Turbulences

Turbulences

a/n: ahh where were all these fics when i was 15 and desperately longing for logannnnn?!?!!? anyway- here is another source of logan fics: me <33 word count: 748 tags: logan howlett x fem!reader (can be read as gn!), angst, fluff' warnings: mentions of death, canon-typical violence implications, logan having logan feelings dividers by: @strangergraphics-archive pictures are from pinterest

He should have known this would have happened. When sent by the X-Men to go change the past; he should have known. Out of all the years he had been alive, why here? Why did he have to land right here? Logan had spent years trying to forget about this. Trying to forget about you. And here you were being the big spoon, an arm thrown over his neck, a leg of yours intertwined with his within the messy sand-colored bedsheets.

Even though he had just gotten here, he knew exactly where he was. This was the home you both shared together. The place the both of you had spent weeks decorating, eager to call one another each other’s home. He knew it even before he opened his eyes, his enhanced sense of smell dominating his being. When he finally collected his strength to open his eyes, he inhaled deeply. Maybe it was to inhale your scent. Maybe it was an effort to calm himself. Regardless, he did not even know which one it was for.

Once his eyes adjusted to the warm morning sun beaming through the windows, he placed a hand on your wrist, closing his eyes slowly as he did. It hurt him. He did not deserve to get to touch you again. Not after knowing that your fate was inevitable. Logan let out a long and shaky sigh, blinking his eyes open, not allowing a single tear to form. His hand was still on your wrist, his mind yelling at him to let go but his body desperately clinging for the familiar feeling of holding a lover.

After another deep breath and wrestling with his inner thoughts, Logan allowed himself to rub his thumbs along his grip he had on your skin. It was as soft as he remembered. Without letting himself think too much, he pulled your arm up to his face to place a soft kiss on one of your knuckles. Instinctively, he leaned his head down, resting his nose on your hand, inhaling your scent further.

Not realizing it, a tear had fallen onto your skin. Logan watched the salty drop of liquid trickling down your wrist, the sunrays making it shimmer. As a response your wrist twitched, the feeling of the water alerting your body in your deep state of sleep. Not wanting it to disturb you any further, Logan wiped off the remains with the same thumb he had caressed your skin with.

Perhaps seconds passed, perhaps minutes; Logan decided that it was time to face you. There was no running anymore. He was in this room with you at your old home that held the best memories of his life. You were here and you were alive. Either way, he had an objective, a mission, that he was sent to complete. No matter how much he wanted to forget about that, the way he wanted to forget about you, he could not. And it fucking hurt.

Resting his body weight on a forearm, Logan sat up slightly, turning his body to face your sleeping frame.

There you were.

Messy bed hair, slightly apart lips and as beautiful as he remembered.

Reluctantly he put a hand on your cheek, his breath hitching once his skin made contact with yours. This felt so wrong. But this was how it always should have been. Domestic and intimate. Any physical contact reminded him of your death. There were too many answers that he had never gotten. Were you screaming? Was it quick? Did you suffer? Were you scared? All he knew was that he was responsible. If you had never met him, you would not have died.

Lost in his thoughts, Logan ignored the stinging feeling in his eyes, indicating yet another tear close to escaping. He travelled his other hand underneath the sheets, resting it at the small of your waist, caressing the skin while thanking the universe that you were a heavy sleeper.

He did not want to allow himself to kiss you. He did not deserve it.

But you did.

With a glance at the clock hanging across from your bed, Logan fixed his gaze back onto you, taking in every feature of yours. He did not have much time.

Exhaling a breath he did not he was holding, Logan finally closed the distance, delivering a kiss to your lips.

He had to get up and leave now. He knew he did.

But he really did not want to.  

🍯

top right pic is just 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 HEART CLENCH

“Everybody knows.”

Hugh Jackman as Wolverine in Deadpool & Wolverine (2024)

you are in love series - part one

one look, dark room

PAIRING: tfawts!bucky x grad student!reader

Summary: Moving to NYC to go to grad school, your friend's dad has a connection with the owner of a rental building in Brooklyn where you can live on your own, for cheaper than you could get anywhere else. On a student's budget, you strive to still make your place your own by thrifting as much decor as possible. Meeting your quiet and somewhat secretive neighbor, James, you gain some free labor to help you move the random stuff you buy, and with that he may be growing to love parts of the modern world he has been missing. With you in a big, new city feeling alone for the first time and Bucky wanting to make a connection with someone other than Sam and his therapist, maybe online marketplaces and a turntable will bring you both what you need most.

warnings: mild language

word count: 4.7k

a/n: this is my first time EVER writing fiction, usually I only ever write academic papers so this is fun. :) I read over and revised this chapter so many times, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed and I'm excited to start on the next chapter.

a/n: also!! sorry for it being so long genuinely just so much had to happen in this chapter for it to be set up the way I wanted, which I think I did well enough. lmk what you think <3

Why did I think carrying this by myself was a good idea? It might be cute and a great deal, but I don’t think I'll be able to feel my arms tomorrow. I might need to hit the gym again before I find more bargains like this. Hell, maybe I'll even invest in a neck towel, because this heat is unbearable. I’ve been searching for some larger pieces to fill my apartment, and this vintage bar cart should fit perfectly. Just five more blocks to go.

Moving here alone has certainly come with its challenges: being on my own in such a big city, dealing with a lot of stress, and managing on a tight budget. But I’m determined to make it work though and prove everyone wrong. Growing up, you see so many romcoms where the heroine leaves everything behind to chase her dreams in NYC, landing a job at a magazine or fashion house, living in a gorgeous high-rise, and meeting the perfect guy. It’s a beautiful fantasy really, but the reality is much tougher. New York isn’t a movie set; it’s a real city with real people, and you have to work just as hard, if not harder, to be here. I know that, but it feels like a majority of my people back home DON’T know that I know that.

I came here for school. In about two months, I’ll be starting my Master’s program at NYU. I don’t think I’ve ever been as proud as when I received my acceptance email. I worked my ass off in undergrad to earn strong recommendations and good academic standing, and seeing it all come together was a huge relief—until the reality of the cost hit me.

Luckily, a friend's dad has a connection with a landlord in Brooklyn and got me a good deal on a place of my own. It’s incredible not to have a roommate in this market, especially in a place where your bed doesn’t touch your stove, though it can be a bit lonely.

Finally, reaching the stoop, out of breath, you set the cart down on the pavement. Wiping your brow, you notice the street is unusually quiet for this time of day. The city never truly sleeps, but the residential streets seem to take occasional naps. A little breath of air somewhere where it feels like oxygen is running out sometimes. Light filters through the trees, momentarily blinding you, and you turn back toward the building.

“How on earth am I going to get this up to my floor?”

Carrying it down the street was one thing, but hauling it up the stairs is a whole different challenge. Plus, who knows when the building's maintenance has last been here, the steps might not hold up under the cart’s weight. They usually feel like they could give away holding one person.

Deciding that falling to your death and being crushed isn’t really how you want to go, you open the double doors and drag the cart into the lobby, using the wheels on one side. Passing the main desk where the worker, who looks completely uninterested, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, you make your way to the end of the hall and start pulling the cart backwards up the incline of the stairwell.

“Nah, I can’t,” you say aloud, after struggling up two floors, letting the cart rest on the landing. There’s still three more floors to go, but your body is clearly telling you the cart belongs right here. Maybe the universe wants it to stay here—who knows, maybe the entire second floor needs a communal bar more than you do.

“Excuse me,” a quiet but rough male voice comes from behind me. You turn around to see him—a guy you’ve seen around your floor a few times, though you’ve never talked. One of the neighbors. You quickly realize you’re blocking the entire staircase.

“Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’ll move this um — just give me a second.”

You shove the cart closer to the wall to make some space for him to pass, but he stays put, his gloved hands in his pockets. He’s definitely handsome—tall and solid, but not intimidating. His furrowed brow and tight-lipped expression don’t exactly scream “welcome,” but he’s still got a certain charm.

He shifts a bit, clearly wanting to say something but hesitating. Feeling a bit awkward under his gaze, you decide to try talking to him again.

“You can just squeeze by if you want. It’s just really heavy, so I’m taking a quick break before I try lifting it up again.”

After a moment, he seems to make up his mind and asks, “Do you need help?”

Looking back at him, you consider saying no. You pride yourself on being independent and capable, and part of you wants to insist you can handle it. But then you think about the struggle of getting the cart up the last two flights of stairs—only this time, it's three—and decide against it.

“You wouldn’t mind? You’re headed down, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

He gives a little smirk that makes you feel a bit dizzy.

“Well, I’m already here so.”

You nod slowly, a small smile appearing on your face.

“Sure, you can take this end, and I’ll get this o—” you start to say, but before you can finish, he’s already in front of you, lifting the cart with ease and starting up the stairs without breaking a sweat.

