Chapter Text
I stand there like a pup who'd gotten full of himself and attacked a fucking lion. Cupping his balls. Yeah, that's right. That's what I'm doin'. I grabbed his balls hopin' that he finally shows me what I'm pretty damn sure is rollin' around his head, but he ain't got the guts to say. A sick smirk on my face, I crane my neck to look up at him, see what kind of reaction I finally got out of this smug mother fucker. Nothin. He just stands there, asshole mouth o' his blank as ever, jaw clenched the same as ever, ruby quartz visor the same as ever. Not one flinch, not one show of fear, lust, or anything other than nothin'.
“You're going to neuter me?” he asks long after silence has become discomfort; his baritone as deadpan as his face.
Scott Summers is stubborn, but so am I. “Nah. I ain't that merciful.” A grin snakes across the right side of my face and I give his balls a little squeeze. Damn giraffe still doesn't react.
I don't how long we just stand there, me lookin' up and him lookin' down, locked into this antler-bashing challenge neither of us is willing to back down from. But, I remember the moment I run my thumb just up towards the base of his shaft, and the involuntary dip of his Adam's apple - the only reaction I've gotten out of him since I locked him in the Danger Room.
I take a step forward, hand still in place, my thumb daring to stroke his manhood once again. I smile, crane my neck further, waiting to see the facade of calmness crack. It doesn't.
“Logan,” he says evenly, “Step back.”
Freud's a fucking genius. He doesn't say hands off, doesn't tell me not to touch his junk, he says step back. I can feel the laughter build in the back of my throat, just as an eye beam sends me flying across the Danger Room. He stands there, against the wall, his face still as stoic as ever. “Let me out,” he says cooly.
“No,” I reply.
“Let me out of here, Logan,” he demands again.
“Make me,” I dare. His response is another eye beam right to the chest. He's goin' easy on me. I've seen what he can do, and this ain't nowhere near. I get back on my feet and he hits me with another one. Breath knocked out, I grab my chest and scowl so he knows I'm pissed. Low power or not, these damn things hurt. “Damn it, Summers,” I curse under my breath, take a step forward, and he smacks me again. Though his face don't show it, I know he's doin' this on purpose, showin' his Alpha, provin' to me why he's in charge.
Anger builds quickly as another beam crashes into my right knee. Then another to my left shoulder. Another to my forehead. All low power, just enough to knock me back, piss me off. Fuel for the fire, and that fire blazes high after another five fucking shots pin me to the wall. I curse and growl only to be hit by another, and my blood starts to boil. My skin burns hot, my mind becomes a single focus when I'm smacked down by yet another of those stupid ass beams, and I have no choice but to give into the callin' in my blood. Not the animal. No, it's worse than that. It's revenge. Years of listening to that asshole tell me what to do, of staring down at me with that blank expression on his face, refusin' to act like a fucking human being. Years of aggression come flooding out in a single moment, and with it comes a fierce growl deep within my chest.
I race across the Danger Room, claws out, ready for him to unleash another eye beam and send me flying back against the wall. I can feel my heart pound, my blood flow like lava, my every sense attuned to the man still standing against the wall, his face still a fucking blank slate. I run, I rush, I speed, the growl in my throat building into a primal yell. I draw back my arm in my approach, ready to rip him apart with my claws...
But, the asshole just stands there, same place, same expression, one clawed hand just inches from his throat, the other plunged into the wall beside him. He called my bluff. “Fuck you, Summers.”
“What do you want, Logan?” he asks evenly.
“Nothing.”
“Then let me out.”
“No.”
“Then tell me what you want.” An unemotional bargain, or so he wants me to think.
Inches away from his chest, the pounding of his heart betrays him. Though his face is blank, the blood pumping through his veins is fast, uncontrolled. He swallows again. He smells like... like aftershave and coffee, like he'd stayed awake all night again, plotting and planning our survival. He continues to look down at me, reiterating the challenge, and I lessen the distance between us. He exhales and refuses to move. But, I won't back down, not now that I know. I was right. He does want me, just like I want him.
Slowly, eyes up, staring at ruby red lens, I place my hand upon his chest, right over his heart. His heart jolts with the movement. He sucks in a quiet breath that I wouldn't have heard had I not been so close. I slide my hand down inch by inch, keeping my eyes on his perfectly still face. Down, down the ripples of his abdomen, the slick fabric of his uniform, feeling the breath trapped inside. My hand twists as it drops lower and lower, until finally, it centers over his increasingly excited length. Bingo. His breath hitches as my fingers find him through the stretched fabric, but his face doesn't move.
I sheathe the claws still stuck in the wall, use that hand to reach up along his spine and finding the zipper to his sleek blue armor. Again, he swallows as I begin to draw the zipper down, revealing the muscled flesh of shoulders. His body stiffens with awareness as I peel the uniform from his shoulders, slowly revealing the beautiful, pale skin beneath. I wonder if he's going to bolt, attack, or let me keep undressing him.
“Logan-” he starts - a faint whiff of earth-struck vanilla - the first sign of his steel facade cracking as I splay my hand across his now naked chest. I find delight in this - the sound and floral scent of his jagged breath, the way his brow begins to crease ever so slightly. I tread my rough fingers over the many scars that he's endured, exploring them one by one, with fingers, with tongue, with a soft press of lips. The gun shot wound at his shoulder, round and pink, hardened with a callous. The blade wound that runs along his ribs, a long slice of barely-there white skin. The wounds from the surgery when I cut a bomb out of him, the remnants puffed and hard, a glaring memory of how much pain this man has taken.
With one hand, I peel away his layer, with the other I explore the reminders of what he's fought so hard for his entire life. “Please,” he says quietly, his voice saturated with guilt and need, fear and want.
I shake my head, placing a gentle kiss over a recent wound, still scabbed and sensitive. He audibly inhales, his head leaning back just slightly. “You're too tall, Summers,” I remark and place a hand upon his shoulder to gently push him down to the floor. He meets me with reluctance, so I skim rough fingers across his nipple in a small, soft circle, and watch his facade break further. His brow knits, his lips part. His breath is broken, heavy thick sweet jungle. I smile, and again coax him down to the floor. In a daze, he meets my gentle command.
Against the wall, he leans, his knees bent, hands pressed hard into the floor. He's ready to run, ready to recall himself, his pride, his stoicism, so I don't let up. Kneeling between his long, lean legs, I smooth grizzled hands across his shoulders, keeping one in place to hold him down, to let him know that he's mine right now. And the other tickles upwards, a feather up his neck to just behind his ear. His brow creases even more with desire. Stern lips forget to close. His breath jumps, quiet reminders of how I'm effecting him, but I still want more. I want to see it, all of it, on his face, the breaking down of hardened steel and indifference.
“Close your eyes,” I husk, and slowly begin to remove the last of his facade.
Wrong move. An iron grip grabs my wrist, and within seconds, I'm lying on the floor, my arm nearly ripped from the joint. He stands over top of me, pulling the uniform back over his shoulders. With still shaky finger, he pushes his visor back into place. He takes the controls from my belt, ends the program, and without a word, he walks away.