hey since charlie voices sonar, and charlie did the "got your nose, i'll give it back if we have sex" thing... does anyone want a fic where sonar is lowkey bullying and it's lowkey (highkey) really hot? let me know.
thinking about going and playing pool with him and the z-team after hours
he's good, like ridiculously good. it's gotta be an intelligence thing and less of a luck thing.
so when you go to make your shot - bent at the hips over the table, laser-focused down the end of your cue - and feel his body leaned down over yours, it catches you off guard for a moment. how could it not? even worse is when you can almost feel his snout brushing the shell of your ear.
"don't aim for that one, you'll miss." he speaks so matter-of-factly that it's annoying. you can't even protest or move from him before he's got you by your hips and moves you slightly to the left, lining you up to hit a straight shot into a corner pocket. "riiight.. there."
he doesn't move off of you, and you become vaguely aware that his breathing has slowed down. what you're not aware of is how your breathing begins to match his. you slide your dominant arm back, retracting the tip of the cue just barely through your fingers. crack! the cue ball slams into your target, sending the ball right where victor said it would. only then does he stand up straight, letting out a satisfied half-laugh.
Sonar who absolutely melts when you praise his intelligence. Yes, his bat form is overpowered so his combat ability is obvious but it’s his intelligence and charisma he’s really proud of.
“I went to Harvard, ya know?”
“Oh my gosh, really? You just be like- super smart then!”
“W-Well, I mean like, yeah I’m lowkey a genius…” And then he never, ever shuts up.
He’s putty in your hands when he hears you in the comms saying, “Oh, Robert, send Sonar for that one! He’s so smart, I know he can smooth it over!” When the team is confronted about a call requiring high intelligence or charisma.
“Well, it’s kinda below my skill level, but I guess I have time for a cake walk.”
If you’re in any kind of college course, and you ask anyone else for help, he’s offended. “What do you mean you asked Robert for help with your homework? Well- okay, yeah, he’s good with like building science-y stuff, but I literally went to, and graduated from Harvard!” And then he does all your homework for you out of spite.
I think he’s intentionally attracted to ditzy people to make himself feel smarter. He likes taking care of his partner, considering he’s ’the alpha’ (cringe). Likes to confuse you with word place that lowkey he doesn’t even really understand. But you humor him anyways. 🩷
SUMMARY: Upset that Sonar joined Shroud, you confront him during the final fight. It ends much differently than you expected.
WARNINGS: 18+ slighty nsfw! reader gets turned on and beast!sonar gets a little cheeky. reader also has kinetic energy absorption that give a lil high. some regular shmegular fighting scenes
WORD COUNT: 4.4k
READ ON AO3
You watch Sonar grab the Mechaman suit mid-flight, crashing through the ground like a meteor. The hole they leave behind is massive—jagged concrete and twisted rebar, smoke pouring out.
You jump after them immediately. Twenty feet of freefall into industrial darkness.
Your power catches you at the bottom, impact becoming euphoria—kinetic energy dispersing through bone and sinew, that familiar rush of force absorbed and stored. You land in a crouch, hungry for more.
"Robert." Your voice cuts through the settling dust. "I got this."
The suit hisses somewhere to your left. You can already feel Robert's protest forming—a particular quality of mechanical hesitation that still manages to convey human doubt. Probably the rational argument. The practical one. Backup, safety, not going after Sonar alone. All smart suggestions.
All ones you'll ignore.
You turn to face him, tracking the height of his suit. You're sure he can see the look on your face now, the set of your jaw. Even your hands, humming with stored energy.
"They need you up there." You nod toward the hole above. Toward the sounds of fighting and destruction. "And I need this."
The suit doesn't move for a long moment.
"Fine," Robert's voice echoes, followed by a sigh. Whether it's strictly exhaustion or a tinge of exasperation, you're not sure. But you have an inkling—have had it all day, actually—that Robert's been very deliberate in his decisions. Keeping you on the other side of the city. Evacuation duty. Clean-up. Anything to keep you far away from this.
From Sonar.
Because Robert knows. Maybe not everything, but enough.
