wolverine is in everything

Movie Trailer Charles: “We have to help this little girl, Logan. it’s the right thing to do, and I know you’re still a good person at heart.”

Actual Movie Charles: “Logan you disappointing piece of shit help this little girl and don’t screw her up or I swear to God she’ll become as much of a fuck-up as you are.”

i lost my voice for a week & nobody noticed because i never freaking talk
Nowhere Fast (Logan x Reader)

 Word Count: 7k+

Rating: M for some mild smut

Warnings: None

Note:  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.

And–

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.

Fine.

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.

It’s nice.

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–

Fuck.

It’s fine.

(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,

“Not long.”

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.

“Seat belt.”

“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.

And Logan–

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.

Right.

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.

Except-

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.

Jesus Christ.

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.

It isn’t.

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.

And–

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?

He swallows.

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.

Fuck.

 —————

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.

“Hey.”

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 ?

But–

Still.

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.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”

Comatose-Chapter 10

Summary: You are the sister of Charles Xavier. You are part of the Avengers and dating Bucky Barnes. Unbeknownst to you Bucky is having an affair with Natasha. When you catch them in the act, things go downhill from there. You are a Mutant with similar powers to Jean, only with Immortality thrown in.

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Bucky X Natasha, Logan Howlett X Reader

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Cheating, Feelings of worthlessness, Depression.Minors Avert your eyes. NSFW 18 and over only. 

You wake slowly, a quickly fading dream clinging to your subconscious mind. Shifting slightly, you pry open your eyes and come face-to-face with a distraught Logan. A frown graces your features as you take in his appearance. “What happened?” you croak, voice hoarse.

“You changed,” comes his simple reply.

You swallow tightly, aware of the anger simmering below the surface. “Oh my god,” you breath out. “What did I do?” Panic is rising inside you and you scramble upright. “Who did I hurt?” you ask tightly.  

Logan pauses briefly, contemplating his choice of words, before continuing calmly, “No one.” You look at him in disbelief, causing him to sigh. “There ain’t nothin but bumps and bruises, but you scared the shit outta us. Especially them. They ain’t seen that before like I have.”

A flash of memory makes itself known and you gasp. “Did you..did you kill me?” You look at him wide eyed. The guilt passing across his face and the red rimmed eyes giving him away. “Oh, Logan.” Reaching toward him, you attempt to pull him into an embrace but he dodges you. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.. I was just so angry..”

He whirls around, anger apparent in his demeanour. “You were angry? You were angry! Don’t you get it, (Y/N)? I killed ya! I don’t care that it wasn’t permanent! I had to kill ya!” he grits out. “I had to hold ya in my arms, feel the blood pouring out of ya and know that I did that to ya!”

Standing on shaky legs, you move toward him. “You could never truly hurt me, Logan,” you remind him gently. “It’s going to take a lot more than your claws to do me in.” Running your hand up his chest, you look him in the eye. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

He pulls you closer, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. His hands slip underneath your shirt, tracing patterns into your skin. He kisses a trail up your neck, nipping gently at your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin.

You attempt to, but all that leaves you is a gasp when he nips harder at the flesh of your neck. Your hands instinctively go to his hair, tug lightly, bringing his lips to yours in a frenzied kiss. It’s all clashing teeth and tangling tongues, a wild mating between two desperate people. A lance of desire surges straight through you, setting you moaning into Logan’s mouth.

You hear him unsheathe his claws, feel the smooth slide of them as they cut through the flimsy top you are wearing, exposing your braless form to the cool air. He nips at your collarbone. Kisses his way into the valley between your breasts. Moving toward a nipple, he circles the hardening nub with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. A content growl vibrates out of him as he runs a callused hand to your covered core.

He gently hooks a finger into the lace material, running it slowly beneath the elastic, earning a garbled moan of his name. He smirks, and you can feel it against your skin before he lets go of your nipple with a wet pop. The lace skims down your legs, following the trailing path of his fingers as he pushes them down until they fall without resistance to puddle around your ankles. His eyes are heavy lidded, guarded but you can still see the want, the lust he’s barely keeping under control.

