[mayhemiiii]

I forgive you, for not saving me.

16, ukrainian, scorpio, autistic

now playing - my moon my man - feist

english is not my first language :)

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fandoms: dc, marvel, and invincible

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CARE logan howlett x teen!mutant reader

[jamesdeanbby]

❝ 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰? ❞ R.L & L.H ( xmen comics ) pairing remi lebeau & logan howlett & fem! teen! reader 🪽

synopsis 𖥧 what were the odds you got sick when all of the responsible adults were out for work.

content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, reader sees Rogue and Gambit as parent figures !!

💬 : this is for my mootie @keneticnight cuz father figures remi and logan got us doin cartwheels. STOP I LOVE WRITING REMY'S SPEECH IT'S SO FUCKING SILLY I LOVE HIM AND HIS STUPID CAJUN ACCENTTTT

The moment the blackbird’s engines faded into a distant, barely-perceptible hum somewhere over the Westchester county line, Remy Lebeau knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t a logical thing. There was no psychic alarm bell, no precognitive flash. It was just… a feeling. A father’s instinct, though he’d never use that word out loud. He was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee that was more chicory than bean, when he realized the house was too quiet.

Not the good quiet. Not the “everyone’s in the Danger Room” quiet, or the “teenagers are actually doing their homework” quiet. This was the quiet of a missing presence. The absence of a certain soft humming. The lack of footsteps padding down the hallway. The missing warmth of a light-generating mutant who usually greeted him in the mornings with a sleepy smile and a request for “the good creamer, please, Remy, the one you hide from Bobby.”

He looked at the clock. 9:47 AM. You usually came down for breakfast around nine. You were a creature of habit, your internal clock more reliable than atomic time. You liked your morning routine: a glass of water, a bowl of cereal that was probably too sugary, and fifteen minutes of reading whatever thick, tragic novel had captured your heart that week before you started your training.

You weren’t at the table. Your usual spot, the one with the best view of the garden, was empty.

Remy’s brow furrowed. He took a sip of his coffee, his crimson eyes scanning the kitchen as if expecting you to materialize out of thin air. When you didn’t, he set his mug down and made his way toward the residential wing.

He passed Logan in the hallway. The shorter, hairier man was coming from the direction of the garage, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that had seen better decades. He grunted in lieu of a greeting, the way he always did when it was just the two of them and no one else was around to witness even a shred of civility between them.

“Seen de kid?” Remy asked, not breaking stride.

“Which one?” Logan grunted. “We got about twenty of ‘em runnin’ around this place.”

“De kid,” Remy repeated, as if that clarified everything. And it did, because there was only one teenager in this house who had both Remy and Rogue wrapped so thoroughly around her little finger that they didn’t even notice the string. “She ain’t at breakfast.”

Logan paused, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. The faintest flicker of concern crossed his weathered features before he smoothed it away. “She’s probably just sleepin’ in. Kid was up late last night in the library with Kurt, readin’ that bible of hers.”

Remy shook his head. “She don’t sleep in. Not past nine. Somethin’s wrong.”

He picked up his pace, Logan falling into step beside him despite the fact that he was muttering something about “overreactin’ Cajuns” and “not every little thing is a crisis.” But he was there. And he was moving just as quickly.

Your room was at the end of the hall, a corner room with two windows that caught the morning sun. Rogue had helped you decorate it when you first arrived, insisting that every girl deserved a space that felt like her own. There were fairy lights strung along the ceiling, a small bookshelf overflowing with worn paperbacks, and a framed picture of the two of you with Remy at some county fair, your face split in a wide, genuine smile.

The door was closed. That was your first mistake, because you never closed your door. Not all the way. You’d told Rogue once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that you liked knowing people were out there. That the hallway noise was comforting. That a closed door felt too much like the one your father had slammed behind you.

Remy knocked softly. “Chère? You awake?”

Silence. Then, a small, muffled sound that might have been a word or might have been a whimper.

He didn’t wait for permission. He pushed the door open, Logan crowding in behind him, and the sight that greeted them made both men freeze.

You were still in bed, which wasn’t unusual in itself. What was unusual was the mountain of blankets you’d piled on top of yourself. You were buried beneath at least three comforters, Rogue’s oversized cardigan that you’d claimed as your own, and what looked like every hoodie you owned. Only a tuft of your hair was visible, sticking up at an awkward angle, and even from the doorway, Remy could see the fine tremors running through the blanket pile.

“Petite?” Remy crossed the room in three long strides, his earlier coffee forgotten. He reached out, carefully peeling back the top layer of blankets, and the heat that hit him was immediate and alarming. It was like opening an oven door.

You blinked up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused. Your face was flushed, your cheeks an unnatural, mottled red, and there was a sheen of sweat on your forehead despite the fact that you were shivering violently. Your lips were pale, cracked, and when you tried to smile at him, it came out more like a grimace.

“Remy,” you croaked. Your voice was raw, scraped clean of its usual warmth. “M’okay. Just… cold.”

“You ain’t cold, chère,” he said softly, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. The heat that met his skin made him hiss through his teeth. “You’re burnin’ up.”

Logan appeared at his shoulder, his gruff demeanor evaporating the instant he got a look at you. “When’d this start?” he asked, his voice low and serious.

You shook your head weakly, the movement clearly costing you. “Last night. After Kurt and I… after the library. I was reading and I got really cold and I couldn’t get warm and…” A violent shiver wracked your small frame, cutting off your words.

“Why didn’t you call someone?” Remy asked, and there was something raw in his voice. Something that sounded almost like fear.

Your eyes, usually so bright and full of light, were dull with exhaustion. “Didn’t want to bother anyone. The girls are gone. You were up late. I thought… I thought I’d just sleep it off.”

Logan made a sound in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. He’d already pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I’m callin’ the Professor. Or Jean. One of ‘em can turn this thing around.”

“Non,” Remy said sharply, the word cutting through the room.

