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As it happens, the key to fixing Logan is what broke him in the first place: adamantium.
Morph isn’t sure where the new supply of adamantium came from, or what Hank put Logan through to get it back onto Logan’s skeleton; they just know that after months of feral Logan, after months of slipping into Logan’s storage-cell, after months of preparing to be ripped to shreds and ending up pinned to the floor under the Wolverine, Logan is back to his full faculties.
And very, very stinky.
And avoiding them.
Oh, he’ll snarl and interact with the other X-Men just as much as he used to do. The Professor has grounded him for the time being, which has in turn incensed the stocky Canadian, but he’ll still interact with everyone in his typical brusque way.
Everyone but Morph, at least.
He won’t even look at Morph, and Morph can pretend, for now, that they aren’t hurt by that. Logan’s been through something traumatic, he needs time to adjust, to heal, to reconfigure himself now that he’s back among them.
“What he needs,” Jean says when she corners them one day in the kitchen that’s been rebuilt, throwing her hands up in the air, “is a shower. He stinks to high heaven and refuses to do anything about it!”
Morph shrugs their narrow shoulders, half-eaten slice of toast in one hand and crumbs around their lower lip. It’s not like there’s anything they can do about it—Logan has a mind of his own (again; thank god), and he’s perfectly capable of deciding when to get in the shower.
It’s just—he hasn’t exactly had one since before he went feral, is the thing, and the odor is starting to get to everyone. Morph knows, because if he has Jean Grey bitching to them about it, then it’s more than just a minor problem.
“Have you thought about, I don’t know, taking control of his mind and making him take a shower?” Morph floats, taking another crunch out of their toast. “If the stench is so offensive.”
Jean glares at him, and Morph knows full well in that moment that if Jean were a lesser woman—if Jean were them—Morph would already be a corpse.
“That would be a gross violation of his privacy,” Jean hisses, as though the thought had not already occurred to them. “Not only that, but he’d never trust me again! We’re a team, Morph, and teams are built on trust. On friendship. On the strength of the bonds between the people that are in them. If I went through what you—”
“Look, Jean, I get it,” they interrupt, waving the crust of their toast in the air. “Forget I even suggested it. We’ll just pretend this conversation never happened, and live our lives being able to smell the Wolverine from down the hall.”
She folds her arms across her chest, props her hip against the counter, and Moph knows all of sudden that they’ve stepped into a trap they had no idea was being laid.
They know, then, that they’re faced with two options: shapeshift and flee immediately, never to return, or hear the red-head out.
The unfortunate thing is, Morph doesn’t have anywhere else to go; all of their ties are here, in Westchester, in this dumb Mansion they keep having to help rebuild in between helping to save the world.
“Morph,” Jean begins, and there’s a dangerous, pleading edge to her voice. They understand, all of a sudden, how just a look from her could bring Logan to his knees. “I need you to get involved.”
“Involved in what?” They finish their piece of toast, the bread sitting heavy in their stomach.
“Getting Logan in the shower.” Something must shift involuntarily on their face, because Jean leaps into the next sentence hastily: “We’ve tried everything: asking, bribery, threats. It’s up to you, now.”
Except—Morph doesn’t know why it would be up to them. “Logan’s not going to listen to me,” they tell Jean, point blank. “Especially when he’s been avoiding me since the, uh. Asteroid thing.”
The look they’re leveled with is very no-nonsense. “Will you at least just try, Morph? If not for me, for your nose?”
Morph throws their hands in the air. “I can make no promises you’ll see results.”
The greatest thing you can do for someone you love is tell them to take a shower, Morph tells themself as they set out of the kitchen to find Logan.
It isn’t like it’s hard to find the Wolverine; Logan rarely leaves the second floor anymore, pacing the landing like some caged beast. When he’s not pacing the landing, he’s purposely locked himself away in his room, as though he’s some poor fairy tale princess, waiting for rescue.
(That’s just Morph’s opinion, of course; they’re awfully lucky Logan isn’t a telepath, in any case, because a good half of the thoughts they’ve had about the man could easily get them shredded into a nice ribbon to be used on Jean Grey’s next Christmas present.)
