Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend’s little sister.
wc: 2,2k graham!reader; figure skater!reader; reader is inspired by alysa liu; brother’s best friend; hockey player x figure skater; mouthful reader; multiple chapter fic
Their house smelled like beer and sweat. Which meant the party was dying.
Bodies still crowded the living room, music still thumped through the speakers, and someone was loudly arguing about video game hockey in the kitchen, but the energy had shifted hours ago, from drunk and chaotic to lazy and half-dead.
Logan leaned back against the couch with a bottle hanging loosely from his hand while Dean flirted shamelessly with two girls near the staircase.
Typical.
Tucker was passed out in an armchair.
Also typical.
And Garrett… “Get your damn feet off my table,” he said, glaring across the room at a freshman defenseman currently ignoring him completely.
Logan snorted into his beer. “Y’know,” he drawled, “you get more aggressive every year.”
Garrett flipped him off without looking away from the kid. “I’m two seconds away from murdering half this team.”
“Only half?” Logan asked, smirking.
Before Garrett could answer, the front door swung open hard enough to hit the wall. Cold air rushed inside.
And then:
“Jesus Christ, this place smells disgusting,” a familiar female voice said dramatically.
Logan looked up automatically.
Y/N Graham stood in the doorway wearing leggings, an oversized Briar hockey hoodie (which was, by the way, stolen) and the kind of expression that suggested she’d rather be literally anywhere else. Still… she was here.
Her duffel bag slid off her shoulder as she kicked the door shut behind her.
“Oh, thank God,” Dean said immediately. “An attractive person finally showed up.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Still using that line?”
“Still working?” he winked.
“It’s really not,” she said casually.
Garrett frowned from the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
She stared at him blankly. “Hello to you too, sunshine,” she said sarcastically as she moved to give him a light kiss on the cheek.
“Weren’t you at practice?” he asked as he leaned down to receive it.
“Yeah… like three hours ago.” She checked her phone for the time. “I texted you.”
Garrett pulled his phone out, checked it, then shoved it back into his pocket. “Didn’t see it.”
“No way,” she deadpanned. “You mean you ignored your phone during a party? That’s so unlike you.”
Logan huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself.
Y/N’s eyes flicked toward him briefly. Just for a second. Like she only now acknowledged he was there.
Then she walked straight past the couch and headed for the kitchen like she owned the place. Which, honestly, she kind of did at this point. Especially when Dean instantly grabbed her bag from the floor and took it to the living room like second nature.
Nobody questioned it anymore.
Not when she’d been hanging around the team since their freshman year. Not when she knew all their names, their habits, their schedules. Not when she walked into their house without knocking and immediately started stealing their food.
“Is that my pizza?” Dean yelled, watching her take a container out of the fridge.
Y/N opened the takeout container. “If you have to ask, they’re not yours anymore.”
“That’s stealing,” he complained.
“That’s survival,” she replied, already placing the leftovers in the microwave.
Dean pretended to be annoyed about it. But not really, already accepting the terrible fate that his leftover pizza didn’t belong to him anymore.
Garrett, meanwhile, was still watching his sister with narrowed eyes like she might spontaneously set the house on fire if left unsupervised for too long.
She was too much like Garrett. Same sharp mouth, same stubborn confidence, same tendency to look at people like she already knew exactly how to win the argument before it started.
It made her annoyingly difficult to intimidate.
Logan had learned that pretty quickly.
The first time they met, she’d looked him up and down and said:
“You definitely look like a hockey player,” she said.
Logan laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The hair. The ego. The vacant expression. Very on brand.”
That had been two years ago.
And now she was just… always there. Curled up on their couch during movie nights. Stealing all their hoodies. Yelling at the TV during games. Bullying Dean with terrifying efficiency. Part of the furniture, basically.
Y/N hopped onto the kitchen counter and pointed at Logan’s bottle. “Is that the last Diet Coke?”
“No…” he lied, looking away because he knew she’d fight him for it.
“Give it to me,” she ordered.
Logan held the bottle out lazily. “Then come take it, Graham.”
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
Garrett didn’t even look up from his phone. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Too late, man,” Dean said.
Y/N slid off the counter and walked over. Logan expected her to snatch the bottle and leave.
Instead, she stopped directly in front of him.
Close enough for him to notice the cold flush in her cheeks from outside. Close enough to smell winter air and something faintly sweet underneath it.
She tilted her head and pouted cutely.
Logan grinned slowly. “That’s not gonna work on me, princess. I’m not your brother… or Tucker.”
“But… there’s only beer left in the fridge,” she said sadly.
“Come on, Johnny,” she said softly. “You’re really gonna let Garrett’s little sister die of dehydration?”
Logan grinned slowly.
“Pretty sure Coke does the opposite.”
“Wow,” she said, unimpressed. “And they let you into college.”
Dean barked out a laugh somewhere behind them.
Logan looked down at her, still smiling, and willingly handed over the bottle. She smiled and grabbed it before moving to the living room with his soda and Dean’s pizza.
But across the room, Garrett was watching the entire interaction with narrowed eyes.
He knew hockey players couldn’t be trusted around his sister.
Good thing Logan agreed.
And he had nothing to worry about.
“So… what are you doing here, Baby G?” Tucker asked sleepily, barely lifting his head from the armchair as Y/N practically threw herself onto the couch with Logan’s stolen Coke still in hand.
“My roommate’s having her boyfriend over tonight,” she said easily, stretching her legs across the cushions. “She asked me to disappear for a few hours.”
Dean looked offended on her behalf. “And your first thought was to come here?”
Y/N took another sip of the soda. “Well, yeah. You idiots always have food.”
“That’s weirdly touching,” Dean admitted.
“It’s not meant to be.”
Garrett pointed at her from the kitchen. “You’re not sleeping here.”
Y/N blinked at him. “I literally wasn’t asking permission.”
“You should,” he replied.
“Fine,” Y/N said dramatically. “I’ll just sleep in some motel then.”
Garrett looked horrified. “Absolutely not,” he practically shouted.
She smirked immediately, seeing he’d fallen for her teasing.
“You are not staying alone in some random motel.”
Y/N threw her hands up. “You seriously need to stop acting like I require constant supervision.”
Garrett stared at her blankly. “Y/N…”
“What?” she asked knowingly.
“Two days ago you got suspended from practice for fighting another girl.”
Y/N scoffed immediately. “She deserved it.”
“Wait, what?” Dean perked up instantly.
Y/N scoffed again. “Some girl at practice kept acting like I stole her routine or something.”
“You did steal her routine,” Garrett muttered.
“She wasn’t performing it correctly,” she said, offended.
“And you threw a skate guard at her.”
Her jaw dropped dramatically. “It barely hit her.”
Logan barked out a laugh. Tucker and Dean joined immediately.
Y/N pointed at them. “Thank you.”
Garrett looked exhausted. “I hate all of you.”
“That’s not true,” Y/N said sweetly. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you because we share DNA.”
“Aww.”
She leaned back deeper into the couch cushions, entirely too comfortable for someone who technically didn’t live there. Not that anyone was surprised.
At some point over the years, Y/N had stopped being Garrett’s little sister visiting campus and started becoming part of the house itself.
Logan sat on the end of the couch and looked at her.
She looked exhausted.
There was still faint glitter near her eyes from practice, her hair messy from being shoved into a rushed ponytail, oversized hoodie sleeves covering half her hands.
Cute.
The thought came and went so fast Logan barely registered it.
Garrett’s sister.
Mouthy figure skater. Professional thief of their food. Human headache.
Nothing more.
“Hey,” Y/N suddenly said, tossing a pretzel at his chest. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Logan caught it automatically. “I’m trying to figure out how Garrett and you came from the same genetic pool.”
“Easy,” she replied. “I got the personality. He got the anger issues.”
Garrett flipped her off from across the room.
“See? I’m right.”
Y/N smiled proudly.
“Anyways,” she said, taking another sip, “you boys don’t mind me. Just finish your party. I can sleep on the couch.”
She sounded completely unconcerned about it already, like the decision had been made hours ago and everyone else was just catching up.
Before Garrett could argue again, she shifted deeper into the cushions, grabbing one of the throw pillows and shoving it under her head.
Logan snorted softly.
“She’s nesting,” Tucker said.
“I do not nest,” Y/N mumbled, eyes already half-closed.
“That’s my pillow, by the way,” Dean pointed out.
“Communism.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how communism works,” he replied.
Garrett crossed his arms. “You’re not sleeping down here while the house is still filled with people.”
Y/N cracked one eye open to stare at him. “Garrett. I grew up with you. Trust me when I say none of your friends scare me.”
“That’s because you have terrible survival instincts.”
She smiled lazily. “Maybe. But I’m tired enough not to care.”
And honestly, she looked exhausted.
The dark circles under her eyes were faint but there, her voice rough with sleepiness after what was probably hours at the rink.
Figure skating looked elegant until you actually watched the training. Then it just looked painful.
Logan had seen enough practices to know that much.
Y/N shifted again until her sock-covered feet ended up in his lap without warning.
He looked down at them. Then at her.
“…seriously?” he asked, annoyed.
“You’re warm,” she said simply, not even bothering to move.
Garrett rubbed a hand down his face like this entire room was raising his blood pressure by the second.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
Asleep.
Even with the music and chatting around her.
Dean noticed first. “Wow. She’s actually dead.”
Garrett immediately grabbed the nearest blanket and tossed it over her without a second thought.
Something in Logan’s chest tightened strangely at the sight.
Not because Garrett was protective, that part was expected. But because Y/N relaxed almost instantly after the blanket covered her. Like she trusted, without even thinking about it, that her brother would always take care of her.
Garrett glanced toward Logan then. “Don’t let anyone wake her up.”
Logan frowned. “And why am I responsible for that?”
“Because I know you won’t anyway,” Garrett said, clapping Logan’s shoulder once before heading off to probably end the party.