Logan looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You got a better idea, Gumbo? Kid’s got a fever that could fry an egg.”

“I got it,” Remy said, already moving. He was peeling blankets away, not all of them, just enough to get to you. “She don’t need de whole team comin’ back. She needs rest, fluids, medicine. We can handle dis.”

“Handle it?” Logan’s voice was incredulous. “She’s sick, Remy. This ain’t a card game you can charm your way out of.”

“I know what it is,” Remy shot back, gently scooping you up despite your weak protests. You weighed practically nothing in his arms, a fact that made something in his chest tighten painfully. “And I ain’t gonna be de one to call Rogue in de middle of a mission to tell her de kid got a fever. She’d be back here faster dan you can say ‘Southern Comfort’ and den de whole operation is compromised. We got dis.”

He was already carrying you out of the room, your head lolling against his shoulder, the borrowed cardigan wrapped around you like a cocoon. You made a small, pitiful sound, your fingers weakly clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and Remy’s heart clenched.

Logan stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the Cajun disappear down the hallway with his bundle of feverish teenager. He was already pulling up his mental list of things to do: temperature, medicine, fluids, something light to eat. He was already cataloging the contents of the medicine cabinet, the fridge, the pantry.

He was also, despite his grumbling, already moving.

The next three hours were, in Remy’s words, “a goddamn disaster.”

They’d set you up in the main living room, on the large sectional couch that faced the fireplace. Remy had declared that your room was “too isolated” and that you needed to be somewhere they could keep an eye on you. Logan had grumbled but hadn’t argued, mostly because he’d been too busy building a fire that would actually stay lit and not fill the room with smoke.

You were currently curled up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in what Logan had dubbed “the blanket burrito.” It consisted of the three comforters from your room, two wool blankets from the hall closet, and one incredibly ugly crocheted afghan that had been a gift to the school from a well-meaning local grandmother. Only your face was visible, and it was still that worrying shade of mottled red.

Remy had taken your temperature three times in the last hour, not because he didn’t trust the thermometer but because he didn’t trust the numbers it was giving him. 101.3. 101.8. 102.1. Each reading made his jaw tighten a little more.

“Medicine,” Logan said for the fifth time, coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water and a small white packet. “Kid needs to take somethin’ to bring that fever down.”

Remy took the packet, examining it like it was a bomb he was about to defuse. “Dis de stuff Hank made? De ‘kiddie-friendly’ formula?”

“S’what it says.” Logan pointed to the label. “‘Coke flavor. Easy to take. Suitable for adolescents.’”

You made a small sound of protest from the couch, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Don’ want it,” you mumbled. “Tastes bad.”

“It can’t taste that bad, chère,” Remy said, already moving toward the kitchen to mix it. “It’s supposed to be Coke. You like Coke.”

“It lies,” you said, with the kind of absolute certainty only a feverish teenager could muster. “It’s a liar. It tastes like poison.”

Logan snorted. “Dramatic, ain’t she?”

“She gets it from Rogue,” Remy called from the kitchen, and Logan could hear him rummaging through the cabinets, probably looking for a cup that wasn’t chipped. “You shoulda seen Anna Marie last time she had de flu. Told me she was dyin’ for three days straight. Demanded I read her de will she’d written in her journal.”

“She wrote a will?”

“Four pages. Left me her leather jacket, left de kid her collection of vintage vinyl, and left you a note dat said ‘stop leaving your cigar butts in my potted plants, you absolute animal.’”

Logan’s lip twitched, almost a smile. “That sounds about right.”

He busied himself with the fire, adding another log, adjusting the screen. He was acutely aware of you on the couch, the way your breathing was just a little too fast, the way you kept shivering despite the heat radiating off you. He’d seen you in the field, calm and competent, using your light to shield civilians, to guide them to safety. You were brave. You were strong. But right now, you looked so small.

Remy came back with a small glass. The liquid inside was a murky brown, and even from across the room, Logan could smell it. It was… not Coke. It smelled like artificial cherry, burnt plastic, and something vaguely chemical that made his nose wrinkle.

“Here we go, petite,” Remy said, his voice pitching into something soft and coaxing. He sat on the edge of the couch, gently easing you upright against his side. “Just a little sip. Get dat fever down.”

You looked at the glass like it had personally offended you. Your nose wrinkled. “No.”

“It’s medicine, chère. You gotta take it.”

“It tastes like butts,” you said, and Logan choked on air, a surprised laugh escaping him despite himself. “Like someone melted a tire and poured it into a Coke can.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Remy said, though he was eyeing the glass with considerably less confidence than before. “It’s medicine. Dey make it so kids can take it.”

You shook your head weakly, burrowing back into your blanket pile. “You try it.”

“What?”

“You try it,” you repeated, your voice muffled by fabric. “If it’s not that bad, I’ll drink it.”

Remy looked at Logan. Logan looked at Remy. There was a long, loaded silence.

“She’s got a point,” Logan said finally, crossing his arms. “You wanna make her drink it, you gotta prove it ain’t poison.”

“It ain’t poison,” Remy said, but his voice lacked conviction. He looked at the glass, then at you, then back at the glass. “Fine. Watch dis. Dis is how a grown man handles his medicine.”

He brought the glass to his lips. He took a sip.

The next ten seconds were some of the most satisfying of Logan’s life.

Remy’s face went through approximately seventeen different expressions in the span of a breath. There was confidence, then confusion, then dawning horror, then a full-body shudder that rattled his teeth. His throat worked, visibly struggling to swallow. His eyes watered. His nostrils flared.

He made a sound. It wasn’t quite a gag, but it was close. It was the sound of a man who had just tasted something that should not exist in any civilized society.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que cette merde,” he wheezed, shoving the glass onto the side table like it was radioactive. “What the fuck.”

Logan’s grin was wide and entirely without mercy. “Told you.”

