(Y/N) is Alfred Pennyworth’s ten year old grandchild, and somehow, the entire Batfamily is emotionally compromised over one tiny, overly polite child with perfect posture and a matching tea set.
Featuring:
• Damian getting corrected on his manners
• Tim being bullied into sleeping by a ten year old
• Jason losing every verbal battle imaginable
• Dick deciding “mini Alfred” is the greatest thing to ever happen to Wayne Manor
• Bruce getting handed coffee and instantly adopting another child emotionally
AKA: Alfred finally gets to watch everyone else deal with him.
The first thing Damian said when Alfred opened the manor doors was, “There are two of them.” You stood beside Alfred with your little overnight bag in one hand, and your chin tipped up in a way that looked painfully familiar. Same neat posture. Same polite expression. The same silver serving tray balanced perfectly in your other hand.
“Master Damian,” you said calmly, “good afternoon.” Damian blinked once. Then twice. “Grandfather,” he said slowly, eyes still locked on you, “why is the child speaking like you?” Alfred looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Genetics, perhaps.”
You looked a little like Alfred’s daughter had as a child. Soft brown skin, careful eyes, and tidy hair brushed back with far too much precision for a ten year old. Your cardigan was buttoned properly. Your shoes were polished. Dick took one look at you and immediately dropped to one knee dramatically. “Oh no,” he whispered. “They made another one.”
“I can hear you, Master Richard,” you replied. Jason barked out a laugh, so sudden he nearly choked on his coffee. “Oh, I like this kid already." You smiled politely. “Thank you. Your shoelaces are untied.” Jason looked down automatically.
Dick cackled loud enough to echo through the foyer. “Okay,” Tim said from the staircase, squinting down at you over a coffee mug, “that was terrifyingly accurate.” You spent exactly one hour in Wayne Manor before Bruce walked into the kitchen and found you standing on a stool beside Alfred.
You were wearing one of Alfred’s aprons. A tiny one. Tailored. Bruce stared silently. Alfred continued buttering toast like this was normal. You turned slightly. “Good morning, Mr. Wayne. Your tea is steeping.” Bruce looked at Alfred. Alfred looked smug. Bruce looked back at you. “…Thank you.” You nodded once with incredible seriousness. Dick lost it. He had to leave the room because he was laughing too hard.
Things escalated from there. You organized the spice cabinet alphabetically. You folded Damian’s discarded jacket before he could pick it up himself. You reminded Tim to sleep. Twice. “Master Timothy,” you said gently from the doorway of the Batcomputer room at two in the morning, “your eye twitch is concerning.” Tim stared at you with the hollow expression of a man who feared he was being haunted by a tiny British ghost. “…Alfred,” he said weakly into the comms, “there’s two of you now.”
You started carrying around a little notepad. Nobody knew where you got it. You somehow knew everyone’s preferred drinks within a day. Dick liked extra sugar. Jason liked coffee strong enough to legally qualify as poison. Tim forgot his drinks existed half the time. Damian preferred tea but refused to admit it openly. Bruce took his coffee black. You memorized all of it.
“Here you are,” you said, handing Bruce a fresh mug while he worked in the study. Bruce blinked down at it. “You didn’t have to do this.” “You looked tired.” Something in Bruce’s face softened immediately. “…Thank you, sweetheart.”
The manor changed around you. Not dramatically. Quietly. Jason started putting his dishes in the sink without being asked because you thanked him every single time with such genuine enthusiasm that he felt weirdly guilty otherwise. Tim began sleeping in actual beds because waking up to a disappointed ten year old standing over him was somehow worse than Alfred’s lectures. Damian let you sit beside him while he sketched.
That one shocked everybody. You sat quietly at his desk while Titus rested his massive head in your lap. “That line is crooked,” you informed Damian politely. Damian narrowed his eyes. “…You have excellent observational skills.” “Thank you.” That was Damian language for affection.
Dick adored you instantly. He carried you around the manor at least twice a day despite your repeated reminders that you were “perfectly capable of walking independently.” “You’re tiny,” Dick argued. “I am average sized for my age.” “Still tiny.” You sighed the exact same way Alfred did. Jason had to sit down after witnessing it.
One evening, the power briefly went out during a thunderstorm. The manor fell dark. Dick immediately yelled, “I blame the haunted child.” “I am not haunted,” you replied from somewhere in the darkness. There was a pause. Then: “Master Richard, you left laundry in the dryer again.” Jason started wheezing.
Bruce found you later curled beside Alfred in the sitting room while rain tapped softly against the windows. Your head rested against Alfred’s shoulder while he read aloud from a book. You had fallen asleep halfway through. One tiny hand still clutched the edge of his sleeve. Alfred looked up when Bruce entered. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Bruce looked at you. At the familiar careful posture even in sleep. The soft resemblance to Alfred’s daughter around your eyes. The way Alfred’s expression gentled into something achingly fond whenever he looked at you. “You’re happy they’re here,” Bruce said quietly. Alfred glanced down at you again. “Yes,” he admitted softly. “Very much so.” Bruce smiled faintly. “So are we.”
The next morning, everybody came downstairs to find six perfectly made breakfasts waiting on the table. You sat proudly in the middle seat wearing your tiny apron. Alfred stood beside you like an approving mentor. Dick stared at the table. Then at you. Then at Alfred. “This,” he declared emotionally, “is the best thing that’s ever happened to this family.”
❝ 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 ❞ V.C ( Weapon-X Team comics )
pairing victor creed & teen! daughter! reader 🪽.
synopsis 𖥧 you're Sabertooth's biologically engineered daughter, another Weapon X stray (just like Laura was). you're as much of an animal as your father is, except where he's a vicious lion you're just a very agressive feral stray cat with a mean streak.
content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, post-inversion! sabertooth, reader is very animalistic (in a cat/feline way), reader and victor are very wolf/pup coded.
💬 : i'm really really starting to like Sabertooth in this saga of comics guys..
🏷 : @mavixgirl , @luna-kait .
The Blackbird cut through the night sky like a silver shark, silent and lethal and humming with the kind of engine power that made Kitty Pryde sigh wistfully every time she lent it out. Old Man Logan had his hands on the controls, knuckles white, jaw set, eyes fixed on the horizon with the thousand-yard stare of a man who had seen too much and was too tired to blink.
Beside him, in the co-pilot's seat, Warpath was wrapping a bandage around his forearm with the kind of aggressive efficiency that suggested he was angry at the burn for existing.
"You're doing it too tight," Logan said, not looking over.
"I know," Warpath growled, pulling it tighter.
Logan sighed. "You're gonna cut off circulation."
"Good."
In the back, Lady Deathstrike sat with her back against the hull, a disassembled blade across her thighs. She was cleaning it with the kind of reverent attention most people reserved for religious icons. Domino, across from her, was doing the same with her sidearm, though with significantly less reverence and significantly more annoyance, because she kept getting gun oil on her gloves.
"That was a cluster," Domino said, not for the first time.
"Standard," Deathstrike replied, not looking up.
"Standard for us, yeah, but-" Domino gestured vaguely with her gun. "She blew herself up. Like, intentionally. With us standing right there."
"Warpath was about to get shot."
"So? Warpath gets shot all the time. It's his thing."
Deathstrike's lips twitched, the closest she ever came to a smile. "She disagreed."
Domino opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head. "I'm not saying it wasn't effective. I'm just saying it was insane. Who carries a live explosive into a firefight and then jumps into the middle of the enemy formation?"
"Someone with a healing factor." Deathstrike said.
"Someone with a death wish." Domino corrected.
Neither of them mentioned the fact that, for about thirty seconds after the explosion, there hadn't been enough of you left to wish for anything. Just a skeleton. Some smoke. And a lot of very dead guards.
Warpath, for his part, had gone very quiet after you'd reassembled yourself. He hadn't said thank you—he wasn't sure he knew how—but he'd stopped glaring at you quite so hard. That was, for Warpath, practically a hug.
"She's not human," he said quietly.
Logan snorted. "None of us are, bub. Plus she's her father's daughter, so buckle up 'cause we've got two hours 'til home."
The cargo bay of the Blackbird was technically for equipment storage. Crates of ammunition, spare uniforms, emergency rations, the occasional decommissioned Sentinel head that Beast wanted for "research purposes." It was cold back here, and loud, and smelled like jet fuel and old sweat.
You loved it.
After a mission (especially after a mission where you'd died) you needed solitude the way other people needed water. The constant noise of the team, their heartbeats, their breathing, their smells, it was too much. Your senses were already dialed to eleven, and your healing factor was working overtime, and your brain was slowly, painfully rewiring itself from the base level up.
So you sat on the floor.
You sat on the metal floor, legs crossed, back against a supply crate. Your ash-blond hair hung in tangled curtains around your face. Your yellow eyes—still slightly unfocused, still rewiring—stared at nothing. And your claws, your beautiful, deadly, adamantium-laced claws, were extended to their full length.
You were licking them clean.
It was a habit. A compulsion. A need. The blood, enemy blood, your blood, it was all the same at this point, had dried in the grooves of your claws, and the taste was coppery and warm and right. You licked methodically, starting at the base of each claw and working your way to the tip, curling your tongue around the metal.
Click, click, click went your claws against your teeth.
You were loopy. You knew you were loopy. Your healing factor had been working overtime because regenerating from a skeleton took a lot out of a girl and your brain was still rebooting. The human parts, the parts that formed sentences and understood sarcasm and remembered that you weren't actually a cat, were currently offline, busy rebuilding neural pathways.
The animal parts, however, were thriving.
Your eyes kept drifting closed. Your head kept nodding. Your tongue kept moving, muscle memory taking over, because your higher brain functions were currently offline.
The metal was cold against your tongue. Nice. Calming.
You licked. You blinked. You licked again.
Lick. Lick. Lick.
Somewhere above you, the engines hummed. Somewhere behind you, the door to the cargo bay hissed.
You didn't turn around. You didn't need to. The scent hit you before the sound did: smoke and musk and grown and alpha and something spicy and warm that your hindbrain recognized as safe. Home. Father.
Victor.
He filled the doorway like he'd been carved out of it. Six-foot-something of muscle and metal and bad decisions, his uniform still singed in places where bullets had grazed him, not that you could tell by just looking at the pristine skin underneath. He'd already healed. He always healed fast. He was annoying like that.
His yellow eyes found you immediately. Sitting on the floor. Licking your claws. Looking like a cat who'd just been hit by a truck and was too dignified to admit it.
His nostrils flared. He scented the air: blood, healing, exhaustion, you, and something in his chest tightened.
Cub. Hurt. Fix it.
The Inversion had given him a conscience, but this wasn't conscience. This was older. Deeper. The kind of instinct that had kept wolves alive for millions of years. The pack was only as strong as its youngest member, and his youngest member had just detonated herself.
"Brat." he said, by way of greeting.
You didn't answer. Your tongue was busy with your index claw.
"You look like shit."
You didn't answer. You just kept licking your claws.
Victor walked toward you. His footsteps were heavy on the metal floor. Thud. Thud. Thud. He stopped directly in front of you, looking down with an expression that was half-scowl, half-something softer.
"You blew yourself up."
Lick. Lick.
"Warpath was about to get shot," you mumbled, not looking up.
"So?"
"So he's on the team."
Victor sighed. It was a heavy, put-upon sound, like he was the one who'd been blown up. Then he crossed the remaining distance and dropped to the floor beside you with all the grace of a sack of bricks.
Thud.
The Blackbird shuddered slightly. From the cockpit, Logan's voice echoed: "Watch the weight distribution, Creed!"
"Watch your mouth, old man!"
You ignored him. You kept licking.
For approximately three seconds.
His hands closed around your waist.
Massive hands. Warm. Calloused. Claws brushing against your ribs through the thin fabric of your uniform. He didn't ask permission, he never asked permission, and he didn't wait for you to protest. He just dragged you backward, across the cold metal floor, until your back hit his chest and your body was nestled between his legs.
You made a sound. It was not a dignified sound. It was somewhere between a squawk and a hiss, and it echoed off the cargo bay walls as he manhandled you into position: sitting between his legs, your back against his chest, his arms locked around you like a seatbelt made of muscle and spite.
"Hrrrrk- Victor!"
"Hush."
He was so warm. You hated it. You loved it. You were too tired to figure out which.
You made a huffing sound that he'd learnt to interpret as an 'I'm fine leave me the fuck alone' over time.
"You were sitting on a cold floor licking your own blood like a freak. That's not fine. That's weird."
You twisted in his grip, trying to face him, but he just tightened his arms and pulled you closer.
You hissed at him.
Full-on, fangs-bared, throaty hisssssss.
Victor didn't even flinch. He just waited, patient as a mountain, until the hiss ran out of steam. Then he reached up with one hand—the other stayed locked around your waist—and started grooming you.
His claws combed through your hair, untangling knots, scraping gently against your scalp. His thumb wiped a smear of something (ash? blood? both?) off your cheek. His fingers traced your jaw, your neck, your shoulders, checking for injuries that hadn't quite healed yet.
You huffed at him. It was not a hiss. It was softer. Hmph.
"Don't 'hmph' me, brat. You blew yourself up."
Hmph.
"You're not even denying it."
Hmph.
"You're being very vocal today. Two whole sounds. I'm impressed."
You bit his forearm. Not hard—just a warning nip, your fangs denting his skin without breaking it. Your toxins didn't release. You were being polite.
Victor looked down at your mouth on his arm. Then he looked at your face.
"Did you just… nibble me?"
You let go. You went back to licking your claws. They were already clean, had been clean for a while actually, but the adamantium was cold, and the cold felt good against your tongue, and you didn't want to stop.
Victor watched you for a moment. Then he sighed again, the long-suffering sigh of a parent who had somehow ended up with the weirdest cub in the litter, and resumed grooming.
His claws worked through a particularly stubborn knot in your hair. You leaned into the pull, just slightly. Your eyes half-closed. Your tongue kept moving, licking, licking, licking.
Your claws were already clean, Victor noticed. Of course he noticed.
"Claws are clean, brat."
Click, click, click went your claws against your teeth.
"You're going to file them down." Victor said.
You ignored him.
"You're going to give yourself a fucking damn hairball, you brat."
You ignored him harder.
"Okay, that's it. No more licking."
He grabbed your wrist—gently, for him, which meant he didn't break any bones—and pulled your hand away from your mouth. You growled at him, low in your throat, and tried to pull back. He held on.
"No," he said.
You growled again.
"No," he repeated. "You're done. They're clean. You're just being obsessive now."
You stared at him with your yellow eyes, pupils still huge and round from the regeneration, and you hated that he was right. Your claws were clean. You were just… enjoying the cold. The repetition. The sensation.
Victor stared back. His own eyes, yellow, like yours like father like daughter, were narrowed.
"You're loopy," he said.
Hmph.
"You're loopy and you're nonverbal and you're licking your claws like a cat with a mouse problem."
Hmph.
"I'm going to check you for injuries. Don't bite me."
You did indeed bite him again, just another nibble on his bicep.
He didn't even react. Just kept running his hands over your shoulders, your arms, your sides, searching for wounds that hadn't quite closed. Most of you had regenerated fully. Your healing factor was fast, adaptive, efficient. But there were patches where the skin was still pink and tender, still knitting itself together.
His fingers found one on your ribs. You flinched. He grunted.
"Healing." he said.
"'viously," you managed. Your voice was a rough and slurred rumble, barely there, like you'd forgotten how to use it.
"Don't talk. You sound weird when you're rebooting."
"Fuck you."
"There she is."
Victor's claws moved higher. Up your spine. Over your shoulders. Across the side of your neck.
And stopped.
His whole body went rigid behind you. His breathing changed, it went sharp, focused, predatory in a way that made your own hackles rise.
Victor's thumb brushed against it. You hissed—a real hiss, sharp and warning.
"Hold still."
A spot on the back of your neck, just below your hairline. A gash. Still knitting. Still wet. You'd forgotten about it, there'd been so many injuries, and your healing factor had prioritized organs and major blood vessels over surface wounds, but Victor hadn't.
You felt his breath against the back of your neck. Warm. Humid. And then-
His tongue.
Rough. Sandpaper. Wet. He licked the wound, a long, slow stripe from the base of your neck to your hairline, and you froze.
Every muscle in your body locked up. Your claws shot out to their full length.
And then the human parts of your brain, the ones that had been offline, the ones that formed sentences and understood social norms and remembered that your father was currently licking your neck like a wolf with a pup-
Came roaring back online.
The world stopped. The engines faded. Your brain, which had been slowly rewiring itself from animal to human, flipped a switch.
Your pupils, which had been huge and dilated and kitty-mode, snapped into sharp, vertical slits.
"What," you said, and your voice was ice, "the fuck."
Victor kept licking.
"Are you- Victor. What the fuck are you doing."
"Cleaning you."
"I'm healed-"
"It's still open."
"It's knitting, you animal-"
"Same thing."
His tongue dragged across your neck again, slower this time, more methodical. The rough texture scraped against your healing skin, and—horrifyingly—it didn't hurt. It actually felt kind of… good. Like scratching an itch you didn't know you had.
"Victor."
"Brat."
"The fuck you doing."
"Cleaning you."
"I'm healing. I don't need-"
"Your body is rebuilding tissue. My saliva has enzymes that speed up the process. It's basic biology."
"You're licking me! Stop licking my neck."
"Stop having a wound on your neck, then."
"That's not- that's not how anything works!"
He licked again.
You growled.