When he inhales deeply, it makes him moan. “So wet.” His voice is low, velvety, the deep bass of it resonating through you. “I can smell you, you’re so wet for me.” His hands stroke upward, hot and hard over your thighs, coming at last to the apex between them. He runs a teasing finger up your slit, circling your clit slowly.

You arch into his touch, your breasts brushing against his clothed chest, the roughness dragging over your sensitive nipples. Impatiently, you let out a surge of power, pushing him away from you a step. He looks mildly startled, his dark eyes searching your face questioningly, wondering if you’re rejecting this, rejecting him. Understanding dawns when you fumble with his pants, pulling them and his underwear down around his knees.Reaching for his bobbing cock, pre-cum beading at the tip, you stroke him languidly in a firm, corkscrew motion, eliciting a grunt of pleasure from him.

“Fuck,” he moans as you run a thumb over his slit, spreading the wetness along his tip.

Biting your bottom lip, you make to sink down onto your knees, but he stops you mid bend, causing you to look at him in the manner he had you earlier. He smiles a wicked grin and jerks his shirt up over his head, tossing it away. His hands return to run up your arms, eliciting a soft moan. Your hands find their way to his sculpted core, sliding up to trace the defined lines of muscle, out over his pecs and finally link behind his neck.

He pulls you to him, his hot length rests tantalizingly against your stomach. A deceptively soft growl ripples in his chest, vibrating through yours, and you sigh with the pleasure you feel. He bends his knees and grips you by the back of the thighs, lifting and spreading you open in one swift motion. Settling your legs around his waist, he lays you back on the bed and runs his cock through your wet lips teasingly, thrusting his hips slightly at every pass over your clit.

You need him inside you. The desire to forget is threatening to overwhelm you. You know that the repercussions of this will be devastating, but you need this. He needs this. He needs to know that you are whole. Safe. Alive. Stalling his movements with your legs you whimper, “Please!”  stuffing as much emotion as you can into that one word.

He seems to understand because he guides himself to your entrance. The thick head glides through your tight walls, pressing deep, stretching and burning deliciously thanks to your forced abstinence.  He halts briefly to let you adjust, his breath hot against your shoulder. He turns his face into your throat and bites you gently beneath your ear. It leaves you breathless, scratching frantically at his back, leaving long angry marks in your wake that heal as quickly as they are made, and he chuckles darkly in a tone that has a rush of wetness bathing his cock.

“Move,” you beg, only to have him bite you again before he obliges, setting a slow, precise pace that has you seeing stars at every thrust. “Logan,” you moan, the wet slap of skin filling the near silent room. Logan’s growls pierce through the haze of desire coursing through you. Your entire being has focused down to the pleasure rippling from your core, the way his body presses you into the mattress, the hot, heavy weight of him inside you, and the teeth that keep returning over and over to your throat. You’re coming undone at the seams, back arching off the bed. The last few months of worry and regret and hate flow out of you with every upward thrust. “Oh,” you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist.

He shifts slightly, the new angle driving directly into the secret bundle of nerves and tugs at your earlobe. “You gonna come for me, darlin’?”

It sets you screaming, panting, whimpering, clenching around him. He must feel how close you are because he reaches for your clit, rubbing frantically. His hips stutter the harder your walls contract. The euphoria is building inside you, and with a few short, sharp thrusts you come screaming around him, chanting his name like it’s the only word you remember how to say.

“Fuck!” he snarls, pulling out of you. Stroking himself in harsh pulls, he works himself through to the finish and with a long drawn out growl, his release sprays over your breasts.

You don’t care. You’re exhausted. The events of the last 24 hours have finally caught up with you.

Logan retreats to the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with a warm, wet washcloth to rid you of the evidence of your time together. He cleans you up tenderly as you drift in and out of consciousness. The last thing you remember is Logan pulling your unresisting body into his, and placing a loving kiss on your temple as you succumb to the oblivion of sleep.

Tags: …….Everyone still with me….

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Logan: Just because I won’t bring you as my daughter, doesn’t mean you can kidnap a someone for bringing your daughter to work day.

