Shears: Chapter 1/? [NC-17; Logan/Scott]
Title: Shears
Author: worblehat
Genre: X-Men
Pairing: Logan/Scott
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: These characters probably belong to Marvel. Not me.
Notes: Work-In-Progress!
Summary: A reluctant story of a man with heightened senses, who is saved most unwillingly (if he'd been awake at the time). Logan/Scott, adult-rated overall. Angst-filled, for your pleasure. ;)
Word Count: 1,540
Logan can feel the ripples of power straining through his body as he stands against the edge of the cage. He knows people are watching, nearly all of which are secretly hoping that he will somehow fall to the next person brave enough to challenge him. Just as he knows that he is incapable of falling to any man. It is built within him - built within his very bones, which are comprised of steel and seemingly nothing more than that. He can feel every touch, every flinch, every boo and hiss directed at the match taking place within a cage. He can hear the hate, smell the desire for retribution.
It has been so long since he's felt free, and he pushes this thought aside. Logan knows that he has to reduce himself to this: to a spectacle, to get enough money.
To survive. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders what any other mutant would do. He wonders if they hear the jeering: if they have the stench of alcohol and cigarettes around them practically all the time. Or if it's just him that has such a luxury.
He kicks, bites, throws. The belt hangs loose on him, pants slung easily around his toned waist. He knows they watch; he knows they want to throw him. Knows they'll never be able to, loudly though they cheer for this new contender.
And then she shows up: hooded, watchful; seeing him as his eyes glaze over the television screen, noting the way their ears both perk up at the word "mutants." He doesn't miss anything, even when he knows it would be to his advantage to miss everything. Perhaps it's his bad luck that he's damnably observant.
Then again, he can't ever remember a time when he's been lucky.
***
There isn't much to remember about the fight. He can feel the claws, he can smell the stench of the other man. It is unwelcome: a challenge. Another fight, with the snow acting as just another cage. Later, he learns that the man calls himself Sabertooth. Logan nearly wets himself in discovery that anyone would name themselves something so stupid. Everyone takes themselves so seriously at the mansion. Storm, Cylcops.
Wolverine remembers the first introductions momentarily while he tries not to snicker too loudly. This man in the wheelchair presents a threat he's not yet encountered, and Logan wishes to wait, to hide himself until he's sure of him.
Eyes flutter and he can see the fight as this Professor X questions him. He can see before then, even, when he slams through the windshield, falling into the snow, coming to seconds later. He can smell everything: the growl in Sabertooth's throat, the fear in Marie's veins as she struggles with her seatbelt. But he can only be in so many places at once.
That's when they show up.
The snow takes over his senses momentarily before he hears the blast of warmth against Sabertooth's form. He sniffs the acrid taste that slips against his tongue: a taste of burning, before something else invades. Hands grip him, pull him of off unforgiving metal. His body goes limp. He cannot shake himself awake, even if he wants to. Sabertooth is too strong, has wrecked him too far, for the moment. Instead, he takes comfort in the strong arms, allows himself one sniff of this unknown protector.
A fiery blast, and they fall to the ground, this new smell covering him, protecting him from the flames. Logan goes quiet, the world blacking out around him as he struggles to sniff one more time, wanting to remember the scent.
Wanting to name it.
To feel the way it felt around him, limbs warm, awkward, protective.
Wanting to taste it.
***
He hears heels in an otherwise silent room. They stop nearby and nothing happens. A soft movement - nothing worth noting - and he remains still.
He can smell that scent: it is strong.
Logan waits as fingers caress his arm, traveling downward, waiting with infinite patience, not daring to draw even one breath until he feels -
Rage overtakes him. How dare his captor attempt to do this? How dare anyone, protector, or not, invade his veins, his privacy, his body? He growls, taking charge of this person who reeks of his captor yet isn't him. A person who has dared touch him, stroked him even, in a most gentle manner. Someone Logan rather enjoyed, before realising it wasn't that scent. He can see the brown hair before he exits. Tears off the measuring instruments they've put on him - things he felt all right with until he realised the scent wasn't the one he wanted.
A scent which dominated: provided a challenge that Logan found he wanted to face.
***
He follows the voice: the voice that he can't hear yet knows had somehow spoken. Lights that tease and pretend to offer hints as to whom had spoken, until he finally ends up in the Professor's study.
...until he sniffs, and that scent had invaded his nostrils once more. He knows the man in the wheelchair is making introductions, polite as can be; and he sniffs, subtly. The scent is strong this time and he knows it's the real deal. Confusions fills him as he notices the glasses, red and reflective. He watches as the hand extends towards him.
Heart shaking, he doesn't take it.
Just watches, wondering what the other will say; until the hand drops and he wonders perhaps if he's done something wrong. No one else has dropped from a challenge so readily, so easily. He somehow hopes it's a test: whether it's from the professor or from this man (whom he learns is called Scott Summers), he doesn't care.