Logan is sprawled out on the couch in the common area of the second floor, cheap bottle of beer lazily dangling from one hand, head ripped back over the armrest, eyes closed. Morph knows by the rise and fall of his chest that he’s not sleeping; he’s alert, awake, aware of their approach.
They kick the end of the couch anyway and say, “Wake up, sleepyhead, everyone’s tired of your bullshit.”
Logan grunts and cracks open his eyes, titling the beer bottle in his hand this way and that—it’s mostly empty, from the sounds of it. He doesn’t, however, say anything to Morph, glowering up at them as though he’s truly been woken from a nap when Morph knows that’s not the truth of the matter.
“Up and at ‘em, bub. You’re getting in the shower.”
“They sent you in to do the dirty work?”
Morph snorts because they can’t help it, bending down to snatch the near empty beer bottle from Logan’s hand. “Quite literally,” they say, catching a whiff of eau de Wolverine.
The fact of the matter is, Logan’s a mess. His hair is glossy and separated with weeks worth of grease build up, pores of his face large and clearly grimy. He’s been shaving, Morph can tell, but his stubble looks worse than usual. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, and if they had to hazard a guess, he had probably slept in them. Logan Howlett, in Morph’s professional opinion, is a Grade A Wreck.
“Your first option is that I lock you in the communal bathroom up here and don’t let you out until you’ve showered,” Morph explains, leaning their face over Logan’s so they can look him in the eyes better, a tactic they hope properly conveys the seriousness of the situation. “Your second option is that I wash your smelly ass for you, but to do that we’d have to go down to the locker room showers.”
The edges of Logan’s eyes crinkle for a moment, unscruitable. Morph isn’t a telepath, but they’ve always thought they’ve had a bit of a knack for reading what passes behind Logan’s expression: typically, ill-controlled temper and a love for cheap beer. This time, they can’t name what they see there, as if there’s a curtain drawn between the glass of Logan’s reality and his soul.
Then Logan, to their surprise, sits up and hauls himself off of the couch, shoving his hands in the pockets of his days old jeans. Morph can only watch in fascination as Logan begins to walk, not towards his bedroom or towards the bathroom, but rather inexplicably towards the stairs.
“Where are you going?” they call out, setting the beer bottle down on the coffee table and following the Wolverine.
Logan doesn’t turn around as he answers, “Option two.”
The thing is, Morph doesn’t really do the whole think before you speak thing. When they had given Logan two options, it had been with the intent of getting him into the shower on the second floor and/or pissing him off to the point he told Morph to go away. Option two, as Logan had so kindly put it, had not intentionally been put on the table as an option Morph had thought they would actually be going through with.
Their palms are tacky with sweat as they turn the knobs to the shower in the locker room downstairs, trying to find a water temperature that’s agreeable and not volcano hot or ice water cold. The synapses of their brain are misfiring as they attempt to order the thoughts that are racing, rapid fire, through their brain—yes, they’re bathing Logan. Logan, who went feral and clung to them like a lifeline nearly every time Morph was alone with him. Logan, who Morph loves with every shifting fiber of their being. Logan, who hasn’t been able to look at them for longer than a moment since Hank replaced the adamantium in his body and brought him back from the brink of madness.
But this—it’s going to be fine, Morph assures themself. Totally, one hundred percent fine. They can keep a handle on their emotions, and solve a problem that’s been plaguing the X-Men at the same time. Easy peasy.
Logan’s hand, larger than either one of Morph’s own thin, bony ones, lands on top of one of theirs on the handle of the shower. They still, catching sight of the object of their thoughts out of the corner of their eye—broad, hairy chest, wide waist, soft beer gut they know is covering up coils and coils of muscle.
“Quit fiddlin’ around,” he tells them, crowding into the space under the shower head, “it’s fine as it is.”
Morph doesn’t argue, offering up a shrug. But Logan’s hand lingers for a few seconds longer before slipping off; he takes a half-step back once it does, looking at them expectantly.
Ah, yes: the other part of their proposed Option two. They had volunteered to bathe Logan themselves if he would come down to the locker room shower and here they are: standing under the warm spray of the shower in the locker room, expectation heavy in the air, Morph realizes that their mouth has gotten them in way over their head.
