#g: new mutants

[someredfox]

WE WON

[ffverr]

Happy lesbian visibility week to our favorite lesbian mutants!

[samasmith23]

Viewing Kamala Khan as a mutant through a queer lens

I’ve gotta say, after having read Issue #3 of Iman Vellani’s Ms. Marvel: The New Mutant miniseries yesterday, one of the elements that I’ve really grown to love about this book is how well it functions as a metaphorical coming out narrative for Kamala Khan! In addition to the previous issues showcasing Kamala struggling with the newfound pressures that being a mutant comes with, especially during a time when anti-mutant bigotry is at record levels following Orchis’ genocidal attack on Krakoa, during this issue’s dream sequence we’re introduced to the idea that Kamala’s hesitancy to accept her newfound identity as a mutant and inability to access her new powers is all due to a mental roadblock inside of Kamala’s own psyche. However, when the villains try to force Kamala to accept her mutant powers before she is ready by invading her dreams (as part of a Trojan horse to activate a psychic bomb against other mutants), Kamala refuses her “dream-self’s” offer upon realizing that only she alone can decide when she’s ready to define who she is, countering Orchis false anti-mutant narratives and defining her solely by her latent powers by proudly proclaiming, “It’s not about the powers. It never was. It’s about the why we fight. The who we fight for. My powers don’t define me! They aren’t the testament to who I am, in here! I was afraid that being a mutant meant that I was no longer anything else. But that doesn’t erase any other part of me. It just makes me more… me. Who I am — that’s up to me to decide.”

Kamala’s story has always been one about identity, self-acceptance, and intersectionality. This has been evident since her initial run by G. Willow Wilson & Sana Amanat, where Kamala was at a crossroads in regards to figuring out who she was as Pakistani-American Muslim from an immigrant family who had just obtained Inhuman powers, eventually deciding to embrace the best aspects of each part of her respective identities.

Discovering that she now also happens to be a mutant doesn’t erase those previous aspects of who Kamala is, but simply adds to them. Additionally, several X-Men stories in the past have framed the mutant allegory through a queer lens, and there’s a lot you can read into Kamala’s journey of self-acceptance as a mutant in regards to both queer theory and intersectionality. I’ve mentioned before how the recent spike in anti-mutant bigotry amongst the general public following Orchis’ attack on Krakoa Island bears a lot of real-world parallels to the recent upsurge in homophobic and transphobic legislation by Republican politicians here in the US, and Ms. Marvel: The New Mutant #3 further expands these parallels. Similar to how Queer people of color are the groups most severely affected by homophobic and transphobic legislation, Vellani effectively demonstrates how Orchis anti-mutant hate campaign significantly impacts Kamala as a woman of color who just found out that she’s also a latent mutant. Orchis’ attempt to try and play on Kamala’s fears of being rejected by her non-mutant superhero friends while framing mutants as inherently arrogant beings with god-complexes, feels eerily similar to how Republicans have recently tried to push false “groomer” conspiracy narratives in order to frame LGBTQ+ people as inherently “predatory towards children,” further isolating an already vulnerable community by falsely defining them solely through the lens of sex. But similar to how sex & sexuality does NOT entirely define a gay or trans person’s identity as an individual, mutant powers do NOT solely define the sum of Kamala’s identity either. It may be an important aspect of who she is as a person, but it is NOT representative of the whole of her identity. Just like how being a Muslim from an immigrant family is an important facet of her personhood, but it is not the sum total of her personality. People are more complex than the narrow-minded stereotypes that bigots like to falsely project onto them, and Kamal effectively demonstrates this by accepting her newfound status as a mutant as merely another facet of personhood. She’s a mutant, as well as an Inhuman, a Muslim, a woman of color, second-generation Pakistani immigrant, nerdy fan-fiction writer, and a compassionate human being who simply wants to help others in need!

From Ms. Marvel: The New Mutant #3 by Iman Vellani, Sabir Pirzada, Carlos Gómez & Adam Gorham.

[bronzemettle]

Dazzler's infamous "Thank you" interview, Gordon Godspeaks s4e3, October 2006

“Welcome to Gordon Godspeaks in our brand new 9 PM timeslot. I’m your host, G. Gordon Godfrey. Today we have with us a washed up old woman with delusions of reclaiming former glory who carries a burning resentment for everyone and everything that brought her fame to begin with. Dazzler, welcome to the show.”

“Thank you, Gordon. Humble as ever with that new show title, I see?”

“You say that like you think I picked it! You know how the marketing boys are. I have pictures of the costumes they put you in early in your career…”

“I remember, but that was a long time ago. I think we're both a decade past anyone forcing branding onto us that we don't want.”

“Heh. You would think you know better than the people who went to marketing schools.”

“...I'd missed this. It’s nice to be back in this chair after so long.”

“But are you? Back, I mean? I’ve listened to your latest two albums.”

“You don't look like you liked them.”

The audience chuckles audibly.

“Well no, but you look like you're pleased as punch about that! Look at that smile, everyone. She's glowing! …Even you have to admit, though, it’s not much like the Dazzler we all know. In fact it doesn't really sound like you at all. Why don’t you tell me who really wrote your new songs?”

“I wrote them all myself. It’s who I am now. You’re right, the old Dazzler is well and truly dead. Thank god for that, and thank you for that, Godfrey.”

“...Thank me? What do you mean by that?”

“Did I never tell you? Twenty and however-many years ago, do you remember, you invited me onto the show again, in the 80s.”

“You mean when I ambushed you into a debate with the leader of that homeschooling- ”

“No no no, I’m not talking about the times I actually came. I mean the last time you invited me. You didn’t want me in the chair, you wanted me on the stage for- ”

“Yes, for our ninth season, in December, I remember. I also remember that you turned us down. Now why would you bring that up, I wonder?”

“Because you asked me to play. And that’s when I knew my career had to die… So I killed it. And if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be starting again now.”

“You… Are you telling me you stopped performing because the people actually wanted you to?”

“Because your people wanted me to.”

“Ha! Always the political tyrant, putting your agenda above everything else. Even common sense. Sales are sales, honey, when are you going to learn to play the game?”

“We’re not playing the same game. I have enough money. I don’t need sales. What I need is to challenge people.”

“You’re saying you’d really rather be getting ambushed by parents rights activists than play for the Superbowl?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I turned them down five years after I turned you down.”

“You what? …The Superbowl?”

“It’s not just about the politics of your show’s target demographic, it’s about the age. All of you watching, I’m sorry, but, you’re old. It’s okay, I’m old too. And it’s okay if anyone still likes to listen to my old songs, but I don’t get to settle and just keep playing them forever. Not as a Mutant, not as an artist.”

“Why not? Aren’t you, by saying that, kind of calling Paul McCartney a hack for still playing the classic songs he wrote for The Beatles?”

“If you like, yes, I will say it. Paul McCartney is a hack. He was one of the greatest in the world for a time, but if you’re a musician, and the parents of adults don’t hate your new material, what the hell are you even doing? I mean really?”

“Hey Frank, we're recording this, right? You think you’re better than Paul McCartney. That’s what you just said.”

“No, I’ve never been as good as he was, but I’ve grown more than he has.”

“Grown into the gutter, and the gutter is full of garbage can lids screaming in pain by the sound of it.”

“You might not like it, but it’s making you think.”

“It makes it hard to think!”

The audience laughs briefly.

“But you’ve said so much more about my new music in the last week than you have about my old music in the last twenty years. You wanted me to play that music. You want to sit me here across from you and tell me ‘how dare you’ about my new music, and that’s where I want to be. Always.”

“So… you got an invite, from my staff, to play your old disco tracks on stage on the air, and because of that… I personally ended your career?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The audience chuckles a little.

“I’m the reason you’re making these… screaming noises now? Oh no, my producers with daughters won’t be happy about this...”

The audience laughs more.

“Yes, and more than that you’re likely the reason I came out as a Mutant!”

“Who's ending whose career, here?!”

Louder laughter, before it fades back down to listening silence.

“If I’d gotten comfortable playing the old stuff, letting people feel nostalgic for me instead of emboldening them, maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage.”

“So, about that, the Mutant thing. When did that start?”

“Before my first album launched, but you can read the Rolling Stones article for all of that. I’ve been this way the whole time, I was just too scared to say it.”

“The woman who could blind everyone in this studio with a wave of her hands was scared… Yeah, right.”

“You're right, I can protect myself, and I always will if I need to. But I'm not talking about that. There wasn’t a record label in the industry who would have signed me.”

“So you’re a Mutant now because it’s good for business. Maybe you do know how the game is played after all.”

“No, I’ve lost more fans than I ever even had, coming back and coming out wasn’t what’s good for business, it’s what was good for me.”

“Classic self-centered artist, doesn’t care what the public likes. I really think you- ”

“Yes, that’s right.”

The audience laughs again.

“...Can you stop throwing me off my script here, babe? We have other segments to get to.”

“No. Never. The moment I let people like you, and people like you out there, be comfortable around my work, when people stop confronting me on the streets and asking me to explain myself, when kids stop having to hide my albums, that’s when my career has to die again.”

“Well, maybe if- ”

“If I’m not throwing people off their scripts, I’m not making people change, and if I’m not making people change, and I’m still singing that stuff, I’m basically advocating for the status quo.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“For Mutants it is.”

“And when you just admitted you'd be willing to blind everyone here for your own self-interest, whose fault is that really? Thank you, that’s all the time we have for you tonight. After the break we’ll be talking about the disappearance of the Batman, the new lesbian Batwoman, and the decline of Gotham family values with local businessman Oswald Cobblepot.”

[mediamatinees]

Generation Why Not? The Kids Are Alright in "Ms. Marvel"

We're kicking off our Christmas Double Feature with Ms. Marvel!

Content Warning: Ms. Marvel contains references to Islamophobia and some violence. I won’t say viewer discretion is advised on this one because it’s pretty tame, so use your judgment. Spoilers for Ms. Marvel ahead! As the world is currently going through superhero fatigue, there is something to be said about the type of impact a local hero could have. In many ways similar to a “Neighborhood…

[donnatroyprincessofthemyscira]

[not-neverland06]

n a s t y d o g I logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've never felt this way about a fictional character before. Every gif I see of him has me gnawing and biting at the bars of my enclosure. I want to bite him. If Hugh Jackman ever discovered what thoughts lurk inside my rotted brain about him he'd get a restraining order. This isn't OKAY Anyways... Summary: You'd thought you'd had a good thing going with Logan. You weren't officially anything to each other, but you were getting close. You truly saw a future with him, but he made it incredibly clear he did not feel the same 18+ HATE FUCKING (MDNI)

(one chance please, just one chance with him)

“Are you sure this isn’t totally clingy girlfriend of me?”

Ororo gives you an irritated look and Jean laughs. “Not at all, Scott loves it when I surprise him like this.” You’re all huddled in your room, each of you in varying stages of getting ready. Jean is finishing off her eyeliner at your vanity, Ororo is putting on her boots, and you’re trying to decide between a skirt and a dress. 

You’re not entirely sure how, or why, Logan and Scott decided to go to the bar together tonight. You suspect it has something to do with Jean. She wants them to start getting along so there’s less friction when you’re all around each other. 

At Jean’s idea, Logan had muttered, “When hell freezes over,” in your ear before he had left for the night. You’d gotten a little antsy without him to entertain you and had mistakenly blurted out the idea of going to visit them. Ororo had been dying to get out of the house and Jean was a little worried about her boyfriend as well. They’d agreed to go along with you and you’ve felt a weight in your stomach ever since. 

Your relationship with Logan was relatively new. Hell, a month ago you’d thought he’d hated you the same he did Scott. You’d, of course, been proven wrong when you’d had a few drinks with him and things had taken a very physical turn. 

You weren’t sure if he’d just wanted a one-night stand or something serious. But when you’d tried to sneak out the next morning and he’d muttered a grumpy, “Where’re you going?” You’d gotten your answer. 

You hadn’t been on any real dates, there didn’t ever seem to be time for them. But you spent most of your days together. Sometimes just silently enjoying each other’s company, other times you would be holed up in one of your rooms cuddling. The thought always brings a stupid lovesick grin to your face. 

It’s one of your first real relationships and you’re worried that things are moving a little too fast. At least on your end. You can already tell that you’re falling for him. Headfirst into the deep end of love. And it’s terrifying because you truly cannot tell what he thinks about you. Clearly, he likes you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t let you follow him around like a lost puppy. 

But he’s never truly said anything to you. There’s no official label as to what you two are. You say girlfriend off-handly and you usually don’t mean it when you reference yourself. You’ve never outright said he’s your boyfriend and he’s never really claimed you. He’s made it explicitly clear he doesn’t want you sleeping with other men, and you’ve said the same to him about women. You both agreed on that, but…

You kind of drive yourself crazy trying to figure this out. He’s not vocal about his feelings and everything’s still new so you don’t like pressuring him. You also worry that if you push him too far he’ll just get tired of you and move on. It’s not fair to assume that of him, and you know everything would be better if you just talked to him. But you’re scared. You’re scared the conversation will take the wrong direction and everything will blow up in your face. 

Jean calls your name and your head shoots up to see both Ororo and Jean looking at you expectantly. You flush when you realize they must have been talking to you and you’d just completely zoned out thinking about Logan. 

“Huh?” You blurt out, cringing at how dumb you sound. 

Jean gives you a concerned look, “I can practically taste your anxiety.” The telepath frowns and offers you a comforting smile. “Don’t worry about it, I promise, Logan won’t mind at all.”

“You’re fine,” Ororo adds, because clearly the look on your face screams, I need constant validation. They’re not wrong, but still, you hate feeling like an exposed bundle of nerves. “Think of it as girl’s night, the boys just happen to be there.” 

You force a smile on your face and give your most enthusiastic nod. You change into the dress and finish up with your hair. You finally start chatting with them again, engaging so it might disguise just how nervous you feel. 

There’s this clenching feeling, traveling from your stomach up to your chest. It makes you sick, makes you hurt. And it’s not because you think Logan will be upset with you for crashing. He’d be relieved, if anything. There’s something else. Premonition isn’t one of your abilities, but you’re seriously starting to doubt that now. 

The bar is loud when you walk in. The soles of your shoes immediately start to stick to the floor and your nose screws up in disgust at the loud laughter coming from around the pool tables. You glance around, trying to see if you can spot Logan. 

You’d say you could spot him in any crowd. But has a propensity to hunker down and try to attract as little attention as possible so people don’t bother him. “There he is,” Jean taps your shoulders and points to the two men at the end of the bar. 

Like you’d thought, Logan is hunched over his whiskey, glowering down at the wood under him like it had insulted him. You almost want to laugh at the sight. Some of the earlier anxiety eases its grip on you and you feel your shoulders begin to untense. 

Before you can walk over Ororo grabs Jean’s wrist. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” she tugs Jean behind her. 

Jean looks over her shoulder at you and smiles encouragingly, “Go to them, we’ll catch up in a second.” You give her a tentative nod and slip through the crowd. There are more people here than you thought there would be. 

