bakerstreet | No Knight

[ somehow this ended up being more like steampunk than traditional fantasy but lets just roll with it ]

Charles has no idea how he got into this pickle. It must have had something to do with his abrupt departure from his home in Weschester, or perhaps with the fact that he had taken quite a bit of family heirlooms with him, the kind that his mother would definitely not like to see fall into wrong hands. Old books, relics, magical and not. They still travel with him on the single suitcase that he managed to grab from the carriage.

But lets not get ahead of ourselves here.

Charles Xavier - a young man with considerable wealth and social standing, a family stretching back centuries with political and social power - is the black sheep of his current generation. He adamantly refuses to participate in practicing the craft that his family has been involved with for centuries and centuries. Or well, he does practice and is rather brilliant at it, but he's been known to shy away from the darker sides of the craft, a habit that his mother has grown rather frustrated with. She had put all her eggs in one basket - regrettable as it is - and only bothered to mother one child, a disappointing little runt that always was more interested in reading literature than spell books.

And finally that waste of time and effort of a child had finally ran off after years of investment on her part, putting in the hours to teach him and the money to clothe and school him as he himself saw fit.

Indeed, Charles had grown to be a headstrong child and finally that independence had lead him to packing his bags and leaving. He had put on his traveling suit and his short cloak, slid a silver pocket watch with an actual pentagram into the pocket of his waistcoat and cast the spells he needed, cloaking himself from his mother's efforts to find him later. And with this he had stepped into the airship that had carried him uneventfully for the first part of the trip.

He had to get out of the country. Here anyone would recognize him. Beyond the border it was a completely different game.

By the time he had found a carriage to take him over the border, it had been clear as day that there were some forces upon him, following him. But he had persisted. Through the woodlands they would go, into the heart of wilderness. Charles wasn't afraid. Not really. He had everything he needed to survive this.

He had grossly underestimated his mother's ambition on this matter. The horses were the first to go, spooked by the demons on their tail. At first they galloped through the forest road in incomprehensible fear, then one stumbled, the other kept going, and the carriage broke down in a great splinter of wood and screams of a dying horse. The next it was the drivers, who just ran off or were taken in, Charles doesn't really know.

He had found himself on the floor, scrambling for foothold. And when the screams had started, he had known what was going on. The door to the carriage had been jammed, no way out, no way in. Except when someone with enough strength would come along. Charles could just hear what was going on, growls, wet sounds of flesh being torn open, screams, whimpers, the breath of the dying horse. And this is where he realized that there's a crack in the floor boards. And when he struggled, he could reach for the still warm barrel like chest of the horse, now broken, torn open, smearing his fingers with blood.

The magical signs had been quick to draw. The death of the horse would serve as a catalyst, the blood as sacrifice, and Charles made sure to put his own spin on it - the spell would wipe out the demons. It would at least vanquish them long enough for him to get out and escape.

Except that what it did was to wipe him out too. The last he remembers from the carriage is his cheek coming to contact with a blood floor board.

When he comes to it, he's resting against something warm, his whole world saying rhythmically. And when he opens his eyes, he's staring at a road beneath him, hooves of a horse tracking it. He's thrown over a back of a horse like a sack of potatoes.

He feels sick. His hands are numb from having hanged like this towards the ground for who knows how long.

He's probably a captive, right? He's going to have to run. As fast as he can. He lets himself have a moment to get a feel of his body. All limbs attached, no major injuries.

Then he slides off of the horse, grabs the suit case that was hanging by its side and tries to run.

Except his legs aren't carrying him, so he just kind of flops onto the side of the road with a gasp.

"I'm not going back!" he declares before he has no idea what's going on.

This far out from the cities with their airships and wards things loose their shine. Their strictly segmented order, their brass piping that coil with carefully crafted magics and glamours. Everything this far into the wood is raw and real and wild- to the extent that a pack of shrieking demons chasing down a carriage goes unremarked upon.

Just another day.

