#at least not until he has to take some steps forward in his life and move on and

[ellswritings]

In My Corner

(Part 12), Part 13, Part 14

Phil Brooks/CM Punk x reader

Colby Lopez/Seth Rollins x reader

TW: Regular wrestling violence, some sexual-ish stuff at the end.

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling, @scream4mami , @mandmilovehim, @dummylovewp, @insomnia-bookworm, @mill7531

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N needed a break.

She hated the feeling of needing one, especially after having a few weeks off right before Christmas. But she couldn’t go back to work and face the two men who have managed to piss her off more than anyone in her life ever has.

She had about three days before needing to head to Atlanta, and she planned on ignoring both Colby and Phil until she couldn’t anymore. It wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but she couldn’t talk to either of them. Not right now. Especially after Phil’s confession. She needed time away. Time with a person who she didn’t see all the time and who could be impartial to her situation.

That’s what brought her to Cincinnati Ohio.

Y/N pays her uber driver before grabbing her suitcase and clambering up the familiar driveway that she hasn’t seen in person in at least two years. She didn’t really give him or his family a warning that she was coming. But they always said if she needed anywhere to go, she could come there.

Y/N inhales deeply before hitting the door with three measured knocks. She can hear the confusion behind the door. Small murmurs and shuffling around on the hardwood in the foyet. It only takes five more seconds before the front door swings open.

“Y/N?”

She shoots a small yet nervous grin, “Hey, Good… Long time no see.”

Jonathan Good. Her longtime best friend and ex-Shield member. After he left WWE and got signed with AEW, they agreed to keep in touch and visit when they could. They kept up with the keeping in touch part, but visiting became scarce with their schedules.

For a second, Jon just stared at her like she was a ghost—like his past had materialized on his porch with a suitcase and no explanation. And then, in true Jon fashion, he laughed—gruff and disbelieving—before stepping forward and pulling her into a rib-cracking hug.

“Holy shit, what the hell are you doing here?” he said, lifting her clean off the ground and spinning her once. She laughed into his shoulder, squeezing him just as tightly.

“Surprise?” she said, voice muffled against his hoodie.

“You’re damn right it’s a surprise.”

He set her down and held her at arm’s length, looking her over like he was making sure she was real. Same eyes, same smirk, same slight exhaustion tucked behind it all. “You look… tired.”

“Thanks,” she muttered. “Great to see you, too.”

He grinned. “Get your ass inside before the neighbors start thinking I’ve kidnapped a celebrity.”

She stepped in, the warmth of the house wrapping around her like a weighted blanket. The air smelled faintly of lavender and coffee, and she barely had time to register anything before another familiar voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Who was at the—” Renee Paquette’s words halted the second she stepped into view, her eyes landing on the figure beside her husband. “No way.”

Y/N turned, smiling brightly. “Hey, stranger.”

“Oh my God!” Renee squealed, immediately hurrying over to wrap her in a hug of her own. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you text? You’re lucky I don’t have rollers in.”

“I figured I’d just show up and hope you guys still like me.”

“We love you,” Renee corrected as she pulled away. “Obviously.”

Before Y/N could respond, tiny footsteps thundered from around the corner.

“Nora, slow down!” Renee called, but it was too late.

The little girl came running in, her long dark hair in a braid and her smile wide. She skidded to a stop the second she saw who was standing in the foyer.

“Auntie Y/N?”

Y/N’s face broke into a full-blown grin. “Oh my God… Look at you!”

“You came back!” Nora yelled before launching herself at her. Y/N caught her with a slight stumble, arms wrapping tightly around the girl who had grown so much since she last saw her.

“You’re huge now,” she said dramatically, setting Nora back down. “What have they been feeding you? Protein powder?”

“Pizza!” Nora shouted proudly.

Jon snorted. “That checks out.”

“I missed you,” Nora said, peeking up at her with wide eyes.

Y/N melted. “I missed you too, kid.”

Jon grabbed her suitcase with a grunt. “C’mon. We’ll put your stuff in the guest room.”

She followed him down the hallway, Nora clinging to her side, and Renee trailing behind. Once her bag was set down and she had a chance to breathe, Jon crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. “So,” he said. “What gives?”

Y/N flopped onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through her hair. “I needed a break,” she said. “From everything. Everyone.”

Renee gave Jon a look. A knowing one. Then she smiled gently. “I’ll take Nora to the back. We’ll let you two catch up.”

Nora pouted. “Can’t I stay?”

Y/N ruffled her hair. “Later, kid. I promise.”

Once Renee and Nora left the room and the door clicked shut, an oddly comfortable silence settled between them. Jon stood there, arms crossed, still leaning in the doorway while Y/N sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

“Alright,” he said gently, “what’s going on, really?”

She let out a slow breath through her nose, not looking up. “It’s stupid.”

“Probably,” Jon’s voice was soft but firm. “Doesn’t mean it’s not real though.”

She glanced at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Since when did you start sounding like a therapist?”

“Since my wife started rubbing off on me.” He gave a half-smile. “Y/N… come on. You flew halfway across the damn country, unannounced, with a suitcase and that look on your face. You’re not here for pizza and pool night.”

Y/N groaned, falling backward onto the bed dramatically. “I hate that you know me this well.”

“Yeah, it’s terrible. Now spill.”

There was a long pause. The ceiling suddenly became very interesting to her. “…It’s boy problems,” she finally muttered.

Jon blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

She groaned again, louder this time, covering her face with both hands. “Boy problems, Jon. Jesus, I sound like a teenager.”

“You kind of do,” he teased, coming to sit on the chair across from her again. “But if I’m assuming correctly… the two stooges who are causin’ your problems are makin’ your life more difficult than just high school crushes and dance invitations.”

She groaned, already regretting everything. “I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like… I blinked and somehow ended up in the middle of this emotional war zone. Like one minute I was minding my business, doing my job, and the next, I’ve got two emotionally constipated men acting like I’m the goddamn Royal Rumble trophy.”

Jon leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “So… I was right? It’s Colby and Phil?”

Y/N sighed. “Yup.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded like he was watching a slow-burning explosion unfold in real time. After a second, he ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Yeah… figured something like this was gonna happen.”

That made her sit up straighter. “Wait, what?”

Jon gave her a knowing look. “Y/N, come on. I’ve known you for over a decade. And I’ve known Colby just as long. The second he stopped seeing you as just a co-worker? That was it. Dude didn’t stand a chance. I figured he’d confess eventually—just didn’t think it would take him this long.”

Her stomach twisted. “But,” Jon continued, “of course it happens to line up with Phil coming back like a damn ghost from the past, dragging all that old chemistry with him. And now you’re stuck in the crossfire of two men trying to out-alpha each other.”

Y/N dropped her face into her hands. “The fact you don’t even work for the damn company and you have it all figured out pisses me off.”

He smirked. “Yeah, it’s annoying, isn’t it?”

She looked up. “They both mean something to me. Colby… he’s good. He’s sweet. He’s constant. He doesn’t try to change me, and he sees me—really sees me. But Phil…” She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek. “…Phil’s everything I told myself to stay away from. But he’s also part of me. My past, my growth, my pain, my passion. He challenges me in a way no one else ever has. And now that he’s back, I can’t pretend like it’s nothing. But I also can’t just break Colby’s heart because of old flames and confusing feelings.”

Jon nodded slowly, his eyes steady on her. “And now?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “They’re both trying to pretend like they’re not competing, but they are. One second, they’re sniping at each other like they’re twelve, and the next, they’re throwing punches. And I’m just there, trying not to scream in the middle of it.”

Jon tilted his head. “And what do you want?”

She blinked at him. “I told you. I don’t know.”

“You do know,” he said. “You just don’t want to hurt either of them.”

“…Exactly.”

Jon leaned back in the chair, cracking his knuckles. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I can tell you what to do. But you’ve got to stop treating your own heart like it’s the damn fallout zone. You’re allowed to want what you want without trying to fix everyone else’s emotions along the way.”

Y/N stared at the floor for a long beat. Then she looked back up at him. “I missed you.”

He smiled at that. “I know. You only show up here unannounced when the world’s spinning sideways.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I always keep a spare key and a fridge full of snacks just in case.” He stood, grabbing a water bottle from the desk. “Now go change. You came all the way out here to escape, but I’m not letting you wallow.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is this the part where you make me do violent cardio?”

“Nope.” He tossed her the water bottle. “This is the part where I let you hit things.”

“Now that sounds like therapy.”

“You’re welcome.”

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The warehouse-style gym was quiet, the sound of a creaking ring rope echoing faintly across the concrete walls. Y/N took a slow breath as she rolled her wrists, watching Jon circle the mat. He was already barefoot, hoodie off, in a pair of sweats and a “Mox” tank that had seen better days. He tilted his head at her with a half-grin.

“You stretching or stalling?”

Y/N scoffed and dropped her bag on the bench. “Please. I’m just deciding whether or not I should go easy on you.”

Jon barked out a laugh, already climbing under the ropes. “Cute. That Shield ego’s still alive and well.”

Y/N stepped onto the apron and ducked inside. “You brought it out of me. I was peaceful before I was partnered with you.”

“Yeah, peaceful,” he said, smirking as they circled each other.

They locked up hard, neither holding back. She pushed into him with more force than he expected, making him stagger. He chuckled, rolling his shoulder before lunging again. They traded holds and grapples, feet skimming over the mat, and eventually Y/N spun out and caught him in a clean arm drag.

He landed with a thud and let out a surprised grunt, flipping onto his back with a slight smile. “Damn,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “You’re more aggressive than half the guys I work with.”

She smirked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Gotta get my frustrations out somehow.”

They kept going, sweat beginning to bead along their hairlines. Jon ducked a swinging forearm and scooped her into a waistlock, lifting and planting her with a controlled takedown. She popped back up fast, knocking him with a shoulder. The two rolled and slammed, their movements sharp but trusting. No ego, just mutual respect.

After another lock-up, Jon leaned back against the ropes, catching his breath. “You ever think about switching over to AEW?”

Y/N raised a brow. “You offering me a contract, Good?”

He smirked. “Might not be a bad move. Hell, you already beat me up like you work here.”

She chuckled and wiped her forehead. “Not sure you’d know what to do with me.”

“You kidding? We’d run that locker room within two weeks.” He glanced at her more seriously. “You look good using this kind of style. Comfortable.”

There was a pause—just long enough to let her guard lower. “I needed this,” she said. “I needed you. This whole week has been—” She cut herself off with a sigh and leaned against the ropes beside him. “I just… I needed to feel like myself again.”

Jon stayed quiet, sensing the shift. She wasn’t looking at him. That meant whatever was coming next was real. He finally said, “You’re not here just to throw me around and look good doin’ it, are ya?”

“No,” she muttered. “I guess not.”

He waited.

Y/N exhaled. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t even be this wrapped up in it.”

“Try me.”

She chewed on her bottom lip before finally admitting, “It’s just– they’re both being… impossible. And I’m tired. I don’t even remember what it all started over. One second Colby and I are fine, the next it’s a full-on fight at a hotel party.”

Jon’s eyebrows raised. “Jesus.”

She laughed, humorless. “I know. It’s pathetic. I’m not even mad at one more than the other. I’m mad that they made me the damn prize. Like I’m some walking trophy they have to outdo each other over.”

“You’re not a trophy,” Jon said, voice low and steady. “You’re a damn earthquake. You shake up everything around you. They just don’t know how to deal with it.”

Y/N glanced at him. “Why do you always know what to say?”

“Because I know you. May not have known you as long as Brooks, but I’ve been your friend for longer than he was gone. And I know your tells. I know when you’re spiraling. And I know when you’re holding something back.” He tilts his head, “Now i know they’re botherin’ you, but I can tell there’s more goin’ on in that head of yours. So what’s up?”

She was silent for a moment before finally sighing, “I’m bored on SmackDown.”

That surprised even her. But it felt good to say out loud. “I love my guys,” she continued. “Joe, Joseph, Jon. They’ve had my back forever. But it’s the same shit every week. Interfere. Attack. Pull someone outta the ring. I’ve done it all already. And I don’t feel like I’m growing.”

Jon nodded slowly. “So grow.”

“I’m thinking about it,” she admitted. “Monday nights feel different. There’s more room to breathe. I have people who push me.”

“You need that. You always have. You’ve never been the ‘just go with it’ type. You’re a firestarter.”

They were quiet for a moment. Y/N sat down on the edge of the ring apron and pulled out her phone, instinctively checking the screen. More missed calls. Colby, again. A couple of texts too.

And two from Phil. Short. Measured. One just said, Hope you’re good. The other? Wish we could talk.

Jon peeked over. “They still blowing you up?”

“Colby’s panicking. Phil’s… waiting.”

Jon snorted. “Figures.”

She locked the phone and dropped it beside her. “I don’t even know what to do. I care about Colby. He’s… there. Reliable. He cares about me. He always comes back, always tries. And Phil—”

“You don’t need to explain Phil,” Jon cut in gently. “We all saw how that went.”

“I just wish they’d both stop making it about each other and start giving a shit about what I want.”

Jon crouched in front of her, meeting her eyes. “Then tell ‘em. And don’t forget that what you want matters just as much as their feelings. You’re not responsible for managing their egos.”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

“You’re one of the toughest people I know,” he added. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t get to be tired.”

Y/N gave a watery smile, her throat tight.

“Now,” Jon said, standing up and extending a hand. “We’re gonna go again. But this time, I’m actually trying.”

“Oh, now you’re trying?”

“Hell yeah. Can’t let you leave town thinkin’ you can whoop my ass.”

She took his hand, letting him pull her up. “Too late.”

He grinned, already circling again. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I came here.”

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N stepped through the loading dock entrance of the arena, dragging her suitcase behind her with a quiet clack against the concrete. There was a certain sharpness in her walk tonight—like she'd sharpened her edges during her time away. Mox had helped clear her head a bit, sure. But the weight she’d left behind hadn’t fully lifted. Not when she still had two unread messages from Phil and a voicemail from Colby sitting on her phone like ticking time bombs.

Still, she wasn’t going to let any of that follow her into the locker room. She adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, cracked her neck, and forced on a grin as she made her way through the familiar hallways of SmackDown.

When she entered the Bloodline locker room, Jon and Joseph were already inside, bickering over what sounded like the proper way to wrap wrist tape.

“Oh thank God,” Y/N said loudly as she dropped her bag near the bench. “Voices I actually want to hear.”

Jon turned first, grin spreading across his face. “Look who decided to show up.”

Joseph offered a smirk and a nod. “You look good.”

Y/N stepped in, tugging her jacket off. “I feel good.” She walked right up to Jon and nudged his shoulder. “Missed you, you annoying little shit.”

“Aw, she missed me.” Jon batted his lashes, and she shoved him harder, laughing when he stumbled backward into Solo’s arm.

Joseph chuckled under his breath and caught her in a headlock when she passed, ruffling her hair. She smacked his stomach to get him off, but it only made him laugh harder. For the first time all week, she felt… at home. Warm. Like she was still tethered to something steady.

But that sense of calm faltered the second the door creaked open.

Joe stepped inside, dressed in all black, his presence as commanding as ever. The atmosphere shifted immediately. Y/N straightened up instinctively, her smile faltering just for a beat.

Joe’s eyes found hers quickly, narrowing just slightly as if taking stock of her condition.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight,” Y/N said, voice light but guarded.

He stepped further into the room, his expression unreadable. “Didn’t think I’d be here. Plans changed.”

“Yeah… they seem to do that a lot lately,” she muttered under her breath.

Still, she didn’t shy away. She walked over and gave him a half-hug, brief and stiff, but enough. Jon and Joseph carried on like normal, making noise in the background about how the faction was finally all under one roof again. But the tension between Y/N and Joe was palpable. A few minutes passed as they joked around and caught up. The energy wasn’t perfect, but it was functional. Familiar. Y/N felt the invisible string between them tug when Joseph mentioned heading to finish up with hair and makeup.

“Y/N, you comin’?” Jon asked.

“I’ll catch up,” she said quickly, her tone casual. Too casual.

Joseph raised a brow but didn’t press. Once the two of them left, the room quieted significantly. Joe moved closer, arms crossed loosely. “You gonna tell me what’s really going on, or are we gonna pretend you’re fine until the roof caves in?”

Y/N glanced down, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You came in quiet,” Joe said softly. “You don’t do quiet unless something’s wrong.”

She scoffed, still not meeting his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joe took a step forward. “Means I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s off.”

Her jaw tensed. She didn’t want to do this now. Not with him. Not when she was already raw.

“Talk to me,” he said again, softer now. “Please.”

That word — please — cut through her defenses like a knife. She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to look at him. “You know what? Fine.” He blinked. Surprised by the edge in her voice. “You wanna know what’s wrong? I’m tired, Joe. I’m so damn tired,” she said, the words tumbling out too fast to stop now. “I know you’ve got your family, and your health isn’t always where it should be, and I get it. I do. But when you disappear without warning, you leave the rest of us to figure it all out.”

Joe said nothing, letting her keep going. “And I’m not your blood. I know that,” she said, her voice cracking despite her efforts. “So when I try to lead, it feels wrong. Like I’m overstepping. Like I’m trying to wear a crown that doesn’t belong to me. But when I don’t lead, we lose. They need someone. And when it’s not you, it’s supposed to be me.” She paused, blinking fast, swallowing the lump in her throat. “But I’m not the Tribal Chief. I’m not even a real member of this damn family. I’m just the girl who got dragged into all of this and somehow became the glue holding it together. And I’m so scared that if I fall apart, the whole thing will too.”

The silence stretched between them. Joe stepped forward, close enough that she had to look up at him. “You listen to me,” he said, voice low and firm. “You are family. I don’t give a damn about blood. You’ve earned your place a hundred times over.”

Y/N opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. “And if you wanna lead? You can. You’ve got my trust. More than Jimmy. More than Solo. Hell, more than some of my own blood that’s not here.”

That admission nearly knocked the breath out of her. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. That’s on me. But when I’m not here, you don’t have to walk on eggshells. You call me. Anytime. You need something? You talk to me. I love you, okay?”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them back. “I love you too.”

Joe pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. She stayed there a little longer than she probably should’ve, selfishly taking the comfort she hadn’t known she needed.

After a beat, she kissed his cheek and pulled back with a sniff. “Thanks. For saying that.”

He nodded. “Anytime.”

She smiled weakly and grabbed her bag again. “I’m gonna go finish getting ready.”

“Hey,” he called before she reached the door. “Whatever’s eating you alive? Don’t let it win. You’ve got this.”

As she left for hair and makeup, guilt gnawed at her chest. She hadn’t told him the full truth. She hadn’t told him she was seriously considering switching brands. That maybe… maybe her time in the Bloodline was reaching its expiration date. But for now, she kept walking. One step at a time.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N stood in the narrow hallway just behind the curtain at State Farm Arena, Atlanta. Her heart thundered in her chest like the crowd out front, but her face was calm and focused. She had taped her wrists three times, each layer a silent promise. Tonight was more than a match. It was a statement. She breathed in, brushing aside guilt over the unread messages from Colby and Phil—those worries would wait. She wasn’t here for drama. She was here for control.

Through the curtain’s bluish haze, she could see the ring below, where Kayden Carter and Katana Chance were stepping into place. The arena lights dimmed slightly, and their music hit. Kayden and Katana popped the crowd, fists raised and ready. Across the ring, The Unholy Union—Isla Dawn and Alba Fyre—arrived with that slow, cold precision that sent chills through the audience. Every detail mattered; Y/N watched carefully. This was a big match.

The camera panned to the commentary desk where Bayley had joined Kevin Patrick and Corey Graves. Bayley’s presence was electric—headset perched, eyeliner sharp, and her voice carried silk-and-steel venom. “Ohhh, will you look at Kayden and Katana,” she began, leaning over her mic, confident and superior. “They’re riding high tonight. But let's get real—they’re playing in someone else’s sandbox.”

Kevin chuckled quietly; Corey rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a point—new blood always shakes things up.”

Bayley sniffed. “Shake, sure. But they’ll forget it once Damage CTRL steps in. It’s cute watching these two think they run this place.”

Kevin Patrick smirked. “You mean the tag division?”

Bayley snorted. “Yeah. But cute doesn’t win you championships. Not on our watch.”

Corey Graves chuckled, shaking his head. “Always the tough talk from you, Bayley.”

She shot him a glare before adding, low but with venom, “Yeah, well they’re not the only ones who think they’re hot commodities around here. Let’s just say there’s someone else who thinks she owns the whole damn division. Always has to make a scene, steal the spotlight.”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Someone we should know?”

Bayley shrugged, eyes locked on the ring. “You’ll hear the name soon enough. She’s been flashing around that gold on Raw and SmackDown like it’s her birthright.”

Corey rolled his eyes. “You mean Y/S/N?”

Bayley’s smile twisted into a smirk. “Yeah, that one. Thinks a couple weeks of spotlight means she runs the show. News flash—champion or not, this division belongs to those who earn respect here. And she’s still got a lot to prove.”

Kevin laughed. “Sounds like you’re not a fan.”

Bayley’s voice dipped into pure sarcasm. “Not a fan? Honey, I’m just getting started.”

The crowd hummed in anticipation as the bell rang and the match kicked off — but Bayley’s eyes never left the entrance, waiting for her moment to remind everyone who really called the shots. “I mean, she’s been spending the last few weeks bouncing between Raw and SmackDown. Poor thing is probably still trying to decide which brand makes her look better this week.”

Corey cut in, matter-of-fact: “You think she’s worried about that?”

Bayley smiled darkly. “Honestly? I don’t think she’s even thinking about this place anymore.”

The bell rang, and the match began with fierce energy. Kayden charged at Alba, hitting a crisp fallaway slam that rattled the ring. Katana soared in with a springboard crossbody, stunning Isla. The duo kept their rhythm: Kayden feinted one way, Isla ducked—only to meet a running enzuigiri. Katana scored quick with a swift spinning heel kick that staggered Alba toward the ropes.

Bayley’s voice cut through the flurry: “Fast doesn’t win championships. It just looks good on Instagram.”

Corey responded they were doing more than posting—“These girls can fight.”

Kayden bounced off the ropes and launched herself into Alba with a missile dropkick, followed instantly by Katana’s backstabber neckbreaker on Isla. The execution was seamless—precision trained to perfection. Katana climbed the top rope, collected her focus, and launched a perfect 450 splash onto Isla. One, two, three. The bell rang and Fireworks lit the ring.

Kayden and Katana embraced, soaking in their victory and the roaring crowd. Bayley’s tone shifted to controlled dismissal: “Congrats, kids. Now let’s get to what really matters—Damage CTRL’s next move.”

As they reached to lift their tag titles, Asuka and Kairi Sane materialized at ringside. They stole the belts with theatrical efficiency—Asuka raising them high as Kairi bowed mockingly. The crowd erupted in jeers.

Bayley exhaled sharply: “Diplomatic loss for these rookies, isn’t it?”

That’s when the lights dimmed. Y/N’s theme cut through the jeers like a thunderclap. Bayley screamed into her mic: “What—what’s she doing out there?!”

Kevin and Corey were equally stunned, their surprise audible. Y/N stepped out—black tights, gold trim, title slung over her hip—and headed straight for the ring. No pause. No showmanship. Just focus.

Inside the ring, she caught Kairi with a judo arm twist, flipping her over and straight across the mat. Asuka rushed in, but Y/N countered with a gutwrench scoop slam, then spun to deliver a shooting star elbow to Dakota Kai, who’d vaulted in.

Bayley rose from her seat, mic in hand, eyes wide with panic. “Stop this. Right now! You’re embarrassing yourself!”

Y/N blocked Bayley’s swing with a calm lofted forearm, then swept her forward, taking her out with an explosive snap German suplex. Bayley lay stunned as Y/N stared down into the camera lens.

“I hope you win the Rumble,” Y/N continued, turning to face Bayley directly. The tension was a cord thick enough to snap. “Because I want you at WrestleMania. I need you at WrestleMania—so I can show you how a champion stands.”

She stepped back and gestured to Kayden and Katana, now holding THEIR belts again, celebrating, their smiles genuine.

“Now,” Y/N concluded, her voice cool but full of promise, “Congratulate these two. Because they—like me—don’t need backup plans or secret alliances. We earn our spot.”

The crowd roared. Kayden and Katana, now upright and clutching their belts, ran toward Y/N, who reached back to raise both their arms in victory. The crowd erupted again—calling it mentorship, leadership, solidarity.

Bayley staggered to the ropes, face contorted with fury—and possibly pride, though neither of them would ever admit it. Y/N slipped out under the ropes as her music rose. She shot one final glance at Bayley: eyes sharp, promise heavy. She didn’t need to look back.

Corey said, amazed: “That was clinical, that was caring, that was leadership.”

Kevin added quietly: “That’s why she’s the Undisputed Women’s Champion—and a teacher to the next generation.”

Backstage, Y/N walked down the hallway with purpose. Fire burned in her chest—she’d made her mark. But questions still waited—brand, allegiance, heart. Atlanta saw the showing. Now she had to decide.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Night had already long fallen on Atlanta, but the arena lights burned bright for AJ Styles and LA Knight, locked in a battle that was anything but ordinary. Y/N stood backstage with Solo and Jimmy, tense energy coiling in her chest. They’d been waiting for their moment—tonight, they struck.

The bell rang.

Gone were polite openings. Styles darted forward with a snap forearm, but Knight answered with a fierce suplex into a gutbuster. Styles, hurt but defiant, rallied into a leapfrogging entry that morphed into a seamless flying forearm, staggering Knight.

They traded blows like chess masters—Styles planting Knight with a Phenomenal Blitz, only for Knight to land a powerslam a heartbeat later. The audience roared as Styles answered back with a step-up enzui into a rolling moonsault, barely scraping a two-count.

Suddenly, the match broke in half—not with ceremony, but with ferocious intent. Jimmy and Solo burst through the backstage curtain, storming into the arena with purpose. Y/N followed, heart pounding—but not paused. They didn’t saunter—they exploded onto the scene.

Knight staggered to his feet just as Jimmy tossed a steel chair into the ring. The referee stopped mid-count.

“Disqualification,” his whistle screamed.

Without skipping a beat, Solo dragged Styles into view and deposited him with a brutal Samoan Spike onto the steel chair—heartbreak in human form. Knight swung for Solo but found his fist met chains and belt. Jimmy joined the fray, raining kicks down on Knight and Styles alike.

But the fight didn’t end with them. Y/N slid into the ring with a predator’s grace, her eyes locked on LA Knight as he struggled to regain his footing. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and driving him hard into the mat with a thunderous snap suplex. The impact echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted in cheers and gasps.

Before Knight could even roll away, Y/N was straddling him, one knee pinning his chest, the other braced beside him. She leaned in close, her breath barely brushing his ear as the arena held its collective breath at the electric tension crackling between them. The heat of the moment was undeniable—equal parts challenge and invitation.

Knight’s eyes flickered up, meeting hers with a knowing smirk that spoke volumes. “You always did like having me under you,” he murmured, voice low but dripping with that trademark swagger.

The audience exploded, the mix of shock, excitement, and sheer disbelief rolling through every corner of the arena like wildfire. Cameras caught every second, broadcasting the charged moment to fans everywhere.

But before anything else could happen, Jimmy Uso’s hand shot out, gripping Y/N’s arm and tugging her up with a firm but teasing yank. She shot Jimmy a quick glare, but the playful glint in her eye betrayed her amusement. As Jimmy pulled her back, the crowd roared their approval, sensing the layered history and undeniable chemistry unfolding right before them.

Solo’s voice carried clear and confident as he teased, “Two down… one to go.”

