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brokenbarnes · 3 months ago

Text

Echos

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky's worst nightmare comes true. You come back to him after taking a turn in Hydra's electric chair.

Warnings: mentions of canon level violence. Memory loss.

A/N: Probably the longest fic I've posted to date. Send me ideas!!

Read part two here: Convergent

There are very few things in his life that Bucky holds near and dear to his heart. His backpack of possessions, including a notebook of scattered memories and pamphlets from the Smithsonian, his dog tags that were returned to him after his pardon, Steve; his best friend in the universe, and you.

The word girlfriend doesn’t even begin to describe what you mean to him. What started out as shy romantic intentions has blossomed into what one would not dare to call codependency; but an unyielding show of love that has kept you both out of the madhouse.

You’re his partner in everything, sparring, ping pong tournaments, missions and most importantly in life. It is rare to find one of you without the other.

So when he watched in horror as you, gagged, handcuffed and unconscious, were stuffed into the trunk of a car and all he could was watch. His body was temporarily paralyzed by electrical cattle prods, the enemy left him laying in the wet gravel and took you instead.

He tried to yell, to call out but all that could come out of his mouth was a weak moan. He watched in horror as the car peeled out of the parking lot, spraying gravel and taking his heart with them.

It wasn’t until Steve found him a few minutes later and through awful gasps in his voice, that he explained what happened. Steve had him sit, pushed his head between his knees until he was breathing evenly again. He promised his best friend that he would find you.

It took a month to even figure out a possible location of where the car could have taken you. A month of sleepless nights, intense meetings and trying to keep his hopes up as search and rescue missions turned up empty. Bucky could barely step foot in the bedroom you shared with him without feeling like he got sucker punched in the gut, doubling over with yearning and guilt.

It didn’t help his hopes that he insisted on going on every search and rescue operation. Clearing warehouses, abandoned Hydra facilities only to go home to an empty bed where the nightmares of his past found him.

The day that he found you will forever be seared in his scarred memory. A Hydra base, his head pounding with what he thought was déjà vu but was probably former memories trying to find the correct keyhole in his mind.

Together, him and Natasha cleared rooms in effective silence. They’ve done this countless times over the course of the month. Both of your best friends wouldn’t stop until they found you.

“Barnes, we got a heat signature in the next room,” she murmured, pressing the small earpiece. Most likely getting the information from Sam and Redwing. “There’s no way to tell who it is.”

He nodded, staring at the heavy duty door in front of him. His mind was already calculating the best way to access whoever was inside. Should he hit it with the arm? Shoot a few bullets into the lock?

Natasha reached over and tried the handle, finding it unlocked with only a shrug of her shoulders; she forged ahead.

Bucky blinked, regaining his senses. He followed Nat into the room only to stop suddenly in his steps.

He had been in this room before, many times in fact. He knew that because of the chair, the electrodes attached, the metal tables and equipment scattered around the room. This is where they wiped his memories.

So when he saw you slumped in the chair, his heart stopped.

“No,” he whispered, surging forward. He dropped his weapon, sinking to his knees in front of you. “Y/N?”

You looked asleep, knees pulled up to your chest, too thin arms wrapped around your shins, head pressed towards your lap.

“Y/N, Doll,” he whispered, reaching out to lay a hand on your arm. As soon as you felt his touch, you jolted as if he was the one who had been administering the electricity. You raised your head quickly, scooting back as far as you could in the chair, arms gripping the arm rest. Fear had blown your eyes wide, staring into the face of your long-term boyfriend.

Bucky’s stomach twisted, from your reaction, from the blood drying in splotches on your face, from the burn marks pressed into your temples.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he tried reaching out again, but you shifted farther away. “It’s okay.”

He turned to look back at Nat, who was radioing to the team that you had been located and to send in a medical team.

“Y/N,” he whispered, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “We’re going to get you home.”

You were shaking, fear still in your eyes as you continued to blanch at him. Bucky watched your whole body tremble violently, a question he didn’t want to ask on the tip of his tongue.

“Y/N, do you know who I am?” His voice was soft, understanding.

You shook your head, pressing yourself as far back in the leather chair as you could. Nat approached slowly, making your eyes flicker over to her, Bucky could see your pulse beating wildly in your neck.

“Nat, let’s give her some space,” Bucky whispered, rising on shaky legs. He turned away from you, pressing his flesh hand over his eyes to hide the tears prickling in his tear ducts.

Nat took a step back, pressing her hand into Bucky’s shoulder but keeping an eye on you. You had shrunk into yourself again, curled up into a ball and shivering against the dark leather.

“This isn’t your fault, Barnes,” Nat murmured to him as he struggled to keep his composure. “She’s going to be alright.”

He took a deep shuddering breath and straightened his shoulders. Nat looked over at him once more before stepping into the hallway to lead the medical team in.

Bucky turned to look at you, you were watching him with wide, careful eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he shook his head. “I’ll never hurt you.”

Your eyes were skeptical, body language extremely closed off. You had never once looked at him like this in your life and it felt like someone had punched through his chest and ripped out his heart.

You screamed when the medical team got close to you, a horrible, blood curdling scream that Bucky had only heard one other time in his life. Sam and Nat had to hold Bucky back as they pressed a needle to your arm full of enough sedatives to knock out a super soldier. You slumped in the chair soon after, eyes closed, lashes brushing against bruised skin.

“Let me carry her,” Bucky said firmly as the medical team prepped to transfer you to a gurney. “Please.”

Reluctantly, they let Bucky scoop you up in his arms and led the way back to the sunlight. He cradled you close to his chest, concern ripping through his chest at how light you felt, bones and joints instead of plush flesh he usually felt.

In the Quinjet, he laid you down on the gurney and took a step back to let the medics work. He didn’t stray very far, hovering over shoulders, trying to stay out of the way as they assessed you for injuries.

Nat eventually grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to a seat, handing him a bottle of water. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to focus on taking deep breaths.

You didn’t remember him. You didn’t remember anyone. Hydra wiped your memory like they did his.

When the landing gear touched the tarmac, Nat held him back as the medical team rushed you to the infirmary. Sam squeezed his shoulder before brushing past him, following you into the building.

“Barnes, you gotta listen to me,” Nat spoke in a firm voice. “She’s going to be confused when she wakes up. She’s not going to remember a whole lot. You gotta get her to trust you.”

“Nat, they… they…” he trailed off, eyes faraway.

“I know,” she nodded. “We’re going to get her back, it’s just going to take some time.”

He nodded, bending his head to wipe his eyes. The redhead pulled him in for a hug, patting his back over the layers of Kevlar he wore. She pulled away, he schooled his features into a little emotion as possible before heading down the ramp to find you.

It was some hours later before you finally woke. You had been cleared of any major physical injuries, just some minor cuts and bruises; everyone’s main concern was the mental damage that Hydra had done.

Bucky hadn’t left your side since you had been admitted, still in his tac suit, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair that had been shoved next to your bed. Your hand looked so small in his, knuckles carrying fading bruises that made him smile knowing you didn’t go easily.

Despite the sedation, you weren’t sleeping easily. Shifting and mumbling in your sleep, expression pinched into an unpleasant expression Bucky has only seen once in a blue moon.

He watched your eyes flutter open, hazy and confused; most likely from the amount of drugs being filtered through your IV.

“Hey Doll,” he murmured, setting your hand gently on the sheets covering your legs. “Welcome back.”

Your eyes attempted to concentrate on him, blinking and shaking your head to try and getting the lens of your eye to focus. When they did, panic pumped through your veins and you jerked away from him.

“It’s okay,” he said in a gentle voice. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Your eyes scanned the room in a hazy sweep, taking in the medical equipment and the different environment. You scrambled away, throwing your legs over the side of the bed and pressing yourself into the corner; tripping over the legs of medical equipment and various cords.

“S-stay away,” you stammered, holding out your hands in front of me. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Bucky didn’t move from his spot in the car, despite his heart pounding in his chest. “Y/N, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Please,” the whimper broke his heart. “Please, I want to go home.”

“Where’s home, Honey?” He asked, tilting his head at you, trying to hide the hurt in his voice.

You faltered, confused by his question. The wheels started spinning in your mind when you realized what you had said; the uncertainty on how to answer sent your head spinning.

The door opened, a team of medical professionals entered which sent you sideways again. Bucky locked eyes with Dr. Cho as she held a syringe loaded with sedative.

“No,” you sobbed. “No, please!”

“Y/N, this will just help you sleep,” Cho moved forward with the needle, cap still on.

Bucky stood as you started to scream, the same as when you were found. An ear splitting shriek that turned his stomach.

You were extremely combative, taking the entire staff to restrain you as Cho administered another fast acting sedative. They tucked your limp form back into bed, fixed your IV and other external monitors before leaving.

A hand on his shoulder startled him, he turned to find Sam standing behind him. He gave the soldier a sympathetic smile before handing him a backpack full of fresh clothes and toiletries.

“Get changed, she’s not going to remember you smelling like that,” Sam tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

When you slept, Bucky let himself hold your hand. He’d press your knuckles to his lips, fighting back tears as he remembers the confusion and panic that comes with memory loss.

You wake a few more times, less confused each time as your surroundings stay consistent. Including the big bulky man sitting in the chair beside your bed.

“Who are you?” You whispered, staring up at the ceiling.

Bucky blinked his tired eyes open, setting your hand back down on the bed from where he had it pressed against his cheek.

“My name is Bucky.”

“Why do you stay?” Your voice was weak.

He bit his lip, holding back a response that might confuse or overwhelm you. “Because I understand.”

“What do you mean?” You swiped a hand across your damp eyes, trying to focus on his face.

“What they did to you, they did to me too,” he whispered. Without thinking, he reached out to the bandages on your temples, where the electrodes had zapped you without enough voltage to burn your skin; and wipe your memories.

As he leaned close to you, you were able to focus on his face. A headache formed behind your eyes, making you squeeze your eyes shut and press your hand to the bridge of your nose.

“What is it?” He pulled his hand back, cursing internally for forgetting himself.

“My head,” you gasp, sitting up. “It hurts.”

“I know,” the soldier nodded sadly. He still gets that same headache sometimes, when he can feel the memory rattling around inside his brain but it doesn’t know how to file it. “It will pass.”

You let him rub your back as you sit with your head between your knees. He allows himself to enjoy pressing his palm between your shoulder blades, pretending that this is any other day and you remember all the love he has given.

Eventually, you raise your head and look sideways at him, cheek resting on your forearms. “They’ve done this to you?”

He nodded, placing his hand back in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” your eyes water again.

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago.” He murmured, then after a breath twists his fingers together. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

You lay back down, covering yourself up with the thin blankets. “’s not your fault, Bucky.”

He blinks back tears as you drift off to sleep.

Eventually Nat strong-armed Bucky into taking his place for a while, she sat in his chair while he went upstairs with instructions to shower and eat before coming back down.

After throwing together a quick sandwich to eat and downing a bottle of water, he finds himself in the bedroom you share.

It hasn’t looked the same in the month you’ve been gone. He’s tried to keep it neat, but it’s losing it’s touch. The way you fold a knit blanket over the end of the bed, the multiple drink cups that clutter the bedside table, the messy bookcase you continuously arrange and rearrange based on an order inside your mind.

The shower is too hot, but it keeps his mind off you. His skin is bright red and raw by the time he turns the water off, wrapping a towel around his waist.

The closet brings a tidal wave of emotions he wasn’t expecting. He realizes that you might want some clothes of your own, that might help you feel home in the echo that is your mind.

After getting dressed, he picks out a few pairs of clothes for you. Some of your favorite comfortable clothes, a worn t-shirt, a stretchy pair of leggings, slipper socks in case your feet get cold. He packed them up in a tote bag with some local bookstore’s logo printed across the front and slung it over his metal shoulder.