You’re happy not to spot any kids in the crowd. You’ve had a few too many nights out crashed by kids who thought they were good at sneaking out. 

It’s easy enough not to spot you or the other women in the crowd. Mutants have gotten good at blending in with the people around them. Makes it easier to get around. It’s probably why neither Logan nor Scott stop their conversation as you approach. “So,” Scott draws the word out, fingers tapping against the glass of his beer. 

“Don’t,” Logan warns. You want to laugh at his grumpy demeanor, but someone’s accidentally elbowed you and you find yourself stumbling a few steps back. It’s taking entirely too long to get to them, the bar isn’t even that big. There’s just that many people here. 

Scott ignores him and rolls his eyes. “Look, we’re stuck here for a while. Try and pull that stick out of your ass.”

“How about I put one in yours?” Logan’s claws come out slightly. But then they both share an odd look and Scott smirks. “Shut the fuck up,” Logan grouses, “not like that.”

“Right,” Scott huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He picks up his bottle and takes a long drink. You’ve nearly reached them now. You stop, though, when you hear Scott say your name. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. Eavesdropping now is just asking to get hurt. 

You drop back into the crowd, hoping the smells of others will stop Logan from discovering you lurking behind them both. Scott continues, “How’s that going?”

You crane your neck forward, trying to hear them better over the karaoke happening behind you. Someone is butchering Britney Spears but you couldn’t care less right now. Logan shouldn’t answer. Since when has he ever shared anything with Scott?

So, imagine your surprise when his answer isn’t immediately telling him to fuck off. “Eh,” he shrugs, downing the rest of his whiskey. Your face drops in irritation. Seriously, all this skulking around for an Eh? That’s bullshit. 

You keep yourself from stepping forward, forcing your feet still, and ignoring the little voice in the back of your head telling you this is a bad idea. You’ve committed this much, you’re seeing it through. Scott whistles lowly, “That bad, huh?” Oh, fuck off, Summers. 

Logan shakes his head and for a moment you have a brief feeling of hope lifting you up. “Nah, not bad. It’s just, I don’t know.” Logan sits up and signals the bartender for a refill. Your snooping senses go off and you briefly see Ororo and Jean exiting the bathroom. Desperate for something to keep them at bay, you flick your wrist. The man in front of them tips his drink down Jean’s shirt, slurring out apologies. Jean huffs and Ororo brings her back into the bathroom. 

Scott and Logan somehow missed the whole interaction and you promise yourself that you’ll pay for Jean’s dry cleaning. You’re definitely not going to. “Think she wants something I don’t,” Logan tells Scott, and your heart plummets to your feet. You can practically see it deflate, all the lovesickness draining out of it and onto the floor of this grimy bar. 

“Like, she just wants to fuck around?”

Logan shakes his head and downs another glass of whiskey. He’s just swallowing it down like it’s water. At a certain point, the bartender gets sick of it and just leaves him with the bottle. “No, she wants something real. Like a real relationship.” Scott’s brows furrow and Logan shrugs. “Not interested.” 

It’s the way he says it that really bothers you. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something different in a relationship. It happens all the time. But he says it so dismissively. He knows that you want something real with him, something secure and loving. He knows that, continues to fuck you and lead you on, and then speaks as though you’re an idiot for ever being interested in that. 

Hurt hasn’t set in yet. You’re staring wide-eyed, jaw agape with shock as you stare at Logan’s back. You’d thought a conversation needed to be had. But you didn’t think that he thought of you like this. You’d thought you meant something to him. 

Scott seems to share the sentiment, his lips tugged down into a frown. He leans against the bar, surveying Logan with a disbelieving look. “What?” Logan snaps.

Scott raises his hands in surrender, shaking his head and backing off. “Nothing, man, I just thought you two were serious about each other.” You miss whatever Logan says as an arm slings itself around your shoulder. 

“What’re you doing?” A husky, seductive voice whispers against the shell of your ear. You jump in shock, glaring at Ororo as she grins at you. She lets her arm slide off your shoulders and glances over at Jean. “I think she was spying.”

Jean nods, nudging you forward. “Definitely spying. Hear anything good?”

You fortify your mind against her probing fingers before she can find out. “Nope,” you blurt out. You hope the racing of your heart is dismissed by your constantly frazzled nature. You hope the look on your face is explained by your earlier boredom and anxiety. You pray that none of them notice the way you lean away from Logan when the men finally turn around and notice you all. 

Scott breathes out a dramatic sigh of relief and slumps onto Jean. “Thank god, I thought I was going to die trying to talk to this brick wall.” his eyes flick towards you in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. There’s a brief pitying look before he grins. “Come to get your boyfriend?” There’s a heavy emphasis on the word that you never would have noticed had you not heard their conversations. 

It’s clearly a petty dig at Logan. And you would appreciate it if you didn’t feel the sudden urge to vomit up your dinner. “Thought you might need saving from Logan.” You tell him, a chuckle hiding the slight tremor in your voice. 

You’re not sure if he does, but you hope Logan notices how you avoided the word boyfriend. You hope that he hurts the same way you do. But you know, deep down, that he doesn’t care. He’s probably relieved that you didn’t use the title. 

Logan gets off his stool, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, and pulls you into a brief hug. His lips press against your temple before he dips down to whisper, “Thank you,” in your ear.

Asshole, he’s not allowed to smile at you the way he is. If you weren’t in such a crowded place and already overstimulated, you’d shove him away. If your friends weren’t watching you’d take his arm and slam it down onto the bar until you hear his fucking adamantium bones break. 

That might have been too far. Maybe you’re not that angry, but you’re hurt.

You place your hands against his chest, a thin smile on your lips while you hum a simple, “Mhm.” He doesn’t seem to notice the way you push away from him. It’s easily dismissed by you cheekily stealing his seat at the bar. 

He comes up behind you, hands bracketing you and keeping you stuck against the bar while you order your drink. One of his hands drifts down, laying against your thigh. You know this isn’t sexual, this is him comforting you. 

He shouldn’t know how horrible you feel in such busy places. He shouldn’t know that and know that his touch is grounding and then help you. Not if he doesn’t want something serious. If he didn’t want to be your boyfriend, didn’t want to be anything but a fuck, then why do this to you? Did he not think this was leading you on? Is this just him caring for you?

You’ll drown in a sea of unanswered questions before the night is over if you linger too long. You tip your head back, let your shot burn its way down your throat, and turn towards the others with a smile. You feel your worries fade and your focus loosen as you simply drift further into your mind. 

You must have disassociated or something. By the time you realize you’re no longer hearing bad karaoke and your elbows aren’t sticking to the bar, you’re already home. You stare in the mirror, hand pausing as you brush your teeth before you quickly finish. 

You didn’t drink much, you never do. It fucks with your abilities and causes migraines. You rinse your mouth out and glance into your bedroom. Logan groans and stretches. His back bows, muscles flexing and you rip your eyes away. You can’t let yourself be distracted by the chest you want to drape yourself across. 

You need to talk to him. It’s never been more clear. You wipe your mouth and toss the towel onto the rim of the sink. You take in a deep breath, trying to get rid of the nerves plaguing you. It’s never worked before, it’s not going to suddenly cure you now. 

You give up on the thought and instead, shove down the anxiety until you have enough confidence to speak. It takes a little while, Logan peaks an eye open, eyebrows quirked when he sees you just staring at him. “Something up, bub?” he flexes, on purpose, and you roll your eyes. You grab his shirt out of your hamper and toss it at him. 

“Put this on. Can’t think when you look like that.”

He chuckles, “That’s the point.” at your pointed glare his smile drops and he tugs the beater on. It barely does anything to deter you. If anything you’re having more trouble paying attention. Especially now that his full attention is on you. The humor is gone from the room, a thick tension replaces it. Logan seems to feel it, sitting up straighter and glaring at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “What’s wrong?” It’s a demand more than a question. 

It’s hard to look at him. But you refuse to let yourself cower now. You take in a fortifying breath and let your gaze bore into his. You put all the hurt and anger you feel into it, willing yourself to be firm. “We need to talk.”

“‘Bout what?” He’s brusque, but there’s a slight concern to his tone. 

There’s no point hiding this. And maybe you had misheard, maybe there was a conversation prefacing the one you’d heard. And you’ll talk it out and everything will be okay. “I heard you and Scott talking at the bar.”

The hope you had, as minimal as it was, is dashed at your feet. He sucks in a deep breath and the look on his face has you crestfallen. You can feel your chest cave in. You feel so stupid all of a sudden. Constantly following after him, even before you started dating him. Looking at him with stars in your eyes and latching onto his every move and word. 

You’d worshiped him, put him up on a pedestal he didn’t deserve. Superhuman or not, at the end of the day he was still a man. And they’ve done nothing but disappoint you. You suck your teeth, gaze dropping to your feet as you fight back the tears in your eyes. “Right,” you whisper, stepping back from him. 

“Look,” he starts. You force your eyes up and watch as he rubs uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He takes a step towards you and you shake your head, stepping away from him. His arms fall to his sides and he sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“That’s it?” You demand, tone incredulous. You weren’t some great love or anything. But that’s seriously all he has to say.

He opens his mouth, eyes softening as he stares at you. Then he snaps it shut, something covers his face and his expression is borderline cruel as he sneers at you. “Not my fault you got in over your head, kid. Never said I wanted anything more with you.” He points at you, and you suddenly feel like a little girl getting scolded. You’ve never had a partner make you feel this small, especially not Logan. “You were just convenient.”

You rear back like he slapped you. You think it might have hurt less than that. To know you wasted so much time on such a fucking dick makes you want to throw up. Or scream, or cry. You can’t decide on one. But your powers can, the walls are shaking, knick-knacks falling off your shelves as energy pulses from you. 

You’ll face the hurt, the sadness, the horrible ache of rejection later. Right now, you need him out of your face before you bring the whole mansion crumbling down around you. “Out.” You grind the word out, turning away from him and clutching your hands to your chest. You take in quick, rapid breaths, trying to think of anything other than how horrible you feel. 

You haven’t lost control like this in a long time. You’re not going to give him the satisfaction of being the reason you get put on probation again. He whispers your name, coming up behind you like he’s going to touch you. 

You want to lash out, want to hurt him like he’s hurt you. But you’ll only cause more damage than necessary. He’s not worth hurting the kids in the rooms around you. You shove past him, ignoring the way he shouts your name. 

You dart out into the hall, grateful there are so few people milling around. Nearly everyone’s asleep, just a few stragglers finishing up their homework for tomorrow. A few of them give you odd looks that turn concerned when they see Logan chasing after you. Your bones are practically vibrating by the time you make it outside. 

You rush towards the grove of trees at the back of the mansion. Your knees give out under you before you can make it very far. Energy pulses out of you in an explosive circle. You hear bark crack and turn into nothing but dust as the air around you trembles. 

It’s a relief, like going to the bathroom after holding it all day. You feel it drain away from you, a plug pulled out as the energy rushes from you. It slows after a minute, feeling more like a leak than a steady stream. 

Your hands shake by your sides as you lay trembling on the grass. Your eyelids flutter shut and you try and keep them open but it’s hard. All of your energy had been spent keeping yourself in check until you made it out of the mansion. 

“I’ve got you,” a voice mutters near your ear. Familiar strong arms dip under your knees, lifting you up and pulling you into a sturdy chest. You recognize the body, recognize the uncomfortable warmth coming from him. But your tongue won’t work and you're passing out before you can try and push him away. 

You’re in your own bed when you wake up again. You’re briefly comforted by the warm feeling of the sheets around you before you realize how cold the other side of the bed is. You’re so used to the feeling of someone being beside you that it’s jarring for no one to be there. You sit up, a spark of anxiety lighting up inside you before it’s being quelled by an outside force. 

“I think it’s best if we keep that under control.” You’re not surprised to hear Charles’s voice. You can’t be, not when he’s actively keeping you calm and placid. You lean back against your headboard. You tilt your head lazily, looking at him while he looks out the window. 

“That tree was a hundred years old.”

You wince, face screwing up when you remember the large oak tree you obliterated last night. “I can remake it,” you promise. 

“You could,” he corrects, “but whatever happened last night between you and Logan is causing your powers to be volatile.” He finally turns towards you, the motor of his wheelchair a dull buzz as he smiles at you. There’s no resentment in his gaze at least. You’d known he wouldn’t be mad at you. He was used to accidents like this. Had you hurt another person, however, this would be an entirely different conversation. 

There’s a dull ache in your chest at the mention of Logan, but it’s quickly covered by another wave of calm from Charles. He smiles and holds out two metal bracelets. They’re thick, something red inlaid into the black metal. They look like handcuffs more than anything. His lips quirk up at your thought and you frown. 

“That’s what they are, right? Cuffs.”

“You’re not a criminal,” he assuages, his tone gentle as you take them from him. There’s a small silver button inside that you click and the metal springs open. You place your left wrist inside and it snaps shut, it’s a snug fit. It won’t be moving around anytime soon. You put the right one on and feel Charles’ hold on your mind ease the second it's closed. Every horrible feeling from last night crashes down on you and you nearly choke on it. 

You wonder how Charles managed to keep you asleep for so long without the roof crumbling. He chuckles, the noise tired. “Jean helped me. It took a while for the cuffs to be ready.”

The way he says that causes alarms to go off in your head. “How long?” He takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head, attempting to dismiss the question. “Charles,” you snap, voice bordering on a shout. 

“Two days,” he says. You gasp and slump back against your sheets. He says your name but you get to your feet and pace. You don't know what to do with yourself. There’s energy buzzing under your skin, but the cuffs are keeping it at bay. It feels wrong like your pores are being clogged with acid. 

“Two days.” You look over at him, horror painting your face and you can see why he was so apprehensive to tell you. “It’s never been that bad before.”

“No,” he starts cautiously, “It hasn’t. Which makes me wonder, what transpired between you and Logan that destroyed my grandfather’s tree?” 

You cringe at the mention of the tree. He’s never going to let go of that. Even when you recreate it, he’s still going to hold it over your head. His teasing eases you out of the spiral you were heading down and you glance over at him. “You’ve been in my head for two days. I’m sure both you and Jean already know.”

He smacks his lips together and shrugs, clasping his hands in front of himself. “Simply seeing if you wanted to discuss it, my dear.”

You vehemently shake your head and sit back down on your bed. “No, I don’t want to talk about him. I don't want to see him.” Charles gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you and you hate it. You truly don’t want to see Logan again. Just thinking about him makes you want to explode. He was a pig and you regret ever wasting your time on him. 

There’s a shriveled part of your heart weeping somewhere, but you crush in your fist until it shuts the fuck up. “Right,” Charles nods. “I do believe it’s best for your recovery that we keep you two separated for a while.” He rolls past you and places a comforting hand on yours. “Rest, you’ll feel more like yourself soon.”

You nod and watch him leave. Exhaustion suddenly seems to drop its heavy weight on your shoulders. Two days being restrained by telepaths probably wasn’t very restful. You lay across your comforter, rolling over and hoping when you wake up your heart will be healed. 