Y/N shot one last smirk at Knight before following Jimmy out of the ring, the energy between all of them crackling as the crowd buzzed from the raw intensity of the moment.

“Randy Orton! Get out here, NOW!”

Jimmy and Y/S/N linger ringside, watching as Randy Orton’s music hits and the Viper makes his way towards the ring. His expression shows he’s not here to mess around. Solo sticks his tongue out, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Despite Styles and Knight being taken out by the Bloodline, Randy doesn’t look distressed at all. In fact, he looks more determined than ever.

Randy climbs into the ring, almost analyzing Solo. Silently figuring out who he is, how he ticks. He sends a sharp flare to the Tribal Heir before jumping up in the corner of the squared circle and striking his signature pose. The audience continues cheering for him even as he steps back down. He and Solo circle each other like vultures, the referee already sensing the growing tension.

And just like that, the bell rings.

Solo doesn’t waste any time before he lunges for the Viper. However, Randy’s always been quick on his feet, so he easily blocks Solo’s strike attempt and punches the enforcer with his own powerful right hand. It doesn’t take Solo long to recover though. He shoves Randy backwards with extreme force before quickly slapping him and knocking him to the floor.

Y/N visibly winces from the crack of the slap, the sound echoing throughout the arena. Solo corners Randy before firing a few powerful punches on the dome of the legend killer. Solo takes off to the opposite corner of the ring before screaming and hitting Randy with a hip attack. The latter collapses and practically melts out of the ring from the impact.

Solo follows after him, rolling out in order to grab Randy. The referee yells at them to head back into the ring, but Solo pays no mind. He grabs Randy and moves to smash his head into the announce desk, but Randy gets his hands down just in time. He pushes himself up right before striking his opponent in the chest.

Randy maneuvers behind Solo, attempting to pick him up and slam him on the table, but Solo puts a stop to it. He elbows the back of Randy’s neck, causing the Viper to stumble. Solo takes the opportunity and finally manages to slam Randy’s head into the announce desk. He lets out another loud scream before taking Randy and running him into the steel ring stairs.

The crowd boos him loudly as he climbs atop the side of the ring. After soaking in the hate, Randy starts to make it back to his feet, prompting Solo to jump down and continue his assault. He grabs Randy by the back of the neck once more, moving to run him back into the announce table, but Randy stops him.

The tides turn here. Randy grabs Solo and slams him across the announce desk before guiding him back towards the ring. It doesn’t keep Solo down long though as he elbows Randy in the stomach to put some distance between them. Now it’s his turn to push Randy in the ring.

The crowd vocalizes their disdain for Solo and how he has the upper hand. Solo goes to head butt Randy through the ropes but the Viper side steps, kicking Solo in the dome to halt his efforts. He lunges forward, wrapping his arm around the back of his neck and dropping him into a draping DDT.

Randy drops down, the Viper coiling himself as he preps to put Solo away. But it doesn’t last long as Jimmy and Y/S/N start stalking around the ring. They don’t get very far though as LA Knight comes charging from the back and knocking Jimmy onto the floor. The crowd erupted, sensing the shift in momentum.

Suddenly, Y/N was cut off from Randy’s spotlight. Knight charged her mid‑stride—everything changed in the blink of an eye.

She spun, instinctively raising her arms in defense. But he was inside her guard before she knew it, pressing her chest against painted ramp metal. His hand snaked behind her spine. Y/N froze—simultaneously aroused and indignant. The arena lights caught the streak of steel emotion in her eyes. Fans gasped. Knight leaned in, voice low: “I’m startin’ to think you like it when I gotta handle you like this.”

Y/N’s voice was quiet but furious. “A little cocky of you, no?”

Before Knight could respond, AJ Styles barreled out from backstage—a blur of adrenaline. He charged, tackled Jimmy, and sent him flying into the wall with a gut-wrenching thud. The crowd roared. Styles wasn’t here just to fight—he was here to clean house.

At the same moment, Solo sprang toward Randy—arms out, preparing a heavy strike. But Randy’s instincts were sharper. Before Solo could connect, Orton flashed his eyes, pulled Solo’s head down—and RKO.

“1… 2… 3.”

The bell barely rang before the audience erupted in noise—Orton had done it. He didn’t celebrate; he simply held position, eyes sliding to Knight and Styles at ringside. Both men climb into the ring, standing across from Randy with steely looks in their eyes. They share a loud argument, but nobody besides them could make it out. The only thing indicating the fight is the tension seeping from each of them.

Suddenly, Knight surges forward, and sucker-punched Styles across the jaw—a single, heavy blow that sent him crumpling to the mat.

The crowd gasped. AJ wasn’t moving.

Orton turned and without hesitation, RKO’d LA Knight the second he stood up straight. Knight was flattened, and the crowd roared again.

AJ tried to push himself up, but Randy wasn’t done. The moment he was back on his feet, the Viper struck. One more RKO. Three men down.

Randy stood tall, chest rising and falling with every breath. He stared out into the sea of fans, high on adrenaline.

That’s when it happened. No music. No warning. Just a shadow sliding into the ring—

Roman Reigns.

He struck before Randy even sensed him. SUPERMAN PUNCH. Randy collapsed, sprawled across the mat. Roman stood over him, face calm, smug, in complete control.

He walked over to Nick Aldis, yanked the contract from his hands, and signed it with a flourish. He didn’t even look down at it. Then, with a flick of the wrist, he tossed the contract onto the floor next to Aldis’ feet. He barely glances at the GM before the Tribal Chief turned on his heel and exited the ring.

Y/N, Jimmy, and Solo regrouped outside—Y/N brushing her messy hair from her face, eyes still burning with adrenaline. Roman reached them, and without missing a beat, slung a confident arm around Y/N’s shoulders. The Bloodline walked up the ramp together.

The Fatal 4-Way at the Royal Rumble was official.

But it was clear—Roman wasn’t just walking in as champion. He was walking in as the problem.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Backstage was still pulsing with leftover adrenaline, the aftershock of the show rippling through the crew and the roster. Y/N strutted confidently beside her Bloodline boys — Joe on her right, Jon and Joseph on her left — all four basking in their post-show high. Their energy was loud and rowdy, shoulders bumping as they laughed and teased, each of them still fired up from the chaos they'd left in their wake.

“Tell me you saw the way I hit Styles into that barricade,” Jon said, already half-smirking.

“You mean that little love tap?” Y/N quipped, lifting an eyebrow at him.

Joe let out a short laugh while Joseph shook his head, smirking. “She’s got you there.”

“Please,” Jon scoffed. “She was too busy throwing LA Knight around like a ragdoll.”

“I was not—”

“Oh come on,” Joe cut in with a rare grin. “You practically mounted the guy.”

“Don’t say it like that!” Y/N groaned, swatting Joe’s shoulder. “He tackled me first!”

“You didn’t exactly look mad about it,” Joseph added slyly, earning himself a sharp side-eye from her.

She was about to clap back when something in the corner of her eye made her pause. A presence. Still and watchful.

There he was — Shaun. Leaning against a production crate like it was just another day at the office. Arms crossed, eyes locked on her. That telltale smirk ghosted his lips, and even under the harsh lights, there was something unreadable about the way he looked at her — calm, sure, curious.

Her steps slowed. “I’ll catch up in a sec,” she told the boys softly.

Jon raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Joe simply nodded, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat as the three of them drifted further down the hallway. Y/N turned and walked toward Shaun, her eyes narrowing with practiced suspicion. “You lurking again? You got a shadow-kink or something?”

He chuckled. “Only when you’re in it.”

She rolled her eyes — but not even she could fight the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You always this annoying post-match?”

“Only when I lose,” he replied. “And only when the person who beats me looks that damn good doing it.”

She gave a playful scoff, stepping in closer. “You liked getting tossed around, huh?”

Shaun tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers. “I liked where I landed.”

That stopped her cold — if only for a heartbeat. Her cheeks warmed. She shoved his chest lightly, trying to deflect. “Shaun.”

“What?” he grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Yeah, you are,” he murmured, stepping a little closer. “You’ve been off tonight, you know.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Not in the ring — you were on fire in there. But out here?” He paused. “You’re not as quick with your comebacks. Not as sharp. You’ve got that... faraway look in your eyes.”

She blinked up at him. That was more observant than she expected. “I notice things,” he added, a little quieter. “Especially with you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that — at least not right away. And he didn’t push her. He just reached out, brushing his fingers gently against her jaw, then her cheek. His thumb lingered there, slow and grounding. “Talk to me,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Y/N’s throat tightened, and she looked down. Her arms, once crossed, dropped to her sides. He reached for one of her hands, interlacing their fingers without hesitation. That tiny bit of warmth, of connection — it was all it took.

“I feel like I’m stuck,” she admitted softly. “Like I’m a pawn in someone else’s story.”

Shaun just listened, his thumb gently stroking across her knuckles. “They’re fighting over me like I’m some... prize. Like they’ll win the war if they can hold onto me longest. And the worst part is? I don’t even know if either of them sees me anymore. Just what I represent.”

Shaun’s brows pulled together, his jaw tightening slightly. But still, he let her speak. “I try to stay focused on the work — the title, the fans, my matches — but when I go home, it’s just noise. And lately, I don’t even know what I want.”

She paused. Her voice got smaller. “What if I never did?”

Shaun didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even need to hear the names of the men she’s talking about. He knew. He stepped forward, brushing a stray piece of hair from her face before resting his palm lightly on her cheek.

“You’re not a trophy,” he said firmly. “You’re not a title belt, or a prize, or some symbol of dominance. You’re you. You’ve got the biggest damn heart in the business and a fire that half this locker room’s afraid of.”

She laughed softly, just once.

“You deserve more than high school games and backhanded confessions,” he added. “You deserve peace. And if they can’t give you that? You walk away.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to hers. She let her eyes flutter shut. Her hands curled in the fabric of his shirt without even thinking. “You ever wanna step back from all that? Just be Y/N, not the Champion, not the in-demand obsession of two idiots — I’ll still be here.”

She opened her eyes then, searching his. “You mean that?”

He smiled softly. “Course I do. Even if I also wouldn’t mind being the idiot you throw around now and then.”

That made her laugh again — lighter this time. Real. “I’ve seen you carry this division,” he said. “You’ve carried Raw. SmackDown. The damn locker room. You shouldn’t have to carry their egos too.”

It startled her — how warm this felt. How steady.

“You don’t owe them anything, darlin’,” he whispered. “And if you wanna focus on you — on your peace, your career — that’s not selfish. That’s survival.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her arms wrapped around him without thinking, hugging him tight. And to his credit, Shaun didn’t flinch. His arms slid around her waist, holding her like he meant it.

No flirtation. No games. Just safety.

And then… they heard it. That familiar sound. A throat clearing from down the hall. Y/N tensed slightly in Shaun’s arms but didn’t turn yet. Shaun looked over her shoulder and saw Colby standing there, arms stiff at his sides, jaw clenched, eyes guarded. For a second, he didn’t move.

Shaun loosened his grip, whispering into Y/N’s ear, “I’ll give you two a minute.”

She nodded, her fingers gently trailing off his chest as he let her go. He stepped back, gave her a final look — not one of defeat, but one of patience. And when he walked past Colby, he didn’t say a word. Just offered a stiff nod — a warning, almost. The kind that said: I see you. Don’t screw this up again. Colby returned it, holding back the tension in his chest.

When he looked back at Y/N, she was standing there with her arms crossed. Not defensive. But… protecting herself.

Y/N stood stiffly in place, arms still crossed as she stared at him—Colby—like he was a ghost she wasn’t sure she wanted to believe was real. Her brows pinched slightly, mouth parted but frozen, as if she didn’t even know where to begin.

“…What are you doing here?” she asked, a little sharper than she meant, her tone laced with confusion, surprise, and something dangerously close to hope.

Colby shifted his weight, dragging a hand through his hair. That’s when Y/N noticed the brace on his knee. She can’t help the flicker of concern that fills her. He wasn’t wearing that at the party. Did something happen during his match with Jinder he didn’t tell her about?

His eyes flicked toward the ground, then back up to her, and despite the way he stood—back straight, chest high—he looked like a man unraveling. “I had to see you,” he said. “I didn’t care if I wasn’t supposed to be here or if you still didn’t wanna talk to me. I just… I couldn’t go one more day pretending like I was okay.”

Y/N blinked, her breath catching slightly.

Colby stepped closer, his voice quieter now—less Seth Rollins, more Colby Lopez. “You ignoring me? You freezing me out?” He let out a short, joyless laugh. “It’s like the world kept moving and I couldn’t. You know how hard that is for me?” He gestured vaguely around them, the chaotic backstage that had become their second home. “This place doesn’t stop. And I usually don’t either. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Y/N didn’t say anything, not yet. He pushed a hand through his hair again and tried to smile, but it didn’t land. “I kept hearing your voice in my head. Every time I hit the ropes, every time I tried to focus on anything else. I’d picture you—how you’d look at me. How disappointed you’d be.”

Her arms dropped slowly, her expression softening with every word.

“I know I messed up,” Colby said, his voice steady but raw. “I let my jealousy—my fear—drive me into making a scene. Into hurting you. And I hate that. But not talking to you?” He shook his head, breath catching slightly. “That was worse.”

She exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest releasing a little. “Colby…”

“I haven’t said it,” he said, eyes locking with hers. “I don’t think I’ve said it out loud, not like this. But I need you. I need you, Y/N. And not in some possession, clingy, control-you way. I just…” He paused, grounding himself. “You bring me back to myself. You make everything make sense. And I’ve spent the past few days completely lost.” Y/N swallowed hard, heart stuttering. “I didn’t show up here to win you over,” he added. “I showed up because I can’t stand the thought of not trying. Of you thinking I’m not all in.”

That silenced her for a moment. And then, quietly, she said, “I forgave you a while ago.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“I’m not mad,” she continued. “I just don’t understand why it’s always like this. Why you spiral every time he even looks at me too long.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Because I don’t trust him. That’s what this is. It’s not you.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” she shot back, her voice rising. “Because it keeps becoming about me. About how I react. How I handle it. And no matter how happy we are, no matter how good we get… it’s always one wrong look or one conversation and we’re back at square one.”

“I know,” Colby said, softer now. “But I watch him—how he still plays at you. How he acts like you’re still his to save. And I know you’re trying, I do. But I can’t unsee it.”

Y/N’s arms dropped slightly, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Then learn how to look at me. Not him. Me.”

There was a silence between them.

Then she said, “If you want this to work—if you want me—then you have to trust that I want you. That Phil… is in the past.”

But he didn’t say anything right away. He just stared. And then, carefully, he asked, “Are you sure?”

Her expression cracked slightly. “What?”

“Are you sure he’s in the past?” Colby pressed. “Because I see the way you look at him sometimes. When you think no one else is watching.”

That stunned her. Her mouth opened, then shut. Her heart thudded in her chest. “I don’t—” she shook her head. “I don’t look at him like anything.”

He raised an eyebrow. Not accusing. Just waiting.

Y/N licked her lips, trying to push past the lump in her throat. “I’m trying to rebuild a friendship I thought I lost forever. That’s all it is. Nothing more, nothing less.”

It sounded rehearsed. It sounded like a lie. But she didn’t take it back. Colby didn’t call her on it either. He just nodded once. Still looking at her like he was trying to figure out if she even believed herself.

“You said something once,” she said suddenly, her voice quiet. “That you always feel like you’re playing catch-up with me. That you’re scared one day you’ll wake up and I’ll be gone.”

He looked down.

“And that’s how I feel,” she said, almost a whisper now. “Every time you doubt me. Every time you look at me and don’t trust me—it feels like I’m the one trying to catch up. Trying to prove I’m enough. Trying to keep us afloat.”

Colby’s jaw clenched. She’d never said something like that before. Not out loud. Not so direct. But it hit him like a wave. “I know how I’ve been acting isn’t fair to you,” he admits lowly. “I’m in my own head. But I’ve been chasing after you for years—literally. And now I have you, and it still feels like I could lose you in a blink. Like I’m never quite enough to keep you.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched, emotions swirling in her chest like a storm. “I chose you,” she said firmly. “And I keep choosing you. But you have to believe that. You have to meet me there.”

“I want to,” he said. “God, I want to.”

She nodded slowly, then paused—something tugging at her from inside. A truth. Something she didn’t normally say, didn’t let herself say.

But this time, she did.

“You make me feel safe,” she said, voice quiet, but certain. “Not just physically. Not just because of who you are in the ring or what you’ve done. But emotionally. You… you make me feel seen.”

Colby’s brows lifted, stunned by the honesty.

“You always say I’m hard to pin down,” she continued. “But you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I don’t have to run. Like I don’t have to be anything other than who I am.”

The silence that followed was heavy—but warm. Charged with emotion neither of them were used to letting out this freely. Colby’s eyes softened in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks. Maybe months. “Wow,” he breathed. “Usually I’m the sappy one.”

She smiled slightly. “I figured I’d steal your gimmick for once.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled her into his arms. His hand cradled the back of her head, his mouth pressing gently against her temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “For not hearing you sooner. For letting my fears get too loud. I’m here. For real this time.”

Y/N melted into him, letting herself rest against his chest for just a second longer than she meant to. Then she leaned back, teasing lightly, “You sure? Because I think we’ve had this talk like fifty times now.”

He grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. But this is the one that stuck.”

She tilted her head. “Why this one?”

He leaned in, kissing her softly before murmuring, “Because this time… you let me in.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but in the back of her mind, guilt lingered—quiet, nagging, familiar. Because she still hadn’t told him about the night she ignored his apology. The night she answered Phil instead.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The hotel room was cloaked in quiet. A soft breeze whispered through the barely cracked window, and the pale gold light of the bedside lamp bathed the space in warmth. Everything was still. Serene. But her heart wasn’t. Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, a towel slung loosely over her shoulder, wet strands of hair clinging to the sides of her face. The oversized Bloodline hoodie hung low over her thighs, swallowing her frame, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms. Her bare legs padded silently across the carpet, the faint scent of her lavender body wash trailing behind her like a halo of calm.

She slowed when she saw him. Colby. Asleep.

And not in the way he sometimes pretended to sleep on planes or backstage—arms folded, mouth pressed in a firm line, tension still clinging to his shoulders. No, this was something different. Something real. He was sprawled across the bed, one hand resting palm-up on his chest, the other splayed beside him like he’d meant to reach for her and forgot halfway through. His curls were messier than usual, soft and unruly across his forehead. His lashes were long, almost delicate, and his breathing was slow and even.

He looked… young like this. Not like Seth “Freakin” Rollins. Not like the larger-than-life showman who taunted crowds and soaked in spotlight. Just Colby. Raw and human and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Her eyes swept over him, pausing on the faint lines at the corner of his eyes, the hint of stubble at his jaw, the soft curve of his lips as they parted in sleep. Her chest clenched—tight, full—with something dangerously close to love. God, how did we get here? She walked to the edge of the bed slowly, carefully, and knelt beside him, brushing a wild strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingertips lingered there for a moment, the warmth of his skin grounding her. Then she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of his head, just above his temple.

“You’re always carrying everything,” she whispered into the space between them. “Even when you’re resting, you’re holding the world on your shoulders.”

He didn’t stir. Her lips brushed against his hair once more, and then she sat back, heart so full and yet so tangled she almost couldn’t breathe. That was when her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The sound was sharp in the quiet. Familiar. She glanced at it absently… until her chest seized.

Phil.

Y/N’s stomach dropped—then fluttered. Her thumb hovered for a beat too long before she tapped it. And there it was. A photo. Not from social media. Not from a fan. This was personal. Grainy. Taken by Phil himself.

She hadn’t seen that photo in years. But he had it. Still.

The moment flashed on her screen like a memory she wasn’t ready for—Phil’s lips on hers, one hand tangled in her hair, the other curled firmly around her throat. They were both in gear, sweaty and bruised from the mixed tag match they’d stolen the show with. Her eyeliner was smeared, his lip was split, and yet they looked invincible—like war-torn gods reveling in the chaos they’d just survived together.

And underneath it, his message read:

You remember this? Good times. You still know how to grab a man when you want him.

You’ve always liked it rough, sweetheart. But it wasn’t the matches that made it feel like a high.

It was you and me.

You don’t look at him like that. You don’t look at anyone like that.

But hey… maybe I’m just living in the past.

Or maybe you’re still trying to forget how alive we were when it was just us.

Either way, I’ll keep the photo. In case you ever need reminding.

Sleep tight, champ. 🖤

——————

They stumbled through the curtain, both of them still panting, covered in sweat and adrenaline. Their chests rose and fell in near perfect sync, matching the electricity still crackling in the air around them. It had been a war out there—and they’d won. Together. Phil tugged at the tape wrapped around his wrist as they walked, his jaw ticking slightly with each step. There was a faint limp in his gait, but it didn’t stop him from slinging his towel over his shoulder like it was nothing. Typical.

Y/N trailed a step behind, peeling off the top layer of her gear, exhaling hard. “I swear if that idiot had missed one more cue, I was gonna throw him over the ropes myself.”

Phil grunted. “You should’ve. Might’ve saved me a shot to the jaw.”

She gave him a look. “Like you didn’t elbow me in the ribs two minutes in.”

“That was strategy,” he fired back with a smirk. “You fight better when you're pissed.”

“Oh, so hurting me is motivation now?”

Phil looked over his shoulder, smirking. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’re stupid.”

He slowed just enough for her to catch up, bumping her shoulder lightly with his own. “You’re just mad because I made us look good.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “The only thing you made look good was your ass getting kicked for ten straight minutes.”

Phil’s smirk deepened. “And yet, somehow, I still got the pin.”

“Only because I softened them up.”

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep.”

They reached a quieter hallway—darkened, away from the chaos. The glow of the exit signs barely lit the space, but neither of them made any move to leave. Phil rubbed the back of his neck, winced, then cracked it like he was trying to shake off the lingering fight. She watched him for a second—his hair damp and clinging to his face, his tattoos glistening under the low light. His jaw was bruised, the corners of his mouth slightly swollen from an earlier strike. But damn… he looked good.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking at her.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “You’re literally bleeding, Phil.”

“And?”

“And your face is going to look like hamburger meat in the morning.”

He turned to her with a lazy grin. “Still better than half the roster. Plus, chicks dig the scars.”

Y/N’s jaw twitched. “Good thing you don’t need any other chicks then, huh?”

Phil blinked—slow, amused. “Oh?”

She lifted her chin. “Would be a shame if I had to start knocking out fangirls for staring too hard.”

He turned to face her completely now, stepping into her space. “Jealous, are we?”

“You wish,” she muttered, but the heat creeping up her neck betrayed her. “Just saying, you’re already a handful. Don’t need some starry-eyed mark trying to tame you.”

Phil’s eyes darkened at that—slowly, completely. And without thinking, she reached out—hooking her fingers into the waistband of his trunks, yanking him toward her.

He stopped dead. The hallway was silent for a beat, like even the building knew something had just shifted. Slowly, he looked down at her hand. Then up at her. His gaze was darker now. Less playful. More deliberate. “You grab me like that,” he said, voice low, husky, dangerous, “and I’m not responsible for what happens after.”

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Then, with a soft smirk, she gave another tug. Phil exhaled through his nose like it took everything in him not to slam her into the nearest wall. Instead, he stepped forward. Close. His hand found her hip, grounding them both. And the other?

Wrapped lightly around her throat.

Just like that. Not forceful. Not hard. Just... his. Her back hit the wall. His forehead pressed to hers. “You drive me fucking insane,” he murmured.

“Good,” she whispered. “Means I’m doing it right.”

Phil’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh—but didn’t. His fingers brushed her jaw, then slid back into her hair. And just before he kissed her, he pulled back—just enough to fish out his phone with one hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked, brows furrowing.

“Freeze,” he said with that shit-eating grin of his. “This one’s for the archive.”

Flash. The photo snapped: her against the wall, smirking through a split lip, his hand still at her throat and love in both their eyes. The intimacy of it was loud—undeniable. More them than anything posed ever could be. She laughed after, swatting at his phone. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.”

She didn’t argue. He leaned in again, lips brushing her cheek this time—tender, almost reverent. “I’m keeping that one.”

“Of course you are,” she muttered, breath catching in her throat.

He didn’t move away. And neither did she. Because for all the chaos they created in the ring—this? This was their quiet. Their peace. Their home.

——————

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, the faint click of her phone’s camera roll echoing softly in the quiet room. Her eyes locked on the photo — that photo — bathed in the glow of the screen. The one Phil had sent just minutes ago, with a message burning just beneath it like a challenge.

“Good times. You still know how to grab a man when you want him.”

Her lip caught between her teeth, heart skipping. The memory surged — raw, intoxicating, his. Not just the image, but the signature swagger in the words: bold, teasing, flirtatious — the kind that felt like smoke curling beneath her skin.

She glanced sideways. Colby was sprawled across the bed, one arm tucked under his pillow, dark curls tousled like a storm caught in slow motion. His mouth hung slightly open, a hint of a stubble brushing the knuckles of his hand. Long lashes rested against smooth cheeks, the kind of peaceful stillness that made her breath hitch — like he was a rare quiet in a loud, spinning world. He looked so damn peaceful. She hated how much that made her ache.

Yet despite it all, her thumb hovered, restless, over the screen. The edges of the photo seemed to shimmer, tugging at something deeper — not just nostalgia, but a current she hadn’t named yet. Casting a quick, guilty glance at Colby, she slipped silently from the bed and padded back into the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click.

Her thumb hovered again — then tapped.

Two rings.

Phil’s voice crackled through, low and laced with that familiar smug edge. “Wondered how long that photo would sit unread before you caved.”

Y/N exhaled a soft smile. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Of course. But be honest — you wanted to hear my voice.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Breathing too hard over the phone isn’t a good look.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“You called me.”

“Unfortunately.”

A quiet laugh, the sound vivid in her ear. “What do you want?”

“Want to know if you’re blushing right now.”

“Not happening.”

“You were in the photo.”

“That was years ago.”

“And yet,” he drawled, “you’re calling me in the middle of the night all alone. Makes a guy think that maybe your intentions aren’t so pure.”

She sucked her teeth, hiding her grin. “You’re lucky you’re charming.”

“Charm’s just the safety net.”

A pause.

“So... why the whispering, sweetheart?”

Y/N hesitated.

Phil caught the change instantly — his tone dropping, mischievous. “You’re not alone, are you?”

Silence.

“Ohhh,” he breathed, voice darkening. “You’re with him.”

Still quiet, but the flush in her cheeks gave her away.

Phil chuckled softly. “Man… calling me from the other guy’s bathroom? That’s cold.”

“Stop.”

“I never said I hated it. Just means I’m occupying space in your mind,” he licks his bottom lip absentmindedly. “Same way you have been for me.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the counter.

He shifted gears, voice slick with something that made her pulse jump. “You know, if I were there, I’d make sure you never needed to whisper again. That voice... it’s way too sexy to be limited to a breath.”

Her breath hitched, involuntarily.

Phil’s smile was audible. “I’m just saying… It’s the kind that makes the mind wander to dangerous places, y’know?”

A stifled laugh escaped her lips.

“I wish I could see the look on your face right now. Pretty sure you’re fighting a losing battle.”

Her cheeks burned, but the grin stayed. “You’re being rather forward.”

“I have to. Never know when I might catch a cold shoulder from you again,” he teases. “But I can tell by your voice that you’ve missed me,” he repeated, softer now. The silence stretched. “…So, since you called, does that mean I’ve been forgiven yet?” His voice softened, losing none of its edge but gaining a thread of vulnerability. “Because I’ve got a whole arsenal of memes waiting to break the ice.”

