arm off, when you lick the bone
Peter Pettigrew: seventeen, socks right to the knee, eating
an ice cream, has a sore neck from always looking up, raw fingernails- bitten
to the cuticles, full of fear, oozing fear, could fill cathedrals with this
fear, burns books for no reason, unmade bed, the flush of a cheek that is bloated,
a mound of blood, sits on the floor because there is no room at the table,
counts on his fingers, pulled a muscle when walking up the fourth staircase,
shuts his eyes, opens them, realises he is still in his own skin, pale, a stick
of white, unassuming, like flowers, or the moment the ground gives way, all at
once, as if it was going to all along
I’m playing fast and loose with the events of “Logan” so most of this is pretty inaccurate. Took the basic premise and turned it into a fix-it fic slash road trip romance because the ending of that godfuckingdamn movie made me want to cry and I couldn’t leave the love of my life like that. Also keep in mind that I have no fucking idea how cars work so anything in this oneshot is just guesswork.
ALSO the reader is said to be nineteen because duh this started out as a shameless self insert because I ADORE logan and he deserves love and someone who will appreciate his abs Enjoy and also SORRY FOR HOW LONG THIS TOOK KMS
It becomes his next mission, after Laura. Saving kids like her. Bringing them up across the border. And of course it’s easier said than done, but Logan feels like he owes it to them. It’s partially his fault their lives have gone to hell, anyway.
That’s how he meets (Name). She’s a mutant, the first natural-born one he’d seen in years– not strong, though, not with all the shit Transigen has been fucking dumping into the food and the water supply– and her entire telekinesis thing had brought a horde of those asshole Reavers crawling out of whatever hellhole they’d been stowed away in to track her down.
He picks her up in a bar somewhere east of Phoenix, Arizona.
The first thing he really registers about her is that she’s fucking pretty.
He notices her in fragments– she’s attractive in that sort of innocent way, with wide, wide eyes and dark lashes and a soft pink mouth and a bright smile, cutoff denim shorts exposing just a little more skin than actually necessary, enough that it makes him swallow around a sudden tightness in his throat.
He ignores it, focuses hard on doing what he came here to do, manages to get her out of there and into his truck without incident. Somehow she ropes him into small talk on the drive, though, and that– that’s where everything just ends up going to shit.
He tells her he’s like her– a mutant– explains where they’re going and why. Up through Michigan, to Canada, he tells her, because the Reavers will be expecting them to try to get through North Dakota again, and he’d rather be safe than dead. A solemn silence follows, which she breaks by making an odd sort of happy noise at whatever music is playing through his shitty speakers, and forcing him to crank up the radio for a song he’s never heard before. She tells him that she loves the song with a smile that’s pleasantly genuine. He says all he likes is alcohol and cigars and for some reason she finds that funny.
She asks him how old he is– “Old enough,” he says, avoiding the question– and then they lapse into a short silence.
“I’ll be nineteen soon,” she mentions as he’s crossing the state lines into New Mexico, an unimportant remark made in passing, and Logan feels his throat tighten inexplicably.
He glances over at her, mumbles some intelligible reply, rakes a too-hot gaze up her legs and over the front of her half-unbuttoned flannel shirt and registers that his palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry and that his stomach is sinking–
She’s barely even legal , he thinks, hopelessly resigned to how much he already knows he doesn’t fucking care.
They get to the safe house just fine, and Logan breathes a heavy sigh of relief when they pull into the winding dirt driveway at nearly two in the morning– the hardest part of this is over. His connection will be over within the week to take her up to where the rest of the kids are, and that’ll be it.
He never shows up.
Which is just fucking great, and leaves him with the responsibility of bringing her up to Canada himself.
It’s fine, he tells himself, as he pushes open the heavy oak door to the safehouse and realizes it’s only got two rooms.
There are separate beds, at least.
It’s not fine.
He finds out almost immediately that she sleeps in nothing but a t-shirt and underwear. That first day is hell– it’s like she’s actively trying to kill him; she runs around the house they’re forced to share in the tiniest goddamn shorts he’s ever seen and seems to own a fucking million of those tight, low-cut tank tops. And it’s not just that– she’s a good kid, too, which just makes it worse.
She’s cheerful. She’s smart and a little sarcastic and ridiculously positive, but she’s also focused. Nothing he does goes over her head. At first Logan spends half his time being ridiculously fucking careful about what he says and how he says it just to make sure he doesn’t accidentally scare her away, because he knows he can be frightening. He’s killed people before.