“Hey! Be careful, uh—,” you pause, realizing you don’t know his name.

He picks up on your hesitation and hesitates himself, considering whether to give his name. He’s wary of how others might perceive him, potentially recognizing his name from past news broadcasts or papers, still dealing with the shadows of his past despite his efforts to make amends. Not wanting to be dishonest, he chooses the safe option.

“James.”

“Be careful, James. I don’t want you tripping and falling on my account.”

“Won’t happen, doll.”

“What-,” you start, caught off guard by the pet name, “what if it does?”

“It won’t, see?” With the last few steps, you and James arrive at your floor. “Already here.”

He must have seen you around before too, to know where you live.

He gives you a quick look and then carries the cart to your door.

“This is yours, right?” He turns and looks at you expectantly. You rush over, fumbling for your keys to unlock the door. If he’s willing to move it all the way, who are you to turn him down?

You lead James into your apartment, wondering if it looks anything like his. The layout can’t be that different; it’s not exactly a luxury building.

He strolls further into the room.

“You can set it right here,” you say quickly. “Thank you for bringing it up for me. I was honestly thinking about giving up when you showed up.”

Setting the cart where you indicated, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and gives you a look that feels intense.

“It’s no problem.”

His gaze wanders around your apartment, taking in the mix of vintage furniture and eclectic decor. On a student’s budget, you’ve filled your space with secondhand finds. It’s more affordable and personal that way. The place might not be filled with new things, but it’s entirely curated by you. Finding beauty in the mix of old and new is something you do well, and now, thanks to James, you have one more piece to add.

James’s eyes land on your turntable setup. He seems intrigued by your collection of records but doesn’t say anything, turning his attention back to you.

“I have to go.”

Your eyebrows lift at his abruptness. Sensing your surprise, he quickly adds, “I’ve got an appointment.”

You nod vigorously, urging him to go and thanking him again for his kindness. Feeling a bit sad that this chance encounter with your new neighbor is ending so quickly, you call out as he heads for the door.

“I’ll see you around then? Since you live here too.”

He turns on his heel, giving you one last smirk.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.”

As he heads down the stairs, you shut your door and lock it behind you. Wandering over to where James’s gaze lingered, you pull an album from the shelf, lift the acrylic cover on your turntable, and set the record down. You close the cover, push play, and let the needle softly drop onto the vinyl. As the music starts, your mind drifts back to James.

Embarrassingly, you find yourself hoping this isn’t a one-time encounter. You don’t know much about him beyond his name, but there’s something about him that makes you want to see him again.

“Two hundred bucks for this is crazy,” you mutter to yourself, staring in disbelief at the sofa you’re eyeing on Facebook Marketplace.

“People are practically giving this stuff away.”

Not wanting to miss out on such a good deal, you message the seller to check if it’s still available.

Since you got the bar cart about a week and a half ago, you haven’t picked up anything else. With the July heat blasting, just thinking about moving a sofa in this weather makes you want to rip off your skin to cool down.

You can’t help but think of James, who you’ve seen briefly in the hallway since your last encounter. He just nodded as he passed by, and that was it.

Your phone dings, snapping you out of your thoughts. The seller confirms the sofa is still available and offers to deliver it since they have a truck.

Excited, you reply with a yes, and they let you know they’ll head your way soon.

You get up to rearrange your furniture, making space for the new sofa. You don’t have much to move since you’ve been slowly collecting things. As you shift the pieces around, your turntable stops, signaling it’s time to flip the record. After you do, you take a moment to picture how the sofa will fit in the space.

Then it hits you—moving a sofa is way heavier than the bar cart. If you struggled with that, how on earth will you manage this?

“Independent woman, my ass.”

With the delivery imminent, you decide on the only solution you can think of. Without hesitation, you head to the apartment across the hall and knock softly on the door. You wait, hoping James will answer. After a moment of shuffling and then silence, you start to wonder if you should just try something else.

Just then, the door cracks open, revealing half of James’s face. He looks curious but not annoyed—no one usually visits him.

“Hey! James! Great to see you again! I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if you could help me out a bit? I just bought a sofa from this marketplace deal, and the seller’s coming to drop it off right now. He said he’d deliver it, but didn’t offer to help get it up to my apartment. I realized a sofa is way heavier than a bar cart, and you saw me struggle with that, so I was kinda sorta hoping you could help me bring it up here?”

After your rambling, you offer him a hopeful smile, waiting for his response.

A few moments of silence later, that smirk you’ve been missing appears on his face. Opening the door wider, he comments with a grin.

“You bought another thing you knew you couldn’t get up the stairs?”

“I honestly didn’t think it through. The deal was too good to pass up. I’m really sorry for bothering you. I can try to find someone else if you’re busy.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, doll.”

The smile that blooms on your face is unavoidable.

As the delivery guy drives away, James shows you where to grab the sofa and effortlessly lifts the other end. He encourages you to take the lead, making sure the weight is on him as you both navigate the stairs. With minimal effort, you get the sofa up to your place.

After some awkward maneuvering, you finally get the sofa into your apartment through the thin door and set it down. You put your hands on your hips and exhale deeply, only to find James already looking at you with that same intense gaze from before. It makes you a little nervous.

You can’t help but feel grateful—there’s no way you would have managed this on your own.

“I could have handled the bar cart,” you say, nodding toward the cart now adorned with bottles in the corner, “but this? No chance. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “I wasn’t busy.”

As you look at him, you start to feel like you know him from somewhere beyond being just a neighbor. Maybe you’ve seen him around the city before you moved?

Brushing off the thought, you offer, “You’ve helped me out twice now, and it doesn’t feel right not to return the favor. If your whole evening consists of not being busy, why not stay for dinner? I promise I’ll cook something totally good and not poisonous.”

James looks surprised by your offer but quickly hides it.

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t owe me anything,” he says, not wanting you to feel obligated or uncomfortable. He worries that his presence might not be enjoyable.

He wishes he could be as charming as he was back in the 40s. Being friendly used to come easily, and if he were still the same person he was at 26, he wouldn’t have left so quickly after helping you on the stairs the first time. He wouldn’t have had a therapists appointment to go to and he wouldn’t have a hidden arm made of metal. He’d have asked you to dinner or for you to let him take you dancing instead in return for his brawn. Now, he struggles to make new connections beyond a few familiar faces, like Sam, and asking someone for a dance feels out of reach.

“No, no! Stay, I insist! It gets kind of lonely around here, doesn’t it? Why not have a friend dinner?” you press, hoping he’ll take you up on the offer.

Seeing your sincerity, though still feeling a bit miffed, he finally agrees.

“Yeah, sure. I can stay.”

James settles onto the sofa while you work in the kitchen. You’ve decided on making some stuffed ravioli and garlic bread—easy, delicious, hard to mess up.

Before getting into cooking, you switch out the record, letting new music drift softly through the space. Unbeknownst to you, James watches closely, paying attention to how you handle the records and the turntable. The care you take when putting a record back in its slip, taking a new one out of its dust cover, and gently putting it on.

Seeing you focused on cooking, James gets up and strolls over to your setup. He runs his fingers lightly across the spines of the record sleeves, feeling a surprising sense of comfort. He hadn’t realized people still used record players so often.

The setup looks quite familiar to him, with many aspects reminiscent of the record players he used back in his earlier days. In his life before this one.

As you finish preparing the pasta and pull the bread from the oven, you call out, “Hey, food’s ready!”

You glance back to see James hovering by the turntable. He quickly moves to the table and sits down.

Over dinner, the conversation flows comfortably. James seems to be relaxing a bit, his initial reserve fading. He’s still somewhat guarded, but what he does share is genuinely interesting. You sense that opening up is challenging for him, so you respect his pace and take whatever he is willing to give. Laughing with each other a few times and getting through some odd topics, he mentions that he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in quite a while and thanks you with a smile.

After a pleasant dinner, you decide to bring up something you’d been curious about.

“You like records?”

Caught off guard by the question, James tries to answer without revealing too much about himself. It feels strange to be here, knowing you don’t really know who he is, but he worries that being too open might scare you away. He decides to keep his secrets for now, selfishly hoping to get to know you better before revealing more.

“Yeah, I used to have quite a few records as a kid. My ma would play them too, especially when she was cooking, just like you. I didn’t realize they were still so popular.”

Excited by this glimpse into his past, you push further.

“Oh, there’s definitely a huge market for vinyl. Lots of people who think it makes them superior, but also a lot who just love the physical aspect of it.”

“So which one are you?” he asks.

You laugh and reply, “Maybe a bit of both.”

You glance up at him from beneath your lashes, catching his rare smile.

