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Part 3 of Butch Wolverine/Femme Cyclops , Part 6 of Scogan Bingo 2024
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Published:
2024-09-29
Completed:
2024-09-29
Words:
1,906
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
28
Kudos:
173
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11
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1,505

I'm so (un)prepared for this test!

Summary:

Here lies Logan "Wolverine" No-Lastname, a 200-ish-year-old terror to both man and mutant alike, who survived wars, adamantium grafting, and more near-death experiences than she could count. She perished painfully sober and tragically without a cigar, not in some epic battle against world-ending forces, but at the hands of a geometry teacher’s business casual attire.

It is a great comfort to all who cared for Logan that she died doing something she loved: staring up the skirt of a pouty redhead.

May Logan’s memory live on in inappropriate thoughts, casual binge drinking, and white wife-beaters. Rest in chaos and unbridled lust, Logan.

Notes:

Just read the tags - these bitches lesbians <3

I'm so gay *sobs*

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Logan sat back in her chair, shoved into the corner of Charles’s office, arms crossed, legs sprawled out, pretending to listen to whatever they were droning on about in this staff meeting. Something about curriculum updates? Maybe? It didn't matter. What mattered, the only thing that mattered, was across the room—Scotia Summers, the bane of Logan's existence, and the star of her more-than-occasional dirty daydreams.

Logan didn't care much for fashion. She barely noticed half the things people wore. Practical was her go-to, and she stuck to it: jeans, boots, a t-shirt. Sure, she appreciated what other women wore from time to time—especially when it involved daisy dukes and wet, white t-shirts with nothing underneath. But those were just passing glances, a skim through a Playboy, nothing serious.

Not like this.

This was different.

Ever since that one night— the night that Logan caught a glimpse of Scotia’s lacey black thong as she bent over. It wasn't an obsession, Logan had convinced herself. She wasn't interested in what the teacher's pet, Miss By-The-Book, straight-laced Scotia Summers wore on a day-to-day basis. Right? Right.

Except she totally was.

And today... today was something else entirely.

It was a Wednesday. Just an average, mid-week, nothing-to-write-home-about Wednesday. Staff meetings on Wednesdays were standard fare.

But then Scotia had to go and change the game.

Logan had long since memorized Scotia’s typical uniform: slacks, ballet flats, a blouse or a sensible sweater. A half-inch kitten heel was as wild as it got for her. Nothing out of place. Logan didn’t even need to look anymore. She knew the pattern. And still, she'd look. Every. Damn. Time.

But today ? Oh, today Scotia decided to switch it up, and Logan was suffering for it.

First off, there were the heels. Stilettos. Logan’s mouth went dry. Scotia was already tall—Logan knew she stood about 6’3” when barefoot (don't ask how Logan knew that)—but in these heels? She was towering, a good 6’7” at least. Tall enough that Logan would have to crane her neck to meet her eyes, and that thought alone made her heart race.

Then there was the pencil skirt. That skin-tight, perfectly tailored pencil skirt hugging every inch of Scotia’s legs and hips. Logan was about to start chewing on the furniture like a dog to keep from groaning out loud. And those stockings—dark nylon stretching tight over toned calves, disappearing under that damn skirt that rode up just enough when she sat down to reveal that they were thigh-highs. Thigh-highs .

Logan was going to have a heart attack. Right here, in this godforsaken staff meeting. They’d find her slumped over, claw marks gouged into the arms of her chair where she’d tried— really tried —to keep it together.

Here lies Logan "Wolverine" No-Lastname, a 200-ish-year-old terror to both man and mutant alike, who survived wars, adamantium grafting, and more near-death experiences than she could count. She perished painfully sober and tragically without a cigar, not in some epic battle against world-ending forces, but at the hands of a geometry teacher’s business casual attire.

It is a great comfort to all who cared for Logan that she died doing something she loved: staring up the skirt of a pouty redhead.

May Logan’s memory live on in inappropriate thoughts, casual binge drinking, and white wife-beaters. Rest in chaos and unbridled lust, Logan.

Charles had been speaking but Logan hadn’t heard a word. She was too busy imagining Scotia's long fingers undoing those buttons, one by one, just for her.

Logan could feel Jean's eyes on her from across the room. Hell, maybe even Charles had noticed by now. She could practically feel her thoughts projecting all over the place.

She grinned sheepishly in their direction, trying to rein herself in. Jean raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, while Charles just had the long-suffering look of a man who’d been hearing Logan’s pornographic inner monologue since the 60s.

Logan tried to focus. Tried to tune back into whatever Charles was saying. It wasn’t working. Every time she blinked, her mind filled with the image of Scotia, towering over her, those long legs, those heels... God, those heels.

She’d let Scotia step on her. No hesitation, no questions asked. She’d lie down and thank her for it.

Scotia had always had issues with Logan’s compliance in the field, but right now? Right now, if Scotia so much as raised an eyebrow, Logan would be the most obedient dog in the world. She’d sit, stay, roll over— whatever Scotia wanted.

Sit, stay, open wide. Knick-knack, paddy whack, give a dog a bone.

But then again, maybe Logan wouldn’t be so good.

Bad girl! No humping my leg! And then a quick swat on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Logan could practically feel her tail wagging.

Or maybe teacher and student. Yeah, that’d be fun. Scotia could be the teacher—strict, proper, no-nonsense—but Logan would love to teach her a few things of her own.

