#Had to knock it out of there as quick as possible

[magical-regical]

Night Blooming Flowers

A Leona Kingscholar x f!yuu fic

Word count: 1273

(ok I know I usually do gn!yuu but this one's for me especially, capiche?)

The incident at Styx didn't leave many people unscathed and even though the majority of those involved made a full recovery, a certain prefect wasn't so lucky.

She didn't realize it until it was over. She just saw Grim being flung off of Ortho's shoulder and Vil trying desperately to grab him while also holding on to Idia. Her body moved before her mind and she barely had time to shout at Rook to keep her afloat before her body was free-falling through the air, one arm outstretched to grab the direbeast's paw.

She remembered holding Grim against her chest and the sudden change in momentum knocking the wind out of her chest. She remembered solid ground beneath her feet, people talking, getting on to a plane, and the sound of someone wailing until they touched down in the NRC sports field. It wasn't until Deuce shouted,

"Yuu, your face!"

that got her body out of auto-pilot. She moved to lift her right arm to touch her face when she realized she'd lost all feeling in said arm.

There was nothing to be done. Lilia surmised that because she had absolutely zero magic in her there wasn't anything stopping the underworld from directly draining the life from her cells and no room for magic to restore it either.

Now she's lying there in her room for the n-th sleepless night, her entire right forearm replaced by a styx-made prosthetic. The amputation procedure was unbelievably quick and painless and the top-of-the-line prosthetic that responded to her brain's signals just as well as her real arm would made the rehabilitation period practically negligible. No, that wasn't the problem. The problem was on her head, literally. The underworld had killed off some of the cells in her face and hair. The doctors were able to prevent the cells from going necrotic but you could still tell where they were from the white tips of hair and patches of skin on her face.

After tossing and turning for who knows how long she gave up and got out of bed. Not wanting to wake Grim who was snoring peacefully on his side of the bed, she left the room, closing the door as quietly as possible.

She walked with no particular destination until she reached the botanical gardens, which had been perfectly restored in record time thanks to the diligent efforts of the Shrouds. She was making her way through the temperate zone of the garden towards the subtropical zone where most of the night-blooming flowers grew when she stepped on a strange branch.

"I'm starting to think you're doing this on purpose."

She jumped like a cat seeing a cucumber. Leona's tail retreated towards him as he sat up, letting out a yawn,

"What are you even doing here at this hour?"

"I could ask you the same question."

Leona growled, "I was sleeping, obviously. Until I was so rudely woken up."

"Well pardon me your highness." She said while rolling her eyes, "Please forgive this peasant's transgression and go back to your peaceful slumber."

She turned to walk away when Leona called out to them. When she turned around the lion was on his feet, his face a mixture of annoyance and something else she couldn't make out in the dark.

"You never answered my question."

"I couldn't sleep." she sighed, "and there are flowers in here that only bloom at night."

She tried not to stare as Leona approached her. Bathed in the moonlight like this, she was reminded that the lazy lion she has a crush on was actually a prince. A part of her wanted to run away but her feet stayed rooted in place, all she could do was try not to make eye contact until he was stood right in front of her.

She didn't see the way his eyes drifted to her forearm nor the pained expression that clouded his face for a split second.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"No. It did the first few days but not anymore. It's like I never lost it really. These on the other hand..." Her hand reached up to touch one of the white patches on her skin.

"I mean they don't hurt but... they look kind of grisly don't they?" She said while letting out a dry chuckle.

A silence fell between the two of them. Neither one really knew what to do. Leona was the first to speak up,

"Ipomoea alba"

She looked up at him in confusion. Leona just kept going as he started to walk, leading her towards the subtropical zone.

"Agave amica, Zaluzianskya ovata, Gardenia jasminoides. You don't even know the names of the flowers you're going to see?" his tone was playful but not mocking.

He explained how most night-blooming flowers are white because they don't 'waste' resources to color their petals instead, their only goal is to reflect the light of the moon.

"Where are you going with this?" she asked.

They stopped in front of one of the blooming gardenia bushes. Leona let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair as he turned to face them again, "Do I have to spell it out for you? You're like those flowers. You didn't waste any of your resources and had one goal, to save that weasel. These marks—" his hand reached out, hovering just above her cheek, "—are just proof that you succeeded."

Every word he said was steeped in his unshakeable confidence. As if the patches on her cheeks couldn't possibly stand for anything else. Maybe it was that confidence that made her grab his hand and press it against her face.

"Thanks, Leona." she muttered, closing her eyes.

"Hey, look at me." He gently tapped a finger against her cheek, making her open her eyes again, "I want to kiss you. May I?"

He could feel her blush through his gloves. She gave him a shy nod but that wasn't enough to satisfy the lion prince,

"No. I need to hear you say it."

Of course he did. She was currently face to face with one of the princes of the Sunset Savannah and if she couldn't hold her ground, she would surely be devoured. So she swallowed her embarrassment and, for the first time that night, looked him straight in the eye,

"You may, Leona Kingscholar."

He smiled, "That's my girl."

Then he closed the gap between them. The kiss was filled with feelings that no longer needed to be spoken out loud. When they broke away Leona kept his forehead pressed against hers, one of his hands tangling itself in her hair.

"I love you." she said, her gaze once again filled with that spark that had the audacity to twist his arm into helping her with her plan lest she made a racket in front of his room for the rest of the year.

He couldn't help but laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the empty garden.

"Took you long enough." He said, pressing another kiss on to her cheek.

"Stay at Savanaclaw with me tonight?" he mumbled.

"I'd love to but I can't. Grim would freak out if I just disappeared like that."

"Damn weasel..." he growled, burying his head into the crook of her neck. "Fine."

But despite saying that, he didn't let go of her. Instead, he picked her up and took her back to his usual nap spot before getting comfortable on her chest.

"Leona, I said—"

"I heard what you said." He huffed, "You'll be back in Ramshackle before the sun rises, I promise. For now just, stay here with me. Okay?"

She sighed, using her left hand to stroke his ears while the other one rested on the small of his back, "Alright."

A/N

Surprise! You thought you were reading a normal fluffy fic but it is actually! Thinly veiled OC lore! Now you are forced to look at my yuusona!

Pre-book 6 (L) and post-book 6 (R)

Her name's Oyuki McGuffin. She's 18 y/o and would like a nap.

Current concern: Does a potion count as soup?

Ok that's all I wanted to say. Thank you have a nice day.

[mothmandalorian]

It's Just Dinner

Hello and welcome to my very first fic! This was inspired by a “Joel Miller x doesn’t know you’re dating” writing prompt. I’d hit the writer’s block wall pretty hard on another project but was encouraged to get some practice in by doing this. I’m so glad I did. This was really fun for me to write and I hope you have just as much fun reading it. And let’s face it, now that season 2 is out I think we all need to see this man happy. 

Huge HUGE thank you to the incomparable @djarins-cyare for lovingly forcing me to write this, being my beta reader, AND making the gorgeous header!

A quick note: This is mostly canon-compliant with TLOU with one very glaring exception: Joel doesn’t go golfing. This takes place after Joel’s talk with Ellie on the porch. My man can be traumatized but he will be breathing. 

No use of Y/N. Reader is female but there are no physical descriptions other than words like “pretty” (and yes, that does describe you if you’re reading this, I don’t make the rules). 

Tags: The Last of Us, Joel Miller, Joel Miller x f!reader, fluff, angst, fluff and angst, my precious traumatized Joel is just kind of an idiot sometimes, give the old man time he’’l figure it out, gratuitous mention of flannel shirts Word count: 2148

- - - - - - - - -

It’s not that you aren’t grateful to have a house in Jackson. 

When you’d first arrived here—after a horde of infected had attacked your group and you’d become its only survivor—you’d been under the impression it wasn’t even possible to have a house anymore. Maria handing you those keys had felt like a fever dream. 

You’re insanely grateful to have a house in Jackson.

But after the third consecutive leak in your bathroom sink, you’ve just about had it with houses.

“My brother Joel and his kiddo will be livin’ right across the street from ya. If ya need anything fixed, go bug him. He needs the socialization,” Tommy had said when he and Maria had helped you move in. You think they knew you’d be needing the socialization, too. A week of wandering the forest and convincing yourself that starving to death might actually be the least awful way to die out of all of your options will do that to you. 

You’ve seen Joel coming in and out of his house, taking note that he doesn’t do it nearly as often as your other neighbors do. He largely keeps to himself, aside from the young woman who appears to live in a makeshift apartment behind the property, who you assume is the kid Tommy had referred to. You’ve been too intimidated to walk over there yet. He isn’t nearly as approachable as the other people here, but then again, neither are you. You’re still a bit jumpy after a few too many dreams about gnawing teeth and endless forest. But when your bathroom floods for the third time, you get over it.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

To say that Joel isn’t used to visitors is an understatement.

He’d had another night of fitful sleep. Even though they’ve slightly improved since moving to Jackson, he’s convinced he’ll never be rid of the nightmares. He has even more reasons for them now, after all.

His relationship with Ellie is barely getting off the ground again, but he’ll take what he can get. After their talk on the porch, at least she isn’t completely ignoring him anymore.

He still dreams of sheep being stolen in the night, hearing their cries from afar as he tries and fails to find them. The endless pit of regret grows and grows in his stomach until his eyes open and his heart is racing. Usually, he has to look around the room, count the number of panes in the windows, squeeze and release his fingers and toes–anything to help him remember where he is. 

Today, the knock at his door serves as a much quicker method. Grumbling but unable to not check it, he rolls out of bed and tosses the nearest shirt on. Eyes still bleary, he opens his front door. He blinks a few times, making sure he’s seeing it right. There you are, the pretty new neighbor, standing on his porch first thing on a Thursday.

“Can I help ya?” 

It comes out almost mumbled, his Texas drawl heavier in the morning. 

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Oh, shit. 

You must have woken him up.

“I’m uh–god, I’m so sorry. Hi. I live, uh, over there…”

“Across the street, yeah?” Joel saves you, seemingly choosing to have mercy on you while your mouth stutters open and closed like a fish. 

“Yeah! That gray one. I’m um, I’m new here.”

“Only a couple’a weeks, right?” Joel asks, eyebrow quirking. He leans against the doorway with his arm above his head, and for a split second, you completely forget why you came over here. 

“Yup. Fresh off the…forest.” Oh, god. Really?

Joel chuckles, and you nearly want to thank him for it.

“I take it my brother told you to come bug me if somethin’ was off in your house, yeah?” 

You nod, trying not to make it any worse.

“I’ll come by later this afternoon.”

- - - - - - - - - - - -

He keeps his word, and you make him dinner as payment.

He tries to refuse, but you insist, handing him a plate of the best-smelling food he’s had in years. 

“You can’t refuse. My house, my rules. Eat.”

He nods and obliges. It’s clear he isn’t used to this. What you’d originally thought was a coldness in his eyes looks a lot more like sadness this close, and you wonder if that’s why he doesn’t let people get close often. You don’t bring it up.

“I haven’t had someone else to cook for in years. And I’ve never had a proper kitchen to do it in. This is very exciting for me.”

Joel chuckles, a little bit of life briefly lighting up his face. 

“Don’t mind bein’ your test subject,” he says. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh god, ew. Please do not call me that, it makes me feel eighty years old.” Joel breaks into a full-body laugh. You catch a hint of surprise in his eyes before he settles into it, and you wonder how long it’s been since he’s gotten to laugh like that.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

He keeps coming back for dinner long after the sink is repaired. He always finds something in your house to fix, but you still always end the evening eating dinner together. Joel is surprisingly funny, his laugh lines well-earned. You learn that he worked as a contractor with his brother for over a decade before the outbreak, and he tells you stories about some of the strangest things he found in people’s drains. He tells you a lot of stories. None of them go beyond a certain depth. You don’t push it.

Because you want him to keep coming back. Because you desperately like him.

You frequently get distracted by the way his shoulders shake when he laughs, how he rubs his chin when he’s thinking, the gray hair growing in at his temples. 

They’re so distracting that you start to tell him things about you. He catches you off guard, and suddenly, you’re being vulnerable. 

He listens. He doesn’t share a whole lot about himself, but boy, does he listen. He doesn’t try to placate you with the same sappy bullshit everyone else tries to give you. He doesn’t do a lot of comforting at all. It’s downright refreshing.

You think that, at some level, he knows how it feels to be pitied, and it probably makes his skin crawl, too. 

You think that’s why your relationship works so well.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

This time, you’ve come over to his house bearing a pot full of something that smells heavenly. 

Joel watches closely as you take the cover off of it. 

“Chili,” you say proudly. “You said you grew up in Texas and ate stuff like this, right?”

His crooked, boyish smile makes all that effort crushing tomatoes and chopping onions worth it.