It wasn’t even said like a warning.
That was the worst part.
It sounded like trust.
Dean followed right behind him, still muttering something about his stolen pillow, while Tucker dragged himself upstairs looking half-conscious.
And then suddenly, the living room was quiet.
And Y/N was asleep beside him.
Or technically… on him.
Logan looked down carefully. Her feet were still in his lap, tangled under the blanket Garrett had thrown over her earlier. One of her hands was tucked under her cheek, hair falling across her face messily.
She looked peaceful asleep.
Softer.
Not like the sharp-mouthed girl constantly arguing with everybody in the house.
Just tired.
Logan shifted slightly, testing to see if he could leave.
Y/N immediately made a small sound of protest and moved closer unconsciously, pressing her legs more firmly against him like she was searching for warmth in her sleep.
Logan froze.
Completely froze.
“…seriously?” he muttered under his breath, throwing his head back.
Because now if he moved, she’d wake up.
And somehow that felt illegal considering how exhausted she looked.
He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with the exhausted resignation of a man realizing the universe hated him personally.
This was ridiculous.
The same girl who once laughed at him for walking into a glass door.
The same girl who stole his fries every single time she came over.
The same girl who called him “Johnny Boy” specifically because she knew it annoyed him.
There was absolutely no reason for him to suddenly be hyper aware of the weight of her legs across his lap. Or the heaviness of her breathing. Or the hair falling across her face.
And yet—
His eyes dropped back to her face.
A strand of hair had fallen over her cheek. Without thinking, Logan reached over slightly to move it away.
The second his fingers brushed her skin, Y/N frowned softly in her sleep before relaxing again almost immediately.
Trusting. Comfortable.
Like she never once considered he could be anything except safe.
Something twisted strangely in his chest.
Logan pulled his hand back fast.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly to himself, staring back at the ceiling again. “This is exactly how people die.”
Why are all the 'x reader' fics I see mostly smuts? Don't get me wrong, they're great and all but I barely see any fluff or angst around here. I literally just want to feel things without the character lusting over the reader 😭
Characters : frank castle, matt murdock, peter parker, kurt wagner, wade wilson, eric brooks, scott summers, remy lebeau, logan howlett, johnny storm
You wake up slowly, the first thing you register being warmth. It was solid, steady, protective.
Frank is still asleep beside you.
The room is quiet in that early-morning way, sunlight barely slipping through the blinds and casting soft lines across his bare shoulders. One of his arms is wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His grip isn’t tight, just… certain.
You shift slightly, testing the space, and his arm tightens immediately. Instinct.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, barely conscious.
You smile to yourself.
Last night lingers in the air, not in details, but in feelings. The closeness. The way he looked at you like you were something rare. The way he stayed, instead of pulling away like he usually does.
You trace a finger over the scars on his chest, careful, reverent. He stirs again, eyes fluttering open. For a moment he looks disoriented—then he sees you.
And everything softens ever so slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your hip. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
He studies your face like he’s committing it to memory, jaw tense, like he’s bracing for you to regret staying. When you don’t move away, when you lean in instead, he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he admits.
You kiss his shoulder. “I wanted to wake up with you.”
That’s what gets him.
Frank pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. No armor. No walls. Just a man who stayed the night and woke up to someone choosing him in the morning.
He presses a gentle kiss to your hair.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
You wake up tangled in warmth, limbs lazy, sheets a mess that tells a story neither of you are pretending didn’t happen.
Remy’s half on top of you, one leg hooked over yours like he claimed you in his sleep and never let go. His hair is a disaster, eyes still closed, lips curved like he’s already amused by something.
You shift just enough to get comfortable.
He hums immediately.
“Mmm… careful, chère. Dat kinda movement’s dangerous.”
You snort and grumble a grouchy, “You’re the one crushing me.”
One eye opens, cherry red on black, bright with mischief.
“Crushing?” he repeats, offended. “Non. Dis is cuddlin’. Very affectionate.”
“Your knee is practically a weapon.”
He grins wider and adjusts — somehow making it worse on purpose, pressing intentionally against the inside of your thigh.
“Funny. Didn’t hear you complainin’ bout my knee between your legs last night.”
You swat his chest, but he catches your wrist easily, presses a kiss to your knuckles instead. The teasing fades just a notch, replaced by something softer.
“You still here,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your palm.
“Still here,” you confirm.
That earns you a slow, satisfied smile. He leans down, kisses you properly this time — unrushed, warm, smiling into it like he’s got all the time in the world. His hand traces familiar paths, unhurried, like he’s savoring the morning as much as you.
“You know,” you murmur, “most people make coffee when they wake up.”
Remy laughs low in his throat.
“Chère,” he says, voice dropping, “I got somethin’ sweeter in mind.”
He slides down under the blankets, eyes never leaving yours. There’s a crooked smile on his lips now. Pure Remy. But his gaze is soft, reverent, like this isn’t a game so much as a promise. He settles between your thighs, spreading you gently as his breath ghosts warm and slow, hitting your bare cunt, making you gulp in anticipation.
— and he looks up at you like he’s exactly where he belongs. The softness of that crooked grin sending shivers through your body.
“Bon matin,” he murmurs.
Morning comes quietly.
You’re the first to wake, tucked against Matt’s side, his arm slung loose but possessive around your waist. The city hums faintly outside, distant traffic and early footsteps filtered through the cracked window. His breathing is steady, warm against your shoulder.
You shift just a little.
“Mm,” he hums immediately. “If you’re trying to sneak away, you’re terrible at it.”
You smile. “You were asleep.”
“I was resting my eyes,” he says lightly. “Big difference.”
You roll onto your elbow, looking down at him. His head is turned toward you, looking just over your shoulder, lips curved in that knowing little smile that always makes you feel like you’ve already lost.
“You know,” you say casually, “I expected more stamina from the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
One brow lifts. Intrigue. “Oh?”
“Tapping out after four rounds?” you continue, thoughtful, “Kind of pathetic.”
He hears the lie immediately, hears the amusement threading through your pulse, the way your body gives you away even when your mouth doesn’t.
And he grins like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket.
“Four,” he repeats, savoring it. “That’s tapping out now?”
You shrug, trying to hide your smile so that he wouldn't be able to hear it in your voice,“I had higher expectations.”
He lets out a soft hum, deep in his chest, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
“Funny,” he says, voice warm, teasing. “Because your heart says you were very… satisfied.”
“Your hearing is overrated.” you scoffed, tugging his earlobe for emphasis, making him chuckle.
“Mm. Maybe.” He tilts his head, “But you’re smiling.”
Before you can fire back, his hands are on you — confident, gentle — sliding up your bare thighs as he pulls you easily on top of him. You barely have time to register the movement before you’re straddling his hips, his touch grounding, familiar.
His hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing slow, deliberate arcs that make it very hard to remember your argument.
Matt smiles up at you — innocent, almost angelic, like he isn’t absolutely enjoying this.
“Well,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t want you walkin’ away disappointed.”
That hum again, low and pleased.
“Go on,” he adds, brown eyes somehow finding yours as they scrunch cutely with amusement, “Prove your point.”
Your cup his cheeks and your press your lips to his for the sole purpose that he would be able to feel your smile," You asked for it, counsellor."
You wake up warm, pleasantly sore, wrapped in blue limbs and silk-soft sheets that smell faintly like incense and ozone.
Kurt is curled around you protectively, one arm tucked beneath your neck, the other resting light at your waist like he’s afraid to hold too tight. His face is peaceful in sleep, lashes dark against his skin, lips parted just enough to look tempting.
And then there’s his tail.
It’s draped lazily over your thigh — except not lazily at all. The tip twitches the moment you shift, curling, tightening, giving him away long before his eyes open.
“Kurt.” you murmur.
His eyes snap open immediately.
“Guten Morgen, Liebes,” he says, voice gentle, careful. Too careful.
You tilt your head, “You look… composed.”
He nods solemnly. “I am being very good.”
The tail flicks.
You bite back a smile. “Your tail disagrees.”
He freezes.
Slowly, he glances down. The traitorous appendage tightens around your thigh like it’s trying to make a point of its own. His ears flush a darker blue.
“…It has a mind of its own,” he says weakly.
“Uh-huh.” You stretch deliberately, enjoying the way his breath catches despite his best efforts. “You’re staring.”
“I am not,” he protests.
The tail tightens again.
He exhales, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Forgive me. It is just-” He gestures vaguely, “You look very… happy.”
“Happy?”
He swallows. “Deliciously… content.”
You laugh softly, reaching out to trace the fuzzy edge of his ear. “Well... you were pretty damn good last night.”
That makes him smile — soft, shy, pleased in that uniquely Kurt way. “I tried to be restrained this morning,” he admits, “Out of respect.”
His tail betrays him by sliding higher.
You raise a brow and snort,“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He laughs quietly, giving up, pressing his forehead to yours. “Ja,” he murmurs. “I fear my self-control is… limited.”
The tail curls possessively around your waist now, and Kurt sighs like a man who has accepted his fate. His golden eyes warm, affectionate, absolutely undone by you.
“But,” he adds softly, smiling, “I regret nothing.”
Morning light cuts through the blinds in thin, pale stripes. You wake up first, tucked against a solid wall of warmth that is very much Eric Brooks pretending he isn’t awake.
His arm is heavy across your waist. Protective. Familiar.
You shift and feel him tense instantly.
“You’re awake,” you say softly.
A pause. Then a low sigh.
“…Yeah.”
You turn slightly, catching sight of the faint mark at your shoulder in the mirror across the room. Two small impressions, already fading. You touch it without thinking.
Eric notices immediately.
His jaw tightens. “ fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm. “I didn’t mean to—”
You roll toward him before he can spiral, smiling. “Hey. You stopped.”
He frowns grouchily, “Still shouldn’t have happened.”