Not an angry growl (he could tell the difference, because he was insufferable like that) but an embarrassed growl. Low. Throaty. The kind of sound a cat makes when you pick it up in front of its friends and it's trying to pretend it doesn't like it.
Victor recognized the frequency immediately.
"Aw," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Is the widdle kitten embarrassed?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"I'm just grooming you. Don't be weird about it."
He was licking your wounds like a feral animal, and you were the one being weird about it. The audacity. The sheer, unbelievable audacity.
You growled at him again.
Victor's ear twitched. He recognized that frequency.
"Quit complainin', brat," he said, and his massive hand came up to cover your mouth.
His palm was warm. Calloused. It smelled like metal and blood and him. It covered the entire lower half of your face, muffling your protests, and his fingers curled around your jaw to hold you still.
"Mmph-!"
"I said quit. I'm cleaning ya. Hold still."
You bit him.
Hard.
Your fangs sank into the meat of his palm, and your toxins flooded his system, paralytic and hallucinogenic and nasty, and Victor's eyes went wide for a split second before his body went sluggish.
His hand dropped from your mouth. His arm hung heavy at his side. He blinked slowly, pupils dilating, and cursed under his breath. A long, creative string of words that would have made a sailor blush.
"You little shit." he said, but his voice was slow and syrupy and his tongue wasn't working quite right.
You grinned up at him, fangs bared, eyes still slit-pupiled. "Don't. Touch. My. Mouth."
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, incredibly, he laughed.
Low and rough and sluggish, his whole body shaking with it, his head lolling slightly as the toxins worked through his system. "You're definitely my kid."
"Unfortunately."
"Best thing I ever made."
"Gross."
He laughed again, and then, because he was Victor Creed and he had the stubbornness of a particularly aggressive barnacle, he went back to grooming you.
Slower now. More methodical. His tongue dragged across the back of your neck in long, lazy strokes, and the wound was already closed, had been closed for seconds now, but he didn't stop.
And neither did you.
Because your pupils were dilating again. Growing. Spreading. The vertical slits softening into wide, dark circles as your hindbrain took over and your human brain went offline.
Safe. Warm. Father. Grooming. Good.
You stopped squirming. Stopped growling. Stopped thinking, honestly, because your body was currently running on pure instinct and your instincts were telling you to curl up and sleep.
So you did.
You turned in his arms. Slowly, clumsily, like a cat resettling on a favorite blanket, and curled into his chest.
Your chin propped up on his shoulder. Your nose nuzzling at his neck. Your breath warm against his scent gland, and you were trying to get him to scent you, trying to get his pheromones all over your skin so everyone would know.
Victor went very still.
His heart, sluggish from your toxins but still pounding, thudded against your cheek. His hands hovered over your back, uncertain for once, because this was new. You'd never done this before. You'd let him groom you, let him herd you, let him bite you and tease you and call you names. But you'd never let him scent you.
"…Brat?" His voice was rough.
You nuzzled deeper into his neck.
Mreow.
And Victor, Victor Creed, the Inverted Sabretooth, the man who had killed more people than most plagues, started purring.
Loud. Low. A motor engine of a sound, vibrating through his chest and into yours, so intense you could feel it in your teeth. He was purring like a lion, like a house cat, like a fucking freight train, and he couldn't seem to stop.
"Well, well, well," he said, his voice a lazy drawl. "What's this, runt? You want your old man to cover you in his scent?"
You didn't answer. You just nuzzled harder.
"Want 'em to smell me on you? Know you're mine?"
Mreow, you definitely didn't say.
"You want everyone to know whose cub you are, huh?"
Nuzzle, nuzzle.
"You want Logan to smell me on you and get all jealous?"
Nuzzle, nuzzle, nuzzle.
He laughed a low, rumbling sound that was half-purr, half-amusement, and released a flood of pheromones. His scent washed over you like a wave: smoke and musk and alpha and home. It coated your skin, your hair, your uniform. It was everywhere.
"There," he said, his hand coming up to rest on the back of your head. "Now everyone knows. You're my cub."
You were already asleep.
Your breathing evened out. Your body went limp against his chest. Your claws still extended always extended curled against his shoulders, not breaking skin, just holding on.
Victor kept purring.
He didn't stop. Couldn't stop. His body was running on instinct now too, and his instinct was telling him cub is sleeping, cub is safe, keep her warm, keep her close, don't let go.
So he didn't.
The Blackbird landed twenty minutes later.
Old Man Logan powered down the engines, stretched his back. It popped in three places, which was fine, he was fine, and stood up. Warpath was already heading for the ramp, his bandaged arm held stiffly at his side. Domino and Deathstrike were gathering their weapons.
"Where's the kid?" Logan asked.
Domino shrugged. "Cargo bay. She always hides after missions."
"Creed?"
"With her, probably. He's been weird since we pulled her out of that facility."
Logan sighed the long, weary sigh of a man who had been dealing with Creed's bullshit for multiple lifetimes and headed for the cargo bay.
The ramp lowered. The night air rushed in, cold and clean.
And Logan stopped.
Because there, in the middle of the cargo bay floor, surrounded by crates of ammunition and the faint smell of jet fuel, was Victor Creed.
He was sitting against a crate. His back was straight. His eyes were closed. His massive hands were wrapped around a sleeping teenager who was curled against his chest like a cat in a sunbeam.
And he was purring.
Not quietly. Not subtly. Loudly. The kind of purr that vibrated through the floor and made the crates rattle.
Logan stared.
Victor opened one eye.
He looked at Logan. Looked at the sleeping girl in his arms. Looked back at Logan.
And grinned.
It was the smuggest, most insufferable, most I-have-something-you-don't grin Logan had ever seen. And Logan had seen a lot of insufferable grins from Victor Creed.
"Hey, old man," Victor said, his voice a low rumble that didn't quite wake you. "Look what I've got."
Logan's eye twitched.
"I can see what you've got, Victor."
"I know." Victor's grin widened. His hand stroked your hair gently, almost reverently. "Just wanted to remind you. She's my daughter. Not yours. Mine."
"You're insufferable."
"I'm a father."
"You're a fucking idiot, that's what you are, Creed."
"As if we don't share blood."
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him, he could hear Domino snickering. Deathstrike was watching with an expression of mild curiosity. Warpath looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.
"We need to debrief," Logan said.
"She's sleeping."
"We can wait until she wakes—"
"No." Victor's arms tightened around you. "She's sleeping. She died today. She gets to sleep the whole day."
Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"…Fine."
Victor's grin became triumphant.
"One hour," Logan said, pointing a finger at him. "Then I'm waking her up."
"We'll see."
"Victor."
"Logan."
They stared at each other for a long moment. The purring continued. Youdidn't stir.
Finally, Logan sighed and turned away.
"One hour." he repeated over his shoulder.
"Sure thing, old man."
Logan walked back up the ramp. Behind him, he heard Victor's purring intensify. He heard the soft sound of claws carding through ash-blond hair. He heard a sleepy, grumbling mreow that was definitely not English and definitely not something he was going to think about ever again.
Domino fell into step beside him.
"So," she said, "are we just not going to talk about how Sabretooth is basically a giant feral cat with a baby?"
"No."
"Because I have so many questions-"
"No."
"And the purring-"
"Domino."
She held up her hands, grinning. "Fine, fine. But you have to admit it's kind of cute."
Logan stopped walking.
He turned. Looked back at the cargo bay. Listened to the purring. Thought about the girl who had blown herself up to save Warpath. Thought about the monster who was holding her like she was made of glass.
"…Don't tell anyone I said this." he said finally.
synopsis 𖥧 logan has always been fiercely protective of you, now that you went down hard and are hurt he's downright and animalistically feral. and how does Scott fit into any of this?
content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, reader got a concussion, jean and scott are not married in this au, scogan implied (brewing, not really full on yet).
The teacher's common room had never been particularly warm.
It was functional at best—a relic from when Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters had first expanded beyond the mansion's original walls. The couch was old but comfortable, worn leather that had molded itself to countless bodies over countless years. The armchair across from it was Professor Xavier's preferred spot when he wanted to escape the study, and the bookshelves lining the far wall held everything from dog-eared paperbacks to Jean's medical journals to a collection of ancient National Geographics that no one had touched since the nineties.
But today, the room felt different.
Warmer.
Softer, somehow.
And Scott Summers knew exactly why.
He paused in the doorway, his hand still resting on the frame, his ruby quartz visor catching the late afternoon light filtering through the drawn curtains. The room was dim, Logan's doing, probably, because the man had about as much appreciation for natural light as a vampire bat, but Scott's vision adjusted easily thanks to his ruby quartz sunglasses, picking out every detail with crystalline clarity.
Logan was on the couch.
Fully stretched out, which was unusual enough given that the man typically slept like a coiled spring, ready to snap awake at the slightest disturbance. But no, here he was, boots kicked off on the floor (and wasn't that a testament to how far gone he was, the Wolverine voluntarily removing his footwear in a space that wasn't his own), his body relaxed in a way Scott had only seen maybe twice in the nearly two years he'd known him.
And on top of Logan, curled into his chest like a small animal seeking shelter from a storm, was you.
Scott's breath caught.
It wasn't that he hadn't seen you in the past two days. He had. He'd come by the medical bay multiple times, standing in the doorway while Jean and Hank worked, feeling utterly useless because there was nothing his optic blasts could do against a traumatic brain injury. He'd brought you ice chips when you were finally awake enough to swallow, had sat with you for an hour while you drifted in and out of consciousness, had held your hand when you'd woken up disoriented and frightened and reached out for the first familiar face you saw.
But he hadn't seen you like this.
Like you were safe.
Like you were home.
You were wearing one of Logan's flannel shirts over your pajamas—the red and black one, the one he'd been wearing the first time you'd ever seen him, back when you'd both been new and lost and trying to figure out where you belonged. It swallowed you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips, the hem pooling around your thighs. Your bandages were fresh, stark white against your hairline, and there was still a faint bruising around your temple that made Scott's chest ache with a familiar, protective fury.
But you were alive.
You were breathing, slow and even, your cheek pressed against the hollow of Logan's throat, your small fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his undershirt. Your eyes were open, half-lidded, glassy, that foggy quality that Jean had warned them about still lingering in your gaze- but you were awake. Aware, even if the awareness came slower than usual, filtered through the haze of a healing brain.
Logan's hand was splayed across your back, spanning almost the entire width of your small frame, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles between your shoulder blades. His chest rumbled with every exhale, not quite a growl, not quite a purr, something in between that Scott had learned to recognize as contentment. Or as close to contentment as the Wolverine ever got.
The sound changed when Logan noticed him.
Not hostile. Scott had learned to distinguish between Logan's warning growls and his… other sounds. This one was curious, maybe, or questioning. A low vibration that seemed to ask what do you want without any of the usual sharp edges.
Scott held up his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Just checking in," he said quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle you. "Jean said she'd cleared you to be out of the med-bay, but-"
"She did."
Logan's voice was rougher than usual. Not from disuse, as he'd been talking, apparently, just not in the way Scott was used to. There was a gravelly softness to it now, a protective rumble that seemed to wrap around you like a second blanket.
"She wanted the kid to rest somewhere comfortable. Med-bay's too cold. Too bright. Smells wrong."
Scott's lips twitched. Of course Logan had opinions about the med-bay's smell.
"You could have used your room," Scott said, taking a few careful steps into the room. He didn't head for the armchair, that felt too far away, too formal. Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, settling against the front of the couch near where Logan's head rested on the armrest. Close enough to talk quietly, close enough to see you properly, but not so close that he'd invade whatever invisible territory Logan had marked around you.
Logan's eyes tracked his movements with that unsettling intensity he had, the one that made Scott feel like prey even when they were on the same side. But after a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, and he let out a huff that might have been approval.
"Room's not big enough," Logan said. "She needs space to spread out if she wants. Couch is better."
Scott glanced at the way Logan was sprawled across the entire length of the couch, taking up every available inch of space with you draped on top of him like a living blanket.
"Right," Scott said dryly. "Space."
The corner of Logan's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile (Logan didn't do smiles, not really, not the easy kind that other people wore) but it was close. A softening around his eyes that Scott had only started noticing in the past few months. The kind of softness that appeared when he thought no one was looking at you.
"She ate?"
Logan's hand continued its slow, soothing path across your back. "Half a bowl of soup. Jean said that was good. Said not to push it." His jaw tightened briefly. "She kept most of it down."
Scott nodded, absorbing the information the way he always did when Jean gave him medical updates, with careful attention, filing away every detail in case it became important later. "And the bandages? Any bleeding?"
"Changed 'em this morning. Clean." Logan's free hand came up to hover near your head, not quite touching, as if he was afraid of jostling you. "Hank said the wound's closing up good. No infection."
"But?"
Logan's eyes flicked to Scott, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Underneath the gruff exterior, underneath the animalistic protection and the territorial growls, was something raw. Something scared.
Scott had seen that look before. He'd worn it himself, more times than he could count, every time someone he loved ended up in the med-bay with blood on their face and confusion in their eyes.
"But she's still-" Logan's voice caught. He swallowed, his throat working visibly, and when he spoke again, his voice was even rougher. "She's still slow. The eyes. Jean said it'll pass, but-"
"She's healing," Scott said firmly. "She's young, she's strong, and she's got the best medical team in the world taking care of her. Not to mention…" He gestured vaguely at Logan, at the way you were curled into him like he was the only safe place in the universe. "Whatever this is. Pretty sure Wolverine-grade body heat counts as advanced therapeutic treatment."
Logan stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, his chest rumbled again with a sound that might have been amusement, if amusement could growl.
"You're an idiot, Summers."
"You've mentioned that. Once or twice." Scott leaned his head back against the couch cushion, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from Logan's body, from yours. "How much did she eat, exactly?"
Logan's hand stilled on your back for just a second, as if he was mentally calculating. "Four, five spoonfuls of soup. A few sips of water. Jean said that's fine, said she doesn't need to eat much while she's resting, just needs to stay hydrated-"
"But you want her to eat more."
"She's too small, Scott."
The use of his first name made something shift in Scott's chest. Logan almost never called him by his first name. It was always Summers, or Cyclops, or Boy Scout, or you arrogant son of a bitch when they were really going at it. But Scott was different. Scott was private. Scott was the name Logan used when they were alone, when the walls came down, when the snarling and snapping gave way to something softer.
Something.
Scott didn't have a word for it. He wasn't sure he wanted one.
"She's young," Scott said, keeping his voice gentle. "She's supposed to be small. And she's eating, Logan. She's resting. She's here. That's what matters."
Logan's jaw worked. His hand resumed its circling motion on your back, and after a moment, his eyes drifted down to your face. You were watching them both now, your glassy gaze moving slowly between the two men, processing the world at half-speed.
"There you are," Logan murmured, and the change in his voice was almost startling. The roughness smoothed out into something low and warm, a rumble that seemed to vibrate through the couch and into Scott's bones. "You with us, kit?"
You blinked slowly, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks. Your lips parted, and for a moment, Scott thought you were going to speak. But instead, you just let out a soft, contented sigh and pressed your face back into Logan's throat.
Logan made a sound—a coo, Scott realized with a jolt of something that felt suspiciously like endearment. A soft, clicking noise that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, the kind of sound a mother animal might make to her young.
"Good girl," Logan rumbled, his lips brushing against your hair. "Just rest. I've got you."
Scott watched, transfixed, as Logan's entire demeanor shifted. The wary tension that always lived in his shoulders relaxed. The sharpness in his eyes softened into something almost sleepy. He looked—and Scott knew this was a dangerous thought, a thought he should probably examine more closely later, preferably with Jean's help—he looked content.
Happy, even.
As happy as a man like Logan Howlett could ever be.
"She's been like this all day," Logan said, and his voice had dropped even lower, as if he was sharing a secret. "Just wants to be held. Doesn't talk much, but she listens. Looks at me when I talk to her." His thumb traced the curve of your spine. "Knows who I am. That's what matters."
Scott nodded slowly. "Jean said the memory issues were temporary. Just the concussion messing with her neural pathways."
"Yeah." Logan's voice was rough again, but this time it was something else underneath. Something vulnerable. "Didn't know that. When I got to her. Didn't know anything except-" He broke off, his jaw tightening.
Scott waited.
"Her eyes," Logan said finally, barely above a whisper. "When I got to her, her eyes- they weren't right, Scott. One pupil was huge, the other was pinprick, and she was looking at me but she wasn't seeing me, and I-"
His hand tightened on your back, just for a second, before he consciously relaxed his grip.
"I've been in a lot of fights," Logan continued, his voice hollow. "Seen a lot of people die. Killed a lot of people myself. But I have never, never, been that scared in my whole goddamn life."
Scott's throat tightened. He thought about the moment he'd heard you'd been hurt: the crackle of the comms, Storm's voice tight with urgency, the word down echoing through the Blackbird like a gunshot. He thought about the way his heart had seized in his chest, the way he'd nearly blown straight through a wall with his eyebeam to get to you.
He thought about Logan, already at your side by the time Scott had made it there, cradling your head in his hands, his face a mask of pure, unfiltered terror.
"I know," Scott said quietly. "I was there."
Logan's eyes met his, and for a long moment, neither of them looked away.
There was something between them. There had been for months now—maybe longer, maybe since that first day in the mansion, when they'd stood face to face and snarled at each other like animals circling the same territory. It had been anger, at first. Hostility. The kind of instant, visceral dislike that came from two predators recognizing each other and refusing to back down.
But somewhere along the way, something had shifted.