Wade: But this is my daughter…

I saw Logan this week. It was good. I managed to not cry even my friends bawling their eyes out next to me. 10/10 will own when it comes out.

Edit: Damn you phone for correcting a name not in need of correcting! Thanks @x-marchosias-x

anonymous asked:

How realistic was Laura fighting in Logan? She's 11. Her bones would theoretically still be pretty soft, but she's also a mutant who heals almost instantly. While she does often lose to adults when they swarm her, she also kills a lot of people. In addition, she falls in a weird limbo between Child Solider and Child Raised for Combat because the people who trained her from birth treated her as disposable, and didn't try to brainwash her. As a result, she escapes ASAP. Thoughts?

Well, I haven’t seen Logan yet but the problem with the question is “realistic”. This is X-men, realism left the building ages ago. Nothing is realistic. If you’re asking about realism then you’re asking the wrong questions because superpowers change the rules. What you’re really asking is: should an eleven year old child be able to fight on the same level as an experienced warrior like Wolverine?

And the answer is, in the Marvel universe characters with healing factors (like Wolverine) have recovered from being burned into ash by the sun. So, in a setting where his healing factor is failing and he’s dying but she’s young, genetically/physically enhanced, and hers is working at full throttle then why not? She’s a tiny Logan. A rage-filled murder ball dedicated to death and destruction, created in a lab that turns human guinea pigs into ultimate weapons. So, I ask, why not? She’s doing exactly what she’s been designed to do, minus it being on the orders of someone else.

What stops children from competing with adults is three things.

1) Physical immaturity. Their bodies are still developing, and not on par with an adults.

2) Mental immaturity. Their brains are still developing, and don’t have the same basic understanding that adults do especially in regards to consequences. They don’t really grasp concepts like “death” and “gone forever” very well. Psychologically, these kids get pretty messed up.

3) Due to the above two problems, unless they have weapons, they can’t overcome the gap.

X-23 does all three. She has the healing factor, genetic enhancements, and blades coming out of her hands and front toe, all of which solve two of the above problems. They allow her to go toe to toe with adults because she can simply power or brute force her way through it. From a combat perspective, it doesn’t really matter if she gets hurt or go through serious body horror as her body will repair itself. So, someone without morals could put her through a meat grinder and still use her again. Plus, at least in X-men Evolution and the comics, she tends to be psychologically messed up. Someone who was treated as a weapon from the moment she was born, trained as a weapon, used as a weapon, and doesn’t really comprehend most “normal” human experiences. A clone with all Wolverine’s experiences, except she went through them as a child.

Laura Kinney, X-23 is by all standards a fairly new character in the Marvel universe. She was first introduced in the early 2000s through the WB cartoon X-Men: Evolution. Like Harely Quinn, she’s a canon immigrant. When she was introduced in the cartoon, she was a teenager.

In character, she was an angry violent rage-ball, a teenage version of Logan except more lost and unstable. However, the major difference between their experiences was that where Logan was an adult when he went through the Weapon X program, she was a child. She was the twenty-third test subject, and the only one who survived the experiments. X-23 was desperate to find out who she was and where she belonged; and, having been “raised” by Hydra, determined to find (and, possibly kill) Wolverine whom she viewed as responsible for everything that happened to her. That desire was mixed up in her desire to know who she was. Because she was a human weapon, she couldn’t distinguish between the two. Fighting was what she knew how to do, so that’s what she did. Her introduction was sneaking through the X-men mansion, disabling all the other mutant children and teachers in order to single Logan out to fight.

As a character, considering everything else, she was a fairly accurate representation of a child raised to be a human weapon. Psychologically traumatized, unstable, and unable to really comprehend her emotions or concepts like “friendship” and “family”. Deeply mistrustful of anyone and anything who got too close, unable to communicate her needs except through anger and violence. Any approach was likely to elicit an immediate, violent response. She doesn’t know how to be anything except a weapon.

Logan could reach her because Logan understood what she’d been through, but he also couldn’t really help her and it took a long time before she came to trust him (if she ever really did). That door didn’t open often for anyone else.