“You’re half-vampire,” you point out gently, “And you were hungry.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
You reach up, thumb brushing along his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “It kind of is. And you showed a lot of control.”
That does it.
He snorts softly, shaking his head, clearly uncomfortable with praise. “You’re givin’ me too much credit.”
But you hear it — the tiny hitch in his breathing. Feel it in the way his grip tightens just a little, like the words landed somewhere deep.
You grin. “C’mon. Most people would’ve left more than a mark.”
He leans down abruptly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Right over the bite like he’s trying to erase the compliment before it sinks in. Then another, softer one. Then one to your jaw.
“You talk too damn much,” he mutters.
“And you hate being appreciated,” you shoot back.
A corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.
He pulls you closer, forehead resting against your shoulder, voice low but warm. “You scared?”
You shake your head, “Not even a little.”
That makes him pause. Then he exhales slowly, tension easing, and brushes his thumb across your waist with surprising gentleness.
“…Good,” he murmurs.
You smile, completely content, while Eric Brooks pretends he isn’t glowing inside over being trusted.
You wake up to exactly zero peace.
“Mornin’, beautiful~ wow, okay, still unfairly hot. Did I ever tell you how talented you are with your mouth?”
His mouth is everywhere. Your cheek. Your jaw. Your temple. Each kiss punctuated with commentary delivered at machine-gun speed.
“—seriously, Olympic-level effort last night, ten outta ten, would absolutely risk my life again—”
“Wade,” you mumble, trying to surface from sleep.
“And the confidence? The enthusiasm? The way you—”
You pinch his nipple.
Hard.
“YOW—!” He jerks back, eyes wide, then immediately breaks into a grin," Oh no. Oh wow. File that under unexpectedly into that.”
You roll your eyes. “Please shut up.”
“Can’t. Won’t. I am physically incapable of not praising you for-”
You cut him off by leaning in, pressing a quick kiss to his scarred cheek, softer than all the others.
“Wade,” you say sincerely, “you were really sweet last night. And you make me feel… safe. Wanted.”
Silence.
Actual, honest-to-god silence.
His grin falters. Not gone, just stunned. His eyes soften in a way that makes your chest ache. For half a second, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with something that genuine.
Then-
You blink, and suddenly he’s above you.
Pinned.
Your wrists gently but firmly held over your head, his weight settling between your legs, hips pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.
He’s grinning wildly now, unrestrained joy written all over his face.
You swear - swear - you see little cartoon hearts practically floating in his eyes.
“Well,” he says, delighted, “now I gotta reward you for how fucking cute that was.”
You groan out an amused," you slut.”
He leans down, nose brushing yours before he literally licks the tip of your nose, “And you looove me.”
You do, unfortunately.
You wake up before him, which feels rare enough to be a small miracle.
Logan is sprawled beside you, sheets tangled around his waist, broad chest rising and falling slow and steady. For once, there’s no tension etched into his face. No scowl, no clenched jaw. Just calm. Rest.
It makes your chest flutter stupidly.
You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying him like he might disappear if you look away too long. His dark hair is mussed, lashes resting against his cheeks, brow still faintly furrowed even in sleep.
You reach out carefully, smoothing your thumb over that crease.
He snaps forward without warning, teeth chomping the inside of your wrist — not hard, but just enough to make you yelp.
“Logan!” you gasp.
He doesn’t even open his eyes at first. Just smirks hotly.
“Shouldn’t poke dangerous animals,” he murmurs from having your wrist beteeen his teeth, voice rough with sleep.
“You were asleep!” you accuse with a glare.
“Was restin’,” he says with a snort, “You’re noisy.”
You glare harder at him. “I was being affectionate.”
He releases your wrist, bringing it closer to inspect like he’s deciding whether to apologise for the faint mark he had left. His thumb rubs over the spot, gentler now.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
That’s as close to soft as he’ll get, and it makes you grin.
“You looked peaceful,” you tease. “Didn’t know you were capable.”
“Careful, darlin'. ” he warns. “I got a reputation.”
You lean down and press a sweet kiss to his scarred knuckles — slow, deliberate, affectionate.
That’s all it takes.
Logan’s breath hitches immediately. His eyes darken, and in the next second he’s pulling you down against him, hand fisting lightly in your hair as he claims your mouth in a heavy kiss. All heat and hunger and unmistakable intent, tongue sliding against yours like he’s been waiting for an excuse.
When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he exhales sharply.
“…You do that on purpose,” he growls.
You smile, completely smug. “Maybe.”
He snorts, already leaning back in. “Smart mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
"Well, my smart mouth made you cum three times last night, so-"
His teeth nips your bottom lip, glaring at you but the smile twitching onto his lips told you all you needed to know.
You wake slowly, cocooned in warmth and soft sheets, your body pleasantly heavy. For a moment, you don’t move. Just breathe.
until you realize the weight against you isn’t just the blankets.
Scott.
He’s curled into you, his head resting against your chest, one arm loosely draped around your waist like he belongs there. His face is relaxed in sleep, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth parted just slightly. For someone who always carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looks… peaceful. Safe.
Your heart does a small flip.
His hair is a complete mess, dark strands sticking up in every direction, and when your gaze drifts lower, you notice them... two faint bite marks along his collarbone, already blooming into soft bruises.
Heat rushes to your face as last night crashes back into your mind in vivid fragments.
“Oh my god,” you mumble to yourself, mortified and amused all at once. “I’m such a horny mess.”
A quiet snicker answers you.
You freeze.
Scott looks up at you, his eyes shut tight as he gives you a charming smile, “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
You groan, lifting a hand to cover your face. “You were awake.”
“Mm. For a while.” His voice is still rough with sleep, low and warm. He shifts closer, tilting his head so his lips brush your skin. “Couldn’t bring myself to move.”
You reach toward the nightstand, fingers searching blindly, and he takes that as an invitation as your body hovers over him more.
His mouth trails along your collarbone, slow and lazy, punctuated by soft kisses that linger just long enough to make you shiver. A gentle nip here, a teasing suck there - like he’s leaving reminders.
“Scott,” you laugh breathlessly, finally grabbing his glasses and nudging them toward him, “You can’t even see.”
“Minor detail,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss before slipping them on. Once his glasses are secure, he looks up at you properly, that familiar fondness settling into his expression, “Besides, I know you pretty well by now.”
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “So confident for someone who uses a laser-proof sleep mask.”
“Hey,” he protests lightly, fingers tracing idle patterns along your side. “You like my sleep mask.”
“I tolerate it.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced.
The banter fades into something quieter as you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. Then another. You let them trail lower, over his jaw, down his neck, across his chest, feeling his breath change beneath you.
By the time you disappear beneath the blankets, his breathing is already uneven, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as your breath ghosts against the inside of his thighs.
His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through gently - not guiding, just holding on. You were his tether.
“God,” he exhales, head tipping back with a pant, “You’re dangerous.”
You smile to yourself and take him into your greedy mouth.
You wake up warm and hazy, reaching instinctively for him—
— and finding nothing.
Your eyes blink open, frown forming immediately as your hand pats the empty space beside you. The sheets are still warm, which somehow makes it worse. You let out a quiet, dramatic huff and flop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling like you’ve been personally wronged.
Then you hear it.
The toilet flushes.
A moment later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Peter pads back into the bedroom in nothing but soft pajama pants and a sheepish grin, chocolate brown hair still damp from splashing water on his face.
“Oh no,” he says immediately, voice amused. “That face. That’s the ‘I thought you disappeared forever’ face.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes narrowed. “You left.”
“For, like, thirty seconds,” he laughs, crossing the room. “I promise I didn’t swing off into the sunset.”
He barely gets back under the covers before you’re on him, arms and legs wrapping around his middle like a sleepy octopus. He lets out a surprised laugh, automatically curling into you, one arm snug around your back.
“Missed me that much, huh?”
You mumble something incoherent into his chest, fingers clutching his shirt. He smiles softly, pressing a kiss into the top of your head, lingering there. His hand drifts lazily over your side, warm and familiar, tracing over your hip and down your thigh.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
“My legs are sore,” you mumble, half-asleep.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Peter stiffens just slightly.
“Oh,” he says, flushing instantly. He clears his throat, ears definitely red now. “Uh— I mean— I can— I can carry you? Today. Around the apartment. If you need. Like, totally heroic bridal carry situation.”
You snort, lifting your head to look at him. “You’d do that?”
He nods earnestly, trying very hard not to think about why your legs are sore. He needs to remember you're not as flexible as he is. You seriously were put through the ringer last night, your legs being manhandled in every which direction.
“Absolutely. Doctor’s orders. I’m the doctor. Of… being your boyfriend.”
You laugh, settling back against him as he relaxes again, pressing another gentle kiss to your hair.
“Stay,” you whisper.
He tightens his hold just a little. “Wasn’t going anywhere.”
You wake to friction and heat, your body responding before your thoughts can form. Johnny is behind you, breath ragged against your ear, every exhale hot enough to make you shiver. There’s a slow, deliberate pressure as he moves, unhurried, like he’s savoring the way you melt beneath him.
You groan, half protest, half invitation.
“Easy,” you mumble, trying to sound annoyed.
He laughs softly, low and dangerous, and shifts closer. One of your legs is lifted with effortless confidence, opening you to him, fitting you exactly where he wants you. The contact sends a spark straight through your core, your back arching without permission.
“Funny,” he murmurs into your ear, voice rough with memory, “you weren’t saying that last night. Pretty sure you were the one pulling me closer.”
Your breath stutters. The words do things to you— do things with him pressed so close, heat radiating off his skin. Johnny always runs warm, but this is different. Sweat gathers along your spine, the air thick, charged. He’s a heater, coiled and barely contained.
A faint flare ripples along his shoulders, light licking through his hair. He swears under his breath and moves quickly, smoothly, rolling you onto your back before the fire can get out of hand. The mattress dips as he settles between your legs, bracing himself above you.