When the whole damn thing overturns and sends a ripple of power through the immediate area that does something to the demons and the natural spirits and such that tend to linger waiting for a bit of death to give them a stronger foothold on this side of things- it catches notice. Everyone with half a mind that felt that wave would come running to poke at it. See what made it happen. Which means tourists poking around his part of the woods hunting for something. A trinket, a book, a bauble-

Or, when he cracks open the carriage to get a look inside, a person. Mages. Always inviting trouble. It took about five seconds for him to make up his mind and scoop the kid up, grab what looked valuable and ride further north. Get him to the city, let someone else deal with him. That was the plan- at least till the telltale uptick in his pulse betrays him being awake- and then he's quick enough to slide off? Logan lets him run- or try to run. The massive black horse slows to a stop before he swings down, boots digging into the dirt. Like he's got all the time in the world, he walks around to where the kid's scattered on the side of the road, hands slung in his belt.

No waistcoat, no cloak, just well worn buckskin and a worn cotton shirt under a furred coat, no signs of finery and he sure as hell doesn't have any fine mannerisms. He snorts, tilts his head to the side and spits. "I'm not taking you back. Last thing I need is more demons coming through my woods."

Charles' breath hitches in his throat as he watches the man approach him. His legs still are unwilling to cooperate and his head feels woozy from casting such a powerful spell without any preparation. This man looks and feels as terrifying as he sounds.

Blue eyes stare openly at the man in a furred coat, Charles clutches the suitcase to his chest and scrambles backward, trying his best to get out of the way.

"You should just... You should leave me. They will come back." He doesn't actually know if they do or what they were even trying to do. But that's not relevant here, is it?

His pinstripes are completely covered with dust, his cloak missing, his white sleeves stained with black ashes and flaking red of the horse's blood. And mysteriously, his shaking fingers dig into his pocket of his waistcoat while he's trying to scramble onto his feet and pull out a clock of all things.

Charles flips it open, watches the various hands and symbols that circle the twirl about on the face of the clock.

"I don't have long..."

"Then get back on the horse. Still a days ride till we hit the city." Most of it through more woods. Not his but- unclaimed. He might have to cut through Creed's territory if they don't get moving and that's a complication best avoided. The dandy scrabbles backward and Logan takes another step forward, stopping only to tip his head back and scent the air.

No demons, no bears, no blood. Nothing hunting. They'd have a straight shot up to the next best campsite. "No one else around for miles."

Which means nothing when demons are involved. Mages and their scrying and their tricks, fiddling with blood and death. Logan figures he'll give the kid one more chance to hop up on his own before he just takes him. "So get on the horse. Or I'll make you."

Kid doesn't weigh a damn thing, scruffing him like a kitten wouldn't take much work. Hell he's got half a mind to do that just to get going again- and to tie him to the damn saddle. Keep him from making another break for it.

Unfortunately it's exactly what Logan will have to do, because Charles is ready to run for it. His legs are sort of carrying him again, sort of. They don't quite go jelly with each step he takes.

He breathes out a half panicked chuckle when his bluff is so obviously thrown off the tracks and pockets the watch. It does tell him that no demons are quite ready to bounce on him right now. So that's at least a relief.

"Do you work for my mother?" he asks, but doesn't even seem to be going for the horse. No.

And if Logan will aim to grab him, he will try to run. He won't get far but he will attempt to bolt like a rabbit to the woods.

Oh, great. Rich Mage with family problems. That explains the viciousness of those demons. Probably some kind of disagreement gone wrong in a bad way- or he's run off with the silverware, or- whatever it is they do. It isn't his problem till they pay him to make it his problem and he's not working for anyone this season.

Taking time off to be alone keeps him from tearing out their throats when they keep looking at him funny. Kinda like how the kid's looking at him now.

Men don't rumble the way he does- this almost sub audible growl that thrums in his chest, settling thick with warning in the air between them. Eyes narrowing, he starts forward, hand settling on a coil of something at his belt. Rope? Rope. "I don't work for anyone."

Those blue eyes stare at his hard face, terrified, exhausted, lost. And when he growls, Charles lets out an actual whimper and coils back, almost like trying to shrink towards his own center and stop existing. He's terrying, Charles decides, utterly and completely terrifying.