A similar scent enters the room and Logan watches as this man, Scott's eyes dart to his female. It is a sort of tribal dance, with the red-eyed man dominating his favoured female. Logan watches with amusement. He winks at the female, who walks past him in stately solitude. He sees Scott's eyes: a real feat.
He can tell there is something wrong with the man's eyes. The sunglasses are a cover, but for what? Logan wants to know, but doesn't ask: he knows it will only give this man, Scott gratification. And as much as the scent intrigues him, he doesn't say anything. It is much more fun to toy with him: as he quirks an eyebrow at this woman, Dr. Jean Grey, he can sense the shift in stance of this Scott Summers.
Jealousy.
Logan smiles to himself inwardly, letting only bits of it creep outwards. He knows it will not do to say what he is really thinking: of how he wishes to push Scott's buttons endlessly, enjoying the flustered feelings the other man produces; the scent he wishes to nuzzle, like a wolf cub come home. He says nothing, hoping the Professor will be decent enough to stay out of his thoughts.
Even as he speaks, momentarily distracted by the ridiculousness of names and a Magneto (whatever that is), he smirks. Only looking briefly forward so as to catch a glimpse of what S. Summers is thinking, he feels a slight thrill in his chest. Which he quiets, unsure of how to respond. It's been ages since he's felt anyting like this: the young girl, Marie (or Rogue, as she seemed to prefer to be called), conjures a godfather-type feeling in him.
Scot Summers conjours rage, impatience; a feeling of need, of abandoned desire.
Being around Mr. Summers is dangerous, Logan knows. But he's always loved a challenge.
He mocks the surroundings. It seems impossible that people would be so into nicknames that bear ridiculous elements. As he walks out, Mr. Scott Summers stands in his way. Logan's lips bear a smirk as he approaches the man.
"Cyclops, right?" he says, challenging. Right before he grips him, pulling the threads closer than is necessary. "You wanna get out of my way?" he whispers.
Mr. Scott Summers doesn't answer him: just looks at Logan's hands, then at this Professor X, in wheels. Logan bristles, wanting more reaction. Wanting to see the eyes behind the glasses. Wanting to push him. To touch him.
Before the Professor's voice drills into his memory.
Fifteen years. Yes, it's been that long. Years of wanting to know what came before, of how he got to be this way. Had he always been a mutant? Had it just been forced upon him? He couldn't tell. His hands pull Scott Summers' clothing more tightly, but he says nothing. He can feel Summers' eyes on him, and his face goes rigid. This is not how he wants the scent to see him.
He goes through the motions. This is a school, and he does care for this girl, this Rogue. Lets himself be led through the halls. All the time wondering.
That scent.
On to Chapter II...
Author: worblehat
Genre: X-Men
Pairing: Logan/Scott
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: These characters probably belong to Marvel. Not me.
Notes: Work-In-Progress!
Summary: A reluctant story of a man with heightened senses, who is saved most unwillingly (if he'd been awake at the time). Logan/Scott, adult-rated overall. Angst-filled, for your pleasure. ;)
Word Count: 1,540
Logan can feel the ripples of power straining through his body as he stands against the edge of the cage. He knows people are watching, nearly all of which are secretly hoping that he will somehow fall to the next person brave enough to challenge him. Just as he knows that he is incapable of falling to any man. It is built within him - built within his very bones, which are comprised of steel and seemingly nothing more than that. He can feel every touch, every flinch, every boo and hiss directed at the match taking place within a cage. He can hear the hate, smell the desire for retribution.
It has been so long since he's felt free, and he pushes this thought aside. Logan knows that he has to reduce himself to this: to a spectacle, to get enough money.
To survive. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders what any other mutant would do. He wonders if they hear the jeering: if they have the stench of alcohol and cigarettes around them practically all the time. Or if it's just him that has such a luxury.
He kicks, bites, throws. The belt hangs loose on him, pants slung easily around his toned waist. He knows they watch; he knows they want to throw him. Knows they'll never be able to, loudly though they cheer for this new contender.
And then she shows up: hooded, watchful; seeing him as his eyes glaze over the television screen, noting the way their ears both perk up at the word "mutants." He doesn't miss anything, even when he knows it would be to his advantage to miss everything. Perhaps it's his bad luck that he's damnably observant.
Then again, he can't ever remember a time when he's been lucky.
***
There isn't much to remember about the fight. He can feel the claws, he can smell the stench of the other man. It is unwelcome: a challenge. Another fight, with the snow acting as just another cage. Later, he learns that the man calls himself Sabertooth. Logan nearly wets himself in discovery that anyone would name themselves something so stupid. Everyone takes themselves so seriously at the mansion. Storm, Cylcops.
Wolverine remembers the first introductions momentarily while he tries not to snicker too loudly. This man in the wheelchair presents a threat he's not yet encountered, and Logan wishes to wait, to hide himself until he's sure of him.
Eyes flutter and he can see the fight as this Professor X questions him. He can see before then, even, when he slams through the windshield, falling into the snow, coming to seconds later. He can smell everything: the growl in Sabertooth's throat, the fear in Marie's veins as she struggles with her seatbelt. But he can only be in so many places at once.