Y/N laughed, warm and genuine. She glanced back to the door. If she could forgive Colby, she could forgive him as well. It wouldn’t be fair if she didn’t. “Yeah,” she whispered finally, “you’re forgiven.”

Phil let out an exaggerated sigh. “Thank God. Holding in jokes is my cardio.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Delightfully so. And don’t worry — I won’t ruin your cozy night with Seth ‘the human lion’s mane’ Rollins. But maybe next time… you’ll call me before you disappear into some bathroom.”

Y/N shook her head, heart tugging in conflicting directions. “Goodnight, Phil.”

“Sweet dreams, Y/N/N.”

The call ended. She stared into the mirror a moment, the weight of everything settling like a soft storm. Then she stepped out — back into the room, back into the quiet where Colby slept peacefully.

[k0mmari]

Hello so i saw this post about an au idea where without a cure being more deadly and i humbly request if you could draw jinlin arc binghe and others(gongi-xiao, lpm, opm) reaction to peak lord shen (who looks like Kagaya Ubuyashiki from demon slayer because of without a cure)

This has entered my brain in ways I cannot describe, so I had to cook something up. First and foremost, the reactions:

Basically, Without a Cure here is quite deadly, but only if a person has Heart Demons. Shen Qingqiu doesn't remember exactly the explantion Airplane had bullshited - something something the poison eats away at your body and then your soul, and Heart Demons only aggravate it - but it didn't really concern him. In fact, he was quite satisfied with life when he was poisoned anyways, and he could deal with sitting with Liu-shidi every so often for qi transfers.

That is, until the Immortal Alliance Conference happened, and he had to...

Anyways, suddenly Without a Cure got a bit more... violent. A week after the whole Conference thing, Shen Qingqiu's hand started to show some weird bruises where he'd been poisoned, and no matter how much qi transfer Liu Qingge, or Mu Qingfang (or even Yue Qingyuan) tried, it wouldn't go away, and no medicine or herb would help him either.

A few months later and the bruising had swalowed up his whole forearm, now dry and brittle, and whatever muscle he had there seemed to begin to atrophy. So. That's not good.

Well, whatever! Shen Qingqiu wasn't about to let Mu Qingfang waste any more herbs on him, and it's not like he has any Heart Demons to figure out; and anyways, Binghe was going to come back from the Abyss and kill him anyways, so who cares! He'd just started to wear a golden metal gauntlet over his messed up hand and called it a day, and when Yue Qingyuan mentioned Jin Lang City, he was more than happy to get out of the Peak for a little bit.

Things went mostly the same as you know, up until when Shen Qingqiu got infected: this time he just... didn't. Whoever tried to infect him touched the gauntlet instead of his skin, and when Binghe cornered him, he obviously noticed the new addition of the gauntlet.

Once again, the story continues normally until the accusations started to get thrown Shen Qingqiu's way, though this time, a Huan Hua disciple accuses him of siding with a demon because he was unnafected when one of demons touched him, they saw it all! And when Shen Qingqiu explains it was because of the gauntlet, people get even more suspecious. Why does he need to use it in the first place? Is he trying to hide some demonic marks or something?

Mu Qingfang tries to step in and say it's for medical reasons, because of Without a Cure, but when the Old Palace Master says he'd seen Shen Qingqiu after he was poisoned in the Immortal Alliance Conference, his hand had been normal then.

It becomes chaos, weirder and weirder accusations start to sprout (and Qiu Haitang hasn't even said anything yet), and Shen Qingqiu takes it upon himself to at least try to free himself from one accusation he isn't guilty of. So, he takes everything off, the gauntlet, his outer layers, and shows everyone the state of Without a Cure.

Silence falls for one long minute. All eyes are on Shen Qingqiu's rotten body, and he kinda wants to cry.

And then Qiu Haitang steps forward, and it all goes back to normal. Maybe. When the Old Palace Master says that Shen Qingqiu should be locked in the Water Prison, Mu Qingfang steps forward: they all saw him, he is in no condition to stay in a harsh environment! It takes a bit more back and forth, but eventually, finally, Luo Binghe steps forward and agrees with Mu Qingfang's accessment.

Shizun should not be locked in the Water Prison while his health is in such a fragile state. Instead, Shizun shall stay with him.

[monstersholygrail]

As part of his job duties, Demon Guard often walked around the offices as a sort of patrol. Of course, he often used this as an excuse to just fuck around or to actually fuck. But for some reason that day he found himself actually walking further along his route than usual.

And that’s when he heard you in the break room.

“I swear, I’d sell my soul to fuck Demon Guard just once!”

Followed by you and whatever coworker you were talking to bursting out into a fit of scandalized laughter.

Something old and buried flickers back to life inside of Demon Guard. His long reptilian tongue slithers out as he licks his lips, a smirk spreading across his face. With only a few steps forward he makes himself known, walking up behind you and leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“I haven’t dealt souls in a long time, sweetheart, but for you I can give it a shot,” he purrs, relishing in the way you shiver against him.

You honestly don’t know how to respond, your face more red than a tomato. Unable to fully believe that he’s right behind you and heard what you said. You’re still pretty stuck frozen when he takes your hand and drags you out of the break room.

When you come to you realize he’s brought you to the camera room full of the security cameras. You barely have a moment to look around before Demon Guard’s mouth is on yours and he’s kissing the daylights out of ya. His tongue licks along your seam and you gasp, allowing him to slide right in.

You moan around his long narrow tongue, your own swirling around his in your need to finally taste him. You almost can’t believe this is happening. You’ve imagined this a million different times, touched yourself in so many ways. Now that it’s finally happening you expect to wake up at any second. But this is real. You voiced your desire out into the world and he heard it.

“Now here’s the bargain, sweetheart. If you don’t cum for me at least seven times, you have to give me your soul,” he starts, his voice raspy and addictive. You could listen to it forever.

He starts walking you back and the moment your ass hits the control panel he’s picking you up and plopping you down right on top of it. His eyes don’t leave yours as he pushes your skirt up to your waist and tugs your panties down.

Next his hands go to his unbuckle and he slides his pants down enough to free his enormous cock, though his gaze refuses to let you look away. He steps closer and pushes his tip through your soaked folds, growling as he sees just how wet and needy you are for him. As if your desperate panting and bucking hips wasn’t evidence enough.

“And if I can’t make you cum at least ten then I will bind myself to you for eternity to use as you see fit,” he finishes with a cocky smirk like he’s just composed the worlds greatest bargain and he’s so very proud of himself for it.

And you know, maybe he has.

Without waiting for the verbal bargain to be struck, like he knows it’s an offer you just can’t refuse, he slams his cock inside you in one smooth stroke. You cry out but you can tell he’s not satisfied with it, as if the stretch of his cock isn’t making your mind burst with unknown euphoria, and he starts in at a brutal pace.

His tail wraps around your waist, keeping you right where he wants you as he relentlessly runs his length up inside you. Not giving you a moment to catch your breath. Even as he hits every perfect spot along your walls he doesn’t wait to tease or savor. No, instead he focuses on ramming into them all over and over again. Each sensation crashing into one another until your body is buzzing with an overwhelming sensation of pleasure like you’ve never known.

Demon Guard watches you happily as you arch into him but with a direct intent. A certain intensity simmering in his gaze despite his dopey smile and light demeanor. Like he can see precisely just how close you are to the edge. His thrusts remaining so wildly consistent you have to stare at him in awe. The goal clearly to send you hurtling into your first of many orgasms.

He flashes you that cocky little smirk again like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. A loud moan falls past your lips as in that exact moment his hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit with alarming ease and rolling the bud of nerves so perfectly between his clawed fingers.

Your vision flashes white and you scream fiercely as you shatter around his cock. Your precious cunt squeezing the very life out of him if he had one. Demon Guard roars, literally roars, at the explosive friction of you clamping down on him. Yet he refuses to cum just yet, wanting to edge himself with the feel of you.

Though he holds you as you shake in his arms, helping you work through it. And when you finally clear the spots from your eyesight you’re quick to find him, already looking down at you. Wanting to catch every little reaction. Your pussy flutters as that smirk remains firmly on his face.

“One down, sweets. Six and Nine to go,” he explains, a wickedly playful expression flashing over his face so quickly you wonder if it was real or if you were only seeing things…

You’ve only had one orgasm so far. Something tells you by the end of the day you’ll be so delirious with pleasure you won’t be able to tell up from down.

[spurbleu]

smoke break.

a short fic about smoking that got away from me. all of them want you, so 141 x reader.

it’s like clockwork.

it’s 9:43 PM, with an early autumn breeze that still smells like summer breaking through poorly sealed windows. the sky is blooming in violets. there is barely anyone left in the office. it’s silent.

and then four pairs of heavy footsteps break it.

its always the same order, too. johnny’s first, hands in his pockets. his shoulders shrug as he braces for the cold. kyle follows. he always itches his knuckles before holding the door open for simon, who walks behind him silently. price, unsurprisingly, brings up the rear.

his hand always digs into his back left pocket before the door closes.

and you, every time for the past 2 months, have ignored them. but curiosity is a ceaseless, immortal creature, isn’t it?

it got the best of you, today.

it’s 9:41, you’re out for some air. stretching your legs on the balcony, that has a much less depressing view than your cubical. a city beginning to sleep. a sky that is bigger than feels right, even if it’s beautiful. keeps you company.

that, and your anticipation.

it bites when the door creaks open.

there’s a pause. you breathe three times, white clouds hissing from your teeth before you hear the first boot plant.

1 pair. 2, 3. a longer pause. two breathes. the 4th walks two short steps, before you hear the door close.

you finally turn. kyle speaks first.

“needed air?”

you nod. you’re at an awkward distance, that no one moves to close. all four of them stand a couple of paces away, like startled animals. “I needed a break.”

johnny nods. “aye, tats what we’re oot ‘ere for. seen us come’up- yeah?”

“no. didn’t know it was you’re spot.” you lie.

johnny smiles. he’s letting you. “mm, tat’s alright,” he glances over his shoulder to the men, who have not stopped looking at you, “we can share.”

you swallow as they turn away from you. you see price pull out a cigar, and kyle with a lighter. theres a click of steal on butane followed by the smell of expensive smoke. you turn around.

what else would it be? of course it was a smoke break. their 10 minute respite from cement sweat and checking their six. paperwork and chairs they don’t fit in. from you.

you’ve stepped on sacred ground. invaded territory. walked into their carefully crafted den to, for selfish reasons, figure them out.

the dynamic no one else can crack or join. a wall of force by interlocked arms. a brotherhood. a blood bond. a loyalty. in life, in death. in this brief moment, where they share a cigar and say nothing.

you’ve done the office equivalent to spitting on an altar. you should go. you need to g

“ever smoked?”

suddenly, you’re aware of how warm everything feels. how it smells like tobacco that belongs to luxury. how when you look forward, broad shoulders are in your periphery. you don’t move.

“s-sorry?”

its price, he’s next to you. “i asked if you’ve ever smoked, darl,” you look at him, with all your doubt and confusion and vulnerability, and he cracks a smile, “probably not, then.”

there’s pressure on your shoulder. you give in and turn around. simon stands in front of you, and between his fat, gloved fingers, is a cigar that looks above your pay grade. and your tolerance.

“open.”

“oh i-“ you shake your head, looking to any of them for a bit of leeway, “I don’t- I wouldn’t want to waste any-“

“price is offering, love,” says kyle, who is to your far left, “your chance to take it is now.”

initiation. welcome mat, made by smoke and grime and all the things that make them who they are. all the things you are not. at least, not now.

not without that cigar in your mouth.

you do as simon says and he places it to your lips.

“inhale.” he says.

you’re doing as your told until it itches. something in your throat burns. then your lungs. then it’s lingering in your chest until-

you’re coughing. you see grey cloud around your vision, and catch how white they’re teeth look when they smile.

strangely white, for smokers.

“good girl.” says price, “learning how to manage. takes a couple of times,” and his hand is on your chin, you aren’t coughing anymore but you’re certainly flushing, “but you’ll get there.”

“aye, we all got t’ere.” say johnny. he’s smiling too, next to simon, who is not. but he’s looking at you, and that feels more intimate.

“and we’ll help you get there, too,” price says, voice like his presence- warm in the way a fire burns, iron formed in its wake. it’s a middle ground between unsettling and comforting- a strange, dangerous place to be with your boss, “that right, boys?”

you didn’t even notice until now, but kyle’s hand rests on your lower back. it keeps traveling down.

they speak in unison.

“yessir.”

[luveline]

I know you’re asking for Spencer fics… While I adore single dad!Spencer… How about some single mom!reader and Spencer? 💕

You and your daughter work your way into Spencer’s life one chess game at a time. fem, 1.3k

It all starts with, “Hello.” 

Spencer looks up, and he finds any word he could’ve said dead on his tongue. You smile at him oddly gentle, and he assumes he’s got something on his face your afraid to point out.

“Hi,” you say, unperturbed by his lack of response. You keep your head ducked but seem friendly enough as you lick your lips. “I don’t know if you’re busy, but I was wondering if you’d play chess with my daughter. You don’t have to say yes, but she’s really polite and she won’t cheat, and she really wants to say hi.” 

Spencer looks behind you, where your daughter stands a ways away pretending not to watch. She could only be three of your years old —if she can play chess, she’s a prodigy. She has on stripy tights and a dress, a vinyl coat open over the top, her hands wringing together. 

“Okay,” Spencer says. 

Your smile is even nicer, then. Relief and thankfulness aimed fully at him. “Thank you.” 

You meander back to your daughter and bend down to whisper instructions too quiet for Spencer to hear. Shy, your daughter shimmies forward, then walks proper steps when you encourage her with your hand behind her shoulder. “It’s okay,” you whisper, “let’s say hi.” 

The chess boards are built into the tables at the park. Spencer sits on one stone stool, and your daughter makes herself comfortable on the opposite one. You kneel beside her without worry, knees on the dirty floor. 

“Hi,” your daughter says. She has a high voice, reedy, like she needs a drink. 

You rub her arm. 

“Hello,” Spencer says. “Have you played before?” 

“Me and mom play.” 

“So you know the rules?” 

“Some,” she says. 

Spencer’s only human. He does think about the horror of being trapped opposite of a toddler for the next half an hour bumbling through the steps, but it’s not as though he has other things to do, and, really, he loves people. He’s scared of talking, that’s all. 

“We play a lot on my phone, where it tells her what moves she can and can’t do,” you say. “But it’s okay. I have practice, I can be the phone.” 

Your daughter laughs like this is the funniest thing on the planet. “You don’t look like a phone,” she says. 

“That’s nice of you, but that’s ‘cos you’ve never seen my wires.” 

She laughs again. 

“I know all the rules, too, don’t worry,” Spencer says. “Are those your pieces? Or we can play with mine?” 

“Sofie has her pieces, it’s okay, we don’t wanna lose yours.” 

You let your backpack slip down your back and unveil a chess board box with sellotaped corners. The sleeve inside is unhurt, and you put it in the middle of the table. Spencer takes initiative and grabs the purple ones. You and Sofie arrange the pink ones in a mirror. 

Sofie is surprisingly good at chess, considering her age. Sometimes Spencer ends up playing against you, your advice murmured in her ear, and every time you smile at him he feels a little nauseous.  

He lets her win, of course. The first few times, at least. Over weeks, you and Sofia occasionally see him in the park playing chess, some days in the middle of a game with someone else, other times alone. Sofie comes up to him increasingly confident to ask for the next game, and Spencer realises he’s somehow made two friends. 

“Spencer!” Sofie shouts, tumbling over the grass bank to stop on the end of the retaining wall bordering the chess tables. You’re just behind her, looking tired. 

“Sofie, hi!” 

Sofie jumps down off of the wall before either of you can stop her. “Spencer, where have you been?” She rockets toward him. He stands, worried she’ll fall flat on her face, but she continues to race toward him until she’s throwing her arms around his legs. “I missed you.” 

“Well, I missed you too,” he says, surprised. He gives her back a tentative pat. “I’ve been learning new techniques.” 

“But where did you go?” she asks. 

“I went to Alaska. It was super cold.”

“Hi, Spencer,” you greet, flushed as you plop down on the stone seat opposite him. 

Believe it or not (easily believable), Spencer didn’t ask you your name the first time you met. Or the second. On the third occasion you met, you actually apologised with too much sincerity and said, “I’m so sorry, I never asked what your name was. I can’t believe it. I’m Y/N.” 

So now you’re introduced, and Spencer has a raging crush on you. 

Spencer grins as Sofie sits on his seat, shuffling over so they can sit together. “What, you’re on my team today?” he asks her excitedly. 

“Yes!” She pats the chess board. “Mom, my pieces.” 

“It’s okay, we can use mine.” Spencer’s are already out on the table. He’d been hoping to see you both. 

“I won’t lose them,” Sofie promises. 

“I might. Where have you been, Spencer? Sof made us come here four times last week, we had to play chess with Melinda.” 

“I was working,” he says. “We’re always going somewhere far away, I didn’t realise we’d be there for so long.” 

“‘Cos he’s a special agent,” you whisper to Sofie. 

She puts a finger over her lips, “Mom, don’t so loud!” 

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” You nudge a King back onto his square. “Did I blow your cover?” you ask, your voice a rolling murmur.

Spencer holds Sofie’s back reactively as she wiggles on the seat. He has an answer. He should play along —he’s been reading up on how to flirt like he’s not a lonely weirdo and that’s with confidence and running jokes, but the way you’re looking at him stops him in his tracks. 

No one ever mentions the panic of a shared smile. 

“What happens if people find out?” Sofie asks worriedly. 

“Nothing happens, Sofie, I’m the boring kind of special agent where nothing I do is a secret.” He winces at her crestfallen expression. “I’m sorry. Maybe we can have a secret mission together? Me, you, and mom?” 

“Really?” you ask, surprised. 

Spencer nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! Yeah, of course.” 

“Like… dinner?” 

Spencer bites the tip of his tongue, to an immediate sting. It’s not the first time in his life a conversation he’s in has occurred without him: you’re shared smile was you flirting first. His reciprocation, while not intended, has served as flirtation. 

He didn’t mean to do it, but he doesn’t care, he won’t mess it up, “If you want to?” He clears his throat, his voice returning to a more acceptable tenor. “We could go for dinner… tonight.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Not tonight. Not… unless you want to?” 

“We didn’t have dinner yet,” Sofie says helpfully. 

Your gaze falls to the chess board. “I don’t think I’m dressed for dinner. I had such a long shift.” You’re shrugging, minimising yourself. 

Spencer moves his and Sofie’s first pawn. “You always look beautiful.” 

He cannot look at you after he says it, but he doesn’t need to. 

“Mom, you're doing that smile like when Mr. Mailman brings our letters.” 

“Thank, Sofie,” you say. 

Spencer sneaks a glance at your smile. It’s decidedly shy, and if he were to touch your cheek, he guesses he’d find your skin warming. “What does he do when he brings the letters?” Spencer asks. 

You pin him with wide eyes. 

“He says she’s pretty with a big ‘p’,” Sofie whispers. 

“She is pretty,” Spencer whispers back. 

You move a chess piece with a breathless laugh. “Okay, then let’s get dinner after I wipe the floor with you both.” 

Spencer decides now is the appropriate time to reveal that he is very good at chess. He and Sofie win in ten moves. 

[logansdoll]

I have so many ideas but I'm not a talented writer so here's one

-your logans wife pre striker you get taken by striker after logan gets shot as a way to kinda get back at him. Logan always had visions of a woman that he doesn't remember glimpses of domestic bliss. When striker attacks (in x2) striker name drops or says smth like "your wife has been waiting" as a way to antagonize logan.

Also, a cute detail to add if a fic takes place before he loses his memory would be the reader to call him james

I really love how your reader in has a plant mutation. Everything you write is just so good

I hope I wasn't to detailed feel free to take bits and pieces.

contingency

running through the base at Alkali Lake, Logan stumbles across a top secret room... only to find his whole entire world inside.

CW: suggestive, profanity, takes place during X2, has some elements from X-Men Origins: Wolverine, reader has been through some shit, Logan is so relieved, you don't really need to squint to see the angst, i'm iffy on how this turned out, etc.

'Think, dammit! What the hell was he talking about?'

With a roar of frustration, Logan unsheathed his claws, sprinting around the bend and slicing right through the stomach of a nearby soldier, waiting until the man fell with a disgusting plop before continuing on his way.

Why couldn't he just remember?

He knew that, for whatever reason, his memories had been tampered with, and that he couldn't recall anything about his life before the claws.

But ever since his run-in with Stryker back at the mansion, he couldn't help but feel like he was forgetting something especially important.

Something crucial.

"Wolverine..." Stryker grinned, eyes widening stepping forward out of the shadows. "I must admit, you are the last person I'd expect to find here."

Logan's claws revealed themselves with their signature shink, his brows furrowing as he warily stalked closer.

"How long has it been? Fifteen years?"

Stryker let out a small chuckle, but Logan was having a hard time finding what was so funny.

In fact, he was having a hard time with everything about this man—confused as to why he seemed so familiar.

"(y/n) says hello," Stryker goaded, adjusting his glasses. "Or, at least... I believe she would... If I'm being honest, she's feeling a little under the weather at the moment."

A sadistic smirk settled on his lips, his eyes glinting with sick satisfaction.

"But then again... there's seldom a time where she isn't feeling under the weather these days..."

"DAMMIT!" Logan barked, slamming his fist into a wall.

Not knowing was tearing him apart.

Who was (y/n)?

What were you to him?

And how the hell did he end up on the complete opposite side of the compound?

All questions that he furiously wanted to be answered.

Though, somehow—through his fit of blind frustration—he managed to stumble across a door, which had printed in big, bold, yellow letters:

CAUTION: KEEP OUT. HYDROSTASIS IN PROCESS.

"Hydrostasis?" Logan cocked a brow.

He didn't know why, but whatever was housed inside seemed to be pulling him in, silently urging him to open the door and investigate.

'Fuck it.'

Using one claw, he stabbed the retina scanner, the thick lock clicking with a satisfying beep.

He pushed past the door with ease, entering a seemingly large, dark, and oddly cold room, a lamp on one of the workbenches the only thing illuminating the space.

Cautiously, he approached it, sniffing and snapping his head around to make sure he was alone.

Yet he knew he wasn't.

He'd caught whiff of a faint scent emanating from somewhere further into the room, but it was so familiar, it seemed almost instinct to pay it no mind.

For some reason, he knew it wasn't hostile—and if anything, it calmed him, soothing his spiked nerves.

Reaching the table, he found that right next to the lamp laid a file labeled EXPERIMENT 25-8: CLASSIFIED.

He snatched it up with lightening speed, quickly skimming over the latest entry.

EXPERIMENT 25-8 a.k.a Weapon X Contingency

Name: (y/n) (l/n) Age: Unknown Sex: Female Height: X" X Weight: X Rank: Class 5 Report: 25-8 reviles authority. But her connection to Weapon X and general strength makes her a perfect candidate for Project Contingency. Her mutation and overall will to live have rejected all known forms of mind control. Will be kept in hydrostasis until new methods found. Conclusion: Further research required. Could possibly be the only creature known to man that can stop the Wolverine besides the Wolverine himself.

"(y/n)..." Logan tested out the name, confused as to why it sounded so natural.

So home-like.

Looking away from the pages, he glanced down at the table, catching sight of a large switch not too far away.

Without hesitation, he flicked it, the lights in the room suddenly cutting on, along with the lights to your chamber.

And there you were right before him—unconscious and floating in vibrant blue water.

Looking upon you, it felt like he was suddenly hit by a freight train, years of love, care, and warmth flooding his mind.

"James!" you squealed, unable to dim your smile as he hoisted you over his shoulder. "Put me down!"

"Not a chance," he smirked, carrying you toward your shared bedroom. "You know what you did..."

"No..."

"C'mere. I need a taste tester," you smiled, cupping your hand under your fork as you held up a chunk of steak.

He grinned, placing down his newspaper and taking a bite, groaning at the good taste as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"Well?" you asked, nervous.

"Baby..." he paused for dramatic effect, wanting to see you squirm. "This is the best damn steak I've ever eaten."

"You ass!" you scoffed, playfully slapping him in the shoulder as he laughed, rocking you back and forth.

"I can't..."

"I love you, y'know that?" he asked, holding you close as you both relaxed in the bathtub. "I feel like I don't tell ya enough."

"You tell me every day, baby," you smiled, looking up at him as you rested your back against his chest.

"Well, then," he smirked, his hand rising from the water, holding a beautiful diamond engagement ring. "You alright with me tellin' ya a little bit more?"

Your eyes went as wide as saucers, and you gasped so loud the neighbors (which were three miles away) would certainly hear.

"YES!" you squealed, scrambling to turn around and give him a kiss, the water sloshing around violently.

"Careful, hon! You're gonna knock me out the tub!" he chuckled, steadying you as your lips began peppering kisses all over his face.

"She can't..."

"James," you started, timidly, tracing mindless shapes in his chest as you both laid in bed. "That man you told me about... Stryker... he came by the house today."

Logan tensed at the name, his grip around you tightening.

"He didn't do anything, did he?" he asked, tone rising.

"No," you shook your head. "But he asked for you. Said it was important that you come and talk to him."

He sighed, taking your hand in his, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles.

"I'll go over tomorrow. Straighten everything out," he assured.

"I don't think you should," you quickly denied, nervous. "This man... I don't trust him... He gives me a bad feeling, y'know?"

He cracked a small smile, placing a tender kiss on your forehead.

"I promise you, he can't do nothin' to me that hasn't already been done."

"RAAAAH!" Logan roared, blindly slashing at the table and all nearby equipment.

How could he have ever forgotten you?

Fury consumed his being in every sense of the word, the anger swelling inside him in a way he had never felt before.

Sparks flew as Logan destroyed any and everything in his path, teetering on the edge between rage and regret.

He could remember so clearly now.

You were his world—his reason for drawing breath, his reason for existing.

No matter how bad things got—angry, frustrating, or lonely—you were there.

You were his escape, his safety, his peace.

Comparing his life from before to the current, he couldn't fathom how he'd survived so long without being in your presence.

Through his slicing, he managed to cut something important, a loud warning siren blaring before all the water began draining from your pod, rapidly pouring onto the floor.

With a loud hiss, the door opened, sending you falling out the chamber.

Logan rushed over faster than he'd ever done anything, catching you in his arms and cradling you bridal style.

He looked upon you as if you were a ghost, a figment of his imagination.

After years and years of separation, he was finally allowed a chance to see your face, now able to recall all its fine details with perfect accuracy.

The softness of your cheeks.

The kindness of your eyes.

The plumpness of your lips.

Suddenly, you let out a loud cough, spitting up some water as your eyes snapped open, frantically looking around.

Logan couldn't find the words.

The love of his life was sitting in his arms and after fifteen years... and he had no idea what to say to her.

"James?" you asked, weakly, disbelieving of the sight before you.

That's right!

James!

His name was James!

"Yeah, baby..." he nodded, bitter-sweetly, getting a bit choked up. "It's me—"

You threw your arms around his neck without a second thought, pulling him into a bone crushing hug as tears began pouring down your cheeks, your shoulders shaking with cries of relief.

"I thought you weren't coming!" you sobbed.

Your throat felt swollen as you stuttered, scrambling to say all the things you've been wanting to for so long.

"Oh, God, I love you, Jimmy! I love you so much! Please don't leave me again!"

"I'm so sorry, baby! I'm so, so sorry!" he sputtered, his hand finding home in your hair as he rocked you back and forth, stray tears escaping his eyes. "I shoulda been here! I shoulda protected you!"