Oh well—in for a penny, in for a pound. They try not to think too hard about the logistics of what they’re about to do: lathering up the hard planes of Logan’s body with soap, running their hands through Logan’s thick hair as they tenderly massage his scalp, rinsing the soap and shampoo from the areas they’ve shown care to. Will Logan need help drying, when they’re done? Dressing, after the fact?
Morph’s heart is suddenly going faster than one of the Blackbirds in their chest as they hunt for the soap and washcloth they toted in with them, Logan’s watchful eyes a heavy weight on their bare back.
It’ll be fine, they try and convince themself. One hundred percent, absolutely perfect. You’re just here doing everyone a favor, and you absolutely need to get your feelings out of the way.
Morph is a third of the way to convincing themselves to be calm and clinical about the whole situation when they squeeze half of the bottle of body wash onto the washcloth on accident, half of it missing the washcloth and hitting the top of their foot instead.
“Little jumpy there,” Logan muses, much closer than Morph expects.
Startled, Morph hisses through their teeth, looking up from the washcloth to find that the Wolverine has inched closer while they were distracted, arms loose at his sides and a look in his eyes that Morph can’t quite read in the dim light of the shower.
“Me? Jumpy? Nah,” Morph scoffs, adjusting their grip on the sopping wet washcloth and using this chance to descend on Logan’s nearest shoulder, setting to the task like they were born to it. Their movements are measured, careful, like Logan’s made of glass and any harsh movement could cause him to shatter under their ministrations. “More like anticipatory to get rid of this smell, y’know? Yeesh. Wolverine’s smell like skunks but I didn’t know you would take it literally.”
The thing is, Morph knows they babble when they’re nervous. It’s gotten them into trouble. That whole think before you speak thing? Applicable to their nerves, too, and quickly digging their grave as their mouth keeps moving.
Except—
Logan’s hand comes up to settle on the one Morph is using to scrub at his arm, causing them to still in their ministrations. Confused, they look up to find him looking down at them, expression on his face that Morph can’t name.
Morph has faced down Magneto at the height of his power. They’ve faced down (and cuddled!) a feral Wolverine. They’ve died and been held captive by Mr. Sinister. And yet—
Something about this moment, this precipice of time, leaves a pit of something like fear in their throat that they can’t swallow past.
“Okay, listen,” they say quickly, trying to backtrack and save their own ass. “You smell fine. Calling you smelly was a joke, Logan, please do—“
—n’t kill me, gets stuck in Morph’s throat because Logan—burly, grumpy, fuck-you-fuck-him-fuck-off Logan—has brought his other hand up to caress the side of Morph’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly over their lower lip, making their mind go white-hot and blank.
Then, when Morph doesn’t say anything else for several long seconds, Logan’s thumb dips into the crevice between their lips and into the wet-hot heat of their mouth, and they’re certain that something is terribly, terribly wrong.
Out of instinct, they suck on Logan’s thumb anyway, half-convinced a telepath has stuck them at the beginning of the sex dream to end all sex dreams, though it’s going wildly different than Morph had expected it to.
Logan’s attention is focused less on Morph’s mouth and more on Morph themself, as though gauging their reaction; even in the dim light of the locker room shower, Morph can see that Logan’s pupils are a little larger than they normally are, his lips parted, his grip on their other hand firm, but not tight.
Uncertain, Morph tilts their head back just a little, Logan’s thump sliding out of their mouth with a wet pop. “Listen,” they begin, throwing caution wide out of the window, “you clearly know I’m, like, crazy into you. So I’m going to cut through the bullshit and ask: is there, like, a telepath involved in this? Is this some kind of kinky, telepathic sex dream were sharing? Are you being manipulated?”
Logan’s eyes go dark with anger, and Morph immediately knows that the answer to their questions is no, especially when the tell-tale snick of adamantium claws comes so close to their ear. “Kevin.” He sounds exasperated, claws retracting. “Quit trying to sabotage this.”