Three days in he becomes convinced that the girl honestly doesn’t care. Nothing he does ever phases her.
She’s clever, and brave, and unfailingly, stupidly kind.
It’s fucking weird.
On the last day, he wakes up to her fucking making him breakfast at seven in the morning like it’s a normal thing for her to do.
“It’s sort of a thank you, for, you know,” she mumbles through a mouthful of blueberry pancakes, “For saving my life.”
“Mm,” Logan responds, trying not to stare– because her nightshirt is incredibly fucking see-through and he might be two-hundred-something years old but he’s still a man, and–
(It’s not fine.)
“You could say thank you,” she whines through his silence, pretty obviously not meaning it.
“Thanks,” Logan replies, more gruffly than he intended. He pours cheap convenience-store syrup over the pancakes and focuses harder than necessary on cutting the stack into neat, even pieces. She bites her bottom lip. He does not look.
“So,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes thoughtfully. “I– what are we going to do? I mean, we can’t– how long are we staying here?”
He licks his lips. Swallows. Drops his fork down on his plate and clears his throat with a cough that’s a little too rattling to be healthy, and says,
She doesn’t say anything.
It surprises him, how easily she accepts the answer. To be honest, it’s nice, because he really didn’t feel like arguing, but a part of him wonders about her family and her friends and if there will be anyone to miss her– if Transigen fucking left anyone alive to miss her. The answer, if he had to guess, is no. She’s alone. She’s probably already been through her fair share of hell, but she still sings as she does the dishes, swaying gently to the tinny sound of some acoustic pop song as it filters in from the cheap radio he keeps on the kitchen window sill. He finds himself in awe of how incredibly fucking happy she still manages to be.
Logan leans back in his chair and he sips at his coffee and he watches her as she stares almost pensively out the bay window above the sink, her face illuminated in the warmth of the morning sunlight.
It’s nice, he thinks. It’s normal.
It doesn’t stay that way. Things like this usually don’t.
They clear out two days later. Logan leaves two hundred dollars crammed in the space between the front step and the doorframe for his contact who had set up the safehouse– if he isn’t already dead– and loads the remaining food and supplies into the back of his beat-down pickup truck.
“What the fuck,” she says, looking half-dead in the passenger seat– and it’s not really a question, so Logan doesn’t bother to really answer.
“What the fuck,” she repeats, louder, voice taking on a whiny sort of edge that should really piss him off more than it does. He’s already got a soft spot for her, apparently. Jesus Christ.
Logan grits his teeth.
“ What ?” he responds, deadpan.
“Wh– you dragged me out of bed at five in the fucking morning,” she says, kicking her feet up on the dashboard with a yawn.
Logan growls, and swats at her kneecaps with the folded-up, coffee-stained road map he’d swiped from one of those shady-looking rest stops by the highway. “Get ‘em off,” he snaps.
She flashes him a rude look, and in a move entirely indicative of how young she actually is, sticks her fucking tongue out at him , a flash of red against the white of her teeth.
Logan laughs. He laughs, the sound abrupt and kind of stilted, like he isn’t used to doing it, like there hasn’t been a reason for him to in what feels like years.
Which is probably true.
Fuck, he thinks.
The girl– she’s still looking at him, flatly unimpressed. Waiting for an answer, or an explanation, or something.
“We had to leave early,” Logan says, risking a side-glance over at her as he maneuvers out of the dirt driveway. “Makes sure we won’t be followed.”
She stares at him for a moment longer, and then heaves a sigh, leaning back against the leather-upholstered seat.
“I forgot about that,” she eventually offers. It’s kind of an apology.
He responds with a noncommittal grunt, reaching over to turn the radio up.
Soon enough they find the main road, and start heading northwest on a mostly-empty highway. The sky is still dark. The only light comes from the streetlamps, glinting off of the tinted windows in eerie, fleeting patterns as he drives past them, one by one.
“You’re not forgiven, though,” she says eventually, lips twitching up into a semblance of a smile. “I don’t get up before ten.”
Logan rolls his eyes. He wants to say something dismissive. Something rude, something to shut down whatever semblance of a friendship they’ve established.
Before he can muster up the courage to say anything she’s rolling down the windows and sliding on a pair of fucking sunglasses even though it’s like, five-thirty in the fucking morning, and turning up the radio as far as it will go. In the distance, the sun finally slips past the horizon line, and the light takes on this warm, ethereal sort of tone, highlighting the planes of her face in a way that makes Logan think about– things. Stupid things.
She’s pretty in a way that she shouldn’t be.