“Hold on,” he mutters, grin flashing as the glow fades. “Don’t need to set the place on fire.”
His hands slide to your hips, firm and grounding. He leans in, forehead resting briefly against yours, breath mingling with yours, the tension unbearable.
Then he shifts — just a fraction — and the world narrows to sensation. There’s a slow, steady press, a shared inhale, the unmistakable feeling of being filled as your cunt welcomes him again. A sound slips from your throat as he stills, eyes locked on yours, heat humming between you.
Johnny exhales, satisfied, reverent. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Just like last night.”
Synopsis: Three weeks ago at Hannah's Halloween party, John Logan almost kissed you in a hallway. You panicked. You laughed. You stepped back. Neither of you has talked about it since. Now you're trapped in the hockey house during the worst snowstorm of the year — just you, just him, just twelve hours and nowhere to go.
Word count: ~7k
Content / Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content. Forced proximity (snowstorm). Slow burn. Best friend's best friend dynamic. Near-kiss flashback (steamy). Heavy emotional tension. Mutual avoidance into mutual confession. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby"). Garrett Graham mentioned. Hannah, Allie, Dean, Tucker mentioned. Reader is part of the friend group through Hannah and Allie.
You only stopped by the hockey house to drop off Garrett's stupid jacket.
That's it. That's all. Hannah had texted you an hour ago — babe can you do me the biggest favor in the world he forgot his blue jacket at my place again and he needs it for the away trip tomorrow and I'm already in PJ's i literally cannot — and because you love Hannah and because you live a few blocks away and because you owe her approximately a thousand favors, you said yes.
The drive over is fine. Easy. It's snowing — soft little flakes, the kind that make you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie — but the roads are clear and you've got the radio on and you've been singing, and the snow is the kind of snow you can ignore.
Garrett isn't home. You let yourself in (you've had a key for years, every Graham sibling-adjacent friend does), drop the jacket on the couch with a sticky note that says YOU OWE ME ETERNALLY, and turn to leave.
You don't make it to the door.
"Y/N?"
You freeze.
Because John Logan is standing at the top of the stairs in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair a little messy like he was halfway through doing something when he heard the front door, and your stomach does a stupid traitorous flip that you immediately try to crush.
"Logan."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I didn't know you were coming over."
"I was just — Hannah asked me to drop off Garrett's jacket—"
"Right."
"Yeah."
"Cool."
He's not coming down the stairs. You're not moving toward the door. The two of you stand there, suspended in the entryway and the staircase, and you have not been in a room alone with him for three weeks and now here you are and the air is doing that thing where there's no oxygen in it—
Both your phones go off at the same time.
The sound is deafening. That alarm-bell emergency-alert buzz, the kind that overrides your ringer settings, the kind that makes everyone in a public space grab their phone at the same time. Both of you flinch. Both of you reach for your pockets.
You stare at your screen.
⚠️ EMERGENCY WEATHER ALERT A severe winter storm warning has been issued for your area. Heavy snow and high winds expected. Travel is strongly discouraged. Stay indoors. Roads will be closed within the hour. ⚠️
"...oh," you say.
"Yeah," Logan says, from the stairs.
You look up. He's already looking at you.
He looks at the window. You follow his gaze.
The world outside has changed.
The snow is no longer Hallmark-movie snow. The snow is a wall. The wind is hitting the porch in solid sheets that hadn't existed twenty minutes ago. The street you drove in on is gone — just white, in every direction. You can't even see your car at the curb. The snow has already buried the bottom of the porch steps. The streetlight at the end of the block is just a fuzzy yellow smudge in a sea of white.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
"Yeah," Logan says again.
Your phone buzzes.
Mom (Hannah, you renamed her this when you were drunk): BABE Mom (Hannah): DON'T DRIVE Mom (Hannah): THE ROADS ARE A NIGHTMARE Mom (Hannah): I JUST SAW IT ON THE NEWS Mom (Hannah): YOU ARE NOT DRIVING HOME I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY
You stare at your phone. You look up at the snow. You look back down at your phone. You look up at Logan.
"Garrett's at Hannah's," Logan says. "Tucker's at his parents'. Dean's been at Allie's all week. It's just me."
"...so it's just you."
"It's just me."
"Cool."
"Cool."
"Cool."
He stares at you. You stare at the floor. The wind hits the window so hard the glass rattles.
"You're stuck here," he says, finally. "Until the storm passes. There's nothing we can do about it."
"Right."
"...so."
"So."
You stare at each other.
The thing about not-talking-about-something for three weeks is that, when you're suddenly in a room together with no one else and a snowstorm raging outside and the lights flickering ominously above your head, the not-talked-about thing fills up all the air in the room. There's no oxygen left. Just the thing.
The thing being: a Halloween party three weeks ago. A hallway. Logan's hand at your jaw. The way he'd leaned in. The way you'd both stopped, half a breath away. The way you'd laughed, and made some stupid joke, and stepped back. The way he'd nodded — yeah, yeah, of course — and walked away. The way neither of you had said anything about it since.
The way you've been deliberately, carefully not being in the same room with him for twenty-one days.
The way that is now physically impossible.
"I'm gonna go get a blanket," you announce, way too loudly. "I'm gonna — go get a blanket. From the couch."
"Okay."
"Cool. Okay."
You bolt.
You spend the first hour of your unwilling sleepover doing an absolutely incredible job of pretending Logan is not in the same house as you.
He's in the kitchen. You're in the living room. He's making something — you can hear pans, smell something garlicky. You're curled up on the couch under the world's softest blanket, scrolling your phone, watching the snow pile up against the bay window. You are fine. You are completely fine. You are an adult woman who is not affected by the proximity of John Logan. You are thriving.
You scroll the same three Instagram stories four times.
The lights flicker. You jump.
"You good?" Logan's voice from the kitchen.
"Fine!"
"You sure?"
"Fine, Logan."
"Cool."
A beat. Then, quieter, from the kitchen doorway: "I made grilled cheese. If you want one."
You look up. He's leaning in the doorway in his hoodie, holding a plate, looking at you like he's not sure if he should come closer. There's a smudge of melted cheese on the side of the plate. He's standing there with a grilled cheese. For you.
Something in your chest goes very soft. Very fast.
You hate it.
"You made me a grilled cheese?"
"I made two grilled cheeses. One of them is for you if you want it."
"You hate cooking."
"I do not hate cooking."
"You literally told me last month that you, quote, do not have the patience to be a person who cooks—"
"Are you going to interrogate me about the grilled cheese or are you going to eat it."
You hold out your hands. He crosses the room slowly — like he's not sure how close he's allowed to get — and hands you the plate. Your fingers brush. You both flinch, just a little. He pretends he didn't.
He sits on the other end of the couch. Not next to you. Not close. A whole cushion of space between you.
You can still feel him there. Vividly.
"Thank you," you say to the grilled cheese.
"Mhm."
You eat. He eats. The wind howls. The TV is off because Logan said earlier we should probably save the power in case it goes out, which felt cinematically ominous and also accurate. The fire in the fireplace — of course the hockey house has a working fireplace, of course tonight is the night Logan apparently knows how to light a fire — crackles softly. The light catches the side of his face.
You look away before you can think about that.
"This is good," you say.
"Thanks."
"Surprisingly good."
"Thanks, Y/N."
"Like — like concerningly good. You should grilled-cheese professionally."
"You're being weird."
"I'm being normal."
"You're being weird."
"You're being weird."
"I'm being quiet. You're being weird."
You stuff the rest of the grilled cheese into your mouth so you don't have to answer.
By hour three, the power has flickered so many times you've stopped jumping at it, and you have both, without saying anything to each other, migrated to closer ends of the couch. Not touching. Just — closer. The middle cushion is no longer between you. Just half of it.
You are aware of this. You are very aware of this. You are pretending you are not.
Logan put on a movie an hour ago. He picked it. You don't know what it is. You are not watching it. You are watching the way the firelight moves across his throat when he swallows.
"What."
"Huh?"
"You're staring."
"I am not."
"You are."
"At the movie, Logan."
"The movie's on the TV, Y/N. I'm not on the TV. You are staring at me."
"I was zoning out."
"On my face."
"In the general direction of your face."
He's smiling now. Small. Faint. He's not looking at you, he's looking at the TV, but the corner of his mouth is doing that thing where it's pretending not to do anything. You watch his mouth. You make yourself stop.
"Logan."
"Mm."
"Can I ask you something."
"You're gonna anyway."
"Why are you being so nice to me."
He goes still.
Like, visibly still. Like the air around him has frozen for a second. He turns his head, slowly, to look at you. The firelight is doing something to his eyes that you do not want to think about right now.
"What?"
"You're being. Nice. Right now."
"...okay."
"You haven't been nice to me for three weeks."
"Y/N."
"You've been polite. You've been polite the way you'd be polite to, like, a postal worker. And now I'm trapped in a snowstorm with you and suddenly you're making grilled cheese and lighting fires and—"
"I have always been nice to you."
"You've been avoiding me."
"You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't—"
"You have, Y/N."
You stop. He stops. You both stare at the TV. The TV is playing some kind of car chase. You don't know what's happening in the car chase. You don't think Logan does either.
The lights flicker.
They don't come back on.
It takes you a second to realize. The TV blinks black. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen cuts out. The whole house drops into a deeper kind of quiet — just the fire, and the wind, and the radiator clicking somewhere down the hall.
"...oh," you say.
"Yep."
"Power's out."
"Power's out."
"How long do you think—"
"No idea."
"Cool."
"Cool."
The fire pops. The room is much darker now. Just the orange glow of the flames on the floor, on the couch, on his hands, on yours.
You are very aware that his hand is six inches from yours.
Just a second. Just to stop looking at his hand. Just to stop counting the inches.
