#X men x reader

[urdreamydoodles]

Hello! First off, I need to let you know you had made me the happiest person when I found out there was a marvel comic x reader writer and your writing is beautiful! I was wondering if you would write a hc of marvel comic Matt Murdock, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, and Julian Keller (idk if you write for him since he’s formerly x-men) reacting to reader kissing them out of nowhere/when they least expect it. Thank you!

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson & Julian Keller

Reply to anon: I'm a Marvel & DC Comic book fan first and foremost, so I wanted to write for this version of the characters and to be honest, I didn't expect so much love for it...SO I'M EXTREMELY HAPPY to receive your type of message! The headcanons for Matt come right after in the "Marvel Comics Characters" headcanons I will post <3 (Btw, I love Julian)

Logan Howlett

- Logan smells you before he sees you, that familiar, intoxicating scent that always seems to linger in the air long after you’ve left. He barely has time to turn before your lips are on his, searing and unexpected, a wildfire in the dead of winter. His entire body tenses—like something wild, something caged—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he goes utterly still, as if afraid that any movement will wake him from this impossible dream. He has lived lifetimes soaked in blood and regret, but this? This is something he never let himself believe he could have.

- The taste of you is an ache, something he knows will settle into his bones and never leave. His hands twitch at his sides, the animal in him howling to hold, to take, to claim—but you are not something to be taken. And so, he lets you lead. Your lips move against his with the kind of softness he has never known, and his mind screams that this is dangerous. He is dangerous. But then you sigh into him, fingers curling in the worn leather of his jacket, and he thinks—maybe—he could allow himself this one selfish thing.

- When you finally pull away, his breath is unsteady, rough, the remnants of your touch burning through his veins like whiskey. His eyes—dark, stormy, something unspoken lurking beneath them—search your face as if trying to commit every detail to memory. He should say something. Tell you this is a mistake, that he is too old, too broken, too much. But when he sees the way you look at him—like he is not a weapon, not a thing made for war but a man—his throat closes around the words.

- “You got no idea what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. And yet, when you smile, soft and knowing, when your fingers trail the faintest touch against his jaw before you step back, he knows you do. You know exactly what you’re doing. And for the first time in a very long time, Logan thinks—maybe—he could let someone love him. Maybe he could love them back.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy never expects to be caught off guard. He is a man who thrives in the game of unpredictability, who lives in the art of mischief and charm, who always has the upper hand. And yet, the moment your lips press against his, he forgets how to breathe. His hands, so used to sleight of hand and stolen treasures, falter at his sides. He could swear his heart stops beating, just for a second, just long enough for the world to tilt beneath his feet. He has been kissed before, a thousand times over, but never like this. Never by you.

- When the initial shock fades, he reacts like a man starved. His fingers find your waist, his body pressing flush against yours as if he could sink into you, disappear into this moment and never return. He tastes of spice and something sweeter, something sinful, and you realize—Remy LeBeau does not simply kiss. He devours. He worships. His lips move with the expertise of a thief, stealing the breath from your lungs, the steadiness from your limbs, and he does it all with a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

- He doesn’t let you pull away easily. Even when you try, his grip lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours like a confession neither of you are ready to speak. His eyes, those crimson-burning embers, flicker over your face with a hunger that has nothing to do with the usual games he plays. “Ma belle,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, like the slow drag of a match before it sparks. “Y’gon’ be the death of me.” And yet, the way he smiles—half-dazed, half-drunk on you—tells you he would not mind dying that way.

- There is something dangerous in the way Remy looks at you now. Not the usual teasing, not the flirtation thrown so easily to the wind, but something deeper. Something reverent. As if he is looking at a gamble worth losing everything for. And as his fingers brush your jaw, tracing the ghost of your touch, you realize—you have just become the only game Remy LeBeau is willing to play for the rest of his life.

Kurt Wagner

- Kurt is not used to being touched so freely. Not like this. Not without hesitation. When your lips meet his, it is as if the world stutters around him, as if time itself takes pause to marvel at the impossible. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp, startled sound, and for the briefest moment, he forgets how to exist. His tail curls behind him in a sharp flick of surprise, and he nearly disappears in a reflex of instinct, but something about the warmth of your hands, the softness of your mouth, keeps him grounded. Keeps him here.

- When he finally gathers the courage to move, it is hesitant, unsure—his fingers hovering at your waist as if afraid to break something sacred. His lips, gentle, trembling with quiet reverence, move against yours like a whispered prayer. You are warmth, light, something divine in his arms, and he drinks you in like salvation. He has dreamt of this—secret, foolish dreams whispered into the lonely nights—but never dared believe it could be real. That you could want this as much as he does.

- When you part, his breath is unsteady, his golden eyes wide with wonder. He stares at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have rewritten the very fabric of his existence with a single touch. His tail coils loosely around your wrist, a subconscious tether, as if to reassure himself that you are real. That this is real. “Mein Herz,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “What have you done to me?” And yet, the way he smiles—soft, awestruck—tells you he never wants to be undone by anyone else but you.

- He does not know how to ask for more. Does not know if he is allowed to. But when you lace your fingers with his, when you press the faintest of kisses to his cheek before stepping back, he knows—he would wait a lifetime for you to do it again. And again. And again.

Scott Summers

- Scott lives by control. He has spent his life suppressing, restraining, calculating every breath, every movement, every word, because one wrong step can mean disaster. But when you kiss him—without warning, without hesitation—every ounce of that control shatters. His entire body stiffens, breath stolen, mind racing with the sheer impossibility of what is happening. He has dreamed of this, a thousand different ways, but none of them prepared him for the reality of your lips against his.

- His hands—gloved, always careful, always distant—hover at your sides, caught between instinct and hesitation. He wants to touch you, wants to pull you closer, but the fear of losing control, of breaking something irreparable, holds him back. And yet, you do not waver. You kiss him like he is not a weapon, like he is not something dangerous, like he is just a man. And for the first time, Scott Summers allows himself to believe it.

- When you finally part, he exhales sharply, as if he has been holding his breath for years. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, and he pushes them up with a shaky hand, his fingers brushing against his lips as if trying to chase the ghost of your touch. “I—” His voice falters, rare uncertainty cracking through his carefully built walls. He swallows hard, eyes hidden but gaze heavy. “I wasn’t expecting that.” But there is something else in his tone, something just shy of desperate. He wasn’t expecting it—but now he wants more.

- You smile, tilting your head, studying him with a knowing softness that makes his stomach twist. “Would you like me to do it again?” The question is playful, teasing, but the heat that flares in his chest is anything but. He swallows down a million responses, a million emotions threatening to spill over, and simply nods. Because yes. Yes, he would. More than anything, he would.

Jean Grey

- Jean has always been attuned to the emotions of others. She feels them like echoes in her own mind, the soft hum of sorrow, the sharp sting of desire, the quiet weight of longing. But when your lips press against hers, she feels nothing but silence—beautiful, breathtaking silence. The world, usually so loud, so overwhelming, fades into something small, something insignificant. There is only the warmth of your mouth, the way your fingers tangle in the red silk of her hair, the way your heartbeat thrums against her own like a perfect melody.

- She gasps against you, not out of shock but something deeper—something fragile. She has lived lifetimes within the span of a single moment, has seen the past, present, and future weave together like a tapestry, but she never saw this. Never saw the way you would tilt the world on its axis with a single touch. Her hands, delicate yet unshakable, find your face, her thumbs tracing the shape of you as if committing you to memory. She knows, in the depths of her soul, that she will never forget this.

- When you finally pull away, she exhales a laugh—soft, breathless, incredulous. Her emerald eyes search yours, bright with something that flutters on the edge of joy and disbelief. “You—” She stops herself, biting her lip as if savoring the taste of you, as if reluctant to let it go. And then she shakes her head, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips. “You really are full of surprises.” There is a lightness in her tone, but beneath it, something deeper lingers. Something that tells you she does not want this to be a singular moment.

- And then, before you can respond, she leans in—this time, she is the one to steal the air from your lungs. The kiss is softer now, slower, but no less consuming. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own. “I could get used to that,” she murmurs, voice warm as sunlight. And in the way she lingers, in the way she stays close, you know—she already has.

Ororo Munroe

- Ororo is a goddess, a tempest, a force of nature so powerful the very skies bend to her will. And yet, when you kiss her, she is caught in a storm she cannot control. Her breath catches, her usually poised frame stiffening for the briefest of moments as your lips mold against hers. She has always been the eye of the hurricane, calm amidst chaos, but now, she is swept away in a current she never anticipated.

- Her hands hover at your sides, unsure, not out of reluctance but reverence. To be loved by Ororo Munroe is to be touched by the divine, but for the first time, she does not feel like a goddess—she feels human. She feels the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers brush against her cheek, the way your lips move with something so tender it unravels her. The storm within her does not rage—it settles, it quiets, it softens into something resembling peace.

- When you finally part, her white lashes flutter against her cheeks, her breath uneven, her hands finally finding your waist as if to ground herself. She looks at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have harnessed the wind and commanded the rain. And perhaps you have. Because for the first time in a long time, Ororo Munroe does not feel alone. “You surprise me,” she admits, her voice a whisper of thunder, low and full of something unreadable. “And I do not surprise easily.”

- A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, rare and breathtaking, the kind of smile that shifts the seasons. And then, with a gentleness that contradicts her power, she presses her forehead to yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Do it again,” she breathes, and there is something almost dangerous in the way she says it. Because now that she has tasted you, now that she has felt this, Ororo Munroe is not sure she could ever let it go.

Rogue

- Rogue has spent her entire life fearing touch. She has spent years mastering the art of distance, of longing from afar, of never letting herself hope for too much. And yet, when your lips meet hers—soft, unguarded, reckless—she forgets to be afraid. The world disappears in the space between heartbeats, and all that remains is the impossible, the breathtaking reality of you kissing her.

- Her mind screams at her to pull away, to stop this before it’s too late, before she ruins something beautiful. But she can’t. She won’t. Her gloved hands grasp at your arms, her body leaning into yours as if she has spent lifetimes waiting for this moment. And perhaps she has. Because for the first time, she isn’t thinking about control, about consequences. She is thinking about the way your lips feel against hers, the way your breath mingles with her own, the way your fingers press into the small of her back as if you could hold her together.

- When you part, her chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, her wide green eyes searching yours with something almost desperate. “Sugar, you—” Her voice falters, thick with emotion, with something dangerously close to hope. Her fingers, still gloved, trace the ghost of your touch against her lips, and she swallows hard. “You don’t know what you just did.” But the way she looks at you—the way she stares as if you have rewritten the very fabric of her existence—tells you that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind.

- She should be afraid. She should be pushing you away, telling you that this is dangerous, that she is dangerous. But when you smile at her, when you reach for her hand despite the barriers she wears, she feels something shift. Something new. Something she is not sure she deserves, but something she wants all the same. And for the first time, Rogue wonders—what if she let herself have this? What if, just this once, she didn’t run?

Erik Lehnsherr

- Erik has built his life around steel and rage, around vengeance and pain, around the belief that love is a weakness he cannot afford. And yet, when you kiss him, every wall he has so carefully constructed crumbles beneath the weight of your touch. He stiffens, a sharp inhale slicing through the space between you, his entire body wound tight like coiled metal, but he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Because for the first time in a long, long time—he doesn’t want to.

- Your lips move against his with a softness he does not deserve, a tenderness he has spent lifetimes denying himself. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitant, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer. But when your fingers tangle in his hair, when your breath mingles with his, when you kiss him like he is not Magneto, not a man shaped by war and loss, but simply a man—he is undone.

- When you finally part, his breath is heavy, uneven, his storm-gray eyes dark with something unreadable. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching for you, from keeping you tethered to this moment forever. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, voice like rusted iron, rough and laced with something dangerously close to yearning. But there is no real warning in his tone, no true resistance. Only the weight of a man who does not know how to accept kindness, how to accept love.

- And yet, when you step forward, when you press your palm to his chest, when you look at him as if he is not a monster but something worthy—his resolve fractures. His fingers, finally, finally, find your waist, his grip firm yet reverent, as if afraid you might disappear. “Do it again,” he breathes, and in that moment, Erik Lehnsherr does not care if love is a weakness. Because if this is what it means to be weak—then for you, he will gladly fall.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier has spent his life knowing things before they happen. His gift is both a blessing and a burden, allowing him to read thoughts, anticipate words before they are spoken, sense feelings before they fully form. But when you kiss him, it is the first time in his life that he is truly, utterly surprised. For once, his mind is not a step ahead—it is caught in the moment, helplessly, beautifully ensnared in the warmth of your lips and the gentle insistence of your touch.

- His breath stutters as you tilt into him, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies. He has always prided himself on his composure, on the unshakable calm of his demeanor, but now he feels undone. Your lips are soft but certain, as if you have known this moment was meant to happen all along. His hands twitch against the arms of his wheelchair, caught between instinct and disbelief, between wanting to pull you closer and simply letting himself exist in this quiet, impossible wonder.

- When you finally pull away, his blue eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused, as though waking from a dream too precious to be real. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips, something warm and unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “That was unexpected,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, smooth but slightly unsteady. And yet, there is something else beneath his words, something deeper—an unspoken truth that has lingered between you for too long, now given breath at last.

- He reaches for your hand then, his fingers ghosting over yours in a way that is both hesitant and reverent. “Would you mind terribly,” he breathes, his smile deepening, “if I returned the favor?” And when he leans in, when his lips find yours again, there is nothing hesitant about it. There is only the weight of time, of longing, of something that was always meant to be.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda has spent her life walking the fragile line between control and chaos, between the known and the unknown, between the world as it is and the world as it could be. And yet, when you kiss her, all of it—the noise, the worry, the restless ache of her existence—disappears. There is only you. Only the impossible softness of your lips, only the warmth of your touch, only the way time seems to slow, to bend, to hold its breath for her.

- She does not pull away, does not tense, does not question. Instead, she melts into you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your clothing as if afraid you might slip through her grasp like so many things before. You taste like something she has spent lifetimes reaching for, something she has never quite believed she could have. And yet, here you are. Here she is. And for once, the world does not seem so cruel.

- When the kiss finally breaks, she does not move far. Her forehead lingers against yours, her breath mingling with your own as if unwilling to let go of the moment just yet. Her deep, sorrowful eyes search yours, dark with something unreadable—something aching, something vast. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” she whispers, and yet her fingers tighten their grip on you, betraying her own words. “It makes me want to believe in things I shouldn’t.”

- And yet, despite her protest, despite the ghosts that haunt her, Wanda does not step away. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you as if memorizing every detail, every curve, every fleeting second. And then, as if deciding something only she can understand, she kisses you again—slower this time, softer, as if weaving a spell that neither of you will ever escape.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff moves faster than thought, faster than light, faster than anyone can keep up with. He is a blur, a flicker, a storm that never settles, never stills. But when you kiss him—when you reach for him without hesitation, without warning—time stops. For once, he is not ahead of the world. He is not running. He is simply here. And it terrifies him.

- His entire body locks up, caught between instinct and shock, between the urge to retreat and the unbearable need to lean in. No one ever catches him off guard—no one. But you? You have done it so effortlessly, so completely, that he feels as though you have stolen the breath from his lungs. He forgets to move, forgets to think, forgets everything except the way your lips press against his, the way your fingers grasp at him like you have no intention of letting go.

- When you finally pull back, his silver lashes flutter, his bright blue eyes wide, wild with something unreadable. “Did you just—” He stops himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as if to make sure the sensation is real. And then, suddenly, he laughs—a breathless, incredulous sound, full of something sharp and breathless. “You’re either very brave or very reckless,” he murmurs, voice tinged with something teasing, something warmer than he meant it to be. “Maybe both.”

- And yet, even as he tries to turn it into a joke, his fingers twitch at his sides, restless, uncertain. He has never been good at staying still, never been good at patience—but for you, for this, he thinks he could learn. “Do it again,” he says, grinning now, eyes glinting with something wicked, something real. “I dare you.” And the way he looks at you—the way he leans in, as if already chasing the next kiss—tells you that this is a dare neither of you ever plan to back down from.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is a man of intellect, of reason, of science. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, in understanding the mysteries of the world through logic and deduction. But when you kiss him—when your lips press against his without preamble, without hesitation—there is nothing logical about it. His mind, so accustomed to analysis, simply stops. And for the first time in a long, long time, he is left with nothing but feeling.

- His breath hitches, a sharp inhale caught in the depths of his chest, his large hands flexing at his sides as if unsure what to do with them. He is a scholar, a thinker, a man who prides himself on his control—but here, now, he feels unmoored. Your touch is warmth against the cold edges of his mind, a spark that ignites something deep, something unexpected, something he cannot name.

- When you finally pull away, he does not move for a long moment. His blue eyes flicker with something complex, something vulnerable, something profoundly, devastatingly human. “That was… unexpected,” he finally says, voice rough with something you cannot quite place. And yet, despite his words, despite the shock that lingers in his expression, his gaze is soft when it meets yours, unbearably gentle.

- He exhales a slow breath, as if steadying himself, and then—almost tentatively—he reaches for your hand. His fingers are careful, cautious, as if afraid you might vanish like a fleeting hypothesis unproven. “Would you, perhaps, consider repeating the experiment?” he asks, a small, wry smile curling at the edges of his lips. And when you lean in again, when his hands finally settle against you with quiet certainty, you know this is an experiment he never intends to abandon.

Emma Frost

- Emma Frost has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one can touch her—not truly. Her mind is a fortress of diamond walls and razor-edged wit, a citadel where no one is allowed entry without permission. She does not startle easily; she does not allow herself to be vulnerable. And yet, when you kiss her—when your lips press against hers without warning, without hesitation—she falters. Just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel it.

- Her breath catches, but she does not pull away. No, Emma Frost does not retreat. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, allowing you just enough room to linger, to taste the cool, intoxicating sharpness of her. And yet, there is warmth beneath the ice, a slow-burning ember hidden beneath layers of frost. She is calculating even in this, assessing, analyzing—but there is something else in the way her fingers twitch against your arm, something unspoken in the way her lips part ever so slightly beneath yours.

- When you finally pull back, her expression is unreadable, a perfect mask of composure—except for her eyes. There is something dangerous in them, something bright and wicked and amused. A slow, knowing smile curls her lips as she tilts her chin, regarding you with the kind of gaze that makes people weak in the knees. “My darling,” she purrs, voice like silk and steel entwined, “if you wanted me, you only had to ask.”

- And yet, when her fingers brush against your wrist—light, fleeting, almost imperceptible—it is not just a challenge. There is something softer beneath the bravado, something she will never admit aloud. You have surprised her. And Emma Frost does not allow herself to be surprised. So when she leans in again, this time on her own terms, you understand the weight of it—the rarity, the quiet surrender hidden beneath the smirk.

Laura Kinney

- Laura Kinney is not accustomed to softness. Her world has been forged in blood and survival, in the quiet brutality of necessity. She has been trained to anticipate every attack, every shift in movement, every threat before it even takes form. But when you kiss her, there is no time to predict, no time to react—only the moment, sudden and unrelenting. And for once in her life, she is caught off guard.

- Her body stiffens on instinct, muscles coiled tight, but she does not pull away. No, she stays still, frozen in place as if trying to process something unfamiliar, something she has no protocol for. Your lips are soft against hers, warm and sure, and for a brief second, she forgets to breathe. It is foreign, this feeling, this intimacy that is not laced with violence or pain. And yet, it does not feel wrong. It feels… safe. And she does not know what to do with that.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks up at you, her gold-green eyes wide, pupils blown. Her breath is uneven, though she would never admit it. Her fingers flex at her sides, a silent battle between instinct and something deeper, something softer. “Why did you do that?” she asks, voice low, guarded. But there is no anger in it, no sharp edges of rejection. Only quiet curiosity. Only the echo of something she is too afraid to name.

- And then, as if deciding something in that precise moment, she steps closer. Not much, just enough for her breath to brush against your cheek. Her gaze flickers down to your lips, and when she speaks again, it is almost hesitant—almost shy. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is a challenge. And when you accept, when your lips find hers once more, she does not freeze this time. Instead, she leans in.

Wade Wilson

- Wade Wilson never shuts up. He fills the air with words, with jokes, with carefully crafted chaos designed to keep people at arm’s length. He is quick and loud and relentless, because silence is where the darkness creeps in, where the thoughts become too heavy, too real. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without preamble, without warning—he falls completely, utterly silent.

- His mind goes blank. It is a rare thing, for Wade to be lost for words, for thoughts, for anything but the sheer, staggering reality of this moment. Your lips are soft against his, warm, steady, real. And for once, he is not a punchline, not a joke, not a monster wrapped in red and black. He is just Wade, just a man who is suddenly, unexpectedly being kissed by someone he never thought would want to.

- When you pull back, there is a beat of absolute stillness. Then, suddenly, he sucks in a sharp breath and blurts out, “Was that a pity kiss? Wait, no, don’t answer that. Actually, do answer that. But lie to me if it was. Unless it wasn’t. In which case—” He stops himself, blinking rapidly, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. “Holy shit. You actually kissed me. I didn’t hallucinate that, right? Because, like, my brain is super messed up, and sometimes I—”

- But then, you kiss him again—shorter this time, softer, just enough to shut him up. And when you pull away, he just stares at you, his mouth slightly open, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. And then, slowly, his hands come up to his face, covering his mouth as if trying to hold something in. “Oh my God,” he whispers, voice slightly muffled. “I’m gonna have to marry you now.” He peeks between his fingers. “You cool with that? No take-backs.”

Julian Keller

- Julian Keller is not used to being caught off guard. He is sharp, quick-witted, arrogant to a fault, and always, always in control. People orbit around him, drawn in by the effortless gravity of his confidence, his charm, the raw, unapologetic force of his presence. But when you kiss him—when you take him by surprise for the first time in his life—his mind goes completely, devastatingly blank.

- For a split second, he doesn’t react. And then, his body catches up with him, his hands instinctively reaching for you, gripping your waist like an anchor. His breath stutters against your lips, and suddenly, he is no longer the Julian Keller who always knows what to say, who always has the upper hand. He is just a boy, completely and utterly at your mercy. And it thrills him.

- When you finally pull back, his lips are parted, his green eyes slightly dazed, like he’s trying to piece together reality again. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face—wide, cocky, but with something undeniably genuine beneath it. “Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his dark hair, voice rougher than usual. “That was… unexpected.” His grin sharpens, his gaze flicking to your lips. “You gonna warn me next time, or is this just how you say hi now?”

- And yet, despite the teasing, despite the bravado, there is something else in his gaze—something that lingers, something that betrays just how much that single kiss affected him. He leans in again, close enough that his breath fans against your skin. “You know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways.” But the way he looks at you—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in—tells you that, despite his words, he wouldn’t change a thing.

[floredaqueen]

A fEAST😭🩷

NSFW! Gambit/Fem!AFAB!reader SECOND FIC OF HALLOWEEN CELEBRATION LEHHHGOOO!!! I really hope you guys like this one, as I had a lot of fun writing it! Sorry if the smut at the end is a little barebones, I was running out of steam lol. Here's your meal my hellions!

A bat flies through your window one night, and although you're dreadfully afraid of rabies and scared to touch the little thing, it's in really bad shape and you can't stand by and just let it die. You spend the next few days nursing the little guy back to health, when one day he up and disappears. The next night you go out with your friends, and feel like you keep seeing a familiar pair of eyes in the crowd.

TWs: MDNI!!!!!! Smut, Mirror sex, bitchy neighbors, alcohol consumption, semi-public sex. vampire stuff, only half of this has been beta-read. I'll add more if I think of any.

    The bat hadn’t struggled once when you scooped it up into a spare shoebox. It didn’t scramble away, or even flinch, really. It hadn’t made a single sound or squeak, either. All it did was look up at you with strange, tired eyes. Black scelera, red iris, black pupils- paired with an exhausted haze. He was cut up, battered, and beaten. If it weren’t for how compliant it was, you might have thought the thing was feral. Which didn’t exactly help your shaking hands or constant flinching as you used the lid to urge it into the cardboard. But your fear be damned, you couldn’t just leave the little guy on the doorsteps of your apartment- the thought of the bat being crushed by clumsy feet, or poked and prodded by the little hellions that were the children who lived here was more than enough to give you the push you needed.

    Besides, it was almost… cute, for something you thought was so scary. A little vampire bat with those strange eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went. He never failed to perk up every time you came home from work. Despite the many struggles and attempts you had trying to find something he could eat, he never seemed to hold it against you. Happy to see you when you took the lid off the shoebox to check in on him, and not too upset with you when you inevitably had to put it back on.

    Well, before he escaped, that is. 

    You knew you were going to have to let him go at some point. You were just trying to do the right thing and reach out to a wildlife rescue, or something. Hoping that they’d do something more to help him before he was set back off into the wild. But one day you came home and he was just, well, gone. The lid of the shoebox had been tossed aside, the box itself a little squished and damaged, the bat nowhere to be found. You searched your apartment for absolute ages, unable to find any trace of his existence or escape aside from a window you were sure you had locked before you left for work that afternoon.

    You sigh as you look out the window of the Uber, thoughts drawn back to the bat as you pass billboards and cornfields, hoping he had escaped the city and found himself somewhere a bit safer. Ashley and Sophie, your neighbors from across the hall, are giggling about something in the seats next to you. The chatty girls are more like acquaintances than they are your friends, but on the surface, they seem sweet. When they invited you out tonight you had been surprised, if a little hesitant. You had wrestled with your anxiety every step of the way, but once you were strapped into the sexiest costume you could find and buckled into the almost-too-small backseat of the Uber, you had started to feel a little excited- despite the fact that you stood out like a sore thumb, with the girls having chosen matching costumes at the last minute and left you out of the loop. 

    “I think we should hit the corn maze first,” Ashley says confidently from the seat next to you. It’s enough to finally clue you back into their current conversation, debating on where the night should start once you get to the Halloween festival. -It’s an “adult only” event, with more than its fair share of alcohol and more than a few scare actors who linger around to give everyone a fright- and there’s a lot to do. It’s almost like the fair, just, you know, spooky. 

    “What? No! I’m telling you, it’s not a good enough photo-op until the moon comes out. We need to do it last!” Sophie sounds adamant, and you wonder how many times they've actually had this conversation leading up to tonight. You try not to snicker as Ashley rolls her eyes, Sophie pouting across the way. They bicker a bit more before Ashley turns to you, smiling slyly. There’s an unnerving way about the way she’s looking at you, something ticking in the back of your brain that you just can’t shake. 

    “What do you think?” She asks you, Sophie leaning over to stare at you directly, Puppy eyes full-throttle as she pouts. You don’t really want to be caught between the spat of theirs, so you take a moment to think, before shrugging with your answer. 

    “I think we should start with drinks.” You say after a moment, and both girls gasp in excitement. 

    “Girlie you are so smart!! I knew we invited you for a reason!” Ashley’s high-pitched voice cheers harshly in your ears as she lightly slaps your arm, but you smile at her anyway, despite the fact that her tone made it feel rather belittling. It’s fine. This is fine, it will be fine. Your anxiety feels like a ticking time bomb, but you know that when you get there and start having fun, it will eventually fade into the background of the noise and lights of the festival. At least, you hoped it would.

    The festival is pretty packed when you get there, but the wide walkways and plentiful games, areas, and events make it more approachable. After the first watery drink of the night, you start to relax a little. And as bitchy and frigid as the girls can be sometimes, they’re a lot of fun when it comes to a party! Carnival games, photo areas, rides, and jumpscares? You find yourself laughing most of the night as the three of you goof off and stumble your way through the corn maze, clown maze, haunted maze- a little repetitive in that area, but fun nonetheless.