When he returns, Nat is talking to you in a soft voice that trails off when he steps through the door. He tries to smile at you, but you turn to hide your face in the hospital pillow. He feels as if someone has reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart in a vice grip.

“I brought you some clothes,” he set the tote down on the end of your bed.

You waited until he backed away before reaching into the bag. He watched as you tentatively reached into the bag and pulled out the t-shirt out. With a start, he realized that it was once his. A SHIELD-issue grey t-shirt, he had somehow ripped a hole in the sleeve and had retired it to the back of the closet. You picked it up out of the laundry and claimed it as your own.

You closed your eyes, pressing the fabric of the shirt to your sheet, turning your nose into the collar to breathe in the scent. His heart stuttered.

“This is mine,” you murmured, making him crack a smile.

“It is, Sweetheart,” he breathed.

Nat squeezed his shoulder before making her exit. He moved without noise to sit in the chair, resting his forearms on his knees.

You moved carefully off the bed toward the small en-suite bathroom with the bag in your arms. Fearful eyes caught Bucky’s, making him sit up straight.

“What is it, Sweetheart?” He tried to keep his voice calm.

“Can… can you keep watch?” Your voice trembled and his heart broke.

He nodded, standing up to follow you in the direction of the bathroom. You slid the door shut, but kept it open just a crack. Bucky put his back to the door, remembering the feeling all too well.

The vulnerability Hydra forces out of you is something he is still working to break. You never want to turn your back, to undress, to be unguarded in case they made their next move.

When the door opens next, you seem a little less on edge. Dressed in the grey t-shirt and a pair of dark leggings, you almost look like who he once knew.

You tuck yourself back into bed, pulling your knees up to your chest. Bucky settled back into the chair, scrubbing a hand across his eyes.

“Bucky?” You ask so softly, he’s not sure he heard you at first.

He lifted his head, smiling at you. “Yeah, Honey?”

“I told you I wanted to go home,” your voice shook, picking at the seam of the fuzzy socks.

He nodded.

“And… and I didn’t know where home is,” your voice cracked and his heart splinter even further.

He nodded, trying his hardest not to speak in order for you to continue.

“Can you show me where home is?” Tears were in your eyes now, chin wobbling with the effort to contain it.

“Of course, Honey,” he nodded. “You wanna go right now?”

You nodded.

He stood up and held out his hand to you, you took it to help you off the bed. You had been unhooked from all your monitors earlier in the day so there was nothing to worry about with the nurses.

Physically you were fine, but he was still holding out hope that your memory would return. You never lost hope with his recovery, he could only offer you the same curtesy.

He felt already better with your hand in his, leading you out of the infirmary and into the elevator. You don’t let go of his hand in the enclosed space, in fact stepping closer as the floor rises.

Bucky fights the urge to hook his arm over your shoulder, tug you in close against his chest. You’re standing in his space, leaning on his ability to protect you from whatever comes through the door.

You’re quiet as the doors open, eyes quickly taking in your new surroundings. Bucky tugs on your hand, leading you out into the space you’ve shared with him for quite some time now.

“I live here?” You whisper, taking in the foyer and kitchen area. Too many shoes scattered by the door, umbrella leaning against the linen closet door. A whiteboard calendar holding onto the drywall for dear life with two command strips and a thumbtack.

“You do,” Bucky confirms, toeing off his shoes and leaving them by the door. “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

You shake your head, which concerns him because you haven’t exactly eaten since you returned. You go into the kitchen anyway, leaving Bucky behind in the foyer; he mourns the loss of your hand.

He finds you staring at the mug left by the coffee maker. You had left it there that morning you disappeared, drank half before running out the door. He looked around the messy kitchen and feels a hint of shame that he should have cleaned up before bringing you in.

You press your hand to your eyes, the way you do when your brain is lost. You grip the edge of the counter, he moves quickly to your side.

“It’s all familiar,” you grit your teeth through the pain. “But I can’t… I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he sooths a hand over your shoulder blades. “Don’t push it. It will come back.”

From the kitchen, you wander into the living room like an echo of your former self. Bucky watches from the doorway, letting you take your time.

A paper back novel placed face down on the coffee table. Slippers, half jammed under the couch from where he had carried you to bed per your pleading request. A half-drunk mug of tea, the contents separated and half evaporated that makes you wrinkle your nose as you peer inside.

Your fingers dance over the knitted throw that is draped over the back of the sofa. Countless hours you’ve spent with it thrown over your lap, pulled up to your chin or pressed under your cheek.

Bucky follows you in silence, never wanting to overstep, to allow you to remember the comfort of your own home at your own pace.

Your eye catches the framed picture beside the tv. You shuffle forward, maneuvering around the furniture with ease despite your eyes being focused ahead.

The picture is one of your favorites. A beach trip sometime last year, the two of you huddled around the bonfire Sam built, a blanket draped over your shoulders. Bucky’s first big smile he allowed others to see, rather than just you. The smile could be contributed to the burnt marshmallow on the end of the roasting stick, how he warned you to just keep it by the coals.

You reached out and rested your fingers on the glass of the thrifted frame, he remembers when you found it in a hidden thrift shop somewhere in the city. He dutifully carried all the bags for you, loaded with hidden treasures.

“You and I…?” You murmured, wrapping your arms around yourself. When he didn’t respond, you glanced over your shoulder at him.

He nodded slowly, avoiding your eye contact by hovering his gaze over your shoulder.

Your expression wavered; taking a hesitant step toward him. “I’m sorry, Bucky. This must be so hard for you.”

He didn’t speak, just swallowed hard and watched your socked feet approach. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Another slow step forward, keeping your arms wrapped around yourself. Chipped nails digging into the bare skin of your under arm.

“Anything look familiar?” He asked, mirroring your posture.

You press your palm between your eyes, unsure if it hurts or maybe thinking it will help you remember. “A little, maybe.”

“C’mere, let’s try this,” he tried to smile, but you watched the sadness return to his eyes. It set an uncomfortable feeling in your chest, you felt like you needed to do something to change that.

You reached out and slipped your hand into his, he stopped in surprise before smiling down at you. Better.

He led you down the hallway, past the spare bedroom, the half bath that you spent Memorial Day weekend completely redecorating.

Pushing open the bedroom door, you’re hit with a tidal wave of emotions. The rumpled duvet cover, squashed pillows, Bucky’s pillow always has half the pillow case on no matter how many times you fix it.

Your soldier pauses in the doorway as you walk the perimeter of the room. Pausing at each framed picture, art you purchased from the little gallery in Brooklyn that you fell in love with, the tiffany lamp you begged Bucky to come with you to pick up that was found on Facebook marketplace.

You picked up a tube of Carmex chapstick that lay on the crowded bedside table, smiling. “I love it in here.”

Bucky smiled sadly, from this angle he couldn’t see the awful healing burn wounds on your head and he could pretend this is any other day.

“You put a lot of time into making this place a home,” he offered, voice gentle.

Your fingertips traced the duvet, moving as you sat down, head hurting again. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut.

Bucky was quick, kneeling in front of you, his hands went to your hips before he could stop himself.

Twisted over in pain, you pressed your forehead to Bucky’s, eyes still shut. “Bucky I want to remember… I… I.”

He shushed you softly, curling his hands around your waist, bringing you closer. “It’s okay, Doll. They’ll come back, I promise.”

You straightened up and wiped your eyes. Bucky took his hands away which brought a feeling to you that you couldn’t categorize. “Can we do something normal? Something I would usually do?”

He smiled, scooting back with a nod. “Sure, Honey. We can do that.”

Bucky told you to get comfortable under the covers while he disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes. You pulled back the duvet and settled back against the pillows, looking around the room while you waited. Although you were alone for a few moments, you still felt at ease in this environment.

He returned with two mugs, both filled to the brim with steaming tea of your favorite brew. Handing one to you, he squatted down in front of the bookshelf and found your favorite book. It took him a moment to locate it, you had some down time the week before you disappeared and rearranged it again.

Climbing into bed next to you, he watched as you flipped open the cover and smiled at your handwriting in the corner of the title page. He took a cautious sip from his mug and set it his bedside table.

He hadn’t pick up his own book since you disappeared from his life for a month. So it took him a moment to reorient himself in the chapter and what was happening.

He watched you start to get absorbed into the book, eventually you leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder; curling your knees in toward him. Just how you always do.

He blinked tears out of his eyes, watching the words on the page grow blurry. Despite the missing memories, you were mirroring your own self unconsciously. Every once in a while, he would see echos, proof that you were still there and would come back to him.

Hydra thought they could wipe you away completely, erase the person you once were. They had failed once again, you would come back to him just as the two of you always do.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #sebastian stan #bucky imagine #captain america

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dollfacefantasy · 11 months ago

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I WANNA BE YOURS ♡

pairing: logan howlett x puppy-hybrid!fem!reader

summary: logan finds you, a special kind of mutant, out on a mission. when he takes in this puppy girl, you quickly forms a bond to him. he tries to tell himself he doesn't like his new shadow or want the attention, but it gets harder to deny as the two of you grow closer.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), hybrids, breeding kink, praise kink, dumbification, fluff, canon-typical violence, blood, nightmares

a/n: thank you so much to @gor3-hound and @nexysworld for beta reading <33

Adamantium strains against the skin between Logan's knuckles as his fists collide with his opponents' bodies. His claws beg to come out, to slice through his own skin and into the men he's striking. Despite causing himself pain, it would make this little struggle easier.

Regardless, he reigns in the urge and continues to fight without them. He didn't need them yet. Having a skeleton of impenetrable metal served as the only weapon he needed for right now. These guys taking him on weren't anything special, simple lackeys hired to protect a facility they didn't even understand the operation of.

His unpierced knuckles land a few strikes to one's abdomen, and he pops the other's face with his elbow. He whips his forearm around and slams the first to the ground in a finishing blow. The other man comes crashing down close behind after he connects his fist with the center of his face.

He looks at both of them crumpled up and unconscious on the ground, shaking off the adrenaline from the scuffle with a few rolls of his shoulders. He swipes the set of keys that hang off the belt of one who went down first and reconvenes with the rest of the team at the point of entrance to the next part of this warehouse.

"Did you find a way to open the doors?" Storm asks him. The white-haired woman struts beside him to the large cement doors at the end of the hallway.

Logan holds up the set of metallic keys, giving them a little jingle as his answer.

"Wow, and without shedding any blood. Impressive," Cyclops mocks from behind. Him and Jean walk a couple paces to the back of him, their eyes scanning for any potential hindrances to the mission.

"Night's not over yet, bub."

The four of them reach the door, and fortunately, it only takes a few tests to determine which key is meant for this lock. Before either Logan or Storm can push the barrier open, the door swings back under the force of Jean's telepathy.

They head inside but brace themselves for what they might see. This mission came about after the professor discovered that this building was being used as some kind of location to traffic mutants. The team had dealt with cases like this before, and they were never pretty. Often, the victims were young and struggling, picked up off the street or gathered from false mutant shelters to be sold into a life of experimentation or fetishization.

Upon first glance, this section of the building holds nothing new. The room isn't large in comparison to the others before it and looks more like a connector between the last hallway and another one. It's dark, not much light to get a good look at anything that could be hiding away.

Storm is eager to keep moving along and guides them towards the entrance to the next hallway. His other two teammates overtake him as well and follow behind her.

"I'm gonna sniff around here for a minute. I'll be right behind you," Logan says and waves them forward.

The two women spare him a skeptic glance, but Scott couldn't be more eager to part from him. They head off in the other direction, leaving Logan alone in the quiet between these four walls.