Real smart guy. You've, admittedly, grown fond.
Robert lifts off, ascending toward the light. His voice crackles through his suit's speakers. "Have fun with your situationship. Don't die, please."
You'd laugh if your attention wasn't already swallowed by the dark ahead, your body shifting into defensive mode. Hands up. Power humming beneath your skin like a second heartbeat.
Every nerve ending firing at once.
The basement sprawls ahead like an open mouth—all exposed pipes and rusted machinery, the industrial guts of a building laid bare. You can barely see five feet ahead, but you feel him. A prickling awareness that climbs your spine. The tangible weight of prey recognizing predator, large and waiting and utterly focused on you.
He's been waiting for you, uncharacteristically silent, as you'd ushered Robert away.
Your pulse kicks up. Just adrenaline, you tell yourself, but the words leave a sour taste in your mouth.
"Sonar!"
The word echoes, comes back slightly wrong, like the dark is chewing on it. Nothing answers except the drip drip drip of water somewhere in the black. Somewhere above—so far above it might as well be another world—you hear the fight. Explosions. Shouting. Energy and weapons crackling. Your team fighting while you're down here in the dark with—
With whatever the hell you're about to do.
Rubble crunches under your boots. Three more steps. Still nothing.
You can hear him now, though. Sounds of movement on concrete. The faint click of claws. Those enhanced senses of his are undoubtedly cataloging your heartbeat—too fast—your breathing—too shallow—every micro-movement of your body.
You're tired of this waiting game, of whatever baiting trick this is. Some stupid reddit thread technique he probably studied. The image of him scrolling through combat psychology forums makes you want to fast-forward to the good part: facing him and beating his ass.
You stand taller, eyes scanning the darkness. They're slowly adjusting. "…Marco!"
The word will do its job. You already know it will. A stupid joke between you.
Sonar's enhanced hearing came with a multitude of perks. One of them was that he could find you anywhere—across crowded bars when you got separated, during missions when your comms weren't viable.
"Polo."
The voice comes from directly above and your whole body goes rigid.
He drops from the rafters, landing fifteen feet away. The impact shakes the ground and your body eagerly drinks it in, storing it like fuel.
You swallow hard as he straightens to full height, tilting your head back to keep your gaze near his face. But your eyes catch on the new accessory: metal circling his throat, pulsing with light that matches his eyes. Glowing crimson. They track you with an animalistic focus that makes your hindbrain shriek warnings.
An awareness so different from the one you usually carry around him.
Sonar's beast form is nothing new. You've seen it before, laughed with him as he stood towering over you. And you knew, of course, that his nature was monstrous. Capable of more violence than you'd naturally assign to him.
Sure, Sonar had been a criminal. Sure, he'd tossed out jokes about eating people. It never seemed real, though. Most of his crimes paled in comparison to the people you used to run with. Your stupid-smart situationship with a penchant for substance use was never actually a threat in your eyes.
His beast form being a true beast was a concept you understood intellectually. Abstract. Academic. A fact without weight.
This isn't abstract anymore.
This is teeth and claws and pure instinct. An apex predator wearing a collar— and the collar somehow makes it worse. Makes him look owned. Controlled. The way people leash their reactive dogs.
For the first time since meeting him, every part of you screams to retreat. You fight the urge to step back.
"Sonar."
He takes a step closer and you swear the collar pulses in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"Hey, gorgeous." His voice is almost the same—that playful drawl that usually pulls an affectionate eye roll. But it's lower now. Rougher. Gravel wrapped in velvet. "Aren't you a sight for red eyes."
You haven't seen him since Robert cut him from the team.
He'd stopped answering your texts. Every call, ignored. You stopped counting after the number began to tank your ego. Told yourself it was dignity, not giving up. He wasn't allowed to punish you, to make you feel like you'd done something wrong just by existing in a space where he wasn't allowed anymore.
He'd chosen to sit and lick his wounds instead of letting you in. Chosen to wallow in his anger. That wasn't on you.
Above, you hear more destruction. Closer. More desperate. Your team needs you.