    The funny thing was, despite all the people here, and everyone the girls have stopped to flirt with and talk to, you keep seeing this one particular guy. He was certainly one to stand out in a crowd, tall, dark, and handsome with what looked like a permanent smirk on his face. But the one thing you couldn’t seem to shake was his eyes. They had to be contacts, right? Black Scelera, red irises, black pupils… just, strange. And familiar, somehow. You feel like you see him everywhere you go, somehow always in your vicinity, but not really in a stalkerish kind of way. Besides, it was more than likely just a coincidence. 

    After a while of playing various games and a couple more watery drinks, you’re feeling pretty warm and a little crowded. Ashley and Sophie had run into some acquaintances they knew and had stopped to chat for a bit. They talk about some of the more busy and exciting things you haven't been able to check out yet, but the longer you stand there, the less appealing all of this starts to sound. You’re beginning to feel a little overstimulated, and go ahead and let the girls know you’d rather sit this one out. Sophie doesn’t answer you at all, and all Ashley does is wave you off. It sparks some annoyance in your chest, but knowing that you’re overwhelmed and everything feels like it's at 100% right now- you shrug it off. 

    You find a bale of hay to sit on where you told them you’d wait, relieved at the feeling of the cool night air that’s uninterrupted by masses of warm bodies and hot breathing. The sound of the crowd is a little muffled over here, and the slight breeze just gives you everything you need for a quick break from the chaos, eyes closed as you lean back onto your hands. Not for long though, as someone plops down onto the space next to you pretty much immediately. 

    “Busy night, ay, cher?” Your eyes flick open quickly, and the source of that thick Cajun draw just so happens to be the handsome man you had been seeing all night. You blush a little, both out of nervousness and from the fact that he was even more attractive up close. The cool air suddenly feels sweltering with his eys on you like this. 

    “...yeah, I guess so.” You say after a moment, pressing a cool palm against one of your hot cheeks for a quick moment. The stranger chuckles at you, a flash of a fake fang appearing with his smile. 

    “Name’s Remy, Remy LeBeau.” He holds his hand out for a handshake, which you take with a smile. “Pretty girl like you gotta name?” You can’t help but giggle a little, and tell him your name, butterflies in your stomach with the way he’s looking at you.

    “Nice to meet you, officially.” You say, and he cocks an eyebrow at you with that signature smirk of his. “I mean- like, I feel like I’ve been seeing you everywhere tonight! Not in a creepy way or anything, I just…” You take your hand back from him, covering your face in embarrassment as you apologize again with a sigh. God, why were you so awkward? You drop your hands into your lap as Remy begins to laugh, with you blushing furiously in a way you pray you can blame on the alcohol. 

    “ s’ good to know I make a lasting impression,” Remy says, and it’s charming enough to make you crack another smile. 

    “I promise I’m not normally this strange. It’s been a bit of a night.” The words come out like a sigh, and you glance over where the “stressors” of the night had run off to, strangely thankful when you can't see them through the crowd. You feel like your heart skips a beat when you look back over at Remy, with a smile on his face and a fondness in his eyes you feel like might be a little too friendly for someone you just met.

    “I don’t mind, Cher. You’ll find that I like strange.” He replies, sending you a wink. You let out a short laugh, cocking an eyebrow at him.

    “You know what? I believe you.” You say, all Remy does is smile wider. You glance at him again, looking at him from head to toe as you take in his appearance up close. You can’t really tell if he’s wearing a costume, or if he had just stuck on some vampire teeth and called it a night. Either way, he looks good, and you really do not want to make a further fool of yourself. 

    “What led you here, anyway? Costume catch your eye?” You flirt, hoping you don’t come off as nervous as you are- not really one to flirt with handsome strangers. But hey! When the opportunity presents itself… Remy raises his eyebrows, interested. 

    “Sure, Somethin' like that.”

    You and Remy talk for a really, really long time. From the outside looking in, just about anyone would presume you were a couple with the easy-flowing conversation and back-and-forth flirting. You just clicked! It was so easy for your nerves to wash away, and for a long moment, all of your anxieties about the night were long forgotten. One of the two of you had scooted closer in the duration of your flirt-fest, not that you really noticed while caught up in his words and charismatic smile- your sides being pressed together and his hand resting behind you. He’s close enough to lean in and kiss you, and honestly, you certainly wouldn’t mind if he did.

    “So you want my number then?” The words are admittedly cocky, but damn did this guy make you feel so confident in your own skin.

    “You hear me say I didn’t?” Remy replies, cocking his head at you. You can't help but laugh, smiling like some cheesy idiot.

    “Do you flirt like this with every girl?”

    “Jus’ the ones I like.”

    You really hadn’t noticed how long the two of you had been sitting together, an hour? Maybe an hour and a half? Your phone had been long forgotten, and you weren’t really planning to check it either until you heard a giddy squeal from your right. Both you and Remy look over to the noise, only to see the girls, without their clique from before and presumably done with all of their roaming at the moment.

    “Hey girlie! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Ashley says, drawing you into an awkward side hug that you don’t return, confused.

    “I told you where I’d be?” She brushes you off, locking eyes with Remy for just long enough for her eyebrows to raise and a glint to light up in her eyes. 

    “Who’s this?” You don’t have time to answer before Sophie is in front of you, taking your hands and dragging you to your feet.

    “Come get food with us!! We need an excuse to sober up, and we’re not doing it without you, bestie!”  Both of them are being a little more friendly than normal, and it's enough to make you a little suspicious. But, food did sound pretty nice at the moment. You look back at Remy with a sheepish smile, and you find that he’s already looking at you. 

    “ S’ alright, Cher. I’m a patient man.” He gives you a reassuring smile, and you relax a little more, unable to keep yourself from smiling as butterflies light up in your stomach. The girls drag you away pretty much immediately, talking about some afterparty or whatnot, but all you can think of the entire time is the implications of that statement.

    “Where’d you find a man like that?” Sophie’s voice finally catches your attention while in line for the carnival food, and you give her a questioning look.

    “Sorry?” You ask, and both of them giggle in that way that just seems to set alarms off in your head.

    “I’m serious! Almost every guy we’ve seen tonight has been like, a seven. That one is literally a ten.” Sophie giggles again, sending Ashley a knowing look. You blush a little, thinking about Remy again, but there’s just something about this conversation that’s making you uncomfortable.

    “Well, I didn’t exactly find him. He approached me.” You admit, shrugging your shoulders. The girls exchange skeptical looks, before laughing again.

    “Really?” Ashley asks this time, a wolfish smile on her face. It’s rhetorical- and feels just plain bitchy. Your face screws up, and you think about confronting her, but they quickly and ignorantly delve into a separate conversation, and you reluctantly decide to let it go. What the fuck was up with them? You don’t fall into conversation with them for a minute as you try to collect yourself, knowing you’d rather ride home with them than pay for a separate Uber. And starting a fight was definitely not going to work in your favor, seeing as they were your neighbors. They had a pack mentality like no other, and after tonight you’d much rather be able to ignore them forever instead of having a neiborly feud. 

    Eventually, you do decide to join the conversation. The line for food was ridiculously fucking long, and although it was moving, you still felt so impatient. Your phone is dying, and you’d really rather save your battery for Remy’s number and the ride home- so you talk and hope for the best. Eventually, Ashley says she needs to go to the bathroom and hands her wallet to Sophie before she stalks off. She’s gone for a while. A really long while. As you’re finally inching your way to the end of the line, Sophie tells you she’s going to find her. You actually welcome the peace and quiet, and promise to hold the spot. 4th in line. 3rd. 2nd. You’re starting to get anxious by the fact that neither of them had returned, but you get to the end and they’re still not back. 

    You buy a funnel cake for yourself, almost worried about the two as you walk back to the hay bale where you left Remy. The crowd finally starts to clear a bit, and when the Hay bale is finally in sight, you actually assume that you were looking at the wrong spot for a minute- until you recognize the costumes, and then spot the brunette they are both latched onto.

    Ashley is in his space, her costume unzipped just enough for anyone walking past to get a view. Sophie is leaning across his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair and twirling the ends with manicured fingers You can’t see his face- but it didn’t really matter anyway. 

    You don’t mean to drop the funnel cake, but you do. There's a shot of ice through your veins when it clicks for you, finally, as you watch them from a distance- it was a ploy. A stupid fucking ploy. You were the ugly friend- If they could even call you that. You were invited to make them look better. The matching costumes, the conspiring looks, the whole thing about Remy. Jesus Christ, had you always been this blind? Your face is warm with humiliation, eyes watering as you desperately try not to cry.

    Remy had nothing to do with it- of course, he didn’t, you just met him, but as you look at the two draped over him… You just feel like you can’t really compare. You know better. You do- but god, did it hurt. You don’t want to go over there for them to make fun of you again, and you sure as hell don’t want to feel the sting of rejection that will inevitably come when he ditches you for them. Before you know it, your feet are moving. You’re not thinking clearly- hardly thinking at all. You see a side entrance, or maybe a fire exit, not that you really care. You can’t read anything through your tears, closing the door behind you and plugging yourself into darkness as it clicks shut.

    Inside, you find a mirror maze- again, what was with all of the fucking mazes? The overhead lights are off, what little light that’s coming from the outside dimly reflecting through each and every silvery mirror. It’s completely abandoned, with not a single soul in sight. You step over some shattered glass as you make your way further into the maze, and understand it was probably because drunks and mirrors don’t mix. 

    You find a dead end in the maze, and it’s like your legs give out. You can't help but just sit on the ground and sob for a minute. The backs of your hands are stained with the mascara that you’re sure is streaking down your face. You feel like an idiot- stupid, dramatic, pathetic. And you looked it, too. Every mirror reflects the mess of what you have become until you can’t stand to look at yourself anymore, pulling your knees to your chest and tucking your head into your arms.

    It's a quiet reprieve. You sit for a minute, long after your tears have dried. Your breathing begins to return to normal as the humiliation really starts to settle in. You’re so tired, and exhausted, and find yourself wishing you had never come out tonight at all, visioning your comfy bed that waits for you at home. 

    “Pauvre ti bête. Looks like you need new friends, Cher.” The sound of the voice makes you flinch, the daylight scared out of you as a dark figure sits down by your side.    “Remy?” You wipe at your face again, knowing it was to no avail, and that the damage to your makeup had already been done. 

    “The one an’ only,” He replies. It’s hard to see him in the low lighting, but it’s not like you’re looking around much anyway. There’s a silence between you two, and your gaze is locked on the floor, refusing to look at him with your stupid pout and tear-stained face.

    “Sat for a while, waitin’ on you.” He says, after a long moment, and it makes you feel so much fucking worse. You curl into yourself a little more.

    “Sorry, I just… I dunno, I thought you looked busy.” The words are more of a whisper than anything, and he chuffs something that’s not quite a laugh in response.

    “I guess you could say that.” He hums, leaning back on his hands as you finally turn to look at him. “Hadda swat those girls like damn mosquitos to get 'em off. Felt like they were tryna swallow me whole.” You can’t help but laugh at that, rubbing your eyes a bit.

    “...Trust me, they were probably trying to swallow something.” The words are out of your mouth before your brain can really catch up. Remy laughs a full laugh, smiling brightly at you now that you’ve started to come back out of your shell once again. 

    “Sorry, that was crude.”

    “Sounded pretty funny to me,” Remy’s grin is contagious, not that you ever would complain. You roll your eyes at him with that big smile on your face, leaning your head against the mirror behind you.

    “I guess I can’t really blame them, either.” You mumble, eyes going wide once you realize that that was most definitely not supposed to leave your lips. “God damn, I really have lost my filter!” Remy begins to laugh again as you cover your face, flushed with embarrassment. He doesn’t seem to mind the comment at all. Pulling your hands away as he struggles to contain his laughter. 

    “I like you, y’know that?” He says, and it makes you smile. You sit in comfortable silence for a bit, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning on his shoulder, eyes closed. Your thoughts slowly begin to wander. Remy’s very sweet, and the fact that he still came looking for you despite everything… It meant a lot. You can only imagine how uncomfortable he had been with Ashley and Sophie hanging off of him, waiting, wondering where you had gone. If he notices as your smile slowly becomes a frown, he doesn’t say anything. 

    “I’m sorry I left you out there.” You say quietly, breaking the silence that had become so uncomfortable for you. “I hadn’t realized they invited me to be the “ugly” friend until right then and I just needed to get away from it all.” There’s a featherlight brush of skin against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, Remy pushes a few strands of hair out of your face, thumb lingering against your skin. You find yourself caught up in his piercing gaze. It’s almost like he’s looking into your soul.

    “Pretty dumb choice to invite you if they were looking for an ugly friend.” His voice is low, and his cool hand feels nice against your flushed skin. You can’t drag your eyes away from his, gazes locked together as the tension only grows- thick enough to cut with a knife and choke you as you breathe it in. It’s he who breaks the eye contact first, stunning red irises flickering down to your lips and back up again. 

    “Really,” You ask, but it’s less of a question and more like a filler, mind unable to provide anything other than that. You’re caught up in that little action of his, swallowing, unable to look away from him. Suddenly, you realize just how close he really is.

    “Mais oui,” He mumbles, close enough for you to feel the slight breath that comes with the words. His thumb and finger prop up your chin, but he moves no closer, waiting for you. It’s hardly a debate for you to decide to brush your lips against his own.

    It’s like fireworks explode behind your eyelids when the space between you closes, his lips melding against you perfectly. It’s soft and sweet. Gentle for a man as much of a flirt as he appeared to be. He kisses you a few times, just like that, until the kiss starts to develop into something a little more heated. He turns to face you a little better, the sharp fangs in his mouth grazing your bottom lip as he leans over you and licks at the seam of your lips- which you eagerly open for him. Fuck, he was a good kisser. 

    Before long, you’re leaning back on your palms, and one of Remy’s knees presses between your thighs. Your elbows buckle just a little, and he’s quick to catch you. One of his hands is on the small of your back as he keeps you propped up, the other one flat against the floor as he keeps both of you from falling. He nips at your lip- the tip of his canine just barely splitting the skin before he kisses away your yelp, licking the blood away just as quickly as it had appeared. As embarrassing as it was, the action alone was enough to get the attention of heat slowly building in your abdomen. His kisses trail from your lips down to your neck, kissing the sensitive skin there. 

    Your eyes slowly open, half-lidded as you weave your fingers through his hair, tongue softly licking at the stinging soreness of that bottom lip of yours. He’s not as aggressive with the rest of you, kissing and sucking dark spots into you as the sharp canines only drag and graze. Your eyes wander to a mirror across from you- one just barely lit from what you were sure was a hole in the roof- the full moon lining up just perfectly enough to light the mirrored room.

    It takes a second for you to recognize what you see in the mirror.

    You see yourself. Just yourself, leaned over as if you were hovering, neck exposed with purple marks blooming mysteriously across your skin. It’s you. Just you. Only you.

    A gasp is ripped out of your throat, and if the way your spine goes rigid wasn’t enough to alert Remy, it was the fast, pounding beat of your heart. Your eyes are glued to that image reflected in the mirror, even as Remy removes himself from your neck and finds himself staring at that same image. He stiffens, an unreadable look on his face before he recovers with an amused hum. 

    “Well, Don’t we make a lovely couple?” He muses. And when you finally look back at him, his strange eyes and sharp fangs, you realize exactly what he is. A wave of familiarity washes over you again, but you can’t place it as the horror begins to wash over you. 

    “Oh my god.” You breathe, almost stuck in disbelief. This could not be real, could it? That smirk of his makes yet another appearance, and yet something feels off about it. Deceptive, almost. It does not reach his eyes.

    “What, you afraid?” He asks with a chuckle. You wonder for a moment about the situation you had put yourself into, held in the arms of what could only be a vampire. All you can do is look at him, wide-eyed. If stories were to be believed, he’d be caging you in his arms, holding you in an iron grip before he strikes- bleeding you dry without care… 

    But he’s not. Yes, he was holding you up, but the arm around you is loose. His body language is open- and you get the feeling that if you tried to make a run for it, he’d let you. He’s not vicious. He’s not snapping at you or pinning you down. Hell, he had the chance to bite you earlier while you were pliant and eager, and he didn’t. 

    “...I don’t actually know, right now.” You finally respond, and something shifts. His breath catches in his throat, and the barest glimpse of vulnerability is gone within a second as he leans back a little, giving you a chance to sit up a bit more. You do so hesitantly.

    “I’m not here to hurt you, Cher. Just wanted to give you a proper thank you.” He rumbles. He takes one of your hands, lifting it to his mouth to press a kiss to your knuckles, gaze never leaving your own. Black, red, black. Where had you seen that before?

    “Proper… what?” You furrow your eyebrows, trying your damndest to make sense of it all. Black, red, black. Black, red, black. Sharp teeth. Vampires, bats, Vampire bats. Vampire bat. Vampire bat. For the second time tonight, it all clicks for you. 

    “Holy shit. You-? The bat?-” You feel like you’re at a loss for words. Remy smiles again, fangs catching the low light of the mirrored room.

    “That’d be me.” He admits, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. “ ‘Thought I was done for until you showed up. Most vamps like that? They don’t make it inside ‘fore the sun comes up.” He chuckles, but the seriousness of the situation is not lost on you. Saving the life of an immortal being rather than the life of a small bat is something huge, it felt like it, at least. 

    “Did you follow me here? Is that why I kept seeing you around tonight?” You ask. Remy simply shrugs his shoulders, letting your fingers go as he inches forward, looming over you once again. 

    “Think of it as more of a happy accident.” Remy sets his arms on either side of you, leaning close enough for his nose to gently brush against yours. You think he’s going to kiss you as his hand comes up to cup your chin. Instead, Remy runs his thumb across your lower lip, which you hadn’t even realized had started to bleed again. He brings the thumb to his mouth, licking the smear of blood. The sight is seductive. Arousing. You find yourself staring at his lips, conflicted. He sets his forehead against your own, hovering over your lips. There’s a heated look in his eyes when you look back up at them.

    “Tell me to leave, Cher, And I’ll go.” You swallow as he says the words, a flutter in your chest and a growing warmth within you. You bite your lower lip, your hesitance quickly being overshadowed by want.

    “... You're not gonna suck my blood or anything?” You ask, lips beginning to brush against his own. He chuckles, and this time he’s close enough for you to feel the sound as it rumbles through his chest.

    “Not unless you want me to…” He’s teasing you now, making you chase his lips until he’s fully sure you really want this, and you do. When they finally meet, his lips press against yours just as spectacularly as they did the first time. One of his hands snakes around the back of your neck, shielding the lower part of your head as he lowers you to the floor. You find yourself lost in his kisses, thinking of only him and the way he treats you so gently. 

    He props himself up with one strong arm, the other cupping the side of your face rather reverently, his thumb stroking across your cheekbone. Your hands can’t help but wander up and down his torso, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt. You feel him smile against your lips as you do, kissing at the corner of your mouth, and then your jaw, before the fluttery movement traces a path over each and every discolored spot on your neck, kissing the marks he had given you not even twenty minutes earlier. Your hands come up to tangle in his hair as the kisses venture further. His cold face presses into your open cleavage, an open palm dragging up from your thigh and sliding beneath your top, softly squeezing the bare skin of your waist. You find yourself arching into his touch, eager for his soft caress. 

    You have goosebumps down your chest as his fangs graze the skin, his fingers hooking around the neckline of your shirt and the bra underneath it from the inside. The cool air hits your bare breasts as he tugs it down, your nipples pebbling at the frigid draft. Your breath hitches at the feeling as his lips venture down your sternum, his free hand moving out from under the fabric to palm and toy with one breast as he begins to tease the other. He chuckles at you when you let out a whine, fingers tugging on his locks.

    “Have a little patience, Cher.” There’s a seductive lure to his voice as Remy tells you to have a little faith in him, pressing one last kiss to the swell of one said breast as he moves back up. He easily draws you into another long, heated kiss. He continues to play with the breast in his hand, pinching and testing the supple give of the skin. Your muffled whines and moans are music to his ears as he presses his knee against your heated core, only relenting with his playful touches when he slides his palm under your spine, forcing you to arch your back. He lets go of your lips to drag his attention back to your breast, now sucking at the stiff peaks, careful of his sharp teeth. 

    “Remy,” His name comes out inadvertently, the sound making him groan against you. Your hands have slid down from their hold on his scalp, now resting against his wide shoulders with a tight grip on the fabric of his shirt. His palm wanders up and down the expanse of your back, thriving off of the feeling of your hot, flushed skin against his cold body. 

    The feeling of your top being bunched around your waist starts to become uncomfortable and suffocating. You squirm to try and take it off yourself, but Remy is quick to stop you. He pulls it off of you slowly, kissing every inch of skin it drags against as it goes. Once it's off, he leans back to get a good look at you, cursing under his breath as his hands find your thighs. You know for a fact you’re flushed and red from the neck down. The sight only encourages Remy further, quickly sitting up and removing his own shirt, keeping his gaze on yours throughout the movement. 

    It’s not surprising when his upper body catches your attention, the lean muscle impressive for a man who’s basically dead. Or was he? When he’s back within reach, you run your right hand from his happy trail till you reach his collarbone, fingertips pressing into the cold skin as you try to feel for a pulse. He hums, a mischievous glint in his eye when he realizes what you’re doing. 

    “You won’t find a heartbeat, cher. Not from me.” Remy confirms your thoughts. You can only hum in response, leaning up to press a soft kiss where your hand had been, over his heart. Remy lets out a low groan at the action, inciting a slow grind of his hips against yours.

    “Merde.” He mumbles.“You play a dangerous game, makin’ a dead heart flutter.” 

    “Do I really?” You ask, biting your lip. Remy leans in, just far enough to teasingly brush his lips against your own before he moves down the length of your neck, never touching you in the way to crave so badly. 

    “I get the feeling you like dangerous games.” There's something sharp against your neck, the tips of his fangs gently dragging across the skin. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but not out of fear. He grinds his hips into you once again, your hips eagerly bucking to meet his own. You swallow deeply at the sound he makes at the action- realizing that you just might want him to bite into you. It’s crazy. You feel crazy. It must be so tantalizing for him to be pressed against you like this, fully aware of the red-hot blood rushing through your veins and the constant pounding of your heart. And yet, he never takes the bait. 

    Remy’s lips meet your own again right as your hands meet the buckle of his jeans. He sighs against your lips as you undo it, sliding your hand underneath the stiff fabric to feel the hardness he hides underneath. He’s… big. Not necessarily long, but he’s thicker than you had expected him to be. You stroke him over the fabric of his boxers, feeling his length twitch under your touch. When he separates from the kiss, he tucks his head into your shoulder. You can’t help but giggle at the action as you begin to pull both garments down, his cock slapping against his lower abdomen once freed. 

    “Are you sensitive, Remy?” You ask him, turning your head to bury it in his hair. You wrap your hand around his cock, hearing him moan before cursing quietly when you give him a slight squeeze. 

    “Sometimes.” He mumbles, one of his calloused hands coming up to one of your breasts, gently rubbing his thumb over your nipple to encourage it to a stiff peak. You can’t help but let out a surprised moan as he pinches and teases, feeling his smile against the skin of your shoulder. 

    “But I got nothin’ on you.” Remy kisses your breast, before taking a long, slow lick across the sensitive skin. He takes the nub into his mouth, giving it a short suck before he lets go of it with a pop. 

    You almost want to whine and complain when Remy removes himself from you, but quickly lose the thought as you watch him remove his pants and boxers in one movment. Once he’s done, he slowly slides his hands from your ankles to your hips, hooking his fingers underneath the fabric of your bottoms. He kisses the space beneath your belly button, red eyes trained on your own as he slowly drags the clothing down, undressing you until you’re bare. He licks his lips at the sight of you, slowly spreading your legs as he begins to kiss from your knees to your…

    “You don’t- you don’t have to do that.” You stutter out once you realize what he’s doing. You’ve never been eaten out before, and the sight of him between your legs has already got you flushed and nervous- embarresed, even. Remy’s eyes shift back up to your face, his fingers sliding between your admittedly slick folds as you try to hold back a moan.

    “Vampires are creatures of desire, cher. Thirsty ones at that.” He rumbles, and it’s like everywhere he touches you is on fire, his cool hands stroking you into a lustful heat. “Should I beg for you to consider?” He’s got this knowing look on his face, watching you as you bite your lip, face twitching with pleasure every time those fingers of his graze your clit. He slides a finger into you without resistance, curling it just right. You buck your hips into the feeling, nodding vigorously as a final go-ahead. 

    Remy dives into your cunt like a man starved. 

    Every lick of his tongue and curl of his fingers has you seeing stars. Fuck, did it feel good. He touches you expertly, finding spots within you that you didn't even know you had. He lets a moan slip now and then, fully immersed in the warm wetness of your pussy. 

    Your legs are hooked over his shoulders, a hand splayed across your lower abdomen to keep you from bucking up into his mouth as he enjoys himself. You feel close to cumming embarrassingly quick- quick in a way you had never known yourself to even be capable of.

    “Remy!” It's an urgent call of his name, your hands tangling themselves in his hair as you attempt to warn him. He hums in response, right over your clit, and it does nothing but push your body further. You come with a rather embarrassing noise, hips twitching and thighs pressing into the side of his head. You can't help but assume that not needing to breathe was only a bonus for the man currently suffocating between your pillowy thighs. 

    He lets you ride out your orgasm with enthusiasm, pressing sweet kisses to the skin around your sensitive cunt as your breathing begins to even out and your legs begin to relax around him. 

    He looks absolutely wrecked when he sits up. His hair is messy, a pussydrunk smile he's certainly not afraid to hide spreading across his face. 

    “You feelin’ alright, cher?” He asks. You eagerly nod in response, leaning into his touch when he crawls back over you to place a kiss against your lips. You've never been one to taste yourself, but you find that you don’t mind tasting it on his lips. Remy's cock begins a slow grind against you, grazing your clit with every stroke. You moan into the kiss, a string of spit between your mouths when you separate long enough to catch your breath.

    “Fuck.” The word is whispered, but that doesn't stop Remy from catching it. He lets out a low laugh, collecting your wetness as he grinds. 

    “You ready for me?” He asks. You nodd, closing your eyes as you eagerly wait for the stretch of his cock. Exempt, he stops.

    “I need you to give me a yes, cher.”

    “Yes-” He swallows the rest of that word in an eager kiss, finally sliding into your heat inch by inch. You both moan in union, feeling every inch of that slow stretch. He's cold. Not freezing, but cold. It's unlike any feeling you've felt before, and surprisingly, you want more of it.

    His body begins to warm a little more everywhere the two of you touch- and god, does it feel good. Remy favors a steady pace, with powerful thrusts that hit you right every single time. It felt like he was made for you, and he most definitely felt the same. Remy kisses you like a man in love, fucking you in a way that makes you see rings instead of stars. 

    Every smack of his hips against yours is rather careful, measured even. It's only when he pulls out of you and flips you onto your stomach like a ragdoll that you realize the kind of strength he holds- suddenly grateful for his caution. He's quick to go back to rearranging your insides once he has you on your knees, front pressed against your back as he kisses at the nape of your neck and slides his arm around your front, palm splayed under a boob with his thumb on the valley between.

    “Look at us, love.” His chest rumbles against your back, and it's not even a whole minute before the position changes again, Remy pulling you against him as he sits up onto his knees, holding you steady as he makes you face the mirror. 

    You wish that you could see his reflection in that mirror as you gaze upon the sight of you, red face flushed and needy. You don't see the way he holds you pressed so tightly against his chest, or the way he admires that evocative image of you, shaking with each thrust. 

    “Aren't you a sight, bele.” His breath is cold against your ear, his hand coming down to circle your clit as his thrusts pick up in pace. You can tell he's close, reaching that peak just as fast as you reach your own. You grasp at his hands, moans and whine only getting louder as that pleasure gets ever-so-close.

    His groan against your ear is unnecessarily hot, his thrusts stuttering right before he pulls out of you. His cock rests just below your lower lips, using the friction of your thighs as he reaches that high. He cums in thick streaks, your own release following directly after.

