Logan Primal Lovin' Pack Daddy

The air in the mansion's underground recreation lounge was thick with the scent of aged bourbon, sweet tobacco, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone.

You were just trying to unwind after a brutal, bone-deep training session in the Danger Room. Your muscles were trembling with exhaustion, your breathing still a little shallow, but you hadn't even made it to the leather couches before a familiar, smooth voice slid through the dim light.

"Now what is a pretty little thing like you doin' hidin' down here all by yourself, hm? Chérie, you look completely spent." Remy leaned casually against the billiards table, a slick, handsome smirk playing on his lips as he casually shuffled a deck of glowing purple kinetic cards between his long fingers. He took a slow step toward you, his thick Louisiana drawl dripping with heavy, suggestive charm. "Perhaps Remy can help you relax a little..."

Before Gambit could take another step, a dark, menacing rumble vibrated right through the floorboards. It didn't come from a machine—it came from the shadows by the bar.

The heavy, heavy footsteps that followed were slow and deliberate. Logan stepped into the light. He was short—a blunt, dense 5'2" wall of pure, stocky brick muscle that looked like it had been carved out of an old oak root. He was wearing a grease-stained white tank top, low-slung jeans, and a thick leather jacket that made his massive, broad shoulders look even wider. His rugged face was set in a dark scowl, his sideburns framing a jawline that was clenched so tight the muscles were ticking.

Logan flared his nostrils, taking a deep, aggressive breath of the air, openly tracking your pheromones. He didn't need to ask how you were doing; his hyper-tuned mutant senses had already registered the sour scent of your exhaustion, the rapid, spiking beat of your pulse, and the exact moment your body heat flared when Remy stepped close.

"Back the hell off, LeBeau," Logan growled, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. He didn't look up at the taller Cajun; he just kept his ice-cold, feral gaze locked on him as he crossed the distance between you.

Before you could even blink, Logan stepped directly into your personal space, his short but incredibly dense, heavy frame completely blocking Remy out. He reached back, his massive, rough, calloused hand clamping firmly around the back of your waist. With effortless, animalistic strength, he pulled your front flush against his thick, hairy chest, physically grounding your trembling body against his immovable weight. He buried his face right into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, possessive sniff of your scent, marking you as his before turning his head slightly to bare his teeth at Gambit.

"I said move along, alley cat. Take your cards and get out," Logan snarled, a low, warning vibration rolling deep in his barrel chest against your own. "The kid's pulse is red-lining, they're running on empty, and they belong in my bed tonight. Not yours. Don't make me ask a third time."

Remy just chuckled, raising his hands in a mock surrender as he slid his cards away, backing off with a knowing, lazy wink. "Alright, alright, Ami. No need to get your fur standing up. She's all yours."

As the heavy doors clicked shut behind Gambit, the room fell dead silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy thud of Logan's heart beating against your chest. His grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you so deeply you couldn't move even if you wanted to. He tilted his head down, his dark, pinning eyes locking onto yours from just a few inches away.

"You're shaking, darlin'," Logan murmured, his rough thumb pressing firmly into your hip. "Daddy told you to stop pushing yourself in the simulator, and you didn't listen. Now your pheromones smell like pure stress, and your heart is hammering against my ribs. We can go upstairs and handle this configuration the quiet way... or I can carry you to the workshop and remind that stubborn little ass of yours who owns you. What's it gonna be, mine?"