You meet Sonar's gaze. "What the hell are you doing?"
Your voice comes out harder than you meant. Anger covering fear covering the third thing you refuse to name.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He tilts his head in that same motion, even in this form—about to say the most insufferable thing possible. "I'm flirting with you."
Your mouth twists. "I'm not into spineless traitors."
He scowls, tension rippling through his shoulders. Good. You want it to hurt. You want a lot of things. Hurting him is the only one you'll admit to.
"Ouch." He shifts his stance, beginning to circle you. His movements are predatory, deliberate. "And here I thought you'd be nice. Understanding. Maybe give me the benefit of the doubt."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you like me."
You clench your hands into fists. Power pooling in your palms like liquid heat, ready to be weaponized. "What's there to like?"
"C'monn, we had a fun will-they-won't-they thing, didn't we? Guess we've settled on won't." He lets out a deep, theatrical sigh. "Totally not the outcome I wanted."
"You made it pretty clear you didn't want anything to do with me when you cut me off."
"Precautions were taken to avoid my parole officer." He circles closer, his hunched form casting strange shadows. Those massive winged-arms shift with each step. "And maybe I wanted to avoid this. You and that disappointing gaze, telling me not to go to the dark side, or whatever."
"Or maybe," you say, voice shaking slightly, "you were just too prideful to admit your feelings were hurt. Because you wrongly convinced yourself it made you less of an... alpha."
That stupid fucking word. Only used in mockery by you and Malevola, but Sonar has a strange relationship with it. Ties back to his frat house, to the guys he had to prove himself to. A genius ultimately still seen as other because he was a hybrid. Their little bat boy. The butt of their jokes. A confession he'd made one night when way too drunk, then immediately called himself a mopey loser. You'd never brought it up again.
The silence that follows feels explosive. Lightning about to strike. Then he laughs—short, bitter, deflective in sound.
"You know what? Sure. I was mad. At all of you." His voice flattens. "I considered eating Robert. Guy's a fucking loser anyways. Who would miss him?"
Your eyebrows rise despite yourself.
"Spent like—" he pauses, actually calculating, "—twenty minutes thinking about which part would be least disgusting. But I decided he'd be gross. The total opposite of a boneless chicken wing." His mouth quirks, lips stretching behind enlarged fangs. "Then I realized, I should actually thank him."
Absurdist humor covering genuine hurt. You're almost tempted to believe nothing has changed at all.
"Thank him?" You ask, forcing your tone flat. "For what?"
"For cutting me loose. Giving me an excuse to stop trying so hard." He stills, stops circling. "Being a hero was boring anyway."
The comment bothers you more than it should. Maybe because it's the barest lie he's ever told you. Sonar enjoyed being good. He was surprised by how nice it felt, made a comment once that he thought everyone was bluffing about altruism and good deeds. Some good shit to sell Jesus pamphlets, he'd said.
It gave him meaning.
Or maybe you're just projecting. Because it gives you meaning. And, unfortunately, you value Sonar's opinion.
So if he thinks it's not worth it, then what does that say about you?
"Bullshit."
You thrust your palms forward. Force explodes outward—the stored energy from his landing, from your own movements, all of it weaponized. The air itself becomes a battering ram. Debris lifts and scatters. A shockwave that should send him flying.
He moves fast for a large being. One moment he's there, the next he's vanished into shadow. Your blast tears through empty space, through nothing. Behind where he stood, a support beam groans and buckles.
"You don't believe that," you call into the dark.
"I don't?" His voice drifts from your left. "Did you gain new mind-reading abilities while I was gone? Hot."
He's toying with you. Treating this as some joke— because Sonar doesn't like serious. It pisses you off.
It's not a joke. You're not a joke.
His voice echoes, deep and raspy, as he asks, "Hey, what am I thinking about now?"
You don't dignify his goading with a reply. You spin and slam your fist into the ground. The kinetic energy pulses outward in a shockwave, cracking concrete in a spiderweb pattern. It forces him to move, to reveal his position as he leaps away from the fracturing floor.
The corners of your lips twitch, biting back a grin. Reactive dogs are always easy to bait.