    There's a buzzing sound right as Remy sits back, placing you in his lap as he kisses across your shoulders sweetly. You relax against him, boneless as you both try to catch your breath. The buzzing stops for a moment before it continues again. You hardly register the noise, and are certainly in no condition to try and find the source.

    When Remy looks over to the sound, he finds your phone hiding beneath the scattered clothes on the floor. It's his shirt, and he reaches over to grab it. The phone is set to the side as he maneuvers you around, dressing you in his shirt like a gentleman.

    “Cher?” You hum, only halfway aware at the moment as Remy calls your name. He hands you your phone, and you open your eyes just enough to unlock it and see the fifteen missed calls from Ashley and Sophie. 

    “God damnit. Can't I have any peace?” You curse. Remy laughs, watching from over your shoulder as you check the additional excessive Snapchat messages from them. 

    “Maybe we should send them a message, no?” Remy reaches over to your phone, swiping over to the Snapchat camera, angling it to where both of your sweaty, disheveled faces are inframe, along with the line of purple hickies that trail down your neck. Jesus christ, you were about to fuck him all over again for even suggesting this. Who knew you were into revenge like that?

    “Oh fuck yes.”

[takenbypeter]

Late Bloomer

Peter Maximoff x reader

Words: 1294

Based on prompt 12: "My mom thinks I'm dating you."

A/N: I’m back to those writing prompts that I never finished doing, oops 😬 also this is another first kiss fic with Peter M.

You were going to punch him. No, you were going to strangle him. You were going to wring his little neck until he took his last breath. 

Stomping through the halls of the X-Mansion your eyes were focused as you spotted his silver hair on the opposite side of the hallway. 

“YOU!” You shout pointing at the man whose face actually looked frightened.

He could’ve outran you, could’ve avoided you forever but he knew he deserved what was coming to him. 

Once Peter was reached, you grabbed him by the ear and yanked him away from the group that he was apart of. 

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” Was all you heard behind you as you tugged him into a secluded room and slammed the doors.

Once behind closed doors you immediately smacked his arm. Hard. “You bastard! You told everybody my secret, you jerk!”

You had no super strength but your hits still left a sting causing Peter to rub his arm where you hit it for a second time, “ow. I didn’t tell anyone anything.”

“Then explain to me why one of the kids just came up to me and said,” you put on your best little kid voice, “it’s okay, I haven’t had my first kiss either.” You slapped him again, “you idiot!”

“Ow! Okay okay, I didn’t tell anyone but Jean may have got in my mind and I just kept repeating it there. And then Scott found out and then it must’ve spread from there.”

“Ugh, I trusted you and you blabbed you blabbermouth, now what am I going to do? How am I gonna walk down these halls?”

“Relax, it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious? I don’t go around telling all your stuff!”

He opened his mouth but had no comeback for that one. But then he opened it again,”plenty of people haven’t had their first kiss at your age.”

“Yeah? Point to ‘em.”

He did nothing and you nodded. “Exactly.”

“I’m sorry, okay. It was an accident, I wish I could take it back, I would if I could. 

“Yeah well you can’t and now everybody’s just going to look at me and think, ‘oh there’s that weirdo that’s in their 20’s and never been kissed before. Hmm, I wonder why? Must have a horrible personality. Or maybe they’re just crazy!”

You honestly would have kept going, this was something that had been on your brain in the past. But you didn’t because you were taken aback by quick lips that met yours. 

It was the tiniest bit of pressure as his mouth grazed yours only for a moment. It was innocent and chaste and it left you without words. Mainly because you were so stunned. 

“There. Now no one can say anything. Happy?” 

You stood there eyes wide and mouth ajar as you froze with no thoughts crossing your mind. 

“See there’s nothing to it.”

You didn’t respond. 

You couldn’t respond. So with no words spoken Peter watched confused as you turned around and left the room. 

You were upset. No, you were more than upset, you were pissed. 

You were in your room at the X-mansion, passionately pacing your room. Back and forth you went while you bit down on your teeth. 

You couldn’t believe he did that. For what? Just to give you your first kiss? That’s not what you wanted.

You’ve been pacing for about twenty minutes until a knock on your door made you come to a stop as your eyes were instantly grabbed by the sound. 

“Hey. It’s me, can I come in?”

Your shoulders tensed as you sucked in a breath. 

Releasing it, you walked over and swung the door open. Refusing to look at him? you went over to your bed and plopped down with your arms crossed. 

“Thanks,” he said, shutting the door behind him. 

You were quiet, holding back any words that wanted to come out as you sat there. 

“Are you okay?”

You said nothing. 

“Look, I think you’re blowing this all out of proportion. Now you can avoid the awkwardness of all that comes with a first kiss. All the; what do I do with my hands? When do I move? Am I doing this right?”

You finally looked at him, “you don’t get it Peter. I wanted to ask those questions.”

You sighed uncrossing your arms ready to have a conversation. “It wasn’t just the first kiss that I wanted. I wanted to have that whole experience. And I wanted to have those nervous butterflies in my stomach that make people want to puke. I wanted to have that uncomfortable feeling of not knowing what to do next. And I wanted my first kiss to be with someone who actually cared about me in that way. Someone who likes me just as much as I like them. I wanted that! A real kiss. And you ripped that away from me.”

He was quiet now, processing your words and what the whole situation meant to you. He sat down beside you, his eyes on the floor, “oh.”

You two sat beside each other in silence both appearing in thought. “Well what if I do like you?”

You turned to him, confusion clear as day on your face. “Huh?”

“I kinda didn’t kiss you just to give you your first kiss…I’ve been wanting to kiss you.”

“Huh?”

He turned to face you. “I’ve had feelings for a while now. My mom even thinks I’m dating you because we spend so much time together and I’m always mentioning you to her and I haven’t corrected her on it  because…it felt nice to imagine. I guess I just saw my opportunity and took it. I should’ve made sure you were okay with it though.“

“You. Like me?” You repeated, mind going in and out listening to his words. He nodded and you realized this was the feeling. The weird bubbly nervous feeling that was supposed to creep into your stomach at the realization that he had feelings for you. 

You’ve had feelings for Peter in the past but pushed them down after months, due to believing he’d never feel the same way, but here he was telling you he felt the same way. 

“Well. Say something,” he said urging you and you e realized you’ve just been staring. 

“Right! Well I…don't know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know!” You threw your head in your hands at the complicated feelings you two had, “I liked you before but I figured you’d never like me so I closed that chapter.”

“Well reopen that chapter!”

“I know I do still have feelings for you but I think…I’m still upset about what you did. I don’t even know if I can trust you the same way again.  You blabbed!”

“That’s fair and I’m sorry.” He raised his hand up and put his other hand to his chest, “I solemnly swear that It will never happen again and I promise to rebuild your trust. Whatever it takes I’ll do it!.”

You smiled a bit at his over the top enthusiasm. 

His hands fell back to his side as he looked serious for a moment. “And I’m going to make it up to you.”

“How are you going to do that?”

You asked the question with a genuineness in your tone. But you soon regretted it as Peter scooted closer with a smirk on his face before leaning towards you. 

As he grew closer you could feel those butterflies increasing in quantity inside your chest. Then he stopped a few inches away from you, “guess you’re just going to have to wait and see.” He leaned back with a wink before zooming out of your room leaving nothing but a gust of wind behind. 

-

Part 2 Here: First Bloom

[celestiamour]

logan howlett vs hugh jackman

(photos not mine, from pinterest & twitter)

[mistyorchid]

Meet-Cute

Old Man!Logan x fem! reader

summary: Failed talking stages inspire you to meet someone irl. Riding an older man in the backseat of his limo makes you forget about the immature boys who ghosted you on Hinge. Ch. 2 Ch. 3 warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, smut, age gap, reader is 21+, fingering, riding, size difference, praise kink, pet names (doll, baby, sweet/good girl, sweetheart), unprotected p in v, light slapping, oral (male!receiving), creampie, car sex (nobody's around tho), logan's slutty glasses. wc: 3k

Hinge. The app designed to be deleted. You smiled as you pushed the cart, daydreaming about chucking your phone into the nearest lake. The few matches that you received often ghosted you after a week, afraid of committing to a real date.

So here you were, aimlessly strolling through a grocery store. Desperately begging the universe for a real man.

You spent an embarrassingly long time curating the perfect outfit to attract a guy worth your time. Casual enough for a quick errand, but still chic. I want to be with someone who admires my confidence. They shouldn't reprimand me for expressing myself.

That's how the feminist part of your brain explained your attire. The other touch-starved half, however, wanted to wear the shortest skirt you owned just to feel men stare holes through it.

You turned into the bakery aisle and pretended to evaluate the nutritional contents of a massive chocolate cake. Maybe this could be plan B, if tonight's endeavor was hopeless.

The comforting hum of fluorescent lights softened the sterile environment around you. Memories of simpler times floated in your mind. Handmade school lunches. Gentle kisses placed on your knee after a bad fall. You closed your eyes, lulled by the promises of love you were granted as a child. Now an adult, you yearned for a partner that could nurture you in a romantic way.

Logan overheard a bag of produce spill onto the floor as he picked up a shopping basket. The cashier dropped it when he saw Logan's blood-stained dress shirt.

Mumbling a string of profanity, he decided to release some steam. "Show's over!" he snapped, flippantly tossing his right arm behind him.

Ignoring the shocked gasps of the other shoppers, Logan sulked further into the store in search of something to soothe his palate.

His doctor tentatively ordered him to "lay off the booze," a suggestion that left three deep puncture wounds in the drywall of his office. Alcohol numbed the emotional and physical pain that plagued him, but it also further delayed his healing powers.

Logan's skeleton was withering away, and all he wanted was a fucking sweet treat.

Your body braced for impact as your chest made contact with a shopper haphazardly turning into the aisle. After dropping the cake onto the pristine white tile, you closed your eyes again, salvaging the moment of peace that was stolen from you.

"Hey, watch where you're going, asshole." You reluctantly opened your eyes and were met with the solid torso of a man.

Slowly raking your gaze up his body, you raised your eyebrows at the sight of his bloody shirt before meeting his narrowed eyes.

Crows feet radiating from the corners. Prescription glasses. He appeared much older than you expected from your brief contact with his chest.

You silently cursed your luck. This meet-cute plan was steadily evolving into a meet-angry situation.

"Not smart to close your eyes in public," he huffed, staring pointedly at the fallen cake. It was hard not to notice your mini skirt. He hasn't seen a skirt that short since the 60s.

Although you had pulled away from him, the man's eyes lingered on your chest. The playful baby-doll top hugged your cleavage in all the right places. Your glossy lips donned a similar shade of pink. He quickly resumed eye contact, feeling like a dirty old man for imagining them wrapped around his cock.

She's too young, you sick fuck. Logan's internal monologue worked overtime to maintain a shred of decency.

Your face turned away from him at the impending embarrassment you were about to put yourself through. Smirking, you shyly retorted, "Not smart to stare at a girl's tits in public." You gently pushed up his glasses further onto the bridge of his nose.

Closing the gap between your chests, you tip-toed to reach his ear before whispering, "It's okay . . . I want you to."

The answer to Logan's suffering was sweeter than any slice of cake he could have indulged in. A pretty little thing was actually flirting with him, a cynical ex-soldier worn by the unforgiving rings of time.

Logan's hands found the back of your elbows and slowly pulled you closer to him. You gasped as you felt his belt buckle catch on the flimsy fabric of your top.

"Careful, doll," he grunted, leaning down to meet the side of your face. "I'm old enough to be your father."

You defiantly peered up at him through your lashes. "Yeah, and . . .?"

The man slowly distanced himself from you, gently tugging the hem of your top down to its original state.

Okay, definitely not the best response to seduce an older man. You chewed the inside of your cheek, stunned by your juvenile comeback.

"I'm sorry, kid. Forget I said anything," he muttered before turning into another aisle. He mentally kicked himself for letting the interaction go that far. Although his aching body and mind yearned for some relief, he wouldn't take advantage of some young girl.

He hurriedly stomped past the cashiers, swiping a few cigars from a distracted employee's station.

After the initial shock wore off, you quickly followed the older man to the parking lot. Totally not stalker-ish at all, right?

You wanted to take care of him. His reluctance to return your lust-sick gaze should have deterred you, but it only made you more desperate.

You watched as his hands dug into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. The chipper click of the limo doors unlocking motivated you to get his attention.

"Hey! Can we talk?" You yelled, raising an outstretched palm to stop him from getting inside the car.

Logan froze at the sound of your voice. He contemplated being responsible, slamming his door and driving off without a second glance.

The gentle pressure of your hand wrapping around his wrist made him think extremely irresponsible thoughts.

Turning around to meet your gaze, the older man swiftly opened the passenger door. "Get in. Now," he growled.

Words betrayed you. All you responded with was a surprised squeak as he used your grip on his wrist to push you further into the vehicle.

His eyes widened as you briefly parted your thighs to get settled in the lush leather seat. The sinfully short hem of your skirt bunched up, revealing your underwear.

Logan whipped his head to the front of the limo, avoiding the sight of your body. Unfortunately, he couldn't avoid how you felt against his. You sat at an angle towards him, knees pressing against his thigh. His body tensed as you placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Why were you following me, huh?" he asked, finally meeting your eyes. "I've had a long fuckin' day and I need answers." He couldn't believe that a young woman like you would be interested in him.

"Yeah, you're old enough to be my father, maybe older-" you paused to move your left hand onto his thigh. "-but I'm done playing with boys." You shyly turned your head before continuing, "Need a real man."

Logan was done holding back. Now, it all made sense. Your lack of direction in the store, the low cut of your outfit that was way too sexy for a late night grocery run. We're both adults, he reasoned. She wants this.

He gingerly cradled your jaw with his large hand, turning your head towards his. "You sure about this, sweetheart?

You covered his hand with your own, bringing your lips to his in a spontaneous kiss. "I-I need to hear you," he stuttered.

"Shut up and fuck me, . . . " you sighed, pausing to ask for his name.

"Logan . . . call me Logan, doll." His left hand snaked around your waist, bunching the delicate material and exposing your breasts.

As you leaned into his palm, he fished the limo keys out of his pocket and clicked twice, locking the doors. He fondled the underside of your tits before rolling the sensitive nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

You were grateful for the tinted windows that shielded your embarrassing moans from the public.

"Already whining for me, hm? So fuckin' needy," he hummed, pushing up your top even further. You crossed your arms to undress, but Logan swatted them away, explaining, "It's cute. Wanna see your tits bounce for me, baby."

He gripped your ass with both hands and effortlessly swung you onto the broad expanse of his lap.

Your back arched as his rough palm cupped your pussy, thumb languidly tracing your sensitive bud through the cotton.

"But this . . . has to go," he drawled, tugging the elastic of your panties before letting it go with a faint snap.

It was too much. You were splayed over the lap of a stranger, hips wantonly rocking yourself over his prominent bulge and mewling as your sensitive clit caught on the rough fabric of his slacks.

He stilled your movements with his hands, lovingly kneading the flesh of your hips. "You okay with this?" he asked, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt. "Yeah, Logan . . . more than okay. Need you."

You loved that he was confident enough to take what he wanted but also gracious enough to check in, unlike the boys you were used to fucking around with.

His fingers hooked around the waistband of your skirt and panties, skillfully pushing your legs against your chest as he pulled them off. He decided against slicing them off with his claws, not wanting to hurt you. "Fuck. You're so pretty. My sweet, sweet girl . . ." he cooed. You whined as your aching cunt was finally exposed to Logan's hungry gaze and the chill night air. He groaned as you resumed desecrating his lap with your juices.

Your breath hitched as Logan traced two fingers along your bottom lip. You granted him access, playfully darting your tongue around his digits.

After his fingers were thoroughly soaked, he used your saliva to gently trace your hole, noticing the faint flutter of your walls.

"Need me to fill you up, hm? Poor baby's clenching around nothing. Let me fix that . . ." Logan's palm brushed against your clit as his fingers plunged into you, setting a steady pace.

You were incredibly wet, but he needed to prep you for his thick cock. He drooled, collecting a heavy wad of spit onto his tongue before letting it fall onto your pussy.

"Ah-ah!" You exclaimed, surprised by the contact. You bit your lip, cheeks flushing at the lewd feeling of his spit mixing with your wetness.

He used his other hand to slap repeatedly against your puffy folds, mesmerized by how vulnerable you were being for him.

"Yeah, you like that?" He whispered, curling his fingers as they met your cervix. You covered your mouth, desperately trying to maintain some modesty. Logan withdrew his left hand to pry away your arm and swallow your moans, sloppily slotting his lips into yours.

You gasped into his mouth as you felt your cunt spasm around his fingers, gushing all over his tight slacks.

"Oh, fuck! Logan . . . " you mewled, biting his lower lip while he continued to finger you through your orgasm.

Your head fell into the inviting crook of his neck, nuzzling his graying beard. "Atta girl, come for me," he cooed.

Logan peered down at you, noticing wet droplets dampening his beard. You were silently crying, tears cascading down your puffy cheeks before landing on his face.

At first, he was alarmed. "Hey, hey, shhhh," he purred. "What's the matter, doll?"

His cock twitched when he realized you were smiling against his neck.

"Nothing's wrong, Logan . . . you make me feel so good, that's all."

He planted a sweet kiss on your forehead. "Yeah? Want me to make you feel even better? Fill you up for real this time?"

You nodded dumbly, still basking in the haze of your release.

"Nuh-uh. Words." The simple command made you rut into his lap.

You shuddered while responding. "Wanna feel you inside me. Need your-" Logan bucked up into you. "-cock."

He slid his hands under your thighs, briefly pushing you forward so he could unbuckle his belt. Your small hands slinked toward his waist. "Let me do it," you pleaded, hastily sliding his belt through its loops and tossing it to the floor.

You pulled his cock out of his slacks, leaning down to press sweet little kisses to the head. Your thighs burned with the effort, but it was worth it to feel him momentarily lose control. Logan hissed sharply, "Good girl, fuck-" before guiding his thick cock into your heavenly mouth.

You licked a prominent vein that teased its way above his waistband. The taste of him was utterly intoxicating. You moaned onto his length, choking back tears as he suddenly thrust up into your eager throat.

The delicious weight of his cock on your tongue was short-lived. He cupped your face, forcing your mouth to slide past the tip with an obscene pop.

"Won't last long if you keep doing that, doll. Takes a lot less to get me riled up these days," he explained.

You nodded as you straightened yourself, using your knees to hover above his lap. He teasingly ran the flushed tip of his cock through your folds before sinking into your weeping pussy.

"Oh my god! fuck-" you cried, lowering your hips to embrace his full length. Your hands found stability on Logan's shoulders as you bounced on his cock.

Logan stared in awe at your tits. They were practically spilling out the sides of your cute top, jiggling with each movement of your hips.

As he admired your form, you drunk in the sight of his coarse salt and pepper beard. His wiry glasses barely held onto the slope of his strong nose due to your eager movements. You paid special attention to his crimson-stained shirt, wondering how he was enduring the wounds.

"You're hurt." You stated, pausing to slowly unbutton his dress shirt.

Logan's hands grabbed a handful of your ass and slammed you down onto his lap, forcing you to continue taking his cock.

"Never said you could stop," he huffed. "It'll take time, but I'm healing."

You gasped as your clit hitched on the bunched fabric of his slacks, frantically shrugging off his shirt in the process. A devastating moan ripped from Logan's throat as you peppered kisses on his wounds. The coppery taste of his blood was oddly soothing, reminding you that the man buried in your cunt was real and not just a figment of your lust-fueled imagination.

Logan loved how dazed you looked, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath, your pupils dilated and glossy. His cock twitched every time your soft tits brushed against his face. You whined as the steady rhythm of your hips faltered, hinting at your imminent release.

"Lean forward, baby. Let your old man take care of you," he sighed, wrapping his broad arms around your waist. You allowed yourself to slump forward, arching your back and playfully wiggling your ass in the air.

You yelped as he slapped your ass with enough force to feel the sting radiate from his outstretched palm. "Such a fuckin' tease," he growled, filling you up in one thrust. He set a punishing pace that made you sob into his chest. The loud squelches of your release echoed throughout the limo, mirroring your high-pitched wines.

"Oh, my god! . . ." you mewled, savoring the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. Your breath hitched every time his hips met yours, balls slapping against the sensitive skin of your ass.

He fucked up into your cunt, relishing the fact that you'd probably never had a cock as big as his. Logan stared at where you were connected, hypnotized by the subtle drag of your folds along his rugged length.

"Don't know what I did to deserve a pretty girl like you." His teeth tugged on the delicate strap of your top, exposing your breasts. His mouth enveloped the bud, gently sucking and pulling as they hardened.

"Logan . . . can't take it anymore. I'm close." You clenched around him, earning another hard slap on your ass.

"You gonna come for me sweetheart, hm?" He somehow increased his pace, hips drilling into your sensitive cunt. "C'mon, come all over my cock. Such a sweet young thing, so eager to please . . . " he hummed into your ear.

"And just so we're clear, I am definitely older than your father." His filthy words made you arch even higher, stilling your hips mid-air and allowing Logan to fuck you through your release.

The sound of you faintly chanting his name as you came sent him over the edge. "You can take it," he encouraged as your pathetic whines intermingled with his unabashed groans. His hips drove home, bouncing you harshly against his tense thighs and spilling into you with a low growl.

You almost blacked out at the feeling of his cum spurting into your walls, reaching even further when Logan buried his cock to the hilt. You clenched around him, overstimulated and thoroughly fucked.

"That's it, just relax . . . You look so pretty milking my cock," he praised, brushing stray hair away from your face.

You managed to sit upright and shakily moved to lift yourself off his cock, but Logan quickly steadied your hips. He's still hard, you realized, fascinated by his renewed vigor.

He panted, obviously just as spent as you were.

"So, uh, tomorrow, the Italian place on fifth street, 8 PM?"

You narrowed your eyes, incredibly confused at his choice of words after experiencing the best sex you've ever had.

"Our first date," he clarified. He kissed your cheek and you blushed at the contrast between the innocent action and the fact that his hard cock was still buried in your cunt. "After all, I'm a real man, right? And real men plan dates." He plastered on a cocky grin, repeating your earlier statements.

"Okay, old man. It's a date." You smiled, kissing his mouth with passion.

an: Ah!!! I had so much fun writing this. Old Man Logan, when will it be my turn >:[

[sceletaflores]

slippin' and slidin' all over you!

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, sweating, mutual masturbation, sweat licking (i don't know???), not-so-dry humping, p in v, JUST THE TIP RAHHH, creampie, fingering (fem!recieving), oral sex (fem!receiving), come swapping, come eating, literally over four thousand words of pure nasty smut, this is gross lowkey, idk i'm h*rny, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: very much not the winner or even an option of the poll i posted last week but...shhh don't hate me. it’s october and over 80 every single day, what the fuck is that? only good thing that came from this heat is thoughts of nasty sweaty sex with logan. once again shoutout to my wonderful husband @ebodebo for reading this over for me (i successfully changed her vendetta against sucking up some man sweat...which was the real point of this fic tbh) go give her fics some love if you're a slut for ghost! kisses!

logan forgot to fix the ac...

It's too hot out to be alive. 36°C and sunny.

One of the hottest days in recent memory for Alberta, and you're really feeling it.

"Remind me," you say slowly, the first words spoken in almost ten minutes. "How many times did I ask you to fix the air conditioner?"

"Don't start," Logan says from his spot across the room. His head is tipped back to rest on the couch cushion, eyes slipped shut.

You ignore him, lazily rolling your head to the side to look at him through squinted eyes, your brows furrowed in thought. "Was it ten? Or maybe thirteen?"

Logan huffs a breath, slow and heavy, but he doesn't move--doesn't even open his eyes. “I said don’t start,” he mutters again, though there’s the faintest edge of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry baby," you say, voice pitched lower in a terrible impersonation of Logan. "I'll get to it, promise. Won’t get too hot for another couple months."

Logan finally cracks an eye open, just enough to give you a sideways glance, his mouth twitching with amusement. "You done?"

You hum noncommittally, the sound lingering in the air like the lazy summer breeze doing nothing to cool the temperature outside. Your gaze slips down the side of his face to trace the jut of his jaw, then lower to the sweaty column of his neck. 

Both you and Logan lost most of your clothes earlier in the day, too hot to bother wearing anything but underwear. You trudged around the house like zombies until you finally gave up on trying to be productive, you both ended up in the living room. 

All the windows are cracked open, trying in vain to let in any cool air. You claimed the armchair closest to the fan, refusing to be anywhere near Logan and the massive heat wave he constantly gives off.

Logan’s on the couch, stripped down to the thinnest pair of sleep shorts you’ve ever seen. His chest is bare, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that mats the dark hair dusted along his pecs to his skin. 

You can’t help the way your eyes follow the drops of moisture that slide slowly down the contours of his abs. A low heat starting to swirl through your gut when it disappears into his happy trail.

It's funny. When you basically peeled yourself off your mattress this morning, sex was the absolute last thing on your mind.

Now, as your eyes glide over the strong expanse of Logan's body on full display, you're having second thoughts.

Maybe it just comes with the heat. That sort of slow, syrupy feeling that slides along your overheated skin to pulse pleasantly between your thighs.

A bead of sweat slides down the length of your spine slowly, falling until it soaks into the damp waistband of your panties. You try to not notice how Logan is halfway across the room, not touching you.

You fail.

“It’s just a shame, though,” you start, fingers idly toying with the hem of your tank top. “If it was cooler, I could come over there.”

You slide a leg up, letting it rest against the wooden rest, newly exposed skin gleaming under the sunlight filtering in. 

The move isn't lost on Logan. You see his jaw clench slightly, the tiniest shift in his posture.

"Something you wanted?" Logan asks, his voice going low and teasing. "Looks like you've been gettin' yourself all worked up over there."

“Just thinking,” you reply, shifting slightly on the sticky leather of the chair.

Logan’s fingers twitch at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. His eyes slide the rest of the way open, his gaze heavy and lingering as it ventures down to where your thin shirt sticks to your skin, outlining every curve.

“Oh yeah?” he prompts, his voice a little rougher now. “Thinkin’ about what, baby?”

“You,” you say easily, fingers slipping down to your thigh. You bring your other leg up, perching it against the opposite armrest. Your thighs spread wide enough that you know Logan has a full view of the wet spot growing along the gusset of your panties.

The hitch in Logan’s breath has you stifling a smug smile, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you watch the way his chest starts rising faster.

"That's real sweet, sugar," he drawls, an unimpressed look on his face as he drags his eyes back up to your own. "But if you're tryin' to get me over there, you're gonna have to do better than that." His voice slides through the air heavy and warm like molasses.

You bite back a grin, enjoying the slow game that's unfolding between the two of you. 

"Maybe I don’t want you to come over here," you let your fingers trail a little lower, just to the edge of your panties, teasing. “Maybe I like you right where you are.”

Logan’s brow raises, his thighs tensing before he spreads them just a touch wider. The fabric of his boxers goes taut over the strong muscle, riding up to expose even more hairy skin to your greedy eyes.

"You're playin' with fire, kid," he warns.

The tent in his shorts is obvious now, the hard length of his cock pressing against the fabric where it lays across his thigh. Your other hand twitches by your side at just the sight, your pussy throbbing with the sudden need to be filled.

"Am I?" you murmur, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, just enough to make sure he knows exactly where this is headed. ”It’s not like you’re going to do anything about it, you’re too busy pouting."

With a deliberate slowness, you slide your fingers lower, brushing against your clit with just enough pressure to let out a soft gasp at the contact. You arch your back slightly, relishing in the way the air feels against your skin, hot and sticky.

You want him to see how badly you need him—how his heat is the only thing that could truly satisfy the insatiable ache building between your legs.

Logan's nostrils flare, jaw tightening and eyes darkening at the sight of you teasing yourself. His restraint is slipping, and you can practically feel the tension building in the room, thick and stifling like the oppressive summer heat. 