“Dis—dis—” Remy was coughing now, actually coughing, one hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to keep his soul from escaping. “Dis is de worst t’ing I ever put in my mouth. And I once ate a live crawfish on a dare in de Bayou. What de hell, Hank.”

“It tastes like butts,” you said from the couch, your voice small but vindicated.

“It tastes like butts,” Remy agreed fervently. “It tastes like someone set a tire fire in a chemical plant and den bottled de runoff. I’m so sorry, chère. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”

Logan was laughing now, a real laugh, deep and rough. “Goddamn scientists,” he said, shaking his head. “Got all that fancy technology and they can’t make medicine taste like anythin’ but hot garbage.”

“We ain’t givin’ her dat,” Remy declared, pushing the glass as far away from you as possible. “I don’t care if de fever hits 105. She ain’t drinkin’ dat. We’ll find somethin’ else. We’ll call Hank. We’ll—we’ll crush up some Tylenol in apple sauce or somethin’.”

“Already thought of that,” Logan said, and there was a note of genuine regret in his voice. “Checked the cabinet. All we got is this stuff and the adult capsules. Can’t give her those.”

“Den we go to de store.”

“We got a sick kid on the couch and no one else to watch her.”

“Den you go to de store.”

“Why do I gotta go?”

“‘Cause I’m de one takin’ care of her,” Remy said, gesturing to where you were already starting to drift off again, your eyes half-lidded, your breathing evening out. “I’m de one she trusts to hold her. I’m de comfort parent.”

Logan’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re the comfort parent?”

“Oui. I’m de fun one. De one she comes to when she wants to hear stories about de Guild, or when she wants someone to read her poetry in a French accent. You’re de—de other one.”

“The other one.”

“De scary one. De one who growls at people who look at her wrong. De one who’s good for threats and teachin’ her how to throw a punch.”

Logan stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he looked at the couch, where you were now fully asleep, your face pressed into a pillow, one small hand peeking out of the blanket burrito to clutch at the edge of Remy’s sleeve even in unconsciousness.

“…Fine,” he said, and the word came out gruffer than he intended. “I’ll go to the store. But you gotta keep that fever down. Cool cloths. Fluids. Don’t just sit there lookin’ pretty.”

“I never just sit dere lookin’ pretty,” Remy said, with a wounded dignity that was completely undermined by the fact that he was already reaching for the throw blanket to tuck it more securely around your shoulders. “I’m a man of action.”

Logan was already at the door, grabbing his jacket. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Don’t let her get worse.”

He was gone before Remy could reply.

The fifteen minutes became thirty, then forty-five, because the nearest pharmacy was twenty minutes away and Logan had apparently decided to personally test every single brand of children’s fever reducer before making a selection.

In his absence, Remy had settled into his role as “comfort parent” with a dedication that would have been comical if it wasn’t so sincere.

He’d pulled the armchair as close to the couch as physics would allow, close enough that you could keep hold of his sleeve while he ran his free hand through your hair in slow, soothing strokes. He’d found the remote for the television and put on something soft, some black and white movie that was more about the music than the plot. He’d positioned the fire screen to cast the perfect amount of warmth, not too hot, not too cold.

And he’d carried you.

Not just from your room to the couch. Every time you stirred, every time you made that small, pitiful sound that meant you were uncomfortable or cold or just vaguely unhappy, he was there. He’d scoop you up, blankets and all, and carry you to a new spot. The other end of the couch. The armchair, with you curled in his lap like a kitten. The chaise lounge near the window, where the afternoon sun could warm your face.

You never complained. You never fussed. You just let yourself be carried, your feverish weight negligible in his arms, your face buried against his chest, your breathing slowly evening out each time.

At one point, he’d tried to get you to eat something. Toast. Soup. Even just a few crackers. But you’d looked at the food with the same expression you’d given the medicine, your nose wrinkling, your lips pressing together in a line of absolute refusal.

“Not hungry,” you’d mumbled, and when he’d tried to coax you anyway, you’d turned your face into his shoulder and simply… stopped responding.

So he’d given up. For now. He’d try again later. For now, it was enough that you were resting, that the fever hadn’t spiked, that you were safe.

He was in the middle of adjusting your blanket situation for the seventh time when the front door opened and Logan stomped in, a plastic bag dangling from one hand and a scowl on his face.

“Pharmacy was out of the grape,” he announced, dropping the bag on the coffee table with more force than strictly necessary. “Had to get the berry. And they were out of the liquid, so I got the chewables. Hope the kid doesn’t mind chompin’ her medicine like a grown-up.”

Remy peered into the bag. There were three boxes of chewable tablets, a bottle of electrolyte solution that was supposed to be “watermelon splash,” a box of saltine crackers, a can of chicken noodle soup, and a bag of sour gummy worms that he was almost certain Logan had bought for himself.

“Berry flavor,” Remy said, pulling out one of the boxes. “Is it gonna taste like butts too?”

“Only one way to find out.”

They looked at each other. They looked at the box. They looked at you, still sleeping, your face peaceful for the first time all day.

“You try it,” Remy said.

“The hell I will. You’re the one who made her try the other stuff.”

“I didn’t make her. I offered. Dere’s a difference.”

“You’re the comfort parent,” Logan said, and there was a definite edge of mockery in his voice now. “You be the one to taste-test the kid’s medicine.”

Remy opened his mouth to argue, but a small sound from the couch stopped him. You were stirring, your eyes blinking open, glassy and unfocused. You looked from Remy to Logan to the box in Remy’s hand, and a flicker of understanding crossed your face.

“Is that… medicine?” you asked, your voice still rough.

“It is, chère,” Remy said, his tone gentling immediately. “Chewable dis time. Berry flavor.”

“Does it taste like butts?”

Remy looked at the box. He looked at Logan. He looked at you.

“I’m gonna find out,” he said, and before Logan could stop him, he’d popped one of the tablets out of its foil packet and put it in his mouth.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Remy chewed. His expression was carefully neutral. He chewed some more. His brow furrowed slightly. He chewed again, and then he swallowed.