It's a mistake.
Because the second you close your eyes, you're not on the hockey house couch anymore. You're three weeks ago. You're in Hannah's apartment. You're in a black dress with little devil horns clipped into your hair — the cheap kind, from the drugstore, the kind that pinch your scalp by hour two — and the apartment is loud, so loud, music thudding through the floor, somebody's speaker turned up too high, the smell of cheap beer and cinnamon candles.
You'd been in the kitchen for an hour. You'd been avoiding the kitchen for an hour, actually — because Logan had been in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in his stupid flannel, holding a beer he'd barely touched, claiming to be a lumberjack with the energy of a man who'd put zero effort in and somehow still looked—
(You're not thinking about how he looked. You weren't thinking about how he looked. You absolutely were thinking about how he looked.)
Hannah, in her angel costume, had pushed you toward him at one point. Go talk to him, she'd hissed, he's been looking at you all night, go—
You hadn't gone.
You'd done laps around the apartment instead. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the—
And then, somewhere around midnight, you'd found yourself in the hallway looking for the bathroom because someone had locked themselves in the one off the living room, and the hallway was darker, quieter, the music muffled through the wall. And the door at the end of the hallway had opened. And Logan had stepped out.
He'd stopped.
You'd stopped.
He was holding a glass of water. You don't know why you remember that specifically. He was holding a glass of water and he was wearing that stupid flannel and his hair was a mess and his eyes had locked on yours and stayed there.
"Hi," he'd said.
"Hi."
"You hiding?"
"Looking for the bathroom."
"It's right behind me."
"...okay."
You hadn't moved.
He hadn't moved either.
The hallway was narrow. You don't know if you remember that accurately or if your brain has been editing it for three weeks, making it smaller, making him closer, but you remember that he was close enough that you could smell his cologne under the cinnamon and the beer, and you remember that the hallway light was that warm orange kind that makes everyone look like they're in a movie, and you remember—
You remember he set the glass of water down on the little side table in the hallway.
You remember he didn't break eye contact when he did it.
You remember thinking oh, in a way that had no follow-up sentence. Just oh.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Can I ask you something."
"Yeah."
"Have you been avoiding me tonight."
You'd swallowed. You don't think you'd meant to swallow audibly. You think you did anyway.
"...maybe."
"Why."
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I don't know."
His head had tilted. Just a little. The hallway light catching his cheekbone. You remember his cheekbone specifically, because at the time you'd been having a small private crisis about it.
He'd taken one step closer.
You'd taken a step backward. Your back had hit the hallway wall. You don't think he was advancing on you — you think you'd just moved, automatically, the way your body does when you don't know what else to do with it. He'd seen you move. He'd hesitated.
"I can go back to the party," he'd said, quietly.
"...don't."
He hadn't.
He'd taken another step.
And another.
And by the time he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your face, your hands had found the front of his flannel and you hadn't even realized you'd grabbed it. You remember the texture. You remember it was soft — of course his flannel was soft, of course his stupid lumberjack costume was actually a comfortable shirt he wore all the time, of course of course — and you remember that he'd reached up and brushed his thumb against your jaw and that his hand had been warm, warmer than it had any right to be, and his eyes had dropped to your mouth and lingered there for one full second—
And he'd leaned in.
Slowly.
So slowly that you had a thousand chances to stop him.
And he'd stopped, the way he stopped tonight, a breath away from your mouth, and he'd waited.
You can still feel his breath on your lips. Three weeks later. You can still feel it.
You can still feel the way your chest had cracked open with wanting it.
You'd laughed.
You'd laughed because you panicked. You'd laughed because your brain had short-circuited and the only thing it could do was bail. You'd laughed and said something — you can't even remember what, something stupid, something about him being very into character as a lumberjack, something — and you'd ducked under his arm and gone back to the party and you hadn't looked at him for the rest of the night.
You hadn't looked at him for three weeks.
You hadn't let yourself think about the way he'd nodded — that one small, defeated nod — and stepped back. You hadn't let yourself think about the way the warmth had drained out of his eyes. You hadn't let yourself think about any of it, except you have. You have. You've been thinking about it every single night for twenty-one nights and now you're trapped in a snowstorm with him and his hand is six inches from yours and—
You open your eyes.
The fire is still crackling. The wind is still howling. Logan is still sitting on the other end of the couch, looking at the dead TV like it might still come back on if he stares at it long enough.
His hand is still six inches from yours.
His thumb is doing slow, absent little circles on the couch cushion.
By hour five, you have run out of small things to talk about.
You've covered: the snow. The grilled cheese. Logan's classes. Your job. Hannah and Garrett (an easy subject, beloved). Allie and Dean (also easy). The hockey team's various ailments. A weird podcast Logan listens to. A book you've been reading. Whether or not the dog two doors down is technically a husky or a malamute (Logan says malamute, you say husky, you've agreed to disagree).
You have not covered the Halloween party.
You have not covered any of it.
It is becoming a problem.
You're lying on the couch now — actually lying down, your head on the armrest, your legs tucked up. Logan is sitting at the other end with your feet in his lap. You don't know how this happened. You don't know when this happened. At some point you stretched out and he didn't move and now your feet are tucked under his thigh and his hand is resting absently on your ankle and you have no idea how to address this.
So you don't.
You stare at the ceiling.
"Logan."
"Yeah."
"Can I say something."
"Yeah."
"And can you not — can you not be weird about it."
"...okay."
"Promise."
"Y/N, I'm not gonna be weird, just say it."
You take a breath. You take another breath. You think about all the ways to start this sentence and none of them feel right and then you think fuck it and you just—
"At Hannah's Halloween party."
He goes very still.
His hand on your ankle stops moving. You didn't realize it was moving. It had been, apparently, drawing slow little circles with his thumb. It stops.
"Y/N."
"I just — I just want to say something about it. Just once. And then we don't have to talk about it again."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Okay."
You stare at the ceiling so you don't have to stare at him.
"I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to," you say.
The silence after is huge.
He doesn't say anything. You can hear him breathing. You can feel his hand on your ankle, not moving, not pulling away. You can hear the fire. You can hear your own pulse in your ears, loud.
"...what?" he says, finally. Quietly.
"I laughed. At the party. When you — when we — I laughed and I made a joke and I made it weird and I want you to know that I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to. I laughed because — because I — "
"Because you what."
"Because I panicked, Logan."
You sit up.
You sit up because you can't keep saying this to the ceiling. You sit up and pull your knees up to your chest and you look at him and he is looking at you with the exact expression he had in that hallway three weeks ago. The same one. Exactly the same one. The one that had made you laugh and step back. The one that has been living in the back of your head, rent-free, for twenty-one days.
"Y/N."
"And I've been thinking about it for three weeks and I've been ignoring you for three weeks because I didn't know what to do with it and now I'm — I'm here, and you're being nice to me with grilled cheese, and the power is out, and you're—"
"Y/N."
"And I just — I needed to say it. I needed you to know."
The fire pops.
He looks at you for a long, long moment.
Then he, very slowly, very deliberately, turns to face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it. And he turns. To face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it.
"You panicked," he says.
"I panicked."
"Because you wanted me to."
"Because I wanted you to."
"At the party."
"At the party."
"And you've been avoiding me for three weeks."
"...yes."
"Y/N."
"What."
"I've been avoiding you for three weeks because I thought I made you uncomfortable."
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
The fire crackles. The wind hits the window. The world outside is white and quiet and very, very far away.
"Logan."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
"I'm the idiot?"
"You — yes! You're the idiot! I've been losing my mind for three weeks—"
"You laughed! In the hallway! You laughed, Y/N!"
"I PANICKED."
"I DIDN'T KNOW THAT."
"WELL I DIDN'T KNOW THAT YOU DIDN'T KNOW—"
You're both laughing now. You don't know when it started. He's got a hand pressed over his face and you've got both hands over yours and the laughter is the slightly-hysterical kind, the relief kind, the oh my god we are such idiots kind. He pulls his hand down. His eyes find yours.
His eyes are doing the thing. The thing from the hallway. The thing you've been thinking about.
He's not laughing anymore.
Neither are you.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Come here."
You don't say anything. You can't. You just — move. You shift across the couch and his hand comes up to cup your jaw and you can feel him shaking a little, just a little, because he's been waiting three weeks and he doesn't quite trust this is real, and his thumb brushes your cheek and he leans in slowly, slow enough that you could stop him, slow enough that the room narrows down to just this, just him, just—
He stops.
A breath away.
Right where you stopped him last time.
Except this time he's not laughing. This time you're not laughing. This time the fire is the only sound in the room and your nose is brushing his and you can feel his breath on your mouth and his eyes flick down to your lips and back up to your eyes and—
"Tell me to," he whispers.
"What?"
"Tell me to, Y/N."
"You're really gonna make me say it."
“After three weeks? Yeah. I really am going to make you say it.”
You close the half-inch between you.
The first touch of his mouth is soft.
Softer than you expected. Softer than you've been imagining for three weeks. Just his lips brushing yours, tentative, like he's still not sure you won't pull away. Like he's giving you one more chance to laugh, to step back, to run.
You don't run.
You press closer.
And something in him breaks.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers threading through it, tilting your head back just slightly, and the kiss deepens. Slow. Deliberate. His mouth moves against yours like he's been thinking about this, like he's memorized exactly how he wanted to do this, and you make a sound — small, involuntary — and you feel him smile against your lips.
"Yeah," he murmurs, so quiet you almost don't hear it. "Yeah, baby."
Your brain short-circuits.
Your hands find the front of his hoodie and you pull him closer, and he comes willingly, his other hand finding your waist, his thumb pressing against your hip through your shirt. The firelight flickers across his face when you open your eyes for half a second — gold on his cheekbone, shadow under his jaw — and then you close them again because you can't think and look at him at the same time.
He kisses you like he's been starving for it.