Whatever Logan was about to say dries up and disappears somewhere below his adam’s apple.
He looks at her.
His reflection stares back at him from the mirrored lenses of her knockoff Ray Bans.
“I can’t see shit,” she says, and, again, he finds himself laughing.
The first night, he manages to find a place for them to sleep: a motel about a half mile from the highway, nestled between a tiny gas station and a greasy, stereotypical “All-American” burger joint.
And it’s shitty.
Logan walks into their room and feels like he’s been blasted back to the fucking 1980s– between the weirdly overused floral patterns fading on the bedspread and the honest-to-god shag carpet, it’s like he’s stumbled into a time capsule.
“Ew,” the girl says, inspecting an odd stain on the chintz armchair by the coffee table. “ Ew.”
Logan scans the room. One bed. No couches, just chairs. The girl notices him silently studying the furniture and immediately sees the problem.
Her solution surprises him.
“We can share,” she says nonchalantly, “Just don’t snore.”
Logan opens his mouth, but doesn’t actually say anything. He closes it.
And that goes about as well as expected– which is to say they go to bed a respectable distance away from each other, and Logan manages to fall asleep without thinking too much about the practically half-naked girl next to him.
He wakes up on his side, hip digging uncomfortably into the box spring set beneath the paper-thin mattress, and finds her tucked into the empty space left by his body.
Right , he thinks, again, not really awake, and to be honest, uncertain as to whether or not he’s even conscious.
She shifts. Yawns, breath ghosting hotly against his bare chest. Makes absolutely no effort to move away, not even a little, and Logan feels something that’s almost panic begin to simmer in his abdomen, dissolving any of his remaining sleepiness and leaving him awake and painfully aware.
So he does the logical thing, which is to try to disentangle himself as quietly as possible, before realizing he’s already pressed up against the wall and that there is absolutely nowhere to go.
Fuck, Logan thinks, with the appropriate amount of irritation.
At least he hasn’t popped a boner.
He shifts uncomfortably.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Physical closeness– he refuses to call it intimacy, because it isn’t– has never bothered him before. His truck is small and road trips are long and at this point he should be used to the inevitability of being forced to share a bed with someone.
It would help, he thinks, if that someone were less attractive and less available and less exactly his type. Logan still isn’t sure if he even has a type, but if he did, she’d be it.
(He’s so screwed.)
She yawns, again, and then uses Logan’s body as leverage to push herself away from him towards the end of the bed. And Logan– he stays perfectly fucking still and forces himself to ignore the heat of her palms against his lower abdomen.
“Morning,” she mumbles, sitting up and kicking her legs over the side of the bed. She stretches, and her nightshirt rides up, up, up, exposes the curve of her spine as her back arches. The sun streams in from the nearby window and kind of fucking surrounds her, makes her look like some sort of goddamn angel, or something else equally as stupid.
Logan answers her with a noncommittal grunt and buries his face back in one of the lumpy pillows, legitimately praying for strength.
Getting up doesn’t help anything. They eat off-brand cereal for breakfast and he does his best to not talk. Later, she showers while he brushes his teeth, because they need to get on the road as soon as possible and sometimes that means awkward shit happens. He discovers there’s a sliding door to the bath, and it’s that bullshit frosted glass, not really see-through but not solid, either. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to keep himself from watching– he can’t really see anything, nothing defined, anyway, but there’s the outline of her body through the condensation collecting on the glass, and it’s enough to make focusing on anything else difficult.
It occurs to him, after they’ve checked out and after he’s thrown their bags in the back seat of his pickup, that ignoring her should be a lot easier than it’s ending up to be.
They stop at the tiny convenience store next to the motel before leaving, to stock up on food.
“And gas,” he adds, staring at the meter, hovering just above ‘empty’.
She goes in to pay and Logan fills up the tank, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the dusty side of the car. He glances into the shop through the dirty glass window and his eyes fix on her almost immediately. She’s smiling and handing a twenty to the cashier– a young guy, about her age, who looks like he has no fucking idea how to react to so much genuine happiness being directed at him.
HIs immediate response is a startlingly aggressive rush of irritation towards the cashier, followed immediately by irritation at himself.
He used to be immune to this sort of shit, he thinks, shoving the gas nozzle back into its cradle.
Apparently that’s changed.
By the end of their sixth day on the road, they’re somewhere in Illinois and Logan is suffering.
The AC is out and his engine is overheated and he’s overheated and about two minutes away from what feels like a goddamn heat stroke. He’s not sure if he can even have those, but he is sure that he’s about to find out.