Standing fully naked with the object of their desires under a spray of warm water, it’s hard not to argue that they’re not sabotaging anything. It’s just—Morph has always had a hard time accepting that anyone wants them for them. And here Logan is, hand on their jaw, hunger in his eyes, about to complete the weirdest mating ritual Morph has ever had a front row seat to, not even asking Morph to shapeshift into someone a little more desirable.
It’s just a little hard to wrap their head around; some self-sabotage on their end might be warranted, they think.
“Okay.” They hardly hear themself over the shower, but it’s enough for Logan.
He leans in; Morph’s eyes close unintentionally just before Logan’s mouth meets theirs.
Logan kisses like he’s not sure how to; he kisses like he has energy pent up and he’s not sure where to direct it; he kisses like Morph might mean something to him, and he’s not sure how to say it.
Morph does their best, as they’re kissing him back, open-mouthed, hungry, pushing themselves up on the balls of their feet to add a little leverage to the kiss, to try and help direct some of the energy Logan’s pouring into them. They wouldn’t say that Logan kisses like he’s cautious; it’s more like Logan kisses like he’s afraid he’s going to lose who he’s kissing.
Given what little Morph knows of Logan’s romantic history, it’s not a bad fear to have.
They take their free hand and press it up against Logan’s neck, trying to find purchase as their feet start to slip on the slick tile floor. In response, Logan’s crowds them up against the wall, taking the hand off of their face and planting it on their hip.
The third time they break apart for air, Morph realizes they could spend the rest of their life kissing Logan and it still wouldn’t be enough.
Logan, on the other hand, has decided it is enough and has moved on to mauling Morph’s shoulder—the one with scars in it that look suspiciously like claw-marks from one feral Wolverine—with his mouth, the hand that was on Morph’s hip wandering towards Morph’s dick.
Every nerve in their body feels like they’ve been hooked up to a car battery and left to charge, like there’s a current just under their skin and Logan is the one regulating it with his hot mouth and heavy hands, the weight of him pressed up against the inside of their hip, pinning them to the wall. With his hand, hooked under Morph’s thigh, pulling their leg up around his hip.
Morph always knew that the second Logan touched them intimately, they’d be lost. Anchors away, compass broken, map ripped to shreds. There’s not a single coherent thought in Morph’s head, a jumble of puzzle pieces tipped out on the kitchen table, and honestly? The pieces might not all belong to the same puzzle.
When Logan’s fingers make landfall around Morph’s member, Morph tips their head back against the wall of the shower and lets out a moan that’s been building in their chest for years.
Against the skin of their clavicle, Logan chuckles, then twists his wrist and pumps at the same time, making their toes curl and pray to a god they’re sure doesn’t exist.
Logan’s never been much of a talker, and that doesn’t change now as his fist pumps its way up and down the length of Morph’s cock, thumb swiping over the tip to gather the cum leaking out of it to help ease the friction as he goes. Morph’s always been a talker, but between Logan’s hand on their cock and his mouth on his nipple, it’s hard to figure out how to form a coherent word, let alone get it out of their throat.
When they do manage to speak, it’s, “Logan, I’m going to—“
Come, was what they were going to say, thighs and abdominal muscles shaking from the effort of doing the opposite, trying to hold off of on completion so that Logan would keep going, just a little longer. Except they can’t finish the sentence, voice just as shaky as the body Logan is holding up.
Logan seems to get the idea and, rather than intensifying his ministrations, stops completely, hand disappearing from their member, making a high pitched whine rip itself from Morph’s chest as their cock twitches and bobs, agonizingly hard, against their stomach.
Their response elicits a chuckle from Logan, who’s pulling from Morph almost entirely, looking at him with amusement as he shifts his grip on their raised leg. “Like that, do you?” he asks, and they’re so out of their mind with wantneeddesire that when they open their mouth to retort, all that comes out is another whine.
They nearly jump out of their skin when Logan’s free hand slips itself under their other thigh and hitches them into the air, sliding them up along the slick tile of the wall until they’re just over eye level with him, ankles crossed in the hollow of his back and heart, already beating faster than a rabbit’s, nearly stopping in their chest. Out of instinct, Morph throws their arms around Logan’s neck in an attempt to anchor themselves to something solid; they know he wouldn’t drop them, he would never drop them, but the need to touch something real, something solid, when they’re dangling in the air is still there.