Ellie, who up until this point has simply been a person you know exists because you see her going in and out of her little apartment in the backyard, walks down the stairs, her hair wet from an apparent shower.

“I knew someone else made that. Nothing he’s ever cooked has smelled that good,” she says as she walks into the kitchen. 

“You wanna have some?” you ask. “I made plenty.”

Ellie looks at Joel.

“You haven’t even introduced us, and she’s offering me homemade food. This is finally the treatment I deserve,” she declares.

You chuckle.

“I like her, Joel,” Ellie’s sing-songy voice echoes as she walks out the door. 

Joel runs his hand through his hair.

“Your kid is funny,” you comment casually. “She must get that from you.”

He doesn’t correct you.

- - - - - - - - - - -

He knows he’s fucked up by the look in your eyes.

He doesn’t mean to hurt your feelings, he just wasn’t expecting…this. 

After dinner, as he stands up to start doing the dishes, you walk over to him and put your hands on each of his cheeks before tilting up your head and trying to bring your mouth to his. 

When he physically recoils, it really has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the fact that no one has tried to kiss him in years.

But you don’t know that. 

You curl in on yourself as you walk–more like scurry–out of his house. He hates every second of it, most of that hate directed at himself.

- - - - - - - - - - -

When Tommy opens his front door, seeing a shell-shocked Joel on his doorstep, he assumes the worst. 

“That’s it?” Tommy asks Joel when he explains the situation, trying to hold back a chuckle. 

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” Joel snaps his eyes back up from the floor. 

“Your girlfriend tried to kiss you. It ain’t exactly news,” Tommy shrugs.

Joel feels like he’s been stabbed in the gut.

“My–my what?”

“Your girlfriend, Joel.”

There it is again, that feeling in his chest. The rising panic. The bile coming up from his stomach and scratching the back of his throat. The sweat in his palms. He stops talking for a solid minute.

“Please tell me you’re kidding.” Tommy chuckles incredulously.

If Joel thinks about it hard enough, maybe the floor will open up and swallow him whole.

“What happened?” Maria’s voice floats in from the hallway before she walks into the kitchen.

“Joel’s lil girlfriend tried to kiss him, and he freaked out and scared the poor thing off.”

Maria laughs. “No kidding? I told you she’d be the one to try first,” she says unceremoniously, giving Tommy a pointed look.

“Yeah, yeah, I owe you two loads’a laundry.” 

Joel wonders if he can vanish into thin air if he just concentrates on it really hard.

“But it’s just…dinner.” 

Tommy groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do not say that to the poor girl.”

Maria pretends to look at a nonexistent watch on her wrist. “By my math, you’ve got about twenty minutes to apologize before she rightfully never talks to you again,” she advises. 

Joel thinks back to all the times you’ve spent together. The way you pay attention to which foods he likes. Your insistence on standing closer and closer to him. The way you light up when you look at him. How has he been this stupid? 

Even the way Ellie had talked about you earlier should’ve clued him in: I like her, Joel. 

“Did everyone know but me?” Joel asks, sounding pained. 

Maria and Tommy nod, a slight cringe on each of their faces.

“Shit, I gotta go.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Tommy yells out the door behind him. Joel rolls his eyes and wonders if they’re already placing bets on how it will go.

- - - - - - - - - - -

It’s your turn to be surprised by a knock at the door.

You desperately try to wipe the tears from your face, but it’s no use. Joel gets to see you in your full, heartbroken glory. 

He’s fidgeting as he follows you into the living room, his hands clenching and unclenching. He takes a deep breath. “You may have picked up that I’m a little stupid when it comes to…this kinda thing.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. What kinda ‘thing’? 

“I ain’t had anyone…interested in a long time. I think I forgot it was possible.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. Wait, is he serious? There’s no way he’s just now realizing that you’re interested.

“I’m sorry, darlin’.”

Joel approaches you slowly, his hands out as if in surrender, until he’s just a foot away. You can tell that his mouth is moving and that he’s probably saying words, but hell if you know what they are. What is he talking about? Why is he acting like this? You’ve been dating for weeks. Right?

“Honey, you hearin’ me?” You snap back when his thumb brushes your chin. His hand is gently resting on the back of your head, the other around at the small of your back. 

“Y-yeah–sorry–what?”

“I asked ya if we can try that again.”

You’ve barely finished nodding when his lips touch yours. His flannel shirt smells like the laundry you imagine hanging from a line across the backyard of your shared home. You picture coffee in the mornings on the porch, getting a dog together, what kind of wedding dress you can find in an apocalypse, how it feels when he wraps his arm around you in bed on cold mornings…

You don’t even realize you’ve moved your hands to grab at the front of his shirt until he pulls away, an infuriatingly smug chuckle coming out of him.

“I ain’t gonna float away, sweetheart.” 

You relax your grip a little but don’t move your hands entirely. 

“So…does this mean we can keep havin’ dinner?” He asks, the usual sadness in his eyes replaced by something softer. 

“Yeah, Joel. We can keep having dinner.”

You tug him in by his shirt to kiss him again. He’s not about to complain.

[kaynanyn]

Was watching some Tik Toks to kill time and I stumbled across that one dad that runs around the house and just scares his kids daily. And I fucking loved it. I imagine Bruce doing it to young Dick and Jason. But not like, EVERY day, neither monthly, just, random days of the year, because he felt like it. And he LOVES to see his kids.. Being kids, being humans. Even if it means Bruce will pretend for the rest of their lifes that he doesn't run around the house or hides in random places to spook them.

After Jason's death, Bruce stoped doing it, Dick is not around anymore that much, there's no reason for him to do it. But now the family is back together. He'll have the house full for at least the whole week plus one weekend, he got time. Barbara, Cass, Steph and Duke are also there. So he finds its the perfect time for him to do it again. He hides in the kitchen's cabinet [somehow. He's Batman.] and waits for his first victim.

————————

Tim walks in the kitchen to get a snack while waiting for his turn in the videogame, when suddenly, he hears small knocks in the cabinets direction and he just, stops working. He glances at it unsure if he's heard it wrong, he might have, there's no way someone or something snuck in the Manor with, he recounts in his head, nine vigilantes. Not counting the Manor's insane safety system. Sure, they can just be hanging out and relaxed, but they're not careless. The cabinet is quiet, he decides to ignore it, which can be a dumb decision, but no way someone actually snuck in. He goes back to picking up snacks when he hears it again, small knocks in the cabinets direction. Now he's sure he isn't going crazy. He puts the snacks down and goes quietly as possible in its direction to see who or what the fuck is there, come face him, coward. He's not scared, but when Bruce opens the door abruptly [After making sure Tim is still far away enough so the door doesn't hit him] and gets out of it as if nothing happened, the high pitched sound that comes out from his mouth is almost inhuman.

————————

Bruce's next victim isn't that much longer after Tim, he was planing to spook one at a time for the whole week, but Duke is right there. Okay, he knows he's not able to scare or surprise Duke like he did with Tim but for sure he can confuse him.

Duke got upstairs to take a bath and change his clothes into more comfortable and clean ones after him and Jason got into a playfull sparring in the middle of the living room because he and Steph bet that he could use Jason's own fighting style against him and last at least 10 minutes, which ended up with him getting thrown in the table of drinks, but it was worth it. He's currently leaning close to his rooms door [He has a room, okay?] on his phone waiting for everyone to clean the mess that was made, he's not going to help clean it because hey, he had nothing to do with it, he was the victim. He's starting to get kinda bored when suddenly he sees it. Bruce running as fast as possible, three times down the hall and whispering "Merry Christmas" over and over. It's June. He starts to think that his powers are tricking him or somehow they're breaking but... No. His powers are working just fine. Bruce comes down whispering "Merry Christmas" over and over. In June.

Duke:

Bruce: Running and whispering Merry Christmas

Duke: Bruce what the fuck

Bruce: Still running and whispering Merry Christmas

Duke: Bruce.

Bruce: Merry Christm-

————————

The next day he decides he'll try Steph. She goes for the fight in fight or flight so he knows to not let her get too close to the China Cabinet he managed to remove the shelves so he could fit in it the night prior. No one barely glances at it when walking by, he could use it more than once but he knows she'll tell the others about it. He's gonna have to be quick in placing the shelves back.

Steph is walking across the hall and Bruce waits for her to be close enough to get startled but not too much to be able to hit, and opens the door softly, which okay, a door opening quietly usually wouldn't scare anyone but its a China Cabinet, and no one is in front of it.

She lets out a short scream and some steps back before realising that its just Bruce.

Steph: Oh my god THIS is what Tim was talking about.

Bruce: *Casually closes the China Cabinet door and starts walking away from it*

———————

Cass was his fourth victim. He made sure to not spook her that much like the others, she could be... quite scary. He was just going to surprise her. He was hiding in one of the shadow corners and waited at least 2 minutes before saying something to her. Her wide eyes and a paralyzed form could not be much for others, but for Bruce, it was everything. This would be the most he'd get to surprise her before her instincts made her ready to fight, and it was worth it. Seeing her just be. Not a trained to the bones fighter.

————————

Damian's turn came the next day. Right after breakfast, Bruce rushed off the table, with just the exact amount of time before someone got suspicious, and pratically ran to Damian's room, which he knew his son would get back to it, since he was obviously sleepy from not getting any sleep after another game night with his siblings. And hid under his bed waiting for his youngest son.

The moment Damian stepped in front of the bed to lay down and sleep, Bruce touched one of his ankles, making him scream and jump in the bed before getting something to fight. Worth it.

————————

He tried Barbara next, but she somehow always knew what he was going to do before he even tried to do it.

She was around the time Bruce did it for the first times, and honestly? She's enjoying it, Steph came after her to see the footage of the hallway the day it happened. Barbara had deleted it the moment she heard her scream. Same with Tim and Duke. Cass wasnt something unbelievable, so she found no use of deleting it. She made sure Dick knew nothing about it. After all, he was the first kid, he knows very well about Bruce's game and wouldn't get startled at all. She wants to see the nostalgia hit him.

————————

Dick was next. He's sitting in the end of his bed with Damian, who was claiming that something was under his bed yesterday and he refuses to go there, sure that someone hid a trap there because as soon as he was going to fight it, it vanished. Dick finds it amusing that Damian is being a kid, in his own way, so he goes with it, cradling [Against his will, but he doesnt try to fight at all] him and telling him that it must have been the bed sheets or something like that, but never saying that it didnt happen, of course, always validating him. He's almost convincing Damian that it's okay and saying that he's going with him to his room to prove him its safe, but then a heavy unexpected banging in his door startles him so much he falls of the bed with Damian, which immediately runs to the door to fight, because, who in their right minds would bang that loud on a door? But Dick.. Dick starts laughing so hard after a few seconds that tears come down his face and his stomach starts to hurt from laughing so hard. Now it all made sense, but he cant explain to Damian what happened without starting another laughing fit.

————————

Jason was the last one, Bruce had waited for the right moment to do it, because he still had some hope that Jason would remember it from before the explosion. He wanted to enjoy the week with his kids before seeing more of the crushing truth that happened with his Baby Boy.

He waited for Jason to sit in the armchair of the living room alone before throwing slightly a tenis ball from one of the doors behind him, and ran across the Manor making no noises to get to another room which had a door facing the front of the armchair.

Jason saw the tenis ball rolling and immediately turned his head behind him to see who was there. Once he saw nothing he got up grumbling about something and started walking to the door that the tenis ball came from, but not eve two steps in, Bruce opens the door abruptly that was now behind Jason and runs towards the door Jason was getting to, while asking something that made zero sense. Jason, of course, had almost fallen because of the mattress that was acroos the living room [Siblings nights, no one slept in the room]

Jason: BRUCE WHAT THE FUCK.

[lilgarbitch]

Noah Sebastian Alphabet Head-canons

Thot Tags: @theanarchymuse95 @dontwantthemoney @chey-h @badomensgoodomens @bloody-spades @blade-dressed-in-red @xmads-omensx @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @thatchickwiththecamera @tosoundlessdarkistare @lacy1986 @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @death-ofpeace-ofmind @fadingangelwisp @heyyoplayer @super-btstrash-posts @bluehairpunklol @geminigirlfromfinland @lovesick-evangelist

(If you don’t want to be tagged in headcanons lmk)

18+ !! MDNI below the cut

A- Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Will definitely need a moment to calm down after, which you have no problem with, but he will always help clean you up. If he went too hard, he will carry you to the bathroom if you need it. He’s running to grab you a wet towel the second his mind is working again, wanting you to be as comfortable as possible, and clean so the two of you can cuddle as soon as possible.

B- Body Part (Their favorite body part of their partner)

He’s definitely a tits guy, but it’s more just how much he enjoys being able to grab onto you with his big hands. Whether it’s a full handful of boobs, ass or even thighs, he just wants to be able to get a good grip on you

C- Cum (Anything to do with cum)

Probably worries too much to cum in you unless you two have had a deep talk about it, and then he’s completely obsessed with filling you up. But if not, he absolutely loves painting you. Something inside his brain short circuits when he’s sees your ass or stomach covered in his cum. When you agree to let him paint your face, he practically cums there and then. He can’t explain why, maybe some claim over you, or just how sexy you look in the moment, but he is obsessed with it.

D- Dirty Secret (Hidden kinks and fantasies)

100% into hentai but never talks about it.

E- Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s definitely experienced. He probably went a while just doing things for his own pleasure, but once he realized how hot it was to get a girl off, he did his research. He knows how to take his time to learn what positions make you feel best and what parts of you are the most sensitive.

F- Favorite position (Self explanatory)

Likes missionary so he can watch your face contort in pleasure. But my god, he loves having you on top. Being able to hold you and bounce you on top of him. Watching your tits move with each thrust. And the look on your face when he holds your hips and pounds into you from below could send him right over the edge by itself.

G- Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment or are they willing to joke around with their partner?)

Definitely laughs during sex. With arms and legs too long to take control of, he’s knocking things off nightstands and misplacing a knee or elbow and losing balance, but it never ruins the moment. Sex with him can switch between mind-numbing and hysterical in seconds, but neither takes away from the other.

H- Hair (How well groomed are they?)

Doesn’t pay much mind to it. Clean shave if it’s unruly. Trimmed when he wants to put in the effort for you. Has nothing against letting it grow out but will absolutely take care of it if you mention it, even in passing.

I- Intimacy (How romantic can they be in the moment?)

If he wants to make the night extra special for you, he will do everything he can. Even going overboard. He’s the type to set up rose petals around the bed, even though you laugh at how cheesy it is. He will happily take his time telling you every single part of you that he loves and why. Placing kisses over each inch of skin as he whispers his appreciation and adoration to you.

J- Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Has nothing against a quick jerk off sesh. Doesn’t see it as a “I can’t have her right now so I guess I’ll do it myself.” Sometimes he just needs a quick release without bothering you. But he’s absolutely staring at pictures of you. Even if you’ve never sent him any nude photos, if theres a picture where your tits are just looking a little too good, he’s staring at it, imagining they’re right in front of him. And he definitely has an active imagination for moments like this. He can play out an entire scene of the two of you in his head, imagining his hand is yours as he brings himself closer and closer to the edge.

K- Kink (One or more they’re open about)

Loves hair pulling. Loves to be able to slide his fingers into your hair and grip as he fucks you into the bed. Loves holding your hair as a handle as he uses your mouth. And he won’t say it out loud, but you immediately make a mental note that he loves it too when you get a good grip on his hair as he’s going down on you. The instant moan that leaves his lips as you absentmindedly tug at his roots to ground yourself. The way his eyes flutter if you slip your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck when he’s fucking you.

L- Location (Favorite places to fuck)

Definitely the bedroom. Couches don’t fit his body and showers are too risky for someone as tall and lanky as him. Is absolutely down for a car fuck as long as you ride him. He’s also not against bending you over anything he can if he really needs you. Is also not opposed to sitting you on the kitchen counter and doing you there.

M- Motivation (What turns them on/ gets them going?)

Anything you. You could just be looking really cute and happy and he just needs to show his love for you. You could be wearing a tight shirt and the way your cleavage is on display makes him hungrier than ever. He could simply be thinking about you and a thought of previous nights flash through his mind and he has to have you. He just gets turned on by you. The only other thing that gets him going is knowing that you’re the best medicine when he needs to get his mind off something. If he’s overworking himself or something is just really bothering him and nothing can be done, you’re his favorite distraction.

N- No (Turn offs)

He’s not that kinky. Not into anything that has to do with bodily fluids and isn’t really into the thought of purposely harming you. He’s willing to restrain you if that’s what you enjoy, but other than pressing you into the mattress or lightly choking you, nothing more really turns him on. Somno could be something he’s into if you expressed your interests long beforehand, but CNC would probably make him uncomfortable.

O- Oral (Preference on giving/receiving, skill, etc.)

Munch!Noah always lives in my head rent free. He knows how to get you off and fast. He just usually uses his fingers, too. Why would he only use his mouth when he can watch the way you overstimulate with his fingers inside you and tongue working your clit. When it comes to receiving, he’s just happy to be there. Unless you let him know that you want him to take control and use you, the second your mouth is on him, every thought in his head is gone. He may hold onto you to guide your speed or to pull you off if it’s getting too much, but he’s happy to let you take control and just make him feel good.

P- Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

Noah can do both. Definitely depends on his mood. Quickies and hot nights lead to him absolutely fucking you into the mattress, wanting nothing more than to bring you the pleasure you so desperately deserve, but he absolutely adores the nights where he can just feel you. Where the two of you can take it slow and take in the feeling of being pressed against each other. Where he can show you how much he loves and adores you with his actions. Gentle kisses and slow movements letting him take his time to really appreciate you.

Q- Quickie (Their preference on quickies, how often, etc.)

Like I said before, he’s not opposed with bending you over anything he can if he really needs you. If you ask, he’s more than willing to sneak off to a private bathroom and bending you over the sink. He’s also extremely good at slipping his hands down your pants in places you don’t want to get caught, getting you off real quick and then going on with his day like nothing happened. It’s not usually a common occurrence, but when it’s tour season and he’s busy running around, practicing, setting up and losing his mind, he wants nothing more than to pull you somewhere and let off some much needed steam.

R- Risk (Are they down to experiment with their partner? Do they take risks?)

The most risk he’ll take is location wise. He already knows what he likes in bed, so he sticks to that unless you really want to try something, then he’ll give it a chance. But he’s completely down with hiding behind a low traffic corner and taking you right then and there. If a door doesn’t have a lock, he’ll just fuck you up against it so no one can come in. He’ll continuously remind you to stay quiet so you don’t get caught in the back of a tour bus with the door wide open, never knowing if someone’s going to step in and catch you.

S- Stamina (How many rounds can they go? How long do they last?)

He lasts long enough to only need to go one round, if that’s what you’ll even call it. He loves getting you off, so by the time he even fucks you, unless it’s a quickie, you’ve probably already cum at least once or twice. He learned that girls needed foreplay and absolutely ran with it, building you up and preparing you for as long as he seemed fit before finally taking you. Once he’s fucking you, he may even get you off twice then, too, depending on how badly worked up he is. If he’s desperate to cum, he may not last long, but he still makes sure you at least join him.

T- Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On just their partner or on themselves, too?)

He isn’t opposed to using them on you, but even after one night with him, you know you don’t need any. Maybe he’ll bring out a vibrator just for some extra overstimulation, but between his hands, fingers, and mouth, there’s not much more that you need. He probably wouldn’t have anything against using a cock ring if the two of you wanted to try out something new, but he doesn’t need anything more than you or his hand.

U- Unfair (How much of a tease are they?) 

Not a tease to the point where he’ll turn you on and leave you hanging, but he likes taking his time with you. He enjoys building you up, listening to the noises you make and the way your body reacts to his touch. He loves to hear you beg for more, to tell him what you need so he can make you feel good.

V- Volume (How loud are they? What sounds do they make?)

He isn’t loud, but he’s not one to hold himself back. If something feels good, he’ll let it be known. The closer he is, the more moans and whines you’ll hear. And if you get on his ‘bad side’, there’s no stopping the grunts and growls he’ll let out. Depending on his headspace, the more vocal he is. If you really pissed him off, he’s letting you know. Telling you to take it. Bossing you around and calling you names. But he’s probably the most vocal when he’s absolutely lost in pleasure. Complimenting you and telling you how good you feel. Whining and begging you to cum with him.

W- Wild Card (Random headcanon I have) (Nicknames they have for their partner)

Even if you are the farthest thing from girly, he will give you the sweetest and most adorable nicknames. Princess. Angel. Baby Girl. But My Love becomes a big one once he feels comfortable saying it. It almost becomes your new name. It’s how he’ll get your attention. How he addresses you to others. It’s the first words to come to his head every time he sees you.

X- X-Ray (What’s happening under those clothes?)

Well above average. That man doesn’t have a single part of his body that isn’t long. It’s not thick, but it will hit all the right places with more to spare.

Y- Yearning (How high is their sex drive? How badly do they need their partner when they’re turned on?)

Definitely not insanely high. He works out a lot, is always moving around and wearing himself out in many different ways. Like I mentioned earlier, he has nothing against a quick jerk off sesh, so he doesn’t always necessarily need you, but if you’re near and he’s turned on, there’s no stopping him. He’s doing everything he can to make it known, being extra touchy and cuddly. But if you’re not catching on or just busy, he’s trying to slide his hands down your pants or pressing himself against you until you can spare him a single moment.

Z- Zzz (How quickly do they fall asleep after)

Unless it’s a quickie, once the two of you are in each other’s arms, he’s out like a light. Your warm skin pressed against his and his arms wrapped around you tight instantly send him into a dream-state. He couldn’t feel more content and safe than in that moment.

Will be doing the rest of the boys soon‼️

[gay-dorito-dust]

The White Rabbit and reasonable Demon Hunter reader. Sorry if this seems out of character for how you designed the reader to be like or something.

---

Basically, reader is just so annoyed with a DARKCOM member out of everyone else i. That organization because they're coming to the reader for recruitment -- like that one YouTube ad that just won't stop popping up -- and are just like "If that DARKCOM agent gets into my business one more time, I'm going to snap." And White Rabbit knows because they have been annoying for the past month with requests to join. Whatever annoys reader annoys him in matters such as this.

And that does happen. Basically, that DARKCOM member tries sneaking onto their massive property and comes across the Makains living there and was gonna report it, if you weren't behind them, blocking their path with fury and murderous intent in uour eyes.

Not only did they trespass on reader's property, but the Makian's safe haven was discovered by this sapien. This person poses as a threat to those you have protected and you will not let them leave alive; killing the DARKCOM member with rage and protective and the reader doesn't regret it. Quite a bloody sight, I must say. (Circe core)

And the White Rabbit, seeing you drenched in human blood, has a proud expression. While, internally he is simping and falling hard, and is just thinking "I must to marry them immediately."

tw: blood, swords, daggers, death, severed limbs, violence.

recently it seemed as though your threats had fallen on deaf ears as you were hounded by stupid DARKCOM member, who was so eager to please their higher ups obviously as they kept asking why you wouldn't join them.

'you could be rich-' they began but you were quick to cut them off.

'if you did even a crumb of research on me you'd know that i'm quite well off regardless if i join you pigs.' you snapped, wanting nothing more then to go home to rabbit at your makain safe haven, and drink tea and talk plans of the future.

'but-' you point your weapon at their throat.

'there is no buts you silly bastard. so clean out your ears becuase i'm only going to say this once, i will never be apart of your pathetic organisation, i'd rather fucking die then ever join DARKCOM. so fuck off or you'll soon regret ever scouting me for recruitment.' you sneered in their face before whacking them with the end of your weapon, knocking them out.

unfortunately this wasn't the end of you encounters with this determined DARKCOM member, they were persistant but if only they were persistant in the right things instead of doing whatever that anit-demon organisation wanted so stupidly.

it infuriated you to the point where rabbit would have to escort you to a calmer part of the massive house and rub your knuckles with his thumbs.

'my dear you mustn't let this leech disrupt you from your dream, from our dream.' he says.

'i know but how can i save more demons if i have them breathing down my neck, squaking about how great DARKCOM is, how benificial it would be for me, how they'd love to have me lead a squadron and kill innocence for the heel of it?' you replied as you leaned against him, breathing him in as you try to clear your head on how to be rid of this ignorant mongrel for good.

rabbit was just as if not more annoyed that his worm wouldn't leave you be, hindering you from doing what you loved, leaving him to feel murderous intent towards this DARKCOM idiot.

he would do anything to have that insignificant solider removes from your life in the most violent and bloody way possible, just to see you happy again and stress free, your anger and issues were his and he didn't particualrly liked that you were being pestered by someone who didn't want to seem to listen.

'we shall deal with all our problems in due time my love,' rabbit kisses your forehead. 'they shall not remain a threat for long, that i can assure you. now let us have some tea hmm?' he tilts his head to the side as he watched your face relax.

'tea sounds nice right now my heart.' you replied

and listen they didn't as somehow they managed to worm their way onto your property, all in hopes of convincing you again, all the while being in awe of how massive your house was and if you lived alone.

only to wander into the back yard where they spotted families upon families of makain's stare back at them in horror. every single one of them were frightned that their new home had been discovered and their hope had been taken away.

'how? wha-' they stopped upon realising that you were a demon sympathiser, and thus the reason why so many demons have seemingly been dissapearing from town seemingly undetected, but worst of all you were with white rabbit and helping him by using your influences to aid him.

naturally the DRAKCOM solider felt complied to report this to the higher ups, and expose you for helping them in hopes of rising in the ranks, not caring if it mean that you had to die along with the demons and white rabbit, they're sure they can use your house as a base of operations for DARKCOM once you were out of the picture.

however before they could even do that, their gun was swiftly cut in half and they were sent flying into a wall, pinned to it by a foot long dager. your dagger from the family crest of -unironcially- a demon. your family had always been sympathetic towards demons, having idolised Sparda for a long time now, and thus believing that demons would one day arise to the surface and putting things in place so that they would be kept safe and a secret within their homes.

something you didn't find out until you were clearing out the attic to make room for more makains with rabbit, for when you made the discovery, much to rabbit's delight in knowing this part of you didn't come lut of nowhere but was soemthing your family did and was prepared for GENERATIONS to do.

'i warned you, DARKCOM mongrel that you would regret ever scouting me for your group, and you didn't think to head that warning but instead tresspass on private property, walk into my house and threaten violence upon MY family!' you hollered as you brandished another dagger from your boot, throwing it with accurate precision as it stuck into the shoulder of the DARKCOM soldier, pinning them even futher to the wall as they were inable to move without groaning in pain.

'demon sympathiser.' they spat but your face was a blank slate as you grabbed your sword from it's sheath, admiering it's sharpness and your reflection within the steel. you had given them the clearest of warning, so now you would be the one to ignore theirs, to invade their personal space and carve out their heart, rip muscle from the bone along with tendons to satisfy the darker more morbid side of you that you possesed.

'so? you have no footing here worm, you've commited many crimes so i know what must be done to make things right.' you said as you moved closer towards them, the tip of your sword piercing the hollow of their throat, making them bleed.

'mercy?' they asked, scared.

they even flinched when your hand tightend on the hilt of the sword, the errily calm breathing you were doing as the flames of hell seemed to be within your eyes as you looked at them. 'death.' you replied as you sliced their throat as blood poured profusely from the wound, before moving onto severing limbs and cleavering the body into unrecagnisable pieces until nothing human remained and you were drenched in their blood.

some makain's had informed rabbit that a DARKCOM solider had tresspased the safe haven and was immeditetly on the move, ready to make their death painful and slow for daring to ruin the one god thing they ever had, the one thing you had worked hard to acomplish for the betterment of others. only to see that you had already dealt with them as he took in your bloody appearance and heavy breathing from the exhursion.

'darling?' he asked as he approached you, clearing away the blood from your cheek with the handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket.

'i did it, i handeled the pig ans slaughtered it like one.' you told him as he took your face within his hands, smiling as he kissed your forehead.

'you did indeed my love, i am proud of you for protecting our family.' he replied, liking the sight of you in human blood, a wild yet acomplished look within your eyes, finding it incredibly attractive that he had to control himself into not doing something rash. it maybe a demon thing to find things covered in blood appealing, attractive and so on, but rabbit couldn't help but know that there was something between the two of you.

you both acted like a couple and came across like a couple as pointed out by many. yet that step was never taken as your duties to keeping the makain's safe and guiding more demons to the safehaven, so much so that you didn't have time to think about your relationship and how it couls easily become something more.

so rabbit did what he wished to do for a long while, he kissed you and while you had a delayed a reaction, you were quick to reciprocate the kiss, glad that your feelings weren't one sided at all, and that you weren't reading too deeply into things between you both.

you hummed against his lips as the rage left you in exchange for a warmer feeling within your chest, pulling rabbit closer to you, uncaring if the blood got onto his nice suit and stayed like that in your lovers embrace and liplock for a good while.

[lvmimis]

cw: romantic!ace x reader, platonic!luffy x reader. luffy has an unnamed partner. alcohol mention. fluff.

“Do you-” you pause, and Luffy glances at you with curiosity, as he adjusts his brother’s sleeping body on his back before lifting his just as knocked-out partner into his arms. He does it with the kind of ease that makes your interrupted offer seem pointless to complete, and you decide to smile instead. Luffy, however, easily picks up on your intent, moving closer to you and towards the exit of the bar, in charge of the two hapless souls’ safety for the night. 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, this is a piece of cake. Let’s go.”

You follow Luffy out without further ado, the brisk air of a town situated just off the coast of the sea practically slapping you in the face, the sensation as sudden as if you were dunked in cold water. It turns out the bar might have been too warm and too stuffy, and as you suck in lungfuls of cool breeze, you can feel yourself sobering up, unlike Ace whose narcolepsy sunk in about three drinks into a conversation despite your warnings, and unlike the woman snoozing comfortably in Luffy’s arms, the complexion in her cheeks deepened by a poor tolerance to alcohol. 

You wonder if you and Luffy are the freaks in this situation, still with all your faculties as you venture back to your inn for the night. The night is still relatively young, however, the partially full moon shining down on the both of you. You walk a few paces behind, unintentionally, likely making sure that your love doesn’t somehow fall off of Luffy’s shoulders, but you should trust him better than that - secured by loops of Luffy’s rubber arms, there’s not far he would go, plus he can survive being dropped from a standing height, easily. If it had been just the two of you, you’d have to wait until Ace woke up, shaking him, jostling him, threatening to leave him in a teasing whisper in his ear - the latter would have probably woken him up in a cold sweat - or just staying by his side, a kiss to his temple until he roused and the two of you could go home.

This arrangement is easier, but you still somehow feel a little bad that there’s nothing for you to carry. Quickening your step so you’re side by side, you feel compelled to apologize.

“Sorry about… this…” you gesture vaguely. Luffy gives you a quizzical look for a moment, then it occurs to him that he’s technically burdened even if for him his loved ones would always be light as a feather.

“Ace used to carry me all the time when I was tired as a kid, it’s really no big deal,” he reassures you, a grin on his face as he reminisces, youthful days in Mount Colubo quickly passing before his mind’s eye. He then quickly glances to his partner in front of him before looking ahead. “Ace seems really happy with you,” he decides to add, which makes your cheeks warm.

The entire time the brothers were catching up, you and Luffy’s partner found yourselves exchanging looks without much to add beyond introductions, but Ace talks so fondly and personally about you that Luffy probably now knows everything, including your blood type and the password to your snail phone. Much like most double dates, you found yourself making polite conversation with Luffy’s partner, but quickly the conversation devolved into who had the better adventures, with you supplanting Ace’s claims as commander of the Whitebeard Pirates as valid and not at all exaggerated. His partner, a little quieter (possibly already drunk by then), chose to let Luffy speak for himself for the most part, taking in the moment, but quick to chime in any time Luffy asked for backup of his own (or to playfully correct his misrememberings).

It was a very exciting night, but you wondered when exactly Luffy could make that assessment of you. He doesn’t elaborate necessarily either, allowing the thought to dissipate with a hum under his breath.

“I’m really happy you said that,” you decide to chime in. “He makes me happy too.”

Luffy grins wider, his smile closing his eyes.

It strikes you again, not unlike many times this night, that he and his brother are quite similar. Both bright in their own right, laid-back yet cheerful and energetic, commanding a presence that they seem unaware of and would never ask for, but wield appropriately all the same. 

The Ace that always had his guard up no longer existed by the time he met you, but Luffy knows both sides of him, and can promise you that you make him happy in a way that is genuine, that still would be loved by an Ace who hated the world and himself.

“Don’t go on talking smack about me…” Ace starts suddenly, nearly startling the both of you, but quickly his voice trails off into a murmur, and you soon note that he’s dozed off again, his head pressed against Luffy’s back.

Ace, who feels no sense of danger in the presence of you and his younger brother, is soon fast asleep.

Perhaps it’s just the alcohol rearing its ugly head, perhaps you didn’t eat enough, but you can suddenly feel tears pricking at the back of your eyes.

Luffy notices, you can feel him looking at you for just a moment, but you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, and look back at the moon shining brightly on the four of you.

Ace is happy, and so are you, and that’s all you can really hope for, isn’t it?

[anamelessfool]

Scenes from the Void in the year 2025 Drabble

random set up drabble. Includes a slight spoiler but tbh it's going to be years maybe until we get to this point in the story so who cares lol

Copia and Marian

Copia is semi-retired and married Marian in a private ceremony in 2022. Due to [REDACTED EVENTS] Marian is now Mother Imperator and has all the magick abilities granted to the Custodian of the Void. The learning curve is steep and it has been a personal struggle and strain on their relationship. Not to mention convincing the rest of the congregation of her validity has been most of the work done in the past three years. For the most part the seat of Papa Emeritus has been vacant during this time and the Ghost Project has suffered. The Church is on the brink of political and arcane crisis while Copia hesitates to find his successor. Deep down Copia and Marian are terrified of losing each other again.

Secondo and Sandra

At 64 Secondo is...not doing well. His lifelong smoking habit is catching up with him quickly. This summer he has a major surgery planned and will be incapacitated for a few weeks. Sandra is going to spend most of her time working and supporting him while he's recovering in the hospital.

Paul (Secondo's eldest son)

Paul is 21. He was accepted for a near full ride at Juliard due to his extensive instrumental talents. He became the lead guitarist/secondary vocalist for a local NYC powermetal band Frosthammar. Paul dropped out of college when Frosthammar started getting popular and toured for 18 months as an opener for a (slightly more popular) metal band. But by the fall of 2024 he had to go on hiatus due to his father's sudden decline.

He's staring down the possible reality of giving all of it up to support his family. It's something that is increasingly difficult to accept. He offers to bring his siblings up to the Ministry HQ for a bit of their summer vacation while his parents are dealing with the hospital recovery. It's a kind gesture but with an alterior motive: he's convinced that the only thing that could possibly save his creative life is to pursue the path of Papa Emeritus. Perhaps his uncle would see his vision differently from his own father.

Eden (15) and Sam (13)

Eden has always been sensitive to the arcane and lately she's been suffering from horrific bouts of insomnia and waking dreams. She feels haunted most of the time and puts it into her poetry. At night when she does sleep she has the recurring nightmare of knocking behind dark doors. Whitened eyes embedded in shadow asking to be let in.

Sam is the most average suburban child on Earth. One would not expect such a lineage to produce a boy this obsessed with sports and video games. But he's completely in his own struggle to separate himself from it all. He's short and quick to anger and comes across as a bully in his school. There's a strong possibility he may have to repeat a grade next year if things don't change. Maybe some time unplugged and alone upstate with his siblings and uncle's bizarre cult would sort him out. Sure.

And so the scene is set in the summer of 2025. Three troubled kids arrive at the Ministry HQ, while Copia scrambles to keep his organization together and the Dark Mother Marian calls out to the Void for answers.

Sometimes it calls back. And sometimes it tells you exactly what you desire to hear.

[voicesunified]

ㅤSheik had, actually, given it a lot of thought before he came here. When he had woken up in Impa's house, a child again and incredibly confused, it had only taken him minutes before he realized that everything he had done in the previous timeline he remembered. All it took was a knock on the door and a single message from a Castle Guard, that his mother had perished in the line of duty. And he knew, he knew, that they were wrong, The memories had been quick to flood his mind, overwhelming in his tiny little body and he hadn't known for the first few days what he was supposed to do with all of that.

ㅤTrying to fill the role that his mother had once occupied was—terrible. He really had tried though, for several years, to train and be at the castle. He worked along side Princess Zelda, he trained as his mother taught him to, he served and lived as a member of the Sheikah tribe doing everything both her and her father wanted from him. But it didn't make him happy. In fact, he had actually been quite miserable working at the Castle. In that same line too, he knew that Princess Zelda was actually quite miserable with Sheik at her side because he wasn't the Sheikah that she wanted.

ㅤAnd when it became to much for him, when he realized how absolutely miserable everyone was, he realized it wasn't worth the effort anymore. What was the point in trying to be something he didn't want to be, when no one else wanted him to be it either? Sheik was good at what he did, but being good at something didn't mean everything. Sure, the King of Hyrule was content to have a useful weapon, but his opinion wasn't everything and it was only going to be so long before the Princess cracked. Before she demanded that Sheik be removed from his post at her side, that she wanted him to be as far from her as possible. And then where would that actually leave him? Just running around killing and torturing whatever the King directed him to?

ㅤWhat sort of life was that either?

ㅤSo he went, he visited the Great Deku Tree, and then he went to the Shadow Temple. In the Great Deku Tree's defense, he had attempted to talk Sheik out of what he intended on doing. He had reminded him that everyone including himself hadn't sacrificed what they did simply so he could give up. But Sheik didn't see this as giving up, he saw it as giving himself a purpose. In finding new means in the world to keep himself going so he didn't give up. There wasn't anything wrong with that, was there? In searching for your place in the world, even if it was a place as dark and horrible as this one.

ㅤ"It was not selfless, you had already made your choice and there was no changing that. You said you had to go home and all I did was respect and honor that decision." It was fine, he had understood. Sky hadn't come to their Hyrule intentionally and he had made it clear from the start his goal was to go home. He was the Hero of his time and people relied on him, he had people he cared about and to whom he wanted to protect back there. It was the way that the world was, the way that things worked. And with how important his own Hyrule was to him, how he wanted to help and was trained to help, he had truly understood what Sky was saying.

ㅤSo when Zelda said that she could send him home, once things were safe enough for her too, Sheik hadn't argued. He hadn't told the Hero to not go because that would have only hurt the both of them more. In begging him to stay that would have been selfish and he wouldn't have done that to Sky, no matter what his heart actually wanted from the other. He doesn’t seeing that as being selfless, because he cares about Sky. He cares and he wanted him to be happy, and the only way to do that was to let him go home like he wanted to. That was just what someone did when they cared about another person. It was natural.

ㅤAnd he had done a lot of very horrible, very difficult, things in his life.

ㅤThe Sheikah gently tugged his hands back from the other's and took a step back, shaking his head at the other man. "You made your choice, and this was mine." The only way Sheik to leave here was if someone else took his place, and there was only one living Sheikah capable of doing that. He won't condemn his mother to this place again, not after finally giving her the freedom she deserved.

ㅤ"Both of you are wasting your time here and you're only going to get hurt, the Shadow Temple isn't what it was the first time around. It's only grown with the repeated fracturing and mending of the timeline. There's no telling what you might encounter if you stay here, and I don't wish to see either of you get hurt because you're chasing a useless endeavor."

Truthfully Link could've made it to where he had met up with Sky in the first place without the use of the Mask of Truth. He had even offered him the safer option to use which Link hadn't accepted. Plus, he thinks, the other had wanted to come punch Sheik which he wouldn't bring up right now... Though he did intend on going through with what he'd told the other Hero he would do if he did hurt Sheik. But he does believe that an evil soul sucking mask should've been the top of his problems, especially after Sky had told him that the damn thing had put a parasite on him that was leeching off him.

Sky had been trying to avoid getting into an argument or, worse, a fight with Link, but he's starting to think that perhaps he should've just taken the mask away when he'd first seen it. However, he cannot change the past, only learn from it. Link is a grown man, Sky did not need to hold his hand during the very beginning portion of this temple, especially when he knew the other would join him once he figured out the song. The platform that he made appear was visible without magical aid and he had killed all the monsters in the rooms he had gone through.

He listens to the two of them talk, though it's more like Sheik talking at Link and things really seem to jump out at him in regards to the other Hero. He's incredibly... Hm. Sky almost wants to say detached from the issues that Sheik is pointing out, from the ones he's also pointed out. The lack of elaborating like he doesn't seem to see a point in trying to explain anything or himself. The question from before about Navi having received a shrug was concerning. He remembers Sheik telling him about the Kokiri a little and how the fairy companions were extremely important to them. Link may not have been a true Kokiri but Navi had been his friend and companion. A constant in his quest.

Where was she?

When Sheik turned his attention towards him, Sky watched him calmly and still smiled at him. The mask being handed over to him, he placed it in one of his pouches where it would be safe and away from Link.

          "I did and it's not a death wish, Sheik," he started softly once he had let the Sheikah finish. "However, Zelda. My Zelda..." Not that Princess. "Managed to help me come here to get you. You had been... incredibly selfless when you told me to live my life, well I can tell you that it wasn't going to work. The moment that portal had closed, I wanted to rip it open again and bring you back with me."

His smile turned sad. He lasted only three days before he begged Zelda to help him.

          "Zelda gave me something to help in getting you out of this place. She had a feeling you were here," Considering that he had told Sheik that she was Hylia reborn as a mortal, hopefully he wouldn't need to be more obvious in what he means. "Please, Sheik...?"

Come back home with me?

The Chosen Hero reaches out and gently grabs the Sheikah's hand, holding it with a tenderness that he normally had reserved for when they were alone. Blue eyes look into lovely ruby ones that he had missed greatly in the last week. To think it has been seven years, maybe eight, since Sheik had seen him.

          "Please, Sheik..." His gaze is pleading as he watches the other, his love and longing pouring through their bond freely for his partner to feel. Sheik has done everything he had been raised to do. He doesn't need to remain in this temple. His mother will be fine with the Princess. The Sheikah before him deserves to live his own life.

[dkmshaboogie]

Howdy once again folks, I return from the grave of professional school almost a doctor and with my first attempt at published smut!

This work is inspired by @distant--shadow's western AU artwork that absolutely rots my brain in the most delicious way (Please let me know if you don't want this out there!)

I hope you enjoy and that my writing hasn't suffered too much the past 3 years!

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

Pokémon Horizons Episode 25 spoilers under the cut!

HE YEARNS SILENTLY,,,,, HE'S NOT SPEAKING UP ON SOMETHING THAT'S CLEARLY BOTHERING HIM,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, HIS CHARACTER ARC IS IMMINENT Y'ALL,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 🫵🫵🫵

[xcherryc2x]

Feeling bored at a sleepover……help dilf Kento Nanami get rid of his stress!!!

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

Nanami x femreader Wordcount: 2.6k

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁

“Still want more doll?”

He’s brushing your hair out of your face so he can see what he’s done to you. You’re a mess, beyond exhausted at this point

He loves to look at your flushed face while he grips your sweaty hips to keep ramming his veiny cock in you mercilessly, you can’t even keep count of how many many times his cum has filled you to the brim

You feel like a constant stream of your cum is also covering his dick causing your insides to make dirty noises as his cock slides in and out each time

Your whole body is getting over sensitive and you can’t feel your legs anymore. your nipples hurt and your clit is so swollen that everytime he thrusts through your dripping folds, you can feel it there at that spot

“you’ve been such a good girl for me”

You’re just whimpering in response

“t-too…f-fast sir” you say breathless. You try to keep speaking but each thrust is more powerful than the last making it extremely difficult to talk

“Cmon use your words sweetheart”

he’s twisting your puffy nipples in attempt to make you speak up

it clearly won’t work since your voice is almost gone, no sounds come out when you open your mouth to moan from the painful pleasures

He loves the way you can’t do anything but keep your delicate hands wrapped around his neck above his back filled with scratches as he carelessly goes faster and deeper so he can finish inside of you one more time

you remember when this started, Nanami was fucking you at the perfect speed, hitting your sweet g spot, really taking his time with you, but now he was going animalistic, acting like he would only be satisfied if your insides are bruised and battered

During the first couple rounds he also tried not to get his semen inside, trying to come up with good reasons as to why he shouldn’t shoot his seed in to you, but the way you were so easy to keep fucking, all that logical thinking cleared out from his mind

He was venting out all his stressful emotions by having long rough sex with you. Your poor pussy the ultimate victim and winner

you really had awakened a feral monster inside in him

it all started when…

A sleepover at your best friend’s house was always fun, you loved when she asked you to stay the night and told you that it’s only her and her dad at home

You have been obsessed with her father, Kento Nanami for a while, you just love his gentleman personality and you get so horny around him it’s uncontrollable.

In the middle of the night you find yourself at Nanami’s bedroom door…

you can’t believe what your about to do. You just can’t. You walk in to the dimly lit room ,but you thankfully jerk yourself back to knock before entering

*knock *knock

You hear him respond quietly, you get chills down your spine

“…yes, come in”

you open the door, your nipples are hard and visible through your thin top, decorated with lace and a baby pink colour

You reach behind you and pull down your matching shorts quickly, you knew half of your ass was out.

You slowly creep inside

“u-um sir”

you look at Nanami, he has a confused expression that’s only toned down by his dark under eye circles and sunken face

“could you please turn the heat up…I feel very cold” you asked in your sweetest voice possible

he shot a quick glance to your breasts. He saw the way they were naturally perked up and your nipples poked through the skimpy fabric

His eyes trail down to your lower body, settling on your hips and thighs for a moment too long. He had definitely realized you came with no undergarments on

Nanami tried to calm down and control himself, this wasn’t a time to act like a teenage boy and get a hard on

“*cough* ahem..yeah sure no problem”

you could tell he was surprised to see you here like this, I mean it was pretty cold but you were there for something else, you hoped he had gotten the hint by now

he looked dreamy, but tired. everything about him was so attractive to you even when it shouldn’t be.

Nanami gets up from his desk chair and you feel your face getting flushed he was so handsome, you’ve never seen his buff body in casual comfortable clothes.

He heads out of the room and downstairs to check on the thermostat

you are feeling confident that you must have had some sort of effect on him, you take a seat on his bed, feeling your plush bottom sink into the mattress under the soft covers

He walks back in and lets you know that he increased the heat and it should be fine now.

“you need anything else?” He asks, rubbing his eyebrows and seeming annoyed

“. . .”

“It’s pretty late, you should get back to bed”

He doesn’t look towards you but his presence is quite intimidating

He’s standing towering over you. He was avoiding your alluring gaze… you might have been intentionally giving him bedroom eyes this whole day…

“so…uh if there is nothing else—“

you cut him off

“I-I just…wanted to—“

Then he cuts you off…but how does he cut you off?

by pushing you back where your sitting making you lay on your back and getting on top of you

You heart was beating at an alarming speed. Your body was getting squished underneath him

“Is this what you want hm?” he says while his hand is between your legs. You’re breath hitched as his finger enters your wet pussy.

He adds another thick finger inside, applying pressure as he moves his fingers in and out

“so wet for me?”

“yes ngggh”

You let out small moans and move your hips up as he continues.

“You’ve got no panties on sweetheart…now you’ve ruined your shorts”

He was right, they were drenched in the bottom area from how much your pussy was leaking. You are melting in his embrace

He circles his middle finger on you’re clit making you feel like you were flying. you were so close to cumming when he increased his speed but then all of a sudden he stopped adrubtly taking his fingers out, dripping with your pussy juice

Whispering in your ear

“But I wouldn’t exactly call these shorts, they weren’t covering anything”

He gently pulls them off gliding his big hands down your legs. He lifts you up by the waist keeping you under him and moving to the centre of his king sized bed.

You wanted him to continue playing with your clit, you were so close to release.

His hot breath lingered on your throat as you feel his lips sucking the skin. that was gonna leave a mark :3

He plops you down and you’re head hits the pillow. You look at him and he’s already taking off his clothes. Leaving only his white undershirt on. His arm muscles flexing with every movement

“please keep going” you say shamelessly

“you’re not the only one who likes to tease doll” his low laughing is followed by a third finger, quickly swallowed by your greedy cunt

soon after working his magic, you cum on his hand, feeling hungry and empty for more

Just then you saw something that made you realize you might be making a mistake…Nanami’s dick was so big, his boxers were having a hard time keeping it in

You could see a dark spot of precum in his boxers. He takes them off too allowing you to see the full length

“s-sir it’s …so big” your eyes widened and you chocked on your spit

As if what you said was expected, he slightly smirks and takes his huge hard cock in his hands and rims your hole with his glistening tip.

He hold your legs up, spreading them a bit more, making room for himself

“so you don’t want it baby?”

Oh no you do want it so with a desperate look on your face you say

“no, I want it”

He chuckles under his breath

“Hm that’s what I like to hear”

you gasped when he put just the tip in. He’s slowly and gently trying to get the rest of it into your pulsing cunt.

It sounds like your in pain the way your squirming, arching your head back and whimpering

Even tho he had previously loosened you up with 3 fingers, the length and thickness of his cock was at a whole other level

“Be a good girl…I know you can take it” he coos, concentrating on trying to get your pussy open from deep inside, enough to start moving

Once it’s all in you take deep breaths feeling so filled up, his thick cock is being pressed by your inner walls, driving him crazy

“see that’s it, how does it feel?” He says while letting go of one of your thighs and rubbing his hand across your stomach, his hand was so rough but gentle enough to feel heavenly

“feels…good” you say looking up at him, with doe eyes, wanting this moment to last

“would you like me to keep going sweetheart?”

“y-yes please” you really want this. You love the way there was no empty space in you, even deep inside

He leans in to whisper to you

“…what a naughty girl” he smiles hugging you close. you get a whiff of his natural scent and it sends you into orbit

you just want him to start fucking you already

He starts thrusting, and you wrap your arms around his neck trying to brace yourself for how his rock hard cock is forcing its way in and out

But you were amazed at how gentle he was, this feeling was unfamiliar to you of course and you reacted accordingly

Just after not even a minute, you legs lock up around him and by the spasms, he can tell you just came.

he takes his cock out, slick with strings of your cum. As of this moment, he wants to make love with you without getting you overwhelmed

Treating your precious pussy like the flower it is, he leans down and kisses your wet folds, making you put your hands on his soft blond hair, pulling his head more in. He’s squeezing your thighs with his big hands turning them red from his tight grip

He sucks on your clit, kissing it with passion.