It doesn't help that he says he works alone. It doesn't really help because Charles is no longer listening. He's no longer thinking.

He's too drained to cast again. He has no chances of surviving an actual fight with this man, but he can run.

So, he does. He rabbits towards the forest, actually managing to stay on top of his feet as he breaks out, running as fast as he can.

Nostrils flaring- he could smell the exhausted panic on the kid earlier. Now? Now the air is ripe with his terror, a bone deep prey instinct that has something in the center of his chest uncurling with vicious glee. A chance to chase. A chance to hunt-

But this isn't that kind of prey, isn't that kind of hunt. The kid rabbits for the forest and Logan? Snaps a hand up with the rope, steadies the loop. Lopes after him for a step or two, a fluid twist of his wrist gathering momentum before he hurls the lasso. Not quite a snare and not wanting to actually hurt the kid- he keeps the loop wide. Aim's the catch him around the arms as he plants his feet and pulls back hard, trying to get the kid to stop without toppling him over again.

Grand Escape Attempt number 2 lasts all of three seconds. "Wasting light and our time."

Grumbling as he stalks over to where the kid's caught up, looping the rope around his wrists and pulling it tight.

Charles is scrambling so hard towards the treeline. Twigs break under his foot, moss gives in and one of his shoes is now soaking wet. He's like an elephant in a porcelain shop even if he's a scrawny man in a pinstripe suit and nothing around him for several meters.

The robe goes over his head and he yelps as he tries to leap to the side, but the noose is already tightening around his waist, tightening both of his hands against his sides. Then it tightens, holds him in place and Charles tries to trash against the hold. Then he's being pulled back and the suitcase slips out of his fingers.

It makes him freeze for a few seconds and then the terrifying man is right there, sliding robe around his wrists.

"What do you--" he starts, jumping back at the first yank of the robe when it tightens around his wrists.

Okay, he had known it already, it was a wasted attempt to even try run from this man here. Maybe in a city but not here.

Hadn't he said that he would take Charles to a city?

Okay. Okay.

"What're you going to do with me?" he asks, licking his lips nervously.

One knot, two and then he's fairly sure the kid's hands are secure. The suitcase gets snatched up and the kid? Gets half a second before Logan dips enough to put a shoulder to his middle and lift, flipping him onto his shoulder to carry back to the horse. If he'd behaved? HE'd have gotten to sit like a regular person.

People that annoy Logan get to ride like cargo.

"Get you and your demon friends away from my stretch of the woods." So. A city. Deliver him there and let him become someone else's problem. He's got enough shit on his plate without inviting a mage to the mix. It's a short walk back to the horse, takes little to no effort to heave the kid up across as he'd been before, the suitcase lashed against his saddlebags so it won't go sliding off the damn horse a second time. Actually tying the kid in place doesn't take that much time either.

Logan manages it in a few efficient knots- he's done this before. "Gonna be dark before we make camp, now."

Grumbling and irate (though that's his default expression and tone), Logan swings up behind Charles, a firm hand steadying him in the small of his back as he nudges the horse forward. No need to gallop, not when he's carrying someone like this.

Oh crap.

Charles gives a yelp when he's heaved onto the man's shoulder. His world goes over and under in a wild vertigo for a moment and he's heaving in deep breaths to keep whatever's left of his yesterday's dinner in his stomach.

He has no way of bracing himself against the back that he's thrown on. His face smashes right into it, furs and leather and all. The scent that explodes in his nostrils is wild and strong, raw. It's terrifying but fascinating.

"They're not my friends," he says as he tries to get used to the idea of being carried around like this. He makes sure that he can see the suit case before he's thrown over the back of the horse again. The animal smells nice too, but somehow Charles finds himself preferring the earlier scent.

This is going to be so uncomfortable. His stomach already hurts.

Which is why he's not saying anything else, just twitching a little when he feels a hand against his back and then the horse start forward. How many hours before dark? How many hours will he be hanging here like this?