Slow, then deeper. Then slow again. His tongue brushes your bottom lip and you open for him and the taste of him floods your senses — something warm, something faintly sweet, something that makes you forget there's a world outside this couch. His hand tightens in your hair. Not rough. Just — anchoring. Like he needs to hold onto you. Like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You won't disappear.
You're not going anywhere.
Your fingers twist in his hoodie and you pull, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you feel more than hear, and then his hands are on your hips and he's pulling you into his lap.
You go.
God, you go so easily.
Your knees bracket his thighs and his hands slide up your sides, slow, like he's memorizing the shape of you, and you're kissing him harder now, less tentative, more desperate. Three weeks of wanting this. Three weeks of lying awake at night thinking about the way he'd looked at you in that hallway. Three weeks of convincing yourself it didn't matter.
It matters.
It matters so much you can't breathe.
"Y/N," he says against your mouth, and his voice is wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. "God, I've been waiting for this."
"Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark in the firelight, pupils blown, and his lips are red and his hair is a mess where your fingers have been in it and he looks — he looks —
You kiss him again before you can finish the thought.
This time it's you who deepens it. You who licks into his mouth. You who makes him groan, low and rough, his hands gripping your hips hard enough that you'll feel it tomorrow. The fire crackles behind you. The wind howls outside. The world is a snowstorm and you are here, in his lap, in his hands, and nothing else exists.
His mouth moves to your jaw. Then your neck. Slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch, that make your hands tighten in his hair.
"Logan—"
"I know," he murmurs against your throat. "I know, baby."
You don't know what he knows. You don't know what you were going to say. You just know that his mouth is on your skin and his hands are sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist, and you are on fire. You are burning. The fireplace has nothing on this.
You pull at his hoodie.
He helps you.
It comes off in one smooth motion and you have half a second to appreciate the fact that he's in a t-shirt underneath — a soft, worn t-shirt that clings to his shoulders — before you're kissing him again. Your hands find the hem of his shirt and slide underneath, palms flat against his stomach, and he sucks in a breath.
"Y/N."
"Yeah?"
"You're killing me."
"Good."
He laughs. It's breathless and a little bit desperate and it makes something in your chest crack wide open. He catches your mouth again, kisses you slower this time, deeper, his hands sliding up your back under your shirt. His palms are warm. Everything about him is warm. The fire is warm and he is warm and you are warm and the cold outside doesn't exist.
Time moves differently here.
You don't know how long you kiss him. It could be minutes. It could be hours. His hands map your spine. Your fingers trace his shoulders. His mouth moves back to your neck and you tilt your head back and his name falls from your lips like a prayer.
"That's it," he murmurs against your collarbone. "Just like that."
Your shirt is rucked up. His is halfway off. You don't remember taking it off. You don't remember him taking yours off. You just know that there's less fabric between you now and his chest is pressed against yours and you can feel his heartbeat, fast and hard, matching yours.
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at you.
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and his eyes are so soft. So unbearably soft.
"Hi," he says.
You laugh. It comes out shaky. "Hi."
"You okay?"
"I'm—" You don't have words. You shake your head. "Yeah. Yes. I'm—"
"Good." He kisses you again. Soft. Sweet. "Good."
You kiss him back. Slower now. The desperation has ebbed into something gentler, something that aches in a different way. His hands are careful on your waist. Your fingers are gentle in his hair. The fire pops and a log shifts and the orange light flickers across both of you.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.
His forehead drops to yours.
You close your eyes.
His hand is still in your hair. Your hand is still fisted in his shirt. You're half in his lap, half on the couch, tangled together in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. His thumb strokes slow circles against your scalp. Your fingers loosen, smoothing out the wrinkles you've made in his shirt.
Outside, the wind howls.
Inside, the fire glows.
You are here. He is here. You are both here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.
You open your eyes.
He's already looking at you.
"Yeah," you whisper. "You do."
His mouth curves. Small. Soft. He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then, very gently, your mouth.
summary: logan's in a rut and only his sweet girl can help him.
a/n: so i pictured dofp!logan but x trilogy!logan also works! hope you enjoy <3 also also not proof read so sorry for any errors
"scott, have you seen logan?" your delicate voice fills the study as you pass by, looking for your mentor.
logan has been missing all day, which isn't the most unusual thing but it is odd that he said he would train with you today and yet, he's nowhere to be found.
"charles said he wasn't feeling well." scott replied, barely gazing up at you. "he's probably still in bed."
you nod, turning around to head upstairs and check on logan like any good friend would.
the floorboards creek under your light foot steps down the hall. charles, hank, and storm took the kids to a lab overnight to work on their final projects. the rest of the adult were either training or lesson planning. the wooden door glowed with golden light illuminating the rim, so warm and welcoming.
one knock turned into three and four. all of them unanswered, leaving you slightly alarmed. this wasn't like logan to ignore you.
❀༉‧₊˚
meanwhile, beyond the wooden door, logan sat on his bed trying to get a grip on this feeling. it's happened before, the familiar warmth that spreads all over. a primal craving attempting to claw its way out of him.
normally, he can hide out until the rut is over but now it is different. now logan has his eyes on someone. not just someone though.
it's the girl he's been warned not to fall for. charles, jean, hank and scott have all told logan that he's not to make a move on you. the girl who's too pure for a big bad wolf like him. for once, he listened and steered clear of you, no matter how pretty you were.
until you signed up to be his teachers assistant.
now with the close proximity, logan is tortured by your scent. the sweet cherry he's become familiar with haunts his deepest thoughts. he could perfectly trace every outline on your body without even trying. honestly, he found it quite sickening how you've carved your spot in his mind.
next to him on the mattress are a pair of your panties from yesterday. he remembered seeing the slight flash of light blue from under your skirt when you dropped your pen in the hallway. there's a damp patch on them, calling his name in mocking tones.
"logan..?" your meek voice was barely audible behind the door. "can i please come in?"
a low growl hums in his chest at the sound of your voice. he wants nothing more than to let you inside and ravish you in the way he desires; but he doesn't want to scare you off.
"not now, sweetheart." he grunts almost as if he's in pain.
"a-are you okay?"
logan couldn't see you but he could picture your concerned face. scrunched eyebrows and wide bambi eyes, lips in a pout. god, he could just eat you up.
" 'm fine." his voice sounds rough, like a bark. he would never yell at you but he needed you to walk away because the feeling of his cock being suffocated in his jeans was killing him.
"alright." you whine. "see ya later then, lo."
soon enough he heard your footsteps down the hall, logan quickly strips himself of his black shirt, dark blue jeans and his boxers. without hesitation he reaches over to grab that panties he had taken from your hamper.
"fuck, smells so sweet." he groans, nose pressed against the soft soaked cotton as he tugs his throbbing cock. spreading the pearly beads of pre-cum.
with his senses clouded and a fire ignited in him, he kitten licks the patch, letting your slick dance on his tongue. picturing your legs wrapped around his head, how your tight hole would take his tongue or his fingers and the little noises that would escape you.
"that's my sweet pussy. all mine." logan mumbles possessively under his breath before spitting into the material and bringing it to his cock, using it to jerk off.
as his orgasm approaches, the fire intensifies; sweat dripping down his temples the faster his hand moves. abs also dripping in sweat as his chest rapidly moves up and down. mind swarmed with all the positions logan wants to put you in.
"s-shit." logan curses, clenching his teeth as his vision blurs and euphoria washes over him. ropes of cum spill all over his abs and happy trail, creating a sticky messy.
left alone and panting, covered in his release, logan's still unsatisfied. he knew there was only one thing that could fix this.
❀༉‧₊˚
it's near midnight when you finally hear logan leave his room. heavy boots heading towards the stairs, right by your room.
"where are you going, lo?" you ask, peaking out of your bedroom to catch him. he stops but doesn't acknowledge you. "gonna leave me here all alone?"
logan could've sworn that you would be asleep at this hour and he could leave to find some woman at the bar to help with his... situation.
"scott's around here somewhere." he dryly replies, trying to avoid your gaze.
"he left a few hours ago." you mumble, nervously messing with the bottom of your nightgown.
something was off about logan; you just couldn't figure out what it was. he wouldn't even look at you. had you done something wrong? was he upset with you? why was he avoiding you?
"i-is everything alright?" you ask, worried for the answer.
logan take a minute to respond, scratching the scruff on his face while he thinks. just because he looks strong doesn't mean he is internally. logan found his weakness in you. a woman he's known for a little over a year and yet you could bring him to his knees if you so pleased.
suddenly, logan turns and looks at you. he sucks in his breath sharply when he saw you dressed in a cute tiny white nightgown. logan was positive that you were the closest he will ever get to meeting an angel.
the material ends high up on your thighs and he swears that in this light he can see the outline of your nipples, watching how they pebble from the cool air in the hallway.
"it's just cravings." he finally answers, tearing his eyes off of your pretty shape.
the moment logan makes eye contact with you, you notice how the color changed from a light hazel to bordering black. he looked hungry. you've heard of this before, a feral state that mutants like him enter every six months or so and if you knew better, you would run.
"anything i can help you with?" you ask, batting your long lashes up at him.
"it's real dirty work, princess." logan warns, restraining himself from jumping at the opportunity.
"i don't mind." you tell him. in that moment, a familiar aroma hits him. "i wanna help you, logan."
normally, logan wouldn't let things get this far. sure, the two of you have made sly flirty comments in the past but it's never gone past just words.
he watches you walk back into your room, keeping the door open for him.
❀༉‧₊˚
your bedroom was damn near exactly how logan pictured it. soft earth toned colors, pretty sheets, messy desk with all the paperwork you two do together. most importantly, it smelled like you. not your perfume or whatever candle you lit earlier. this was different.