His toungue was gliding up and down the area making you lose your mind, but his main focus was getting you to calm down. Allowing your pussy to completely relax so you could loosen up. He wants to prepare for the damage his cock will cause

In Nanami’s experience, it was a quite a lengthy process usually involving fingering, oral sex and very slow penetration due to the size of his monster cock

He is soooo good at eating you out…a little too good

“unnnngggh…sir i n-need to go to the bathroom”

Were you gonna cum or piss, you weren’t sure but Nanami backs away to your request and just as he’s about to react further…

You squirt on his face, a stream of fluid flowing with so much force from your pussy that it lands right on Kento Nanami’s face, missing his eyes since he closed them

“I’m so sorry I didn’t know what—“ oh shit, you think to yourself, what did you do ??

He silently just takes off his undershirt wiping his face and before you know it he grabs your knees spreading them apart aggressively and with no warning he rams his throbbing cock into the mess between your legs

“Oh you’re in for it now sweetheart” his facial expression is unreadable but his demeanour changed

You try to catch your breath as he continues thrusting real hard into you, you can see how his face relaxes more and starts looking refreshed. You on the other hand, fet like you were being broken in two

You were hugging him so tight that everytime you felt move his dick deeper and deeper, you couldn’t stop making noises, you dug your face deep into his neck, to muffle your moans

“don’t be shy doll…let your voice out, I don’t mind”

You tilt your head back, rolling your eyes back and curling your toes. You were about to climax once again

You cum quickly, this time Nanami doesn’t stop to comfort you, he just groans and and moves faster due to your clenching and tightening.

Your hole seems to be squeezing down on him too much, he lifts your leg up and lets your knee bend over his shoulder,

“s-stop it’s too much” you exclaim

You were scratching his back leaving red marks all over, but the way he was so keen on continuing made you feel so wanted

“Sweetheart, p-please let me keep going”

He had a pleading look on his face that really made you forget how your swollen cunt was being stretched out more than it should by his girthy cock. You were gonna be soooo loose after this

You just hug him tighter making your tits and hips rub against him with a lot of friction from each thrust

Both of your bodies were over heating and overworked from how hard Nanami was fucking you.

Your nipples were getting redder from rubbing against him, starting to even hurt from the sensitivity

Nanami was about to come inside but his second thoughts made him pull out and shoot his load onto your rising and falling stomach

The room echoed with his heavy breathes and your moans. You must have orgasmed again right with him and it seemed to have done a number on you

You couldn’t think clearly, the sex was so amazing your mind was so clouded you didn’t realize Nanami was talking to you while laying his head on your tits

He was telling you how missionary was the best position to fuck you in cuz he can’t get enough of that cute face of yours and the expressions you make each time he moves his dick in and out

he brings his hand close to one of your swollen nipples…and flicks it “n-not there” you squeak

“These have been wanting attention since you first came to me hm”

He pushes himself up feeling sticky as he realizes his cum on your tummy got on him too

His strong hands were on both sides of you making you feel small

He starts sucking on both of your nipples occasionally squeezing your fat tits

His mouth was doing most of the work. You felt so overstimulated, your cum was still spilling out of your hole onto the mattress and now the sensitivity of how Nanami’s toungue was swirling around such sensitive areas was making you reach your limits

You hadn’t forgot about how your squirted earlier that was quite embarrassing you might say but in Nanami’s opinion it turned him on so much he could not long be patient and gentle with you.

Nanami also kisses your soft pink lips, it sends you over the edge, you are tingling all over. He’s putting all his affection into this deep wet kiss, that seems to have you gasping for air once he backs up

“you are so sweet all over princess”

“Mmmmnnggh”

The kiss was long but now you were sleepy. a good fuck like that would make you sleep like a baby

Little did you know nanami was just gonna keep asking for more and more, his voice filled with affection hiding his lusftful intent. But you so glad you finally were able to have sex with him…you think to yourself, he will probably stop soon…right?

you couldn’t be more wrong

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁

[ivyues]

Laptop Delivery - Bang Chan

Practice got a little more eventful thanks to an forgotten laptop.

It was a peaceful morning. Fresh from your shower, you padded into your kitchen, planning to grab a quick breakfast before heading to uni. But something on the counter stopped you in your tracks – Chris' laptop.  

Your heart sank. He’d stayed over last night but had to leave early for dance practice. The sight of his laptop sitting on the counter screamed trouble. Normally, he wouldn’t bring it over – it was too precious, filled with tracks, demos, and other vital material for the group. You knew his schedule was packed, and forgetting something this important could only mean bad news.

You snapped a picture of it and sent it to him with the caption:

"Forgot something?"

Still, you couldn’t shake the thought that it might be much more important. Without hesitation, you called him, even though you knew he was at practice.  

After a few rings, he picked up, slightly breathless. "Hey, baby. I’m… kinda at practice right now – what’s up?"  

"Did you leave your laptop here on purpose?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.  

"What?" His voice was sharp with confusion. "No, I thought I— wait, let me check the picture you send me."  

A muffled curse followed as realization hit. "Oh shit, no. I’ve got a meeting with some producers right after practice. I can’t believe I left it there." His tone was laced with stress.  

Chris hesitated. "I—" he started, then stopped himself. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head. He was probably considering rushing back to your place after practice, which would make him late for the meeting. Worse, you wouldn’t even be there to open the door since you'd already be at uni by then.

"I… could… bring it to you," you offered cautiously, knowing what value the device had to the group.  

"Really? Would that be possible?" His voice softened, a mixture of relief and guilt.  

"Yeah, but I’d have to leave now. I still have uni today," you said, already moving to grab your things.  

"Ah, that's amazing. You're an angel," he said warmly. "I’ll text you the room number."  

Skipping breakfast, you grabbed his laptop and headed out. On the way, you planned to stop by a bakery for something quick after the delivery, before heading straight to class.  

-----

At the JYP building, you knocked lightly on the practice room door, despite Chris’ text saying you could walk right in. The door opened to reveal Felix, his face lighting up with a grin.  

"Hey!" he greeted, pulling you into a quick hug.  

"Hi, Lix," you replied with a small smile. From across the room, Chris’ head shot up, his eyes locking on you. Relief and affection softened his expression as he quickly made his way towards you.  

"Hey," he murmured, stopping just in front of you.  

"Hi," you replied, reaching into your bag to pull out his laptop. As soon as the sleek silver device emerged, the room fell silent.  

The members froze, eyes wide. It wasn’t just a laptop to them; they knew what was inside – tracks, demos, lyrics, everything. The fact that you were holding it was proof of something bigger: the trust Chris had in you.

But before anyone could speak, Chris gently pulled you into the room, his fingers brushing your cheeks as he softly pulled your mask down.  

And then, he kissed you.  

It was natural, familia – something the two of you had done countless times before. But here, in the quiet practice room, with – unbeknownst to you – all eyes on you, it felt different. His lips were warm and soft, a silent expression of gratitude and love.  

The members didn’t move, still processing what they were seeing. None of them had expected this. Sure, they knew how much Chris cared about you, but seeing it displayed so openly caught them off guard.  

When he finally pulled back, his ears burned red, and he muttered a sheepish "I’ll call you later, okay? Thanks again", as he took the laptop from your hands.  

You, cheeks blazing, barely managed a nod as you stepped back. The silence lingered for a beat longer before you mumbled, "Y-yeah. Bye, everyone."

You turned and left, closing the door behind you.  

The moment the door clicked shut, chaos erupted.  

"YAH, HYUNG!"  

"I can't believe you just did that!"

"PDA MUCH?!”

"Channie hyung, what was that?!"

"Wow, so smooth. Too bad your ears give you away."  

Outside, you heard the screaming teasing very clearly and couldn’t help but smile, your cheeks still burning as you walked down the hallway. Chris could handle the teasing – he brought it upon himself after all.  

masterlist

[d1stalker]

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James. 

Your James. 

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself. 

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing. 

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence. 

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust.  He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him. 

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin. 

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you. 

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream. 

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood. 

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh. 

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there. 

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him. 

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity. 

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week. 

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own. 

To you, he’s still James. 

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it. 

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own. 

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body. 

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say. 

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines. 

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly. 

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end. 

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still. 

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know. 

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air. 

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze. 

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain. 

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence. 

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving. 

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes. 

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew. 

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries. 

The first time you did it, it was an accident. 

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet. 

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart. 

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it. 

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past. 

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery. 

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next. 

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes. 

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions. 

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him? 

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word. 

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again. 

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet. 

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together. 

Because we were everything to each other. 

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving. 

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile. 

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns. 

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom. 

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk. 

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did. 

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you. 

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run. 

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different. 

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?” 

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back. 

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything. 

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page. 

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still. 

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold. 

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly. 

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail. 

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. 

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart. 

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord. 

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James. 

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

[8lyme]

Heat Rises

Logan Howlett x f!Reader

SUMMARY: The mansion is boiling hot

WARNINGS: excessive use of italicisation, borderline dirty thoughts, makeout scene bc that's the best i can do, maybe ooc bc I fear I imagine Logan a little funnier than he actually is.

a/n: the ac in my room broke and inspiration struck after I doomscrolled through wolverine edits on tiktok ... chat i love men

It was hot. Boiling. Stifling.

You woke up at 2 a.m. drenched in sweat, sucking in a deep breath of hot, stale air. Grogginess fading, you stumble from your bed while pulling of your shirt and pajama pants. You open the door to the bathroom and turn the cold water on in the sink.

The heat was dripping down your back despite your lack of clothing. Overheating and still half-asleep, you stuck your head into the stream of cold water, splashing over your neck and across your shoulders.

You straighten to tie your hair up before turning the water off and running your still cold hands down your arms. The patter of thudding sounded outside your door, and you move to dress in a thin tank top and shorts.

You let your eyes adjust to the light as you began walking down the hallway of the mansion. A few children slipped out of their rooms in similar sweaty conditions to follow you down the staircase and onto the main floor.

Gathered by the professor's office were Scott, Storm, and Jean. The stray young mutants who trailed you settling around them.

"Goodmorning," You call out the the group.

"Do you know who turned this place into a boiler?" Jean asks. You both swipe sweat off your foreheads in sync while you shrug, shaking your head.

"Jesus, my glasses are gonna slide off my face," Scott complains, knocking his head against the wall in exasperation. He was shirtless, (rightfully so) wearing what you guessed were swim trunks.

"Charles is working on it," Jean put a hand on his shoulder, then quickly removing it to wipe his sweat off her hand and down the wall.

You turn to Storm, who was pulling the fabric of her tank top to fan herself off.

"Do we know where Bobby is?" You ask in search of the Iceman. You turned to scan the room, addressing the three students who followed you.

"Pretty sure him and Rogue took off before lights out," a young girl from the floor calls out. Her mutation rubberized her molecules, and her legs were in misshapen puddles - akin to flat stanley - due to the heat.

"Christ, it's fuckin' hot in here," a familiar voice groans loudly from behind you. "Nice shorts." Logan said to you before reaching your side.

"Alright fashion police," you respond in mock annoyance, offering a small smile at him. "Didn't know you worked this late."

He shot you a wink before turning away. When you caught full sight of him, your face froze and (if possible) more sweat rolled down your spine.

It was sickening how attractive he managed to look in what felt like the inside of an air fryer. Having clearly just woken up, his hair was perfectly tousled into a messier version of his normal tufts. His hair hardly looked damp despite the oiled-up glow he had on his face ...

And torso.

Fuck he was shirtless.

Although you've known Logan for the better part of a year, you unfortunately failed to experience him half-dressed. You'd been in close proximity frequently - sparring and other various training taking a large percent of that. You were friendly with each other, his acknowledgement of you with a nod whenever you walked in a room affirming he didn't hate you. You normally ate breakfast together, often offering the other the last portion of cereal or setting aside an extra cup of coffee for whoever entered the kitchen second. Within the last few months, however, after a particularly unfortunate mission gone wrong in almost every way, your friendship became more affectionate in those 'off the clock' moments.

Quick but firm hugs, slinging his arm over your shoulders, nudging each other with elbows or hips at inside jokes. He'd also been placing a hand on your back or shoulder every time he was in proximity to do so when moving behind you; in the kitchen, during briefings, even while you were grading papers in the library. He would touch your shoulder to let you know he was moving past you or going to sit next to you.

All that is to say you were aware - in theory - he was well built. He was taller and broader than you, so you made an educated guess. Theory proven, but well beyond expectations.

A month ago, you and Scott had stopped at a Texas Roadhouse an hour outside of the city after having spent two weeks clearing out a mutant experimentation lab in eastern Quebec. The plump and shine of the appetizer rolls (that you and Scott had both equally asked for seconds of) had absolutely nothing on Logan.