Logan buries his face in Morph’s neck again, grinning, and bites the skin he finds there gently before licking over the wound. “I’ve got you,” he affirms, shifting his grip on them, using the wall like it’s an extra hand to keep his grip on them steady.
“If you had me,” Morph says, finding their tongue for the first time since this really started, synapses in their brain firing off properly as they manage to catch their breath, “you would have finished me off.”
They can’t see Logan’s face, but they can feel him grin against the skin of their throat. “I’m about to.”
Logan, for all of his mutation, and all of the experimentation, is a fairly proportionate man. He’s not long, Morph knows, but he’s girthy. And Morph didn’t prepare for any of this in any way that mattered.
They can feel the tip of Logan’s cock at their entrance, a question, a calling. Morph knows that taking him without any prep is going to be more than a little rough, but—
They grind down towards Logan’s dick, relishing in the feeling of Logan’s cock jumping in excitement against them.
When Logan finally, finally pushes in, Morph sees more than stars—they see the aurora borealis, and beyond that, supernovas, black holes, the very creation of the universe itself.
When their vision clears, Logan is all that remains, standing under the spray of the shower in the half-light, focus solely on Morph. He’s searching their face with an intensity that makes them feel overexposed, flayed open and displayed wide for the world to see.
“Good?” Logan asks, without the trademark bite to his voice. Gruff, yes, but there’s a caring there Morph hadn’t expected to hear.
Gently, they trace the underside of his jaw with their thumb as they nod, readjusting the way their ankles are locked behind Logan’s back.
Logan takes that as answer enough and begins to thrust in, agonizingly slow, until he bottoms out, planes of his hips flush with the flesh of Morph’s ass. Morph is panting with the stretch, with the feel of it, but it feels good. They feel full.
Together, they wait a few a moments, letting Morph adjust to the feeling before Logan eases out and back in again; it’s a little easier for both of them this time, Morph nodding at Logan that’s they’re fine, it’s fine, he can keep going at any pace he wants.
Logan takes the all clear and runs with it, setting up a cadence that quickens the more Morph adjusts to the size of him, Logan’s hips hitting the round of Morph’s ass every time he thrusts in, the slap of flesh filling the air, audible over the sound of running water.
Soon, Morph seeks friction as well, taking a hand from Logan’s neck and putting it between them, circling their cock with their fingers and trying to match Logan’s pace.
Logan notices after a few moments, glancing down, cadence of his hips stuttering when he does so. He kisses them, hot and open-mouthed, groaning deep in his chest, thrusts stuttered and varied. Morph knows without him saying anything that he’s on the edge, and the knowledge drives Morph over the brink.
They come, pumping their cock through their orgasm, thick ropes of come painting their own stomach and chest as well as Logan’s.
Less than a minute later, Logan thrusts deeper into their ass than he has before, spewing his load, but he doesn’t stop: he keeps thrusting through his own orgasm, fucking his come into a boneless, spent Morph.
In the aftermath, it’s quiet for a few moments, the reality of what they’ve done sinking in on Morph as they hang, limp, in Logan’s arms.
Of course, their mouth has never met a moment they can’t help but try and lighten up.
“Now you really need a shower,” Morph says, rather than lamenting the loss of Logan’s dick when he gently pulls out.
Logan grunts, shakes his head, shifts their weight in his arms, but doesn’t let them down.
Morph realizes, under the shower spray in a bolt of post-coital clarity, that Logan isn’t actually going to put them down anytime soon—that Logan, for all of his quirks, is a cuddler.
“Next time, though,” they say, a lazy edge to their voice, tipping their head back against the tiles of the shower wall, “can I get my back blown out in, like, a bed or something? Not that I didn’t mind this venue, I love showers, I’ll even take a table next time, but—your knees—“
Logan chuckles as he presses a hot, open mouthed kiss against the exposed hollow of their throat, pressing the flat of his tongue against the thin skin he finds there.
Morph moans and thinks, I could get used to something like this.