But he still doesn’t move, doesn’t rush over like you expect him to. Instead, he shifts his hips slightly, spreading his legs wider and letting his hand fall on his thigh. 

You can’t help the way your breath quickens at the sight, the way his fingers drift dangerously close to his own growing bulge, teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him. 

You tilt your head to the side, gazing at him through your lashes. “You're really just gonna leave me hanging?” you goad, fingers circling lazily around your sensitive clit. “Come on stud, whip it out.”

Logan chuckles low, a sound that sends shivers through you. "Is that what you want, baby?" he asks, voice thick and taunting, a smirk curling on his lips. “You want me to whip it out for you?”

“Yeah,” you murmur breathlessly, biting your lip as you maintain eye contact, your breath starting to come in short bursts. “I need to see you, Logan. Need to see how hard you are for me.”

“Need to, huh,” he muses slowly, fingers finally grazing over the hard length of his cock. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about this?” You slip your hand out from your ruined panties, fingers glistening with your own wetness as you hook your thumbs on either side and drag them down your legs.

You let the soaked cotton fall to the floor, leaving you completely exposed to him.

Logan’s pupils dilate, an inky black completely swallowing the warm hazel. He licks his lips slowly, the tip of his tongue running along his teeth like he wants to sink them into you. His cock twitches visibly beneath his shorts, the growing tension in the air between you thick enough to choke on.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice low and gravelly, more of a growl than a word.

You smile, shifting in the chair to give him an even better view, your legs spreading wider. "Yeah?" you purr, running your fingers over your slick inner thigh, feeling the heat radiating from your own skin. “You like what you see?”

Logan swallows hard, his hand finally slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts, palming his cock as he watches you. “You know I do,” he says, voice rougher than before. 

You let your hand trail back down to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles as you hold his gaze. “Then show me, Logan,” you whisper, your voice almost a plea now. "I wanna see you."

Logan lets out a low, rumbling groan, his fingers making quick work of shoving his shorts down enough to free his cock. It springs free to slap lewdly against his stomach and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips at the sight.

He strokes himself slowly to start, his eyes locked on you, watching your every reaction, feeding off the way your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.

"Like this?" he asks, his tone taunting as he strokes himself from base to tip, his thumb swiping over the head with a low hiss. “That what you wanted?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him, straining and in his hand. The sight of his thumb brushing over the tip of his cock sends a hot, electric pulse through your body, your hand between your legs moving in time with his slow strokes.

"Yeah," you whisper, voice trembling with need. "Just like that."

You slip your hand lower, sliding two fingers inside yourself with a low moan. Logan groans like he’s the one being touched, his hand speeds up, eyes glued to where your fingers disappear in your slick heat.

His cock leaks pre-come over his knuckles each time his fist passes over the dripping head, the wet sound of it mixing with the low hum of the fan and your own breathy sighs.

"You look so fuckin' good like this honey," Logan groans, his voice rough, strained. "All spread out, playing with that pretty pussy for me."

You whimper at his words, your body aching for more than just your own touch. You need him, need the feel of his rough hands on your skin, his mouth, his cock—anything.

Your fingers move faster, slipping deeper inside with each pump, but it’s still not enough. The stretch is nothing compared to taking Logan, to the feeling of him carving a place for his thick cock inside your pussy, hitting that spot inside you that your fingers can’t quite reach.

Your hips buck up towards your hand, your back arching off the chair as your free hand clutches the armrest tightly.

Logan’s pace quickens, his fist pumping his cock with a new urgency, heavy balls bouncing with every rough tug.

“God, look at you, such a needy fuckin’ thing” he growls, chest heaving as his gaze flicks between your flushed face and the glistening mess you’re making of yourself like he can’t decide where to look. “You want it bad, don’t you?”

"Please," you whine, desperation creeping into your voice. Too keyed up to draw this out any longer. “I need you inside me, Logan. I can’t take it anymore.”

Logan groans, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest. His hand falters slightly on his cock, squeezing hard around the base as your words push him dangerously close to the edge. His jaw clenches, eyes raking over you, and with a growl, he stands. 

The last threads of his restraint snapping.

 He crosses the room in two long strides, towering over you where you sit. His cock swollen and hard, sways between his legs with every step, glistening with pre-come that drips to the floor. His eyes, hooded and burning, drink you in as he reaches down, yanking your hand away from your slick heat.

“Thought you said it was too hot to move,” you tease breathlessly, unable to quit egging him on even when your legs start to tremble with need, spreading wider to welcome him.

Logan ignores you, tugging your hand to his lips. Your breath catches in your chest, a weak moan escaping you as he takes your soaked fingers in his mouth. His tongue swirling along your skin to taste you, his eyes never leaving yours as he does.

“Changed my mind,” he growls, strong hands rough and possessive as they drop your wrist and haul you out of the chair so he can spin around, collapsing into it with you in his lap. The wood gives a warning creak beneath you but neither of you care.

Not when his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding as he slides his tongue past the seam of your lips. The heat radiating off his body is suffocating, but you welcome it—craving the weight of him on you.

You melt against him, feeling the hard planes of his body against yours, every inch of him alive and pulsating with need. Logan’s hands find their way to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to send a rush coursing through you.

It’s intoxicating, the way he devours you, his hands exploring every inch of your back, grasping and pulling you impossibly closer. 

The hard jut of his cock presses against your thigh, a thick plane of heat that makes your pussy throb with need. You shift your hips, grinding down on him in messy circles.

“You feel that?” he growls, lips brushing against your ear. “That’s all for you, darlin’.”

“Need you,” you whimper, grinding down against him faster, desperate for the friction that sends pleasure rippling through you. “Please, Logan, I need you inside me now.”

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, sending sparks all up your spine.

He dips his head, capturing your lips again, while his hands roam hungrily down your sides, fingers curling around your thighs to urge your legs open wider. “You wanna tease me, you’re gonna have to get off just like this.”

Logan angles his hips so that his cock slips between your drenched folds the next time you roll your own down.

The hot, slick glide sends electric shocks of pleasure racing through you, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You gasp against his lips, fingers tangling in his hair as you push down, desperate for more.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, his voice dripping with lust as he watches your movements with hungry eyes. “Just for me, huh? She’s droolin’ just for me.”

You nod breathlessly, chasing the friction, craving the feel of him so close. You lift your hips and rock back down again, the blunt head of his cock brushing against your swollen clit, and you feel your body pulse in response. 

“More,” you plead, leaning in to nibble at his lower lip. “I need it.”

Logan pulls away, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Come on, tough shot,” he says, giving your ass a quick smack and kneading the tender flesh in his hand roughly. “You’re gonna come like this, you can do it baby.”

You whine, dropping your chin to your chest. Your hands find his shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into the strong muscle. Your chest slips slickly against his, the front of your tank almost entirely soaked with sweat.

Yours or his, it doesn't matter. The white cotton turned transparent enough that your breasts are on full display, nipples hard and visible.

You watch a single bead of sweat make its way down the length of his throat. It trickles down and down and down until it dips between the pronounced muscles of his chest.

You duck your head, dragging your tongue up the valley of his pecs. A deep moan bursts from your lips, pussy drooling more slick over Logan’s cock at the coarse feel of his thick hair on your tongue, at the heady taste of his sweat filling your senses.

Logan groans, hands tightening their hold on your waist. The dull ache his strength leaves behind is enough to let you know that two hand shaped bruises will be blooming over your skin by tomorrow morning. 

“Come on, girly,” he encourages, nipping at the sweaty column of your throat, the sharp points of his teeth scraping along the sensitive skin deliciously. “Fuck me, give it to me good.”

Your hips speed up, his hard cock sliding through the slick folds of your cunt faster. The tip bumps against your clit deliciously with every move, smearing pre-come along the way to add even more to the mess between your legs.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up,” he groans, breath puffing warm and hot agasint the slick skin of your lips. “Pump you so full of my come you’ll be leakin’ for a goddamn week.”

He shifts underneath you, the tip of his cock catching on your entrance just enough for it to push inside on the next grind of your hips.

The barely there fullness has you coming with a sharp cry, nails roughly dragging down Logan’s back hard enough to leave red welts that heal as you go.

The pain mixing with the pleasure of finally getting to feel the warm, wet suction of your pussy has Logan coming with a rough shout of your name. He throws his head back, hands tightening their grip on your hips enough to have your bones grinding together as he pumps you full of his come. 

“Logan…” you mewl, your pussy fluttering over the tip of his cock, greedy little clenches like you're trying to suck him the rest of the way in. Drunk on the way his release paints your insides, how you can feel each thick spray coating your walls to claim you in the rawest way.

Logan pulls back just far enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and smoldering as he watches you squirm in his lap.

"You’re not tapping out on me already, are you?" he teases, his voice rough and gravelly. "I thought you were tougher than that."

A weak, breathy laugh escapes you, but it’s cut short when he applies just a little more pressure, making your thighs quiver. "Not tapping out," you manage between shallow breaths, your head falling back against the chair. "But you’re—fuck—you’re insatiable."

Logan smirks, leaning in to nip at the sensitive skin of your throat, his teeth scraping just enough to send shivers coursing through you.

"When it comes to you, baby?" he murmurs against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over your pulse point. "Fuckin’ always."

A lazily smile takes over your lips as you tighten your core and push, the rest of Logan’s come leaking out over his fingers. Logan groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder to try and ground himself.

His cock throbs where it sways heavily between his thighs, still hard and ready to go even after he just came. His hand slips down your body, thick fingers running through the creamy mess of come and slick to messily push it back inside you.

“Fuckin’ shit, honey,” he groans lowly, pressing his thumb to your clit. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

Before you can respond, he stands again, gently placing your trembling form back into the chair and dropping to his knees in front of you.

Your breath hitches, legs widening despite the way your pussy shakes with overstimulation, like you can’t help but spread your legs for Logan anytime he wants.

Logan smirks up at you from between your legs, his lips already ghosting over the inside of your thigh. "Look at you," he growls, voice low and filled with lust. "Still so needy."

The slick heat of his tongue runs along your folds, lapping at the mess he just made of you. You let out a sharp gasp, thighs trembling as your fingers weave into his hair, tugging him closer.

The sensation is overwhelming—the rough, demanding pace of his tongue as it swirls around your clit, teasing you, while his hands grip your thighs with bruising force. Keeping you exactly where he wants you, keeping you spread open for his tongue.

Your body arches off the chair with a loud cry, every nerve alight with raw pleasure as he feasts on you, his growls vibrating against your sensitive skin.

"Fuck! Logan," you moan breathlessly, head falling back as you try to keep up with the sensations he's pulling from you.

The heat that was pooling low in your belly reignites, stoked by the way his tongue flicks faster against your clit, each stroke sending you higher.

Logan doesn’t let up, his tongue delving deeper, drinking in every moan, every shaky gasp as he drives you closer to the edge. He moans into your pussy, his own arousal clear in the way his hips buck into the air, seeking any kind of friction.

You tug on his hair harder, desperate for more, for release. "Logan, please," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with need.

"Atta’ girl," he rasps, his voice thick with desire as he watches your face contort with pleasure. "So fuckin’ pretty like this. You gonna give me another one, baby? Gonna come for me again?"

Every lick, every rough squeeze to your thighs, every teasing stroke sends you spiraling closer to that edge you’re dying to reach again. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath hot against your soaked skin and driving you wild.

“Logan, I—” You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, urging him closer, closer, closer. “I’m so close—”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, nose and jaw glistening in your juices.

"Give it to me," he growls, the rough rasp of his voice sending a shiver through your overheated body. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."

It’s all the encouragement you need. With a strangled cry, your body tenses, thighs quaking as the orgasm crashes over you.

Logan keeps his mouth on you, tongue working you through every pulse, drawing it out until you’re trembling and gasping, your body boneless in the chair.

When you finally come down, panting and spent, Logan pulls away. With one last kiss pressed over your clit, he makes his way up your body, not dropping eye contact as he settles over you.

His hand comes up to your face, thumbs meanly hooking into either side of your cheeks to gently force your mouth open. You part your lips willingly, the heat still radiating between you, a mix of lingering pleasure.

Logan leans in, and the intoxicating scent of sweat and sex surrounds you as he spits what he collected from between your legs back into your own mouth. 

Your cheeks burn with shame, a broken moan ringing through the space between you. Your glassy eyes stare into Logan’s, his own gaze so intense and all consuming you fight the urge to squirm.

"Swallow," he commands, unwavering. 

You hesitate for just a moment, caught off guard by the pure audacity, but the way his eyes darken with hunger makes your resolve crumble. With a breathless whimper, you obey, tasting the remnants of your own pleasure mingling with his, the act both humiliating and intensely arousing.

Logan watches you closely, his gaze never straying as you swallow, a dirty smirk creeping onto his lips. “That's my girl,” he praises, his tone thick with satisfaction.

As the taste lingers on your tongue, you can feel the weight of Logan’s stare like a physical touch.

“Think you can handle another round?” he teases, his voice low and sultry. “I don’t plan on letting you off that easy, kid. Not with all that mouthing off earlier.”

You catch your breath, shaking your head in exasperation. “You’re relentless,” you whisper, a hint of laughter in your voice, though your body betrays you, already craving more.

“Only for you, baby” he replies, brushing the strands of hair plastered to your sweaty forehead behind your ear. “Only for you.”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: i started my period today chickens...that explains it...

[sh1-n0bu]

♡︎ 𝙖𝙬𝙤𝙤𝙜𝙖𝙨! ♡︎

characters: sub!big men x gn!dom!reader

warnings: cock/strap/dick traditions, boob fucking, cumming on face, body, feminization, size difference, mentions of pregnancy, dumbification, lactation, feminine language used for the characters (princess, womb, maiden etc so pls tread with caution if that ain’t ur thing), read with optional bias character in mind

notes: nobu finally posting smt??????? nobu actually writing for once???????????? also this is just my obsession with boobs talking. dividers from cafekitsune. manga color tint by me

big men! with big chests that gets mistaken or joked of it being boobs by close friends and colleagues, who had gotten used to it. who at first used to get all blushy blushy but nowadays just shrugs it off with a disgruntled huff of “knock it off”

big men! who didn’t really see much problem when you started to favor their chest more, eventually opting to use them as a pillow rather than use your actual pillow since it gives them the advantage of falling asleep with you on top of them and they got to cuddle with you all night. a win-win situation in his book, as he could be quite clingy when behind closed doors. who laughs sometimes at the silliness of you smothering your face in between his chests, finding your obsession with his pecs to be endearing

big men! who didn’t realize how sensitive their chest could be until you decide to show it to them. squeezing, fondling the large muscles, tweaking his cute nipples occasionally and making him jolt in place with a cute blush covering his ears and cheeks. so adorable, like a meager bunny when he was nearly twice your size and could probably crush a grown man’s skull in with their hand

big men! who get so worked up over the dirty words you whisper when you pinch his hardened nipples, your words of “i could make your chest lactate”, “your boobs feel so heavy, darling”, “such a nice big tits you have” making him whine in the back of his throat, shaking his head as he shakily denies that “t-they’re not b-boobs… y-you nngh know that…”

big men! who gets manhandled by your smaller frame to lay on their backs, a cute surprised “eengk!” escaping his swollen lips as he looks up at you, pushing his tight shirt up until they’re resting over his chest, showing the big muscles you love so much. who cutely whine and wriggle in place under you as your fingers bully his hardened buds, pinching at the cute pinks, tugging on them before letting go, a noise of awe leaving your lips at the way his chest fucking jiggles while your bf could only jolt with words of “c-cruel… you’re so cruel to me. pu-unhh puppYAGH!”

big men! who get fucked stupid, brain churning into a mush by only having his nipples played with. pinched, tugged, even bitten till your fangs and teeth leaves a round mark closed around his areola that he slurs is too deep, acting like he is getting his tight hole spread open and fucked by your cock. whose face is so cutely flushed, eyes dazed over as he breathes heavily of “wan’ moowr.. ungh h-haah… annh♡︎ m-more please? touch me.. to-ouch me moore”

big men! who act like a sweet virgin who never got himself fucked by you when you kick off your pants, hardened cock already springing out and slapping against his cute boobs. who stare at your oozing tip with gaping mouth, letting out stuttered questions of “w-what… whaddaya doin’? h-hunny, noouw… no, don’t—♡︎!” before squealing when you squeeze his chest together, rutting your strap in between them

big men! who act like they have never seen your cock, never tasted it or even deep throated it before, acting like he never once took your dildo into his pretty hole until his legs shook as you fuck his boobs, moaning loudly like the cute bunny he is. who opens his mouth, jaw shaking as fat tears collect in his big doe eyes, messily sucking the tip, getting drunk on the taste of your pre already when you politely ask him to suck you off

big men! whose hands shakily grasp your ass, unintentionally helping you fuck their tits even more, pushing your strap even deeper inside his mouth as if he wanted you to just let go of their boobs and just fuck their throat instead. who lets out a cute confused noise, mouth full of your cock, batting his lashes up at you like the pretty little thing he is when you move his trembling hands to hold his boobs together instead of your ass. who tries to speak words of not knowing how to do it, still mouthful, as you give a tug to his cute bitten nipple, making him squeak

big men! who meagerly tries to fuck your cock in between his mounds, choking on your tip when you tilt his head down just enough so he could also suck you off, acting as if you just shoved your entire strap down his throat and was keeping it there, snuggly shutting him up. a whiny bf whose tears finally fall when you cum into his hot mouth, dropping of your cock when you came as if he was never drunk on the taste of your seeds before, letting some of it shoot over his face and hair instead. a hunky beast of a man, sniffling like a baby when he notices the mess you made of him, who dares to give you a half assed glare as if you forced him to make a mess

big men! who gets addicted to boob fucking after that one time thing, constantly thinking back on the feeling of squishing his own chest together to fuck your dick for you. whose hands finds themselves wandering to his pecs more often, pushing them together and moving them in soft round circles as if you would suddenly appear and fill the empty space between his boobs. who finds himself messing with his nipples over the tight fit of his shirt, finding himself to be perverted as he gets turned on by just fondling with his chest

big men! who, unable to keep teasing themselves anymore, start to touch themselves when you’re away on work or whatever. more specifically, their chests. rutting his clothed, hardened cock against a pillow that is squished between his thighs, tweaking at his nipples and tugging on them — just like how you do it — before letting go with a whimper. it hurt, but it also felt so good, he could feel his precum already wetting his boxers

big men! who finds out that his constant arousal by his nipples was a bad idea, as now every time he wears a tight shirt or compression vest, his nipples are rubbed and he finds himself getting horny. who, in desperation, decides to tenderly tape the cute pink nubs with a band aid, pouting to himself about how you were slowly but surely turning him into a perv

big men! who now finds it much easier to use his boobs to fuck you, quick to drop down to their knees in front of your clothed crotch, kissing the hidden thighs and inhaling at your natural scent with a love stricken look in their eyes. a cute, desperate bf who kisses your strap, rubbing you with his hands to try and get you hard as quick as possible. who hook their shirt over their chest, intentionally pushing his boobs together with his hands on his knees, creating the effect of round shaped breasts

big men! who impatiently watches until your cock is free, taking it into his mouth the moment you slide down your undergarments, suckling at the head just like how you enjoy it. who push you down to sit, so he could climb onto your lap, pushing his chest together so he could fuck your strap with his boobs, determined that now he had learned a good technique to make you feel good. who is quick to take the head of your dildo into his mouth, swiping the gathered pre with a pleased hum, looking up at your through his thick lashes with a drunken giggle before pulling away to spit on your hard on

big men! who drunkenly take the head of your strap into their hot mouth, suckling away at the delicious precum, unafraid to slobber all over your cock and his chest as he slowly moves the big muscles in a circular motion. who giggles in delight at your words of praise and groans, the tip of your cock that is still in his mouth vibrating with his drunk laughter. beefy bf who eagerly lap away at your cock head, slurping at the mess he made of his own drool and your precum before taking it back into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks for you. only for you♡︎

big men! who pulls away again when you cum, watching with a cute mix of fascination and lewd anticipation as your hot cum shoots all over his jaws and chest, painting his skin in white. massaging your balls and stroking you through it all, opening his mouth slack as he stares up at you with hazed eyes, letting the last few drops shoot into his awaiting tongue, licking at his full lips with a pleasured hum. the salty, slightly sweet taste, a familiar one that he had gotten drunk on within the first round

big men! who straddle your lap, rubbing your wet strap on the round curve of his ass with a giddy giggle, feeling how the slippery wet tip doesn’t enter his tight hole without helping hands. finally, grasping at your dick with his hand, giving it a few strokes before pressing the tip against his entrance. your sweet bf who decide to be bold, sinking down onto your cock with one swift movement, a choked sob getting stuck in his throat at the sudden feeling of being “f-fughkk♥︎ a-aah haah mnngh♡︎ shooo fu-ull.. gut’s so ffuul of m-my [name]♥︎”

big men! who ride your dick all night, even as his muscles strain and his brain gets fucked into a stupid mush, slurring words of love and lust, saying all sorts of lewd things through his cum and drool covered pink lips as the kissable looking pair of muscles turn into a cute drunken smile. beefy big bf whose tits bounce all the while, their cute jiggles every time they sink down into your dick hypnotizing you to only focus on them. an adorable squeal escaping him as you tear away the band aids from his nipples, the stimulated nubs all hard and blush red as they greet you

big men! who squeeze their breast, forefinger and thumb squeezing around his nipple, as he grins at you with blown wide heart shaped eyes. “a-ain’t they cute…? dontcha wanna suck-unghk suck on them?” he asks, squishing his mound softly with a near delirious grin on his face. “come owwnn, don’t my [name] wanna taste my milk♡︎?”

big men! who lets out a pleased wet sob when you do give in, suckling, biting, squeezing at his jiggling boobs as he starts to bounce on your cock with a more fervent pace. who cries out at it being painful when you leave another teeth mark around his nub, one of his hands placed over his chest like one of the scared damsels in paintings. who slur out words of not being a damsel, of being a maiden, shaking his head as if he actually understood anything

big men! who gets their wombs filled with your cum for nth time that night, feeling his stomach start to bloat at the sheer amount he greedily took into his eager hole. fucked dumb bf who shakes his head at your words of getting off, refusing to lose the warmth in his stretched hole and filled stomach. who only notices when you pointed out, that his nipple was leaking, lactating a delicious white milk that dribbled down to his cum covered tummy. another drunk giggle follows, as he gets close to your ear to whisper a filthy slurred “now that i’m p-pregnant, my [name] better take responsibility♥︎”, having completely forgotten that he can’t get pregnant. but oh well, your beefy bf who is so adorable as he giddily speaks of carrying your young, rubbing at his belly with hearts swirling in his eyes, to the point you can’t bring yourself to correct him. only going slack on the couch with your sweet princess still on your lap

⇨ JOTUN LOKI, jiyan, diluc, alhaitham, CAPITANO, zhongli/rex lapis form, itto, wriothesley, JUNG YUAN, YINGXING, argenti, GALLAGHER, gepard, yhan, yuanwu, GLORFINDEL, maedhros, elu thingol, finarfin, FINROD, logan, thor, DIAVOLO, beelzebub, anubis (ennead), gyomei, YORIICHI, messmer the impaler + whoever you like!

[hyper-fixates]

Time After Time

Logan Howlett/Wolverine x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 15.2k never let me near him again

Tags/warnings: age-gap due to logan’s mutation (reader’s age not specified), mutant!reader, unprotected sex, teasing, friends to lovers, explicit language, dry humping, storm cameos, fluff, domesticity, the claws come out when he’s close (👁️👁️), detailed descriptions & scenes of nightmares/trauma/PTSD/panic attacks, one (1) ass smack, alcohol consumption, vomiting, biting/marking, angst, soft!logan, creampie, groping/touching, use of “baby” once, aftercare, yearning (kindly let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: 4 times you end up in Logan’s bed, and the 1 time he does something about it.

Notes: this falls somewhere in between “which could mean nothing” and “we can fix each other” 🫡 (written with a mix of X1 & X2 logan!)

Your heart, despite always being alive and beating, sometimes wakes up before you.

You can feel it before your eyes even have a chance to open. It jolts your sleep-ridden body and collapses your lungs without giving your brain a chance to fight against it. Muscles and limbs feel lifeless and detached from your body, shaking from the sleep that your heart knows wasn’t completely dreamless.

You kick the blankets off of yourself and sit up in a panic, trying to regain some control of your sudden erratic breaths while bringing a lethargic hand to your heaving chest in hopes to ground yourself. It never works.

Maybe your ribs are shrinking and squeezing your lungs, making you delirious from the lack of oxygen, but you know that’s not the case. Your heart feels like it’s being squeezed and broken into a million tiny pieces.

No part of your body feels real, yet you keep your hand on your chest as firmly as you can, trying to focus on controlling the pounding of your heart that’s working so hard with each beat that it hurts. 

“Fuck. Fuck,” you choke out, feeling the tears finally breach and roll down your cheeks as your nervous system catches up to what’s happening.

 Panic. It’s all panic.

You can’t do anything but sit there and let the tears hit the freshly-washed fitted sheet on your bed. So you let it happen. Nothing can stop it.

Trauma is such a fickle thing. One moment you’re fine, and then the next, your heart is screaming at you and forcing your body to process something at 4 a.m. on a random Friday when all you wanted was some goddamn sleep.

There is no choice. Your mind doesn’t give you one.

The tremors subside slowly after a few minutes, giving you the feeling back to your arms and legs, albeit minimal.

You slide to sit at the edge of your bed, resting an elbow on your thigh and setting your chin into your palm with a defeated, yet shaky, huff. 

You look to your window and see that the sun hasn’t even started to rise yet. You’ll be up for the rest of the foreseeable morning, but there’s not much to do so early besides wander aimlessly and think…then think some more. 

You’re confident the professor isn’t even awake at this hour, which says enough about your state. You would typically go visit Storm for some comfort, but she’s been gone fuck-knows-where with Hank and Scott until Sunday at the latest. Thanks, Charles.

A questionable, and probably manic, decision comes to mind. One that’s only two doors down, one over from Storm.

Your impulsive feet make up your mind for you. The cold hardwood floor shocking you further into consciousness as if your heart didn’t do a good enough job.

You tiptoe a couple steps down the hall, forcing yourself to turn and face the large wooden door when you reach it. You just stand there staring at it, unknocking, analyzing the wood grains, suddenly very interested in what type of wood it is and what stain was used to—

“Uh. Are you okay?”

You refocus your eyes onto the man now standing in front of you in the doorway, adorning a barely-zipped school hoodie and black sweats.

“Huh?” You blink a few times, disoriented.

Logan quirks a brow, looking you up and down cautiously. “Are you okay?” He asks again, offering a look of concern—or maybe confusion—that you haven’t seen often. A look that’s never needed to be directed towards you.

You come back to yourself. “But—I…didn’t knock,” you respond, looking equally as confused as him as you point to the door. 

He leans against the edge of the door, face softening. “I could smell you before you passed Storm’s room,” he clarifies, a hint of reluctance in his tone. Oh. 

You feel like a child who has just gained awareness, all too conscious of your situation.

“You’re…awake?” Is all you manage despite probably needing to say much more than that to explain just why exactly you’re standing outside Logan’s room at 4 a.m.

“So are you,” he counters with a curious look. “So let me ask again. Are you okay?” He locks his eyes on yours, probably in hopes to understand why the fuck you’re outside his room at 4 a.m.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” you say, and it’s the truth. 

You should probably be embarrassed. You show up at Logan’s door unannounced, dressed in a flimsy shirt and matching sweats—thanks, Charles—that can’t fully hide the remaining quivers throughout your body.

Logan pulls his lips together at your admission. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head trying to figure you out.

“Can’t sleep?” He questions, but he knows he’s right.

“Yeah.” You don’t know why you’re making it Logan’s problem, though. Sure, he happens to be awake, but maybe this is all too personal to push on the guy who’s seemingly all pride and no solicitude most of the time.