He damn near glistened. The dim light of the mansion sconces bronzed his skin, cutting him into an even more defined picture for you to look at. His chest expanded with each breath, shoulders and pecs slightly flexing in response. His hands lazed on his hips, if even possible causing the room's shadows to shade in the dips of his biceps and forearms. The veins of his arms just barely covered by the moisture-slicked hair covering his skin. If you had a fork and knife, you would throw them behind you to happily eat a piece of him with your hands.

You had to force yourself to swallow to shock your brain into looking anywhere else. You made an 'eaugh' sound and swiped your hands across your face. You meant it defensively, but you really were dripping into your eyes.

"I feel like I'm being waterboarded," you say disgustedly while wiping your palms on the back of your shorts. Feeling a texture that wasn't fabric, you turned your head. Glancing down, you understood Logan's earlier comment.

These shorts must have been from your freshman year of high school that somehow never got tossed or donated. They were a pair of (very) short, low-cut and dull pink velour Juicy Couture shorts with the word 'Juicy' spelled out in rhinestones on the ass. You actually felt like hurling as your body got even hotter.

You slowly turned your face away from the glittery stones on your booty to unfortunately glance in Scott's direction. His hands covering his mouth to block how obviously he was holding in a laugh.

"Scott, don't even look at me right now," you groan in exasperation, crossing your arms over yourself in attempted modesty. Scott's eyes glitter, and you snap "Keep your mouth shut" at him to no avail.

"Do your shorts say Juicy on your ass?" He snickers. "In rhinestones?"

He's cracking up now with his hands in fists over his mouth. Jean bites a smile away and looks down, shaking to stifle a giggle. You look across the room to the kids who are choking down laughter themselves.

"Oh my fucking God-uh!" you again groan out, covering your eyes. "I really liked Jersey Shore when I was in High School, guys, leave me alone!"

Storm bursts into a laugh that inspires the others to join in. You're cracking up too, mortification disappearing. You glance at Logan through your fingers, who surprisingly seems to be choking back a laugh himself.

"Storm, can't you make it snow or something to-", Logan clears his throat. "Save her from embarrassment?"

"Not how it works," She says. "I can't pull cold air or moisture out of this heat to create any snow." She looks at you and winks. "Sorry J-Wow, the shorts are staying on."

Scott about keels over with a snort before Jean thwaps him in the shoulder.

"If we bring you enough bags of ice, could you use that to cool the building down then?" Jean asks.

"In theory," Storm says. "I can stay here with the students to wait for the professor if you all don't mind searching for some. I'll need to conserve energy if I have to create a blizzard out of thin air."

"Copy. Divide and conquer," you say glancing at Logan again. The four of you turn to wander the mansion, but you stop to turn back to Storm.

"Also," you call back to her. "I'm so obviously Snooki."

Scott barks a laugh from the other corridor as you trot after Logan. He turns to meet you with a confused look on his face.

"What the fuck is a Snooki?"

---

Logan daydreamed about upper-cutting Scott with his claws unsheathed. He fantasized about throwing him down the stairs and curb-stomping him after. He imagined speeding over him on his own motorcycle and drilling him into the asphalt.

Right now, as your face flushed with embarrassment over your bedazzled booty shorts, he wished he had enacted any of those in reality so he had never, ever, heard Scott say a word about your ass.

Logan was used to waking up in a sweat, heart racing as he yelled out in anger (or fear, he couldn't tell which) from the nightmare that slipped from him the longer his eyes were open.

This time, he awoke uncomfortably hot and sprawled out diagonally above his sheets. He pushed himself up onto his knees and rubbed his eyes. He took a beat to wake himself up and stared at the clock on his nightstand blinking at 2:00 am.

He found it impossibly hotter in the hallway, swiping his palms on his pants every few steps. He regretted not scouring his room for shorts or even a pair of briefs. He moved down the stairs and rounded, following the sound of conversation. He dragged his sweaty palms across his pants again, groaning out; "Christ, it's fuckin' hot in here".

And then he almost tripped over his own feet.

You stood facing away from him, hands clasped on top of your head, in the tiniest clothing humanly possible. You wore a thin, strappy little yellow tank top that ghosted just under your ribs. In the dimmed lighting, your skin glistened, droplets of sweat gliding down your neck, your spine - fucking hell, was your sweat turning him on? - down your lower back, and -

Logan just about stopped in his tracks.

Impossibly tiny pink shorts clung to your ass, riding low on your hips. In glittering rhinestone, the word Juicy was bedazzled over the fabric. He felt like a dumb moth to a flame, trying to look like he wasn't seconds away from using his hands for some workplace misconduct.

"Nice shorts," he managed, trying to shake his head clear.

"Alright fashion police," you smirked up at him. "Didn't know you worked this late."

He winked at you, turning away to avoid staring at the beads sliding down your collar bone. Trying even harder to not imagine where the droplets would travel next.

Too focused on thinking about anything else in the world other than you, he blinked back into reality after Scott's voice grated his ears.

"Do your shorts say Juicy on your ass? In rhinestones?"

Whatever you or anyone else responds with falls on his deaf ears. The only thing he can hear is the pounding of his heart and the rush of blood. His face tightened and he clenched his jaw.

He coughed to clear his head and interject into whatever conversation he's too furious to tune in to.

"Storm, can't you make it snow or something to-", Logan paused, coughing again to catch himself from saying anything related to freezing Scott solid so he can shatter him to pieces. He settled on "Save her from embarrassment?"

Once again, Logan half-listened and half-internally plotted extreme violence, perking back in at the sound of your voice. He turned to you as you catch up with him.

"What the fuck is a Snooki?"

---

You declined to continue to explain trash TV to Logan. You settled on "It's entertaining to watch people be out of touch with reality", to which he quipped back a "That's stupid", effectively shutting you up.

The both of you wandered to the kitchen, you fanning yourself as Logan tried not to burst a blood vessel while holding to his willpower to not watch you tilt your head back and exhale while uttering whines of complaint. He decided the amount that his was sweating coupled with the lack of sleep made him delusional. That's why his brain kept trailing back to the same thought: you.

You pulled open the bottom drawer of the fridge, exposing the freezer. The rush of cool air fanned at your skin, and you signed in relief.

"Logan," you call, eyes closed. You waved him over and he leaned next to you.

"Oh my god," he quietly uttered out, eyes closing in relief. "Oh my god, this is better than sex."

You snorted and slapped your hand to your mouth.

"Logan, shut the fuck up" you giggle. He snickers back with you, shoulders shaking.

"Aw man," you groan, staring into the freezer drawer. Inside, there was an empty popsicle box, an half-eaten pint of strawberry ice cream, and an unwrapped ice-cream sandwich with freezer burn. You and Logan met each other's eyes with matching disappointed expressions.

You shut the freezer drawer, straightening up.

"I think there's a freezer in the basement lab," Logan says, sweat instantly beginning to drip down his neck.

"Aw man," you respond, lifting your arms slightly as sweat slides down you as well.

"Come on, bub," He moves around behind you. You feel the familiar ghost of his fingers against your back, but you recoil away at the thought of more heat against your body.

Logan yanked his hand away like he had been burned, gaze raking from you to his hand. You keep walking, not realizing how far behind you he's trailing.

---

He tries to shake it off, he really does. He feels stupid for letting something so small seep into his head and twist his thoughts around.

It's just because it's hot, he thinks to himself. Rationally, yes, he knows that is the answer. And yet he stupidly can't help but overthink every interaction he's had with you.

He masks it with a stony expression. The walk to the elevator is sticky and humid. When you both step in, he strays as far away from you as he can.

You've felt the shift in energy from him. He's pressed against the curved wall, arms crossed over his chest. It's palpable, but you aren't the type to pry when Logan is brooding.

He slips out of the opening doors first, relinquishing in the slightly cooler air of the lab. You trail after.

The air is awkward now. You fumble in your brain for the right words to say to him. 'Are you okay?' doesn't seem to cut it.

You've come to understand Logan. He has a complicated relationship with feelings and is awful at communication. If you don't notice the energy shift and bring it up, it isn't getting spoken about.

You follow him to a white metal crate pressed near a cabinet of saline. It's clasped shut and luckily on wheels. The precipitation on the outside confirming this is what you were looking for.

You place your hands on the corners of the crate to slide it from the wall, but Logan damn near rips it out of your hands. He shoves it across the lab towards the elevator.

You stare at him in shock and confusion. Your thoughts whir as you replay every moment from the entire day, convinced that he's pissed at you. He seems pissed. He's acting pissed.

You reach the elevator just as the door slides open. You're trying to decide if you should say something. Trying to think of a way to approach this in a way that will actually get him to talk. The air in the elevator is thick, more so with his shift in attitude than with heat.

Logan is locking himself inside his head. He can’t organize his thoughts and all he feels is stupidity. He can't understand why he's over analyzing, much less what he's over analyzing.

He doesn't know it's basically radiating off of him. Unaware that you've been staring at him to try and decipher what's wrong.

You utter out "Are you okay?" just to cut through the thick silence (and hopefully the wall he's locked himself in). You're sure he hears you, but the sliding of the door gives him the perfect opportunity to continue to ignore you.

Again, you trail after him. The wheels scrape against the hardwood, a testament to how hard he is pressing into the metal.

You're confused, sweaty, and almost on the verge of nonconsensual tears when you reach Storm and the other kids. The girl from the floor has turned into mostly puddle. Everything besides the tip of her shoulders and up are deflated to the wood. The other kids have spread to the floor themselves.

Logan shoves the crate towards Storm.

"Alright," he says curtly, once again crossing his arms. "Cool this shit down."

You fiddle with your fingers as Storm unlatches the metal. Her eyes gloss over to a milky white while she lifts the lid. The temperature drops almost instantly, and you begin to shiver.

"Done," She says, blinking away the glaze. "Charles said that-"

"Great," Logan cuts her off with a slam of the metal lid. He slides it around before moving back towards the elevator. You glance back and forth between Storm and Logan for a second. When you meet her confused expression, she gestures back towards him.

Ignoring the comfort of your sheets and lack of emotional drainage, you jog after Logan.

---

He huffs at you when you reach his side.

"I can push a metal box by myself," he says dismissively.

"Okay," you say, just to get something in the air. "Am I not allowed to come with you?"

You regret even speaking anyways as he scoffs at you, kicking the crate into the opening of the sliding door. It hits the wall with a loud clang. You flinch, but you're more concerned about him to not slip into the door at the last second.

You hug yourself as you start to shiver. Logan rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and turns away from you to lean against the wall. For the third time tonight.

You are racking your brain. Screaming at yourself to say something, literally any words at all. It feels like you've been panic-searching your thoughts for anything to say for a while.

"Are we not moving?" You ask. You wait for an answer before repeating, calling him by name and moving to stand in front of him.

He huffs before standing straight. After a beat, he says "We're not."

"Shit, how should we -" You start, but are cut of by the metallic unsheathing of Logan's Claws. In a blur he rears back and slices through the door, scraping three parallel lines across the metal.

"Jesus Christ, Logan!" You snap out at him. The glare he gives you while his claws sink into his skin makes you back up into the wall.

"What the hell is your problem?" you say evenly.

He scoffs at you, muttering out "Don't know what you're talking about."

"You just sliced the wall open," You point out, gesturing to said wall. "And you're acting like you're pissed at me"

"You're imagining things," he says back, resuming his position against the wall with his arms folded.

"Oh, that's bullshit. You're literally sulking in the corner and you want to tell me that isn't happening."

Logan stays silent. You almost expect him to turn into the wall so he can pretend to not see you.

"Logan," you say, trying to catch his eyes. "Why can't you be upfront with me? It's very easy to say 'Hey, you pissed me off because of this' or 'Oh, something sparked a bad memory' or, I don't know, 'I don't want to talk about it' "

"I don't want to talk about it," he responds. You smack the back of your head into the wall behind you in exasperation.

"Oh my god, obviously that was just an example. Please just tell me what's wrong."

Logan raises his eyes to meet yours for just a second. You catch his gaze, and you can tell that he wants to tell you. When you quietly say his name he looks away.

"Logan, you’re being mean." Your eyes flick over him, trying to catch any more indication that he'll open up. He stays stoick, stubborn piece of shit. You decide to wait just a moment longer before giving up. If he's going to be this adamant about whatever happened, you aren't about to keep fighting him on it.

"Okay, you’re pissing me off and I give up" You spit, sinking to the floor. You draw your legs up and fold into yourself, the chill of the room sinking into your skin.

It takes a long, awkward amount of time sitting in silence before you her Logan speak.

"You're cold," he states.

"No, I'm not," you say into your arms. Shivering.

"You look cold," he once again states plainly.

"I'm not, stop talking to me."

