James "Logan" Howlett

So he kisses her slowly, deeply, groaning at the feeling of her fingers in his hair and the taste of her on his lips. He kisses her until he can't anymore, until his need is fixing to outweigh his common sense, until he's so consumed with it he has to step away.

Step back.

Breathe.

"Bed," he croaks, knowing he sounds broken, knowing he sounds insane, and maybe he is because how bed is supposed to make things better but that’s where they’re supposed to be going. Bed. And not him on the couch because that’s not who and what they are.

Lucine’s first instinct was always defense, every nerve wired for danger, every muscle ready to ignite. She wasn’t used to being touched, not unless she was the one who reached first. But then she recognized the hand..steady, large, calloused..and something in her chest loosened.

The fire beneath her skin settled, simmering instead of flaring. His touch didn’t burn. It warmed. Like a campfire..controlled, comforting. How the hell did he do that? How could one man calm the storm inside her when even Charles couldn’t?

“Pumpkin spice?” she scoffed, rolling her eyes just enough to cover the tremor in her voice. “What am I, a college sorority girl?”

Her mouth twitched. “I prefer chocolate. If you’re buying.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and started down the street. The night air bit at her cheeks, crisp and cold. It stung, but it felt real. Grounding. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets and kept walking, pretending the sound of his boots behind her didn’t make her pulse skip.

⸻

Back at the mansion, the silence pressed heavy against her ears. She didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t say a word. Just kept moving, up the stairs, down the hall, into her room.

The door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time all night, she let herself breathe. Not deeply..just enough. Enough to make it to the bathroom, enough to turn the shower on as hot as it would go, enough to climb in and let the water scald away the shaking in her hands.

Clothes clung to her skin before she peeled them off, and then she was under the spray, gripping the tile, forehead resting against the wall.

It wasn’t about being dirty. It never was. It was about the way her skin still remembered..the touch of cold metal restraints, the sting of needles, the smell of antiseptic and fear. The lab was gone, but pieces of it still lived inside her.

You’ll never be clean, Lucine Xavier.

The words crawled through her skull, sharp and cruel. She scrubbed harder, ignoring the sting, ignoring the thin line of red that followed her fingernails down her arm. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. A broken sound caught in her throat and escaped before she could stop it.

Tears blurred her vision. The water was too hot, but she couldn’t turn it down. Couldn’t stop.

Because if she stopped, she’d have to feel.

And she couldn’t..not about him. Not about the way he made her feel safe. Not about the way his presence silenced the screaming inside her head. He didn’t deserve that weight. And she didn’t deserve his kindness.

He hated it. But he expected it. Understood it. Let it wash over him while he thought fondly of the day when maybe she wouldn’t.

Hell, even if she always did, he’d deal with it. He’d still be there for her. Always.

His mind supplied just like with anyone else, but it wasn’t just like with her at all. Things with her had been different since the beginning.

Just like the way his mind immediately went to the idea of her all dressed up like some sorority girl. He was pretty sure they didn’t run around in little cheerleading outfits, but hell he’d never been to a real college and only seen some movies and that, that was another way that with her it was different.

That his mind slid in that direction, sometimes.

It shouldn’t. He hated himself. Blamed the flame of red hair and the fiery nature of her.

Didn't stop him. Didn't stop the way his gaze lingered on the cut of her waist as she walked away from him.

As it dropped lower.

But by the time they got to ice cream, by the time they spent together if not fully talking, if not fully enjoying, but moments, stolen, Logan was better. Had made himself be better, had reined that part of himself in.

Cut it off. Banished it.

He wasn't a good man, had never claimed to be, but he could try and be better.

And it was a good man who, hours later, felt something at the back of his mind. An annoyance. An aggitation. That mosquito of something in his ear that said he should go check on her. That they should talk. Not talk, at least not talk talk, but that there should be a check in.

A moment.

Catching up after the bar.

It wasn't hard to find her, wasn't hard to find anyone in a mansion the size of theirs. Okay, so the mansion wasn't small, but there were a lot of people held within those walls, and it wasn't like Logan couldn't smell her anyways. Couldn't practically taste the scent of her that lingered in the halls.

She was there, had been there, and he followed down the well-known corridor until he got to her door. The shower was running, he could hear that, too, and just as soon as he'd gotten there he made to leave.

Except.

Except.

It was still there, that feeling. Still held somewhere in the back of his mind so he sighed, rolling his eyes, knowing she was about to bitch him out, as he banged on the door, fist connecting with painted wood.

But there was no response. The sound of the water didn't even shift. Meaning she hadn't moved in the spray of it.

"Luce?" Logan asked, banging on the door again, waiting, but still nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing and damn he was going to get a lecture because he really needed to stop kicking in doors and damn Chuck was going to be all over him for breaking into Luce's room, but between the choice of getting nagged to death or being wrong, Logan chose.

The frame splintered, quick, it wasn't like there was any renforcement, and Logan stilled. He paused, waited, body tense for what ever tirade may come.

Nothing did.

The water still ran and so then, then he was too, loping across the small space to her en suite, jogging into the bathroom to find her on the floor of the tub, curled in on herself, water spraying down on her.

No...The woman striding effortlessly through the crowd now, slipping between bodies on the dance floor, and ignoring offers of champagne in crystal glasses is just another pawn painstakingly crafted by the Red Room. She smiles because it's expected of her; because it solidifies the illusion that she's just another pretty face! Nothing to see here. Nothing to fear.

In reality, she is naught more than a wolf in sheep's clothing. And one of the attendees of this evening's gala is going to learn that...Once she manages to secure their location, that is. Damn, what she wouldn't give for a drink right about now. But now is the time for work, not play, so Caly will have to wait for indulgences. Later, once this job is wrapped up, she'll sit in that desolate apartment and --

Some men fail to realize that he should express his gratitude for a woman's display of skin silently, and without touching her. But that's alright; it's one of Caly's favorite lessons to teach. Feeling callused fingers curl around her wrist has her preparing to launch a swift attack upon his solar plexus with the opposite hand, only...She misses, instead sweeping through empty air. How could he --

Grey eyes flit up to rest upon a familiar face. It's cliche, yes, but the world does feel as if it slows around her in that moment. He's not aged a day since they last saw one another...But then, she hadn't expected any different. It infuriates her to see him here and now, and in such apparent good health.

"Funny. Is that where you ran off to five years ago? You know, I always thought dogs had a superior sense of direction, what with having an enhanced sense of smell and all. But if it took you this long to find me, Howlett, you should've stayed missing." Her wrist remains in his grasp. She makes no attempt to fight him, knowing that doing so would only attract unwanted attention. Whatever his reasons for being here, Caly won't allow him to fuck this up for her.

It’s upsetting, that realization, the way he settles as their gazes meet. The way comfort spreads through him.

He could never have forgotten the color of her eyes, but the memory has done them little justice. He can’t help but to smile at the sight, half of his mouth creeping upwards as his chest grows tight.

She’s feisty and as fiery as the curls that brush against her skin. There’s challenge, there, unspoken but present. Anger. Fury.

It probably shouldn’t turn him on so much.

Of course, as things go with Cal, nothing stays unspoken for long.

Her mouth opens and daggers come out, each word cutting and sharp and Logan winces as she unloads on him.

It’s deserved. It isn’t like he didn’t have good reason. She’d already had a shitty enough go of things. It isn’t like she needed him around, too. Too old, too worn, too broken. Especially for something as bright and beautiful and alive as she is.

“So that’s a no to the wine, then?” Logan drawls, bringing her wrist to his mouth, pressing his lips lightly to the inside of it. He knows she could whoop him, or at least get close enough to count. He knows, too, that she will save face for as long as she can, keeping things together, maintaining appearances.

Which is exactly why Logan tries to push it. To push her.

continuing my series of design portraits for the X-Men. this time the subject was Logan - this short guy with a hooked nose. big fangs, a broad forehead, and lots of jet-black hair

according to the canon, he has blue eyes, but there are so many black-haired blue-eyed people in Marvel that I'd rather do something different with him.. so I gave him something between green and yellow

“Dat’s your grand plan, homme? Keep swingin’ until we drop?” His voice cracked against the rise of it, his chest heaving with the effort it took to stay upright. “How long you t’ink we can do dis, eh? How long before dere ain’t nothin’ left of us but blood on the ground?”

He took a shaky drag from the cigarette, smoke curling out between clenched teeth as his crimson eyes locked onto Logan’s. For a beat, they burned too hot, too wild.

“Maybe…” He exhaled, jaw tight, words tasting like poison. “Maybe Magneto had it right all along. Maybe dere ain’t no peace for people like us. Maybe we gotta stop pretendin’ dere is.”

The card flared again in his fingers, trembling with the threat of release before Remy crushed it flat against his palm, forcing the glow to die.

Yes, Remy was injured and drained, and yes they all got to these moments. These places.

But Logan wasn’t a man to sit there and pat your hand.

“You done then?” Logan asked, snapped really, gaze dragging over LeBeau to see the pieces of him that were coming apart, ready to unravel. “You wanna give me shit for keeping up the fight, for keeping going and what?” Logan’s shoulders shrugged up sharply as disgust ripped across his features. “You wanna follow the path of someone like Erik fucking Lehnsherr?”

Twisting up his face, Logan shook his head. “The pity party doesn’t look good on you, Cajun.” He took a step back, snarl curling his lip. “If you wanna give up like some pussy cause you’re tired and it’s hard, then fine. Give up. Walk away, let them all win, beat us down because it got to be too much for you.”

Those sweet words almost drove her to the edge. He did still want her. Even after all she put him through. It was enough to make a girl dizzy. Harley’s heart sped in her chest, threatening to burst from her ribcage if it meant he would have her.

She gave a short nod and ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m yours Logan. Please just..” Harley trailed off into a moan as he sucked on her skin, the pleasure of his lips mixed with the pain of the bruise sending shivers down her body.

Harley noticed his hand move to his lap and placed hers over his jeans, rubbing and groping at the thing she wanted so badly. She couldn’t stand having the fabric in her way. Why did there have to be anything between them? That just didn’t seem fair to Harley’s lust filled mind.

A good girl. Coming from anybody else Harley would have laughed in their face. When had she ever been good? But she wanted nothing more than to be good for Logan. To hear him praise her as she made him feel good.

Oh there it was again. The swelling in his chest, the ache in his heart, the knowledge that he was done for. Everything that made him up, everything that meant anything at all was housed there, right there, in her.

He laughed lightly at the noise, delighted with it, with her, leaning down to kiss her fully, to drown in her, to take everything she could give.

And, Harl being Harl, she could give a lot.

Which just had him growling, all that love in him burning brilliant and bright, passion turning into a fire as the deep rumble echoed through the small space of the bathroom.

“Up,” he snarled, stepping back, tilting her hips up, needing his shorts off, her panties, needing her exposed, raw, waiting for him. “Up, up,” he urged with renewed ferocity, fighting the damn thing over her shoes.

He’d have ripped them, sliced them up, but for all he could put her in his shirt, Logan knew enough that she’d need some pants to go home in. At least until she had clothes there.

Or until his home was her home.

Or, probably, until they found their home together.

But that was not this.

And for a moment that fire in him waned at the idea that it might never be.

But just for a moment.

A moment before he was on his knees, between her thighs looking up at her.

"Not even close. You're lucky though, the guy I originally thought you were, was kind of an asshole" a shrug, "Granted, he was doing his job at the time and doing it well. Still, pissed me off a little. Since you're not him though, you are spared my wrath."

Taking a better look at the guy, Mary Jane had to appreciate the rugged appeal.

“And how do you know I’m not some kind of an asshole,” Logan drawled, gaze dragging down over her hair again, the brilliant waves of it. “I have a feeling people don’t mind your wrath,” he teased. “They might even welcome it.” He shifted a little, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m always up for a good fight.”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line,” he replied with a dip of his chin. “Molson,” he sniffed. “Labatt if they ain’t got it.”