Two weeks. Two pathetic, snot-filled, and disgusting weeks of sobbing over Logan. You felt like a sixteen-year-old again, crying over the boy that didn’t like you back. It was awful, especially knowing that the entirety of the mansion knew what was wrong with you. 

Your students would leave your class and you would lock your doors, hiding under your desk as you wept. Those with superhearing or telepathy would bake you cookies and leave gifts at your door. It was sweet, but honestly made you feel ten times worse. You felt like your sadness was a burden you were forcing everyone to carry. 

Your mother would be so disappointed in you. She’d always told you that you mourn a relationship half the amount of time you were in it. Of course, hers never lasted more than a few weeks. And she’d had more boyfriends than you could count on three hands. 

Besides, you were allowed to wallow for a while. This was someone you were starting to fall for. To be so blind going into and leaving the relationship was awful. Having the rug ripped out from under you had been cruel and needless. You’re resentful and grateful he’d been so horrifically honest with you. On one hand, if the relationship had just ended, you’d be pining after him. Wondering what you’d done to lose such an amazing guy. 

But being faced with the brutal truth, knowing he was a piece of shit, it makes you hate yourself. You should have seen it. Should have known that he didn’t want you like you wanted him. But there were never any signs. You’d run it through your head a million times. Every interaction you’ve ever had with him. None of it shows you where he’d been lying to you or using you. You can’t even trust yourself anymore. 

There’s a loud knock on your door and you sniffle, tossing another tissue in the trash as you go to answer it. “Hello?” You croak. You can barely see, eyes puffy and so swollen your vision is blurry. 

“Holy hell,” Ororo scoffs and shakes her head. She pushes into your room and slams the door shut before anyone can see how awful you look. To be fair, you keep yourself relatively put together during the day. But it’s after hours now, you’re allowed to be a mess. 

“You look like shit.” 

Neither of you are prepared as you begin to blubber. Your lips tremble and your voice shakes as you begin to sob. “I know,” you wail. “I hate it.” Ororo’s eyes widen in horror and she quickly pushes you into your desk chair, grabbing a box of tissues and shoving it in your hands. 

“I feel,” you stutter, having to take in a few shuddering breaths before you can get the words out. “He tore out my heart and ripped it up with his stupid fucking claws.”

“Okay, okay,” Ororo runs her hands over your arms, trying to soothe you. “I know, sh, it’s okay.” She groans, “Stop crying,” she pleads under her breath. 

“I’m trying!” You snap at her, running hands over your wet cheeks and trying to swallow down the rest of your tears. 

“Look,” she steps back and shakes her head. She glances down at you, disgust poorly hidden on her face. She’s really fucking bad at comforting someone. “This is awful, I can’t take it anymore. You two keep dancing around each other and you’re putting everyone on edge. You won’t stop crying and he keeps going off,” she holds her hands up and shakes her head. “I just can’t do it anymore.”

You frown, brows turning down in confusion. “What?” You didn’t think Logan would be mad. You pictured him skipping through a field of daisies, happy to finally be rid of you. It only made you hate yourself more that you were still crying over it all. 

“He’s kind of losing it,” she seems reluctant to relent the information. “Look,” she kneels in front of you and snatches the tissue box from your hand. She tosses it to the side and forces you to meet her eyes. “He’s in love with you. We all know it, Jean’s confirmed it. He loves you, he needs you, he’s just terrified to admit it. He’s afraid of what's going to happen if you two become real.”

Your eyes widen with the realization. She nods enthusiastically as you connect the pieces. You can’t deny what’s so plainly laid in front of you when she assures you that even Jean knows. Jean knowing means she just did a nosy dive into his head. 

You can picture what could happen. With rom-com levels of nauseating romance, you run to find him. You tell him you don’t care that he’s afraid. You don’t care he pushed you away and you do love him. He’s not going to lose you. Nothing can rip you apart. You ride off into the sunset on Scott’s bike blah blah blah. 

This isn’t a fucking romance. And you’re not going to cry over a man who's too much of a pussy to admit he has feelings. You like men who have emotional depth deeper than a teaspoon. “Are you fucking kidding me?"

Ororo’s face blanches and she slowly backs away from you as you stand. “No,” she answers slowly, like she’s not sure of herself now. 

“That’s what I’ve been crying over?” You feel upset for an entirely different reason. You never misread the signs. You never missed a hint that he didn’t feel what you did. He did! He was just happier letting you doubt yourself and the love you held for him than admitting he felt something. You tear off the depression hoodie you’ve been living in for the past two weeks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

You don’t know where you’re going. Normally, you’d run into a forest to let out a blast of energy. It drained you enough that you wouldn’t have to feel anything. But with these cuffs on, you can’t do anything. 

You storm out of your room and stomp down the stairs, uncaring who you wake up. You’ve wasted so much time on Logan, you refuse to stay in your room and cry for another fucking night. 

“I want to see her,” Logan growls. He tries to move around Charles, but he stops him with his mind, holding him in place while Jean disappears inside your room. Logan watches her go and glares at her retreating back as the door closes behind her. 

It’s been a day already, you’ve never needed to be out for more than a few hours. He doesn’t want to think that there’s anything wrong with you, that he might have permanently broken something inside you. 

That talk at the bar with Scott had been stupid. He would have said anything to get him to shut the fuck up and leave him alone. He didn’t really mean what he said, he just wanted him to back off. And saying that your relationship wasn’t anything was quicker than pouring out every thought he’s had of you. 

It was easier lying than it was to admit just how much he wanted you. Just how far he would go for you. But then you’d overheard, and you brought it up. And there’d been faith on your face. Like even you couldn’t believe what he had said because you could see through the bullshit. 

But all Logan had seen was a way out. This was an opportunity to finally get out of the suffocating clutches of something he didn’t want to admit was love. He took the chance before he could think. It’s what he was used to. Taking the easy way out, especially when it came to shit like emotions. 

He hadn’t thought you were going to explode, though. Because that’s exactly what you’d done. By the time he’d caught up to you, you’d burned a crater into the ground and had destroyed Charles’ stupid fucking tree. 

Seeing you like that, laying there lifeless, it terrified him. He didn’t want to live in a world that you weren’t in. There was no fucking point. It was sobering, realizing that, and then realizing that he was the reason you were like that in the first place. 

He didn’t want to live without you and he certainly would never be able to come to terms with being the reason you were dead. But it didn’t matter, whatever realizations he was coming to. Charles and Jean were completely blocking him from your room. They weren’t even giving him a chance to look at you. And he was about five seconds away from ripping the old bastard’s head off and just barrelling inside. 

He didn’t care what they said, he needed to see that you were okay. “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to see her for a very long time.”

“Stay out of my head,” Logan growls, glaring down at the man. “What are you talking about?” He presses, finally processing the rest of his sentence.

Charles sighs and rolls away from him. Logan glares at his back but ultimately follows. “You were the cause of this, yes?” Reluctantly, Logan nods, there’s no point in hiding it. He’s sure Charles already knows. “For her own safety, the two of you will need to remain separated.”

That had been it. There was no arguing about it. No fighting Charles. It was for your safety that he stayed away from you. No matter how much he wanted to explain himself, he wouldn’t risk another meltdown like that. 

You didn’t deserve to get hurt because of someone like him. He wouldn’t be able to stand hurting you again. 

But two weeks seemed like a lot. At a certain point, he’s sure you’re just avoiding him. He knows he can’t blame you. He’d been a fucking idiot. But that didn’t make him any happier. If anything, he was getting more and more pissed off every day. 

He had less patience for mistakes. Was lashing out at the kids more often and don’t even get started on the petty fucking fights he was picking with Scott. How long did you fucking need before you talked to him again?

He knows you’re upset, your crying keeps everyone up at night. Something he’s sure you’d be mortified to learn about. Why won’t you let him comfort you? Why do you have to be so petulant, running around the corner every time you see him? Pointedly ignoring him when you’re in the same room together. 

He could fix this, make this all better. But you’re just not letting him. He knows this is why he loves you. It’s why he was so drawn to you. You seem like a bundle of nerves, constantly flitting around and keeping yourself small. It had been off-putting at first. And then he’d seen you training with Scott, kicking his ass more like. A switch had been flicked in his head. 

He could finally see you for what you were. He finally realized that it was your abilities you were keeping small. You were a fucking spitfire and you didn’t hesitate to tell him off, he loved it. Loved arguing with you just so he could see you get all pissed off. 

But that stubborn attitude he loved was really biting him in the ass right now. 

There’s a knock on his bedroom door and he doesn’t even get to pretend it’s going to be you. He smells Jean’s perfume and rolls his eyes. He puffs on his cigar and contemplates ignoring her.

“Don’t be a jackass, open the damn door.” 

Fuckin’ telepaths. “What?” He snaps at her the second the door is open. Her face screws up when she smells the smoke from his cigar. He knows she wants to put it out, and can see it in the twitch of her fingers. He raises a brow, a silent challenge to try him. He’s itching for another fight and she can feel it. 

She lets out a sharp breath, choosing her battles wisely and backing off. He’s almost disappointed. “We need to talk. This whole thing between the two of you is ridiculous. You’re a mess, she’s a mess…”

Her voice trails off into nothing more than the annoying pitch of a fly. Logan can’t be bothered to listen to her scold him. He’s not a fucking kid, and maybe if you were acting like an adult, they wouldn’t be having this problem. 

A few doors down he can hear you shouting, then the door to your room slams open. He darts off his bed, opening his own door to see what you’re doing. He only sees the back of your head as you angrily stomp down the stairs. 

Enough is fucking enough, he was finishing this now. He was sick of your side of the bed being empty and the stupid fucking glare on your face every time you saw him. He doesn’t even bother saying anything to Jean as he leaves, just chases after you. 

Jean watches him go with a perturbed look. She steps out of the room and glances down the hall. Ororo steps out of your room and walks towards her. “Well?” Jean probes. 

Ororor shrugs, “She’s over it.” Jean smiles but it’s quickly wiped off her face by Ororo’s expression. “Not in the way we wanted.

Jean clenches her eyes shut and takes in a deep breath. She needs you two to figure your shit out or she’s never going to be able to get a good night’s sleep again.

You find yourself in the gym. It’s not your favorite place in the world, you don’t usually get to train with the others. You’re stuck with telepaths, mainly the ones who can shut your powers down if you get too out of control. That hasn’t been a problem since you got the cuffs, but you’ve been too sad to test them out. 

Now you find yourself obliterating a punching bag. You wrap the energy around your fists and let it protect the thin skin as you pummel into the bag. You don’t know what else to do. You can’t have energy meltdowns anymore. You have to try and funnel it all out physically, but it’s not working. Nothing is. 

“Imagining it’s me?” You pause midswing. You glance over to the door just in time to see Logan stalking towards you. He unzips his jacket slowly. So slowly it almost seems provocative. He tugs it off and tosses it onto a nearby bench. 

You scoff as you watch him. “Do you ever have a shirt on?”

He shrugs and moves towards the ring in the middle of the gym. His movements are lithe and fluid as he hops onto the ring, every bit a wild animal. You watch as the muscles in his torso ripple and force your eyes off of him. You try and focus your attention back on the bag, but all your earlier energy is gone. Your mind is completely wrapped around Logan. 

Which you’re sure is exactly what he wants, or he wouldn’t be staring at you so smugly as he leans against the ropes and waits for you to acknowledge him. You suck on your teeth, irritation blooming in sporadic bursts throughout your body that has you nearly shaking. Finally, you give in. 

He smirks the second your eyes meet, “I can take it, sweetheart. A lot better than that little toy of yours can.” He nods towards the punching bag but the insinuation isn’t lost on you. You and Logan had been very active in your relationship. You could barely go a day without tasting each other. 

You’ve been pent up since the breakup. You’d given in a few days ago, pulled out your old vibrator, and tried to bring even a semblance of joy back into your life. But nothing could compare to Logan. 

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he waits for you to react. He’s standing there, staring down at you with all the surety in the world that you’re going to fuck him. It makes you want to dig your nails in and rip him apart, bit by bit. 

You can already picture it in your mind, using your abilities to pick him apart until he’s nothing but molecules dispersed through the air. He’s lucky you have the cuffs on, without them you’re sure he’d already be dead. 

You smirk and move towards the edge of the ring, your voice drops as you purr up at him, “You wanna play, Logan?”

He grins and moves off the ropes, starting towards you as you make your way onto the ring. You’re slightly less graceful than he was, but you’re too focused on wiping the smug look off his face to pay attention. “Come on kid,” he taunts, voice as low as it usually is when he’s fucking into you. “Let’s see what you got.”

You’re not stupid enough to just outright swing at him. You feint to the right and bring your knee up into his ribs. He only needs one hand to wrap around your thigh and drag you forward. His other hand goes to your hip, tugging you closer until you’re practically grinding against each other. You grit your teeth and glare up at him. 

“Come on, sweetheart, that can’t be all you got for me.” Energy wraps around your head, blurring the air around you. You slam your temple against his, it provides enough of a distraction for you to yank your leg out of his grip. You throw your right fist into his ear, bouncing back with a grin as he shakes his head. 

He practically growls as he reorients himself. You shrug and smirk, “What, don’t tell me that’s all you got, wolvie.”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” he grumbles. You open your mouth, prepared to taunt him again. But he’s lunging towards you and you just barely have enough time to dart out of his way. You know he’s going easy on you. He could have had you just then if he really wanted this. 

But he’s dragging this out. Forcing you to spend as much time with him as you can. It only pisses you off further. You plant your foot on his back and kick him forward. He barely even stumbles and it only further confirms your suspicions. “Stop fucking holding back,” you yell at him. 

He turns around slowly. You almost expect there to be a sneer on his face, something angry. Instead, he looks fucking thrilled, like this is all just foreplay for him. He laughs, so low you can barely hear it, and his chest flexes as his claws come out. 

“You sure?” It’s a taunt, a dare, he knows you aren’t going to take the bait. You’d be stupid to, you don’t heal like he does. Once those things get in you, you’re screwed. But right now, you’re too pissed off to try and care. 

You don’t say anything, you just duck under his fist as he swings at you. You know he made it easy for you, giving you an opening to fall into. He’s treating you like you’re something fragile. And maybe you are. One wrong move in this fight and you might not make it through the night. But anger is making you blind to logic. 

Him playing fair just makes you want to play dirty. You use the opening he gives you, letting energy form around your fist and pulling back just enough to slam into his ribs. He coughs, doubling over as you hear bones crack under your hit. He’ll heal in seconds, you can’t bring yourself to feel too bad for him. 

Maybe if he ever took you seriously you might not be such a bitch. But he didn’t think you were good enough to be honest with and he still was treating you like a plaything. In your opinion, he deserves whatever you give him and more. He doubles over and you swing your leg around, bringing it down across his face. 

You hear a crack as your socked foot connects with his face, something crunches underneath you. And when your sole hits the mat again you see the blood leaking from his nose. You almost apologize. Almost, then you see the look on his face. His pupils are swallowing the hazel of his eyes, lips parted as he pants through his teeth. He looks fucking animalistic. 