They might have enough time to stop for repairs and still be ahead of the people following them. But Logan isn’t going to risk it. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s tired, and there’s always another way, even if that means running.
He tells her they’re going to start driving at night, and her response is understandably negative. It still doesn’t stop him from pulling the truck out of the little bed-and-breakfast they’d ended up in and getting back on the road as soon as the sun sets. She complains for a solid two hours before she starts to fall asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness in the passenger seat.
They’re driving through a long stretch of wilting, sun-dried fields when it happens.
“Wh– fireworks?” She says, opening her eyes just as the first one explodes into a shimmer of red and white above the car.
Logan grunts in affirmative. “‘S the Fourth of July,” he says. “I think.”
She sits up straight in her seat, absentmindedly rubbing the spot on her neck where the seatbelt had bitten into her skin, and fixes him with an imploring look that he can barely see in his peripheral vision.
“No,” he says, already knowing what she’s going to ask.
“But I want to watch the fireworks. Just half an hour,” she answers, somewhat convincingly. “I’ll watch from the truck bed. You can be an asshole and just sit in the car.”
Logan manages to hold his own for about five entire minutes.
“Goddamnit,” he grumbles. She grins.
(In hindsight, giving in to her was a horrible, horrible idea.)
He takes his shitty, beat-up pickup truck and parks it down off the road in one of the fields, half-hidden from the road by a giant weathered sign that reads Land For Sale in peeling black paint, and she climbs into the back truck while he stares at the steering wheel and contemplates what he’s even fucking doing to himself at this point.
He gets out of the car.
She’s lying on her back in the bed of the truck, arms tucked behind her head. The suspension creaks perilously as Logan moves to sit beside her. The sky is clear and the stars are bright and the moon is glowing and full. A firework shoots up into the sky in a trail of golden smoke and explodes with a dull crack across the dark expanse of the horizon. Logan doesn’t care. He’s been alive long enough that any sense of wonder he had for them has just– dissipated.
Above them, fireworks continue to go off, flickering through the sky in bursts of bright, effervescent color.
Logan looks at her as she watches them. He thinks about the happy smile she’d given him when he’d agreed to this bullshit. He thinks about the corresponding warmth that had blossomed slowly in his chest somewhere between his ribs, and wonders, not for the first time, when everything had gotten so fucked.
They’re in a shitty roadside bar in Michigan and she’s kicking his ass at pool when he realizes he has a fucking problem.
They’ve been camped out for the last hour and a half, commandeering the pool table in the back corner of the bar surrounded by half-drunk wannabe-rednecks in sleeveless flannels and fourty-year-old men with beer bellies who pretty obviously peaked in high school. Logan’s had enough scotch to actually start feeling it, which has been getting easier and easier to accomplish as his fucking healing factor shuts down, or whatever, but that’s not what really matters. The buzzing inside of his head isn’t entirely because of the alcohol, anyway.
The girl– (Name)– is bent over the pool table lining up a shot, and his eyes make a slow sweep up her body almost without thinking about it, lingering over her legs and her ass and the slow sinuous curve of her spine and–
“I am… the best, ” she announces, pausing to make sure she’s succeeded in sinking the eight ball before gloating, “That’s two to one, against somebody who’s spent, what, twenty years doing nothing but bar hopping–”
Logan swallows, mouth feeling particularly dry, and finishes off the rest of his scotch.
“Shut up ,” he says, not really meaning it.
Their arms brush. Distantly, he can hear the low-pitched rumble of his own laughter. She’s saying something about a rematch and he can’t fucking say no to her because they’ve got time to kill and this is infinitely better than being stuck in another shitty motel room.
She’s moving around the table, collecting the pool balls to rack for their next match when somebody approaches her from the bar.
In hindsight, Logan should have fucking expected this. It’s a dive bar and half the men here are scum and the other half are just plain stupid, and she’s young, and attractive, easily the prettiest girl in the damn place– it shouldn’t be all that surprising that somebody else would notice that.
The guy– he’s tall. Reedy. Messy, dull hair and a shitty beard that’s patchy and frankly pathetic, like he made it through half of puberty before his body just fucking– gave up. He’s got sweat-stains on his faded Michigan University t-shirt and tobacco-stained teeth and Logan knows, logically, that she isn’t even remotely fucking interested, but–
That’s not what matters.
What matters is that this piece of shit had seen him, and her, and assumed that any sort of bullshit he planned on pulling would be perfectly okay, because there was no way that the two of them could ever be together, no, the guy hadn’t even bothered to fully look at Logan before dismissing him entirely.