You throw up a barrier between you—shimmering and dense, solidified force made visible. He emerges unnervingly slow from the shadows, claws tapping the invisible wall. Testing it. The barrier holds but you feel the pressure of him probing for weaknesses.
"Look at you. Collared like a bitch on a leash." You scoff. "Heard you got pistol-whipped by Shroud too. Real dignified. I'm sure Harvard would be proud."
The growl that rips through him sends vibrations through your barrier. He moves—explosive, aggressive, done playing games— and slams into your barrier full-force. The kinetic feedback screams through your body. The wall shatters like glass.
You reinforce it desperately but he's already airborne, appendages spread wide as he launches himself over the broken barrier, coming at you from above. You roll, his claws tearing gouges in concrete where you were, and absorb the energy of your movement. Convert it. You plant your feet and release it as a directional blast.
It catches his arm mid-sweep, the force of it redirecting his momentum. He crashes sideways into cement.
"Ow," he says, pulling himself free. "That was mean."
"Traitors don't deserve my kindness."
"There it is again. That word." He's circling again, but faster now. "I'm not a traitor."
"You are." You create two barriers—one ahead, one behind. Boxing him in. "Look what you're doing. You've hurt innocent people. People who never did anything to you." Your voice cracks. "And I know that has to bother you."
"It doesn't."
Liar. The waver in his voice gives him away.
"It does." You press forward, barriers tightening. "You betrayed your friends. You betrayed me."
He crashes through the forward barrier like it's nothing. The kinetic backlash floods through you—too much, too fast, threatening to tear you apart from the inside. You stagger, struggling to contain it.
"Is that what we were?" He stops right in front of you. Those red eyes boring into yours. "Friends?"
You're not sure if he means the team or the two of you specifically. The distinction feels cosmically important. Your mouth opens, but no words come. Above, another explosion. The ceiling shudders violently. Chunks of concrete rain down, dust filling your lungs.
Sonar notices your pause. Vulnerability flickers across his face—raw and unguarded—before the mask slides back. "We were never friends." His voice drops lower, quieter. "If Robert had cut you, I would've left, too. For you."
Your chest constricts painfully.
"Then maybe you were in it for the wrong reasons."
"Yeah, maybe." He straightens to his full height, towering. "Guess that's what I get for having a soft spot."
He moves and you're already reacting. Barrier up. He tears through it like paper, absorbing the kinetic energy you pour into it. You redirect his charge, throwing yourself sideways. His claws whistle past your face, so close you feel the displacement of air.
You hit the ground and convert the fall into momentum, coming up with both hands extended. You release everything you've stored—enough power to punch through steel reinforcement.
Sonar takes it head-on. The impact drives him back several feet but he stays upright, wings extended for balance. His eyes never leave yours.
The fight continues, strangely brutal and intimate. Neither of you backing down. You're both being stubborn, both refusing to yield. Every barrier you create, he shatters. Every blast you fire, he tanks or evades. You're evenly matched in the worst possible way— neither using your full power, neither acknowledging that you're not.
Time is running out. You can feel it pressing down on you. You're wasting it, down here with him.
His arm sweeps toward you in a wide arc. You barely raise a shield in time. The force of his movement floods you— pleasure-pain that sings through every nerve ending. Too much, far too much. You have to release it or it'll rip you apart. You channel it through your hands, directing the blast at his shoulder.
It catches him clean, sends him staggering. Pain flashes across his face— but you're not certain it's the kind that has anything to do with his body.
"Don't make me hurt you," he says. "I don't want to do that."
"You and that ego." You're breathing hard, power flickering at your edges. Running on empty. "You can certainly try."
The vulnerability in his expression vanishes completely. His arms spread to their full span, the membrane of his wings now stretched taut. He launches himself at you with terrifying speed.
You throw up a barrier. Sonar grabs it, his claws sinking into the solidified force itself and tearing it like flimsy fabric. The backlash is devastating. Your concentration shatters. You stumble, vision swimming.
He's on you instantly.