“But really, I just like having it. There’s something different about the listening experience. It requires more effort than just hitting play on a playlist. It’s about choosing a full album and actually sitting down to listen. That feels more intentional to me, and that’s why I do it.”

James seems to ponder your answer, his expression softer than before. He then turns his gaze back to the turntable.

“So, since you mentioned you had records as a kid, do you not have any now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Haven’t had any for a long time. Talking about it makes me miss them. Everything these days feels so complicated. I like simple things like that.”

Watching him as he looks away, you hesitate but notice the nostalgic shine in his eyes. You sense he might appreciate physical music even more than you do.

“If you ever get any and don’t have a place to play them, you’re welcome to use mine.”

He turns to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, I know it’s not the most convenient offer, but it’s there. One record lover to another,” you add with a smile.

He returns your smile, saying, “Okay… thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, Doll.”

That night, Bucky lies on his makeshift bed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the events of the day. You knocking on his door for help with the couch, inviting him over for dinner, and all the easygoing conversation you shared. It was such a stark contrast to his usual rigidity. He'd let his guard down just a little—letting himself smile or flirt ever so slightly.

He wishes he were better at this. It used to come so naturally. Hell, before he left for war, he’d gone dancing with both his own date and Steve’s at the same time. Now, he finds himself listening to you talk while struggling to share anything of his own.

He doesn’t want to pass up your invitation, especially since you’re inviting him into your space again. Clearly, his reserve hasn’t put you off too much.

“What would I even bring?” he wonders aloud.

All he’s ever listened to is 40’s music and big band. He doubts that’s readily available these days.

Rolling onto his side, he grabs the cell phone Steve had insisted he get before he went back in time to live his real life, without Bucky.

“You can do anything on here, Buck!”

Scrolling through the three contacts he has, he taps on the name of the guy who’s been trying to reach him for weeks.

“So, is there a valid reason why you haven’t picked up my damn calls?” Sam’s voice comes through.

“Sam, hi.”

“Did you finally learn how to click the screen? Is that why I’m hearing from you now, old man?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t like the thing. Too confusing,” Bucky says, grimacing as he fiddles with the phone.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on, man? You doing alright?”

“I’m fine. I just have a question and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t harass me about it.”

“Is it about wizards?”

“What?”

“Wizards. Is the question about wizards?”

“No, what the hell. Look, I had dinner with one of my neighbors tonight—”

“Was it a girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes, it matters. And from that response, I KNOW it was a girl, so—”

“It doesn’t matter. She has a record player, which I didn’t know people still used, and she offered to let me use it, but I don’t have anything to play on it.”

“I’m not getting the problem.”

“I only like the stuff from the 40’s and—”

“Did you listen to that Marvin Gaye playlist I sent you?”

“Not interested.”

“C’mon, man, it’s good stuff. Give it a listen.”

“Not feeling it.”

“Alright, your loss, I guess. Still not seeing the problem though.”

“What do I bring? I can’t just bring around the stuff I know because where would I even get it?”

“Whoa, man, what do you mean, where would you get it? Just go to a record store and hit up the vintage section or something.”

Bucky pauses, mulling over Sam’s words.

“They have that?”

“Duh. You know, you could answer these questions a lot easier if you just looked them up on your phone—”

“Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

Lying back down, Bucky decides that the next time he’s out to see his therapist, he’ll first stop by a record store to find something to bring over to your place.

Your easygoing presence was so comforting, and he found himself longing for it as he drifted off to sleep. He’d see you again soon enough.

Later in the week, as you wind down from a busy day, you focus on making your space as calming as possible.

You light some candles and turn on an orange floor lamp, the soft glow wrapping around you and setting the perfect mood to sink into your sofa with the book you’ve been neglecting.

You’ve just started settling into your reading when you’re jolted out of your half-nap by the sound of someone knocking on your door.

You get up and peer through the peephole, and there’s your dinner guest from earlier in the week.

Opening the door with a smile, you greet him.

“Hey James, unexpected visit! What’s up?”

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he speaks. You glance down and realize your outfit—shorts that really lived up to their name and a tank top—might not be the most guest-appropriate.

Brushing off your embarrassment, you look back up at him.

“I’ve got something I’d like to play, if that’s alright?”

Bucky’s mind races. Standing at your door, he worries maybe you only offered your place to be nice, and now he’s making a fool of himself. Of course, you didn’t want him there—he could barely talk.

Just as he’s about to get lost in his own head, your bright smile pulls him out of it.

“Oh my gosh, please, come in. What do you have?”

His doubt fades away as he sees your genuine excitement.

“Brought some Sinatra. Not sure if you’re into that, but I used to like his stuff when I was younger.”

You spin around abruptly, staring at him in disbelief.

“There’s no way you think I don’t know who Frank Sinatra is…”

Bucky stumbles over his words.

“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly new stuff so—”

“You think I wouldn’t know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’? ‘Singin’ in the Rain’? ‘New York, New York’? I mean, I even moved to New York—I had to get the romanticism from somewhere.”

“What are those?”

You pause, confused.

“Like, the most iconic Frank Sinatra songs. You are talking about Frank Sinatra, right? Not some other Sinatra I’ve never heard of?”

“No, you’re right, it’s Frank.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I guess I don’t know those ones.” He admits.

“So, what era are we talking about?” You ask, reaching for the record.

As you grasp the sleeve, you notice a glint of light catching James’s bare hand. Realizing he’s not wearing gloves, confusion sets in before it clicks. You HAD seen James before.

Looking up at him, he seems frozen, obviously panicking. He planned to tell you eventually, but not like this. Not when you weren’t close enough yet.

He thought there is no way you are going to want anything to do with him now.

You thought there is no way was there's an actual Avenger in your apartment right now.

You’re frozen, just like him, but more in shock rather than fear.

“Do you… usually go by James?” you ask cautiously.

Hesitating, he shakes his head.

“What do you usually go by then?”

Bucky feels anxiety creeping up his back. You’re both still holding the record, and he can’t tell if you’re scared or just surprised.

“Bucky.”

You stay silent for a moment while Bucky’s nerves are on edge.

“So… metal hand…”

Clenching his jaw, he replies, “Arm.”

“You’re that Bucky.”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, you start again.

“You’re an Avenger and you didn’t tell me?”

Bucky hesitates, his discomfort visible. “I’m— I’m not an Avenger.”

“What do you mean? You’re totally an Avenger! Why wouldn’t you tell me? How did I not recognize you before?” you ask, laughing in disbelief.

Bucky’s taken aback. You really thought he was an Avenger? You’re not scared of him at all, which surprises him. You must not know much about his past if you’re still standing this close.

“No wonder you don’t know ‘New York, New York,’” you say, almost to yourself. “It’s from after your time! This is crazy, I—”

You’re interrupted by his response.

“Are you not scared?”

“Of course not.”

Bucky closes in on himself, panic evident. “If you really knew me, you’d want nothing to do with me. I’ve—”

“I might not know the version of you you’re talking about, but I’ve met James, who helped me not once, but twice  carry stuff he definitely didn’t have to up the stairs, stayed for dinner, has been very polite to me, and has given me zero reasons to be scared of him.”

He looks at you, his piercing blue eyes revealing an internal struggle. That one look holds more weight than his words. You can see the battle within him, torn between his past and the present moment.

“Listen,” you say, finally letting go of the record, “if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to. But I’m not scared of you, and I actually like your company. So, regardless of whether you’re James, Bucky, or whoever, you’re still welcome here.”

You pause, adding, “And we can still play this if you’d like.”

Bucky struggles with his inner turmoil. The idea that you know who he is but still want him around is foreign to him. He doesn’t feel worthy of the kindness you’re offering, but it’s been so long since he’s received such warmth that it’s almost impossible to turn it down.

He’s not comfortable with his identity or his past, but in this moment, he wants to push it aside. If you don’t care, maybe he can allow himself not to care, even if just for a bit. Maybe he can prove something to himself, or even his therapist.

Handing you the record, he relaxes his face slightly. You’ve always thought him handsome, but in the dim light of the dark room, he looks almost ethereal.

You’re hoping he believes you because your excitement for his company tonight feels more significant than it probably should, but you’re okay with that.

“I’m Bucky.”

You smile warmly at this change. “Alright, Bucky. What do you want to do?”

He gazes at you deeply, his look sending a shiver down your spine and warming your chest. “Play it.”

a/n: well, hope this was alright. as I mentioned before, ive never wrote fiction before, but ive definitely read enough to get the gist.

THE GRAVE OF LUST

a/n: this is a very random idea i had of logan not necessarily being able to go at it as he used to. which like yes i love the thought of getting my back snapped by a more energetic logan. this version of him has my heart in ways i'll never be able to explain. it's short but enjoy! divider by the lovely @saradika-graphics.

summary: when his body doesn't work as it used to and the weary bones that poison his soul begin to ache, you take the lead in a dance you know well.