That makes him angry, even though he knows he’s got no right to be.
He comes up behind her. Curls his arm around her waist. He feels her stiffen and then relax into his side in less than a second, and a part of him wants to believe that the reaction is instinctive, natural, like she hadn’t even made the conscious decision to do it.
Logan grits his teeth and glares veritable daggers at the dirtbag leaning over her, and his anger must be palpable because the guy’s cocky, predatory smile withers and dies and he’s holding up his hands and walking away before Logan even has a chance to say anything to him.
She doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans into him, and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, reaching down to squeeze his hand. Logan stiffens– even that little amount of contact is enough to make his pulse beat faster, stronger, louder.
“We should get out of here,” he says, voice low and slightly gravelly. The events that had just unfolded– they don’t feel real. Like he’s outside himself watching everything unfold through a telescope a million miles away. What the fuck is he doing?
The look she gives him is soft, and Logan wonders if she realizes what’s happening, if she even gets it, gets the nights in the hotels and the hours together driving and the fireworks and the fucking bar fight he’d been willing to start for her, gets what it all means when the incidents are lined up like that, one after another–
“Yeah,” she answers. “We should go.”
They wind up in another hotel with two six-packs of Logan’s favorite beer, and everything feels– off. Wrong. The silence is thick and there’s a thread of tension between them that hadn’t been there before.
Logan realizes he’s singlehandedly destroying the first good thing he’s had in forty years.
He has a plan. Get to Canada, get her somewhere safe, and then leave.
That doesn’t happen.
The truck finally gives out in a tiny town called Paradise, on the very edge of Lake Huron.
It would be funny, he thinks, almost like fate, if he even believed in that sort of thing.
“Engine’s all overheated,” the mechanic explains, poking at a half-melted length of rubber piping. “See this? Coolant’s supposed to go through here, but it’s all fucked.”
Logan grits his teeth and crosses his arms and digs his nails into his palms with an unnecessary amount of violence. “Can you fix it?”
The mechanic runs grease-stained fingers through his hair and nods. “Yeah, I mean, next week , not, y’know, today.”
He babbles on about the shop missing the parts or some other bullshit, because apparently they don’t get much business in fucking-nowhere, Michigan– big surprise– and then he directs Logan and the girl to a small hotel by the shoreline that’s mostly empty, where they’ll apparently have to stay until the parts come in on Monday.
He checks in at the front desk and gets the keys from a sweet old lady who asks too many questions. Their room is small, and overly-decorated, with ocean-themed throw pillows scattered across a matching set of armchairs and a handful of seashell windchimes hanging out by the screened-in porch. It’s a nice place, better than where they’d been forced to stay before, but Logan doesn’t care. He just throws his bags onto a quilted starfish-patterned bedspread and collapses on top of it with a long, drawn-out sigh.
The girl is standing in the doorway, watching him.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
Logan grunts in affirmative and closes his eyes. He hears footsteps, steady and quiet against the plush carpet, and then a hand brushes across his forehead and it’s fucking ridiculous how quickly his pulse stutters and how sharp his sudden intake of breath sounds in his ears.
“No fever,” she says.
“‘s just the adamantium,” he grunts, except it isn’t.
She looks at him, and it’s suddenly so easy– too easy– for him to be angry. Irritated that when he looks back at her he can’t get a read on her, or her mood, or her intentions, can’t quite tell what she’s thinking.
He sits up, suddenly feeling suffocated. He’s tired of this– tired of fighting her and himself and tired of never being sure whether he’s winning or losing or just wasting time. Nothing makes sense anymore. It feels like he’s been knocked off-balance, like for some reason his center of gravity has shifted just enough to make his world spin around him and the only fucking thing he’s certain of anymore is his own denial. He’s never been good at confronting his emotions.
Logan stands up.
“I’m going out,” he says, tone clipped and short.
She doesn’t stop him.
Logan didn’t really expect her to.
She finds him a little over an hour later. It’s dusk– the sun has slipped down over the horizon, but there’s still just enough lingering light to give everything a soft, surreal sort of glow.
Logan’s clothes and shoes are stacked in a sandy heap up on the shoreline and he’s waded into the lake up to his waist, watching the fractured patterns of silver moonlight flicker over the surface, dizzyingly bright against the dark water.
He says nothing. Her gaze moves slowly over the planes of his upper body–the scars and the burn marks and the bullet holes that never really healed right– and the expression on her face is something he only distantly recognizes. Their eyes meet, and she searches his face, studying him, and Logan can see the precise moment when she realizes, pieces together his evasion tactics and his silence and his jealousy and his perpetual anger–
Her expression softens.
