Wolverine

                **The Bottle's Choice**

The bottle spun, a lazy, glittering arc in the gilded light of the Hellfire Gala’s grand hall. Champagne and adrenaline mixed in the air, a heady cocktail of power and pretense. {{user}} and some of the other heroes were playing a stupid game—Seven Minutes in Heaven—a juvenile dare thrown into the opulent chaos, a secret thrill for gods and warriors. The bottle wobbled, slowed, and with a final, decisive clink, its neck pointed squarely at them.

Then it pointed at him.

Logan. Wolverine. Not in tactical gear, not in tattered leather. He was a vision of controlled violence in a crisp white suit, black pants, a sharp line against the riot of color. The black eyepatch over one eye made him look less like a hero and more like a kingpin, a man who owned the shadows. His spiked hair, his rugged jaw—they were the same. But the suit made him something else. Something dangerous in a new way. His eyes, the one I could see, locked onto {{user}}’s. A low, almost imperceptible growl vibrated in his chest. Challenge. Acceptance.

He didn’t speak. He just stood, extended a hand—not gently—and gestured toward the door. The crowd of heroes, their laughter and bets fading into a murmur, watched them both go. The designated closet was just down the hall, a small, luxurious space meant for coats, not for this.

The door closed with a soft thud. The timer on someone’s phone outside started. Seven minutes.

The space was cramped, dim. The silks and velvets of discarded gala attire brushed against my skin. His cologne—sharp, expensive—filled the air, but underneath it was something else: the wild, musky scent of him. Of earth and storm and blood.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t ask.

His hands, calloused and strong, found {{user}}’s hips. He turned me, their back to the wall, the fabrics whispering around them. His body was a solid wall of heat against theirs. One hand came up, cupped their jaw, his thumb brushing their lower lip. His gaze was a laser, stripping away the outfit, the pretence, everything.

“Rules are for children,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. “I don’t play by ‘em.”

Then he knelt.

The world tilted. The expensive wool of his suit pants brushed {{user}}’s calves as he settled between their thighs. He didn’t fumble with the delicate fabric of their outfit. One claw—a single, gleaming adamantium tip—extended with a quiet snick. He traced a line, so precise, so careful, along the seam of their underwear. The material parted. A cool slice of air, then the overwhelming heat of his presence.

He didn’t tease.

His mouth was on {{user}} full, immediate. A hot, wet claim. His tongue was flat, broad, a relentless stroke from the very first instant. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. A low, possessive groan vibrated from him into their flesh.

His technique was brutal efficiency. His tongue plunged, deep, exploring, then withdrew to lap broad, firm strokes over the sensitive peak of {{user}}’s pleasure. He varied the pressure—sometimes flat and demanding, sometimes pointed and precise, circling the nerve-rich centre until their legs trembled. He used his lips, sucking, pulling the flesh into his mouth, a wet, sensual pressure that made their back arch off the wall.

The timer outside was meaningless. The seven minutes bled into ten, then fifteen. He was a machine, a relentless engine of sensation. His hands gripped {{user}}’s thighs, holding them open, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of their inner legs. The suit jacket stretched across his powerful shoulders. They could feel the coiled strength in him, the animal patience focused entirely on this single, consuming task.

He ignored the pleas, or perhaps he answered it by doubling his efforts. His tongue delved deeper, fucking {{user}} with it in slow, deliberate thrusts that mimicked a rhythm my body screamed for. Then he focused again on that peak, sucking it hard into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it with a rapid, devastating cadence.

Thirty minutes. The thought floated, detached. He wasn’t done.

A new, deeper hunger seemed to seize him. His hands moved from {{user}}’s thighs. One arm hooked around their leg, lifting it, bending them into a deeper angle for him. His mouth worked with a renewed, savage intensity.

Then—the door handle rattled.

A voice, muffled, outside. “Okay, seriously, what’s taking so long? The game’s over.”

The door swung open.

Light from the hallway spilled into the dim closet, framing the figures of several heroes crowding at the entrance. Their festive expressions froze, transformed into shock, then into a kind of rapt, stunned silence.

They saw exactly what was happening.

{{user}}’s outfit was askew, their underwear cut away. And Logan… Wolverine… his face was still buried between their thighs, his white suit jacket stark against the shadowed closet, his body a tableau of absolute, focused devotion. A low, continuous growl of pleasure still hummed from him. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even look up.

His mouth worked, his tongue dragging through their entrance, pushing them higher, closer to that second, public edge. {{user}}’s eyes met the crowd’s—wide, embarrassed, then defiant. The pleasure was too intense to hide.

His voice, gritty and dark, broke from his throat, muffled by their flesh but perfectly clear.

“Say my name,” he growled, the vibration of it traveling straight to their core. “Say it. Nice and loud for them to hear.”