“Well?” Logan demanded.

Remy took a moment to compose himself. “It ain’t… good,” he said slowly. “It’s… medicinal. But it ain’t… butts.”

“That’s the most qualified non-answer I ever heard.”

“It tastes like de inside of a medicine cabinet,” Remy admitted. “But it ain’t gonna make her gag. I t’ink. Maybe.”

You were watching them both, a small, exhausted smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You guys are weird,” you said.

“We’re weird?” Logan crossed his arms, fixing you with a glare that had been known to make hardened criminals confess. “We’re not the one who decided to get a fever the one day all the responsible adults are out of the house.”

“Didn’t plan it,” you mumbled, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Just happened.”

“Well, un-happen it,” Logan said, but he was already moving toward the couch, his gruff demeanor softening in a way he would deny to his dying day. “Come on. Time for medicine. You take this, then you drink some of that electrolyte stuff, then you try to eat some soup. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Closest thing you got right now. Open up.”

You made a face, but you let Logan help you sit up, let him press the small purple tablet into your palm. You looked at it with deep suspicion, turning it over in your fingers like it might explode.

“It’s really not that bad,” Remy said, and he was probably lying, but he was lying with such sincerity that you almost believed him. “Just chew it fast and wash it down with de water stuff. You won’t even taste it.”

“That’s a lie,” you said.

“A creative truth,” Remy corrected.

Logan snorted. “Just take the damn medicine, kid.”

You took a deep breath, shoved the tablet in your mouth, and chewed as fast as you could. Your face scrunched up immediately, your nose wrinkling, your eyes squeezing shut. Remy was there with the bottle of electrolyte solution before you could even swallow, pressing it into your hands, helping you take a long drink.

“See?” he said, when you finally lowered the bottle, your face still twisted in disgust. “Wasn’t so bad.”

“It was bad,” you said flatly. “It was really bad.”

“But it wasn’t butts.”

“…It wasn’t butts.”

“Progress,” Remy declared, and Logan actually laughed.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of blankets and bad television and small, quiet moments.

Logan made the soup, opening the can with more violence than necessary and heating it on the stove because he refused to use the microwave for “anything that’s supposed to be nourishing.” He brought it to you in your grandmother’s favorite mug, the one with the faded flowers on the side, because he’d noticed you liked it better than bowls.

You ate three spoonfuls before you started to fade, your eyelids drooping, your head listing to the side. Remy caught you before you could spill, easing you back against the couch cushions, tucking the blankets around you with a gentleness that belied his usual flamboyance.

“She didn’t eat enough,” Logan said, his voice low.

“She ate what she could,” Remy replied, just as quiet. “We’ll try again later. De fever’s comin’ down. It’s workin’.”

Logan grunted, but he couldn’t argue. The flush in your cheeks was fading, the fine tremors that had wracked your body earlier were gone. You were sleeping now, truly sleeping, your breathing deep and even.

They sat in silence for a long while, the fire crackling, the television playing some old western neither of them was watching. Remy had moved back to the armchair, close enough to reach you if you stirred. Logan had taken up residence on the other end of the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the flames.

“We did good,” Remy said eventually, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t quite pride but was close.

Logan didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, gruff. “We did alright.”

“Gonna tell Anna Marie we handled it like pros?”

“Hell no,” Logan said, and this time there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. “You tell her the kid got sick, she’s gonna worry. You tell her the kid got sick and we handled it, she’s gonna ask questions. Next thing you know, she’s gonna want a full report. Temperature readings. Medicine dosages. Soup consumption metrics.”

“She ain’t dat bad.”

“She made you read her will last time she had the flu.”

“She’s… thorough.”

Logan snorted. “She’s a control freak. And she’s gonna know somethin’ was up the minute she walks in and sees the kid’s been moved to the couch.”

Remy considered this. “We tell her de kid wanted to watch movies. Dat we had a… a movie marathon.”

“She’s gonna ask what movies.”

“We tell her we watched… what’s dat one you like? De one with de horses?”

“The Man from Snowy River?”

“Oui. Dat one.”

“You think Rogue’s gonna believe a sixteen-year-old girl who reads poetry about death and hangs out in the chapel with Kurt wanted to watch a thirty-year-old Australian horse movie?”

“We tell her she was sick. Fever made her delirious.”

Logan laughed, a real laugh, deep and warm. “You’re a terrible liar, Gumbo.”

“I’m an excellent liar. I’m just lyin’ to de wrong person.”

[mayhemiiii]

CARE

logan howlett x teen mutant!reader

cw: metions of sh and blood

wc: 456

divider by @cafekitsune

your chest ached with something you couldn't name, it felt like someone had strapped 50 pound weights to your chest on both sides.

you didn't have any sorts of healthy coping methods, nor has anyone ever taught you any.

you found that the physical pain would give you some sort of relief of the mental pain. only for the relief to be stripped away seconds later.

you constantly wore hoodies around the mansion, and long sleeved shirts. trying your best to hide it from the others in the mansion.

but you knew, you couldn't hide from logan. even if it wasnt visible, he would be able to smell the blood.

thats why you have been avoiding him as best as you possibly can.

which had failed.

it was the middle of the night, sitting in your room staring at your arms. tears stain your cheeks as you quietly sob.

then someone faintly knocks at your door, you freeze startled by the sudden sound.

"kid?"

its logan. you can recognize that grumpy, gruffy voice from anywhere.

he opens the door, quietly. you quickly roll your sleeves down, to hide the scars.

"I can hear you crying, what's wrong bub?"

logan spoke, then pauses. then, he smells it. that metallic smell thats been engraved into his mind.

"kid.."

you turn your head away, too embrassed to even look at him. tears sting your eyes, spilling out. you rub your eyes and cheeks, trying to rid of the tears.

"kid, look at me."

logan sighs, crossing his arms as he sits down on your bed. you hesitantly turn your head, with a shaky breath.