"I thought you wanted me to talk," Logan retorts at you. You look up at him over your arms, seeing a smug look on his face.

"Yeah, if the words you say are 'Hey, I'm sorry I'm being a dickhead and shoving stuff around and slicing into walls and ignoring you. I'm just thinking about X,Y and Z, which is making me feel X,Y and Z,' and then I would say 'Oh my gosh Logan, I had no idea! I'm so sorry, I wish you told me so I didn't make a big deal out of it because I thought you hated me!" You snap at him, mocking his voice for emphasis.

He blinks at you, and you move your head back into your arms.

"I don't hate you," he says quietly.

"You're acting like it."

"I don't."

The softness in his voice makes you sigh. You decide to take it easy on him, and ask him to come to you.

"What?" he asks, hesitation evident in his tone.

"Can you come sit next to me, please?" You ask softly.

"Why?" he asks, and you roll your eyes.

"Because I'm cold and you run much warmer than I do."

He moves and sinks down beside you, thankfully. You scooch closer until your arm is against his. The warmth of his body radiates against yours.

"Can you please talk to me?" you break the silence. The smallness in your voice chips away at his resolve, but his pride is still in the way. He's embarrassed enough about being upset in the first place, he can hardly stand (much less find the words) to say anything to you.

"Look, I'll literally cover my eyes so I'm not even looking at you," you offer, covering your eyes with your palms. "Please, just tell me."

"It's stupid," Logan says, pride dwindling down.

"I don't care, I promise. Please, Logan," You plead.

He sighs loudly, searching for the right words. He stutters out a few syllables before managing a sentence.

"In the kitchen earlier, you flinched away from me. I don't know. Didn't feel great."

Your hands dropped from your face. He was staring down at the floor. He looked embarrassed, maybe downright ashamed. You gently placed a hand on his arm.

"Logan, I'm sorry. It was just so hot and I felt all gross and sweaty. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear."

"Okay," he says, but his eyes never left the floor.

"And that's not stupid. I freak out over the tiniest things in the world."

"Yeah?" he huffs out a small laugh, finally turning to you.

"Yes, duh, I'm a girl. One time you didn't sit in the stool right next to me and I had to suck my tears back in and I thought about it for two days straight," you told him.

"Because I didn't sit next to you?" he teases, and you push off of his arm in mock annoyance.

"Yes, I'm not kidding. I remember once when you came back from a mission you ignored me when I said 'hi' to you on the stairs and locked yourself in your room for almost two days. I was genuinely convinced you wanted me dead and I couldn't function until you'd brought me toast because you thought I was sick."

"You weren't sick?" He raises an eyebrow at you.

"No! I thought you wanted me to jump into oncoming traffic!" You laugh at yourself, feeling ridiculous after replaying those few days back in your head.

"Okay, okay, I get what you mean. I don't want you dead, by the way. Never will." His face has relaxed and the tension in the air completely dissipated. You tilted to rest your head on his shoulder, relishing in his body heat and enjoying the comfortable silence.

"Seems like I get you pretty worked up, huh?" Logan smiles to himself, knowing he'll get a rise out of you.

"I'm not answering that," you snort, giving him a side eye.

"Are you kidding me?" He says in a deadpan.

"No! I'm not answering that," you sputter, forcing an even tone out of yourself. "Why'd you get so upset about me moving away from you?" You shoot back.

"I'm not answering that," he says, and you now shove him away jokingly.

"Oh, come on!"

You both start to giggle at each other, needing to look at anywhere except at the other. Weight has been lifted off both of your chests, being stuck in the elevator long forgotten.

"So," Logan speaks, letting the word hang in the air for a second. He wonders if the feelings he's completely sure are mutual should remain unspoken. "Are either of us gonna do anything about," he gestures to the both of you. "Or..."

"Oh man, I was wondering which one of us was going to take the bait first," you giggle out to mask the nervousness settling in your chest. "You almost had me, I never figured you'd say anything."

"Did I?" He asks. You turn to him and meet his gaze, smirking at him. You hum happily after a few seconds, turning away from him to lean on his arm once more.

"So," Logan says again, so you mock him and echo the word back.

"So," he tries again, obviously wanting a certain response from you. You bite, looking at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

"Oh my god, you can just kiss me. I'm cold, I'm not moving my arms," you say to him, earning a short laugh from him.

Logan moves and scoops you into him, sandwiching your arms between both your bodies. You slide one of your hands up him so that your fingertips reach his collarbone. His nose is just touching yours, and he tilts, barely touching your lips.

"So," he whispers against you. You snort and shove his face away with your free hand.

"Okay, nevermind! Get away from me!" You giggle, Logan following suit.

You feel Logan's hand move to the back of your neck, and you blink at him a few times with a small smile. Finally, he leans down to kiss you. You snake your free hand up to the side of his neck and grasp onto a few tufts of his soft hair. He leans into your touch slightly, so your curl your fingers in response.

One of his arms releases you to brace the floor for support, the other moving to hold you tighter. His fingers splayed across your shoulder blade as you slip your other arm out. You slide your hand up the side of his abdomen, almost moaning when the feeling of his back muscles reach your fingers.

You both pull away for a second to breathe before diving back into each other. Logan pulls you towards him, hand that was on the floor now sliding down your side to squeeze at the flesh of your hips.

He pulls back from you and presses and open mouthed kiss just under your ear. You crane your head back in response while feeling your way up the front of his body. Your fingers dip over the curves of his abs and over his chest, and then slide over his shoulder and down his arms. You think about the glisten of his body earlier in the night, the shadows of his muscular biceps and forearms.

"You and these damn shorts," he groans between the kisses he's now leaving on your collar. You let out a breathy laugh.

"I'll take them off later, they don't even fit," you say, pulling his face up so you can kiss him again.

"I hope you'll let me help," he says into your open mouth, causing you to squeeze your thighs together as you heat up.

The shrieking sound of metal against metal surrounds you both, and you shove Logan off you to scramble to your feet. He moves besides you, claws unsheathed on instinct.

The door of the elevator slowly slides open, coming to a halt while it's halfway open. Charles and Jean were waiting from the outside.

"There you both are," Jean huffs out. "You've been gone for about an hour."

"What time is it?" Logan asks, moving out into the mansion floor and sinking his claws back into his knuckles. You follow behind, the chill coming back to your skin.

"About 4:30 in the morning," Charles replies, gliding away from the opening of the metal door. "I suggest you all get some sleep while it's still early." He looks pointedly at you and Logan before rolling to face Jean.

"Agreed. Goodnight you two," Jean says, moving down the hallway to her room.

You and Logan make your way up the stairs, still buzzing. You stop at his door while he opens it. He turns to face you. Once again, you're back to staring at each other hoping you both can understand what the other is thinking.

"Well, good night Logan," You sigh. He cocks an eyebrow at you.

"You're not coming in?" He says while leaning against the door frame.

"Oh," you begin, a smile nervously making its way to your face. "Well ... I ..."

"I gotta help you with those shorts, remember?"

You can't help the soft laugh that leaves your mouth. You move towards him and step just into the doorway.

"I'll take all the help I can get," You say up at him. He takes the opportunity to wrap you in his arm and move you both through the door.

He turns you both, pressing your back against the wall next to the doorway, shutting the door as he molds his lips into yours. His hand slides under your flimsy yellow tank top as you hear the click of the door lock.

More than likely, neither of you were getting much sleep tonight.

[shotmrmiller]

simon who can afford a better flat than the budget friendly flat he lives in but won't move. johnny doesn't understand. he wants to blame it on simon being the enigmatic, intentionally perplexing man he tends to be but he has a flat.

he doesn't have to. he's got no significant other, no kids (that he knows of, god only knows if simon's got a bairn somewhere. it makes him heated thinking about it. he's it's uncle, damn it.) why does he rent here when living in base is free?

the question answers itself when he's over one evening, empty beer bottles on the table, amber glass reflecting the warm glow of the lone lamp overhead. the television is on, volume turned down, blending with the other sounds of the night— the distant barking of dogs, the quiet hum of simon's fridge, the occasional car passing by outside.

the conversation had died down already, not like they don't spend almost every waking breath with each other at work and they'd been sitting in a comfortable silence when there was a sudden, sharp knock at simon's door.

it startles johnny, reaction instinctive as he reaches for his hip, hand curling around the grip of his holstered gun but simon seems relaxed. he pins him with a look and mutters, "s'alrigh'."

what does he mean it's alright? it's 'witchin' hour'' as his mam calls it, who could possible be at his door? he cranes his neck to look and—

it's you, standing up here with a flour-dusted apron, small hands holding a warm pastry, the steam twisting and curling off of it. you're exude homely charm, soft face glowing from the corridor's light (or maybe it's at the sight of seeing simon, who knows?) he can smell it in the air, sweet, inviting.

what johnny finds interesting enough to send a quick text to kyle is how simon is looking at you. as if you're handing him more than just a custard tart, but also a little piece of heaven, a fragment of a dream he hopes to have one day.

"'m sorry, simon. i wasn't aware you had any company. i just really needed to stress bake or i would've gone off the deep end and end up in prison."

violent little bonnie. he can see the appeal.

simon cups his hands over yours (he definitely did it as an excuse to touch you) as he takes the treat. if you make food to unwind and give it to your neighbors, johnny oughta move in next door too. he'll never turn down free food.

"don't worry about it." johnny's eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the softness in his tone, bottle halfway to his lips.

clearly more than a passing fancy.

"i'll just uhm, if you're friend wants some too—" but simon gently interrupts you before he can ask for some of that sweet comfort too.

"he's not hungry."

cruel, cruel bastard. he'll remember this day, jot it down in his calendar. when he gets a girl of his own, he'll be sure to do the same.

johnny wonders if you've got a crick in your neck from looking up at simon as you speak hushed words, meant only for him. can he get at least a nibble of that tart?

you shoot johnny a shy ㅤsmile before turning around and simon closes the door, turning back to the warming beers, golden tart in hand.

even the plate it's on is cute.

"ah can see the hearts in yer eyes, lt."

johnny can practically hear the air parting as simon's fist cuts through it, aimed at his head. he avoids it with practiced ease. "ooh, touchy. ah'll leave ye be if i get a bite o' tha'."

he doesn't gets not even a crumb because simon is selfish.

(simon moved here purposefully because he knows you live here and can't be at peace without knowing where you are at all times. there's a tag inside your favorite pair of shoes you left out in the hall once to dry after a hard downpour. the bakery you work at is down the street, if he looks out the south facing window, he can see you going in and leaving work. he likes to let himself in your home and smell your cushions. took one of your shirts too but at least made sure it wasn't one of your faves. he has to wash it every other day)

[pvrokinetic]

rin itoshi is infuriating. he’s spoiled, immature, and unfeeling. every habit he has is like nails on a chalkboard: almost painful to bare witness to. oh, but don’t think you’re alone in this feeling—rin despises you just as much, if not more.

after every argument, rin finds himself locked in the nearest room, fisting his cock angrily. he curses your very existence, jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed.

this time is no different. he’s shut himself in a single-stall bathroom, seething from your recent shouting match. in his haste to relieve himself of the stress, rin had forgotten to lock the door.

you, oblivious to the events unfolding behind the bathroom door, knock. when you don’t get an immediate answer (poor rin’s heart was pounding too loudly in his ears to hear), you enter the bathroom.

moments later, rin has you pinned up against the back of the door, his deft fingers actually making sure the lock has been turned. ever the quick-thinker, rin had his lips colliding with yours in a depraved kiss before you could register what was going on.

—

propped up against the sink, you’re bracing yourself against the counter as rin relentlessly pounds his dick into you. he treats it as a challenge, trying to get himself as deep as possible.

he doesn’t realize he’s got it until your nails claw into his back. he hisses, your nails igniting his already heightened nerves.

“get’cher damn nails outta my back,” he cusses through gritted teeth. “so damn lukewarm, gotta putcha back in your place.” his teeth lodge themselves in the crook of your neck, causing you to yelp. it’s not enough to break the skin, but it was definitely a shock.

“rin…” you whine, your head lolling back as he continues to ruthlessly bully his tip against your cervix. “yer so mean to me…!” you sob, a coil building in your lower abdomen.

“shut up,” he commands, voice muffled as he cradles the back of your head. “fuck, i’m gonna cum.” he warns, his thrusts growing more erratic.

at those words, you fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing through your body. your cunt massages his dick rhythmically, coaxing his cum out.

“fuck, fuck, fuck…!” rin cusses urgently, his hips stuttering as he buries himself up to the hilt in your tiny pussy. he inhales sharply through his nose, his cum coming out in hot spurts to paint your womb.

when the two of you have calmed down, it doesn’t take rin more than a beat to return to his normal demeanor. you follow suit, insulting him for being a jackass. unfortunately, the cum dripping down your leg negates your argument almost instantaneously.