He buried his face in your hair, peppering the side of your head with kisses.

"I love you so much, honey... I'm right here. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Suddenly, you went limp in his arms, panic and fear spiking up his spine.

"(n/n)?!" he pulled back, frantically scanning over you to see what was wrong."(y/n)?!"

Quickly, he pressed his ear against your chest, thanking whatever god in heaven that your heart was beating.

'It might be a side effect of the chamber... or maybe she's tired...'

Without warning, the entire compound began to shake, a familiar blue devil popping up next to him out of nowhere.

"Zere you are!" Kurt exclaimed, quickly grabbing onto his friend. "Vee must go! Zee place is goink to flood!"

In an instant, the three were back with the others, the mysterious woman in Logan's arms posing a question to everyone.

"Logan?" Ororo raised a brow, confused, as they began running toward the exit.

"Who the hell is that?" Scott asked, much blunter than Storm intended.

Logan looked down at your peacefully sleeping face, brushing a stray strand of hair out your face.

"She's my wife..."

bonus !!

"SHE'S YOUR WHAT?"

[wolfish-trickster]

Naked Cuddles with Astarion 🥰🦇

After he kills Cazador and spends some quality time ✨️ with you on his grave he thinks he's all healed now and can be intimate with you with no disgust or loathing

Oh how wrong he was

The grave intimacy was amazing, he was present, focusing only on you, the best night he has ever had

The next time he tries to have a "night of passion" with you is right after you defeat the netherbrain, as a reward and also a celebration

But the unwanted happened: he dissociated

He didn't even realize he wasn't there until you tapped him on the shoulder

It felt like a dagger to his back, but from himself. What went wrong? Cazador was dead. Tadpoles were gone. You were there with him despite everything. Why can't he just have sex with you like a normal person?!

Because healing takes time baby boy 🥺

He ran away that night. Because of anger, shame, desperation, he didn't know. Maybe all of it?

He only showed up two days later, apologizing and offering to continue, claiming to do better this time and not dissappoint you

You just hugged him and told him he didn't need to, that you'll be happy if the two of you just talk under the stars like you used to back in camp

He wants to agree and spend time with you but he blurts out no. He's angry at himself more than you. He just wants to give you everything you deserve, including a proper relationship with everything that belongs to it

You reassure him you understand but he needs time to properly heal

"Time? What should I wait for? Cazador's dead, I'm under no one's control, the wretched worms are gone and the two of us are together. I should be okay!"

It takes some time for him to calm down and admit what he has subconsciously known: he isn't ready yet. No matter how much he wants to be

You see his struggle. He wants it all at once now that he's free

Seeing him in this state makes you want to help him but there's seemingly nothing you can do. Except...

With a smile and no other word you take him by the hand and lead him to your shared bedroom

You start pulling your clothes off of you and you can feel him smirk behind you, until you finally reveal your plan to him

"We'll strip and cuddle. Nothing more. You need to explore other ways of being intimate, not just sex."

He's a bit puzzled to say the least. He has never heard of laying with someone naked as the day they were born and just...lay. By all logic and what he's known for most of his life it makes no sense. How can someone get pleasure out of just laying? He imagines it would be similair to locking him in a bloodbank but forbidding him from touching anything

Regardless, he starts stripping. If this is some manipulative tactic of yours it's pretty weak but he wants to see where this will go

No tactic, no ill intention, the two of you strip and get under the covers

He lays down after you and for a second has no idea what to do. Should he embrace you first? Should he wait for you?

Carefully, as if aproaching a stray cat, you move closer to him and slowly lay your head on his cool chest

The lack of clothes makes this a completely new experience for both of you, the contrast between your warm living body and his cold undead one is much more evident now

After a while you get a bit bolder and fully cuddle up to him, arm wrapping around his torso, your legs locking around one of his

When he felt your sex press against his thigh he expected to get aroused. Logically he should, right?

But he didn't. And neither did you. You just sighed and relaxed more

Astarion propped up his head with one of his hands, the other one brushed along your spine up and down

"This feels... nice."

You smile against his pectoral, silently celebrating your small victory

As you begin to drift off, lulled by his rhythmic breathing, he makes his own step forward and turns fully towards you, one hand on your lower back pushing your torsos together, the other pulls your thigh up and hooks it around his hip

If he was hard and you moved just a bit downwards he would slip right inside you, so close and yet

He nuzzles his face into your neck and plants a little kiss on your pulse point, over the marks he's made on you while feeding on your blood

"This is really nice," he purrs like a cat

When you wake up the next morning you remain in the same position as when you fell asleep, the only difference is Astarion's hands: firmly planted on your ass

After your first little intimate session he feels a lot more relaxed, behaves a bit more carefree, a bit happier over all

You try to carefully suggest couple of more cuddlings but he needs little convincing

Once the door to the bedroom is closed all clothes are off

Almost. Every. Night.

It was like entering a whole new universe for him, he wanted to explore everything this new arrangement could offer him

The two of you tried every position you could think of, it kinda reminded you of sex minus the sweaty mess afterwards

On the bed, spooning, chest to chest, sitting down, him between your legs, you between his, on the love seat, random windowsill, standing behind you with his amrs wrapped around you while cooking

When you had very busy days but still wanted the skin to skin he would go shirtless, tear your own shirt off of you and hug you as long as he could

An absolute power trip for him would be if you were the only naked one, sitting in his lap while he himself sat somewhere, either a couch or some random chair

Makes his imagination run wild. What if he had ascended back then? He would think of how he would make you slowly strip infront of him while he sat on a throne of sorts in Cazador's, now his, palace. How your naked body would dance against the finest silk of his robes as he took you over and over again

As much as this little idea aroused him he was glad it stayed only in the realms of "what if". He couldn't imagine how ascession would corrupt him and rob him of what he currently has

He loved taking you in missionary, but he might love having you sit on his lap a bit more

Your soft breasts preassing into him, head resting on his shoulder, giving him the perfect angle to grab your ass and squeeze it like a stress toy

Not to mention your weight grounding him in case his mind decided to wander against his will

However the more often you spend time like this, either sleeping cuddled up together or just hanging out, the less he felt his consciousness slipping away. Maybe all he really needed was to adjust his body and mind to intimacy, convice them he's safe with you, that he doesn't need to escape anymore

On one such cuddle session, when he had you comfortably on his lap and his back against the head of the bed, he desperately wanted to suggest trying to make love again

But something inside him, maybe an intuition or fear, told him he might not be ready yet, he might fuck it up again, dissapoint you, and return back to ground zero

Instead he suggested kissing. Small innocent pecks

You agreed with such enthusiasm, it made his heart almost skip a beat

The two of you agreed to go with the flow and let whatever would happen play out, see how far the two of you could go

It really started out innocently

At first you peppered his whole face with small kisses, not leaving one centimeter of skin untouched

He loved being admired, but he wanted to give some of his loving too

At first with pecks

Then proper kiss

An open mouthed kiss soon followed

A tongue slipped out and inside the other one's mouth soon after

You didn't even realize it and you were making out for almost an hour now

It wasn't rushed like when hot passion hurries you, it was slow, intimate, comfortable. Like two people who had all the time in the world and decided to slow down and enjoy eachother

This first make out session didn't lead to anything more, none of you minded. Astarion was happy, so were you. But most importantly he hasn't dissociated in almost a month now

You still cuddled every day, pyjamas and other sleepwear became foreign concepts in your household, maybe one day one of your make out sessions will probably lead to more, who knows

But you do know that if it ever will lead to proper love making, it would be on Astarions's terms. Once he knows and feels he's ready

Until then you'll happily enjoy his naked form just pressed against yours every single night

[hedwig221b]

Heeey <3 i hope you have a wonderful day/night. I wanted to ask, if you know about fics where Derek is deaged (and is completely unbothered to finally vocal his feelings to stiles)? Thank youuuu

Hello! I offer you these

Something I’m Not Seeing by HaleHole (SweetFanfics)

There’s a world of a difference between Derek’s past and present self. To the point that Stiles pretty much considers them to be two different people who just happen to have the same name. -- Entirely on accident, the pack brings teenage!Derek forward in time, to the present. While struggling to find a way to send him back, the boy notices some lingering looks and tension between his future self, and a certain human. Without the burden of the things adult!Derek has seen and done in his life, teenage!Derek is a lot more straightforward about the whole thing.

Beware of the Spell by MemeKon

Seeing twenty four year old Derek smile is… Terrifying, pretty much. He has only witnessed such a thing a handful of times, and it always feels a little weird. Like the smiles get torn straight out of Derek's soul in a hurtful way. Fifteen year old Derek does it all the time, though, with surprising ease. (Or, the one where Derek gets hit by a spell and is suddenly fifteen again.)

Hold On, Hold Tight (make it through another night) by callunavulgari

"You feel important,” Derek finally blurts out, the tips of his ears going red the second the words are out of his mouth. Stiles blinks at him. “What?” Baby-faced Derek bites his lip again, which is… distracting. “Something is wrong,” he finally says, slowly. “I don’t know what, because none of you are telling me anything—” and ah, there’s a hint of the old Derek. Stiles would recognize that scowl anywhere. “—but I know that everything smells wrong. And that I can’t feel mom anymore. I can’t feel anyone, except for you.”

Intent by kaistrex (weishen)

Stiles can hear the patter of footsteps, tiny footsteps, and when he looks down, a kid is peering up at him from around the kitchen island with black hair and big, innocent green eyes. The glass slips from Stiles’ fingers into the sink, sloshing water across the counter and all over the floor. “Derek?!” Stiles slaps a hand to his forehead. “Who did you piss off this time?” he groans. - Stiles is supposed to be spending his weekend home from college in his boyfriend’s bed, not babysitting said boyfriend who’s been turned into a four-year-old by Deaton’s emissary replacement.

Out of the Mouths of Pups by cardel

Everyone smells anxious and that should set off alarms in him but it doesn’t. The human begins walking towards him, slowly, until he’s standing in front of him. Derek looks up at him curiously, not feeling threatened, Derek stays calm. That is until one of the werewolves takes a step closer to Derek, the human’s heartbeat picks up. This triggers Derek’s instinct to protect, and propel him to stand in front of the human. He flashes his alpha eyes at the approaching werewolf.

Passing Time by SinQueen69

When De-Aged Derek is stuck with Stiles while they try to keep him away from Kate, Derek realized that the pretty Omega is his Omega and finds a way to pass the time.

Blue Is Just Pretty by Emela

Stiles never thought he’d see the day where Derek let Kira and Erica paint his face and smile about it. Then again, he never expected to be taking care of a four year old Derek either. The problem though, is Derek’s face is currently painted like a bunny and he’s looking at Stiles like he’s his favourite person in the whole world. Stiles misses the days where Derek used to threaten him with his teeth. At least he knew he was going to survive those days.

we consist of memories by Comiziale

Stiles watches Braeden and Scott carrying somebody between them towards the rest of the pack. The person’s head was lowered towards the ground, but even from the distance he felt familiar. And then the guy lifts his head looking towards them, his eyes locking onto Stiles instantly. And Stiles… stops breathing. It couldn’t be. It was Derek. But not the one they all knew. It was his Derek. Sixteen year old Derek. Before he could say anything, Derek moves away from Scott and Braeden and throws his body towards Stiles, circling his arms around his neck. Stiles’ own arms finding their way quickly around the young werewolf. “Mieczysław.” Derek’s voice sounds broken and Stiles feels Derek’s arms holding on even more tightly.

you're still you by EvanesDust

Stiles takes a deep breath and follows the pull of their bond to the kitchen. He stops short when he sees Derek sitting at the table. His brows are furrowed with worry and his eyes are closed. But that’s not what makes Stiles’s heart skips a beat. No, it’s the fact that Derek, his thirty-two-year-old husband, looks half his age now. As in literally half his age. There’s no way that the man sitting in front of him is older than sixteen. “What the fuck?” Stiles blurts out, and Derek’s eyes shoot open, the chair clattering back as he stands as if Stiles surprised him. And that just goes to show that something is seriously wrong because Stiles has only ever been able to do that when Derek’s stressed and lost in thought. “What the hell happened?” …or the murder husbands fic that’s mostly sweet while bby Derek takes care of his pregnant mate.

I've got my eyes on you

Derek Hale is suddenly sixteen, and man; he just got his future self in trouble.

This Time With Feeling by Crimson1

"Derek Hale, if you refuse to learn from your past…then you will be doomed to repeat it." In which Derek is turned into a 16-year-old and has to stay with Stiles until they figure out how to turn him back. Eventual slash and smut, set post season 2, semi-AU.

Let me take care of you by LillianDeLooney

Stiles is six months pregnant with Derek's babies when his mate gets home as a teenager, somehow having gotten de-aged again. Their mate bond is still strong, however, and all Derek wants to do is take care of Stiles…

Time To Say Goodbye by matildajones

Derek finds an older version of himself at his front door, along with Stiles, a boy from the future.

This Is Your Life, Derek Hale! by PolarisTheYoungWolf

I need more de-aged Derek and pregnant mate Stiles! Can you imagine de-aged teen Derek being told he has a family of his own? Like the baby(babies) are born and he's like that for like…a weekend or maybe even a week or longer. And it's just overwhelming and awesome and funny and teendaddy Derek trying to also be a doting husband/mate and maybe they have to go out…because the babies have chickenpox and they need the pink lotion to help with the itching(Do werewolves get chicken pox? Maybe one of the babies is human and got it in case Were's can't?) and Derek is torn from staying with his pups and getting something that will help their recovery? I dunno…just…de-aged daddy Derek that's mates with Stiles is TOO cute an image!!!!

[masterlist link]

[astrxsee]

so this is actually happening to me irl but it’s so john price coded i had to write it down.

older!bowler!john x younger!bartender!reader

you sigh as you open your car door, the cold air immediately hitting your face. the lights of the bowling alley up the dark january night. for some extra money and because you have time, you bartend wednesday nights at the local alley.

you spend your time restocking coolers, gossiping with your coworkers, and selling beer to the rowdy crowd of league bowlers. they were all at least twenty five years older than you, but god, they tipped well when you flirted with them.

they’d ask you about your life, nodding along while you grabbed them their order. you’ve basically memorized their orders by now, the 5 hours you’re there going by quickly and smoothly. that is, until he walks up to the bar.

a large smile on his face as he boldly makes a teasing comment about your favorite sports team. you quickly roll your eyes at him as he quietly mutters his order to you like he needs to tell you with a wink, your eyes meeting his.

you quickly rush to make his bucket of miller lites, you and him the only ones at the counter. just by the heat, you can just tell your face is flushed.

“you turning into a alcoholic now, john?” you ask teasingly, nodding your head in the direction of the clock. it was getting late, he usually didn’t order at this time.

he lets out a loud bark of laughter, rolling his eyes. a smile on his face as his eyes follow you’re much smaller frame. you lean forward into the cooler, and you don’t miss how his eyes snap down to your chest.

“says you.” he mutters out, leaning his beefy arms against the bar. he raises his eyebrows in curiosity, waiting to see how you’ll respond.

your face takes on a look of faux surprise, glossed lips letting out a scoff. the hand that doesn’t close the cooler goes up to your chest in hurt.

“sir, I have never had a sip of alcohol in my life.” voice sounding sassier that you meant to. his eyebrows drop and a sly smile comes onto his handsome face.

“are you even old enough to drink?” john’s voice comes out a bit lower now, his head tilting teasingly. you see his large hands come to hold himself up against the bar, your eyes flicking down to see his forearms flexing underneath his flannel.

“yeah!” you chirp, a giggle escaping your lips as you place the bucket of beer on the counter. the bucket clinks as your eyes meet with his, “i’m 21.”

“oh, so you’re old enough for me to flirt with you?” john asks, leaning even closer to you over the counter. you giggle, the flush on your face becoming hot. no one had ever flirt with you before like that, you just couldn’t help but to get flustered.

“oh, stop..” you say biting your lip, immediately avoiding his gaze. grabbing the towel to your left, you make a shooing motion with your hand. “but, yes, im old enough.”

“good, because you’re beautiful, so it’s a win for me.” he mutters out, your eyes meeting his. the look you give the older man told him all he needed to know. your eyes dipped low as he grabbed the bucket and stepped away from the counter. you definitely miss the way he has to rearrange himself in his pants as he walks away.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Do You Love?

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x wife!reader

Summary: Feyd is soft for his wife and only wants to know if she loves him. His wife just wants him to come home.

Notes/Warnings: fluff and a little angst and very light smut (still 18+), softy-soft Feyd, probably could do with a wedding prequel if people were interested, im sure there are typos. I think that's it.

Words: 1400

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

He hates being away from you. Can't bear it. It takes less than two days for withdrawal from your lack of presence to settle in, and when it hits, it hits hard. The luminescence of your smile that threatens the darkness within him on his worst days; the delicate suppleness of your skin that introduced him to the softness and warmth of a human body; the specific quality and tone of your voice when you whisper and whimper and moan in his ear—he needs it. He needs you. He craves you until the second you’re in his arms again. He just wishes he could understand if you feel the same. He wishes he could know if you love him as much as he does you.

When you came into his life, you were a pawn for peace. A gift from one Great House to another. A reluctant bride who couldn’t choke back her tears on her wedding day. He’ll never forget the saltiness that lingered on his lips after the kiss that bound you to him forever. He can still feel the pang in his heart from seeing you finch when he guided the strap of your nightgown off your shoulder. 

It took ages for you to shed your fear; to allow him to hold you and kiss you and be inside of you, but those many months of ‘two steps forward, one step back’ have left him in a paralyzing state of identity crisis and uncertainty. You’ve turned him into a man who begs for scraps of reassurance that you care for him rather than a man who shows no mercy for love; a man so preoccupied with thoughts of his wife’s affection that not even his enemies are granted his full attention as he watches the light drain from their eyes. 

From the moment he leaves, he anticipates his return so you can quell his agitation, at least to some degree. The same words echo in his head each time he steps off a Harkonnen ship to search for you—hug me, hold me, kiss me, let my body inside of yours, tell me you love me—and in recent months you haven’t failed to do those things, with the exception of the last request. The day you tell him you love him will be the day he stops fearing you'll eventually grow bored with him. On that day, he’ll be happy, at peace. He’ll be unafraid of what his future with you will bring.

—

Reader POV

He often goes to Arrakis for a week or two, that’s not new. He must monitor things and fight Fremen when necessary. However, this time was different. There was something foreign in his eyes after he kissed your palm and boarded his ship to depart. Sadness? Pain? Worry? All three? You didn’t know, but it terrified you from how little he tried to disguise it. With each departure, it’s seemed his mood has worsened and you can't decipher its cause.

Now, ten days later, your fingernails are worn to nubs and dark circles have found home under your eyes from nightmares interrupting your sleep. They’re different every night but they always end with Feyd not coming home to you, and you don’t know how to cope. You tell yourself you’re crazy, that there’s no possibility of him being taken down with a Fremen knife or gobbled up by a sandworm or blown to bits from his ship getting shot out of the sky. He’s too smart, too quick, too trained for such things to claim his life. At the same time, however, the last person whose death you dreamt of was your mother’s, and while it’s rare your dreams are prophetic, that one came to fruition not five days later. Who is to say your dreams of your husband are not the same?

But you can’t lose Feyd, not when it feels like you just got him. When you married, your dread of navigating a new husband and life on Giedi Prime—both of which have a reputation for being cold and desolate and harsh—crippled your ability to see him for who he is. It’s only been the last few months that you’ve let yourself love and understand him, and you can’t imagine a reality in which you wake one morning knowing you will never have him again. You wouldn’t survive it. 

But you won't have to, because he's fine, perfectly safe—that's what you tell yourself. He told you he wouldn’t be away long and he wouldn’t say that unless he believed it, right?

Then again, believing he would be home soon doesn’t mean fate agrees. What if he's already gone? Wait, no. No, he wouldn't do that to you. He'll be home because he always makes it home. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave you. You nod to yourself, swallowing hard. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave. He’s fine. He’s safe. He would never leave.

--

Your body curls into the first touch of warmth you’ve had in a week and a half as a heavy weight rests in the dip of your waist and tugs you against a solid form. Plush lips ghost your temple. A heartbeat thrums in your ear and you feel the rise and fall of a chest. 

Oh, you like this dream. He’s so real in this dream. It’s the first dream where death is not at his heels.

“You don’t know how I miss you,” he mutters into your ear. Stands of your loose hair brush back from your face. “How unbearable it is.”

His voice is so clear, so beautiful and vivid that it’s almost like he’s really with you. Humming contently, you huddle further into him. “Then stop leaving me,” you mumble.

Breath catches in his chest, no longer moving at a steady rhythm. “You're awake?”

Your brows knit—that's not a very ‘dream-like’ question; it threatens your lovely illusion—and then your eyes snap open. 

“Feyd?” His nose is an inch from yours. Your hand raises to cup his cheek, just to see if he is real, and you gasp at how warm his skin is under your palm. “You're here,” you cry, quickly pushing him onto his back and crawling on top of him. 

You press your lips to his, hard. A whimper is pulled from your throat when he parts his mouth so you can get a taste of his tongue. Yes, he’s definitely real. 

Hands trail down your back to your ass, squeezing two handfuls of flesh and pushing your pelvis down onto his. He’s already hard and thick and pressing into you, the matching thin material of your nightgown and his sleep pants doing a pathetic job of maintaining any sort of barrier. 

Feyd slowly drags the ink-toned silk up the curves and dimples of your body until it pools at your waist. Fingers graze your skin as they move lower to slide through your slick bare folds, and at his touch, your brain goes absolutely fuzzy. You’re unashamedly desperate, refusing to take any longer to get what you need, but when you finally free him from his pants and he thrusts up into you, you both find yourselves stopping. The kiss breaks and you simply breathe in each other’s breaths as he stays nestled deep inside you. 

Your forehead falls to his. A fresh tear that you hadn’t noticed in your eye lands on his cheek. “You're ok,” you gently whimper, reassuring yourself of his safety. His nose nudges yours.

“When am I not?” he whispers as he catches the next tear with his thumb before it drops from your lower lashes. 

“In my nightmares.”

His brow pinches in curiosity, cock twitching within your walls. “You dream about me?” 

You lightly nod. “I thought this was a dream.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a sickening feeling you weren’t going to make it back this time. I know it was a routine trip, but I just couldn’t shake it,” you say. “And that would’ve killed me, Feyd. I love you.”

Feyd sucks in a short stream of air as his hips slightly buck up against yours. “You love me?” he repeats.

“Yes,” you exhale, riding the little high of pleasure that came from the sharp involuntary shift of his hips. “I was so scared to be right.”

Feyd's arms tighten around you and he tilts his chin up to connect your lips. Kisses travel along the line of your jaw and down the length of your neck. His tongue dips into the hollow of your throat. 

“I love you,” he tells you.

Your stuffy chuckle settles into a grin. “I know you do.”

---

tag: @avidreader73

[spencewalterreid]

what if…don’t hear me out on this, i’m sleep deprived and projecting…reader is something of a favorite student of spencer’s whom he confronts about the, erm, suspiciously increasing bandages he’d been noticing on their leg or smt? he’d probably frantically point out the abundance of arteries there at some point 😭 please ignore this so hard if you don’t feel like it lmao

In The Morning, I'll Make Cereal

Summary: When Spencer notices you've been in a daze, he checks on you and finds bandages on your arm.

Pairing: Professor Reid / Reader (p)

Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Suicidality, self harm, scars, surviving an attempt

Word Count: 2,262

Author's Note: I loved this prompt. I hope you appreciate my interpretation of it:) it wasn't very specific but I did what I could!

It had been a long fucking week. Finally, at long last, it's your last class on Friday, But Professor Reid has been rambling for the last two hours. This class is only supposed to be an hour and forty-five minutes, but good God, this man can drone. Generally, you wouldn't mind it. On a better day, you would relish in his tangents, on and on about victimology and how parents not kissing their children enough makes them kill people or whatever, you're just not into it today.

Squinting, you scratch a few more lines of graphite into the head of the portrait you're drawing in the margin of your notebook, trying to shape the hair properly. It's giving you fits. You knock your knee against the side of your desk absentmindedly to the rhythm of the music in your wired headphones.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he sees you. There’s at least a hundred kids in this room, so he hadn’t noticed it before now. His amber eyes scan the classroom as they always do, but keep returning to you; head in your notebook and your bouncing knee. He sighs softly, rubbing his temple before continuing his lecture.

"…and as we've discussed, the lack of proper familial affection in the formative years can lead to a host of psychological issues that may manifest in aggressive or criminal behavior later in life. Take, for instance, the case study of Ted Bundy, who…"

Spencer's voice drones on, the words blurring together as you tune out, focused on the intricate details of the portrait taking shape beneath your pencil. You lean forward slightly, squinting as you shade a particularly difficult shadow, your tongue poking out the corner of your mouth in concentration.

"That's all. Thank you for your patience, I know today ran long. I'll see you all on Monday," Reid says, his gaze lingering on you. You’re always so attentive, hanging on every word. What the hell? He waits a moment at his desk, looking over the notes the students had dropped in the tray before leaving, but keeps glancing up. A few minutes pass and you’re still scribbling away, making no move to pack up. His face pinches in worry.

“Hey, class is over now. We just ran a bit over today," he says, projecting his voice to reach you.

Spencer stands up, straightening his suit jacket as he walks over to where you sit when you don’t reply, still scribbling away. He glances down at the notebook, his eyebrows raising as he recognizes the portrait beginning to take shape.

"I didn't realize you had such skill," Spencer comments, unable to hide the note of surprise in his voice. He leans down a bit closer to get a better look.

You don't reply at all until he leans down and you finally notice his presence. Your pencil scrapes across the portrait when you damn-near jump out of your skin. "Jesus!" you gasp, then place your hand over your heart. "You scared me." The corner of your lip twitches up into a smile, and caught up in your embarrassment that he saw the portrait of him, you didn't even realize that your long-sleeve shirt rode down a bit, revealing a bandage wrapped firmly around your forearm.

Spencer takes a step back, looking mildly alarmed at having startled you so severely. "I apologize, that was not my intent. I didn't mean to frighten you." His gaze drifts down to your wrist, his eyes widening briefly as he notices the bandage. "Are you… are you alright? That looks bad," Spencer asks, taking a knee and reaching for your hand to take it in his to assess the damage before you subtly pull it away.

Your heart falls through the bottom of your ribs, clashes against your intestines, and tumbles straight out your ass. "Uhm." Words. Form them. Hang on, do I even know any? Shit. You force a wry chuckle, dropping your hands to your lap and wringing them together, knocking your sleeves down enough to cover your wrists again. "I just." Ahem. "I just dropped a knife last night when I was making dinner. No biggie." Please, Please believe me. You thank any God that might be out there for having everyone else clear out before he approached you.

“Okay,” he agrees with a nod, letting you believe that he buys it. “Uh, you should be more careful, though,” he continues hesitantly. He reaches for your arm again and you let him. He pushes up your sleeve, and you swallow an argument. “Right here,” he says, dragging a finger gently along your forearm, the inner part of the left side, along the outer part of the bone. “This is the ulnar artery. You’ve got a lot of smaller veins in your arm, too, that could be dangerous if nicked, but that could have been really bad.” You don’t tell him how close his finger was to the gash made only hours ago.