She pulls her tank top up over her head in one slow, languid movement. Discards her shorts. Wades into the lake until she’s standing beside him, gentle waves lapping at her stomach. She skims her hands over the water, gently, lightly, never quite breaking the surface, and Logan watches with a sharp sort of intensity.
The tension feels different, tonight. It’s softer, but it’s also become that much harder to avoid.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says in a gravelly whisper, before he can even think of stopping himself. His laugh is half bewildered and half angry, because he’s always, always angry. “You never fuckin’ know what you’re doing.”
She moves towards him. There’s the soft, lingering glide of her bare, wet skin against his as she traces the lines of the puckered, waxy scar he’d gotten on his left arm when he saved her life, and there’s the miniscule amount of space between them, hot and thick like the air inside of his shitty truck had been for the week since the AC blew out. None of this is new, not really, but it still feels different, this time.
“If I–” she pauses, swallows, and her pupils are dilated and nearly eclipsing her irises and Logan feels a sudden tightness in his gut, feels heat, feels anticipation and longing and a lot of fucking things, really, things he probably shouldn’t be feeling but feels anyway.
“If I asked you to kiss me, would you do it?”
He stares at her.
(He hadn’t been expecting that. He should’ve, though. She’s never been one for subtlety.)
The effect it has on him is instant. It’s like being doused in cold water. The fire pooling in his stomach fizzles and dies and is abruptly replaced by the thousands of reasons why he can’t and shouldn’t and won’t. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. He can’t just come waltzing into her fucking life and take a space that she should be saving for somebody else. For anyone else, really, for somebody who’s safer and kinder and better than him.
“(Name),” he warns, sharply. Abruptly.
End of conversation.
It isn’t really the end of it, though. She’s too fucking stubborn.
“Logan,” she retorts, moving closer. She reaches out to touch him again and he grabs her wrists before she can and fuck, he thinks, she’s looking at him like she already knows how he’ll react to everything that she’s saying and everything that she’s doing and he can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s managed to get himself into.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says, hoarsely.
She doesn’t say anything. He can hear the gentle sound of the waves lapping up against them, the strange silence of the surrounding shoreline, can feel his own heartbeat perilously, traitorously loud inside his ribcage.
She’s waiting for him, he realizes. He’s waiting for him.
“Fuck,” he says.
He lets go of her wrists, registers her hands against his bare chest, warm and soft, and then he’s reaching out, cupping her face, tipping her chin up.
She moves up to meet him.
He kisses her slowly. Gently. His hands are shaking and she has her arms wrapped loosely around his neck and her body is pressed against his like it belongs there.
It’s easy. It’s so fucking easy. Weeks of constant tension dissolve like mist in the sunlight.
She’s the one who ends it.
“I’m going back to the hotel room,” she whispers, breath warm where his neck meets his shoulder. “Come with me?”
He breathes out, exhale shallow and shaky, but his eyes are steady on hers. Focused.
By the time they get back to the hotel, it’s dark, but that doesn’t matter.
The door closes with a soft click of rubber insulation against wood, and Logan looks at her, really looks at her, eyes roaming over her legs and her hips and her chest and her mouth, all the places he hadn’t allowed himself to notice until now.
The distance between them closes much more easily, much more quickly, this time.
“Never thought we’d do this,” he murmurs, and then corrects himself, “Never thought you’d want me to.”
Her laugh is soft. Disbelieving. She meets his eyes and leans up towards him and whispers, “That’s because you’re stupid”, and the words dissolve into his mouth as she kisses him– or maybe he kisses her, or maybe a little of both. It doesn’t matter, anyway, and Logan doesn’t care.
He frames her face with his hands and slants his mouth over hers and deepens the kiss, his tongue parting her lips and pushing in and scraping over her teeth, across the roof of her mouth– she tastes exactly how he imagined, exactly how he’d dreamed she would, sweet like chapstick and strawberries and so fucking perfect that for a moment he’s left wondering if this is even real. His hand is moving down from her face to the curve of her waist, fingers digging in, and he’s urging her closer until her body is pressed up so close to his that he can feel her heartbeat against his chest, the rapid rise-and-fall of her breathing as he keeps kissing her. Her hand wraps around the back of his neck and her teeth scrape over his bottom lip, half-smiling against his mouth when he makes a sound almost like a growl and kneads her hips, yanking her closer, moving one hand up under her half-damp tank top. Her skin is soft and warm under his calloused hands and fuck when he drags his thumb across her nipple through the sheer fabric of her bra she makes a noise like a sigh, or maybe a moan, shallow and soft, and rakes her nails down his arms–
It’s still not good enough.