"bub, show me"

logan spoke, his voice gentle. he nodded his head towards your arms. logan wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. you can smell the cigar smoke, and cheap beer. to some, its a disgusting smell that they would want to get away from immediately, but for you its a comfort smell, because its logans smell.

you slowly roll up your sleeves, showing him. turing your head away from him in embarrassment.

you hear a heavy sigh come from him. he looks at youre forearms, covered in healed scars, some semi healed, and others fresh.

"bub.. why?"

that made you turn your head back to look at him, his face fully of worry.

"I dont know.. I.. I have just been feeling really.. really.. down.. you know?"

he huffs, pulling you closer, that your face is in his neck.

"yeah, kid I do know."

that makes you look up at him, then you begin to bawl again. logan sighs, pulling in even closer. both his arms wrapped around in his embrace.

"cmon kid, lets go get some ice cream. how does that sound good?''

logan spoke, pulling away slightly.

"yeah it does.''

you spoke, wiping away your tears.

"lets go, bub."

i wrote this based of my own experiences with sh if anyone is struggling you can also dm me 💗

[ghxstrobins]

Scandal!

Pairing - Kon-El x Batsis!Reader

Content - Fluff, some angst, secret relationship, tired dad Bruce, mentioned JayKyle,

Blue’s Notes - This is a request from this lovely Anon! I got a little carried away! I hope you enjoy it :)

Staring Bruce Wayne down isn't something you do often. Not for the reason most people think, the Batglare doesn't work on you at all but the subtle hint of disappointment in his eyes gets you.

A stacks of newspapers are piled high on the table between you, each of them having a photo of you on the front page. Bruce picks up the nearest one and looks through it with a tired expression.

"A new star crossed romance between Bruce Wayne's second daughter and the popular hero known as Superboy has been revealed." He reads out loud to the whole table of your siblings.

You cringe a little as you sip your coffee.

Jason and Dick are trying hard not to laugh at this whole situation while Cass has a knowing look on her face. Damian is pointedly not looking at you as he stabs his cut up pancakes with his fork. And Duke is looking between Bruce, Tim and you with interest.

"My best friend," Tim sounds hysterical, "really?!"

"I don't think now's the time-" You try to calm him down.

"Out of all the people!" Tim has his hands in his hair, "Kon is who you choose!"

"Don't act like I did this to spite you!" You shoot back at him.

"It sure feels that way!" He points at you.

"Who all knew about this." Bruce asks and cuts off your retort.

The whole table is silent as Jason raises his hand with smirk on his face, "I did."

Bruce pinches his nose, "And you decided to hide this from me for what reason?"

"It was funny." Jason shrugs, "Also she begged me too."

You whip your head over to him, "I didn't beg you!"

"Why else would I have kept your secret?" Jason raises a brow.

"Because I know you are sleeping with Kyle Rayner!" You glare at him as his mouth opens in shock. "If I am going down you are going with me Jason!"

Dick bursts into laughter as Bruce looks devastated at the revelation of not one but two of his children having secret relationships. Damian looks shocked for once by the news. Duke is watching this like a tennis match.

"We can unpack that later." Bruce has started rubbing his temples. "Let's start with what happened last night."

Everyone looks at you expectantly, except Jason who is glaring.

You begin to recite the events from the start.

Galas were never your thing, they were filled with monotonous conversation and took a long time. But you were up for Gala duty this month.

One thing all the Wayne siblings agreed on was that you all would switch having to go so all of you would make appearances throughout the year. Tim made a whole chart that is on the fridge in the manor that you all follow.

The only thing that saved your night from being boring was your plan to stay the night with Kon since the gala was in Metroplis. 

You had been waiting a long time for your schedules to line up perfectly so no one would ask questions. He finally was home after a months long space mission and you were positively dying to get your hands on your boyfriend after months of no contact.

Kon was going to pick you up after you slipped out of your hotel room when you got back from the gala. You texted back and forth the day of about how excited you were to finally see each other. 

The gala was going as smooth as it could with all of Metroplis's elite in one place and hosted by Lex Luthor of all people. 

You were talking with some of the Metroplis branch of Wayne Enterprises about budget cuts for their office when the doors were kicked open to reveal a group of masked men.

"No one move!" The leader of the group yells as people start to scream. "If you don't move then no one gets hurt!"

The rest of the men spread out to block all of the exits of the ballroom. 

You try to think of a way to get out of this without having to call the others. It's a little selfish of you but you really want to see your boyfriend at some point tonight.

Lex Luthor makes his way through the crowd, it parts as he walks towards the ring leader. 

"Let's talk about this first Gentleman." He holds his hands up in a placating manner which only seems to make the man angry.

He presses the gun to Luthor's chest, "I will shot you if you don’t comply and I want all the cash you have on you."

"Okay, okay." Luthor obliges and hands over his wallet like he does this every other day. 

That seems to give the other men permission to go around and gather up all the money and jewelry they can find. 

One of the men who is a few inches taller then you points his gun at you, "Money and jewelry, now!"

You pull out your wallet from your purse and take off the necklace from your neck before handing it all over. He takes it from your hand quickly like you may fight him for it.

"The bracelet too." He growls once he sees the small bracelet on your wrist.

The bracelet was a gift from Kon, it wasn't expensive at all but the woven blue, red and black thread was priceless to you. He learned from Martha Kent how to make it so you would always have a piece of him with you.

"It's just thread! You won't get money from selling it." You argue with him. 

"I never asked for how much it was worth Miss Wayne." He flashes the gun in your face in an attempt to scare you.

But he won't take this from you, he will have to fight you for it. 

"What's the trouble?" The leader makes his way over.

"She won't give it over!" The man harassing you explains with a glare your way.

"Hand it over!" He barks at you.

"It's not worth anything!" You yell back at him.

