#Inject ideas with life | Concept

[t-a-a-1]

CW: pregnancy and complications talks about below.

I can’t help but think Optimus wouldn’t fully understand the true horrors/pain that human pregnancy entails.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s not an idiot. He’d do his research. He’d prepare to the best of his ability. But there’s a massive difference between learning and experiencing. He knows this and thinks he’s mentally prepared for everything.

But complications during labor? (Which, if your a human pregnant with a cybertronian….). Idk how he’d handle it.

I’d imagine that Optimus would try to remain calm. Collected. But easily break apart. This poor Prime is one loss from a total break down.

Anything could go wrong. Emergency C-sections? Total nightmare for him. The idea of you needing to be cut open terrifies him more than he’s willing to admit.

Too weak to continue with labor? He’ll panic. Honestly I actually see him blaming HIMSELF for the ordeal you go through. I mean HE put that sparkling inside of you. Yet YOU have to suffer. He’d want to take away the pain. The sickness. The weakness.

He won’t even entertain the idea of losing you or your sparkling. I feel like the very idea of it happening would break something inside his processor.

Idk, I love your writing with pregnant reader and Optimus. I especially love the “code” aspect of Optimus acting out. That poor confused boy.

You are so smart for this dear Anon! 

I think you are totally right, Optimus would totally freak out especially since he still can’t fully capture the whole pregnancy concept nor how humans’ bodies are capable of creating life. He has a sort of fascination towards the idea and also fear since he can’t understand it. 

I think when it comes to this, Pregnant Reader! Would be the one to explain to him the process (Although Reader is also very scared, being the first human to give birth to a human-alien hybrid) but you reassured him that the best doctors and nurses would be there to tend to you if anything happens.

Then you start explaining to him the possibilities. 

Optimus: What if you are in pain? 

Reader: Well, they will pierce my skin with a needle and inject me with some liquid to try and relieve the pain. 

Optimus: faints 

And if you tell him about a possible C-section? He would start having a panic attack. And when the doctors tell Optimus (to just in case, Primus forbid)  to start preparing for the worst possible outcome? His processor can’t even fully understand that. What is worse than being cut open? Then you tell him that childbirth can be fatal in certain cases. 

His processor’s codes would absolutely go insane. 

“Sparkmate In Danger. Ensure Safety. In Case Of Loss, Activate Spark-Exchange Codes.” 

I would like to think that Cybertronians only have one ‘mate’ their whole lives. But in case of death, they are able to give their own spark to their Sparkmate, ensuring a second chance in life. 

But poor Optimus, you are not Cybertronian so he can’t give you his Spark and that mentally destroys him. The possibility that you can die (because HE made you pregnant) and that he can’t even give his life to you makes him feel like he has failed you as a partner. Like in his eyes, he can’t even do the bare minimum and feels unworthy. 

He will try to keep quiet about how he feels so as to not make you worry but then the day comes and he breaks down, he can’t do it. He can’t fathom you in pain or the mere thought of losing you. His servos tremble. 

But you can tell right away that something is off. And when you ask him ‘What’s wrong?’ he starts breaking down and tells you how he feels. And of course, you comfort him immediately, being the only one who Optimus can let his guard down. Not feeling the need to hide his feelings, worries, nor tears any longer. 

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Super Strength & Super Love 💪 | Johnny Storm Headcanon

Marvel Masterlist

note: I have a full length imagine planned with this same concept as well as a Johnny x 40s!super soldier.

content warnings: slight suggestive/nsfw

Johnny Storm in a relationship with a super soldier would look like:

Johnny and the Fantastic Four had resecured you from the organization you'd been kidnapped and experimented on where you were injected with their own attempt at the super soldier serum. Having been the only successful asset, you were highly valuable to them and forced to do their bidding. That's how the FF stumbled upon you and worked to put an end to the organization. From there you were an associate of the FF and remained at Baxter Building alongside them.

The relationship between you and Johnny progressed following months of flirting, lingering glances, saving each other from psychos, etc. The Four were betting on how long it would take before one of you caved in and asked the other out. Sue won, naturally.

First of all, Johnny is amazed by you. Everything about you really is captivating to him but he is just so attracted by the fact you can stop a speeding car with your bare hands, casually throw him and others over your shoulder, and take on Ben in a sparring match.

You're the first person the Four go to when they need help moving something 💀 "Y/n, could you please lift the couch for me while I vacuum?" "I need this machine next to this one if you don't mind." Even Ben is coming to you for assistance when he's working on the car and will have you lift the vehicle so he can slide underneath.

Along with super strength you also have super reflexes. Johnny loves how you don't even have to look at him to know he tripped passing by you and you're instantly reaching to grab the back of his t-shirt to pull him upright. He'll get all flustered, look at you like you're the embodiment of a God/Goddess and go, "You're so hot, you know that?" "That's very flattering coming from the man made of pure fire."

You two are the life of the party at events. Johnny will show off his flames and you'll display your strength---sometimes lifting Johnny on your shoulders which causes people to stop and stare in amazement.

During missions you'll tag team--him usually in the skies while you cover the ground. Then when you get cornered at a dead-end and need to break through an opened window he'll be like, "Wanna give me a boost, babe?" as if he needs one but you'll squat anyway with your fingers interlaced for him to push off of.

Johnny will watch you work out even if you don't need a spotter. Placing more weights as you bench press, timing your sprints, replacing the punching bag when you send it off its hinges. And when he's feeling naughty Johnny will sit his perky ass on your back as you do pushups while counting as you go. Or he'll lay his whole body as you plank, trying to distract you with cheeky kisses to your neck and shoulder. "Baby, I'm sweating and gross, can you not?"

When Johnny says he loves your strength, he loves it. Especially when you two are making out and your hand comes up to the base of his throat. It'll make all the blood rush down and heat rise as you teasingly grip him as an act of showing how strong you are even in the most vulnerable moments. Of course he knows you'd never intentionally hurt him but just knowing you can roughhouse him turns him on so bad. "Do that again." "Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. You have no idea what power you've given me."

Speaking of roughhousing he fucking loves when you take control by pushing him against the wall, door, bookshelf, whatever flat surface you can find. Like the hand on his throat it gets him all hot and bothered. Once he's had enough of the teasing he'll display his strength by picking you up and throwing you on the bed.

[sabianandocs]

I’m very interested to hear your Gaster interpretation as someone who likes to make my own!

Okayokay long ramble incoming- Kind of a mix of my Gaster lore and the Skelebros since they're kind of intertwined for my stuff --- I'll try to break up the paragraphs with doodles so it's not just a block of text

My version of Gaster is a mix between the usual crazy scientist interpretation and also someone who just really really wants to be a parent. (there is an appeal to the version of Gaster that's just.. Awful and creates the skelebros as experiments, but I wanted to go for a little of a more wholesome approach for my lore cuz I feel like they've been traumatized enough lol)

There aren't any other skeletons in the underground except for Gaster, though, and also I headcanon him as aro/ace so he was like. Yeah I'll figure something out on my own. SO! Inbetween working on the Core and trying to find ways to break the barrier, he did studies in his own time on SOUL magic to find out if it was possible to create life only using the SOUL magic of a single monster (rather than the usual two). His research on how to break the barrier overlapped some with this research so he get away with using the royal science lab/materials/etc for it.

Some science junk, blah blah, he found that it could be possible- if he took a chunk out of his own SOUL. And I suppose probably also the chunks out of his hands to provide the physical material necessary (Can thank Handplates for that idea). And that was a sacrifice he was willing to make for Science and also Child.

(The next section is copy-pasted directly from my lore google doc)

Gaster was cautious with his experiments for his first attempt. He didn’t want to risk a huge chunk of his soul on a first try that he thought would surely abort itself, so he only used a little bit, plus the extra soul power he was able to create through his own desire to have kids and probably some sketchy magic injection type stuff.

However, the first attempt didn’t abort. Despite his hesitancy and being sure that this first run would just be a proof of concept, or to just to figure out where things could possibly go wrong and how to fix them (he did all the calculations beforehand and everything, of course, but real life never plays out like the simulations), the soul actually took and began to create itself. He grew it and took care of it in an incubator in the lab, and during this time he slept at the lab a LOT, terrified that something would go wrong if/when he wasn’t there. As time went on and the soul & vessel it created became more stable, he got a little less freaky weird about being away from it for short periods of time.

  I guess probably this process takes about 9 months because??  That’s how long it takes to build a whole skeleton with magic soul power probably?  Idk man.  Anyway because they’re magic skeletons and there’s no reason to ‘birth’ (read: remove from the incubator) the soul & vessel before its able to support itself (unlike humans, who are all born premature because our heads would be too big otherwise) the new skeleton usually starts trying to become independent (get born) around the developmental size that humans would associate with a 1 or 2 year old.  

And thus Sans was created!  Gaster feels extremely guilty that Sans is so weak because technically it’s his fault for not committing more of his soul to him but he’s so so happy to finally have a kid and does everything in his power to keep Sans safe despite his weaknesses and help him learn how to navigate around them (Including sleeping to regain above max HP!)  

When Sans got old enough to kinda do his own thing around Gaster (like 5 or 6?) Gaster decided it was time to make another kid for a number of reasons: 

To redeem himself scientifically: He had proof he could make a living being, but with Sans he’d hesitated and Sans suffered because of it.  He wanted to make another who was more healthy

To give Sans a sibling: Both because Sans seemed kind of lonely and because he figured they would be able to keep each other safe that way- when they got older the sibling could help protect Sans and ‘make up’ for his disabilities by being able to help him out (Gasters view on it- I used airquotes deliberately. People with disabilities can function just fine on their own. Gaster sees Sans' disabilities of a failing of his (Gaster) own so he views it more negatively because he feels guilty about it.)

Because he wanted to: Gaster always wanted at least two kids and now that Sans was a little more stable and independent Gaster could handle the responsibilities & time dedication of having another little one around

And so Gaster did the whole thing again, but took a bigger chunk of his soul this time and probably more sketchy soul injection things to create more soul power.

And blah blah 9 months of waiting and sitting around in the lab being anxious and BAM!  Papyrus is born!

The boys grew up mostly in the lab and around it since Gaster was so involved in his work, but Toriel and Asgore babysat sometimes too (Papyrus’ memories of the ‘green’ but not remembering Toriel because he was too little).  Gaster was a super involved parent as well, and even hired Alphys as an assist in the lab so he didn’t have to spread himself so thin with work and his kids.  (Alphys only worked on vague assistance type stuff, which is why after Gaster got shattered across time she had no recollection of the deeper workings of the Core or of Gaster’s studies- anything that wasn’t erased with Gaster was really vague surface-level stuff)

As time went on, Sans got interested in the science that Gaster was doing.  Sans and Papyrus hung out at the lab a ton, especially as they got a little older and didn’t need quite as much direct adult supervision.  Mostly Sans just watched after Papyrus, but occasionally he’d watch Gaster work instead or in addition.  Gaster taught him as best he could at an age appropriate level, and so Sans ended up something of a scientific prodigy.  Papyrus didn’t take the same interest & spent most of his time pretending to be a knight and/or learning magic instead.  Gaster taught both of them how to fight & how to use magic in his own homeschooling sort of curriculum (Reason why no one knew them before they showed up in Snowdin- they stayed pretty much just around the lab & the castle)

Oh, also, the cracks in Gaster’s skull appeared after each kid!  Because splitting his soul weakened his magical ability it also weakened his physical form somewhat so he got more brittle.  Sans’ soul piece caused the split down his eye to his mouth, and Papyrus’ caused the one from his eye up his skull- bigger & worse because 1. He was already more fragile after having Sans and 2. Papyrus was a bigger piece of his soul

When Sans was 17 and Papyrus was 11, Sans had been actively helping around the lab and the Core for a few years.

Gaster and Sans were running around the core performing some routine maintenance or something but someone didn’t get the memo that they were in the sector that they were in and started rearranging the Core (as you do.  Literally it’s part of how the place works the hallways get rearranged)  Sans was a little behind Gaster because he’d been fixing up some wires or something and so when he went to catch up he saw what happened next but couldn’t do anything about it.

Gaster was stepping between sectors when the rooms shifted.  He had one foot on the next sector and one on the previous, so when they detached and swung out he got flung.  Directly into the Core.  And was shattered across time and space.

When Gaster got disintegrated across time he took people’s memories of Sans and Papyrus too-  Because they shared parts of his soul, they occupied the same parts of people’s memory as Gaster did, which was all overwritten after the Accident.

Sans and Papyrus also forgot most of their direct ties to Gaster- they remembered having a dad, being raised, the things they learned (magic, schooling, etc) but not anything about their dad, or what he did, or who he was.  Directly after the Core Accident, Sans woke up at their house in the Capital (where Gaster and the boys technically lived when they weren’t all at the lab), only remembering that his dad was gone- but not how, or why- and when he dug in his mind for what his dad looked like or who he was, he got a headache and gave up.  Papyrus was also home.  To the best of their collective recollection and filling in gaps with assumptions, their dad had died, maybe recently?  And now they were on their own.  They had no income anymore, or maybe at all ever?  And they couldn’t afford to stay where they were.  The capital is expensive, after all.  And…  And this house was for royal officials and their families anyway, they weren’t supposed to be there.  They made up the idea that they’d been allowed to live there to get back on their feet after their dad’s death (the king is generous, after all) since the place had been vacant anyway and the king/queen/someone official had felt bad for them.  

So they moved to Snowdin!

Aaaand the next chunk of the doc is on the Skelebros so I'll spare you of it since that's not what you asked. Tbh most of this is probably more than you asked but thank you for giving me the opportunity to ramble!!

[tux1i]

Oof rip quality, jusaa click the pic to make it good noice quality which idk why my quality goes wack

If he was in game, yeah his sprite would be either have this more space to show in the dialog story, A lovable guy that only cherish on person (that is you) and mostly uses Shadow Milk Cookie as his punching bag (if any case If Shadow Milk Cookie tries to raid the kingdom)

____________________

• His limbs are all stretchy not that hard tough crispy cookie kind of texture. He has that those dough cookie (that are edible) and how it makes him that stretchy. His easily to melt and well freeze, but though freezing him is what makes him an actually tough cookie but yknow not crispy. Just hard cookie texture. If a sharp object inject or stab, it felt nothing to him or makes this hole in his dough to avoid it. Pretty much OP if his dealing with a beast cookie. His flexible and stretchy ofc. But it doesn't mean his that OP, of course he can crumbled someways.

• If his actually facing his counter part (Shadow Milk Cookie) he will absolutely destroy him legit. He really does not like Shadow Milk Cookie. For a reason (which is unknown for now). And if any case scenario if Shadow milk Cookie attempts to raid Caprice's kingdom (mostly your kingdom that Caprice is currently living in) Then of course, easy one on one battle for Caprice and Shadow Milk Cookie.

● His weapon is a hammer, yknow like Amy rose. But the handle part of the hammer is this flimsy like not stiff how it can bend. And it's Hella huge compare to Shadow Milk Cookie's tiny staff of his.

• His boing boing bouncy, can jump real high lol

□ Tbh The black dots on his hair sorta fits him, lady bug like with those two piece of hair he has as the antennas lol. Even there was this concept that his beast form is either a Ladybug or a..firebug? And it was supposed to be. .like this protection kind of symbol how his basically protecting the kingdom (which is yours) but he I remember his not a beast, his a special type of cookie so sadly scrap that idea.

□ Another scrap is that he can clone himself, how his so stretchy and able to heal himself. He can just grab a chunk of himself of his dough and using his own magic to clone himself a mini version of him. Or even a clone of him of the same size as him. But I scrap that idea how I'm not sure about that idea.

☆His class was either a assassin or magic (idk lol I sorta forget that I didn't play cookie run kingdom for weeks almost a month since I sorta lose interest playing it.)

♡ by his stretchy dough limb, he would absolutely help you whenever your in cramp schedule. Just stretch here or there to grab and give it to you.

♡ His pupils can change shape and show his energy, like If his pupil were have to his low batter typa display in his heart eye that would mean his low in energy and pretty much being lazy or tired. His only energy is by love and just fuels that energy from you. And he gets hyper from being overwhelmed by love from you. And he doesn't really require to eat (I think?) But if you do make meals or bake, I guess he will try to eat it, but it doesn't make him feel different like feeling full or feeling hungry. His built different for real

• Doesn't like Shadow Milk Cookie. Would throw him in the river

• The swirls are his blushing or embarrassed display, Rather then hue spread in a cookie's face. Just swirls appear and glows if his blushing, embarrassing or flattered.

• The amount of love letter he has for you. Just..tons... he just likes to write, or writing fanfics of you and him xdd also his allergic to flowers. So no flowers, if you don't like flowers then it's good for him since his allergic to any kind of flowers.

♤ Why does he has a love letter on his eye? From what I mention that the witch who created this cookies to life has a little young sister. And when making the creation of Caprice, she accidently knock out a love letter that is a decoration icing for cakes. And yeah.

♤ I forgot also why his head has a cracked part but must've been permanent from his backstory, reference how gems (Steven Universe) having to have a bad experience that cause that part of their body permanently. And it displays there forever.

□ Speaking of Love Letter in his eye, there is a concept of him losing his right eye. For...bad reasons. Or part of the story that I decided to not add it. That I go with the idea that is above this text.

♧ Fact that he can curl himself into a ball or well shape into an armadillo by using his hair. 👍

I sorta like this one, just the curious sprite but up side own

[nonnewtonianracoon]

Okay, I was listening to music and my mind hurt my own feelings so I spent four hours expanding on that! All characters and storyline is from @scientificallywrongsoap and his heart wrenching countdown series on tiktok, the song lyrics are Thank You by The Jolly Rogers, and the pain is ours to share. Grab a pet or stuffed animal, some tissues, and whatever other comfort you need, and strap in because it's long and painful 🙂

We all laugh and tell old stories

Just sittin' in the dark

And not one of them knows that

When we land I'll disembark

Pain, unlike Smith has ever felt. He thought he knew pain, but fuck, it feels like Zed injected lava instead of Ed’s serum. Cuts, breaks, bruises, even bullet wounds he’s nursed time and time again, but this is different. All consuming, stealing his breath as his body begins to mutate. He can feel it before the changes become visible, and he gasps and tenses, hands trembling as he rips off his mask. His desire for privacy is overtaken by the desperate ache in his chest, lungs screaming for fresh air, and he barely notices Zed’s eyes widen as he sees his face, *his* face, for the first time. It’s like looking in an old mirror, the streaks and chips distorting it slightly, a myriad of scars that don’t match, but the base is the same, faces nearly identical even as they’re currently masks of a Venn diagram of expressions: one shocked, one tortured, both terrified. Smith’s racing heart sinks in his chest as a cold feeling of dread washes over him.

We've spent so much time together

Out prowling on the sea

That somehow this strange group of men became a family

Family. What a strange concept. Foreign and familiar all at once. He’s got the Shadows, certainly, but since coming here it’s been…different. He loves his brothers, deeply and fiercely, but it feels almost programmed into him to do so. Not necessarily an obligation, but an unquestionable fact. But the others, the men he’s met since coming to help the doctor with this project, the ones he begrudgingly calls friends only within the privacy of his own mind… they grew on him, like a particularly stubborn fungus, or a wart he just couldn’t dig out the root of. Love is a bit of a strong word, but as his mind whirls through years of memories, he’s surprised to find a lot of them are from the last few months, as opposed to the collage of solely memories of his unit as he had expected. They say the last seven minutes of your life, your brain tries to comfort you by playing a highlight reel; who’d have thought this bunch of chronically ridiculous bastards would have wormed their way into mine so quickly?

We started out no more than boys

With more guts than brains

Doing what they said could not be done

They thought we were insane

But of course, as expected, there are many memories of his brothers. Well, brothers and sister, he mentally amends. I wonder if she’ll ever work up the courage to tell Graves. We all know he’d accept her, but I also understand the fear. How my heart was pounding almost as fast then as it is now when he followed me to that bar, and how worried I was about his reaction, and his dumbass idea was just to throw a paper airplane of “wingman” tips at me with a wink, leave a list of resources and surprisingly helpful books on my bed, and an offer to listen or pretend it never happened. Memories of explosions, fireworks and C4, laughs and screams, kites and drones, life and death, all flashing before his mind’s eye even as the ceiling blurs above him, tears and sweat stinging his eyes as his hands tangle in Zed’s shirt, fighting to stay as aware as possible, time warping around him.

One by one they wandered to their bunks, ready for another day

And I'm left alone here with the stars

Where they can't hear me say:

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and

For all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

Nobody knows. Nobody but Zed and Doc. It was never even discussed to tell the others; not the specifics, anyway. Everything was relatively normal tonight, heightened emotions and anticipation hidden by a practiced facade of disinterest and sarcastic humor. The König brothers had made dinner for everyone; Jack found a new recipe for some ridiculous dessert. It was so bad, but everyone mutually agreed to eat it anyway and choke it down with a smile. The kid had worked so hard on it, and nobody wanted to hurt his feelings. While Jack is a grown man too, every bit as capable and vicious as the rest, he has a fragile quality that tugs at Smith’s protective side. Not quite like WZ and his ridiculous projected naivety, he thinks as a choked laugh bubbles in his aching chest and burning throat, the stupid little pink cat ear headphones he manipulated his way into possession of popping into his head unbidden. No, Jack has an optimism and hope that’s managed to stay untarnished through everything, and the way the kid had literally started radiating a soft yellow when everyone complimented his efforts was worth the horrendous experience of the dessert currently re-appearing all over the floor, forced from Smith’s body as he writhes in agony as a raw scream tears from his throat.

We have seen success and we've watched our fortunes grow

And we have shared more happy times than many men will know

We were all there together when each of us found a wife

Love was something he had never envisioned for himself. Didn’t think it to be possible before coming here, not for someone like him. Stained from the moment he entered the world, designed instead of conceived, honed instead of raised. But watching Swagger and 7-1, as well as WZ and Ghost, he had started toying with the idea, and now the what ifs swirl through him, as bright and hot as embers in the breeze, pinpricks of pain that have nothing to do with the serum overtaking his entire being.

And we proudly watched the children grow

And have a happy life

Childhood. What a novel idea. The thought of being so small, so defenseless and helpless, utterly dependent on the adults around you… it terrifies him. Children terrify him, he’s always known he wanted nothing to do with kids, even as Graves made sure they had as much of a chance to be kids as he could provide. Decorating a Christmas tree, brightly wrapped boxes, chalk and stuffed toys mixed in with new weapons and survival guides. Days where they’d run around a training field with paintball guns or bubble wands instead of actually doing something useful, or watch animated movies with popcorn and candy, building impressive but sloppy forts with blankets and pillows. Graves has his faults, to be sure, but he also did his best to balance what their existence was curated for with the life he said they deserved, and Smith finds himself more thankful for that now than ever before.

