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You've been alive a long time. Maybe even longer than Logan. You’re not sure anymore. The years blur together after so long. Decade after decade of horrors, of witnessing horrors.
You harbor so much rage. Like fire burning through your veins. Not just for mutants, but for women. For everybody else that the world pushed down, bones upon which they built an empire. If you were able to fucking die, your bones would be in the foundation, too. You’re sure of it.
But you can’t die. So you protected them— everybody that couldn’t protect themselves. Put yourself through pain so they wouldn't have to. Killed the creeps preying on girls, lecherous old men stalking them home through damp streets at night, even if it meant you got punched or stabbed or shot. As you got older, less women needed your protection. But there were always some. And the rage never dulled. You were happy to do the work. You didn't mind the pain.
Eventually, they caught you. Made you a lab rat. Experiments, secret government shit. Months or years of pain and pain and pain. You lost track of the days. Once you got out, you were better than before. Reflexes like lightning. Muscles like steel. Wounds that healed so fast, you could barely even tell they were there. At least it worked, whatever they did. It backfired, though. You finally escaped. Those researchers who tortured you? They're not around anymore.
When you found the school, weeks later, Logan saw so much of himself reflected back when he looked at you. Like looking in a mirror. Hair a mess of tangles, eyes almost feral. More animal than woman, after trekking through the woods or the city streets. He wasn’t sure. Didn’t think it mattered. Both were a jungle, with predators lurking in the underbrush.
As Logan got to know you, the mirror warped. He saw the kind of person he wished he was. Using your strength for the right reasons. Not just a weapon. A weapon of justice.
That’s what led you to seek out the X-men— the promise of making a difference. Continuing your work, with more resources, more protection.
It didn't take long before you were in his bed. After so long with nothing but pain, you needed pleasure. Needed it carnally. For a while you both pretended it was just physical. That charade was doomed to fail. Your souls were twin. You knew everything about each other, because you were the same.
Logan wasn't shy about his thing for pain. He should have known you would like it too. When pain is your only companion, when it can’t even give you the mercy of death, you learn to master it. To love it.
You hadn't felt pain on your terms since you escaped the lab— not real pain. A scratch here and there, as you dragged yourself step by step to Xavier’s School; healed quickly and fast forgotten. The dull ache in your muscles after beating up a punching bag all night. A bloody nose after sparring, once or twice. The hot liquid dripping just a moment before your body could heal itself. Most of the team couldn’t even get a hit on you in hand to hand, reactions quick like the winter wind. Not super-speed, but preternatural all the same.
Charles hadn’t sent you on a mission yet. Knew your flesh healed much faster than your mind. He helped you, as much as he could— always ready to lend an ear. Even if he already knew what was in your head.
One night, lit by dewy pearls of moonlight, Logan fucks you hard into his bed; balls slapping with a loud smack against you. Your face is buried in the sheets, ass up— plump curves on display as he stretches you out on his cock. Your mind is hazy with the pleasure as his velvety length drags along your walls, painting stars across your vision where your eyes are shut tight against the covers.
When you hear Logan’s claws pierce the mattress, your heartbeat kicks up a step. You feel it, then. How you miss it. The sensation of a blade piercing skin; the warmth from pooled red proof you still have a heart.
You want to feel the adamantium on you. You want to control your pain, take it back for yourself. Like how it was before the lab, the experiments.
Logan wouldn't even sleep next to you for fear of his claws. Fucking illogical, but you were working on it.
So you beg for his claws while he drives his hips into you. He likes to fuck you rough, but he’s always careful; holding the wildest part of himself back. It’s so ingrained in him, that kind of control. Knuckles always point away from you, just in case. Everyone around him is so damn fragile. Except for you. He always seems to forget that last part.
A whine tears itself from your throat as he pounds deep, tip brushing your favorite spot. "I'm not made of tissue paper, come on, Lo."
He knows what you’re asking for. He’s just not quite ready to give it to you yet. Maybe won’t be ready, ever. So he does what he can, all his tattered heart can take, as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder. He bites hard enough to bruise, even if you both know the mark will disappear by the time his mouth finds another spot to claim.
“Harder.” It’s grit out through a clenched jaw, an order and a plea.
His fear starts to melt away, when you use that voice. Talk to him like that. So he bites down again, until iron pools on his tongue. He hates that he loves tasting you, even like this. But the sweet little keen you let out more than makes up for it, as you urge him on.
Cries of "fuck, Lo! Fuck—" as he tightens his grip on your hips enough to border on pain. Like he knows you want.
The sting of skin knitting itself together where his teeth had been mingles with the sweet warmth where he ruts into you. He’s getting you so close, reaching around to play with your swollen clit. He isn't giving you exactly what you need. But he will.
Logan knows what’s coming, before you ask. He knows what it is to need the pain. He knows he would be a damn hypocrite if he refuses. You'd been through so much pain; more than him, even. He knows you’re still healing, knows that this is a step along the way. It had been the same for him.
And deep down, he knows you can take whatever he has to give. Can’t help but marvel at the sheer strength of you— all of you. The resilience of your body, yes. But also the resilience of your psyche. Your soul, if that shit even exists.
So as you beg, voice dripping with need, he knows that he’ll give in. Maybe that makes him a bad man.
“Fuckin’— N-need you claws on me baby, please.”
You want him to let go. To feel safe letting go. Logan needs that as much as you need the pain.
He just grunts in response, as he keeps splitting you open on his cock. Fingers still tracing little patterns on your nub. Logan is impressed you’re still coherent enough to string together a sentence.
“Mark me, Lo,” the words come out through pants, breathless. “Fuck! Like you can’t— W-with anybody else.”
The rest of your plea goes unsaid— even if it will only last a moment.
Logan had long ago resigned himself to being a bad man. So maybe it doesn’t matter, if this makes him even worse. Your soft walls pulling him closer to the edge while you beg for him to tear your open.
His hesitation finally disappears beneath the haze of desire as he pulls his claws out of the mattress. Their adamantium reflects the gentle light of the moon. Logan’s hand shakes before he slowly, so softly that it breaks your heart, drags the claws down your back. A lover’s caress. The same thing you’ve done for him countless times, with blunted fingernails instead of sharpened claws. His breath stutters as blood paints your skin beneath his claws, three thin lines of red down your back. You moan.
He watches, mesmerized, as the wound begins to scab over. Maybe it heals his wretched soul, just a little bit, as your flesh knits itself together. Proof that he can’t break you.
"Fuck, Lo, why'd you stop?" your words are breathless. He hadn't even realized his hips stilled. So he starts again, fucking you deep, his leaking tip finding that perfect spot inside. Tender skin raised where he’d scratched, marks almost gone entirely. Soon, dried blood would be the only evidence.
He retracts his claws from where he rests them in the sheets. He can’t make himself do that again. Not now, not yet. Maybe because he likes it a little too much, watching you heal just like he does. So he opts for something that feels safer, using your hair as a handle while he drives into you. Keeps toying with your clit so he can feel you come on his cock.
Ragged moans fill the room, as you finish together. Your walls pulse around him, milking every drop of his release. Sated, with the knowledge that he’d marked you in more ways than one.
That night, for the first time, Logan falls asleep in your arms. You press a sleepy kiss to the top of his head, before you finally join him in dreamless slumber.