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vidavalor · 2 days ago

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<<There's also the little bit where journalists write *records*... while a detective or PI will be writing things down, they're not for public knowledge>>

Oh, for sure! Love this, Kaylee! Books and papers as records of the past... but so too are people? *diverges slightly from original topic of post to happily follow thread of records*

Stripadeliveragram and the grammophone out in the intercut scenes of The Arrival...

Maggie is repeating the origin story of her family's record shop but I suspect that she doesn't know it but she's really repeating the origin of her family itself. Maggie is descended from her great-grandmother, who started the record shop in a corner of Mr. Fell's bookshop in the 1920s, yes? Well...

Corner: A place where any two lines intersect; an angle. Off of this: the place where streets or walls meet.

As a result of corner being rooted in the Old French corne, its original meanings, though, also include the other meaning of corne:

a horn; the hard growth atop the head of a mammal.

This is actually part of the etymology of the word horny.

The original meaning of horny was something that resembled an animal horn but not really being made of horn. It did not take long, though, for people to adapt it to have the secondary meaning of to be sexually aroused, which has pretty obviously long since overtaken the other meaning to become basically the sole meaning of the word today.

It had a few variants before settling into the horny that has lasted for awhile now. In the 17th century, to have the horn meant the same as to feel horny does today, and phrasing it as feeling hornish was a thing for awhile, before horny caught back on and stuck. While this meaning of the word rather unsurprisingly came from the phallic associations of animal horns, it was a gender-neutral term from the start. Equal linguistic opportunity from the get-go when it came to having the horn.

Within the word corner is the word corn. Some kernels of truth (groan lol) might be in here because...

Corn on the cob... I am a professional midwife/cobbler.

I think we found the sweetly corny great-grandmother who, ahem, popped some corn in Mr. Fell's bookshop back in the 1920s and led to Mags' eventual existence as a result...

A development that, if correct, will add an absolutely hilarious new layer to...

...I mean, yes, he does like waiting inside but, eventually, as the rest of the scene points out, those seeds get planted... I feel like Aziraphale might know that better than anyone else. 😂 *tilts head*...

...'always cunt-tains the seeds'...? *snicker*

Honk the big, cross duck's horn just right and, under the right circumstances, not that long later, wave hello the little hen.

Muriel: But you don't look like a bee. You look like a murder hornet or a snake or...

Crowley: We talk all the time. We've been doing it for millions of years.... It's great.

So, Aziraphale arrived in Edinburgh with a briefcase we never see him open and a hat that reads, among other things, "PRESS 66" on it, right?

And we might think that these are just Aziraphale's journalist cosplaying accessories but I think there are some hints that there's a bit more going on here than we might think-- all of it very relevant to The Finale.

We think that Aziraphale's arrival in Edinburgh is the first time that we see these things but, in true Good Omens form, the hat and briefcase are both actually glimpsed in a prior scene... rather significantly placed in that earlier scene, even.

Here they are, sitting together, the hat atop the briefcase, both in front of Jimbriel's once Fly-containing box, beside/behind the memory-wiped Muriel, in the scene below:

So, as Muriel is sitting there, not remembering Aziraphale, and as Aziraphale is sitting there, remembering Muriel and thinking all the things about the fact that they don't remember him at all? In the shot between them is the box into which Jim put his memory and brought it to Crowley and Aziraphale for safe keeping. In front of that box? Is Aziraphale's press hat and briefcase, seemingly drawing some connections between the journalist accessories and the memory plots in S2. Hmm...

What this scene also shows is that Aziraphale didn't just magic this stuff up as props when he arrived in Scotland. Even though we didn't see them in the car on the way up, they were there on the passenger seat for him to retrieve upon his arrival. He brought them with him from the shop. He packed them overnight and they were there, all ready to go, prior to Muriel's arrival, which coincided with Crowley coming over and moving the plants out of the car because Aziraphale planned to take it to Scotland. Why does this matter?

Because it might signal that there's more to the briefcase and the hat with its press credentials than we might initially suspect.

I think it would be safe to say that Aziraphale, by this point in the story, would be concerned that his memories were in danger.

He knows he's always been on a collision course with falling and this is all escalating pretty quickly in S2 in the two days prior to Aziraphale packing this press stuff and taking the car. Gabriel was The Supreme Archangel and he couldn't remember who he was and the archangels had shown up to threaten them and say that they're going to be spying on him even more closely, sending another angel to bug them the next day... the memory-wiped Muriel being quite an interesting choice, as that's sending quite a threatening message. Aziraphale also had roped Maggie and Nina into this and he knew he was likely going to have a confrontation with Heaven and Hell coming.

One of the first things he'd be concerned about would be his memories, right? and it's here where we can mention what we later learn about what Heaven can and cannot do regarding those memories... things that are new to us but that Aziraphale likely would have already known and factored into his plan, as we'll see.

Hints are given to this all season via Gabriel but it really becomes overt in this scene here:

This scene proves that Gabriel's memories aren't just in The Fly in S2-- they're also still in his mind. His memories are shown to be in two places at once. Gabriel's memories-- ones even directly related to the trauma he underwent-- actually began to come back before The Fly, in this scene. Gabriel felt safe and like he was talking with someone who could understand in this scene with Crowley so the memories began to come back for him.

The point here is that this scene shows that, when Gabriel "took his memories out" and put them into The Fly, what he was really doing was basically backing them up. He "uploaded" his memories into The Fly for safekeeping so he could retrieve them later, as a way to keep it so that they wouldn't be erased forever, but those same memories are still also on the "hard drive" of his mind. They were just mostly inaccessible to him for almost all of S2 because of trauma.

Before you say well, Gabriel might be a special case because he took his own memories out to avoid Heaven attacking him? Consider that Crowley didn't have a chance to do that-- but he tells Gabriel he knows how Gabriel feels.

Crowley has had the same experiences with his own memories. He's been able to bring some back at different times, without a lot of context, but a lot remains blocked. Crowley saying that he's been able to retrieve some memories means that those memories are still there in his mind, just very painful and difficult to access.

The idea might be that their memory loss is actually trauma-blocking. If Crowley's situation has the same effect as Gabriel's, it suggests that Heaven can't actually take people's memories-- they can only block them.

This would then be suggesting, as a lot in S2 did, that Gabriel didn't develop retrograde amnesia from taking his memories out-- he developed amnesia from the trauma he underwent.

When he felt safe enough to confront some of that trauma, the memories started to come back to him a bit.

What does this have to do with Aziraphale's briefcase, you ask?

It is connected because Gabriel's memory loss being from the trauma of Heaven trying to kill him, not from putting his memories into The Fly, proves that an angel could take his out their memories and not get amnesia from doing so.

Gabriel's story is showing that they could take out their memories whenever they want and still retain those memories also in their minds and be perfectly fine.

It's showing that Aziraphale could have backed up his memories in S2 without experiencing memory loss-- and the press hat and the briefcase are tied to just how he might have done that.

Aziraphale might have taken one look at Gabriel and his memory situation and the archangels circling the shop and thought that it would be a good idea to backup his memories and store them somewhere safe for if this all went pear-shaped.

What's interesting is that then, in a parallel shot to Aziraphale arriving in Edinburgh, we have this later scene when Aziraphale returns to London... note what's missing:

We see him park by the suit shop-- but no suitcase/briefcase this time. No hat. He's also taken off the raincoat. We never see them again for the rest of the season but we see a whole bunch of scenes that hint at where they are and why Aziraphale has left them in that location.

In this moment, we spend a strange amount of time on watching Aziraphale get out of the car and look around, hands-free, pat The Bentley, go for a little walk for a moment...

He talks to Nina, he goes back to the bookshop and greets Crowley and gets an armful of plants. The Bentley is largely the focus of the scene with Nina as well and its moving up in a scene that involves Nina and her bicycle-- another "mad 'American' woman on a bicycle", in parallel to Anathema in S1-- recalls Aziraphale miracling a bike rack onto the boot of The Bentley to transport Anathema's bike back to Jasmine Cottage. The key to getting Anathema and her bike safely home to her cottage was the bike rack Aziraphale made happen; the key to getting him and Crowley safely to the South Downs Cottage might be what Aziraphale stashed in the trunk of the car on his trip.

Here's where we can see that scenes before and around this involving Shax and Crowley show us pretty emphatically where the briefcase and the press hat are not located in the car...

They can't be on the passenger seat as they were on the way to Edinburgh because Shax wouldn't have been able to sit there when she got into the car on the drive back from Edinburgh. They also can't be in the backseat because the scene adjacent to Aziraphale's return to London is he and Crowley loading the plants back into the backseat. Crowley would have handed him his things if they were back there.

So, we have all of these shots of Aziraphale's return that are, among other things, emphasizing that the hat, the raincoat, and the briefcase are all not things he's taking out of The Bentley's trunk upon his return, even if they are his belongings and he brought them with him from the bookshop. He's intentionally leaving them all in the Crowley's car.

Aziraphale definitely did not leave his memories in a briefcase in The Resurrectionist Pub, even though that's the last place we saw the briefcase. How do we know that?

Because let's say that we're right here and Aziraphale did put his memories into the briefcase... either into something else that he then locked into the briefcase or just into the briefcase itself. What's the one problem with this?

He locked them in there for safekeeping, right? So...

He can't just leave the briefcase for Crowley-- he also needs to leave the key to the briefcase, yes? He needs to leave the combination somewhere... but he also has to hide that combination key. The briefcase wouldn't be very safe if just anyone could figure out how to open it, right? It needs to be something only Crowley can understand.

This is why Aziraphale is not a private detective in Edinburgh but a journalist because the key is in the hat.

How does one open the locked briefcase?

Press 66. 😉

The briefcase and the hat go together because the briefcase cannot be opened without the press credentials in the hat which, in very Good Omens and Crowley & Aziraphale form, look like they're one thing but are really another when you consider alternate meanings of words. Aziraphale knows that only Crowley would see Aziraphale's hat atop that briefcase and the 'Press 66' and work out that it's how to open the briefcase.

It would also be very Good Omens to nod to famous film Macguffins and then make them actually important in Good Omens' story. While a "what's in the briefcase?" thing here is very Pulp Fiction, the film that inspired the briefcase in Pulp Fiction is 1955's atomic noir Kiss Me Deadly, which is being referenced all over the place in S2.

The scene where Aziraphale picks Shax up from the side of the road is a homage to Kiss Me Deadly's opening scene, Gabriel's memory issues and his "I am in The Fly" note is similar to part of the central mystery of that film, and Kiss Me Deadly is the origin of the popularization of the word vavoom/va-va-voom.

Like basically every other film referenced in Good Omens, it's also known for innovative use when it comes to language-- particularly, coded cinematic language, in this case. Like North by Northwest, which is referenced in both parts of 1941 so far, Kiss Me Deadly found innovative ways to get around the Hays Code to tell its story. References to The Maltese Falcon in the story are also likely in relation to that story using etymology-based language to queer code aspects of its story, in a similar way to Good Omens, but also that The Maltese Falcon itself is a bit of a MacGuffin. In Good Omens, though, it seems like they're actually winking at those by making Macguffin-alluding things actually important parts of the story.

Anyway, the biggest fan theory about what's in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction is based around the combination to the briefcase being 666 in the film and the idea is that it's Marcellus Wallace's soul, which he sold to the devil. Famously, the audience never sees what's inside the briefcase. We might be saying here that the combination to Aziraphale's briefcase being 66 may be nodding to Pulp Fiction's briefcase a bit and hinting at the Satan in The Final 15 ideas. 66 is also tied to Route 66 and rock 'n roll in America, Buddy Holly, and the paralleling Gabriel & Beez flashback, maybe especially hinting at memory-related things happening with the briefcase.

I won't spoil you on what's in the briefcase in Kiss Me Deadly but let's just say that it goes along with Good Omens pretty well thematically... in a much, much darker way. The film being very bleak noir makes it very different in tone from Good Omens but the fact that the briefcase is actually is relevant to the story in the end of that film might also hint that Aziraphale's disappeared briefcase might wind up being important in The Finale, too.

Adding to this theory is also that another briefcase in The Bentley's trunk/boot was also something shown earlier in S2-- on a very significant night in Crowley & Aziraphale's history:

When Aziraphale is in Edinburgh, we see him intentionally hamming up his newspaper man persona and, in doing so, he takes the briefcase into The Resurrectionist Pub, right? Bit of foreshadowing there as to what will happen to Aziraphale and what will need to happen to bring him back?

Yes, we don't see the briefcase again after this scene but I doubt he left it in the pub because it would be useless to Crowley without the hat, on which Aziraphale has hidden the briefcase combination hidden in plain sight. Aziraphale was seen wearing the hat in one scene set after we last saw the briefcase, proving that both of them and the raincoat are in the trunk of The Bentley:

Aziraphale wore this whole get up to Edinburgh so that, if anyone was watching him, they'd think he was Muriel-like cosplaying a newspaper man. I mean... we know the trench coat is a little Columbo-esque, but why wouldn't he just be a private detective and not a journalist, if the goal was just to play a role to help solve the Gabriel mystery? Because he had to be a old movie-esque journalist so he could have the word press there in the credentials, only for its other meaning for the briefcase combination.