And we have shared great tragedy

That none should bear alone

And with every loss and heartache

Our brotherhood has grown

I'm not the first to leave, it's true

Some have gone before

I know without me the crew

Will reinvent once more

Zachariah. Victor. Aaron. Jacob. Eric. They’re skilled, but they’re not perfect, and sometimes good plans go bad. It’s like losing a limb every time, a part of his soul going cold, a corner of his mind going dark, a nail in the coffin of his sanity every time one of his brothers falls. But they always come back stronger, angrier, out for revenge. Some of their best ops were carried out in the name of vengeance. He distantly hopes nobody that doesn’t deserve it gets hurt, the only ones at fault being himself and Ed. Zed and the rest have no blood on their hands, they don’t deserve retribution for his choices.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and foe all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

As the pain intensifies, Smith hears yelling. A small flicker of hope in his chest as the doctor walks in, but it quickly fades as Ed’s eyes fill with disgust and distant loathing, looking at him like nothing but the bodily fluids pooling around him on the floor, cold and clinical, nothing like the warm amusement he thought had been there mere hours ago. Broken tools aren’t worth their space on the shelf, he thinks bitterly, hands tucking under his chin as Zed shoves them off him. A bolt of panic shoots through Smith’s heart, sharp and white hot. “Please,” he tries to say, but the thick, swollen lump of his tongue won’t move right and all that comes out is a disheartened wheeze as his teeth enlarge and change shape, morphing to razor sharp fangs within his gums. Please, he thinks desperately, please don’t leave. I don’t want to die alone, I don’t want you to go, please don’t walk away too. Don’t leave me, please….

With that the coughing starts again

The crimson hard to hide

Hands, on his throat. A sharp pinch, different enough from the agony of the mutations that it stands out. Heat flowing into him, but not the burning flame of the serum; comforting, like sunshine on a spring day. His eyes fly open, eyes he didn’t realise had fallen shut. The foolish engineer crouched above him, silhouetted against the glaring fluorescent light like an angel, even as he curses himself for thinking something so repulsively, dreadfully cliche. But Zed is visibly irate, trembling with righteous fury even as he handles Smith like he’s made of porcelain, touch achingly tender as he monitors the flow of something into the cannula he’s inserted into Smith’s jugular. The substance becomes apparent as the mutations slow, the pain easing slightly, and hope buds again as he stares into the same eyes that greet him from his reflection, as dizzying now as every time before. The weirdest deja vu, even with his unit, he’s never been able to get used to it.

I'm sorry my brothers

Hope you never know I lied

Omission. The guilt is eating him alive; he thought they’d never need to know. His friends here, his family there, he was foolish enough to believe he’d be able to handle this tonight and go back to life tomorrow. Hubris, pure and simple. He had too much faith in himself, and didn’t think to so much as leave a video or note. He thought he was being noble, thought he’d be doing a good thing by helping them, but now he just feels selfish for not having a backup plan for this. He’d had too much faith in the doctor, blind faith, and now he’ll be little more than a cautionary tale once they find out exactly what happened.

But this one won't get better, lads

And I know it's true

So I choose to walk away before I burden you

The pleasant warmth is fading, the australium not doing enough to counteract the serum, and Smith now knows with certainty he’s going to die tonight. There’s no peace, no grim satisfaction of a job well done, no morbid excitement at the possibility of reuniting with his fallen brothers, just the cold claws of failure sinking into his heart as Zed’s tears fall on Smith’s face, the former having noticed the pain creeping back into the latter’s eyes and reaching the same bitter, cold realization.

I will say the time is right

For me to go my way

And I know you'll understand

Or at least that's what you'll say

The excuses he’d made when he came here, the cajoling and borderline begging he’d had to do to try to get permission, the way it failed and he slipped out in the night because this felt so goddamn important he was willing to risk everything to help. The excuses he’d made to himself to justify it, staying in contact with a couple of his brothers to keep them from panicking and launching a search party. How he’d had the lecture of his life when Graves found him and called him back, and he had to explain everything and promise seventy three times, in ninety two ways, seventeen silly voices, twelve ridiculous accents, and four languages to ***be careful*** and here he is, dying on a cold tile floor because he overestimated his abilities; something they’d all been warned against from the start. He’d been so sure he was making the right call, but now he’s no longer able to justify it to himself. The harsh reality is unforgiving and he finds himself wishing for just one more. One more stupid movie in a blanket fort, one more adrenaline crazed mission, one more stupid dad joke from Ghost, one more day of chasing bubbles in the sun and drawing chalk flowers and practicing penmanship on the concrete parking lot, one more godawful meal that’s somehow undercooked and burnt but still tastes better than the most expensive restaurant because it was made with care…

I will wish you luck and watch you sail upon the sea

For the first time in forever

I will just be me

What will it be like? To not be part of a unit? Every day, dozens of iterations of his own face swarm around him. Tiny differences, but nearly identical. He’s always had his own opinions and preferences, but he’s never been a singular person. Even here, he’s nearly a carbon copy of Zed. How nobody ever noticed is beyond him….. He’s never considered the afterlife, never really felt drawn to; now is probably the best time to do it, he muses as his mind starts to separate from his body and the growing distance between his mind and the soul shredding agony allows his thoughts to begin to clear and grow more cohesive. But what’s the point in speculation? He’ll be finding out soon enough, anyway.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and for all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

A conversation, words exchanged between himself and Zed, each breath growing more shallow and ragged. Tears from both men, twin expressions of guilt for different reasons, and a twin hatred for the man they butted heads over for so long. Animosity for each other morphing and joining, aimed at the doctor who’s hands are now stained with Smith’s blood even though it’s Zed’s that spilled it.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and

For all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

Forgiveness and acceptance, even as the fire within him grows unbearable, even as words start to lose meaning and become abstract shapes in his ears, the world going dark around him. Hearing is the last sense to go, and through the heavy darkness overtaking him, Smith hears a variation of the same vow he himself has made, five times over. A vow of revenge.

Thank you for being the best

Mates I've ever had

I hope you laughed and cried, and I am immensely proud of this so be nice or I might cry. Alas, Glitch has set these characters loose in the world and they have been plaguing me, so I decided to take the muse and skedaddle. (Also this is my formal written apology for the Graves slander in your comments, Glitch. I hope it suffices.)

I hope I did them justice, and I hope you suffer as much reading this as I did writing it 😁💜

[usafphantom2]

Was the additive A-50 used by the CIA and the Air Force on their Blackbirds?

Dr. Richard Bissell, the CIA’s Special Assistant for Planning and Coordination, who was managing the program, was so worried about this particular issue, (hiding the plume of the afterburner) that he had considered calling for the scrapping of the entire development of a U-2 successor. ( it was a high priority for the CIA to disguise the A-12 as much as possible. The A-50 additive option is what pushed the CIA into giving the contract to Lockheed instead of Convair) Linda Sheffield

That’s where the cesium additive, which eventually became known as A-50, came in an idea that Lovick claims saved the A-12 program.

The basic principle behind this is a concept known as “plasma stealth.” In the simplest terms, this involves creating a cloud of plasma, or ionized gas, around some or all of an object. The plasma then absorbs electromagnetic radiation, such as radar waves, preventing them from reflecting. There are multiple ways to generate the required plasma Lovick’s idea was to inject an alkali metal, via a fuel additive, into the extremely hot exhaust streams, where the heat would turn it into an ionized gas. The question remains today did they use it or not? There is evidence pointing in both directions. Also, was this additive used in the SR 71?

I think this is highly possible as they converted KC 135s to be able to carry the additive with some degree of safety. The segregated fuel system on the KC-135Q tankers, which the Air Force eventually re-engined with ( A-50 ) CFM56s to create the KC-135T variant, would have largely eliminated the concerns about the additive finding its way into the tanker’s engines for any reason. KC-10 Extenders, which also supported the Blackbirds later in their service life, also could keep the JP-7 separated from the aircraft’s fuel load.

My father, Butch Sheffield a Pioneer in the SR 71 program in his notes. Discussed the additive and admitted that it could’ve been toxic to humans.

This picture shows an A-12 flying over Area 51 in Nevada or nearby that area. What is being emitted from the back of the A-12 is a combination of JP-7 fuel and heat exhaust it was not just dumping fuel. The other photo is a picture of the J 58 engine in a test mode which shows how much energy and power was emitted from the engines of the A-12 and the SR -71 that were hard to disguise but was possible with the additive A-50.

If nothing else, though, the development of the A-50 additive is another intriguing and very obscure part of the story of the A-12, as well as its successor, the SR-71, much of which remains unknown to this day, and it also offers intriguing insights into the dawn of stealth technology.

@Habubrats71 via X

[partofmycharm]

Prayers

-

Pairing: Female Reader x Male Yautja

Synopsis: You’ve been trying for a baby with your Yautja mate for a while now.

Content Warnings: struggling to get pregnant, happy ending, SFW

🪽

You’d heard him praying every night.

For a while, you’d given him space. It worried you a little, sure, because he’d never done that before. But the last thing you wanted was to make him feel that you were invading his privacy.

That was, until, you left the bathroom one night, having spent longer than usual.

You were on your way back to your shared bedroom when you passed the main area. Your mate never closed the door behind him, so you saw him, his head bowed, legs tucked underneath him.

Your living situation saw you both on the mothership—a temporary arrangement, and one that provided breathtaking sights of the space around you.

And that’s where he sat. In front of the alcove in the window. He didn’t watch the nebula they passed in the distance. Through the reflection, you could see his eyes were closed as he held his own thighs.

“…if Paya… grace us… blessing of a pup…”

You left quickly after that. There were no doubts that he’d heard you. But he never mentioned it—not a single thing.

You two had been together for a few years now. You’d always been toeing the idea of starting a family, it was never something you’d ever consider, but after settling into this new life, the concept was more compelling. With advanced medical technology at your disposal and seeing how family-oriented your mate actually was, it persuaded you into the idea.

So, you received the injections, the ones that made you able to reproduce.

But to no luck. It had been a few months, and never once did those tests yield a positive result. Your mate was heartbroken, but you tried not to be so down about it.

It broke your heart to know he had been praying for it every night.

And when you waited for him to come to bed, it’s all you could hear. Murmured words in his native language became church bells ringing through your skull.

He would always come to bed and hold you tight right after.

You decided to join him one night. When you knelt next to him, legs tucked beneath you, he looked at you.

You took his hand. He prayed with you, that night.

And when your pregnancy test yielded positive a few days later, you couldn’t help but wonder if Paya had been waiting to hear your voice that entire time.

🪽

[yanderes-galore]

Darling escaped Wesker and is hiding from him, being constantly paranoid and all. She takes a hike and gets captured by the Las Plagas cult but before they can do anything Wesker arrives (because he was conveniently around, watching Ada). How would the reunion be like? - 🐈 anon

I was confused at first but found out you meant the Separate Ways DLC. Here you go! Did a concept as not specified.

Edit: I only just saw this was meant to be a female darling I'm so sorry, but I hope you like it despite my mistake- 💀 The only gender related thing is in one thing Wesker said anyways-

Yandere! Wesker "saving" Kidnapped! Darling

(RE4: Separate Ways)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Kidnapping, Possessive behavior, Stalking, Violence, Thoughts of murder mentioned, Forced relationship.

The whole scenario just sounds unfortunate for you.

From one bad situation to another.

Then potentially back to the first one.

Escaping Wesker is a feat within itself.

He usually always has an eye on you although he isn't as deadly as he is in RE5.

He may even be impressed that you managed to slip by, if not annoyed.

Not only is escaping a feat but hiding from him is also an achievement.

So to stay away from Wesker's sight you hide in the woods.

For awhile you learn to survive.

You take hikes to stay in shape and find food as you go.

You yearn for your old life... the one before Wesker.

Hikes have been the only way you were able to cope.

At least... that was until you encountered Los Illuminados.

The reason for taking you in could be for any number of things.

However the most likely reason would be for experimentation.

Injecting people with Las Plagas makes the cult grow.

It just so happens you were a vulnerable target.

They most likely had no idea who you were (unwillingly) connected to.

As a result you are chased and dragged to a cell for later use.

Around this time Wesker would've sent Ada to look for the amber he needs for his virus.

He may have even asked her to find you if she was able to.

Wesker is no doubt searching for you ever since you managed to leave his gaze.

He'll admit it's felt... odd to not have you around.

He doesn't like the feeling of being unable to hold you, feel your warmth, or breathe your scent.

As a result he's been on edge.

Not only must he make his virus but he also needs to have you by his side again.

Imagine his surprise (and anger) when he sees footage of you being carried away through Ada's lenses.

Wesker knows if they hurt you he's going to gut them all.

Plans have changed. He orders Ada to keep an eye on you while looking for the amber.

He's finally found you again... and he plans on retrieving you along with the amber.

As a result you end up meeting Ada.

You have no idea she's working with Wesker or why she's here.

All you know is once she sneaks into the prison and stands in front of your cell, you're saved.

Wesker most likely didn't say why you were so important.

He doesn't need Ada to know your past.

You and him have had history, romantic history in his eyes, and he'd just about blow up this entire island to have you.

If Wesker really can see footage through Ada's cameras then he watches the screen intently.

You look so dirty, malnourished, and unkempt.

He can fix that once you're back in his arms.

He wonders as he watches you if he should be punished.

However, the fact you were kidnapped by the cult seems punishment enough.

It only proves the reason he took you in to begin with.

You're weak without him... you need him in order to be stronger.

Surely you'll learn such a lesson by the time he comes to pick you up.

The moment Wesker comes onto the island, he calls Ada and demands she brings you to him.

Until then he watches the island to catch sight of you.

He's been patient with you... but you have to come back with him now.

Right where you belong.

It's a sad sight to see.

You trusted Ada to save your life, what does she do in return?

She brings you right back to Wesker.

The moment your eyes land on the blonde haired man, you try to go the other way.

You shake your head but Ada nudges you in front of her.

"You've managed to retrieve them, but what of the amber?" Wesker asks Ada before beckoning you closer.

There's silence between you as Ada explains she still needs to find the item.

You feel betrayed as Wesker sends her away before turning to you.

"I applaud you for making it this long. But you must know you weren't going to last long."

You're roughly dragged into Wesker's chest as he checks you over.

He's checking for scratches and signs of any parasite you could've been infected with.

If you were hurt his mind is set.

"For now... you're punished enough." Wesker tells you, but he doesn't let go. "But I'm not done here."

"You're going to take me back..." You whisper, defeated.

"This is only proof that you can't survive without me. You got yourself captured by someone else." Wesker frowns, annoyed.

"They won't leave this place alive. None of them will."

You stay silent, feeling Wesker stroke your head before kissing the top of it.

He hasn't been able to feel you in so long.

He feels you struggle a bit but he doesn't care.

All that matter is he has you again.

He'll make sure you're brought back onto his boat and watched.

You're coming back with him.

Meanwhile, he'll make sure there's nothing left of the cult that took you after he's obtained the amber.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Do you have any more ideas or plot bunnies for your “I see dead people” au? It’s one of my favourite series on ao3. I think more stories should make Tim be a little more fucked up… also I love drama and angst, and addiction is so good at creating drama and angst

i actually have a whole document about a relapse fic because i'm a sucker for angst, but i doubt i'll ever get around to writing it because i liked the way i ended things in the series and this would be a whole 'nother can of worms, but i can give you all the highlights of the notes i have on this concept:

Tim relapses after being in Mr. Oz’s prison; while he was trapped there, the only people he had to talk to were the ghosts of his past, but as the isolation took over and he started losing touch with reality, he lost touch with them as well. He started to see people he thought were living—Dick and Bruce and Damian; they’d show up to rescue him and then halfway through the delusion they’d vanish. Then the worse ghosts come, dead villains and people he failed.

It fucks him up.

When he’s back in Gotham, he really does try. He doesn’t want to destroy all the progress he's made, but the voices get so loud and it’s too overwhelming, Tim can’t take it. So he finds a dealer in Crime Alley and buys a baggie of Xanax. Just to take the edge off, he reasons with himself. He’s clean now, he knows his limits. He’s not going to let it be a problem again this time.

Obviously it becomes a problem.

Tim goes about his life like normal except nothing is normal. He can’t pay attention to anything Bernard is talking about on a date because he hasn’t had a dose since this morning. Bernard asks if Tim is feeling sick; Tim brushes it off. Liar, Alfred's ghost whispers somewhere behind him. He excuses himself to the bathroom and snorts two crushed-up pills off the back of his hand.

Jason notices because he’s Jason. “He’s using again, you know that right?” Bruce and Dick says no he’s not, they would notice if he were using again. But Jason can always tell. Tim’s just gotten better at hiding it. He doesn’t know what Tim’s on this time, but he’s definitely on something.

Meanwhile Tim has started taking Oxy because the addiction is different this time around, the same things that worked before don’t work as well on him this time, he needs more of it. He needs to stop seeing them. Needs to stop feeling.

You’re losing it, he hears Dana's corpse croon in his ear.

Bruce confronts Tim, who insists he's doing fine and everything is normal. Bruce calls his bluff; “Then you won’t be opposed to a blood test?” “Sure, let’s do it. If that’s what it’ll take to get you guys off my back, then fine.” He follows Bruce to the hallway, then slams the door behind Bruce’s back and locks it. It isn’t going to actually stop him, but it’ll give Tim the ten seconds he needs to get out the window.

Tim stays gone for three days. He's hiding out at one of his safehouses that none of the others know about.

He just bought a fresh bag of Oxy from some sketchy guy he’s never bought from before, but he’s desperate. Usually he scans everything he buys and makes sure it’s safe and as pure as he can get, but hard times and all that. He injects it and lets the high wash over him, silencing the ghosts again. He sits on the floor because walking to the bed is too much work. He’s completely alone. Not even the dead for company. It’s like being in the cell all over again, and he can’t take it. He fumbles for his burner phone and calls Jason.

“Tim, is this you?” Jason answers even though he wouldn’t have this number saved anywhere. Have they all been worried this whole time? Tim sniffles. “Hi, Jay.” “Kid, where the fuck are you?”

“Don’t tell Bruce, please don’t tell Bruce, he’s gonna be so mad at me.” “He’s not mad, he just wants you to be okay. I’m gonna come get you, and we’ll talk about it, all right? We can figure it out.” “He’s gonna hate me.” And Tim feels sick, sicker than the withdrawal.

He can hear Jason calling his name from the phone he's dropped on the floor. “I don’t feel good, J’son.” He lies down staring up at the ceiling, and he sees his own face swimming above him, except that doesn’t make sense because Tim isn’t dead, right? He’s not a ghost.

Is he?

Tim wakes up in the hospital. “Wh’t…” “You overdosed on fentanyl.” Makes sense. He was too eager for a high he didn’t bother to check what he was putting into his body.

Bruce explains that Tim has been in the hospital for a day now, he’s in the thick of withdrawal. They’re giving him regular doses to keep the come-down from killing him, but no more than that. He’s going to be feeling like this for a while now. Tim remembers how bad it was the first time. He starts crying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” “It’s all right, son. You made a mistake. I’m not going anywhere.”

aaaaaaaand that's all i've got ❤️

(feel free to ask me about follow-ups or scrapped sequels to other fics of mine because i have so many it's not even funny, i literally have a whole google docs folder titled The Vault™️filled with pieces of fics that i've cut out or sequels i gave up on lmao)

[marifilue]

Part 10: What Remained Of Us

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Warnings: Violence, Angst, Mature content

Word count: 24.8k

A/N: This turned out to be longer than I intended because I really wanted to give these two a proper goodbye. Apologies for taking more time than usual, and thank you for reading this final part. I've written 92k words which is roughly 300 pages for this fic series, so enjoy! :D

What Makes Us Human Completed

<- Part 9

Einstein was right about his theory of relativity, not that you were the biggest fan of physics class back then, but sure, you caught a thing or two. The past three weeks had felt like the longest you’d ever experienced. Since that collar was... Wow, you can't believe you could say it in a past tense now. Since that collar was restraining your ability, three weeks had felt like a three goddamn shitty years.

You didn’t even feel that way when you were nothing more than a servant to the military. Back then, the concept of time blurred as you grew strangely fond of your well, forced mutation. As much as you despised the idea, you’d made peace with yourself, the ability is cool as fuck. You’ve had it for twenty eight years now yes, you counted. Twenty eight years is longer than the age you received those injections: twenty seven.

Back to that theory of relativity, one you could actually apply right now, in your daily life. You swore the clock was lying when you glanced at the table to check the time, how many hours had you spent with Logan on this bed? The two of you had agreed to clean up together after this mess—the one both of you, but particularly him, had made. Yet, you kept saying, “Five more minutes,” as you lay there, cuddled in his arms, skin to skin.

Both of your naked bodies were tucked under the warmth of the blanket. His left arm served as your human pillow, while his right hand roamed over your body, tracing circles with his fingers. Your right hand never left the toned muscles of his abs. You’d had your intrusive thoughts about licking them earlier—which he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, judging by his expression, he enjoyed it. That look on his face would never leave your mind, and it made you smiled to imagined it again, as your fingers trailed down his happy trail. Only after that blissful moment, which felt like heaven on earth, did you finally glance at the clock. It was already dark outside, but seriously—eight p.m.?

"Shit, it’s eight." Your head whipped from the clock back to Logan.

He let out a weak chuckle. "Still wanna shower?"

You shrugged, letting your palm glide over the popped veins on his bicep. Good god, he really was a sight. For a guy who’d been around since forever, he definitely hadn’t wasted a second of it achieving this every man's dream physique.

Before you could answer, not wanting to pass the chance to shower with his Greek marble statue-like figure, a muffled knock echoes from the hall. The sound is faint, making it clear it didn’t come from your room’s door, you assume it’s Logan’s room, across from yours.

You glance toward your door, pulling the blanket higher over the two of you. “Looks like you’ve got company.”

Logan continues to squeeze your waist gently, as if he could reassure you. “Probably Marie. Kid can’t breathe five minutes without seein' me.”

You let out a low chuckle, knowing that despite the joke, the two of them have grown attached to each other. You can’t help but think Marie might have a little crush on him, but you don’t really see that as a problem. She’s a teenage girl, and Logan found her during a hard time, like a savior kinda way. It’s a pretty reasonable feeling for her to have.

Still, you can see Logan loves her like she’s one of his own, like a daughter. Damn, he’d make a great father, you think to yourself.

But then, a voice pulled you out of your thoughts about Logan—a voice you’d become all too familiar with.