OR giving old man logan sloppy head that he'll think about in the grave and after.

word count: 2k

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, weary old man logan, domestic vibes, oral (m receiving), spit kink, cumplay, dirty talk, he may be older but he's filthier, unedited + not betad but we live and die by the fucking pen.

He doesn't touch you quickly anymore. His hands don't shove clothes off your curves and grasp your flesh with a growl of impatience. No, he no longer holds the stamina of a younger him who could spend hours between your thighs. His bones are weary, old phantom wounds ache where they shouldn't, and he feels himself step closer to his grave with each day that passes.

His hands move at a steady pace, tugging the fabric of your nightgown up inch by inch. Sleep lingers at the edge of his mind. The knowledge that he'll have to get up early with the sun still hidden from the sky. Yet you'll be here asleep—dreaming of his calloused palms on your soft skin. How he burned himself into your ribs with a kiss.

"C'mere," he mumbled, eyes narrowed and lips parted with a deep withered breath. "Let me touch you."

Denial would be a false tale on your tongue. Depriving yourself of him wasn't an option anymore. When times like this were found few and far between and his touch became a lingering memory in the back of your mind.

You couldn't remember the last time you tasted him. The last time he sunk into your wet heat with a solid groan—the muscles of his back screaming as he held his body above yours.

Age was cruel to a man who used to be so virile. He could recall the hours he took to worship your body—mold you beneath the warmth of his palms. But doing that more often wasn't something he was capable of. He still longed for you. The sounds you made, the way your face twisted in pleasure as you came on his cock, fingers, face. He craved it some nights. He felt it eat him alive.

Tonight was no different.

"How?" you breathed, eyes wide and pleading.

You were so fucking sweet he didn't even have to convince you of this. So ready to let him bring you to that peak of bliss. He could smell the heady scent of your pussy—the way it called to him with shouts of need. And if he was a younger man...he'd have you pinned beneath him. He'd hammer his hips into yours until bruises formed beneath the skin—down into the very muscles of your legs.

His graying hair and weathered face did nothing to stop the lust that poured into your face. Your eyes still drooped, mouth open and chest heaving. And Logan was a fortunate fucking man that you were still here.

So unlike his younger self, he let you take the lead.

"Can I touch you?" you asked so nicely. He groaned at the sound of it, jutting his chin down in a nod as you grasped the button of his jeans.

Any other night you'd let him take you. Give into his languid touches until you came wherever he wanted you to come. This was a rarity the longer you spent bound together by the strings of fate.

Logan fucking loved it. He ached for it on days spent away from you—time he'd never get back. But when he'd find his way home and curl his body around yours, he found that sleep was a better option. You'd heartily agree. If it wasn't for the pounding ache between your thighs each time you caught his eye. Each chance you got to see the thick arms and sun kissed skin that lay beneath his white button downs.

"Been dreamin' about this." His voice echoed with a rasp you'd grown to love. One that screamed exhaustion, yet licked a line of heat up your spine. "Such pretty fuckin' lips."

His thumb dug into the curve of your bottom lip, pulling at it until your mouth popped open. Allowing his finger to press against your tongue—saliva building at the thought of getting him in your mouth. Of him using your throat to get himself off.

You didn't even care if you finished. You just wanted to feel him.

"You're my good girl right?" A moan spilled past your spread lips, eyes fluttering when his pants slipped down and cock came free. "Yeah you are."

"Logan," you sighed. He dragged your spit across your cheek; thumb and forefinger gripped your chin to tilt your head close enough to kiss him. Only to hold you there.

"Keep 'em open baby."

The feel of his length throbbing so close to your chest—precum dotting the tip—drove you mad. You wanted him closer. Wanted to feel the bruising ache at the back of your throat as he pushed too far. Your fingers wrapped around him gently, causing him to hiss at your cold touch. The reminder to take it slow, savor him, rang in your ears. Yet the way he looked at you with a feral hunger you felt in your heart shoved those thoughts to the side.

Within his life there's only been a handful of moments he wished he could go back to. Nearly all of them were with you on nights such as this. When the moon hung low in the sky and dawn felt eons away. If he was lucky he wouldn't have to wake up tomorrow, he'd get to wake up naked by your side and bury himself in your pretty cunt.

Logan was rarely lucky.

His spit landed on your tongue, splattering against the corner of your mouth. He led your mouth down with a firm grip until you hovered directly over his cock. The dark red at the tip made you clench around nothing—the ache spreading to the base of your stomach. Screaming for you to take it. Put your mouth on him and make him finish down your throat.

"There we go," he murmured, watching his spit and yours fall from your mouth—landing directly on his twitching cock. "Pretty ain't it."

"Yeah," you gasped, nails digging into the v of his hips. "Can I taste you? Please."

The deep echo of his laugh shot through your body like a bullet. You could feel it burrow deep within, spreading across each nerve ending and vein. Being so close to what you wanted felt like torture, but with Logan you knew it would be worth it in the end. He never left you wanting.

"'Course honey." His hand cupped the back of your neck, leading you with a soft touch. "It's yours."

Yours. Yours. Yours.

With a moan, you wrapped your lips around the head of him—tongue sliding through the slit. A ragged groan tore from his chest, his eyes boring a hole into the side of your face. The knowledge that he was so far gone for you left a pleasant thrill of warmth to grow in your stomach. This strong, capable man would bend at his knees simply to see you smile.

He was your devotee and you'd become his goddess.

"Fuckin' perfect." His words were a spit of need, fingers digging down into your skin with each flick of your tongue.

You merely held him there. In your mouth with spit coating the hand wrapped around the base of him. His taste flooded your mouth, each drop a nectar you would never have enough of. And he let you have your fill. He lay still on the bed, his breaths coupled with moans as you took your time.

Slipping him a bit deeper, you felt his thighs shift beneath you—a shuddered sigh echoing the small bedroom. You'd barely begun and yet he felt the high of dizziness begin to pull at his mind. Effectively killing whatever sleep called out to him.

"Take a little more for me." He sounded gone. Your lips spread into a smile, bobbing your head and swallowing a bit more with each small thrust. "Fuck yeah. Just like that."

He pushed at the back of your throat, your jaw strained under the width of him. Tears spilled from the corner of your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. And he caught them with his thumb, mixing the salt with what spit of his still remained along your skin. Tilting your head slightly, you felt him slip down your throat—your nose finding the graying curls at his base.

The loud growl that ripped through his body was all the reward you needed. He was on the fucking edge. Barely hanging on by the skin of his teeth. And he knew you could tell. His thighs jolted—stomach tensing—and when your hand slipped down to tug at his balls, thumb finding the spot between, he lost it.

Snarling your name, he thrust his hips up into your mouth and felt you choke on him. Your throat constricted perfectly with each cant of his hips down into you. He gave you the opportunity to push him off—get some air down your lungs. You let him keep going—eyes fixed on the way his face screwed up in pleasure. His teeth bared and throat extended.

Another push of your thumb sent him flying over the edge with a shout. The salty tang of him filled your mouth, spilling down your throat with rope after rope of cum. And you swallowed it all despite the searing burn that spread along your esophagus. You took every fucking drop of him and allowed some to remain on your tongue.

To prove that you could take whatever he wanted to give.

"I fuckin' love you," he breathed, cupping your jaw and grinning when you stuck out your tongue—a pool of his spend dripping down your chin.

His fingers scooped it out of your mouth before you could swallow. "Up." He slapped your ass, moving you up and into his lap. "Your turn."

"I’m okay."

The glare he gave you burned its way to your lungs. "Good girls get rewarded." His fingers dipped down beneath your nightgown—pleased to find you bare—and spread his cum along the lips of your pussy. "Don't you want your reward bub?"

"Yes," you whimpered, gripping at his hair. "I do."

"Then take it."

Refusing was no longer an option when the bliss you'd been searching for finally flared to life in your body. His fingers plunged into you, curling and seeking the spot he always found with ease. And with a sharp gasp—your hand yanking at his hair—he knew he'd found it. He smiled at the sight of you. Head back and eyes shut as you fucked yourself on his hand.

"Tell me," he said. Gripping your chin, his lips met yours in a messy kiss of teeth and tongues. He could taste himself in your mouth. His chest rumbled with a soft sigh.

"I love you." The base of his hand ground into your clit, fingers pounding up quicker—faster. And your words pitched high with each thrust.

"I know you do." He kissed your throat, the heat of your body rubbing against his made his cock twitch in interest again. "Love you too baby."

"Fuck!" The coil in your stomach began to unravel rapidly, your body shattering into pieces you'd never find again. And he clutched you tightly to his chest. He watched in rapture at the sight of you shaking, hips bucking against his hand in quick thrusts. "Logan."