"logan..." your voice pulls him back to reality. "tell me what you want me to do."
so considerate. logan thinks to himself as he watches you sit with your knees against the mattress and look up at him like a dog looking at its owner, waiting for an order.
without a warning, logan crashes his lips against yours. it hot and messy how he almost swallows you whole. both of you have waited forever for this moment.
logan lays you flat on the mattress, not breaking the kiss. your teeth bite down on his bottom lip at the small thud. you go to whisper an apology but it's covered by logan's loud groaning.
he take this opportunity to grind against you, only covered in a pair of matching white panties. if he was in a clearer head space, he would've thought this was planned.
"u-uh, please." you whimper against his lips, lifting your hips a little to meet his.
it's quite cute how pathetic you look right now. struggling for more. logan latches his lips to your neck, leaving dark maroon bites behind as he moves further south.
at the waistband of your panties, logan nips at the skin on your hipbone, leaving behind a pretty mark to match the others. he craved to be closer to you. pressing his nose into the wet patch and inhaling sharply, grunting at your essence.
a loud squeal falls from your lips as you lazily try to push him away. too embarrassed by the lewd action. nonetheless, logan refuses to move until he's had enough. licking over the cotton and making out with your covered cunt.
"l-logan!" you gasp as he flips you over on your belly with your ass in the air.
the sound of the material ripping fills the room. this was better than logan could've imagined. the sight of your throbbing cunt as it cries for his attention, and only his.
"prettiest fuckin' pussy i've ever seen." he marvels under his breath. "gonna let me use it how i please, princess?"
"mhm." you nod, trying to look back at him. "it's yours, lo."
your words send him on a spiral, he sinks you down on his tongue so he can fuck you at his pace. exploring your walls and reveling in your taste. no dessert in the world could compare to you.
logan grinds against your mattress, desperately seeking relief. not that he's complaining. he's more than happy with his position; and so are you.
there will be bruises on your hips tomorrow, without a doubt because of how tightly logan's gripping your hips. keeping you right where he wants you to be.
"n-need more, please." you moan, fists balling up the sheets.
"what a greedy fuckin' baby." logan says, pulling off of a second to replace his tongue with two thick fingers, stretching you out for him.
pretty little 'uh, uh, uh's' spill from your lips every time you bounce back on logan's fingers. he's hypnotized by the way you manage to coat his finger with your slick. dripping down his palm and onto your sheets.
"look 'atcha, sweetheart." he mutters, doubtful that you can hear him over the obscene sounds coming from your pussy. "struggling to take my fingers. gotta stretch ya' for my cock. think you can take it?"
"mhm!" you answer, feeling a trail of kisses on the back of your thighs as logan speeds up his thrusts, locating your sweet spot with ease.
there's a warmth of pleasure that washes over you. it's different than anything else you've experienced. before you could even figure it out, you to gush all over logan's hand and the sheets.
"she's squeezing me so damn tight." he growls, watching as your pussy spasms from overstimulation, practically knocking the wind out of you. logan has to fight off cumming in his jeans as he licks up your release.
once logan allows you to catch your breath, you turn and say, "i've never um, never done that before."
"fuck." logan curses, smacking his palm down on your ass. "it won't be the last time tonight."
the sound of logan undoing his belt echos in the room. lining the head up to your entrance and slowly sinking into you. your eyes roll back into your head at the stretch. similar to a cat, you arch your back and purr at the feeling.
"f-feel so full." you moan as he picks up his pace.
"that's it, princess." he grunts, moving his hand down your back and wrapping it into your hair. "tell me how good it feels."
and you don't waste a single second to do so.
"you're s-so big, can feel you e-everywhere." you reply in between heavy breaths.
the hand wrapped in your hair tugs you forward so your back is against his chest. with his lips pressed against your ear, he mutters, "everywhere, huh?"
you nod, digging your nails into his thighs with each thrust. his other hand travels from your breast to your lower torso underneath the nightgown. your eyes shoot open as soon as he lightly pushes down.
"can you feel me right here?" he asks, slowing down his strokes for you to focus.
when you don't respond right away, the hand in your hair moves to your jaw, gripping it and angling your gaze down to the large bulge in your belly. you always knew logan was larger than the average man but you didn't even think this was possible.
"y-yes!" you whimper loudly, needing him to go faster.
logan's not religious by any means but in that moment, he wishes he could personally thank god for everyone being gone tonight. he can't imagine having to muffle your little moans right now while he starts pounding back into you.
"gimme kiss, please?" you whisper in between the lewd wet smacks of his heavy balls against your ass.
how could logan turn down his sweet girl? even while being ruined, you still managed to use your manners.
the two of you sloppily make out, exploring each other. he swallows all the whimpers you let out against his lips. except the one from when logan pulls back.
"what are you–?"
"open your mouth and stick out your tongue for me." logan demanded, staring down at you like a feral animal.
you obey, opening up for him like he asks. logan spits on top your tongue, feeling your tight cunt flutter around him. clenching at the taste of him.
"swallow." he says, watching you do so. "what a good girl."
"i'm so f-fucking close, lo." your head falls back against his shoulder as your vision turns white, stars behind your eye lids.
"me too." logan warns. " 'ya gonna let me fill you up, sweetheart? bet you wanna be full of me, to carry my seed? isn't that right?"
he knows you're too far gone, babbling incoherent sentences and soft pleas. the tiny, "mhm" and head nod give him the okay to cum inside you.
"s-shit!" he curses. "you're so tight, practically suffocating me, baby."
his orgasm triggers another for you, milking him until both of you are struggling for air. the room felt like the inside of a sauna and reeks of sex.
"got another one in you, pretty girl?" logan asks, slowly pulling out of you.
"y-yeah." you answer, letting him move you how he wanted.
logan slips your nightgown off of you and lays you down on your back again. this time fully taking in your form. every curve, dimple and scar. he makes sure to pay your breasts some attention, taking one in his mouth and massages the other, pinching and rolling your nipple until your whining. desperately you attempt to rub your pussy against his abs, gaining very little friction from it.
if he wasn't in this rut, he would've taken more time to appreciate this. next time he will.
you open up for him again and he slips in with ease. logan brings your thighs to your chest, folding you in half.
"harder, please." you beg, staring up at him with those wide eyes that he's a sucker for.
"i don't want to hurt you, baby." he grunts, trying to restrain himself.
"i can take it, lo." you tell him, stroking his cheek with your much smaller thumb. "i know you need it right now."
instead of answering with words, logan bends down and kisses you in a more tender way than before. as soon as he picks up his thrusts, you tug softly at his locks, making his hips stir and lose rhythm for a second.
"you like it rough, don't 'ya, princess?" he grunts in your neck while his thumb moves to rub circles on your clit. "fuck, my cum is just spilling out of you."
a tear rolls down your cheek, only further encouraging logan. licking up the salty tear before it falls off your skin. never in your life have you felt so dirty.
"please, need to feel you logan." you whimper and he knows exactly what you mean.
"don't worry, baby. i'm close." he says, feeling you flutter around him.
logan's gaze stays locked on where the two of you are connected, watching him slide in and out of you. almost drooling at the image of his cock in your stomach.
within minutes, you're soaking his cock like you did his fingers. slick landing all over logan's sculpted torso. your fingers gather some before bringing them to his lips, letting him lick them clean.
a loud animalistic growl signals his release, painting your walls again for the second time tonight.
both of you lay stuck together. neither ready to let go of each other just yet. on the floor, you notice something light blue peaking out of the back pocket of his discarded jeans.
"so that's where my panties went?" you giggle, capturing logan's attention.
"yeah..." his voice raspy and deeper than usual. "sorry 'bout that, sweetheart."
"it's okay." you reply. "but next time that you get these 'cravings', come to me and i'll help y–"
logan cuts you off on with the rock of his hips and the wet slosh of your ruined cunt. before you can even moan, he's grabbed your white panties next to you and shoves them in your mouth.
Hello! I saw that your requests were open :)) Would it be possible to get some headcannons for Kurt, Ororo, Logan, Remy, Scott, Jean and Warren with an s/o who has a very high libido and isn’t ashamed about it? Feel free to skip!
High libido!reader x Remy, Kurt, Ororo, Jean, Scott and Logan (NSFW!! 18+!! MDNI)
!!Reminder that if you like this writing, my reqs are open!! Please direct yourself to the pinned post on my profile for more info!!
Synopsis - gender neutral!! how would Kurt, Ororo, Logan, Remy, Scott, Jean and Warren react to reader with high libido. This is sex across the board. Are they into it? + other random stuff about how sex would go (kinks, all that good stuff) + how they’d be after sex for sillies.
C/W - smut/mentions of smut, mention of kurts tail being used during sex, Logan’s claws are featured, f!recieving, m!receiving, gender neutral!reader, ice/temp play, jean using telekinesis to move sex toys, 5’3 wolverine (sorry 6ft+ wolverine truthers)
A/N - hai anon!! i love this, i wanted to make sure i covered all bases of “high libido” i really hope this lives up to your expectations :3
This took me so long with me being sick and I kept feeling a little repetitive, BUT ITS HERE AT LAST! I did unfortunately completely forget Warren though
I feel a little bad that all of them are pretty much a yes, cause I feel like a broken record but genuinely ALL the xmen are freaks with a lot of stamina, don’t blame me—blame people who write for them, I’m simply humbly interpreting
Not proofread…gulp
────୨ৎ──── ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. ────୨ৎ────
Remy Lebeau/Gambit
- to say he’s into it is an understatement. I don’t think he minds his partners sex drive (was willing to pursue his love for rogue, even when neither of them were sure if there would ever be a solution to their touch problem.) however, I think he’d be more than happy to have a lover with a similar or same libido to him. Sex happens so often it’s genuinely a miracle either of you get stuff done. A morning quickie, date night sex, club bathroom, his car, the couch, kitchen counter. You’ve both mastered the art of getting each others clothes off in record time.