"Logan? I’m coming in." Ororo voice faint.

The steps faltered as the door handle jiggled, only to stop short. You glanced up at Logan, sharing a silent, mutual hope. This was kind of a fucked-up situation. Shit.

Thank god you’d insisted Logan lock the door.

"That’s new," Logan muttered, more to himself than to you.

You clutched him tighter, shrinking into his warmth as if trying to make yourself as small as possible. Other thoughts began creeping into your mind now, like how the team would react to this. You and Logan? Nobody could’ve seen this coming.

The two of you didn’t say a word—not that it felt awkward. In fact, it was comfortable, really. Such a safe feeling, one you hadn’t realized you’d been longing for all this time.

Then the silence broke with the one thing you dreaded most at that moment: a knock. And it wasn’t just any knock—it was on your door now.

Shit, shit, shit.

You straightened up immediately, your body tensing as if facing an active threat. Ororo called your name, her voice loud and clear.

Instinctively, you whispered to Logan, "Go! To the bathroom, now." He half-frowned in response, clearly taken aback by the sudden secret-affair role he didn’t remember signing up for.

"Why?" he asked, with the audacity to question you in this situation. You shot him a look.

"It’s Ororo!" you whispered harshly, your tone low but not lacking bite. "The door opens straight this way—she’s gonna see you. C’mon, chop chop, mutton chops." You chuckled softly at your own words. God, you hadn’t called him that in what felt like ages.

Another knock came, firmer this time, followed by Ororo’s voice, clearer and more insistent. "I can hear you in there. Open the door."

You didn’t miss the way he rolled his eyes, accompanied by that signature grunt of his. Was he really going to risk everything by staying in your bed for Ororo to see? Dear god, you had a reputation to uphold here.

When he didn’t move fast enough, you gave his body a shove, forcing him to get up. Standing, you pointed firmly toward the bathroom. He picks up his clothes and walked as if it was the heaviest task in the world, each step deliberate and slow.

Meanwhile, you scrambled to pick up your panties from the end of the bed and your shirt from the floor, throwing them on to look at least somewhat appropriate. Pacing toward the door, you took a deep breath, preparing yourself for whatever came next.

Now standing in front of your door, you glanced back at Logan—he hadn’t even reached the bathroom yet. "Close the door, c’mon, faster!" you whispered urgently, not even sure if he’d hear you. Finally, he walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Your focus shifted back to the door. With a sigh, you unlocked it and opened it halfway.

Ororo’s expression immediately shifted from irritated to slightly shocked. She lets out a small gasps, her jaw dropping before she quickly covered it with her palm.

You raised your eyebrows, smiling awkwardly. "Ro?" you asked, clearly puzzled by her sudden reaction.

She scoffed, then broke into the widest smile you’d ever seen. "The collar!"

The realization hit you as your hand instinctively went to your neck, your fingers brushing against bare skin. It was a feeling you hadn’t taken the time to savor, too busy savoring Logan earlier.

"Yeah, Hank figured it out," you said softly, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips.

Ororo stepped forward, her joy radiating as she wrapped her arms around your neck. Dear god, you hoped she wouldn’t mind the sweat on you, or the lingering smell. You returned the hug, wrapping your arms around her back.

As she briefly opened her eyes, her gaze landed on the mess of your bed. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, but she said nothing. It definitely wasn’t her business—but judging by the faint shift in her expression, she could’ve guessed.

She pulled back, flashing another wide smile, her shining teeth on full display. "I thought Hank was messing with me," she said, her hands lingering on your shoulders before letting go completely.

"He did a really great job. I couldn’t be more thankful," you replied, smiling.

Ororo’s gaze softened briefly before she glanced around the room. "Where’s Logan, by the way?"

Panic hit you like a freight train, and without thinking, you blurted, "I haven’t seen him all day."

The lie spilled out so suddenly that it caught even you off guard. Ororo furrowed her brows, her head tilting slightly. "That’s strange. Hank told me he gave the chip to Logan to unlock your collar," she explained, her eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

You clicked your tongue, realizing you’d been caught red-handed. "Right, of course," you stammered, quickly pointing a finger at Ororo. "Sorry, I just woke up. He did bring the chip to unlock the collar, but then he left."

You were doubling down now, lying even more. Ororo’s expression tightened—she wasn’t buying it.

"Alright then," she said, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to press further. "Anyway, the Professor left for another conference. Scott thought it’d be great for us to hang out—just at the bar down the street. I’m heading there with Jean and Hank. You wanna come? We can ask Logan to look after the kids. It’s Friday night, after all."

Your response came a little too cheerful, the faux excitement evident even to yourself. "That would be great!" you chirped.

"I know, right? We'll just have to find Logan first" she said, her tone bright.

You chuckled nervously. "But I can’t," you said, shaking your head.

Ororo blinked, taken aback. "Why? Come on, you deserve it."

You nodded with a soft smile. "Yeah, don't worry about me you guys have fun. I’ll stay and look after the kids. Besides, Logan’s nowhere to be found, and I’m just feelin a bit tired, s’all." You placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, hoping to ease her concern.

Though your excuse was flimsy, Ororo relented with a sigh. "Fine, but I’ll bring you something, don’t worry."

You smiled again, leaning slightly toward the door, hoping she’d leave soon. "I’m counting on it," you said with a light chuckle.

As Ororo turned back and disappeared down the hallway toward the stairs, you finally closed the door and leaned against it.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you glanced at the bathroom door. You’d just hidden Logan—from Ororo—in your room.

You walked toward the bathroom door, reaching for the handle. When you pressed it, it didn’t click open—Logan had locked it from the inside.

"Logan?" you called, but there was no answer.

"They’re going out to the bar. You can join them if you want to," you said, raising your voice slightly toward the door. What the hell was he doing in there? You knocked again, this time with a little more force, guessing he hadn’t heard you the first time—but that didn’t seem possible.

"Logan? Open the door," you said, your tone firmer now.

Inside the small bathroom, Logan was already pulling on the jeans he’d picked up from the floor earlier. His shirt rested by the sink, forgotten for the moment as he stared at his own reflection—specifically, his eyes. What the hell was going on with him?

It wasn’t exactly the first time a woman had hidden him. Hell, once, he’d even been stashed in a wardrobe. He had a reputation for getting involved with women already in relationships. He’d even eyed Jean a few times when he first settled into the mansion.

But it had always been just a stupid fling to him—something meaningless. He didn’t care. He never did. At least, not until now. What had changed?

You?

Seriously?

He frowned, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake the thought loose. He felt embarrassed.

You weren’t even in a relationship—there was supposedly no reason for you to hide him. At least, not in his logic. Why’d you have to hide him like that? Were you embarrassed?

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. You were both adults, and so was Ororo. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of... right? Still, the knot in his chest refused to loosen.

Then a thought hit him, one so obvious it almost made him feel stupid for not realizing it sooner. He didn’t actually know if you were in a relationship or not.

The realization stopped him cold. He’d never asked. You’d never mentioned anything. For all he knew, there could be someone else in your life.

The idea gnawed at him, an unexpected twist of jealousy and unease stirring in his gut. Should he ask? Right now, while you were still outside the door knocking and calling his name?

Hell yes, he should. At least then, he’d know.

But then again, did he really want to hear the answer? What if it was something he didn’t want to deal with? What if it changed everything?

He let out a frustrated grunt, running a hand through his hair. His reflection in the mirror stared back, eyes conflicted and filled with questions he didn’t have answers to.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. His attention shifted when something on the floor caught his eye.

A delicate gold necklace with a red heart-shaped pendant lay near his feet, gleaming faintly in the light. His brow furrowed as he crouched to pick it up, holding it carefully between his fingers. For a moment, he studied it, his thumb brushing over the smooth surface of the pendant.

The knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. Without a second glance, Logan slid the necklace into the pocket of his jeans and turned toward the door.

"Logan?" you called again, your voice edged with concern. "What are you doing?"

He ran a hand over his face, sighing deeply before finally making a move toward the door.

The door suddenly creaked open, and there he was, standing in the doorway, shirtless displaying full muscles, jeans hanging low on his hips. Logan’s expression was unreadable, though the faint furrow of his brow hinted at something simmering beneath the surface.

His eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made you freeze mid-knock, your hand still hovering in the air. You opened your mouth to ask what was going on, but he beat you to it.

“You seein' someone?” he asked, his tone gruff, low, and uncharacteristically direct.

The question knocked the air right out of you. For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said—and why the hell he was asking.

“What?” you managed, blinking.

“You heard me.” His eyes searched yours, his jaw set tight. “You got someone in your life or not?”

It wasn’t the question itself that unsettled you, honestly? A reasonable one to ask someone you just had sex with, well. But it was the way he asked it. His voice carried something raw, like he wasn’t just casually curious. Like the answer mattered to him in a way that didn’t quite make sense.

Your lips parted to respond, but no words came out. Instead, you studied his face, the lines around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. Something had clearly gotten to him, but the reasons behind it were a mystery you couldn’t crack. Was this about Ororo catching him here? Or… was it about something else entirely?

“I don’t… I don’t have anyone,” you finally said, your voice slower, more deliberate. “Why suddenly ask?”

He didn’t flinch, but the shift in his posture was subtle. He leaned against the doorframe, one arm braced against it, his knuckles white. His eyes narrowed slightly, though not in anger.

“I don’t get it,” he said, his tone clipped. “You hid me in here. Why?”

Your heart skipped a beat. The way he phrased it, the accusation buried in his words, made your stomach twist. “I didn’t want Ororo to see you because I didn’t feel like explaining. S'all.”

“Explaining what?” he shot back, his voice sharper now.

“That you were in my room!” you snapped, frustration spilling over. “Do you have any idea how that would’ve looked?”

“And why do you care if it would look like anything?” he asked, stepping closer. “Why do you care so damn much what she thinks?”

You took a step back, suddenly feeling cornered even though he hadn’t raised his voice. His presence was overwhelming, and his words, his questions—they all felt like a trap you hadn’t prepared for.

“I don’t know,” you said, throwing up your hands. “I just didn’t want her to think… I don’t know! That we’re… involved or something. God, this is ridiculous. What is wrong with you?”

His jaw tightened, his eyes dark and stormy as they bore into yours. For a moment, you thought he might actually say something real, something honest. But instead, he straightened up, stepping back toward the bathroom.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but still laced with tension. “Forget I asked.”

“Forget you—Logan, what the hell?” you demanded, but he was already turning away.

“Drop it,” he said firmly, grabbing his shirt from the sink and pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

You stood there, stunned, as he brushed past you and headed toward the door. You should’ve let him go. You should’ve let it slide. But something about the way he asked—that vulnerability buried beneath all the bravado—stuck with you.

“Logan,” you called, your voice softer now, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn around.

The door slammed shut behind Logan, the sound echoing in the quiet room and leaving you rooted to the spot, staring at the space he’d just occupied. Your heart pounded in your chest, not from fear or shock, but from sheer frustration.

What the fuck was that?

You try to make sense of the whirlwind that had just stormed through your room. He had the audacity to grill you about your personal life, and then shut down without so much as an explanation? It was infuriating. But then again, wasn’t that just Logan? Always halfway out the door before you could get a real answer, always keeping people at arm’s length.

Fine. Let him brood. You weren’t going to waste your energy trying to figure him out.

The clock on your nightstand read 8:12 PM. Scott, Ororo, Jean, and Hank had definitely left for the bar, excited for a rare night out. You’ve waved Ororo off, claiming you weren’t in the mood. Now, standing alone in your room, you regretted it. At least at the bar, you’d have a distraction.

Instead, you were here, stewing over Logan.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself to move. Stressing around mulling over his cryptic nonsense wasn’t going to get you anywhere. You grabbed a fresh change of clothes and headed for the bathroom, letting the sound of running water drown out your thoughts. By the time you’d finished cleaning up and pulling yourself together, it was close to nine.

You sit down on the edge of the windowsill, propping one foot up as you tighten the final knot of your shoelace. The moonlight filters through the glass, casting shady patterns on the floor. As you lean back slightly, adjusting the fit of your shoe, your gaze falls on the unlocked collar resting nearby.

For a moment, you just stare at it, the light glinting off its cold, unyielding surface. A wave of melancholy washes over you, pulling you into a haze of memories you’d rather forget. Slowly, you reach out and trace your fingertips along the thick metal, its weight almost tangible even without wearing it.

A short, bitter chuckle escapes your lips, breaking the silence. Without warning, you grab the collar and slam it against the concrete edge of the windowsill. The sharp clang echoes through the room, and with enough force, the metal bends slightly. You strike it again and again, as if each blow might break more than just steel.

When the anger subsides, you toss the collar onto the floor, standing over it for a moment. Then, with a final stomp, you turn away, leaving it behind as you step out the door.

You wandered the halls of the mansion, your footsteps light on the wooden floors. Few of the kids were settled for the night, and the usual buzz of activity had quieted down. As you passed the TV room, you caught sight of Logan sitting on the couch, surrounded by a few of the younger kids.

They were watching some old action movie, the screen’s glow casting sharp shadows across Logan’s face. He looked calm, almost relaxed, the gruff tension from earlier smoothed over like it had never existed. He didn’t even glance your way until you moved to leave, your quiet presence catching his attention at the last second.

His eyes was on you as you turned and walked away and you didn’t stop.

Instead, you headed to the library. The heavy wooden doors creaked slightly as you pushed them open, the familiar scent of books and aged paper washing over you. The quiet here was different—soothing, intentional. You let out a long breath as you stepped inside, your tension easing slightly as the door clicked shut behind you.

Finding your usual corner, you pulled a book from the shelf and settled into one of the chairs. You let the silence wrap around you, doing your best to push Logan—and all the tangled emotions he seemed to stir—out of your mind.

As you turned the pages of your chosen book tonight, seated in the most comfortable chair the library had to offer, a loud commotion broke your concentration. The rhythmic patter of children’s hurried footsteps echoed through the halls, accompanied by frantic voices. Your immersion in the world of Wuthering Heights shattered, pulling you back into reality. It was nearly ten o’clock—far past curfew. What on earth was going on?

Curiosity pricked at you, and with a reluctant sigh, you closed the book, setting it carefully on the side table. Rising from your chair, you walked toward the source of the noise.

Outside the library, the chaos unfolded before your eyes. A crowd of panicked children filled the hallway, their anxiety palpable. The swarm of them seemed to converge at the backyard door, spilling out onto the cobblestone path illuminated by faint outdoor lights. From afar, you caught sight of Logan kneeling infront of a boy.

“Back to your rooms, everyone,” you called out, your voice firm but calm. Some of the older teenagers lingered, their curiosity outweighing their obedience. Turning to one of them, you asked, “What happened?”

“I heard there’s a student missing,” a teenage girl replied, her voice trembling.

Your brow furrowed at her words. Missing? Anxiety crept into your chest as you shifted your gaze back to Logan, still kneeling in the yard. Urging the gawking children to disperse, you repeated, “Come on, everyone, back to your rooms. Curfew’s long past.”

As the reluctant crowd thinned, you made your way outside, stepping onto the cool cobblestone steps. Logan’s voice carried through the crisp night air as he spoke to the young boy.

“Listen, Carter, I need you to tell me anything you saw. Did you see a logo? A picture? Maybe a name?”

The small frame of the boy trembling however he chimed in, “I saw a letter. It was on their phone.”

You stepped closer, careful not to interrupt, though Logan briefly glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking with yours for just a moment before returning to the boy.

“Phone?” he repeated.

“Yeah, it was black and had... like, a long antenna,” the boy explained innocently.

“A handy talk,” Logan muttered, lowering his head slightly as if trying to piece it together. “What letter did you see?” he asked, shifting his attention back to the boy.

“Sac, I can read,” he replied with the same innocent tone.

Logan frowned, a slight furrow in his brow as he repeated the word back to her, confused. “Sak?”

The boy nodded eagerly, as if confirming his guess. “Yeah, Sac.”

Logan shook his head, his confusion growing. “How do you spell it?”

Before the boy could respond, something clicked in your brain. The pieces fell into place, and you couldn’t stop yourself from stepping in.

“S-A-C,” you said, spelling it out clearly, each letter cutting through the tension.

The little boy's eyes lit up as he pointed his small finger at you. “That’s right!” he said brightly.

Logan’s expression darkened, the weight of the realization settling over him. He glanced back at you, his jaw tightening.

“SAC, Special Activities Center,” he repeated, this time with understanding—and dread.

The word hit you like a cold slap. You folded your arms against the chill, the night air biting through your sweater.

“Thanks, Carter. You head back inside now.” Logan stand on his feet as he pat the child gently, sending him towards the mansion's backdoor.

Once he scurried off, you stepped closer to him, your voice low but urgent. “What's going on?”

Logan rose to his feet, brushing his hands on his jeans. “That's Carter he's Maya and Ellie friends.”

Your stomach dropped. “Maya? Where’s Maya?”

Logan hesitated, taking a deep breath. “The three of them were playing hide-and-seek out here earlier. Maya wandered out here to find them... she finds Ellie first, then Carter saw two people in black clothes take them two.”

“SAC take them?” you repeated, the weight of the revelation sinking in. “They're connected with the CIA. The fuck do they want?”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But if they’re involved, this isn’t just about them mutants children—it’s about all of us. They’re watching, and now they’re making their move.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your thoughts racing as dread settled heavily over you both. The children inside weren’t safe, not anymore. The larger force at play had finally made its presence known, and the mansion, once a sanctuary, had turned into a trap.

“Shit” you said finally, meeting Logan’s grim gaze. “We need to find them.”

His nod was slight, but the determination in his expression was unmistakable. “We will.”

The team gathered in the common room for a late midnight meeting no one would expected, their exhaustion palpable. Scott slumped in his chair, the scent of alcohol faint but unmistakable, while Ororo leaned heavily against the armrest, her eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Jean sat cross-legged, her fingers massaging her temples, and Hank rubbed his eyes behind his glasses.

The situation frustrated you as bad as it already was. Fuck this. If it weren’t for the team’s fun night out, all of you would be out there looking for the poor little girls. You thought about doing it alone—after all, you were the only adult who wasn’t drunk or exhausted. Wait... there’s still Logan.

Fuck him. You're not going anywhere with him. The two of you still hadn’t addressed whatever the hell was going on between you.

If you waited until morning, they’d sure as hell be hungover or nowhere near the appropriate condition for a mission like this. And knowing these people all too damn well, they wouldn’t let you sneak into a CIA headquarters alone.

But you’d do it anyway.

You’d have to sneak your way out of this. Screw them. They’d be thankful as fuck when you took matters into your own hands.

“We have to address this in the morning,” Jean said, her voice steady but weary. “The professor will know the best approach.”

Of course, one of them would eventually say it. You had guessed it would be Scott, but maybe Jean read his mind first—like she’s probably doing to you right now. Fuck, I should clear my mind, you thought to yourself.

Hank sighed, his fingers tapping the edge of the table. “I’ve done some preliminary research, but it’s just theories right now. The CIA base we suspect isn’t far from here, and given Killebrew’s ties to the military, this might all be connected. If I’m right, they’ve been operating covertly, experimenting on mutants in ways we haven’t fully grasped yet.”

Ororo straightened, her brow furrowed. “That’s not something we can charge into without a solid plan. It’s dangerous.”

Scott waved a hand, his tone slurred but determined. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now, we all need rest.”

Jean nodded, glancing around the room. “Agreed. Maya and Ellie will need us at our best when we go after her.”

One by one, the team dispersed, their heavy steps echoing down the mansion’s halls. But you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. The image of those girls—scared, alone, possibly suffering—played on a loop in your mind. By two in the morning, sleep had become impossible as you kept staring at the ceilings with eyes wide open, contemplating your plan which you came with none.

"Fuck this." You quickly changed into black cargo pants and a tight black long-sleeve shirt that pressed against your figure.

As you stood by the sink, you splashed cold water on your face, trying to steady your nerves for what was to come. But when you reached for the towel, your eyes flicked to the small accessory holder where you usually kept your mother's necklace.

It wasn’t there.

A knot of anxiety tightened in your chest. You leaned closer, scanning the sink area. It had to be somewhere nearby. Maybe it had just fallen off? You crouched down, searching the floor around the sink, your fingers brushing across the tiles in frantic movements. Nothing.

“Come on,” you muttered under your breath, your heart pounding as you pulled open the cabinet doors beneath the sink. Still nothing.

You swallowed hard, the realization sinking in that you might have lost or misplaced it. The thought made your stomach churn—it wasn’t just any necklace; it was your mother’s.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on it. Maya and Ellie needed you, and every second you spent searching was a second wasted. Clenching your fists, you forced yourself to push the worry aside.

You turned back to the mirror, taking a final glance at yourself. Tight black long-sleeve shirt, black cargo pants. "I look like a goddamn ninja," you muttered, trying to inject a bit of humor to steady your nerves.

The necklace would have to wait. Right now, you had to focus.

You grabbed your gear quietly, careful not to wake anyone. The mansion was still, the night cold against your skin as you descended the stairs with heavy black boots. You had just reached the kitchen when you froze.

Logan stood by the counter, cigarette in hand, the faint glow of its tip casting shadows on his rugged features. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Figured you’d try somethin’ stupid,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble.

You adjusted the strap on your gear, feigning nonchalance. “I need to get some air.”

Logan chuckled dryly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Air. Right. All geared up for a midnight stroll?” You frowned but didn’t reply, moving to the sink to double-check your supplies.

“You think sneakin’ out alone is a smart play?” he pressed, stepping closer. “What, you gonna take on the CIA single-handed?”

“I'll take my chances, better than doing nothing.” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “They're out there, and every second we waste, they could be hurting.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “And every second you’re out there without backup, you’re walkin’ straight into their hands. You heard what Hank said—Killebrew’s probably involved. You really think they won’t have another collar?”

You hesitated but clenched your fists. “I won't let such fear stop me. I won’t leave Maya and Ellie to them, Logan. I don’t care what’s waiting for me out there. It’s not like they can kill me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he stubbed out his cigarette in his palm. You could never get tired from the sight of him rolling his eyes at the slight burn sensation on his skin that amused you—well, more than amused in different circumstances, really.

If only he hadn’t been so confusing earlier tonight.

His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “It ain’t about killin’ you. It’s about breaking you. They don’t need you dead—they just need you broken enough to get what they want.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you, but the image of the girls wouldn’t let you relent. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. I’m leaving.”

Logan’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, you thought he’d let you go. But then he stepped back, grabbing his jacket. “You’re a stubborn pain in the ass, you know that?” You blinked as he shrugged into his jacket.

“If you’re hellbent on gettin’ yourself killed, I’m not lettin’ you go alone,” he growled.

Despite the tension, a flicker of gratitude warmed your chest. He might be impossible, but at least you wouldn’t face this alone.

Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter as the car cruised down the empty highway, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. You stared out the passenger window, the dark road illuminated by the occasional passing streetlight. The silence was unbearable, heavy with unspoken tension, until you reached out and turned on the radio.

Bye Bye Bye blasted through the speakers, the upbeat rhythm shattering the quiet.

Logan groaned audibly, his hand darting out to switch it off within seconds.

'Don’t wanna be a fool for.....'

The music cut off abruptly, leaving an awkward void. You furrowed your brows and glanced at him, annoyed, but said nothing. He didn’t either, his jaw tightening as he kept his eyes firmly on the road.

This is gonna be a hell of a ride.

Minutes ticked by in agonizing silence, the clock on the dashboard glowing faintly. You stifled a yawn, the lack of sleep catching up to you. Logan glanced in your direction briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning his focus to the road.

“Sleepy already?” he finally asked, his tone gruff but quieter than usual.

You blinked at the window, counting the sparse cars around you. “Oh, so you talk,” you shot back coldly, not bothering to look at him.

Logan sighed heavily, side-eyeing you before speaking again. “I don’t know whaddya want me to say,” he muttered, his tone carrying a hint of frustration.

Your patience snapped. “Fuck you, Logan. You’re the one pretending like nothing happened between us.”

His eyes flicked toward you briefly before returning to the road, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “I thought that’s what you wanted.” he said, his voice steady but edged with tension.

“No! I don’t want that! Why are you acting like an asshole?” you snapped, shifting in your seat to face him fully.

Logan kept his focus ahead, his jaw ticking. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, but he didn’t raise his voice. “What do you want then?” he asked gruffly.

You opened your mouth to answer, ready to unleash everything bottled inside, but second thoughts hit you like a brick wall. Your throat tightened, and instead of speaking, you clamped your mouth shut and pulled your knees up, hugging them to your chest. Your gaze drifted back to the window, the darkened landscape blurring as tears threatened to sting your eyes.

Logan glanced at you from the corner of his eye, guilt flickering across his face, though he quickly masked it. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible but just loud enough for you to catch.

You swallowed hard, your nails digging into the fabric as you tried to steady your breathing. There was so much you wanted to say, so much that needed to be addressed, but this wasn’t the time. Maya and Ellie needed saving, and there was no room for emotions to get in the way.

You sat there, curled up in the passenger seat, clutching your knees tightly as the car glided through the quiet, empty highway. The faint hum of the engine filled the air between you, a stark contrast to the chaos in your chest. The longer the silence stretched, the heavier it felt, suffocating in a way words never could.

“M’sorry,” you whispered finally, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for exactly, but it felt like the right thing to say.

Logan glanced your way, his brow furrowing. You didn’t meet his gaze, your focus glued to the closed window, your reflection staring back at him. The image unsettled him—the way you sat curled into yourself, dressed in black like you were trying to look intimidating, but failing miserably with your chin resting atop your knees. You looked small, vulnerable, as though you were trying to shield yourself from something unseen.

He clenched his jaw, guilt gnawing at him as he returned his eyes to the road.

Logan took a deep breath, his knuckles tightening on the wheel. What the hell was he supposed to say now? Did you even realize how much he cared for you? How deeply?

Hell, he was out here driving through the freezing cold at two in the goddamn morning. Sure, finding that poor, innocent girl was the priority—but you were the real reason he’d agreed to this. He already knew how reckless and half-baked this plan was, especially with just the two of you. The team is going to be furious, he could already imagine the earful Scott would give him in this situation.

But he couldn’t fight you on it, he knew you too damn well. It was either he came along, or you’d go alone—and the thought of you facing this without him was something he couldn’t bear. Hell, he wouldn’t allow it.

If he had to, Logan would tear the whole goddamn world apart just to stand beside you. Whether to be an acquaintance, a friend, a partner, whatever you’d let him be. He would never leave you to deal with this on your own, not as long as he was still breathing.

“Don’t,” Logan muttered, his voice gruff as if the word was dragged out of him.

You blinked, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, unsure of what he meant.

“I’m sorry,” he growled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I was being a dick.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, surprised. Then, without warning, a small chuckle escaped you.

Logan’s head snapped toward you, confusion written all over his face. “What’s so funny?”

You bit your cheek, trying to hold back your laughter, but it only made it worse. Finally, you shook your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I just... I didn’t think you’d fall for it.”

Logan’s frown deepened, his confusion growing. “Fall for what?”

You shifted in your seat, lowering your legs and leaning back like you didn’t have a care in the world. “It’s okay. Now we’re both sorry.” You grinned at him mischievously. “I just didn’t expect you’d actually admit that you’re a dick.”

His expression darkened further, and he shot you a flat look. “Oh, fuck off.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction, the sound bubbling out of you as his frown became more pronounced. “You’re a horrible person,” he muttered, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

“I know,” you said smugly, leaning back even further and resting your arm behind your head, clearly enjoying your victory.

But your moment of triumph didn’t last long. Logan’s eyes glinted with a mischievous edge as his foot suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The car jerked to a halt, and you—without your seatbelt fastened—were flung forward, hitting the dashboard with a loud thud.

“Ugh!” you grunted in pain, your hand rubbing to your forehead as you turned to glare at him. “What the fuck, Logan?!”

He was still in his seat, untouched thanks to his seatbelt “Sorry,” he said mockingly, his tone laced with sarcasm. “There was a cat crossing the street.”

He didn’t even try to hide his smug grin, leaning back in his seat like he didn’t just commit attempted murder. “Next time, buckle up, tough guy,” he said, his tone dry, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

Your jaw tightened as you fastened your seatbelt with an angry click, not that you should even care because crashing would literally kill none of you, really. But you wouldn't take the chance to be a part of his petty joke again. “You’re so petty,” you muttered, slumping back into your seat, arms crossed.

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “I know.” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as the car resumed its journey. The tension that had once suffocated the air now felt lighter, though your annoyance with him lingered.

You’d get him back. Somehow.

Logan parked the car a few hundred meters away from the high-security compound, the faint glow of cameras scanning the area. The building stood tall in front of you, a modern fortress with high, wire-topped fences and armed guards at every corner. This wasn’t going to be easy.

You both exited the car in silence, you popped the trunk, revealing your gear neatly packed. You reached for the heavy black duffel bag, pulling it out and unzipping it with quick hands. The bag was full of weapons built for efficiency and speed, the kind you knew you could rely on in a tight spot.

You grabbed the Heckler & Koch MP5, its compact frame sitting comfortably in your hands. The submachine gun was built for quick action, a weapon perfect for close-quarters combat. It was lightweight but packed a punch, with its 9mm rounds designed for high velocity and rapid fire. You checked the magazine, making sure it was fully loaded, before slinging the strap over your shoulder. The weapon's compact size made it ideal for maneuvering through tight spaces, and the sound of the safety clicking off was a sound you were all too familiar with.

You ran your fingers over the soft, rubberized grip, knowing you could rely on it when things went south. The bag also held extra mags, each one loaded with 9mm rounds, quick to reload and ready for action. You gave a quick glance at Logan, his eyes now locked on you again, but you didn’t let the moment last too long, the weight of the gun a comforting reminder of your readiness.

He gave a low grunt. “This is a bad idea.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you muttered, adjusting your gloves. The plan was simple: Get in, find Maya, get out. No alarms. No mess. The problem was, nothing ever went according to plan.

Logan took the lead, moving with his usual predatory grace. The two of you made your way through the shadows, careful not to alert the guards. The compound was surrounded by tall, overgrown hedges, giving you some cover as you approached the back entrance. You crept toward a side gate, its lock weak enough for Logan to pry open with ease.

"You always make it look easy," you whispered, impressed despite yourself.

He grinned, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You slipped through the gap, your footsteps silent on the cold concrete as you moved deeper into the facility. The perimeter was quiet, but the tension in the air was suffocating. Logan led the way, his keen senses constantly scanning the area. Every creak of a door, every flicker of a light, had you on edge.

You reached the back of the building, a narrow, unlit hallway leading inside. Logan paused, giving you a sharp glance. “Ready?”

“No shit,” you said, determination hardening your voice. You weren’t backing out now, no matter what.

He pulled open the door and ushering you inside. The air was cool and sterile, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the cement floors. You crept down the hall, moving in sync with Logan, every step calculated.

At the end of the hallway, you spotted a guarded door—high-security, with a keypad and a camera positioned just above it. Without hesitation, Logan stepped forward, grabbing the guard’s arm from the shadowed corner and pulling him into the darkness. He was out before he could make a sound, leaving behind nothing but a faint smell of burning skin.

You shuddered slightly but stayed focused. This was just part of the plan. Getting in and out.

Logan keyed in the code he'd swiped off the unconscious guard’s wristwatch, the door clicking open with a soft beep. He held it open, letting you slip inside first. The room was dark and cold, filled with computers and high-tech equipment. At the far end, a small holding cell, barely visible in the gloom, had a single figure slumped against the wall.

“Maya,” you whispered urgently, your voice cracking.

She looked up slowly, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear. But when she saw you, her lips trembled, and for a moment, you could see the faintest glimmer of hope. "You came..."

You rushed to her side, kneeling beside her, gently brushing a strand of her hair away to get a better look at her face. She was bruised and battered, her small frame trembling, but nothing seemed life-threatening. Still, the sight of her like this ignited a fierce protectiveness in your chest.

“Where’s Ellie?” you asked, your voice soft but urgent.

Maya flinched at the question, her lips quivering. “I-I don’t know,” she stuttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “We... we were playing together, and then—” Her words broke off, her small body trembling as tears welled up in her eyes.

“It’s okay, Maya,” you said quickly, your tone firm but comforting. “We’re getting you out of here. You’re safe now.”

Logan moved around, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any signs of further threats. “We don’t have time for this,” he muttered, already heading toward the door. “We need to move. Get her to safety first.”

You hesitated, your instincts screaming to keep looking for Ellie, but Logan’s tone left no room for argument. He glanced back at you, his voice low but commanding. “We’ll come back for her. Right now, we’ve gotta get Maya out before we’re cornered.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and reached down to help Maya to her feet. Her legs wobbled, and she winced at the effort, but she clung to you tightly. “We’re getting you out,” you reassured her again, though the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen.

As you moved toward the door, the beeping of the security alarm behind you confirmed the worst. Logan’s eyes flicked to you, his expression grim. “Move it,” he said sharply.

Grabbing Maya’s hand, you pulled her along, your heart pounding as you navigated through the dim hallway. Logan led the way, his senses on high alert. You reached the stairwell, but your stomach sank as you saw more guards below.

Logan growled low under his breath, his fists clenching. “Stay behind me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Logan cleared the path with a relentless fury, and together, you pushed forward, determined to get Maya out of this nightmare and to safety. Only then would you think about going back for Ellie.

Without hesitation, Logan leaped into action, taking down the first guard with brutal efficiency. You followed closely, keeping Maya tucked safely behind you, your body positioned as a shield.

You would have the time of your life alongside Logan taking these guards down, but tonight your MP5 was nothing more than a safety measure, secondary to your true focus. Your attention was entirely on Maya, making yourself her shield, her protection. No harm would come to her—not a single scratch, not the faintest injury. You positioned yourself between her and the chaos outside, every move calculated to ensure her safety above all else.

Logan’s claws came out, the metallic sound cutting through the air. With every strike, another guard fell. You couldn’t help but watch in awe at the way he moved—fierce, unstoppable. He cleared a path toward the exit, but it wasn’t without cost. You could hear the distant sound of reinforcements arriving, the compound now fully alerted to your presence.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath. There was no turning back now.

But you didn’t need to. Maya was free. That was all that mattered.

As you reached the exit, the lights behind you began to flash. You could hear the sirens, feel the pressure of the situation mounting. But Logan was already pushing you forward, his voice low and gruff. "Keep moving. I’ll cover you."

You barely had time to process what was happening before you burst through the door, the cold air hitting your face like a slap. The car was still a few hundred meters away, but there was no time to hesitate. Without a word, you crouched and scooped Maya into your arms. She instinctively clung to you, her small arms wrapping tightly around your neck, her feet curling against your stomach to secure herself. Her muffled cries broke your focus, soft and trembling as she buried her face into your shoulder, her fingers gripping your shirt like a lifeline.

You ran as fast as you could, every step echoing in the silence of the night, Logan keeping pace just behind you. The weight of Maya in your arms was nothing compared to the drive to get her to safety. You could feel her little hand clutching you tighter with every sound of pursuit behind you, her breath hitching against your collarbone.

You reached the car first, yanking the back door open and rushing Maya inside. Her tiny arms loosened around your neck as you gently set her on the seat, her tear-streaked face burying deeper into your shoulder for a moment. You whispered, "Stay here, sweet girl," before pulling back just enough to slam the door shut. You didn’t waste time sliding into the passenger seat as Logan bolted into the driver’s seat beside you.

The engine roared to life as Logan turned the wheel sharply, tires screeching against the cold pavement. The car bolted forward, but the horror started almost immediately. Gunfire erupted behind you, bullets slamming into the rear of the vehicle with sharp metallic thuds.

"Get down!" you yelled instinctively, your voice sharp and commanding. Maya screamed, a high-pitched cry that sent a pang through your chest. "Maya, keep your head down, baby. Stay as low as you can," you urged, already crawling from the passenger seat to shield her in the back.

The gunfire intensified, the attackers closing in. Logan growled under his breath as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “They’re catching up. Bikes.”

You twisted, catching sight of two motorcycles weaving in and out of the shadows. Their riders aimed and fired, their bullets shattering both side windows. Glass shards rained into the car, cutting into the chaos.

Logan flinched, jerking slightly as a bullet grazed his arm, tearing through his jacket. He hissed but kept his focus on the road. “Damn it,” he muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel.

Another bullet grazed your shoulder, burning through your jacket. The sharp sting was brief, dulled by your healing factor, but it still sent a jolt of frustration through you. "Logan, they’re on both sides!"

One biker closed in on Logan’s side, leveling his weapon for a clean shot. Logan swerved sharply, slamming the car into the bike, but the rider steadied himself. Without hesitation, Logan growled, "Hold on," and yanked the car door open.

In one fluid motion, Logan leaned out, his left arm shooting forward to grab the man by the neck. The rider’s eyes widened in shock as Logan yanked him clean off the bike, slamming him to the ground with brutal force.

On the right, another rider closed in, aiming for the car. You didn’t hesitate. The MP5 was already in your hands, and with a calculated burst of fire, you hit his front tire. The bike wobbled violently before tipping, sending the rider skidding across the asphalt.

"Fuck!" Logan snarled as another shot blew out the rear tire. The car lurched violently, metal screeching against the road as it ground to a halt. Logan slammed the wheel in frustration, his chest heaving. "Get her up. Now!"

You scrambled to Maya, pulling her carefully into your arms. She was trembling but responsive. “Come on, baby,” you murmured, trying to steady your voice.

By the time you turned, Logan was already at one of the fallen bikes, inspecting it for damage. "This’ll do," he muttered, hauling the machine upright. He swung onto the seat, revving the engine.

Then you saw it. Maya’s head lolled against your chest, and the dark stain on her shirt caught your attention. Blood seeped from a cut on her neck, spreading too quickly. Your stomach clenched.

"Logan!" you shouted, your voice cracking. "She’s bleeding bad!"

Logan’s head whipped around, his expression hardening. “Get on.” His voice left no room for argument.

Clutching Maya’s fragile body, you climbed onto the bike behind Logan, holding her close. Logan revved the engine, and the bike sped off into the night. You pressed Maya’s small frame against yours, one hand trying desperately to stem the bleeding at her neck.

“Stay with me, baby,” you whispered into her hair, your voice breaking as the cold wind whipped past. “Please, Maya, just hold on.”

4:27 a.m. You stood frozen, staring at Maya’s unconscious form in the medbay. The room felt distant, the sterile white lights blurring everything into a haze. Hank and Jean had been woken up barely ten minutes ago by Logan, and now they were rushing back and forth in their white coats, their voices low but urgent.

You should’ve felt bad for pulling them into this mess, dragging them out of bed at this hour. But even that guilt was nothing compared to the pit of self-loathing eating away at you. This was your fault. Maya’s condition, her pale face, her blood staining your hands was because of you. Reckless. Stupid. You didn’t fucking think before-

"Hey," Logan’s voice broke through the storm in your head, soft but steady.

You didn’t look at him, didn’t respond. You barely even registered his presence, the sound of Jean’s voice faintly breaking through your fog. She was explaining something to Hank, something about Maya losing too much blood, needing to confirm her blood type. But the words barely landed.

You clenched your arms tighter across your chest, folding into yourself. The weight of everything—Maya’s fragile state, your own failures was suffocating. Logan stepped closer, watching you carefully. His hand reached out, resting gently on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against you in a calming rhythm.

The small, unexpected gesture made you shiver. The knot in your chest tightened, and you felt the sting of tears threatening to spill. Slowly, your head dipped, your defenses crumbling under the weight of it all. You couldn’t stop the overwhelming tide of emotions crashing down on you.

"Go clean up. Let Hank and Jean do what they need to." he suggested.

A word didn’t even leave your lips. You felt lost, unmoored in a storm of emotions that you couldn’t navigate. You didn’t know what to do, how to move, how to think. You needed guidance, even if it was something as small and straightforward as Logan telling you to clean up. His words cut through the fog, and for a fleeting moment, you felt a sense of obedience—a familiar pull to follow orders. That was what you were good at, after all. What you were once best at: following orders.

Your eyes flicked up to Logan, searching for...something. His palm remained steady on your shoulder, grounding you, his thumb moving in a small, repetitive motion that somehow kept you from spiraling. His gaze met yours with the quiet reassurance there was enough to steady your nod.

You stepped away, walking out of the medbay, his hand falling from your shoulder as you moved. The absence of his touch left a strange void, but you pushed forward, heading toward the stairs. Logan followed silently a few steps behind, his heavy footsteps echoing softly against the walls. He didn’t push you, didn’t fill the space with meaningless words, but his presence lingered with constant, quiet support.

You climbed the stairs mechanically, every step feeling heavier than the last. The exhaustion, the guilt, the overwhelming swirl of emotions, they pressed down on you, threatening to crush you with each passing second. As much as Logan worried about Maya, you both knew there was nothing more either of you could do. It was Hank and Jean’s turn now. That truth didn’t make the wait any easier.

When you reached your room, you stopped in the doorway, gripping the frame as if it could hold you upright. Logan paused behind you, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He watched you closely, his sharp gaze catching every tremble in your hands, every shaky breath.

Your fingers fumbled with the straps of your gear, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Frustration bubbled up, and you let out a low growl as you yanked the vest off and dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. Bloodstains smeared across the fabric caught your eye, and your chest tightened at the sight.

Logan pushed off the wall and stepped inside, crouching down to pick up the discarded vest. He set it aside carefully, his movements slow and deliberate, as though giving you the time and space to process.

“I'll stay here,” he said again, his voice quieter this time, almost gentle.

You nodded again, your movements sluggish, and turned toward the bathroom. The weight of the day settled on your shoulders, dragging your steps, but you kept moving.

You stepped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you, you turned around to lock it immediately. The smell hit immediately—dried blood, sweat, and the lingering metallic tang of Maya’s injury. It clung to you like guilt, heavy and suffocating.

With trembling hands, you stripped off your clothes, dropping them into a heap on the floor. The fabric stuck to your skin in places where blood had dried, and the motion sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

Standing at the sink, you turned on the faucet, the rush of water almost deafening in the quiet. You scrubbed your hands, desperate to rid yourself of the blood staining your skin. Maya’s blood. It was there, literal-fucking-ly on your hands, and no matter how hard you scrubbed, it felt like it wouldn’t come off. Your breaths grew erratic as the image of her unconscious face looped endlessly in your mind.

You turned the faucet off abruptly, the silence that followed almost unbearable. Moving to the shower, you twisted the knob to the hottest setting, steam immediately rising to fill the small space. You stepped in, holding your hands under the boiling stream, watching as the dried blood finally washed away, swirling down the drain.

The searing heat burned your skin, but the pain felt satisfying—a punishment you thought you deserved. It wasn’t enough to hurt you, not with your healing ability, but it gave you a brief, fleeting sense of control.

The water cascaded over you, from the top of your head to your toes, scalding and relentless. You gritted your teeth as the heat bit into your skin, but the pain wasn’t what broke you. The weight of everything did.

Your legs gave out, and you slid down onto the cold tiles, your back pressed against the wall. Hugging your knees to your chest, you buried your face in them, letting the boiling water pour over you as sobs wracked your body. It wasn’t the pain that made you cry—you weren’t even sure what it was anymore. You just needed to let it out, to feel something other than the crushing guilt.

Outside, Logan sat by your windowsill, his arms crossed as he stared into the night. His nose twitched as a faint scent wafted through the air—burned flesh. He furrowed his brow, his senses sharpening as the smell lingered. It didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger.

Concern etched into his features, he pushed off the sill and headed toward your bathroom door. The scent was unmistakable now, and worry gnawed at the edges of his composure. He knocked gently.

“Hey,” he called, his voice calm but firm. “You okay in there?”

No response.

He tried again, calling your name louder this time. “I’m gonna break this door if you don’t answer.”

Still nothing.

Logan muttered a curse under his breath, his patience snapping as the smell of burning flesh only intensified. With a heavy thud, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The wooden frame groaned but held. Another slam, then another, until the lock finally gave way, the door flying open to release a rush of hot steam that hit him like a wall.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, waving a hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to clear the air. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, curled up on the shower floor, water pouring over your trembling, bare figure.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, his jaw tightening as the scene before him sank in.

The scalding water hissed against his arm skin as he reached for the shower handle, shutting it off with a groan. His own flesh burned at the contact, but it healed almost instantly. He turned his focus to you, crouching beside your slumped form, his heart breaking at the sight of your vulnerability.

Grabbing a towel from a nearby rack, he opened it wide and carefully wrapped it around you. His movements were gentle, deliberate, as though afraid he might break you further. His voice was soft when he finally spoke.

“Hey,” he murmured, his hand brushing against your damp hair. “C’mon, darlin’. Let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t respond at first, your head lifting only slightly as you noticed his presence. His face was etched with worry, his sharp features softened by the sorrow in his eyes. His hand came up to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly over your tear-streaked cheek.

You swallowed hard, your voice caught in your throat. The overwhelming emotions left you unable to speak, and all you could do was stare at him, your swollen eyes searching for something—comfort, reassurance, anything.

Logan shifted to sit beside you, his broad shoulder brushing against yours. He opened his arms, a silent invitation. Without thinking, you leaned into him, tucking your head against his chest as his arms enveloped you. The dampness of your hair soaked into his shirt, but he couldn't care less. His chin rested atop your head, his steady presence anchoring you as you sobbed quietly, the tears flowing freely now.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest. “I’ve got you.”

Logan stayed there, holding you as though his presence alone could shield you from whatever storm was raging inside. His arms tightened just enough to remind you he was there—not pushing, not forcing, just being. His thumb drew absent circles against your arm, a silent comfort that kept you tethered to the moment.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours; time seemed to lose meaning. The bathroom remained cloaked in a haze of steam, the air thick and humid, but neither of you moved. The water had long since stopped running, leaving only the faint drip-drip of the showerhead to break the silence. Logan didn't rush you; he seemed to know you needed this space, this moment to fall apart without judgment.

Eventually, your sobs quieted, leaving you drained and trembling in his arms. Your head stayed tucked against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was grounding, a lifeline you hadn't known you needed. You felt small, raw, like a wound left open, but for the first time in hours, the suffocating weight of guilt started to ease—just a little.

Logan broke the silence first, his voice a low murmur. "I know you think this is all on you, but it’s not."

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you nodded faintly, your face brushing against the damp fabric of his shirt. He took the gesture for what it was, a small step forward, and didn’t press for more.

After a moment, he shifted slightly, one arm still wrapped around you as the other reached for the towel. He adjusted it, making sure it covered you properly before pulling back just enough to look at you. His piercing gaze softened when it met yours, his eyes filled with an understanding you hadn’t expected.

“You’re freezing,” he said, his brows knitting together. “Let’s get you outta here, yeah?”

You blinked, realizing for the first time that your body was shaking—not from cold, but from the aftermath of everything you’d been holding in. Still, you nodded again, letting him help you to your feet. His hand stayed steady on your arm as he guided you out of the shower, careful not to let you slip on the wet tiles.

He grabbed another towel, wrapping it around your hair with surprising gentleness. The care in his actions almost undid you again, but you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold it together.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he said quietly, motioning toward your dresser. “Just sit tight.”

You sank onto the edge of your bed, the towel still wrapped tightly around you as you watched him move. His presence filled the room—not in an overbearing way, but in a way that made you feel less...alone. He returned a moment later with a fresh set of clothes, setting them down beside you.

“You good to change?” he asked, his voice soft but firm, like he was giving you the option to say no.

You nodded, and he took that as his cue to turn away, suddenly finding your window so interesting to glance at. Giving you privacy while still staying within arm’s reach. His respect for your boundaries didn’t go unnoticed, and it made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Once dressed, you hesitated for a moment before speaking, your voice hoarse from crying. “Logan?”

He turned back to you immediately, his eyes meeting yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling with guilt. “For dragging you into all of this. You didn’t deserve it.”

His expression softened, a mix of concern and frustration flickering in his gaze. “Don’t start with that,” he said firmly but not unkindly. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I’m here because I wanna be. Got it?”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling over you like a fragile reassurance. Your eyes flicked to the clock by your nightstand—5:03 a.m. The realization made your stomach twist, the hours slipping away faster than you could think.

“I need to check on Maya's condition,” you said suddenly, your voice steadier but still strained.

Logan’s hand, still resting lightly on your shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The hallway leading to the med bay felt like it stretched on forever, each step dragging like a weight tethered to your ankles. Logan walked beside you, silent but present, his steady pace offering a grounding presence you barely noticed through the storm raging in your chest. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, an unbearable mockery of normalcy as dread curled in your gut.

When you reached the med bay door, it opened with a quiet hiss, and the world seemed to tilt. The room was unnaturally quiet, the air heavy, oppressive. Jean stood by the bed where Maya lay, her figure tense, arms crossed tightly over her chest. A bag of blood hung from a metal stand, but the tube dangled loose, disconnected. Hank sat slumped in a chair nearby, his head bowed low, the white of his coat streaked with red that had long since dried. He didn’t even look up when you entered.

Jean turned as the door clicked shut behind you, her gaze snapping to meet yours. Her expression was grave, her face drawn and heavy with something unspeakable. The weight of her silence crushed you instantly.

“What’s going on?” you demanded, your voice trembling as you crossed the room in hurried strides, your pulse roaring in your ears. The question tasted bitter on your tongue, dread bubbling up in your chest. You didn’t want to know the answer, not really. You clung desperately to the fragile hope that what you feared wasn’t true.

Jean didn’t answer. Her lips parted, but no words came, only a flicker of helplessness in her eyes that made your stomach plummet. You turned your attention to Hank, sitting motionless, his large hands limp in his lap. Still, no response. It was the silence that told you everything. The kind of silence that only follows the unspeakable.

Your breath quickened as your eyes fell on Maya’s still form on the bed. You reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against her cold skin. The moment you touched her, you recoiled. No. This can’t be real.

“Maya,” you whispered, your voice cracking. The panic rose inside you, but you fought to keep it in check. You pressed your fingers to her neck, hoping against hope for a pulse, for any sign of life. There was nothing. The stillness suffocated you. “No, no, no—this can’t be happening.”

You couldn’t stop the tears that welled in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You blinked rapidly, your chest tight, trying to hold it all in. Your knees buckled slightly, and you steadied yourself by gripping the bed rail. Your breath came in shallow bursts, but you forced yourself not to break down completely. Not here, not now.

“What happened?” The question slipped out of you in a broken, quiet voice, and you turned to Hank and Jean, your eyes searching for an answer they couldn’t give.

Jean’s gaze dropped to the floor, her voice soft but heavy. “She was gone before we could stop the bleeding,” she said, and her words cut deeper than anything else in the room.

“No.” You shook your head violently, your hands gripping the bed rail as if it could anchor you. “You’re lying. She’s not—she’s not gone. She can’t be. It’s my fault. I should’ve—” Your voice broke, your chest heaving as the truth slammed into you like a freight train.

Logan’s hand was on your shoulder then, warm and steady. “They've tried their best” he said, his voice low but certain. “So did we, so did you.”

Your tears finally slipping free, but you didn’t sob. It was quiet, contained, but the weight of them felt unbearable. You swallowed hard, wiping your face, but the tears came regardless, leaving silent trails down your cheeks. The grief sat heavily in your chest, raw and unyielding.

You looked back at Maya’s small body, your heart aching, the guilt still gnawing at you. “I should’ve—” Your voice faltered again

“Stop,” he said, his voice low and firm, cutting through the chaos in your head. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

Logan's arm rests steady by your shoulder, with a slight pressure, as if he's trying to pull you into his embrace. As inviting and comforting as it seems, you can't accept such affection from him—you simply cannot.

His heart shatters into pieces at the scene before him: the sweet girl who doesn’t deserve this, and you, torturing yourself with it. He can feel the guilt radiating from your very core, and whilst he's not a much of a believer at this very moment he wishes he could make it better, could make you feel better, if only he knew how. His vain attempt at a gentle pull to draw you closer goes unnoticed by you—or at least, that's what he thinks.

You felt worthless, an absolute failure. You thought you are a failure when Maya's injured but now to cost her a life too? Is there even a word for that, something lower than a failure, a disappointment perhaps. She deserved better, if only you didn't storm in like a rookie and thought everything would go as planned, maybe she'd be alive. If only you didn't let the paranoia get the best of you, letting yourself to work as a team with the others.

You stepped back, the nauseating feeling washing over you once again—one you could never get used to. It was overwhelming. Logan’s arm fell from your shoulder, and he glanced at you immediately, searching for your eyes.

You didn’t know why, but a sudden urge to hide overwhelmed you. Embarrassment crept in like a heavy shadow. They would acknowledge your grief, yes, but they would also acknowledge the truth you couldn’t escape—that it was all because of you. Your fault. No matter how hard they tried to mask their silent judgment, it was always written plainly on their faces.

You wanted to run away from all of it. Like you always do—an avoider. “Excuse me,” you said, your voice quieter than intended, as your hand relentlessly wiped at the stupid tears streaming down your face. Your feet, weighed down by guilt, carried you out of the medbay in seconds.

Logan's confusion was palpable. He would’ve expected you to mourn in a much different way—maybe saying a final goodbye to Maya with heavy, fat tears. Instead, your reaction left him unsettled. Turning his attention back to Maya's body, he murmured softly, “M’really sorry, girl,” a quiet apology and farewell meant more for her than for himself. He tried to be tough, for his own sake and, in part, for yours.

When he looked up again, his focus shifted to you disappearing down the hallway. With a deep sigh, he turned to Jean and Hank. “I’m sorry, Jean, Hank.” he said simply, nodding at each of them before walking out with heavy, deliberate foot steps.

With your arms wrapped tightly around your body, as if they could shield you from the crushing weight of your shame, you walked briskly, desperate to disappear before anyone could see you. But your hope shattered when Logan’s voice rang out from behind, calling your name—once, twice, and then multiple times.

That didn't stopped you, why would it be. You need a time, an alone time obviously.

You kept walking, your pace quickening with every step. Logan's voice called after you, his tone growing sharper, more insistent, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Your feet moved on autopilot, carrying you toward your room as if it were the only safe harbor in a storm. You needed space—alone time, desperately—because facing anyone, even him, was unbearable right now.

Reaching your door, you fumbled with the handle, slipping inside just as Logan's footsteps came up behind you. The door clicked shut, and you locked it immediately, the sound echoing in the suffocating silence of your room.

Your legs gave out beneath you, the weight of everything dragging you down. You fell to the floor with a quiet thud, your back sliding against the door until you were sitting, knees pulled to your chest. Your hands trembled as they wrapped around your legs, holding yourself together as though you might otherwise shatter completely. The tears came fast and hot, spilling down your face in relentless waves as sobs wracked your body.

Outside, Logan stopped just short of colliding with the door. He stared at it for a moment, frustration and worry warring on his face. His hand came up, hesitating before he knocked gently, his voice barely audible over the sound of your muffled cries.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he said, his words soft but edged with a quiet plea. “C’mon. Let me in.”

Your sobs didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder, raw and broken, tearing through the fragile silence like jagged glass. The sound twisted something deep inside him, and Logan let out a frustrated growl under his breath. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he leaned his forehead against the door, the cool wood doing little to ground him.

He could hear every breath you took, every hitch in your voice, every agonized cry that told him exactly how much pain you were in. And it was killing him. Logan wasn’t the type to sit idly by, but now, he had no choice. You had locked him out—both literally and figuratively—and no matter how badly he wanted to rip the door off its hinges, he held himself back. Barely.

“Dammit,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. His fists uncurled, one hand coming up to press flat against the door, as if somehow that small gesture could reach you.

Inside, you heard his words, but they felt distant, like a faint echo buried beneath the tidal wave of your guilt. Your breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, your chest heaving as the weight of everything pressed down on you. Maya’s face flashed in your mind—her lifeless body, the blood, the stillness—and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through you.

Logan's voice came again, this time firmer, though still gentle. “You’re not the reason this happened. You hear me? It wasn’t your fault.”

But you couldn’t hear him—not really. The voice in your head was louder, crueler, drowning him out with accusations and blame. It was your fault. You should’ve done better, been better. You shouldn’t have stormed into the mission so recklessly, thinking everything would go as planned. Maya was gone because of you, and nothing anyone said could change that.

Outside, Logan’s patience snapped. He slammed his palm against the door, the loud crack startling even him. “Lemme in,” he demanded, his voice rough, a thread of desperation woven through it. “Lemme in, Jesus.”

But there was no response. Only the sound of your quiet, choked cries bleeding through the door. Logan clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He wanted to be angry at you, to yell at you for shutting him out, but he couldn’t. Not when he could hear the sheer agony in every sound you made.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He leaned back against the door, his body a tense line of restraint. The urge to break down the barrier between you was almost overwhelming, but he stayed put, knowing you’d only push him further away if he forced his way in.

“Please,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur, almost a whisper. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.” His words hung heavy in the air, unanswered.

Logan’s heart twisted painfully as he realized he couldn’t reach you—not like this. You kept putting distance between yourself and everyone else, a distance that felt impossible for him to cross. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to hold you until the storm inside you calmed, but you wouldn’t let him. And that broke something inside him more than he cared to admit.

Sliding down to sit on the floor outside your door, Logan rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He stayed there, silent but present, listening to your muffled cries. His claws itched to tear the door apart, but instead, he let out a quiet sigh, his voice barely audible as he spoke again.

“M'not going anywhere,” he said softly, his words meant for you and you alone. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.”

•••

The sun had begun its slow ascent, casting a dark blue hue over the horizon visible through your window. The shadows of the night retreated inch by inch, but the heaviness inside you refused to dissipate. You hadn’t moved from your spot by the window, knees drawn to your chest, the tears long since dried on your cheeks. An hour had passed, maybe more, though it felt like a lifetime.

Then, Professor Xavier's calm, commanding voice broke the silence, resonating in your mind. “I need you in the meeting room.”

You inhaled deeply, trying to steady the storm inside you. Rising to your feet felt like a monumental effort, but you managed. You opened the door and froze at the sight of Logan seated by the wall just outside, his head resting against it, eyes closed but still alert. He looked up instantly, his gaze locking onto yours.

He stood quickly, his movements fluid despite the obvious exhaustion etched into his features. "Xavier?" he asked, his tone neutral but edged with concern.

“Yeah,” you croaked out, your voice raspy and weak, accompanied by a small nod. You avoided his gaze, focusing on the floor as you closed the door behind you. Without another word, you turned and began walking toward the stairs, your feet moving automatically.

But you hadn’t gone far when Logan’s hand gently caught your wrist, halting your steps. “Hey,” he said softly followed by muttering your name, his voice a plea more than a call.

You froze, your body stiffening at the contact. For a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn, couldn’t bear to see the worry or frustration in his eyes. But his pull was gentle, almost reluctant, and it broke through your hesitation. Slowly, you turned to face him, your gaze falling to where his hand wrapped around your wrist.

“You don’t have to go,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm. “I can talk to Charles.” His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist, the touch grounding in its tenderness.

“No, Logan,” you said, shaking your head, your voice steadier this time. “This is my responsibility.”

His grip loosened but didn’t fall away, his thumb still tracing soothing circles on your skin. “Alright,” he muttered, his tone almost resigned, though his words carried an undercurrent of understanding.

His voice pulled your gaze upward, and for the first time, you met his eyes fully. They were heavy with exhaustion and unspoken emotions, a reflection of everything he wasn’t saying but felt nonetheless. You swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at you as your eyes flicked from his to his lips for the briefest moment—a fleeting, subconscious act.

Realizing what you’d done, you flinched slightly, pulling your wrist free from his grasp. “I’ll be fine,” you mumbled, turning quickly and walking toward the stairs without sparing him another glance.

Behind you, Logan let out a quiet sigh, his frustration palpable. He followed a step behind, unwilling to let you face whatever awaited you alone, even if you didn’t want his company.

The room fell silent as you stepped in, Logan following close behind. All eyes turned toward you, their gazes heavy, searing into your already fragile composure. You glanced around the table, forcing yourself to take in each expression, though you couldn’t linger for long.

Scott’s face was a mask of barely restrained fury, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line. Even behind his visor, you could feel the weight of his disappointment. It radiated off him, sharp and cutting, like a physical blow.

Beside him, Jean sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her face pale, her eyes rimmed with red. She wasn’t just mourning—she was devastated, her grief a palpable force that seemed to drain the room of warmth.

Ororo’s expression was harder to decipher. Her lips pressed together in a grim line, her eyes clouded with a mix of emotions—grief, perhaps, but also a quiet sadness that hinted at disappointment.

Hank sat hunched over, his hands clasped tightly on the table, his brow furrowed in an almost pained expression. His guilt was etched into every line of his face, though you knew this wasn’t on him. Still, it weighed on him as if it were.

Finally, your eyes landed on Charles. His face was as composed as ever, his expression neutral and unreadable. Yet the silence that lingered between you spoke volumes. There was no condemnation in his gaze, but no reassurance, either—just the quiet presence of a man who had seen too much.

The weight of their collective stares became unbearable, and you looked down, focusing on the floor as you moved to take an empty seat. Logan’s hand lightly brushed your back, a silent anchor, before he stepped around you to take the chair beside yours.

The silence in the meeting room was oppressive as Charles cleared his throat, his voice calm yet heavy with the weight of the situation.

“We’re here to discuss the unfortunate events that has occurred,” he began, his tone measured, “And to prepare for Maya’s funeral this morning.”

The mention of her name sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you. You stared at the table, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

Scott, however, wasted no time, his voice sharp and biting. “She needs to explain herself.” His gaze burned into you, and though you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor, the fury in his voice was unmistakable. “A student is dead, because she couldn’t keep her head straight.”

Logan shifted in his seat beside you, his fists curling against the table. “Ease up, Summers,” he growled, his tone low and menacing.

“No,” Scott shot back, his voice rising. “You think this is something we can just brush off? Maya’s gone, and someone needs to be held accountable!”

Logan leaned forward, his voice cold and deliberate. “Accountable? You wanna talk about accountability, Scott? Maybe we should start with who came back drunk last night.”

Scott froze, his jaw tightening as Logan’s words hit their mark.

“She was trying to do the team a favor” Logan continued, his gaze hard.

“Logan,” Charles interjected, his tone a quiet warning, but Logan ignored him, his focus locked on Scott.

“You weren’t out there,” Logan said, his voice sharp as claws. “You didn’t see what we were up against.”

Scott looked like he wanted to fire back, but Jean placed a hand on his arm, her touch calming him just enough to make him sit back.

Charles turned to you, his expression gentler. “Please, tell us what happened,” he said, his tone more of a request than a command.

Your hands tightened into fists against your knees, your voice trembling as you began.

“Logan and I got her into the car, we were already leaving from the facility and her condition was well” you said quietly, your throat tightening. “I thought we were clear, but then…” You hesitated, the memory of that moment flashing vividly in your mind.

“They catch up with bikers and started shooting, the window shattered” you continued, your voice breaking. “A bullet… or maybe a glass, it nicked through her neck.”

You couldn’t say more, your words catching as your breaths grew shallow. Logan’s hand moved, his rough palm settling atop your trembling one where it gripped your knee tightly. His warmth anchored you, his touch gentle but grounding.

“We almost got her,” Logan said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the tension in the room. His tone carried a weight of guilt, even though you knew it wasn’t his to bear. “I couldn’t drive fast enough.”

His admission hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, as if he blamed himself when the truth was far from that.

“It wasn’t his fault,” you said, your voice barely audible, but firm. “It was mine. It was my idea to move faster, to take the risk.”

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly, a silent protest against your self-blame.

The room remained quiet for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. Even Scott, though still fuming, seemed to falter, the sharp edges of his anger dulled by the rawness of what had been said.

Charles’s gaze lingered on you and Logan, his expression unreadable but thoughtful.

Jean was the first to break the silence. “And Ellie?” she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.

The reminder hit you like a punch to the gut. Ellie. You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “We didn’t find her. She’s still out there.”

Scott’s scowl deepened. “So, we’re sitting here, wasting time when we should be focusing on finding her.”

“We will,” Charles said firmly.

Ororo looked to you, her expression thoughtful but troubled. “Why would they target children, especially girls?” she asked. “It seems deliberate.”

You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. “Because girls are less likely to be seen as a threat,” you said, your voice steady. “They’re easier to overlook, which makes it simpler to take them without raising alarm. And if they’re young enough, they’re more vulnerable—less likely to fight back or escape.”

You paused, glancing around the room. “But it’s not just about control. Girls are often underestimated, even when they have powerful abilities. Someone like Maya, with her supersonic scream, or Ellie, who can manipulate fire—that kind of power in someone people don’t expect to be dangerous? It’s exactly what these people want. They can groom them into weapons without the same resistance they’d face from boys or adults.”

Ororo’s expression hardened as your words sank in, the room falling silent under the weight of the revelation.

Hank nodded solemnly. “Their methods align with that theory. The equipment and resources we’ve seen point to calculated, targeted operations.”

“We need to find Ellie,” Scott said, his tone resolute. “And we need to stop SAC and Killebrew before they take anyone else.”

Logan leaned back in his chair, his hand still resting lightly atop yours. “We gotta face something bigger” he began, his voice steady but edged with tension, “This wasn’t just random. The SAC, they’re mixed up in this probably alongside with CIA and Killebrew too. This ain’t the first time we’ve crossed paths with the man, he could be deep with all this.”

Scott’s scowl deepened, and he crossed his arms. “We’ve dealt with Killebrew before,” he said sharply. “There's not enough solid proof he was behind these new experiments. Just speculation. The man's old, he's running out of time.”

“Speculation doesn’t get us anywhere,” Ororo said softly, though her tone carried a distinct edge.

Jean leaned forward, her voice low. “If Killebrew is involved, we need to connect him to SAC and whoever else is funding these operations. Otherwise, we’ll just be chasing shadows again.”

Hank adjusted his glasses and sighed. “The attack on Maya and the equipment used tell us a lot. I analyzed the bike, custom made. It’s clear their resources are not only military-grade but could also specifically designed for counter-mutant operations. This suggests direct involvement from SAC, with Killebrew’s expertise likely supporting their goals.”

“What exactly are their goals, Hank?” Charles asked, his tone even but probing.

“From what we’ve gathered so far,” Hank said, his voice growing more serious, “it’s not just containment. SAC is using Killebrew’s methods to experiment on mutants. They’re trying to weaponize abilities. Think back to the enhanced weaponry we encountered—they’re taking mutant DNA and turning it into tools for warfare.”

A heavy silence followed as the weight of Hank’s words settled over the room.

Logan broke it, his voice rough. “We need to hit their base again. There’s gotta be somethin’ there—a lead, intel, anything. Webknow what we’re walkin’ into this time.”

Scott scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. “Yeah because this time nobody's gonna be harmed” His voice was sharp, his anger directed more at the situation than any one person.

Logan’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed level. “Can you stop being such an asshole for five fucking minutes?” he said pointedly, as Scott referencing the recklessness of his and your recent off-mission behavior.

The tension between them was palpable, but before it could escalate, Charles raised a hand. “Enough,” he said firmly. His tone left no room for argument.

Jean quickly stepped in. “Let’s focus. We can’t afford to splinter as a team.”

Hank nodded, his voice steady. “Logan’s right. Returning to their base may provide us with the evidence we need to finally pin this on Killebrew and SAC. We should move quickly before they clear out any remaining traces.”

Ororo glanced at Charles. “And Maya?”

Charles’ face softened slightly, though his voice carried the weight of leadership. “We will lay her to rest in the garden this morning. She was one of us, and she deserves to be honored as such. Afterward, we’ll plan the mission in detail.”

The group exchanged solemn glances, unified in their grief but also in their determination.

Logan gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “We’ll figure this out,” he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours for a fleeting moment.

The room fell into a heavy silence after Charles dismissed the team, his parting words lingering in the air. "Pay your respects for Maya soon. She deserves it." One by one, everyone stood, somber and weighed down by grief.

You pushed yourself to your feet, still clutching your arms around your body for some semblance of comfort. The ache in your chest was unbearable, making it hard to even look up at the others. Logan followed closely behind as you stepped toward the door. By the time you exited the room, his palm rested gently on your back.

The touch was warm, steady—an anchor in the storm you felt raging inside. A shiver ran down your spine, one you couldn’t suppress. His voice broke through the haze, low and calm, “You should eat something.”

The suggestion felt like an afterthought in your daze, but it stirred a faint awareness of the emptiness in your stomach. You were too weak to respond, too wrapped up in your own exhaustion, but Logan’s sharp ears caught the faint growl from your stomach.

His lips twitched slightly, just enough for you to catch the ghost of a smirk. “I could make omelette and potatoes,” he said casually, as though trying to lighten the mood. “Like that one time, huh?”

A faint memory surfaced—Logan fumbling in the kitchen, you relentlessly judging his cooking skills for making something so basic. You’d teased back then, earning a gruff chuckle and a sarcastic quip.

Now, despite the heaviness pressing down on you, a weak laugh escaped your lips. You glanced up at him, catching the faint amusement in his expression. His palm remained firm against your back, grounding you, while his other hand rested casually in his pocket.

But the small moment was shattered by a sharp voice from behind.

“Right, keep her tame like your little pet.” Scott’s words were venomous, startling you as you turned, not realizing he’d been walking behind you. Logan froze mid-step, his hand dropping from your back as he turned to face Scott.

“Whatddya said?” Logan’s voice was low, his tone barely controlled, carrying an edge that made you flinch.

Scott met his glare with one of his own, unflinching. “You heard me, I said keep her tame like you—”

Scott never got to finish. Logan’s fist flew faster than you could react, connecting with Scott’s jaw in a sickening crack. You flinched, your body tensing as the scene unfolded before you.

Scott staggered back, his hand shooting to his jaw as he scowled. Without hesitation, he retaliated, throwing a punch that caught Logan square on the nose. Blood trickled down, but Logan barely seemed to notice. Instead, he grabbed Scott by the jacket, pulling him close.

You swear you couldn't care less about their immature behavior, you got too much on your plate and barely enough energy to raise your voice for them to hear. “Please, just stop” you said weakly, stepping forward, but the two were frozen in place before you could intervene.

You blinked in confusion, your voice uncertain as you took a cautious step closer. “Logan?” you called, your concern palpable as you inspected their frozen forms. Logan’s hand remained clenched around Scott’s jacket, while Scott’s arm hovered mid-air, inches away from his visor.

From behind you, a familiar voice broke the tense silence, tinged with exasperation. “They’re getting too old for this,” Jean said dryly, stepping into view.

“Since when could you do that?” you asked, glancing back to see Jean emerging from the meeting room.

She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Professor taught me a while ago.” She clicked her tongue, strolling closer to inspect the scene. “Look at them.”

Despite yourself, a weak chuckle escaped. Jean nudged you lightly with her shoulder. “It’s kind of amusing,” you admitted, your voice soft but tinged with a hint of laughter.

Jean smirked, crossing her arms. “Aren’t they?”

Charles and Hank appeared from the hallway, both glancing at the spectacle before them. Charles sighed but didn’t stop strolling, his voice calm but firm. “Jean, let the poor gentlemen go.”

Hank shook his head but said nothing, following Charles without breaking stride. Jean tilted her head slightly, and in an instant, Logan and Scott were moving again.

Logan blinked, releasing his grip on Scott’s jacket as he stepped back. Scott stopped his arm mid-motion, lowering it reluctantly as he glared at Logan.

“Not cool,” Logan muttered toward Jean, his voice rough with irritation.

Jean just smirked, her attention already shifting. Logan turned back to you, his features softening immediately. “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head and gesturing for you to follow.

You clutched your arms tighter around yourself, your exhaustion evident as you walked to his side. His palm found its place on your back again, steady and comforting.

Jean and Scott trailed behind, their voices low.

“Are they together or something?” Scott whispered, his tone both bitter and curious.

Jean gave him a look, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I don’t know.”

Scott frowned, skeptical. “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re a telepath.”

Jean rolled her eyes, her smile widening as she glanced ahead at you and Logan. “Some things are better left unanswered, Scott.”

The garden was silent except for the soft rustling of leaves in the morning breeze. The students and staff of Xavier’s School had gathered in somber rows, faces etched with grief. The small tombstone stood freshly planted in the earth, its inscription simple yet heartbreaking:

Maya Fernandez

Gone but not forgotten.

You stared at it, the weight in your chest growing heavier with each passing second. The sound of Charles’s voice delivering a eulogy barely registered, muffled as though you were underwater. You couldn’t bring yourself to look anywhere else, not even as the team began to disperse after the ceremony.

Logan stood across from you, his arms crossed tightly, his sharp eyes fixed on your still figure. He hadn’t moved since the gathering started, lingering at a respectful distance but watching you closely.

One by one, the others left the garden, the sound of footsteps fading into the background. Ororo cast a last glance in your direction, her expression heavy with sympathy before walking away. Jean lingered for a moment, exchanging a look with Logan before she too left, leaving only the two of you standing there.

Logan’s boots crunched softly against the gravel as he approached. His presence was solid, grounding, but he hesitated as he neared you. His jaw worked, as though he was trying to find words, but nothing came out.

Finally, he stood by your side, silent. His hand hovered near your back before finally resting there, his touch tentative at first, seeking permission. When you didn’t flinch or pull away, his palm slid gently to the curve of your waist. The pressure was light but steady, a silent invitation to let him be there for you.

Without looking up to him, you stepped closer, leaning into his side. The movement was instinctive, your body desperate for some kind of support as your legs threatened to give out beneath you. Logan’s arm tightened around you slightly, anchoring you to him.

Your left arm reached around his back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. The closeness sent a faint shiver down his spine, but he said nothing, letting you take what you needed. Your right hand rested against his chest, your fingers brushing over the soft shirt he wore as you wiped away tears that seemed endless.

“You're always have been the resilient one,” Logan murmured, voice low and rough but carrying a gentleness.

You shook your head. “Not today.”

He exhaled deeply, his hand moving in small, soothing circles against your waist. “And that’s okay,” he said quietly.

The words, simple as they were, broke through the dam holding back your emotions. You buried your face against his chest, muffling the quiet sobs that racked your body. Logan stayed still, his broad frame solid against you, his warmth a shield against the cold weight of grief.

By the time darkness had fallen, the team was already prepared for a calculated mission to find Ellie, putting the grief of Maya aside to save, hopefully, the living one. You'd picked a twin pair of handguns—glossy black—safely secured in their holsters.

The Blackbird took off as usual, with Hank in the pilot’s seat and Ororo co-piloting. Logan, as always, secured his favorite spot next to you on the long bench in the cabin, various straps holding his broad frame in place.

However, unlike the rest of the team, Logan wasn’t dressed in the usual black suit—no tactical gear, no uniform. He just sat there in a pair of jeans and a simple black shirt alongside with black leather jacket, like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Scott eyed him, his lips twitching in mild exasperation. "You're seriously not going to wear the team gear?" he asked, an eyebrow arched.

Logan shot him a quick glance, his usual smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Nah. Don't need it."

"Party pooper," Scott muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Logan didn’t bother responding, keeping his focus on the mission ahead.

It was a smooth takeoff at first, but soon heavy clouds began shaking the Blackbird. Despite its sophisticated technology, it couldn’t fully defy nature's might. The turbulence wasn’t unfamiliar to you, but the violent tremors made even you a bit uneasy. Your mutation would protect you if anything happened, but you couldn't help wishing this particular flight would remain incident-free. After all, this plane carried the only people you truly cared about in your half-century of life.

You glanced toward the cockpit. Hank’s normally calm demeanor was strained as he gave Ororo instructions, his voice steady but clipped. Ororo nodded, adjusting the controls to lower the jet and avoid the worst of the storm. Their calm professionalism grounded you, even as the turbulence worsened.

Jean and Scott sat across from you and Logan. Scott’s expression was unreadable behind those glasses, his posture relaxed as though turbulence were just a minor inconvenience. Jean, gripping her seatbelt casually, seemed equally unbothered. Your gaze drifted left to Logan, though, and what you saw surprised you.

His eyes were shut tight, his jaw clenched, and his hands gripped the safety straps like they were his lifeline. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his normally robust complexion had turned pale. His lips were pressed together so hard they almost disappeared.

He was scared. That was new.

“For someone who can’t die, you kinda sucks at it,” you quipped, hoping to lighten the mood.

Logan’s eyes snapped open, meeting yours, but the stress etched into his features didn’t soften. The lines on his forehead deepened as he shook his head silently, a clear sign he wasn’t in the mood for your jokes.

Realizing you’d misread the situation, you softened your tone. “It’s just a little turbulence,” you said, trying to reassure him, but the jet betrayed you as another violent jolt rocked the cabin. Logan grunted, his grip tightening on the straps.

“Little’s a strong word,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his knuckles white from the pressure of his grip. His breathing grew short and shallow, a rhythm that immediately set off alarms in your mind.

“Logan, breathe,” you said gently, leaning closer. His eyes locked onto yours, and you exaggerated a deep, steady breath, silently urging him to follow. Slowly, he began to mimic you, his breathing evening out with each deliberate inhale and exhale. Another slight shake hit the jet, but this time he managed to stay calm, his breathing steady under your watchful gaze.

You nodded to him, and he returned the gesture before breaking eye contact, his hands finally relaxing their death grip on the straps. He let them slide down to rest on his thighs, his shoulders sagging as some tension left his body.

Then another violent jolt struck, causing Logan’s hands to clench into fists on his thighs. You caught snippets of conversation from the cockpit as Hank and Ororo discussed a change in altitude to escape the worst of the storm. Acting on instinct, you placed your hand over Logan’s right arm, the one gripping his thigh.

His gaze darted to your hand, a flicker of surprise and, perhaps, gratitude flashing across his face. Almost immediately, his grip relaxed, his arm going still under your touch. You rubbed small circles on his forearm with your thumb, a soothing motion that seemed to anchor him further.

From across the cabin, Jean caught your eye, her expression laced with quiet amusement. She smiled softly, and you pressed your lips into a thin line, feeling warmth creeping up your neck. You quickly shifted your focus back to Logan, whose arm beneath your palm now felt steadier, the tension in his body beginning to ebb away.

Jean turned slightly, nudging Scott with her shoulder. Without speaking, she sent him a telepathic message: "They’re going to end up together by the end of the week."

Scott glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in amusement. His thoughts answered hers with a teasing tone: "End of the week? Please. I give it forty-eight hours."

Jean raised an eyebrow back at him, her lips twitching in a restrained smile. "Oh yeah? Wanna bet?" The spark of challenge in her tone was unmistakable.

Scott smirked, meeting her gaze. "Sure. If I win, I’m picking the next Saturday movie night."

Jean’s nose wrinkled in mock disgust. "Ugh, not a three-hour boring war movies. Fine, but if I win, we’re going on a picnic Sunday morning. No excuses."

Scott tilted his head, feigning consideration before nodding. "Deal."

Their expressions mirrored a conspiratorial delight, both barely containing their amusement as they exchanged a subtle smile. Scott leaned back, looking smug, while Jean cast another knowing glance in your direction.

Neither you nor Logan noticed the silent exchange, too absorbed in the moment between you. Logan’s grip had relaxed completely now, and your thumb instinctively moved in small circles over his arm. Whatever storm lingered inside him seemed to settle under your touch.

Jean fought the urge to laugh, her amusement evident as she leaned slightly toward Scott. Telepathically, she added: "Better start picking your movie, Summers."

Scott's response came swiftly, with equal confidence. "Better packing that picnic basket, Grey."

The rough flight to the SAC headquarters had unsettled the team, though Logan hid it better than most. The turbulence seemed almost symbolic, foreshadowing the chaos they were about to face. When the Blackbird finally touched down, everyone was tense but laser-focused. Logan led the charge during the initial infiltration, his claws carving a silent, efficient path through the guards. Behind him, Ororo and Scott cleared the way for Hank and Jean to access the facility's systems. You followed suit, the rhythm of combat grounding you in the moment.

The team split up for efficiency. You found yourself alone, navigating the sterile hallways. The lab doors loomed ahead, and when you stepped inside, a sight far worse than you'd imagined greeted you.

Stacks of files and records lined the walls, their labels clinical and cold: Mutation Experimentation Logs, Specimen Decommission Reports. You hesitated, dread coiling in your gut. Pulling out a file at random, you scanned the contents, each word cutting deeper than the last.

The SAC wasn’t just experimenting on mutants—it was cross-breeding them with animals to create grotesque hybrids. Descriptions of failed experiments leaped off the page, detailing lives spent in agony before termination. Your breath hitched as you stumbled across a photo clipped to the file: a child, no older than ten, with reptilian scales covering half her body. The caption read: Deceased – Subject incompatible with human host.

Your hand trembled as you shut the file and grabbed another. This one bore a name you recognized—Ivan Sokolov. A pit formed in your stomach as your eyes skimmed through the familiar handwriting: Killebrew's.

"Subject terminated following loss of viability due to prolonged suppression of mutation. Will be sent to battlefield without request for funds. Further trials planned with new candidates."

The words blurred for a moment, but your gaze snapped back to a single phrase that sent a chill down your spine: "prolonged suppression of mutation."

Mutation? Ivan was a mutant?

Your breath caught, your pulse pounding as you scrambled to reread the lines, searching for anything that might explain. Ivan, your closest friend in that desolate sea of blood and cruelty, had never hinted at being anything other than human. He hadn’t had the enhanced strength or agility some mutants wore like badges. He hadn’t shown any signs of powers you could remember.

The realization struck like a thunderbolt—he never told you. Or perhaps, he couldn't. The military had kept his secret, used him just as they had used you. But why? What was his mutation? Questions clawed at your mind, unanswered and unanswerable, now that Ivan was gone.

Your vision blurred as you returned to the file, flipping through pages frantically. Buried amidst the clinical notes was a vague mention: "Unidentified genetic anomaly. Presumed linked to cognitive augmentation." Cognitive augmentation? Your chest tightened. Ivan had always been the strategist, the one who saw patterns, who seemed to anticipate moves before they happened.

The finality of Killebrew’s words—discarded like so many others—hit you with full force. He wasn’t just a casualty of war. He had been erased, his humanity stripped away in the same cruel experiments that had stolen so many others.

Ivan had been a flicker of light in your darkness, the anchor that kept you grounded when the horrors of the battlefield threatened to swallow you whole. And now, that light was snuffed out, leaving you alone with the knowledge of the secret he had carried to his grave.

Your hands shook as you shut the file. But this time, it wasn’t just grief. It was rage—cold, seething, unrelenting rage. Ivan had deserved better. They all had.

A sound behind you snapped you out of your daze. Whirling around, you saw Logan emerging from another hallway, flanked by four wide-eyed children. Their faces were pale, their thin bodies trembling with fear.

"There's more?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Another batch of kids these bastards managed to catch," Logan growled, his tone a mix of rage and quiet grief. “Still no sign of Ellie.”

Your jaw tightened. “Take them back to the jet. I'll keep looking.”

Logan's eyes narrowed. "Not alone, you're not."

“Logan,” you said firmly, your eyes locking with his. “They need you more than I do. I’ll manage.”

He stared at you for a moment, torn between arguing and trusting you. Finally, he relented. “Fine. Be careful.”

You nodded and moved past him, your steps purposeful despite the storm of emotions churning inside you.

Deeper into the facility, you found another lab, and your heart sank at the sight. Ellie sat inside a cage, her small frame curled up in a corner. A thick collar rested around her neck—the same mutation-suppressing device you knew all too well. Her tear-streaked face lifted at the sound of the door opening, and your chest tightened.

“Ellie…” you whispered, stepping closer, but your movement was halted by a voice that sent ice down your spine.

“They found a way to unlock your collar,” Killebrew said, emerging from the shadows with a smug smile. “Still playing the hero, them disgusting mutants band messed with your head.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “Let her go.”

Killebrew ignored your demand, circling the room with calculated steps. “Do you ever stop to think, my dear? Everyone who comes near you ends up dead. Ivan. Your father. Your mother. You’re a curse.”

The mention of your parents made you freeze. “What did you say?”

He tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Your father’s betrayal was just the beginning, wasn’t it? But your mother—oh, she broke after his death. I heard she didn’t last long. A few months, maybe?”

The words sliced through you, but you refused to show weakness. “What did you do to Ivan?!” you hissed.

Killebrew chuckled, leaning casually against the workstation. “Face it—you’re nothing but a harbinger of death to those around you. Maybe your new guy can’t die this time, but I suspect something far worse than death is already creeping up on him. The big bad Wolverine with fire and flesh... Oh, they call you ‘Hollow’ now, don’t they? I have to admit, you two make such an exquisite pair.”

Rage boiled over. With a growl, you launched yourself at him. The fight was vicious, Killebrew surprisingly agile for his age. He dodged your first swing, reaching for a scalpel, but you knocked it away. As the scuffle continued, you kicked over the cage holding Ellie, breaking it open.

“Run!” you shouted at her. “Find the others!”

Ellie hesitated, her wide eyes darting between you and Killebrew. “Go!” you yelled, your voice raw. Finally, she bolted, disappearing into the hallway.

Killebrew used the distraction to strike, slamming a piece of equipment into your side. Pain flared, but you ignored it, throwing yourself back into the fight with renewed fury.

Ellie stumbled into Scott first. “I found her!” he called into the comms. “She’s alive, but we need to move. Everyone, back to the Blackbird!”

Jean and Hank joined quickly, carrying armfuls of documents. By the time they reached the jet, Logan was already there with the other children, his expression dark and searching.

“Where is she?” Logan barked, his eyes scanning the group. When no one answered, he yelled your name.

“She’ll manage,” Scott said firmly, strapping in. “We can’t risk the kids.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his rage simmering just below the surface. “Fine,” he snapped, storming out of the jet. Jean called after him, but he ignored her, leaping down and heading back toward the facility.

“Logan, wait!” she yelled again, but he was already gone.

Scott shook his head. “Start the engines,” he ordered, leaving no room for debate. The roar of the Blackbird filled the air as Logan disappeared into the woods, determined to bring you back.

That old age isn’t lying; Killebrew is slow and can’t put up with your fight for so long. You manage to tie him to the laboratory chair with cable and some rope—god knows for what. His ridiculous face whining in pain and gray hair striking under the harsh light is absolutely amusing.

You shake your head, the view is amusing, but you can’t shake the question out of your system. What the fuck happened to Ivan? So you pull a chair and sit across from him.

“What’d you do to Ivan?” you manage to ask calmly, despite the raging storm.

“Injected him with the formula I bought from Russia. It was so expensive, he was practically a waste of funds.”

“Waste of fucking funds?!” You grunt in disgust. “Why didn’t he ever tell me? Why didn’t you?”

Killebrew shakes his head, confused. “Tell you what?!” he yells in frustration.

“That he was a mutant?! All this time, I thought he was human. Some random guy that got tangled under the filthy US government military that he probably didn’t even know half of what was going on. And I just fucking find out he’s one of your projects, just like me. Why’d you keep it from me?” you cry in frustration.

Killebrew’s brows narrow together. “Why on earth would I fucking tell you that? I’m rather surprised he didn’t tell you,” he says, leaning back with the slightest grin forming on his lips.

You shake your head. Of course, he didn’t fucking care. And here you are, thinking he kept it all away for a reason, but it’s all on Ivan. He didn’t tell you anything, and you thought you knew him, only to be proven that you didn’t know him at all, years after he was gone.

You sit in silence, letting this new fact that alters a big part of your life sink in. Your head feels heavy, and it suddenly drops as you look at the floor.

A whole year, maybe even a little more than that, you were stationed together. Sure, a year is a pretty short time to get to know someone new, but it’s a different case when the only time you didn’t see each other was a week out of that one year. You and Ivan, alongside ten other human soldiers—or at least you thought they were human because now Ivan has you questioning everything—were stationed under that sergeant whose name you can barely remember. But you remember every minute you spent with Ivan.

He told you his father was in the military. It was a common ground that instantly clicked between you two. You remembered his witty jokes: “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this? I bet ten dollars your father served.” To which you instantly replied, “And I bet you twenty your pops also served.” That day, you lost ten dollars but also gained another ten.

He’s from Montana, he told you that. His father served in the military and wanted him to be a real man and serve their country for being so kind to them as refugees. His father used to say their family owed America their lives, which you both laughed your asses off at. Owing America your life... what a shithole nightmare of a life to live.

He left Russia when he was six and never came back. He told you that. He pretty much fucking told you everything about his life because none of the other ten soldiers were fun to talk to. You did the same thing—told him pretty much everything about your life, even the experiments Killebrew had done and how they affected you. He had shared his sincere apology to you for it, but that was all.

You two lived the same life. He never told you that part. He never told you he was also an experiment, someone whose choices were taken and rights violated?

“So, Ivan’s father also sold his son to you?” you ask, finally breaking the heavy silence and lifting your head.

“Sold? He volunteered,” Killebrew says.

Before you can speak, Killebrew opens his mouth again. “It was because of you. He adored your ability and wanted to have what you have. That one week off, when all of Sergeant Cooper’s soldiers were sent back to regroup, Ivan willingly came to me. His body just rejected it.”

Your breath comes in shallow at another heartbreaking piece of information dropped like some atomic bomb on your head. What the actual fuck? Why would he fucking do that? His blood is actually on your hands? Gosh, he’s so fucking stupid—you should never have told him about your experiment.

You’re upset, angry about his decision. You can’t wrap your head around it. Just why? You feel like throwing the chair across the room. Your hands go up to your head, massaging your temples, then rest on your thighs as you bend slightly forward in the chair.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

As you’re distracted, too busy controlling your breath, Killebrew slips himself free with a piece of broken glass hidden under his white coat sleeve. He cuts the knot on his hand and lunges at you, stabbing you in the neck with the glass.

You scream in pain as he frees himself from the other knot. Your hand instinctively covers the stab wound, carefully pulling the glass out and letting your skin knit itself back together.

He runs toward one of the lab’s drawers and opens a metal door. You try to chase him but stop in horror at the sight of what he grabs.

A mutation inhibitor collar.

“One step closer, and you won’t fucking survive this time, bitch!” he spits, holding the collar out toward you as you stand a few steps away, raising your hands smartly to avoid getting caught in that shit again.

Fuck him.

You run toward him and lunge, knocking him in the stomach until his body drops with a loud thud onto the floor. You pin him in place, and he drops the collar.

Combat isn’t your strong suit, but right now, you want nothing more than to punch him bare in the face. Your fist curls, and you land a fat punch straight to his nose. He grunts in pain and manages to grab a piece of steel, smashing it into your head.

The fight isn't over. You slam Killebrew's head into the wall with a sickening thud, his skull making contact with the concrete. Не lets out a sharp cry of pain, but you don't stop. You keep smashing his head, again and again, until there's a small pool of blood trickling from the back of his skull. He slumps against the wall, his body barely staying upright, but still conscious.

Footsteps approach. Logan walks in, his gaze immediately locking onto the scene. He stops just in time to see you standing over Killebrew, his figure now small and pitiful, sitting and leaning against the wall, panting heavily.

"Hey," Logan calls your name softly. You turn at the sound of his voice. His expression softens when he sees you, his eyes scanning you for any sign of injury. "You okay?"

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His hand reaches for your shoulder briefly, giving you a comforting squeeze.

Logan looks down at Killebrew, who's still breathing heavily, his face twisted in pain. "Look at you two," Killebrew sneers, his voice ragged. "Gonna outlive every single person you knew on this earth, until nobody's left but the two of you. A match made in hell, an eternal damnation."

Logan glances at you, and you start walking away. He follows, his voice lowering. "Aren't you gonna finish the job?" he asks.

You shake your head. "Let him suffer."

Logan steps in front of you, halting your progress. "Woah, woah, what if someone finds him and rescues him?" He looks at you, concern flashing in his eyes.

You pause, eyes flickering to Killebrew as he struggles for breath. "If I kill him, I'm just proving his point," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

"You're not what he created," Logan's gaze softens as he processes your words. He nods in understanding. "If he survives, he won't stop."

"I know," you sigh, running a hand through your hair. "You might think I'm crazy, but I just... I'm proving this to myself. That I'm much better than him." Your gaze falls to the floor, your emotions a mess.

Logan steps closer, his breath steady, his tone gentle. "Do you want him dead?"

"Logan, I-"

"It's a yes or no question," he says cutting you off, more firm now, his voice low but unwavering.

You take a deep breath. "Yeah." You sigh, the word heavy on your chest.

Without another word, Logan walks past you, his figure casting a shadow over Killebrew's beaten form. He kneels down in front of Killebrew and curls his fist, bringing it to the man's chest. His claws emerge with a sharp, unmistakable snikt, and without hesitation, he stabs them right into Killebrew's heart.

The life drains from Killebrew's eyes, and his body goes limp. Logan pulls his claws out, the blood dripping slowly down his wrist. He retracts them, wiping his other palm across the blood-stained hand without a care in the world.

He stands up and looks at you, your eyes flickering with something, gratitude, maybe. He approaches you, his hand warm as it rests gently on your back.

"C'mon," he says softly. "Let's get outta here."

You nod, and together, you walk away, leaving the body of Killebrew behind.

The two of you walk down a desolate road, surrounded by dense woods whose name you don't even know. Glancing at your watch, you note it's half-past midnight. You still can’t believe Logan had no better plan for getting back to the mansion than walking. It’s freezing, and the single piece of black leather you’re wearing does nothing to help. And now, left alone with Logan again, you can’t ignore the awkwardness lingering between you two.

A question drums against your skull, one you’ve yet to address properly. You cringe at the thought of saying it out loud, but it keeps circling in your mind.

What the hell are we?

Maybe drop the "hell"—just what are we? Dear god, it sounds absolutely pathetic. Maybe Logan does this often, y’know, the casual thing. You’re not against it, but the idea doesn’t sit right with you. Especially since, well… it’s Logan. He gave you the best head you’ve ever had.

Or maybe it’s better left as is. No strings, no drama. No breakups, no obligations. Nobody gets left behind because there wasn’t anything to fulfill in the first place.

The two of you keep walking down the road. A few cars pass by, and Logan halfheartedly sticks his thumb out for a ride. You quickly point out that it’s not the brightest idea.

Then, a light catches your eye—a building, glowing in the dark with a bright orange sign. "You hungry?" you ask, nudging Logan with your shoulder and nodding toward the diner across the road, about a hundred yards away.

Katz Diner, the sign reads, gleaming through the gloom of night.

"We don’t have any money," Logan says, his boots crunching against the gravel.

"You don’t have any money," you reply, reaching into the pocket of your holster and pulling out two neatly folded hundred-dollar bills.

Logan scoffs, clearly amused. "You’re carryin’ cash around on a mission?"

"What? This is a survival kit." You flash him a wide smile, and his husky chuckle follows, warm and familiar against the cold night air.

The two of you finally make it to the diner, your steps quickening as the glowing orange sign promises warmth and food. But as you reach the glass door, the truth dawns on you. A "CLOSED" sign hangs in clear view, mocking your misplaced hope. You groan, your breath fogging up the glass as you clutch yourself against the biting cold.

"Asshole," you mutter under your breath, shivering as you glare at the locked door.

Logan glances down at you, his expression unreadable except for that flicker of mischief in his eyes. Without a word, you already know what he’s about to do.

"Logan, don’t—"

Before you can finish, his fist smashes through the glass. You flinch at the sound, but Logan barely reacts, calmly reaching through the jagged shards to unlock the door. Pushing it open, he gestures for you to go in first.

"You’ll have to leave the hundred bucks on a table," he says, stepping aside with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, walking past him into the dark, empty diner.

"We’re gonna get arrested," you tease, glancing around the quiet interior. Your gaze catches a red light from CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

"But maybe if there’s no footage," you quip, pulling your gun from its holster.

The loud crack of the gunshot shatters the stillness, and Logan startles, snapping his head toward you. "Geez, give a guy some warning, will ya?"

"Where’s the fun in that?" you reply with a grin, holstering your weapon as you take stock of the diner.

Behind the counter, you push open the swinging door to the kitchen. A quick glance around reveals a treasure trove of ingredients—raw chicken, beef, potatoes, eggs, butter, pasta, tomatoes, sausages, bacon, and more.

"Jackpot," you mutter, pulling a few items off the shelves.

Logan steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you inspect the food. "You planning to cook or hoard?"

You toss a bag of potatoes at him, which he catches with ease. "Both," you shoot back.

Within minutes, the two of you are working side by side, a light banter filling the room as you chop, stir, and fry. Logan handles the meat, seasoning and grilling the chicken and bacon with surprising skill. Meanwhile, you focus on the carbs, boiling pasta and mashing potatoes.

"You're getting better with that," you remark, watching as Logan flips the bacon in a pan.

"Had to learn," he replies with a shrug. "Ain't gonna risk the chance of you callin' my meal closer to inedible, again..."

You chuckle recalling your own joke to him "I really did hit a nerve there huh?" you tease.

Logan smirks, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "Wound still fresh"

The playful tone lingers in the air as you finish cooking, the warm scent of food filling the room. You walk from the kitchen to the table first, balancing your plate carefully, eager to sit and eat. But as you place it down, Logan appears behind you like a shadow, plate in hand, following without a word.

You turn back toward the kitchen, remembering your forgotten glass of water, and nearly crash into him. You freeze as he blocks your way, standing so close that you feel his warmth against the cold air of the diner. Startled, you glance up, and for a brief moment, his heavy, tired eyes bore into yours. It’s like he’s seeing through you, and you’re not sure if you want to look away or keep holding his gaze.

The tension breaks awkwardly as you both shift to move, but in the same direction, cutting each other off. You chuckle nervously. "You want water?"

Logan’s lips twitch into a soft smile, rare and disarming. "Yeah."

You gesture to his right, stepping aside to give him space. "Okay, I’ll go this way, you go that way," you say, slipping past him and retreating to grab two glasses.

Your breath feels shaky as you fill the glasses, your mind stuck on that split-second where he had looked at you. Only if he knew how much he was affecting you, how much you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you.

When you return, Logan is already seated, waiting. You slide the glass to his side of the table, his quiet "Thanks" breaking the silence as you take your seat.

You eat in silence at first, avoiding his gaze, your eyes fixed on your plate. The chicken looks unappetizing, under-seasoned and bland, but you tell yourself it’s fine—you’ve had worse.

Logan, on the other hand, occasionally glances up from his plate to you. His fork pauses midway to his mouth as he studies you, the way your focus stays locked on your food, the way you keep your head down.

Finally, he speaks. "Y’alright?" His voice is steady, cutting through the quiet scrape of utensils against plates.

You shrug without looking up. "Yeah."

Your gaze shifts to the window beside you, the yellow streetlight casting a faint glow against the black of night. It’s easier to stare at that than at him. After a moment, you bring your attention back to your plate, but the awkward weight of his question still lingers in the air.

Logan’s fork clinks softly as he sets it down, leaning back in the booth. His sharp eyes don’t leave you. "What’s wrong?" he asks again, his voice gentler this time, but persistent.

"Nothing," you reply quickly, a little too quickly, cutting another piece of your chicken as though focusing on the task would shield you from his gaze.

He doesn’t let it go. "Look at me," he grumbles, his tone low but firm, the kind that makes your hand freeze mid-motion.

You hesitate, but eventually tilt your head, meeting his eyes. They’re heavy with something you can’t quite put into words—concern, maybe frustration, but most of all, care.

"What’s wrong?" he repeats, this time softer, your name slipping from his lips like an anchor, grounding you.

You hate that. Hate how much his concern cuts through your walls, hate the way it makes your chest tighten. It’s unbearable, so you break the contact, dropping your gaze back to your plate.

"I don’t know," you admit, your voice small, barely above a whisper. You spear the last bite of chicken and shove it into your mouth, hoping to end the conversation.

But Logan doesn’t move. He doesn’t pick his fork back up, doesn’t shift his attention elsewhere. You can feel him watching you, his patience unnerving.

"You do," he mutters, his voice calm but resolute.

You glance up briefly, your brow furrowing. "No, I don’t," you insist, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

Logan leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. "You’re not a good liar, y’know that?"

The corner of your mouth twitches, but you don’t let the smile break through. "Guess I need more practice."

His lips quirk in a faint smile, but his eyes remain serious. "You don’t need practice. You need to talk."

You shake your head, suddenly feeling exposed under his unwavering attention. "Not now, Logan. Can we just… drop it?"

For a moment, it seems like he might push further, but then he exhales heavily, leaning back again. "Fine," he says, though his tone suggests he’s not letting it go forever.

You stood up quickly, desperate to put some space between you and Logan, the weight of everything hanging in the air. You felt a mix of frustration, confusion, and something you couldn’t quite place. But before you could walk away, his voice stopped you.

"Hey."

You froze, heart pounding, and turned to face him. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unyielding. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out your mother’s necklace, holding it out to you. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut, and you could barely process it.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped closer. "Where the hell did you find that?" you demanded, your voice coming out shakier than you intended as you snatched the necklace from his arm.

"Your bathroom’s floor," Logan said, his tone almost too casual, like it was no big deal. A smirk tugged at his lips, but there was no hint of apology.

"My bathroom’s floor?" You repeated, disbelief taking over. You could feel your anger rising, the frustration bubbling up. "What the fuck, Logan? Why the hell would you put it in your pocket?!"

Logan's eyes narrowed, and he shifted, standing up from the booth in one smooth motion. He was inches from you now, his body tense with frustration. "Jesus, calm down. It’s just a necklace."

"Just a necklace?" You snapped, voice rising. "It’s my mother’s! You don’t just take things and shove them in your pocket like it doesn’t matter!"

You stood there, fury coursing through your veins, your heart pounding in your chest as Logan continued to stand in front of you. He looked almost unbothered, his stance relaxed, but his eyes—his eyes were anything but.

"You always do this," you said, stepping closer, your voice low but trembling with frustration. "You make me feel like I’m the one losing my mind while you—" you gestured sharply at him, "just stand there like nothing’s wrong!"

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "And you think I’m not losing my mind too? You think I don’t feel this—" he waved vaguely between you both, his voice rising, "whatever the hell this is?"

"This?" you shot back, your chest tightening. "This is you pushing and pulling untill I don’t even know where I stand with you!"

His laugh was bitter, almost a scoff. "Yeah? Well, try being on this side of it. Try waking up every day thinking—" He stopped abruptly, his words catching, and his eyes darted away.

"Thinking what?" you demanded, stepping closer. "Say it, Logan. For once, just say it!"

His head snapped back toward you, and his voice dropped, low and rough, like he was forcing the words out. "Thinking that if I get too close, I’m gonna ruin you. And if I stay away, I’ll hate myself for the rest of my goddamn life."

The air between you felt like it might break. Your pulse pounded in your ears, but you couldn’t look away from him.

"Then what do you want me to do?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s lips parted, but the words seemed to stick, his throat working as he searched for something to say.

"Stay," he murmured raw and pleading. "For once in your damn life, just stay."

You shake your head hesitantly. "Why?" Your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes stinging as you fight back tears.

Logan steps closer, the warmth of his body radiating toward you. His gaze searches your face as if memorizing every detail, etching it into his mind.

"Because we need each other," he says, his voice rough but steady. "You and I... we can be quite destructive on our own. But together—" he pauses, his jaw tightening as if the words are caught in his throat, "we cancel that out."

Your fingers tighten around the heart-shaped pendant in your hand. He reaches for you, his touch impossibly gentle, and you resist, unwilling to let go of this fragile barrier. But the tenderness in his hand disarms you, and slowly, your grip softens.

Logan carefully takes the necklace, holding it as though it’s something sacred. His gaze softens as it locks onto yours. "I've been the best version of myself when I'm with you. And I think—no, I know—you feel the same."

He steps behind you, his movements slow, deliberate, as he fastens the necklace around your neck. You close your eyes, his nearness overwhelming. The familiar scent of him—leather, smoke, and something distinctly Logan—wraps around you, grounding you and pulling you apart at the same time.

"Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll stop," he says softly.

You don’t answer. Words fail you as his fingers brush the back of your neck and lift your ponytail for adjusting the clasp. Your breath catches when his hand grazes your waist, the touch featherlight but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

His voice drops, barely audible. "Just one chance. That’s all I’m asking."

You lean into his touch despite yourself, your head tilting slightly as his breath warms the curve of your neck. When his lips hover, hesitating, your resolve weakens entirely.

"Logan..." you whisper, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for.

He exhales sharply, the sound laced with longing. His palm rests firmly on your waist, and his other hand grazes the zipper of your suit. Your heart pounds as he begins to pull it down, his touch deliberate and maddeningly slow.

Unable to take the tension any longer, you turn to face him, the suit unzipped halfway. His hands find your waist again as you rest yours on his shoulders, grounding yourself against the storm building between you.

"What do you want?" you ask, your voice trembling as his forehead touches yours, his nose brushing against you in the smallest, softest gesture.

"You," he breathes. "I want you."

His hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin with a gentleness that sends heat spiraling through your chest. Before either of you can think twice, you close the gap, your lips crashing into his.

Logan kisses you back with equal intensity, his lips moving against yours in a way that feels both desperate and certain. It’s messy, passionate, and utterly consuming. When your tongue slips past his lips, he meets it eagerly, a low growl escaping his throat.

Without warning, a wild thought flickers through your mind, and you bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to hurt and leave an impression. Logan pulls back with a sharp inhale, his eyes wide with surprise.

You grin, mischief playing on your lips as you watch the small wound heal almost instantly. He licks the blood from his lip tasting the iron.

He cooed "Easy there" the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.

You grab his wrist after he moves to wipe the blood away and bring his finger to your lips. Slowly, deliberately, you lick the crimson from his skin, your eyes never leaving his.

Logan lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle. "You’re gonna be the death of me," he growls, his voice thick with desire.

"Then I’ll make sure it’s slow and satisfying," you reply, your voice a whisper dripping with challenge.

He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything else, his lips crashing into yours again, hungrier this time. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel his body tense against yours as if holding himself back from unraveling completely.

"Logan," you moan against his lips.

"Say it again," he murmurs, his voice raw as his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw.

Your breath stutters. "Logan..."

The way he reacts, the way his name seems to break something inside him, sends your heart spiraling.

Logan pulls back suddenly, his gaze darting to something behind the counter. His expression is unreadable as he peeks over, making you furrow your brows in confusion.

“Logan, what—?” you start, but before you can finish, a familiar tune blasts through the speakers.

'I could stay awake... just to hear you breathing...

Watchin’ you smile while you are sleeping.'

Your eyes widen as you recognize the opening chords of Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing by Aerosmith fill the room.

Logan steps back toward you, a mischievous grin on his face. With a slow, deliberate motion, he extends his arm, inviting you to take it.

“What are you doing?” you ask, half-laughing, but you instinctively reach out, letting him guide your hand to his.

“Dance with me,” he says confidently, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head but allowing him to pull you closer.

“Didn’t take you for a sucker of romance,” you tease, laughing softly as he spins you around the empty diner.

His movements are surprisingly smooth, his hand guiding yours to his shoulder while the other stays firmly at your waist. “Yeah, well,” he smirks, “I don’t even know how to dance.”

“Sure you don’t,” you reply with a grin, noticing how effortlessly he leads.

'Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure.....'

As the music swells, your eyes meet his, and the warmth in his gaze makes your chest tighten. This song—it hits every nerve just right.

And then, as if on cue, the two of you burst out in unison:

“Don’t wanna close my eyes…”

Your voice is off-key, and so is his, but neither of you care. You’re singing with abandon, your joy filling the room.

“I don’t wanna fall asleep, ‘cause I’ll miss you, babe!”

Logan laughs, a deep, husky sound that makes your stomach flutter, and you can’t help but join in.

“And I don’t wanna miss a thing!”

You yell out the lyrics, your voices echoing through the diner. Logan suddenly lifts you off your feet, spinning you around, and you shriek with laughter, clinging to his shoulders.

“‘Cause even when I dream of you…” Logan sings the line. You laugh so hard tears prick your eyes.

“The sweetest dream will never do…”

You quiet down, your smile fading into something more genuine as he carries you in a slow, swaying circle.

“I’d still miss you, babe…”

Your chest tightens, emotion welling up as you press closer, resting your forehead against his.

“And I don’t wanna miss a thing,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Logan’s grin softens, and he pulls you even closer. His chin rests gently on top of your head as the two of you move in slow, easy steps to the rhythm of the song. Your hand squeezes his arm, and you close your eyes, letting the moment take over.

The beat of his heart is steady beneath your ear, grounding you. His hand at your waist tightens, his touch warm and reassuring. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right—no fights, no pain, just the two of you and this perfect, fleeting moment.

'Then I kiss your eyes and thank God we’re together,

And I just wanna stay with you,

In this moment forever, forever and ever.'

The song continues to pour through the diner speakers as the two of you move in slow, deliberate steps. You pull your head away from Logan’s chest, your eyes flickering with unspoken gratitude. He holds your gaze, leaning in closer, and brushes his lips against yours in a soft, tender kiss.

Outside the diner, across the road, Scott and Jean stand in their gear, clearly fresh from their mission. Ellie and the children have been safely returned to the mansion, and with the tracker embedded in your suit, it wasn’t hard for them to find you and Logan in the middle of nowhere.

What they didn’t expect was… this.

Under the diner’s bright lights and with its large glass windows, you and Logan are clearly visible, completely absorbed in each other.

Scott lets out an incredulous sigh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

Jean chuckles, nudging him playfully. “Man, can’t believe we both lost this one,” Scott grumbles.

Jean smirks. “Lovebirds,” she teases, crossing her arms as they continue watching the scene unfold.

Scott huffs, stepping off the curb. “Alright, let’s break this up.”

The two of them approach the diner, standing awkwardly just outside the glass. They exchange a glance, silently debating what to do. Finally, Scott knocks loudly on the glass, startling you both mid-kiss.

You jolt, pulling away from Logan as your heart jumps into your throat. “Fucking hell,” you mutter, your face flushing as you spot Scott and Jean standing there, Scott looking thoroughly unimpressed and Jean offering a thin, awkward smile.

Logan doesn’t look even remotely phased. He’d sensed their presence long before the music even started, but he hadn’t cared. With a soft grunt, he reaches behind you and zips your black leather suit back up, taking his sweet time.

Scott and Jean step carefully through the broken glass on the diner floor, their expressions half-amused and half-annoyed.

“I had high hopes for you two,” Scott says, his tone dry as he surveys the scene.

Logan raises an eyebrow, his hand still resting on your lower back. “You’ve got a point, Summers, or are you just here to gawk?”

Jean laughs lightly, shaking her head. “Don’t mind him. He’s just sulking because he bet you’d get together in the next forty-eight hours.”

Scott scowls. “And she bet it’d take at least a week,” he grumbles, gesturing at Jean. “Turns out, we were both wrong.”

You blink in disbelief, glancing at Logan, who looks utterly amused. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“Guess you two underestimated us,” he says, flashing a smug grin before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips—right in front of them.

Your cheeks warm, but you can’t help the wide smile spreading across your face as you lean into Logan’s side.

Scott groans, throwing his hands up. “Alright, get a room, you two. Your ride’s outside. Time to go home.” He turns, wrapping an arm around Jean’s shoulders as they head for the door.

'Don’t wanna close my eyes…

I don’t wanna fall asleep…

I don’t wanna miss a thing,'

the song continues, fading behind you as Logan intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Home,” you murmur with a soft smile, glancing up at him.

Logan’s lips press gently against your temple, his touch grounding and warm.

“Home indeed,” he echoes, voice filled with quiet contentment.

Together, you walk out of the diner, leaving the music behind and a two-hundred-dollar bill on the counter by the radio.

[stealingyourbones]

(INCOHERENT FUCKING SCREAMING)

SO THAT ZOMBIE SUPERMAN IDEA HUH

THAT INTERESTING THOUGHT EXPERIMENT OF A POWERED ZOMBIE HUH

Okay, okay so having read the DCeased comics now

I just, that's a lot. That's just, so much.

So NOW, instead of focusing on how scary superman zombie is, I want to see something a little more light hearted because what the FUCK (I'm sorry but that whole comic line is just, whoooooooo)

SO IN THAT VEIN

I need somebody on earth to receive a star sapphire ring. We need to add some hope into this comic line because it is FULL UP on angst already. Even though I'm really pleased with how they handled an apocalypse scenario without time travel, it's just, it's a lot.

So a star sapphire, spreading hope in the hopeless lost in the anti-life equation (I know it's not the same since there's death in it now but please I need this one)

And it needs to be Constantine.

NOW, hold on I have reasons for this. 1. he would hate the uniform. 2. he has faith and hope in humanity even being on the heel of it and seeing the worst of it. 3. it would be funny

Okay that's all I'm going to thousand yard stare now byyeeeee

For context; this is referencing an ask that was sent to me a few hours ago about a Superman Turns Into A Zombie concept where he’s akin to Diana in DCeased as a roaming slaying death machine and the virus being caused by Lex. A highly intelligent mega aggressive zombie Superman. Terrifying right?

I was then DM’d on discord about the idea and asked if Supes would retain his powers if he became a zombie. This lead to both of us reading DCeased up to DCeased Unkillables and positively loving it.

The scene referred to:

The ring you’re thinking of is the Blue lanterns not Star Sapphire! Blue is Hope, Sapphire is Love or Love Scorned. That would truly be a fascinating way to stop the Anti-Life Equation (the zombie virus is a organic techno virus caused by Death being injected with the Anti-Life Equation).

Being in an apocalypse changes you. Constantine with a Blue Lantern ring would truly be a sight to see (sapphire or blue lantern, he would both hate the uniform XD)

[youcouldmakealife]

Stuff That Helps Me Write: Procrastination Busting (Novelty Edition)

So, last week I was talking about the interest based nervous system versus the importance based nervous system, and how people with interest based nervous systems are driven by urgency, novelty, challenge/competition, and interest, versus the more common importance based nervous system, which is driven by importance (to yourself or to others), rewards, and consequences.

I don’t know whether ADHD or autism has a larger impact on my life — they often impact different areas, and they frequently compensate for one another in the areas they do overlap, when they aren't forming an unlikely alliance hellbent on my destruction. But my writing process is 100% run by ADHD. So because these tips are the ones that work for me, and my writing process is, top to bottom, ADHD as fuck, they’re probably going to be pretty heavily slanted toward ADHD peeps, though of course YMMV.

Tackling novelty first, because, well, of course I am. This can also appear as ‘novelty/creativity’, but honestly, I think that’s a little redundant: doing, say, a creative version of a task is simply injecting novelty, and I think novelty is a much easier concept to understand for most people than creativity is. Novelty can be boiled down to single words we learn the meaning of at a young age (new! Different!), whereas creativity has fifteen different definitions, every single one of which might spark debate. So for our purposes, I’m sticking with just novelty.

Here are some ways I inject novelty into my writing process:

Roll the dice.

This doesn’t have to be dice, though the 20-sided ones are absolutely great for this. You can use decks of cards, random number generators, slips of paper, whatever — one of the best ways to make yourself do a bunch of shit you don’t actually want to is to attach those tasks to numbers (or colours, or suits, or whatever), and let fate decide. This can work in a lot of ways: you assign each task to a number, say, or you roll the dice on how long you have to work on it, or what order you’re doing them in, or whatever. I tend to be much more chill about doing a task when The Dice are the ones telling me to do it. It’s stupid. It works.

Roll the dice (pt 2)

This is also a fun way to create prompts: say each number is a character. You roll the dice: okay, I’ll write about David. Now I’ve associated the dice with a word, or a concept, or whatever. Okay, David and touch. Insta-prompt, no creative thinking required.

Prompts

Speaking of prompts and lack of creativity: I have tricked you all. Oh ho ho. You think you are getting a fill to a prompt you want to see (and, admittedly, you are, as long as I haven’t wandered off course, which cannot be guaranteed), but in return I am getting writing ideas without actually needing to have them! I don’t think I would be able to write 100+ stories a year if I had to think up every single idea myself, but if you outsource the creativity — well, win-win. Someone gets their prompt filled, and I get the spark of inspiration I need to fuel my writing.

Obviously this one needs to be adapted just a bit for other scenarios, but you can gather inspiring things (lines from books, poetry, lyrics, whatever) for future inspiration, you can look for online writing prompts or tell yourself you’ll write to fill a category (senses, say, or seasons, or elements, etc etc). Basically, if you don’t know what to do, forcing yourself to respond to a prompt, or follow a theme, often provides just enough constraints for creativity to happen.

When you’re stuck, move on to something else

It’s very common productivity advice to focus on just one thing and do it start to finish before you move on to the next. Don’t do it.* It’s a trap.

I do agree with the ‘one task only’ advice inasmuch as multi-tasking… doesn’t actually exist (if we’re talking something like ‘writing and listening to music’, or ‘doodling during a lecture’, that can go great, but that’s not really multitasking, so much as adding complementary stimulation. If you’re trying to, say, write an essay during a lecture, at least one (and probably both) of those tasks will suffer.) but beyond that, no.

It’s probably great advice if you’re neurotypical but I genuinely cannot think of a worse suggestion for anyone with low frustration tolerance and fucky dopamine. I hit an obstacle in that ‘just one thing’ I am doing? Cool, great, guess it’s time to stop doing it forever.

If you’re working on several different things (especially if those things use different skills and/or headspaces), when you get stuck on one, you can pivot to work on something else and let your subconscious do all that cool underrated stuff in the background, and maybe when you return to it you’ll have figured out a way around whatever your obstacle is. And even if you haven’t, at least your frustration tolerance will have been reset.

If the project you’re doing isn’t working for whatever reason, especially if you’re growing frustrated (nothing good ever follows after the point you snap at your blameless computer), do something else, and come back to it when you’re in a better headspace. Some things you have to muscle through for various reasons: say, you procrastinated on it and it’s due tomorrow. But most things you don’t. So don’t.

*I’ll straight up say I can ‘do just one thing’ for longer periods with less stress now that I’ve been medicated, but it was an awful, painful process when I wasn’t, so I still don’t really recommend it for those who have fucky dopamine.

Do! Multiple! Projects!

Yes, this can bring us to the ‘start 17 projects and finish none, don't you dare look at my WIP folder’ ADHD trap, but there’s a pretty good place between extremes. The main reason I work on multiple series at a time (plus outtakes!) is so that if I’m stuck on one, or it’s not inspiring me, or I’m just not in the right mood, I don’t have to stare at my blank screen feeling like a complete failure, I can just scoot on over to work on something else that's calling to me. Do I always do the most important thing? Or the one that’s due next? Or even the one I want to work on? Perhaps not, but I do spend the vast majority of my writing time actually writing, which is more than a lot of people can say.

It helps to have projects in different areas of your life and different stages of completion, for extra variety (and therefore novelty), just beware the ‘I have 5% left of this project to do, shouldn’t take more than 7 years’. When you do reach that final stage, that is when it’s a good idea to get laser focused on ‘just one thing’.**

**Big caveat with the above tips on NOT focusing on 'just one thing' is that I’m specifically referring to ‘typical’ tasks, not hyperfocus. If you’re hyperfocusing on something, and it’s not hurting you (ie keeping you from feeding yourself, basic self-care, sleeping, genuine obligations, etc), you ride that high as far as it takes you, baby. The ability get 5 days of work done in 5 laser focused hours would cost a fortune if they could replicate it, by all means use it to your advantage. But you do need to rest and recharge after: it drains the hell out of your mental resources and cannot be depended on indefinitely. It’s the very best tool in my toolbox. If I use it without allowing myself to recharge I will lose access to it indefinitely.

Change something about the process

It doesn’t need to be a big thing. I can switch from using my laptop to writing by hand. Or write in my bedroom rather than my office. A lot of my internal resistance to tasks is ‘this is boring’ — I’m lucky that doesn’t often happen with writing, because it’s inherently interesting to me, but sometimes you’re just stuck, and a change of scenery, of tools and equipment, of context (say, go write the POV of another character if you're stuck on a scene) is enough to shake the blah. I’m going to go into that in a lot more detail when I hit ‘interest’ and ‘challenge’ because those are both great things to inject when things have gone stale, but a lot of the time, it doesn’t matter what the change is: the fact there was a change is enough.

[reformhim]

Luke's Reluctant Journey

Luke sat on the edge of the clinic bed, the paper crinkling loudly beneath his jeans. His stomach knotted with anxiety. Ryder stood beside him, holding his hand, thumb stroking reassuring circles on Luke’s clammy skin.

"You don't have to do this if you're really not ok with it," Ryder said gently, though the glint of hope in his eyes was unmistakable.

Luke swallowed hard. He wanted to make Ryder happy — wanted to share that bond — but the idea of his body changing, of losing control, unsettled him deeply. And yet, here he was, nodding stiffly.

The doctor entered with a tray carrying three small syringes. "We'll begin the first stage today. You'll receive three injections over the course of a week. After that, your body will start adapting."

Luke barely listened after that. His muscles tensed as the first needle pierced his upper hip. A deep warmth spread through him, almost nauseating. He squeezed Ryder’s hand tighter.

The Changes Begin

The first few days after the injections, Luke noticed his emotions fluctuating wildly. A sentimental TV commercial made him tear up. Later that night, Ryder forgot to take the trash out, and Luke irrationally snapped at him, slamming cabinet doors until he exhausted himself.

"I'm sorry," Luke muttered after, sitting on the couch in a hoodie too big for his suddenly sensitive body. "I don't know what's happening to me."

Ryder just smiled sadly and pulled him into a hug. "It's okay, babe. It's just the hormones. You're doing amazing."

But Luke didn't feel amazing. He felt wrong.

As the days passed, the physical transformations began — deep, internal aching in his pelvis that sometimes doubled him over. His hips widened subtly, just enough that his jeans felt uncomfortable and tight in new places. He hated looking at his reflection, seeing the slight but undeniable softening of his body.

The worst was the feeling inside — a cramping, twisting sensation like something was building inside of him. Luke could feel the formation of a uterus, a womb, ovaries — organs that weren't supposed to exist inside him.

The medical scans confirmed it: his body had completed the process. Internally, he was now capable of carrying life. Externally, aside from the slightly broader curve to his hips, Luke still looked like himself — but felt like a stranger.

The First Period

Luke woke up one morning feeling damp and gross between his legs. Groggy, he stumbled into the bathroom, pulling down his briefs — and froze.

Blood, coming from his penis. Thick, dark, unmistakable blood soaked the fabric and smeared against his thighs.

Panic clutched his chest. His knees buckled, and he had to grab the sink for support. "Ryder!" he cried out.

Ryder came running, concern flooding his face before he realized what was happening. Gently, he helped Luke to the toilet.

"It's okay," Ryder murmured, rubbing Luke’s back. "It's your first period. We knew this would happen."

But knowing and experiencing were two completely different things. Luke felt humiliated, broken. He hated the sticky feeling, hated how messy and wrong it all was.

Ryder helped him line a pad in fresh boxer-briefs. Luke couldn’t even look Ryder in the eye as he fumbled through it, cheeks burning with shame.

"I feel so... gross," Luke whispered, blinking back tears.

"You're not gross," Ryder said firmly, pulling Luke into his arms again. "You're beautiful. You're strong. And I love you."

It was a hard week. Luke bled heavily at first, ruining several pairs of underwear before he got the hang of managing it. Each trip to the bathroom was a reminder that he had crossed a line he could never uncross. But Ryder stayed by his side through every embarrassing, messy moment.

Conception

When Luke’s period finally ended, his body settled into a strange, fragile equilibrium. He didn't feel ready for sex — he barely felt like himself — but Ryder was patient, waiting until Luke gave the faintest, shyest nod one night.

They took it slow. Ryder kissed every inch of Luke's skin with reverence, whispering praises into his ear. Luke lay there, trembling, letting Ryder touch him, guide him.

And for the first time since this all began, Luke felt something good building inside — not just the aching loss of his old self, but a spark of something new. A connection, a surrender, a promise.

When Ryder finally slid into him, Luke gasped — not just from the physical sensation, but from the overwhelming emotional flood that followed. Tears pricked his eyes again, but this time, they weren't from shame or regret.

They were from love.

Weeks later, Luke would stand in their bathroom again, trembling, staring at the positive pregnancy test in his hand. Fear and uncertainty still lived inside him, but so did something else now.

Hope.

And Ryder, who knelt before him with shining eyes, kissed his still-flat belly and whispered, "Thank you for giving us this gift."

Months later, Luke's belly formed, life moving around on the inside. He felt uncomfortable, sometimes regretful. But then he'd think about the future - their family being formed and how proud Ryder had become of him.

[ianthe-is-a-bitch-and-i-love-her]

@st-just, in reference to this post.

Here's my more in-depth review of The Faithless, if you're curious.

The Locked Tomb is something of a special case of queer norm fiction. It took me a while to figure out why I loved tlt so much when I was so cold on all other queer norm fiction, but I do have an answer.

The thing about tlt is that it's queer norm in the sense that queer characters and relationships are utterly unremarkable... but it's also not queer norm because there is no norm. The worldbuilding in tlt is deliberately sparse, such that we have no idea what a normal family or relationship within the Nine Houses even looks like! We know Harrow's parents were married and had her. We know that Magnus and Abigail are married but don't have children. We know that Corona and Ianthe have parents. We know that children can be grown artificially in vats. We know that marriage for political alliance is a concept that Harrow is aware of. And as far as I can remember, that's it! The worldbuilding is a black box, and nothing that we can glimpse in it is strained by unremarkable queerness, which is a very rare thing.

The Locked Tomb also injects other elements that resonate with me as authentically queer. Probably the biggest one is that the characters, in addition to being queer, are horny and weird about it. Like, I know that sounds trite to say, but of all the wlw books I've read, I would say a plurality are pretty chaste, and most of the ones that aren't are fairly tame or understated in the level and type of horniness on display. There's a lot to be said about the overlap between the queer community and the kink community that is way beyond the scope of this post, but without even touching Harrianthe bone sex and Nona's vore thing, one of the first things we learn about Gideon is that she owns porn magazines. It is vanishingly rare for fiction to acknowledge that people have or use pornography, let alone queer characters, let alone in a value neutral way, but a lot of queer people owe some part of their self-discovery to porn, in whatever form. The books are just full of unsanitized, "impure", queer desire, and that's both resonant and uncommon.

The last thing, I think, that makes tlt stand apart from queer norm fiction, is that the queer normalization is localized. In Nona the Ninth, we see life outside the Nine Houses, and it is messy. Pyrrha gets misgendered and stereotyped. Her gender identity is misunderstood and disrespected. The polite fiction of perfect understanding and tolerance of a lot of queer norm settings falls away completely. If you want to take a particularly meta read, you could argue that since the Nine Houses are not an emergent culture but a society designed and created by John, a queer man from our time, that he acted as an author and deliberately enforced queer norm standards on them because if he was going to be God, then god dammit he was gonna have his queer utopia about it.

The locked tomb deals with queerness in its setting in a really novel way that works very well for it specifically, and I really enjoy it. You could argue whether it counts as queer norm or not, because it very much blurs the lines. Something queer about that too, yeah?

[sonicasura]

Alternate idea for TFA Optimus being stranded on Arachnus Seven instead of Elita-1. First off he doesn't turn into a spider. Nope, I'm going for another creature that lurks in caves but tend to eat critters like spiders: BATS.

Fun fact: Optimus Primal's original design had been a bat before it was replaced with the gorilla we know and love. As for the OP here... I'll going for multiple inspirations so he can truly be alien like. Mainly because the 'bat' Animated became was an equal level predator to the Arachna Seven Spiders.

This four winged species which I'll call 'Arachna Nebulas' went extinct due to outside interference as the bat genus in general are very sensitive to changes in their environment. We all know what happens when an ecosystem is heavily disturbed. Optimus was lucky enough to find intact enough remains to become Vetaleus Prime.

Vetaleus being a word play on Vetala, a mythological vampiric bat like entity that takes over cadavers. Fitting as in a way OP is dead whether it be to those he once knew or his old self. For Arachna Nebulas, it's from the Cosmic Bat Nebula that can be found in Orion's Constellation.

Now I have two types of inspiration for Vetaleus Prime. One from the real world while the other is media consumed over the years. For bot mode, I introduce you to Yu-Gi-Oh's King of the Feral Imps and Digimon's VenomMyotismon.

Considering he had remains for this reformat than an alive specimen, OP's techno-organic nature has glaring differences when it comes to his modes. His thick fur becomes large mane like clusters around the helm/wrists/ankles while thinning out half way down his torso as defensive measures shift to the bones of the secondary wings become spikes and horns.

A 33 ft bulky frame meant for sheer force whether it be large powerful claws n talons, sharp piercing teeth to drain a prey's life, powerful tail that can flatten, or even large ears which can hear an ant breathe. Vetaleus Prime's bat like face doesn't help in portraying his gentle yet nervous nature and his still Autobot colors remain under scrutiny. No stereotypical evil Fateswap OP's in this house.

Onto the Arachna Nebulas' mode, I have fictional inspiration alongside three real world ones. Meet the Golden Crowned Flying Fox, Vampire Bat, White Honduran Bat and Monster Hunter's Paolumu!

Optimus is very fluffy in alt mode as the Nebulas' thick fur prevents the spiders from injecting their venom into him. Akin to the Paolumu inspiration than just visage, there's a special air sac in the neck that allows the species to not only float but also spit large blasts of pressurized air if their hammerlike tail slaps don't do the job. Here's the boss fight from Monster Hunter World for further details.

Vetaleus Prime's alt mode is built with the 'bob and weave' concept. Dodging the opponent's strikes while landing your own attacks on them. His larger upper arm wings makes it easier to move and adjust his trajectory in float as the secondary protects the less fluffy parts of the body.

In alt mode Vetaleus has more animalistic mannerisms. Growling, purring, roaring, and whining to convey his mood. He grooms himself like any other animal much to confusion of those around him.

Those mannerisms are still present in bot mode but Optimus tries not to unless alone or around others he trusts. He can't escape from nesting though. One of the ways to our bat bot can make himself feel comfortable and safe.

Like with Arachnus Prime, Vetaleus Prime goes into self exile knowing that Cybertron will never accept him. He ends up on Earth because of poachers who visited Arachnus Seven to capture some spiders to sell on the black market. A conflict that leads to a crash landing before canon occurs.

Optimus here has a more harsher craving when it comes to organics as his primal nature no longer has those giant spiders to satisfy him. It isn't uncommon for the deer and bear population to decline but also poachers or illegal hunters to disappear. You can say Vetaleus Prime holds a feral grudge on this specific group. Unless he has a good supply of oil than Cybertronian are in sheer danger from a feral episode.

Vetaleus craves companionship but isolates him due to fear. He has hurt others before and doesn't want to harm innocent people or much worse a companion. A fear made more apparent from his feral outbursts if refueling needs aren't satiated.

Ways to sustain this primal nature becomes more difficult once Vetaleus is forced to make the sewers his den. Stealing from food delivery trucks WILL happen if he cannot find ample resources in time. A desperate action that solidify his cryptid status as the 'Detroit Devil', escaping with the quarry in hand before anyone fully sees him.

Vetaleus Prime does his best to remain being hidden and indulge soothing hobbies like reading or knitting than cause people potentially dangerous strife. A task that might become impossible when the past ends up in Detroit. Or the haunting realization of what can happen should Vetaleus fail to satisfy his other side.

Team Elita-1 best be careful. An innocent monster is just as dangerous as any other. Optimus rather not sink his fangs into someone he considers a dear old friend but evil will not miss an opportunity like this...

That's it for now! Until next time folks, I'll see you back at the crossroads between Detroit and Cybertron! Now Transform and Roll Out!

[aventurineswife]

"Do you wish to hold one?" Castorice started, spinning on her heel to see the reader a few feet from her.

"What...?"

"Do you want to hold one?" The reader repeated as she stepped closer, too close for Castorice.

"They'll die if I do..."

Without responding the reader moved past her and plucked a small white flower from the ground. Without warning the reader took Castorice's hand and cupped it around her hand holding the flower.

Castorice tried pulling away, tried distancing herself from the woman before her, but she wouldn't budge.

"You're going to die! Please, let go!" The reader only pulled her closer, into a gentle embrace.

"If I die, then I'll have found the end I seek Castorice." She whispered.

Minutes passed and yet the reader didn't collapse, didn't show any signs of fading.

"My soul is not yours to claim, it seems."

Castorice's mind blanked, her heart racing as she slowly curled her arms aroundthe reader's waist.

Then she bawled.

Emotions she had long since thought had left her heart broke out like a starved beast as she held the reader tightly, refusing to let go.

"I will always be here for you Castorice. I see your heart, I see what it is you want. I can help you achieve it." The Heir looked up into a pair of somber blue orbs, pulsing with what seemed to be affection for her.

"You... want us to die though." Castorice let go of reader and stepped away, desperately drying tears.

"I don't want anything, I am only here to guide you down a path that offers the least amount of pain, a path with no suffering. My life is dedicated to guiding falling civilizations to the path of acceptance, so that they might enjoy peace and acceptance while their end approaches."

Castorice shook her head, "It's still wrong though... we shouldn't have to lie down and accept that we've failed." She argued.

The reader only smiled at her, gentle and serene, before vanishing in a burst of mist.

"You will see things my way soon enough Castorice. Until then, all you need is to call my name if you want comfort."

Her words echoed, leaving Castorice struggling with duty and selfishness.

Reader lies as easy as she breathes lol

Oh wow, that was gorgeous—like seriously, you've got me completely hooked. The tension between Castorice’s anguish and the Reader’s gentle, almost unnerving serenity is so emotionally loaded, and it works.

Reader’s line “If I die, then I’ll have found the end I seek” hit like a punch. That quiet resignation mixed with that strange sense of devotion?? It’s hauntingly beautiful—and also a brilliant way to show just how alien they are compared to the characters around them. Like… they feel, deeply even, but their values and logic run on a completely different axis.

And then Castorice bawling in the Reader’s arms? I could feel that heartbreak. The idea that she’s been carrying so much guilt, pain, and isolation, and then suddenly—someone holds her without fear, without judgment, and just… accepts her. That would shatter anyone who’s been suffering in silence.

Also, Reader being a master manipulator cloaked in kindness?? Inject that straight into my veins. Like, they’re playing the long game—presenting peace, but pushing Castorice further toward accepting a fate Reader has quietly chosen for her, without ever forcing it. That’s so morally complex. Deliciously tragic. Almost like celestial gaslighting.

But my favorite part?

“Reader lies as easy as she breathes.”

CHILLS. Literal chills. That one line recontextualizes everything. Because now we’re left wondering—was that flower moment real? Was Reader really at risk? Or was it staged to break through Castorice’s barriers?

And Reader vanishing in mist? Yes. Yes forever.

This is such high-concept, emotionally nuanced storytelling—thank you for sharing it.