The leader grabs your wrist to take it off of you but you struggle against his grip. He gets close enough that you are able to get a hit in on his face. He staggers back at the sudden blow.

"You bitch!" He yells and pushes you backwards.

You collide with the glass window behind you. 

It cracks around you as you make contact. 

Suddenly you are in free fall. 

You are trying to reach for anything to grab onto as you fall. The skyscraper is high up so it gives you some time to try and figure out a way to get out of this. But time is quickly slipping through your fingers as you scream for help.

Why didn't you think to pack a spare grapple?

Why didn't you anticipate this?

There is a yell of your name and you look just in time to see Kon flying to you. His face is pale with dread as he pushes through the fear.

He catches you just in time, his arms tightly around you. 

"Are you okay!" He asks frantically, "God tell me you are fine!"

Without thinking you pull his lips to yours, savoring the taste of mint that tells you that he is here and you are safe. He kisses you back just as fiercely.

"Thank you." You breathe when he pulls back.

"Anytime gorgeous." He gives you a wink and grin that steadies you despite being up so high.

"Let's get out of here," You suggest. "I need a minute to breathe."

"Of course." He presses a soft to your forehead before flying off into the night.

You went back fifteen minutes later to give a statement to the police and to be checked out by the paramedics. It took everything in you to be separated from Kon but you needed to do this to keep up appearances.

In the end whether you went back didn't matter since multiple reporters saw your kiss and did what they did best, write about it.

Bruce's sigh brings you back to the present, "It would be best if you stayed out of the public eye for a while as I get my lawyers to deal with this."

You look down at your now empty cup of coffee, feeling down about this making such a fuss with your family. Bruce leaves the room as he pulls out his phone to call his lawyers.

Everyone splits up after that, all of them needing to do different thing a today while you are stuck in the manor because of your actions. You are an adult but this feels like you are being grounded like a kid. 

Sitting on the roof you scroll through social media to see you and Kon everywhere. It wasn't supposed to be this big of a deal. You had planned to reveal your relationship to your family on your own terms and that was taken from you.

A loud sigh escapes your lips as you lay your head on your drawn up knees. 

"That's a big sigh." 

You look over to where the voice came from. Kon is sitting next to you with his legs sprawled out over the roof titles like he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Kon, you shouldn't be here." You tell him.

"And leave you alone to wallow? Never." He grins over at you and pushes up his sunglasses on his head so you can see his eyes.

"I messed it all up." You whisper. 

"Baby," He pulls you into an embrace. "you have no control over the press and you were going to tell everyone soon anyway."

"I know but it all feels ruined." You mutter and hold onto his t-shirt. 

"Everyone is going to come around because they love you and I love you too." He reassures you softly. "Just wait, soon this will all be over and we can go back to normal."

You cuddle up to him on the roof, basking in his body heat, "Tim is going to kill you though."

"I already knew that," Kon chuckles. "but the twenty threatening voicemails make it very clear that if I hurt you the whole clan will crucify me in the yard."

"I won't let them be too hard on you." You promise him with a smile.

"Aww thanks baby." He leans his head on top of yours and grabs your hand as you stare out at the gardens.

The road may be bumpy but you are sure that you will get through the press and your family together.

[ciricearts]

he looks adorable theree

[spaceodyssie]

valuable life skills 101 with stephanie

[larkralbirdy]

Tim + his brothers

[bigmackwhopper]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO JASON TODD AND JASON TODD ONLY

[mayhemiiii]

CARE teen mutant!reader

[mayhemiiii]

thinking about.. skin to skin cuddling with jean grey.

laying in your bed, jeans warm sleeping body holding you from behind, her arms wrapped your body tight.

your can hear her soft snores, a small smile creeps onto your face as your eyes slowly shut and you begin to drift off.

[mayhemiiii]

SKIN TO SKIN - blurb

[eunisyn]

"All this for lil ol' me?"

[mayhemiiii]

masterlist I

MARVEL: JEAN GREY SCOTT SUMMERS LOGAN HOWLETT REMY LEBEAU

DC:

[mayhemiiii]

CHAPTER 3

jason todd x gn! matchmaker reader

♫ in the morning after jasons date, he sees you in the kitchen covered in hickeys.. which he doesnt like.. like at all.

series masterlist

pervious

navigation

wc: 700

angst, hurt no comfort. lowk short asf

not proofread

you roll out of body, your head pounding. groaning, you ran a hand through your hair. you change out of last night's clothes into a loose oversized black shirt, with pajama pants.

making your way to the kitchen, you see jason. sitting at the island eating a piece of toast.

"morning" you spoke, your voice groggy and raspy from sleep.

"whats that?" jason spoke, his tone suspicious, and his eyes narrowed onto your neck. it took your brain a good amount of time to realize.

oh my fucking god. you had a hickey.

no, not just one hickey. you had five.

"nothing." you quickly try to lie, which there really is no point in doing because your whole neck is basically an purple and angry red.

"dont lie to me (name), you have five fucking hickeys on your neck. who the hell were you with last night?"

"jason, its none of your business who i was with!" you yelled back. you could feel your blood start to boil, was he seriously acting like he had some kind of control over you?

"you were on a date last night! why do you even care?"

"why do I care? because you set me up these girls, that I dont even like while you go to some trash club downtown and make out with random guys!"

he yelled, his chest heaving as he stares at you.

"how.. how do you know that?"

"because steph told me. she got worried about you because of how much you drank. god, if you dont have alcohol poisoning ill be shocked!"

he lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair as he paces around the kitchen.

"i spent all night, wishing it was you that I was on date with. I particularly ran all the way home so i could be with you and you were out doing that."

jason whispered shouted, his voice cracking slightly, while still glaring at you like you he killed his puppy.

"jason.." you reach your hand out, trying to provide him with some form of comfort.

"no, save it. im heading out." he spoke, storming out of the apartment and slamming the door so hard the hinges rattled.