- He’s down for pretty much anything that isn’t hurting you, he’s okay with putting you in a bit of a headlock, maybe a little holding your jaw, but he doesn’t want you ever struggling to breathe, even a little. He has no qualms with you tying him up, giving him a little adrenaline rush, edging him. He’s an adrenaline junkie, he loves that shit. He can be dominant or sitting on his knees begging to go down on you, it’s up to you really.
- Remy is a “ready for sex” whenever kind of guy. You feel in the mood? The dudes already hard. He could go almost anywhere, anytime, anywhere, although his favourite places would be: bed, couch, and his car. He would have no issues keeping up with you, and would enjoy it.
- We KNOW he’s competitive, so occasionally seeing who can overexert each other more is a game. Teasing eachother, seeing who taps out first.
In the case that you win.. what finishes him off is you riding him. Seeing you on top of him, There’s a strange sort of intimacy of it. You moving slowly up and down his overstimulated cock, it makes his eyes glass over a little. He forgets to speak English, clutching onto your hips like it’s all that’s keeping him together. He looks sooo pretty when he finally reaches his climax.
In the case that he wins.. he’s going down on you. He has been for hours. Teasing you, coaxing each edged orgasm after orgasm from you. His hair messed up from your sweaty hands pulling on it helplessly. he gets so fucking cocky with you like this. he could honestly cum just from going down on you. at your final orgasm, on the last leg of his relentless victory, he wouldn’t tease it out of you. instead just letting you cum. Kissing up your body afterward for a brief break before round two.
- Remy can absolutely keep up. no matter how competitive you both get, you end up haphazardly thrown around each other, snoozing together and contentedly exhausted. He wakes before you just so he can make you something to eat, kissing you awake with the gentlest coaxing.
────୨ৎ──── ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. ────୨ৎ────
Kurt Wagner
- Mr.“make more mutants” himself… the dude is a freak. gambit could match your libido, but kurt?? he is THE freak. i don’t think he could go a crazy amount of rounds all at once, BUT i do think he has stamina. so multiple longer, drawn out rounds, a lot of experimenting…if you catch my drift. he is into it!! i think he would be able to manage it pretty well. probably does need a decent amount of recharging time however.
- The tail gets used. (looking at you, Uncanny Spider-Man Issue #3 and legion of x #4..) he can grab with it, he can restrain wrists with it, any wild thing you could think of to do with his tail? he’s not above trying it at least once.
- I feel like he’s a little shy about biting/leaving hickeys, but if you’re into it he doesn’t mind a little grazing of skin with his fangs. i think he would draw the line at drawing any blood on purpose though. He’s SO down for you biting him a little, and would totally be down for you giving him hickeys,..except, he feels bad that they don’t show up and you have to have a mouthful of fur each time you attempt to give him any/
- Slightly off but on topic, i think he prefers sex in a colder environment cause of his fur, not overheating makes him last longer. He also doesn’t mind a little cold temperature play as well. Ice, water, cold hands..as well as having a shower ritual before having sex with you (unless you don’t mind the sulphur smell that clings to his fur, however he would need to be HEAVILY talked into not showering before sex. Dude gets a little insecure of the weird rotten egg smell)
- Again, he’s not one for super fast aggressive rounds, the slower, sensual, drawn out ones are what he’s good at. If you’re both starting to tire it’s not uncommon for you both to end up falling asleep while having sex, waking up and then starting up again.
- He gives the sweetest aftercare, he’s all holding you close, making sure he didn’t accidentally cut you or leave any marks, pressing kisses all over your shoulders while you bathe together (it’s also incredibly fun to lather up his fur. It just feels cool).
────୨ৎ──── ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. ────୨ৎ────
Storm
- The most elegant freak you’ve ever came across. When you guys start having sex I think both of you are mapping each other out. The first few times you both realise you have high libidos and from there, it only gets better. Storm is so lovingly put together and calm, that half the time you can’t fully tell when she’s down for sex until she’s kissing just a little too low down your neck.
- Shes the type to go multiple rounds with you, fall asleep with you—and when you wake up she’s drinking tea and reading a book as if you weren’t making each other cum hard enough to feel a little light headed and seeing stars. She will smile sweetly, pouring you a cup too (if you like tea) and sitting with you for a little while, reading together or she reads and you watch something on TV.
- TEMP PLAY!! or messing about with sensations!! I defo see storm as being somebody who can take both a dominant role, or a more submissive one. However if she’s feeling like being a little dominant: you blindfolded, trailing a thin layer of water over your skin and using her mutation to summon a little breeze to blow over your skin, watching the goosebumps rise on your skin. I also don’t think she would entirely object degrading you a little. Not super cruelly, but more of a “praise and degrading” sort of thing.
- Loves receiving oral or having you either get off on her strap (yes, she has one. it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or woman, or anything in between.) or, other way round and it’s her being on the receiving end of some form of penetration. especially if she doesn’t have the full energy to get into the mood and wants to take a bit of a backseat while you satisfy yourself.
- Honestly, depending on the day I think it’d be you worrying about if YOUR libido could match hers, again. She is so calm and wise but I don’t think she’s shy in the bedroom by any means, if she’s in the right mood she can outlast YOU 😭
────୨ৎ──── ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. ────୨ৎ────
Jean Grey
- Yes. So blatantly yes. Jean is similar to storm in a way, she comes off so calm and lovely, nobody would guess how she could be in the sheets. It even took YOU off guard. You assumed she would likely just able to manage the average, when you guys decided to have your “what to expect from sex” talk (what are hard no’s, kinks, how you like being taken care of after, getting to know what lines can or can’t be crossed) you’d let her know about your high sex drive. Letting her know that she never needed to feel compelled to keep up, and that if she was tired you had no qualms getting off yourself. She just smiles, telling you not to worry.
- When you have sex, she can fully keep up. In fact SHE is the one giggling about slipping in a little morning sex after a night that has tuckered you both out. Shes like..half subtle. Jean is the type of woman people lower their heads to simply out of respect. She can semi keep that air about her when both of you decide to sneak off for a little while.
- A hard no for her is ever using her telepathy on you during sex or using it to manipulate your feelings/consent in any way. Although, she’s not above using her telekinesis to make stuff move. if you’re both women (or a dude into this sort of thing), yes she is controlling the thrusting movement of a dildo for both of you.
- she gives the BEST aftercare, I see her as being very attentive. Again, the telekinesis comes in handy when it comes to getting things for you both from far away. She knows what you want (she may or may not read your mind to figure it out, however she knows you pretty well regardless)
- Neck kisses make her fold, literally for ANYTHING. If she’s contemplating something and you pull out the puppy eyes and a kiss to her neck? She’s a goner. And that includes caving in the bedroom too, if you beg just right she would let you cum in a heartbeat, She thinks it’s sweet even in the most sexual of contexts.
────୨ৎ──── ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. ────୨ৎ────
Scott Summers
- He’s into it but he lowkey plays it off at first. the first time you guys have sex he’s a little awkward, and very much scared of his visor accidentally getting nudged or coming off. “am i doing this right?” “does this feel good” needs a lot of hands on learning, show him where you like being touched, let him watch you masturbate for uh..scientific research, let him learn what you’re into. However once he learns? the dudes a menace. he learns quick and keeps that information locked in his mind.
- He can last a long time, but similar to Kurt loves a sort of soft thought out sex. He’s also not above having sex to de-stress, being a leader sucks at times and sometimes he just wants to have you ride him or let him take over while he mutters about his day under his breath. he gets the habit of pulling on the sheets to the point there’s faint frayed spots all over them where the fabric has been worn down.
- Big fan of cuddling with you after sex, he might sit there working away on stuff while having his arm around you or your head on his shoulder. He needs a good recovery time afterwards. He also unironically loves holding hands during sex. You’re riding him? His hand is lacing with yours. He’s got you down on the bed? You feel his hand creeping up to give yours a squeeze
- Acts like the idea of you giving him head under his desk is scandalous, however does still allow you to do it time to time, only when he KNOWS nobody will walk in. The risk is there, sure. But if he’s expecting somebody it’s a hard no. He’s a freak, a shy one—but he also wants to remain professional when it matters.
────୨ৎ──── ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. ────୨ৎ────
Logan
- Assuming we are talking about Logan when he’s in his prime, not only has he been alive for a long ass time, but we all know he could keep up as well as have a shit on of experience (If it’s old man Logan, I don’t think so. Be careful with that old man, he tries.)
- He’s into it absolutely no question. The dude goes FERAL for it. He has no shame either, that little guy is dragging you away at moments notice if you’re both in the mood (which, pretty much every time you both are) + he can smell when you’re getting a little hot under the collar. He uses that to his advantage as often as possible.
- Hard, Rough, Toe curling, Bed breaking sex. Sure, he’s small for a dude but he packs a punch (not literally. He’s here for a little grabbing your chin to look at him, but never actually hitting you). He can also lift you pretty easy no matter how much taller/heavier you are than him.
- This may be a head canon that gets me jumped by a certain area of wolverine enjoyers, but I don’t think logan is exactly the biggest down under the way I’ve seen others write him (I’m talking, people writing him as if he’s wayyyy above average.) he’s thick and 4-5 inches so kind of average/a little below, a lot of body hair. He knows how to use it, and he’s well past any shame he may face.
- Sex anytime, anywhere, any planet, and he’s pretty much down for anything. He goes between being pretty dominant, purely sweet and loving (when he really wants to appreciate you and love all over you), and being grumpy and slightly reluctant when receiving, not cause he doesn’t like it. But when he’s the center of attention, he gets a little flustered. Instead of flushing pink like the average person, he opts for being grumpy.
- He’s so careful with aftercare, his claws DO come out when he cums, he’s making sure any injuries his claws may have accidentally given you are patched up (he would honestly stop sex mid way to patch you up, even if you like a little pain), hugging you, that gruff Canadian accent giving slightly awkward praise.