You have no warning as he pounces on you. His lips smother your own, moving over you with little to no grace. There’s nothing romantic or gentle about this. His fingers are digging so hard into your shirt, you’re sure you hear the seams rip. But you can’t bring yourself to care. 

One of your hands goes to his hair, tugging at the roots until he’s groaning into your mouth. You rake your nails up his back roughly. He cusses against your lips, hand traveling up to your chin so he can roughly jerk you back. 

He stares down at you, a silent question on his face. You’ve barely nodded before he’s descending upon you again. Lips and teeth clash borderline painfully as he lowers you onto the mat. You’re missing all the usual love and tenderness he treats you with, but you don’t care. 

You want to be rough. You want to hurt him like he hurt you, make him ache for you the way you do him. You wrap your legs around his, lifting your pelvis until you have enough leverage to flip him. Your thighs straddle his waist and you grind down against the prominent bulge in his sweatpants. 

He groans into your open mouth, large palms grabbing at your ass and spreading you so he can thrust between your clothed thighs. You can’t help but moan at the friction. It’s just enough to keep you on edge, he pulls back every time you think you might be close to something real building. 

You rip your mouth off his. He glares up at you as you grab his hair and yank his head back. You slam his head hard enough into the mat for it to echo through the room and he growls against your grip. You grin down at him as you slowly get off him. You make a show of stripping, enjoying the way his eyes track your movements. He looks like a dog, panting and waiting for his treat. 

You’re tempted to get yourself off, making him watch, and then leave him straining against his sweatpants. But you need this bad, need him to scratch the itch you can’t reach so you can finally get him out of your head. Neither of you are patient as he jerks his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to pop out. 

It’s already leaking from the tip like a faucet. You kneel, straddling his waist again. You don’t have to do much to slick him up. You pump him a few times before he’s gripping your wrist and jerking your hand away. “Get up here,” he commands, voice rough as he grips your hips. You don’t even get a chance to protest before he’s flipping you over. 

He grabs your thighs and wraps them around his waist. Your ass is off the ground, hovering above his lap as he lines up with your slit. You moan when the tip rubs against your clit. “Whose teasing now?” You grit out, glaring at him. 

His lips curl up, that insufferable smirk on his face before he slams into you. The attitude is practically fucked out of you as he starts pumping in and out. You groan, raking your hands down his chest. He fucking moans at the pain, blood blooming under your nails and immediately closing the further down you go. 

Neither of you are giving up this fight, you don’t want to lose, not even while you’re fucking. He pulls out of you and flips you over so fast you don’t even have time to whine. He’s back in you before you can blink, hips slapping into you in a way that you know is going to leave bruises tomorrow. You’re not going to be able to sit for a week and he knows it. His hands are groping at the skin of your ass, pulling you apart and watching the skin ripple as he fucks into you. 

You’re not going to last long. You’ve been too desperate, too pent up while you’ve been pissed off at him. He leans over you, draping himself across you lazily. You groan at the added weight, it only adds to the sensation, only makes you want him deeper inside you. “Thought you didn’t want me anymore, sweetheart.” He whispers in your ear and you flutter around him as his hand snakes around your waist, rubbing tight circles on your clit. 

You open your mouth but all that comes out is disjointed moans. You know there’s something sarcastic in there, and he must know too because he laughs at your pathetic mumbled sentence. “I don’t know,” he leans back and watches as he makes room for himself inside you. “Seem to need me real bad now.”

Your nails dig into the mat, energy leaking through your fingertips and warming up the canvas beneath you. You can feel it fluctuating, fighting against the cuffs the closer he brings you to the edge. “Fuck you,” the words escape you at a particularly deep thrust and you struggle to keep your eyes open. 

He pauses and you nearly cry at the loss of movement. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you. What’d you say? Stop?”

You glare over your shoulder at him  “Don’t you fucking dare, Logan.” You let your power push up against his back, forcing his hips to move again. He chuckles at the move, fingers creating figure eights on your nub. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he protests, voice innocent. “Ah, fuck,” his voice is nothing more than low grunts and groans in your ear the closer the both of you get to your release. You can’t speak anymore, can’t think. You can feel it cresting higher and higher inside you. 

Your abilities are rising with your release. They’re pushing against the cuffs, fighting desperately against the control the foreign metal has on your powers. You can feel it, heat building up under your skin, like a tingling on the tip of your tongue that you just can’t reach. It’s Logan’s release that finally tips you over the edge. 

The way his breath catches and his hips stutter in their perfect rhythm as warmth floods you from the inside out. You can feel it, him, dribbling down your thighs and staining the mat beneath you. It has you clenching around him, pushing your hips back weakly while you let the feeling overwhelm you. You nearly black out. Two weeks without him hadn’t felt long until you remembered what you were missing. 

You lose your sense of time, dropping to the mat like your bones have gone liquid, dripping out of you. You can feel Logan draped over you still, his weight a comforting blanket that nearly has you drifting to sleep. Naked, in the middle of the boxing ring. He pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss. 

He shushes you, rubbing a hand up your spine and pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your temple. He wraps his arms around you, laying down and pulling you back into his chest. It takes a few minutes of quiet cuddling for you to remember what exactly led you down to the gym in the first place. 

You feel disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. It’s clear what his plan had been. And you’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. You’d barely even fought against him. Of course, you could reason that you needed to get the tension out. This was the perfect way to funnel out your built-up energy. 

But you’re disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. You just disregarded dignity and self-respect for a chance to get him between your legs. You were such a fucking idiot. No wonder this is all he wanted you for. 

“Shit,” you mutter, trying to pull yourself out of his grip. Your eyes widen as his arms tighten around your waist. He tugs you back down until he’s got you in what essentially feels like a headlock. He could easily pass it off as spooning, but it feels a little more demanding than that. “Logan,” you warn, the silent peace of the moment officially shattered. 

“Don’t,” he gripes. You can fight against him for as long as you want, but you’ll only tire yourself out. His arms are literally metal bands around you. “Let me talk and then you can run off.” You huff and wait, but he never speaks. Finally, you look over your shoulder and glare at him. “Well?”

You roll your eyes, “Fuck’s sake,” you mutter. “Alright, speak.”

You can feel his grin against the back of your head. If he didn’t have you in such a tight grip, you’d elbow him in the gut just to be petty. “I made a mistake,” you scoff and he keeps going. Stopping you from interrupting him with something bitchy. “You weren’t just something convenient to me, sweetheart.” he pauses and chuckles, “You’re a huge fucking pain in my ass.”

“Is this your idea of an apology?” You snap, “Because this is pathetic.” 

He doesn’t say anything and you’re tempted to snark at him again. But then the world is flipped on its side as he jerks you around and forces you to face him. Your chests rub together, the sweaty skin sticking together and bordering on uncomfortable. “You ever shut up?” He asks, but there’s no heat to the words. If anything he looks fond of you, and it makes you shift around, trying not to look him in the eye. But there’s nowhere for you to hide, you’re both naked and bare before each other. 

You’re as physically vulnerable as he must feel emotionally. And as much as this is a horrible way to display how he’s feeling, you’re starting to understand him a little better. You know why this conversation is so hard for him, why he can’t accept that someone truly loves him and he loves her back. 

But that’s not going to get him out of it. He’s still yet to say the words. Maybe if he manned up and said something real you’d consider forgiving him. You give him an expectant look and he sighs, forehead pressed against yours as he slumps over you. You want to pretend you’re annoyed at the contact, but you’ve been craving it since you ran away two weeks ago.

You’ve been desperate for this warmth that only he can provide you. Without realizing it, you nuzzle further into his chest, hands drifting up to wrap around his bare waist. Logan feels the tightness in him ease slightly at the way you curl into him. He’s got a shot, even if you try and tell him he doesn’t.  

It’s silent for a while, while you linger in the emotions of what just happened and he tries to find the right words. He leans down, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and smiling against the shell of your ear. “I love you,” he whispers. 

You’d told yourself you’d only consider forgiving him if he said those words. But that’s only because you’d never thought he would actually say it. You didn’t think he was capable of admitting that to himself. It seems so out of character for him. But, maybe, you don’t know him as well as you thought you did. 

He pulls back, hand landing on your jaw and gently guiding your head out of his neck. He gives you an expectant look but you’re finding it hard to meet his eyes. You’ve been waiting for him to say that, but now it feels like you can’t. You’re still struggling to forgive him. He put you through so much unnecessary hurt just because he couldn’t face his own feelings. 

And now you’re struggling to do the same. “I want to say it back,” you tell him. “But how am I supposed to trust that the next time things get hard, you won’t lash out again?”

He frowns, an irritated huff of breath shooting out his nose. But you know it’s frustration towards himself. For letting you both get to this point because he couldn’t just say three words. “I’ll wait,” he promises. “For as long as it takes, I’ll wait.” 

You smile and nod, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. You’re sure you’ll be saying it sooner rather than later. But what’s the harm in making him squirm a little? He deserves it. 

A/N: I don’t write smut, it’s literally in my rules. I think I stared at a gif of him for too long and some horny ass demon possessed me and made me write this. Forgive me, universe, I’m no better than a man.

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.

[taintandviolent]

Taco Tuesday ; Gambit x reader!

summary: You live across the hall from Wade Wilson, and one Tuesday, he invites you over for tacos. 🌮 And that’s where you meet him. The Gambit. Post-Void, everyone got out alive and everything is fine. [PART TWO HERE]

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5.4K | smut with very little plot, alcohol mention, slightly drunk (but very consenting) reader, French and typing out accents/dialects, pet names (cher, mon ami, mon coeur, etc.), dirty talk (cos he is a dirty talker, don't argue with me on this), fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, no use of y/n.

a/n: this is based 100% on Deadpool and Wolverine Gambit / Channing's version of Gambit!! sorry for the lack of plot here, he deserves better than this filth, but I am down ASTRONOMICALLY and I needed to get it out. I spent so much time trying to get his accent right, I hope it comes off the way I wanted it to... anyway! i'm not certain if anyone will read this, but if you do - thank you a million times over! as always, requests are open! - banner by @/strangergraphics, and Remy gif by @scintie!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

He’s handsome. Like really handsome. 

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle of Jack between your legs — wait. Pause. Rewind. How’d we get here?

Living in the same apartment complex as Wade Wilson was a trip. Even more of a trip was living across the hall from him. The things you heard coming from that apartment... nobody would believe you. So, you never told anyone. 

He’s kind. Albeit, zany but kind. Your interactions have been cordial and nauseatingly neighbourly. But on one regular ol' Tuesday afternoon, Wade invited you inside. He said something about having a party later that night, making tacos and being neighborly. He assured you that it wasn't a sex party... which to be honest, you weren't worried about until he'd mentioned it. Against your better judgement though, you'd agreed, and said you'd bring some liquor.

So, that evening, you opened your door, one bottle of Jack tucked under your arm, and another in your left hand. You shut the door to your apartment and walked straight across to your neighbour’s door. Your fist had rapped against the wood only twice before the door swung open, revealing Wade, and a very… strange and very bald looking dog in his arms. 

"Oh, what the fuck?" You asked, looking down at the creature. "I didn't know you had a dog…?"

Wade’s voice rose an octave or two, in a cutesy tone. "She's a new addition, yes she is!" 

"I brought... well, this. Sorry, it was all I had in my cabinets and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't about to go out and spend money on this. I like… barely know you."

"HA! Brutal honesty. We love to hear it." 

Wade took hold of your shoulder and yanked you inside, harsh enough that you made a small sound as he did. He shut the door with his foot, and towed you towards the table, where everyone was gathered. And that was when you first saw him. He wore all black, save for a tan trench coat with a high collar. He lounged casually on one of the dining chairs, playing with a deck of cards. They fluttered from hand to hand effortlessly, and for a moment, you were stuck, mesmerized by the dexterous way he handled them. You weren't sure what was pulling you towards him harder, your heart or your cunt, but you felt an undeniable draw to the man.

Wade's arm wound itself around your shoulders, guiding you around the room to meet each of his friends. At that point, living next to him, mutants were a forced transition. You were used to the concept of them, so meeting a giant silver man, for example, wasn't unexpected. Vanessa was the most normal - you were pretty sure she was human.

Finally, he got to the one you really wanted to meet. The one that your eyes had been darting back and forth to the entire time, the one that when he briefly met your gaze, your heart thudded in your chest. 

"And this... handsome slice of man, is the Gambit. Good luck understanding him, he's a real mouthful."

I’ll bet he is, you thought. 

He pocketed the cards in a quick motion and stood up from his chair. With a syrup-smooth chuckle, the man laughed and said: "You can call me Remy." He did in fact have a thick Cajun accent and spoke quickly – almost too quickly. You blinked once, focusing hard on his words.

"Remy," you repeated finally, before saying your own name and extending your hand. He took it gently and as he shook it, your palm tingled with what felt like electricity.

"Enchanté." (Enchanted)

Your cheeks burned, and you knew they were flushing. You couldn’t control it. "De même..." (Likewise.)

His brows lifted, surprised. "You speak French, mon ami?" (my friend) 

"Heh, uhh... comme un enfant." (Like a child) You chuckled low, averting your eyes for a millisecond. "I took a few years of it in high school and again in college. I’m by no means an expert."

Wade's eyes were wide, flicking back and forth between the two of you. There was obvious chemistry there, and a knowing smirk drew itself across his lips. Abruptly, he yanked one of the bottles of Jack Daniels from beneath your arm, before leaning against the nearby wall.

"Oh, fuck me. You understand Gumbo here? That’s cute. No idea what either of you are saying though, someone forgot to turn the subtitles on. I'll leave you two to get acquainted." Whatever that meant. You scoffed, but turned your attention back to Gambit, looking at him.

“Sit a while, cher.” 

You happily took the chair that he pulled out, not caring that it was facing away from the others, and plopped down onto it, situating the other bottle of Jack between your legs. You gripped the neck of the bottle tightly, and looked at him with a timid, but a come hither sort of smile. After a moment, you twisted the cap off, and flicked it off somewhere to your right. Wade would find it later, or he wouldn’t. You didn’t really care. 

You two talked for hours, most of which consisted of him telling you about the Void, and how hard it had been, while you pretended to comprehend it. Between words, you passed the bottle back and forth, taking mouthfuls, and inadvertently swapping spit as you did. The thought occurred to you about halfway through the conversation, and your stomach tightened. You shook your head lightly and clenched your thighs together, trying to stave off the arousal that was bubbling in your core. 

There we go. That’s better.

He’s handsome. Like really handsome. 

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle, which was still situated between your legs. His fingertips just graze the side of your thigh and his eyes flit to yours. He holds his smile, waiting for you to either protest or move the moment forward, and all you can do is gawk, because your cunt starts throbbing. 

As the evening wears on, though cautious, it’s obvious that Remy feels the same pull that you do. He remains cool on the outside, but internally, he was battling the magnetic tugging he felt from you. He couldn't shake it. He’d compliment you, you’d compliment him. At one point, in between sips, you casually drop that you think his accent is hot and he whispers something underneath his breath, something you don’t understand. Before either of you realized it, you had started to lean closer to each other, your faces inches apart, and you felt the warm rush of his breath over your cheeks.

