Sweetheart
Rated: M, for violence, detailed-ish description of an injury, mentions of vomitting, unconsensual licking, and the allegory.
—-
The woman before was wild-looking. Her hair was long and tawny blonde, sticking up everywhere before coming down her back. Her eyes were such a dark brown, they were almost black, and you could hardly see the slit pupil. You didn’t like how familiar the brown in those eyes were. Her clothes were also strange, considering she was with a villain mutant group; black tank top and a full fur coat? What was she, a pimp?
The woman breaths in deeply, almost euphorically she smiles before her gaze settles on you again. You see her top row of fangs in her mouth.
“She smells like she’s been aaaaaalllllllllll over you…” she husky voice growls out.
“Who’s she?” You ask, voice quivering. You were not meant to be fighting, you were meant to stay on the ship but the comms went dead and you couldn’t feel Jean in your head so you left the safety of the jet in pursuit of your comrades.
In the snowy woods, you found this woman.
She laughs. Low and gruff, rumbling and gravelly. You could hear the danger in her laugh. “The pup; you’d be calling her Logan now.”
You still at the mention of your friend’s name. Logan and you had become close recently; with her constantly watching you and helping you around the mansion as you teach the various students. You do like Logan quite a bit, but that was a secret only for you to know (and possibly Jean with how snoopy she is).
“Oh?” The woman chuckles. “Struck a cord, huh? Don’t worry little thing…” the woman drawls, smiling widely, hauntingly. “She’s on her way now!”
You hear someone, impossibly distant from you, scream your name in a desperate fashion. Logan, somewhere in the woods.
“She’ll know this reminder is from me.”
“SABERTOOTH!”
And then your side erupts with pain. You didn’t even see the woman move.
Sabertooth smiles viciously down to you, eyes almost gone with how wide the slit had became. In your side, her three nails penetrate you in a white hot agony. You can’t even scream, it hurts so bad.
“Betcha she don’t finger you like this, huh?” She quips, inside your ribs she wiggles her fingers and you nearly vomit.
Logan, much closer now, roars your name.
You black out before she could reach you-
—-
“No serious damage done.” Jean had said.
You begged to fucking differ.
Sure, the razor sharp nails of Victoria Creed, aka Sabertooth, has left no infection and slipped between your muscles and tendons like a hot knife through butter; but damage was dealt.
You felt her inside you. You hear her vice, feel the heat of her breath when you least expect it. The wound heals and scars over and everyone you see the four bumpy lines on your side you grow nauseous.
Logan’s in the same train of thought as you.
Even after you had been officially discharged from the medical bay, Logan follows you like a dog. She checks up on you frequently, makes sure you eat, sleep, shower, not let yourself fall into a gut wrenching depression no matter how desperately you want to just to feel the relief of your sadness.
Sabertooth had fucked you up viscerally; she wasn’t just in your side, she was in your head.
It’s driving you crazy.
Without Logan around some nights, you just can’t sleep (you try to not think about how badly you miss the safety of Logan’s arms; how warm and heavy and comforting her scent is; how she doesn’t smell like Sabertooth, how most nights when she watches you sleep you feel her hot, heavy hand rub at your scars, how one night you feel the wet broad of her tongue lick your healed wound while she thought you slept-).
One night you managed to sleep; only to see phantom visions of Creed behind your eyelids, your brain fabricating awful memories of her finger-fucking your rib cage and you woke up screaming. Logan barrelled through your door, the sound of splintering wood and a full body impaction waking you from your fretful slumber. Logan stood at the foot of your bed, eyes wide and full of wrath, claws at the ready.
You hardly see her claws outside of battle, you thought idly as your throat was too sore to calm her down.
Again, that night, you fell asleep with Logan carefully holding you, her thumb brushing up against the raised skin on your side.
You wish it was Logan that defiled you. Logan you could forgive. Logan could gut you in a blind rage and you’d absolve her of her guilt readily. Instead you got her rival, a vindictive and frightening woman. You wish Logan could carve out whatever Victoria had left behind.
—-
And why not? You think, as you stare Logan down.
You’ve laid your case out, voice strained and heart heavy, about your idea.
And Logan had never looked more soft or vulnerable than the moment she rejected your proposal.
“I can’t.” She states softly, eyes almost wet. “I can’t hurt you, let alone on purpose, sweetheart, please-“
“She-“ you interrupt, angry at Creed for doing this to you and at Logan for denying you peace, “she, is in me, Logan. Floating around in my head, in my organs, and I can feel her.” You stress.
You see Logan flinch slightly and a sickening thought crosses your mind.
“Can you smell her on me?” You ask, voice raw, “Still? Even now?”
“You’re still you.” Logan hastily relays. “You still smell mostly like you, it’s fades every day-“
And once again, you’re violated by the villain. No wonder Logan’s been forcing her clothes on you, having you shower daily; she’s been trying to get the scent of her enemy off of you for weeks-
You gasp a sob. “Logan, please!”you beg. “I can’t keep doing this! I need her out of me, I need someone I trust inside me, I can’t keep letting invade my every waking thought! All I hear is her laughing!”
Logan looks at you, desperate, a rebuttal in her mouth.
“I am this close to carving her out myself-!”
“Okay! Fine! Jesus do not do it yourself!” She pleads, throwing her hands up. She huffs a sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. “We’re doing it my way, okay, safely-“
“Oh god thank you!” And you rush her into a hug, crying and clutching the taller woman for support.
Logan sighs and hugs you back, a touch tighter than her careful squeezing.
—-
There’s antiseptic and cotton balls lining your side table, along with rolls of white bandages. Logan has her claws out, letting the rubbing alcohol on them dry to disinfect them. She wasn’t kidding, despite how gruesome the request you made, she was doing it safely. Logan was prepping this like a surgery.
Eventually, she sits on the edge of your bed, and eagerly you scramble into her lap.
She looks grim, determined. “Ready? This hurt.” She warns.
You scowl. “At least you warn me.” You hiss, wiggling your hips against the woman to get closer.
Just barely, a blush flushes over Logan’s cheekbones and her eyes flash with rage before cooling back down.
Her eyes were the same color as Victoria’s, but a shade lighter in tone. It was similar, almost uncomfortably so.
Claws still out, Logan assists you in shimmying your shirt off. Once bare to her, the flat underside of her claws slide against your ribs.
Your stomach turns and your force yourself not to gasp at the intimate situation you were in.
“If you wanna squirm and scream, that’s fine.” She assures. Most of the team was gone to find Creed, you’ve been actively avoiding the task. So right now there’s hardly anyone in the teachers’ quarters beside you and your companion.
You nod in understanding, mouth dry.
Logan nods as well, face set into a neutral expression. You don’t know what would be worse for you, her enjoying this or hating it.
The tips of the claws pride you gently, before slowly pushing into you.
‘Betcha she don’t finger you like this, huh?’
Fucker, you think, your fingers digging into the shoulders of the woman doing this tremendous favour for you.
Logan stops, claws shallowly resting in you. You realize with a shaken heart she’s trying to stop.
“Deeper.” You demand.
“Sweetheart-“
You wiggle uncomfortably, the claws entering you a quarter-inch more, and Logan scowls.
“Please, she’s in deep.” You beg, almost sobbing from your high emotions.
Logan’s bottom lip trembles an iota and she moves her fist closer to you, her claws going in further.
You gasp when they reach where Victoria reached. “Stop.”
Immediately, the claws are out of your side, Logan is pressing a towel to your ribs and she places you on the bed.
“You’re okay.” She assures, voice and body tense. “You’re fine, you’ll be fine-“
You smile loonily.
You can’t hear Sabertooth anymore.
Logan frets over you, bandaging your side, mumbling encouragements and words of clumsy comfort. She pets your hair and gently slaps at your face when your eye lids slip close.
“Wake up, sweetheart, look at me.” She demands. “How do you feel?”
Feel? You feel relieved, you feel free. You feel adrenaline and exhaustion and arousal, your thighs rubbing together.
Logan twitches slightly and continues to dress your wound.
“Do I smell like you now?” You ponder aloud.
Logan stills slightly to look at you, face unreadable.
She responds, monosyllabic and husky.
“Yes.”