Spencer wanted to pretend not to notice all the smaller scars dotted along the base of your wrist, and a couple on your hands that you could more believably wave off as accidents. He rests his elbow on your lower thigh, above your knee and a bit inward, making you wince. Again, he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

“This,” he draws another line, this time down the side of your arm, “is the anterior condylar vein, or ACV. Easier to hit because it’s more shallow.” Spencer sighs, dragging a thumb across one of the smaller, now raised and white nicks. “I didn’t want to say anything, but-”

“I know,” you interject. “You have to report this. I get it.” The beginnings of tears nudge at the back of your throat, agitating a lump into it, and threaten to fill your eyes. “It’s okay,” you add, yanking your cheeks up into a suggestion of a smile.

The professor huffs again, revoking his touch and shifting from a one-legged kneel to a squat, resting his elbows on his own knees and looking up at you. “I’m not going to report you. I don’t think-” He runs a hand through his dark curls and puts it back on his leg. “That has only exacerbated the issue, in my experience. I need you to know… to know that I care.”

You shift uncomfortably, staring at your fingernails as you drag dirt out from under them. “Okay,” you mumble. To say you believed him in the slightest would be a falsity of the highest order.

“I do,” Reid insists as though he read your mind, craning his neck down and chin up to catch your eyes under the curtain of your hair. “I do care. I know you’ve been going through something, and I’m sorry, but I’m here.”

Spencer reaches out to gently tilt your chin up with his fingers, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that managed to escape. The empathy in his eyes makes your stomach churn. He’s just so genuine.

"Listen to me. I know you're hurting. I know you feel alone. But you're not alone right now, do you understand that? You have me, and I promise I will help you through this, any way I can. My offer to talk stands, anytime, anywhere. My door is always open to you."

“I heard you.”

“No, I know you heard me. I asked if you understood me. There’s a difference.”

Your lip wobbles against your will and you know you’re about to cry. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head away from him, a last ditch effort to hide your face. “I can’t-”

He leans in, pulling you into him, his voice lowering to a low, soothing murmur. "Please, don't let anyone else see these scars. Not until you're ready. I need you to take care of you. You're stronger than this. You have so much potential, so much to offer the world. Don't throw that away. Not now, not ever.”

Sobs wrack your body, and as the breaths leave your lungs in short, desperate hiccups, his embrace is an anchoring force. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay. This isn’t your fault.” One of Spencer’s hands card through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. “I’m here, alright?” He doesn’t expect you to answer.

“I almost killed myself last night,” you sob, pulling away with great reluctance.

Okay, he really wasn’t expecting that. The look in his eyes, despite his trepidation, encourages you to elaborate. He only now notices how pale you are, and the dots connect.

“I–” You take a deep breath, centering yourself before you continue. “I had a spiral. I called- called everyone. My mom, my best friend, even the fucking hotline. And you know what? It was busy,” you laugh incredulously. “The suicide hotline was busy!”

He doesn’t get a word in, you’re too busy in a tear-fueled tangent. “And I- I cleaned my room. Spotless. I made my bed, and put on a good outfit, and I wrote a letter, and I, uh-” you smile, and it’s sad, a macabre thing. “I knew about the arteries.” Your spine straightens. “Anyway. I ended up sleeping in, so I guess that’s good, but when I woke up… it felt… it felt so dull.”

“What do you mean?”

“It felt small. My arms had scabbed over, miraculously, and I got up. I wrapped them, and I brushed my teeth, and I made cereal. I got in the car and drove 120 on the highway to get here, and I didn’t crash. I jaywalked across a busy street and nothing happened, and I just-” a shaky breath flowed over your lips and you slumped down in your seat. “I failed, and the world kept turning. I could have died last night, should have, and… nothing changed. Nothing at all.”

Spencer listens intently, his face twisted in something that looks an awful lot like heartbreak. When you finish speaking, he takes a deep breath, choosing his next words carefully.

"I'm so sorry you felt you reached that point, but I'm nothing short of relieved at your survival. You did the right thing by reaching out, even if the support you needed wasn't immediately available. That takes courage and strength."

He places his hand on your shoulder, warmth seeping through your jacket, and squeezes. "Feeling small and insignificant after a crisis like that is completely normal. It's a common reaction, but it's a lie. Your life has value. Your existence matters, and the world changing or not is not a reflection of your worth."

Spencer studies you like at any moment, you could fade into smoke. "You didn't fail last night. You survived. That's not a small thing, it’s significant. It means you have the strength to keep going, to keep fighting. And I will be here to support you in that fight, in whatever way you need. It means,” he pauses to gently jab a finger at your chest, above your heart. “It means that this doesn’t care about your feelings, and I apologize if that sounds harsh. When you… When you did that, your baroreceptors activated, which monitors your blood vessels, and caused your heart to start taking blood away from your limbs to keep it in your core, keep you warm. That caused vasodilation and a decrease in heart rate, which lowered your blood pressure back to a survivable rate.”

“What’s your point, Professor?” you ask, rolling your eyes in frustration.

“My point,” he continues firmly, “Is that your body is stronger than your mind sometimes. It fought to keep you alive, even when you felt you wanted to let go. That's a testament to your innate will to live, to survive. It's not a reflection of your feelings or wishes, but it's a part of you that can't be ignored."

Spencer takes your hand, covering it with both of his. "Please don't dismiss your survival as insignificant. It matters, and I believe it's a sign that you have the strength to keep going, to keep living. I know it's hard, and I know grief and pain can feel all-consuming at times, but you have so much life ahead of you. Your mind and your body are connected, but they are also their own beings in a way. Your body has carried you your whole life. Your blood cells have fought sickness, your muscles have soothed their own aches, and your bones have held you up. Your body isn’t attacking you, but you’re attacking it. How is that fair?”

You’re not sure what to say to that.

Spencer looks at you intently, pressing your hand in his tightly to ground you. "I know this is difficult to process. I know you're hurting. But I need you to understand that your body and your mind are not your enemies. They are part of you, and they need your care and compassion. I’m not going to make you promise me you’ll seek help, or that you’ll stop. I know it isn’t that simple. But I will ask this,” he says, and your heart contracts. “Be kind to yourself. Have compassion. Try to put things in perspective. You deserve so much better than this.”

“Can you feel that?” he asks, tilting his head to your hand.

You consider it, and you notice the steady throbbing from his unforgiving grip. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispers, and the sweet look in those beautiful brown eyes almost makes you believe it. “You’re gonna save your life, and I’m gonna cheer you on.”

[tortillamastersblog]

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 9 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

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I can’t breathe.

The book is gone and with it all my secrets. 

The only people who know about its existence are Weems and I and–

Thing.

No. He wouldn’t… But then again, he’s the only one who saw me with it, and just because he didn’t blab about seeing me in the library, doesn’t mean he didn’t tell Wednesday about the book.

No, no, no, no. 

Fuck!

I stand up and pace, feeling my hands shake as my mind spirals.

What am I supposed to do now? Surely Thing’s already given Wednesday the book, or at the very least, told her about it. 

Was that why she was eyeing me the way she did in the Quad earlier? Because she already knows what I am? 

First she sees the pendant up close, and now the book. It’s the final nail in the coffin of what used to be my life until.

No.

I stop and ball my hands into fists.

I won’t let her control my life any more than she already has. I’m going to get that book back and I’ll make sure she doesn’t reveal what I am. 

I have no idea how I’m going to do the latter, but I have to try. This can’t be it. 

I close my eyes and focus on Wednesday’s heartbeat. It takes a little longer than usual to locate it because of the celebrations still going on down in the quad, but when I finally locate it, accompanied by the soft clicking sound of her typewriter, I know she’s in her and Enid’s room.

I clench my jaw and open my eyes again, storming out of my room and making my way to Ophelia Hall.

I hear Enid laugh in the Quad as I make my way through the school, which is a relief because I don’t want her in the middle of what’s about to go down. This is between Wednesday and me.

“You had no right!” I snap a few moments later when I burst into Enid’s and Wednesday’s room without knocking. The door slams against the wall with the force I used to push it open, making a little paint chip off the wall where the doorhandle hits it. 

Wednesday, who’s sitting at her desk with her back turned, actually flinches ever so slightly before turning slowly, folding her hands in her lap.

“I’m sure I didn’t, but what are you–?”

“No. You don’t get to talk right now,” I seethe, cutting her off and crossing the room until I’m towering over her in her chair. She doesn’t shrink back, but there’s definitely a flash of surprise in her dark, calculating eyes as she takes in my flushed and trembling form.

Thing, who’s perched on the desk next to Wednesday’s typewriter crawls forward, but freezes when my eyes snap to him. 

The sight of him alone fills me with bitterness because I thought we had some kind of silent understanding in the library last night, but I guess it was all just a ruse on his part.

Of course it was. He’s Wednesday’s relative, so of course he’d rat me out. He always does her bidding.

I don’t say anything to him though, because it’s no use. Instead I let my eyes land on Wednesday again who’s, surprisingly, actually listening for once and not saying anything. 

“Where is it?” I ask, cutting straight to the chase.

Wednesday frowns slightly and tilts her head in confusion.

I scoff. Of course she’s playing dumb.

“The book,” I elaborate, my voice low and dangerous. “Give. It. Back.”

Wednesday’s confusion only deepens, and she gets up and crosses her arms, forcing me to take a step back. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she states calmly, which makes me falter ever so slightly. Of all the things Wednesday Addams is, she’s not a liar, and it’s dawning on me that she might not actually be playing dumb.

Still, I don’t back down though, because if she doesn’t have it, who does? It doesn’t make any sense.

“Oh, please.” I scowl. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Now give it back before I make you.”

Again something akin to surprise flickers in Wednesday’s eyes before they take on a challenging and defiant glint. “As much as I’d like to see you try whatever it is you’d do to make me give you back this book you’re talking about, I really have no idea what you want from me.”

I huff and glare at her, trying to ignore the way my ears suddenly tingle at the way she doesn’t break my gaze. We’re so close that I once again get a whiff of that fresh linen smell that clings to her, which should really be a sign for me to back off, but I don’t because despite the circumstances, it’s not entirely unpleasant, especially because this time it’s mixed with the faint scent of cedar wood. It’s either her shampoo or her perfume, although I think it’s her shampoo because she doesn’t strike me as someone who wears perfume.

A tapping makes me snap out of my thoughts and I avert my eyes from Wednesday’s to Thing.

She doesn’t know, he taps which makes me frown.

“What don’t I know?” Wednesday asks with a raised eyebrow, looking between me and the hand, but Thing ignores her and curtsies the same way he did in the library last night, and it’s then that I know I’ve made a huge mistake.

He didn’t tell her. And neither he nor she took the book.

My heart sinks and I take a step back, my throat burning with anger and disbelief, threatening to suffocate me. 

If she doesn’t have it, then who?

Weems is going to kill me… I know that should be the least of my concerns, but it’s one of the first things that comes to mind. Well, that and the fact that my entire existence is hanging on by a thread right now, but you know… You gotta pick and choose your battles.

I take another step back, instinctively reaching for my pendant, but it’s not there.

“What don’t I know?” Wednesday repeats, a little more forcefully now, but again, neither Thing nor I answer.

“I- Forget it,” I stammer breathlessly. “Sorry for just… barging in like that.”

I turn to leave, but cool fingers curling around my wrist make me stop. 

“Wait.” Wednesday immediately pulls back, momentarily frowning at her own hand as though it betrayed her by reaching for me. “What’s going on?”

She has an unreadable look on her face and if I didn’t know any better I’d say she was concerned, but I’m sure she’s just curious and trying to mask it. 

“Nothing,” I say, feeling my sense of reality slipping with every passing second. “It’s…nothing.” I cradle my wrist, her touch somehow still lingering on my skin.

I can’t believe I just barged into her room like that. What was I thinking? I had no proof she took the book. And by storming in here I just made her more suspicious than ever. 

Wednesday doesn’t push any more though. She just stares at me with those piercing and captivating eyes of hers, before they drop down to my chest where she saw the pendant earlier.

Her jaw twitches at the sight of its absence, and once again I feel completely exposed under her gaze, so I mumble another apology before darting out of her room again.

I splash some water in my face and stare at myself in the mirror. I’m pale, and the dark circles under my eyes make it look like I haven’t slept in days even though it’s only been one night.

Today is outreach day, which I’m not looking forward to because I’d rather lock myself in my room and ignore the reality of what happened yesterday. 

Now to be clear, nothing else really happened after I left Wednesday’s room. I just went back to my own room and spiraled because whoever has the book must have taken it for a reason, and it’s only a matter of time before something does happen.

What that will be, I have no idea, but so far everything’s still fine, so I have decided to just go along with it and pretend nothing’s wrong because maybe nothing will come of it after all? 

I know that will probably not be the case, but hope is all I have left now. I can’t go to Weems and tell her about it because that would make her freak out and maybe even force me into hiding, which is the last thing I want to do. 

Ever since my powers showed up, I’ve done nothing but hide, and I’m tired of it.

I also can’t be acting suspicious the way I did with Wednesday yesterday because that could draw attention to me and maybe even warn the person who stole the book that I know something is up which could be dangerous. So, it’s like I said, the only thing I can do is hope and wait, and pray to some kind of higher power that I’ll be ready when something inevitably does happen.

My eyes sting with unshed tears as I continue to stare at myself in the mirror, so I quickly blink them away and clench my jaw before getting dressed and ready for the day.

Then, I make my way to the Quad with my hands, which are clenched into fists, shoved into the pockets of my uniform jacket.

Most students are already there, so I keep my eye out for a particular blonde before siddling up to her and Yoko. My eyes sweep over the crowd, looking for Wednesday since I dread seeing her after how I burst into her room last night, but upon first glance I don’t spot her. 

I don’t get a chance to focus on her heartbeat to potentially find her though, because a tug on my sleeve makes me look at a worried looking Enid.

“Hey, you okay? You look a little…” she trails off with a grimace, obviously not knowing how to describe my appearance without sounding mean.

I swallow thickly and nod, which doesn’t seem to be enough to ease her concern because her lips part again, but before she can say anything else, Weems appears.

“All students will report for their volunteer jobs at ten AM sharp, followed by a community lunch at one,” she says, making the crowd hush.

I already dread the thought of said lunch because all I want to do is be alone right now and wallow in self pity.

She goes on babbling about the importance of this Outreach Day and how this year a statue will be unveiled in the town square, which will be accompanied by performances of Nevermore students, but since I’m neither part of the orchestra or Bianca’s acapella group, I couldn’t care less.

When the teachers start to hand out everyone’s assignments and I open mine, I have to bite back a sigh. I got the Weathervane.

I don’t mind working with Iris, but I’m sure Tyler will be there as well. And to make matters worse, I hear Xavier mumble to Ajax that he got the Weathervane too, which means there will inevitably be some drama between him and Tyler.

Great. Just great. Why couldn’t I just get the bookstore I like going to.

I don’t particularly mind Xavier, although his whole tortured artist persona can be a bit tiring sometimes. No, my problem, for some reason, is with Tyler. Not because he’s got an obvious crush on Wednesday– because who am I to judge, or care for that matter– but because he seems to think I’m some kind of threat when it comes to her.

He made that perfectly clear when he got all territorial over her in the forest after he saved her from being caught by his dad. It was definitely irritating at the time, but now that I think back on it, I’ve got to admit that I do feel a little smug about the fact that she pushed him off immediately after the coast was clear whilst she tolerated my touch after I caught her when she had her vision.

“Yes! I got Pilgrim World,” Enid bounces excitedly and grins at me, her earlier worry completely forgotten. “What did you get?”

I show her my assignment slip. “The Weathervane.”

“That’s great!” she exclaims, completely oblivious to my begrudgery. 

I just nod and fold my assignment back up before stuffing it into my pocket. 

“I’m crossing my claws Ajax and I will be outreaching together,” she goes on, and just as she says it I hear Ajax groan across the Quad, complaining about getting Uriah’s Heap.

“Yeah, don’t think that’s gonna happen,” I say with a pitiful smile, and when Enid frowns I throw my thumb over my shoulder to where Ajax is standing before tapping the shell of my ear. “He got Uriah’s Heap.”

“Oh, come on,” she whines, which catches Yoko’s attention. She turns and asks Enid what’s wrong and when Enid tells her, she frowns behind her sunglasses and smiles the same pitiful smile I just did.

“Maybe you can switch with someone?” she suggests, but the thought of Uriah’s Heap seems to snap Enid out of her temporary disappointment. 

“No, thanks. I’d rather not,” she says and I go to say something else to console her when I suddenly feel eyes on me.

My head snaps up, expecting to see Wednesday somewhere, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I frown, feeling my stomach churn and look around, but as quickly as the feeling of being watched crept over me, it vanishes again, leaving me confused and feeling utterly exposed.

My heart is racing in my ears, and when Weems smiles my way when she catches my eye, I quickly look away.

What is happening to me? Am I getting paranoid? Am I starting to imagine things?

No, that can’t be. Someone took that book, so someone knows what I am, and that is putting a target on my back, so I have to be watchful. That doesn’t make me paranoid. Right?

Someone brushes against my arm, and I’m about to ignore it, but then I get a whiff of fresh linen and cedar wood and flinch.

“Wednesday!” Enid beams at her roommate. “What did you get?”

Wednesday unfolds her assignment slip without acknowledging me and says, “Uriah’s Heap, whatever that is.”

Enid’s nose wrinkles in disgust and explains what the antique store is all about while I subtly shift away from Wednesday.

How I didn’t hear her coming, I have no idea, but it’s moments like this that I miss my pendant because no matter what a nuance it’s been lately, at least it would have warned me of her presence if I was still wearing it. 

I’m about to slip away when Wednesday, who finally seems to acknowledge me, stops me. “Y/N, wait.”

I turn around to find her looking at me with an unprecedented…is that tenderness in her eyes?

She’s still stoic, don’t get me wrong, but something since last night has changed. 

I can still feel curiosity radiating off her beneath the surface, which surprises me because until now her emotions were kind of muted, but it’s not the same curiosity as before. Where the one before was sharp and biting, seemingly untamed, this ones feels more grounded and laced with hesitancy. 

Enid looks between us with a raised eyebrow, probably wondering if Wednesday is going to try and throw a knife at me again, or worse, try to stab me because she’s too close to throw anything, but nothing of that sort happens.

Wednesday is just about to say something though, but then Weems steps into our circle and says something to Wednesday about her cello, which gives me the perfect opportunity to slip away.

I don’t know what Wednesday was about to say, but for once it didn’t seem to be anything mean or insensitive. Still though, I’ve already acted suspicious enough in front of her, so it’s best if I try to avoid her.

I know I can’t do it for long, it’s a known fact because we keep crossing paths, but I have to try.

There’s someone out there who knows what I am, and I don’t need her to know too. Not only because it could put me in even more danger if she blabs, even though I get the feeling she wouldn’t, but because if she knows, she’ll be in danger too.

“You good, Y/N?” Iris asks, when she helps me clear one of the tables by the window. I look up to find her looking at me with a soft smile.

“Wha–? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little distracted,” I tell her honestly. It’s been a little over an hour since my shift started, and so far, things have actually been better than expected.

Tyler and Xavier are giving each other the cold shoulder, and Tyler keeps glancing at me with a weird look, but other than that things are fine. 

Enid came by with Ajax earlier, which surprised me because she was supposed to be at Pilgrim World, but she explained that Wednesday had convinced her to switch assignments. She and Ajax were both rosy-cheeked, and I was actually happy to know they were going to get to spend some time together and maybe even talk about their their feelings, but the reason as to why Wednesday would want to be assigned to Pilgrim World kept distracting me. It even made me spill some coffee just now as I was serving this elderly couple, which is why Iris is concerned.

She eyes me for a moment before nodding and asking me to help her unload a shipment of coffee beans out back. 

“Of course.”

We finish clearing the table and head out back, where I try to hide how easy it is for me to haul around crates while she struggles a little. It’s mostly silent work, but every now and then she cracks a joke that actually makes me smile.

Despite all that though, I keep thinking about the fact that Wednesday is up to something again, because why else would she want to work at Pilgrim World when she’s made her opinion about pilgrims more than clear before. What was it she’d called them? Religious fanatics? Yeah, sounds about right. So why on Earth would she want to be assigned there of all places.

My ears pick up on some commotion in Pilgrim World, and the fact that Wednesday’s heartbeat spikes, but mere moments later it settles again, which helps me fight the urge to go over there and see what’s going on.

I know she can take care of herself, and just earlier in the Quad I came to the conclusion that it’s best to keep my distance as best as I can, but by this point, I know I’m not fooling anyone when I say I have to stay away because I just can’t. I literally can’t, which unnerves me because my thoughts once again travel back to that stupid book that’s now missing and the chapter title I read about soulbonds.

Soulbond… That just sounds wrong. It reminds me of the concept of destiny and I’ve never been a fan of it. Like, what do you mean my life is set in stone and I can’t change the outcome? 

Also, Wednesday Addams being in a romantic relationship just seems as unlikely as my adoptive parents ever coming to take me back. I mean, that girl has more walls up than me, and that says something.

Iris and I unload and store the coffee beans away for a little under half an hour before heading back inside. 

The café is pretty empty at the moment, so she busies herself with the dishes in the back with Tyler while I go to wipe down some tables. Xavier is cleaning the coffee machine and I dip my chin in acknowledgement when I pass him, but then I frown when I see Wednesday.

She’s got her back turned in our direction and is looking over the bulletin board on the wall next to the window booths. She’s also dressed in her school uniform, and not a pilgrim costume, which makes me wonder what happened. Either she did something that got her kicked out, or she dismissed herself. Both options seem equally plausible, but I don’t dwell on it. 

The fact that she seems okay after what I heard a couple minutes ago makes a strange sense of relief wash over me, and I quickly turn around, irritated, to actually do my job. 

While I choose not to engage with her, Xavier seems to have a different approach, because he steps out from behind the counter and approaches Wednesday with a wary, “I thought you were supposed to be at Pilgrim World.”

I try not to eavesdrop when Wednesday turns around and focus on wiping tables, but I couldn't not overhear her even if I tried because, like I said, the cafe is fairly empty and they’re the only two people talking. 

“I deserted it while my sanity was still intact,” she says, plain and simple, which makes me scoff softly, although I hate to admit that it’s not coming from a place of annoyance.

The moment Xavier leans on the counter though and says, “Oh yeah?” in a tone that is obviously more than just friendly, my nose wrinkles in disgust. I look up and see him smiling at her before offering a coffee.

Wait. Since when is this going on? First Tyler, and now Xavier?

I vaguely remember Enid mentioning something about the two of them knowing each other when they were kids, but they’ve obviously grown apart over the years, something Xavier seemingly wants to undo.

Wednesday being Wednesday though just crosses her arms and says, “I’m actually here for Tyler.”

It fills me with a little bit of satisfaction how Xavier’s smile drops, but then again, I also clench my jaw. Not because I’m jealous but because Wednesday being here for Tyler will feed into the obvious crush Tyler has and give him a reason to be all smug for the rest of his shift. 

“I told you he was bad news,” Xavier warns her, and although his… fondness for Wednesday irked me just a second ago, I can’t help but somewhat agree with him.

Tyler, Lucas, and some of the other guys destroyed Xavier’s mural last year, and even though Tyler has since stopped associating with them, he still did what he did, and he’s got anger issues as far as I know, which is why he’s in therapy.

I know the therapy part because of Enid, obviously, but being around him, especially recently, I’ve felt this rage simmering inside him and if I had to guess I’d say it has to do with the relationship he has with his dad since his mom passed away.

The way they treat each other, mostly distant and cold, and the way Tyler talked about his dad in the woods? Yeah… There’s a problem there.

“Twice,” Wednesday says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “But who I speak to is my business.” She then rings the little bell on the counter and not even a moment later, Tyler comes out the back with a raised eyebrow. 

He looks between Xavier and Wednesday before his eyes dart to me and I’m quick to avert my eyes and move to wipe down a different table. It’s not that I did anything wrong per say, but I don’t like the fact that he just caught me eavesdropping.

Xavier also gets back to work, and for a moment, I feel a different pair of eyes on me, and I know it’s Wednesday, but then the feeling vanishes again as Tyler speaks up. “Want the usual?”

“And some help,” Wednesday says, and I glance up to see her unfolding a map and spreading it out on one of the tables by the window. “You know the original pilgrim meeting house? The one from the 1600s? Do you know if it’s still around?”

Tyler frowns. “What’s left is out in Cobham Woods, but it’s pretty much a ruin.”

I know that ruin and Tyler is right. That place is a ruin, not to mention it’s pretty sketchy since squatters and drug addicts like to hang out there. 

I’ve come across some of them before when I first came to Nevermore because I liked exploring to keep my mind off of the fact that I was abandoned. Again. Now, I don’t do much of it anymore because there is basically nothing else to explore and I like to spend my free time listening to music, reading, or working out to burn off some extra energy.

“Show me,” Wednesday persists, and Tyler points it out on the map but then tells her about the squatters and how his dad has to clear the place out every couple of weeks, but Wednesday doesn’t seem fazed. 

“What’s this all about anyway? You still obsessing over that monster in the woods?” he asks, and even though Wednesday's deadpan reply of, “Would you rather I develop an obsession with horses and boybands?” is pretty funny, this whole monster situation is anything but.

People have actually died so far, and had I not followed Wednesday and Rowan the night of the Harvest Festival, who knows what would have happened. Maybe she would have been killed too. 

Tyler’s smile, albeit a bit confused, once again makes something stir in my chest and I look away once again when a woman nearby asks for another coffee.

I hear Tyler offering to show Wednesday to the ruins, but she brushes him off and the two of them say something about girl scouts, but I’m only half listening as I take the order of another customer.

When I turn back around and make my way behind the counter to get started on the coffees I’ve been asked for, I realize Wednesday has already left again, leaving both Xavier and Tyler looking through the window of the front door where I can make out her retreating figure. 

The sky outside is overcast and the wind picks up, so I pull out my phone and check the weather, seeing that there’s going to be a storm.

I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Wednesday all alone in the woods. Yes, she knows a lot more than just some basic self defense, but what good is self defense against a falling branch or tree?

I don’t like it, but I can’t just follow her. I don’t get off for my break for another half hour and I can’t be caught just sneaking off. Especially not by Tyler or Xavier. So, I get back to work. That is until a couple minutes later, I’m in the back, unloading the dishwasher, when something tugs on my pants. 

I look down to see Thing, and even though I’m surprised for a moment, I don’t let it show. I just look up to make sure no one out front has seen him before looking back down.

“What are you doing here?” I ask quietly. He doesn’t answer instead he just signs, Worried about Wednesday, lost her in the woods which makes my heart constrict and makes me untie my apron without a second thought. 

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[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Seven: to you, Aelin

tw: minor violence and gore, miscarriage, abortion mention, infidelity

“You see that girl right there? You stay away from her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

It’s the first thing John’s father says about Aelin Gilroy. Using one long, crooked finger, he points her out in the thick crowd of parents and students attending their Year 8 science fair. Projects and standing boards obscure her as they tower overhead on rickety folding tables, but that blinding smile and incandescent teal eyes shine through the crowd like a lighthouse leading a ship safe to shore. 

Trouble. He often disagrees with his father, and this instance is no different. He does not think Aelin Gilroy is trouble. She’s never disruptive in class, and he once saw her give another student her cardigan two years ago when she couldn’t stop shivering in class. It isn’t until her father steps into view that he realizes the meaning of this warning—crisp police uniform, hat held in front of his stomach, giving a firm handshake to the science teacher. An officer. An inspector. An adversary to his father in the most wretched of ways. 

Police officers always make the family business difficult. 

For many years, John heeds his father’s warning—if not for his own sake, then at least for hers—until Year 11. By some terrible twist of fate, his maths teacher sat Aelin Gilroy next to him in that small, two seater desk. She smells like roses freshly woken by morning dew after a spring shower. He learns she likes to doodle in the corner of her notebook during lectures, and she can’t stop tapping her foot against the floor while taking an exam. John finds that he likes the way her pale brows knit together in concentration, scrunching her forehead, and how soft her voice is when whispering answers to the table on her left. 

But he doesn’t have time to think about her. Not that he should. John Price is unfortunate enough to come from a long line of brutal patriarchs who often condition equally as cruel heirs. Once he turns sixteen, his father’s petulance only grows as he forces him to join him on escapades in the night after lectures have concluded. Bodies crumble. His fists split on begging faces pleading for the mercy that has long been snuffed out of his father’s chest. Each night his cheek grows tender with the force of his father’s hand, and his eyes droop with the weight of the secret life of a killer—of a true son born into the family business. 

“Red color corrector will hide the bruise on your eye.” 

It takes John several moments to realise Aelin Gilroy is talking to him, but even then he doesn’t fully believe it until he turns to see her already staring at him. She’s lazily leaning forward on the desk, hand propping her head up beneath her chin as her tongue darts out to wet her rosy lips. John’s pencil ceases its dance across his worksheet. 

“Color corrector?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, you know. Makeup. Green hides red marks from acne, orange hides dark circles, red for… very dark circles.” Her brows raise as she silently motions to his eye, bringing his own hand to touch the tender spot on his face. “I’ve got some in my bag, if you’d like. Though, you’ll have to find your own shade of foundation. I think you’re a bit too warm toned compared to me.” 

Her bluntness and unabashed reference to the shiner on his eye leaves him chuckling, transforming her coy smile into a small smirk. “You sound like an expert.” 

“I am,” she quips before grinning. After a quick glance around the room, Aelin carefully pulls the collar of her shirt to the side, exposing the side of her neck. At first, John finds nothing of any importance until she points out a line of covered hickies just above her collar bone, fingers tracing it as if lovingly. They grey beneath the concealer and foundation, blurring them to the point they’ve almost vanished. “A girl’s gotta have her fun.” 

John likes her humor. Appreciates it, anyway. Maybe there’s something comforting about knowing a girl like her gets in trouble; albeit, much less violent trouble than himself. A small flicker of hope ignites in his chest at the idea that perhaps there’s something in common between him and Aelin—that he has the possibility of even resembling something that’s normal. Something not drenched in blood.

It’s a short lived fantasy. When the end of term comes around, and they no longer share classes together, they drift. Aelin keeps her smiles polished while John continues to do the only thing his father ever bothered to teach him. By the end, Aelin’s A-Levels are enough to earn her a trip to anywhere in the country. Opportunities are thrown at her feet and offered up on dainty silver platters that glisten bright enough to reflect the future ahead of her. As for him, his father dies when he’s twenty. Murdered, and in a way that’s eerily similar to the way his mother had been. Cold, calculated, ruthless—his father’s existence is snuffed out by a single bullet, leaving behind nothing but a bloodstain coating the pillow that covers his face. 

The torch is passed down—the handle is still bloody. 

Over the years, he grows rigid and battle-hardened thanks to the business of violence that was bequeathed to him by his late father. He builds upon a decrepit empire until it’s thriving with sharp teeth and hired guns. It’s the only thing his father taught him; how to be dangerous. How to collect teeth and grind them to dust beneath the sole of his shoes. The Price family rises to power. The name forces people to tremble. John Price has nothing to lose but his own life, and even that pathetic amount he can scarcely get himself to care about. 

The only thing he holds close to him is the ghosts of his past. They always lurk in uncomfortable places, whispering into the shell of his ear, biting at the nape of his neck. It finds him at all hours of the day—it torments him. Slithers beneath his skin. Even now as he stands in line at the florist’s shop his skin itches, eyes flickering to the exit, fingers twitching for the knife stowed in his pocket. 

The only emollient he can find in this place is the voice of the woman in line before him. Demulcent and fleeting, he notes the way his heart slows. How the pathetic muscle quivers in his chest as she sweetly thanks the shopkeeper. When the redolence of roses reaches him, he tells himself he’s hallucinating, but when she turns to leave—small bouquet of flowers in her hand—he realizes who it is. 

Aelin Gilroy. 

Even after all these years he can still recognize her. The soft slope of her nose, the faint, bouncing curls in her flaxen hair, and her grace. How her chin is held high. How confidence exudes from every pore in her body as she floats toward the exit. Somehow, she’s even more perfect now than she was when they were children. He steps out of line, forcing the shopkeeper to stare at him with narrowed brows as he follows after her on uncertain feet. 

“Aelin?” 

All the air leaves his lungs when she turns to face him. She’s grown into her features now. Rosy cheeks and full lips, but her eyes are still the same. Crystalline like a low tide, filtering golden sunlight into fractals. Those eyes stare at him blankly, hands uncomfortably adjusting the bouquet as she traces him without a shred of familiarity. 

“Yes?” she asks tensely. 

Chuckling, he slaps his hand on the nape of his neck, rubbing out the tension there. “It’s John. John Price.” 

There’s something about the light igniting in her eyes that has him feeling warmer than he has in a long while. A precious grin breaks out on her lips as she steps closer, now comfortable with his presence. “Oh my god, I didn’t recognize you! It’s been years… staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Getting in just enough to keep things interesting,” John counters. 

It’s as if no time has passed at all. She’s still that star pupil. Still that girl that had every boy tripping over their own two feet. Even now he can still hear her feet tapping against the floor as her pencil fills in test answers. 

“What’s the occasion?” he then asks, gesturing to her bouquet. 

“Oh,” she says. Her voice trips. Fractures. “Well, it’s—erm—the anniversary of my dad’s passing.” 

John blinks. He can vaguely recall the news. Rolling clips of the police station and the accident that stole his life away. Somehow he never put two and two together. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, I hadn’t heard,” he quickly apologizes. 

Despite the terrible awkwardness of the conversation, she still smiles. Always graceful. Always poised. “It’s alright. I’m… making my peace with it.” She pauses, throat clearing with a tense cough. “What about you?”

“Oh, just some flowers for mum.”

His response makes Aelin smile something small and bittersweet. “How lovely. I bet she’ll love them.” 

“They’ll make for good decoration.”

Something settles between the two of them—something that had never been there before. Not while they were children, growing up with one another in different corners of the world. It’s unfamiliar. Suffocating. It leaves John floundering, but the warmth it brings is intoxicating. 

“Well, I ought to get going,” Aelin excuses politely. “Got a few more errands to run. But really, it was good seeing you again, John.” 

This is the part where he should say goodbye. Wish her farewell just for her to vanish into a life of fortune where he’d never see her again. If he was a smart man, John would have done just that, but instead he finds his hand diving into his pocket where he retrieves a pen before quickly stealing one of the shop’s business cards to scribble down his number in the negative space. 

“Here,” he says, holding it out for Aelin to take. “I’m certain you get this a lot, but if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be there.” 

To his surprise, she takes the card without hesitation, aqua eyes scanning his rushed handwriting while quietly thanking him. As she holds the card in front of her, something catches John’s attention. There’s a glint on her finger, one that reflects the light so brightly it nearly blinds him. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s a large, gaudy ring. Something given in poor taste. Something that attempts to steal the spotlight of Aelin’s beauty rather than compliment it. 

“Did you get married?” John asks in what he tells himself is mere curiosity. 

“Oh. No, not yet. Just engaged,” she says with an odd tone. Aelin glances at the ring—at the small band and large diamond that looks heavy enough to weigh her down. As if she can’t stand to look at it any longer, she shoves the card into her pocket before smiling at him. “Thank you again, John.” 

As Aelin exits the store, she tries not to think about how this interaction with a long lost classmate of hers has her feeling lighter than she has in years. That’s all she feels these days. Heavy. Weighed down by a stony gaze that used to look at her with adoration as the looming nature of her own failure hangs over her head as if each step she takes brings her closer to the gallows. 

There is little reprieve to be found in the cemetery where her father lays. Knees digging into the fresh grass, trembling fingers propping the flowers against his headstone, she does not pay attention to the tears streaming down her face. She’s learned to ignore them, if not welcome them. The wind picks up, cooling her feverish face as she traces the engraving of her father’s name letter by letter with her index finger. 

“I miss you so much,” she whispers. “Everything’s gone to shit since you left. I dunno what to do without you.” 

Her days have been foggy. Each waking moment leaves her stumbling through the dark all while she pretends she’s still the radiant girl she’s always been. It’s difficult to keep up the facade when her bed is cold in the mornings, and her fingers itch for the card John Price gave her. Ghosts follow behind her in the bedroom, her rearview mirror—the toilet. 

So then, it should not come as a surprise when she returns home from her mother’s to see the lamp on in the living room. The television drones but no one is listening. A hand on a thigh. Unfamiliar lips pressed against ones she should have memorized but hasn’t felt the touch of in months. The woman looks nothing like Aelin. Inky locks cut into a short bob that her fiance weaves his fingers through as his nose kisses her cheek. 

“Adam?”

Aelin’s stomach drops when they jump, heavy eyes now on her as she stands in the entryway. When Adam’s chest heaves with a sigh, she’s suddenly in the bathroom again. Hands clutching her stomach as she waddles out. Eyes full with tears as she sees him sitting on the couch, focused on the football match. It’s the same thing all over again.

She doesn’t wait around long enough to hear his excuses. The front door slams shut behind her but the sound is muffled on her ears as she slips into her car and speeds away. 

Night has long since fallen by the time she reaches the park. When she was a child, her parents used to own a home in this neighborhood and she often came here with her dad. The swingset is painted blue now instead of red, but she makes no effort to approach it as she seats herself on an algid, metal bench. 

During times like these, Aelin would often go to her dad for comfort. His office smelled like leather and Earl Grey, and he always kept a recliner in the corner of the room for her to curl up in to do homework, or cry about boys at school. He always knew what to say. What to do. Guiding her with a soft hand and sweet heart—she always wished she was more like him. 

Now—without the luxury of paternal comfort—she does something stupid. 

Fingers haphazardly digging through her bag, clutching the florist’s card, shakily punching in the numbers into her phone; Aelin knows she’s insane. Insane for thinking John Price is the person to call for something like this. Insane for thinking he’d even do anything at this time of night. Still, he answers. His voice bleeds through the speaker next to her ear like lukewarm wine. Intoxicating. Comforting. 

The only greeting she can choke out is a sob. 

By the time John finds Aelin, all of her tears have run dry, having been replaced with a brutal fury instead. A thick numbra clouds the park as the halogen lights hardly hold a torch bright enough to fight off the darkness. Still, he approaches her, noting how her knees bounce just like they used to all those years ago during exam season. Her bottom lip is bright red—irritated and cracked, abused by her teeth. 

For as much effort as he puts into looking calm on the outside, there is nothing in the world that can settle the nerves fraying within him. Hearing her cry, hearing her beg for him to come and get her scared him more than he cares to admit. The tear stains on her cheeks make his fists curl. If only she knew the dangerous power she holds. The power to say bite and for John Price to respond where. 

It doesn’t take long for him to coax out the truth. The rage swirling within Aelin nearly erupts as she spews every brutal detail. How Adam had been acting strange the last few months, how he used to show her off but has been keeping her locked away like a dirty secret, or something he’s ashamed of. 

“Two fucking years, John,” Aelin seethes, teeth gritting so hard that they nearly crack. “Two years of being with him just for him to do… to do that? He moved me into his home, wanted me to quit my job because he said he wanted to take care of me, to take care of… of…”

Terrified that you’ll disintegrate before him, John reaches a careful hand out and brushes it against her shoulder. The tension melts beneath his touch, and if he wasn’t so concerned, pride would swell in his chest. “Easy, love.” 

“I could’ve been great,” she continues, voice cracking as she leans into him. “I was able to go to any school in this country. I got my degree. I could’ve kept at work and been… something. And I didn’t need to. Not really. There was never anything I was trying to prove to anyone. I could’ve had a few kids with that white picket fence and stayed home to care for them, and I would’ve been completely happy living that trophy wife life if it meant I was loved. But I’m not, and it fucking hurts because I know I’m worth so much more than this.”

She crumbles like dust. The kind that’s so thin and fine you can only see it in the air when sunlight hits it. John’s arms wrap around her, pulling her close, palm cradling her head as she shakes in his grasp. 

“Fuck, I’m so stupid,” she babbles. 

“You’re not stupid,” he attempts to persuade. 

“Adam only proposed when we found out I was pregnant,” she says. Her voice shatters. Fractures. Each syllable catches in her throat, slices the tender flesh. “T-Then my dad died and… It was stupid to think he’d want to stay after I lost it.” 

John’s blood runs cold. His vision clouds with ichor—vermillion and thick. It’s so close he can nearly taste it. A violent man to a violent end, he craves it now more than ever. Instead, he holds her closer and gathers enough bravery to kiss the top of her head. 

“None of that was your fault, love,” he assures. “You’re brilliant. Downright brilliant, and he’s a sorry sod for not seeing it.” 

It takes a little convincing to get her to agree to stay at his place for the night. Really, there’s something comforting about being somewhere else. Away from her mother and that house that’s still haunted with her father’s ghost. John gives her an old t-shirt and a pair of joggers he’s been meaning to throw out for some time before ensuring she’s comfortable enough in his guest bedroom. 

When he’s certain Aelin’s asleep, John sits in his office, hand over his mouth, teeth grinding as he stares at his phone. It takes only five minutes of deliberation before he’s dialing up the only man he knows he can trust. 

“Yeah?” Simon Riley. His blunt greeting cuts over the line over the sound of thrumming club music and a cacophony of chatter. 

“Riley, I need a favor. I’m sending you an address and I need you there as soon as possible,” John says, voice rumbling low and dark as he taps his desk with the tips of his fingers. 

“What for?” 

“A friend,” John excuses. “I need any items that seem like they belong to a girl. Clothes, toiletries, things of that sort.” 

There’s a pause, and John can already see the expression on Riley’s face. A raised brow, tight lips, and a small huff. “Somethin’ ya can’t get yourself?” 

“If I go myself, I’m breaking the jaw of the bastard who lives there,” he growls. 

Inhale. Exhale. “This have somthin’ to do with the girl earlier? The one cryin’ on the phone?” 

“Yeah.” 

A hum. “I’ll be there in an hour.” 

Much to John’s surprise, Aelin doesn’t ask too many questions when morning comes. She doesn’t push when he gives a vague answer about how he got her items, and she doesn’t question where her engagement ring vanished to, or why Adam hasn’t bothered to call or text her since she stormed out of the house. He tells her to stay as long as she likes—as long as she needs.

But she doesn’t leave. 

Aelin Gilroy lingers in his home—not as a ghost, but as a dream. Something drifting between his fingers, just out of reach, that he wants so desperately to hold. He finds residuals of her in the shower with her golden hair stuck to the wall and the silage of rose toying with his nose. She’s there in the kitchen when he comes home, cooking up a late dinner, asking him to join her for a movie. 

There is no effort on her end in leaving, just as there is no effort from him in getting her to leave. He would keep her forever if he could. Hold her in his arms like he did that night in the park, cradling her head against his chest. All she would have to do is ask him. 

But as the weeks meander on, John finds himself sitting next to her on the couch. There’s too much wine in their bodies, ichor red and brimming full in his stomach, diffusing the light of the television as it illuminates her skin, her smile, everything. He decides that he likes this. Her. Enjoys the warmth of another human in this too-large house, always a void greeting him when he gets home, a black hole waiting to crush him. He doesn’t know how his father could have ever treated his mother so cold when the touch of a woman seems to make this home flourish. 

She feels his gaze. Heavy lidded and murky with alcohol. She stares back, aqua hue bleeding into something darker, like the depths of the ocean instead of the mere tide lapping at the shore—unknowingly profound. He has yet to scratch the surface of Aelin Gilroy. 

Yet he gets close to it when she places her glass on the coffee table and swings her leg over his lap. Bum resting on his knees, her hands steady her swaying body as she grips his shoulders, curls cascading down her back like a waterfall of sunlight. John stares up at her with awe blurring his vision. She smiles like she knows the mess she’s making of him. 

“Kiss me.” She does not ask. She demands it. Requires it. 

He leans back until his skull hits the cushion, then shakes his head. “You don’t want me to do that.” 

Her eyebrow quirks. “Why not?” 

“I’m not a good man.” 

“I know.” 

Those words are a baton to his diaphragm, forcefully expelling a chuckle from his throat before he can stop it. She tilts her head and he nearly grabs the nape of her neck to devour her whole. “How do you know?”

“I’ve always known,” Aelin insists. “I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Besides, if you were a good man, you’d be dead by now. The good ones are always quick to go in your line of work, aren’t they?” 

John wants to pretend that he’s surprised she knows, but of course she knows. Aelin Gilroy, daughter of Sean Gilroy, Chief Inspector, top of her class, the looks to kill and a brain to go with it. It does not take a genius to sniff out the blood that stains his hands. Dirty hands. Soiled hands. Ones he can’t help but place on her waist. 

“If you know that much, then you know that you don’t want me to kiss you,” he insists. 

“Why?” Her turn with the questions. 

“Becuase I’m not dragging you into a life like this. I’m not letting you get hurt because of me.” His admission comes with plaguing visions that are so noisome they sting his eyes. Rose pink brains soaking into a mattress. Fingers plucked free of the palms they used to call home. His mother, dead and left to rot like a warning. “You don’t want this.” 

“No. I just want you,” she hums. Aelin’s hands begin to wander, fingertips brushing against his hairline as she tilts her head, curiously inspecting him, spinning eyes hardly able to focus on one part of him before moving to the next. “You’re not your father, John. You share his name but not his mistakes. You are not a bad man.” Palm to cheek, warmth swelling together against his feverish skin—she presses her thumb to his lips. Drags down over them until they’re parted. “You might not be a good man, but you’re too kind to be a bad man.” 

It isn’t until her lips meet his that John Price realizes that he’s been caught in Aelin’s trap for quite some time—she’s just now decided to rein him in. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been. Even as her teeth sink into his flesh, even as her nails rake across his back, even as she drowns him—nothing but a corse floating among stilly water—he knows he cannot starve himself of this one desire. 

After so many years, he finally has something to live for besides the circle of life and death. Besides being a slave to his family name simply because paternal law decrees it. Now, he has something to build. Someone to love. A future that holds more than decrepit bones. A ring covers the old scar on Aelin’s finger. His bed is always warm in the night when he returns home and in the morning when he can’t bring himself to wake with the rest of the world. 

The room she slept in during her first night with him now holds a crib. 

It’s made of wood and engraved with pumpkins and rabbits, a project Aelin took upon herself and has been whittling away at with a small carving tool. Hunched over, stomach swelling quietly but still enough to be noticeable in her sundress. The image has been burned into his mind all night while he’s been away at work, hunched over his desk, listening to pathetic excuse after excuse. 

He leaves early tonight, hands buzzing too much to quiet, fingers screaming for his wife. To hold her face and smooth over her stomach. She’s gotten more emotional these days; crying at any kind gesture, or any time she looks at the crib for too long. John hates to see the tears that stream down her cheeks but doesn’t mind the excuse to hold her close, to chuckle into her ear, to toy with the ends of her hair. 

When John steps inside, there’s nothing but blood to greet him. 

Watery. Bright red. It stains the couch in the very spot Aelin curls up in at the end of the day with a warm cup of tea and something quiet to put on the television. John stares at it. It spreads, ichor floating through the veins of the couch similar to the way it spreads on a mattress, soaking deep—too deep to get out. Deep enough to scar. 

He panics. Her name rings through the house as he trips down the hallway, following the sparse trickle of blood like breadcrumbs. There is no answer, but he hears her quiet, muffled sobs. Hand clasped over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut as if that could ever stop the tears; she’s on the toilet. He doesn’t even knock before entering, but she doesn’t have the energy to chastise him for it as she sits curled over herself, sundress bunched around her waist, arms cradling herself as if she can hold the remaining bits of her child within her shattering womb. 

“Love,” John breathes. Within an instant he’s on his knees before her, but she won’t look at him. He reaches forward, cups her face in his palms, wipes his thumb at the never-ending flood of tears. She’s feverish to the touch. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Aelin sobs. Her arms press further into her stomach as she leans forward, head attempting to bow, but John keeps her head above water—keeps her from drowning. “I really thought it would be different this time, I just… ah… John, it hurts so bad.” 

Her sobs come unheeded now, and each rattling reverberation that cuts through her shatters his newly mended heart. John holds her with trembling hands. His own eyes squeeze shut, faint tears wetting his eyelashes as he rests his chin on her head. Even against his neck he can feel how warm her forehead is—how it nearly blisters his skin. 

After fifteen minutes of his world ending, he takes her to the hospital. Ultrasound visits turn sour now that there is no baby to look at. The bleeding stops. Their child is gone. When they arrive home, all they do is lay in bed with nothing but the sound of their hearts shattering to break the silence. 

It is the first time, but it is not the last. 

It happens again. 

And again. 

Eventually, after the years, they give up. Their hope flickers and wanes, but the desire still lurks in their eyes every time they pass a stroller during date night or they look at that empty nursery-converted-to-guest-room. John puts that love into the men who work for him instead, and Aelin gives it to her adopted sister. But at the end of the night, no matter how long they were out laughing or chuckling, they come home to a warm bed, desperately searching for the grubby hands of what could have been. 

But it comes back. It barrels like a bullet into their lives, embedding into deep tissue, nestling too far to rip it out without doing more damage. It arrives as a phone call. A sob. A begging to be free of this torture. John finds it in the bathroom with Aelin, curled forward, ripped boxes strewn across the floor, along with three positive pregnancy tests. 

She looks up at him as he enters the bathroom, eyes red and irritated, her usually neat hair now frizzy. “John, I can’t do this again,” she chokes. 

Wordlessly, he joins her on the floor with an arm snaking around her back. Aelin collapses into his chest, legs slung over his lap, head resting against his collarbone as he cradles her. For a long time, he is silent. Neither of them speak as the weight of the situation begins to crush them under impending pressure. It squishes the blood clean from their bodies, suffocating their brains of all helpful thought. 

The world is ending all over again. 

“I’ll support whatever you want to do, love,” John murmurs against the crown of her head. 

Brows furrowing, she stiffens. “What do you mean?” 

His words get caught in his throat for a long, aching moment before he’s able to choke them out. “If you… want to terminate, then we can do that. Or if you want to keep it then we’ll do that, too.” 

Aelin is quiet for a long time. There is nothing but soft sniffles and the occasional pule that slips from her lips, but John doesn’t rush her. Instead, he holds her until her muscles relax, and she’s nothing but a limp mess against him. 

“One more time,” she decides, malice slipping into her tone as she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “One more time, and if it doesn’t work, I’m getting a hysterectomy. I can’t keep doing this b-but… I just… want to pretend to hope for a little while.” 

Nodding, John places one more kiss on her head. “Okay, love.” 

For the first few weeks, Aelin is near unconsolable. Nesting on the couch, blankets obscuring her body, hugging a pillow to her chest as her glassy eyes watch flashing images on the television. She attempts to distract herself with the company of her adopted sister, but the connection feels severed. Smiling and pretending to be happy when she’s harboring a secret that will surely demand blood before she has the chance to sing its praise. 

But that secret keeps growing. And growing. 

Each passing day that Aelin wakes and there’s no blood to follow her throughout the day, a glimmer of hope roots in her chest. It burrows and whispers. It promises love and fulfillment. It promises something she’s never been fortunate enough to achieve previously. It’s enough to make her skin glow, rosy and golden like the sun kissing the horizon before bed. It’s enough to make her cheeks swell as shiny, opalesque teeth peek between glistening lips. It’s enough for now, and then—

“Oh my god.” Hands on her stomach, smiling through the tears, bottom lip trembling. “John, it’s twenty-four weeks. It’s viability week.”

—and then it’s everything. 

Time rolls backwards as the guest room is once more turned into a nursery. Bunnies and pumpkins, soft oranges and fluffy whites, and a perfect hint of peach. A changing table with ribbons along the side. A rocking chair for the long nights when none of them will get rest, and it will be worth it to have a sleepless night due to love rather than turmoil. 

But joy is a meal that tastes better when it’s shared. 

So, Aelin stands in the kitchen. Film refracts the light above her through the sonogram in her hand, thumb holding the picture so firmly as if she’s afraid it will slip through her fingers. Heavy feet rattle the floor behind her before she feels warm palms smooth over her stomach and a chin on top of her head. 

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs.

Smiling in agreement, Aelin scans every little feature. The curve of the baby’s nose, how her lips part as if already babbling, hands squished up to her face like she’s trying to chew on her fingers. “Just over halfway there.” 

Just as she lowers the sonogram, the baby kicks against John’s palms. His chuckle hits her, warm and dripping with adoration. He squeezes back, pulling Aelin against him. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he questions. 

“Yeah, I think it would be better this way,” Aelin nods. “I feel… a little bad. Having been sort of ignoring her these last few weeks. I know Simon is taking good care of her but… well, it’ll be nice to have dinner with just the two of us.” 

She turns her attention to the card before her. The outside is plain. A simple white background with frilly lettering asking Guess what? On the inside, there’s that same lettering with the triumphant announcement of It’s a girl! followed by enough space to put a sonogram. Then, there’s a mini calendar of August, with a circled due date. She shoves everything inside of a light peach envelope before sealing it shut with the tip of her tongue, but as she stares at it, she feels it doesn’t quite look right. 

Inspiration strikes her, and she quickly retrieves a pen from the junk drawer before scrawling Auntie Chip on the envelope. Smiling, she sticks it in her purse. 

And with that, she is ready for dinner.

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[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every life ࿐‧₊ logan (2017) - push and pull

chapter summary: After living in Mexico for one year to take care of Charles, a young girl enters your lives and brings about a new set of problems.

word count: 19.6k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: so this is a two parter, not a oneshot. this first part covers the logan movie, and the second part covers 'deadpool and wolverine'

anyways, i've always wanted to write a black widow!reader x logan fic and when thinking of how i was going to write the logan movie in this alternate universe, i realized i was finally given the chance!! so while she is a black widow, she still has her time manipulation mutation.

warnings/tags: canon to 'logan (2017)', logan and reader are married, black widow!reader, violence, blood, angst, character death

series masterlist - part 2

The women gathered their things and made their way out of the studio, their yoga mats under their arms and big bottle of water in their other hand.

One of the women, Theresa, stopped by you and spoke, “I- I think you have something on you. Blood? Or red paint?”

“Shit,” you muttered. “Where?”

Theresa pointed at your wrist, where a few small splatters of red lay. You murmured a thanks before adding, “our dog got into the paint last night. Took me hours to clean it off the floor. Thought I washed it all away in the shower.”

Theresa gave you a skeptical look but didn’t push further, instead giving you a polite smile. “Dogs can be such troublemakers, huh?”

“Yeah, he’s a handful,” you lied smoothly, returning the smile as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “I’ll see you next week?”

Theresa nodded. “Of course. Have a good weekend, Y/N.”

“You too.” You watched her leave before exhaling, running a hand over your face. The blood on your wrist wasn’t from paint or any overly energetic dog. It was from the hit last night, the one Logan didn’t know about yet—and you weren’t exactly looking forward to that conversation.

As you walked out of the studio into the dry, hot air of El Paso, you couldn’t shake the knot in your stomach. You had wiped the blood off your hands and face last night, scrubbed until your skin felt raw, but somehow you’d missed the small spatters on your wrist.

He’s going to notice. He always notices.

You got into your car and drove past the border to make it to the place you called ‘home’. At least for now.

Logan’s beat up ’24 Chrysler was in front, and you noticed a few bullet marks on one side of the car door.

By the time you exited your car, lugging out your yoga mat and small bag, Logan stepped out of the smelting plant. His usual scowl was set in place, his sharp eyes scanning the area like he was expecting trouble.

When he saw you, his gaze softened just enough to be noticeable. “You’re late, darlin’. Class run long, or were you out savin’ the world again?”

You forced a laugh, locking your car. “Class ran over. Some of us have to work to keep this circus running.”

He narrowed his eyes, catching the hint of deflection. Logan could always tell when you were holding something back, but for now, he didn’t press. Instead, he jerked his head toward the plant. “Charles had a bad day. Might wanna check on him before he starts up again.”

“I will.” You adjusted the strap of your bag and walked toward him, stopping just short of the door. “You get any sleep last night?”

Logan snorted. “What do you think?”

“Figured not,” you said with a wry smile. “You should let me drive for a few shifts. Give you a break.”

“You know how I feel about that.” He crossed his arms, his tone making it clear the subject was closed.

You bit back a retort and nodded instead. “Alright, tough guy. I’ll go check on Charles.”

As you started to pass him, Logan reached out and gently caught your wrist. His thumb brushed over the faint red stain you’d missed. His grip tightened slightly, his voice dropping to a growl. “What the hell is this?”

“Paint,” you said quickly. “From class.”

“Bullshit.” His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding. “That’s not paint. That’s blood. Start talkin’, sweetheart.”

You sighed, pulling your wrist free. “It’s nothing, Logan. Just a small job—"

“A job?” He stepped closer, his voice rising. “You mean one of those jobs? Goddammit, Y/N, we talked about this.”

“No, you talked about it,” you snapped, meeting his glare with one of your own. “I don’t need your permission to take work. We need the money, and you know it.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair, his frustration boiling over. “There’s other ways to get money. Safer ways. Ways that don’t get you killed.”

“Like what?” you shot back. “Driving drunk assholes around all night? Scraping by, waiting for the next disaster? You think this life is safe? None of this is safe, Logan.”

“That doesn’t mean you throw yourself into danger for a damn paycheck,” he barked.

You flinched at his words, but you refused to back down. “It paid $3000, Logan. We both know that we need the money. Me working at the yoga studio and you drivin’ around isn’t enough.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, the lines on his face deeper than usual. He looked away for a moment, shaking his head. “Darlin’, $3000 ain’t worth your life. You know that.”

“My life wasn’t on the line,” you argued, your tone sharper than you intended. “It was simple. In and out. No complications.”

“No complications, huh?” He turned back to you, eyes dark with frustration. “Then what the hell’s that blood doin’ on your wrist?”

You let out a huff, crossing your arms. “It wasn’t mine.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Logan snapped. He stepped closer, his voice dropping into that gruff, almost pleading tone that always made your resolve waver. “You promised me you’d leave that shit behind. We’ve been through too much for you to keep riskin’ everything like this.”

“I didn’t promise you anything,” you shot back, holding his gaze. “I said I’d try. But look around, Logan. We’re barely holding it together. Charles needs his meds, Caliban’s sick, and your goddamn limo’s one flat tire away from falling apart. We can’t afford to play it safe anymore.”

Logan scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Damn it, Y/N. I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”

“And I’m trying to keep us alive!” Your voice cracked, the weight of everything pressing down on you. “Do you think I want to do this? To go back to the shit I worked so hard to leave behind? But what choice do we have? You can’t carry this alone, Logan, and I won’t let you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension hanging heavy in the air. Logan’s shoulders slumped slightly, the fight draining out of him. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at you with a mix of anger and worry. “You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered. “Every time you walk out that door, I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see you.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you stood firm. “And you think I don’t feel the same every time you leave? I know what you’re doing out there, Logan. You think driving a limo’s any safer when half the people you pick up are armed or drunk off their asses?”

“That’s different,” he growled.

“How?” you challenged, stepping closer. “Because it’s you? Because you’re the one taking the risks instead of me? You’re not the only one who gets to decide what’s worth it.”

Logan clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw working as he struggled to find the words. Finally, he let out a bitter laugh. “You’re a damn pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But you love me anyway.”

He sighed, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the anger simmering between you moments ago. “I do,” he admitted, his voice rough. “But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with this.”

You leaned into his touch, letting the moment stretch between you. “I know,” you murmured. “But I’m not okay with watching you tear yourself apart trying to keep everything together. We’re in this together, Logan. Like it or not.”

He huffed, his lips twitching in a reluctant smirk. “You’re stubborn as hell.”

“Takes one to know one,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from him.

Logan dropped his hand, his gaze softening just enough to remind you of the man underneath all the rough edges. “You’re cleanin’ up, right?”

“Already did,” you said. “Missed a spot, obviously, but I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Next time,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

“Not if you’re the death of me first,” you teased, though the words carried a bittersweet weight. You reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly. “Imma go check on Charles. Then we can argue about this some more later.”

Logan squeezed your hand back before letting it go. “I have a job. I should only be gone for a few days. Then we should have enough for the Sunseeker.”

“Great,” you replied with a small smile, though your stomach twisted at his words. Jobs always meant danger—especially for him. “Just don’t take too long. You know how Charles gets.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, already turning toward the car. “You keep an eye on him while I’m gone, alright?”

“I always do,” you said softly, watching as he walked toward the beat-up Chrysler. His shoulders were hunched, weighed down by the years and everything they’d taken from him.

Before he got in, Logan paused, glancing back at you. “Darlin’... stay outta trouble while I’m gone.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m serious,” he grumbled, pointing a finger at you. “No more jobs. No more blood.”

“Fine, fine,” you said, holding your hands up in surrender. “No more jobs. Promise.”

Logan didn’t look entirely convinced, but he let it go. He climbed into the Chrysler, the engine sputtering to life before roaring as he pulled away. You stood there for a moment, watching the dust settle before heading into the smelting plant.

---

You knew things were bad when in the morning Logan was already back. And even worse when after your morning shower, he rushed you and Charles into the Chrysler.

Charles kept going on about ‘the girl’ and ‘Laura’ while Logan tried to get out of the property, only to end up cornered from all ends with tens of military Jeeps, and men, surrounding you.

“Logan.” Charles said.

“Yeah, I’m thinking,” he responded.

“The child. Logan, we mustn’t forget Laura.”

“Please be quiet.”

“Logan.”

Logan’s eyes followed a man with a bionic hand, until he leaned against the open passenger window where you sat.

“Huh. Charles Xavier.”

“Where’s Caliban?” Logan questioned.

The man looked in the back, “America’s most wanted octogenarian.”

“I’m a nonagenarian, actually.” Charles replied.

You and Logan shared a quick look until he opened the car door, slamming one man, before closing the door. “Where’s Caliban?” Logan asked again.

The man walked around the car to in front of Logan, “why don’t you tell me where the girl is first? Or I could ask Cue Ball. He seems quite friendly.”

“I told you, she’s not here. Where’s Caliban, motherfucker?” Logan hissed.

“Well, I left him in the same ditch he was gonna leave me in.”

Logan grasped Caliban’s collar and raised a fist with his other hand, his claws sliding out with a growl as a few men pulled him back and slammed him against the car.

You finally opened the car door, slamming it into the nearest man, who stumbled back before hitting the ground. Without missing a beat, you kicked out the legs of another, his grunt of surprise cut short as he hit the dirt. You darted forward, sliding across the hood of the Chrysler in a fluid motion, your boot connecting with the head of a man Logan had just tossed aside.

“Damn it, Y/N!” Logan barked, his claws dripping red as he glanced over his shoulder at you. “I told you to stay in the car!”

“Yeah, well,” you shot back, landing lightly on your feet, “I don’t take orders well, kotik. Thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

Before Logan could reply, another soldier lunged at him. He ducked, the man’s momentum sending him straight into your waiting fist. You followed with a knee to his gut, sending him sprawling. Logan spared you a glance, his frustration mixed with a reluctant flicker of admiration.

The fight raged on, chaotic and brutal, until you caught sight of a man aiming a rifle in Logan’s direction. Reacting instinctively, you shoved Logan out of the way just as the soldier swung his weapon toward you. Before you could react, a sharp, heavy blow struck the side of your head, and you crumpled to the ground with a grunt.

“Y/N!” Logan snarled, turning toward you, only to be met with the butt of a rifle to his face. The impact sent him staggering, his claws retracting as he fell to his knees. Another blow came, this time to his temple, dropping him fully to the ground beside you, before being turned onto his back.

The world spun, the sound of boots crunching against gravel and harsh voices blending into a dull roar. Through the haze, you heard a voice above you—mocking, taunting.

“Jesus, Wolverine,” Donald Pierce drawled as he stood over Logan, his bionic hand flexing with a metallic whine. “Seeing you like this just breaks my damn heart.”

Logan groaned, “as soon as I rip it out of your chest, fuck-stick.”

Pierce smirked, unfazed. “Cute.” Then, with a swift kick, he sent Logan’s face back into the dirt. He turned to the men surrounding the Chrysler, jerking his head toward the smelting plant. “Go get her.”

Her? You blinked through the pain, trying to focus. Laura. Charles had been talking about her—the girl. You struggled to move, but the sharp ache in your head made it feel impossible. Beside you, Logan let out a low growl, his hand twitching toward the claws that refused to come out fast enough.

“Stay down, sweetheart,” Logan muttered, his voice rough but laced with concern. “Don’t do somethin’ stupid.”

You shot him a glare, your lip curling despite the pounding in your skull. “Too late for that.”

---

Before one of the men could put the cuffs on Laura, Logan came behind and stabbed his claws through the man’s chest, before taking down the other two on Laura’s sides with two quick swipes.

Laura sat up and pulled the grappling arrow out of her chest, cutting the connecting string off before getting grabbed by two other men pulling her away.

Logan threw the man over his shoulder, the soldier hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Blood dripped from the bullet wound in his arm, but Logan didn’t slow down. His eyes darted toward Laura as she let out a feral scream, her small form writhing as two soldiers attempted to haul her away.

One man dropped her immediately, clutching his stomach where Logan’s claws had torn through. Laura took the opening, stabbing her foot claw into the other soldier’s shin. His scream echoed as she yanked the claw free, following up with a vicious kick to his jaw that sent him sprawling.

“Darlin’, get in the car!” Logan barked at you as he tore another soldier off his feet. The crunch of bones beneath his claws was drowned out by gunfire and shouts.

“Not a chance!” you shouted back, ducking behind a nearby Jeep to avoid a spray of bullets. Your head still pounded from earlier, but adrenaline pushed the pain aside. You grabbed a tire iron from the Jeep, spun out from cover, and swung it into the ribs of the nearest soldier. He crumpled with a groan, and you turned just in time to dodge another attacker’s baton.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed, sweetheart!” Logan growled, swiping at a soldier who had tried to sneak up on him.

You rolled your eyes, blocking the next blow with the tire iron. “Like you’re doing any better, kotik!”

Laura scrambled toward you, her face streaked with blood and dirt. “Get her in the car!” Logan yelled as he blocked another punch, his claws slicing upward in a clean, brutal motion.

“C’mere, kid,” you muttered, grabbing Laura’s arm and pulling her behind you. “We’ve got to—”

A metallic hand grabbed your shoulder, yanking you back with inhuman strength. You twisted, but Donald was already leering down at you. “Aren’t you a fiery one?” he sneered, tightening his grip. “Let’s see how well you fight without—”

“Wrong move, asshole,” you spat, slamming the tire iron into the side of his head. He staggered, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Logan took a glance at the Chrysler, where more soldiers surrounded the car and back at you, who used your widow bites and knocked two men down.

Yeah, you could handle yourself. For now.

He took off running to the car to protect Charles as you grabbed a gun from one of the men’s halter and shot him in the head with it.

Logan sprinted toward the Chrysler, dodging a flurry of bullets that ricocheted off the gravel and bounced harmlessly off the car's frame. A soldier rounded the hood, his rifle aimed squarely at Logan’s chest. Logan didn’t even slow down—his claws shot out with a slick metallic hiss, and in one fluid motion, he slashed upward, sending the man sprawling with a guttural scream.

Logan climbed into the driver’s seat as Charles spoke, “as I told you, Logan, she’s a mutant like you.”

He turned the key in the ignition, “hold on!”

“Very much like you.” Charles repeated quietly.

Logan slammed the Chrysler into gear, the wheels kicking up sand and gravel as he veered toward you and Laura. His jaw tightened when he saw Laura drive her claw through a man’s throat, her small frame twisting with lethal precision as she turned to tackle another soldier behind her.

You, bloodied but standing, slammed the butt of a stolen rifle into the face of a soldier charging at Laura, dropping him before he could grab her. You turned, wiping the back of your hand across your cheek, and saw the Chrysler barreling toward you.

“Finally,” you muttered, before ducking to avoid a wild swing from a soldier. Twisting, you landed a roundhouse kick to his chest, sending him sprawling.

“Y/N! Get the kid!” Logan barked through the open driver’s window.

“I’m working on it, Logan!” you shot back, grabbing Laura’s arm and pulling her closer. “Stay with me, kid,” you told her firmly, though you knew she didn’t need the reminder.

Logan slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt just a few feet from you and Laura. “Get in!”

Before you could respond, another soldier lunged toward you, his taser crackling. Laura reacted first, leaping onto the man with a feral snarl. Her claws tore through his chest, and he crumpled.

“Nice work, but we’re out of time,” you told Laura, dragging her toward the car.

Another burst of gunfire rang out, and you ducked, pulling Laura down with you. Logan growled, “get in the damn car, now!”

You didn’t hesitate this time, shoving Laura into the backseat and diving in after her. Logan punched the gas, and the Chrysler roared forward, kicking up another wave of dust that momentarily blinded the soldiers behind you.

“You need to go to the front, Lo.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching sight of the Jeeps closing in from behind. Gravel sprayed beneath the tires as he swerved to avoid a shallow ditch. “They’re blockin’ the front!” he snapped. “We’ll have to take the back road—”

His voice trailed off as you reached into the glove compartment, yanking it open. A shiny, compact pistol clattered into your hand, and you checked the chamber with practiced ease.

Logan shot you a sharp look, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “What the hell is that doin’ in there?”

“I have one everywhere,” you said casually, rolling down the passenger window.

“You what?” Logan barked, his tone somewhere between disbelief and frustration.

You gave him a quick glance, your lips twitching. “Relax, kotik. Old habits.”

“Old habits my ass,” he grumbled, but his hands tightened on the wheel as he made a sharp turn, heading back toward the front of the property.

At least six jeeps and four motorcycles closed in ahead of you, their headlights cutting through the swirling dust. Behind you, Charles muttered incoherently while Laura sat silently, her wide, intense eyes fixed on the chaos outside.

Logan growled, “Darlin’, you better be damn sure you know what you’re doin’ with that.”

“Don’t worry,” you replied, leaning halfway out the window to aim at one of the motorcycles. “I’m an excellent shot.”

The first bullet hit the lead bike’s front tire, sending the rider sprawling into the dirt. You barely had time to fire again before another bike swerved to avoid the crash, losing control and smashing into the side of a Jeep.

“Two down,” you muttered, reloading swiftly.

“Would you stay in the damn car?!” Logan growled, yanking the wheel hard to the left as another Jeep cut in front of you.

“I am in the car!” you shouted back, firing at a Jeep’s windshield. The bullet cracked the glass but didn’t stop the vehicle. “Mostly!”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“Not if I kill them first!”

“Damn it, Y/N!”

Ahead, the tracks stretched out into the distance, but the flashing lights of an oncoming train appeared on the horizon.

“Logan!” you shouted, firing off another shot at a motorcycle creeping up on your side. The rider veered off course, crashing into a ditch.

“I see it!” Logan barked, slamming his foot on the gas. The Chrysler roared as it hurtled toward the crossing, the Jeeps closing in behind you.

The train’s horn blared, a deafening warning that seemed to echo in your chest.

“We’re not gonna make it!” you yelled.

“Hold on!” Logan growled, his teeth bared as he pushed the Chrysler to its limits.

The train bore down on the tracks, the massive steel engine a blur of motion.

Logan swerved to the left, narrowly avoiding another Jeep, and then back to the right. Gravel and dirt kicked up in a storm as the Chrysler rocketed over the tracks just seconds before the train thundered past.

The pursuing vehicles skidded to a halt, trapped on the other side.

Logan didn’t slow down, his focus locked on the road ahead.

You slumped back into your seat, your breath coming fast. “Nice driving, kotik.”

“Don’t start,” Logan muttered, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.

In the backseat, Charles chuckled softly. “See, Logan? She’s a natural.”

Logan shot you a quick glare. “You’re both gonna be the death of me.”

You smirked, tucking the pistol into the waistband of your jeans. “Not today, honey. Not today.”

---

“My name is Gabriela Lopez. I am a nurse. And for 10 years, I worked for Transigen Research in Mexico City. Transigen is owned by an American company. What I am about to show you is illegal… in the U.S. and Canada. They told us we were part of a pharmaceutical study. But, of course, that was a lie. These children were born in Transigen. They were born here… and have never left. They have never seen the sun or the ocean… rain or snow… or any of God’s creatures. They have no birth certificates… no names… besides the ones we have given them. They were raised in the bellies of Mexican girls. Girls no one can find anymore. Their fathers are semillas geneticas… special seeds in bottles.”

“Birthday? No birth.”

“Maria. We do not dress them up for Halloween. We do not call them ‘baby’ or kiss boo-boos. Don’t think of them as children. Think of them as things… with patents and copyrights. Comprende?”

“Si, senor.”

“They thought we were too poor and stupid to understand. We’re poor, yes… but we are not stupid. This is business. They are making soldiers. Killers. These are babies of mutantes…”

The video abruptly cut off as the phone died. Logan tore off his glasses and looked out of the car at Laura, who was still riding the mechanical horse at the front of the gas station.

“North Dakota,” Charles stated. Logan hummed in response as Charles continued, “you took that woman’s money. You said you would take the child there.”

You glanced out the window, following Logan’s gaze as Laura grew angry as the machine stopped.

“What is she?” Logan asked.

“She’s your daughter, Logan. Alkali has your genetic code.” Charles answered.

“Not just mine,” Logan said, as he went to the car door and opened it.

“Logan…”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t wanna hear about it anymore.”

“Logan…”

“Just stop.”

“I have to pee.”

Logan huffed before grabbing the wheelchair out of the trunk and helping Charles into it. You got out with your wallet, unlocking the fuel cap. “I’ll get gas, you handle him and Laura,” you spoke, as Logan responded with a nod and some grumbling.

---

Logan drove to Oklahoma City, where the bright, colorful lights of the city shone brightly. Laura woke up and moved to the window, peering at them.

“Is this where we’re hiding out?” Charles asked.

“We’re not hiding out.” Logan responded, “we’re gonna get a couple of hours’ sleep… clean up, get some new clothes, get a new ride and get outta here.”

He pulled the Chrysler in front of Harrah’s Hotel and Casino. Logan walked around the limo to the valet, “hey. Hey, keep it out front, all right?”

Logan quickly got Charles settled into his wheelchair as you followed behind Laura. The four of you walked in, you and Logan quickly booking a room with the money you earned from your latest job, before heading for the elevator.

On the way to the elevator, Laura stopped in front of a display window, looking the mannequin’s, but more particularly the clothes on the smaller one.

Logan pushed Charles to the elevator while you stopped behind Laura. You pushed Laura in the direction of the two men, calling out to Logan, “I’ll get some clothes. You guys head up.”

Laura looked up at you, her stolen sunglasses still over her eyes. “I’ll buy you the unicorn shirt. Go with them.” You said in Spanish.

For a moment, Laura didn’t budge, her expression unreadable behind the shades. Then, with a small huff that might have been reluctant agreement—or just annoyance—she turned and trailed after Logan. You waited until they entered the elevator before heading back to the display.

Inside the shop, you picked up the unicorn shirt Laura had been staring at, along with a few other items. You knew she wouldn’t say it, but something about her quiet intensity made you want to do these small things for her. Maybe it was because you saw pieces of Logan in her—the stubbornness, the silence, the weight of something unspoken.

Once the purchases were made, you headed back to the room.

---

When you walked in, Logan was already pulling off his shirt, tossing it onto the armchair with a tired grunt. Charles was settled on the bed, flipping through channels on the TV while Laura sat cross-legged on the bed, the sunglasses still on her face.

“Got you something,” you said, holding up the bag.

Laura tilted her head but didn’t move. You placed the bag on the bed and took out the unicorn shirt, unfolding it to show her. “See? Told you.”

She reached out slowly, taking it from your hands, her fingers brushing the fabric like she wasn’t sure what to do with it. After a moment, she clutched it to her chest, still silent.

“Not even a thank you, huh?” Logan muttered from across the room, pulling on a clean shirt.

“Logan,” you said warningly, shooting him a look.

“What?” he grumbled, but he didn’t push it further.

Laura hopped off the bed, clutching the shirt as she headed for the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her.

“She likes it,” Charles said with a faint smile, still watching the TV.

“She’d like it more if it had claws,” Logan muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots.

You crossed the room, standing in front of him. “Not everything has to be sharp and deadly, kotik,” you teased, brushing your hand over his shoulder.

Logan glanced up at you, his features softening just slightly. “You spoil her already.”

“She deserves it,” you said simply. “And don’t start. You’re the softie between us.”

Logan snorted. “Yeah, sure. Real soft.”

You leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “You are, whether you admit it or not.”

“Mm,” Logan grunted, but his hand found your waist, tugging you closer. “You done playin’ dress-up, sweetheart?”

“For now,” you replied, stepping back before he could pull you into his lap. “You should sleep. You’re running on fumes.”

“I’m fine.”

“Logan.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah.”

Charles turned off the TV, speaking up from his spot on the bed. “You two should rest. I’ll keep an eye on Laura.”

“You sure, Chuck?” Logan asked, his voice softer.

“I’m sure.”

You placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder, nodding toward the bed in the other room. “Come on.”

Logan grumbled but followed your lead, climbing onto the mattress beside you. You stretched out next to him, his arm slipping around your waist out of habit. He exhaled heavily, the weight of the past few days evident in every line of his body.

“Get some sleep, honey,” you murmured, your fingers tracing absent patterns along his arm.

His grip tightened slightly, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, quietly, he said, “You too, darlin’.”

---

You walked around the room, looking for bag of clothes you had bought the night before while Charles and Laura watched some old Western in the other room.

You found the bag and pulled out a plain black tank top before tilting your head when you heard Logan’s coughing from the bathroom.

Muttering to yourself in Russian you quickly pulled it over your head. Before you were able to pull it down all the way Logan finally came out of the bathroom, dressed in the new outfit you bought him last night.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the bruises scattered across your back as you pulled your tank top into place. The sharpness in his gaze softened into something like worry, though his tone stayed gruff.

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.”

You glanced over your shoulder, puzzled at first, then followed his line of sight. The darkening marks along your ribs and lower back told the story. “Didn’t feel it,” you replied, tugging the tank top all the way down before grabbing your leather jacket off the bed. “Didn’t notice until now.”

“Bullshit,” Logan said, stepping closer. “You should’ve said something. What if it’s worse than bruises?”

You shrugged, slipping the jacket on. “If it was worse, I’d know by now. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” he echoed with a scoff, his voice rising. “You took hits out there, Y/N. You can’t just shake that off like you used to. You’re not healing—”

“Maybe I’d heal better if you weren’t drinking yourself half-dead every damn day.” You zipped up the jacket and turned to face him, your tone sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “This ain’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” You folded your arms, meeting his glare head-on. “Your healing factor’s slowing down, Logan. You think I don’t notice how long it takes for those cuts to close? Or how you cough blood into the sink every morning?”

“That’s different,” he argued, his voice dropping to a growl.

“It’s not. You’re killing yourself, one bottle at a time, and you won’t even talk to me about it.”

His eyes narrowed, his temper simmering just below the surface. “I don’t need you to fix me, sweetheart.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you shot back. “I’m trying to keep you alive, but you’re too damn stubborn to let me.”

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. His hands clenched at his sides as though he was fighting the urge to slam them into something—or pull you close and end the fight with a kiss. Instead, he opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off.

“Slaboumnyy,” you said sharply, your voice low but firm as you used the Russian nickname reserved for moments like this.

The word hung in the air, loaded with meaning. Logan’s expression shifted; the fight drained out of him, replaced by something like guilt.

You grabbed your hotel key and small purse off the nightstand, your movements brisk but controlled. “I’m going to get breakfast for Charles and Laura. You can fend for yourself.”

Before he could respond, you turned on your heel and walked out the door, letting it close behind you with a heavy thud.

---

The wait for breakfast was long, a bunch of drunk middle-aged men and women in front of you ordering copious amounts of greasy, unhealthy food.

When you finally got the food an hour later, you made your way back to the elevator, noticing a few men in black walking around the casino machines.

“Shit,” you muttered, as the elevator doors opened. You pressed the touch screen button for the 12th floor and hit the door close button, closing the doors in front of a group of tourists.

You got to the room and grabbed Laura from the bed, setting her down on the floor and putting Charles in his wheelchair. “Grab everything. We need to leave—”

A gunshot cut you off, just missing Charles’ head and hitting the window in front of him. One of the men aimed at Laura, and before he shot the trigger you threw yourself on top of her, the both of you falling to the ground.

As soon as the thud of your bodies reverberated through the room, a high pitch noise sounded out in your head, freezing the men in the room. Laura tried to move against the invisible barrier, crawling towards the syringes on the floor.

You were only able to pause time in the room. Every sound, every ripple in the air froze in place as the chaos stilled to an unnatural silence. The strain was immediate—like claws digging into your skull. You bit down on a scream, the raw pressure pressing against your mind making it hard to breathe.

Laura, mid-crawl toward the syringes, was frozen along with the attackers, her small form locked in place. Even Charles was still, though the effects of his seizure were evident in the strained lines of his face. Time had stopped, but you weren’t immune to its echoes. The vibrations of the seizure pulsed against your powers, like trying to hold back an ocean with a net.

Your body trembled as you pushed yourself to your feet. The men were frozen, guns raised, expressions twisted in mid-action. You moved through them, grabbing a discarded weapon from one man’s frozen grip. A quick check confirmed it was loaded. Good.

One by one, you moved swiftly and efficiently, just like your old training taught you. Your breathing was shallow, but your movements were precise—two shots to the head, then the next target. You didn’t have the time or energy to be anything but ruthless.

When the last man fell, you dropped the weapon with a shaky exhale. Your gaze landed on the syringes scattered across the floor near Charles. Each step toward them was a battle as your legs threatened to give out beneath you. The strain of holding the room in stasis was eating away at you, but you couldn’t let go—not yet.

Kneeling, you grabbed the nearest syringe and, with trembling hands, plunged it into Charles’ arm. The effect was immediate. The tension in the air shattered as Charles stilled, the seizure abating. Time snapped back into place like a rubber band, sending a ripple through your entire body.

Laura gasped audibly as she came back to awareness, blinking rapidly as she scrambled to her feet. Charles groaned, slumping in his wheelchair, his breathing labored but improving.

Your vision swam, and you swayed dangerously, your knees buckling. Before you could hit the floor, strong hands caught you, pulling you back against a solid chest.

“Darlin’,” Logan’s gruff voice was close, his tone sharp with concern. He turned you around, his hands framing your face as his gaze searched yours. “What the hell did you just do?”

“Stopped them,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper. “Stopped it.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he looked around the room, taking in the bodies of the attackers. He pulled you closer, his arms steady and grounding as he spoke low. “You’re shaking. You okay?”