It wasn't friendship. Scott wasn't sure they were capable of that, not with each other, not with the way they seemed to bring out the worst in each other half the time. But it wasn't nothing, either.
It was the way Logan's eyes lingered on him a little too long sometimes, when he thought Scott wasn't looking. It was the way Scott's pulse quickened whenever Logan got in his face, their chests almost touching, breath mingling, every word a challenge and a promise all at once. It was the way they circled each other, circled around each other, never quite closing the distance but never quite walking away.
It was the way Logan had said his name. Scott. Like it meant something.
And it was the way Scott was sitting on the floor of the teacher's common room right now, close enough to touch, close enough to smell—the leather and cigar smoke and something underneath, something wild and warm—and neither of them was running away.
"You gonna sit on the floor all day?" Logan asked, and his voice had gone gruff again, but there was no heat in it. "Or are you gonna come up here where I can see you?"
Scott's eyebrows rose. "You want me on the couch?"
"I want you where I can keep an eye on you, Summers." Logan's lips curved into something that was almost a smirk. "Can't protect you from yourself if you're all the way down there."
"I don't need you to protect me."
"Never said you did." Logan's eyes glinted. "Said I wanted to."
Scott's heart did something complicated in his chest. He told himself it was annoyance. He told himself it was the lingering adrenaline from the mission, the residual fear from nearly losing you, the exhaustion of two days of minimal sleep.
He didn't believe himself.
"Fine," he said, pushing himself up from the floor. "But if you growl at me, I'm leaving."
"No, you won't."
Logan was right. Scott wouldn't.
He settled onto the arm of the couch near Logan's head, close enough that his thighs and his hair was almost touching, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off Logan's body. You were still curled on Logan's chest, your breathing slow and even, your eyes tracking Scott's movements with that foggy, half-lidded attention.
"Hi there, honey," Scott said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your bandages. Your eyes followed his hand, your brow furrowing slightly as if you were trying to process his words. "Enjoying how warm good ol' Logan here is? Can't blame you. He's like a furnace."
You blinked at him slowly. Then, miraculously, the corner of your mouth twitched upward, not quite a smile, but close. Recognition. Comfort.
Logan made a sound. A rumble, deep and pleased, that vibrated through the couch and into Scott's side.
"She likes you," Logan said, and there was something in his voice that Scott couldn't quite identify. Something that might have been approval, or surprise, or—no. He wasn't going to go there.
"Of course she likes me," Scott said, keeping his voice light even as his heart pounded. "I'm very likable."
"You're a pain in my ass."
"And yet here you are, inviting me onto your couch."
Logan's eyes met his again, and for a moment, the air between them felt thick. Charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the sky goes green and the world holds its breath.
"Yeah," Logan said quietly. "Here I am."
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them looked away.
And then you shifted on Logan's chest, letting out a small, sleepy sound, and the spell broke. Logan's attention snapped back to you immediately, his hand resuming its soothing circles on your back, his chest rumbling with that low, contented sound.
"Shh," he murmured, his lips brushing your hair. "Go back to sleep, kit. I've got you. We've got you."
Scott watched the way you melted into Logan's touch, the way your small body seemed to relax completely, trusting absolutely. You knew, on some fundamental level, that Logan would never let anything hurt you. That he would tear apart anyone who tried. That he would burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe.
Scott understood that feeling. He'd felt it himself, the first time he'd seen Logan snarl at another student for getting too close to you, too loud, too much. He'd felt it when Logan had carried you to the Blackbird after the mission, your blood on his hands, his face a mask of controlled fury. He'd felt it when Logan had refused to leave the med-bay, even when Jean had tried to kick him out, even when Hank had threatened to sedate him.
Logan loved you. Not the way most people loved.. with words and gestures and Hallmark card sentiments. He loved you the way wolves loved their pack, the way wolverines loved their cubs. Fiercely. Absolutely. With teeth and claws and a willingness to kill.
And somewhere along the way, Scott had started to love you too.
Not the same way. He didn't have Logan's animalistic devotion, his primal need to protect. But he cared about you, cared about your soft smiles and your quiet kindness, the way you held doors open for people who never thanked you, the way you wandered off to quiet places because the world was too loud and too bright and too much.
You were a good kid. A sweet kid. The kind of kid who deserved a father who would burn the world down for her.
And apparently, she'd gotten two.
"She ate more at diner," Logan said, breaking into Scott's thoughts. "Not much. A few bites of toast. But it's more than breakfast."
Scott nodded, filing the information away. "Jean said her appetite would come back slowly. As long as she's staying hydrated-"
"She is. Been making her drink water every hour. Small sips." Logan's jaw tightened. "She threw up once yesterday. After the first time we tried to get her to eat real food. Jean said it was normal, said her stomach might be sensitive for a while, but-"
"But you hated it."
Logan's eyes flashed. "She's so young, Scott. She shouldn't have to—" He broke off, his hand curling into a fist against your back before he forced himself to relax. "She's just a kid. She shouldn't have to go through this."
"No," Scott agreed quietly. "She shouldn't. But she's a mutant. And we're at war. And sometimes-" He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Sometimes the people we love get hurt."
Logan's gaze snapped to him. Love. Scott had said love. He hadn't meant to, or maybe he had, maybe the word had been sitting on his tongue for months, waiting for the right moment to slip out.
But Logan didn't call him on it. Didn't snarl or snap or make some cutting remark about sentimentality. He just looked at Scott for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then his eyes dropped back to you.
"Yeah," he said finally, his voice rough. "Sometimes they do."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, weighted with everything they weren't saying, everything they couldn't say. But it wasn't bad. It was the kind of silence that came from two people who had spent months circling each other, testing each other's boundaries, learning each other's tells.
Scott shifted slightly on the couch, his thigh brushing against Logan's brown hair. The contact was brief, barely a second, but it sent a jolt through him anyway, a spark of something that felt dangerous and inevitable all at once.
Logan didn't move away.
"You should sleep," Logan said, and his voice had dropped even lower, almost a whisper. "You haven't slept in two days."
"Neither have you."
"I don't need as much sleep as you."
"Logan."
Something in Scott's voice must have gotten through to him, because Logan's jaw worked for a moment, and then he let out a long, slow breath.
"Fine," he said. "But not here. Not on this couch."
"Why not?"
Logan's eyes met his, and there was something in them that made Scott's breath catch. Something raw. Something wanting.
"Because if I fall asleep here," Logan said quietly, "I'm not gonna want to wake up."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Scott thought about what it would mean to fall asleep here—Logan on the couch, you on his chest, Scott right next to him. He thought about waking up tangled together, warm and soft and safe. He thought about what that would change, what it would mean, what it would cost.
He thought about how much he wanted it anyway.
"Then don't wake up," Scott said, and he heard his own voice as if from a distance, steady and sure. "We'll stay here. All three of us. And we'll figure out the rest in the morning."
Logan stared at him for a long moment. His chest had stopped rumbling, his hand had stilled on your back, and he was looking at Scott like he'd never seen him before. Like he was seeing something new, something unexpected, something that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.
"You mean that," Logan said. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Scott said. "I mean it."
Another long moment passed. Then, slowly, carefully, Logan shifted on the couch. He didn't move you—just adjusted his position, making room, making space. His arm came up, an invitation, an opening.
Scott's heart pounded in his chest as he moved closer. He could feel the heat radiating off Logan's body, could smell the leather and smoke and something underneath, something wild and warm and Logan. He could see the way your eyes tracked his movements, glassy and slow but aware, watching as your two favorite people finally, finally closed the distance between them.
Scott settled against Logan's side, his head coming to rest on Logan's shoulder, his body curving to fit against the hard planes of Logan's chest. It wasn't comfortable, not exactly—Logan was all muscle and adamantium and sharp angles—but it was right. It felt like coming home after a long time away, like finding a place you didn't know you'd been looking for.
Logan's arm came around him, heavy and warm, and his hand found Scott's hip, pulling him closer.
"This doesn't mean nothin'," Logan muttered, but his voice was soft, almost affectionate. "You're still a pain in my ass."
"Sure," Scott said, and he was smiling now, he couldn't help it. "Whatever you say."
Logan made a sound, a growl, but not a warning, something closer to a huff of exasperation, and his hand tightened on Scott's hip for just a moment before relaxing again.
You shifted on Logan's chest, your small body turning slightly, and your hand found Scott's, your fingers curling around his with a sleepy, unconscious trust. Scott's heart swelled, and he squeezed your hand gently, careful not to jostle you.
"Go to sleep, kit," Logan murmured, his lips brushing your hair. "We're not going anywhere."
Scott felt the rumble of Logan's voice through his chest, felt the warmth of your small hand in his, felt the weight of the past two days finally starting to lift. The fear was still there, lurking at the edges, but it was quieter now. Muffled by the steady beat of Logan's heart beneath his ear, by the soft sound of your breathing, by the simple miracle of being alive and together and safe.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow could wait.
For now, there was only this: warmth, and safety, and the space between heartbeats where love lived without needing a name.
Three hours later, Jean would find them exactly as they were—Logan sprawled on the couch, you curled on his chest, Scott tucked against his side, all three of them tangled together in a pile of limbs and flannel and trust. She would stand in the doorway for a long moment, her heart aching with something that felt like hope, and then she would quietly close the door and tell everyone else that the teacher's common room was off-limits for the rest of the night.
❝ 𝐫𝐚𝐰 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐭 ❞ W.W & L.H ( 'The good, the bad, and the ugly" comics )
pairing wade wilson & logan howlett x fem! child! reader 🪽.
synopsis 𖥧 after him, Logan and Cap escaped from the North Korean facility that had kept them prisioners to steal their DNA and create mutant soldiers, Wade ended up taking a souvenir back home. and that's you. you are that souvenir. a traumatized love child of his and Wolvie's DNA that communicates only in grunts and is far too feral for her own good.
content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, reader is a child (7-14), reader is laura-esque.
💬 : alright lemme cook *wink (you'll understand it later).
The apartment smells like burnt coffee, old socks, and the specific kind of despair that only comes from a man who has never once deep-cleaned his refrigerator. It's not much. It's barely anything. But it has walls, a door that locks, and a window that opens to a fire escape that you've already eyed three times as a potential exit route.
Logan sits on the couch, or rather, Logan lounges on the couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, arms crossed, watching everything with the patience of a man who has seen centuries of chaos and is no longer surprised by any of it. His eyes track you the way a wolf tracks a pup: assessing, measuring, recognizing.
You are currently pacing the perimeter of the kitchen.
Not walking. Pacing. Slow, deliberate, predatory. Your bare feet make almost no sound on the linoleum. Your head turns slightly with each pass, cataloging every object: the knives in the block, the fire extinguisher by the door, the window above the sink. You're not looking for threats. You're looking for weapons. Because in the lab, everything was a weapon. The tray. The needle. The clipboard. The hand that reached for you.
Old habits die hard.
Wade is at the stove, wearing an apron that says "Kiss the Cook" in glittery letters (a gift from Weasel, definitely a joke from back when he was handsome, definitely not funny anymore that he's uglier than a testicle with teeth). He's frying eggs in a pan that's seen better days. The eggs are burning. He's humming something off-key. He is, for the first time in weeks, trying very hard to be normal.
It's not working.
"Okay," Wade says, flipping an egg so aggressively that it lands on the burner. "Okay, that's fine. That's fine. We'll just… scrape that off. Later. With a chisel."
Logan grunts. He's not watching Wade. He's watching you.
You've stopped pacing. You're standing at the counter now, perfectly still, your head tilted. On the counter are two things: a raw steak, still in its bloody packaging, and a raw whole chicken, pale and glistening under the fluorescent light.
You are staring at the chicken.
Not looking. Staring. Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing has changed, now it's shallower, faster. Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your claws want to come out. You're holding them back, barely, because Wade told you this morning that "we don't claw things in the apartment unless it's an emergency, and 'I wanted to' is not an emergency."
But the chicken... The raw, bloody, edible chicken.
Logan sees the shift in your posture. He knows that look. He's worn that look. That's the look of a weapon deciding whether or not to engage. That's the look of a feral thing calculating risk and reward.
He should say something. He should warn Wade. He should stop you before you do what he knows, just knows, you're about to do.
He doesn't.
Because he needs to see how Wade handles this. The Cap said Wade was going to "help you get used to life outside the lab" but Logan knows what that means. It means raising. It means late nights and patience and teaching a traumatized child how to be a person instead of a product. Logan can't stay. He has X-Men things. Apocalypse things. End-of-the-world things. He'll be gone back to the Mansion in three days, maybe four.
Wade will be here.
So Logan watches. He leans back on the couch. He waits.
You move like water.
One second you're standing at the counter, still as a statue. The next, you're drifting toward Wade. Slow, silent, your body low to the ground. You stop when you're slightly behind him, slightly beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off the stove but not close enough to touch.
You tilt your head. The way a bird does. The way a predator does when it's trying to understand something new.
You've never seen anyone cook before.
In the lab, food came in syringes. Nutrients pumped directly into your veins. Sometimes, if you were "good," they gave you the slop: gray and brown and utterly flavorless, served in a metal bowl like they were feeding a dog. You ate it because you were hungry. You never tasted it because there was nothing to taste.
But this? The sizzle of the pan. The smell of butter burning. The way Wade moves—clumsy, distracted, cursing under his breath—but making something. Transforming things. The eggs were liquid. Now they're solid. The chicken is raw. Soon it will be cooked.
Your eyes drift from the pan to the counter.
The raw chicken sits there, pale and plump. The leg is slightly separated from the body, held on by a thin strip of skin and a fragile joint. It would take almost no effort to pull it off. A tug. A twist. That's all.
Your mouth waters.
You don't know what hunger is, not really. You've never been hungry in the way Wade means when he says "I'm starving, let's order pizza." Your body has been maintained artificially, clinically, efficiently. But this is different. This isn't maintenance. This is want. You want to bite into that chicken. You want to feel the flesh tear between your teeth. You want to taste the blood.
Your claws slide out. Just a little. Just the tips.
Logan notes that.
You look at Wade. He's focused on the eggs, scraping the burnt one off the burner with a spatula, muttering about "non-stick my ass, this is a lie, this is a conspiracy."
He's not looking at you.
You look at the chicken.
You look at Wade.
You look at the chicken.
Now.
You move. Fast. Not fast enough to make a sound. You've learned to move silently, because noise in the lab meant attention, and attention meant pain. Your hand closes around the chicken leg. You pull. The joint gives way with a wet pop. The leg comes off in your hand, dripping blood onto the counter.
You bring the leg to your mouth. You bite. Your teeth sink through the raw skin, through the soft muscle beneath. The blood coats your lips, warm, metallic, alive. You chew once. Twice. Your face doesn't change expression. This is just food. This is just fuel.
Wade turns around.
He has a spatula in one hand and a look of mild concern on his face, the kind of look he gets when he's forgotten something important, like where he put his keys or whether he turned off the stove.
He sees you.
He sees you. Standing there. Chewing. Blood on your mouth. A raw chicken leg in your hand. Your face blank. Your eyes wide.
He freezes.
"…Kid."
You keep chewing.
"What do you have in your mouth."
You chew faster.
"Kid. What is in your mouth."
You hold up the chicken leg. A piece of raw meat is still visible between your teeth. You tilt your head, confused. You don't understand the problem. It's food. You were hungry. You solved the problem.
Wade stares at the chicken leg. He stares at the chicken carcass on the counter, now missing a leg. He stares at the blood on your lips, which really does look like lipstick, a messy, uneven stain of red.
His eye twitches.
"Yeeaaah.." he trails off, slowly. "No. We're going to have to work on that."
Wade sets down the spatula. He wipes his hands on his apron. He takes a breath, the kind of breath a man takes before explaining something very simple to someone who is going to make it very complicated.
"Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Kid. Look at me. Look at my face. This is my 'I'm being serious' face. You can tell because I'm not smiling. I'm never not smiling. This is very serious."
You stare at him. You're still holding the chicken leg. You're not giving it up yet. Your grip has tightened, you've stopped chewing but he hasn't seen you swallow. Your claws have extended further, just in case.
"That," Wade says, pointing at the chicken leg, "is raw meat. Raw meat is not edible. Raw meat is dangerous. It has bacteria. Little tiny monsters called salmonella. They get in your tummy and they make you sick. Very sick. Puking sick. 'I regret all my life choices' sick."
You blink. You don't know what salmonella is. You don't know what puking is. You've never been sick. Your healing factor burns through everything.
Wade sees the blank look on your face and tries again.
"Raw meat equals bad. Harmful. Owie. B-A-D. Bad. Like… like touching a hot stove. Like drinking bleach. Like listening to Nickelback. You don't do it. It's a rule. A very important rule."
You look down at the chicken leg. You look back at Wade. You growl, short, questioning.
Wade doesn't understand the growl, but he understands the look. He sighs.
"I know you're hungry. I know. And I'm going to cook this. See? The stove? The heat? Cooking makes the meat safe. It kills the little monsters. And then you can eat it. And it will taste better. I promise. It will taste soooooo much better."
He reaches out. Slowly. Gently. His hand closes around the chicken leg—not snatching, not pulling, just holding. He gives a small tug. You don't let go. He tugs again, a little firmer. Your grip tightens as your frown deepens. He tugs a third time, insistent but not forceful, like he's asking permission instead of demanding compliance.
Your eyes flick from his face to his hand to the chicken leg to his face again.
You finally let go.
Wade exhales. He takes the chicken leg and holds it at arm's length, like it might bite him. "Thank you. Thank you for not making this a fight. I appreciate it. I do."