It’s not that he’s not a good, nice guy, but you don’t know how you would define your relationship, or lack of.

You know each other well enough from existing in the same space over the past couple months, being part of the same “team”, but it’s nothing to call a close friendship like you and Storm. He’s a bit of a rare species in the mansion, not really lingering around.

He cocks his head in a half shrug, the soft points in his hair broken by sleep shake gently with the movement.

“I don’t think I can help you,” he says wearily. “I’m no better. Clearly.” He gestures between you, drawing attention to the fact that you’re both awake. The helpless cannot help the helpless.

“Oh—no, I’m not looking for help. I think I’m beyond that at this point,” you laugh but stop yourself short when Logan doesn’t follow. Tough crowd.

“I, uh, don’t actually know what I’m looking for,” you offer.

You knit your brows together in thought, still wondering why the fuck you’re here. Comfort? Entertainment? Some other unknown third thing?

“I’m not really used to Storm being gone for so long,” you admit. “I just feel…all over the place, I guess.”

Logan considers your vulnerability for a beat, eyes flicking to yours. “I can hear you sometimes,” he says, a knowing—almost sympathetic—look on his face. “We have the same problem.”

You go cold, any expression you had on your face sliding away. You wish the floor could swallow you right now. You know things have been getting worse recently, but you didn’t think anyone could hear that fact. Maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise from someone who could smell you from down the hallway.

He steps back, pulling his door open further. An invitation.

You don’t move right away. Could this be a false awakening? You’re not sure what you expected when you came to his door, but you also didn’t expect him to open it without you knocking, so you have to suspend disbelief for now. You figured he’d offer a few words of advice and dismiss you, or maybe even tell you to fuck off, but he opened his door wider for you. But you didn’t exactly think any of it through in the first place anyway.

You force your feet to carry you into Logan’s room. It’s not much different from yours; scarce belongings, minimal decor, a small work desk, brown curtains that are drawn back, and a bed. 

“Were you, uh…sleeping before I came?” You sit on the unmade bed, nothing noticeably different from it compared to yours.

He shuts the door quietly, moving to the small desk across the room and filing some scattered papers together neatly.

“Trying to,” he says, keeping his gaze on the desk.

Fucking duh. “Sorry if I disturbed you,” you wince to yourself. 

You see him briefly shake his head at your unnecessary apology. “I had to get up anyway.” His voice is still gravelly from sleep.

It feels like you’re invading his space. But he invited you in. How many others have had the opportunity to be in here? Probably too many. There’s nothing to make this special.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” you sigh, flopping back on his bed defeated. Simply overwhelmed with the uncontrollable repercussions of your mutation.

“Try to sleep. If you want,” he offers, moving to the edge of the bed. “It’s easier said than done, but I have to meet with Charles in an hour.” It’s gruff, but he’s sincere.  

Maybe the professor is awake after all.

You roll your head to the side to look at him. Was he really offering for you to stay in his bed?

“Oh, wow…uh, sure.” It comes off as more of a question, but he quirks his brows in acknowledgment, turning back to the desk and collecting a handful of other miscellaneous papers.

“I have to head downstairs and take care of some things. Stay as long as you need,” he says, zipping his sweater the rest of the way up. Thank God in heaven.

A shy “thanks” is all you manage as you situate yourself on the bed.

Is this fucking weird? You could name a handful of others in the mansion right this second that would kill without hesitation to be where you are. They’d probably kill you specifically to get it. It’s not much of a secret that Logan is the subject of almost all students’ desires. He knows it, too. 

“See you later,” he adds, his lips forming the slightest hint of a caring smile as he sees himself out. You throw one back before the door clicks shut.

Should you be offended that he didn’t stay? That he left so quickly? No, no, he can’t. He couldn’t. Charles is expecting him. The timing is just horrid. But now you’re just…alone…in Logan’s room, expected to sleep because of a random act of kindness in his heart.

Lying in his bed instead of yours is an odd sensation. The sheets and mattress are exactly the same, the pillows are just as fluffy, yet it feels unalike. 

You flop your head on his pillow, tugging the blankets up to your chin. Your fingers graze something by your hip as you settle in, making you push the blanket back down. Leaning over, you see three puncture marks in the mattress, fraying the bedsheet material into feather-soft strands around the deep holes.

Your eyes widen, remembering his words before he invited you in: “We have the same problem.”

Part of your heart fractures for the second time today. Your eyes cross over to the other side of you, seeing a matching set of holes just below the pillow. It’s suddenly easy to understand why no one besides him has been seen coming and going from this room in a while. One day, things just seemed to change. 

Maybe his act of kindness was an act of mercy. Trauma will always find you, and it will make sure you feel it until you either destroy it or it destroys you.

Even the Wolverine isn’t an exception. 

━━━━ ● ━━━━

The gold liquid is gone from the glass as quickly as it was poured.

Your throat clenches and protests the swallow as you try to suppress the urge to gag. You gently set the shot glass back on the counter, watching Storm chase with a piece of lime that does nothing to help the puckered face she makes from the tequila. 

“No more, no more. I can’t.” Your arms anchor you to the counter to stop yourself from swaying too much.

Storm nods, still fighting off the sourness with furrowed brows and a scrunched nose. You giggle at her when she quickly screws the cap back on the bottle, sliding it out of reach.

“You’re a bad influence,” she scolds as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“No—I’m under the influence,” you counter, a playful smile on your lips. “There’s a difference. You still have your own free will.”

Storm rolls her eyes so hard you only see the whites of them. “We have training tomorrow,” she slurs. “Charles will not be happy if we show up half-conscious.” She rounds the counter to you, grabbing your shoulders for stability, and you do the same.

“He’ll be lucky if we show up at all,” you mumble. 

The dim kitchen lighting embraces the two of you, the rest of the mansion blanketed in darkness with everyone fast asleep—like you both should be.

You close your eyes with a roll of your neck, more giggles falling through your lips as you clumsily grab onto Storm and rock and sway together for a moment, the alcohol quickly catching up to your motor skills. It feels like you’re spinning through time and space, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel fucking euphoric. At this rate, neither of you will be able to make it back to your rooms.

“Am I interrupting something?”

You lose a bit of your balance as you try to find the resonant voice, eyes shooting open. Storm unintentionally startles and stumbles away from you, white hair also jumping from the excitement.

You grab onto the counter again, sucking in a deep breath. “Fuck, don’t do that,” you growl through your teeth, a hand on your chest as you try to calm yourself.

“Don’t do what? Come to the shared kitchen to grab a drink?” Logan huffs a laugh, an amused smile creeps to his lips as he takes in your drunk and shaken state from the entryway.

“Doesn’t anyone sleep in this place?” He mumbles to himself.

“And with that, I’m done for the night,” Storm chuckles, fixing her hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her eyes lock intensely on yours, index finger firmly poking the middle of your chest to make her point for you to show up to training very clear.

“See you, Logan,” she dismisses, stumbling as she passes him.

Logan shakes his head, still smiling. He steps to the fridge, opening the double doors and plucking a bottle of soda from the bottom shelf. No alcohol is readily available in the communal fridge because, after all, you’re all in a school full of kids, so Storm had to get creative; Scott will be missing a rather large bottle from the now not-so-secret stash in his room.

As the alcohol continues to settle in you, you feel more and more lightheaded as it brings you to a new level of euphoria again. You only know this because watching Logan pop the cap of his drink with mindless ease feels a little more exciting than it would be if you were sober. But you’re not sober, and that’s the problem.

“Not gonna follow Storm?” He asks, taking a generous sip from the bottle as he casually places his free hand on the counter to lean on across from you.

A tight smile forms, mostly to yourself. “I don’t think I can make it down the hall,” you laugh in embarrassment. Maybe that last shot was one too many, and it’s not even fully done working its magic yet.

Logan raises a brow. “Want some help?” There’s no judgement in his tone like you expect. Then again, you don’t know what the fuck to expect from him.

Your already half-closed eyes, blurry and unfocused, meet his hazel ones in interest. Another favour?

It’s been two weeks since he let you sleep off the nightmares in his bed. Two weeks since you learned he’s burdened with them, too. You traced the holes in the mattress over and over before you eventually fell asleep, wondering what—or who—could have hurt him so badly. He plays it off cool; you wouldn’t suspect anything from talking to him. The same could probably be said about you.

“I didn’t know wolverine’s were chivalrous,” you tease.

The yellow hue of the lights dance over the quaffed points in his hair, making them appear sharper than usual. You would never admit it, especially to him, but you adore them. They give him an absurd amount of character that you’d expect a guy like him to not care about. 

You’re not exactly complaining about the fitting grey tank-top he has on either.

“Not overly,” he plays along, taking another mouthful of the fizzy drink. “I like to think I’m special,” he says quieter.

“Maybe you are,” you say as you try and straighten yourself to see if you can stand unassisted.

The world tilts as you stand to your full height, eyes rolling into your head from the wave of dizziness. “Wow, okay,” you say to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the spinning. How many shots did you have again?

A warm hand presses between your shoulders. “Woah, nice and easy. Nice and easy.” Logan appears by your side to steady you, other hand grabbing your elbow to pull you straight. You wobble in his grip, letting him guide your useless, alcohol-ridden body.

His hand on your back rubs a few small, comforting circles as you work to regain your bearings. He watches your expressions intently, looking for the right moment to get you moving back to your room safe and sound.

Your arm crosses over your body out of instinct to grab the hand he has on your elbow for extra support.

“Are you okay?” He asks. He seems to ask you that a lot.

You lean into him, your shoulder to his chest, and you can feel the blackout creeping up on you like humidity from a thunderstorm—it’s usually too late to do anything once you notice it. 

“I drank a lot,” you laugh deeply, rolling your head onto his shoulder to look up at him.

He looks so much more delicate under the ambient lights—his usual defined features have shifted and melted him into someone that doesn’t look like they should be a feared animal out in the world.

Logan all but cradles you, that same look of concern crossing his features from the night you went to his door. The only difference is that you’ve had a generous amount of tequila—and are currently being kept alert by the hot touch of his hands. That’s new.

“Can you walk?” He holds your squinty eye contact, probably searching for any signs of a coherent thought behind the blissful expression on your face. “Or will I have to carry you?” He muses, a hint of a smile crosses his lips as his hand moves up to gently rub over your shoulders. 

Drunk you likes the sound of anything relating to Logan keeping his hands on you right now. You wonder what sober you would think.

“I’m not gonna tell you no, but it feels like I’m floating in a bubble that won’t stop spinning,” you hum as you let the sensation consume your senses. “I might fly away.” You dip your head back off of his shoulder in amusement as you laugh again. 

“Yeah, you’re fucked up,” he mumbles lovingly. Just like anyone else who’s concerned for your well-being would. 

“Hey, kitty cat—I’m perfectly buzzed,” you emphasize the teasing nickname, narrowing your eyes at him sternly as you bring your gaze back to his in defence.

“‘Kitty cat’? Really?” He snorts. “I think you’re past your bedtime by three drinks,” he remarks back with equal levity.

“Then take me to bed if you’re so concerned,” you sigh dramatically, going limp in his arms to make your point. 

Truthfully, you’re probably past your bedtime by five shots. But he doesn’t need to know that. You just know that you can’t control your limbs like you were able to ten minutes ago.

“Maybe I will.” You don’t see it, but he does his quick little eye roll that you’ve seen pointed towards Scott too many times. 

He slides the hand on your elbow down to the backs of your knees, pulling you up off the floor and into his chest as you fall into the arm that was rubbing your back. 

Oh, so it’s gonna be like that. 

An excited—or maybe shocked—noise escapes your mouth as he adjusts you in his arms. You extend your right arm up and over his shoulder to hug his neck and keep yourself stable.

The trip to your room isn’t one that should take long, but each sway from Logan’s steps goes straight to your stomach in waves of queasiness. It feels like forever before you feel him bend awkwardly to turn your doorknob.

You’re fighting to keep yourself conscious the entire time, not wanting to regret missing the feeling of being in his arms.

The room is only lit by the silver moonlight creeping through the window. It’s hard to distinguish anything through your bleary eyes besides Logan’s look of determination to get you in your bed.

He leans down, shuffling you out of his arms and onto the mattress as swiftly as possible. The care of it all pokes at your heart. 

He silently goes around each corner of the bed adjusting the blankets. It may be dark, but the moonlight highlights the peaks of his shoulders as he moves. Your eyes might be involuntarily half-shut, but that doesn’t stop you from staring.

You’re now probably no better than every other mutant in this school.

“Logan,” you start before you can fully process the foolish thing you’re about to say next.

He rounds the bed back to the side you’re huddled on, looking down on you. “Yeah?” The subtle jingle of his dog tag pierces the quiet that’s lingering in the room.

You part your lips to speak but the words die in your throat. They’re replaced by a flood of saliva that has you sitting up at a speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone as intoxicated as you. You cover your mouth with your hand, feeling your stomach churning and finally rejecting the tequila. 

You suddenly feel very awake.

“Hey, hey.” Logan squats down in front of you with his already permanently-furrowed brows pinched closer together than you’ve ever seen before, a hand coming to your shoulder in concern. “What—”

“Bathroom,” you mumble through your palm, eyes rolling shut at the nausea. 

He doesn’t say another word. He pulls you to your feet by your arms, walking behind you fiercely with his hands gripping your shoulders to guide you to the small bathroom across the room.  

You push the door open, falling to your knees in the darkness over the toilet as the mistakes from the night expel themselves from your body through rounds of coughing and gagging. He lingers in the doorway, keeping an eye on you but still giving you privacy.

“Fuck,” you cough, resting your warm forehead on your hand as you slump against the toilet. That definitely sobered you up fast.

Exhaustion hits you like a truck. “Logan…” you croak from your crumpled position on the tile floor. 

He steps in, bending down again to reach your height. You can barely make out the shadow of him in the fading moonlight.

“Just…help me back to bed,” you groan, reaching for his arm as you use the toilet seat to push yourself the rest of the way up. You stumble against him as you try to make it back through the doorway.

He guides you to the bed the same way he did to the bathroom—steering you from behind.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” he says as you settle back into bed, head hitting the pillow with a quiet thud. “Even though you did this to yourself.”

“Fuck off,” you groan.

You close your eyes, hearing his footsteps fade back toward the bathroom. You hear the tap run for a couple seconds before he’s next to you again, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Drink. All of it,” he says firmly, holding the cup out to you.

You sit back up slowly, no doubt lethargic, an unimpressed look on your face that earns you a raised brow that tells you there’s no room to object.

You finish the cup in four mouthfuls, handing it back to him. “Thanks.”

You fall back onto the pillow, no longer feeling like you’re travelling through space and time.

The clothes you’re in are close enough to pyjamas. There’s no sense in undressing in front of Logan, especially with what you were about to say to him before you were rudely interrupted by the consequences of your own actions.

He returns the cup to the bathroom and you pull the blanket over your waist as you hopefully settle in for the rest of the night. You owe him big time for this. The thought of just how exactly you’ll manage that fills you with anxiety.

You turn on your side, fingers sliding over the mattress with the movement. They graze familiar strands of feather-soft fabric by the pillow.

This is Logan’s room. Are you just that drunk that you couldn’t tell the difference when he brought you in? Or are your rooms just that similar to each other?

You dip a finger in one of the three holes, hearing the bathroom door click shut as Logan makes his way back. 

“Why am I in your bed?” You see him rustling through some drawers of clothing by the small desk, but he stops when you finish your question.

“You can’t take care of yourself tonight,” he says. “You’re too drunk.” He pulls the grey tank-top off, stuffing it in one of the drawers and shutting it.

You sit up at that, head still foggy and tipsy, watching him move to the foot of the bed across from you. You try to focus your eyes on anything but his bare chest and the dark hair that adorns it and trails down past the waistband of his sweats. His hair is somehow even more wild from mindlessly pulling the tank-top over his head.

“Ah. I was gonna ask you to stay anyway,” you reveal, almost whispering the bold confession.

You were planning to ask before the tequila decided to make another appearance, but maybe doing it this way isn’t so bad either. He did all the heavy-lifting.

A modest, tight-lipped smile graces his lips. “I think you still have some tequila to sleep off.”

Whether or not you still have some shots in your system, what you feel and want right now is real. It’s not influenced by anything besides some mild andronitis created by the fact that you share a common struggle.

“Is it…safe? To share a bed?” The most coherent thought you’ve had all night makes him stiffen from your sudden nervous tone. Your body could easily replace the mattress and become a new home for the deep punctures. 

Your eyelids have been fighting against being pulled shut by alcohol-induced drowsiness, yet your eyes are wider than they’ve been all night in this moment.

You’re sat right in the middle of the bed and Logan comes around to the right, sitting on the edge of the mattress to come down to your level.

“You’re just gonna have to trust me.” His eyes are imploring and apologetic all at once. He understands the prospect of even having you here in the first place.

You nod, sliding over to the left to give him more room. 

Logan wouldn’t put you in harms way, you reason with yourself. He wouldn’t risk potentially killing someone, especially a fellow mutant, if he wasn’t absolutely sure of his mental state. But you also don’t really know his demons.

You roll onto your right side, tugging the blanket up to your chin in comfort. “Why haven’t you been given a new mattress?” You ask as he turns to face you in the same position, his half of the blanket resting at his hip.

The bed dips significantly on his side, almost encouraging you to roll over against him.

“Forgot to ask,” he says quietly, running his right hand through his hair to push the shorter strands off his forehead.

From his tone you can decipher that he actually means “can’t be bothered.” It’s a devastating thing to imagine just how many he goes through, anyway. He probably doesn’t see the point in replacing something that will inevitably have the same fate as the others.

There has to be less than an arms length between you two. It’s a surreal situation to be in considering what you thought you knew about him. A recluse. Standoffish. Maybe it’s all a fluke and the alcohol is severely fucking with your perception of what’s actually happening.

“Thanks for everything,” you whisper as if someone else will overhear.

“Get some sleep,” he insists, rolling onto his back. You do the same.

You stare at the blank ceiling for a while, noticing the exact moment Logan falls asleep; his breathing grows slow and his body runs even hotter than before. 

You think about how he could wake at any moment, claws accidentally sliding right through your stomach from a nightmare or two. You imagine all the others that have been in your position—if they felt scared, if they even knew. 

He asked you to trust him, and that should be enough. 

There is a body full of secrets and hurt sleeping undisturbed next to you with the ability to withstand and regenerate from any physical injury, yet there’s something that hasn’t allowed the same to be done for his mind. 

━━━━

The bright amber sun hits your closed eyes through the window, making you roll your head away onto the other side of the cool pillow.

You want more sleep. Your head feels like a bag of bricks and your body feels like it got beat with them.

You stretch a leg out, gently grazing something solid with your foot. Your eyes shoot open, the night coming back to you as you drift into consciousness. Logan. 

You shoot up, bouncing a little from the momentum.

Logan startles next to you, clearly interrupted from a deep sleep. “What the fuck…” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face, not seeming interested in making a move to sit up with you.

“What time is it?” Your eyes bounce around the room looking for a clock.

He grunts, reaching for a watch on the nightstand. “Seven-forty.”

You needed to be in the Danger Room for 7 o’clock.

“Fuck!” You rip the blanket off, almost tripping as you run to the bathroom.

Logan also wants to roll back over and go back to sleep, but he knows he won’t be able to. He doesn’t work like that. So he just lays there, listening to you swear and make a mess of his bathroom as the clattering of fuck-knows-what fills the room. 

The surprise of how well he slept makes him feel uneasy. Although it definitely wasn’t eight hours, it was uninterrupted. He doesn’t want to credit that to you, though. He wants to believe that he’s getting better overall, and maybe he is, so he can’t offer you any flattery in his mind.

Another distant “fuck” escapes the bathroom, pulling him out of his thoughts. You exit a few minutes later, as refreshed and presentable as you could get yourself, and the sight of Logan still in bed makes something in you ache for another moment of feeling him care and tend to you. Maybe that’s your hangover talking.

“Thanks again. I’ll see you around,” you say hurriedly, offering an apologetic smile as you turn the doorknob to leave.

“Good luck with Charles.” It’s a genuine advisory. Fuck. You’ll be so incredibly lucky if he doesn’t give you more than a stern lecture in front of everyone.

You take a deep breath in and slip out of Logan’s room. There’s not a single cut, mark, or scratch on you, just like he promised.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“I was told it’ll take a day to fix,” Storm explains with a shrug. “You’ll have to find somewhere or someone to room with until tomorrow. Jean already offered to have me stay with her.” A contrite look passes over her face.

You stand outside your rooms, staring in at the remnants of the mess caused by two terrakinetic kids fucking around in the courtyard when they weren’t supposed to be. They somehow managed to throw, or launch, sizeable tree branches right through each of your windows. Of course it wasn’t on purpose, but the Danger Room exists for a reason—to avoid mishaps like this. 

Shards of glass and fragments of wood splatter your floors. The branches are hanging half-way out both of your windows, caught on the window sills and bobbing in the evening summer wind. The kids are extremely fortunate that neither of you were in your rooms when it happened.

“It’s fine. It’s just one night,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes in frustration. You don’t love how quickly your mind picks out who to go to. It’s already nearing 11 p.m., so you have to work fast. 

Storm squeezes your shoulder in comfort. “The living room is always free,” she suggests with a remorseful smile.

But you don’t want the living room. Stiff couches mixed with students clamouring and passing by at the crack of dawn isn’t exactly a recipe for a good nights rest. As if you usually get one, anyway.

“Not a fucking chance,” you laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you say again, dismissing her worries. You wish her goodnight when she steps by you to head towards Jean’s room at the very end of the hall.

You glare at the mess in your room, not daring to step in. The amount of shattered glass everywhere makes the floor look like a body of water from the reflections of the pale moonlight bouncing and refracting off of the jagged shards.

“Fuck,” you spit through your teeth, solely to yourself.

Not even a full week after Logan saw you at your worst, you’re going to go back and ask for the left side of his bed. Shameless.

You don’t have much of a choice; you’re not comfortable having it be anyone else. It’s only because Logan saw you at your worst that you feel he’s the most logical choice. Already having shared a bed with him this week may also have some weight in your decision.  

You take the few self-assured steps to his room, once again standing in front of his door. This time you feel more confident in approaching the Wolverine in his den.

You knock three times, the piercing sound echoing through the hall.

“You start to miss me or what?” A bare chest enters your view. You note the dog tag hanging from his neck again before you find his unyielding gaze full of ambiguity, wondering why you’re here. Again.

You blink at him slowly in hilarity. “Ha, funny. Can I stay with you tonight?” You ask flatly, not thrilled with the situation, but not completely displeased with being here now. “My window—”

“I know what happened,” he interrupts. “Figured you’d go for the couch in the living room.” He looks at you more pointedly with teasing suspicion. 

“I think you know no one would ever willingly choose to sleep out there,” you reason, running a hand over your face in both shame and defeat.

He makes a face that tells you “touché” and you smirk in satisfaction. “If you don’t mind giving up half of your bed again, I would really appreciate it. I promise I’m not trying to make this a habit,” you sigh. Spending the night in Logan’s bed three times in the past month has to be a record for anyone recently. 

“I don’t think it would be a bad habit,” he argues. Oh. “C’mon.” He gives a jerk of his head to allow you in, his tufts of his hair bristling with the quick movement.

“Thanks,” you squeak. He wants you here? 

He shuts the door behind you, following you to the bed that’s clearly already had him in it. The blanket rests in waves on the mattress that remind you of just how human Logan is despite his reputation and image.

“Do you have an early morning?” You ask, slipping under the blanket.

“No. Charles was feeling nice for once,” he raises his tone sarcastically to rag on Charles’ judgement, which has clearly been a much needed one before now.

“Not an early bird?” You roll onto your right side like last time, facing him as he settles on his back with a deep breath. The bed sinks in again where he lays, your body wanting to give in to the laws of gravity and fall into him.

“Fuck no,” he laughs lightly, eyes crinkling around the corners. It’s self-deprecating, but it’s still a genuine laugh. The condescension from it lingers in the air, all directed at himself in a way that tells you he’s thinking about how inconceivably fucked up he is.

The last time he had a decent sleep was when you were drunk in his bed a few days ago.

“People like us don’t usually get the pleasure of a full eight hours,” he notes, sliding his gaze to yours for a fraction of a second.

He props an arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest and idly twisting the dog tag between his fingers. You watch the thin piece of steel slide and flip easily, the chain tinkling with every movement.

People like us.

“You mean mutants,” you state. You see his jaw tense in what little light there is from the half-moon tonight.

You see his brows pull together. “Yeah.” He has a point.

You think about the mutants you know, how they all have some horrific story about their gifts or family, or both. How they either were shamed by society or experimented on like rats. 

The scenarios are endless. If you can think of it, some mutant has probably lived it.

Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach. You and Logan are not isolated or special cases, but you’ve already shared a moment of vulnerability with him when you came to his door all those weeks ago seeking solace for the same thing he fights with: the inescapable ability of remembering.

You pull the blanket tighter against you. “I don’t think you’ll hurt me.” 

He turns his head to you, confusion written on his face. “What?” He stops toying with the dog tag.

“Your claws. I trust you.” You didn’t feel like you were in immediate danger that first night, but you want to reassure him anyway. Or maybe you’re reassuring yourself. 

He hasn’t had to say a single word for you to know his nightmares trigger something instinctive and combative that’s been hardwired into his DNA. In this case, it’s his claws needing to find a home in his mattresses, where another body could potentially lay one night. Like yours is right now.

You noticed the lack of holes in this mattress when you first got to the bed. Maybe you mentioning them last time was enough for him to finally request a new one.

Logan knows he shouldn’t make promises he doesn’t know he’ll be able to keep, but he wants to keep you here tonight, so he improvises. He abandons the dog tag between his fingers completely, turning onto his side and reaching to find your hand under the blanket. You meet him halfway, sliding your fingers between his as your palms lay flat on the bed.

A smile tugs at your lips for a moment. He watches your interlinked fingers, observing the size difference, wondering if he really just did that—and why. 

You assume it’s his way of saying “thank you” for your trust when you probably shouldn’t be putting that much into him.

“Does it hurt?” You whisper, pulling your fingers out from his just enough to caress the divets between his knuckles that conceal the claws.

He knows what you’re asking. “Every time.” He softly pushes his fingers back into yours, squeezing a little. 

There’s a deadly stillness in the room despite his window being cracked. You both know you’re one in the same in a way, and that’s a connection that Logan hasn’t let himself experience. Not everyone likes looking in a mirror.

To be truly seen by someone, wholly, without judgement or fear, is what he deserves. 

“What are you?” He asks, rubbing his index finger back and forth along the top of your hand. “Telekinetic? Psychic?” His curious voice grows quiet, hazel eyes fascinated with you and your lack of a physical mutation, at least nothing that he can see.

It never occurred to you that he didn’t know your mutation, or that you’ve never told him. It was never needed, but it seems unfair that you know about his when he wasn’t the one who told you.

“Ha, close.” Your eyes twinkle as you notice how intently he’s listening. “Psychometric,” you correct, watching his forehead crease.

“Sounds like math,” he quips, readjusting his head on the pillow. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat he’s putting off.

You laugh quietly. “No, it’s extrasensory perception. It lets me see the history of any object or person I touch, but only if I accept the energy,” you explain.

You watch his eyes narrow and you know what he’s thinking, so you quickly interject as he begins to pull his hand out from yours. “I need to touch a pulse point to be able to see anything,” you reassure, feeling his fingers slide back against yours. “The heart remembers everything,” you clarify.

The catch? The person’s memories and past stay with you after you see them. It’s become hard to distinguish what memories are yours or someone else’s. They all become intertwined. Good or bad, violent or gentle. You see it all, and then it’s part of you. Forever.

“I haven’t looked. I promise.” 

“Good. You don’t need to see that shit,” he huffs, eyes wandering over your face. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he’s a little startled for the first time in a while.