If you want to see her first appearances then the episodes to watch are “X23″ and “Target X”.  The name “Laura Kinney” comes (I think) from the comics as she originally did not have any name other than X-23.

In the comics, she’s another of the Weapon X subjects and the 23 refers to her gender rather than the number of times it took to create her. She escapes like she does in the movie, and eventually starts trying to figure out who she is.

It’s not really worth asking questions about realism when a setting has explicitly ejected realism. Have a good guffaw over anyone trying to argue about the “realism of Batman”. There isn’t any. The setting has defined its own definition of realism and that’s what it follows. Realism isn’t everything, and it doesn’t define what a good story is. Often, it’s not even the question you should be asking. Avatar: the Las Airbender has some awesome fighting for a children’s cartoon, fighting clearly drawn (ha!) from martial arts in the real world. However, it is by no means realistic. And, honestly, that doesn’t matter.

Well-told stories are defined by how well they tell their stories, and maintain their suspension of disbelief. Everything else after that is popcorn. Realism comes into play when we admire how well someone has done their research, how well that research supports and enhances our experience when consuming media. You don’t want to understand combat just for an added dose of realism, but also because knowledge gives us more options to work with. The more you know, the more detail you can add. All the better to create a more enjoyable experience, my dear.

Understanding the rules is the first step in figuring out how to break them, or just manipulate them to your advantage. Whatever works.

-Michi

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Hope - Wolverine x Reader

Because I haven’t written anything with Logan in a while, and because his return back to life inspired me (no offense to “Old Man Logan”, Laura, Daken, Jimmy and all those people but…I missed the original Logan so damn much <3, I’m just so fucking happy he’s back, only good news lately. Anyway, I’ll shut up or I’ll ramble about his resurrection and the fact that the has an infinity stone and all that shit for HOURS…OK I SHUT UP NOW). Here’s a story with my first favorite superhero ever (still my favorite, with Bruce right on his ass), because I just needed to write about him in those tough fucking time I’m going through. Boom. Hope you’ll like it :

My masterlist blog : https://ella-ravenwood-archives.tumblr.com

_________________________________________________

************

-Oh my God…Logan ? Is it really you ?

Ororo Munroe just couldn’t trust her eyes.

Logan…But was it really him ? He has been gone for so long, almost three years now, that all hope for him to come back was no more ! It happened before, in the X-Men, that one of them would “miraculously” come back from the dead, but it usually wouldn’t take that long !

But…Was it him ? She couldn’t be sure, she saw too many things in her life not to be suspicious !

Was it Mystique playing a mean trick on her ? Or maybe another shapeshifter or something/someone of the like, that just thought it was funny to bring back that damn “hope” to the Wolverine’s friends ?

-Yes ‘Ro. It’s me.

His voice, his smell, the way he was standing, his half-smile…a shapeshifter could copy all of that to perfection ! Especially one that knew him well, like Mystique for example.

Oh but his next words ? His next question ? The first thing that came through his mind as he just supposedly came back from the dead, and made his way back to the X-Mansion…Convinced Ororo Munroe that it was really one of her best friend. That it was really Logan…

He just had to ask :

-Where is she ? Where is (Y/N) ?

And Ororo knew it was the real Wolverine.

Keep reading

Tensionless Action -- The Problem I have with Wonder Woman and a lot of other movies these days.

So recently I watched Wonder Woman at a dollar theater.  I know this is a very popular movie, a blockbuster and I think the highest grossing superhero movie. So I’m sure I’m going to ruffle a lot of feathers when I say, “eh, I wasn’t all that impressed.” I’m not a big fan of superhero movies, to me most of them seem to be cheap schlock, lacking in plot, a great villain, story development, and filled with tensionless action.  Tensionless action is the biggest problem I have with Wonder Woman. What do I mean by tensionless action? I’m certainly no screenwriter, but to me the best way to develop a story through action is to test your protagonist to his or her very limits. Perhaps even have your protagonist experience disaster, failure, or defeat before succeeding. Doing so make the audience feel like something is really at stake, like there are real consequences to what is happening, and leave audiences members at the edge of their seats wondering what is going to happen next. Take what I think is one of the greatest action scenes of all time; The Death Star run in Star Wars: A New Hope.