He looks at the chicken leg. He looks at your mouth. He cups his free hand and holds it in front of your face, palm up, level with your lips.
"Okay. Now. Spit it out."
You stare at his hand.
"Spit. It. Out. The piece you're still chewing. The one you didn't swallow. Spit it out. Come on. I know you have it. You didn't swallow."
You chew. Defiant.
"Kid."
You chew slower.
"Kiddo."
You stop chewing. You look at his hand. You look at his face. You make a sound through your nose (a huff, almost a sigh) and then you lean forward and spit the chewed-up piece of raw chicken into his palm.
It's wet with saliva. It's bloody. It's half-masticated.
Wade looks at it. His face does something complicated. He walks to the trash can, drops it in, and wipes his hand on his apron. Then he wipes it again. Then he wipes it on a dish towel. Then he washes his hands in the sink for thirty seconds.
"Okay," he says, his voice slightly higher than usual. "Okay. That was disgusting. But we did it. We did it together. Teamwork."
He turns back to the stove. He picks up the raw chicken carcass and places it on a cutting board. He picks up a knife, a big one, the kind you'd use to chop through bone. You watch him with intense focus, your head tilted, your eyes tracking every movement.
"Okay. So. Watch. Watch what I'm doing."
He cuts into the chicken. The knife slides through the skin, through the meat, through the joint. He's not good at it, he's clumsy, his technique is terrible, he cuts himself twice and hisses in pain, but he's trying. He's explaining as he goes.
"This is cooking. You take the raw meat, and you put it on the heat, and you wait, and then it becomes cooked meat. And cooked meat is delicious. Cooked meat is safe. Cooked meat is what people eat. Not raw meat. Never raw meat. Unless it's sushi, but that's different, and we'll talk about that later."
He drops the chicken pieces into a hot pan. They sizzle. The smell changes from raw and metallic to something richer, deeper, good. Your nose twitches. You lean closer.
"Do you smell that? That's the smell of 'not dying of salmonella.' That's the smell of 'Wade Wilson is a responsible adult.' Breathe it in, girl. Memorize it."
He glances over his shoulder at Logan, who hasn't moved from the couch. Who has been watching the entire time with an expression that Wade can't quite read.
"And you," Wade says, pointing the knife at Logan. "You. You saw her. You saw her eyeing the chicken. You knew what she was going to do. You've been sitting there like a furry statue the whole time, watching, and you didn't say anything. Not a growl. Not a grunt. Not a 'hey Wade, your feral child is about to eat raw poultry.' Nothing."
Logan doesn't flinch. He doesn't apologize. He just looks at Wade with something soft in his eyes.. something almost tender, something that doesn't belong on Logan's face, something that makes Wade stop talking.
"You did well, bub."
Wade blinks.
The knife lowers onto the counter.
"…What?"
"You did well," Logan says again. His voice is quiet. Rough. Sincere in a way that Wade has never heard from him before. "You didn't yell. You didn't grab her. You didn't scare her. You explained it. You took the food gently. You gave her a chance to let go on her own. That's good. That's how you do it with kids like her."
Wade stares at him. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
No joke comes out.
For once in his life, Wade Wilson has nothing to say.
"Oh," he says finally. His voice is small. Real. Vulnerable in a way he usually hides behind ten layers of irony and pop culture references. "Thank you... I guess. I'm really- I'm really tryin' my best here."
Logan nods. Just once. But it's enough.
Wade turns back to the stove once again. He's quiet now, thoughtful, almost shy. He picks up the knife again to slice something and that's when he notices that you've taken the knife.
Not aggressively. Not threateningly. You're just… holding it. Turning it over in your hands. Your tongue darts out, and you're about to lick the blade—because it has blood on it, and you want to taste it, because you're still hungry, because old habits die hard.
"Nope. No. We're not doing that."
He reaches over. Gently. Firmly. He puts his hand over yours on the handle of the knife. He doesn't pull. He just waits. You look at his hand. You look at his face. Your grip loosens. He takes the knife from your fingers and sets it on the counter, far away from you.
"Knives are sharp. They cut. They cut you. And you heal, yeah, but it still hurts. And I don't want you to hurt. So. No licking the knives. Okay?"
You stare at him. You don't growl. You don't nod. You just… wait.
Wade looks around the kitchen. His eyes land on a spoon, the one he used to stir the sauce earlier, still coated in a thin layer of tomatoey, garlicky goodness. He picks it up. He holds it out to you.
"Here. This is better. This is a spoon. You can lick the spoon. It won't cut you. It's just… spoon-shaped. Full of flavor. Go nuts."
You take the spoon.
Slowly. Carefully. Your fingers brush against his. You bring the spoon to your mouth. Your tongue darts out. You lap at the sauce, tentative at first, then more eagerly. Your eyes widen. Your face, usually so blank, does something new. Something soft.
You make a sound.
It's not a growl. It's not a bark. It's a rumble, low and steady, vibrating up from your chest. It sounds like an engine. It sounds like a cat. It sounds like contentment.
Logan, from the couch: "She likes the food."
Wade is staring at you. You're still pressed against his side- when did that happen? You're tucked under his arm, your shoulder nudging his ribs, your body warm against his. You're licking the spoon like it's the best thing you've ever tasted, and you're purring.
Actually purring.
Logan's voice is soft. "And you. She likes you too."
Wade's heart does something stupid. It clenches. It aches. It fills with something warm and terrifying and wonderful.
He lifts the arm you've been nudging and carefully wraps it around your shoulders. You lean into him. You don't flinch. You don't pull away. You just keep licking the spoon and making that rumbling sound, and Wade realizes that this is the first time in years that someone has wanted to be close to him without wanting something else.
Not a job. Not a favor. Not a transaction.
Just… you. A kid. A broken, feral, beautiful kid who ate raw chicken and spat it into his hand and is now purring against his side like a stray cat that finally found a warm place to sleep.
"Yeah," Wade says quietly. His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Yeah, okay. This is… this is nice. This is really nice."
Logan smiles. It's small. Barely there. Just a curve upwards of his lips. But it's real.
"You're doing good, Wade."
Wade looks down at you. You're still licking the spoon. Your eyes are half-closed. The rumbling hasn't stopped.
"I'm trying," he says. "I'm really trying."
The chicken cooks. The eggs are burned beyond recognition, so Wade throws them out and starts over. This time, you watch from beside him, still tucked under his arm, still holding the spoon (which is now completely clean, licked to a shine).
You don't try to eat anything raw again.
You don't take the knife.
You just watch, and you wait, and you rumble softly every time Wade looks down at you.
Logan gets up from the couch. He walks to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, pulls out a beer, and leans against the counter.
"She's gonna need boundaries," he says. "Clear ones. Consistent ones. You can't let her eat raw meat just because she gives you the big eyes."
Wade snorts. "She doesn't have big eyes. She has feral eyes. There's a difference."
"She's got your eyes."
Wade goes quiet.
"And she's got my healing," Logan continues. "My temper. My instincts. She's gonna want to fight. She's gonna need to fight. You gotta give her a safe way to do that, or she's gonna find an unsafe way. Just like I did with all the cage fighting."
Wade nods. He looks down at you. You're not looking at him, you're watching the chicken cook, your nose twitching, your mouth slightly open.
"I know," he says. "I've been thinking about that. Controlled brawls. Me and her. Nothing lethal, not that anything could be lethal with me. Just… burning off the energy."
Logan takes a long sip of his beer. "That could work."
"It's gonna have to work. I'm all she's got."
Logan sets down his beer. He looks at Wade. Really looks at him, the way he looks at an opponent before a fight, assessing, measuring. But there's no hostility in his eyes. Just… acknowledgment.
"You're not all she's got," Logan says. "You've got me. You've got Cap. You've got Preston, for what that's worth, even if he's just an annoying voice in your head. You're not alone in this, Wade."
Wade's throat tightens. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He just nods.
The chicken finishes cooking. Wade plates it badly, messily, but with care, and sets a piece in front of you. Cooked. Safe. Edible.
You look at it. You look at him. You pick it up with your hands (because forks are still a work in progress) and take a bite.
Your eyes widen.
You make the rumbling sound again. Louder this time.
"That's a good sound, right?" Wade asks Logan, almost desperately. "That's a 'I like this food' sound and not a 'I'm about to murder you in your sleep' sound?"
Logan huffs, a laugh, almost. "It's a good sound."
Wade grins. It's not his usual grin, the sharp one, the performative one, the one that hides everything. It's a real grin. Soft. Hopeful.
He looks at you. You're eating the chicken with both hands, sauce on your cheeks, purring like a motorboat.
teen! reader crying and only calming down with them !!
🏷 @mavixgirl , @luna-kait
📎 men featured : logan howlett, worst wolverine, wade wilson, origins! wade wilson, remy lebeau, eddie brock (& venom!!), steve rogers, tony stark, peter parker, thor odinson, peter quill, rocket raccoon.
LOGAN HOWLETT !!
The finder is Scott Summers. He has a look of profound, almost smug, satisfaction on his face. He finds Logan in the garage, shirtless, welding something that is definitely not the motorcycle he’s supposed to be fixing.
“Logan. It’s your… kid.”
The welding torch cuts off with a hiss. Logan doesn’t turn around. “She’s not my kid, Summers.”
“Well, your ‘not-kid’ is in her room, crying her eyes out. Jean’s been in there for twenty minutes. Rogue tried. Even Charles took a crack at it. Nothing’s working. Storm said she keeps asking for… well, the ‘guy who smells like beer and anger.’”
Logan finally turns, his expression a thundercloud that could rival Thor. He snatches a flannel shirt from a hook, pulling it on over his bare chest with a growl. “You tell anyone about this, and I’ll use your visor as a hockey puck.”
He storms through the mansion, Scott having to jog to keep up. The sound of muffled, hiccupping sobs hits him before he even reaches the door. He throws it open without knocking. Jean is on the bed, looking exhausted. You’re curled in a ball, shoulders shaking.
“Alright, out,” Logan grunts, jerking his head at Jean. She gives him a look that’s half-grateful, half-warning, and slips past him.
Logan stands there, a man who has fought unkillable mutants and adamantium-poisoning, utterly paralyzed by the sight of a crying teenager. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Hey. Kid.”
You don’t move. A fresh wave of sobs wracks your body.
He sighs, a sound that seems to come from the very marrow of his bones. He sits on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under his weight. “C’mere.”
You uncurl just enough to launch yourself at him, burying your face in the flannel. He’s stiff as a board for a solid three seconds, his arms hovering in the air like he’s forgotten what they’re for. Then, with another, deeper sigh, one arm comes around you. His big, metal-infused hand lands awkwardly on your back, patting it with the same force he’d use to knock out a Sentinel.
“There,” he mutters, the word a low rumble in his chest. “It’s fine. Whatever it is, it’s fine. I’ll go break its kneecaps later.”
Your sobs begin to quiet, your breathing syncing with the steady, adamantium-laced heartbeat under your ear.
Scott, who has been peering through the crack in the door, is immediately caught by Logan’s glare. The door slams shut on its own, ripped from its hinges by a single, extended claw. Scott barely ducks in time.
Logan looks down at you, now just sniffling. He uses his other hand to roughly—but with a terrifying gentleness—push a strand of hair from your face. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” he grumbles.
You just nod against his chest. He’s already planning the kneecap-breaking.
WORST WOLVERINE !!
The finder is, of course, Deadpool. He bursts into the shitty, cockroach-infested apartment that Logan has been crashing in, wearing his full suit but with the mask pulled up over his nose so he can eat a gas station burrito.
“Daddy! Daddy! We have a code red! Code red! The small, emotionally volatile one is leaking from the ocular cavities!”
Logan, slumped on a couch that has seen better centuries, doesn’t even look up from the bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Which one?” Because it could either be the dog, the kid, or Laura.
“The one that calls me the fun dad, which is objectively true, but apparently, when the world is ending, she requires the services of the grumpy, feral, stabby one! my words, not hers. She’s in the bathroom. It’s a whole thing. I tried singing ‘Careless Whisper’ on my kazoo. No dice. It made it worse.”
Logan grunts, sets the bottle down, and stands up. He’s wearing a stained wifebeater and jeans. He walks to the bathroom, Deadpool trailing behind him like a very annoying, red-suited duckling. The door is locked. He can hear you on the other side, your breath hitching in that awful way.
He doesn’t knock. He just raps his knuckles on the door once. “Open up.”
A strangled, watery “Go away” comes from inside.
He looks at Deadpool. Deadpool gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up and whispers, “This is your moment, Pops. I believe in you.”
Logan’s eye twitches. He takes a breath, a real one, and his voice comes out completely different. It’s not a growl. It’s… a command, but a soft one. A voice that’s used to being obeyed because it promises safety. “Kid. Open the damn door.”
There’s a click. The door cracks open. Your face is blotchy, eyes red-rimmed. Logan pushes the door open wider, fills the doorway with his broad, scarred frame. He doesn’t say anything else. He just opens his arms a little, a minimal gesture, but one that’s clear.
You stumble into him, your face pressing against his chest, soaking the wifebeater with tears. He wraps his arms around you, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head. He doesn’t pat. He just holds.
“There,” he mutters into your hair, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through your whole body. “I got ya.”
From down the hall, Deadpool’s voice echoes, muffled but clear. “And I got it on camera! This is going straight to the group chat! The one without him! Oh, wait, he’s in that one. Never mind. I’m framing it!”
Logan’s claws snikt out. He doesn’t let go of you, but one set of knuckles scrapes against the doorframe. “Wade…”
WADE WILSON !!
“Hey, Motor Mouth. Your girl is in the kitchen, crying into a box of your fancy organic mac and cheese.”
Wade pauses from painting his nails, a cotton ball between his toes, at the sound of Blind Al's voice. “Define fancy. The one with the powdered cheese from the real Dutch cows, or the one that’s shaped like superheroes?”
“It smells like the ones shaped like little Wolverines. She’s been at it for ten minutes.”
Wade is on his feet in a flash, leaving a trail of blue polish on the floor. “Okay, okay, crisis mode. Is she sad-crying or angry-crying? Or was it the ‘my God, that’s the third time this week the universe has reminded me that I have a history essay due and I haven’t started it’ cry?”
“I don’t know, I’m blind, you ass.”
He bounds into the kitchen. You’re sitting on the counter, a box of Wolverine-shaped macaroni clutched to your chest, your face a mess of tears and snot. The TV is playing a cooking show.
“Alright, alright, clear the room! Professional parent coming through!”
Wade slides to a stop in front of you, leaning his forearms on the counter on either side of you, boxing you in. “Okay, chit-chat time. What’s the damage? Did someone say your art project looked like a potato? Because potatoes are delicious and versatile and frankly, a noble artistic subject. Did the guy from the coffee shop give you the wrong milk again? Because I will go full John Wick on his lactose-intolerant ass.”
You just shake your head, a fresh sob escaping.
His mask’s eye holes go wide. “Oh, no. It’s the big one. The existential dread one. The one where you remember we’re all just meat sacks hurtling through the void.” He straightens up. “Okay, new plan. Operation: Cuddle Puddle.”
He scoops you off the counter, box of mac and cheese and all, and carries you over to the living room until he collapses into the worn armchair in the corner, pulling you onto his lap. All wiry limbs and the smell of gunpowder and cheap cologne.
“There we go. Breathe with me. In through the nose… and out through the mouth. And… do you want me to do the thing? The thing that always makes you laugh?”
You shake your head, burying your face in his neck.
“Too bad. I’m doing the thing.” He clears his throat and launches into a pitch-perfect impression of a very, very very British Logan. “I’m the best there is at what I do, bub, and what I do is… is… have you seen my reading glasses? I can’t find my reading glasses and I’m very, very upset about it.”
A wet, choked giggle escapes you, followed by another sob, and then another giggle. He starts rubbing your back in slow circles, his voice dropping to a softer, less manic register. “There she is. My little chaos gremlin. You know you’re stuck with me, right? For all the sad times and the weird times and the ‘I accidentally bought 400 bottles of lube on the dark web’ times. That’s a promise.”
Your breathing evens out, the tears finally stopping. You just hold onto him, the box of mac and cheese crushed between you. He hums a tuneless, comforting melody, his chin resting on the top of your head.
From the hallway, Blind Al calls out, “Is it over?”
“Yeah, Al,” Wade says, not looking up from you. “It’s over.”
“Good. You owe me twenty bucks. I said you’d be in there for less than four minutes.”
ORIGINS! WADE WILSON !!
The finder is Fred Dukes, aka The Blob. He finds Wade at the seedy bar next to the motel the whole team was staying at, nursing a whiskey, his handsome face lit by the neon sign for “Pabst Blue Ribbon.” He’s wearing a leather jacket and looking like he just stepped out of a low-budget, high-action music video.
“Yo, Wilson. Your kid’s at the apartment. She’s crying. Like, real crying. Not the ‘I stubbed my toe’ crying. The ‘someone broke my heart’ kind.”
Wade’s head snaps up, his easy-going, charming demeanor vanishing in an instant. His hand tightens around the glass. “Who?”
“I don’t know, man, some guy named Kyle? Or Kevin? I was busy with a sandwich.”
Wade slaps a bill on the counter, enough to cover his tab and then some. He’s already moving, his long legs eating up the distance to the door. Fred has to hustle to keep up. “You want me to come? I could eat him if it’s a Kevin problem.”