“I’m sure I’ve seen it all,” you state. It’s probably not far off from the truth. Your gift came when you were all too young, and plenty of time has passed since then for you to rack up this amount of damage from near-strangers and their lives.

“No, you haven’t.” A sure expression passes over him, shaking his head as best as he can against the pillow. 

“Then I’ll count myself lucky,” you say softly. You have no idea what Logan has experienced, but his demeanor makes you want to stay curious. Not everything needs to be known, and you’re definitely not entitled to it.

A faint smile appears on his lips, then it’s gone just as quick. “Get some sleep,” he rasps. He turns onto his back and his hand abandons yours. 

It’s a complete repeat of last time.

Something twinges in your heart, and you don’t like it. What exactly had you expected from Logan? He’s just doing you a courtesy by letting you stay here for the night. Nothing more. And that’s what you should expect: nothing.

The hum of crickets outside eventually lulls you into a dead sleep. It’s heavy and deep, not a single muscle twitching in your body. Logan breathes steadily next to you, a hand on his chest as the occasional snore fills the air.

From above you two might look like you’re transient, only here in this moment for a short time. And, realistically, you are. 

━━━━

Logan was no where to be seen by the time you woke up, and you made quick work to get out of his room. It always feel wrong to be in someone’s space when they aren’t there.

Just like Storm said, the windows in your rooms were fixed the next day. It looks as though nothing even happened.

“Thank fuck,” you mumble to yourself as you step back into your room.

If you ever have to spend another night in Logan’s bed, you might as well wear a shirt that says “yes, we’re fucking!”, even if it isn’t true. You could deny it all you want, but it won’t stop what students would say. Nothing gets past them, even if it’s behind a closed door.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“Are you fucking Logan?”

You almost swallow your tongue. “Sorry?” Your brows shoot up in surprise, eyes round in disbelief.

“Are you guys sleeping together?” Storm casually asks as she flicks through the T.V. channels, glancing over to you from her spot on the couch.

You’re sat comfortably in an arm chair, suddenly no longer caring what channel she decides on. “Why would you think that?” Technically you were sleeping together, but not like that. It may never happen again, no matter how badly you want it to.

“Things travel fast around here,” she deflects with a cheeky smile. “And, you know, Logan is…Logan.” She shrugs.

You don’t even know what to say to that. Is there a right or wrong answer?

“It wasn’t like that,” you grumble. “He was doing me a favour. As a friend.” It hasn’t even been a full day since he let you stay with him while pieces of your window laid on your floor, and people are already convinced you’re fucking. 

You haven’t even managed a chaste kiss, despite how much as you want to, never mind his dick being balls deep in you.

“Right.” She emphasizes the word, not convinced. Or just pushing your buttons because she can. 

You roll your eyes. “If anything was happening, you’d be the first to know,” you point out. 

She looks back over to you. “I know,” she says with another, more sincere, smile. “You two would be cute, though.” 

You give her some side-eye, not quite sure if you disagree entirely with that statement. Whatever happens, happens. Logan is not something you can control or influence. He does what—and who—he wants, when he wants. 

━━━━

A bolt of lightening strikes you. You gasp, then release a choked cry, eyes flying open as you claw at your chest in terror.

Your throat tightens and you break out in a cold sweat as you sit up. The soft blanket around you feels constricting. Sporadic and short breaths make you heave as your body registers the horrors in your subconscious. 

There was never any lighting. That’s just what the pain feels like.

The muscles in your shoulders and neck tense from your panicked state as your heart struggles to keep a normal rhythm. You yank the blanket off, feeling weak from fear and the onset of tremors. Your whole body gives up on itself as you sob through broken exhales. Your legs have gone cold, lungs shrinking inch by inch with every passing minute. 

You crawl to the edge of your bed, wanting to just get out and leave—the blanket. The bed. The room. Most of all, you want to escape your own mind.

You sink onto the floor when a foot touches the ground, and you realize walking isn’t in the cards right now. You’re shaking too badly to be able to physically move. All your strength is gone, robbed by your memories.

Balmy tears paint your face in determination, making sure no part of you is left untouched by this spell.

You screw your eyes shut, tears still slipping out with ease anyway. Leaning your back against the bed-frame, you curl into yourself and wrap your arms around your knees on the chilled hardwood.

You try to focus on your breathing to at least slow your heart down to a pace that doesn’t hurt.

Wounded cries rip their way out of you, interrupting the breaths you try to steady. A hand touches your arm and you yelp like an injured dog, flailing at the contact as your arms swing out from around your knees in shock.

“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s me.” Strong hands quickly wrap around each of your wrists to stop your arms from thrashing.

You try to focus your eyes, blurred and stinging from tears, on the person kneeling closely in front of you.

“L-Logan…” you whisper, balling your fists to try and expel the shakes.

He looks like someone who shouldn’t be able to be concerned about another person, yet the look on his face scares you. Brows pinched together in worry, eyes frantic, lips parted from heavy breaths. All because of you.

“It’s just me,” he hushes your cries. His thumbs stroke the undersides of your wrists tenderly, no doubt feeling your racing pulse. 

You feel disoriented. “Wh…how…” 

“I heard you,” he explains, watching you process everything. He drops your wrists when some recognition passes over your face.

“What do you need?” He follows your gaze as it wanders around the room, trying to keep you from spiralling further.

You look at him for a moment. He’s got his white tank-top on, the black sweats, and an intense need to help you written all over him. Fresh tears burn your cheeks as you come back into reality.

“I want it to fucking stop,” you weep, head falling into your hands in shame.

You don’t want him to see you like this, even though it’s a commonality between you two. It’s too intimate. You’d take him seeing you blackout drunk everyday of the year over this.

Then you do remember that it has stopped. Each time in Logan’s bed. There was silence. Peace. For the whole night. For both of you.

“Tell me what you need,” he says firmly, angling his head down to keep your eyes on him, desperately wanting an answer.

“You.” You suck in an agonizing breath to try and collect yourself.

He doesn’t flinch like you expect him to. If anything, his eyes become more pensive, clearly considering something. Then he shakes his head in wariness.

“C’mon. Let’s get you out of here,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. The only sound echoing in the room is your wobbly breathes, your body jerking with each one as you enter the aftermath and begin to go slack.

An arm slides behind your back, his hand grabbing ahold of your side while he pulls your legs over his other arm, picking you up off the floor.

He cradles you against him just like he did when you were drunk, carrying you out of your room.

He left your door open when he came in, and you hope no students heard or saw anything. He tilts to grab the doorknob, shutting it without a sound.

You wipe and rub at your eyes as Logan takes a few steps down the hall, quickly getting to where he needs to go when you feel him lean for his doorknob.

You’re sure a few rogue, leftover tears fall onto his shirt before he manages to sit on his bed lightly, you still curled tightly in his arms. 

His hand pushes on your back for you to sit upright on his lap. “Face me,” he encourages, holding onto your sides as you twist around, bending your legs to slide over his thighs and straddle him loosely. 

You look down at him, he looks up at you, feeling the quivers in your body dissipate as you melt further into his lap. A fondness crosses over both of your tired faces. He rests his arms over your thighs, warm hands linking behind your back as you do the same around his neck. 

It’s nothing provocative or seductive. All you can feel is the care and concern rolling off of him in suffocating waves. He wants you to feel safe, and if that means overrunning your senses with his presence, then that’s what he’ll do.

“Got anything to say?” He murmurs, the fallen strands of hair around the edges of his forehead bristle with each move of his head. The rest of his hair fails to fully resemble the cat-like ears he had earlier in the day. 

What does he want to hear? 

You let your head hang a little, your nose almost brushing his. “I have nothing to say,” you assert, fidgeting with the chain of his dog tag at the nape of his neck. 

You don’t necessarily feel embarrassed about him seeing you in such a helpless state, but you don’t want to simply unload your shit on him. So, in turn, you have nothing to say.

“Bullshit.” He almost rolls his eyes. There’s no real threat of him forcing you to say anything behind it. He won’t pry, but he doesn’t believe you.

An offended look overcomes your face, and you almost pull away. You don’t want to feel the humiliation of elaborating on just why exactly you said you needed him in this moment out of everything else. 

“I just…” You roll your lips together in thought, measuring the words you could say but won’t. “Want to sleep. Here,” you sigh. “I don’t wanna go back.” You deflate in his arms, voice wobbly. 

It’s already who-knows what time, and you need to pacify your wired nervous system; Logan simply holding you has already helped with that more than you want to admit.

His mouth quirks up briefly at that. “What happened to not wanting to make that a habit?” His eyes soften as his arms retract from around your sides, letting you slip easily onto his bed from his lap in a moment of calm, or relief.

Habit, if not resisted, soon becomes necessity.

“Special circumstances,” you reason, already pulling the blanket over you while he keeps his place at the edge of the bed, observing you with amusement.

“Seems like you get into those a lot,” he notes, pushing himself off the mattress.

He steps around to the other side—his designated spot—and slips the tank-top off, letting it drop to the floor. You’re not trying to be a freak, but you watch the whole thing.

The flex of his arms and shoulders are out of your mind as fast as they entered as you watch him hook his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats and pull them downright in front of you, not even turning around or to the side to try and conceal himself.

Your eyes widen, then you reel in your thoughts before they get lost at sea. No one who is sane fucking sleeps in sweatpants. Duh.

But didn’t he the last two times? It’s hard for you to remember, but you’d certainly recall if you were face-to-face with the outline of his di—

“It’s rude to stare, y’know.” Logan pulls his lips together, interrupting your thoughts. You try to not eyeball the bulge too hard, but it basically looked at you first. 

The snug briefs do little to hide anything. They hide nothing, actually.

You almost scoff, but the playfulness in his tone tells you he couldn’t give a shit. He probably likes it anyway. From what you know, he definitely does.

“Oh, yeah, like you’ve ever cared about modesty,” you throw back, averting your gaze to the ceiling anyway.

It’s not that he runs around the mansion naked, but he definitely isn’t shy about what he looks like or against showing some skin. You’ve seen and heard enough over the past few months.

You hear a stifled chuckle as he joins you under the blanket without a retort. He knows you’re right. He’s just glad you’re a little lively and alert.

“Will you be okay for the rest of the night?” He brings both hands behind his head on the pillow, propping himself up a little.

“I should be fine,” you say confidently. “The challenge will be getting back to sleep.” You laugh in exasperation. 

It’s always hard to calm down and get back to a place of tranquility after everything has settled with your mind. You’re pumped full of adrenaline and there’s not much that can curb something that persistent flowing through your body.

You haven’t found anything to help with it. Yet. 

“There’s not many people that’ll understand what you go through,” he starts, voice rough with fatigue. “But I do.”

You look to him, sliding an arm under your pillow as you turn on your side. “How do you…help it.” You’re not sure if you phrased that right. It feels crude to reduce something so complex to the likes of a common cold that has an array of over-the-counter solutions. 

“You don’t. It just has to run its course.” He looks to you, wanting to see your reaction. 

It wasn’t meant to be hurtful or insensitive, but he’s not going to lie to you and say that things can only get better and that the worst is over. Especially for mutants, that’s not always true.

Although you don’t know what Logan lives with every day and sleeps with every night, you do know that his capacity for empathy is still intact. Here you are in his bed after all, seeing and indulging in a side of him that many never will. 

You sigh lightly. “We’re quite the pair.” 

A comfortable half-smirk slips over his lips. “I think we’re just fucked up insomniacs,” he suggests with a breathy exhale that’s close enough to a laugh.

You wish you could slide a thumb over the pulse in his wrist and see what’s haunting him, just to understand what happened to the Wolverine, but you’ve learned that doing so usually isn’t worth the price you’ll pay after. If what’s in his head is horrific enough to cause him to go through a couple mattresses a month, then it won’t do you any good either.

“I sleep pretty good with you,” you offer, seeing how he raises a brow in doubt almost instantly.

He sleeps well with you, too. It kind of rattled him when he noticed a pattern of uninterrupted nights and you being by his side. Not a single mattress ruined on those nights.

“Try not to knee me in the stomach tonight,” he deflects with ease. He takes his hands out from behind his head, sliding his left arm under the pillow as he turns over onto his side and closes his eyes. Facing you.

You mentally smack yourself. Multiple times. You didn’t think you drifted that much when you slept. 

“No promises,” you mutter. You catch a small shake of his head before you let yourself join him in unconsciousness as you mirror each others lonely bodies.

━━━━

Your eyes ache—to open, to move, to touch. Enough crying will do that to you.Your eyelids are heavy, but there’s something else weighing down on you. 

A tired groan crawls from your throat as you try to place yourself for a moment. The morning sun is just beginning to shine too brightly for your liking, and you squish your face deeper into the pillow.

You’re still tipsy with sleep, lying flat on your stomach, but there’s something dense and hot resting over your back. 

You prop yourself up on your forearms, giving yourself a minute to wake up. You twist your hips around to sit yourself up, feeling the thing on your back slide down to your waist. 

The blanket pools around your hips, and you feel a hand reflexively squeeze over the meat of your hip in disapproval of your moving. Something in you clenches at the sensation of something invading the area with ease. A spot reserved for intimacy.

Your head quirks to your right, seeing Logan on his stomach with his right arm thrown over your midsection. 

You blink in surprise, staring at his sleeping body. His hair is sticking up every which way, his head half-off the pillow, his side of the blanket not even covering the curve of his ass anymore. It’s endearing to see the Wolverine in such a normal, human state.

But if someone were to walk in, it would look like you two spent the whole night fucking. A lot. That wakes you up a little more.

You peek over at the nightstand behind him and see the time blinking on his watch. It’s already 8 a.m. 

You rest a hand over his shoulder to gently guide his arm off of you, but you stop yourself. Instead, you lightly trace your fingers down his shoulders and upper back a couple times, occasionally scratching softly over the ridges of muscle.

A shiver quickly rolls through his upper body, but your touch doesn’t fully wake him. He knows it’s just you.

It’s the least you can do for him as a thanks for recovering your broken body from the floor of your room and bringing you here when he didn’t necessarily have to.

It almost feels like instinct to offer comforting gestures to him. There’s something inside you that just pulls to him. You want to be the one that can give him comfort and help him put himself back together. 

You want to be the only one.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

There’s a shadow that’s been following you around the mansion. 

As soon as you stepped out of Logan’s room that morning a few days ago, it started. 

This shadow likes to be nosy about what you’re doing. This shadow likes to be in your space. This shadow wants to be in your space. And he is.

No one has seen Logan out around the mansion this much, including you, and that’s how you noticed he’s basically been attached to your hip ever since he decided your back was a comfortable armrest. 

He’s always just there, like a stray cat begging for food or affection. There to entertain you, banter with you, indulge you, in any way he can, including now as you trail back inside the mansion well behind Storm from an evening walkabout in the garden.

“No smoking in the courtyard,” you sing as you pass him carelessly, not even offering a glance to him in interest. 

You like playing this game. Whatever it is. Constantly poking and prodding at each other to see what you can do to get the other to break in some way, no matter how slight. 

Your heart flutters and flips every time; maybe from the thrill of it all, maybe from the arousal you get from the tension. You hope he feels everything, too.

He turns his head to watch you cross into the entryway. “Blow me,” he throws back playfully through a thick puff of smoke, leaning against the brick wall with a cigar pinched between two fingers.

You suppress a chuckle, keeping your unwavering pace. “Yeah, you wish!” You yell over your shoulder. You know he hears you. He wouldn’t let himself miss it.

Logan smirks and shakes his head in amusement, always impressed with your quick rebuttals that occasionally tent his jeans. He takes one last drag out of spite before following your footsteps inside. 

You have become, by definition, friends…in a way. Even if you sorely cross the line into other territory more often than not. Sexual innuendos and friendly flirting can only go on for so long before the underlying intentions and meaning reflects real desires. 

It’s evolved into more than just borrowing his bed a couple times or helping each other out. It’s surpassed the fear of whatever habit you were afraid of forming from doing so. It’s become a dependency to get that adrenaline high from simply riling each other up.

You have an assumption that if you were to end up in Logan’s bed again, somehow, there will be a point of no return that you’ll be faced with. There aren’t many more excuses that can be used for explaining to yourselves why you’re together in bed before you have to recognize the truth.

That platonic line is being stretched too thin, and you’re not sure how much farther it can go.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“How’ve you been sleeping?”

“Fine. You?”

“Could be better.” Logan hides his smirk, but you can hear it in his voice.

You narrow your eyes skeptically as he fishes around in the fruit bowl sitting in the middle of the kitchen island.

“How so?” You ask. Your legs swing leisurely as you sit upon the chilled countertop on his left, idly waiting for Storm to show up and go with you to training.

A smug, tight-lipped grin flashes across his face, a green apple rolling around in his palms before he puts it back. “You could be there,” he provokes, his eyes bright.

It’s your turn to raise a brow at him, but you can’t stop your smile. “Oh?”

He turns to you, tenderly grabbing the tops of your thighs and parting them slightly to stand between your legs.

This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and he knows it rouses you in all the right ways. But, neither of you will do anything about it. Not even a brief kiss.

“Come on,” he goads, planting his hands down next to your hips, bringing himself in closer as he bears his weight on his arms. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” He sways his head side to side to emphasize his point.

Fuck. That’s good. 

That may be exactly what you did for him, but it’s now a figure of speech for something else entirely. It’s almost impossible to argue against either way, as if you want to. This is what you’ve been patiently waiting for. 

You put your hands over his as you lean back a little to put some distance between you. “How sweet,” you hum.

His eyes flick from yours to your lips one too many times before you continue. “You start to miss me?” You tease as you lean forward again, echoing what he said to you the night your window got smashed in.

“Smart-ass,” he mutters as you laugh quietly. The tips of your noses barely graze each other as he steps in closer again. You’re almost at the same height like this. 

“Save me the left side,” you advise, bringing your hands to his shoulders as you fondle his white t-shirt between your fingers. You’re so close, and he’s already so warm against you just like this.

“Always do.”

━━━━

You want to rip your heart out of your chest from how hard it’s pounding against your ribs. It’s almost throwing you forward with each heavy beat.

Three resounding knocks fill the hallway as you shuffle on your feet, waiting for Logan to open the door.

It feels like you’re doing something bad. Something parents would warn their kids against. Something greatly envied.

Everything inside you feels on fire. Your thoughts, desires, anxiety, all jumbling together into one distorted state of mind and body.

“Ah, welcome back.” His sarcastic tone makes your face go hot. A satisfied smirk crosses his lips as he runs a hand through his shaggy, unstyled hair. 

You shake your head, pursing your lips. “Knock it off.” You gently shove at his bare chest. Misbehaviour already. But are you really surprised?

Logan grabs your wrist, delicately guiding you into his room. “You enjoy it,” he says lowly, quickly shutting the door as soon as you’re in. 

“Maybe,” you hum in response, pulling away from his grasp and seeking out your side of the bed. Logan follows closely behind, giving your ass a light smack in encouragement before he cuts away to his side while you jolt in shock, a stunned look on your face as you whip your head around to him across the bed.

“Oh, really?” You scoff. He’s biting back a smile, not moving until he knows what you’ll do next. He’s never gone that far before.

“I’m sorry, that was rude—how can I make it up to you?” He almost chokes on a laugh, pulling his dog tag back and forth along the chain while he considers you.

This Logan is very different from the one you were met with the first night he let you in his space. This one is attentive and exuberant, yet he hasn’t given you much up until this point right now. You’ve gotten way too comfortable with him without even doing anything to you. 

In this moment, he isn’t the brooding, animalistic Wolverine many see him as. He’s just Logan—for you. 

You watch him carefully, easing yourself onto the bed. “Get in the fucking bed,” you slap his side of the mattress with a thump of your palm. “And do what you promised earlier,” you stare pointedly at him.

He owes you that “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” favour he decided to pull out to get you here. 

“Mm, alright, alright,” he surrenders, a look of amusement still on his face as he kneels onto the bed. “I thought of a pretty good idea for it,” he says softly, crawling to sit next to you on top of the blanket as the bed-frame creaks with the added weight.

Your shoulders almost brush against each other. You shift, turning your body fully toward him. “Oh? Wh—woah!”

You squeal when his strong hands latch onto your sides, lifting you just enough to pull you over his legs to plant you on his lap. He leans back against the headboard, pulling on your thighs so you straddle him tightly. 

He looks devilish when you catch his gaze again, and you know what’s coming. What’s been coming. Your hands find their places on his shoulders, warm and taut, as his hands hold your hips. 

The bond between you will culminate tonight. It will be wrapped in a blanket and trapped between two alike souls that lie heart-to-heart in the dead of night. It will be perpetual.

The heat of him between your legs makes you restless. It’s just you, him, and the darkness in the quiet room you’ve become too familiar with.

“Logan…” you trail off bashfully when you feel something firm through his sweats poke against your cunt. It clearly doesn’t take much to excite him.

“Hm?” He takes you in for a split second, hands running from your hips up to your chest leisurely with a sharp inhale, not yet completely bothered by the fact that you have a shirt on. 

You suck in a shaky breath when your hips accidentally shift over his bulge from his hands pushing and pulling over you.

“What’s the idea?” Your voice wavers.

You know what it is. He knows that. You just want to hear him say it and fill the silence.

“Something I’ve wanted for a while,” he murmurs, eyes hyper-focused on you. 

Your fingers dance their way to the sides of his neck, brushing along the supple skin while you feel muscles and tendons flex with every slight movement. You subtly press the pad of your index finger against the pulse point right under his jaw, just to ground yourself and truly feel that Logan is there in front of you. 

His pulse is steady but hard, much like yours, and the prickle of energy festering against the finger almost makes it go numb from not accepting it into your body. 

“Show me, then.” You smile sweetly, leaning in closer while you tilt his head up with the hand under his jaw, your finger slipping from his pulse and caressing over the dense, coarse hair along his cheek.

Your noses bump while your lips part in anticipation. His eyes flutter as he falls into you and frantically claims your mouth in an unbreakable kiss.

The first kiss. Nothing could tear him from you in this moment.

Your hands cradle his cheeks, keeping him from pulling off too far. His hands scratch and paw at your back, trying to find a way to somehow get you closer against him.

It’s all a little messy, your lips mostly just mashing together without any rhyme or reason, but neither of you care. You only care about how electrifying it feels to finally have Logan and feel how perfectly connected you are together after all these nights. You go together like a key and its lock.

“Logan,” you pant when his mouth releases yours for a fraction of a breath. The seconds between kisses dwindle the more you take from each other.

Your thighs tense as he pulls half an inch away just to reconnect more crazed as his lips lock over your bottom one aimlessly. Something deep inside you trembles and aches.

He grunts, accidentally sucking the tip of your tongue briefly before slotting his lips back over yours in an apology. “Hold on,” he mumbles in a rush against your parted lips. He knows what you’re asking—or trying to ask. He snakes an arm up along your spine and wraps the other around your waist.

Then the world is tilting.

He drops you on your back on the bed from his lap, hovering over you as he distracts you with harsh but pleasing kisses and wet bites along your neck, settling his hips heavily between your thighs. You squirm and feel how bolts of arousal are making your cunt pulse involuntarily. 

Logan groans. “Fuck—I can smell it. I smell you.” He slowly grinds his hips into yours almost reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut, and you tip your chin up to press a chaste kiss to his slick lips. 

“Taste…if you want to,” you propose, lightly scratching up and down his shoulders and arms, only enough to leave faint red lines for a couple seconds.

Logan’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head before he gives it a small shake, a conflicted look overtaking his face. “Of course I fucking want to, but—fuck—next time. I promise.” He swallows whatever you were going to say with a deep kiss that has you nearly shaking when he sucks on your bottom lip. 

“Let’s just take things easy,” he says roughly, bearing his weight on his left arm while he tries to get your sleep shorts and underwear off.

A promise of a next time makes your brain go fuzzy like static.

“I’ll hold you to it, then,” you resolve, lifting your hips as much as you can for him to lean back and pull away to wrestle your clothes the rest of the way down your legs, discarding them just as quickly.

“I hope you will,” he breathes through a small laugh as he shuffles on his knees. He doesn’t want to completely overwhelm you and scare you off, he just wants to enjoy you in a simple way that won’t entirely ruin you for tomorrow.

He doesn’t know what you can or cannot handle, but he’s going to find out.

The fresh air in the room brushes cooly against your wet cunt. It’s a nice contrast to how fiery your whole body feels, but Logan feels even warmer than you somehow. Maybe wolverine’s just run hot.

His sweats have ridden down his hips from his desperate grinding against you, and the dangerous cut of his v-line grows more and more narrow as the waistband teases the reveal of what’s underneath.

You watch him—palming his dick once as your knees sway side-to-side in waiting. His thumbs hook under the stretchy fabric, working what remains of his clothes down his sturdy thighs.

“It’s rude to stare.” He pops a brow, a smug, arrogant grin quirking his lips.

You push yourself to sit up, considerably shorter than him in this position as he stands on his knees, and walk two fingers up his toned stomach to his chest, avoiding the hard cock between you. 

He looks at you with curiosity until your hand grabs his dog tag in a fist, pulling it towards you. “Then stop showing me your dick,” you say as he leans in to your pulling a little to not have the chain break away.

You knew the night Logan dropped his pants in front of you and let you eye-up his bulge would come back to haunt you. But it’s alluring. Big. Curves a little to the left, barely noticeable. A respectable amount of hair decorates the space between his bellybutton and the base of his cock.

He gives in to the tension on the chain, falling back to the mattress with you and trapping you between his arms as his cock rests heavy on your clit.

“How about I find somewhere to put it?” His smile pushes a whole new wave of arousal from you.

“It would be a damn shame if you didn’t,” you say against his mouth, giving your hips a roll just to tease him before hugging his waist tightly with your knees.

“Good.” He gives you a strong kiss with a small grunt, running his hands over your sides under your shirt. The movement pushes it up, up, up, until you have no choice but to stretch your arms out above you and let him slide it off between more thoughtless kisses, leaving you entirely bare.

He lets you breathe for a moment, dipping his head to bite and suck marks along your collarbones messily. You squeeze around his hips harder, trying to get him to give you something other than his scratchy cheeks rubbing against your skin and the chilled steel of the dog tag dragging over your chest.

The tip of his cock falls and catches over your clit when he moves lower, licking and sucking over your chest like a starved animal finding food for the first time in a week. You gasp from the mixed sensations.

“C’mon, kitty cat, you can do all this while inside m-me,” you say breathily, fingers digging into his shoulders to stop yourself from trembling too much. 

Logan bites over a nipple before pulling himself back up to look at you. “Is that a promise?” He says lowly, that stupid smirk gracing his face again.

“Try it and find out,” you demand, enjoying the sting of the deeper bites blooming on your torso.

He purses his lips, shifting his weight back onto his knees to grab ahold of his cock to angle and guide it in.

“Hm, guess no lube is needed,” he muses when he gets a look at your cunt, sparing you a glance through his lashes.

You roll your eyes shut when your whole body lights up red-hot. “Jesus fucking Christ, Logan,” you slap a hand over your eyes as you grimace. You don’t want to be that aware of your naked self right now.

He suppresses whatever expression was about to cross his face when his cock notches itself between your soaked folds, teasing your hole with the blunt tip. His brows pinch together and you forget the embarrassment from his crude remark.

But he leaves his cock like that, on the precipice of sliding the rest of the way in with a snap of his hips. Instead, he carefully uncurls his upper body to crawl his way back up to you while holding his hips deathly still.

“Alright, stay with me,” he whispers against your neck when you moan, pressing a tender kiss to your rabid pulse in reassurance. 

“O-okay,” you sigh, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the roots while the other squeezes around his arm as best as it can. You’re not even really sure what he’s saying.  

He kisses up your cheek and over to your lips again. You try to keep up with his quick mouth, licking and sucking whatever part you can get ahold of, but you’ve become lost in the feeling of him all over you. 