It was as if you both realized it simultaneously. You rear back, an embarrassed expression plastered on your face. Remy clears his throat. His attraction to you was stifling; something that he rarely felt. He was powerless in his want for you, the draw you had was irresistible.

"Maybe we should... uh..." You murmur, looking deep into his eyes. In a room full of people that were starting to fade away the closer you two got to each other, you were thankful you were still sober enough to suggest a different setting. Any longer and you surely would’ve just straddled him and gone to town. 

Remy moves first. 

"We gon' take a walk." He announces to the others, getting to his feet. 

The conversation stops abruptly, silence hanging heavy. You straighten up, trying your best to avert your gaze, but you still see everyone’s reaction. Someone clears their throat and your heart sinks, feeling like you might die on the spot. The one that had been introduced as Logan, gruff looking dude, raises a single brow at you. In true Wade-character, he ugly cackles, shattering the moment. Your shoulders sink, embarrassed, as you head towards the door, doing the proverbial walk of shame. 

Remy meets you at the door and pulls it open, holding it for you. You duck underneath his arm, looking sheepish and as you exit into the hallway, you think you heard Wade mutter something about a fanfiction but Remy yanks the door shut before you can react. 

“You want to… get some air? Or um… I have… well, no I had liquor, but I brought it to Wade’s.” 

He smiles, and looks down at the floor, before lifting his eyes back to you. “We can do whatever you want, chère. You ain’t gon’ catch me complainin’ eitha’ way.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering the options. Your heart was hammering in your chest at the prospect of just being near him without the others around. You two had been close to kissing in Wade’s living room, and now, you had the opportunity to continue that… or take a walk. The latter seemed less appealing. 

“Y’know what, why don’t we… just…” You take a few steps backwards, jerking your head towards your front door. Concerningly, you had forgotten to lock your door. However, it allows you to open it quickly, and walk backwards into the apartment. Gambit follows you in, his attention never leaving you. 

"You sure 'bout dis, mon ami? I can walk away righ' now." His words land heavy, a promise behind them. He was a gentleman at heart, you could tell. Fortunately for him, you were very sure, and wanted every inch of him.

Mon ami - something that in the few hours you'd spent with him, he'd called you often. Among other things. Mon ami meant my friend, but you knew you two weren't just friends. You saw how he acted with others, and the comments he made. Sure, he had a quick wit and a mouth on him, but the flirting... god, the flirting.

He stands in the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame. Silently, you nod and take another step back, giving him some room to enter. He takes one wide step towards you, leaving the door open behind him. He reaches for your hip, and you immediately take to playing with his large hands. Delicately, you pay attention to each long digit, trailing your middle finger along the knuckles, and up and down the length of them. You dip into the spaces between, your fingers barely ghosting over the webbing. 

Was that a shiver? Your eyes flit to his, searching them for a hint.

"You sure do know how to make a man feel good." 

Your heart flutters at his words. With his accent, even the simplest of things sounded charming. At least to you. You felt that he could ask if you wanted coffee or how the weather was and you'd be twirling your hair around your finger like a desperate schoolgirl. Embarrassing. 

You’re about to respond and defend yourself by saying that all you had done was play with his hands, which was hardly considered foreplay, but his fingers come up underneath your chin, gently closing your mouth with a dull click of your teeth. He tilts it upwards to an angle where he could easily kiss you. And kiss you, he does. 

It was the kind of kiss that makes your knees buckle, sends a violent shudder from the nape of your neck down to the base of your spine. It’s the kind of kiss that needs to come with a warning; Danger: Will Result In Sex. As his lips move against yours, you feel the urgency of his need, of his want, and hum into his lips. Remy takes that as a green light and deepens the kiss, moving his body so that it’s pressing flush against yours. The action leaves you immediately breathless and in response, you break the kiss, tucking your chin to your chest. Your hand finds his torso, pressing hard against the muscles underneath the shirt.  

"Ah, don't you be actin' shy now. You been teasin' me for hours."

“I have not!”

“You think I didn’t notice all ‘dem touches an’ looks you were givin’ me? I may ‘ave been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.” 

He had you there. You couldn’t deny that, at all. Even if you’d wanted to. Which, part of you did. Part of you was very nervous, standing before this very handsome man, with the taste of his mouth still lingering on your lips but another part of you, the louder one, was delighted that he’d noticed. Furthermore, that he’d enjoyed them enough to come to your room.

You lift your hand behind him, pushing the door shut with a harsh shove. With a twist of your fingers, you activate the locking mechanism, sliding the deadbolt into place. Gambit chuckles, grinning down at you. Your heart leaps into your throat, but you press on bravely, lacing your arms around his neck. They trail down the front of his body, feeling the muscles as they twitch with each ragged breath. 

He quirks a brow as if to ask, 'Oh, really?' You simply smirk back at him. The contact is electric, and you find yourself resisting the urge to grind against him immediately. Instead, you focus on his hands again, bringing one of them up to your lips. You press a delicate kiss on the pads, before slipping one into your mouth and sucking gently. Remy makes a deep, husky sound in his throat, and brings his other hand to your hip, where he pulls you roughly against him.

For a man that uses his hands often, the sensations are high. The way your mouth envelops his finger, your tongue writhing around the digit had his jaw clenching, muscles fluttering on the side of his face. When you draw his finger into the confines of your throat, deep-throating it, his eyes roll back in pleasure. He pulls his hand back, shaking it off as if the inside of your mouth was hot to the touch.

"Woo, you nasty, huh? Nevah’ woulda' guessed... you been actin' like a good little girl 'uhround me." 

After that, it all happened very quickly. Gambit takes a step and connects his lips with yours again, pushing them into you in an act of desperation. Without breaking the kiss, he shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby surface. You push against him until his back hits the door with a heavy thud, definitely loud enough for any innocent bystanders to hear. Your fingers undo the button of your jeans, breaking the kiss for only a second to slide them down your legs. 

Once you return to his waiting mouth, the kiss deepens and the coil in your stomach winds tighter, claiming your body in a deep, fiery arousal. His big arms wrap around you, enveloping you in a heated embrace. Just for a moment, it’s tender — but shortly after, his hands drop to your ass, fingers slipping underneath the band of fabric to take greedy fistfuls of each cheek. 

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the roundness of them to use as leverage. Letting out a little hum, you sweep your hips across his groin, pressing tightly against him. His eyes drift shut, head bumping against the door as he leaned it back, a low growl coming from his throat. Keeping at it, you grind your hips against him, feeling the outline of his length as it hardens.

“You be drivin’ Remy crazy, grindin’ on me like ‘dat.”

“That’s the intention….” You stand on your tiptoes to pepper kisses on his lips, your warm breath fanning over his face, smelling faintly of Jack Daniels. Remy trails his hand carefully up your rib cage until he gets to the side of your breast, where he quickly slips around to the front, his large hand cupping the fullness of it outside of your shirt. Your reaction is visceral; your breath hisses through your teeth at the sensitivity. 

Remy laughs again and with his free hand, pulls your hips back to his. Swiftly, he spins you around, pinning you between his body and the hard surface of the door. He presses himself tightly against you, shifting slightly so that his thigh was between your legs. The sensation of something that close to your core is dangerous and brings a weak, mewling whimper from your mouth.

“We gon’ have ourselves some fun.” His voice is low, tinged with a new sort of lustful tone that you hadn't heard before. Your mind is spinning, growing dizzy with lust. The alcohol had certainly helped your nerves, you were never usually this brazen. Your core burns with desire at his words, silently begging for everything he was about to give you. His lips hover just over yours; you can feel his breath on your skin and the heat that radiates off his body as it presses into yours.

"Oh my god," you whisper into his mouth. "Fuck..."

His teeth nip at your bottom lip before he captures your mouth in a heated, passionate kiss again. His tongue explores the inside, swirling along your own wet muscle. With every passing second, your heart beats faster and his hands grip your hips tighter, thumbs massaging the flesh above your jeans.

“Wrap ‘dem legs around me, mon coeur.” (My heart) Remy’s voice is husky with want; amongst his playful, lilted tone, a possessiveness lingered, and the thought sends a chill down your spine. He nods once, encouraging you into his waiting arms. You jump up, and he catches you effortlessly, gripping your thighs tight and hoisting you up into his grasp. Feeling secure, you wrap both legs around his waist and encircle his neck with your arms. Your gaze meets his and you can see the wanton need mirrored in his own eyes, darkened with desire.

Remy's smirk is dripping with confidence. Your body's response to him was causing his ego to swell within his chest, and his cock to swell within his pants. He leans in close, his lips against your ear, nipping at the lobe softly before pulling back slightly. In one fluid movement, his hips buck up against your center, teasing you over the layers of clothing. You let out a moan, throwing your head back against the door.

He thrusts up into you again, chuckling low against your ear. The hard line of his cock grinds against you, making you stutter out expletives as it presses against you with a needy demand. 

"You like 'dat, cher? Talk t' me..."

You nod, swallowing and wetting your throat. "Y-yeah, fuck... I do... need you – it – so bad."

“Whaddya’ need?”

“N-need you… so bad.” 

“You can do betta’. Tell Remy what you need...” 

He presses you harder against the door, your back sliding against the wood as he kisses a trail down from your mouth to your shoulder, sucking and biting with all the right intensities. As his hips grind against yours, you feel the damp fabric slide across your cunt, alerting you to just how wet he’d made you. Fuck. 

“Need… need you to fuck me. Hard. Need to feel you everywhere.”  

A few hours ago, you’d agreed to Taco Tuesday at Wade’s. Now, you were getting dry humped by a really hot Cajun guy and moaning into the curve between his neck and his shoulder. You were positive that if someone opened their door, they’d hear you. Somewhere in your brain, the thought should have been moderately embarrassing, but you were far too invested in Remy to care. 

Without warning, Gambit lifts you away from the door and carries you to the nearby couch. He never breaks the kiss, still feverishly claiming your mouth as he moves. Your back hits the cushions and before you can process it, his body weight is on top of you. He slots himself in between your legs, and his hard-on bumps into your stomach as his hips rut against you, finding some relief in the friction. But not enough. 

Remy’s hand finds the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to allow his fingers underneath the fabric. You bite down on the pillow of your bottom lip and push your hips up into his. Thick, strong digits sweep across your skin, leaving a burning trail of fire in their wake. Every touch brings your temperature up, and it isn’t long before your entire body is consumed in flames. You sigh contentedly, arching up into his touch. 

Abruptly, Remy straightens up, crosses his arms over his torso and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his tan skin and bulky muscles. His stocky stature makes your tummy clench with anticipation. He was fit, as you assumed, but that didn’t stop your jaw from falling open at the sight. 

“Wow,” you finally choke.

Remy grins. “You like what you see?” 

You nod furiously, hands snapping to his toned abdomen. He’s warm and his skin is soft, begging to be touched. The muscles flex underneath your fingers as you trace a long stripe from his belly button to his collarbone. Your hands claw at his shoulder, attempting to pull him back down on you, but he resists. 

He spoke with a playfulness, almost a sort of pleading. His thumbs flicks at the hem of your shirt. “Ah, c’mon, ‘dat ain’t fair. Enlève-tout toi, huh?” (Take it all off.)

You thought you understood, but if you didn’t, it didn’t matter. Remy was quick to translate his words, busy undressing you, pulling your worn t-shirt over your head, and reaching around your back to unclasp your bra. Most men would’ve fumbled with the clasp, but not him. His adept fingers make quick work of it, allowing your breasts to fall free. He throws your bra somewhere behind him. 

“Hooo, cher…!” His eyes light up at the visual and you feel heat blooming on your cheeks again, half expecting him to make a lewd comment. Instead, his hands cup your tits, kneading the soft plumpness like dough, thumbs grazing the nipples. He exhales through his mouth, jerking his head to the side. 

Finally, he kisses you again. It’s wet and sloppy and his mouth is consuming you, tasting you hungrily. His hips are still moving, sweeping into yours with a calculated precision. You try to spread your legs but the back of the couch thwarts your attempt. He notices this, watching as you struggle with the space. 

“You got a bed?” He asked in between smearing kisses along your neck and collarbone. 

“Yeah-yeah…. Down the hall.” 

“Remy be needin’ more room for what he wanna’ do t’you.”

His weight is suddenly gone from you, an unwelcome sensation, even though you know he’s about to carry you wedding-style down the hallway. He bends down, one arm sliding underneath your neck, the other in the crook behind your knees. For the second time that night, he lifts you into his arms.

You rest your cheek against his warm pectoral muscle, rocking back and forth, as he walks you both down the dark hallway. The only light in the room comes from the window, the city outside alive and humming. Carefully, Remy sets you down on the bed, unmade from this morning, your dark gray sheets cool to the touch. 

In nothing but your underwear, which at this point, are damp to the touch, you’re left feeling very exposed. But you can’t muster up any shame, not when he’s looking at you with such hunger, such want. Your tummy feels tight, and the feeling gets worse when Remy’s hands drop to his waist, unzipping and unbuttoning his pants. They fall loose at the waist, and he shucks them down the rest of the way, leaving him in nothing but a pair of deep purple boxers. Your eyes swing heavy to the outline that’s now presented to you. 

Oh my god. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Remy was a big guy, and that proved true downstairs, too. You can barely pull your eyes away from it, but you begrudgingly rip them away, to look up into his gaze. 

“Please,” you beg. “You’re too far away…” Your cunt is aching and nothing but him, his hands, his dick, will sate her. 

He leans forward, flattening both hands on the mattress and walks them back until his face is in front of yours. He sweeps you into another kiss and your heart races. His hands are perfectly positioned on either side of your hips, you feel them graze the flesh. His finger hooks around the elastic of your panties, twisting it around his pointer finger and gradually, he tugs them down over the curve of your hip.

You nod lazily against his mouth, as you feel the warmth of his hand near your core. Your legs drop apart, knees touching the mattress as you allow him access. One hand sweeps across your inner thighs, stroking them, while the other palms your soft mound. His other hand comes to pause at your knee, and pushes his weight into it softly, forcing you to stay spread-eagle for him. No way you could’ve done this on the sofa. 

There’s no hesitation in the way he fingers you; sweeping up through your slick folds, smearing your arousal around until she’s coated in it, splaying your pretty, wet cunt apart with his fingers, looking upon it hungrily. He knows what he’s doing, and how to do it right. You briefly wonder if that’s another mutant power he has… though being an expert at fingering someone seems outlandish. But he’s just so good at it. His middle finger barely touches you, circling the bundle of nerves delicately. Your back arches up towards him, a desperate groan vibrating your vocal chords. Delighted by your reaction, his finger flicks upwards at your swollen, sensitive clit, making your body literally quiver. 

“Uhugh – god…. Shit, oh my god.” 

He continues like this for several minutes, until your cunt is blazing hot and clenching with every moan you give. 

By the time he presses one finger inside, you’re teetering on the edge of an orgasm and your voice fills the room with needy, desperate sounds. You let out a shrill whine, and he slips in another finger, feeling the stretch of muscle as he does. His heart is pounding in his chest, overcome with lust. The way you sound, the way your body is moving and writhing on the bed, he can’t wait to sink himself into you. 