Jason's POV

every punch he threw at the punching bag echoed through the empty gym like a gunshot.

his knuckles bleed, everytime he closed his eyes he saw all those ugly marks on your neck. jealousy, and rage fill his body.

some random guy had his disgusting hands all over you. his lips on you, when it should've been him. not some random guy.

jason felt a huge wave a nause wash over him, making him hit the punching bag so hard it started falling off its chains.

god, he was such an idiot.

he spent the whole night sitting across sabrina. who was beautiful, smart, kind and everything a guy would want. but he just felt miserable, because she wasnt you. he didnt care about her stories, or about her volunteering at animal shelters. all he could think about was heading back home, maybe watching a stupid comedy movie just hear your laugh, and finally telling you how he really has felt for years.

he had been hiding his true feelings for four years. four years of pretending that he wasnt in love with you.

and now, because he didnt fuss up and confess to you, you were making out with a random man in the back of an alleyway.

he grunted as sat on the bench, taking a long sip out of his water bottle. he feels a sudden buzz in his shorts pocket.

he took his phone out, half hoping it was you who texted, and half hoping it wasnt.

but, when he saw who it actually had texted him, he rolled his eyes.

it was dick, of course it was.

dick: hey man im dropping by your place in 10 minutes to pick those tools you borrowed you home?

jason stares at his screen, a low groan coming from him. the last thing jason wanted right now was to see his brother, he grabs his gym bag, hurrying his way home.

@talyafield @girlmeetsolivia @ramielll @violetesensou @reajanxfox @arykream1 @ennaizs-blog @joonunivrs @s0fia-14 @wonologyyy @indigoscribe @hyyperfixxation @annibellez @hyunitam @mysteryglitchyt @spookyfunhottub

[mayhemiiii]

happy bday to my baby jason peter todd

[v333ngeance]

best friend's brother! jason todd ⤷ 18+ mdni

‘never sleep with your best friend’s sibling.’ an unspoken yet ancient rule in a friendship. 

a rule that you broke. for weeks. with jason todd

hand to god, you tried. but god, it was hard when you would see him at the manor every day— shirtless, sweaty, and ripped after a workout session. it wasn't even just about his physique; it was the way he was exactly your type— and jason thought the same way about you.

“jesus, i missed you” he whispered on your lips, gripping your waist while you straddled him and letting out low, quiet moans that you swallowed as he laid back on the headboard. “wanted to steal you from dick again”

yes, you sneaked into jason’s room in the middle of the night. yes, it was right next door to dick’s bedroom. no, dick doesn’t know about the little... arrangement you and his brother had

panting on jason's mouth for more, your hands went under his shirt and slowly dragged your touch onto his abs. and that made a ridiculous moan leave jason and his cock under his pants get more hard than it already was. “shit—!"

you broke the kiss to clamp a hand over jason’s mouth, feeling his mouth pant under your palm to catch his breath after that life changing kiss. 

“dick’s right next door” you reminded him in a whisper before beginning to slowly rock your hips to jason’s clothed boner. “think you can be quiet for me?” jason rolled his green eyes to the back of his head with a breathless sigh muffled by your hand, his mind dizzy and body on fire with each slow, insatiable roll of your body

“i need an answer, jay”

he looked at you through half-lidded eyes and nodded quietly, the desire in his gaze growing stronger. and it made you do nothing but smile and take your palm off, replacing it with another kiss— messier and sloppier than the last one

“attaboy” you whispered on his lips, trailing your hands down to unbuckle his belt while jason sucked on your bottom lip to hold back his sounds, his hands now on your hips and pulling you closer than you ever were

and for the rest of the night, all you can do is hope to god dick doesn’t hear anything. because if he does, he’s killing both of you

first tumblr post and it couldnt come at a better time, happy (early) birthday jason <3

©𝐕𝟑𝟑𝟑𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄, all rights reserved

[jamesdeanbby]

Hii Can I be 🪽 anon? Also bro do you write for mcu Peter Parker? Cuz I was in the theater and the web shooter scene made me feel some kind of away. Imagine playing with sub!peter’s wrists? Hnghfh

sub! peter parker on the issue of his web shooters !!

The sheets are a tangled mess beneath you both, sweat-slicked skin sliding together in a rhythm that's become as natural as breathing. Peter's hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs, gripping with that desperate strength he tries so hard to control, fingertips pressing just hard enough to leave little crescent marks.

"You feel so good," he gasps against your collarbone, words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "So good, so good, so- fucknghh"

His hips buck up to meet yours, driving himself deeper, and you can't help the moan that escapes your throat. God, he's beautiful like this, flushed and wrecked, chest heaving, curls plastered to his forehead. His brown eyes are blown so wide with lust there's barely any iris left, and they're fixed on you like you're the only thing in the universe worth seeing.

Which, apparently, is pretty close to the truth now.

Since "the change", as Peter had awkwardly called it, his spider-sense has become hyper-tuned to you specifically. He'd explained it with that adorable mix of scientific fascination and teenage embarrassment, how his aranid hormones had basically rewired his brain to prioritize you above everything else. How he can feel your heartbeat without even trying, track your breathing patterns, sense shifts in your mood before you've even fully processed them yourself.

It's made him intense in bed. Not in a bad way. Never in a bad way.

But it's made him intense, and Peter Parker has always been sensitive: emotionally, physically, in every way that matters. Now it's like someone turned the dial all the way past eleven and broke the knob off.

"Baby-" he whines, voice cracking on the word, "baby, please, I need-"

"Sush, pretty, the whole neighbourhood's gonna hear you." You coo as you lean down, pressing your chest against his, feeling his nipples pebble against your skin. The friction makes him gasp, his hands flying to your waist again, fingers digging in. "You need to come, don't you? You're so close."

He nods frantically, his head thrashing against the pillow. "Yes, yes, yes, pleasepleasepleaseughh"

His hips are jerking up in an uncoordinated rhythm now, desperate and needy, and you love him too much to deny him. You've never been one to tease him, not really, not when he makes those pretty sounds, not when he looks at you like you're his entire world. So you let him take what he needs, your own hips rolling down to meet his thrusts.