He just wanted to be sure there was nothing here, whether it be something he could help or something meaning to do them harm. Though he kind of hoped it was the latter. He never felt very good at the 'saving' part of being on this team. Let him go in a room full of threats, and he was guaranteed to be successful. He'd take every last one down in record time and not even have to think twice about it. But give him one person to comfort and tell that everything is gonna be ok, and that would have him breaking a sweat. It's not that he couldn't do it; he simply had to work at it. He didn't have to work at being a weapon.

Treading over the pavement cautiously, Logan's eyes sweep over the few vacant shelves and lonely crates. The room truly seemed unoccupied. He could probably only justify a few more feet before having to go join the rest of the team. But then he sees it.

A cage towards the back of the room, a tarp over the top. It sat near a smaller door he hadn't noticed before. He wasn't too concerned with going in just yet. First he wanted to see if anything was confined behind those thin black bars.

It was larger than a simple pet kennel but too small to give the impression that held anything monstrous. He walks closer to it. No sound came from it nor could he see any movement, but his curiosity had been triggered. He had to know why this thing had been secluded.

Once he's close enough, he crouches down and pushes away the rough white material draped over it. His fingers undo the latch and open the door so he could get a better look inside.

He peers in and is met with a pair of eyes staring back at him out of the darkness. His first instinct is to back up and get into a defensive position, but whatever's inside doesn't give him the chance.

You lunge at him and knock him flat onto his back.

He hits the cement with a grunt, and his claws cry out to him again. He could easily unsheathe them and tear whatever you were to shreds. But before he does this, he realizes that this isn't an attack. He's not in any kind of pain. In fact, nothing is really happening to him. All you were doing was... sniffing him?

He could hear your rapid inhales and exhales as your nose trailed along the collar of his white tank top. Straining his neck back as much as he can, he finally gets a good look at you. You were human - smaller than most with wide, curious eyes - but you also had floppy ears erupting from your scalp and a long tail coming from your backside that was whipping back and forth.

Even with all the different kinds of mutants he'd seen, he couldn't help thinking this was bizarre at first glance. He knew it was possible for mutations to express physically even though most were internal. For god's sake he had literal claws and knew multiple people who were straight up blue. But he'd never seen anything like this.

You looked like just a mix of canine and human. In honesty, you were pretty cute. You didn't look like the type of thing someone would shout 'freak' at from across the street. Hybrid was probably a more accurate descriptor than mutant. Either way, he didn't want you on top of him.

"Quit it," he growls before grabbing your waist and pushing you off. Based on the fact that you weren't attacking, he assumes you're a victim rather than a perpetrator. He rises to his feet to stand above you, ready to fight just in case. "What the hell are you supposed to be?"

You sit there, tail still wagging despite his rough temperament. Your eyes have that gleam that likens your appearance to a puppy even more than your ears or tail do. He realizes you might not be able to talk or something, but he doesn't get too far with that thought before you speak.

"A mutant. Like you."

His eyes narrow.

"Yeah? How do you know I'm a mutant?" he asks. He hadn't shown you his claws and you hadn't seen his skin magically stitch itself back together. Maybe you were on the other side of this mission.

"I can smell it," you answer.

That makes his eyebrow slowly raise. "Smell it?" he says.

You nod. "Mutants smell different than humans," you say.

You rise to your feet and stand next to him. Leaning in again, you smell his arm. Your head moves down his bicep and to his elbow and forearm. He pulls his limb away with a scowl, but you'd already had a chance to register the scent that'd caught your attention.

"You smell metallic too," you say.

So your canine traits weren't just physical. Logan knew you weren't lying, having an enhanced olfaction himself. He'd just never met someone else who also had that ability.

"Your mutation is basically just being an overgrown dog then?" he asks with a bemused expression, "You like playing fetch? Want me to call you a good girl?"

You can't help the automatic twitch in your tail when you hear that phrase, but your expression darkens as if a storm cloud had formed inches above those folded ears.

"I'm not a dog. If I'm a dog, are you like a robot since you have metal in you?" you huff and cross your arms.

A sharp puff of air comes from his nostrils at your attempted retort. "Robot isn't exactly what they call me."

You grumble and roll your eyes. Your tail had gone still behind you and hung between your legs.

He continues to stare down at you, trying to decide what to do next. Even though you were a mutant, you didn't seem to be a fighter or have any skills that would be useful in combat. He wasn't just going to leave you here, but he didn't know how big a risk it would be to let you tag along.

"What are you doing here? Did someone lock you in that cage, or is that just where you spend your free time?" he asks.

"Someone took me and locked me in there," you say, your pout deepening.

"For how long?"

You shrug. Logan has the urge to roll his eyes just as you did, but he can tell your lack of knowledge is genuine.

"You don't know how long you were in there?" he prompts.

"No. Maybe like... a couple weeks or something. I don't know. It's hard to keep track."

Of course. Just like a puppy, you had a poor concept of time. He shakes his head and rubs his hand over his face. It did look like you'd been captive for a few weeks. You weren't in the best shape and had bruises littering your body. Your clothes were dirty and torn at the hems. As annoying as he found you in the few minutes he'd known you, he knew you didn't deserve this treatment. Locking a cute little thing like you in a cage was plain cruelty.

"Alright. Well what's your name? I'm Logan," he sighs.

You tell him, but just as the last syllable leaves your lips, footsteps burst into the room from the direction of the hallway.

Scott and Jean round the corner, clearly looking for their teammate. Logan turns around to see the new arrivals and relaxes when he recognizes the man in the visor and the redhead beside him.

"There you are. We thought you took off or something," Scott mocks casually.

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words dissolve when he feels a thud against his back.

You don’t recognize the people who'd just shown up, so you hide yourself behind the man who found you. Pressing yourself against his back, you cautiously tilt your head to his side to peek at Scott and Jean. Your fingers clutch the fabric of Logan's tank top so tight they threaten to poke little holes in the ribbed material.

"What- what are you doing?" he grunts and tries to look over his shoulder at you. The way you were latched onto him prevented him from turning around fully. He lifts one of his arms to see your eyes scoping out the potential danger in front of him.

"Get- C'mon get off. They're not gonna hurt you," he continues, brushing you off by reaching back and lightly tugging your hair.

You stumble to the side, and he manages to grab your shoulders and walk you in front of him. He holds you there, presenting you to Scott and Jean. The way your ears pin back to your head makes him feel a little guilty about making you confront the strangers so directly, but they weren't gonna do anything to you. Assuming they were gonna rescue you and take you back to Xavier's, you'd have to get used to prying eyes and meeting new people.

Both Scott and Jean look at you curiously, Jean with less confusion than Scott. Clearly, he had a similar thought process to Logan while the woman next to him could sense that you were a mutant and what your abilities were.

"I found her in that cage back there," he explains.

The two of them nod. They take a few more moments to simply observe you before they move closer and ask for your name. You give it just like you had to Logan. They nod again and then begin running through a similar routine of questions. Theirs are more detailed though and manage to coax more information out of you.

Your responses give them a quick little rundown of you. You fit the profile of the people they usually found on these missions. You're young, early 20s, struggling because getting a job was nearly impossible with your ears and tail. You had no family. They'd given you up after your mutation began to manifest. Everyone thinks puppies are cute, but apparently, no one wanted a human child that shared features with them. You'd been taken from the shelter you were staying at like most others who found themselves in this situation.

As you answer each one posed to you, Logan feels you subtly sinking back against him. Your back meets his abdomen like two magnets slowly being pulled together. Despite the annoyed look on his face, he doesn't say anything or pull away.

When the brief interrogation comes to a close, Scott relays to Logan that they had found other victims in another part of the facility. Storm was with them now, guiding them to the extraction point where they'd be taken to safety. The four of you just had to follow along.

Scott and Jean lead the way. Logan follows behind and you trot along beside him. He notices you're staying close to him in particular.

"Did the guys who took you say anything else about why they wanted you?" he asks. The fact that you were kept separate was still lingering in his mind. To him it didn't mean anything good.

You shrug and look up at him. "They didn't really talk to me that much unless they were being mean or spitting at me. Or kicking the cage," you say.

You say it like it's casual, but he can tell it hurts. He knows how it feels to an extent. All mutants do. Not many people will openly talk shit about a guy with metal claws, but the sentiment is still there. The idea that you're inferior. That something is wrong with you. That you don't belong in this life.

He just nods, not knowing much else to offer as comfort. "Did you ever overhear them talking about you? Any reason they wouldn't have put you with the others?"

"I think they wanted to figure out if there was more of me. Or if they could make anymore at least," you say after taking a moment to think, "Cause you know. Guys like the whole puppy thing. Makes me worth more I guess."

He cringes at the ugly picture you paint with those words.

The group of you continues walking, footsteps being the only sound in the hallway. Your tail had started wagging again which makes him feel a little better about not offering anything in terms of reassurance. But when you reach the room where the other victims had been, your tail comes to a halt and droops between your legs.

A party of men is spread throughout the area. They walk around scanning the now empty space, visibly incensed at their captives being freed. You slide yourself against Logan's back again, but you don't try to peek at them like you did with Scott and Jean. It doesn't take much to figure out that these are the ones who kept you in that cage.

They hear the team and you approaching and turn to face you. Despite your efforts to hide, they spot you before you're completely concealed behind the bulk of Logan's muscular frame. The one closest scowls at your attempt.

"I'm guessing the three of you know what happened to the things we had in here?" he says, sarcasm lacing each word.

"You could say that. And those people are long gone by now, so it's probably best you move on," Scott answers. His fingers rise to his temple in preparation to operate his visor.

The men don't seem to be threatened. The amalgamation of them tightens, forming a more crowded cluster.

"Yeah, you're probably right. But you're not leaving with that one," the same one says and gestures to you hiding, "She stays here."

"Not gonna happen, bub," Logan responds so quickly it surprises even himself.

His teammates also look interested in his seeming budding attachment to you, but they know better than to squabble in front of adversaries.

You are the only one the words don't strike in any sort of way, but that's because you didn't totally hear them. You're too busy trembling, hoping with everything you had that Logan wouldn't force you in front of him again and then kick you into the group of guys.

But obviously, that doesn't happen. There's more arguing that you don't hear because you choose to tune it out. You can sense Logan becoming more agitated and the air around everyone becoming more tense. Your body grows more rigid, your ears glued back to your scalp. You just want this to be over.

As these thoughts whirl through your mind, the arguing comes to a head, and Logan launches away from you. You feel naked without his large body shielding yours.

Scott and Jean aid him. Your first inclination is to turn the other direction and just try to stay out of the way. You weren't confident in your combat skills. If you could seriously fight, you probably wouldn't have gotten snatched up. You didn't want to be the reason any of these people who were trying to help you got hurt.

But then you see someone coming up behind Logan brandishing a knife. It's out of your control, the way your muscles go taut and your lip curls back. You'd only ever been in a real fight once before in your life, and you don't remember feeling this vicious. You spring up behind the man, finding where his shoulder meets his neck and biting down hard.

The cries of agony and grunts of anger seem to go on forever. The smell of blood invades your nostrils as you deal with your target. He'd fallen to the floor when your teeth sunk into his flesh. You feel him thrashing underneath you as you rip and tear, but you don't stop until he's gone still. You then pull off and wipe your mouth, twisting around to sit on the abdomen of your incapacitated enemy.

Logan also had no difficulty dealing with the men coming at him. There were just more of them, so he took a little longer. After one last thud of a body crumpling to the floor, only heavy breathing sounds through the warehouse.

Jean and Scott seem fine. They stand there checking each other over, and you see them share a brief kiss. You glance over towards Logan next and decide to return to his side.