Amidst a laugh, he says: “People gon’ think we up in here watchin’ porn.”

Did he just insinuate that you sounded like a pornstar? You lifted your head, wearily, to look at him. Your chest heaves with each breath as you try to formulate a snarky remark to no avail. He looked so good – well, always – but he looked particularly good on top of you, his bright eyes lust blown and hungry. 

“We’re… we’re… porn… it’s…  oh god.” 

He shushes you. “You just lay back and keep moanin’.” 

Defeated, you huff and your head hits the sheets again, but not before you catch a glimpse of the way the muscles in his forearm ripple as it pumps back and forth into your cunt. You can’t help but moan at the sight, feeling a shockwave rupture your core. Your hips meet his fingers, rutting and writhing against the mattress in a needy rhythm.

Your first orgasm claims your body before you can stop it. You’re clenching around his fingers as they move, crooking upwards into your sensitive spots. Your slick coats his fingers and when Gambit pulls his hand back, thick, clear strands string from between them. He smiles down at you. 

Remy raises himself to his knees. “Turn ‘round…” 

You flip over and back yourself towards him, thinking that he’s going to go at it doggy-style, but to your surprise, he pulls you upright, pressing your back against his chest. His dick is hot between your legs, and when he reaches down to line it up, you let your head loll back against his shoulder. Gambit’s mouth finds the side of your neck, streaking it with wet, suckling kisses. He was taking his time with you, savouring you and you hum happily through closed lips, reaching behind you to thread your fingers through his hair.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” Instinctively, your hips undulate and his cock slips between your folds. Remy’s hips buck once, letting out a groan that comes from somewhere deep. 

“You ready, cher?” He asks, sweeping your hair away from your neck. You nod furiously. You’ve been ready – you were ready the moment you laid eyes on him.

Remy reaches down to sweep his fingers along your entrance briefly, before gripping himself and guiding the head of his cock into the slit. You keen at the feeling of his velvet-soft head pressing into your entrance, warm pre-cum leaking from the slit. He murmurs words of encouragement into your ear as you feel his hips press against your ass, urging his thick, veiny shaft inside your cunt. He does it gently, allowing you time to adjust to the girth, but the sting still makes you cry out. “Fffuck!”

He begins to thrust his hips shallowly, your cunt stretching around his cock. The feeling is all-consuming, and your body feels heavy in his grasp. One hand is gripping your waist tightly, the other, fingers splayed out on your stomach just above your cunt. There’s a pressure building in your cunt, and each thrust magnifies it. The sting of his cock fades to an ache, then to a dull throbbing that makes you want more and you lean forward slightly and press your ass into the curves of his hips, meeting his thrusts. 

“Mm, ‘dat’s it, cher…” His voice is hot on your skin. 

His thrusts get deeper, but there’s a lingering tension in his body that makes you feel like he’s not getting what he wants. You’re right; all at once, Remy pulls his cock from you and switches positions. 

You’re suddenly on your back, looking up at him as he looms over you, all muscle. His cockhead nudges your entrance again, but doesn’t penetrate. 

“Say my name, cher… I needa’ hear it leave ‘dat pretty mouth.” 

“Which one? Gambit? Or Remy?” You ask, breathlessly.

The way his eyes rolled back at the second option told you everything you needed to know. A smirk twisted your lips cruelly and you lifted your body slightly, just enough for your mouth to reach his ear. You moan his name over and over again, knowing full well the effect it’s having on the mutant man.

“Remy, Remy, Remy….” Your tone is high-pitched and whiny, but he seems to enjoy the lewdness of it all. He bucks his hips hard into you, and the fullness reaches an all-time high as he bottoms out, his pelvis hitting yours with a slap.

“Huhhh—!” You gasp, breathing ragged. “Fuck!”

“Gonna’ make you cum so hard you ain’t gon’ walk right for days.” His voice is low and filthy and leaves a stain on your mind. Your cunt clenches around him possessively, pulling him somehow deeper inside of you. 

As your head bangs into your headboard, the tip of his cock bumps your cervix over and over again, and your jaw goes slack, literally fucked silent. Remy hears the thudding of your skull and puts a hand between it and the wood, but he doesn’t stop his relentless, deep thrusting. 

The pleasure reaches a peak and your nails dig into his back, leaving crescent moon shaped indentations on his golden skin. Remy’s groaning loud into your ear as he cums, muttering in an almost incoherent melange of French and English. His accent is somehow heavier, and you can barely make out the words as he’s saying them into your skin. It doesn’t matter though, because you feel how full you are, and Remy’s hot, white completion is leaking out the sides and staining your sheets. 

He stays like that for a moment, hovering on top of you. His cock softens inside, completely spent and eventually, he slips it out, rolling over onto your bed.

“Ah, joi de vivre, huh.” (the joy of life), he says drowsily.

You laugh, and nestle underneath his arm, in the space he’s left for you. 

If you had your way, you’d do it all over again. 

Though he doesn’t say it, so would he. 

[badger-with-a-boa]

Me waiting for Cerebella to finally get her own cover

[dilf-docs]

X Si Volvemos

ex older bf!logan x younger fem!reader

summary: there are many things you and logan disagree in; but not when it comes to things in bed.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (phew), smut, ex!logan, exes to ????, p in v, creampie, reader's in her early to middle twenties so her frontal lobe hasn't developed yet; don't expect any reasonable thinking on her side, logan is on his middle to late 40s, angst (duh), this happens in an AU where mutants don't exist bc i don't wanna complicate myself with timelines lol hence time isn't really important but it's contemporary, the vibes i bring to the function are more sad than horny and i'm sorry, toxic too! may build a series around it?

word count: 1,925 words

side note: the incredible @bpmiranda's got me with a very bad case of ex!logan fever :( plus after listening to karol G's album mañana será bonito and seeing i may or may not be obssesed with romeo santos, i got the song in the title on loop: as you can see, it's all very fitting ++ don't forget to check out her stories, they're so good istg!!!!

You shouldn't call.

"Logan" you speak. His name burns in the tip of your tongue, like a secret you're not supposed to tell.

He shouldn't answer.

It's quiet at first on the other line, until a rough voice says I'm here, appearing to be distant, but who is he trying to fool? As soon as he saw the number pop on the screen, his fingers moved with a learned urgency.

You shouldn't keep calling.

"I need you" three words to cover those you actually mean; hanging in the spaces between the silence.

I miss you. I love you.

Your hear a heavy sigh on the other end.

He shouldn't keep answering.

"Princess..." Logan pleads, "don't do this"

You know better than that, he wants to say, but keeps his mouth shut. Just to hear your voice, just to-

"Please, Lo" you whine out. Logan grabs his jeans with force, the fabric strained under his white-knuckled grip. It takes him a lot not to run to you right there and now.

"Don't" but his voice cracks as much as his resistance.

"I've got the house" you whisper the prayer; a routine so sacred none of you seem to break it, "just for us"

"Y/n" even saying your name is painful; like the most addicting and damaging drug to ever exist, "stop"

Logan loved your stubborn heart, but there are times where he wishes you weren't like this.

"I'm sorry" and then he hangs up.

I'm sorry for not being who you needed. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry I keep on coming back after I said I would leave you alone. I'm sorry I can't keep my promises.

You feel it around your neck―bruises in the vocals your voice has failed to scream; it chokes you with rage.

"Are you stupid?" you ask yourself in the mirror.

What are you doing? Why are you doing this to yourself? Do you love him more than you love you?

You dial again, but this time, it's a girl who picks up.

"Yeah?"

"Hi. Wanna go out?"

Logan feels so out of place, but this used to be your favorite bar, and he's desperate for a drink.

Listening to your voice has always made him weak, but after you broke up, it drives him crazy.

He empties another glass, feeling pathetic. This is how bad it's gotten: you've got him scouring the places you used to go, chasing your ghost, trying to get a glimpse of your silhouette or a whiff of the phantom of your scent, the lavender haunting him; getting under his skin.

A song beggins playing, and it's the same vinyl set from two years ago. The night he met you: a pretty young thing so out of place in an old bar like that, playing hard to get, only to end the night moaning over him, fogging his car's windows, saying his name in a way no one else had before. He still remembers the way your legs trembled but he held you, beads of sweat confusing themselves with the glitter on your skin. Logan doesn't know what that is, but he's marveled, so in awe of you, everything of you: young, new, exciting.

But every new thing wears out, and the gap he swore wouldn't matter came crashing in years that built a distance between him and you.

So he did what he did best: ruin it. Deny the feelings bubbling inside; let them consume his reasoning, pushing you like he had done with everyone who cared about him before.

When he broke your heart, he took a part with him. So you keep coming back, looking for it; trying to piece yourself together. And he let's you: because God knows you have a part of himself too.

He's so drunk he probably imagines the hint of lavender in the whiskey tinted air. He's so desperate to see you again, he's seeing your face among the crowd. He's definitely gone insane: hearing that laugh he misses every day.

"Y/n..."

The music pauses: all you can hear is your name being said in that way like it belongs to him.

"...Logan"

He walks in autopilot over to the table you and a group of girls are sitting. They're all beautiful―beautiful people attract beautiful people, but he's only got eyes for you.

"What are you doing here?"

He raises a glass he didn't know he was carrying, "having a drink".

Your lips purse, and Logan doesn't know if it's because you're laughing at him or sad.

"I see" but you divert your gaze, looking at your outfit's neck. The outfit you chose: a black dress that pushes your tits on top. They are on display, and Logan feels played by you―his eyes trained on the strained fabric, tongue watering like it did when he would lick your sensitive nipples.

"I see too" he says in automatic, and one of your friends laughs. He looks away, thanking the low lights, or you'd see the red embarrassment on his face.

You stand up and walk over to him, and your friends sense it's time to leave the two of you alone.

"Why did you hang up?" you throw the question so casually; the nerve you have.

"What do you mean?" it's the only thing that comes to his mind. Very stupid, indeed.

You scoff, "delete my number, then"

"You keep on calling" he bites back.

"And you keep answering"

You never shut up. He hates that.

"I may have to stop"

You get closer, way too closer. So much, your hot breathe clouds his judgment.

"Try to" you dare.

And he tries, he really tries. But not today.

Not today when he takes you home, finally looking complete with you in it again. You had moved out after your last discussion, saying you'll never be back.

"You haven't changed a thing" you murmur in between kisses, and he can sense a bit of melodrama in his voice that makes him roll his eyes despite the dull ache on his chest.

He picks up your body swiftly, carrying you up to the bedroom.

"Why would I?" he asks, voice so low and small you almost miss it.

"Because you hate me" you avoid his eyes, even if your faces are too close, loosing all that corageous character of yours, "said you would get rid of it; of everything that reminded you of me"

But when he drops you softly on the matress, there's still that lamp you got him in the night table.

"I couldn't" he confesses.

I couldn't, he means, because I couldn't let you go.

But you both know it won't work out, something you knew right from the start: because toxic loves only fulfill basic needs. This isn't healthy, but he forgets it all as soon as you're moaning his name. Still, he promises himself he will say goodbye to you this time, even if it's inside of you.

"Shut up and kiss me, then" you're always pushing him around, making him do the things he desires to but doesn't want to do.

So he obliges, leaning in, the lavender so strong all over your sweet skin, poisoning his mouth on every kiss he leaves. He feels you squirm under him, goosebumps along your skin, prickling against his, so visible he can see and feel it even in the dim lit room.

"Take it" Logan doesn't look at you, but when he does, you feel him stare deep into your soul, "I know you want it"

He's sliding his dick inside you as soon as the sentence is over, the permission to take you and use you implicit. He robs a drawn-out groan out of you.

"So tight for me" he murmurs against your shoulder, sharp breaths and soft groans flooding your ears. His cock hits deep within you, hard thrust no one has ever been able to replicate, making you gasp for air, burying your face in the plush pillows now drenched in your sweat.

"You're so deep" you hiss, hot and overwhelmed, waves of pleasure hitting like water against cliffside rocks. "So big, Lo" you whine, dizzy at the way your pussy stretches for him.

"Just for you" he grunts out, and it's the truth. No matter how dark the room is or how many faces he avoids, he always looks into the eyes of the other women he fucks, his heart sinking when he can no longer pretend it's you, "fuck, squeeze a bit more".

Hearing his deep voice, rough when you fuck, always making you soak, coating his dick in your juices. You grip tight, as tight as the nails that hold onto his shoulders, making him moan at the pain.

"Like that, princess. Good girl" you moan at the praise, "I know you could take me, all of me"

He grunts and pants, holding you tighter as his cock pumps faster, in sync with your now closer to happening orgasm.

Before it, he slows down his thrusts, "where do you want me to cum, princess?"

He wants to, inside of you, but he can't do so, not when he promised he wouldn't ruin your life. But making you his, marking you as only his, makes his dick inside you twitch. Fuck, he's so balls deep inside you all he can think is filling you up silly.

"Inside me, Lo" like you read his thoughts, and it always amazes and scares him; how deep inside his mind you are. Never happened, not in his four decades of life. And that's part of the problem: he's closer to death than you are but it's only with you, young―blossoming with life, that he feels truly alive.

So how can he say no, when you plead and beg with those pretty doe eyes of yours? Who could imagine such a sweet thing to be so needy. He feels like you could ask for his heart, and he'd carve a hole in his body for you―bleeding out of love; dying with a smile.

"Such a greedy little thing, princess" he mocks, but his tone betrays him―dripping in adoration, "want me to fill you up all nice?"

A broken wail is what he takes as your answer, your mind in blank.

He finds himself letting go, way faster than he should; he just misses you and your needy dripping pussy that much. You can't hold back longer either, rush flowing through your veins, much more satisfying than the alcohol you had drank an hour ago.

Logan paints your insides with layers of his hot cum, mumbling a soft:

"Anything for my princess" he keeps going, panting as he's milked entirely dry, "anything you want, my girl"

Your vision is still spotty, mind fogged: you're sure that's the reason the hurt hasn't settled in your heart yet.

Then the silence comes, like it always does now.

"Y/n" you always love when he calls you by your name, but you hate the way he's saying it now. Like a goodbye.

"Don't-" you plead, begging he shuts up. But he pulls out, and says:

"It's for the best"

You don't want what's best. You want him.

"Can't believe you wore this dress" he traces the pattern of the tight clothes, damped in sweat, "you know it's my favorite. Why?"

You fail to supress a smile, even if it's tired and almost sad, "I knew you couldn't say no".

The truth is, you know many things: like how this is never going to stop until it's destroyed you both.

[amethystarachnid]

⋆˚࿔ MASTERLIST 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Hello my dear readers, here you’ll find the links to all the works you can find on this profile. I always accept requests, my inbox is always open, I write for both the X-Men and the MCU movies. English isn’t my first language so feel free to correct me if you find some mistakes (but please be kind).

I hope you’ll like my works!

