Logan dreams of gloves. Gloves with small, pale hands and long, delicate fingers. Stroking him, touching him, daring him to resist. He never does.

A voice, a soft southern voice, moaning his name, "Logan...", breathing it into his ear.

Hair, long, chestnut brown with two white streaks framing her perfect face, that hair brushing against his naked body, smooth and glossy like a velvet waterfall.

Her scent, sweet and slightly musky, exciting him, teasing him, making him beg for her.

Her lips, cherry red, he wants to taste them, he'll risk his life for that one taste of perfection.

And her eyes, those chocolate brown eyes, visible even in the vacuum of darkness that is his room, mesmerising him, captivating him, holding him far more effectively than Magneto's power over metal.

And the gloves, never the same pair twice, but always the same pair of hands.

Logan always wakes up sweaty, with a raging hard-on.

On the bright side, at least he doesn't have nightmares anymore...

End.