His hand closes around your wrist in an iron grip. You try to absorb the kinetic energy of the grab, slip free. But he knows that trick intimately. His other hand clamps on your shoulder. Then you're airborne, weightless. Flying not by your power but by his.
A quick glance down, and you see the ground rushing up. You brace for impact. At the last second he twists, his body taking the collision instead of yours. You feel his muscles absorb the shock, feel the way he curls around the impact to protect you even now.
Then you're rolling and he's moving with you, controlling the momentum. Controlling you. Suddenly you're on your back and he's everywhere.
Pinning you down.
His massive hands capture both your wrists, pinning them against the cold concrete on either side of your head. Above you, his weight settles, inescapable. The form of him spread wide, creating a cage around you, blocking out the basement, the fight above, everything.
The world has narrowed to just this— him hovering over you, hunched and monstrous.
"Got you," he says, and there's a dark satisfaction threading through the playfulness.
Your heart hammers everywhere—your throat, your wrists, your back pressed against unforgiving floor. Concrete cold against your knuckles. Red eyes stare down at you, unblinking.
Your power is still active, still drinking it all in— the movement of his breathing, his heartbeat, the tension in his muscles. A euphoria that pools low and hot, mixing with adrenaline and fear and want until you can't separate one from the other.
You thrash violently. Try to create a barrier between your bodies, to push him off with raw kinetic force. Nothing comes. You're completely drained. Empty. Too close to him to think straight.
"What are you gonna do now, huh?" You say through gritted teeth. "Eat me?"
"I could make the best joke right now." His voice drops lower and you hate how it affects you. "But it doesn't seem like the right time." His mouth quirks. "You do smell great, though. New perfume?"
Mocking or serious, you feel his words in your chest all the same. He offers a small chuckle and the sound vibrates through him into you. You feel it everywhere he's touching you, pleasure sparking under your skin. A shiver runs traitorously up your spine.
Sonar goes very, very still.
His brows furrow, eyes narrowing as he leans in closer. Instinctively you turn your head to avoid the intrusion, and seconds later you feel his breath ghost across your neck. Hot and quick.
You're breathing too hard, too fast. Everything in you screaming to move, to fight, to do anything except lie here beneath him, but you can't. Can't move. Can't think. Your body won't cooperate.
His nose—enlarged in this form, undoubtedly more sensitive—twitches near your throat. He's smelling you. Scenting you. Like you're prey he's deciding whether to devour. Your pulse kicks up another notch, thundering loud enough that you can hear it. He definitely can.
He pulls back slightly, staring down at you. Surprise bleeds into realization, then sharpens into hunger.
"Interesting."
"What?" You bite out defensively, like the trapped animal you are.
He grins. Fangs and predator teeth on full display. Terrifying and magnetic in equal measure. It should make you more afraid, should make you desperate to escape. It doesn't.
God help you, it doesn't.
"The fuck are you doing?" You yank hard against his hold. It doesn't budge even slightly. "Kill me or let me go and fight me, you loser."
"Are you sure you really want me to?"
The question stops you cold. Your breath catches audibly.
"What?"
"Your heartbeat is through the fucking roof." His voice takes on an edge. "But it's not because you're scared. Is it?"
Heat floods your face, your neck, spreads through your entire body. No. No no no. This isn't—you're not—
"I'm not scared—I'm angry—"
"Noooo." He draws the word out, leaning closer to your face. Once again, you turn away sharply, jaw clenched, refusing to look at him. "I don't think that's it."
He dips his head lower. His nose traces along your collarbone with agonizing slowness, barely touching, burning everywhere it passes. The touch is barely there but you feel it like a brand on your skin. You feel him inhale deeply, drawing your scent into his lungs like he's committing it to memory.
He's savoring it.
"Holy shit."
You're breathing so hard you feel dizzy. Your thighs press together against the ache building there. Every sensation is amplified—the euphoria of your power tangling with arousal, with the terrible realization that in all the time you've known him, you've never been this close. Never had him pressed against you like this. Never felt the full weight of him, the heat of him, the way his body fits over yours, even like this.