Aziraphale definitely had a whole other list of motivations for being the one to go to Edinburgh. He wanted Crowley to rest in the shop and to talk to Gabriel, he wanted to be the one to go tackle the mystery, and he wanted to work on his 1827 issues by going to the graveyard again... but we might find we can add to that list that he also realized it would be a good opportunity to hide his memories in a briefcase in The Bentley with actions that are right there, in plain sight of anyone who is watching-- including us 😉-- but might not be deemed suspicious.

Parallel-wise, the briefcase and The Bentley are the matchbox and the moving box and PRESS 66 is Aziraphale's equivalent to I AM IN THE FLY... all before Aziraphale and Crowley actually figured out what Gabriel and Beez did to protect Gabriel.

He's pressing on the press hat he's leaving for Mr. Six Shots of Espresso... 😂 The press card is in his hat, like a feather... Crowley's "it'd be a real feather in your cap wing" joke from the foreshadowing "I'll be damned"/"It's not so bad when you get used to it" scene in 1.01...

That demon doesn't know it yet but he's driving around with Aziraphale in the trunk because Aziraphale figured out how to get around the worst case scenario. He knew he was on a collision course with falling and he found a way to potentially dodge the memory loss by stashing his memories for Crowley in The Bentley.

His enthusiasm in Edinburgh is him barely able to contain his amusement at getting one over on anyone watching him who think they know what they're seeing but don't realize what he's actually up to.

No wonder why he was walking on air when he got back to London-- it was mission accomplished. He'd managed to leave Crowley the ability to bring him back, tucked away in the safest spot possible.

The bookseller who, like the others, is a metaphorical book/paper, left their out for Heaven and Hell trying to kill him for Crowley's safekeeping in a briefcase... the thing people use for...

...paperwork. 😂

But wait... there's one other big question, though, yes?

Why didn't Aziraphale tell Crowley this?

There absolutely was enough time and opportunity to tell Crowley he'd backed up his memories and left them in The Bentley's trunk.

The fact that this didn't come up seems wild, right, because they both know that Crowley has been having a steady anxiety attack about Heaven and Hell circling all week. We would think that, if Aziraphale had figured out this plan to circumvent that threat, the first thing he would have done would be to tell Crowley about it, yes?

Except... while I wrote this meta from the perspective of what the end result of Aziraphale's actions with the briefcase might be in The Finale, I don't actually think that was Aziraphale's own motivation for doing what he did.

Aziraphale didn't take out his memories and leave them in the briefcase in The Bentley for Crowley as a backup plan for them to elude a form of death for Aziraphale.

He left them there for Crowley to find and have after Aziraphale was already gone. Why else would Crowley need the combination on the credentials on the hat, right?

If Aziraphale had intended on his memories in the briefcase being a plan to save himself, he would have told Crowley about it so that Crowley would know. Instead, though, it's something of a suicide note. He left them for Crowley to find and have in the future.

I think The Bentley was even warning of this suicide ideation and showing concern upon the return to London for Aziraphale over what he had put in its trunk. The car is worried. [I love Good Omens-- when else am I going to type a sentence like that? 😂]

Aziraphale first parked it in front of Battye [madness] & Palm [to take]. It's a shop reflective of a lot of that depression and suicide ideation happening in Aziraphale's story and leading to his fall that I looked at in The Devil Takes The Hindmost.

The Bentley then drives itself-- and all Aziraphale's Aziraphaleness in the briefcase-- up a few feet. What is The Bentley then aligning Aziraphale with?

Death.

The car parked itself in front of the Give Me Death half of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death...

... until Aziraphale told it to go back to where he parked it. Then, The Bentley backed up a few feet to Battye & Palm and all the madness that is the rest of the season. The car was foreshadowing the end, parking itself right along where it would be parked the last time we'd see it in S2.

The trunk is aligned with Give Me Death in The Final 15...

...fulfilling the foreshadowing of the end of S1.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #good omens meta #good omens theory #ineffable husbands speak #maggie good omens

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joocomics · 2 days ago

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something suggestive with cocky!jongseob mayhaps? 😇

will you give me just a minute to fangirl over the fact i woke up to seeing you in my inbox please 😭 omg you’re such an inspiration to me i love your writing and everything you do on your blog <3 now i’m a bit nervous but hopefully you enjoy my little thoughts on your fav boy!

tags: suggestive, established relationship, kissing, cocky!jongseob, jealous bf!jongseob

when i think about cocky!jongseob i think of his tendency to get possessive and hear me out…

when you’re out with friends especially at night clubs and parties where there will be tons of people jongseob cannot help but get excited about people seeing him with you - you’re gorgeous, hot and most importantly his. you might not realise it, but people around you always do - he’s proud to have you. his eyes sparkle with fascination as they follow you in the crowd, his hand remains on the small of your back throughout the night and when you’re telling a story to your mutual friends he’s always carefully listening to it from start to finish despite the fact he’s heard it several times already. and that’s where that slight ego boost comes from that can have him acting cocky as he shows you off without even realising, especially if he’s had a drink or two with you, hopefully i make sense right now…

his hands become bolder, his tone cheeky and playful meanwhile his eyes start to look at you with lust rather than with fascination like earlier. it’s interesting that the cockier he gets, the more he clings to you, but it’s true. his arms go around your waist from behind to pull you close against his chest and his warm lips are at your ear as he flirts with you; making comments about how that guy, the friend of your friend, was trying so hard to impress you. “baby, are you jealous right now?” you turn to face him as the presence of his hands remains on your lower waist; moving dangerously lower. “you’re mine,” is all he says, “everyone here knows it.” and even his kisses feel different in these moments - more obsessive than ever before. his lips move quicker, with hunger that leaves you breathless as the crowd keeps mingling around you. his greedy touch povokes little moans to escape your tongue and that calls for a satisfied smirk to form on his flushed face. “let’s get out of here…” you’re the first to say it, and you could care less if it makes you look desperate or needy. jongseob takes your chin with two fingers clearly liking your change of attitude. “is this party getting too boring for you?” his knee settles between your legs as you sway side to side; as if to let you know he’s aware of your desires. “or is there something else you’d rather be doing right now?” he wants to hear you say it - that you need him; that you want to leave this place to be with him, it fuels him with adrenaline. the corners of his mouth twitch mischievously; a quick small sign of the cocky mood he’s going to be in throughout the rest of the night and that’s going to elevate his dominance once it’s just the two of you alone…

#💌: joocomics inbox #— kisseobie #p1harmony hard thoughts #p1harmony hard hours #p1h hard thoughts #jongseob hard thoughts #jongseob x reader #p1harmony x reader #piwon x reader #p1h x reader

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vonbabbitt · 2 days ago

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Throwing this in, though I know you have a post saying you're taking a break: I quite like Tetro. The story is exciting, and incredible. You've done an amazing job piecing everything together, and it has lead to me pretty seriously looking into following the footsteps of this project with a story also told in this audio format, since you demonstrated so clearly not only how this was possible, but how this could be done so well for a Killing Game specifically. The latest events, the latest death, as made me incredibly sad, and I feel a lot of emotional turmoil over losing both victims. But despite that, I have enjoyed the loving, losing, and worrying for the future. That's amazing. All of it is amazing. I have my theories and conclusions about who may be guilty and who isn't, but based on the posts I read, I mainly wanted to express an amount of thankfulness that the series exists at all. It's even lead to me writing fanpieces for some character interactions, and I imagine I have a few more in me from all that's gone on. Not only that, but the hard topics of this series have meant a lot to me. Yanagi and Tsuno have especially felt really close to home. The stories they talk about and the things they deal with matter in my own life. And the series as a whole has made me cry over stuff that mattered to me much more than any other media has done in the last year or so, maybe longer, in even broader strokes. All the characters don't just feel like people one could meet, but people I have met. People I have known. And some of those conversations feel just like ones I've had in my own life. You've done something incredible, and the writing has connected to me deeply. And though I can only speak for me, I doubt I'm alone in this. Thank you for this project, and thank you for sharing it so broadly, freely, and completely. Thanks for writing it, and writing daringly, maturely, and earnestly. At least, such are the ways I would describe it.

I hope I can cross paths with you sometime in the future over a creative endeavor. But in the meanwhile, I'll be tuned in to whatever you do for this, and for whatever comes next. As these things are called asks, if you do decide to respond: Who on Tetro is your favorite? Is it the same from when you were initially writing it? And what lead you to choose an audio drama as the medium in question? Thanks, and see ya at the trial.

thank you very very much, im extremely glad that youve been able to connect with my writing on that level and i hope that others have as well! i really enjoyed the writing process for tetro so its always really cool for me when others can enjoy my story as well

also, my favourite is hama! that changed a lot during production, but ive settled on hama as my goat forever i think. sorry to all the other favs i abandoned along the way

i chose the audio drama format because ive always really liked being able to picture things. when i was a kid, i used to fall asleep to audio books every night, and i really liked being able to picture the characters and stories as they were happening. i would always be so disappointed when id go to watch a movie adaptation of a book i liked only to see that everything looked different from in my head lmao.

i also think audio is a really fun format for this type of story! it was a fun challenge to get my points across without having visuals to back my writing. i didnt have very much faith in my ability to do this at first. tetro was originally planned to have a narrator because i didnt think id be able to tell a story without one. when i realized my writing could stand on its own, i took out the narrator and just let myself carry it as best i could. i think it made for some really fun opportunities where the impact of a scene just wouldnt have been nearly as strong if there had been visuals or narration.

i think [Ice Fairy] is a highlight of tetro in terms of audio storytelling - same with [Good Child]. having only audio forces you as the viewer to take a moment to figure out what's happening, which in turn gives you an "oh shit" realization moment that really helps the impact of a scene like [Ice Fairy] or [Good Child]. there are still some more really cool examples of tetro utilizing its format left to come - i hope you enjoy them when they do!

#mysmistree #ask #von.txt #tetro pink #tetro danganronpa #tetro danganronpa pink

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malarkgirlypop · 2 days ago

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Epilogue MEDIC!

Hi friends, sorry I've been so absent I have the worst writing block at the moment and nothing seems to be coming to me. But I wrote this epilogue soon after I had finished the last chapter of MEDIC, but I forgot about it completely cause I was going to post it a little later. Well it's a little later (the next year) and here is the small ending to my favourite story ever! I miss you all hopefully I can get back to writing soon.

Tag list: @imusicaddict, @b00ks1ut, @mstiemountainhop, @awaterfalls, @lovememadly92, @lucyfromtheoldhouse, @blueberry-ovaries, @next-autopsy, @saintmalosunsets, @anaso12 anyone else please let me know.

“I am the matchmaker of the year!” Izzy boasted. I rolled my eyes but a laugh left my mouth before I could stop it.

“You are not, we went on two dates!” I lied, we had spent days together. I had found him again, he was the same as the one I had known but he was born during the same time as me. But he shared the same soul, the same laugh, the same love as Don.

There was no comparison between the two, this was my Don but born anew. He never knew our history but it didn’t mean he couldn’t feel it. We were drawn to each other from the moment we had met.

“He already told you he loved you!” Izzy pointed out. On our second date we had gone out to dinner and then the date lasted three more days. He came home with me and never left. When we decided we should probably part ways and go to our jobs he had blurted out that he loved me. I didn’t hesitate to say it back.

“Listen! When you know you know!” I blushed thinking of the man I loved.

“When you know, you know what?” His voice sounded through the hallway.

“Don!” Izzy and I both turned our heads in surprise. “I’m not finishing my shift for another 20 minutes!” But that didn’t stop from entering the nurses office and sitting beside me.

“If the nurse in charge catches me.” I whispered, peering around the room to make sure Maria wasn’t here.

“Don’t worry I already bribed her.” Don sent me a cheeky wink before pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I came to whisk you away for a magical getaway.”

“But I have work tomorrow.” I was concerned he hadn’t thought this through.

“Maria!” Don called, the older nurse poked her head from the office. “Does Em have work tomorrow?”

“No, she booked in for annual leave for a week.” Maria smiled looking pleased with herself.

“What?!” I glanced between the two. “How did- How?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head.” His lips found my forehead. I smiled up at him, and my heart swelled.

—--------------------------------------------------

“I’m nervous.” I whispered as Izzy, Lyla and Ellie led me through the empty foyer.

“Why on earth are you nervous?” Ellie asked, we had formed a tight friend group.

They were the girls I held dear, each of them took up a space in my heart. We have been friends now for three years. I knew all of them well, like the back of my hand.

“Cause you’re all acting suspicious.” I noted as they all shared a knowing smile. “What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing, stop fussing.” Lyla smoothed down my dress at the back. They had insisted we all dressed up fancy for dinner, we never dressed up, or went anywhere fancy. We were always too tired from work and enjoyed staying at home in our pj’s and ordering in, so this was out of the ordinary.

The group led me through the empty building, the museum Don and I had been to so many times for our dates. We just enjoyed getting lost and settling into a corner, watching the world pass by.

Flower petals scattered the floor as the girls urged me forward but didn’t follow.

“Keep going.” They ushered me away.

A swell of music sounded as I walked closer and the petals still scattered the floor. I gasped as I stepped into my favourite room, the stained glass window was lit by candles and at the centre of it all was Don. He smiled nervously at me as I approached.

“What is all this?” I asked as I came closer. My heart leapt into my throat as I watched him take a knee.

“Emily Lane. I have never believed in love at first sight but you proved me wrong. From the moment I set my sights on you, you have captured my attention. Your wit, your beauty, your kindness, those are only a few of the things that have a hold on me. I believe your soul was made for mine, I have never known another person like you, and I never wish to know anyone again. You are all I need and more. Would you make me the happiest man on this earth and marry me?” Don spoke as he pulled out a small velvet box from his pocket.

Tears spilled from my eyes as I nodded my head frantically. “Yes! A thousand times yes!” I lunged into him causing him to lose his footing and we crashed to the floor. I peppered his face with a million kisses as we both cried and laughed.

“Let me put the ring on!” He said as we righted ourselves. Sitting on the floor in our favourite place he slid on the most beautiful silver ring onto my finger.

“Do you like it?” Don asked, peering down at the jewellery.

“Like it? I love it!” I tackled him again into my arms. The squeals of delight pulled us from our celebration. The girls clattered around the corner as well as his family and our shared friends. I had never been happier in my life.

—------------------------------------

“I hope to find you in every lifetime, now and forever.” Don read his vows as I cried. He didn’t even know the significance of the words he spoke, but I did. I knew we were made for each other and that the vow he had made would be upheld, even if we didn’t realise it.

“Do you, Donald George Malarkey, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The officiant asked Don.

“I do!” He nodded eagerly as I laughed.

“Do you, Emily Marlena Lane, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” The officiant turned to me.

“I do!” I smiled brightly at the love of my life, as our friends and family watched. But it didn’t matter who was here, as long as we were together I knew everything was perfect.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife!” We couldn’t even wait for the man to finish, our lips collided as we shared our first kiss as a married couple. As husband and wife. The crowd cheered and clapped, but they faded into the background. All I could see was him.

—------------------------------------------

The hot summer sun beat down as we rocked in our chairs. Our hands were intertwined as we watched our grandchildren and grown children frolic in the long grass.

“I think we did pretty good. Huh, Em?” Don squeezed my hand. I glanced over to my aged husband, we had made all of our dreams come true, I got to grow old with the man I loved.

“We did.” I lent over to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “There is nowhere else I would rather be.”

“I love you, Em.” Don whispered softly.

“Not as much as I love you.” I sighed in content.

#band of brothers #hbo war #donald malarkey #easy company #band of brothers fanfic #Emily Lane #My OC #the final bit #they had their happily ever after and im sobbing all over again #may this love find me

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luxerians · 2 days ago

Text

The Last Mask (05)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 05 - Seven Legs

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 06

PREV : Chapter 04

The evening came quickly, marked by the familiar robotic female voice announcing, “Bedtime will begin in ten minutes.”

The mechanical tone echoed through the dormitory, prompting players to stir and shuffle about. Many began moving toward their beds, some climbing up to the top bunks, others sticking close to the lower levels. Conversations buzzed quietly in this massive space.

You watched the activity for a moment before glancing at Gi-hun. “Can we just move to any bed we want?”

Gi-hun nodded. “Yeah, you can. Looks like most people are sticking to their X and O zones, though.”

Jung-bae, sitting nearby, perked up. “Hey, can I take the bed beside you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Gi-hun replied.

Jung-bae didn’t waste a second, tossing his unfinished water bottle onto the bed and sprawling out as if it had been his all along. You watched the exchange, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Looking around, you found yourself contemplating the same question. Would it be okay to ask for a bed near them? The thought lingered as you considered your relationship with them. You viewed them as friends already, but how about them? Do they see you as some random female acquaintance?

And then there was the question of propriety. Sharing a close space with men in a setting like this felt… complicated. Would they think it was strange? Too forward? Especially since you were a woman?

As you debated, your gaze caught player 001 watching quietly from his spot in the corner where you had all hung out earlier. He remained seated, his expression calm and unreadable.

You turned back to Gi-hun. The thought looped back to whether or not to ask. Would he welcome you, or would it feel intrusive? Your hesitation hung heavy, the clock ticking closer to bedtime as players began settling in.

“Sir…” you began, your voice hesitant. But when Gi-hun turned to look at you with a serious mien, you faltered. Instead, you faked a chuckle and shook your head. “It’s nothing.”

Without waiting for a reply, you turned and left the corner, heading back toward your bed. As you walked, the sound of footsteps following you caught your attention. Glancing back, you saw player 001 approaching. You slowed your pace until the two of you were walking side by side.

“You should just ask them,” he said calmly. “They will be glad to have you near.”

You glanced away, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck. “Oh, was I that obvious?”

Player 001 smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. “Too obvious. But 456 didn’t seem to notice. I’m sure he would be okay with you taking the bed on the other side of him.”

The two of you came to a stop amidst the quiet bustle of players settling in.

“But wouldn’t they be surprised?” you asked, your voice lower. “A lady suddenly asking to sleep near them?”

“What kind of gentlemen would they be if they refuse?” player 001 countered gently. “Go. Just ask them.”

You hesitated, considering his words. His friendly tone made you feel a little braver, but the awkwardness still lingered. Before you could respond, player 001 added with a chuckle, “Besides, it’s better to stick with people you trust.”

Nodding slowly, you glanced back toward Gi-hun and Jung-bae, who were now chatting quietly by their beds. Dae-ho had joined them, gesturing animatedly about something you couldn’t quite hear.

“Alright,” you said finally. “I’ll ask.”

Taking a deep breath, you turned and walked back toward the group. You stopped a few steps away, hesitating briefly before speaking. “Do you mind if I take the bed near you guys?”

Gi-hun looked up, his expression softening. “I don’t mind. Take whichever one you want.”

Jung-bae clapped his hands together. “The more, the merrier! Right, Dae-ho?”

Dae-ho nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir! I think these beds around are unoccupied.”

Their casual acceptance made you smile, the earlier tension melting away. With a quiet thank you, you set your water bottle on the bed beside Gi-hun, feeling a sense of relief as the group welcomed you without hesitation.

As you sat down, you glanced around the dormitory, scanning the rows of bunks. Your eyes sought out player 001, wondering why he hadn’t claimed a bed near you and the others. You saw him as one of you at that point.

Finally, you spotted him quietly settling on a bed in the O zone. The thought crossed your mind that it might have been because of the voting zones – or perhaps his earlier disagreements with Gi-hun.

Just then, player 001 glanced up and caught your eye. His calm gaze met yours, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of awkwardness. Nevertheless, you smiled, albeit nervously. He responded with a faint smile of his own before lying down on his bed, his demeanor as composed as ever.

You turned back to your own space, the sound of murmured conversations and the rustling of blankets filling the air as players settled in for the night. Jung-bae was already sprawled out while Dae-ho was untying his hair. Gi-hun sat on his bed, his posture relaxed but his eyes occasionally scanning the room.

“Everyone seems restless,” you remarked quietly to Jung-bae.

“Can you blame them?” he replied, his voice low. “After today, who knows what’s coming tomorrow?”

Dae-ho leaned over, his voice carrying a bit more energy. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. We’ve got a solid group here, right?”

Jung-bae chuckled. “Of course. There are two ex-Marines here.”

The dormitory lights dimmed, the robotic voice announcing, “Lights out in five minutes.”

The chatter began to die down, replaced by the sound of shuffling feet as players adjusted their bedding.

You glanced one more time toward player 001. Though his eyes were closed, he didn’t seem fully at ease, his posture still somewhat guarded even in rest. You turned back to your group, feeling a small sense of comfort in their presence as you prepared for another uncertain day.

You woke up to the sound of the same classical music from yesterday. The familiar melody filled the dormitory, stirring players from their uneasy sleep. Sitting up, you stretched, your muscles aching slightly from the stiff mattress.

Glancing to your side, you saw Jung-bae slowly waking up. As he rubbed his eyes, he formed a triangle with his hands, muttering something under his breath. You realized he was reminding himself to choose the triangle shape if the next game turned out to be Dalgona. The sight made you smile faintly before you laid back on your bed, trying to savor a few more moments of rest. You knew what awaited you next would decide whether you lived to see another day.

Minutes later, a sharp beeping sound cut through the air, followed by the metallic groan of the main double doors sliding open. Pink-clad guards filed in with their usual precision as the robotic female voice announced, “Attention, please. The second game will begin momentarily. Please follow the instructions from our staff.”

Players began to stir in earnest, grabbing their shoes and moving to line up. You joined the queue alongside Jung-bae, Dae-ho, and Gi-hun. Player 001 joined your group silently, taking his place behind you. The mood was heavy as everyone shuffled into place, the sound of nervous whispers filling the room.

Under the guards’ guidance, you all filed out of the dormitory and into the colorful hall of staircases. The vibrant hues and twisting paths were as disorienting as they had been the first time, but now the weight of what lay ahead made the setting feel more ominous.

Gi-hun led your small group. Jung-bae followed closely behind him, muttering “triangle” over and over under his breath like a mantra. You walked behind them, followed by Player 001. Dae-ho brought up the rear, his usual energy muted as he scanned the hall nervously.

The guards directed everyone upward, the ascent feeling longer and more deliberate than before.

You soon arrived at a massive room. The design mimicked the outside of a schoolyard, with a clear field at the center. Dominating the space were two enormous rainbow-colored circles, each made up of six vibrant bands.

You scanned the area, trying to make sense of the setup. Was this the Dalgona game? It didn’t match what you had imagined, but the uncertainty gnawed at you.

“Welcome to your second game,” announced the familiar female robotic voice. “This game will be played in teams. Please divide into teams of six within the next ten minutes.”

Jung-bae immediately turned to Gi-hun. “Is Dalgona a team game?”

Before Gi-hun could answer, player 100 and his entourage approached, their presence heavy and oppressing. He asked bluntly, “Aren’t we playing the Dalgona game?”

Gi-hun’s tone was subdued. “No, it doesn’t look like it.”

You frowned, noticing the disappointment etched on his face. He had wanted to help, but it was becoming clear that the games weren’t the same as the ones he had experienced before.

“Then what’s the game?” player 100 pressed.

Gi-hun shook his head as he admitted, “I’m not sure.”

Player 100’s expression darkened, frustration bubbling over. He snapped, “What? You said you’d done this before! That triangle was supposed to be the easiest. Was that all bullshit?”

Gi-hun lowered his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t cut it!” player 100 barked, his voice rising. “You acted like you knew everything.”

Unable to hold back, you spoke up, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. “Uncle, didn’t I tell you the games wouldn’t be the same? You’re the one who refused to listen.”

Player 100 narrowed his eyes at you, his tone mocking. “Now you think you're a smart one, huh? Why don’t you tell us what game this is, since you seem to know everything? Or maybe you should shut up and stop pretending like you’re smarter than everyone else here!”

Player 001 suddenly stepped forward, positioning himself between you and the rude player 100. His eyes locked onto player 100 with a warning glint, his tone dark and firm. “That’s enough.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, feeling an unexpected warmth rise to your cheeks. You hadn’t anticipated such a direct defense, and the way player 001 stepped in with unwavering confidence left you momentarily stunned. You couldn’t deny it. His action moved you, stirring a mix of gratitude and quiet admiration that you couldn’t quite hide.

Player 100 flinched, taking an instinctive step back. His fear was evident; he knew what player 001 was capable of. Everyone did.

The tense moment was interrupted by the robotic voice announcing, “Please divide into teams now.”

All eyes turned to the timer displayed on the wall above. Ten minutes remained.

“Yeah, just drop it,” player 226 said with a smirk, breaking the silence. “Don’t waste your time on that nutjob and this know-it-all woman. We shouldn’t have fallen for that supposed ‘winner.’”

Player 100 shifted his wary gaze between player 001, you, and Gi-hun. His lips tightened, but he didn’t speak. Player 226 clapped once, drawing his attention. “Come on, let’s form a team first.”

With a subtle nod, player 100 walked past your group. As he passed, he muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “Previous winner? Damn lunatic.”

Player 226 followed close behind, sneering as he went. “Dalgona? Triangle? Screw you.”

You glared after them until they disappeared into the crowd of players. The tension lingered as Gi-hun, his head still hung low, avoided looking at any of you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“I still trust you, so don’t worry about it,” player 001 replied, his voice calm. “I’d like to play the game with you, if that’s okay?”

Gi-hun looked up, his expression a mix of surprise and disbelief. He seemed genuinely stunned that none of you had criticized him. More than that, he was visibly moved by the unwavering trust and support from player 001.

“That’s right. Let’s be real men and give it a shot,” Jung-bae said with confidence. He paused, glancing at you, and quickly added, “And also be a brave lady. It’s a children’s game, right? We used to play games all the time.”

You turned to Gi-hun with a reassuring smile. “I hope you don’t mind me staying with you. Dalgona or not, I did plan to follow you.”

Gi-hun stared at you this time, his expression a mix of astonishment and something softer – gratefulness. It was clear he hadn’t expected your unwavering trust, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words.

Dae-ho nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right, sirs. I’ll join you. I feel like I can do anything with you all.”

Jung-bae clapped him on the back, grinning. “That’s the Marine spirit. It’d be embarrassing for brave Marines to be carving Dalgona anyway. If we’re playing a game, it should be worth risking our lives for. Like Buck Buck or the Squid Game, right?”

“Yes, sir!” Dae-ho replied with fervor. “I will certainly risk my life to win, sir.”

Player 001, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. “We only need one more person then.”

“Leave it to me, sir. I’ll go find someone,” Dae-ho volunteered immediately.

“Alright then. Get someone who’d risk their life to win,” Jung-bae instructed.

Dae-ho turned to face him fully, standing straighter. “Yes, sir! Victory at all costs!”

The two of them saluted each other. You couldn’t help but smile at their antics. After Jung-bae’s dismissive nod, Dae-ho jogged away with purpose, ready to find the final member of your team.

You turned to player 001, seizing the moment to express your gratitude. Looking up at him, your eyes softened, glinting with admiration, and a small, sincere smile spread across your face. You said, “By the way, thank you for the back-up.”

Player 001 shifted his attention to you, his expression warm as he returned the smile. “It’s no problem. If he or his friends say anything rude or try to push you around, just tell me. I’ll protect you.”

You stared at him, momentarily speechless. His words left you feeling both flattered and a little bewildered. Why was he so attentive? You’d only met him yesterday, yet he already made you feel cared for in a way that stirred something unfamiliar. Your heart fluttered slightly, completely unprepared for the quiet confidence in his tone and the way he verbally showed he would protect you.

Standing this close, you couldn’t help but notice just how striking he was. His features, though marked by age, carried a timeless attractiveness that was hard to ignore. It’s like he’d only improved with time. He looked fit, confident, and effortlessly composed. How had you not noticed this before?

You pursed your lips and nodded. “Okay.”

You then looked away, trying to will your heart to calm down. Don’t go and fall for married man, you whore. He might have a wife waiting for him already, stupid.

With only two minutes left on the timer, Dae-ho returned to your group with a man in tow, player 096. Dae-ho gestured confidently toward him. “He’ll definitely risk his life to win.”

“Victory at all costs!” player 096 suddenly shouted, snapping into a sharp salute.

Dae-ho grinned proudly as Jung-bae saluted back. “Oh, you were in the Marines too?”

“Class 946, sir!” player 096 replied, his voice booming.

“Wah, with three ex-Marines, we’ll be invincible,” he turned to you, Gi-hun, and player 001 with a wide grin. “What do you think? I like him.”

Before any of you could respond, a soft voice interrupted. “Excuse me.”

Everyone turned to see a petite girl approaching your circle. Player 222 looked to be in her early twenties, her timid demeanor making her seem even younger. She glanced around the group before settling her gaze on you.

“Please let me join your team,” she said.

You frowned, feeling a pang of pity for her. She seemed so out of place, fragile in an environment like this. She didn’t deserve to be here, fighting for her life. Not only that, she also looked like a delicate rabbit.

She’s so cute like a rabbit, you thought.

“Sorry,” Jung-bae said, his tone apologetic but firm. “We’ve already got six people.”

“Please help me,” player 222 pleaded. She placed a hand on her stomach, drawing attention to the slight curve beneath her jacket. “I’m pregnant.”

Shock rippled through you as your eyes instinctively dropped to her belly. The rabbit is pregnant?!

The rounded shape was subtle but unmistakable. The weight of her words hit hard, stirring an even deeper sense of pity. But then your thoughts turned to player 096, who had just been brought in by Dae-ho. What would he feel, being dragged over here only to be rejected?

Determined, you spoke up. “You know what? Take her and Mr. 096. I’ll go find another team.”

Your gaze wandered toward player 120, who was still moving around, clearly searching for teammates. You were about to step away when you felt hands on both of your shoulders. One belonged to Jung-bae, the other to player 001.

“No, no, no,” Jung-bae, player 001, and Gi-hun said in unison, their voices overlapping in a hurried, jumbled mess.

“Time for team selection is up. The game you will be playing is Seven-Legged Hexathlon.”

The announcement reverberated through the room as all the players sat in lines according to their teams. Your team had finally settled after some deliberation. Starting from the right, Gi-hun sat at the end, followed by Jung-bae, then player 001, then you, player 222, and finally Dae-ho. The decision to include player 222 was easy due to her condition, and you as a whole group had apologized profusely to player 096. Thankfully, he had taken it graciously, insisting it was the right thing to do – prioritizing the ladies, especially one who was pregnant. His response prompted Jung-bae and Dae-ho to enthusiastically dive into their Marine antics, saluting and shouting phrases of camaraderie with him.

The robotic voice continued, “You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark. If your team wins, you may proceed to the next stage. Here are the mini-games:

“Number one, Ddakji.

“Number two, Flying Stone.

“Number three, Gonggi.

“Number four, Tuho.

“Number five, Spinning Top.

“Number six, Jegi.

“Your goal is to win all the mini-games and cross the finish line within six minutes. Please decide the players for each mini-game.”

You pondered. The variety of mini-games seemed deceptively simple, yet the added pressure of the time limit and the tied legs turned it into something far more daunting.

“It’s good that we got two women,” Jung-bae said, turning to player 222. “You can play Gonggi, right?”

Player 222 shook her head silently, her expression filled with disappointment. She looked genuinely upset, as if she hated letting the group down.

Jung-bae’s hopeful gaze shifted to you. “Oh, maybe you can.”

“I don’t know how,” you admitted, feeling a bit sheepish.

Jung-bae sighed and turned to Gi-hun, his tone almost exasperated. “Don’t girls play Gonggi anymore?”

“I’ve never played it,” player 222 confessed apologetically, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jung-bae nodded in acceptance, but before he could suggest something else, Dae-ho leaned forward, his voice breaking the pause. “Actually, I can play Gonggi.”

Jung-bae blinked at him, surprised. “You? An ex-Marine?”

Dae-ho nodded. “I grew up with four older sisters. I used to play it with them from time to time.”

Jung-bae’s face lit up, and he clapped Dae-ho proudly on the back. “That’s right. There’s nothing a Marine can’t do.”

Gi-hun leaned toward the center of the group, bringing the conversation back on track. “Everyone else, what game are you confident playing?”

“Ddakji for me,” player 222 said, drawing everyone’s attention. “At the subway station, I won more times than the guy.”

“Okay, then. Miss 222, you play Ddakji,” Jung-bae said with a decisive nod. “I’ll play Flying Stone. I was a pitcher for my baseball team. I’m good at throwing.”

Dae-ho began warming his fingers, breathing on them and flexing them, as Gi-hun addressed the group. “That leaves Tuho, Jegi, and Spinning Top.”

“I can do Tuho,” you offered, drawing everyone’s attention. You glanced around the group as you informed, “I often played it at school.”

The others nodded, accepting your choice without question. Gi-hun then turned to player 001. “Jegi and Spinning Top. Which one are you good at?”

Player 001 gave a small smile. “Well, I’ll play whatever you pick for me, Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun’s expression faltered, his brows knitting together as a wary glint appeared in his eyes. “You know my name?”

Player 001’s eyes widened slightly, his mouth parting as if he’d just realized a mistake. He gestured casually toward Jung-bae. “Oh, your friend was calling you by your name, so I thought I’d try it.”

Gi-hun stared at him, saying nothing. Player 001 tilted his head slightly, his tone gentle as he asked, “Does it bother you?”

Blinking a few times, Gi-hun finally shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”

“So, Gi-hun,” player 001 continued smoothly, “which one are you good at?”

“I guess I’m better at Jegi,” Gi-hun replied after a moment.

“Then I’ll take Spinning Top,” player 001 said with a nod.

“Alright,” Gi-hun confirmed.

“Alright, guys, bring your hands together here,” Jung-bae instructed, extending his hand to the center of the group.

Gi-hun and Dae-ho, sitting at the far ends of the line, shuffled closer as everyone placed their hands atop one another. Jung-bae took charge again. “Okay, one, two, three, we say ‘Victory at all costs.’ Got it? One, two, three—”

“Victory at all costs!”

The game began, and two teams, Team 1 and Team 2, stepped onto their respective rainbow circles. All eyes were on them as they moved with their legs tied together, each team struggling to maintain balance and coordination.

The first event in the hexathlon was Ddakji. The rules were straightforward, and Team 1 managed to pass on their first try, earning cheers from their teammates. Team 2 followed closely, but the pressure was already building as both teams advanced to the next stage.

The second event was Flying Stone. Precision was crucial, and the thrower had to ensure they didn’t step over the line while aiming perfectly. You watched with growing concern as Team 1 failed their first attempt. They had to retrieve their stone themselves, an awkward and time-consuming task given their tied legs.

Leaning slightly toward Jung-bae, player 001 commented, “A miss in Flying Stone will eat up a lot of time.”

Jung-bae gulped nervously as he stared at player 001, who turned back to watch the teams without a hint of concern, leaving Jung-bae momentarily speechless.

After a few attempts, Team 2 managed to pass Flying Stone and moved on to the third event: Gonggi. Meanwhile, Team 1 remained stuck, struggling with the precision needed for Flying Stone.

As Team 2 began their Gonggi attempts, you noticed Dae-ho kneeling on the sandy floor near your group. He had picked up a few stones and was practicing intently.

Team 2 finally passed Flying Stone on their third attempt, moving on to the fourth event: Tuho. You stood up from the floor, hoping to get a better view of their attempt.

A circle-masked guard handed their player five arrows as the robotic female voice announced, “To pass, at least three arrows must be thrown into the vase. Do not step over the line.”

The guard then placed a vase with four holders on its sides. A white line marked the throwing position, approximately 1.5 meters away from the vase.

You watched intently as Team 2’s player began the challenge. Each throw missed, the arrows clattering to the floor instead of landing in the vase. Anxiety prickled at you as their attempts failed one by one.

Team 1 was still struggling with Flying Stone, their frustration evident. Meanwhile, Team 2, tied together at the legs, hobbled forward to retrieve their arrows for another attempt. As they moved, you noticed player 001 standing up beside you.

You expected him to say something nerve-wracking, like his earlier comment to Jung-bae about time loss, but instead, his words surprised you. “Don’t be nervous. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

Turning to face him, you met his reassuring gaze. His smile was calm and confident as he added, “You said you did it often. I’m certain you got skills.”

Your gaze dropped, and you hesitated before replying, your voice quiet. “That was years ago. Now…”

You paused, the memory slicing through your thoughts like a cold blade – the nightmarish image of your battered parents, their lifeless eyes, and the menacing presence of the loan sharks hovering like shadows in the corner of your mind.

You shook your head and continued, “My arms sometimes tremble uncontrollably. What if it messes up my aim?”

Player 001 didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll hold your hands.”

You stared at him, astonished by his immediate response. His words sent a warm flutter through your chest, catching you completely off guard. Why does he say things like that? Was it genuine kindness, or was there something more?

Your mind raced with questions. Does he really have a wife waiting for him? Is he just this impossibly considerate to everyone, or is it different with you?

You nodded slowly. “It’s okay. I think I’ll be okay.”

Without waiting for his response, you turned sharply to focus on the playing teams. Team 2 had managed to throw only two arrows into the vase, with the remaining arrows tumbling onto the floor. Hobbling awkwardly, they moved forward to retrieve the arrows and prepared to try again.

Team 1, meanwhile, was still stuck at the Flying Stone event. Their repeated failures left them visibly shaken. Two players were openly crying, while the player tasked with the throws stood frozen, his face pale with terror. You noticed the growing wet stain on his pants, a clear sign of his unraveling nerves.

A sudden cheer erupted from Team 2, drawing your attention. They had just landed three arrows in the vase. The circle-masked guard gestured by forming a circle with his arms, and the robotic announcer said, “Pass.”

The team screamed in triumph as the guard quickly removed the vase, clearing the way for them to advance. They hobbled forward, legs still tied, toward the next event: Spinning Top.

Their first attempt at spinning the top ended in failure. The top wobbled and fell before completing a single rotation. In their rush to retrieve it, they lost balance and tumbled onto the ground, eliciting a few gasps from the onlookers.

Beside you, Jung-bae leaned toward player 001. “With Spinning Top, it’ll take even longer if you mess up.”

You glanced at player 001, curious about his reaction. His eyes narrowed sharply as he turned to Jung-bae, fixing him with a pointed stare. Jung-bae quickly averted his gaze, feigning innocence. Player 001’s glare lingered for a few more seconds.

On their second attempt, Team 2 successfully passed the Spinning Top event and moved on. At the same time, Team 1 finally managed to complete the Flying Stone event, their relief palpable. Both teams advanced toward their next challenges, but before either could proceed, triangle-masked guards appeared, blocking their path.

The pleading and begging grew louder as the timer reached zero. You tensed, every muscle in your body bracing for the inevitable.

“Your time is up,” the robotic female voice declared.

The guards wasted no time. They raised their guns, and the air erupted with the deafening sound of gunfire. The failed teams fell instantly, their cries silenced. The noise was overwhelming, cracking through the room like thunder. Around you, players screamed, gasped, and sobbed. Some collapsed to the ground, shaking uncontrollably. Even you flinched with every shot, feeling the vibrations reverberate through your body and the floor beneath you.

When the gunfire stopped, an eerie silence fell over the room. Almost every player was crouched low, trembling and cowering in fear. The reality of the game hit everyone again with brutal clarity: this wasn’t just a simple hexathlon. Elimination meant death. A dark, suffocating weight settled over the room, pressing down on your chest. You couldn’t help but think, I should’ve gone home.

Sitting on the floor, your head hung low. Tears threatened to spill, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, your body betrayed you in another way, shaking uncontrollably as if trying to release the overwhelming terror.

The robotic female voice announced the numbers of the eliminated players, but the words blurred into the background. Suddenly, a player shot up from the floor, his voice slicing through the tense quiet. “We should have left! We’re all going to die now! We’re all going to die because of those who voted to continue!”

His words caused murmurs and hushed sobs to ripple through the remaining players, but you tuned it all out. You wrapped your arms around your chest, trying desperately to steady your trembling. Unbeknownst to you, player 001, who was crouching behind you, fixed his gaze on you. He said nothing, simply watching as you fought to regain control.

NEXT : Chapter 06

PREV : Chapter 04

Story Masterlist

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broidobe · 15 hours ago

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𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰

requested by @rocketqueen1989x and maybe @xo-myloves

☾after decades of friendship with guns n' roses, y/n shares a night of reminiscing with the band, only to discover that axl has been harboring deep romantic feelings for her all along and finally confesses once they're alone☽

☾warnings: alcohol use, smoking, friends to lovers dynamic☽

⁎⁺˳✧༚guns and roses masterlist

it felt like a dream, the six of you gathered again like it was 1987 all over. laughter echoed in the cozy living room as empty beer bottles and snack bowls sat forgotten on the coffee table. slash leaned back in his chair, his hair spilling like a curtain around his face as he chuckled at duff’s latest exaggerated story. izzy sat cross-legged on the couch, a cigarette between his fingers, nodding along to steven’s animated hand gestures.

"remember when axl got locked out of the bus in his underwear?" duff smirked, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

"oh, come on, that was one time," axl grumbled, his cheeks tinting slightly pink. you caught his eye from your seat beside him, and he shot you a small smile that made your chest warm.

"you were banging on the door, screaming at us to let you in," steven added, barely able to contain his giggles.

"and didn’t y/n open the door for him?" izzy chimed in, flicking ash into the ashtray.

"yep, she’s always been the responsible one," slash said, raising his drink in mock salute.

"responsible? i don’t know about that," you teased, nudging axl’s knee with yours. "i just didn’t want to hear him yelling all night."

the room erupted into laughter, and axl shook his head, his lips quirking into a smile he tried to hide.

the night went on like that, story after story, memory after memory. the chaos of the hell house, the adrenaline of backstage moments, the unpolished camaraderie of the early days. you felt a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly brought tears to your eyes.

eventually, the guys began to peel off one by one. steven was the first to leave, mumbling something about an early morning, followed by slash and izzy, who had carpooled. duff lingered a bit longer but finally stood with a stretch, ruffling your hair affectionately before heading out.

and then it was just you and axl.

the silence that settled wasn’t awkward, but it felt heavier, charged with something you couldn’t quite name. axl leaned back, his emerald eyes fixed on you in a way that made your heart skip.

"you okay?" you asked softly, tilting your head.

"yeah," he said, his voice quieter now, more serious. "just... thinking about how lucky i am to have you in my life."

"oh, stop," you said with a laugh, brushing it off. "you guys have always been my family."

"i mean it," he insisted, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "y/n, you’ve been there through everything. even when we didn’t deserve it."

his words caught you off guard, and you swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.

"axl—"

"let me finish," he cut you off gently. "i’ve been thinking about this for a long time. years, actually. and i’ve been too much of a coward to say it, but... i don’t want to just be your friend."

your breath hitched as the weight of his words sank in.

"what?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"i’m in love with you," he said, his gaze unwavering, as if willing you to believe him. "i have been for so long, y/n. i just... i didn’t know how to tell you. and now, seeing you here, laughing with everyone like old times, i couldn’t hold it in anymore."

your heart felt like it might burst from your chest. you searched his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt, but all you found was sincerity.

"axl," you began, your voice trembling, "i don’t even know what to say."

"say you’ll give me a chance," he said, his tone soft, almost pleading. "that’s all i’m asking."

a thousand memories flashed through your mind—of the wild, chaotic nights, the quiet moments of comfort, the way his smile always seemed to light up the darkest days. and now, the vulnerability in his eyes, the raw honesty you’d rarely seen from him.

"okay," you said finally, your lips curving into a small smile. "i’ll give you a chance."

his expression shifted from apprehension to pure relief, and he reached out, his hand finding yours. his thumb brushed over your knuckles, a simple yet intimate gesture that sent shivers down your spine.

"you won’t regret it," he promised, his voice barely above a whisper.

#broidobe #guns and roses #axl rose #axl rose x reader #axl gnr #izzy stradlin #duff mckagan #slash #steven adler #current axl

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biggiesnails · 2 months ago

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Just letting you know that I have scrolled through punk Eclipse's art tag like 20 different times and every time I do I fall deeper in love with this pathetic soggy fuck. I can't fix him. But I can buy him cheap fast food and energy drinks and get stoned with him. Probably kiss him too. Yeah.

Honestly the more his character develops the more I start to think that he doesn’t need to be fixed, I think he just needs a hug or something

#punk!eclipse #I have been having ideas lately #I think I have settled on a story to follow #he will receive many a hug #and cheap fast food #and energy drinks

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maliciousalice · 3 months ago

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Hear me out (or don't... it's fine I'm just venting and mean) yeah um I don't believe Chakotay was saved in Prod*gy s2.

#the 'time travel' makes no sense when you think on it. What happened to Prime Chakotay? He got killed they showed that.#At the end s1 Janeway finds an 'alternate chakotay in an alternate timeline' and that's the one they go and get #we saw the original get merc'd in the message. That ACTUALLY happened. Lmao.....#They didn't prevent THAT death because they didn't go to THAT Solum with the Infinity and stop it from happening #instead it was 'ALTERNATE #' implying other.#OG Chakotay wasn't taken over by the alternative one either nothing suggests that was the direction for him in s2 #they didn't do anything like 'well you see chakotay because at the end of s2 when we converged timestreams you have merged with your other'#if they did want to recover the original from s1 then keep that clear instead of being convoluted dont use an alternate timeline wtf #instead the plot was focused on gywns stupid fucking paradox plot and her being fixed #chakotay was the one in a paradox too did that not matter nah dw about it he had to die for this outcome or someshit lmao why #In the extended message given to admiral janeway it shows him clearly getting left behind and surrounded. Sadly no one intervened.#I dont understand why they couldnt have just made s2 about his rescue alone IF they took their time it wouldnt be so difficult #to follow #above that the one they rescued was ruined by the 10 year gap so he wasn't 'saved' at all. God i hate s2 when you break it apart #I dunno the more i look at s2 Janeway and Chakotay the more upsetting it is. Janeway would NOT have settled for an imposter.#everyone going goo-goo gaa gaa over s2 but it's sloppy af imo and undermines a huge portion voyagers struggles #id really like them to flatly lay out their ideas because literally nothing ive heard explains the story or choices of s2 with conviction #instead it's oh clap for wesley or the new vulcan and other references yay #describe to me your timetravel clearly and i'll happily take a seat on it (there is still other crap stuff mind you)#this is the most repressed shit i my head i swear #im angry because s1 is so clearly mapped out to a brilliant degree and for whatever reason it's not in s2 #i can see through it #insultingly people are eating it up and claiming it's better than ever nah dawg embarrassing #there are nice ideas inside s2 but they arent adequately rewarded #it doesnt compare to the timetravel in other trek because they kept it clear #i mean it could have been an interesting parallel to endgame but in the end janeway didnt even rescue him lmao they dropped her #why bother building up this mission only for her to give up and go 'i'll hand it over because im told to'. Janeway had fuck all this season #let alone settle for not fixing her own timeline and her own friends deadly circumstance dw just grab another one from the shelf i guess #the emotional fallout was absolutely missed because they didnt elaborate on anything. Plenty of show but no substance from the characters

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disastergenius · 22 days ago

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I think that if Campaign 3 is wrapping up and we are to see more of Bell's Hells, it's going to be in oneshots or in short (<5 episode) mini-campaigns with split parties.

Reasoning:

Based on the last BH 4SD announcement, people are predicting 3-5 episodes are left of C3. It could be slightly more, since 4SDs have been a bit inconsistent schedule-wise and they could have something like 6-8 episodes and just decided to stretch it to the campaign wrap-up instead of a 4SD so close to the end. But it sounds like the campaign really is in it's end game and thus will end after Ludinus's defeat. While the cast has expressed interest in following up BH storylines or at least continuing with BH characters, it does seem like the campaign proper is ending post big boss battle.

Bell's Hells as a party are not always the most interested in following things that don't involve them directly, so some characters may not want to pursue certain storylines with the others. imo, BH have been pretty isolated in caring about their personal relatedness to an issue but not much past that, regardless of other party member involvement (ex: only Ashton wanted to learn more about the Hishari cult, Delilah interest was limited entirely to when she was an active threat and not otherwise), so I don't really think it's a stretch to say that some PCs are not going to want to continue looking into certain plots after they defeat Ludinus. So splitting the party would give them more freedom to explore arcs either fully absent so their characters don't have to fake an investment in a plot (for lack of a better term, this is not related to the cast having no interest in other characters but their PCs personal goals) or to possibly play as other characters if they were all still playing.

Similar to the way many said in C2 that Veth really had no reason to stay with the party after she was returned to being a Halfling (regardless of whether this is a take you agree with), BH overall don't have as much a reason to stay together at the end of the campaign. They've completed their mission, they're splitting from there, so doing short split campaigns would fit with that if they wanted to keep exploring plot lines they didn't get to touch on during the main campaign without dragging all the PCs along.

Outside the game, it gives them something familiar to work with for their audience (continuing C3 which is popular despite what both fans and haters of it will say about it), and let's them play characters that they do clearly enjoy playing. They've all telegraphed some intents that they have for the futures of their characters, some of which could probably be neatly wrapped up in an epilogue but others they sound like they want to fully flesh out. So short of doing books or other media (which would be their usual options), short mini-campaigns might be the way to explore those plots instead.

All that to say, I don't know what they're planning next, and we'll have to wait and see into the new year what their plans are. I'm sure as the campaign wraps up they will be putting out more things, whether that be the beginning of Campaign 4 or smaller arcs with Daggerheart (I personally want to see Candela return but that seems unlikely) or simply taking a break for a while to focus on M9 Animated/TLOVM Season 4, but I'm excited.

#critical role #bell's hells #putting my additional thoughts in the tags #imo BH is a selfish party in that they only really extend their caring about an issue to their immediate and personal involvement #which is why I don't think that some characters are going to want to be participants in other's unresolved plots #even if they do care about each other #ex: i cannot see imogen and/or laudna wanting to follow up with the Hishari they are intent on settling down to be cottagecore lesbians #(the individualism of BH PCs has been a big reason why they didn't click for me: understandable in game just not my preference in a story)#veth stuck around for the rest of the campaign because of the friendship and family and devotion to M9 that the party had to each other #and BH just don't have that same cohesiveness that makes me think they will be connected in the same way at the end imo

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kuromi-hoemie · 2 months ago

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hhhh talking about my writing was fun but 30 tags is not enough.. yes i have 3 major influences but i have minor ones too.. it is a lovechild of my favorite things.. writing is so fun and i have no self control or a concept of pacing myself i will sit there for 16 hours and get hit with every status effect but by god does it all just flow out of me. I've always been a music person yes but i also used to write a lot into early adulthood until The Incident™

but i am ready 2 jump back into it. i think comics are a great middle ground between the two mediums so i don't get As into writing bc i kind of started going crazy last time 🫡 i can take a more structured approach to it that forces me to pace myself and think about it differently. i love art.... i love making things i love knowing how to do things i love knowing how to play things i love having so many creative outlets, even if i don't do a lot of them regularly lol. it is enriching 😳 and nice to know that it's always there to come back to when u want.

#if u want the tea my imagination at the time was like i could space out and straight up just be another person POV doing every little #thing as if i were them for hours and the experience would come together without having to even think about it.#different times/places/contexts/conversations etc. forced 2 to to my mom's lil cult meetings for 2 hours twice a week #i would opt to do these imagination exercises instead to rly put myself in a character's perspective. every step‚ stumble‚#riding in a carriage together for the entirety from point A to B etc. WELL i was working on a horror anthology somewhere 18/19 #(that had a small local following 🫶🏾) and it its concept was like the Twilight zone but a lot darker. it was called interdimensional #and the main recurring character never actually shows up in the story. they r an omnipresent god of death who exists everywhere but #exists outside of our realm‚ and it picks random people to reveal itself to as a symbol. it can be apparent or just in passing that #the entry's MC sees it in‚ it will appear on something somewhere and once it's brought up it's a cue to the reader that this person #has just been sent to an alternate reality that leads towards their inevitable death. for the character nothing ever changes immediately #but the different starts to creep its way in‚ as does death's approach at its crescendo but the path's i took to get there were 😨#and after enough entries i started to see the symbol irl and hallucinate some other stuff from my stories and it really scared me #and made me stop 🫡 but i think in retrospect i just went too hard on the imagination exercises and wished i tried cultivating it instead #give myself time to settle and get in control.. but alas‚ she has not written seriously since. to this day it still flows out of me if #i just sit down to do it‚ but i don't think I'm at risk of something like that happening again anymore :3 so yeah ♡⁠ i am learning how to #draw and trying not 2 force it bc i want it to b fun as a little journey for me and i look forward to the day i can come back to actively #writing again too 🫶🏾 i miss it but i also want to b able to draw ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა #learn the hard thing first then do the stuff that comes naturally.... i also want to get back into music sometime but clearly i got a lot of #other stuff to work on 💀 i burnt myself out on it learning too many things and not having enough fun with it anymore‚#but i have a better healthier with art these days and i know it'll be great to come back to when I'm ready 😌💕#i have been considering getting an acoustic or bass guitar tho 🧐 the beauty of physical instruments.. they're just there ready 2 go..#I've been doing mostly digital the past few years‚ when i was making music. it was also rly hard to when i was w my ex ૮ – ﻌ–ა #that's a whole other rant lol. but ugh digital is like u gotta set it up u gotta make space and then u gotta be in one spot the whole time #i just wanna lay in bed and vibe or something yfm.. walk around maybe idk. do something less structured.#maybe.. hm. hmmm 🧐#I'm going to guitar center lol c ya ✌🏾 getting a bass and amp and maybe a guitar too depending on the price

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lizzibennet · 2 years ago

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the thing about each pjo book is that each of them is uniquely the best in what it sets out to do. each is so monumental in what the story ends up amounting to, picking a favorite is almost like pointless. you could not have all 5 work so well if one was missing

#tlt introduces the world and the main trio and the main antagonist #fun adventure in wacky world. normal #som piggybacks off the already established status quo of the world (fun wacky adventure) and builds relationships upon it #explores characters more. more introspection from percy and a lot raised (and answered) about annabeth #plus solidifying percy's bond w grover #ttc was my least fav for a long time because it just felt like idk off #and i now think it's bc it's where the story pivots a bit and becomes more serious #it's still v much haha fun adventure bc it's children's lit after all. but it is once again meant to solidify #percy's bond w annabeth; percy's devotion to chb and his feelings towards the prophecy #as well as being the climax of thalia's character and kind of settling the fact luke really is evil and doing some real shit #exemplified by the fact this is the first book where protags die #and thalia pretty much kills luke. like he doesn't die but she couldn't have known he wouldn't die #so percy now REALLY has an idea of what he's up against #notice how the following two books really couldn't have happened w/o this kind of certification from him #botl is like. AHHHHHHHHHH it is my fav for a reason #i just really love how it doesn't lose the footing w the pace and the fun hijinks but still manages to deepen the relationships between #the characters #especially with the focus on percy's feelings towards nico and annabeth's towards luke #like *chef's kiss* that book is so fucking good please #and with a foundation so strong there really was no way tlo could have been bad lmao #but still the fact the book takes time from Teh Final Confrotation vibes of it all #to make a point to show percy going back to his mom's. luke going back to may's. hestia's presence in the middle of all of it #rick was like this series has a theme and i will show it to you NAOW #and the action scenes in this one??? UNPARALLELED. tlo and botl the most riveting to read #if you remove one of them the story stops making as much sense!!#(i can hear you all going yeah like every other book series and NO. esp ya/childrens lit has SO MUCH filler)#ME? pjoposting in 2023? it's more likely than you think #pjo

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petrenocka · 9 months ago

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The thing about critique of Christianity is that there is this prevasive idea that The Bible is fine, it's the corrupt leaders that make everything the religion touches a nightmare.

And sure, that book has some pretty good ideads in it, like that whole camel needle thing. But it's core premise is so fucked up!

Divested of all the flavor and elaborate lore the sotry is as follows: All humans are inherently born cursed by the original sin commited by the first of our kind, and to remedy this God sends his son to earth as a human and lets him die in torment so through his suffering hummanity is redeemed.

So, in the text of The Bible, by default, from before we are born, humans have something fundamentally wrong with them, that makes us unworthy of God's love, but He loves us anyway, because he is so great, and through Jesus' sacrifice we are allowed to join Him in Heaven. But Jesus is also God, due to the whole Holy Trinity thing.

So The Bible explicitly frames God's love for humans as a self-sacrifice on God's part. To The Almighty, loving humanity in spite of it's inherent foul nature is letting a part of Himself be tortured to death by our hand.

Is is just me or does that sound like "Abuser's How To 101" to anyone else? Literally, "you are inherently unlovable and I am sacrificing myself by caring for you anyuway". Especially if we see The Bible as authored by God Himself.

That not to mention the insistance that Jesus was eqally and fully as human as He is God, which very unsubtly implies that human suffering is also a condition for God's unconditional love. Adding "I'm hurting you becasue I love you" to the list.

I dunno, I think it's at least a little bit fucked up.

#the story of Job is so so bad too like it's such a horror #satan literally tricks God into torturing this inocent man for no reason and no benefit and Job still is a faithfull follower by the end #that man goes through hell on eath just for the sake of a dick measuring contest between the two that doesn't even settle anything #when he doesn't stop being faithful to God after the abuse do you think it's because he realizes that it is the only real non-choice he has #God is almighty and omnipresent his domain is inescapable. In the end no matter the horrors He subjects you to for His own amusement #it's not like you have anywhere to go that isn't His kingdom #basically I am LONGING for more people especially authors to realize the absolute Eldrich Horror Nightmare that is the universe of The Bibl #the bible #christianity #blasphemy

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neverendingford · 1 year ago

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#tag talk #as much as I hate to see the social cinema grow as I get new followers. we're at a good and satisfying number. and I like that #also also also. I've introduced a friend to Hannibal (tv show) and he's loving it and I'm so happy cause none of #of my other friends have been able to stomach the body horror. so it's super cool to find someone to hype over it with #another random story that I genuinely can't remember if I said already. got told by a kid in minecraft that he's smiled a lot more around me #which. huge compliment. genuine honor to make people happy and smile and laugh #people don't laugh enough. we don't smile enough. be happy or die. and I'm too powerful to die. been there. haven't done that #cry and then laugh and then punch as hard as you can.#got to visit some of my favorite residents from the nursing home I first worked at. lotta new staff but my three favorite nurses are still #which is nice. I cried when I left that job because even though it crushed my soul I loved my coworkers and most of my residents.#I get why some healthcare workers grind themselves to the bone for the job. you're making such a huge difference in people's lives.#I tried but didn't have the fortitude for it. but it's nice to be able to go back and say hi to the friends I made and see how things are.#anyway. sorry for being weird like.. one or two weeks ago. I think things are settling out again. moving is rough but we're making it work #It's been a lot of Lear again lately. especially while being at my parents house. he doesn't mind being deadnamed as much sooo....#idk. at least one of us is capable of surviving the dmv and the state medicaid website. heaven knows I can't manage.#trying to stop using him as a crutch for getting things done has just resulted in us not being able to get things done.#but I don't want to be someone else I want to be me. I don't want to be the armor I want to be the human inside.#I don't want to live defensively. pushing everyone away. I can't do that.#anyway. we're back home! and work is on the horizon. hopefully this job works out cause I don't want to have to apply for new jobs.#the hr rep is a man at this store and I immediately got set on edge and our voice dropped as I stepped back.#then we introduced ourselves with the wrong name and he got confused and I just felt stupid about it #but how am I supposed to know which name he's been told. he didn't even use our paperwork name. Anyway that was a disaster #but we're on track and embarrassment is not a setback but a feeling about the way things progress. and it is progress we're making

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d1stalker · 4 months ago

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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 😙

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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

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imaginedisish · 4 months ago

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Close to You (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Oh my god. I got so carried away with this. It was not supposed to be this long. Anyway, here's the beach fic, y'all. This one is inspired by "Close to You" by Gracie Abrams...which is an absolute banger. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: The team goes away on a weekend beach trip, and your pining for Logan comes to a head when you're forced to share a room...

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!! SMUT!! Thigh riding, oral (f!receiving), fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan, soft!Logan, feelings, fluff, afab!reader/fem!reader, reader wears a bikini (no descriptions at all, though!), one bed trope (muahaha), friends to lovers, cursing, absolutely some grammatical errors bc this fic is so long, I think that's it!

Word Count: 6,577 this was so self indulgent

You step out onto the concrete and the salt in the air immediately coats your skin. The breeze is sticky and slightly humid, but it smells so good. You can hear the waves crashing against the sand, seagulls squawking above. Laughter on the boardwalk. Carnival music blaring from all the rides. It’s perfect—the sun is high, fluffy white clouds framing the endless blue sky.

“We’re going to have so much fun!” Jubilee cheers, closing the car door as she slides out of the Jeep.

Jean and Scott step out of their car, parked just up ahead, unloading their bags. “It’s so nice of the Professor to give us the weekend off!” Jean says excitedly, placing her bag down onto the sidewalk and wheeling it up to the porch of the house. “I can’t believe he rented this place for us.” It’s a yellow, two-story cottage with a lemonade porch, adorned with white shutters and a shingled roof.

Logan makes his way to the trunk of his Jeep, pulling out bag after bag. You rush to his side, reaching inside the trunk. “Let me help you,” you mumble as the rest of the team excitedly approaches the house.

Logan smiles and shakes his head, reaching for the same bag you are. His fingertips brush yours as he takes the bag away, your heart beating in your chest at the sudden contact. “Don’t worry, princess,” he huffs, smirking as he places the bag down in front of you. Heat rises to your chest at the nickname. “Don’t lift a finger. Go inside and check out the place.” He nods his head towards the front door and grabs another bag.

You smile, throwing your backpack over your shoulder, grabbing two bags, and carrying them to the front door in protest. “Gonna help you anyway,” you say over your shoulder. Logan chuckles as he closes the truck, grabbing the rest of the duffle bags and following behind you.

He meets your side as you walk through the doors. The walls are pale blue, and the bottom halves are lined with white shiplap. Beechwood covers the floors. The living room is light and airy, white curtains floating through opened windows. The kitchen is off to the side, and to the back is a large open sunroom. Just straight ahead are the stairs.

Jean and Scott settle some groceries on the counter as Jubilee, Kurt, Rogue, and Gambit head upstairs to see the bedrooms.

“Hey, guys?” Jubilee calls from upstairs. You can tell by the sound of her voice that something is off. “I thought the Professor said there’d be six beds.”

Jean puts away a bag of chips and steps back into the living room, following Jubilee’s voice up the steps, and disappearing as her feet hit the landing. “How many are there?” She asks, her voice muffled.

“Five,” Jubilee answers. “Three queens and two bunk beds, and Kurt and I took the bunks already.”

“That’s fine,” Jean says, shrugging her shoulders as she heads back downstairs. “We’ll all just be a little tight—closer quarters than usual.”

And that’s when it finally hits you. Three queen beds—and Kurt and Jubilee took the twin bunks.

You’ll be sharing a room with Logan.

You turn to him and find that his eyes are already on you. “You okay sharing, princess?” He asks, nodding to the steps.

You swallow harshly, trying to mask your nervousness, hoping Logan can’t hear the way your heart beats out of your chest. “Yeah!” You say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Totally fine with it.”

He nods, smiling softly as he walks towards the steps, his bags in his hands. You follow behind him, the wood stairs creaking with every step you take.

Jean was not exaggerating; the upstairs of the house is extremely small. There may be four bedrooms—but bedroom is a generous title. Each room is only large enough to hold a queen bed, a single dresser, and a small nightstand on either side of the bed. There’s little to no walking room. One of the rooms—Kurt and Jubilee’s—has just a bunk bed and a nightstand, with a tiny wardrobe in the corner. In the center of the tight hallway is a bathroom with a simple sink, toilet, and a stand-up shower.

Logan steps into the first bedroom to the left of the stairs and puts his bags down on the ground. “You sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, watching as you put your bags down next to his. “I can sleep on the couch if you’re uncomfortable.”

You shake your head, walking over to the window and taking in the view of the ocean. “Don’t worry,” you say, watching kids run across the sand, trying to distract yourself from how close Logan is to you in this tiny room. “We’re adults.” You turn to face him, fighting the urge to let your eyes trail up and down his body. “We can share.” Or at least, you hope you can.

You can handle this for a weekend. You can force down your feelings—can ignore your massive crush on Logan for seventy-two hours. That’s all this is. A weekend trip. This is doable. You’ve been through so much worse than this.

“If you change your mind, you can let me know,” Logan says, reaching his arm out towards your shoulder. His knuckles brush against your bare skin, and you let yourself lean into his touch. He’s warm, solid, cozy—

“Let’s go to the beach!” Jubilee interrupts, Logan’s hand falling from your shoulder instantly. “We didn’t come here to sit in a house all weekend, did we?” She jumps away from the door and runs down the stairs.

“Kid has a point,” Logan says, shrugging his shoulders and nodding towards the door. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling widely. “Already have my bathing suit on.” Logan smiles back and grabs your wrist, tugging you into the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door.

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

You’re sitting on the beach, watching as Jubilee and Kurt splash each other recklessly in the water. Jean sits in a chair, reading a book, while Scott lays on a beach towel, eyes likely closed behind his glasses. Rogue and Gambit walk down the shoreline, hand in hand.

Logan stands up from the beach blanket you share, tugging his beater up and over his head. “I’m going in,” he says, just to you. “Wanna come?” He reaches out his hand again, the same hand that tugged you the whole way here. You bite your lip, nerves building in your stomach again. “Come on,” Logan says, smirking. “I don’t bite.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you take his hand, standing up. You let go and tug your shorts down your legs. You look up at Logan as your fingertips find the hem of your tank top, his eyes trained firmly on you. Your stomach somersaults as you pull your shirt up your body, revealing your bikini top, knowing Logan is watching.

Logan’s throat bobs as he swallows. He nods towards the ocean, wordlessly grabbing your hand again and tugging you along.

The waves lap at your ankles, and you force yourself into the cold water. Logan seemingly has no problem at all, pulling you along from a few feet ahead. The water is already up to his hips. He looks behind at you, all wide-eyed and happy.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” He teases, squeezing your hand tighter. Your heart drums against your ribcage at the feeling. He’s never held your hand like this. You try to shove down your feelings, to brush away how having him this close makes you feel, but nothing changes. You want him all the same.

You take a deep breath and shake your head as the cold water barrels against the middle of your thighs. “No,” you protest. “I’m just freezing.”

Logan smiles wider. “You gotta get all the way in!” He tugs you further, pulling you closer to him so that you’re shoulder to shoulder. You can’t tell if it’s the icy waves or your proximity to Logan that makes your heart freeze in your chest, that makes you crave the warmth of his body. You want to be close to him. You want him to pull you into his chest and hold you.

“Do I have to?” You ask playfully, a half-smile turning up at the corner of your mouth.

He jokingly rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, dropping your hand and wrapping his arm around your waist instead. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. You choke on your own breath as he guides you further into the water. “You okay?” He asks.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, his fingertips pressing against the bare skin of your stomach. Goosebumps pebble your flesh. Finally, Logan guides you all the way into the water, up to your shoulders. It’s a surprisingly calm day—the waves easy and gentle.

Logan lets go of your waist and treads water, slipping underneath the dark blue current and coming back up—his hair wet, drops of water dripping down his face and neck. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips at the sight.

“Your turn,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes half shut as he swims towards you.

Your smile drops as you swim away. Logan grabs your ankle, pulling you towards him. You yelp as he tugs you closer. You turn around and splash him playfully, freeing yourself from his grasp as he wipes the salt water off his face.

You laugh, still backing away from Logan. He creeps forward, assessing you like an animal stalks its prey. “You’re not getting away that easy, pretty girl,” he huffs.

What was that? Your eyes widen as those last two words repeat in your head. You’re so distracted that you don’t notice him closing the gap between the two of you. Suddenly his hands are on your hips, dragging you into his chest.

His grip is like iron around your waist, keeping you in place, your hips pressed to his, your chests touching lightly. You don’t feel the coldness of the water anymore—you can’t feel anything except Logan.

“What am I gonna do with you?” He asks, his voice low and raspy. The world stopped long ago, his arms wrapping around your back now, pulling you closer. The playfulness of the moment disappears—this is something else, something more serious. Logan brings his face closer to yours, his lips just centimeters away. This is it, you think to yourself. The moment when everything finally changes—

“Hey!” A familiar voice calls from the beach. Logan’s eyes fall closed—an almost defeated look painting across his face. Your head whips to the sand, and the team is standing by the beach chairs. Jubilee waves you and Logan over. “We’re going to the boardwalk! Come on!”

Logan opens his eyes. You think he’s going to push you away, to let you go, but he only holds you tighter. “Give us a second!” He shouts, frustration clear in his voice.

But Jubilee crosses her arms against her chest. Scott chuckles and walks ahead with Jean. Gambit and Rogue look at each other knowingly, and Kurt teleports to the edge of the water.

“And just like that…” Logan murmurs, half to himself, half to you. “Moment ruined.”

You tilt your head, the implication of his words wracking your brain. “What do you mean—”

But Logan is pulling you along with him to the shore before you can finish asking for clarification. His arms drop from your waist, his hand grabbing yours to guide you onto the sand. He bends down, picking up your shorts and top from the beach blanket the team left out, and passing them to you.

“Thanks,” you mumble, your hands parting as he shoves his beater up and over his head. Once you’re dressed, flip-flops and all, you join the team and make your way up to the boardwalk.

Gambit is talking with Logan about something just ahead, trailing on and on, clearly irritating Logan, while Rogue falls back to walk with you.

“So,” she says softly, her eyes flitting between you and Logan. “What’s going on there, sugar?” She asks, smirking.

You furrow your brows, trying to hide your smile. “Nothing that I know of,” you say, somewhat honestly. This might be nothing—might just be a friend teasing another friend. A friend whose lips were just inches from yours, so close that you could feel his breath fanning across your face. A friend who dug his fingers into your waist to pull you closer to his—

“Nothing, huh?” She asks, snapping you back to reality. “Because I think he would’ve kissed you if Jubilee didn’t interrupt,” she whispers so only you can hear.

Heat rises to your chest at her words. “I don’t know. We’re just friends…” You trail off.

“We’ll see about that, sugar,” Rogue says, walking ahead, tearing Gambit away from Logan. Logan’s shoulders visibly relax once Gambit is gone, and he looks back at you, slowing his steps so that you can meet his side.

“Hi,” he husks, smiling down at you.

You smile back, the warmth of his hand suddenly spreading across your lower back. It’s gentle, the ghost of a touch, almost not quite there—more tentative than in the ocean when it felt like no one was watching. But it’s solid and centering all the same.

“Let’s go on the Ferris wheel!” Jubilee suggests, holding out the ticket booklet that Jean and Scott ran ahead to buy. She tears out tickets—three for each person. Jean and Scott hold hands and walk to the front of the line. Rogue leans over to Jubilee, whispering something into her ear that makes her eyes widen. She nods and pairs off with Kurt. Rogue turns around and winks at you while Logan isn’t looking.

You look up at him and see that he’s staring off at the sun slowly setting. Pink, orange, and red erupt in the sky, the colors blending, painting across the wispy clouds. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” you say as the others climb into the Ferris wheel gondolas in pairs.

Logan smirks, his eyes finding yours as you approach the front of the line. “Looks like it, pretty girl,” he husks. There it is again. Pretty girl. The ride attendant slows down the wheel, and you and Logan slip inside the gondola. You think maybe he’ll sit across from you, but he sits next to you instead.

The attendant closes the door of the gondola, and the ride starts up. Once you’re off the ground, Logan slips his arm around your shoulder, his palm warm against your bare skin. “This okay?” He asks, his lips at the shell of your ear.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as his thumb brushes gentle circles into your arm. You let your head rest in the crook of his neck, and he leans against you, fitting together like puzzle pieces.

It’s silent communication—knowing, but not saying. You can feel his intention as his arm tugs you closer, his lips at the crown of your head. Your heart beats out of your chest—for the millionth time today—and you know he can hear it.

You reach the top of the Ferris wheel and look out at the ocean, the sun hitting the water, turning the blue waves to gold. “It’s beautiful,” you mumble, the current rippling against the shore, glistening vibrantly like the ocean figured out alchemy.

Logan chuckles softly. “I can think of something prettier, you know,” he husks, his lips still pressed into the crown of your head. Your heart thumps in your chest at his words. You lift your head, looking up at him.

His eyes meet yours, a soft smile playing upon his lips. “Logan, I—”

But the gondola comes to a sudden stop, and the door to the car swings open. You’re already back on the ground. The attendant crosses his arms, waiting for you and Logan to get out. Logan rolls his eyes, grabbing your hand and helping you back onto the boardwalk. The team is already off the ride, waiting for the two of you at the exit.

“Why don’t we play some games and then head back to the house for the night?” Scott suggests, his arm wrapped around Jean’s waist.

Jubilee smiles widely. “Yes! I wanna play the game where you throw the lobster into the pot!”

“Gambit’s gonna win chere a prize,” Gambit drawls, tugging Rogue into his chest. “The biggest one Gambit can find.” Rogue giggles, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Jubilee and Kurt run off to the other side of the boardwalk, immediately finding the lobster-pot game. Jean and Scott follow behind, making sure they don’t get into trouble. Rogue and Gambit go out on their own, heading toward the ring toss game.

You and Logan are left alone. Again. Surely everyone is doing this on purpose. “What do you wanna play?” You ask, nodding towards the array of games lined up on the opposite side of the boardwalk.

His eyes meet yours, flitting down to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Whatever you want, darlin’.” You smile, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards balloon darts.

You approach the booth, and Logan pulls out his wallet, handing a five-dollar bill to the woman running the game. She slides a cup of five darts towards you and Logan, and steps off to the side, away from the balloons. Logan watches as you grab a dart and throw, completely missing the balloon you were aiming for. You groan, rolling your eyes, and grab another dart.

“Here,” Logan rasps, standing behind you. He holds your hand in his, lining the dart up to a balloon. His other arm wraps around your waist, the front of his hips pressing into your back. “Like this,” he murmurs, pulling your hand back. You let go of the dart when he thrusts forward. The dart pierces a balloon, the pop echoing through the booth.

You look up at him, his face close to yours, and smile. He grabs another dart, his eyes still focused on you, and throws without looking away, popping another balloon. “Now you’re just showing off,” you say teasingly as your smile grows wider. He grabs another dart, aiming at a bigger balloon this time, and pierces it with ease.

“Gotta win you a prize, pretty girl,” he says, grabbing the last dart from the cup, and tossing it across the booth, directly into the biggest balloon on the board. It pops—of course—and the game attendant’s jaw drops.

She shakes her head, walking over to the bigger prizes. “Never seen anyone do that before…” she trails off, pointing to the giant plushies. “You can pick any of these.”

Logan’s arm sneakily wraps around your waist as he waits for you to pick between a giant fox, panda, or dolphin. “The fox, definitely the fox,” you decide.

The attendant grabs the fox and pulls it down, handing it to you. You squeeze it to your chest, Logan’s grip on your waist tightening. “He’s so cute!” You giggle, looking up at Logan, who’s guiding you towards the edge of the boardwalk. “Thank you,” you say softly.

He shakes his head and looks out towards the water. “It was nothing,” he says, his arm still around your waist as you lean against the railing of the boardwalk. The sun is falling behind the horizon, stars rising in the sky.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he turns to face you. “Listen…” He starts, his jaw working as his grip on your waist falls away, his forearms bracing on the railing. Your shoulder presses against his, the tension between you palpable. “I’ve been thinking…” But he pauses again, his eyes searching yours.

“We ready to head back to the house?” Scott asks, interrupting the conversation. Logan’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he leans forward.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Logan mutters, thinking you can’t hear him, resting his head against the railing.

Jubilee grabs your arm, holding up her little stuffed teddy bear. “Look what I won!” Her smile drops when she sees your giant fox. “Oh my god, my bear is nothing compared to that! That thing is massive!”

You smirk, glancing over at Logan. “Wouldn’t have gotten it if it wasn’t for him.” Logan lifts his head and smiles sheepishly at you.

The moon rises high in the quickly darkening sky. You’re not quite sure where the day went. Everything happened so quickly—the hours spent on the sand, Logan tugging you into the water. It was perfect. Beyond perfect. And now it was time to head back.

The team treks down the boardwalk and onto the street, trailing a few blocks before arriving back at the house. You and Logan walk shoulder to shoulder the whole way there, leading at the front of the group. Logan grabs the key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and you all head inside.

Jubilee and Kurt run into the kitchen scavenging for snacks. Gambit and Rogue crash onto the living room couch.

“We’re gonna head to bed,” Scott says, Jean following him up the stairs. “Night, guys.” Everyone mutters soft goodnights in response, and a comfortable silence falls upon the house.

“Gonna steal the upstairs shower before they get to it,” you whisper to Logan, nodding to Jubilee and Kurt.

He smirks. “I’ll shower down here,” he says back. “See you upstairs?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you answer, suddenly remembering that you’re sharing not just a room with Logan, but a bed. You walk away and head upstairs, grabbing your pajamas from your duffle bag and making your way to the bathroom.

You turn on the water and undress. The shower is warm and relaxing, releasing the tension you had spent the entire day holding in. But the peace is temporary—your thoughts drift off to Logan. You imagine him sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, waiting for you to join him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach, and you try to ignore the heat growing at the bottom of your belly. Maybe you should’ve taken a cold shower instead.

You finish up in the shower, turning the water off and grabbing a towel. You reach for your pajamas, only to realize you forgot your bottoms and your bra. You step into your panties and shrug your oversized band t-shirt over your head. You push the bathroom door open just a crack, and seeing no one in the hallway, you make a break for it, tip-toeing to your room. You slip inside and shut the door.

Logan coughs from behind you, and you whip around. “S-sorry,” he stutters, standing up from the edge of the bed. He’s shirtless, just like you imagined he’d be, wearing only a pair of boxers. His hair is still damp from his shower. “I didn’t mean to—”

You cut him off. “No, no,” you assure. “It’s totally fine.” You’re worried you sound too eager, too focused on making sure he stays. You clear your throat nervously, stepping towards your duffle bag. You lean down, hoping your t-shirt is still covering your ass as you rifle through your belongings. You groan when you finally realize you forgot to pack pajama shorts. You stand up and make your way around to the left side of the bed.