That's when they show up.
The snow takes over his senses momentarily before he hears the blast of warmth against Sabertooth's form. He sniffs the acrid taste that slips against his tongue: a taste of burning, before something else invades. Hands grip him, pull him of off unforgiving metal. His body goes limp. He cannot shake himself awake, even if he wants to. Sabertooth is too strong, has wrecked him too far, for the moment. Instead, he takes comfort in the strong arms, allows himself one sniff of this unknown protector.
A fiery blast, and they fall to the ground, this new smell covering him, protecting him from the flames. Logan goes quiet, the world blacking out around him as he struggles to sniff one more time, wanting to remember the scent.
Wanting to name it.
To feel the way it felt around him, limbs warm, awkward, protective.
Wanting to taste it.
***
He hears heels in an otherwise silent room. They stop nearby and nothing happens. A soft movement - nothing worth noting - and he remains still.
He can smell that scent: it is strong.
Logan waits as fingers caress his arm, traveling downward, waiting with infinite patience, not daring to draw even one breath until he feels -
Rage overtakes him. How dare his captor attempt to do this? How dare anyone, protector, or not, invade his veins, his privacy, his body? He growls, taking charge of this person who reeks of his captor yet isn't him. A person who has dared touch him, stroked him even, in a most gentle manner. Someone Logan rather enjoyed, before realising it wasn't that scent. He can see the brown hair before he exits. Tears off the measuring instruments they've put on him - things he felt all right with until he realised the scent wasn't the one he wanted.
A scent which dominated: provided a challenge that Logan found he wanted to face.
***
He follows the voice: the voice that he can't hear yet knows had somehow spoken. Lights that tease and pretend to offer hints as to whom had spoken, until he finally ends up in the Professor's study.
...until he sniffs, and that scent had invaded his nostrils once more. He knows the man in the wheelchair is making introductions, polite as can be; and he sniffs, subtly. The scent is strong this time and he knows it's the real deal. Confusions fills him as he notices the glasses, red and reflective. He watches as the hand extends towards him.
Heart shaking, he doesn't take it.
Just watches, wondering what the other will say; until the hand drops and he wonders perhaps if he's done something wrong. No one else has dropped from a challenge so readily, so easily. He somehow hopes it's a test: whether it's from the professor or from this man (whom he learns is called Scott Summers), he doesn't care.
A similar scent enters the room and Logan watches as this man, Scott's eyes dart to his female. It is a sort of tribal dance, with the red-eyed man dominating his favoured female. Logan watches with amusement. He winks at the female, who walks past him in stately solitude. He sees Scott's eyes: a real feat.
He can tell there is something wrong with the man's eyes. The sunglasses are a cover, but for what? Logan wants to know, but doesn't ask: he knows it will only give this man, Scott gratification. And as much as the scent intrigues him, he doesn't say anything. It is much more fun to toy with him: as he quirks an eyebrow at this woman, Dr. Jean Grey, he can sense the shift in stance of this Scott Summers.
Jealousy.
Logan smiles to himself inwardly, letting only bits of it creep outwards. He knows it will not do to say what he is really thinking: of how he wishes to push Scott's buttons endlessly, enjoying the flustered feelings the other man produces; the scent he wishes to nuzzle, like a wolf cub come home. He says nothing, hoping the Professor will be decent enough to stay out of his thoughts.
Even as he speaks, momentarily distracted by the ridiculousness of names and a Magneto (whatever that is), he smirks. Only looking briefly forward so as to catch a glimpse of what S. Summers is thinking, he feels a slight thrill in his chest. Which he quiets, unsure of how to respond. It's been ages since he's felt anyting like this: the young girl, Marie (or Rogue, as she seemed to prefer to be called), conjures a godfather-type feeling in him.
Scot Summers conjours rage, impatience; a feeling of need, of abandoned desire.
Being around Mr. Summers is dangerous, Logan knows. But he's always loved a challenge.
He mocks the surroundings. It seems impossible that people would be so into nicknames that bear ridiculous elements. As he walks out, Mr. Scott Summers stands in his way. Logan's lips bear a smirk as he approaches the man.
"Cyclops, right?" he says, challenging. Right before he grips him, pulling the threads closer than is necessary. "You wanna get out of my way?" he whispers.
Mr. Scott Summers doesn't answer him: just looks at Logan's hands, then at this Professor X, in wheels. Logan bristles, wanting more reaction. Wanting to see the eyes behind the glasses. Wanting to push him. To touch him.
Before the Professor's voice drills into his memory.
Fifteen years. Yes, it's been that long. Years of wanting to know what came before, of how he got to be this way. Had he always been a mutant? Had it just been forced upon him? He couldn't tell. His hands pull Scott Summers' clothing more tightly, but he says nothing. He can feel Summers' eyes on him, and his face goes rigid. This is not how he wants the scent to see him.
He goes through the motions. This is a school, and he does care for this girl, this Rogue. Lets himself be led through the halls. All the time wondering.
That scent.
On to Chapter II...