Luke Skywalker is flying in his X-Wing down the Death Star trench to his target. One by one Darth Vader is picking off his squadmates, each of them screaming in terror as they erupt in balls of fire. Finally Darth Vader approaches Skywalkers ship. He tries to dodge and evade Vader, but Vader is relentless. Vader opens fire blasting Luke’s droid. The tension builds and is complemented by increasingly tense music and reactions shots from other characters. In the midst of this, it is revealed that the worst has happened. The Death Star is in range of the rebel base, and Tarkin has given the order to fire.  Luke must make his shot now or all will be lost.  The tension reaches a crescendo as Darth Vader finally closes in on Luke. He gets a target lock and opens fire, but at the exact moment Han Solo appears out of nowhere, opening fire and causing Vader to spin out of control. With a gasp Luke fires his torpedoes, the Death Star blows up, and the day is saved.

For a first time viewer of Star Wars, this scene is truly amazing. The building up of tension sucks the viewer into the movie to the point that he or she forgets it’s even a movie, and wonders what going to happen next. Could our hero fail? Could our hero die a horrible death? We know the hero is going to succeed in the end, but because our hero is tested to his very limits his success seems truly earned. The struggle seems much more real.

And that’s the problem with Wonder Woman, at no point did I feel like Wonder Woman was in any danger, that anything could stop her, that she could actually fail at her mission.She’s pretty much invincible and unstoppable.  She bashes through German soldiers with ease, and while some of the boss characters bump her around a little, she pretty much dispatches them with ease too. A far cry from Darth Vader nearly blowing Luke to bits, or in the case of Empire Strikes Back when he is casually toying with him during a lightsaber duel, or Luke being helplessly electrocuted to death by Palpatine.  It’s the reason why I can recall from memory the Death Star scene in detail, but even though I just saw Wonder Woman, I really couldn’t tell you what happened in any of the action scenes of that movie.  I mean, she takes down a lot of German soldiers, beats a German boss, then beats a guy with a mustache and then the movie is over and I’ve already forgotten it.  The same with Age of Ultron, the Avengers destroy robots and save the day… I guess, I don’t really remember.  How about the first Avenger movies, Loki does something bad with a mcguffin, and they fight aliens and save the day I guess. Don’t get me started with the Transformers movies. These movies are all so forgettable and boring! They are grand celebrations of mediocrity!

Contrast this to Logan, where by the third act Xavier is dead, Wolverine is badly wounded, everything has gone to hell and you’re left wondering what are they going to do to get out of this terrible mess. How about the Dark Knight, a modern classic?  The Joker is such an awesome antagonist, one who is able to exploit Batman’s weaknesses and make him almost powerless.  Batman feels so helpless against him that at one point he considers giving up entirely. Harry Potter is just a young boy who barely survives all his encounters with bad guys, pulling through with the help of his friends, his wits, and sheer luck.  Throughout the whole series tension builds as Voldemort becomes more real and a more threatening figure.  Even characters established throughout the series are brutally killed giving a sense that there is real danger and the consequences of failure are real.  John McClane is just your average working schlub who gets caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. In Die Hard he gets the shit beaten out of him, but despite this manages to prevail and beat the odds. How about Ripley barely being able to escape terrifying aliens which have massacred an entire platoon of Marines, or Arnold Schwarzenegger playing a game of cat and mouse with a predator, or Sarah Conner being so close to death the Terminator literally has it’s robot hands around her throat?

These are all great movies that know how to appropriately use action and use it to develop a story and characters.  Not Wonder Woman bashing apart helpless German soldiers, or Dwarves effortlessly hacking apart orcs, or the Avengers destroying robots by the thousands, or Anakin Skywalker slicing through battle droids like butter.  I’m getting tired of all these play it safe cheap action schlock movies! I’m getting tired of all the mediocrity! Movie makers need to do better!


Tensionless Action: Why the Hobbit Sucks Part 2, from justwrite