“I got it, Fred.” Wade’s voice is clipped. He’s not the unkillable, scarred man he’s destined to become in another life. He’s just a man. A very, very dangerous man with a lot of swords and a sudden, burning need to find a person named Kevin.
He makes it to the room in record time. He unlocks the door, stepping inside. You’re on the couch, curled up, a photo of you and some kid with bad hair on the floor. Your shoulders are shaking.
Wade doesn’t say a word. He just walks over, sits on the coffee table in front of you, and gently, so gently, takes your hands, pulling them away from your face.
“Hey,” he says, his voice smooth as silk, a stark contrast to the coiled tension in his jaw. “Look at me.”
You do, your eyes swimming. “He- he said I was too much. That I’m… a lot.”
Wade’s expression doesn’t change. He even smiles, a slow, devastatingly handsome smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “A lot. That’s what he said?”
You nod, a fresh tear rolling down your cheek.
He uses his thumb to wipe it away, then tilts your chin up. “Okay. Here’s the thing about that. Being a lot is a good thing. It means you’re interesting. It means you’re worth knowing. It means you’re not boring, like, say…” he glances at the photo on the floor, “this Kevin-looking-ass-motherfucker.”
A watery laugh escapes you.
“That guy?” Wade continues, nodding toward the photo. “He’s not a lot. He’s a little. A little boring, a little basic, a little bit of a coward for saying that to you. You want to know what I do to people who say things like that to the people I care about?”
“Wade…”
“I’m just asking a hypothetical. Do you want me to key his parents' car? Just a little key? Maybe a smiley face?”
“No,” you say, but you’re laughing more now.
He pulls you into a hug, holding you against his chest. He smells like whiskey, leather, and something clean. “Good, because I was going to do it anyway. But I’ll make it a small smiley face. On the passenger side. Low-impact. Now, come on. I think we have some Rocky Road in the freezer. We’re gonna eat the whole thing, then we’re gonna watch Die Hard, and then we’re gonna figure out which of Fred’s shirts has the least amount of food stains on it for you to sleep in.”
You melt into him, the last of the tension leaving your body. He holds you for a long moment, his chin resting on your head, his eyes fixed on the photo of the kid. A thoughtful, predatory look crosses his handsome features.
Tomorrow, Kevin’s parents's car is going to have a very artistic, but very permanent, smiley face keyed into the driver’s side door. Wade decided ‘passenger side’ was too generous.
REMY LEBEAU !!
The Xavier mansion was usually a place of controlled chaos. But the chaos that found Remy in the greenhouse, where he was ‘tending to his cards’ (read: shuffling them obsessively), was of a more distressing nature. Rogue, her face uncharacteristically soft, pushed through the humidity and the hanging plants.
“Sugah,” she says, her Southern drawl tinged with worry. “It’s the girl. She’s in her room. Wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong, but she’s been cryin’ for the better part of an hour. She asked for ya.”
The cards in his hand still. His easy smile, the one he wore like a second skin, flickers. “For me, cherie? Surely, she’d be better with Professor Xavier, or Jean, or…”
“She asked for ya,” Rogue repeats, cutting him off. “By name. So stop shufflin’ and get movin’.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. The cards were pocketed, the charming demeanor replaced by a focused intensity. He makes his way through the mansion, bypassing the elevators for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He wasn’t known for being serious. He was known for being the joker, the flirt, the one who never let anything get to him. But this is different.
He knocks on your door, a soft rap of knuckles on wood. “Ma petite? It’s Remy. I hear you’re having a bad day, non?”
A sniffle from inside. Then, a shaky, “Go away.”
He leans his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. “I cannot do that, cher. Rogue, she told me y'asked for Remy. So now I am here. And Remy LeBeau, he is like a bad penny. He always turns up. So you gonna let me in, or am I gonna have to pick dis lock? Because I will. And it will be very loud, and everyone will know.”
There is a long pause. Then, the sound of the door unlocking. He pushes it open slowly.
You are sitting on the floor, your back against your bed, your knees drawn up. Your face is a wreck—red, splotchy, tear-streaked. You look up at him, and your lower lip trembles violently. “I don’ wanna talk 'bout it.”
“Good,” he says, closing the door and sliding down to sit on the floor opposite you. He crosses his legs, mirroring your posture. “Because talking is overrated. Remy, he is a man of action. So. What do we do? We can sit here. We can play cards. We can plot de downfall of whoever made you cry. I’m good at dat last one. Very good.”
You let out a choked, watery laugh. “You don’t even know what happened.”
He shrugs, a graceful, Gallic movement. “Does not matter. They made my petite cry. Dat is all the information I need.” He pulls a deck of cards from his coat, his fingers moving with a practiced, hypnotic fluidity. “In the meantime, let me show you something. A trick my maman taught me.”
He begins to shuffle, but it was more than shuffling. The cards dance between his fingers, fanning out, cascading, forming a tower in his palm, then a bridge, then a perfect circle. His movements are a blur of red and black, a mesmerizing distraction.
“When I was a boy,” he says, his voice low and soothing, the Cajun accent thicker than usual, “I would get sad. Homesick. Lonely. My maman, she would sit with me and do dis. She’d make de cards dance, and she’d say, ‘Remy, look. Even the smallest thing, a simple card, can be beautiful. Can be something more. You, too, are something more.’”
The cards suddenly burst into a shower of pink kinetic energy, floating in the air between you like glowing, spinning leaves before he catches them and tucks them back into the deck. He looks at you, his dark eyes serious.
“So. You tell Remy when you are ready. Or you don’t tell him. Dat is your choice.” He holds out the deck. “But for now? We play. What is your game? Go Fish? War? Poker? Remy can teach you how to cheat. Very important life skill.”
You look at his outstretched hand, then up at his face. The playful mask is gone, replaced by a sincere, open kindness that is more disarming than any flirtatious smile.
You take the cards. And then, instead of pulling away, you lean forward and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens for a second, surprised, then his arms come around you, one hand rubbing your back in slow, soothing circles.
“Chère,” he murmurs against your hair. “It’s alright. I got you.”
You don't play cards for a long time. You just sit there, on the floor, your face buried in his shoulder, his coat smelling of old spice and cardstock and something warm. He hums a low, Cajun tune, a lullaby his mother used to sing, the words soft and unfamiliar.
When you finally pull back, your tears had stopped. You look at the deck of cards still in your hand.
“Can you really teach me to cheat at poker?” you ask, your voice a little hoarse but steady.
He grins, a flash of the old Remy returning. “Mais oui, ma petite. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“What?”
His grin softening into a real smile. “That you only use your powers for good. Or for making a profit off of Scott Summers. He has a terrible poker face. It is almost too easy.”
You laugh. A real laugh, if a bit watery. He takes the deck from you, shuffling it one-handed.
“Now,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Lesson one. De art of the distraction.”
He holds up a card, and with a flick of his wrist, it bursts into pink sparks, reforming into the Ace of Spades in his other hand. You watch, mesmerized, the last of the sadness in your chest replaced by something warm and safe. He might flirt with everyone, he might be a thief and a rogue, but right now, in this moment, he is just yours.
EDDIE BROCK ( & VENOM ) !!
Mrs. Chen calls Eddie’s cell phone. He’s in the middle of a “interview” (i.e., trying to get a good photo of a politician leaving a massage parlor) when it rings.
“Eddie! Your little one is here. She is crying. Big tears. Very loud. My customers, they are scared.”
Eddie’s head snaps up. “What do you mean she’s crying? Is she hurt?”
“No, no hurt. She just comes in, sits in the corner, and cries. She asks for you. And the other one.”
“The other one?” Eddie says, confused. Then a voice, low and guttural, echoes in his head.
"The loud one. The symbiote. She asked for us, Eddie. She is ours. Go to her."
“I’m on my way, Mrs. Chen. Don’t let anyone bother her.”
Eddie runs the six blocks to the convenience store, his heart pounding. He bursts through the door to find you sitting on the floor behind the magazine rack, your knees drawn up, sobbing into your hoodie. Mrs. Chen is standing guard with a broom.
“Hey, hey, kid,” Eddie says, dropping to his knees in front of you. “What’s going on? What happened?”
You look up, your face a mess. “I got in a fight with my friend. A big one. And I said some things I didn’t mean, and she said some things, and now she’s not talking to me, and I ruined everything.”
Eddie winces. He’s not great at this. He’s not great at most things. But before he can fumble his way through a response, he feels the familiar, cold shift in his spine.
"Let us talk to her, Eddie. You are bad at this."
"We’re not doing the head-thing in front of Mrs. Chen. She’ll freak out."
"She will not. She has seen worse. We have eaten a man in here."
A tendril of black ooze snakes out of Eddie’s shoulder, forming a small, vaguely head-shaped blob that hovers near your face. You don’t even flinch. You’ve seen this before.
“We do not like this,” Venom’s voice rumbles, not in Eddie’s head, but out loud, a low, guttural vibration. “The friend. She is bad. She made you leak. We will find her. We will eat her.”
A startled laugh escapes you, watery but genuine. “No, Venom. You can’t eat my friend.”
“We can. We are very hungry. And she is bad.”
“She’s not bad. I was bad too.”
Venom’s head-blob tilts, as if considering this. “You are not bad. You are ours. You are good. The friend is… acceptable. For now. But if she makes you leak again…” A row of very sharp, very large teeth appears in the blob.
You laugh again, a real laugh this time, and Eddie finally lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He reaches out and pulls you into a hug, and Venom recedes slightly, just enough to let him.
“Friends fight, kid,” Eddie says, his voice gruff against your hair. “It happens. It doesn’t mean it’s over. It just means you gotta go talk to her. Apologize for the things you said. See if she’ll apologize for hers.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Then she’s not a very good friend. And then maybe we let Venom have a little snack. Just a finger.”
“A pinky. The smallest one.”
You’re laughing now, the tears finally stopping. You pull back, wiping your face with your sleeve. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go talk to her.”
“Good. But first,” Eddie says, standing up and pulling you to your feet. “You need chocolate. And Mrs. Chen has the good stuff. The dark chocolate. It’s scientifically proven to make you feel better.”
“We also require chocolate. All of it.”
Mrs. Chen sighs from behind the counter, but she’s already reaching for the top shelf.
STEVE ROGERS !!
Natasha finds Steve in the gym, punching a heavy bag with a level of precision that borders on the obsessive. He’s in a grey t-shirt, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Captain. We have a situation.”
He doesn’t stop punching. “What kind?”
“The small, emotional, and entirely unresponsive to my attempts at logic kind. Your girl is in the common room, crying. I offered her a way to subtly ruin the life of whoever did this to her. She said she ‘just wants Steve.’”
The punching bag stops mid-swing. Steve turns, his face a mask of immediate, focused concern. “Who did what?”
“That’s the thing. From what I could gather, it was a group project. The rest of her team took credit for her work. She’s more hurt than angry. Hence, the crying. Hence, the need for the resident moral compass.”
Steve is already grabbing a towel, wiping his face. “Where is she now?”
“Common room. Sam’s with her. He’s trying the ‘funny uncle’ approach. It’s not going great.”
Steve walks into the common room to find Sam Wilson sitting on the coffee table, doing an elaborate hand gesture. “…and then the bird just looks at me, right, and I swear it said ‘buckets.’ I don’t know why. It was just… ‘buckets.’”
You’re curled on the couch, a blanket around your shoulders, tears still silently streaming down your face. You don’t even look at Sam. You’re just staring at the wall.
“Sam,” Steve says quietly.
Sam looks up, sees Steve’s expression, and immediately stands up. “Yeah. I’ll… go make some coffee. The non-burnt kind this time.” He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze and exits.
Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just sits down on the couch next to you, close enough that his warmth radiates over to you. He doesn’t touch you, not yet. He’s learned that sometimes that’s too much.
“I hear someone wasn’t being a good teammate,” he says, his voice low and steady. It’s the voice he uses to calm down panicking civilians, to give orders in a firefight. It’s the voice of a man who has seen the worst of humanity and still believes in the best.
You look at him, your chin wobbling. “They took my work. All of it. I did the whole project, and they just… presented it. And the teacher believed them.”
Steve’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “That’s not right.”
“I know,” you whisper, a fresh tear escaping. “But I don’t know what to do.”
He finally moves, his arm coming around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. It’s a solid, immovable presence. “Yes, you do. You tell the truth. You go to the teacher, you go to the principal, you go to the superintendent if you have to. And you don’t let anyone make you feel small for standing up for what’s right.”
“What if they don’t believe me?”
He tilts your chin up, his blue eyes unwavering. “Then I’ll go with you. And I can be very persuasive.” A tiny hint of a smile touches his lips. “I’ve had some practice.”
You lean into him, the knot in your chest finally beginning to loosen. He pulls the blanket tighter around you, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your arm.
“I’m proud of you,” he says after a long moment.
You look up, confused. “For what? I’ve just been crying.”
“For doing the work. For caring. For feeling this. That’s not weakness. That’s what makes you strong. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
You bury your face in his shoulder, letting his solid, unwavering presence wash over you. Sam appears in the doorway with two mugs of coffee, takes one look, and silently backs away, a smile on his face. He’ll bring the coffee in later.
TONY STARK !!
“Boss.”
“Not now, Happy. I’m recalibrating the repulsor efficiency curve. It’s a delicate process that requires-“
“It’s about the kid.”
The music cuts off. The holograms flicker and die. Tony spins on his stool, eyes wide. “Is she okay? Is she hurt? Did someone at that fancy school say something? I knew it. I knew I should have just bought the school. I can buy a school. I have bought schools. I bought MIT once, just for a weekend.”
“She’s fine. She’s in her room. She’s just… crying. Pepper’s with her. She’s been at it for a while. She keeps asking for you.”
Tony is already walking, leaving the lab without a backward glance. He’s stripped off his arc reactor casing and is down to a black t-shirt. “What do you mean, just crying? People don’t ‘just cry.’ There’s a reason. Did we run out of that kombucha she likes? I’ll call the CEO. I’ll buy the company.”
He reaches your door, not even bothering to knock, just walking in. Pepper is sitting on the edge of your bed, looking helpless as you sob into a pillow.
Tony takes one look and his entire demeanor shifts. The manic energy drains away, replaced by something focused and surprisingly soft. “Hey, Pep. I got this.”
Pepper gives him a look that’s pure relief and kisses your head before slipping out.
Tony doesn’t sit on the bed. He sits on the floor, leaning back against the side of it, so his head is level with yours where you’re lying. He picks up your hand, the one dangling over the edge, and starts messing with your fingers.
“Okay. So. I’m getting mixed signals here. Is it a world-ending crisis, or a ‘Becky from chem class’ crisis? Because I have solutions for both. For the first one, I have a giant suit of armor. For the second one, I have a satellite that can make sure Becky from chem class never gets a decent Wi-Fi signal again.”
You peek at him from over the pillow, your face a mess. “She said my project was derivative.”
Tony gasps, a hand flying to his chest in mock horror. “Derivative? Derivative? That’s the most serious charge one can level in a STEM field. Did she use that word? ‘Derivative’? She sounds like a pretentious little goblin who peaked in seventh-grade science fair with a baking soda volcano.”
You laugh, a small, hiccupping sound.
“Here’s the thing,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your project wasn’t derivative. It was innovative. You know why? Because I read it. Because I’m a genius, and I said so. And my word is the only one that matters. Now, are you done? Because FRIDAY’s been monitoring your stress levels and they’re dangerously high. We need to bring them down. Ice cream or a trip to the garage to blow something up? Those are the only two options. I won’t accept ‘neither.’”
You sit up, wiping your eyes. “Ice cream.”
“Excellent choice. But we’re getting the fancy stuff. The kind that costs more than Happy’s monthly salary. And on the way, we’re going to come up with at least three ways to passive-aggressively undermine Becky’s next project. Nothing illegal. Just deeply, deeply annoying.”
You slide off the bed, and he stands up, slinging an arm around your shoulders. It’s loose, casual, but it’s also the most secure thing you’ve felt all day. He steers you out of the room, already talking a mile a minute about the molecular gastronomy ice cream parlor he’s going to have flown in from Japan.
Pepper, watching from the hallway, just shakes her head and smiles.
THOR ODINSON !!
The finder is Bruce Banner. He finds Thor in the communal kitchen, attempting to make toast with Mjolnir. It’s not going well.
“Thor. Hey. Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Of course, friend Banner! I am merely—hark! The bread, it is most defiant! It refuses to brown!” He slams the hammer down again, and the toaster sparks.
“Okay, that’s… that’s fine. Listen, it’s about the kid. Your… ward.”
Thor’s whole demeanor changes. The good-natured, thunderous confusion vanishes. He sets Mjolnir down with a gentle thud. “What has befallen her? Is she injured? Has some foul beast beset her?”
“No, nothing like that. She’s just… in her room. She’s very upset. Natasha tried talking to her, but she said she just kept asking for you.”
Thor is already striding toward the living quarters, his cape billowing dramatically despite the lack of wind. Bruce has to practically run to keep up. Thor pauses outside your door, a look of genuine concern on his face.
“Has she eaten? Perhaps a feast would-“
“Thor. Just… go in.”
He opens the door. You’re sitting on the windowsill, looking out at the city, your back to the door. You’re not sobbing, but silent tears are rolling down your cheeks. Your shoulders are hunched.
“Little one,” Thor says, his voice a low, gentle rumble that seems to fill the room.
You turn, and the moment you see him, your face crumples. “I failed my history test. I studied so hard, but I just- I couldn’t-“
“A test?” Thor says, crossing the room in two strides. He kneels in front of you, his massive hands coming to rest on your knees. “This is the source of your sorrow? A mere trial of memorization?”