"Figured that, what with how they were trying to kill you." Violent intent isn't often something someone can scent on the wind- but demons are peculiarly blatant about what they're doing wherever they are when it comes to being called to kill. Not something he has to deal with much in his stretch of the wilds and having it forced on his doorstep cuz of this kid and his family sours an already dour mood.

Once they get going, he keeps quiet. No need to draw extra attention, no need to talk to the dandy that's gotten him extra trouble. Someone's gonna smell all the magic and blood left behind and start asking questions. Better that they're both gone before that happens.

He'll have to move his main camp somewhere else whenever he gets back. Further from the boarder. If Creed doesn't like him being that close they'll just have to fight again. Maybe gut each other before resuming the usual stalemate. More shit he's not really looking forward to at all, but going over the best way to try and track and kill Creed for his section of the wilds does help settle his mood a bit. Keep him quiet and content for the first hour or so of their ride- so long as the brat doesn't kick up a fuss.

The brat eventually does kick up a fuss.

Charles tries to just ignore his situation. He tries to meditate, he tries to sleep, he tries to count all his books at home, build a mental castle, anything. But minutes tick past and he still feels the horse move beneath him and his stomach move with it.

After an hour he starts to ache. His feet and cold because blood circulation is actually horrible like this and his back hurts so much while his stomach is a mess.

The sun hasn't shifted at all on the sky. Or so it at least seems to him.

"Hey, uh... man? You, person who robed me," he finally clears his throat and says. As if there were other poeple here to talk to. "Could you maybe consider letting me up?"

He pauses for a moment to draw in a breath. "I'll behave. I won't try to run okay?"

"Yes, rabbit?" Quick for a dandy, small and pale and twitchy- doesn't have long ears but his hair looks soft. In his mind? It fits. Logan doesn't so much as look down while the fuss is getting kicked up, eyes on the road.

On the one hand- getting him to sit up means he could gallop safely. On the other it'd mean having to hold him close to keep him from falling off.

Decisions, decisions.

"Logan. And swear on your honor or whatever it is you rich mages do. We lose much more light it means cutt'n through Creed's neck of the woods. And if you think I'm bad?" He gives a weary little chuckle. "He's worse."

Probably knock Logan out, take this little bit of pretty fluff and play or whatever it is he does in that shack he calls a home. If the kid's lucky, he'll die before Creed's done. If not? Well. He'll wish he was.

Rabbit? Charles is a little taken aback. Of all the things to call him. Well. It kind of makes sense. But at the same time it doesn't make him feel very easy around the idea that rabbits are probably prey for this man, things to eat.

"Oh, well... I don't exactly have anything to swear by except my pride. I will, though, swear by it. I will not slow you down again."

He follows the statement with a nervous silence.

Logan. At least he has a name. Perhaps that will help Charles in his later attempts to turn Logan's head to release him.

"My name is Charles Xavier," he continues after a brief silence. And even to his own ears, he sounds so very posh and proper. "From Weschester."

"Pride's not worth much." Still. "Fine. But slow us down again and I'll gag you too."

He would, in a heartbeat. Sure this might be a mission of mercy but- he doesn't want to put up with undue fussing from a foppish dandy lost in the middle of the woods. Doesn't even seem to know the basic rues of how shit works out here- figures. Fly high above on the airships and never worry about the beasts and wild magic in the forest.

"...Charles Xavier." He repeats, grimacing in distaste. "No one told you giving out your name's a shit idea out here? Gonna get your soul stolen, Rabbit."

Yeah, he likes that better than 'Charles' by a long shot. Probably gonna stick with that- though he does slow the horse to a stop so he can swing off and cut the kid down. He tugs the kid back onto the horse (in front of him) and loops a fur covered arm around his waist before kicking the horse into a trot to start. Just to warm up. "So don't go handing it out."

Charles is about to say something about the gag, because please, that is not necessary at all. But then Logan stops the horse and he's giving a sob of relief. His stomach was about to convulse with the next trot, surely. (Though, he's been feeling like this for the past fifteen minutes at least.