“Everything okay?” Logan asks, following suit and walking to the right side of the bed.

“Yeah,” you say. “I, um…” You trail off, motioning towards your duffle bag. “I forgot pajama bottoms,” you finally spit out. “If you’re uncomfortable or—”

“No,” Logan cuts you off this time. “I’m not uncomfortable at all.”

You smile, climbing into the bed and slipping under the covers, and Logan does the same. He rolls onto his side and turns off the lamp—the only light on in the room. The space is engulfed in darkness save for the pale light of the moon pushing through the curtains.

You take a deep breath; you’re more nervous than you can comprehend. You could simply turn away from Logan, but you’re too anxious to move. Your stomach somersaults as his knee brushes against your thigh. You force your eyes shut, your heart beating rapidly in your chest.

“I can hear your heartbeat, you know,” Logan mumbles into the dark room, shuffling under the covers. “You okay?”

You swallow harshly, humming a soft mhm, too distracted to form a complete sentence.

“I know you aren’t telling the truth, pretty girl,” Logan whispers, his hand finding your waist. “I can sleep on the couch, if you—”

“No,” you protest, the words escaping your lips almost uncontrollably. “It’s f-fine,” you stammer. “I’m fine.”

He chuckles darkly. “Then what’s got you so worked up, huh?” Oh. He knows. He has to know. You can hear it in his voice.

“N-nothing,” you lie, your eyes fluttering open. Logan is closer to you now, his fingertips trailing down to your thighs, to the hem of your shirt.

“Relax,” Logan husks, his hand slipping back up your body and settling on your waist. He tugs you closer to him. “This okay?” He asks, and you hum a quiet yes. You can feel the tension thickening, feel it readying to snap. He breaks the silence. “Thought about this all day, you know.”

Your eyes widen at the confession. “Th-this?” You ask, your legs tangling with his.

“Being alone with you,” Logan rasps. Your shirt hikes up as he pulls you into his chest. “Wanted to get you alone earlier,” he says, his hand sliding back down your body, playing with the hem of your shirt before slipping underneath. His fingertips drag along your stomach.

You curse under your breath, Logan’s forehead pressing against yours. “Logan,” you whisper, his name the only thing you can think of. You’re sure he can smell the arousal building between your thighs.

“There’s no going back from this. You know that, don’t you?” He whispers, his breath hot against your lips. He’s so close, his thigh pushing between your legs, bumping against your core.

“Yes,” you sigh. “Don’t wanna go back.”

Your eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by how close Logan is to you. “Good,” he breathes. “Because you have no idea how much I need you.”

His lips crash against yours, his thigh dragging along your core. You moan into his mouth, his tongue swiping across your lower lip. You part your lips, inviting him inside, his tongue tasting yours.

“Logan,” you whine, involuntarily bucking your hips, grinding down on his thigh. “N-need you too.”

“I know, beautiful,” he soothes, gripping your waist, rolling you onto your back, pushing you into the mattress. “Fucking thought about you all day, always thinking about you.” He slides your shirt up above your tits, drinking you in with his eyes. “Wanted you for so long, pretty girl.” He hovers over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand explores your body.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he palms your left breast, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and then doing the same to the other side. It’s dizzying having him this close. You can smell his body wash—notes of musk and pine and a hint of leather on his skin.

“Please,” you beg, not quite sure what you’re even begging for. All you know is how badly you want him—need him.

Logan buries his face into the crook of your neck as his thumb rolls over your nipple, biting down on your pulse point and sucking the sensitive skin between his lips. “Please what, darlin’?” He mumbles, continuing his assault on your neck.

“F-fuck,” you whimper, your hips rocking against Logan’s. “W-want you to fuck me.”

“Yeah? That what you want?” Logan teases, his hand pushing between your legs, his fingertips finding your clit through your panties. “What if I wanted to taste you first?”

“W-whatever you want,” you moan, grinding down onto his hand. “I’m yours.”

He lifts his head from your neck and presses his forehead to yours. “Whatever I want?” His voice is thick, cocky, almost mocking. “You’re mine,” he husks, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, then to your jaw, your neck. “All fucking mine.” He crawls down your body, trailing kisses down the valley of your breasts, your stomach, stopping just above the hem of your panties.

Your hips lift off the mattress as his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and he tugs them down your legs, throwing them to the floor. He nestles between your thighs, his breath hot against your cunt. You tremble in anticipation, watching as he breathes you in, his jaw working. You can see in his eyes that he’s holding himself back.

“Are you sure you want this, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice suddenly soft, his cockiness replaced by genuine care. "Not gonna be able to stop once I start.” But you know he doesn’t just mean in the moment, right now—he means forever.

“I’m sure, Lo,” you whine. It comes out like a prayer, like a desperate cry, a guilty plea.

And then he buries his face into your heat, his tongue swiping through your folds. He grunts against you, flicking your clit before stroking his tongue through your folds again. “Fuck,” Logan groans, his face pressing harder into you, his tongue exploring your cunt. “Tastes better than I ever imagined,” he mumbles against you, the vibrations of his voice pulsing against your core. “So fucking sweet.”

Your hips jolt away from him as his tongue laps at your sensitive clit. His palms quickly slide under your legs, wrapping around your thighs, yanking you back to his face, and holding you down onto the mattress. “Don’t move, princess,” he chides, his nails digging into your flesh. “Wanna eat this pretty pussy.”

“L-Lo,” you stutter as his tongue draws tight, rapid circles around your clit. You’re already close, his teasing words enough to push you over the edge. But you know he’s nowhere near done—he’s only getting started.

His right hand loosens its grip around your thigh, his nails dragging down the curve of your ass and towards your folds. His fingertips prod your slit, spreading your slick. “So fucking wet for me, pretty girl,” he praises, his lips wrapping around your clit, his teeth grazing the bud lightly as he sucks. “Want my fingers?” He asks, knowing your answer, but wanting to hear you beg for him.

“Yes, Logan, please. Need—”

He’s thrusting two long, thick fingers deep inside you before you can finish your sentence. “Fuck,” he whispers, pulling out and pumping back in—down to his knuckles. He stills inside you, letting you adjust to him. “So goddamn tight.” His tongue laps at your clit. “Gonna have to work you open for me, hm?” He mutters, thrusting in and out now.

You’re so overwhelmed, your swollen clit already overstimulated. He wraps his lips around your clit again, sucking harder this time, his fingers unrelenting as they plunge deeper with every pump. His tongue draws long, hard strokes around your bud, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

It feels like a wildfire is spreading through your veins, a current dragging you under and holding you down. Warmth blossoms in your belly. “Doing so good for me, beautiful,” Logan praises, his fingers fucking into you. Your walls flutter around him at his words, sucking him in deeper. “Know you’re close, pretty girl.”

“Logan,” you moan, his tongue drawing those tight circles around your clit again. He’s adding more pressure, his fingers dragging along your walls, scissoring inside you, splitting you in two. “Please, need to come…” You trail off, your back arching off the mattress, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Come for me,” Logan demands, his voice dark and filled with lust. “Wanna know what it tastes like.” His tongue presses harder into your clit, his fingers rocking in and out of your entrance. “Wanna see that pretty face when you let go.”

And then the tension breaks, white-hot heat pouring freely from the bottom of your belly. Your vision goes blurry as Logan laps at your clit, his fingers still pumping in and out, working you through your high. You moan his name, pleasure ripping through your body in intense waves.

His pumps relax, his fingers stilling inside you before he finally pulls out. His face is still buried against your cunt, licking long stripes through your folds. He’s savoring the taste of your release, drinking every last drop you have to give. “Can’t get enough of you,” he husks. “Could do this forever.”

He licks one last long stripe through your folds before lifting his face from your cunt. He’s a mess—your release glistening on his chin, his hair disheveled, his boxers all wrinkled. Your heart beats in your chest at the sight. All this, just for you.

Logan crawls up your body, hovering over you again, lowering down onto his forearm. “Wanna fuck you, beautiful,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to yours. “Wanna know what you feel like.” His hand slips between your legs, his fingertips finding your swollen clit and giving it a gentle pinch. Your hips buck against him at the sudden sensation.

“Wanna feel you too,” you whimper, your arms wrapping around his back. “Want you inside me, please.”

And then he’s tugging his boxers down his legs, his erection pressing against the inside of your thigh. You can’t see—but you can feel just how massive he is. His tip slides through your folds, spreading your arousal.

“You know how bad I need you?” Logan whispers, his lips finding yours. He bites your lower lip and kisses away the pain. “You know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” And then he sinks himself inside you, down to the hilt with one smooth, fluid thrust. “Thought about this every day since I met you.”

Your muscles release and contract at his words. His hips stall, letting you adjust to the size of him. You feel indescribably full. He’s splitting you open, stretching you out, claiming you as his. His hips pull back, his cock sliding out, and he plunges back in, somehow deeper this time.

“Th-thought about you too,” you stutter, already too fucked out to form a coherent thought. “Always wanted you.” Logan sets a reckless pace as his fingertips find your clit again, working long, languid strokes into the bud, teasing you, leading you on.

“You feel so perfect,” Logan praises, rocking into you, his cock dragging along your walls. “So fucking warm, so tight. Made for me.” His lips are on yours again, his tongue slipping into your mouth, tasting you, swallowing your moans. “Never gonna want anybody else, pretty girl.”

His hips snap against yours, his fingers circling your clit faster now. “Just want you, Lo,” you choke, the tension building at the bottom of your belly, a fire burning through your bones. “Only want you.”

“I know,” he whispers, his voice suddenly soft, contrasting with the way he pounds into you recklessly, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every pump of his cock. “It’s you, just you.” You can hear the emotion in his voice, the sincerity, the desperation, the aching longing.

Your chest heaves against his. He’s fucking you to get closer to you, to be as deep inside you as possible. This isn’t just sex—this isn’t just some tension that needs to be broken. It’s an invisible string keeping the two of you tied closely together. Maybe it was stitched by the Fates centuries ago, laid out carefully, a plan to be executed. Maybe everything that led you to this moment was always meant to be. Because here you are now, his lips soft and hungry against yours, his words tearing through your resolve, his cock buried deep inside you, searching for a way to get deeper. And all you can think is…

This is it. This is what people mean when they talk about love—that word that changes its meaning every time you say it. The word with a definition that always escapes you. You know what it means now.

“Logan, I’m gonna…” You trail off, that fire in your belly spreading through your body as he rams into you, the sound of your skin slapping against his echoing along the walls of the tiny room. His fingers press harder into your clit, pinching softly, and then circling again.

His cock twitches inside you. “Me too, beautiful,” he hums, his pace growing sloppier, his cock throbbing again. “You’re so perfect,” he praises. “Love you so much, pretty girl.”

And then the tension snaps, electricity buzzing through your nerve endings, fire prickling your skin as you melt into him. “Love you too, Lo.” Your muscles contract and release, squeezing around him, coming undone.

Your walls clench around him again, and you know it’ll be the thing that pushes him over the edge. “Fuck, wanna come inside you,” he pants.

You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him close. “Please,” you beg, and with one more thrust he’s painting your walls, filling you up and letting go.

You share one breath, panting, foreheads pressed together as Logan’s pumps slow, his cock stalling inside you. His fingers slip away from your clit, his arms reaching under your back as he carefully pulls out. You feel empty without him inside you.

“Y-you can stay inside, if you want,” you offer as Logan rolls you onto your side, pulling you into his chest.

He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Is that what you want, pretty girl?” He asks, his lips pressing to your nose now.

“Yes,” you whisper. He swallows harshly as one of his hands slides down your body, hiking your leg up and over his hip. He lines his half-hard cock up with your entrance, his lips finding yours as he slides back in. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling of being full of him again.

He groans as he bottoms out. “So fucking good,” he praises, his arms wrapping around your back again, tugging you into his chest.

You lay in comfortable silence, listening as Logan’s breathing becomes rhythmic. Your eyes grow heavy, and you bury your face into Logan’s chest. You can hear his heart beating.

“Love you,” he mumbles against the crown of your head. You can hear the sleepiness in his voice, the exhaustion.

“Love you too,” you whisper, your breathing matching his, like you’re no longer two separate people, but one.

He presses a kiss to your head. “So lucky I met you,” he huffs. You smile against him. “So lucky I finally figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” You ask, looking up at him.

He smiles down at you. “What love is supposed to feel like...” He trails off, and you watch as he chooses his next words. “What living is supposed to feel like.”

You can feel tears brimming in the corners of your eyes, and you do your best to blink them away. “Me too, Lo,” you whisper, pausing…

“Me too.”

tags: @wittyjasontodd @galacticglitterglue @silversprings-mp3 @zxaera @spiderset @alastorssimp @alsoprettyinpink @figsnpassionfruits @prettyseaveins @ilysmdovie12 @evasmlp @derbygracie @rammakela @fanfic-writing-barbie @pedrohoe04 @cosmiccandydreamer @movhoney @honeyfewr @ricefordays-blog1 @maniuplatour *as always, I'm so sorry if I forgot to tag you*

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