He wants to touch her everywhere.
Logan yanks her tank top off, fabric clinging stubbornly to her still-wet skin, and then he fumbles with the clasp of her bra for a moment before discarding that, too. She’s beautiful, and he had known that, but it’s not the same– not when it’s like this, when he can so easily reach out and touch, and maybe he stares for a second or more than a second–
“Jesus,” he whispers, a little more frantic than intended, and almost immediately his mouth descends over the soft column of her throat and then down to her collarbones, her breasts, kissing every inch of skin he can reach with a sort of reverence he hadn’t known he was capable of. She leans into the feeling of his mouth, gasps out his name in a breathless, needy way that hits him hard, makes his cock ache in the rough confines of his boxers as he sucks a bruise into her skin where her shoulder meets her neck– half because he wants to and half because it’s proof that this is real.
In the back of his mind, he thinks of all the ways he could talk himself out of this, all the countless reasons why he shouldn’t let this get any worse or any more permanent, but he finds that he doesn’t care. She kisses him and he tugs her closer, a low groan vibrating somewhere in his throat at how effortlessly her body fits against his.
She’s the one who pulls him towards the bed.
“Come on, Logan,” she says, and it’s probably supposed to sound teasing, sarcastic, defiant, even, but mostly it just sounds breathless. There’s a bruise blossoming on her neck and her mouth is swollen and red, and Logan stops and stares and the only thing he can think is I did that, I did that to her, I kissed her–
“Fuck,” he bites out, the noise low and unsurprisingly aggressive.
He hears the rustle of the comforter against the mattress as she moves onto it, and he follows, wrenches his shirt up over his head and tosses it to the floor and then easily pushes her legs apart to take the space between them. Her nails dig into his shoulders, not enough to really hurt, and she drags him down into another kiss, the movement of her mouth against his mirroring the slow, languid roll of her hips–
“Get your clothes off, c’mon,” he mutters, half pleading, biting her bottom lip just hard enough to make her gasp against his mouth and relishing in how she reacts to him, honest and real in a way he hadn’t expected.
Her shorts are off before he even has time to think about what he’s doing, and then her underwear, too, joining his shirt in a messy, haphazard pile of clothing on the floor, and he’s looking at her and she’s staring right back and the sudden rush of vulnerability he feels is almost enough to make him wonder if this was a mistake. It’s fucking stupid, he thinks, because he’s still got half his goddamn clothes on, why does he feel so exposed ?
His breathing is ragged. His pulse is thundering. The air is thick with something that feels like static electricity, sharp and heavy, like in the moments before a storm. His eyes rake up her body almost of their own volition, taking in the swell of her breasts and the curve of her stomach and then trailing down, down–
“Logan,” she mutters, squirming under the heat of his gaze, and any hint of defiance is gone at this point, replaced by pent-up, repressed longing, and it suddenly clicks that this entire fucking thing had never been one-sided. It had never just been him, she had watched and waited and wanted him too, and–
“(Name),” he rasps, not sure if he had even meant to say it out loud, and then he’s undoing his belt and fumbling with the button on his jeans, discarding his clothes in a bundle and closing the space between them with a newfound desperation.
She leans up and meets him halfway, and the kiss is frantic and messy and perfect. His weight pins her down to the bed and his desire is all-consuming, white-hot in the pit of his stomach as she rocks up against him, the friction making him groan. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s wanted something this badly, and the feeling of her bare skin is like a fucking drug. His hand slips down her stomach, moves in between her thighs, and she’s wet, fuck, his fingers are slick against her skin and when he touches her she chokes out a soft, trembling moan, and he realizes distantly that he’s so fucking hard it hurts–
“Logan,” she whispers, a little desperately, rocking her hips up into his hand, looking for friction, and his breath just fucking falters, shit, the arm supporting his weight on the bed is trembling and he can’t think of anything he wants more in this moment than her.
“Jesus,” he groans, pressing a finger inside of her and curling it up, and her answering moan is needy and helpless and when he starts to fuck her with his fingers she fucking melts underneath him in the best way–
“Stop fucking– teasing,” she says, trying to sound irritated but failing miserably as her voice wavers and dissolves into a moan.
Logan exhales shakily. He stops touching her.