He’s in your mouth, on your chest, against your stomach, nudging your cunt. Everywhere.

He slips his tongue over yours, securing your lips together at the same time he pushes his cock in halfway. Now you understand what he was saying. 

The lightheadedness from being filled, even just a bit, almost makes you lose yourself. The stretch makes your stomach drop, your legs shake, and your mouth fall open with a whine. 

“A-ah—fuck. Fuck, Logan,” you whimper, fisting his hair with both hands to stop yourself from falling apart.

He groans, either at the grip you have on his hair or how good your cunt feels already, and runs a hand up your left thigh in comfort as you squeeze around his hips tighter to draw him in. 

“Just a bit more,” he soothes, trying to resist the urge to slide into you in one fell swoop. It would be so easy to just let his hips fall into yours and fill your cunt.

Another heated kiss, another few inches. He works his cock into you the rest of the way with ease. You guess the lube thing wasn’t really a joke. His hungry, needy kisses may have also helped with that.

You choke on your gasps, not wanting to get too loud, and Logan does the same. He tries to muffle both of your moans with his mouth, attempting to form complete kisses, but it just turns into you panting against each other as he finally bottoms out, hitting his end. 

Your legs relax around his waist as he deftly rocks his hips in small thrusts to get you familiar with his size, his small grunts filling the air each time you swallow him whole.

You let out a deep breath, dropping your hands back to his tense shoulders. He lines your jaw with soft kisses, fisting the blanket in his hands beside your head.

“Fuck. Already feels too good,” he moans, pressing into you harder and unintentionally rubbing himself over your tender clit.

You smile, squirming while he works down your neck again. “Best of luck,” you huff, amused at the fact that he might not last as long as he wants to.

He brings his face back to yours, a completely blissful expression controlling his features, but there’s still some mischief in his hazel eyes. “Oh? Yeah?”

You hold each other’s gaze, both equally dazed and overwhelmed, and he draws his hips back and pushes into your wet cunt with a complete, strong thrust. The sound of his pelvis hitting against the backs of your thighs makes him laugh in pleasure and satisfaction when you instantly roll your eyes and head back.

Your cunt quivers, gripping him tight, and then it’s Logan’s turn to lose composure. He drops his head to your chest, managing a few deep breaths as he slowly pulls out halfway just to push right back into you, over and over. 

It’s a pace that isn’t quite pure, mindless fucking, but it’s also not somewhere near earnest love-making. It’s something that feels specifically curated for you. Something that feels measured and sincere. 

The strength of his thighs hitting against yours pushes you up the mattress a few inches, and you don’t know whether to gasp or moan. He reaches somewhere deep inside you, and you know he can feel that, too.

A helpless groan slips through Logan’s lips. “Where have you fucking been, huh?” He muses through shaky breaths, the determined plunge of his cock hitting something that makes your muscles tense throughout your body. 

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, keeping him close. “Two doors down,” you giggle, understanding that’s not quite what he was asking.

“Fucking smart-ass,” he grumbles, silencing any further rebuttals with a wet kiss. You don’t think you could manage much more of a conversation even if you wanted to.

The silence is quickly filled with obscene sounds that only seem to leave you wetter and Logan throbbing. You can hear your bodies connecting through your gasping for air and his choked moans, and you can feel the mess you’re making all over him. It’s smeared along the inside of your thighs from how deep he’s been hitting. The squelching only seems to make him fuck into you harder.

Something inside you starts to grow tight and wind up in your core, making you repeatedly clench around him while his cock strokes all the right spots inside you as he makes sure he’s fucking himself in to the base. He doesn’t deprive you of anything. 

He drops his head to your neck, wedging his face in to latch onto the spot right where your neck starts to slope into your shoulder. The dense muscle there gives him something to basically chew on, sinking his teeth in as deep as he can without drawing blood.

“H-hah, Logan,” you whine, tilting your head into the side of his and squirming from the pleasant sting.

You feel his arm move beside you, then you hear the sound of tearing fabric as he gives a particularly brutal snap of his hips, followed by a deep groan against your skin.

You can barely form any thoughts, but you can guess what just happened. If he pulled his hand back, three long, slim holes would probably be where his knuckles are right now.

“Fu-uck, Logan, you just got t-this mattress,” you laugh a little, your words choppy from how hard he’s driving into you now.

He draws back from your neck, seeing your half-lidded eyes trying to focus on him. “Can’t always control it,” he reasons, giving you two short, fleeting kisses as you hear his claws retract from the innocent mattress. 

You see the double-edged sword. You can guess that that’s the same explanation he would probably use for the nightmares. It can go either way, and now you’ve seen both sides.

“It’s okay,” you say in a hushed tone. You cradle his face, and he rests his forehead against yours. “Keep going…keep going,” you coax, face scrunching from your nearing orgasm.

You can feel it in your toes, your stomach, your shoulders—you’re tightening up everywhere, and he can undoubtedly feel it in your cunt as you pulse around him. It grips him just right for a couple seconds before relaxing completely and leaving him to chase for more.

“Keep squeezing me like that and you’ll get whatever you want,” he offers, fighting to maintain his steady pace for both your sakes.

You almost whine, knowing whatever your body does is beyond your control at this point.

“Just—inside.” You can’t even string together a full sentence anymore, but the urgency and stress on the last word makes Logan’s ears perk up.

He presses a soft kiss to your clammy forehead in acknowledgment, the muscles in his arms straining and flexing as he grabs ahold of his own orgasm after a particularly inviting flutter of your walls.

You’re both walking the line, teetering on the edge of utter euphoria, and you know nothing will be the same after. You don’t want it to be. You hope it isn’t.

He reaches an arm back, sliding his hand up your thigh again and slotting it behind the bend in your knee. He pushes forward—only slightly—bringing your leg closer to your stomach to stretch you open for him.

His cock brushes over something new. Something that makes you bite your tongue. The angle lets him fit perfectly against you, not hindered by the flesh of your thigh stopping his hips.

You want to cry from how good it all feels. You want to be suspended in this feeling forever. You want Logan to—

“Focus, baby. Focus on me,” he coos, bringing you back to reality. He holds the side of your head with his other hand affectionately. “Come on…come on, I know you’re almost there,” he encourages with a quick kiss that goes straight to your stomach.

The burn in your thigh from the stretch can’t overpower the sparks of your orgasm, and Logan just fanned the flames with a few little words.

You come with a broken sob, convulsing around his cock while he fucks you through it, submitting to his own orgasm only seconds after with deep, shaky breaths as he empties himself inside your cunt.

He doesn’t pull out or pull away. He relaxes on top of you, sweaty and sticky with cum, and he places the barest whisper of a kiss on your chin, your parted lips, your nose, and then your forehead. 

Your ears ring from your orgasm, eyes still slightly out of focus. Your body trembles from your muscles finally releasing the tension they’ve been caught up in. 

You desperately suck in air, trying to calm your pounding heart, and you just lie there and let Logan walk your body through a cool-down. Soft kisses. Soft touches. Soft looks. Between sweat, cum, and whatever else.

He rocks a little on his knees, weak from his release, and carefully pulls out of you with a huff as he caresses your stomach and thighs appreciatively to wind you down. You get a good look at him. Not a scratch. His hair tells a story, though—one where he’s completely possessed by bliss. 

You probably look like you survived an animal attack.

“Are we even?” Logan says through a kiss against your stomach.

A mindless laugh crawls from your throat, caught up in the feeling of his hands rubbing circles over your hips. “I think I still owe you,” you argue, resting your hands over his as they travel smoothly up your side.

You’ll find a way to make everything up to him. Including the sex. The scale is now tipping to his side too much. All the nights spent in his bed, what he’s done for you, what you’ve done for each other, may just be immeasurable, but that won’t stop you from finding a way to get him back for it all. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, snaking back up your body and pressing himself against you. Face-to-face. Chest-to-chest. 

You mindfully run your hands over the sides of his head, trying to tame his hair and style it back to how it was earlier in the night. It doesn’t work. He enjoys it anyway.

“Do I have the pleasure of staying here tonight?” You ask rhetorically, enjoying the warmth of him on top of you against the brisk air creeping in from the cracked window.

Logan blinks. “You can stay every night.” 

A loving smile springs over your face. This may be the beginning of the end to your troubles and worries.  

You—maybe foolishly—trust him. You trust that he won’t accidentally bury his claws in your side during the night, but you’ve had impressive luck with that up until this point. The only thing you can do now is continue to push that luck.

Healing isn’t linear, and you can’t expect someone to fix you, but everyone finds their thing at some point. 

You slither your hand down to his neck, index finger grazing over his pulse again. You feel the energy biting against you.

Your lips graze over his, tempting him to give you a slow, deep kiss. “Can I have the left side?” Rhetorical, again.

Logan chuckles against your mouth. “Always.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

➤𝐅𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚

You weren't quite sure how you ended up in this situation. One moment Wade and Logan were stabbing each other in that damn Honda the next thing you knew Logan was pounding into from behind. His hand's clutching your hips tight as Wade thrusted up into your pussy.

Your hands on Wade's chest, mask pulled up so only his lips were shown. "Such a naughty little girl you are with such a sweet little pussy."

Gritting his teeth, Logan tries to not think about Wade fucking you too. He wanted to be the one to get you to hit your orgasm not that little fucker. Pulling his cock out, he then slammed back in causing your body to shift forward. "Shut the fuck up."

Scoffing, Wade let his hand grab your breast as his thumb circle your nipple. "I know what you're trying to do wolfie boy and it's not gonna work! I'm gonna make her cum first."

Resting your head on Wade's chest you could feel your heart slamming in your chest as both men continued to fight with each other, as they continued to fuck you and you knew neither men would let up until one of them would admit defeat.

It was going to be a long night

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Sex in the suit (Wolverine)

Description: Y/N wants Logan to fuck her in the Wolverine suit

Warning: Smut, Wade

Word Count: 1,123

Logan looked so hot in his suit. Y/N couldn’t keep her eyes off him. So much so that Wade teases her about it anytime he sees her staring at him. “Ya know I don’t blame you, Peanut looks hot af in that suit.” Wade says, making Y/N giggle. Logan looks over and sees her giggling. He walks over to them, “You making my girl laugh?” He asked jokingly. Wade raises his eyebrows under his mask, “Listen Friendo you have no reason to be jealous. Little Y/N over here has a mask kink.” Y/N’s jaw dropped at that and looked over at her friend shocked. Logan didn’t really have a reaction which worried her even though they were dating. She looked at him worried but he didn’t even look mad or upset. “Wow, are you turning her down? I’ll take you up on that, cupcake.” Logan glared at him. 

“So the suit turns you on?” He asked them as she ate dinner. She chewed slowly and looked at him. “Wrong time to ask, don't ya think?” She asked. He shrugged, “You’re almost done.” He had a point but she was thinking about food not him fucking her in the suit….well shit now she was. “But yeah, especially the mask.” She says. He raises his brows, “really?” He asked.

She can’t think straight when thinking about it. He looked so sexy in it and all she wanted to do was fuck him. She finished her last bite and quickly took the plate from her. She looked at him as he set it on the table. He came over to her and picked her up, making her giggle. “You keep giggling like that, I’ll fuck you right here on the table babygirl.” He growls. “As long as you wear the suit I don’t care where you fuck me.” She purred. He set her on the counter, “stay right here.” He runs out of the room leaving her in her thoughts. She bit her lip just thinking about what was in store.

She decided to help him out by taking off her sweats leaving her in her shirt and panties. Her panties were lace and yellow fitting the vibe. Her panties were nearly soaked. It wasn’t  too much longer that he walked in the kitchen in the suit and he had the mask on as well. Her jaw dropped as if it was the first time seeing him in the suit. He walked up to her and she wrapped her legs around him pulling him closer, “You look so hot baby.” She said and kissed him. The mask made it a little harder but it was still enjoyable. His large hands moved up her thighs to her wet panties.

She gasped in the kiss as he rubbed over her clothed clit. “Fuck you’re wet.” He groaned. She moaned and threw her head back. His finger sped up the pace and his other hand gripped her hip hard, probably leaving a mark. She tried to move her hips but he stopped her, making her whine. “Relax baby. I want to fuck you on my cock.” His deep voice said. She whimpered at his words and he stopped rubbing her. He pulled down her panties and threw them somewhere in the kitchen. He picked her up and turned her around so her ass was up in the air.

“This beautiful ass is just begging for it.” He said, slapping it. She moaned and shook her ass for him. He pulled down his pants and stroked himself a few times before lining up with her wet hole. He rubbed himself against her a few times before sliding in. He was bigger than anyone she’s had sex with prior but so she still was getting used to his size. It took him a minute to fully be inside of her. Her gasps as she got used to him always got him. Once he was in her, he let her adjust before gripping her hips. His grip was tight as he fucked her back on his cock. He wasn’t joking when he said he was gonna fuck her on his cock.

It was long before she was making the loudest noise possible. Luckily Wade wasn’t staying over like he usually would so they both could be as loud as they wanted. “Fuck Wolvy your dick hits all the right spots.” She whines. Never had she called him that before. But by the speed of him slamming her onto his dick increasing, she knew he liked it. “Fuck sweetheart your pussy is so warm and made for me.” He groaned. Her hands had nothing to grip onto, so her fingers dug into the table.

“Right where we eat letting me take you like the dirty whore you are.” She moaned at that and clenched around him. “Fuck baby girl if you do that again I might cum.” He moaned. He rarely ever moaned, just grunts and groans so she almost fell over the edge hearing that sound. “I’m close.” She whined and he grunted. His pace was inhuman fast as he had her fucking him and basically  rearranging her organs. He twitched inside of her and they both knew that words didn’t and couldn’t be said. Her eyes rolled back and she nearly screamed his name as she came all over his cock.

He slowed the pace to let her ride out her orgasm. Little breathy moans left her mouth. He picked up the pace again making her whine out of sensitivity. “I know, baby. Daddy’s almost there.” He grunted. His hands squeezed her hips hard and he came inside of her not caring about protection. She gasped feeling his cum fill her up for the first time. He pulled out of her and watched as his cum spilled out of her. He took his hand and swirled her hole and pushed some of it back in her. She whimpered and he chuckled, “Be kinda hot to see you pregnant with my baby.” He said.

“Yeah that would be hot, Peanut.” They both turned to see Wade in his Deadpool suit sitting on the window. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Logan growled. Y/N hid her body the best that she could from Wade. “Relax. I nearly missed the climax.” Logan growled and stormed up to him after pulling up his pants. “Why are you mad, Peanut? You at least got some action.” He said in defense. “Wade go home.” Y/N whined, annoyed that he saw them like that. “Not the kind of whining I want to hear.” He said and Wolverine’s claws came out. “Leave.” He growled at Wade and he sighed. “Fine. But next time invite me will ya?” “WADE!”

[not-neverland06]

Hey! Your writing is amazing! I’ve been checking daily for new fics lmao

I was wondering if your requests were open would you be able to write some angst with a happy ending w/ Peanut?

Perhaps a Shy!Reader who has flirty banter with Logan. They’re on a mission and Logan has to make a quick decision on who to save — Reader or Jean and he saves Jean without thinking. Reader ends up surviving with a few injuries but her and Logan’s relationship starts to deteriorate. Logan’s not good with verbal apologies so he does acts of service — bringing reader food/drinks etc. reader is stubborn and Logan starts to get frustrated. He eventually proves himself to reader.

I’m sorry if this is confusing!! I’m not creative enough to write it myself and you’re really really skilled. Love your work x

a/n: I read this request and then read them together and my brain imploded because I loved it so much, no smut in this one Summary: Logan saves Jean on a mission and it's the wake-up call you desperately needed to understand that you will never be her. You can't stand to look at him anymore and he doesn't understand why you've stopped talking to him.

“What’re you thinking of doing after this?”

You shrug, leaning back on the uncomfortable bench seats and looking over at Logan. “Not sure, got any plans?”

Logan smirks and you immediately know whatever he’s about to say is going to send you spiraling. “Yeah, whatever you’re doing, sweetheart.”

Oh. My. God!

You know you’ve got it bad when something as simple as that has you swooning. It’s so easy to fall into this routine with him, to pretend you’re more suave than you actually are. Despite your usual tendency to fade into the background, you find it nearly impossible to do with him. 

Where someone else might let you stay quiet and go ignored, he seeks you out. He makes you feel seen and heard. Some days you don’t know if you appreciate it or despise it. You laugh a little, trying to hide just how affected by him you are. “Sounds good, Lo.”

He smiles and leans back on the seat, his arm coming around the back to rest lightly over your shoulders. You can tell from the look on Storm’s face that she’s trying not to laugh at you. You can’t blame her, you’re sure your eyes have tripled in size and you look absolutely stunned. 

Flirting isn’t out of the usual for you and him. Lately, though, he’s upped the game. Touching you more than usual, spending more one-on-one time together. You can feel it all building up to something. You’re shy, not stupid, you know when a guy’s going to ask you out. 

But it feels like he’s dragging it out longer than necessary like he’s enjoying teasing you a little too much.  “Alright,” Scott stands up and moves towards the back of the jet. “We’re almost there, get ready.”

You, very reluctantly, pull away from Logan and get to your feet. He walks past you, briefly squeezing your hand before joining Scott by the ramp. You grin, flexing your hand by your side and trying to memorize the feeling. 

The ramp lowers to the ground and Scott and Logan lead the way out. You’re expecting this to be simple. Stake out the area, find some information about the people running the warehouse, and figure out what exactly it is that they’ve been doing. 

The air is bursting with moisture. It’s suffocating, how humid it is, how it makes the material of your suit cling to your skin. You know the rest of the team can feel it. That it’s irritating them just as much. 

None of you want to be out here in the peak of summer, trying to be stealthy in these ridiculous costumes. Your thighs squeak every time they rub together. It’s beyond embarrassing. You know that that’s what has you all distracted. 

You’re struggling through ankle-deep mud and sweating buckets. So none of you are paying any particular attention to the area around you. Technically, you shouldn’t have to, you’re still about a mile out from where you need to be. 

You duck, hands coming up to cover your ears as Charles’ voice screams through your mind. It’s a trap!

Even with the warning, there’s no time to prepare. The ground around you explodes, grass and dirt flying through the air. Logan grabs your arm, he shoves himself in front of you and takes the brunt of the bullets. Splatters of blood hits your cheeks and he runs you both behind a tree for cover. 

The other three have all found their own cover and they’re struggling to figure out where the shots are coming from. You spot something in the underbrush and scream, “Behind you!”

It’s more of a warning to duck than it is to move. You throw your hands up, shoving the man away from them and sending him flying into the trunk of a tree. You swear you can hear the snap of his spine as it hits the bark. 

You look to Jean and nod towards the small clearing of trees. “Don’t,” Logan warns. But you’re already slipping out of his grip and solidifying the air in front of you. It provides enough of a cover, absorbing the bullets, and giving you all time to figure out a plan of attack. 

Jean moves beside you, eyes narrowing on the perimeter of your cover. “There are too many of them, more than I can count.” 

“How did they know we were coming?” Scott snaps, keeping an eye on the area behind you. 

Your arms struggle under the weight of your power. The more bullets they shoot into your cover, the harder it is to keep up. You’re forced to absorb their energy, push it out tenfold to try and keep the blockage solidified. 

“Guys,” you snap, “we need a plan. I can’t hold it much longer.” You grit your teeth, taking a step forward to try and push against the strain. It does nothing but make your bones ache. Logan shoots you a concerned glance, coming up behind you like he wants to take the weight off your shoulders. But there’s nothing he can do. 

There’s movement behind you, a boot snapping a twig in two. You can’t risk looking back but you can hear the worry in Jean’s voice. “Ten of them-”

You can tell by the sounds of their movement that the others don’t give her much of a chance to finish. Ororo, Scott, and Logan all shoot forward to deal with the threat. Ten isn’t much to worry about. But that doesn’t change the fact that the men in front of you haven’t let up and you’re about to weep from the weight of keeping the wall up. 

Jean stays beside you, brows furrowed in concern. She places her hand on your shoulder and closes her eyes. A second later you feel something like a cool blanket laid over you. The tension in your arms and core eases just enough for you to stop clenching your jaw so hard. Some of the strain eases away and you know she’s sharing it with you. 

But just as quickly as the relief was given, it’s yanked away. Jean jumps back with a gasp, “Flux, we need to move!”

“I can’t,” you shout, fighting to be heard over the sound of bloodshed and gunshots going off in front of and behind you. The others are steadily moving through the people surrounding you, but their numbers are still overwhelming. “It’ll all come crashing down,” you tell her. 

She glances towards the bullets, finally spotting the way they’re slowly, but steadily, moving through the thickened air. The second you let go you’ll be riddled with holes. “Shit,” she hisses. “Look, we can’t stay here much longer-”

She’s cut off by a loud bang. You’re so disoriented by the noise your hands drop to your sides. At the same moment, you hear wood splintering and cracking beside you. What has to be the largest tree in the forest creaks before it begins its descent down towards you both. 

You don’t what happened, or what they used, but it doesn’t matter. The wall in front of you is fading. You have seconds to get out of the way of the bullets and the tree, you’re not sure either of you is going to make it. 

“Jean!” There’s a flash of brown hair and Jean’s being tackled to the ground, safely out of the way of the tree and bullets. You feel something stinging against your shoulder and know the first bullet’s made its way through. 

You also see the tree is almost over top of you. You’ve always been a fight response in flight or fight scenarios. But when there’s nothing to fight, when you have nothing to go up against, you freeze. It’s horrible, you know it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Even as you’re desperately screaming at yourself to just fucking move, all you can do is watch as the tree topples down on top of you. “Flux, duck!” The words trigger something in your brain just soon enough to drop to the ground. 

Scott releases a red beam, blasting through the tree and knocking it off course. You don’t even register the smell of burning flesh as you lay in the mud. Your blood is rushing so fast in your veins, there’s so much adrenaline pumping through you, you can’t focus on anything except the sound of your heartbeat. 

You let out a breath of relief, slowly lifting yourself up to your knees. You don’t hear any more fighting and you figure whoever they hadn’t taken down before, the beam took care of the rest. 

You look down, checking yourself for any bullet holes or serious damage but you can’t find anything. Something warm trickles down your shoulder, it drips across your arm and down your hand. 

You look at the blood curiously, it seems to steady a flow from the simple bullet graze you’d had earlier. “Oh my god,” Jean whispers your name and you turn around with a concerned look. 

You want to ask her what’s wrong but your eyes are trained on the way Logan’s arms are bracketing her. He’s practically on top of her, only now getting up to check on you. You get it, it was a stressful situation, he acted fast. 

But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow the lump in your throat. It doesn’t ease the burn of betrayal. He saved her, not you. He chose her even though she doesn’t want him. The anger you’re feeling only makes it harder to be aware of your surroundings. 

It’s not until Scott kneels behind you a presses a gentle hand against your back that you lurch forward with a loud cry. The pain slams down on you all at once. The wind blowing gently against your back feels like someone’s dug razor blades in your skin and ripped. 

Feet rush towards you, someone kneeling beside you and grabbing your shoulders. Logan forces you up and makes you look at him before his gaze turns to your back. “What the fuck did you do?” He practically growls, lunging towards Scott. 

He grabs him by the collar and shoves him into the dirt. Ororo and Jean leap forward, trying unsuccessfully to rip him off. You try and keep your eyes open, try and stay focused. The pain is too much, you don’t want to be awake for this anymore. Every nerve on your back feels like it’s being forcefully exposed and plucked at. 

Your brain forces a shutdown and you slump into the mud, the world going black. 

When you wake up, you’re on your stomach. You’re a little dazed, not fully remembering how you got here. You try and sit up but there’s a steady grip around your wrists stopping you. “Don’t move,” Jean warns from somewhere behind you. 

You try and look for her but you can’t move much. Your head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, stuck to the pillow beneath you. “What happened? Why can’t I move?”

Her shoes appear in front of you and then she’s kneeling down, a slightly worried look on her face. “We needed to make sure you didn’t roll over in your sleep.” Her brows crinkle and she frowns, “You don’t remember?” You shake your head minutely. She sighs, lifting her hand to your face and pressing her chilled fingers to your temple. 

The images rush towards you. You see it all from her eyes. The way Logan had grabbed her and thrown her to the ground, checking over her and not once looking at you. How Scott had tried to stop the tree from breaking your spine. His beam had just barely grazed your back as you had ducked. But it was enough for there to be serious damage. 

Through her view, you can see the way your skin had bubbled up and blistered. How horribly damaged it was. You have limited healing abilities, but it was enough to stop the nerves from being permanently damaged. 

She lets you go and you groan, the pain slowly registering in your brain. It’s dulled and you don’t know if they’ve given you drugs or if your abilities are still working to help you. “How’s Scott?” 

She chuckles and shakes her head while she undoes the restraints around your wrist. “He feels awful. He keeps coming by to check on you.”

The thought of him sitting beside you while you were strapped down to the bed makes you feel a little bad. It wasn’t his fault, he’d helped you. It was more than Logan had done for you. 

You frown, hating yourself for being bitter. If he hadn’t helped, Jean might not be here next to you. He had saved your friend. The thought didn’t bring much comfort, though. “I’m not mad at him.”

Jean eases you onto your knees and slowly helps you sit up. It causes minimal pain, but it’s still uncomfortable enough to grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms. “I know, but he’ll probably be coming down here a lot to check on you.”

You almost ask her if anyone else has visited. If Logan had, but you don’t think her answer would make you feel any better. “He did,” she tells you and you click your tongue in irritation. 

“Out of my head,” you warn. She releases you with a small grin. “I don’t care,” you tell her, trying to appear nonchalant. 

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing on you. “Yes, you do. And I don’t need telepathy to know.” She walks towards your IV bag, fiddling around with something on the line. “He was here whenever he could be, practically lived beside you.”

“Don’t care,” you tell her again, but there’s less conviction this time. 

Jean frowns and you hate how guilty she looks. It’s not her fault he’s desperately in love with her and not you. You can’t force someone to love you or choose you. And you don’t want to. You want someone to love you for who you are, not because they couldn’t have their first choice. 

“Don’t,” you say lowly. “Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t get a chance to say anything before the door bursts open, both Logan and Scott sliding into your room. Scott lets out a relieved breath when he sees you. He breathes out your name and approaches with a guilty smile, “You’re awake.”

“Charles told us,” Logan informs. You offer him a brief glance before diverting your attention to Scott. 

Petty, you’re aware. But you don’t want to see Logan right now. You’d put so much effort and time into your friendship with him. It doesn’t even matter if he doesn’t feel the same way about you. You two are best friends, and he didn’t even try to help you when you needed him the most. 

So, you smile at Scott. You forgive him and you tell him you're fine. You chat with him and Jean while Logan just stares at you from the other side of your bed. You can’t make yourself face him. You don’t want to look at him, it makes you sick to your stomach.

Eventually, Scott’s guilt is slightly assuaged and he and Jean leave for the night. Logan is a heavy presence beside you, one you no longer can ignore. You shift around, pretending to fluff your pillows until he grabs your hand. 

“What’re you doing?”

You look at his hand and then at him. Whatever look is on your face is enough for him to release you and back off. “Getting comfortable,” you spit out, more venom in your voice than necessary. Something clicks for him, you can see it as it happens. 

He backs up and narrows his eyes down at you. “Right.” He frowns and sucks on his teeth, nodding his head silently. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling a little better.” You don’t miss the hidden dig underneath it all, the way he’s calling out you’re unusual behavior. 

“I think that’d be best.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, slamming the door behind him as he leaves. You jump at the noise and it makes you hiss as a twinge of pain shoots down your spine. You feel slightly guilty about the whole interaction. Then, you remember the way he’d been cradling Jean and you feel slightly vindicated. 

You’re sure he doesn’t even give a shit. He’s probably pouting in his room, wishing Jean was in bed beside him. 

What the fuck?