There's a sickness in you. Because part of you—the part you're desperately trying to ignore, trying to shove into the darkest corner of your mind—is aware that this is attractive. That the adrenaline is mixing with want so visceral it borders on pain. You tell yourself it's because it's still Sonar underneath all this.
But this is different. Dangerous. He's dangerous. He could kill you right now. Could tear your throat out without effort. And some twisted part of you finds that even hotter.
What does that say about you? Nothing good, probably.
"Are you actually into this?" His voice is rough, almost awed, like he can't quite believe what he's discovered.
Heat pulses low in your belly. Mortification and shame burning through you.
"Did Shroud do something to your fucking brain too?" You sneer, trying to salvage some dignity. "Stop being a creep."
His grin widens. There's familiar mirth underneath it. Except now he's a predator playing with food, and you're lying beneath him helpless and—
"You are, aren't you?" He sounds delighted, amazed. "Man. I should've done this months ago. Guess I should thank Shroud for the wingman assist—"
Over his shoulder, you catch a golden light beginning to filter through the holes in the ceiling. Blonde Blazer's powers illuminating the upper level. Your team still fighting without you.
"You sound insane."
He tsks, the sound absurd coming from that monstrous mouth. "Uh uh uh. You've been holding out on me."
You don't answer. Can't, really. Your throat is too tight, your face too hot.
"Be honest. Were you taking it easy on me earlier?" His voice takes on a cruel teasing edge. He shifts his weight, pressing more firmly against you. Warmth bleeds through where your bodies connect. "Thought you were rusty, but now I'm wondering if you just wanted to get pinned down."
It's cruel, really. All these months of careful distance, of professional boundaries, of almosts and not-quites. And now here you are—getting everything you didn't let yourself want, in the worst possible way, from the worst possible version of him. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
He's right and it's almost offensive. Degrading. You're a superhero, not some—
"Oh fuck you—"
"Is that an offer? Because I'm getting some mixed signals here and I want to be really clear about—"
"Stop talking," you hiss, cutting him off. He doesn't seem interested in your response anymore.
You remember—with sudden, visceral clarity—a conversation from months ago. Sonar sprawled on your couch, half-drunk, trying to explain what the beast form felt like.
He'd explained that it amplified everything. Made impulse control nearly impossible. Made wanting into needing. Something about instincts. Primal ones. The kind that made him want to claim things, keep things.
You'd thought he was talking about substances.
"I wonder," he murmurs, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "if you smell this good everywhere else."
The words caress your skin, and your entire body goes hot, then cold, then hot again. The implication—the mere image it conjures—makes your core clench involuntarily. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.
He notices. Of course he notices.
"Oh, you liked that one," he breathes out, sounding wrecked. "I can hear your thighs pressing together. You're aching. I could fix that, you know. I could keep you here. Keep you pinned and —"
The golden light grows brighter, closer. He's too distracted to notice, too focused on you and what he's discovered. Too drunk on your racing heart, the heat of your skin, the scent of arousal he's drowning in.
"Victor." His real name leaves your lips softly, pleading. "Please."
The word comes out broken, desperate. Please what?
Please stop? Please let me go? Please help them? Please touch me?
You don't know. Your brain has short-circuited, caught between duty and desire, and all you have left is his name and that single, useless word.
His mask slips away entirely, grip loosening, eyes softening around the edges. The red dims, just barely, and for a heartbeat you see him—really see him—beneath the monster. He opens his mouth to speak—
Golden light explodes through the basement with the force of a flashbang.
Blonde Blazer crashes through the ceiling in a shower of concrete and rebar, golden energy trailing behind her like a comet's tail. Robert follows immediately after, propulsion jets screaming, the Mechaman suit's servos whining as he adjusts trajectory mid-air. They hit Sonar from both sides with coordinated precision, wrenching him off you. He roars—surprised, furious, betrayed—flaring as they drag him backward across the concrete.
"Get back up top!" Robert shouts at you over the sound of Sonar's struggling.
"Robert—"
"Now."
Your legs shake as you scramble upright. Power flickers weakly—guttering like a candle in wind—barely there at all. But you force yourself to look. One more look.
