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The first time, she killed him, and only the fact that his dumb body didn't know how to die saved him. He's haunted by a black, sweeping tide, and the agony of his soul being ripped out, but mostly, he remembers the horror of watching his claws sink deep into the body of an innocent.

It hurts less, the second time. She's strapped into Magneto's obscene invention, dying, and he begs for the pain, that incomparable death. When it comes trickling in, he presses his lips to her forehead in a frenzy of gratitude. Her skin tastes sweet, he thinks, and it's the last thought he takes into the blackness, and his first on waking, three days later.

The next time he touches her, no one is dying, or desperate. Her ankle would have healed well enough, given time, but seeing her hobble about the place annoys him. It's unnecessary, he grumbles. Inconvenient. (Sweet, so sweet, his animal sings.)

He shoves the impulse down, and waits. A morning jog through Xavier's woods, and they pause to admire the frozen beauty of the lake. He grabs her hand, fingers stroking the bare skin that peeps between top of glove and bottom of sleeve. He wants to bring it to his lips but her eyes are terrified, so he relinquishes it out of respect for her fear. That, and her mutation drops him, leaving him stunned but conscious on the margins of a picture postcard.

Lying in bed that night, he is trying not to think about her when the realisation lands. It had been painful, but not agonising. Forceful, but not irresistable. Something had changed.

He slips it into conversation casually.

“Hey kid. You controlling it now?”

“What? My skin? No, Logan. Trust me, sugah, you'll be the first to know,” she smiles, and the promise shining from whiskey-coloured eyes makes the animal purr.

He doesn't say anything more, because he knows she'll be wondering why he'd asked soon enough. And he is fresh in her head, every carnal impulse and impure thought laid bare. (Lick, there, that spot on the side of her neck. Lap the sweat from where it pools in the centre of her back. Push her down on the frozen ground, knees apart, and drown in the taste of her thighs, her clit, her cunt, her tight little asshole.)

He wasn't gonna chase down a teenage girl, but if she comes to him … well, no one ever accused him of being the good guy. He'd leave it a few days, see if she figures it out for herself. If not, they are due for a talk. About control, and tolerance, and testing her limits.

Because the next time he touches her, he plans to stay on his feet.

(Taste her. Mark her. Fuck her. Own her. So, so sweet.)