“It’s not mere! It’s important! And now my GPA is-“
He cuts you off by pulling you into a hug so encompassing that you disappear into his chest. He smells like ozone, rain, and the faint sweetness of mead. He holds you like you’re something infinitely precious.
“In Asgard,” he says, his voice vibrating through you, “we had trials of worth. They were not of parchment and ink, but of courage and might. To fail one was to learn the measure of your foe, to find a new path to victory. This… this is but a pebble on your path. A tiny, insignificant pebble.”
You sniffle against his tunic. “It doesn’t feel insignificant.”
“I know,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his blue eyes filled with a warmth that could chase away any storm. “But I will tell you a secret. I, the Prince of Asgard, the God of Thunder, once failed a test of strategy so spectacularly that my father, Odin, declared me a ‘bullheaded oaf who would not know a tactical retreat if it bit him in the—’ well, he said a word that is not fit for your ears.”
A shocked laugh bursts out of you. “No way.”
“By the Norns, it is true. And yet, I stand here today. So too shall you. Now,” he says, wiping the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb, a gesture so tender it seems impossible from hands that wield a storm. “I believe this calls for a celebration of your bravery in the face of adversity. We shall go to Midgard’s finest establishment for frozen dairy treats. And I shall regale you with tales of my most spectacular failures. They are many, and they are glorious.”
He scoops you up effortlessly, setting you on his hip as if you weigh nothing, and carries you out of the room, already launching into a story about a goat, a jar of honey, and a very unfortunate incident involving Loki’s bedchamber.
Bruce just shakes his head, a small smile on his face, as the sound of your laughter echoes down the hall.
ROCKET RACCOON !!
The finder is Nebula. She finds Rocket in the ship’s engine room, elbows deep in a mess of wires, grumbling to himself.
“The small, fur-covered one. Your progeny is malfunctioning.”
Rocket’s head pops out from under the console, his ears flattening. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a progeny. What am I, a lab experiment with a breeding program?”
“The small human female. The one who follows you. She is in her quarters. She is leaking saline from her optical sensors. I attempted to provide a solution. I offered to sever the vocal cords of the male who caused the malfunction. She said, and I quote, ‘I just want Rocket.’”
Rocket is already scrambling out from under the console, grabbing a rag to wipe grease off his paws. “Why didn’t you lead with that? Which male? Who do I gotta threaten?”
“Unknown. She would not provide the designation. She is being illogical.”
Rocket scurries through the Milano, his small claws clicking on the metal floors. He reaches your door- it’s the one with a crudely drawn picture of a raccoon taped to it, with the words “Rocket’s Human” written underneath. He doesn’t knock. He just hits the panel, and it slides open.
You’re on your bunk, curled up, your face buried in a pillow. And you’re crying, your shoulders shaking.
He hops up onto the bunk, his movements surprisingly quiet for someone so often loud and abrasive. He stands there for a moment, looking at you, his tiny brow furrowed.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Knock it off.”
You just cry harder.
He sighs, a sound of profound, long-suffering exasperation. He climbs onto your chest, his small body a warm, solid weight. He pokes your cheek with a claw-tipped finger. “I said knock it off. You’re gonna short-circuit something. These ships aren’t built for this much salt water.”
You peek out from the pillow, your eyes red-rimmed. “Quill said I couldn’t come on the next mission. He said I’m too young and not combat-ready and a liability. He said I’d just get in the way.”
Rocket’s ears flatten against his head. His eyes narrow to slits. “He said what now?”
“He said it’s for my own safety. But it’s not fair. I can help. I want to help.”
Rocket’s initial, blazing fury at Quill is quickly replaced by a different kind of fire. He sits up on your chest, his small paw pressing against your sternum.
“Listen to me,” he says, his voice deadly serious. “Quill’s an idiot. A grade-A, moron, has-been of a planet. Do you know what the first thing he said when we went to save the galaxy the first time? He said ‘I’m not doing it.’ He said ‘I’m out.’ He tried to bail. And he was a grown man. A grown, idiot man.”
He leans in closer, his whiskers brushing your chin. “Being brave isn’t about not being scared. It’s about doing the thing even when you are scared. And you, you’re braver than Quill on his best day. You’re braver than all of us.”
You sniffle. “Really?”
“Really. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna stop leaking, because it’s gross and it’s getting in my fur. Then, you and me, we’re gonna go have a little chat with Captain Pedestrian. And by ‘chat,’ I mean I’m gonna threaten to reconfigure his helmet to play nothing but country music every time he puts it on. And you’re gonna stand there and look disappointed in him.”
A smile cracks through your tears. “That’s… that’s pretty good.”
“I’m a genius, what can I say?” He climbs up to your shoulder, his small body a familiar, comforting weight. “Now, come on. Let’s go make Quill regret every decision he’s ever made.”
As you walk out of the room, he gives your ear a small, gentle cuff. “And for the record? I’d take you on a mission over Quill any day. You at least know how to follow orders. Sometimes.”
You reach up and scratch behind his ears, the way he likes. He leans into it, a low, rattling purr escaping his chest before he catches himself and glares at you. “Don’t tell anyone about that.”
PETER QUILL !!
Peter is in the cockpit of the Milano, trying to teach himself a dance routine from a bootleg copy of Footloose on a cracked data pad, when Drax appears.
“Quill.”
Peter doesn’t stop his admittedly impressive jazz hands. “Busy, Drax. The final dance-off of the movie requires total precision. I’m like, two parsecs away from nailing the Kevin Bacon slide.”
“The small one is in distress.”
Peter’s hands freeze mid-jazz. He spins around. “What? Gamora’s with her! She’s the responsible one!”
“Gamora has attempted to offer a solution. She suggested the small one compartmentalized her emotions and viewed the source of her pain as a tactical problem. The small one then threw a pillow at her and requested you by your… Star-Lord… name.”
Peter is already moving, shoving the data pad into Drax’s hands. “Hold this. Do not watch it. The ending will make you cry.”
“I do not cry,” Drax says, already hitting play.
Peter finds you in the common area, sitting on the floor with your back against the couch. Gamora is standing nearby, looking vaguely offended by the pillow currently resting at her feet. Your face is blotchy, your eyes red, but the sobs have subsided to hiccups.
“Alright, alright,” Peter says, sliding to a stop in front of you, his helmet forming around his head for dramatic effect before retracting. “What’s the damage? Did Gamora use a big word you didn’t understand? Did Rocket short-sell your sock collection again?”
You shake your head, your lip wobbling. “I miss my mom”
Peter’s entire face softens. He knows about moms. He knows about that particular brand of homesickness that hits you out of nowhere, days later.
He drops to the floor in front of you, sitting cross-legged, his knees almost touching yours. “That’s… well, that's understandable, kid.”
“It's stupid” you whisper, shrugging defensively. “I know, I just- I'm here traveling through space which is literally the dream of a lot of people and I'm all.. i don't know..”
Peter reaches out, taking your hands in his. “Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“I’m gonna tell you a secret. The mix tape my mom made me? The one with ‘Come and Get Your Love’ on it? It’s not just a bunch of songs. It’s her. It’s her way of being there. Of telling me she loved me. Even when she wasn't.. physically here, anymore.”
He squeezes your hands. “It's not stupid to miss your mom, she's the one who's taken care of you for all your life, it's difficult to just.. randomly switch to only seeing her through a screen.”
You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He catches you, one arm around your back, the other cradling your head.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It's okay.”
From the doorway, Gamora watches, her stern expression softening. She turns to leave, bumping into Drax, who has tears streaming down his face.
“The human child’s emotional outpouring has triggered a sympathetic response,” Drax says, his voice thick. “The Kevin Bacon slide was most moving.”
Peter looks up, sees them both, and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t let go of you. “You guys are the worst.”
You laugh against his shoulder, the sound muffled but real. He grins, holding you tighter, and starts humming a song you don’t recognize. You know, without a doubt, that it’s one from his mother’s tape.
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.”
THE FIRST THING I LOOK AT IN A MAN IS HIS HEART. THE FACT HIS TITS ARE ON THE WAY IS NOT MY FAULT.
🍽 ( girls ver. stba )
📎 men featured : logan howlett, worst wolverine, wade wilson, origins! wade wilson, remy lebeau, kurt wagner, eddie brock (& venom!!), steve rogers, tony stark, peter parker, thor odinson, peter quill.
LOGAN HOWLETT !!
The air in the mansion’s kitchen has the distinctive tang of cigar smoke and old leather. You’re at the counter, phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, pouring yourself a cup of coffee that’s gone cold three times over. Your friend’s voice crackles through the speaker, asking the age-old question about your type.
“Oh, a man’s heart,” you say, stirring the cold coffee with a dramatic flourish. “That’s the first thing I look at. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is not my fault.”
The sound of adamantium claws snikting out is so sudden and violent you nearly launch your mug across the room. You whip around. Logan is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one set of claws already gleaming in the afternoon light. His face is a granite carving of utter, smug vindication.
He doesn’t say anything for a long, terrifying moment. He just stares, the corner of his mouth twitching. Then, he slowly, deliberately, looks down at his own broad chest, encased in a tight white undershirt. He looks back up at you. He retracts the claws with a metallic shink.
“You coulda just said so,” he rumbles, his voice a low gravel pit of satisfaction. He walks past you, deliberately brushing a shoulder against yours, and grabs a beer from the fridge. He pops the cap off with his thumb, takes a long swig, and leans against the counter opposite you, letting his eyes drag over your face with a heat that could melt adamantium. “I’ve been workin’ with a tactical advantage this whole time and didn’t even know it.”
He’s not letting this go. For the next week, every time you see him, he’ll be doing something absurd. You’ll find him doing push-ups in the hallway. He’ll “casually” stretch his arms above his head, making his shirt ride up, in the middle of a briefing. He’ll catch your eye from across the danger room, point two fingers at his own pecs, then point them at you, like a cowboy from an old western. The man who has lived for centuries, who has forgotten more pain than most people will ever know, has been reduced to a one-man peacock display, and he’s never been happier.
WORST WOLVERINE !!
The apartment is a disaster zone of mismatched furniture, empty takeout containers, and the lingering smell of cheap whiskey and desperation. It’s been three weeks since the Void. Three weeks since Cassandra. Three weeks since Logan found himself, against all odds, sharing a cramped two-bedroom with a man who hasn't worn a shirt indoors since 2004. He tells himself it's temporary. He tells himself a lot of things.
You're perched on the arm of the couch while Wade is sprawled across the cushions, aggressively filing his nails.
"No, I'm serious," you tell him. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. That's the most important thing. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
The sound of a refrigerator door slamming shut echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.
You whip your head toward the kitchen. Logan is standing in the doorway, a beer in one hand, the other braced against the doorframe. He's wearing a stained white tank top and jeans that have seen better decades. His hair is still damp from a shower he clearly didn't finish, judging by the water dripping down his neck. His eyes, bloodshot and sharp, are fixed on you with the intensity of a man who has just been handed a winning lottery ticket and a knife at the same time.
Wade stops filing his nails. The silence stretches. Then, Wade slowly, deliberately, puts his nail file down and pulls out his phone, angling it toward the scene unfolding before him. "Oh, this is going in the highlight reel," he whispers.
Logan takes a long, slow pull from his beer. He doesn't break eye contact. He finishes half the bottle in one go, lowers it, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Say that again," he says. His voice is that particular gravel he uses when he's about to do something stupid and violent. It's also, you've learned, the voice he uses when he's about to do something stupid and flirtatious, which is somehow more dangerous.
"I was talking about-" you start.
"Your heart!" Wade stage-whispers from the couch, cupping his hands around his mouth. "She was talking about your heart, Roomie! The big, mushy, adamantium-laced one you pretend you don't have! Keep up!"
Logan ignores him completely, which is a feat of willpower that would impress Odin himself. He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, each step deliberate, unhurried. He sets his beer down on the coffee table with a soft thunk, right next to Wade's foot. Wade very slowly retracts his foot.
Logan stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can smell the cheap soap and the whiskey and something underneath that's just him. He crosses his arms over his chest, which does nothing to diminish the sheer presence of said chest, and instead only serves to highlight it further. His biceps strain against the thin fabric of his tank top.
"My heart," he says, the word rolling off his tongue like it tastes unfamiliar. He looks down at his own torso, then back up at you. "That's what you're lookin' at."
"It's-" you swallow. "It's the principle of the thing."
"The principle," he repeats, deadpan.
"Yeah! I'm a principled person. I value substance over- over-"
"Over the twin peaks of Mount Logan?" Wade offers helpfully from the couch. "The Canadian Rockies? The adamantium-clad hills that are alive with the sound of-"
"I will gut you," Logan says, without looking at Wade. His voice is calm. Wade makes a zipping motion across his lips, but his eyes are sparkling with unholy glee.
Logan turns his full attention back to you. He uncrosses his arms, which is somehow worse, because now he's just standing there, all that broad, scarred, impossible solidity on display. He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck, a surprisingly human gesture that you've come to recognize as him working up to something he doesn't have the words for.
"So," he says slowly. "Let me get this straight. You're with me. In this shithole. With the guy who talks more than a jukebox full of chipmunks." He jerks his thumb toward Wade, who preens. "Because of my heart."
"Among other things," you manage.
"The other things bein'…" He gestures vaguely to his entire body.
"That's- that's not- I said it wasn't my fault!"
WADE WILSON !!
The situation is doomed from the start. You’re in your shared apartment, thinking he’s out on a job. Your friend is on speakerphone. You’re in the middle of your declaration.
“…the first thing I look at in a man is his heart. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault.”
There’s a pause. Then, from the air vent above the couch, a muffled voice echoes.
“Pssst. Hey. Hey, buddy. You readin’ this? Yeah, the one on the other side of the screen. She’s talkin’ about my heart. And my chest pillows. Tell me she’s not talkin’ about my premium-grade, Canadian-grown, conflict-free chest pillows.”
You scream and fall off the couch.
Wade drops out of the vent, landing in a heap. He’s already in his full Deadpool regalia, minus one boot, which is still stuck in the vent. He scrambles to his knees, clutching his chest.
“Honey-buns. Sugar-plum. Objectifier of my superior thoracic architecture. I need you to know, right now, that my heart isn’t just behind these babies. It powers them. They’re heart-adjacent. Heart-supportive. They’re the VIP section of my cardiovascular system. I’m not mad, I’m proud. Finally, someone sees the strategic genius of my physique. It’s not a flaw in the design, it’s a feature! It’s like putting the engine in the front of a car. You look at the grill first! Like, awww, babe! A sexy, muscle car with a V8 heart and twin airbags!”
He pulls off his mask, revealing his scarred face, which is split into a manic grin. “From now on, I’m only wearing mesh shirts. I want to make sure there are no barriers between you and your… study material.” He then pulls out his phone and starts dictating a note. “Note to self: Buy stock in companies that manufacture nipple tape. It’s about to be a bull market.”
For the next month, he has shirts custom-made with arrows pointing to his pecs that read, “The Heart is In Here, I Swear.” He introduces you to people as “my girlfriend, the brilliant ophthalmologist who sees past the flesh to the vital organs within.”
ORIGINS! WADE WILSON !!
The bar is a dive in the ass-end of nowhere, the kind of place where the drinks are cheap and the questions are cheaper. Team X has been laying low for three days, waiting for a extraction that keeps getting pushed back, and the boredom has driven everyone to the edges of their sanity. You're at a corner table, phone pressed to your ear, watching your boyfriend across the room where he's engaged in what looks like a friendly game of darts with a man who has no idea who he's playing against.
Wade Wilson, at thirty-two, is something to behold. No scars, no cancer, no centuries of madness dragging at his eyes. He's all sharp grins and sharper reflexes, a handsome face that gets him into trouble and the skills to get him back out again. Tonight he's in jeans and a henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and every woman in the bar is watching him throw darts with the kind of casual precision that should be illegal.
Your friend's voice crackles through the phone, loud enough that you have to hold it away from your ear. She's been asking about Wade for twenty minutes, about the job, about the secrecy, about why you're dating a man whose resume reads like a black site's fever dream.
"I'm telling you," you say, keeping your voice low. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. That's what matters. That's what made me fall for him. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
There's a beat of silence. Then, from across the room, the sound of a dart embedding itself in the wall three inches from where it was supposed to go.
You look up.
Wade is staring at you. The man he was playing darts with is staring at the wall. The rest of the bar is pretending very hard not to notice anything.
Wade's face splits into a grin. It's the grin of a man who has just been handed a winning lottery ticket and the gun that won it. He says something to his opponent, claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble, and saunters across the bar with the kind of confidence that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.
He pulls out the chair across from you, sits down backwards, and folds his arms across the back of it. The position does nothing to diminish the view of his chest, which you suspect is entirely the point.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is that particular brand of smooth that he uses when he's about to be absolutely insufferable. "I think I misheard. Did my beautiful, brilliant girlfriend just say something about my heart and my... what was the phrase?"
"You heard what I said."
"I heard something about tits." He leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands. "My tits. In front of my heart. Which, I want to clarify, is anatomically accurate. The pectoral muscles do, in fact, sit anterior to the cardiac cavity. That's just science."
"I know it's science."
"But you felt the need to mention it. To your friend. On the phone. In a bar. Where I could hear you." He's grinning now, that wide, impossible grin that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "Which means you've been thinking about it. My tits. You've been thinking about my tits and my heart and the spatial relationship between them."