Blonde Blazer's light illuminates everything in stark, unforgiving detail: Sonar pinned between them, still fighting, still snarling. But it's you he's looking at, staring at you with those red eyes.
Stripping you bare.
You know—with absolute certainty—this will visit you in the dark hours before dawn. Will find you when you're alone and aching. Will become the fantasy you'll hate yourself for wanting.
You turn and don't look back.
Your team needs you. That's all that matters.
my b if reader's kinetic powers were inaccurate somehow. i, personally, am not a superhero so idk how it works. anyways...thank you for reading 😽 i love seeing all your replies & reactions
atm im probs not considering a part two bc im focusing on part two of smooth operator
i've been incredibly ill and busy with school and also work! horrible combination if you ask me.
i'm about 65% recovered, and my plans for this weekend are to brush up on some x-men for a project i've been putting off until i watched a specific movie and then uhhhh continue taste! which i'm realizing may end up being more than just 2 parts??? i dunno??? character arcs and all that.
i appreciate the ongoing support and the praises, you're all so sweet! i even got put on someone's recommendation list??? this is like winning an award it's such an honor.
had to make this, because my obsession with this man is unbelievable
🩰 hurt/comfort
🧸Fluff
🦋angst
🌺smut
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🌺What's That Smell? by @slushycoookie || Wade meddling with Reader and Logan's sexual life..also wade gifting reader Pheromone Perfume and Logan losing it
🌺Honey - Honey II - Honey III by @bpmiranda || Sunshine!readerr with smalla town reclusse!Logan...omg this short series had me squeaking and giggling...toe curling smut.
🦋🩰🌺Keep Up! by @iggyywrites || neighbour!Reader is friend with Wade... with a huge crush on Logan. this is a rollercoaster of emotions i sweare i loved every single word. also the wade's characterization? chef kiss
🌺older by @lostalioth || reader calls Logan old, and he's determined to show her he's not
🦋🩰🌺from eden by @eupheme || old man logan x mutant!reader...this is just...perfect. read it.
🦋🩰🌺never is a promise by @joelsgoldrush || old man logan x charles' caretaker reader. slow burn, misunderstadings, smut...OMYGOD THIS!!!
🌺the Devil and I by @mystra-midnight || this is an hymn to smut.
🩰🧸taste by @poorly-written-fiction || ex boyfriend logan??? he's with jean but his kisses taste like...you... GOD THIS!!
🧸Magnetic by @reddesires || does magnets stick on Wolverine? let's find out! this is so funny i swear-
🌺burning slow by @eupheme || this is a logan x inexperienced reader this is so sweet, i need him now.
🩰🌺loving him was never enough by @wyniepooh || cagefighter!Logan? sign me up.
🩰🌺shouldn't have by @atrwriting || reader has a really shitty boyfriend, thank god Logan saves the day (in more ways than one)
🩰second nature by @d1stalker || reader is saved by Logan who then takes her in. feelings arise, but so will misunderstandings.
🧸Suspension Bridge Effect by @d1stalker || reader saves another mutant who now is in love with her...Logan is slightly jealous
🌺Marks by @bpmiranda || reader is running away from Sabertooth, and Logan helps her out... the smut here....chills
🩰🌺sweet like honey by @bruhstories || baker reader and Logan saving her...he likes to go to his favorite bar that happens to be across reader's bakery
alright lovelies, my wolverine's obssession is not over so i'll prob update thisss (also i still need to read some Old Man Logan fics.. soo i'll keep you update)
the writing is coming, i have some things that i need to do before i can write my next big thing. aside from that, unfortunately the writer's block has consumed me again. i will get onto "taste" part 2 very soon, and my old man! logan x male! artist! reader soon.
before i write old man logan i need to see old man logan in action. i've been putting off watching logan (2017) for so long because i know i'm gonna be sad and cry so yippee.
anyways. writings soon. thank you all for your continued support and kindness. i appreciate you all very much.
my biggest struggle is that i don't really belong to many adult fandoms and i don't want to write adult content about fandoms aimed at younger audiences