They’re both aware of it, he knows, his cock pressed up against the inside of her thigh, hot and hard and insistent, and then she rocks her hips up against him and he groans, the sound frantic, desperate, dragging her into a kiss–
He thrusts into her in one fluid motion.
“Ah– fuck,” he groans, against her open, waiting mouth, eyes closed and face tense and the muscles in his arms and upper back strung taut, tense with the effort of holding himself still.
There’s a moment of silence– a moment of stillness– that’s strangely intimate, warm and familiar and right, his breathing ragged and unsteady against her neck as he struggles to hold on to the quickly-fading remains of his self-control.
Logan moves slowly.
Her answering moan is soft and the warmth of their combined body heat is heady and suffocating–sweat beads on his forehead and her breath ghosts hot across his collarbones as he moves and as she rolls her hips up to meet him. His forehead is pressed against hers and their noses are bumping as he kisses her, open-mouthed and messy, catching her gasp and his answering groan as she tightens around him, hot and wet and perfect. The way she drags her palms down his chest and across the wide expanse of his shoulders is desperate, almost like she’s looking for something to hold on to as he thrusts in a little harder, watches, seemingly entranced, as his cock moves, in down to the base until their hips are pressed together and then back again.
“ Logan ,” she moans, biting into the tight, sinewy curve of his shoulder just enough to make him groan, and make his rhythm stutter, and make his hips snap forward hard, and whatever he was going to say in response is replaced with a desperate, needy growl at the way she moans with the rock of his body. A shiver trembles down her spine, liquid and involuntary, and he can feel the way her muscles tighten around his cock, can hear the creaking of the bedsprings and the sharp, ragged sounds of his own breathing and nothing else really seems to matter except what’s happening right then. He doesn’t care about the past, or the future, or anything except the way she melts when he kisses her and how she arches her hips to meet his and moans into his mouth at the feeling, simultaneously overwhelmed and wanting more–
He snaps his hips forwards and he watches her tremble, watches her mouth part for a gasp and how she never stops looking at him, not even for a second. Her eyes are bright, clear and warm, and Logan wonders if she’s always looked at him like that, if maybe he just never noticed.
“I– fuck, fuck, I’m–” she gasps, tripping over the words, a little desperate and a lot frantic as she grinds up against him, one hand tangled in his hair and the other somewhere on the expanse of his shoulder, reaching for purchase, something to hold on to–
He’s acutely aware of her body pressed up against his own, slick with sweat and incredibly fucking warm, her face buried in his shoulder and her breath hot against his skin and her body soft and pliant and perfect underneath him. Everything about this is driving him fucking crazy and he’s wanted it for so long that it’s hard to focus, that everything else is a colorless, meaningless blur in the background and all he can see is her, back arching and muscles tensing and calling out his name as she comes.
And it’s fucking beautiful, and perfect, and exactly how he imagined while also being so much better. She trembles and tightens around him in the most delicious way and the moan she releases is wonderfully helpless and whatever remaining scraps of decorum he had left just fucking dissolve. His thrusts become erratic, his rhythm falters and he realizes, distantly, that he’s not going to last much longer as she rocks against him until he can barely think straight.
“(Name),” he mutters, and chokes out a curse, buries his face in her shoulder and relishes in it, in the closeness and the shared body heat and the feeling of being here, with her, like this, until his body falters and his weight comes down onto his forearms and his orgasm is wrenched through him like a fucking revelation.
And then it’s over.
He doesn’t move for a long moment. She doesn’t make him. Nothing seems to matter anymore except the warmth of where their bodies are still joined, the sound of their combined breathing, and the ache of the emotions they had unleashed on one another. It’s a brief moment of peace for him, and he thinks she must feel the same.
“You can get off of me now,” she complains, softly. Breathlessly. Logan huffs out a laugh, deep and warm, and moves away. He hesitates, only for a second, before pulling her to his bare chest with his hand curled over her hip.
The silence isn’t as suffocating as he’d expected. It’s almost– comfortable.
“Dumbass,” she says. There’s an honest sort of affection in her voice, as she throws an arm over his chest and buries her face in the crook of his neck.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, sleepy and sated and not really meaning it at all.
He goes up to Canada. Brings her back to a house he hasn’t been to in years, nestled comfortably in the mountains under the shade of a forest of pine trees. The last time he was here, he was still mostly human; no adamantium. Just bone. The house is empty, but he still owns it, technically.
The first thing she asks him after getting unpacked is if he’s going to stay. He expected the question, but answering it is still hard, the word catching somewhere in his throat just below his voice box.