"I think about your heart all the time."
"My heart," he repeats. "The thing you fell for. The thing that makes me, in your words, 'a good man pretending to be a bad one.'"
"That's what I said."
"And my chest." He sits back, spreading his hands. "The thing that is, according to you, an unavoidable obstacle in your quest to appreciate said heart."
"It's not an obstacle, it's just— it's positioned—"
"Optimally," he supplies. "Strategically. In a manner that you find personally challenging."
"I didn't say challenging."
"You didn't have to." He reaches across the table and takes your hand, and despite the teasing, his grip is warm, steady, real. "See, here's the thing, sweetheart. I've been shot, stabbed, blown up, and thrown out of helicopters. I've done things that would make most people throw up just hearing about them. And through all of it, the one thing I've never been accused of is having tits."
"Wade—"
"I have pecs." He squeezes your hand. "Magnificent pecs. Pecs that have saved lives. Pecs that have distracted enemy combatants. Pecs that have, if I'm being honest, gotten me out of more trouble than my actual skills, and my skills are considerable."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm focused." He pulls your hand across the table and presses it flat against his chest, right over his heart. His henley is thin, and beneath it you can feel the heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heartbeat. "There. Now you can appreciate both at once. Heart and infrastructure. A two-for-one special. You're welcome."
REMY LEBEAU !!
"Oh, come on!" you say, laughing into the phone. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart, the fact that his tits are in front of it is, very clearly, not my fault."
The shuffling of cards that had been background noise up until now suddenly stops.
You turn. Remy LeBeau is leaning against the doorway that leads to the bedroom, arms crossed, one shoulder propped against the frame like he's been there for a while. He's wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung black pants, his bare chest still slightly damp from the shower he definitely finished ten minutes ago. His hair is loose, curling at the ends, and his eyes—those impossible red-on-black eyes—are fixed on you with the lazy, predatory focus of a cat who just heard the can opener.
"Chère," he says, and the single word drips with molasses and mischief. "Did I just hear you objectifyin' dis man's chest, or were you waxin' poetic about de depths of his soul?"
You hang up the phone. Slowly. Your friend is going to kill you. You'll deal with that later.
"I was talking about your heart," you say, attempting dignity.
"Oui. My heart." He pushes off the doorframe and begins to drift toward you, unhurried, bare feet silent on the hardwood. His kinetic energy crackles faintly in the air around him, making the hair on your arms stand up. "My heart, which you value so highly. De organ itself. De seat of my considerable charm and loyalty."
"That's right."
He stops in front of your chair, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to see his face. He reaches down and picks up the deck of cards from the side table, shuffling them one-handed with a fluid motion that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.
"And de fact dat my chest," he continues, looking down at himself with theatrical contemplation, "is currently on display in front of said heart? Dat is, what you said, not your fault."
"It's a matter of anatomical priority."
"Anatomical priority." He repeats the phrase like it's the finest wine he's ever tasted. He pulls a card from the deck, the Queen of Hearts, because of course it is, and tucks it behind your ear without breaking stride. His fingers brush your temple, lingering. "So what you're tellin' me, ma petite, is dat you are de innocent victim here. A hostage, if you will, to my... what was de word?"
"I didn't use a word."
"You said tits." He grins, and it's the grin of a man who has talked his way out of every situation imaginable and plans to do so again. "You said tits, chère. My tits. Like I'm some common..." He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. "What is de word for a man who sells his physical form for coin?"
"A gigolo?"
"Non. More... artistic."
"A male model?"
His face lights up. "Dere we go. Like I am some male model from de magazine, and not a man who has, on multiple occasions, saved de world with nothin' but dees hands and a pack of cards." He holds up the deck, then tucks it into the waistband of his pants, which does nothing to help your current predicament.
He places his hands on the arms of the chair, one on each side, and leans down until his face is level with yours. His chest is right there. It's impossible to ignore. He knows this.
"So let me understand dis," he murmurs, his accent thickening the way it does when he's genuinely amused or genuinely dangerous (you've learned to tell the difference, and this is definitely amused). "You are wit' Remy LeBeau, de master thief, de X-Man, de man whose heart you claim to value above all else, because he is so very good and so very noble, and de only reason you are constantly lookin' at his chest is because it is simply... in de way."
"That's exactly what I said."
"Chere." He laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates through the chair. "Dat is de biggest pile of Cajun horseshit I have ever heard, and I have talked my way past de King of Thieves himself."
He pushes back from the chair, but only far enough to pull the Queen of Hearts from behind your ear. He flicks it, and it disappears in a flash of pink kinetic energy. He reaches out and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet. You're now standing chest-to-chest, which is to say, your face is approximately level with his collarbones.
He tilts your chin up with one finger.
"I am not complainin'," he says, and his voice has gone soft, the teasing edge giving way to something warmer. "You want to look at my heart? Look all you want, chère. It is yours. Has been since de day you looked at me like I was more dan just a thief in a fancy coat."
KURT WAGNER !!
The Xavier mansion library is quiet this time of night, the kind of quiet that settles into old wood and older books. You're curled up in one of the window seats, a throw blanket over your legs, your phone pressed to your ear. Outside, the moon hangs low over the grounds, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
Your friend is on the other end of the line, a fellow mutant who knows exactly who you're dating and has Opinions about it. Loud opinions.
"I'm just saying," you say, keeping your voice low out of habit, even though the library is empty. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. That's what matters. That's what made me fall for him. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
A soft sound behind you. The whisper of displaced air, the faint scent of brimstone and incense.
You turn.
Kurt Wagner is standing in the doorway of the library, still dressed in his black and red uniform, having apparently just returned from a mission. His fur is dark in the low light, his tail curling behind him, and his golden eyes—those impossible, luminous eyes—are fixed on you with an expression that can only be described as delighted confusion.
"Mein Schatz," he says, and his voice is warm, accented, carrying that particular note of bemusement he gets whenever you say something that reminds him that humans (and mutants) are, in his words, delightfully strange. "Did I just hear you correctly, or did I take a sword to the head on the way home?"
You drop your phone onto the window seat. It bounces once and your friend's voice squawks indignantly before you manage to hit mute.
"Kurt! You're back early!"
"I am." He steps into the library, and the moonlight catches him fully now, illuminating the deep blue of his fur, the three-fingered hands, the way his tail curls and uncurls with his mood. He's smiling, that warm, easy smile that somehow manages to be both mischievous and entirely genuine. "And I am very glad I am, because it seems I have returned just in time to hear my beloved girlfriend discussing my... how did you put it?"
"I didn't put it any way."
"Tits." He says the word like he's tasting it, turning it over in his mouth, his accent making it sound almost elegant. "You were discussing my tits, liebling. A topic I was not aware was up for discussion."
"I was discussing your heart!"
"Ah, yes." He moves further into the room, and you notice now that he's favoring his left side slightly, a bruise darkening his jaw, the telltale signs of a mission that went sideways. He doesn't seem to care. His attention is entirely on you. "My heart. The thing you value above all else. The thing that makes me, as you so generously put it last week, 'the best man I have ever known.'"
"That's true."
"And yet." He stops in front of the window seat, close enough that you can see the individual threads of his uniform, the way his fur is ruffled around his collar. He places one three-fingered hand over his chest, right where his heart would be. "You feel the need to mention that my... chest... is in the way."
"It's not in the way! It's just- it's positioned-" You're floundering and you know it. "It's not my fault, Kurt. That's all I'm saying."
He laughs. It's a wonderful sound, bright and full, the kind of laugh that makes everyone in earshot smile. He reaches out and takes your hand, his fingers warm and calloused, and pulls you gently to your feet.
"You are aware," he says, drawing you closer, "that I have three fingers. And blue fur. And a tail." His tail curls around your wrist, the tip brushing your palm. "And you are concerned about my chest?"
"Your chest is very nice," you say, and then immediately want to sink through the floor.
He grins, sharp and pleased. "So you have noticed."
"Everyone's noticed! You have the best chest in the mansion!"
His eyebrows rise. "This is a competition now? Am I winning a competition I did not know I was entered in?"
"You're being deliberately difficult."
"I am being deliberately amused," he corrects, and now his hands are on your waist, his tail still wrapped around your wrist, his face inches from yours. "My beautiful, brilliant girlfriend has just informed the world that she values my heart above all else, but she cannot be held responsible for the fact that she is constantly confronted with my... pectorals... in her pursuit of said heart."
"It's not my fault!"
"You have said that. Several times." He tilts his head, and in the moonlight, with his golden eyes and his gentle smile, he looks like something out of a fairy tale. The good kind. The kind where the monster turns out to be the prince. "So let me make sure I understand. You love me for my heart."
"Yes."
"You are forced to look at my chest because it is in front of my heart."
"Anatomically speaking, yes."
"And this is not your fault."
"It is objectively not my fault, Kurt."
He considers this for a moment, his tail tightening fractionally around your wrist. Then he does something unexpected. He takes a step back, reaches for the zipper of his uniform, and pulls it down to his waist.
The top half of his uniform pools around his hips, and you are left standing in the moonlit library with Kurt Wagner, the blue-furred, golden-eyed, three-fingered mutant known as Nightcrawler, standing in front of you in nothing but his pants and a truly impressive display of chest.
"There," he says, spreading his arms wide. "Now there is no obstruction. You may look at my heart directly."
"I can't see your heart, Kurt, it's inside your body."
"Then you must get closer."
He pulls you against him before you can protest, and you find yourself pressed flush against his chest, your cheek against his fur, your arms trapped between your bodies. His arms come around you, holding you there, and beneath your ear, you can hear his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. A little fast.
"You see?" he murmurs, his voice vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Here it is. The heart you value so much. No chest in the way now."
"This is cheating," you mumble against his skin.
"This is logic," he counters. "You said the chest was an obstacle. I removed the obstacle. Now you may appreciate my heart to your heart's content."
His arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head, soft and warm.
"For the record," he says quietly, "I fell in love with your heart too. The first time I saw you, the first time you looked at me without fear, without pity, just... kindness. That is what I saw. That is what I fell for." His tail curls around your back, pulling you closer. "The fact that the rest of you is also beautiful? That is not my fault either."
You laugh against his chest, and you feel him smile.
"So we are agreed," he says. "We love each other's hearts. We also appreciate each other's... other attributes. And neither of us is at fault for the anatomical placement of said attributes."
"That sounds like a fair agreement."
"Good." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is open, vulnerable, full of a joy that he never tries to hide. "Then perhaps we should take this discussion somewhere more private. The library is lovely, but I have been on a mission for three days, and I would very much like to continue this conversation in a place where I do not have to worry about Professor Xavier walking in and asking why I am shirtless."
"He wouldn't ask."
"He would not need to ask. He would simply know. And I would like to keep some mysteries in this relationship."
He scoops you up before you can respond, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, his tail wrapped around your waist for good measure. He smells like ozone and sandalwood and something underneath that is just him.
"You are not carrying me through the mansion," you say.
"I am absolutely carrying you through the mansion." He grins, that impish, impossible grin. "You wanted to appreciate my heart, liebling. How better to appreciate it than to feel it beating against yours as I carry you to bed?"
He teleports before you can argue, and the world dissolves into smoke and sulfur and the feeling of being held.
When you land in his room, he sets you down gently, and you can still hear his heart, still feel it, even though you're no longer pressed against his chest.
He looks at you, and his eyes are soft, and his smile is soft, and there is nothing in the world that could make you look anywhere else.
EDDIE BROCK ( & VENOM ) !!
The apartment is a disaster. It's always a disaster, but tonight it's a special kind of disaster: takeout containers stacked like the tower of Babel, dirty laundry draped over every available surface, and Eddie Brock himself sprawled on the pullout couch like a man who has given up on the concept of furniture. You're in the kitchenette, phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, trying to find a clean mug that doesn't have something growing in it.
Your friend's voice crackles through the speaker, loud and delighted. You've been telling her about Eddie, about the symbiote, about the chaos that has become your life since you started dating a man who shares his body with an alien from another planet.
"I'm telling you," you say, finally finding a mug that only has coffee residue in it. "The first thing I look at in a man is his heart, the metaphorical one and the literal one. The fact that his titties are in front of his heart is NOT my fault."
There is a pause. A long pause.
From the living room, you hear a sound that you have come to know very well. It is the sound of Eddie Brock inhaling something he was drinking directly into his lungs.
"Eddie," a voice says, and it is not Eddie's voice. It is deeper, darker, and somehow sounds like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "She is talking about your chest."
"I know what she's talking about-!" Eddie's voice, strangled, followed by a series of wet coughs.
You turn around, phone still in hand.
Eddie is sitting up on the couch, beer spilled down the front of his shirt, face the color of a tomato. But it's not Eddie you're looking at. It's the black tendrils that are already snaking up his neck, the way his eyes are flickering between human and something much, much older.
"We heard her," Venom says, and now Eddie's face is shifting, the symbiote rising to the surface, teeth elongating, tongue curling. "We heard her say the thing about the chest."
"It was a philosophical observation!" you say quickly.
"PHILOSOPHICAL," Venom booms, and now he's fully out, towering in the middle of your disaster apartment, Eddie's body completely subsumed. His head nearly brushes the ceiling. His massive, clawed hand gestures to his own chest. Eddie's chest, but bigger now, broader, covered in that living black that pulses with every heartbeat. "She says she values the heart. But the chest. The chest is what she sees first."
"Venom," you say, holding up your hands. "Buddy. Pal. I was talking about Eddie."
"WE ARE EDDIE."
"You know what I mean."
Venom tilts his head, that massive alien skull studying you with an intensity that would terrify you if you hadn't already seen him eat three people and then apologize to the waitress for the mess. His tongue lolls out, wet and impossibly long.
"The female speaks truth," he announces finally. "She does value the heart. But the chest is... aesthetically pleasing. She is not at fault for noticing."
"I didn't say aesthetically pleasing—"
"YOU DID NOT HAVE TO." Venom's face splits into that massive, toothy grin. "We are good at reading humans. Their heart rates. Their pupil dilation. The way their eyes track the pectoral region of our host when he removes his shirt."
"Okay, that's- that's not-"
"EDDIE," Venom bellows, and Eddie bleeds back to the surface, the symbiote retreating just enough that his face is visible again, still red, still mortified, but also... is he pleased? He looks pleased. "She wants the heart. But she also wants the chest. We have both. This is acceptable."
"Can we please stop saying chest?" Eddie manages, his voice cracking.
"WE WILL NOT STOP SAYING CHEST," Venom replies, and now the symbiote is pushing forward again, reshaping Eddie's torso until the shirt he was wearing splits down the middle and falls away. The black suit covers him, but it's different tonight: somehow tighter, somehow more defined, the musculature of Eddie's chest rendered in glossy, rippling obsidian. "There. Now there is no confusion. The heart is in here." He taps the center of his chest. "And the chest is..." He gestures broadly. "Also here. For looking. She may look as much as she wants."
"Venom," Eddie groans, but there's no heat in it. He's looking at you now, and despite the embarrassment, there's something vulnerable in his expression. Something hopeful.
You set your phone down on the counter. Your friend is still on the line—you can hear her screaming with laughter—but you'll call her back.
You walk over to the couch, to the massive, looming presence of Venom, to the man buried somewhere inside all that black. You reach out and press your palm flat against Venom's chest. The symbiote ripples under your touch, warm, alive, and somewhere beneath it, you can feel Eddie's heartbeat. Fast. Strong. Real.
"I meant what I said," you tell them both. "Your heart. Both of yours. That's what I fell in love with."
Venom is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, the thunder reduced to a rumble.
"We know," he says. And then, almost shy: "We fell in love with your heart too. The fact that your chest is also... pleasing... is not our fault either."
"Venom!" Eddie yelps.
"WHAT? IT IS TRUE. HER PECTORAL REGION IS-"
"We're not doing this! We are not ranking her— whatever you're about to say!"
STEVE ROGERS !!
You’re in the shared kitchen of the Avengers compound, which is surprisingly empty. You’re on the phone with your friend, lamenting the fact that Steve had to leave for a mission at 4 AM.
“It’s just… he’s so good,” you whisper. “I know it sounds cheesy, but I look at his heart first. That’s the most important thing. The fact that his heart is protected by, like, the most incredible chest in the history of the world? That’s not my fault. I’m an innocent bystander.”
You hear a soft, cleared throat. You freeze, phone still pressed to your ear.
You turn around. Steve is standing in the doorway, still in his tactical gear from the mission, which he must have just returned from. He’s holding his cowl in his hands. His face is bright red, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks like he’d rather be facing a Hydra battalion than standing here.
“I, uh,” he starts, his voice a little hoarse. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I came back early. Fury… rescheduled.” He won’t meet your eyes, staring intently at a spot on the floor.
You hang up the phone, your face now matching his.
A long, agonizing silence stretches between you. He fidgets with the cowl. You fidget with the edge of your sleeve.
Finally, he looks up, and the earnestness in his blue eyes is almost too much to bear. “I… I just want you to know,” he says, his voice low and serious, “that I… appreciate it. That you… look at my heart first. That’s… that’s the part that matters to me, too.”
He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and puffs his chest out just slightly, as if he’s about to salute. “And for what it’s worth, I… I’m sorry. For the… the other part. Being in the way, I mean. I can’t really… control it. It’s just… the serum. It affected everything, and my… my pectoral muscles…” He trails off, looking like he wants the earth to swallow him whole.