Ivy Rose

make a request following these rules if you want <3

IVY ROSE'S GAMES ᡣ𐭩

click here to read the master list! ->

Steve G. Rogers

Little Star

Matchmaking

Happy Tears

Under the Mistletoe

A Place to Stay - part I

Anthony 'Tony' E. Stark

Love in Rehearsal

Fear

Sky Rockets and Robots - part I

Sky Rockets and Robots - part II

Soulmate Bond

Beacon of Love

The Challenge of You

Lazy Day

Mrs. Stark

Caffeine Chemistry

A Cowboy's Love - part I

A Cowboy's Love - part II

High School Sweetheart

The Crown's Heart

Always

Room for Two - part I

Room for Two - part II

Safe Arms

Falling Mr. Stark

Legacy

Snowy Love - part I

Snowy Love - part II

Time Traveler

Enough

Accidents Happen - part I

Accidents Happen - part II

A Blizzard for Two

Secret Santa

Christmas Proposal

Frogs, Globes and Burnt Chocolate

Midnight Kiss

Stark Protocol

Christmas Magic

Christmas Secrets

Clinging to Christmas

New Year Eve

Second Chance

Christmas Cookies

Christmas Date

Christmas Kitty

James B. “Bucky” Barnes

Promise

Bucky Barnes as a Girl Dad - drabble

Opposites - part I

Opposites - part II

Bet

Thor Odinson

Baby lightning

Thor Odinson as a Girl Dad - drabble

Lightning on Skates

Loki Laufeyson

Forbidden

Memories

Bound by Duty

Midgardian Feast

Christmas Road Trip

Stephen V. Strange

A Sorcerer's Christmas

James Logan Howlett

Mutant Bodyguard - part I

Mutant Bodyguard - part II

Mutant Bodyguard - part III

Apocalyptic Love (Logan x fem!reader x Deadpool)

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

Apocalyptic Love (Logan x fem!reader x Deadpool)

Operation Make You Not Hate The Universe

Charles Francis Xavier

Decay — The Matter Maelstrom (fanfic)

[cemeteryspider]

Counting Cards

Beginnings of Remy Lebeau x Fem! Mutant! Omni-Perception! Reader

Summary: You meet the one and only Gambit while counting cards at a blackjack table in New York.

Trigger Warnings: Manipulation, Mentioned Financial Hardships, Gambling, Threats of Violence

Word Count: 1.7k

You had once been a hopeful dreamer, a girl with aspirations beyond the impoverished streets of your hometown. But desperation often has a way of grinding the edges of ambition and of making sacrifices that would seem unthinkable in the cold light of day. The multi-millionaire you now worked for was the epitome of this sacrifice- a devil’s bargain struck in the shadows in an attempt to pull your family from poverty and homelessness. 

Draped in the guise of glamor, platinum blond hair that cascaded down your shoulders and a dress that clung to your every curve, you became a fixture of opulent casinos around the world. Your role was simple yet complex at the very same time, to work the system, to be alluring to wealthy men, and to subtly manipulate the games in their favor. Your powers that you once tried to hide from your few friends and family became your best asset, heaviest burden, and the thing allowing you to save said family. 

This casino’s ambiance in particular was a symphony of loud laughs, hushed whispers, clinking chips, shuffling cards, and soft hum of slot machines. You sat next to a man in a three piece suit, your perfectly rehearsed giggle punctuated the air as you played the role of doting oblivious girlfriend. The subtle squeeze of his bicep or playful slap on his shoulder after a crude joke were all part of the act. Beneath this ignorant charade, your keen eyes kept track of every card dealt, every chip moved, and every twitch of the dealer’s fingers. 

As the count turned positive, you leaned closer, your breath warm against the client’s ear as you rubbed his back in a soothing, almost hypnotic motion. He raised the bet and the game continued. The soft trail of your fingers on his thigh signaled him to play cautiously, to avoid drawing too much attention to the two of you. His decision to stand earned a small, approving smile from you, a reassurance he was making the correct choice. The dealer's cards came into play, and your silent communication continued, your touch a subtle command to the man beside you.

Your powers were a delicate instrument, a secret weapon that influenced the game in ways no one else could detect. The thrill of winning by proxy was intoxicating, but it came with a bitter aftertaste on your tongue. The money wasn’t for you; the small amount you earned went to your family, trapped in a cycle of dependency and fear, their safety hanging by a thread. 

The final hand was dealt. Your eyes flickered briefly, a faint glow that only those who knew what to look for would notice. Just then, a tap on your shoulder pulled you from your intense focus. A tall figure stood behind you, his presence commanding and enigmatic.

"Would you come with me, ma'am?" His voice was thick with a Cajun accent, smooth and charismatic. You turned, a polite smile forming on your lips even before you met his eyes. His auburn hair was tied back in a messy bun, and his irises glowed a striking red against the blackness of his sclera. Recognition flashed in your mind—this was Gambit, a mutant you had seen on TV, a member of the X-Men.

"Sure, let me just grab my purse," you replied with practiced calm. As you whispered a quick instruction to your partner to cash out and leave, you felt a pang of unease. What was Gambit doing here? And what did he want with you?

As you followed him through the labyrinthine hallways of the casino and into the adjacent hotel, you noticed the careful avoidance of security cameras and the strategic use of crowded areas. It was a well-practiced maneuver, one you recognized from your own experience.

In a quiet room on the first floor, the door closed behind you with a soft click. The tension in the air was palpable. Gambit, with his easy smile and relaxed posture, seemed unfazed.

"Usually, I wait until the third date to go back to a man's hotel room," you joked, trying to mask your nerves.

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound. "Nah, chere, we've been watchin' you," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. Your heart skipped a beat. How long had they been observing you? How much did they know?

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice betraying a hint of unease. It was rare for you to be caught off guard, but this situation was beyond anything you had prepared for.

"Gambit, my name, chere, and I work for the X-Men," he began, but you cut him off.

"The X-Men, I know. How about we get to the point?" Time was slipping away, and you knew your employer would send someone to check on you if you didn't show up soon.

He nodded, acknowledging your urgency. "The Professor has been watching you. Your abilities are bein', let's say, misspent on petty crimes and swindlin'."

You considered his words carefully. Charles Xavier, the Professor, was a renowned advocate for mutant rights, a figure of immense power and influence. His offer carried weight, but it also came with strings attached.

"So, you want me to join your little team?" The question hung in the air, heavy with implications.

"Gambit was hopin'," he replied, his voice sincere.

You scoffed, shaking your head. "I'm not doing this for myself. I'm doing this for my family." The words came out sharper than you intended, a defense mechanism born of years of hardship.

You turned to leave, but Gambit's hand on your shoulder stopped you. "We know, chere. That's why we've brought them to the mansion. They're safe, chere."

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Your family—safe? It was a concept you had almost given up on. The weight of his words hit you like a tidal wave, your shoulders slumping under the sudden release of tension.

"What?" The question was barely a whisper, your voice breaking with emotion. Could it be true? After everything you had done, everything you had sacrificed, could your family finally be free?

"We're tryin' to take down the people you owe. In doin' that, we found you. Would you come to the mansion with me? No funny business, I swear, chere," Gambit said, his eyes holding a promise of safety and a fresh start.

The ride to the X-Mansion was a blur of emotions and half-formed thoughts. Gambit kept the conversation light, sharing stories of his past life in New Orleans, a thief navigating a world of shadows and secrets. You found yourself opening up, recounting tales of casinos and the intricate cons you'd pulled off. It was a strange, almost surreal connection, two kindred spirits from different walks of life.

As the mansion loomed into view, your heart pounded in your chest. The sprawling estate was both intimidating and inviting. Stepping out of the car, you saw your family on the lawn, your younger siblings playing tag, your parents looking more relaxed than you had seen them in years. Relief washed over you, bringing tears to your eyes. They were safe.

But as you reunited, the reality of the situation set in. Your family couldn't stay; the dangers were too great. They needed to leave the country, to start anew far from the reach of those who might seek revenge. It was a bittersweet moment, the joy of their safety tempered by the knowledge that you might have to part ways.

The Professor, Charles Xavier himself, approached you. His presence was calm and reassuring. "Or you could stay here," he offered, his voice gentle but firm. "Learn to use your powers, control them effortlessly for good. Be a part of my X-Men."

You stood at the edge of the mansion's expansive lawn, watching your family with a mixture of relief and heartache. The sight of your younger siblings laughing as they played, your parents' shoulders finally free of the burdens they'd carried for so long, filled you with a profound sense of peace. But beneath that peace, there was an undercurrent of something more—a longing for a life that meant something beyond survival and crime.

The choice before you was clear, yet impossibly difficult. The urge to stay with your family was strong, an instinctual pull toward the people you had fought so hard to protect. But as you looked at the X-Mansion, you felt the stirrings of a different kind of desire—the desire to be more than a pawn in someone else's game, to use your abilities for good and perhaps even change the world.

You took a deep breath, your decision solidifying in your mind. Turning to your family, you saw understanding in their eyes. They had always known the risks, the sacrifices. But they also knew the strength of your spirit, the potential you had yet to unleash.

With a sudden burst of emotion, you ran towards them, wrapping them in a fierce embrace. They hugged you back tightly, their warmth and love surrounding you. It was a moment of silent communication, a farewell and a blessing all at once. They understood your choice, even if it meant a painful separation.

Pulling back, you looked into their eyes, your voice steady but filled with emotion. "I would love to join you guys. Maybe change the world one day."

There was a beat of silence, then Gambit, who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, stepped forward. His eyes sparkled with approval, a lopsided grin on his face. "Good choice, chere," he said, his voice carrying a note of camaraderie and promise.

You nodded, feeling a sense of resolve wash over you. This was the start of a new chapter, a chance to reclaim your autonomy and forge your own path. As you watched your family wave goodbye and drive away, you felt a mixture of sadness and hope. They were safe, and so were you. But more importantly, you were free to finally make your life your own.

With a deep breath, you turned toward the mansion, your new home and the place where your true journey would begin. You were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, to fight for a better world alongside the X-Men. As you walked through the mansion's grand doors, you felt a sense of purpose you had never known before. You were no longer just a player in someone else's game; you were a hero in the making, with the power to change the world.

[ffverr]

[theoretically-bri]

Logan Howlett Smut Alphabet 💛

Note: No spoilers here! Promise! Not specific to any canon. overall this is geared towards casual partners, long-term is a whole different thing with him. This is general characterization by someone trying to get a feel for writing the character lol maybe leaning a bit towards Worst Wolverine!Logan, but not completely him

Also I haven’t written and posted in a very long time, so be nice to me ✨ and he’s a new character for me

Warnings: 18+ , mention of unsafe & rough/violent sex, overall filth tbh this man is gross and I love him

3k words

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Like so many things for him, it depends on who the sexual partner is. Someone casual who was enjoyable may get a hand in cleaning up and a slight check in after, depending on the intensity of what they did. An actual partner gets a more attentive response, silent and gentle physical care before being held and checked on mentally.

A fuckbuddy or particularly irritating or bad casual fuck might get a wet washcloth slapped onto their body and a quick eviction from the space. They may just get the second part.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Logan’s favorite body part of his own would probably be his thighs. His entire body is thick with muscle, but his legs are just something special. Strong for fights or getting work done. Pretty well-loved by any and all lovers too.

On a partner he’ll never complain about a good ass. Sometimes it’ll even be the sole reason he pursues someone. But he also likes when a mutant partner has a visible aspect to their mutation. He isn’t really sure why, but it certainly can make the experience unique.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He loves any aspect of cum during sex. He loves marking his partner by cumming on their face (or any other part of their body, really. Or their clothes.) But if he’s fucking someone then he’ll always prefer cumming inside them. He loves to cum inside multiple times and leave the person a sore, dripping mess.

When it comes to another person’s cum, he’s pretty indifferent overall. However, he likes to do what he can to make someone cum untouched or squirt. That’s something of a point of pride to him and always tries to make it happen.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He can smell when someone has just masturbated, had sex, or is even just very turned on. He uses that to try and score with those he knows are already aroused. Maybe it’s cheating or predatory, but it works.

He’s also fucked people bent over Scott’s bike multiple times and not cleaned it after. Although that’s less of a secret, he’s obviously the only one who would do that.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s over two hundred years old. He’s had a lot of sexual partners and a lot of chance to experiment and perfect his methods. However, there are some kinks or practices that lean a little more modern that he hasn’t gotten used to yet. He’ll get the hang of it, he just hasn’t had enough practice yet. But he’s not going to half-ass anything, it will be good.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Logan will always go for anything from behind. Sometimes it’s about less intimacy than facing someone, but it typically has more to do with other factors. The physical leverage it gives him over the other person, the ability to pull his partner’s hair, more available surface area to bite and mark. It often feels more animalistic, which appeals to him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Overall he’s going to be more serious. With a more casual partner or total stranger he’s likely to be his typical gruff self even when it comes to sex. If he’s with someone he’s in a relationship with or trusts more, he’s more likely to crack the occasional joke and overall lighten up if he’s in the right mood. But no one would really call him humorous, just less intense than normal.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

A razor has never gotten anywhere near any of Logan’s hair except for on his face and head. And that’s not to say that he naturally has minimal body hair. His chest is fully covered and a generous amount covers the rest of his torso in addition to a thick happy trail. And it’s no surprise that below the waist isn’t groomed either, everything is entirely natural. He’s not lacking anywhere in hair and that’s exactly how he likes it. It’s how he’s comfortable and it holds onto his natural musk.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Sex is about the physical act and getting off, Logan’s typical encounter isn’t going to be intimate in the slightest. There’s definitely no romance involved at all unless it’s with someone he is actually involved with and trusts. Then the level depends on how long he’s been able to let his guard down. He can be a bit of a secret romantic, but not until he trusts the person and knows that they’re safe.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Logan can’t keep his hands off of himself just as much as he can’t keep his hands off of other people. While he vastly prefers sex over masturbation, sometimes the latter is the only option. Sometimes it’s in the comfort of his own bed, with some porn and a fleshlight. Other times it’s ducked into an alley with just spit as lube for his fevered stroking. He enjoys it, but a lot of times it’s just because he popped a boner in an inappropriate situation and needs to get rid of it quickly. It feels good, eases stress and frustration, and keeps him from getting too pent up if it’s been a little while since his last real fuck.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

With heightened senses, he’s incredibly sensitive to scents. This can possibly cause overstimulation, but he views it as a benefit when it comes to sex. He can know if someone is turned on just by being near them. He loves people’s natural scents, especially if they’ve been in nature or sweating some. He’ll get into any crook that he can and happily breathe in a good musk more than fresh air. He’s also been a culprit of stealing clothes in the past, only discovered when he’s found frantically jerking off with someone’s missing item pressed right to his nose and held between his teeth. His own scent is included in this kink, he’ll scent mark a partner or their belongings in any way possible, including with cum. And he’s been known to be particularly enthusiastic about shoving someone’s nose into any possible area after he’s worked out or been in a fight.

Given his excessive animal instincts, breeding can be extremely appealing. Having someone in a breeding position can make it damn near impossible for him to resist growling in their ear about how he’ll knock them up. It’s one reason that he absolutely hates condoms. Of course, he also doesn’t want to risk reproducing accidentally at all. Which leads to another kink.

He’s not sure if anal is really considered a kink by this point, especially when he’ll swing any way, but he loves it. Anyone who can handle (or wants) pain needs less prep, which is a plus all around in his mind. It gives him the chance to fuck without a condom and indulge in breeding fantasies and cum inside with no risk. It’s also usually easier for partners with pussies to take him that way, otherwise he gets a few inches in and nothing else will fit. Plus the gape after he’s finished, puffy and dripping with his load and no way to stop from making a mess, is enough to get him going again immediately after.

Being addressed as authority with honorifics like Sir are a big one for him as well. This one happens less since it typically only happens with those he hooks up with more than once and actually discusses kinks with. But submission paired with acknowledging his authority is a quick way to work him up. (Especially for any Logan who works at the school as a professor. Not with his students, but his colleagues are free game)

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

With hookups and casual partners he’s okay with just about anywhere he can get it. It isn’t anything special to him, so he feels no need to go out of the way to hide or be secretive. He’s likely to fuck anyone anywhere but his own home. That’s his space, it’s not for the eyes of strangers and those he doesn’t trust. Anyone else’s space is free game, though, whether that’s whoever he’s with or just an empty room in the mansion.

But someone he cares about is different. Maybe he’ll still be a bit careless about being seen in moments, but he’s much more possessive. He’s going to keep someone he cares about more private overall, keeping many encounters at home and even in his bed. That interaction isn’t for anyone else but them.

But outside of his home, his favorite location is the woods. The connection to nature, the unlikely but not impossible risk of being caught, and the ability to go as feral as he wants makes taking a partner into the forest a favorite. Sometimes casuals get to do it, but it’s always more meaningful if he cares about who he’s with.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

A nice ass is probably the easiest way to turn him on. Something plump and shown off is a quick way to get his interest. But that’s not difficult, especially during the summer with abundant booty shorts and bathing suits.

Another thing that gets him going is adrenaline. Being on a mission or in a fight gets his blood hot, sometimes to the point where it can’t be ignored even in the moment. But usually he’s able to keep a hold on himself until the actual fighting is over. Usually

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He’s not bottoming. Ever. He loves anal with partners of any gender, but he will never be on the receiving end of it. It’s not anything to do with internalized shit or masculinity issues, he’s just not fucking doing it. Simple as. It’s not happening solo and it’s not happening partnered. Anything more than a bit of sneaky tongue or a squeeze when he’s being blown is more than likely going to end with broken bones and a quickly ended experience.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He will give, but he’s much more into receiving. When giving oral he’ll either use it as a reward or to tease relentlessly and showcase the control he has over someone. There’s very few times that he’ll have any desire to give otherwise. The exceptions typically have to do with someone peeling out of sweaty clothes and his sudden need to bury his face in sweat and skin and as much scent as possible.

Receiving is another thing entirely. A good blowjob can easily be more enjoyable for him than sex. He’ll frequent gloryholes if he isn’t getting enough to satisfy him otherwise. It would take extreme circumstances for him to turn down a blowjob from just about anyone. Sometimes he’ll want to be involved and fuck into the person’s throat and make them choke, but other times he’s happy to just enjoy himself without lifting a finger.

A good enough blowjob when he’s in a bad mood can make him seem like a completely different person afterwards.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Lovemaking isn’t in Logan’s vocabulary. Unless he’s somehow managed to live a peaceful life for a while or is seriously attached to someone, sex isn’t getting gentler than leaving a few bruises. With humans he tries to keep a hold on his strength, but for that reason he prefers to sleep with mutants. Especially the variety with some level of durability or healing abilities. He fucks rough and fast, he needs to not worry about breaking whoever is on the receiving end.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He likes quickies because it means there’s no time for awkwardness or expectation. A lot of times he’ll let the other person initiate because he’d be happy whether they did it or not. But there are times that the adrenaline can get to him on a mission or too much teasing in a not-quite-alone setting can get to him. If he initiates it doesn’t matter if it happens in a bush, an alley, or against a stranger’s car, he needs to fuck to get it out of his system.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

With an inability to catch any infection and the ability to immediately heal from any wound, he takes more risks than necessary. He’ll visit a dirty, sketchy gloryhole without a second thought as long as a warm mouth gets on his cock and he gets to cum. He despises condoms and doesn’t wear them for disease prevention purposes, he only wears them to avoid unintentional reproduction. He’ll also engage in blood play (intentional or not) without a second thought. Even though he likes hard kinks and experimenting, he’s less likely to do something that puts his partner at risk, but that’s just another reason for him to seek out more durable partners.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The combination of his experience, self control, and his abilities make it so that he could last for hours if he wanted. Usually a first round could be over in a few minutes, depending on how long it’s been since he last came and how worked up he is. But other than that, he has pretty solid control over his own pleasure and how long he lasts.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s tried a variety of different “sleeves” over the years, each boasting their realism. Nothing has ever gotten even close to any hole it’s said to. No, he will always prefer a real person to fuck into. But if that’s not an option and his hand just isn’t cutting it, he still keeps around a few of the toys. They always end up destroyed and typically unusable after just one fuck. Maybe something custom sized would fix the issue of him being too big for them, but it wouldn’t change how rough he was and his habit of forgetting his own strength when he gets close.

He isn’t opposed to using toys on a partner, either. Sometimes he can use one of his stretched-out, destroyed pocket pussies for size humiliation, but otherwise he doesn’t own any. if he goes to someone’s place or meet somewhere and they bring their own? He’s okay with adding them in. For a while he didn’t like it, wanted to be the only thing involved in giving pleasure. But eventually he realized that bringing in something extra can make things more interesting.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He likes to tease in order to flaunt his power in a situation. There’s times he’ll tease otherwise, but it comes across as more mean than typical teasing would. Otherwise, he doesn’t tease too much when it comes to sex.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

His sounds are as animalistic as everything else with his fucking. Low grunts and panting and growls. He can dirty talk as well, but that depends on his mood and what his partner is like. He doesn’t tend to be loud unless he’s close to finishing or if something catches him by surprise.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He gets hard in so many situations that he doesn’t want to. It can be because of high adrenaline, the result of being pent up, or even just smelling arousal on someone else. A lot of times he’ll ignore it, either try to hide the hard-on or just sport it shamelessly. But sometimes it’s too much to ignore and he’ll do whatever possible to get off as quickly as possible. The solutions range from slyly offering cash to someone eyeing him for some quick help or even just jerking off right where he is. Maybe he tries to be discreet, maybe not.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Most of his body is made of thick, corded muscles with prominent veins. When flexed it’s all chiseled in appearance, but very soft when neutral. He can almost be mistaken as being a bit soft around the middle until he flexes.

He’s covered in hair everywhere and likes it that way.

He’s uncut and a shower more than a grower. His dick is not short by any means, but the girth may be the most impressive part. So thick that his love for blowjobs can often be a bit of a problem for those trying to get him off. The size has resulted in a few dislocated jaws and a lot of people just being able to take the tip and jerking off the rest.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

When it comes to his sex drive, he could go at any time. It just depends on if he’s in the mood for it. And he’s often in the mood for it. Sex gives him an outlet to work out aggression as well as it just feels good and he enjoys it. Maybe his relationship with sex isn’t the healthiest, but his body craves it near constantly and it hasn’t caused any (serious) problems yet.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Because of his physical stamina and regeneration, it’s extremely unlikely for him to be fatigued after sex. He’ll usually get up to clean up and maybe grab something to eat. If it’s someone casual, he likely isn’t getting back into bed (or wherever they happened to be) until the other person leaves. With a true partner he’d hold them and maybe go to sleep a bit after them if he wanted to. But the sleep isn’t needed for him and he likes to savor any peaceful moment that he can.

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Remember my hivemind/bee-like/mind-control mutant Reader? Yeah, from the Villain AU? Well, what if we have a version of them in X-Men Evolution AU?

Reader Readerson, a lone wolf kind of teen, who wears brown boots, a black top, and golden-amber shorts, is a mutant who only recently discovered their mutation. But it isn't something they like, or feel safe with. Not at all.

They can control people, in a way.

They aren't sure exactly how or why, they just know they have some kind of, of venom, or maybe a pheromone, or something, that if a person absorbs, Reader can hear their thoughts. And the ones infected? They can hear Reader's, too. But when Reader tries to figure it out, or fix it, they find that while the infected retain their personality and memories and know how to breathe and blink, they are influenced by Reader.

Reader never meant to find out, they aren't aren't sure how it happened, it was an accident, they swear! But now their mind is constantly filled with the hum of other thoughts, seeing and hearing things those others feel, having to hear and know in full their anger and terror and panic and hate, and Reader just-

They stop sleeping.

They start wearing gloves.

They stay away from groups, from crowds, from everyone, more than they already did.

They feel scared of themself, they want to cry but can't, they feel like a monster, they don't want to be like this, they don't want to exist-!

They end up transferred to a new school, they're forced to pack up and go to wherever their new home is, and now they have to make themself as unnoticeable and forgettable as possible. They're alone, in this strange new place, left to their own devices, and with no one to turn to. It's excruciating. They're in pain. Their mind hurts almost each waking moment...

But they can't sleep for longer than a few hours, or they might see or hear the others, might have to see their faces and be under their scrutiny and possibly yelled at or blamed or abandoned all over again... And they can't go through it again. They just can't...

They end up catching the eye of Xavier and Mystique, both of whom want their teens to try and find our more about Reader, see if they can figure out the extent of their abilities, and perhaps see if they can get Reader to join them...

This leads to the X-Teens and Brotherhood teens trying to figure out the lonely kid who talks only when spoken to, who looks exhausted, and who wears gloves, sweaters even when it's hot, and stay to their own devices. Jean tries to see into their mind, to see what they're working with- and is pulling back out, shaken up a bit by how loud and scared it is inside Reader's head, full of constant stress and fright and paranoia...

Kitty and Kurt try to appear as possible friends or study buddies, putting on their best face, and inviting Reader to sit with them during fieldtrips. Reader is scared of almost everything and everyone, according to Jean, so they need to be as unintimidating as possible. Evan gets them to help tutor him and offers to help them with picking an extracurricular (Oh look, basketball, he's sure they'd be great at that! And he plays it too! What are the odds!) Rogue is sitting by them, offering silent company or recommending some good books, choosing ones with themes of friendship and acceptance. And Scott and Jean are trying to appeal to them, in an older sibling/student kind of way, asking if they are okay, and if they might want to see their Professor for some help, do they need someone to walk them home from school or drive them where tbey need to go?

Wanda is giving them space. She'll simply sit there, read a book or work on homework, but otherwise be a presence around Reader, so they'll get used to it. Pietro is trying to come off as charming, asking questions a mile a minute, offering g that he and his friends are the best, so wouldn't Reader like to try hanging with them? Todd takes art class with them, and compliments their clay sculptures and paintings, hoping to bind through creativity. Fred is trying trying help them during P.E., mainly by making sure they don't get hurt during dogeball (so do all the other mutants kids). And Lance tries to come off as trustworthy, pointing out they're both kinda loners, they both happen to have powers, and while he has a team, Reader doesn't, so why not join their side, hm?

Reader feels overwhelmed, but manages to hold it all in- until the adults enter, and now Reader is spiraling as their powers are about to be found out in their fullest form, and they can't stand stand be yelled at, or cast out, or seen as evil.

This ends up with the discovery going in a way Reader didn't expect... And with the growing platonic yanderes more worried than ever about this newest mutant...

@sugar-soda @vivid-bun @danni1323 @thewickedweiner @opossumdaydreamz @weebwholovesuchihasasuke @ainsellshadewalker

[the-peak-tmnt]

I want to say that I like that your fic is mostly Raph centric because those fics are rare and he deserves more love and pain lol

Raph: Mom says it's my turn with the trauma

Thank you so much! I'm seriously so grateful for people who are willing to give a Raph-centric fic a shot!

I knew writing Raph-centric fic that's also a Mutant Mayhem fic was gonna turn a lot of people off from giving it a try, which I totally understand because I usually go for Leo-centric fics myself lol. It also doesn't help that Mutant Mayhem still isn't super popular.

But Mutant Mayhem Raph is an exciting new version of Raph that's been SO fun to explore, and I'm gonna go on a little rant about why I'm enjoying writing (and torturing) him so much!

[Initiating Raph Rant] So, almost all Raphs are tough guys who also wear their hearts on their sleeves, which is what makes him such a fun character. He's "the angry one", but usually also super emotional in other ways:

Because MM feels more like an actual teenager than most other iterations, his moments of emotional vulnerability feel particularly raw and relatable. I might be old as dirt now, but I do still remember what it was like to be a teenager still trying to figure out who they were and what they wanted in life.

Mutant Mayhem does such an amazing job of hitting on those teenage insecurities and desires. The turtles whole goal in the movie is to be accepted. All teenagers feel like outsiders and want acceptance at some point. That teenage desire for acceptance is amplified for the turtles because they're not just teenagers, but mutants as well. The moment where Raph's voice sort of wavers as he says "we're never gonna be normal" breaks my heart every time, because they're so sure acceptance is completely out of reach for them 😭

...but the MM boys do get acceptance by the human world by the end of the film. Raph even seems to find his place own at Eastman on the wrestling team in the post-credit scene.

I think this is what has turned a lot of fans off MM, though, because the turtles' need for secrecy and using their ninja skills to remain hidden has always been an integral part of the TMNT franchise. Personally, I actually love that departure from the typical TMNT format and talked about it once before.

But there are some traditional TMNT elements that I did miss in MM, one of those being the fact that in most iterations, Raph is an outsider even amongst outsiders. His anger is what alienates him from his brothers at times, and it often gets him into trouble. It’s also what almost always leads to his friendship with Casey (another outsider).

Tales of the TMNT isn't out yet, and we don't how this series will give Raph that traditional outsider treatment, or if it will at all. They could save it for Mutant Mayhem 2, but that's still years away. And even then they might decide not to go that route because so far, MM Raph's rage has mostly just manifested in a propensity for fighting & violence rather than interpersonal issues with his brothers & other people. His rage is even framed as useful in the final fight against Superfly.

So anyway...as canon stands right now pre-tottmnt/MM 2, Raph is an "insider". He and his brothers can have a life on the surface, and Raph even seems to have found his own place at Eastman on the wrestling team. Again, I'm all for this happy ending and a brand new experience for the turtles, but I was also missing my personal favorite flavor of Raph...which is angry and alienated lol.

After I saw MM in theaters, I started looking at a lot of the concept art and other production material floating around on the internet and I came across this concept art by Garrett Lee:

And it was like "oh shit, there he is! Outsider Raph!"

He looks so lonely and separate from everyone else here, and I was obsessed with this idea of Raph somehow still being an outsider even after the mutants were accepted by humans. But again, we're still waiting for tottmnt and MM 2, and even then there's no guarantee we'll get an Angry & Sad Outsider Raph out of either of those.

So I asked myself "how can I ruin MM Raph's life so that he's as lonely and miserable as he looks in this concept art???"

...and Reciprocity was born 😅