"I..." he starts when his world is tilted upward suddenly and he finds himself sitting, his field of vision full of black spots when he suddenly is swung upright. "Oh, heavens..."

And before he can do much more than lift his hands that are still tied together to his face to rub it vigorously between his palms, Logan is climbing back up again and settling behind him.

An arm registers around his waist, then a firm body behind him and Charles' senses are flooded with that scent again, earthy and powerful. Tentatively he leans back against Logan, reaching down to grab the saddle with his tied hands. It makes it easier to find a rhythm in moving together.

Unfortunately this also makes his cheeks flush, like if he were a idiot.

"What do you mean getting my soul stolen?" he asks, though. Because this actually sounds fascinating. "Naming magic?"

"Know someone's name, know the right spell? You own them. Takes less blood than your light show back at the carriage." Impossible to break- or so the logic goes. Everyone out here just uses different names. Saves handing out the real thing to people they trust. Logan's lucky in that he can't even recall what his actual name might be.

Makes going by anything else and handing it out easier.

Trotting's going well, he nudges Blackbird up into a canter, wide palm resting on Charles' hip to hold him steady. No slipping off a second time. Focused on the ride- he can't pick up on the kid's fluster. Keeping an eye out on the road and a nose to the air takes priority. There's three more hours of riding and roughly one hour of daylight left. "Good way to get cursed, too. Turned into a frog, get yourself charmed into someone's stew pot. We won't be meeting anyone on the road if I can help it so it won't be that big of a problem. But keep your name to yourself till you get to the city."

Charles thinks about it. Sure. It's easy to bind a spell with a name. But wouldn't a mage usually protect their soul by plotting themselves a True Name? Maybe it's not something even most mages know how to do. Charles had only heard of the practice before last week. In order to hide himself from his mother, he had to do that, though.

It surprises him, though, that the woodlands folk would be so knowable of the magical principles. Or rather of the magical principles not even the trained mages of city covens knew about. Naming magic has some strange principles and Charles doesn't know much about it.

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, looking up at Logan's jaw line. "I take it that Logan's not your real name, then."

Even with the the quick pace they keep, his current position is so much better. Charles feels his body actually resting. He might actually be able to cast another spell soonish. Though, he isn't minding Logan's hand on his hip and a firm body to lean on. Quite the contrary...

Edited 2016-11-06 17:38 (UTC)

"It's what people call me." And that's enough for A name. His lips curl faintly, a flicker of a grin that's toothy and sharp. "That and 'Wolverine'."

On account of his tracking, his furs. His claws- but he doesn't really open up conversation with that.Still. Charles could've done worse with who saved him from his carriage. Hunters don't scavenge, and unlike most he doesn't have much use for magical baubles, tomes, or people. Keeps a wary eye out for them, keeps his distance when he can.

At least up till he gets it in his head to keep trouble from his doorstep.

"Why are you running from your mother, Rabbit?" Yeah, that name's gonna stick. It's funny in a way- the wolf carrying a rabbit to safety. Some kinda parable at work here, an amusing twist of fate.

Charles can see where Wolverine would have come from, yes. He eyes his "captor" for a while quietly, considering him, reading into the way he mouths his words, the way he holds himself, everything and anything. This is the first time he's really seen the man properly. Until now it's all been spotted images of a guy who put him down and tied to the saddle face down.

He looks... good with a handsome face. He also carries himself with that rough and ready way that a lot of the woodlands people seem to do. The kind that drives people in cities mad with irritation but is probably a necessity up here.

Charles has spent most of his life watching his mother keep court with their various rich friends. He knows how to read people. Yet, Logan seems to elude his skills somewhat. Maybe it's just the different upbringing that he's had.

"Ah..." he twists to stare at the road again, his lips pursing and brow furrowing for a bit. "She wants me to do something I am not ready to do. Never will be."

Roughewn and worn, beard trimmed (ish, as much as he can manage), smelling of leather and tobacco and the wild, fur coat hand stitched- he cuts the very figure of one of the outsider savages often depicted with scorn in more civilized areas. Fine by him. He doesn't clean up for much of anyone unless he has to for work- and work's been slim lately.