Pride bloomed in his chest. "You're perfect."

You collapsed onto his bare chest, spent and exhausted. The final tendrils of pleasure began to ebb out of your body, suddenly replaced by the comfort of him there. You pressed your lips to the center of his chest, teeth dragging along the scarred skin. And he basked in your attention—his hand trailing down your spine to knead the flesh of your ass.

"We should do that more often," you teased, lips finding his in a soft kiss.

He huffed, his eyes falling shut. "I'm too old for that."

"Believe it or not, but you're sexier older."

"Yeah?" He stirred against your stomach. "You like me old and gray?"

"Absolutely."

He smirked, pushing you up his body with slow movements. "Prove it."

Part 1: Honey, Don't Feed It...

Logan Howlett | Worst Wolverine x gn!Reader

Synopsis: Logan gets to know his next-door neighbor. Tags: Not Beta Read, Title From Hozier Song, It Will Come Back - Hozier, Next-Door Neighbor, Older Man/Younger Person, Reader Is Mid-20s, Logan Is 200, Reader Is Described As Shorter Than Logan, Gender-Neutral Pronouns For Reader, AFAB Reader, Fem Anatomy, Logan Is Down Bad, Horrendously Actually, He's A Little Pathetic, Alcohol Consumption, One-Sided Attraction, Not Actually One-Sided, Talks Of Masturbation, Part 2 Is Mostly Smut, Tags To Be Added Author's Note: happy to finally see hugh jackman getting the appreciation (simping) he deserves also i wanna gonna upload this in october, as it’s part of my kinktober challenge, but i wanna post it now too, so i’ll be adjusting the tags and stuff in 2 months :) Part 1 ❉ Part 2

Frustrated huffs filled the stairwell as Logan ascended to his apartment. 

Next was the jingle of keys, and curses that would make a sailor blush. It made him chuckle to himself as he reached his floor, not expecting the creator to be on his floor, attempting to get into the apartment next to his. 

He knew someone lived next to him, but he’d never met them. Guess now was a better time than any to make introductions, saying it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in. Your back was to him, piles of groceries in your arms, which was the source of your difficulties as you tried and failed to unlock your door. “Motherfucker…” he heard you grumble, adjusting the groceries that nearly slid out of your arms. 

“You need some help with that?”

You, understandably, jumped, the keys that were once in your hands hitting the floor with a thud. The items in your arms were about to meet the same fate, but you managed to get a hold of them just in time, spinning to face Logan. He had stepped closer to you, yet still kept a good amount of distance, not wanting to scare the shit out of you further.

Wary eyes scanned him before recognition flashed across your features, your tense state relaxing as you deemed him not a threat. He took that as the go-ahead to step closer, keeping his stance casual, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. “Let me help ya,” he repeated, no longer offering it as a question. 

“You don’t have to.”

“Please. It’s the least I can do after making it fifty times harder.”

That made you chuckle, a soft noise that made the corners of his lips curl up. “Fair enough,” you took a step back, letting him step into the space beside you to bend down and pick up the keys. “Thank you.”

Waving off your thanks, he thumbed through the various keys on the ring, stopping when he reached one that looked like his. Upon your nod of approval, he stuck it into the door. Tocked turned, but the deadbolt didn’t retract, which elicited a frustrated sigh from you. “It’s been doin’ that for months. If it’s the tiniest bit humid out, or if the universe just fuckin’ hates me that day, it’ll get stuck. You just gotta-” he watched as you jolted your body at the door, a faux shoulder check, “as you turn the key.”

Knowing he would most likely break your door if he bashed his shoulder against it, he opted to just tap it lightly, or at least his version of lightly. It didn’t take a lot of effort for him, the door opening with a creak as the deadbolt finally retracted. With a relieved noise, you entered your apartment, dumping the groceries on the first available surface as Logan pulled the key from the door. 

“God, I owe you one,” you exhaled, returning to Logan who stood in the doorway. “Thank you…” you trailed off, an unspoken question. 

“Logan.” He stuck out his hand, hating the way he hesitated momentarily, hand flinching back.

If you caught it, he had no idea. A warm smile crept across your face as you took his hand, giving him your own name in return. Your hand was warm, gentle in his grip, soft fingers dragging across his palm as you pulled your hand away. It nearly made him shiver. 

Repeating your name, he took this moment to let his eyes wander, to take in your features. He wasn’t blind; you were stunning. The kind of stunning you see out of the corner of your eye, that stops you right in your tracks. The kind of pretty that you remember, that sticks in your mind like a parasite. 

You were shorter than him, but that didn’t surprise him; he towered over most people. But he wouldn’t deny that something primal in him loved the fact that he was taller than you. He stopped his mind from wandering further, but the idea warmed his blood, an inaudible inhale pulled through his nose.

And when you grinned, a bashful laugh escaping your lungs at the way he whispered your name, he couldn’t help but smile in return. He felt like a goddamn kid, stumbling in front of his crush like a fool. But he kept a calm face, ignoring the way his heart began to patter in his chest. 

“You must be Wade’s new roommate, then.”

That caught his attention. “You talk to him, then?”

“More like he talks at me,” you muttered, making Logan chuckle lightly. 

“Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“I was just trying to do my laundry in peace, kept talking about multiverses and ‘Void’ and TVA, and then you. Thought he’d gotten into Al’s stash. Again. Guess I was the fool for not believing him,” you gestured to Logan. 

“Unfortunately, he was tellin’ the truth.”

You hummed curiously, an inquisitive glint in your eye that he couldn’t decide if he liked or not. You opened your mouth, about to speak, before loud yowling from behind you cut you off, making you turn away from him. It was like he could breathe properly again, without the heat of your gaze. 

“Maize,” you admonished, yet with no real bite as you watched the cat that snuck between your legs. It was a brown tabby, on the smaller side, yet with the largest ears he’d ever seen on a cat. In response, the feline let out another yowl, making you shake your head. 

“Maize? As in-”

“Corn, yes. I found her in a cornfield, back a few years ago on a road trip. Silly name, I know. Isn’t that right, Maize?”

Maize meowed in response, not even glancing at Logan. 

“You’re five minutes late to giving them dinner, and they act like you’re starving them.” You sighed melodramatically. 

“Sounds like a roommate.”

“Wade gets on his hands and knees and meows and screams at you until you give him food?” You paused, reconsidering your question. “Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if he does.” He chuckled when you shuddered at the idea. “I’ll take the cat over… that.”

“If I could do the same, I would.”

“I’m sure there’s something you could do to change that. Though I figure he’d find a way to still talk your head off, even without human vocal cords.” Once again, you paused, this time a flicker of self-consciousness flashed across your face. “And here I am, talking your head off. As if you don’t have enough of that at your place.”

Strangely enough, Logan felt disappointed that the conversation was ending, instead of the usual relief he felt. “You’re doin’ nothin’ of the sort. Promise.”

You seemed to believe him, relief replacing self-consciousness, your lips turning into a soft smile. The sight made his stomach flip. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you again, for earlier. It was nice to finally meet you, Logan.”

Once again, he waved off your thanks. “It was nothin’. I’ll see you around?” He hoped he didn’t sound desperate. He used to be so suave, back when he was younger. He used to have everyone wrapped around his finger, them waiting for his next word with bated breath. Now he second-guessed everything he said, praying that he wasn’t crossing a line. He hated it. 

Thankfully, you didn’t seem put off by his question. In fact, a small smile, one softer than all the rest crept up your face, your voice hushed as you responded. “I’ll see you around. Have a good night, Logan.”

He already loved hearing you say his name, even though it didn’t feel worthy to be utter by your lips. You said it like it wasn’t something tainted, scorned, shameful. It was a clean slate, he realized. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He hadn’t even registered that he’d let the petname slip until after he shut the door, squeezing his eyes shut and regretting every decision he’d ever made. That was until he heard a soft oh being whispered from the other side of the door, and he exhaled a sigh of relief, grateful that he hadn’t royally fucked everything up on the first introduction. 

He felt strange as he walked back to his apartment, a weird confidence in his system that he hadn’t felt in years. There was a small smile on his face when he walked in, one that did not go unnoticed by Wade, who was sitting on the couch when he walked in. 

He thought he could slip to his room unnoticed. How wrong he was. 

“What’s got you smiling like that?” A gasp left him. “Did you finally get laid?”

And just like that, his smile vanished. It was funny, how quickly Wade could do that.

“Shut the fuck up,” he glared at the merc, who looked like a cat who caught the canary. 

“You didn’t say no though,” he responded in a sing-song manner. “So, who’s the lucky girl? Or guy? Or person? Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a human, though I would prefer it if you keep the beast-”

“I didn’t get laid,” Logan ran an exasperated hand over his face. “Because you need to know, I met our neighbor,” he gestured with his head to the apartment next door.

Wade said your name, and he nodded in confirmation, something he immediately regretted when a shit-eating smirk appeared on his scarred face. “And they’ve got you smiling like you’ve just gotten the best fucking head in your life.”

“They didn’t-”

“You wished they did, though,” he waggled his non-existent brows, and Logan was silent for a second too long. “Ah, you’ve got a crush, you old sap!”

“You realize how fucking childish that sounds?”

Wade clicked his tongue. “And, once again, your lack of denial is very telling. I can’t blame you though. They’re quite the catch.” A loud wolf whistle cut through the air. “We used to have a thing, back in the day.”

“You… did?”

“Well, it was more of me flirting and asking them out, and them shutting me down every time. But it was romantic.” A dramatic, dreamy sigh escaped Wade before he raised a brow at Logan’s tense stance. “Ooh, did the idea of me touchin’ them upset you? Jealousy is a good look on you, peanut. The green looks good with all that yellow you wear.” He paused. “Or is it possessiveness? You know, a lot of people find that attractive.”

Wade’s ability to take one small thing and blow it out of proportion stunned him. He was truly at a loss for words, but luckily he was talking to the guy who never ran out of them. “So what are you doing here?”

“Whaddya mean?”

Wade sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why aren’t you over at their place, you know-” crude finger motions followed his words, and if he weren’t so used to it, he would’ve been embarrassed. “I’ve been dying to hear them get some action. They’ve gotta be lonely, just them and their cat. They’re a bit young to be going full ‘old crazy cat lady’.”

“And that’s just the reason.” Wade cocked his head to the side. “They’re young. Fuck, I’m old enough to be their dad, at least.”

“And that’s an issue because?” Logan was about to respond but was quickly cut off by the other man. “Look, are they a fully matured, consenting adult?”

He didn’t know your age, but if he had to guess, you were somewhere in your mid-twenties. So, he nodded to Wade’s question. 

“Do you hold authority over them? Are you their teacher, their boss, fuckin’ parole officer?”

He nodded no, furrowing his brows. 

“Did they seem put off by you, uncomfortable in any way? Reaching for weapons, looking for ways to escape, threatening you?”

“Is that from experience?”

“Just answer the question,” he responded through a forced smile, teeth gritted. 

“No, they didn’t.”

“Ding ding ding!” Wade chirped, the furrow between Logan’s brow deepening at the noise. “You’ve passed my ‘Am I A Pervert?’ test with flying colors! I’m fresh out of gold stars, though. But you are clear to go get ‘em!”

“I think we’re gettin’ a bit ahead of ourselves,” Logan backtracked. “I’ve just met them.”

“And whose fault is that, you reclusive fuck?” Yet again, he wasn’t given a chance to respond. “Now’s the chance to talk to them! And then-” crude fingers once again were demonstrated by the other man. 

He walked away at this point, shaking his head at Wade’s “advice”. Guilt ate away at him for thinking and talking about you the way they had; he had to put an end to it. You deserved far better, anyway. 

Yet he found his traitorous mind still wandering to you for the rest of the night, a feeling of longing that he hadn’t felt in so long. 

He was fucked. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

He had a job now, working in construction in the city. It had been some time since he’d had a “normal” job, but he liked the structure of it. The purpose it brought. And sure, his other skills were used from time to time, but there weren’t any world-ending threats that needed to be taken care of right now. For right now, he got to pretend that he was just Logan. 

Because of his job, it meant that he was out the door before the sun rose, and back home late, different from the 9-to-5 schedule that most other people followed. Up until now, he loved it; he didn’t have to see people as he walked down the hallway, traffic wasn’t busy, and he got to just keep his head down and walk. 

He hated it now. It was ridiculous, the way his eyes now wandered to your door as he passed it, hoping to catch a glimpse of you again. It had been about five days since your initial introduction, and he’d yet to run into you again.

It was another late night as he climbed up the apartment complex’s stairs. If he was any other man, his muscles would've ached from a hard day’s work, but the only exhaustion he could feel was in his mind; it was tiring, getting ordered around all day.

As he reached his floor, the jingling of keys caught his attention, and he was unable to hide the smile on his face when he heard your voice. Making sure his boots stopped against the stairs, he rounded the bend and was met with the sight of you once again trying to get into your apartment, your hands free of any groceries this time.

“You really ought to get that lock replaced.”

He didn’t scare you this time, thankfully. “I’ve put in a request, but that was at least a month ago,” you sighed.

“I could replace it for you.” It slipped out so easily, not even having to think about offering you his help.

You blinked at him, clearly not expecting it. “You… you don’t have to do that.”

“Maybe not. But I’m offering.”

He watched as you tried the lock again but to no avail. It seemed to finalize your decision, a heavy sigh leaving you. “You really would? I… I’ll pay you back. For the new lock.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’ve got it covered.”

Instead of simply hearing your reaction, he got to see the way your eyes widened and then ducked down to avoid his glance. You bit back a smile, though he could still see the corners of your lips curl up, your attempt unsuccessful. “Then at least let me make you dinner, or something,” you countered. 

He could hear the warning bells going off in his mind. He was getting too close; you deserved far better than an old mutant like him. Not to mention the fact that you were still so young. But he was already caught up in the idea of spending some time alone with you, and his heart answered before his mind could. Besides, this wasn’t going to be romantic. He could just be friends with you. Right? “It’s a deal, then.”

He wasn’t expecting you to stick out your hand, but he certainly wasn’t going to deny himself a chance to feel you again. “It’s a deal,” you agreed as he shook your hand. You were still so gentle, barely squeezing his hand; it had been so long since he’d been treated that way.  “Say, you wanna get me into my apartment?” You asked, and he pulled his hand away as you presented your keys with your hand. They jingled as you wiggled them, and he caught a glimpse of a small cat keychain. Cute. 

My apartment is always open, is what he would've said if he, A, lived alone, and B, not still worried about crossing a line. Instead, he kept his mouth shut as he grabbed the keys, playfully rolling his eyes as it was the most laborious task he’d ever been asked to do. That made you giggle, a soft “Thank you, Logan,” being uttered. Screw his job; this made him feel of use, purposeful. Even if it was to just get your door open. He almost wished he didn’t offer to fix the lock, just so that you’d come to him whenever you needed to get in. 

Just like the first time, it only took a light tap from his shoulder as he turned the key for the door to open. “You make it look so easy.” Your eyes ran over his body, across the broad expanse of his shoulders, down his muscular arms, to his forearms that peeked out from beneath his flannel. It was subtle, but your eyes widened a fraction, a reaction that really shouldn’t have made him feel as good as it did. 

He just shrugged, pretending like your not-so-subtle ogling didn’t get his heart hammering. Holding the door open, you ducked beneath his outstretched arm, pulling the keys from the door as you did. “I’ll come and fix it tomorrow.”

Your widened eyes narrowed; he realized you’d momentarily forgotten about his offer, too distracted by him. God, you weren’t even doing anything on purpose, and you’ve got him losing his mind. “I’m lookin’ forward to it.” He could tell you were sincere, a dazzling smile on your face. “See you soon, Logan.”

Your smile was the last thing he saw before he shut the door behind you.

To say he was distracted at work the next day would be an understatement. 

He was a grown-ass man, yet he was as excited as a kid on Christmas when he walked home, stopping by a store to pick up the new deadbolt lock. But beyond the excitement, he could feel his nerves, buzzing and alight after years of dormancy. He then had to remind himself that this wasn’t a date; this was purely platonic. He was just being a good neighbor. Still, that didn’t stop the small shake in his hand as he raised it and knocked on your door. 

For a moment, he worried that you weren’t home after about a minute passed without a response. But just as he was about to knock again, the door swung open, and you stood looking a bit disheveled on the other side. “Sorry,” you panted, “had to wrangle Maize into my bedroom. Don’t want her dashing out while the door’s open.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

With that, you stepped back into your apartment, wordlessly letting Logan in. Stepping in, he glanced around at the new surroundings, at the space you called yours. Blankets and pillows adorned the couch in the living room on the right, and your kitchen on the left. He saw a pot on the stove and could hear the rapid popping of bubbles as the water in it boiled. The scent of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, something that made his stomach rumble. 

“Do you wanna eat before or after?”

Ah, the lock. Glancing at the plastic bag in his hand, as well as a few tools he’d grabbed, he shrugged. “It shouldn’t take me too long. Ten minutes, max.”

“That’s how long the pasta needs to cook for, so after, then.” You paused a flicker of disbelief on your face. “Only ten minutes?”

“Yeah, about. Why?”

You shook your head, chuckling softly. “You’d think with the way they ignored my request that it would've taken fifty years, but it’s that quick?” Shaking your head again, you turned into the kitchen, your back now to Logan. He took this time to glance around your place, your decorations, the pictures you had framed on the wall. “Thank you, again.”

He was getting distracted. “You don’t gotta keep thanking me, sweetheart,” he responded, making his way to the door and opening it. The sound of splashing water hit his ears as you added the water, slightly louder than what would’ve been expected. It was as if your hands slipped as you poured the pasta. 

He got to work, then, easily able to unscrew and remove the faulty deadbolt lock, setting it aside to be discarded later. He was just about to start installing the new one when he heard you drag out a chair and sit in it, presumably at the table in the kitchen as you waited for the pasta to cook. He could feel your eyes on him, but he found that he didn’t mind. Not at all. 

About of minute of silence passed, the sound of bubbling water filling the air. “You replace a lot of locks?”

“Not a frequent pastime of mine, no. But I’m good with my hands.” 

He caught the double meaning too late, grateful that his back was turned so that you couldn’t see his reaction. But that meant he couldn’t see yours, a cruel price to pay. He knew that if he concentrated, he could’ve used his enhanced senses to know, yet something about that made him feel dirty. 

“You a handyman, then?” He swore your voice was airier than it was before, but maybe he was being delusional.

“Close. Construction.”

“That explains it…”

“Explains what?”

“Your… muscles. It makes sense, then.”

He realized then that you probably had no idea who he was. Who he truly was. He was unsure if a version of him lived on this Earth, and if that version had been a mutant like him. Or maybe they were just a regular human, woven into the thread of society, instead of sticking out like a frayed string. In response to you, he just grunted noncommittally.

“You’re not just a construction worker, are you?”

He stilled, damn near dropping his screwdriver. 

“No offense to construction workers, but I don’t think Wade would’ve dragged one around on his ‘adventure’ if there wasn’t something else to them.”

He turned his head to look at you now and was met with your back as you stirred the pot. But upon his extended silence, you too turned a frown on your lips. “Sorry, that was too much. I- I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to answer that.”

The thing was, he wanted to answer you, something he’d never wanted to do before. There was nothing he hated more than questions, but when they came from you, he found that he didn’t mind them. Yet he had no clue how you would react to the truth, and he’d be pissed at himself if he scared you off. “You’re not… wrong,” he began. “I…”

“You don’t have to answer me now. Or ever. But, I should have you know, it probably won’t be the strangest thing I’ve heard. There’s been a lot of crazy shit the last ten years, let’s just say.”

Grateful for the topic change, he resumed screwing the new lock into place. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

You weren’t kidding. The next couple of minutes were filled with you telling him about the various takeovers and attacks on the city and across the world. There was Loki, Ultron, and then something called “The Blip”, just to name a few. “Maybe that explains the cheap rent.”

By this time, he had installed the new lock, making his way to the kitchen. It caught him off guard, how domestic it felt, a deep pining for a life he’d never had, and would never have. It was nice to imagine, though. It had only been about seven minutes, beating the food’s timer. The jangling of keys caught your attention, turning away from the stove to glance at Logan. “Done already?”

He nodded, holding out your new keys. “Go ‘head and try it.”

The smile on your face was infectious as he dropped the keys into your outstretched palm. When you closed the door, he locked it, and even though he trusted his work, he was still relieved to hear the smooth click as the deadbolt retracted, without you having to slam your shoulder in the door. 

Your giddy laughter is what he heard when you came back in, and knowing he was the cause of it made his pride swell. “God, I know you don’t want me to say it again, but thank you. Go on, sit,” you gestured to the table, “You’ve done more than enough for me today.”

The yowling of a cat cut into the conversation, followed by the scratching of wood as Maize pawed at the bedroom door. “Should probably let her out now. Don’t want her to tear apart my stuff,” you muttered to yourself, about to step away to do so.

“I’ve got it.” 

“Logan-”

“I’ve got it,” he repeated, not leaving any room for argument.

You conceded rather quickly, a huff of air leaving you. “Alright. It’s the first door on the left,” you pointed down to the small hallway. “Th-”

A brow raise from him was all it took to get you to stop your unnecessary thanks, a bashful smile appearing on your lips. Shaking his head with a small laugh, he followed your directions, opening up your bedroom.

Immediately, the small brown tabby stuck her head out the door, hesitating when she realized it wasn’t her owner on the other side. A small, pink nose sniffed, large ears flicked back as she took in the unfamiliar scent, her hackles raising slightly. 

Bending down, Logan offered a hand to the feline, who inspected it with weary eyes. But when he didn’t make a move, Maize relaxed some, extending her head so that she could sniff his hand. After a few moments, her ears flicked back up, hackles lowered, and he took that as the go-ahead to pet her. 

Maize let him pet her for all of ten seconds, before scampering out the door and disappearing to somewhere in the apartment. “Are you a cat person, Logan?” He heard you ask as he made his way back to the kitchen. The pasta, spaghetti, he now saw, had been drained, and you were currently dishing up servings for both of you. 

Finally sitting, he flashed you a grateful smile when you set a plate down in front of him, but no matter how badly his hungry stomach wanted to, he didn’t dig in yet. “Not particularly. But I don’t mind ‘em.”

With a hum that made it seem like you didn’t quite believe his indifference, you quickly finished setting the table, setting your own plate opposite of his. “You want something to drink? I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of variety, I… I don’t get a lot of guests.”

It was at that moment Wade’s words came trickling back into his mind. You lived alone, that much was clear, but it seemed there wasn’t anyone sharing your company. It sparked a bit of hope in his chest, something he immediately stomped out. This didn’t mean anything, as much as he wanted it to. 

“You got whiskey?”

He expected the shake of your head. “I’ve got a bottle of red wine that’s covered in cobwebs. Can’t guarantee it’s anything spectacular.”

“If that’s what you’re having, then I’ll take it too.”

Before long, two glasses of wine joined the plates, and you were about to seat yourself before Logan stood, pulling out your chair. He hadn’t lost all of his manners, it seemed. Your wide eyes crinkled as you smiled, not expecting him to help you in, but letting him do so nonetheless. 

A comfortable silence fell over you two as you began to eat, something that was broken by an appreciative noise from Logan. You paused mid-bite, your expression unreadable. “Is it good?”

“Delicious,” he responded. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a proper meal like this?”

A flicker of relief flashed across your face. “You don’t cook much?”

“Fuckin’ terrible at it. Don’t have much time for it, anyway.”

“Well, I always make too much, so if you’re ever hungry…”

How could he tell you there was a different hunger festering in his gut, something that only you could satiate? “You’re spoiling me,” is what he said instead. “I might just have to take you up on that.”

“Please do.”

The rest of dinner was filled with comfortable chatter, questions being asked on both sides. He learned more about you, your job, where you went to school, where you grew up. And with every sentence that left your lips, he found that little “crush”, as Wade called it, sinking its claws deeper into his heart, sharper than the ones in his hands. 

You were so animated when you talked, your eyes lighting up when Logan implored further like you couldn’t really believe that he cared. You were interesting, yet in a normal person's way. It had been so long since he simply talked with someone who wasn’t like him, who wasn’t enhanced, mutated, whatever. He found he rather enjoyed it, and not just because it was you, although that part did help significantly.

The conversation continued even after the plates were empty and the wine drunk. He found it so easy to talk to you. There weren’t any expectations, any judgments, nothing like that. You were innocently curious, with no ulterior motive behind your questions. You just wanted to get to know him. He was fully prepared for you to ask more about him not just being a construction worker, but you never asked. He couldn’t tell if it relieved him.

He also couldn’t tell if you wanted more. 

Sure, your eyes wandered as he spoke, running over his exposed skin, where his flannel and shirt didn’t cover. And when he did eventually shrug off his top layer, resting in on the chair back behind him, he watched as your eyes jumped to his arms, trying your damnest to be subtle. 

But he just wasn’t sure. Would you recoil if he were to brush against your fingers, where your hand sat outstretched on the table? Would you be uncomfortable, disgusted, if he were to cross that line? Would this whole thing crash and burn before it even left the ground? Was this even a thing?

So he kept his desire locked tight, some of it escaping in small compliments and light, teasing remarks. And he spent the rest of the night wondering what if.

But eventually, like all good things, the night had to end. He hadn’t even realized how late it was until you yawned, stretching back on the couch the two of you had migrated to. You sat on one end, Logan on the other, a full cushion’s distance between you, which was occupied by a cat. You rested your back against the armrest, knees tucked up into your chest, reaching down to mindlessly pet Maize. 

Glancing over at the clock on the stove, he cursed. “Shit, I didn’t even realize how late it was.” He wasn’t kidding, having gotten so caught up talking with you. To him, it only felt like an hour had passed, at most. 

But he now saw the way your eyes drooped, though there was still a small smile on your face, one that hadn’t really faltered the entire night. “It’s alright. I didn’t either,” you chuckled, leaning back as you stretched. He had to force his eyes to your face so that he didn’t watch the way your shirt rode up. “God, I haven’t talked that long in… years.”

“Me neither. I’m surprised you haven’t gotten fuckin’ sick of the sound of my voice.”

“Nah, I don’t think that’s possible. You… never mind.” The way your eyes widened, he realized you were about to say more than you intended.

Well, now he was curious. And the tiniest bit hopeful. “You…?” 

You weren’t looking at him anymore, staring holes into your cat. “You have a nice voice,” you whispered, barely audible. 

Logan has heard enough pick-up lines, enough flirtatious remarks to fill up a book, yet none of them got his body warming like your simple compliment. Sure, you weren’t confident in your delivery, but it was honest, not just said to get him in your bed. “You think so?” He hadn’t meant to pitch his voice lower, but he knew you weren’t complaining. 

You had lifted your head more upon not hearing his rejection of your compliment, and he watched as your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nervous. “Yeah,” your voice was breathy, but he couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or desire. 

He wanted to touch you. He craved it more than any cigar, any drink. His fingers twitched from where his arm sat slung over the back of the couch, and he watched as your eyes flicked to them. But he didn’t move, no matter how badly he wanted to. The ball was in your court now. 

“I-I should probably let you get home.”

He tried to not feel the sting of rejection. You probably should, before something happens that you’ll regret. “Yeah, okay.” With a tense smile, he eased himself up from the couch, you following behind him, the cat by your feet now glaring angrily at you for disturbing her rest. 

Picking up his flannel from the dining chair, he felt your eyes on him as he moved, everything about your demeanor now uncertain. But he didn’t push it; you made your choice for tonight, and he’d never force you to choose otherwise, no matter how much he wished you would. 

It was when he stood in your doorway that he finally turned to face you. “Thank you, for dinner,” he smiled, this one less forced. “And for the company.”

“I should be the one thanking you, but I know you’d just tell me I’ve thanked you enough,” you chuckled, some of the tension dissipating. “I… I had a good time tonight.”

“I wasn’t kidding, earlier. I’d like… you’re welcome over, anytime. For whatever reason.”

And just like that, that little flicker of hope that he’d held the entire night reignited. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

That made you grin. “Good. I’m home pretty much every night, so don’t be afraid to knock. I’ll see you later, Logan.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He liked the way you ducked your head when you were a bit embarrassed. “Goodnight.”

It was nearly midnight when he arrived home, getting the shit scared out of him when Wade sat up, Frankenstein-style, from the couch. “Fuck,” he grumbled, retracting his claws back into his hand, though he considered slashing into the other man for startling him. The only thing that held him back was that he didn’t want to have to clean the blood out from the couch. Again. 

“Earth to Logan,” Wade knocked against his own head. “Anyone home?”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t dignify him with a response. Wade, of course, didn’t like that, jumping from the couch and cutting Logan off as he tried to head to his room. “What’s got you so distracted?” Wade continued. “Maybe a certain… neighbor?”

He really needed to get better at not hesitating before he responded, Wade’s eyes widening as Logan’s lack of response answered yet another question. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit!” An almost victorious laugh left him, punching Logan in the shoulder. He didn’t budge, a scowl appearing on his face, which was almost like a second skin. 

Despite what an outsider might think, Logan didn’t hate Wade. He would never admit it, but he rather enjoyed the eccentric man’s company; he was opposite to him in so many ways, offering a new perspective. He’s talked about many a subject with Wade, and never once had there been a topic that he didn’t want Wade’s input on. 

Until now. 

He couldn’t stand the fact that Wade was talking about you, talking about his “relationship” with you. Maybe Wade was right. Maybe he was possessive. But for once in his life, he wanted something that was just his. He wanted to create something without the help of others, something without outside influence. 

But he was never good with his words. And he was certain that Wade would never let it go if he tried to explain why he hated hearing your name leave his mouth. So he just grumbled a familiar, “Fuck off,” hoping Wade got the message.

Wade, as he should’ve expected, didn’t get it. Or he just chose to ignore the warning in his voice. Either way, Wade continued on like Logan hadn’t uttered a word. “You were over at their place, weren’t you?” 

There were some days he swore that Wade could read his mind. “I was fixing their door,” was what he finally muttered, indirectly agreeing to his question. 

“And that took,” Wade glanced down at his wrist, which was notably absent of any watch, “Almost five hours? Didn’t realize rearranging their-”

“For the love of- there was none of that. I fixed their door, they made me dinner, and then we talked.” He didn’t dare mention that he had been on your couch, your compliment still ringing in his ears. 

“Talked?”

“Yes.” A scoff from Wade made him scowl. “What?”

“Did you lose your balls in the Void? You didn’t make a single move? Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“It wasn’t like that. They don’t-”

“Oh, but they do. God, I forgot all your stats were put into strength, you dense fucker. People don’t spend hours talking to someone they're not interested in. And they don’t just make dinner for anyone.” He paused. “What did they make, anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Pasta.”

“With wine?”

A singular nod. 

It nearly startled him, the bark of laughter that left Wade. “Oh, my sweet summer child,” two scarred hands now rested on Logan’s cheeks, and he was too confused to brush them off. “They wanna fuck you.”

That snapped Logan out of his confused daze, slapping Wade’s hands away with more force than was necessary. It wasn’t like he could do lasting damage, anyway. “Those have no correlation, you dumbass.”

“Uh, have you ever seen The Lady and the Tramp? You know, the one with the two dogs, and then the spaghetti, and then they fu-”

“I don’t think that’s how the movie goes-”

Wade waved him off. “What I’m trying to say is that they made, like, the most romantic dinner for you, and you didn’t think that they wanted you?”

This was another reason why he shouldn’t talk to Wade about this; he was getting his hopes up. With a huff, he shoved past Wade, who, thankfully, let him go. At least, only a few feet.

“Did they invite you back?”

He debated ignoring him, but the serious tone Wade had taken intrigued him. “Yeah, whenever I want.”

“And do you plan on it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don’t lose this. Don’t lose them. You… you’ll regret it.” There was a pause, the fresh familiarity to Wade’s words made him stumble. But just as that sincerity appeared, it vanished, Wade clapping his hands together. “Well, I’ll be sure to steer clear of your door tonight, while you work out your… frustrations. Sweet dream, peanut.”

Logan just grumbled something in response, failing to see the small, rare frown that pulled at Wade’s lips, and failing to notice the way his words had fallen flat, how forced they’d seemed. He was too caught up in his own thoughts, the events of the night playing on repeat in his mind.

He doesn’t even remember getting ready for bed that night. He was suddenly in his bed, which felt colder than it had ever felt before, too large for his body alone. And his mind would shut up, no matter how much he pleaded with it to be silent.

Was Wade right? Had you wanted more? Do you still want more? Or had his cowardice driven you to believe that he wasn’t interested? If he knocked on your door right now and explained himself, would you let him in, or slam the door back on his face? If he had made a move, would things have played out differently? Would he have not spent the night alone, then?

Not only were questions bouncing around freely, but he couldn’t stop thinking about you. How sweet you’d been, almost sickly, enough to make his teeth rot. Your gentle smile, the one that made fucking butterflies erupt in his stomach. Your laugh, fuck, your laugh was addicting. And it was even more so when he was the one who caused it. 

Wade was wrong. His mind didn’t wander to improper images conjured up by a lustful mind, even though he expected him to. No, the images that repeated in his mind were completely innocent, yet the tension building in his abdomen, the tightening of his pants told another story. You hadn’t even done anything to elicit this kind of reaction, yet here he was, like a horny fucking teenager. He felt pathetic, honestly. 

It would be so easy, to sneak a hand down, to pretend like his hand was yours, and relieve that ache. But as soon as he began to inch his fingers downward, guilt hit him like a goddamn train. He’d never be able to look you in the eye if he fucked his fist to the thought of you. It was wrong, to say the least. He barely knew you, and no matter how much his heart wanted to believe that you wanted him, he still didn’t know.

Clenching his hands so hard that his nails tore into the flesh of his palm, he flipped over in his bed with a pained noise, but not because of the self-inflicted injury. Longing cut deeper than any wound that had ever torn his body, and guilt was the salt to it. 

He didn’t sleep well that night.

Who’s She? || Bucky Barnes

pairing: bucky barnes x doctor!reader

summary: when sam gets injured during a mission and isn’t able to go to a hospital, bucky brings him and natasha to his own home to get cared for by his girlfriend, y/n, who he’s been keeping a secret.

a/n: this is my first time writing for bucky! reblogs and replies are super appreciated! also here i’m going to pretend that bucky didn’t get snapped so you started dating during the blip and natasha didn’t die

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of blood, sam getting shot, fluff

masterlist || request

“Shit.”

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