Sex for homework. Maybe if Logan is lucky, she’ll have to complete an oral exam. Oh, she’d ace that class—go for extra credit if it meant pleasing Ms. Summers. Only bad girls will get good grades!

If Ms. Summers caught her staring, she’d make Logan write lines.

I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher. I will not lust after my teacher …

Logan’s grip on the chair tightened, knuckles turning white as she shifted, trying to fight the urge to do something reckless. Something stupid like bolt out of the room or, worse, cross that distance between her and Scotia and take her right on the floor in front of Charles and Jean and everyone else.

“Logan?”

Her head snapped up. Charles was staring at her now, directly. So was Jean. So was everyone else.

“What?” Logan croaked, her voice rougher than she’d intended.

“I asked if you had anything to add about the new student protocol,” Charles said, his tone exasperated.

Logan blinked. “Uh... yeah. Sure. Sounds fine.”

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly fed up with her, but moved on without another word.

Logan slouched back in her seat, running a hand over her face. She had to get it together. For her sake. For everyone’s sake.

But then Scotia shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and Logan caught another glimpse of those stockings, of those heels, and she knew—she was a goner.

This staff meeting couldn’t end soon enough.

Chapter 2: Bonus Chapter: Scotia Chooses What to Wear!

Chapter Text

Scotia paced in her room, her nerves frazzling with every step. She put the outfit on, then took it off. Paced some more. Groaned. The whole thing was ridiculous. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering this. She huffed in frustration, whipped open her flip phone, and hit 1 on the speed dial. The second the call connected, she grumbled, “Don’t laugh at me, Jean—I need outfit help.”

Predictably, Jean immediately burst into laughter on the other end. Scotia could hear her sock-clad feet padding down the hall before there was a single, polite knock on the door. Then, without any real warning, Jean barged in, still in her pajamas, with a goofy smile, looking way too amused by the situation.

“Why do you look like that, Jean?” Scotia asked, anxiously twirling a strand of her hair.

Jean grinned like the Cheshire cat. 

“Scotia,” she said, voice full of mischief, “you wear the same thing every day. You wouldn’t need outfit help unless this is something big.”

Scotia groaned and rubbed her face, conceding the point. Jean wasn’t wrong.

Jean’s eyes lit up as she bounced toward the bed, her excitement bubbling over. “Show me!”

Scotia, already feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, reluctantly pulled the outfit out from the closet and laid it on the bed with an almost reverent caution: a flowy blouse, a perfectly tailored pencil skirt, nylon stockings, and, of course, the stiletto heels that had already caused her far too much inner turmoil.

“It’s too much,” Scotia muttered, hugging herself in an attempt to self-soothe.

Jean’s eyebrows shot up as she took in the sight. “It’s hot,” she corrected. “Why the sudden change?”

Scotia gave Jean a long, pained look.

Jean, being Jean, caught on almost immediately. She squealed, clapping her hands together. “Logan!”

Scotia slapped a hand over Jean’s mouth, eyes wide in panic.

“She’s gonna hear you through the walls and show up,” she hissed, “like Beetlejuice!”

Jean snickered behind Scotia’s hand, a muffled sound of pure delight. The moment Scotia removed her hand, Jean whispered in mock seriousness, “Logan, Logan, Logan.”

Scotia groaned again, but she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Jean’s energy was infectious. 

“Shut up,” she muttered.

Jean didn’t stop her giddy celebration, dancing around the room for a second before regaining her focus. 

“Okay, okay. Put it on,” she insisted, twirling her finger in a get-to-it motion. “Let me see it in action.”

Scotia hesitated, holding the outfit in her hands, feeling its weight like it was a decision she might regret. 

“Fine, but turn around,” she ordered, and Jean obediently turned her back, humming a playful tune as Scotia started to change. Once the outfit was on, Scotia took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. “Okay. Turn back.”

Jean turned on her heel, her eyes widening in delight as she took in Scotia in the full ensemble. 

“Oh my God,” Jean gushed, “you look amazing. Logan’s going to combust! ”

Scotia frowned, pulling at the edge of her skirt nervously. “It’s too much,” she said again, not entirely convinced.

Jean rolled her eyes. “It’s fine. Nothing more scandalous than what Ororo or I wear on a regular day.”

Scotia raised an eyebrow. “You two don’t exactly have the most... conservative wardrobes,” she shot back.

Jean put her hands on her hips. “And yet, Logan never takes her eyes off you. Coincidence? I think not.”

The two of them bickered back and forth like they usually did, Scotia still half-convinced that this whole thing was a mistake. But Jean was relentless, shooting down every excuse Scotia tried to make. In the end, Jean won, as she always did.

“Trust me,” Jean said, her voice full of confidence. “You’re going to knock her flat on her ass.”

Scotia sighed, finally giving in. “Thanks,” she muttered, genuinely grateful, though her nerves were still on high alert.

Jean beamed. “You’re welcome. Now I can’t wait to see Logan’s reaction. It’s gonna be priceless.”

Before Scotia could second-guess herself again, Jean grabbed her by the arm and started dragging her toward the door. “Come on,” Jean said, pulling her out into the hallway. “You’re coming with me to my room so I can get dressed. No chance to chicken out and change back into your usual outfit.”

Scotia let herself be pulled along, her heart racing. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered.

“Damn right, I am,” Jean replied with a grin. “Now let’s get you to that meeting. You’re going to kill Logan today—and she’ll thank you for it.”

Notes:

For Scogan Bingo prompt: Thigh-High Nylons & High Heels