Gives him more time to settle into his skin out here. No walls, no steam, less magic. Well. Less of the orderly stuff with overcomplicated rules that need abiding, fewer wards. Everything out here runs wild. Suits him just fine. Odd place to find a dandy- though mention of running away earns a snort. "Ran off in a fit of pique?"

Yeah, he knows that word, no, don't marvel at it. The savage reads. Who knew?

"I suppose that is the right kind of depiction of my current situation," Charles admits quietly. He doesn't expect Logan to understand. Not that many would. He'd give up fame and fortune for a simple principle. Yes, yes he would.

Especially when that principle has to do with taking lives. He's not a killer and he never will be.

But a wild creature like Logan would probably not understand. Or see his unwillingness to give in a weakness or a fear. He doesn't try to explain it. There's very little point in doing that.

"Why are you taking me to the city? You could just dump me onto the other one's territory, what was his name? Creed?"

"Uh-huh." Bratty dandy runaway rabbit. Just his luck. At least they won't endure each other's company for all that long. One more day's ride tomorrow and they'll be well in sight of the city. Easy enough to drop him off there, leave him for someone else to handle.

"Because then the screaming will scare off all the good hunting and keep me awake. For months." Creed takes his time, sadistic bastard. A good hunt means a quick death. Not. Carving away little by little like working a side of beef. "Rather get you somewhere else before you start screaming."

"Right," Charles says with a small inhale.

It doesn't matter why Logan does what he does if Charles will get to the city and will get back his suitcase. The answer does make him feel awfully short of breath, though. Because that sounds terrifying.

Absolutely terrifying. What was he thinking when he embarked on this journey?

"I'll try to keep quiet then," he replies. "I'm sorry for the trouble. And thank you."

Creed's the closest thing to a boogeyman most wilder folk hear about- him and the wolverine- but at least Logan keeps to himself. Doesn't make trouble. Doesn't go out of his way to kill people that don't need killing. Creed? Loves it. Leaves pikes with bone and brass lashed to them as some kind of warning. Gets off on the fear.

Probably thinks it makes him stronger, better.

Idiot.

"Don't thank me. Gonna have to kick out a bunch of nosy idiots when I get back. Might as well have sent up a flare with that spell." Emptying out his woods will take time and skim off what he could be spending on hunting. Shoring up for the winter.

Charles will have to disagree firmly. Logan doesn't seem that bad honestly. Maybe it's just his experience on the man but he hasn't hurt Charles yet. Sure he's tied him down but that doesn't mean he's hurt.

Which makes him wonder if he's been blind too.

He falls silent for a bit, just enjoying the breeze on his face and the way the horse's movement makes his pelvis ache, not his stomach, his pelvis, which is perfectly good and reasonable. But something else does reverberate in his mind though, and after some careful consideration he opens his mouth.

"My mother wanted me to kill for magic. I can't do that. Life is too precious for that."

"Don't need to kill to cast." He's no mage but he's seen enough to know that. "The hell kind of magic your mother playing with?"

Sure, blood can be a decent shortcut, most people know that. Most people don't use it cuz that gets messy and starts tempting fate. Too much blood can call things from the other side you don't really want walking around your parlor for one: and pulls in scavengers for two. Does explain why the kid's running, though. People like that don't take sudden surges of willfulness all that kindly.

Kid has a mind to not, woman objects- running. Demons. Right into Logans' neck of the woods.

"The kind that most mages wouldn't touch," Charles agrees easily. "You don't know Death before you've killed," he says and it sounds almost like a saying. "You don't know Death before you've died." He isn't fond of the family treasure trove but he sure knows the craft.

Necromancy and demon bonds often go hand in hand. Charles would rather forgo both of them.

He likes the sound of this wild woodland magic a lot more than the dangerous kind that his mother has had him learning since early childhood.