He's alone. The sounds of panting are mostly coming from him. His body glistens, muscles lightly coated in perspiration. His scent is stronger to you now, and it only grows more overwhelming as you approach him. Men lie at his feet with pools of blood around them, presumably the same crimson liquid that stains his hands, wrists, and forearms in streaks.

You make your next move without thinking. Coming up to his side, trying in vain to avoid getting your ratty socks soaked with blood, you press your cheek against his bicep and snake your arms around his.

He then looks down at you. His eyebrows raise at the blood that coats your mouth and chin and trails down your shirt. You hadn't seemed like any type of predator before. Your presence was more akin to a puppy that'd be torn apart by wolves than anything that could do anyone harm.

"How'd you do that?" he asks.

Your finger rises and hooks under your upper lip, pulling it back to reveal your canines, sharper than a normal person's.

He nods and watches you with some mixture of curiosity, irritation, and fondness.

"Pretty good," he says simply.

You beam at the praise, blood-stained lips parting into a wide smile. He feels your tail wag harder and brush against the back of his leg.

The touch is nice. It makes him more conscious of the way you're still holding onto him, your hand curled around his muscle and your hip against his. He's not sure what it is. A silent thank you, a note of understanding, or a pledge of loyalty.

But he doesn't need a thank you, someone to understand him or devote themself to him. He's just doing what he's supposed to.

He slides his arm out of your clutches and gently pats you on the head.

"C'mon, let's get going," he says and starts walking towards the exit.

You trot wordlessly behind him, which he's grateful for. But more than that, he's just happy Scott didn't have anything to say about your sudden bond to him.

Once the jet picked you up from the extraction point, the trip back to the school was a breeze. You mostly keep to yourself while trying to stick close to Logan. He sits you next to him and cleans up your face, but you sleep for most of the actual traveling time to the destination.

You hadn't realized how tired you were until the seat hit your back and the buckles of the seat belt latched over your chest. With that manifestation of security, your eyes began drooping and your head was drifting to your shoulder like it was your center of gravity.

Logan's voice is what wakes you up. It's unclear to you how much time has passed, but that doesn't bother you. You feel him gently jostling you before unbuckling the straps across your chest. He calls your name a few times until your bleary eyes open and focus on his face.

"There you are," he says, "C'mon. We're here."

You still watch him without saying a word. Your hand rubs over your face to try and pull yourself closer to being awake. He watches you before offering his hand.

"I'm not carrying you, so you need to get up," he says in a tone you were becoming familiar with. It sounded irritated but not directly at you. Like this man was just in a constant state of being pissy about something.

You take the offer regardless and let him pull you to your feet. The two of you exit the jet together, him helping you out to ensure you don't trip on the gap between the ramp and the ground.

Once you're out, your eyes widen. You expected a boarding school to be pretty fancy, but this was nicer than any place you'd ever been. The walls stretched up the sky, crafted with bricks and decorated with large glass windows. The path there was paved and bordered with kept plants. You could see beyond that though. The large expanse of the property. So much space to run and do things.

Logan watches your reaction with amusement. "It's a lot to take in when you first get here," he says.

You nod, and your eyes continue to dart around and absorb the sight of everything. Storm and Jean lead the others who were saved off to another part of the building to be reunited with their families or taken back to their lives or even given verifiable resources. But you don't want to go with them.

You grab Logan's hand and look up at him, shaking your head.

His first reaction is to try and pull his hand free of you, but you have a tighter grip than expected. "What? What's the matter?" he asks you while still trying worm his hand out of your finger's lock.

You don't know how to articulate it because what you want is very simple. You want to stay with him. You want to stay here. You don't want to go back out to the world where people point and laugh at you or turn you away from everything. You just don't know how to say that without it seeming weird.

Luckily for you, Scott gives you a bit of help. You're not sure if that's his intention or not, but either way, you're grateful for the help.

"Maybe we should take her to the Professor. He might want to see about her mutation or ask her about that stuff back there," he tells Logan. You can tell from the way Scott speaks that he doesn't really like him too much.

Logan thinks about it for a moment before nodding. Before leading you there, he uses his other hand to pry your fingers off of him. You frown at the loss of connection and shoot him a glare. That brings an actual smile to his face.

"Follow along, pup. Don't need you getting lost," he says as he turns to guide you down the halls of the school.

The sun hadn't even risen, so not too many people occupied the common rooms. You catch sight of a few. They stare back at you, but unlike what you're used to, they don't look at you with disdain or mocking. It's simple, innocent curiosity. The only thing that seems to worry them is the bright red stain going down the front of your shirt.

Inside the room had been an older guy in a wheelchair. The professor talked the nicest out of all the men you'd been around today. When he looked at you, you felt like he understood you. He didn't even seem perplexed like Scott or Logan had. He'd merely said you were "interesting."

He talked to you for a while. He asked similar questions similar to the ones you already answered, but the third round of them got even deeper than the last two. Once he revealed that he could enter your thoughts if he wanted, that made a lot of sense.

Though he didn't really need his ability to understand you. Your experiences were written all over your face, practically sewn into the seams of your clothes.

He could see how, like every mutant, you led a life dominated by rejection. But in a different way than most others of your kind, you were vaguely familiar. Seeing someone with a tongue ten feet long or with blue skin or claws was jarring. It was weird.

But you - you look like a cute puppy. You walk the line between disturbing and endearing.

Charles can also see how you long for belonging even deeper than most. It's as if your mutation gives you the drive to seek out affection, for someone to devote yourself to. He can tell this by the way you linger around Logan.

If he moved an inch, you followed in the same direction. If he looked away, your eyes followed along. You were only settled if he was looking at you, not in danger of leaving your vicinity.

After talking to you for a while, hearing about your abilities and getting to understand your personality, he offers to let you stay at the school. He tells you it might be beneficial for you, and if you don't like it, you're welcome to leave anytime. It's only meant to give you a chance to understand your gifts and learn to control them and use them for good.

Of course, you accept. It wasn't even a question.

"Wonderful. Scott, show her to the extra rooms she can stay in and the shower so she can clean up a bit," Charles says. He watches as your eyes flit to Logan and then Scott. He also sees Scott's uncertainty as to why he was given this job.

But he nods and gestures for you to follow him, which you reluctantly do.

You trail him silently up the stairs, and he gives you a little guide to where everything is. He gestures at the direction of the student wing and the staff wing and then takes you to the latter. He points out the different bedrooms and grabs you a change of clothes on the way to the bathrooms.

He's nice to you. A little stiff, but he still smiles and laughs softly at quips he makes or your skeptical reactions to things. You want to ask him about his sunglasses, but you figure that'd be rude so you refrain. When he leaves you at the bathroom door, he tells you to just call if you need anything cause he's right down the hall.

Stepping inside, you peer around the expansive room. You'd never seen a bathroom so large. It was nice like everything else was in this place. The counter was spotless and smooth. The tile was sleek with a soft mat beneath your feet at the door and waiting for you in front of the shower.

You undress yourself quickly and turn on the water, waiting for it to heat before stepping inside. There's some products on the shelf inside that you use. You lather the soap on your hands and rub it over yourself fast. It felt really good, especially since you hadn't had a proper shower while being held captive. But you still work at a sped up pace. Although the novelty of everything had impressed you at first, you were beginning to yearn to be by Logan again. It wasn't a need that would make you lose control, just a little itch like a bug crawling up the path of your veins.

Downstairs, Charles kept Logan behind in his office so the two could talk. They briefly recap the mission before moving to the subject that was the true reason for the extended conversation.

"It seems she's quite taken with you," the older man starts simply.

"I guess," Logan responds, his voice unamused with the idea.

Charles huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He goes to say something else, but the other man carries on the conversation himself.

"She'll get over it. She's like a little duck following around the first person she sees," he says and crosses his arms.

"I think you underestimate her intelligence, Logan. She's not a helpless animal-"

"I know that," he interjects quickly.

"She's one of us. She's formed an attachment to you for whatever reason. I would like her to stay here for at least for a little while to examine the traits of her mutation. I've never seen any that so closely mimic an already existing animal," he explains, "But I want to know that you're ok with that."

Logan scoffs. "Why wouldn't I be? That doesn't have anything to do with me."

"While she's here, she's most likely going to want to be around you. I just wanted to make sure that's not something you're wholly uncomfortable with."

"Please. I can handle it," he dismisses.

Charles watches him, ever-entertained by how hard he tries to present the idea that he's unaffected.

"If you say so," he says, "Just try not to scare off too quickly."

"I'll play nice," he says.

A few more words, and he's dismissed. He turns on his heel and heads out the same doors he entered. Just as he does, you glide down the stairs into his field of vision, tail wagging lazily behind you over the waistband of the sweats Scott gave you.

When you see him, it swishes a bit faster and your ears perk up. His eyes narrow.

"What are you doing down here? Didn't Scott show you where to go?" he asks.

You nod and prance down the remaining steps. Truthfully, you'd been seeking the man before your eyes, but you couldn't just say that.

"Am I not allowed to look around?" you ask.

His eyes remain hard on your face. "Aren't you tired? Mauling that guy didn't take anything out of you?"

A subtle pout forms on your lips, and you consider retreating back to the bedroom you'd been given. He clearly wasn't in the mood for you right now.

Logan sees the reaction his words brought on. He feels that little sliver of guilt shifting around inside him. Maybe his phrasing hadn't been the best... but then again why did he give a shit?

"How about we just get you back to bed? I'll show you around more tomorrow," he suggests.

You take what you can get and nod, your features slightly elevating at the form of peace he offers you. He retraces your steps up the stairs and down the hall with you on his heels. He spots the room Scott had picked for you. The door was ajar from how you'd left it to go find him.

He leads you inside but remains in the doorway himself. There really wasn't any reason to stay, so he should probably be leaving...

"Have you been here a long time?" you ask suddenly.

His eyes land on you again. You were perched on the end of your bed that was still fully made up, the comforter tucked in and everything.

"What?" he asks.

"Have you been here long? Scott said he's been here since he was a teenager," you say.

"Oh. No. Only a little while," he says. "I'm still pretty new here too."

That makes you happy, it's obvious from the hope that gleams in your eyes. "Are you like a teacher too? Or... something else?"

"What would that something else be?" he asks with a smirk, taking a few steps into the room with you, "Having a hard time picturing me teaching?"

"Well I just mean-" you try to justify before laughing a little, giving in, "Yeah. I can't really see it."

"Me neither. I'm not a teacher. I just help out sometimes," he says.

He walks even closer to you, causing your head to tilt up to look at him. Now you really looked like a puppy.

This close, he was all you could smell. You could see every individual hair on his forearm. It felt as though you could hear the strong beat of his heart. His eyes pierced into you from above, and you wondered if he was observing you in a similar manner.

"You gonna sleep on top of these blankets?" he asks.

The mention of something else besides him snaps you out of your little Logan-centric daze. You look around at the bedding and then back up at his head. The two styled points of dark hair look like he has two ears of his own mirroring yours.

"No. I'll fix them," you say and stand up to tug them free, "I don't need you to tuck me in."

"I wasn't offering to. I just don't want you getting up and trying to 'look around' again. Don't need you getting lost and wandering to my bed."

The idea brings heat to your cheeks and neck. It sounded nice for so many reasons. But the bed you had now outmatched the hard bottom of the cage you'd been sleeping on, so you weren't going to try and swing for more.

Once the comforter and sheets are peeled down, you climb back on the bed and sit against the pillows. There's a small pause. A puddle of silence pooling between the two of you. You don't know what else to ask, but you feel if you don't say anything he's gonna leave. So you pull out the first thing you can think of.

"What is your actual mutation?"

His brows rise with interest, and he closes the gap between you by sitting on the edge of your bed. Curiosity shines from his eyes onto you, silently questioning why you wanted to know.

"I know you're not actually a robot, but I can still smell the metal and stuff. What does it do?" you ask.

"The metal isn't my mutation," he says.

He raises his fist about a foot away from your face. His fingers are balled up tight against his hand. You cock your head, wondering what he's showing you.

Before you can ask any questions though, three shining metal claws emerge from between his knuckles. They come out slowly, a pace prolonged enough to be considered teasing. Your eyes widen at the sharp points and you scoot back, smooshing the pillows against your head board. All you can wonder is if he didn't take them out earlier or if you really had missed something so monumental.

His laugh rises in volume. "Relax, I'm not gonna cut you."

The claws come to a halt when fully extended. You wait just in case something else is going to happen, but nothing does. You bring your finger up and poke at the hard surface. They were so beautiful but unnatural too. You'd never seen anything like them.

"But I didn't see anywhere for them to come out?" you say softly.

He flexes his hand and extends his fingers, retracting the claws much quicker than they appeared.

"There is no place for them to come out of," he says and offers you his hand.

You frown at the little cuts the sharp rods left in their wake, but like little zippers, they close up. You blink at his hand. All evidence of his mutation was gone.

"So you can heal? And you have claws?" you say more to yourself than him, "Does it still hurt when they come out?"

He nods and watches you examine his hand.

Upon seeing his confirmation, you can't even help what you do next. You pull his limb a little closer and kiss each spot where a claw had emerged. Every phantom cut gets a soft smooch left where it would soon reappear.

"What are you doing?" Logan asks, her arm tensing up on instinct.

You glance at his face before releasing his hand. "Oh... sorry," you say and shrug sheepishly.

To your surprise, he doesn't scold or chastise you, doesn't get up to leave in a hurry. He simply pulls his hand back and gives you another look before saying good night.

"Get some good sleep. Like I said, I'll show you around tomorrow," he says.

You slip down in the bed, resting your head on the plush pillows and pulling the blanket up over your form. He heads out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

A deep exhale leaves his lungs. He shakes some of that tension loose. What had he been doing? It almost felt like some different person had taken over him in there. Another version of himself that didn't have to be reminded to 'play nice.'

The few weeks you're supposed to stay at the school stretches out into a longer timeframe. It'd now been a few months since that day he found you in the cage and set you free. Though that month or so you'd spent locked up turned out to be worth it because you now had a place that made you happier than anywhere you'd lived before. You had a family.

You had Jean and Storm who were helping you train so you could one day go on missions with them. You had the Professor who taught you more about yourself than you had ever thought to ask. Scott was there too.

And of course, you had Logan.

Logan. As much as he tried to seem reluctant, to appear uncaring and nonchalant, he had grown to enjoy your company more with each passing day that you followed him like a shadow.

It was irritating at first. Before, he'd been able to drift through the school relatively unnoticed. Now, every single place he went, he was trailed by whoosh whoosh whoosh. The sound of your tail going back and forth. Anything he tried to do was accompanied by the feeling of two glimmering eyes trained on him. He'd tried to brush you off, but you didn't waver.

"Don't you have anything better to do than stalk me?" he'd ask, shooting a side eye your way.

"No," you'd respond.

"Well, find something."

"I don't wanna."

And who was he to argue with that?

In a way, the bond you seemed to have formed with him was flattering. It seemed like he could do anything, and you'd never view him as anything but the greatest creation to grace this earth. So he just lets you follow him around. He assumes after a while, you'll see him for what he is and lose interest, or you'll just grow bored of him and find something else to be the object of your obsession. Though so far that day hadn't come.

After a while of you always at his side, he started to cave and include you in his little routines.

One day he was doing sit ups at the foot of his bed while you sat nearby. His body rose and fell, abdomen kissing his thighs in regular intervals. But every time he came up, he found himself looking over at you.

"Hey, pup," he said, the nickname he developed for you coming out effortlessly, "C'mere for a second."

Your ears perked up. You weren't usually involved in what he was doing. You scoot over to him and kneel at his feet, awaiting a command. You could be so obedient sometimes it nearly made him feel guilty.

"You wanna help me with something?" he asked. As he expected, you nodded right away, so he continued, "Just hold my feet down. These only work if your feet stay flat. So just make sure they do."

You gave him another dutiful nod and got in position. Your hands held his feet down as he worked out just like he asked. Each time he came up off the ground, you looked at him with a big goofy smile.

That was just the first thing. From then on, the two of you actually did stuff together rather than just going about your things nearby one another. He'd help you train, and you'd help him clean Scott's bike when he finished using it.

Tonight, exhaustion aches in your bones after running around all day. On top of that, you'd had so much stuff to do yourself that you'd barely even seen Logan all day.

When the sun's finally down and the students have all retired to their bedrooms, you find him in the living room. He's leaned back into the couch, nursing a bottle of something. You assume it's not beer since you're at a school, but with how often he lamented about that limitation, you wouldn't put it past him to sneak one in.

You hop over the arm rest and curl up on the opposite side of the couch from him. He looks over at you, not displeased with your presence.

"There you are. I thought you finally got tired of me and found someone else to bother," he teases.

"I could never do that," you reply with the same playful cadence. You scoot a little closer. "I was just super busy today. The Professor was having me talk to some of the students, and then Scott needed me to grab something for him from the shed. It was really hard to find, so it took a while. Then I had to do my own training, and Jean made me try on some sizes for my suit..."

As you chatter on about your day, Logan finds himself nodding along, even occasionally reacting to what you say. He's not rolling his eyes or telling you to leave him alone. It's weird, but he can't say he wants to feel differently.

"Sounds like they're working you like a dog," he says when your story has reached an end.

Your face darkens like it had on the day he met you, shooting him a quick glare as a reminder not to say the forbidden d-word.

"Right, sorry," he corrects, "It just sounds like they're running you ragged. Don't let 'em work you too hard. Scott can get his own shit."

He still didn't understand your hang up about that word. He could call you pup, puppy, or any variation of that, and you'd react with nothing but joy. But utter d-o-g in your vicinity, and he felt like he was at risk of getting his throat chomped on. Luckily, it only takes his small apology for your normal demeanor to make its return.

"It's ok. I don't mind helping. I like having stuff to do," you say and shrug.

"I thought your 'stuff to do' was watching over me," he jokes and leans forward, placing his bottle down on the table.

You're not sure why, but you take that as an invitation to scoot even closer to him.

"I thought you wanted me to find better stuff to do."

"Fair," he chuckles, "Maybe this is one of those things where I'm not gonna realize I miss something until it's gone."

He brings his hand up from the back of the couch to massage the base of one of your ears. The soft fluff feels almost luxurious against the rough pads of his finger tips. He knew you loved the sensation. It had been an accidental discovery, something he did one time as a joke. But the way you melted into the touch had been more than just funny to him.

You lean into it now and nuzzle his palm.

"It was just one day. It's not like a permanent new routine."

"For now. Then soon enough, I'm gonna catch you trailing somebody else with hearts in your eyes," he says and gently tugs your ear.

You laugh at the tug and the stupid words. "You will not. Plus, I don't have hearts in my eyes for you."

"Oh really?" he teases. He leans in, his face hovering a couple inches away from yours. "I think I can see some now."

The two of you stay locked in a stare for a few lingering seconds. He'd never been this close to you before. You'd never heard his voice lower in that way, sounding almost desiring. Heat starts to crawl up from your belly through your chest to your neck. Before it can reach your cheeks, you turn your head to face the tv.

"Shut up," you huff, choosing to play the interaction off as a joke.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his grin. He chuckles and his arm returns to its place behind you, above your shoulders. Quiet blooms between the two of you, kept from being total silence only by the hushed noises of the tv set across the room. It doesn't feel awkward though even with the sudden shyness he'd brought over you.

You angle yourself and lean in so that you're sitting against his side. No words come from him, he simply lowers his arm to sling around your shoulders and keep you there. His thumb idly pets back and forth over the smooth skin of your forearm.

The heat of his body radiates from his side and into you. Makes you feel safe and comfortable. Like you're where you're supposed to be. It's easy to sink into him further and tilt your head to rest on his chest. Before long, your eyes feel a little droopy. Blinking feels sticky, and your mind just wants to retreat to the soft embrace of sleep.

Logan can tell. He's not sure of the feeling this knowledge brings him. Pride? Contentment? Affection? Instead of thinking about it harder, he just pulls you a little closer and lets you drift off. He considers saying something, letting you know he doesn't mind and that you don't have to try and stay up. But nothing comes from him and the quiet continues.

He watches you slowly slip away. Your neck loses the wherewithal to stay upright, and your breaths soften, blowing in and out in a thoughtless rhythm.

The feeling that flows through him takes him by surprise. Pure endearment towards you, not a hint of anything else. He lets you sleep there for the next hour or so. When you're still out cold after that time has passed, he's unsure of his next move. He doesn't want to wake you and shatter the peace that had settled over the room, but he had to head to bed himself and wasn't going to leave you stranded on the couch in the common room.

The light of the tv glows across the two of you as he mulls over his options. When he finally decides, he grabs the remote and shuts the device off, cloaking the room in darkness, spare the distant blinking lights that could be seen through the windows. He rises from the cushions that had molded to cradle his weight, making sure to keep a hand on you to prevent you from slumping over.

This time he doesn't shake you or offer a hand. He reaches around and tucks an arm under your legs. His other supports you across your shoulder blades as he lifts you into his arms. He traverses the furniture with caution, making sure to avoid bumping into a stray corner or tripping on a catch in the rug. Then he moves up the stairs. Your limp body bounces with each step.

He nudges the door open to your bedroom and takes you inside. Your scent seemed to fill the entire room. Every time he took a breath, he got a lungful of the heady smell. Your bedroom was so you now. The way you'd decorated it and splashed your personality over every inch, it'd be hard to believe that just a few months ago it had been so sparse.

What had been a blank bed, covered only by a plain duvet and thin pillows, now held your extra fluffy cushions, a nest of blankets, and your steadily-growing collection of plushies. Trinkets lined your shelves and tables, and you even displayed a few posters over the walls. It was you, all around him.

He walks the few paces to the edge of the mattress before laying your body down on the foamy surface. He drapes a nearby blanket over your form. Even though he's technically accomplished what he meant to, he doesn't leave yet. He lingers like he can't seem to help doing around you.

You're still fast asleep, unaware of the change in locations. He watches a haphazard swallow move through your throat before you settle into the familiar setting.

He finds himself not wanting to go back to his room. He'd been at the school longer than you and never made his own so nice. Really, he didn't think he could make it as nice. But that was just because nothing about him was as nice as you.

When the resolve to leave finally surfaces in him, he reaches out and rubs the base of your ear.

"See you in the morning," he murmurs. Unlike before, the rest of what he wants to say doesn't get tangled up in his throat. "My little puppy girl."

That night won't leave your head for the next week. It almost feels like a dream. You'd woken up in your bed the next morning, assuming that's what it was. The undeniable change in location was the only thing that made your mind accept it as reality.

In the following days, things stayed the same for the most part, though you would have sworn, Logan acted a little less grumpy around you. Only by a microscopic degree, but enough for you to note the shift.

Nothing that big happens though. You don't even repeat the cuddling incident again. You kind of just assume that it was a one time thing. A nice experience, but not one to be repeated.

The memory of it floats through your mind often though. The pulse of his heart beating against your cheek, how you could hear it in your ear clear as day. Your stomach flutters at the thought of him actively pulling you closer, wanting you that close. You can feel your dedication to Logan blossoming into something more. It was already rooted so deep inside you that you didn't think it was possible, but you could feel it. The branches of reverence spreading in your chest and growing into something closer to adoration.

You could feel it now, sitting next to him on the bench in the school's spacious yard. He'd been tasked with watching some of the students for the afternoon, so of course, you tagged along. Shade speckled his face with alternating blotches of sunlight and gray. The stray beams of light made his eyes glow, and his hair shine all pretty. The sounds of the students practicing their abilities clouds the background of your focus, and they become even more distant when he suddenly turns to you.

"You're staring," he teases with that little smirk of his.

Your eyes flutter at the accusation. "No... I was not."

"Yeah you were. Even worse than usual."

"I just was thinking and zoned out," you defend, turning to face forward.

He hums in acknowledgement, obviously not believing your excuse. "Were you thinking about me?"

"You wish."

"I don't have to wish, puppy. You're not a very good liar."

You really weren't. Your tail swished with each beat of this little back and forth. Your ears pinned back to your head, folded over by the guilt of being caught. Everything you were feeling was made apparent by your supposed 'gifts.'

"Well whatever. Even if I was, it's none of your business," you say. A smile pulls at your lips. Your tells weren't solely from your mutation.

"If you say so," he taunts, one last jab before he returns his attention to the kids he was supposed to be supervising.

Nothing he said hinted at anything more than playful banter, but the way he spoke had them wrapped around your heart like unbreakable restraints. The way he said them made you feel like he wanted it this way. Wanted you to hear that smug cadence in your mind for the next few days. Maybe he found you entertaining. Maybe your emotions were a new game he discovered he liked to play with.

Hours later, you're curled up in your bed, by yourself as per usual. Everyone in the school had gone to bed, you and Logan had parted a while ago yourselves.

Sleep weighs you down to the mattress, but your ears perk up automatically when they register a distant sound of distress. It's faint. If it happened alone, you would've just assumed it was part of your dream and not done anything else. But more follow it.

Your eyes crack open, still glazed with drowsiness as you come to. You listen for the sounds that disturbed you. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the gentle breeze outside your room and the crickets chirping in the cut grass in the yard.

Then it happens again. A normal person wouldn't be able to hear these sounds. They were reserved for you with your enhanced senses. It sounds like grunting and groaning though you can pick up the pained undertone of fear. The worst part of it to you is that immediately you know it's coming from Logan.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, freeing them from the fleece warmth of your blankets. Padding out of the room, you cross the hall to his. You open the door in the specific way so that it doesn't creak and then shut it behind you. Your feet are gentle on the hardwood as they bring you closer to the source of the noise.

Once you're in, it's no mystery. Logan lays on his back in the center of his bed, shoulders twitching in agitation. He mumbles to himself, different words you can't make out. Your head cocks at the sight.

Approaching the side of his bed, you just watch him for a few more moments. When he doesn't wake up, you feel the urge to intervene. It felt wrong watching him suffer. Something pulled at your insides to help him.

You reach out and nudge his bicep. There's no effect. You do it a few more times but still nothing happens. Finally, you actually grip his shoulder and shake him gently, whispering into the darkness a simple "Logan."

That wakes him. No mistake about it. He gasps and snaps up. His claws come out from his hands without a second thought and slash at you. You hop back right away, tripping over your own feet and crashing onto the ground.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. The adrenaline coursing through you wasn't so much out of fear but rather confusion. Your mind was still a bit bogged by sleep itself, and at this moment, you're less concerned with Logan's reasoning and more so the logistics of a potential fight with him. Even though you had been training for the past several months, you had absolutely zero belief that you'd be able to beat him in a fight. Or even really compete for that matter.

Fortunately for you, it doesn't come to that. His eyes recognize you not long after his fists took the swing. You watch as his face morphs into a handful of different emotions in the span of about five seconds.

"I- what- how- I didn't-" he starts before getting a handle on his ability to speak, "I'm sorry."

Your body starts to come down from the brief high when it's clear he's not going to attack. You feel less wound up and let out a sigh. Your eyes remain inquisitive while gazing at him though. What did he dream about that made him freak out like that?

You guess it's not the best time to ask, so instead of pushing your luck, you push up off the ground and get your footing back. You step up to him at the edge of the bed and stand between his thighs. You plan on asking him if he's ok, but his arms reach out and yank you to his chest before you have the chance.

His hold is tight on you. The little half-hugs he'd given you a couple times before didn't compare at all. His arms were locked around you like they never intended to let go. You could hear him panting in your ear, and you could feel his heart thundering against both of your rib cages like it wanted to be released from its chamber.

"You're not hurt, are you?" he whispers.

You shake your head and wrap your arms around him too. The gesture relaxes him a lot, you can feel the tension seep away.

"Are you ok? I didn't mean to bother you, you just sounded like you needed help," you say at the same volume.

"You didn't bother me. I'm ok. I'm sorry. You don't have to worry about me like that."

His skin is warm and clammy against your own. You gently pat his back as some form of silent reassurance. Even if he wasn't as distraught as he had been a few minutes ago, you could tell the events that occurred were gnawing at him.

One of your hands drifts up, and you thread your fingers in his hair. It's like pulling a lever. He exhales deeply and pushes his face more against your neck.

"I'm sorry, pup," he murmurs.

You nuzzle the side of his head, and your heart nearly stops because he reciprocates this gesture with a few of the softest kisses you've ever felt, placed on your throat.

"I'd never hurt you on purpose. You know that."

You nod. Of course you knew that. And you would never say this to him out loud, but you felt so deeply for him, you weren't sure that your perception of him would have changed had his claws landed the strike on you.

Pulling back your head a little, you nudge his so you can see him. Both of your eyes connect for a moment before you lean in and kiss him. His lips are softer than you'd expected. His scent permeates your senses, but it's not one of booze or the brand of cigars he smokes. That's there, but your nostrils sense deeper. You could smell his essence. The way his blood runs hot as your tongue swipes into his mouth.

The kiss grows deeper. No words are said. Neither of you need them. Your fingers tighten on the dark locks of brown hair, and you climb into his lap. His hands land on your hips almost instantaneously. The only sounds between the two of you are sharp exhales and shallow inhales.

"What are you doing, bub?" he murmurs against your lips, breaking the silence. Despite his questions, he wasn't stopping you. Not at all. His fingers dig into your flesh and pull you a little closer.

"Wanna make you feel better. And show you that I know."

You weren't sure what you and Logan were after that night. Boyfriend-girlfriend, friends with benefits, or maybe simple companions. You didn't really care because regardless of the answer, you were happy.

Kissing was the only thing that transpired that night, but that was ok with you. It didn't dampen your outlook on your relationship with him in the slightest. You'd made out for a while, tangling up with each other and the sheets before he pulled back. He didn't want to go further when you both were coming down from all that emotion. And you agreed. You didn't need more. You felt elated from receiving that much affection in the first place. Your tail whacked against the mattress as you curled up to his side and put your head on his sternum to rest.

The next morning though, he had been ready for more. Once he fell back asleep, his dreams had been much more pleasant. He woke up stiff and aching for you, and you were more than happy to provide some relief.

You alleviated that throbbing between his legs multiple times that morning, and you'd been taking care of it at least once a day every day since then.

The team could tell something was going on between the two of you, a deeper bond than your initial affinity for Logan. You walked with a faster wag in your tail, and he seemed less jagged at the edges. Others were less likely to get cut now if they reached for him the wrong way.

Each of your steps also came with a small jingle now since Logan had given you his dog tags. You'd been lying against his side, basking in the afterglow of one of your escapades when he dangled the metal chain between the two of you.

"Want you to have these, pup," he rasped.

You'd looked at him with curiosity swimming in your eyes. Excitement mingled there too though.

He chuckled at the look before boosting your head so he could put them on you.

"I know my pretty puppy doesn't want to wear a collar for me yet," he teased, getting a pout out of you, "I just want you to have something of mine. You don't even have to wear 'em if you don't want to."

You'd worn them every moment since he gave them to you. Wouldn't take them off for anything. The physical representation of your attachment stayed secured around your neck at all times. The way it made you feel had you thinking a collar would be a pretty nice next step.

It'd been just over a month since you became something more with him. Your tail zips back and forth as you clean up the training room, thinking all of this over. A little smile rests on your features too. Jean helps out nearby, laughing gently at your mood.

"You have it bad," she teases.

Your head turns, and you grin, exposing those elongated canines. Shrugging, you prance over to help her finish the area she was tidying up.

When the two of you get everything back into shape, you head out into the sleek hallway back towards the main part of the mansion. Your shoes squeak against the tile as you bound towards the doors.

Entering the primary floor from the rooms below always brought a bit of adjustment for your eyes. The lights downstairs shone bright, fluorescent white. Coming back to the soft lamps of the common rooms had you blinking while your pupils scanned the room for Logan.

You catch sight of him standing near the two large doors that acted as entrance to the school. Right now, you can only see him from behind, but you spot Charles next to him. It looks like they're talking to someone, though the former's bulky frame prevents you from seeing who.

Your legs carry you over to the pair. You come up on the side of Logan that Charles doesn't occupy. Tucking yourself under his arm, you look up at him first before your eyes land on the other person speaking.

The sight of her makes your head tilt to the side just the slightest. Every feature on her embodies beauty. Her red hair, similar to Jean's in color, sits slicked back on her head. Deep blue coats every inch of her body. Seductive yellow eyes flit between the two men she's conversing with, and now that you had appeared, they cast to you as well.

You'd seen her before around the mansion once or twice, and you didn't really trust her. She didn't seem like a bad person, but she worked opposite the team. Even though Logan had assured you she was just offering some information about a common goal, you didn't feel confident that Mystique's motives were of such pure intent.

Still, you don't interrupt the in-progress discussion. You stay quietly pressed to Logan's side, tail coasting against the back of his leg. He doesn't wrap his arm around you as tight as normal or rub between your ears like he often did, but he gives you a little pat on the shoulder to acknowledge your presence.

Mystique finishes listening to Charles' point before directing her full attention to you.

"I knew you all wore uniforms, but you two didn't tell me your team had a little mascot too."

You bristle at the comment but try to remain composed. You were better than a thoughtless animal that snapped at a little poke. Charles hadn't even noticed your presence. He looks over at you and realizes what Mystique's quip referred to. He introduces you briefly.

"She's new to the team and is still training, but she's not a mascot," he concludes.

"So more like a stray then? Cute. I never would have guessed you wanted a pet," she says to Logan.

Tension creeps up your spine, and you stand up straight, pulling away from Logan's side.

"I'm not his pet," you huff and look at her. Your pouty way of asserting yourself probably didn't do much to project the image of independence you wanted. "I'm-"

You go to continue, but she cuts you off.

"You really should teach your dog not to bark, Logan. It's not polite."

That sparks a small growl in your throat before you can shut it down. Her eyes widen in amusement which only makes it feel worse for you. The most humiliating part is that you know all of this is inauthentic. She's doing it for the purpose of riling you up, getting you upset and making you feel bad. You know this, but your reaction gets the better of you.

Before you can do anything regrettable, Logan's hand curls over your shoulder. He keeps you rooted where you stand, quelling the flames of conflict before they have a chance to spread.

"Back off," he says, quick and curt with Mystique. He turns to Charles next, still keeping his voice firm. "You don't need me to hear the rest of this. I think I'll let you wrap it up."

Charles nods, knowing it would be better for him to focus on removing you from the potentially volatile situation instead of being another observer for some intel.

Logan guides you away from them, hand moving from your shoulder to the back of your neck as he takes you upstairs. The anger inside you melts away with the growing distance between you and Mystique. Only the stain of embarrassment remained.

"I'm sorry," you say. Your words sound compressed, the weight of your shame hanging off them.

"Don't be. You didn't do anything wrong. She wanted you to get upset, so that's what she got."

The pair of you move through the rest of the hall without another word. You go into your room. Once the door is shut and it's just the two of you between the four walls, you stomp over to the bed and flop down onto the mattress.

Darkness clouds your vision while your face rests against the blankets. Your tail rests against your thigh limply. You hear him coming over and then feel his hand rubbing your leg near the lifeless appendage. The mattress dips as he sits next to you.

"C'mon. You're ok."

You shuffle around so your head is resting in his lap. "I looked pathetic."

He sighs. One of his hands rubs your back while the other pets your head. "You did not."

"Yeah I did."

"No. You didn't," he says, "You didn't do anything that bad. No one's gonna think less of you cause you got a little mad about someone talking shit to you."

You know he's right. Everyone here had an experience like that. It's how most of them ended up here, reacting even worse than you had. It still doesn't make you feel any less dumb. A deep exhale seeps from your lungs.

"I just don't understand why everyone looks at me like that. We all get it bad enough from humans, but then some of the others look down on me too. I'm the same as all of you. I don't say Mystique looks like a smurf cause she's blue, so I don't see why I have to get called a pet," you huff.

He smiles a little and scratches your ear, letting you vent.

"Even you guys looked at me different at first. I know you did. I'm not the only mutant with physical stuff. Why does it have to be a whole thing with me?"

"You're just a little different, bub. You confuse people, but it's not your fault. Nothing about you is less than any other mutant. Mystique doesn't even think that. She was trying to get under your skin."

"Yeah..." you say with a little dejection in your tone, "I still just wish people would treat me like normal. Or at least normal for a mutant."

"I know you do, baby," he hums and pats your arm.

By this point, you're far enough away from the harshness of what happened downstairs. You sit up and scoot closer to him crawling into his lap. He wraps his thick arms around you and rubs your back.

"There's my girl," he murmurs and pecks your temple.

You nuzzle him like a puppy seeking more affection from its owner. Your backside rests on his lap, your arms snug around his abdomen.

"I'm just curious though, pup. What's the big thing with being called dog? It's not that different than puppy," he says, a hint of caution in his voice. He figured now was as good a time as any to ask. He knew it was the main part of what Mystique said that set you off.

You don't react with anger or defensiveness which pleases him. Instead, you shrug.

"Cause. Puppy sounds cute. Dog is just so... bleh," you say, "It makes me sound like a gross animal that someone has to wrangle."

His eyebrow rises. You can see the amusement in his eyes, but he successfully kills his laugh before it leaves his throat.

"Mmm. Makes sense. Can't have anyone thinking you're gross."

"Exactly," you say and kiss his cheek, "You get it. I just... I don't wanna be your pet, I wanna be yours."

You breathe out the words and push yourself closer on his lap. He appeases your desire for less space and pulls you to his chest.

"You are mine. You don't have to worry about that," he says.

"And I still wanna be your little puppy."

He chuckles. His head ducks down to your neck to lay a few kisses there. One of his palms drifts down to gently knead the dough of your ass.

"You also are my little puppy. My little puppy that follows me everywhere. Mine to hold and love on. Mine to play with. Mine to deal with when she gets bratty."

The last word comes out teasing and brings a happy sound out of you. "I wasn't being bratty before. She started it," you say, playing along.

"Hmmm, you're right. Maybe fussy's a better word," he mutters and nips at the soft flesh of your neck.

"Nuh uh. I was being totally normal," you say and nudge at his face with your nose, getting a little squirmy on his lap.

He responds by flipping you over onto your back. The mattress creaks with the bout of pressure and a squeal leaves your throat. You can feel his length against your hip, half-hard already from how you had wiggled on his lap.

"Oh please," he says, "Why do you think I brought you up here? I can tell when my pup needs to calm down. And I know just how to do that, don't I?"

You whimper and nod. He grins before returning his lips to your neck. He nips a few love bites onto the delicate area, drawing little whines from you. His hands hold you in place and move with your body's wriggling. He gropes at your hips and waist, paws at your tits, and slides them around to massage your ass.

"Such a good girl. So responsive for me," he coos.

The condescending affection sends a pulse down to your clit, and your hips roll up to meet his. One of your legs hooks around his waist to pull his body closer.

"Logan. Don't tease," you pout.

Your whiny plea doesn't garner any sympathy from him though. He laughs against your neck and pulls back to smirk down at you.

"My little puppy needs to learn some patience. You think if you don't get my dick in seconds that it's teasing," he taunts.

You whine again and press your leg down on him. He doesn't make any move to pull his cock out though. One set of his fingers comes up to your jaw, directing your lips to an angle where his can land on yours. He kisses you nice and deep, swallowing up any bratty urges that were springing around inside your head. His tongue is warm and soft, gentle against yours.

Meanwhile, his freehand does start to slide down below. It travels beneath the waistband of your bottoms. His warm fingers glide over the plush skin of your pelvis and slot between your lower lips to find your swollen nub. He flicks at it, instantly getting a mewl from you.

You can feel his smug smile against your mouth, but you don't have much time to react to it before his middle finger starts swirling around your bud. Your leg releases his body as it squirms with your other on the mattress. You moan into his mouth and boost your hips into his touch, wanting more of that blissful friction.

"Sweet girl," he coos. The words are muffled by your skin, but you could pick those syllables out of any lineup. "That's your favorite spot, isn't it? Always gets you wriggling for me like a little puppy."

"Mhm," you whimper with a faint nod.

Your heels dig into the mattress to give you some leverage to push your hips up so he can tug your pants off. He takes the opportunity and flings them off the bed. With you bare to him like that, he leaves your lips and moves down. He pulls your top off next and smooches between your breasts and over your tummy before landing between your legs.

He kneels on the floor at the edge of the mattress. His hands hook around your thighs and pull you in his direction.

"C'mere, baby. Give me that puppy cunt. Gotta get it all wet, so it can take my cock."

With that, he buries his head between your thighs. You gasp and throw your head back. Your hands fly to his head to grab at the two dark points of hair.

Logan gives his all to the task of pleasuring you. Whether it was his cock or his mouth, you were never getting anything less than his best. That's obvious right now as he eats you out like it's all he has to live for. He laps at your poor little clit before sucking it into his mouth. It gets some good suction from his lips before he pulls away and licks a broad stripe over your cunt.

He prods his tongue at your entrance, pushing the soft appendage against your hole. You whine more, and he feels your heels dig into his back as they had the mattress. Little expletives float from your mouth into the air as you experience such a rush of euphoria.

"Taste so good, pup. So fuckin' sweet," he mumbles. His lips open and close over your pussy, making out with it.

You rock your hips back and forth, essentially humping his face. He groans and only works harder. Your cute reactions only spurred him on. He twists his tongue just how he'd learned you liked and uses the perfect amount of pressure to get you gushing for him. Your arousal begins to coat his chin, his dark facial hair glistening with your wetness.

"Nice and wet. I'm just gonna slide right in, huh baby?"

"Yeah," you pant. Your hips buck when his nose bumps your clit, but he keeps you held in place.

He kisses your clit before dragging his tongue over you anymore. The soft touch pulls a whimper from you. Your brain starts to get all muddled and hazy. The dreamy feeling always took over when he had you like this. He knows it's coming on too. He can tell by the sudden softening of your movements. You're less jerky and more fluid in how you fidget.

"Oh, that's it. I think my pretty puppy's ready for me," he says, voice smooth on your ears.

He wags his tongue over your little bundle of nerves a few more times before standing to undress himself. His shirt comes off first, dropped to the floor with your garments. His pants are next to go, crumpled on the ground and kicked off his ankles.

Crawling back on top of you, his larger figure boxes you in on the soft surface. His cock is fully hard by now, red and angry, leaking desire from the tip. He guides it to your center and rubs it through your soaked folds.

A soft grunt leaves him as your nectar coats his shaft and drips onto his balls a little too. He only slides it against you a couple times, not wanting to waste the stimulation humping when he could be nestled deep inside.

He brings his tip down to your hold and pushes it in. Your walls accept the familiar intrusion and he groans at the comfort of your velvet walls contracting around him. He pushes his length in all the way until he bottoms out.

Then, adjusting himself and gripping at your hips, he starts to thrust. The motions start as gentle rocks. Taps of his pelvis against your ass. You flutter around him. Moans leak from you, and he smiles at the obvious pleasure coursing through your body.

He fucks you deep, just how you always asked for it. You weren't concerned with whining for harder and deeper right now. This was enough. The feeling of his cock buried in you soothed you like nothing else. Your eyes roll back and puffs of air come from your nostrils.

"Fuck, honey. Feels like I can barely last with you," he grumbles.

"Can't even think when I'm with you," you babble.

Your arms come up to pull him closer, and he lets you. He presses his body into yours, in-turn, shoving his cock as far into you as physically possible. You cry out with the pressure. It was the best kind. Deep and satisfying. To the point that you can feel it in your tummy every time his belly pushes on yours.

"You may not be my dog, baby, but one day you're gonna be my perfect breeding bitch," he grunts.

Your jaw goes slack, eyes drooping with lust. Your head tilts back and he leans into yours more.

"Gonna have you full of me forever. Always gonna be mine."

You can't even respond. Your mind isn't coming up with any coherent response. All you can do is whimper and whine like the needy pup that you are.

"This is what you need sometimes, puppy. Need me to stretch you out on my cock. Get all those thoughts out of your head. Cause puppies don't have to think. Not when you have someone like me taking care of you."

Your thighs start quivering, a sign you were reaching your peak. He knows this and drills into you harder. His balls slap against you every time he pistons his hips. His heated skin rubs against yours. He occupies all your senses, overloading you with him.

"Logan... gotta... gonna cum," you whine.

"Then cum for me," he mumbles simply, "Cum all over my cock, and I'll be right behind you."

You nod. Your back arches up. It takes you a little more, but when you get there, you crash into the throes of release. A sharp yelp bursts from you. Your feet kick a little and your legs press against his sides in an attempt to shut him out.

You get so fucking tight when you cum. Your hole clenches around him, calling out to him to spill every drop of his seed inside your wanting orifice. He growls and drops his head in your neck. He feels it building between his hips. The pressure grows until he can't take it anymore. It snaps and the flood gates open.

He bites at your neck, not hard enough to break the skin but with enough need to leave a little mark. Hot, sticky cum shoots out of him in thick ropes. Warmth fills your insides and you feel like you're sinking into the mattress below you. Both of you are panting with the intensity of the high.

You've already come down by the time he's starting to. After he nuts, Logan tends to get a little sappy. His arms pull you in tighter and he pecks at your neck a few times more muttering something unintelligible about his baby puppy.

"So what do you think?" you ask and twirl into the room, showing off your new outfit.

It matched his. Black leather snug on your body, lined with the same gold on the seams of Logan's. The bold X that shown on his belt could be found on the zipper of your top, dangling against your chest.

He smiles at you, standing from the bed to walk over and get a better view.

"Looks pretty good," he says upon approaching, "Seems a little tight though. You got room for your tail in that thing?"

You laugh at his joke and spin around again, showing the back where the suit had accommodated for your tail to poke through. It whips back and forth before you turn to him again.

"Just perfect for you then," he says and pulls you close, patting your ass and kissing your forehead, "Look at you. An official member of the team."

You nod and struggle not to bounce all around the room with the excitement vibrating through your cells.

"We're gonna be like so totally cool together," you say.

"Yeah. Totally," he imitates affectionately. He cups your jaw, watching your cheeks squish in and your lips puff out. Leaning down, he puts his mouth on yours in a soft kiss. "You're gonna do great."

The words come out as a whisper against your lips. One of your canines slips over your bottom lip as you take it between your teeth. But the display of timidity only lasts a second.

"I know," you beam.

Locking your fingers around his palm, you drag him to the door and out into the hall. Your arm makes his swing as he walks along behind you. He rolls his eyes lovingly at your confident display, but he can't keep his gaze off your happy self. He lets you pull him without resistance.

Now it would be his turn to follow you.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fluff #wolverine x reader #wolverine imagine #wolverine fluff #wolverine x you #wolverine smut #marvel x reader #marvel smut #ch: logan howlett 💌

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happy74827 · 4 months ago

Text

Bruised Shadows

[Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: While coming home from another grueling job, Bucky found himself ambushed by the unrelenting warmth of his neighbor’s compassion.

WC: 3002

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Grumpy x Sunshine (fav trope fr)

I decided to post one of my drafts since it has been decades since I’ve posted last… whoops 👀

『••✎••』

Bucky Barnes didn’t notice the blood until it dripped onto the scuffed toe of his boot. A crimson bead, sharp against the black leather, caught the dim hallway light as he trudged toward his apartment. He swiped the back of his flesh hand across the bridge of his nose, smearing the trickle, and grunted. Didn’t hurt. Barely registered. The serum had a way of dulling the sting of split skin and bruised bone—nothing a few hours wouldn’t knit back together. The ache in his knuckles from the job, though? That lingered, a quiet reminder of the fists he’d thrown and the unconscious bodies he’d left sprawled in some warehouse two states over.

The duffel bag slung over his vibranium shoulder thumped rhythmically against his hip, heavy with gear he hadn’t bothered to unpack. Another day, another mess cleaned up with Sam, for which he took most of the credit, but Bucky didn’t care much about the public eye—just the doing. It kept his hands busy and his mind occupied. Kept the nightmares at bay, if only for a night.

He was three steps from his door, key already fished from his pocket, when he heard it—your voice, soft as a damn spring breeze, cutting through the stale air of the hallway.

"James?"

He froze but didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He knew it was you—only you called his name like that like it wasn’t a curse or a weapon. Like it was just… his. He clenched his jaw, the ache in his bruised eye socket pulsing faintly as he willed you to keep walking. You lived two doors down, always too close for comfort, always too you—bright and warm and everything he wasn’t. He’d spent months dodging the way you lingered in his trajectory, all soft smiles and small talk he didn’t deserve.

"James, oh my God, what happened to your face?"

There it was—concern, thick and unfiltered, wrapping around him like a blanket he didn’t ask for. He turned his head just enough to catch you in his peripheral, and Christ, there you were—hair a little messy from whatever late-night project you’d been buried in, eyes wide and shining with that unbearable kindness. You were clutching a mug, steam curling from it, probably tea or something equally gentle. You looked like an angel, and he felt like the devil himself standing there, bloodied and hulking in his tactical gear.

"It’s nothing," he muttered, voice low and rough, turning back to his door. "I’m fine."

"You’re bleeding." Your footsteps pattered closer, too quick for him to escape, and suddenly you were right there—close enough that he could smell the lavender on you, feel the warmth radiating off your skin. His metal arm twitched, instinct screaming at him to pull away before he tainted you somehow. "Your nose, your eye—James, that’s not nothing."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, wincing when it stung the raw skin. "I’ve had worse. Go back to your tea."

But you didn’t. Of course, you didn’t. You never listened when he tried to brush you off, and it drove him up the damn wall—how you’d barrel through his gruff exterior like it was tissue paper. You set the mug on the floor—carefully because you were always careful—and grabbed his sleeve, tugging with a strength that surprised him for someone so soft. "No, you’re coming with me. I’m not letting you bleed all over your apartment when I can help."

"You?" He arched a brow, the bruised one, and regretted it when it pulled at the swelling. "What’re you gonna do, stitch me up?"

"If I have to." Your tone was firm and stubborn, and he hated how it made his chest tighten. "Come on."

He could’ve pulled away. He could’ve shrugged you off with a flick of his arm—vibranium or flesh. It didn’t matter; you were no match for him. He was a goddamn super soldier, a walking weapon, and you were… what? A civilian with a bleeding heart and a brain too sharp for your good. He’d seen you solve crossword puzzles in two minutes flat and heard you ramble about obscure history facts when he’d lingered too long in the laundry room. You weren’t an Avenger, weren’t SHIELD—just a woman who’d wormed her way into his life with cookies and quiet conversations, and now here you were, dragging him toward your apartment like he was some stray you needed to fix.

And he let you. God help him, he let you.

Your place smelled like you—lavender and vanilla and something faintly sweet, like the cookies you’d left outside his door last week with a note that said, "Don’t be a grump; eat something." The lights were warm and soft, nothing like the harsh fluorescents in his sparse apartment. You pushed him toward the couch with a gentle shove, and he dropped the duffel by the door, too tired to argue.

"Sit," you ordered, already darting to the kitchen. "And don’t move."

He sat, legs sprawled, metal arm resting heavily on the cushion. His flesh hand rubbed at the back of his neck, where tension coiled tight. He didn’t belong here—didn’t belong in your orbit, period. You were sunlight, and he was a shadow, all sharp edges and dark corners. The Winter Soldier might’ve been gone, scrubbed clean by Wakanda and time, but the nightmares still clawed at him—flashes of blood screams, faces he couldn’t unsee. He woke up some nights with his vibranium fist clenched so hard it creaked, half-expecting to find a body under him. You didn’t know that. You didn’t know him. And he’d kept it that way, only feeding you scraps—his arm, the war, vague mentions of missions—because the full truth would send you running.

You came back with a damp cloth, a bowl of water, and a first-aid kit that looked like it’d seen better days. "Tilt your head back," you said, kneeling in front of him.

You were too close. Way too close.

"I can do it myself," he grumbled, reaching for the cloth.

You swatted his hand away—actually swatted it like he wasn’t just pounds of muscle and metal who could snap your wrist without blinking. "Stop it. Let me."

He stared at you, jaw tight, blue eyes narrowing under the bruised lid. You stared back, unflinching, and he saw it—the worry etched into your brow, the way your lips pressed together like you were holding back a lecture. He relented, tipping his head back against the couch because fighting you felt like kicking a puppy.

The cloth was cool against his skin, and your touch—God, your touch—was feather-light, dabbing at the blood on his nose with a care that made his throat close up. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, the way your lashes fluttered as you focused, the little furrow between your brows. You were so gentle it hurt, like a bruise he couldn’t shake off.

"You don’t have to do this," he said, quieter than he meant. "I’m not your problem."

"You’re not a problem at all," you shot back, not missing a beat. "You’re my neighbor. And my friend. And you’re hurt, so I’m helping. Deal with it."

Friend. The word lodged in his chest like a bullet. He didn’t have any friends since Steve—not really. Sam, maybe, on a good day. But you? You’d been chipping away at him for months, ever since he’d moved in—leaving him coffee when you caught him coming back from a run, asking about his arm like it was just another part of him, not a relic of his sins. He’d grumbled, dodged, and kept his distance, but you kept coming back, sunny and relentless, until he couldn’t imagine the hallway without you in it.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, brushing the cloth over the swelling around his eye. Your fingers grazed his cheek, and he tensed, every muscle locking up.

"No," he lied. It didn’t hurt—not the way you meant. No, the pain was deeper, a gnawing thing that came from how soft you were, how close you were, how much he wanted to lean into it and couldn’t.

"You’re a terrible liar!" you said, smiling faintly. “You’re all tense. I’m not gonna break you, you know.”

But I could break you, he thought, and the idea made his stomach twist. His strength wasn’t just in the arm—it was in every fiber of him, honed by decades of violence. He could lift you with one hand and crush your bone without trying. He’d done it before, under Hydra’s leash, and the memory of it—of fragile things shattering under his grip… kept him up at night. You didn’t know that. You saw the arm, sure, but you didn’t know its weight or danger.

You rinsed the cloth, pink water swirling in the bowl, and came back to his eye, your breath fanning over his skin. He could feel the heat of you, the steadiness of your hands, and it undid him—slowly, thread by thread. He wanted to pull away, to growl at you to stop, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because you were looking at him like he was worth something, and he hadn’t felt that in so long, it scared him.

"Why do you care so much?" he asked, voice rough, almost accusatory. "I’m fine. I’m always fine."

You paused, cloth hovering over his cheek, and your eyes flicked up to his—big, earnest, piercing. "Because you’re not fine, Bucky. Not always. And even if you were, I’d still care. You don’t have to go through everything alone."

His breath hitched, and he hated it—hated how you saw through the cracks he’d patched up with sarcasm and silence. He shifted, flesh hand curling into a fist on his thigh. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Then tell me," you said, soft but insistent. "I mean… you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but… I’m here. You know that, right?"

He didn’t answer. The words were stuck, tangled in the mess of his head. And it seemed as if you knew that because you didn’t push; you just went back to cleaning his face, and the silence stretched thick with everything he wouldn’t say.

When you finished, the blood was gone, the bruising still dark but less angry. You sat back on your heels, studying him like you were checking your work. "There. You look less like you lost a bar fight."

He snorted, a rare sound, and your smile widened—bright, unguarded, like you’d won something. He felt it then, the pull he’d been fighting for months—the way his chest warmed when you looked at him, the way his guard slipped when you laughed. He liked you. More than liked you. And it terrified him.

You stood, gathering the supplies, and he caught your wrist—vibranium fingers light but firm. You froze, eyes darting to his, and he saw the question there, the flicker of surprise.

"You shouldn’t," he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your brows furrowed. "Shouldn’t what?"

"Like me. Care about me. Whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between you, his metal hand dropping to hide under his jacket. "I’m not… I’m not good for you."

The silence that followed was heavy and thick with unspoken things. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned forward again, your hand resting lightly on his knee. He could’ve crushed steel with less effort than it took to stay still under that touch.

"James," you said, voice soft but firm, "you don’t get to decide that for me."

He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking. "You don’t know me. Not really."

"Then tell me." Your eyes searched his, open and unafraid. "Tell me who you are, what you think I can’t handle. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the guy who’s sat through my terrible movie marathons, who’s fixed my leaky sink without me asking, who’s looked out for me even when you didn’t have to. That’s who I see."

He wanted to argue, to tell you about the bodies he’d left behind, the decades he’d spent as a puppet for killers. But the words wouldn’t come. You were looking at him like he was worth something, and it was unraveling him stitch by stitch.

"You deserve better," he rasped, barely audible. "Someone whole. Someone who’s not… broken."

You shook your head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. "James, I don’t want 'better.' I want you. Broken pieces and all."

He stared at you, heart hammering, torn between shoving you away and pulling you closer. Your hand was warm against the cool metal, your gaze unflinching, and he felt the dam break—the walls he’d built crumbling under the weight of you. He wanted to believe it, wanted to let himself have this, but the fear lingered, sharp and insistent.

"You’re too good," he murmured, almost to himself. "Too damn good."

You smiled, small and tentative, and leaned in—just enough that he could feel your breath on his lips. "Maybe you’re just enough."

He didn’t know who moved first—maybe him, maybe you—but suddenly, your lips were on his, soft and warm and tasting faintly of tea. It was slow and hesitant, his flesh hand cupping your cheek like you might shatter if he pressed too hard. The kiss was a question, a confession, and when you sighed against him, he answered—deepening it, letting himself feel you, taste you, for the first time.

The kiss didn’t last as long as he’d liked. He missed you the second you had pulled back to rest your forehead against him. Your fingers brushed his jaw, and he felt the tension bleed out of him, replaced by something softer, something he hadn’t let himself name until now.

"I’m not going anywhere," you whispered.

And for once, he believed it.

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