But then you get an idea.

A really good idea.

You catch his wrists mid-motion, pulling his hands away from your waist. He whimpers at the loss of contact, but you're already pinning them above his head, one hand holding both wrists down against the pillow. The position forces your body to drape more heavily over his, and he groans at the pressure, at the way your breasts press against his chest.

"Shh," you murmur, dipping your head to his neck. "Just relax. Lemme take care a'you."

You lavish his throat with kisses, feeling his pulse jump frantically under your lips. Your teeth graze his skin and he gasps, a broken little sound that goes straight to your core. You suck a bruise into the sensitive spot behind his ear, then another at the base of his throat, then another along his collarbone, and each one makes him whine and writhe beneath you.

"Fuck," he breathes, "fuck, baby, please, m'gonna—"

"Come on, baby, hold it a little." You pull back, grinning at the desperate look on his face. "I have an idea."

You shift, moving from laying on top of him to sitting properly on his lap, and the change in angle makes him choke on a moan. You're still impaled on his cock, still taking him deep, and the new position lets you control the pace with your hips while you bring his hands up.

His fingers. His knuckles. His palms.

You press soft, deliberate kisses to each one, and he watches you with dazed confusion, his mind clearly struggling to process anything beyond the feeling of you around him.

"What—what are you.."

Your kisses trail lower. Down his wrist. And the realization dawns on his face a second too late.

"Wait, wait. Baby, baby don't-"

But you're already there, your lips hovering over the small slit on the underside of his wrist. The web-shooter. The organic one that developed after his body started producing its own web fluid. It's a tiny thing, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it, but it's there, a little gap in the skin that matches the one on his other wrist.

"Baby, please, I-" His voice cracks, his entire body going tense. "You can't—it's too-"

You press a kiss to the slit, just a light brush of your lips, and Peter sobs.

It's not a pained sound. You know that. You've heard Peter in pain, have patched him up after fights, have held him while he healed from injuries that would've killed anyone else. This is something else entirely.

This is pleasure.

His body arches off the bed, his back bowing, his free hand flying to grab at your leg, your thigh, your knee, anywhere he can reach. His cock twitches violently inside you, and you feel a gush of warmth: precum, so much of it you'd think he was coming already if you didn't know his body language intimately.

"baby, babybaby, I can't-" He's babbling, words tumbling out in a rush. "you're gonna kill me, you're gonna kill me, y'r gonna ki-"

You kiss the slit again, this time with your lips parted, letting your tongue just barely graze the sensitive opening.

Peter sobs again, tears spilling from his eyes, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

You lift your head, just enough to look at him. His face is wrecked, tears streaming down his cheeks, his lips parted and red from where he's been biting them. His eyes are glazed over, pupils blown so wide there's almost no brown left.

"You're so pretty like this," you tell him, and he whines, his hips bucking up into you involuntarily. "So sensitive. My pretty boy."

"M—m'yours," he manages, his voice breaking on the word. "Yours, yours, all yours- please, please, please-"

You lower your head again, and this time you don't just kiss.

You lick.

Your tongue traces the edge of the slit, and Peter's entire body convulses like he's been electrocuted. His free hand flies to your head as he reflexively sits up, driving his cock deeper into you, fingers tangling in your hair, and he's gasping, crying out, his words dissolving into nonsense.

"Ahng- uh- baby- babybaby. gonna cum, gonna cum- haah—"

Your tongue pushes into the slit, just a tiny bit, just the tip, and Peter cums.

It hits him like a freight train. His body seizes, he moans like he’s starring in a porno, and then his cock is pulsing inside you, flooding you with rope after rope of hot, thick cum. It's too much, too fast, and some of it spills out around his cock, dripping down onto the sheets as you clamp down on him with a loud moan of your own. Adding to the mess with your release.

But that's not all.

His web-shooters—both of them—go off at once.

The one on the wrist you're currently tongue-fucking fires a stream of webbing directly into your face. It catches you across the jaw, the cheek, the corner of your mouth, not covering your nose but forcing your mouth to stay in position, keeping your tongue pressed against the sensitive slit. The other hand, the one you'd released, shoots a line of webbing to the headboard, the sheets, the wall, a complete mess of organic web fluid that's going to be a nightmare to clean up.

But you don't care.

You're too focused on the feeling of Peter coming undone beneath you, the way he's still twitching and spasming, his hips jerking up into you with every pulse of his cock. He's crying, properly crying, tears streaming down his face, little hiccupping sobs escaping his throat.

"T’much," he gasps, "too much, too much, can't- can’tcan’t- pleaseeuhh-"

But he doesn't push you away. If anything, his hips keep moving, chasing more, his body clearly not done yet even as he begs for mercy.

You pull your head back, the webbing stretching and breaking as you do. You lick your lips, tasting the faint chemical tang of his web fluid, it's sour. Almost like those candies you love so much.

"One more, pretty boy." you tell him, and he sobs.

"can't, can't, I'll die I'll d-"

"You can take it." You shift your hips, grinding down on him, feeling him still hard inside you despite having just come. "You're Spider-Man. You can take anything."

He shakes his head frantically, but you can feel him twitching, feel the way his hips are starting to move with more urgency.

"Please." he whimpers.

You lean down, pressing your body to his, and you kiss him, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He moans into your mouth, his hands finding your hips, gripping so hard you'll have bruises tomorrow.

"You're gonna come for me again," you whisper against his lips. "And when you do, you're gonna keep your pretty eyes on me. Understand?"

He nods, his pupils blown wide, his face a mess of tears and pleasure.

"Good boy."

🏷 ( @baldwincain , @edgyteenripoff , @anakinssweetestgirl , @kokoislost , @whimsicalbunnys , @rentaldarling , @destenyyyyy , @anqeliical )