It’s all that’s been playing through Logan’s head since he returned from your room in the medbay. He’s waited days for you to wake up, so he can finally take a breath and let go of the anxiety that’s been plaguing him. 

He’d thought that he’d lost you in that forest. When he’d gone for Jean, he’d assumed you’d just be able to use your powers to knock the tree out of your path. Or make it melt around you. 

Honestly, he can’t put a finger on what exactly he was thinking. But he knew that you could protect yourself and that would be your priority. So he’d moved without really thinking and grabbed the person who would be collateral damage if your powers went haywire. 

And then you hadn’t saved yourself and all he could smell was your burning flesh. The smell has been stuck in his nose since you were brought back to the mansion. He can’t escape it. Everywhere he goes, he sees you burning and hears your screams. 

He’d thought that you were dead and there was a moment where he genuinely was so lost he could do nothing but watch as the others swarmed you. He couldn’t move, couldn’t help you. He could only stare at your still body and pray to anybody who could hear him that you weren’t dead. 

He didn’t know what he would do if he lost you before he ever got a chance to love you. 

He’d, irritatingly, imagined all the different ways he would finally tell you how he felt when you woke up. He’d prepared himself for every possible reaction, except this one. He hadn’t expected you to reject him before he ever got the chance to confess. 

Anger stews within him as he paces through his room. He knows that it’s unfair to be upset with you. You’d gone through something horrific and there had been doubts about your recovery. Of course, you’d act off. 

Except, you only seemed to be directing that at him. Had you been just as dismissive to Scott, the person who actually hurt you, he would have looked past it. He’s tempted to go back down and see you again, maybe try and make you see some sense. 

Instead, he decides to give you both some time to calm down. He doesn’t want to do anything he might regret while he’s pissed off. He’ll see you tomorrow and, hopefully, you’ll be back to normal. 

You’d thought Logan might have gotten the hint with how you behaved earlier. That was not the case. He’s back today and you can smell the breakfast food he’s brought you. The smell is wafting deliciously from an inconspicuous brown bag. 

But you know it’s from the restaurant that’s twenty minutes out of his way. You’re not petty enough that you can’t appreciate the forty-minute round trip he’d taken for you, but you still aren’t excited to see him. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he smiles at you despite your clearly hostile energy. He tugs the chair towards your bed, ripping open the bag and pulling out enough food for the both of you. 

You think it should be considered a form of manipulation to call you that while you’re pissed at him. He has such a clear effect on you. You know he’s aware of it. He knows that when he calls you something sweet like that it makes your heart race and stomach flip. 

You turn your gaze towards your blanket. You pretend the thread pattern is the most interesting thing in the world so you don’t have to look at him. You’re sick of giving your all to men who couldn’t care less about you. 

You’re tired of being the second, third, fourth choice. You want someone to choose you first for once. And you genuinely thought Logan would be the man to do that. But he’d chosen Jean. You should have known. 

“Alright,” he huffs, crossing his arms and glaring at you. You’re pissed off that he’s acting like he’s the one who was hurt. “What the hell is your problem? You’ve never been this mad at me before.”

It’s his tone of voice that really grates on you. He genuinely does not understand what he’s done wrong. He doesn’t even comprehend the possibility that you might be mad he left you to die. Have you really become such a doormat?

Yes, you’re shy and generally reserved with the people you meet. But he is so different. You two met and it was an instant connection that you thought was reciprocated. You hadn't realized that you'd become so complacent in the relationship he thought he could get away with something like this with no repercussions. 

“You left me to die,” you snap at him, voice taking a pitch it never has before. You’ve never truly gotten angry at him. Pissed off sometimes when he teased you a little too much. But you’d never plainly shown anger at him. “You fucking left me behind and expect me to, what,” you scoff and shove the food back towards him. 

“You think some shitty breakfast is going to fix this?” His face contorts. It screws up into something like hurt and you worry you might have been too harsh. He doesn’t know how you feel about him. He doesn’t know that this would hurt you so bad. 

But, it doesn’t matter. You’re still his friend. You should have at least warranted a little concern. 

Just as quickly as it appeared, the hurt is washed away by his own anger. “I thought you could take care of yourself. Isn’t that what you’re always bitching at us about?”

If you weren’t so upset you might find it funny how quickly the two of you turned on each other. Clearly, there was something repressed between the two of you. Some brewing resentment that neither of you had ever acknowledged. The words are coming quickly now, without thought.

“Fuck you, Logan,” you snap back at him. “You didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died. You only cared about your precious Jean.” You spit out her name with so much venom it stings as it leaves your tongue. 

He laughs, getting out of his chair. He shakes his head and glares at you. His anger is always a physical thing. You know he’s pacing so he doesn’t do something worse, like destroy the entirety of the room. 

“That’s what this is, you’re jealous? Don’t blame your fucking incompetence on me.” You hate the way he’s speaking to you. Like you’re a little girl who's incapable of understanding even the most basic of concepts. He has such a patronizing look on his face, you want nothing more than to wipe it off. 

The tables beside you tremble, the vases of flowers rattling against the wood. “I’m your friend, Logan. You could at least pretend like you cared about me.”

He leans against the end of the bed, tilting himself forward until he’s aggressively imposing your space. You shrink back against the pillows, narrowing your eyes in disdain. “Don’t fucking pull that shit with me. I knew that your priority would be to save yourself and I acted accordingly. This wasn’t some goddamn ploy to get into Jean’s pants. Grow the fuck up, Flux!”

You flinch back at the volume of his voice. Unwillingly, tears pool in the corners of your eyes. It’s an involuntary response. Sometimes you just get so enraged that you have no other way to get rid of it than to cry. It’s infuriating to see the moment someone stops taking you seriously and starts to think you’re nothing more than a crybaby. 

Logan’s face pales and he winces, backing away from you. “I didn’t-”

“Enough,” you stop him, voice thick with unshed tears. He never calls you by your X-men name, it’s an unspoken agreement between the two of you. That’s a formality reserved for the other members. To each other, you’re nothing more than two people who care deeply for one another. 

Or, you had been. Before this one moment had blown your life and your back up. 

“I appreciate how much faith you have in my abilities, but the fact that your first instinct wasn’t even to protect me says a lot.” You take in a deep breath and shake your head. “Thanks for the breakfast, but can you please just leave?”

He looks like he doesn’t want to. You know he doesn’t want to leave. You two never fight like this. Even if there wasn’t a lot said, it’s still not normal for you. Maybe that should have been your first hint that things weren’t what you thought. 

It’s healthy to fight, to a certain extent. Sometimes it's needed. You two never have before and you know it’s just been brewing for a while, waiting to blow up. “I-”

“Get out,” you shout, and the tables beside you finally crumble under the weight of your emotions. They drip to the ground in an inorganic form of liquid wood. “Shit,” you hiss, glancing over at them. You wave your hand and they return to their normal state, but it doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have lost control at all. 

The door slams and you look up to find the room empty. You sink back against your bed and run your hands over your face. You ignore the way the skin of your back screams in protest. 

You embrace the pain, the fiery shocks running up your nerves as the bandages chafe against the wounds. You focus on that instead of how things have ended with Logan. You always had such high hopes that he might be the one you finally man up and confess to. 

You should have known you were wrong. You should have known that it would never have ended with him picking you over her. 

You’re permitted to leave the medbay the next day. You don’t see or hear from Logan for the following week. You can’t confirm if he’s purposefully avoiding you or not but you have to believe he is. You both live in the same hall. You don’t know how it’s possible to have gone this long without even catching a slight glimpse of him. 

You force yourself to suffocate the part of you that misses him. You picture the side of yourself that longs for his presence and imagine shoving a pillow over her face. You don’t want to ache and cry over someone who doesn’t give two shits about you. 

You keep reminding yourself over and over again that when things got rough he showed you his true colors. But it’s more difficult than you imagined to just completely disregard so much history with him. 

Besides, you hadn’t realized just how little you interacted with the others until Logan was out of your daily life. It’s so difficult for you to bond with people that when you’d connected with Logan you’d latched onto him. 

It’s a little pathetic, honestly. Being grown and eating lunch alone because you only had one friend. You wonder if your feelings for him were genuine or born from a desperation not to be alone. You don’t let yourself linger on the question for long. 

It’s as your training with the students that you finally see him again. 

“Has he made much progress yet?”

Jean shakes her head and purses her lips. She watches as Billy, one of the newer students, struggles with the logs in front of him. He was a firestarter, a very inexperienced one who had only ever set his curtains on fire. 

His powers were more focused on the mental aspect of things rather than the physical. Which is why you and Jean were in charge of helping him. He couldn’t start anything on his own, he only really seemed to be able to activate the ability when he was emotionally stimulated. 

That meant whenever he was mad or sad, or anything in between, everyone in a fifty-foot radius was in danger. He was a risk to the other students and you were both trying to be gentle with him. But you’d been working with him for so long and there was so little progress. It felt like he wasn’t trying sometimes. 

He’d asked Rogue out a week ago and when she’d said no, her hair had caught on fire. You know he could have been hurt and lashed out without thought or malice behind it. But you’d seen the look in his eye. 

You’re fifty percent sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. This little act he puts on is just to get himself out of trouble. You hadn’t brought the issue to Charles yet because you’re trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Billy,” you call out. His head whips up and he sends you a vicious glare. You can’t help the sneer on your lips. “Just take a deep breath and try again. There’s nothing wrong with struggling, we all did.”

You put on your normal teacher voice, calm and collected. Assuring. But the little shit in front of you isn’t buying it for a second. He gives you a sarcastic little grin, “Right. Sorry, I forgot you’re a fuck-up just like me.”

“Billy!” Jean snaps, taking a step forward to reprimand him. She doesn’t get far before there’s a fireball shooting out of his palms and hurtling towards the both of you. 

There’s no chance to react before something slams into your side and is tossing you to the ground. Your head nearly snaps against the grass but there’s a hand underneath your skull softening the blow. 

You smell something smoking and look up to see a large scorch mark right where you’d just been. Jean’s standing over it, palm outstretched as she keeps the fire subdued. She gives you a worried look, “Are you okay?”

Surprisingly, yes. You glance up to see Logan hovering over you. He backs off when he notices you’re okay, getting to his knees and offering you a hand. Wordlessly, you slip your palm into his and let him help you into a sitting position. 

“You alright,” his hand hovers over your shoulder like he wants to pull you closer. But he resists, backing off and waiting for your answer. You nod your head, still a little dazed from the failed assassination attempt. 

He narrows his eyes, searching your face for any sign of head trauma. When he’s properly assured you’re okay he jumps to his feet. “Billy!” His voice booms across the courtyard and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen that little asshole scared. 

He’s barely on his feet before Logan is stalking towards him, jerking him forward by the scruff of his neck and dragging him towards the mansion. “We need to have a little talk,” the tone of his voice has you a little scared and you’re not even the one he’s mad at. 

Jean walks towards you and helps you to your feet. “Is your back okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod and brush your clothes off. You have to physically shake the shock of what happened off. “Yeah, I’m fine. I can’t believe he did that.”

Jean scoffs and glares towards Billy’s back. Your eyes widen in shock when you see the large scorch mark across his arm. “Jean! He got you, are you okay?”

She glances down at her shirt and frowns. “Yeah, practically a sunburn.” She gives you a reassuring smile, “I’ll be fine.”

As shitty as this sounds, you’re not concerned for her. You can only focus on the fact that she was in just as much danger as you and Logan had tackled you to the ground. You glance back towards the mansion, more fucking confused than ever. 

You’re not sure what compels you to follow Logan, but you’re running after him before Jean can stop you. He’s barely got a minute headstart on you, you’re not sure why you can’t find him. You’d gone through every inch of the first floor. 

You don’t know where he would have dragged Billy, but it’s nowhere you can find. After about ten minutes of looking for him, you give up on the hope that you’re ever going to figure out what’s happening inside his brain. 

You let out a defeated sigh, running a hand over your face and trying to shake off the funk of the day. You can’t believe that little shit tried to roast you. You’re not comfortable with the fact that he’s just roaming around inside the mansion somewhere. 

You turn out of the living room and nearly slam into someone. His hands shoot out, grabbing your shoulders and gently stopping you. “Logan,” you give him a strained smile. “I was looking for you.” You glance over his shoulder and frown. “Where’s Billy?”

Logan sighs, his hands linger on your arms for a moment before he takes a step back. “Wheels got to him before I could do anything.”

You laugh a little, the noise involuntary. “What were you planning on doing with the sixteen-year-old?”

He doesn’t find the question amusing if his expression is anything to go by. “He was really trying to hurt you.”

His words sober you up slightly and you drop the flippant attitude. “Yeah, I wanted to,” god, it feels like you could choke on the words. Just last week you were screaming at him for not helping you. Now, you could barely thank him because he had. 

“You’re always my priority.” He tells you before you can struggle any longer. Your head shoots up and you stare at him with confusion. He groans, the noise tired and resigned. “Saving Jean was a mistake. I mean it, kid, I just thought you could handle yourself.”

You open your mouth but he stops you before you can argue. “I know, that’s not the point. I should have saved you, no matter what I thought you could or couldn't handle.”

“No,” you stop him and shake your head. “No, Logan, I shouldn’t. I,” your mouth opens and he stares at you expectantly. What you were going to say gets stuck in your throat. This is a horrible idea. 

“I liked you in a way you didn’t like me and it was unfair of me to push my expectations onto you.” You wanted it to sound better, and more intelligent. Instead, it came out in one rushed breath and you’re not sure he even understood half of what you said. 

His brows furrow in confusion for a moment before a smile breaks out on his face. You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that he’s smiling. You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or about to profess his undying love. 

You don’t have to wonder for long. He moves closer towards you, leaning forward until you’re practically sharing the same breaths. Unconsciously, you’re drawn into him, hands braced gently on his chest as you chase after him. 

“What are you doing?” Your whispered words brush against his lips and he gives you a small smile. His hands travel up your waist. He tugs you closer, his other hand looping around your neck and craning you up. 

“I’m gonna choose you every fucking time, kid.” His lips brush across your own and it’s like a switch is flipped in you both. Your arms twine around his neck, pulling him down until you’re practically melting into him. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and so different at the same time. You always thought your first kiss would be after some cheesy first date. He would have taken you out to dinner. Something would have inevitably gone wrong, you spilled something on your dress or the waiter brought the wrong order. 

You would both worry that it was a sign that nothing would work out between you. And then, at the end of the night, he’d tug you into his arms and kiss you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. 

That would be nice, but this is better. He’s not holding you like you’re something fragile or something too precious for this world. He’s kissing you like you’re the very air he needs to survive. He’s greedy with his affections and demanding with his wants. 

You’re being consumed and devoured. And you never want to stop. This is all you’ve ever wanted with him, from him. 

Sadly, you do have to breathe. You’re the one that forces the stop, you’re sure he would have happily suffocated if it meant he could keep touching you like this. You pull back, the air coming in short pants between your parted lips. 

You can already feel them swelling, the slight irritation on your cheeks from his stubble. You don’t mind, you quite like the feeling. He speaks before you can, a pleased smile on his face. “Forgive me yet?”

You chuckle, a little impressed by how cheeky he is, still slightly pissed off. “Why don’t you do that again and I’ll think about it?”

He rolls his eyes but you can see the smile fighting against his firm glare. “You’re really gonna make me work for it, huh?”

You smile and nod, leaning into him again. “You’re never gonna hear the end of it,” you whisper before dipping down and kissing him again. You can’t believe you ever doubted just how much he cares for you. 

He didn’t choose Jean over you. He’s just a dumbass. 

a/n: I had to resist putting in a “pick me, choose me, love me” line in there bc that would have just been too much lol

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral  @wolviesgirl ♡ 

[urdreamydoodles]

I love your headcanons!! I’d love to see how you think the X-men would react to the reader playfully biting them, in or out of the bedroom, whatever scenario you’d like (you can go with any characters, but bonus points for Logan, Erik, Charles, and perhaps a new one, Victor Creed 👀)

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You bite them playfully

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller, Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik & Alex Summers

Reply to anon: OMG yes, Victor my little mad dog!

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

- “Alright, fine,” he relents at last, rubbing his neck where your teeth had been, his grin turning almost challenging. “But just so you know? I’m keeping score.” And with that, he leans in—his lips brushing against your jaw, a teasing warning before he suddenly nips at your skin in retaliation, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. “Your move.”

[dinogoofymutated]

Sooo Circus freaks Ch3 is looking around 5k words at the moment (halfway done). I'm at a point where I can either split the chapter and give you guys the good shit right now (cliffhangerish), and then the next half be more relationship stuff (possibly smut). OR. Yall can wait an undetermined amount of time for me to finish it completely.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

i'm down on my knees, i wanna take you there

summary: you are suiting up for your first mission, the only problem being everyone "forgot" (intentionally withheld) this information from Logan wc: 2.3k a/n: thank you thank you so much for all of your support about my other Logan fic!! I am really enjoying writing for him, and have a few ideas for this Logan as well as some for Worst!Wolverine aka Deadpool 3!Logan as well! More info about empath!reader's powers and her role at the school in this one <3 warnings: slight (incredibly) slight angst, protective!Logan, a bit of a hurt comfort vibe, Ororo, Scott and Jean are meddlers this is the previous fic with these two, not required reading at all, though!

The leather was cool and surprisingly soft against your skin. There had never been reason for you to have to accompany a mission requiring one of the suits before, and you were shocked at how comfortable the uniform was. Typically, when you were asked to help with a mission, you were there for intel. Scope the place out, get a read on the general vibe of the place. Your powers didn’t provide the same level of protection as laser eyes or a strong regenerative healing factor. You would typically arrive with Rogue, in clothes from your own closet and one of the least fancy cars from the garage. You would slip in, get your read, and get out. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help, you just lacked the training that the other members of the team had. And after all, someone had to stay back to mind things at the school. When Charles had approached you a few months ago about some possible applications for your mutation that would come in handy on missions, you’d been hesitant. It was so outside of your comfort zone to load yourself onto a jet that you’d never even considered the possibility. You were far more comfortable in the library where you held English classes for the students, or helping Charles keep students calm while exploring their powers. Neither scenario included the possibility of a lot of violence. 

Ororo helped you finish zipping yourself into the suit, smoothing her hands along the sleeves before giving you a final nod of approval. Jean and Scott granted you small smiles and you did your best to look as confident as you knew they felt. 

They’d promised it was a simple mission, the kind they usually took students on when Charles felt they were ready to join the team, if that’s what they decided to do after wrapping up their schooling. Charles had heard word of a young mutant who had some kind of telekinetic powers and had recently had an eruption while at school. Everyone agreed that it would be best to find them and convince them to return to the school for some training with as little force as possible, only expedited by the fact that Charles had found them hungry and afraid after running away from home using Cerebro. In the past, the kids had been resistant due to huge amounts of fear, causing them to lash out. You knew they were right that your powers would be useful at times like these, and if you were able to help in any way you were inclined to. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing to her?” You sighed. It wasn’t that you were all conspiring to keep this a secret from Logan. It wasn’t a discussion that you’d had to agree on group espionage. It just seemed that all of you had a sort of understanding that it might be better to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Not that you needed permission. 

Logan looked furious, and what’s worse, he felt furious. You and Charles had been working to extend your powers over further distances, no longer needing to touch someone directly to know how they feel. Though it certainly doesn’t hurt matters. You’d sensed him upstairs, seemingly pacing around and seething. You’d hoped one of the kids had gotten on his nerves, or something on tv had set him off. You could see that was foolish now. 

“We aren’t doing anything to her,” Scott had his visor on, blocking his eyes from view, but you didn’t need to see to know that he was rolling his eyes. “She’s chosen to accompany us on a mission.” 

“A small mission!” Ororo chimed in, doing her best to give Logan a reassuring smile. 

You checked back in with his aura. Still furious. But it was a nice try, you supposed. Logan’s hackles were raised, his chest heaving. This certainly wouldn’t do. “Can I have a moment with you,” you glanced around the room, briefly meeting the other three mutant’s eyes. “Alone?” 

Logan was still staring daggers at Scott. He wasn’t even the one who suggested you were ready to come along. Jean and Charles had approached you this morning. You laid a hand against his arm, hoping to lead him out of the room, but he flinched away. The pang in your heart was immediate. Did he really think you were so callous that you would ever use your powers without his express permission, or some kind of emergency. You could feel the tears starting to gather in the corner of your eye, your arms wrapping protectively around your midsection. 

Jean slipped one arm through Scott’s and took Ororo’s hand with her other, gently leading them out of the room. “We are going to check a few things with the jet, last minute.” She began to hustle them out of the room. “Call if you need anything!” 

The door shut firmly behind them, and you were left alone with Logan, who looked like he was going to start shaking. “I wasn’t going to-”

“You don’t think I know that?” You can’t help but recoil. You have never been afraid of Logan, even when it may have been in your best judgement to be wary, and you still aren’t. But you can’t deny that it hurts when he snaps at you. Especially when you thought, well. You thought you were growing close. You started to turn away, but before you could, a warm hand caught ahold of your arm. “I’m not… fuck.” He took a heaving breath, shaking his head as if he could clear whatever thoughts were bothering him. “I’m not mad.” 

Despite the serious energy of the conversation, you couldn’t help the incredulous look you shot his way. He tried his best to hide it, but you could see the corner of his mouth turning up at you. “Fine, I’m not mad at you.” 

“You know, you really can’t be mad at anyone, they were just doing-” you were cut off when you fell Logan’s hand traveling down your arm, and pushing your sleeve up gently from where it was covering your hand. He slipped his hand into yours and you felt yourself relax a bit. “Just, take a look, yeah?” 

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“I trust you, bub.” You searched his eyes for any sign of hesitancy, but all you found was trust. Complete and utter trust. You nodded, tightening your own grip on his hand. Doing your best not to let the gentle rub of his thumb against your knuckles distract you, you took a deep breath and opened yourself up to his feelings. 

At first you did feel anger, bright red and hot. You sifted past it, steeling yourself. The first time you had encountered such strong anger, you had felt as if you were going to collapse. But you were stronger now, more prepared to deal with these kinds of feelings. The anger was strong, but also surprisingly shallow. In the depths of his emotions, Logan was worried. Terrified. A deep dark purple that made your own hands shake. His grip on your hand tightened, effectively drawing you back to yourself. There was more, a soft inviting pink that you didn’t dare to touch and shiny bright gold, which told you he was proud. 

You opened your eyes, fighting back the heat you felt creeping onto your cheeks. His expression hadn’t changed, pure trust and tenderness. It should have been disarming, or at the very least surprising. Logan wasn’t so open and honest with people. But the two of you had always had different expectations for the other. 

You couldn’t help it, a smile crept over your features. “You’re proud of me?” 

He rolled his eyes, but his smile only grew. He took your free hand in his, pulling you in closer. “I’m always proud of you.” He hesitated for a brief moment, and you did your best to bite your tongue. You could tell Logan had been making an effort to open up lately, and not just to you, but that didn’t make prolonged silences and easier to bear. “I know it’s not my place to demand anything of you.” 

“You’re my… friend.” You cut him off, wincing at the pause. It didn’t feel like the time to pressure him into labeling whatever feelings may be floating around. “And I always want to hear my friend’s opinions. What’s bothering you so badly?” 

“I could hear your heartbeat from upstairs.” Your eyes grew wide, too shocked to try to school your expression. Logan had told you several times that he had learned to block out his enhanced hearing when he was quite young. Usually to tease you when you got on a long tangent about something you enjoyed. He pretended to zone out and ignore you, but he would always remember small details about your rants, bringing them up nonchalantly at a later date  “I, uh, keep an ear out sometimes. Helps with the worry.” 

He worries about you? Even more surprising, he’s listening to your heartbeat like background music to his day. You promise yourself you will ask him about it when you don’t have a room full of your friends waiting on you. “I thought we’d covered this. I can take care of myself.” 

He sighed, bringing a hand to rest gently where your jaw meets your neck. “Sweetheart, I know you can. But that doesn’t stop me from watching out for you.” 

Your hand moved to rest overtop of his. “The good news is that I will have lots of people watching out for me. You know they won’t let anything happen.” You receive a single huff in return. He’s not convinced. “You know that these are the kinds of missions we send the kids on. I’ll be fine.” 

He considers for a moment, before dropping his hand and nodding. “Give me a second to get changed, and we will head out.” 

You grabbed for his hand, but he was already out the door, and moving too fast for you to stop. “Logan, don’t be ridiculous.” 

“What’s ridiculous is you thinking that I would ever let you go out there alone.” 

“As we already established, I have three very capable friends coming with me. I am only going as a contingency plan.”

“Well then consider me the contingency to the contingency plan.” You huffed, following him next door. 

You darted around in front of Logan, pushing against his chest with all your strength, even if you were fully aware that it was the equivalent of a fly buzzing around him. He stopped all the same, eyebrows pulled together in frustration. “I know you’re worried and I know that this is you trying to help.” Logan had his I’m about to interrupt you look on his face, leaving you to shove him again. Thankfully, he understood your intention. “This is important to me. You can’t be there every time, and I have to stand on my own two feet. I want to contribute to the work we do here more than just teaching kids about how awesome Shakespeare is.” The look was back. “Which is still an important contribution.” You added, which seemed to appease him. “But, I don’t want it to be my only contribution. So I am going to go and make sure that this scared kid who is all alone out there makes it back here safe. And you are going to stay here and make sure that everyone gets dinner and help with their assignments. And then when I get back, we are going to have a talk about all this.” 

“All this?” A smile crept back onto your face, hearing the teasing tone in his voice. 

“Oh my god shut up!” He caught your hands before they made contact with his chest, but he was slow to let go this time. He brought the back of both of your hands to his mouth, dropping a small kiss on each one, before returning your hands to your side. 

“If you come back with so much as a bump to the head, Scott’s dead.” 

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, and pointing out that this was exactly what you were talking about earlier did little to sway him. So you gave in, agreeing to give him a full report before slipping your hand into his and tugging him towards the jet. 

“We’ll be back in a bit.” You promised. You could feel the others staring from just inside the jet, but you barely noticed. Logan was checking over your suit meticulously, tugging zippers a few more clicks up and making sure that the collar wasn’t too tight around your neck. He kneeled down, checking to make sure the laces on your boots were double knotted. “Logan,” you laughed, reaching down to tilt his head up to look at you. “I’m too seconds away from sending a lot of exhaustion your way and leaving you passed out in here. You have to let me go, it’s going to be fine.” 

He remained kneeling for a second too long, a look in his eyes you couldn’t entirely place. The sound of the jet powering on broke the both of you out of your trance. He was on his feet in a flash, checking over you one final time. You rose up on your tippy toes, balancing by resting your hands on his shoulders, before gently kissing him on the cheek. You pulled back, nose scrunched up from the tickle of his facial hair. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Hold down the fort for us, yeah?” 

He nodded, pupils slightly blown out and a dreamy look on his face. You giggled, walking backwards for as long as you can before turning around and finding a seat on the jet. You could feel Jean and Scott’s eyes on you as Ororo began maneuvering the jet out of the garage. “Don’t even start.” You muttered, settling firmly into your seat, doing your best to soak up the pride and confidence the others were projecting into the cockpit. 

as always, feedback is so appreciated! if you have any requests for these two/wolverine in general, please leave them here!

next part

[celestiamour]

hugh jackman hands appreciation post

i need them inside me-

[lovelybucky1]

logan fucking you from behind while having you in a headlock.

you’re both on your knees on the bed, your back is flush to his chest and his bicep is around your neck. he has you completely immobilized and all you can do is let him manhandle you.

the muscle is hard and warm and it cushions your chin and he ruts into you. the squeeze isn’t tight enough to cut off any air supply, but it makes you feel a little fuzzy.

his other hand grabs possesively at your hips and ass, gripping you wherever he can. he’s muttering filthy shit into your ear and nipping at your neck where skin is exposed. you’re so close to him and it feels like he’s everywhere and his presence is all-encompassing.