Now that- that he's heard before. That he knows well enough to frown at the back of Charles' head before leaning in, pressing his nose to his hair. Taking a slow inhale. Blood pomade, fragrant oil, ink, but nothing of the usual soot and death about most necromancers. No sulfuric twist of demonic influence, nothing that would paint him as anything other than a useless, harmless dandy.

There's still a wry thought, a warning growl. "Poking at things that aren't meant to be poked."

There's a startled little sound that escapes Charles when Logan leans in to... sniff his hair? One part of him thinks almost feverishly how he hasn't bathed for two days. Another part of him just doesn't know how to respond, this is the part that provides the oh god, oh god that reverberates in his mind again and again. And a third part that peculiarly seems to thrill in the excitement. (What excitement?)

He's gone rigid still against Logan, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

"I... I know. It's why I left," he practically whispers.

Another inhale before he returns his attention to the road and- well now. The little rabbit's interested is he? Slim, pretty, fine. Soft in a way the wood doesn't let people stay if they want to survive. Been awhile since he's had a tumble but interested doesn't always mean action- at least not without a little nudging. He tugs Charles back tighter against his chest, their hips grinding together with every jolt of the horse's stride.

A little friction, a little idle mimicry. "What're you hop'n to find in the City?"

When he's tugged back against Logan's back, Charles inhales sharply. They already were riding pretty close each other but now it's just a little short from dry humping. The horrible part? That would be his body responding to the stimuli with very predictable ways. He's pretty sure Logan can smell the arousal on him and that's...

That's embarrassing.

He's heard these woodland creatures sometimes even mate on horseback. Which is the perfect thing to remember of his whole vast education in this particular moment. Doesn't make his beginnings of a boner issue any less of a thing, no.

"I don't honestly know. Just some place that isn't connected to my mother's power. I can disappear there."

Kicking Blackbird up to a proper gallop is excuse enough for the closeness. For the firmer hold, the sharper grind of their hips and, yeah, that's the smell of an interested body. The frantic birdlike flutter of a pulse, thin and fragile at Charles' throat. But for now- that's it. The closeness, the heat, the low rumble of something that might be a growl or a thrumming purr in the depths of his chest.

One could never tell.

"Better get you there quick, then. Sooner your trail goes cold, the better."

"Yes," Charles agrees, quietly so. He doesn't have much of voice for anything further to be honest.

The galloping leaves him a little breathless. He doesn't have to use a lot of muscle power to stay on because Logan is holding him so firmly and the man seems like part of the animal beneath them. But he is rocking between two hard places and now he can't stop thinking about it.

Charles, stop being ridiculous.

"What's wrong Rabbit?" He rumbles softly, tipping his head down enough to murmur directly into the kid's ear. Seems a skittish sort for so many reasons, seems a little sensitive. Could be fun to dig into him and have a bite, listen to him squirm. They got some time left on the horse yet and, well.

Logan's done this before. Ain't nothing new to him. Might be a little fun to unstuff this puffed up dandy. "Cat got your tongue?"

There is something to be said about that voice. Because it is a little unfair, Charles finds. The rumbling murmur of words like a purr on Logan's tongue. When his body seems eager to shiver because of it, Charles can't really blame it. Especially when it happens right next to his ear.

If Logan hoped he would squirm, he is getting what he wanted soon enough.

"I suspect," Charles says, his voice dry as a summer day but still nervous, colored with embarrassment. He glances at Logan from the corner of his eye. "It was Wolverine."

The hand on Charles' hip shifts, then, gliding from gripping tight to resting flat, warm, and weighty low on his abdomen. Still holding them together, still keeping him steady- but resting right above his groin. Shifting too much in either direction might just brush his fingers lower, maybe. "Thought so."

Breathless and flushed and damn if that's not a good look for the kid, he lets his teeth have a taste. Nips at Charles' earlobe once, waiting for some kind of protest. He does a lot of things most would frown on- but he's never forced himself on anyone. "Could take more than your tongue."

For easier access, I'm dropping this here

No Knight

Brandon Walsh | Beverly Hills 90210

Aaon Dingle (né Livesy) | Emmerdale

Grace Ford | OC

Logan | X-Men | OTA

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject