#and the last line from her POV is ‘I crash through the burning void toward the waters of heaven’ which COULD have been the reservoir... idk

[lostintranslaation]

HELLO HAS ANYONE HERE READ DRY BY NEAL AND JARROD SHUSTERMAN

[mrsalwayswrite]

To Call Forth Love (Modern!Ivar x OC) Chapter 2

Well I meant to only write a one-shot but oops, I just kept going. 

This is Chapter 1 but from Ivar’s POV. We also get to see some family dynamics there and why he was acting towards Kari like he did. 

A huge thanks again to @saritanotserena​ for help with the moodboard. 

Words:4200

Warnings: swearing, mild sexual content

If you need to catch up, Chapter 1. 

Series Masterlist

"Fuck." The word dropped from his mouth with all the impact of a grenade. Somehow even just uttering the word solidified what he had just been told. 

 Running his tongue along his teeth, he huffed then slipped his phone into his back pocket. His brothers were not going to be happy. He glanced up at the moon as if hoping it would give him answers, but she was a fickle bitch and just shone down on him, surrounding him in shadows. Somewhere he had spent most of his life anyway, where he felt most comfortable now. Not forever though. He promised himself that. He would not spend forever in the shadows. 

 Turning around, he yanked the 'employee only' door open and slipped back into the raucous club. His thoughts tore relentlessly through his mind as he walked down the darkened corridor. It was easy to dismiss the blasting music, the bright lights, the drunken cheers from inside the club. It was all superficial, all irrelevant. His mind focused on the important things. At least what he deemed important for his intellectual mind. Tomorrow, he was leaving for a business trip to the Mediterranean and with the way things were playing out….it would certainly not be boring. He could already taste the blood on his tongue. A venomous smile hinted at the corners of his lips at the thought. 

 Walking down the crowded hallway, leading to the main floor of the club, people instantly jumped out of his way. If it was due to the scowl on his face or the knowledge of who he was, he did not care. They were all beneath him. A couple of the women tried to make eye contact, to slither closer in hopes of gaining his attention. He ignored them. They had better luck gaining favors from one of his brothers. He wondered if that was part of their draw to him, for how few women he allowed to entertain him. It mattered not. 

 A twinge in his leg caused him to step to the side of the hallway for a second and pause. The pain was mild, something he constantly endured. Pain- his ever-constant companion. Closer to him than his own family. This twinge told him he had spent far too long on his feet today, especially without his cane. He snarled at himself, at his own disability, his inadequacy. Before self-loathing could sink in, he pushed the feeling away. No more. He would rise above this, as he always did. There was no other choice. The gods bestowed this curse upon him, he would make sure they regretted it. 

 For once though, he wished the gods would bless him. 

 Just as he started to move forward, a blonde woman crashed into another woman that had been walking in his direct path but seemed not to notice due to her facing the ground. The blonde ran into the smaller brunette then continued onward without notice or care after righting herself. Unconsciously, his hand darted out to grab the arm of the brunette woman before she fell ungraciously at his feet. Normally, he was not so selfless. His typical response would be to taunt and laugh at the woman at his feet. Make some comment about how he had no need for her to worship at his feet. But as soon as he grabbed her, kept her upright, he wondered why she was different. Why his usually barbed words were silenced.

 Her hands fisted the front of his Armani shirt as if clinging to a sinking ship and hoping for salvation. He would have laughed at any other time for he was the furthest from salvation; but her head tipped up and he felt himself freeze. Her eyes widened meeting his and for a fleeting moment he wondered what she saw when looking at him. He peered down at her, the top of her head just under his chin. Her chocolate hair hung loosely behind her, reaching a couple inches past her shoulders. Pale, pink lips glistened under the lights, distracting him for a moment with the way they glistened. Dark eyeliner and a smoky color highlighted her blue-green eyes that reminded him of the sea, swirling and enchanting.  What surprised him most was the seemingly innocent look in those ocean eyes. Even her features seemed so girl-next-door and innocent that he wondered what someone like her was doing in a place like this. 

 His hand still held onto her. He needed to let go but found himself reluctant to. She was a mystery that he found himself wanting to unravel. He placed the words on his tongue to make a quip, to return to his comfortable aloof manner but not fast enough…

 For she rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. 

 A myriad of emotions flooded him at the sensation of her gentle kiss. So profound were the conflicting feelings, he stood as a statue, unmoved for concern of what his actions would tell. Though he had been kissed before, those were always alcohol or lust fueled, and even then only minimal for they represented a precursor to what he actually wanted. This felt like nothing he had ever experienced before, it was soft and gentle, like the touch of a butterfly's wing. Yet it also unleashed something in him desiring more. More of the softness she unwittingly offered, something his life was void of. Lastly though, it burned his soul because no one like her ever came to him willingly or because they wanted him. There was always a catch, always something they wanted. He was never good enough. He was never enough. 

 "Are you drunk?" He blurted out without caution or remorse. The lingering taint of tequila on her breath alerted him that she was not entirely sober. 

 "What?...no, I've had like two drinks but that's it...wait. Oh gods! Was my kiss that bad? Shit. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll just...sorry." She began blabbering, cheeks turning a lovely pink even through her sun-kissed skin. 

 He stared at her a long time, unsure what to do next. He prided himself on his ability to make decisions, to plan and see corners when others only saw a straight line. It was also not unknown his ability to predict how others would think and react, and he used that to his own advantage often. But with her, he was unsure. He knew it would be wisest to push her away, to return to his brothers and tell them the news that had him in a foul mood. Yet he found himself leaning towards the alternative, curious to see what she would do next, what her sweet kiss meant, to stare into her beguiling eyes more and taste those pretty, pink lips again. 

 "Come." He commanded, releasing her arm and taking a step to the side. 

 "Wha…. what?"

 He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing. "Come. I am not through with you." Here was the test. Here would decide how they both reacted. Mentally, he prepared himself for rejection and prepared a sharp barb on his tongue only for it to be silenced with her quiet, stuttered acceptance. 

 "Ohhh….um, ok."

 Glancing over her quickly, he turned on his heel and started towards the VIP section before she could see the surprise and shock on his face. He hated how her acceptance momentarily warmed his heart. He promised himself he would continue to test her, to make sure she was not feigning desire. For if she was, he had no problem giving her a taste of his anger and retribution for being played. His brothers had learned long ago to forgo what they thought was helpful by throwing women at him. Those same women usually returned to his brothers in tears and cursing his name due to the intimidation and demeaning he showered them in. 

 He led her to an unoccupied section, grateful that the space his brothers sat at was further away and they seemed preoccupied with their own revelry. Without a word, he dropped onto the couch, his legs thanking him for the reprieve. He turned to her and could not help but slide his heated gaze over her body. Standing there in her short, tight, black dress and wicked heels, he found his mouth suddenly dry. What she wore was pure temptation, flattering her delicious curves and elongating her legs to a point where he wondered what she would do if he dragged his tongue from her toes all the way up to her hip. It was the way that she lightly bit her lower lip, looking both excited and shy that caused his member to harden beneath him. 

 Silently, he held out his hand, beckoning her closer. A thrill raced down his spine as she took her hand and let him guide her to straddle his lap. 

 "Good girl." He murmured, pleased by her actions. 

 As her lips descended once more upon his, where last time he was unmoved, this time he took control. His hands gripped her ass, holding her against him as his mouth dominated. His tongue greedily worshiped her mouth, drawing her tongue into a sensual dance that earned a moan from her. Unable to stop, he found himself powerless to tear his mouth from hers. It was like the sweetest ambrosia he ever tasted. Her mouth was both sweet and filthy and he wanted to drown in the taste. 

 When her lips retreated, he almost snarled at losing their touch. Instead he dropped his mouth to her chest, lavishing the line of her cleavage with his mouth and tongue. 

 "Fuck, you taste amazing." He whispered. He could get drunk just off the taste of her. His tongue traced the tops of her breasts once more before moving up her chest and neck to suckle just below her earlobe, wanting to leave his mark. In more than one place. When a soft purr escaped her due to his touch, he could not help the possessive way he held her tighter, needing her closer, needing to hear that sound again. 

 Her hands grasped his face, forcing their lips to meet again and it was all he could do to suppress the pleased growl in his throat. Her hips began grinding fervently above him and he knew she was lost to the throes of pleasure. 

 "Fuck, kitten, keep going. Ride my cock." He growled into her mouth. He watched as she threw her head back, mouth open. Continuing to grind under her, he decorated her skin with hot, open-mouth kisses and sucking occasionally, wanting to leave evidence of his touch on her. So she could not forget him easily. To mark her as his. For after this, she would surely be his. He watched her unashamedly as her orgasm hit her. Her lips parted, eyes closed and head thrown back, she was the most beautiful creature in this moment he had ever laid eyes on. 

 "What…." He watched as she licked her lips, seeming to struggle with forming a coherent statement once the blinding pleasure dissipated. "What, um, was that?"

 "What are you talking about?" He asked smugly, as he continued to place open mouth kisses along her chest and neck, never stopping his ministrations. His member was rock-hard under him and demanding attention. Soon enough, he would have her on her knees before him. He wanted to see those pretty, pink lips he enjoyed so much wrapped around his cock. 

 "Um, that feeling… I just...wow…." She stuttered out, voice wavering. 

 He stopped his ministrations, a realization dawning upon him. He tilted his head slightly to hold her gaze. "Have you never had an orgasm before?"

 He could see the panic that filled her eyes before she even moved. As soon as she tried to dart away like a skittish animal, he pinned her to him, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and kept a firm grip on her hip with the other. 

 "You never have…." He murmured aloud. Truthfully, virgins were an elusive breed due to his social circle and work. Especially virgins coming to him. This information also drew forth a caveman feeling that inflamed his blood and made his member strain with even more painful pressure. He was the first to touch, the first to give her pleasure. It made him want to lay her down and have her right there on the couch, uncaring of anyone who walked by. He wanted to hear her purr under him, to drag her nails down his back. He wanted to claim her, to never let another man touch her. That only he would bring her pleasure. He wanted to corrupt and taint her, but also worship her as his goddess. 

 "Are you a virgin, my pretty kitten? Mmm?" He knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it. Needed her to confirm it. 

 "Please," she whined. He was unsure if her plea was to save her from speaking out loud her innocence or to continue lavishing her with pleasure. Either way, he could tell she was at his mercy and he loved it. 

 Deliberately slow, he leaned closer to her, hovering his mouth over hers. The way her breath hitched, her eyelashes fluttered, her hands tightening on his shoulders, he knew she wanted him. 

 "Kari!'

 His pretty kitten jerked at the call, drawing her gaze to two women standing at the entrance of the VIP section with the bouncer.  

 "It's time to go!" One of them yelled over the music. 

 He narrowed his eyes at them, angry that they were stealing her attention. The one who called out ignored him, keeping her eyes on the brunette in his lap while the other practically bounced on her toes, nervousness evident. Clearly, they knew who he was. He smirked, a dark and devious look that caused both to stiffen even from far away. He licked his bottom lip as if tasting their fear in the air. 

 "I have to leave." She quietly said when she turned back to him. Any other person he would have assumed she would be pleased to abandon him, that this whole thing was a set up and now her friends were coming to 'rescue' her. Staring up at her, he could see the guilt in her eyes, the lust still dancing there. 

 There was still his question he wanted answered before he even considered letting her go, which he was becoming more and more reluctant to. He dropped his head, nuzzling her neck after brushing her hair away before whispering into her ear. "Answer my question first." 

 "I... I need to go. I'm sorry. Please. I just…"

 He forced her gaze to meet his, lips ghosting over hers. "Answer. Me." He snapped, not pleased with her trying to get out of answering. 

 Finally, her answer came out in a barely heard whisper. "Yes."

 He paused, both surprised and elated by her confession. Immediately, he slammed his lips to her with abandon, forcing her into a needy kiss, coaxing her tongue to dance with his again. A lusty moan from her filled the nonexistent space between them and he answered with a growl. He desired her. More than just a lustful want. No, he found himself enthralled by her innocence but also the way she clung to him as he alone kept her tied to this world, instead of floating away on waves of pleasure. 

 "Stay." He whispered against her lips. 

 "I can't …."

 "I'll bring you home. We aren't finished yet." He stated, rolling his hips under her, his hard cock rubbing against her hot core. Gods, he wanted to keep touching her. Never before had a woman enthralled him as much as she did. He could not, would not, relinquish her. She was his. 

 "Please, I'm sorry. I want to stay, I promise. I've never…. I…. I just need to go. I'm sorry."

 The hint of panic in her voice dulled his lust. It was her words, confirming her want of him that placated him for now; but he would let her go on his terms, not on hers' and especially not on her meddlesome friends' that continued to stare at them. 

 Slowly, as if to prove he still controlled the situation, his grip loosened on her. His thumb caressed her pulse point, loving the erratic beat due to his presence and touch. His other hand trailed up her body as if to memorize it once more before taking her hand. In an uncharacteristic show of affection, he entwined their fingers. His blue eyes beheld her own, the blue-green color swirling and making him feel adrift at sea. Everything in him screamed to keep her in his lap, to not let her go. But there was something different about her, something that demanded care and tenderness, which confused him. She was the first woman besides his mother to show him such soft affection, to make him feel strangely safe. As he sat there staring at her, he felt that he was watching the sun set, beauty radiating enough to take his breath, but he feared the sun would never rise again on them. 

 "KARI!"

 She jolted at the frantic call of her name, tearing her eyes away. If he had no longer been tethered to her, her hand in his, he would have pulled out the knife hidden on his body and thrown it at her friend who kept interrupting them. It would bring him satisfaction to see the knife protruding from her thigh…. he had no intentions of killing her…. unless she interrupted him and his kitten once more. 

 He turned back to her, hoping to draw out a few more moments. "Can I see you again?" He quietly asked, running his thumb along the back of her hand.

 "I hope so." She smiled tenderly at him, then stepped away and walked towards her friends. 

 His gaze traced over her curves as she walked away, watching her hips sway and those tantalizing legs he wanted to caress. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. His gaze flickered back up to her friends. When he saw the one who kept calling her was watching him, a menacing smile grew and his gaze hardened. He was pleased to see her visibly stiffen and scurry away. 

 To his surprise, before fully descending the stairs, the pretty brunette looked over her shoulder to meet his gaze once more. In his mind, he begged her to come back, to return to him. Though the words would never cross his lips. He never begged. His pride and ego would never allow it. Nor would it allow him to chase after her to get her full name or phone number. 

 Then she disappeared amongst the crowd just as quickly as she appeared in his life. 

 His head and shoulders dropped as if an invisible weight had been placed on him. He sat there for a long moment, his mind reviewing everything that just occurred. He also needed his enraged cock to settle before he even attempted to get up. The sounds of her moans in his ear, the soft feel of her skin, how she fit perfectly in his lap as if made by the gods especially for him, that damn purring noise she made as he licked her almost made him blow his load. All of it he never wanted to forget. Though, remembering was not helping him to calm down. There was something different about her, a mysterious quality he wanted to discover and explore, just as much as her body. It was the way she held him unafraid that beguiled him the most. From the way her friends reacted, he knew they understood who he was. But her…. he had the impression she did not know him or what he was. Normally he would be offended, but not with her. She was special. His kitten. 

 With a grunt, he heaved himself off the couch to return to his brothers. At this point they probably figured he had abruptly left or been abducted. Depending on the brother, abduction might be preferable.  

 *****

 "Ivar! There you are!" Ubbe exclaimed, lifting his glass up as Ivar rounded the corner to enter their secluded area. "We were beginning to think you had somewhere more important to be."

 The youngest Ragnarson rolled his eyes as he dropped down onto the couch near Hvitserk. 

 "Who called?" Hvitserk asked, looking at Ivar over his glass. 

 Before answering or meeting the questioning looks of his three brothers, Ivar reached forward and grabbed his beer he had left behind and quickly drained it. Once done, he rolled the cup momentarily between his hands before speaking. "Mother."

 "And what could she possibly want now?" Sigurd drawled, an arm slung over his latest girlfriend. Ivar no longer even tried to remember their names, they were exchanged so often. 

 "Sigurd…." Ubbe reprimanded, giving him a side-glance before looking back at Ivar. His harlot girlfriend, Margrethe, leaned against his side, hand tracing patterns on his thigh. 

 The raven-haired brother sighed before straightening.  "She said she's coming to visit next week."

 Sigurd dropped his head back dramatically onto the back of the couch with a groan while Ubbe solemnly nodded and took a sip of his drink. Margrethe grimaced and muttered something under her breath that caused Ubbe to look sharply down at her. Only Hvitserk seemed unphased by the news, eyes meeting Ivar's for a brief moment before looking back over to watch those on the dance floor. 

 Ivar himself had mixed emotions when it came to his mother. He undoubtedly loved her the most out of anyone in the world. Her presence could also feel strangling at times.  

 "So," Hvitserk started with a smirk on his face, his gaze shifting to Ivar once again, "you going to tell us what took you so damn long to get back? I doubt the phone call took that long."

 Ivar narrowed his eyes at his brother. He knew his brother was playing a game with him and if the smirk said anything, Hvitserk knew why he had taken so long to return to their couches. "Fuck off, Hvitty."

 His brother chuckled while the others around the table looked on in confusion. 

 "Someone care to explain…." Ubbe said. 

 "No." For some reason Ivar found himself not wanting to talk about her. He had heard on more than one occasion how his brothers talked and compared their conquests. Ivar never joined those conversations, not because he was ashamed but he liked his privacy. 

 "Ah, come on, Ivar. She was beautiful, even if I could only really see the tight grip you had on her ass while she straddled you…. hell of an ass." Hvitserk teased. 

 Ivar slammed his glass down on the table, making the table and other glasses rattle precariously. "You say another damn word and I'll break your fucking jaw."

 His second eldest brother raised his hands in a show of surrender but the mischief in his eyes let Ivar know their conversation was not over yet. 

 "What? Ivy found himself a girl?" Sigurd scoffed. "Probably had to pay her to suck his cock."

 "Shut the fuck up." Ivar snarled. 

 "Enough, you two." Ubbe rubbed a hand down his face in exasperation. He glanced over at his youngest brother. "Care to explain?"

 Ivar was not stupid; he could see the intrigue in his eldest brother's face but it did nothing to move him. Instead he leaned back, and turned his gaze to look over the dance floor below. Soon a new conversation started up amongst his brothers but he paid no mind. His attention was on thoughts of her once again.

 "You get her number?" Hvitserk asked quietly after a while. Sigurd had disappeared with his girlfriend while Ubbe and Margarthe were talking and fondling one another. 

 "Does it matter?" Ivar retorted with a devious smirk. That answer made Hvitserk laugh out loud. The youngest Ragnarson had the uncanny ability to find someone when he put his mind to it. On more than one occasion their father had used that talent to find someone that had crossed him. 

 "Hey, ignore Siggy and Ubbe. She seemed into you. Try and get in touch with her, but for fuck's sake, don't stalk her." The two chuckled at that before Hvitserk turned serious again. "What was her name? Or were you too busy getting her off to ask?"

 He mock-glared before looking away. Out of all his brothers, he was definitely closest to Hvitserk. He was the most cool-headed out of all of the Lothbroks and quiet. He was slow to anger but did not shy away from unleashing his fury and bloodlust when the time called for it. Ever since they were children, somehow the two of them clicked compared to any of the other brothers. The second eldest also seemed able to pick up Ivar's moods with ease and knew when to leave the volatile Lothbrok alone. 

 After several silent seconds, Ivar finally whispered. "Kari." Even her name tasted sweet on his tongue. Surveying the club, he promised himself that he would find her. By the gods, he would see her once again and have her. For even if he did not want to admit it fully to himself, he was already addicted to her taste and touch and the mystery about her. And he had never been known to give up on something that fascinated him….and she was no exception.

[master-sass-blast]

Rubber Meets Road (Can You Smell the Smoke)? --Redux.

GOD I JUST LOVE VOMITING SO MUCH

Sorry, I get pissed off when I’m sick. Which I am. Send me asks to make me feel better pls.

Summary: A rewrite of a fic under the same title that I wrote a little while back (https://master-sass-blast.tumblr.com/post/181256328966/rubber-meets-road-can-you-smell-the-smoke), this time from Piotr’s POV.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: M for car crashes, arguments, and pettiness.

@marvel-is-perfection

He can hear the music in the background --some rock song, he’s pretty sure it’s from Halestorm, one of the bands he knows Ellie introduced you to--and right now all it’s doing is making him grit his teeth.

“I don’t know how to stop!”

He takes a deep breath and tries to keep himself calm. Shouting will help no one. “You will both return to X-Mansion this instant.”

And you keep arguing. And so does Wade. You both keep arguing despite the fact that there’s absolutely no way to justify what both of you have done.

Heads up their own asses, he thinks as he clenches and unclenches his fist. “Come home, Y/N. Now.”

Another barest start of an argument.

He inhales deeply, mentally preparing for another round of mental gymanastics. He exhales, slowly--

“Look out!”

“Shit!”

Terror spikes through his entire system as he hears screaming and the sound of metal screeching and glass shattering. He knows what’s happening --it’s what he was worried would happen--and it takes all the self-control he has not to crush the phone he’s holding from sheer fear.

The call cuts out, and he freezes for a moment before sprinting towards Professor Xavier’s office.

Wade is fine. Because of course he is.

And Piotr doesn’t like to think of himself as petty --of course he’s glad Wade is alright, Wade’s his friend--but he really doesn’t care about Wade right now.

Because Wade always comes out alright. And the people connected to him don’t. That’s how Wade works.

You’re alright too, technically. All of your limbs are still attached and you haven’t broken anything. It’s a fucking miracle, even if it’s one he doesn’t understand, given the constraints of reality.

He hasn’t been down to see you yet. You aren’t awake, and he does have classes to attend to, and--

Bozhe, pomogi mne, I am so angry. He grips his hands together and presses his forehead against them, trying to calm himself down.

He’s already gotten a lecture about your ‘wild tendencies’ from Professor Xavier for this particular incident, along with several looks and muttered, abruptly aborted conversations from his peers and colleagues.

And he’s tired. He’s so fucking tired of all the wild shit that you and Wade get up to. He’ll be the first to admit that some of it’s funny --lighten up, Scott--but he’ll also be the first to admit that the two of you are destructive.

You’re destructive.

He takes a deep breath, then smiles pleasantly when his first afternoon class walks through the door. “Privet. Pozhaluysta, zaymite svoi mesta.”

He does have classes to attend to, after all.

He takes care of his classes. And then he grades his students’ work. And then he gets caught up on grading. And then he reviews the syllabus for the year and makes sure everything’s on course.

And after that, the sun’s long since gone down and he doesn’t have anymore excuses to keep him from seeing you.

He sits back in his desk chair and rubs his face with his hands.

And he groans. O, Bozhe. This is too much to deal with.

He puts his teaching stuff away, stows the stuff he still needs in his bag, and leaves.

And goes to bed.

“You’re being an asshole.”

“Language, NTW.”

“She is your damn girlfriend--”

“Ellie--”

“No, don’t you fucking ‘language’ me, Colossus!” Ellie glares down at him, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t care how mad you are or what issues the two of you have. Y/N is your fucking girlfriend, and when your girlfriend gets into a car accident you go and see her.”

He keeps his eyes focused on his sketchpad, even though he isn’t really drawing much of anything. “I have other responsibilities--”

Ellie slams her hands against the table he’s seated at, forcing him to look up at her. “You’re being a piece of shit and you know it.” She pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts tapping at the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Texting Y/N to let her know where you are.”

“Ellie--”

“No.” She glares at him again, unyielding. “You’ve stepped in shit. You gotta clean it up.”

And before he can do anything else, you’re walking into the library. “Where the fuck have you been?!”

“She’s here. Deal with this like an adult!”

He doesn’t look up at you. He can’t. It’s not just anger anymore; shame is welling up in him too, at his own actions and negligence.

He covers his own ass --double the shame. “I have many responsibilities here at mansion. You know this.”

“Are you fucking serious, Piotr? I was in a fucking car accident!”

He still covers his own ass --triple the shame. “I know. I distinctly remember calling you before it happened.”

“Are you-- you didn’t even come check on me! I was in the clinic overnight!”

He still --tries--to cover his own ass --quadruple the shame. “I have many--”

“No! No! Don’t you fucking ‘I had things to do’ bullshit me!” 

He’s forced to look at you when you push his sketchpad down --normally a crime against humanity, but he knows he’s earned it this time around--and a shiver runs down his spine; you’re the perfect picture of fury, hell on wheels aimed directly at him.

He’s made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.

“I was in a fucking car accident! I don’t care how pissed you are at me, we’re partners! We fucking show up and make sure the other person is okay!”

The anger comes back, overriding the shame --and his common sense, considering that he chooses to cover his own ass again instead of apologizing to you for his selfish behavior.

Quintuple the shame. 

“Partners also respect each other. Make sure they don’t do damage to each other’s reputations. That they don’t upend each other’s days.”

“Are you fucking serious? How could I have--”

“You have common sense,” he growls, anger burning hotter. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a man with a temper, but he knows he has one, buried deep underneath his convictions and gentleness. “Enough to know that doing every idea Wade suggests is foolish. Enough to know that speeding during rainstorm is downright idiotic!”

“You’re not even gonna acknowledge the fact that you didn’t bother to check in on me? You really think I deserved that?”

It’s out of his mouth before he can think about it or stop himself.

“As much as I deserve having to deal with each escalation in your behavior the longer you refuse to deal with void left by your parents.”

He sees it on your face as soon as the last syllable leaves his lips. 

No, he saw it before that, well before that, but he didn’t stop anyway.

Sextuple --or whatever the sixth degree is--the shame.

He goes after you, but you’re faster than him, and you’re not even in the hall when he clears the flight of stairs that stop on the third floor of the mansion. He searches through the room the two of you share, even heads out onto the balcony and cranes his neck back so he can see the roof, but it’s no use. “Where is she?” he asks when he sees Wade watching him.

“Look, man, she doesn’t want to talk to you right now. Give her some space. Go cool off.”

He sighs, but concedes. He knows well enough that trying to force you into doing something you don’t want to is impossible.

His mother had always told him that he had issues with facing problems head on. That he had a nasty habit of letting things roll over him until they blew over --or until he blew up.

His older brother, Mikhail, had proven his mother’s theories about his personality time and time again. Mikhail, the brash and suave and asshole-ish older sibling had done his fair share of walking all over Piotr, until he got bored or Piotr snapped.

He knows --he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt--that this is one of those situations. That he’s running from the problem, hoping it’ll blow over and that the two of you’ll just go back to normal.

Shame to the seventh degree, special order just for him.

He sets up camp in his art studio, and he does that because he stayed out of the mansion all day and dodged your texts and calls for hours and hours and hours and hours--

And he hasn’t told you that he’s back yet.

Shame, eighth degree.

“What the fuck!”

He flinches, having been so deep in his own wallowing session that he hadn’t heard you coming. “Y/N--”

“Are you fucking serious? You go all day without answering any of my texts, don’t even tell me that you’re back home, and now you’re camping out in your studio? I was so fucking worried! I thought someone had gotten to you, like in Harmony or one of Magneto’s agents!”

And shame keeps coming. “I figured it would be better if we had some time apart. I thought you would not want to see me after what I said.”

“Nuh-uh. You don’t get to make yourself the fucking martyr of this situation, Rasputin. No one’s putting you in the dog house but yourself. So quit acting like a long-suffering saint!”

That one stings, and you’re absolutely right--

And he just shoves his foot deeper in his mouth, Bozhe, pomogi yemu.

“I may as well be, considering everything you put me through.” Zatk`nis, Piotr! Quit making things worse!

“This again? Are you--”

“‘This again?’” This time, the anger he feels is justified, righteous even. “Why do my frustrations only get a ‘this again?’ You are not only person in this relationship! Everything you do reflects on me! Do you ever consider how your actions make me look?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I’m such an ugly duckling!”

He scoffs. “Now who is being martyr?”

“You know what? Fuck off, Piotr. Sleep in your damn art studio if you want. Hope your bullshit keeps you company enough.”

Part of him feels a little cut that you’re being such a brat --and that you got such a good parting line in, to boot--but the larger, better, part of him knows that he made this situation as much of a shitshow as you did.

Go on, medvezhonok, he hears his mother say in his head. Go fix things. Quit running from the problem.

He sighs, and gets up to follow you.

You’re gone. No note, no warning. Your regular phone --not the burner that he knows you have and never let anyone else access, God knows where you got it from--is on the dresser in your shared room.

It’s a clear sign; you’ve gone to wherever it is you go whenever you need specialized training. It’s where you went when you disappeared after getting busted for using repression serum to control your episodes.

He slams his fists against the dresser with a growl, chest heaving with every ragged breath he takes. Enough. Enough of this. Enough secrets.

He pulls his laptop out of his bag, turns it on, and accesses your file through Xavier’s internal system used to monitor the progress and histories of all residents at the mansion.

He has special access, since he’s an X-Man and a teacher. He gets to see more than most of his colleagues and peers do, even. As much as Scott likes to act like the big man on campus, Piotr knows from several discussions with the Professor that he’s the one slotted to take things over when Xavier steps down, not Scott.

It’s something he’s never told anyone because he’d rather not look like he was lording it over anyone --Scott--but it does come in handy for situations like these.

Surprisingly --concerningly, alarmingly--enough, most of your file is redacted. There are definite signs that you have connections outside the mansion, outside of your parents, but everything’s been shuffled or outright blacked out.

Anger turns into fear as he keeps looking and hitting intentionally placed dead ends. Bozhe moi, what has she gotten herself into?

He’s no hacker, nor is he a tech expert like Ellie, but Piotr knows his fair share about computers. One doesn’t grow up in Russia --with a mother like his, at least--without knowing how to dig into electronic files when necessary.

It still doesn’t do much, but it does get him some phone call records between Professor Xavier and an unlisted number.

And a set of coordinates.

He sends the coordinates to one of the jets, then goes to suit up.

The confrontation, admittedly, goes worse than he expected.

You’re angry.

He expected that.

You fight with him.

He expected that.

And then the man that introduced himself as your uncle --but didn’t give a name, which isn’t a detail that’s lost on Piotr--tells the two of you to get out before the “feds” jump all over him.

And that sets off alarm bells in his head like nobody’s business.

It’s not something he ever talks about --not even with Professor Xavier, though he suspects that the man knows bits and pieces.

Alexandra Volodyavna Rasputina, formerly known as “The Invisible Hand.” KGB assassin during the Cold War, taken from her family as a child when her mutation presented and trained by the government to be a killer, spy, and asset to the motherland.

And after the Cold War... well...

No one gets out in Russia.

He doesn’t know the full story; he knows that’s for his own safety and good. He knows, just barely, that his mother has some sort of connection to the mafia --a deal he knows she had no say in, once the KGB was disbanded.

No one gets out in Russia.

His parents are farmers and his mother, officially, works as a curriculum translator.

She also took a lot of calls that seemed add shadows in her eyes and weight to her shoulders.

Because no one gets out in Russia.

He purses his lips as he watches you fly off. She is so damn stubborn.

It’s one of the --many--reasons he loves you, is head over heels for you, even if it rankles him every now and then.

“Word of advice,” the unnamed uncle says as he heads back into the farmhouse that seems to be very deliberately placed in the middle of nowhere. “Grow a damn spine, Piotr.”

Everything that comes out in the kitchen is gut-wrenching, but not surprising.

The man at the house is your uncle. He’s a former non-voluntary government operative that managed to escape his handlers and lives under the radar for his own safety.

Or, he did, until Piotr literally flew a massive jet out to his property.

“Go.” Ellie practically shoves him up the three flights of stairs to the room the two of you usually share and into the bedroom. “Get some sleep. If I catch you working, I’m spiking whatever drink I give you with sleeping pills.”

He smirks, but waves off his trainee and promises to rest all the same.

The door closes behind him, and then he’s alone with his thoughts. You fucked this up, Piotr. Big time.

“Who is he? Who is he to the Institute?”

Professor Xavier sits back in his wheelchair and steeples his fingers. “You know I can’t tell you much.”

Piotr places his hands on the desk separating them and leans towards the Professor. “If I am going to take over for you someday, I need to know.”

Xavier sighs heavily, then nods and motions for Piotr to sit. “Unnamed is one of our... off the record contacts. He handles... certain situations for us, and we provide him with various favors in return.”

Piotr’s eyes narrow. “He is a hitman.”

“There are groups, adversaries, out there that are beyond our capabilities, Piotr,” Xavier says patiently. “Mafia families, drug traffickers, assassins. People that are all too happy to cast their sights on the mutant community. Unnamed makes sure that those groups stay clear of the Institute and the families that use our services.”

“I thought we were against killing. Against violence.”

“We are. Those who serve as X-Men are expressly forbidden from killing.”

“And yet we hire contract killer.”

“I think you will find, Piotr, that handling situations like the Institute’s requires two sides. Some of us have to stay clean, above the fray, so that we don’t lose our licensing to work with children, many of whom are often abused and become permanent residents at the Institute. To safeguard that, we also need people like Unnamed, to keep us safe and make sure that we can keep future generations of mutants safe.”

Piotr frowns. He can see the logic, see the necessity, but-- “You forbid Wade from killing mutant traffickers. Child traffickers. Abusers. Where is difference? Why not have this ‘Unnamed’ handle those for us?”

“Unnamed can’t do every single job for us. Even he has limits,” Xavier says, infuriatingly placid.

“Da, but that does not answer my question. You already have someone killing for us. Why not have us do the work instead?”

“I don’t know, Piotr. You tell me.”

Grow a damn spine, Piotr.

He stands, plants his hands on the desk again, and looks Xavier in the eye. “Nyet. You made rule. You tell me.”

“We can’t work with children if we kill people,” Xavier says after a moment. “And, after a certain point, the public needs to see mutants in a positive light. We can’t offer that if we kill.”

“So, politics,” Piotr says.

“I hardly believe that safeguarding children is politics.”

“Perhaps not, but doing things for sole sake of image is.”

“Piotr--”

He shakes his head. “I do not kill because I know taking lives always puts others in danger. There is always collateral. I do not kill because I believe I do not have right to take life. I can agree with safeguarding children, and I can agree with making sure the Institute has longevity, but what you are doing is wrong. You are using a man as your gun. That is still killing.”

“Sometimes, death is an unfortunate necessity.”

“And what happens when it comes back to bite us in ass?”

Xavier raises an eyebrow at the language choice, then lowers it when Piotr doesn’t drop his stare. “Ostensibly, that’s why we hired Unnamed. To make sure it won’t.”

Piotr shakes his head again and moves to leave. “You can’t know that won’t happen.”

He sits out by the back door and waits. He knows Nathan’s taken you out to blow off some steam --he can hear the gunfire, even from where he’s at--and he wants to catch you when you come back.

It’s time to make things right.

He’s got time to kill before you get back, though, so he’s --perhaps fortunately, perhaps unfortunately--left with his thoughts for the time being.

It’s difficult to process the reality that Xavier has a hired gun protecting the Institute. He understands keeping people like the mafia off their backs --he understands better than anyone else here, thank you very much--but there’s still something hypocritical in it.

And yet, Piotr has his own kill count. Some of it’s unintentional --ricocheting bullets bouncing off his armor and hitting an opponent, for example--and some of it was... careless...

He’d thrown a man against a wall during his efforts to retrieve you after you’d thrown yourself through a plate glass window during a mission, and unwittingly broken the man’s neck.

Piotr likes to think himself a gentle man. Something close to a pacifist, even. He doesn’t like violence, doesn’t like killing, doesn’t like hurting people if it isn’t absolutely necessary.

And warding off traffickers and mafia members and drug lords and other such unsavory types is a necessity. The students need it.

And, on a different level, he knows that if it came down to it, he’d kill to protect you --and whatever future children the two of you end up having.

But that is not matter of violence, he thinks, remembering what his own papochka told him about a husband and father’s duties in protecting his family. It is matter of principle. Of honor. Of making sure my family is safe.

And anyway, it’d be defense of others at that point, which --legally--wasn’t murder, and certainly wasn’t senseless violence--

or hiring a hit man to safeguard a school.

Bozhe moi, Piotr thinks as he rubs his face with his hands. I am getting nowhere fast with this.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to get anywhere else with it, because at that moment you and Nathan come strolling across the back lawn.

His heart breaks when he sees you walking with your head down and shoulders hunched in, then shreds when you lock eyes with him and turn away, crying. He stands and closes the distance as slowly as he can manage, trying to not crowd you to suddenly.

“No! He’s gonna hate me, and--”

“Myshka.” He rubs his hand over your back first, letting you adjust to his touch, before moving to your arm and turning you around.

He knows that apologies aren’t an easy thing for you. It’s not an issue of pride, but of trust; he knows that your parents have never apologized for anything they’ve done to you, and that it’s left you defensive and wary of any situation where you have to apologize for anything.

He also knows that most the apologizing you did as a child was during painful, brutal beatings, which is why he’s being deliberately slow and gentle right now, making sure that you know he won’t force you to do anything.

He knows he’s apologizing first, and he’s confident that the gesture will be enough of an olive branch to win your trust. Either way, it’s no skin off his nose.

He cups your face, small and delicate in his hands, and wipes the tears trickling down your cheeks away with his thumbs. Then, he stoops down and presses his lips against your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

He has to catch you in his arms when you crumple against him.

“Piotr --I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

“So am I, myshka. So am I.”

You sleep for a while, in his arms. Where you belong.

He dozes for part of it, then chases his thoughts when his body decides that napping is a foregone activity. He lets his mind run around in circles about your “unnamed” uncle until he gives it up, deciding that there’s nothing he’ll figure out tonight --or any time soon, if the ethical stalemate he keeps hitting is anything to go by.

And then you’re waking up, so clearly there’s something to be said for the serendipitous timing of the universe.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Piotr --babe--I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about going along with Wade’s idea when I knew better, and I’m sorry for stealing the car and wrecking it, and I’m sorry for yelling at you in the library and the art studio, and I’m sorry for flying out to my uncle’s without telling you and trying to pass it off as following your idea--”

“It’s okay, myshka. You are very much forgiven. For all of it. And I am sorry for my part in all of this. I should have checked on you after the accident, and I should never have said what I did about you and your parents.”

“Well, I mean, you weren’t wrong.”

“Accuracy and moral correctness are two different things. Instead of talking to you in private, out of love and concern for you, I said it out of anger to hurt you, and I am so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” He adjusts his posture a little when you tuck your face into his neck and runs his hand over your hair.

“It’s okay --I mean, we’re…” You sit up. “Can you turn the light on?”

He does, and his heart aches at how tired --ragged--you look.

“Are we… are we still us? Am… am I still your myshka?”

And here it is, the part he’s been dreading.

Don’t run away from your problems, medvezhonok. 

He kisses your fingertips, all together and then one by one. “You will be my myshka for as long as you want to be.”

“I’ll always want to be your myshka.”

Relief courses through him, and he pulls you into a hug. “Then you will always be my myshka.”

Because you always will be, in the end. No matter what problems the two of you face or what fights you have, you’ll always be in his heart. He’s known it for a long time now, and stopped trying to fight it too long ago to make trying to do so again a lost cause. The only way you’ll stop being his myshka is if you say so.

He kisses the top of your head and drinks in the comfort of feeling you in his arms.