He ends up writing you a very formal letter, left on your pillow, which reads:
My dear,
I have reflected on our conversation this morning. I want to assure you that I have no intention of allowing my physical attributes to impede your view of what truly matters. I will endeavor to wear looser-fitting shirts in the future to minimize any… obstruction.
Respectfully,
Steve
He tries. For about three hours. Then he sees the smile you give him when he walks in wearing a baggy sweater and it makes him immediately revert to his old, form-fitting henleys. He’d rather you have a clear view of his heart, even if it comes with a free show.
TONY STARK !!
He’s in his workshop, ostensibly calibrating a new boot thruster. You’re on the mezzanine level above, thinking the whir of machinery will cover your phone call with your best friend. You miscalculate. FRIDAY, ever the loyal AI, has been piping your voice down to him at a slightly increased volume for the last ten minutes. He’s been listening with the delight of a cat who found a laser pointer.
"I’m serious!” you laugh into the phone. “The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. The fact that his tits are in front of his heart is not my fault, like, at all!”
The sound of a wrench clattering to the floor echoes through the workshop. You peer over the railing. Tony is standing there, arc reactor glowing a cheerful blue through his black AC/DC shirt. He’s looking up at you, hands on his hips, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph on his face.
“Hold on,” he says, holding up a finger. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. He taps his chest, right over the reactor. “Just for the record. My heart? Right here. Glowing. Literally. Made it myself. But the packaging?” He gestures grandly to his torso with both hands.
He starts walking up the stairs, a slow, deliberate saunter. “I’ve been called a lot of things. Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist. But never, and I mean never, has someone so accurately identified the core struggle of dating me. The inner light versus the outer… majesty. It’s a burden I bear with grace.”
He reaches the top, leans against the railing next to you, and pokes your arm. “For the record? Yours are pretty great too. And I’m not just saying that because I’m contractually obligated as your boyfriend. I’m saying it because I’m a student of anatomy, and I appreciate a well-designed… cardiovascular support system.” He winks. “Now, I’m gonna go have a suit made with a window over my heart.”
PETER PARKER !!
You think he’s in his bedroom, which shares a paper-thin wall with the living room where you’re talking to your friend, Ned, who is also in on the secret and currently building a Lego Death Star.
“Ned, I swear,” you whisper, clicking a piece into place. “The first thing I look at in a man is his heart. It’s what makes Peter… well, Peter. The fact that his heart is behind, like, the most perfect, sculpted chest I have ever seen in my life? That’s just an unfortunate design flaw I’ve learned to live with.”
There’s a thump from the other room, followed by a muffled “Yeowp!” and the sound of something clattering. A moment later, Peter appears in the doorway to his room. He is shirtless, having apparently been in the middle of changing out of his Spider-Man suit. His chest is, indeed, exactly as you described. His face is the color of a ripe tomato. He’s holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart.
“Did- did you just-” He stabs the Pop-Tart in your direction. “Did you just call my chest a ‘design flaw’?”
“Peter!” You scramble to your feet. Ned is frozen, a Lego brick suspended mid-placement, his eyes wide with terror and excitement.
Peter takes a step forward, his eyes wide. “I— I heard you say it was perfect! You said perfect! Right? Ned, did she say perfect?” He looks at Ned for confirmation.
Ned gives a tiny, terrified nod.
“Okay. Okay, good.” Peter takes a deep breath, the Pop-Tart trembling in his hand. He looks down at his own chest, then back at you, then back at his chest. “So, if it’s perfect, then… it’s not a flaw. It’s a… a feature! For… for heart protection! That’s what it is! The heart is super important, so it needs, like, a really strong, aerodynamic casing. Yeah. A casing.”
He nods to himself, seemingly convincing himself of this new, self-generated logic. He takes a bite of his Pop-Tart, chews thoughtfully, and points the remaining half at you again. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re dating me for my heart, and my ‘chest casing’ is just a very, very appreciated bonus. A premium upgrade. Like… like the leather seats in the Spider-Mobile.”
“We don’t have a Spider-Mobile, Peter,” Ned says quietly.
“We could, Ned!” Peter yells, gesturing wildly with his Pop-Tart, a piece of strawberry filling flying off and hitting the wall. He turns back to you, his expression now a mix of shyness and budding confidence. “So… you like the casing? The… the whole… package?”
For the rest of the week, every time you see him, he finds a way to “casually” stretch, or “accidentally” lift his shirt to scratch his stomach, or wear shirts that are two sizes too small. He’s incredibly subtle about it, which is to say, he’s not subtle at all. It’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever witnessed.
THOR ODINSON !!
You’re on a balcony of the New Asgard compound, enjoying the crisp sea air. Your friend, a visiting diplomat from a neighboring realm, is with you. The conversation has turned to your rather unconventional relationship with the King of New Asgard.
You shrug, playing it cool. “I’m not shallow. I look at a man’s heart first. The first thing I looked at is his heart. The fact that his massive tits are in front of said heart is absolutely out of my control and, by hence, not my fault.”
A deep, rumbling chuckle, like the first tectonic shifts before an earthquake, sounds from directly behind you. You spin around. Thor is there, leaning against the doorframe, Mjolnir resting on his shoulder. He is wearing a simple linen shirt, which is doing absolutely nothing to conceal the fact that he is built like a god. Because he is one.
“My dear Lady,” he booms, his voice filled with mirth. “You wound me! You speak of my heart, a noble and valiant organ, and yet you give no quarter to the guardians that stand before it?” He sets Mjolnir down and spreads his arms wide, presenting himself like a museum exhibit. “These are not mere ‘tits,’ as you so quaintly call them! They are the Pillars of the Storm! The Twin Peaks of Thunder! They have weathered the blasts of dying stars and the embrace of a thousand battlefields, all to protect the heart you so wisely prize!”
He flexes. Once. Just once. It’s not a conscious flex; it’s just what happens when he moves his arms. The linen shirt makes a sound like a ship’s sail in a gale.
He then walks over, throws a heavy arm around your shoulder, and pulls you into his side, pressing your cheek against one of said Pillars of the Storm. You can hear his heartbeat, a deep, steady drum.
“You see?” he says to your friend, his voice now a theatrical whisper. “She is not a fool. She seeks the core, the very essence of a warrior’s spirit. And if, in her noble quest, she must pass through the glorious gateway of my chest?” He shrugs, the motion making your head bounce. “Then I say, let the gateway be ever open.”
From that day forward, every outfit he wears is either too tight, unbuttoned to his navel, or made of a material that is, by his decree, “strategically thin to aid in cardiac identification.”
PETER QUILL !!
You’re on the Milano, in the cockpit, while Gamora is sharpening a sword in the corner.
“I’m telling you,” you say to her, keeping your voice low. “It’s about the heart. I look at the heart first. The fact that his heart is behind what is arguably the most annoyingly perfect chest in the galaxy is a struggle I face every single day, and it is not my fault.”
The Milano’s engines hum. A second later, the cockpit door slides open with a dramatic hiss.
Peter Quill is standing there, wearing his red leather jacket, unzipped, with nothing but a pair of faded jeans underneath. His “annoyingly perfect chest” is on full display. He’s leaning against the doorframe, one arm up, trying to look like a ’80s movie heartthrob. He’s holding his Zune in the other hand, and the opening chords of “Holding Out for a Hero” by Bonnie Tyler begin to play.
He points at you. “I heard that.”
“Oh, for the love of—” you start.
He pushes off the doorframe and struts into the room, walking a tight circle around your chair. “You look at my heart. My heart. Which is huge, and full of love, mostly for you, but also for ’80s pop culture and my ship. But the chest? The chest you called ‘arguably the most annoyingly perfect’? No, that’s actually just totally true.”
He stops in front of you, plants his feet, and does a little shimmy.
“Quill,” Gamora says without looking up from her sword, “you are making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I’m not making a spectacle, Gamora, I’m responding to feedback,” he says, never taking his eyes off you. He leans in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “My heart, babe? All yours. But I need you to know that these?” He gestures to his chest. “They’re not just in front of my heart. They are my heart. They’re the physical manifestation of my emotional availability. When I’m happy, they’re firm. When I’m sad, they’re… still firm, but a little less perky. It’s a whole system.”
He then tries to do the chest-bounce thing, but he tries a little too hard, throws himself off balance, and trips over a crate, landing on his back with a loud oof. Bonnie Tyler keeps playing.
He lays there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his perfect chest rising and falling. “This is fine,” he says. “I meant to do that. It’s a power move. You’re supposed to be impressed.”
Drax, who has been silent this whole time, finally speaks. “His chest is adequate. The female is correct, however. The placement is illogical. A warrior’s heart should be the most accessible target to prove one’s valor. Hiding it behind flesh is a sign of a coward.”
Peter scrambles to his feet. “Okay, first of all, Drax, shut up. Second of all, babe, for future reference?” He pulls you up from your chair, spins you, and dips you, his annoyingly perfect chest now right at eye level. “If you’re gonna objectify me, at least use a better adjective than ‘annoying.’ I’m thinking ‘devastatingly handsome chest unit.’ Or ‘the twin engines of the Quill-star.’ I’m workshopping it. We’ll come up with a official title together.” He grins, wide and irrepressible. “Partners in crime. And in appreciating my rack.”
— requested by pookie bear @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
froggi yaps -> these have been kicking my ass for dayssss i'm so happy to finally have finished them :,) wade & logan were kind of hard to do since i've already done this prompt w them but still wanted them to be included. enjoy!
Logan Howlett:
Logan likes to pretend like he isn’t the jealous type, despite him being the most possessive man alive. You’re his, and only his, and he’ll make damn well sure everyone knows it. His scent is definitely all over you.
If anyone is getting a little too close to you for his liking—making you laugh too much, maybe getting a little touchy—Logan is on his feet in an instant, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist.
Maybe gets a little too handsy, hands travelling lower to cup your butt, canines grazing the side of your neck. He won’t say anything, he’ll just loom there so incredibly ominously until whoever was with you gets the message and leaves.
“Logan,” you warn.
He just grunts, “you’re mine, you know that?”
And you sigh, suddenly weak in the knees, and nod along to his words. He keeps you extra close afterwards, usually sitting you in his lap and looking sideways at anyone who so much as glances your way.
Wade Wilson:
Wade is absolutely the jealous type but it takes a lot to actually get him going, and when he does, he hides his insecurity behind humour and substances. Still, it gets the best of him sometimes and he just can’t help it.
If someone’s flirting with you, he’s inserting himself into the situation immediately. He’ll sidle up next to you, prop an arm on your shoulder and grin at whoever you’re talking to.
“Excuse us for a moment.”
He won’t even give you a chance before he’s pulling you in for a bruising kiss, tongue swiping along the backs of your teeth. His hands roam your sides, maybe cheekily pinching your butt.
You pull away gasping, hands on his chest. “Wade!”
“What?” He grins goofily, “I couldn’t help it, you look so fuckable.”
Kurt Wagner:
Kurt’s not really the jealous type, and when he is jealous, he just gets sad. He’ll watch someone else hit on you and wonder if he’s enough, if you would prefer someone less blue.
He’ll go quiet for a while, maybe get a little distant while he thinks it over. He does his best to reassure himself, remind himself that you love him and you don’t want anyone else, but it only gets him so far.
Finally, he’ll cave and come to you, dropping to his knees and pressing his face into your stomach. You rest a hand on the back of his head, tilting yours to the side, “Kurt, baby, is everything alright?”
He sighs, words muffled by the fabric of your shirt. His words all come out in one big jumble, each one mumbled and bleeding into the next. Still, you get the gist of it: he’s feeling insecure, and he wants to know if you’d be happier with someone else.
You blink, stunned. “Of course not,” you frown.
“Really?” He pulls away, looking up at you with wide eyes.
“Yes, really.” You reach for his hands, helping him to his feet, “c’mere, silly.”
And Kurt sighs, letting you pull him in for a kiss.
Scott Summers:
Scott either gets really quiet or really arrogant when he’s jealous.
He’s analyzing the situation, watching you talk with a friend. He’s focused on the way they get a little too close, the subtle contact they make on your arm, the way your smile changes ever so slightly.
When he can’t take it anymore, he’s sidling up to you and throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, doll.”
He’ll plant a sloppy kiss to your lips, lingering just a little too long until whoever’s talking to you gets the message. If he’s feeling extra devious, he’s making a snide comment.
You smack his bicep once they’re out of earshot. “Really?”
“What?” He smiles, feigning innocence, “I just missed you.”
Remy LeBeau:
Remy is so clingy when he’s in love with you so it’s only natural he’d be jealous too. But not the angry jealous type, no, Remy gets sad when he’s jealous.
Someone comes up to flirt with you while you’re at the bar and he’s sitting in the corner pouting, nursing his drink and watching. Someone calls you cute right in front of him and he’s not letting it go for the rest of the day.
“Oh that’s cute of you.” “Mhm, yeah, très mignon.”
However, if someone gets handsy with you, Remy’s on his feet in an instant, cards in hand. Is it too far? Maybe, but he doesn’t care.
“This guy bothering you, amour?”
You take a step back into Remy, letting him wrap an arm around you. “Yes,” you say quietly.
That’s all he needs to hear before he’s sizing him up and sending him on the way, hand clenched around the desk of cards in his palm.
Warren Worthington III:
Warren’s jealousy is a lot more low key, but it’s definitely there. He shrugs it off and pretends like he doesn’t care but inside, he’s in shambles. The minute someone else tries to flirt with you, he’s at your side, wrapping an arm around you and leaning his head on your shoulder.
He smiles but there’s no humour behind it as he stares down whoever’s coming onto you.
Sometimes, if he’s been drinking a little or you’re in a safe space for mutants, he’ll even go as far as to wrap his wings around you, creating a shield between you and the other person. You roll your eyes, turning to face him in the trap of wings he’s created for you.
“Baby?”
“Hm?” His jaw is clenched but his eyes are soft when they find yours.
“Can you let me go?”
He tilts his head down, wings ushering you closer to him for a slow and soft kiss. “No.”
Piotr Rasputin:
He’s not really a jealous person to begin with. He knows you’re his and he trusts you enough to believe you’d never do anything behind your back. The rare times he does get jealous is when someone is doing something for you that he could do.
Someone else holds the door? His brows are knitting together. Someone lifts something heavy for you? He’s frowning for the next hour and a half. He’s your partner, he should be the one doing all that for you. He’ll spend the next few hours trying to show off, flexing his muscles and doing everything for you.
He gets a little sad when he’s jealous, too. Is he not enough for you, would you rather be with someone like that? As secure as he likes to think he is, that all melts away in the face of jealousy.
Finally, he’ll come to you, tail between his legs. “Do I make you feel loved?”
You blink, looking up from your book. “Of course you do.”
“Really?”
You dogear the page altogether, putting it down to look at him properly. His lips are pursed in a frown, eyes big and wide with emotions. You rise to your feet, placing your hands on either bicep.
“What’s this about, Petey?”
He sighs and admits to his jealousy, head hung low in shame. It’s only when you cup his cheek and force him to look at you, planting a soft kiss to his lips, that he starts to feel like himself again.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful weekend /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ featuring: wally west x reader!!
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ cw: nsfw 18+, MDNI, fluff, slice of life, lots of.crack, mentions of oral, established relationship
ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ a/n: boyfriend wallyyyy ugh i love him
thank u angel for the request <33 ur awesome 😚
overall just a silly little smau cause i couldn't resist and also my brain is fried <3
stupidass strip I made bc I always found it kinda funny that jaybin is the one that the fandom makes experience nightwing at his emo peak when Tim has been fighting that dudes clinical depression since day one
Bruce knows that John Grayson is Dick's father, not him. He knows that, Dick knows that. He's okay with it. He doesn't want to replace Dick's father; he could never do that.
But sometimes, he truly wishes he were. Who wouldn't want to be the father of such a wonderful child?
In any case, in his mind, Dick is his son; even if he isn't his father.
That's why he never asks to be called anything other than "B" or "Bruce," because he's not Dick's father, even if Dick is his son.
That's why, when Dick woke up from horrible nightmares screaming "Dad!", Bruce would run to his room, hug him, and comfort him.
Dick might sob, repeatedly telling his dad not to leave him alone.
Bruce wouldn't correct him, he wouldn't push him away... And selfishly, he would always reply, "Here I am, I'm not going to leave you".
Because he wouldn't do it, even if Bruce is not really his father... He's still Bruce's son.
When Dick was hurt and scared from a fight gone wrong, and half-sedated he would call for his dad, Bruce would take his little hand and whisper to calm him down.
Dick could offer apologies to his dad, but Bruce would never accept any.
Bruce doesn't tell him he doesn't accept his apology because he's not really his father. But Dick is his son.
Every time Dick says "dad" absentmindedly, Bruce swallows and answers, without correcting him. He understands that Dick is probably unaware of what his mind is doing to him, that he keeps calling for someone who is no longer there.
And Bruce, being the selfish man that he is, convinces himself that this is why he doesn't correct him, and not because he fervently wishes to be his dad.
It is not until Dick becomes an adult that Bruce is proud of, such a wonderful person, a man worthy of admiration... that he realizes it.
It is when Dick is telling someone a story about his parents that Bruce notices the pattern.
Dick never, ever calls John Grayson "dad".
He uses variations of the word, mostly in what he knows is Romani, sometimes in French... But never English.
John Grayson is never called "dad", not even once.
Only then does Bruce Wayne realize.
Bruce may not be Dick's father...
But he's Dick's dad.
And he knows for sure, that Dick is definitely his son.
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