You leaned into him, the warmth of his presence cutting through the fog of exhaustion. “I’m fine. Just… takes a lot out of me.”

Logan didn’t look convinced. His brow furrowed as he adjusted his grip, keeping you upright. “You shouldn’t push yourself like that.”

“They were going to kill us, kotik.” Your voice was firm, though your body betrayed your weakness as you sagged slightly against him. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

Logan muttered a curse under his breath, his hand pressing lightly against your back, mindful of the bruises he’d noticed earlier. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Pot, meet kettle,” you shot back weakly, earning a faint smirk from him despite the tension.

“Yeah, yeah.” His smirk faded as his gaze flicked toward Laura and Charles, who were watching silently. “You two okay?”

Laura nodded, clutching her unicorn shirt like a shield. Charles gave a faint smile, though his face was pale.

You shook your head. “We’re not out of the woods yet. More will come.”

Logan’s expression darkened. “Let ‘em. I’ll handle it.”

“We need to leave,” you insisted, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze. “Now.”

Logan nodded, his grip on you tightening briefly before he helped you to stand on your own. “Let’s get out of here.”

Laura moved to your side, her small hand brushing against yours. For once, her silence felt loud, but you gave her a reassuring nod. “I’m okay,” you told her softly, though the exhaustion in your voice betrayed the truth.

Logan grabbed Charles’ wheelchair, his protective instincts on high alert. “Let’s move.”

The four of you made your way to the hallway, Logan leading the way, his senses sharp as he checked for threats. As you walked, his hand found yours briefly, giving it a firm squeeze. You squeezed back, a silent acknowledgment that, for now, you were both still standing—and still fighting.

---

“Emergency personnel are still on scene at Harrah’s Casino Hotel in Oklahoma City… where at least 400 guests were stricken with temporary paralysis yesterday. Many are noting a similarity to the Westchester incident over a year ago… that left over 600 injured and took the lives of seven mutants, including several of the X-Men.”

Charles was drifting in and out of sleep as Laura stared out the window with her sunglasses on, locking and unlocking the door.

“Knock it off,” Logan said. Laura didn’t stop. “I said, knock it off!”

“She’s a child, Logan. And, point of fact, she’s your—”

Logan cut off Charles, “how long has it been since you took your meds?” Charles exhaled, turning his head. “Tell me, how long has it been?”

“I don’t know! Two days.”

“You saw what happened yesterday. If that shit had gone on any longer, everyone in that casino—”

This time Charles cut off Logan. “I did what I had to do to save Laura. And Y/N.”

“What?” You said quietly, rubbing your temples.

“You didn’t do anything. You just freaked out and had a fucking seizure!” Logan exclaimed.

“I guess you prefer me pharmaceutically castrated, rambling on like a lunatic. So much easier for you.”

“Easier? Jesus!” Logan scoffed, “there is nothing easy about you, Charles, nothing!”

“Yes, yes, please be like the rest of the world… blaming someone else for your boring shit.”

“I know, Pop, I’m such a giant disappointment.”

“Logan—” you tried to comment, before Charles continued.

“You honestly derive no sense of purpose from what we’re doing?”

Logan briefly looked in the back of the truck at Charles, “okay, what are we doing? Hmm?”

“There is a young mutant sitting in our car.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“And where we’re taking her, there are others. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Uh, yeah, means nothing to me. Especially since Nurse Gabriella made all that Eden shit up with fucking comic books.”

“What are you talking about?” Charles asked.

Logan gently moved your arm off the console, opening it and grabbing a bottle of pills.

“Give those to him.” He said, handing you the bottle.

Not feeling up to a fight you complied, shaking out two pills and handing them to Charles behind you with a sympathetic smile. Charles popped them in his mouth and washed it down with some of his bottled water.

“I wanna see it.” Logan commanded, looking back at Charles as he exaggeratedly stuck his tongue out. You put the pill bottle back into the console.

The truck fell into silence, until a semi-truck moved too close to your own truck.

“Motherfucking auto-trucks.” Logan said angrily.

“Language, Logan.” Charles chided. “And you’re screaming at a machine.”

Laura looked out her window to see a pick-up truck towing a horse trailer. “Oh, what? She can gut a man with her feet, she can’t hear a few naughty words, huh?” Logan replied.

“She can learn to be better.”

“You mean, better than me?” Logan questioned.

“Actually, yes.” Charles responded. “And, by the way, Laura’s foot claws are the obvious result of her gender, you know.”

“Is that a fact?”

“In a pride of lions, the female is both hunter and caregiver.” Charles continued.

“Good to know.” Logan said.

“She uses her front claws for hunting and the back claws defensively.”

“Oh, yeah?” Logan said, speaking sarcastically again.

“Thus, ensuring their survival.” Charles finished.

Almost right after Charles finished speaking, an auto-truck honked and began to move over to the lane that your truck was in without looking. Logan swerved quickly, driving into oncoming traffic. Laura held onto Charles to keep him steady while you grabbed the handle on the roof. Logan turned the truck when he was clear, coming to a stop.

As the four of you got your breaths back, the truck pulling a horse trailer stopped across the road. Horses ran out of the trailer and a young boy and his parents got out, rushing to try and get the horses off the road.

“We should help them,” Charles suggested.

“No, we have to keep going. Someone will come along.” Logan said.

“Someone has come along.”

Logan looked over to you as you waved your hand and sighed, giving him an affirmative. Logan drove the truck across the road and parked the truck next to the other one. Charles rolled down the window and closed his eyes, while you and Logan got out of the car. The horses all walked back to the trailer and stopped. Logan looked back at Charles who opened his eyes.

Laura had quietly exited the truck, coming to stand by you as Logan spoke, “hey, uh, you need a hand?”

---

The group got the truck and connected trailer out of the ditch as the husband patted the front of the truck. “Ah. Good, got it. Come on, let’s get home.”

“Laura!” Logan called out. You stood by Laura as she pet one of the horses in the trailer.

“Thank you so much for your help. I’m Kathryn.” She put out her hand.

“James.” Logan said as he shook her hand.

“This is my son, Nate.”

“Hi.” Nate raised a hand.

“Hey.” Logan responded.

Kathryn looked back at Laura, “that your wife and daughter?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s our daughter Laura, and my wife Y/N. And my dad, Chuck.” Logan pointed at Charles in the truck who waved back. “Come on, Laura, let’s go.”

“Well, can we show our appreciation and treat the three of you to a decent meal? We don’t live far from here.” Kathryn asked kindly.

“Uh, no, thanks.”

“That would be lovely!” Charles answered.

---

“You wanna say grace? Say grace, baby?” Kathryn told Nate.

“Uh, thank you, God, for this food… and for our new friends the Howletts.” Nate began.

“Mmm. They came to our aid.” Kathryn cut in.

“Amen.” The family said.

Will, Kathryn’s husband and Nate’s father, handed a bowl to Charles. “Here we go. Here you go, Charles.”

“Thank you, sir.” He responded.

Laura started to eat, using her fingers to eat the mashed potatoes. Logan reached over and tapped her shoulder before showing her the fork next to her plate as she took it from his hands.

Charles then handed a bowl of corn to Laura, who used the large spoon to put two big spoonful’s on her plate as Logan took the bowl from her, waiting for her to put the spoon back in.

Kathryn, who was watching the interaction, looked at Logan, “oh, there’s plenty more if she wants.”

“She’s fine. Thank you.” Logan replied.

“This is delicious.” Charles said, as Laura shoveled corn into her mouth, Nate watching her with hesitant and curious eyes.

“Oh, thank you.” Kathryn responded.

“It’s so good.” Charles added.

“Where are you all headed?” Will asked.

“Uh… Oregon.” Logan answered as Charles answered with “South Dakota” at the same time.

“Well, Oregon and then South Dakota.” Charles explained.

“Vacation?” Kathryn questioned.

“Uh… yes. Uh, long overdue. We’re city folk. Always wanted to take a road trip, see the country.” Charles paused, gesturing to the family, “and meet the people in it.”

Logan raised a brow as Kathryn replied, “that sounds lovely. Been trying to get Will here to take a vacation for years now.”

“Oh. If we go traipsing all over the country, who’s gonna take care of this place?” Will responded.

“Exactly. I say, let it go.”

“And live off what?”

“The Lord will provide.”

“I’m still waiting for the Lord to provide me with a new thresher.” Will said, as Nate laughed.

“All the same, I’d love to travel someday.” Kathryn finished.

Charles pointed at her, “and I bet you will.”

Nate leaned back in his chair, “I could drop out of school.”

Kathryn looked at her son, “okay, let’s not go that far.”

“I mean, I’ll do it.”

“No. No.”

“Why not?”

“You wanna travel, I wanna travel.”

“Son. Son.”

“That sounds good to you, right?” Will cut in softly.

“This is the perfect plan.” Nate replied.

“Why would you want to do that, Nate?” Charles asked.

Logan looked over at Charles and gestured with his fork, “careful, you’re speaking to a man who ran a school for a lot of years. Right, Charles?”

Charles hummed and nodded, “yes, it was a… it was a special needs school. Um…”

A small smile was on Logan’s face, “uh-huh. That’s a good description.”

Charles pointed at Logan briefly, “these two were there, too.”

Laura looked over at Logan, a small smile on her own face. “Oh, yeah, no. Um… I got kicked out a few times.”

Nate laughed as Charles continued, “I wish I could say you were a good pupil, but the words choke me.” They all laughed, Laura a silent laugh as she looked over at Logan. “Not that you were much better,” Charles added, looking at you.

You let out a small chuckle, “yeah, I was probably worse than Logan. Wasn’t the greatest student.”

The chatter continued until everyone was done. Logan stood up, “ma’am, I can’t thank you enough for this. Uh, it was great. But, we have a long drive ahead of us, so—”

“But you need to rest, don’t you?”

“Yeah, we’ll find a motel somewhere.”

“The nearest one is two hours from here and it’s not even that nice.” Will said.

“We have a perfectly fine room upstairs for your father and your daughter and you and your wife can sleep in the living room on the convertible.”

“Kathryn, it’s very, very nice of you, but we really should go.”

“We can leave early in the morning.” Charles cut in. “Break of dawn, as it were.”

Logan looked over at you as you sighed and shrugged. At least the four of you wouldn’t have to sleep in the truck.

“Okay, why don’t we wash up, Pop?” Logan pushed Charles away to the bathroom.

“Um, do you two want some dessert?” Kathryn asked.

Laura looked up at you, almost as if asking for permission. “Go ahead,” you said in Spanish. Kathryn gave the two of you a plate as the water from the sink sputtered.

“Oh, shit!”

Logan came out from the bathroom where he and Charles just were “What’s going on?”

“Nate!” Will called out. “Go fill up the tub before we lose pressure. Honey, check the sink.”

“They shut it off again.” Kathryn said, as Logan watched Nate go into the bathroom.

“They are just not going to let this thing go.” Will commented.

“Well, you might as well handle it now.”

“It can wait till the morning. We just had rain last night.”

“We got four houseguests and a sink full of dishes.”

“All right, all right.” Will whispered to his wife, before looking over at Logan. “The pump stations that supplies us is a mile and a half from here. Sometimes it gets itself shut off.”

“By assholes.” Nate said, in the doorway of the bathroom.

“Hey!” Will reprimanded.

Laura lifted the pie dish lid as Logan came over to her, “no.”

“My son is happy to go with you.” Charles added.

Logan looked over at Charles as Will spoke, “no, no, no, that’s fine. The men that do this, sometimes they can be…”

“I can go.” Nate chimed in.

“No, you got homework.” Kathryn said.

“All right, I’ll go. Just, uh, let me get my dad settled.” Logan walked over to Charles in his wheelchair and picked him up, before making his way up the stairs to the spare bedroom.

You lead Laura by the shoulders up the stairs, following Logan and Charles. Laura turned her head to Nate’s room, his door cracked open. “Be good, muñeca.” You said in Spanish, as Laura looked up at you for a few moments, holding your gaze before entering his room.

When you walked into the room, Logan had already tucked Charles into bed. “Want TV? There’s TV here.” Logan questioned.

“I’m fine.” Charles answered.

“Okay. Get some rest.” Logan went to exit when Charles spoke. You watched, and listened, from the door.

“You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. A home, people who love each other. Safe place. You should take a moment and feel it.”

“Yeah. It’s great.” Logan walked closer to the door.

“Logan. Logan!” Logan turned around to face Charles, “you still have time.”

Logan sighed, “Charles, the world is not the same as it was. We’re taking a risk hanging around here, you know that. And where we’re going, Eden… it doesn’t exist. Her nurse got it from a comic book. You understand? It’s not real.”

“It is for Laura. It is for Laura.” Charles said.

“Get some rest.” Logan responded, walking over to you as he closed the door.

You crossed your arms, standing firm in the hallway. “I know you don’t believe in Eden, but—”

Logan cut you off, his voice low but edged with frustration. “Do you believe in it, darlin’? Really?”

You paused, meeting his tired eyes. He wanted you to say no, to back him up, to give him some sort of permission to stop running. But you couldn’t do that. Not when Laura’s life was at stake. “I don’t,” you admitted softly. “But if there’s even a chance that it exists, don’t we owe it to Laura to try?”

Logan exhaled sharply, looking away as he rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ve been chasin’ ghosts, sweetheart. That nurse believed in fairy tales, and now we’re followin’ a damn map from a comic book. It’s—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “It’s not real. You know it’s not.”

You stepped closer, your voice quieter but no less firm. “That video we saw... on her nurse’s phone. It reminded me of the Red Room.” You hesitated, your hands curling into fists as old memories clawed their way to the surface. “If Eden exists, it’s not just about being free from what they did to her. It’s about a place where she can finally feel safe. Like she belongs. It’s exactly the kind of place I would've dreamed of as a kid.”

Logan turned to you, his expression softening despite the frustration. “Darlin’—”

You reached out, placing a hand on his chest. “I know you don’t think it’s out there, kotik. But we’ve come this far. She’s a kid, Logan. She’s just a kid.” Your voice broke slightly. “Don’t we owe it to her to believe? Just for a little while?”

He let out another heavy sigh, his hand coming up to cover yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, the roughness of his skin grounding you. “I get it,” he muttered after a moment. “I do. But it doesn’t mean I’m not scared of what happens when we don’t find it. What do I tell her then?”

“You won’t have to,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Because we’ll find it. And if we don’t, we’ll figure something out. Together.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his eyes lingering on you. He looked torn between wanting to argue and wanting to believe you. After a moment, he just nodded. “You’re too damn stubborn for your own good, you know that?”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “That’s why we work so well together.”

He huffed a soft laugh, pulling you into his arms. The embrace was brief, but it was enough to feel the weight he was carrying. When he pulled back, his hands lingered on your waist. “All right,” he said quietly. “But we leave at first light. No more detours.”

You nodded, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “First light. Promise.”

Logan watched you for a moment longer before stepping away, muttering, “You better get some rest. It’s gonna be a long drive tomorrow.”

You smiled softly as he walked back down the hallway, his footsteps heavy but purposeful. Laura peeked out from Nate’s room, watching him go before turning to you. Her wide eyes held a mixture of curiosity and something softer—trust.

“Come on, muñeca,” you said, holding out your hand. “Let’s get you settled.”

She took your hand without hesitation, and as the two of you made your way back to the room, you couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of hope.

---

Kathryn set up the pull-out bed in the living room, letting you lay down while Logan was out helping Will with the water.

You knew you wouldn’t sleep, it was far too engrained in you to not sleep in a strange place, where anything, anyone, could be lurking around.

After some time, it couldn’t have been more than an hour, you heard familiar footsteps. But the closer they got to you, you started to realize that they were just a tad bit too heavy to be Logan’s.

You turned onto your back quickly, the blanket falling to your waist as you caught his wrist, the sharpened tip of his claws nearly grazing your chest. Your heart pounded as your mind registered what you were seeing—Logan. But not Logan. His features were wrong. Sharper. Colder. The dead look in his eyes made your stomach churn.

You moved to kick him, trying to dislodge his weight, but his other hand slammed into your stomach. Pain shot through you as his claws tore into your flesh. A strangled gasp escaped your lips as he twisted his wrist, retracting the blades before you could even react, and you hit the floor hard.

Blood spilled from your wound, warm and sticky against your trembling hands. Your vision blurred as you tried to sit up, but a cold wave of nausea overtook you.

Laura’s scream cut through the haze, sharp and furious, echoing from upstairs. The sound jolted you back to focus.

No. Not her. Not Charles.

Your fingers twitched, and you willed yourself to focus past the pain. The air around you shimmered faintly as you reached deep within yourself, finding the thread of time. Your powers resisted—your body already weakening—but you pushed through, rewinding the moment.

Agony gave way to an excruciating pressure, like a rubber band snapping back into place, as the wound began to heal itself. The blood receded, the pain dulled, and your breathing steadied. You gasped for air, drenched in sweat, your body trembling from the effort.

Your eyes darted to the stairs, a sense of urgency overpowering the exhaustion. Using the couch for leverage, you pulled yourself to your feet. You staggered slightly, clutching the armrest to steady yourself.

"Laura!" you called, your voice hoarse.

Another scream tore through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws clashing. You pushed yourself forward, each step heavy and unsteady, as you made your way toward the chaos.

You heard a gunshot and a scream from upstairs. You limped to the door, where the lookalike—clone—carried Laura, who let out another scream.

Grabbing the pistol from behind your back, you shot at the clone. The bullet struck his shoulder, forcing him to drop Laura. She landed hard on the ground, her hands and legs bound with mutant inhibitors. A low growl escaped the clone's throat as his attention snapped to you.

"That's right," you muttered, steadying your aim despite the pain radiating through your body. "Come and get me, asshole."

He charged toward you with feral intensity, his claws slicing through the air. You fired another shot, this time grazing his side. It slowed him down, but only for a second. Before you could fire again, he was on you, knocking the pistol from your hand.

You stumbled back, barely dodging the first swipe of his claws. The second swing caught your arm, and you cried out as the sharp pain ripped through your shoulder. Blood seeped through your shirt, but you gritted your teeth and pressed forward, using the momentum to land a hard kick to his stomach. He staggered back, giving you a split second to grab a piece of broken wood from the ground.

The clone recovered quickly, his predatory gaze locking onto you once more. He lunged, but this time you sidestepped, driving the makeshift weapon into his side. It wasn’t enough to stop him, but it slowed him down.

The clone backhanded you, sending you sprawling onto the dirt. Stars danced in your vision as you struggled to get up, your body screaming in protest. He advanced on Laura, who was thrashing against her restraints, her small frame writhing like a trapped animal.

“No!” you shouted, forcing yourself to your feet. You reached deep within, pulling at the thread of time, willing it to bend. The world around you shimmered faintly, the air growing heavy with the effort. You managed to slow the clone's movements, just enough to stagger forward and position yourself between him and Laura.

Before the clone could strike again, a familiar growl pierced the air.

“Get the hell away from them!” Logan’s voice roared.

The clone barely had time to turn before Logan tackled him, the force of their collision sending both of them to the ground. The two Logans clashed in a brutal, chaotic fight, claws slashing and tearing through flesh.

“Darlin’, get her to the truck!” Logan shouted, not breaking his focus on his opponent.

You didn’t hesitate. Grabbing Laura, you picked her up, your body protesting every movement. She screamed as she watched Logan fight the clone, but leaned into you for support, her wide eyes filled with something unspoken—trust.

“It’s okay, muñeca,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “We’re almost there.”

Gunfire erupted from nearby as a group of men yelled at the clone of Logan. The distraction gave you just enough time to pull Laura toward the truck, where Charles’ lifeless body lay in the backseat.

“Stay with him,” you told Laura, grabbing your vibranium blade from your ankle holster and slashing the inhibitors off her wrists and ankles as fast as your trembling hands allowed. “You hear me? Stay with him.”

Laura nodded silently, her small hands clutching at Charles’ blanket as she climbed into the truck. Her gaze lingered on you, worried and uncertain, but she stayed put.

You grabbed a device from underneath your pant leg, throwing it at the group of men. A grenade, that only released a toxin putting them to sleep.

Only a few seconds after, the armored truck blew up, the fiery blast sending shockwaves through the night. You shielded Laura with your body, the heat of the explosion brushing against your back as debris scattered around you. The clone and Logan were still locked in a brutal struggle, their grunts and growls barely audible over the roaring fire.

You turned back just in time to see Logan thrown to the ground, the clone towering over him, claws raised for the killing blow. Logan barely rolled out of the way, the claws digging into the dirt where he had just been.

A loud roar of an engine cut through the chaos, drawing everyone’s attention. Will’s van came hurtling toward the clone, its headlights blinding against the darkened field. You held your breath as the van slammed into the clone with a sickening crunch, sending him flying back into the thresher. The metal prongs of the machine impaled him, halting his movement with a grotesque finality.

Logan staggered to his feet, breathing heavily, blood and dirt smeared across his face. You started toward him, but Will jumped out of the van first, holding his shotgun with shaking hands.

Will’s eyes darted between the impaled clone and Logan. He approached cautiously, his boots crunching against the debris-strewn ground. Raising the shotgun, Will aimed it directly at the clone’s head, his expression grim and resolute. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, the deafening blast echoing across the field.

The clone’s body went limp, his head snapping back against the metal with the force of the shot. You exhaled sharply, relief mingling with the tension still coiled tight in your chest.

Will turned toward Logan, his face a mask of fury and grief. Without a word, he raised the shotgun again, this time aiming it at Logan.

Your heart stopped.

Logan stood still, his bloodied chest heaving as he met Will’s gaze. He didn’t flinch, didn’t say a word. You could see the exhaustion in his stance, the resignation.

The trigger clicked.

Empty.

For a moment, everything was still. Then Will staggered, his knees buckling as the shotgun slipped from his hands. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his body folding into itself like a marionette with cut strings.

“Darlin’,” Logan rasped, his voice pulling your attention. He was limping toward you, his face etched with exhaustion and pain. “We need to go. Now.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you turned back to Laura, who was staring at Charles’ lifeless body in the bed of the truck.

---

They had buried Charles in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and some water nearby. Logan put the shovel in the ground. Laura took out her earbuds as Logan spoke quietly, “well… it’s got water, and…” Laura moved over to Logan and put her hand around his wrist, both their knuckles bloody.

Logan looked down briefly before turned his gaze towards the small pond, “it’s got water.” His voice broke as he took a deep sigh. He plunged the shovel into the ground in anger, muttering, “fuck this,” a few times while walking back to the truck, shovel still in hand.

You stood by the makeshift grave, each breath hurting worse than the last. The exhaustion wasn’t making it much easier either.

Laura walked further down the grassy field to stand by a tree as she watched Logan try to turn on the truck, only for the engine to sputter.

Logan cursed multiple times before opening the hood. Laura noticed a man and his dog leaving his parked car some distance away. She turned back to Logan, how was now hitting the truck repeatedly with the shovel.

Moments later, Logan’s body wavered as he stumbled to the ground, passing out.

You walked over to Laura, your legs heavy, your body screaming for rest, but you pushed on. "You grab him," you said quietly, your voice strained as you nodded toward Logan's crumpled form. "I’ll get that guy’s station wagon."

Laura’s expression was unreadable, but her small frame seemed to stiffen with determination. She didn’t respond—she never did—but the faint glint in her eyes told you she understood. She moved quickly toward Logan, crouching beside him and wrapping her small arms around his wrist.

You turned away, your gaze locking onto the man and his dog in the distance. Your steps were uneven, every ounce of your body protesting, but you forced yourself forward. By the time you reached the station wagon, the man was just a few feet away from his car. His dog barked as he turned to face you, startled by your sudden appearance.

"Hey!" he called out, confusion written on his face. "What are you—?"

"I’m sorry about this," you interrupted, pulling your pistol from the back of your waistband and aiming it at the ground between you. "I need your car. Now."

The man froze, his hands instinctively raised. "Look, lady, I don’t want any trouble—"

"Neither do I," you said firmly, your voice steady despite the throbbing pain in your shoulder. "Keys. Please."

His hands fumbled into his pocket as he stared at you, fear and hesitation battling on his face. "Alright, alright," he muttered, tossing the keys toward you. "Take it."

You caught them and gave him a nod. "Thank you. You can keep the dog."

The man didn’t argue. He backed away slowly, taking the dog with him, his eyes never leaving you. You slid into the driver’s seat, the car’s worn interior creaking beneath you as you started the engine. Relief washed over you when it roared to life without hesitation.

You backed the station wagon up toward where Laura was struggling to drag Logan’s unconscious body towards you. You slammed the car into park and ran over, your legs moving on pure adrenaline at this point.

"Let me," you said, crouching down to grab Logan under his arms. Laura gave a reluctant glance but let go, stepping back to give you space.

"God, kotik, you don’t make this easy," you grunted, managing to hoist him up enough to half-drag, half-carry him toward the car. Laura moved ahead, opening the backseat door for you.

With a final heave, you got Logan inside, his weight slumping awkwardly against the seat. You turned to Laura, who was already climbing in beside him, her small hands moving to check his pulse instinctively.

You nodded at her. "You keep an eye on him. I’ll… drive.” Your voice trailed off, your exhaustion hitting its peak after lifting Logan into the car. Laura grabbed the keys from your hand without a fight from you as you passed out on the floor of the car.

---

Logan groaned as he woke up, looking directly at the ceiling to see wire fish and an IV bag above him. He coughed and the doctor immediately responded.

“Welcome back. I was starting to think I was gonna have to tell that nice little girl out in the waiting room her daddy’s gone.” Logan turned his head to face the doctor as he sighed, “I’d always hoped… that I’d get the chance to meet someone like you. There’s so few of you left.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Doc.” Logan groaned as he sat up, letting out a slight moan of pain. “But I really got to get on my way.”

“No, no, don’t do that. What you and your wife need is rest and treatment. You need to check—”

“My wife, where is she?”

“The next room—”

Before the doctor could finish talking, a high-pitched scream came from the room next door. Logan’s body tensed immediately. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the pain that radiated through him as he forced himself up. His head swam for a second, but he powered through it, instincts driving him forward.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, pushing past the doctor as he made for the door, pulling his shirt on but not buttoning it, eyes sharp and focused.

He barged into the adjacent room, only to find you standing there, fists clenched, a wild look in your eyes. A nurse was backed into the far corner of the room, pale as a ghost and trembling, her hands raised defensively. The sharp scent of antiseptic and medical supplies filled the small room, along with the tension that was thick enough to cut through.

“Darlin’,” Logan rasped, his voice a mix of relief and concern. His eyes softened slightly as he saw you, but he didn’t dare move closer yet. "It’s alright. You're okay."

You were breathing heavily, your hands shaking, but your eyes snapped to his the moment you heard his voice. The fight-or-flight instinct coursing through your veins made it hard to focus. You’d woken up surrounded by sterile equipment, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. It was too familiar—a stark reminder of things you’d tried to bury deep down. The Black Widow training. The surgeries. The loss of control.

"Where are we?" you asked through gritted teeth, not taking your eyes off the nurse. "What the hell is this place?"

Logan glanced at the nurse, then back at you. “Laura brought us here. A clinic. Some walk-in place,” he explained, his tone steady but gentle. He could see you were on edge, ready to snap at anything that moved.

Your eyes darted around the room before they landed back on Logan. The confusion and panic swirling inside you slowly began to ebb, replaced by the familiar presence of him. You took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to ground yourself.

"I don’t—" you swallowed hard, your voice shaky. "I don’t remember how we got here."

"Neither do I," Logan admitted, taking a step closer to you. His movements were slow, non-threatening.

The nurse, still cowering in the corner, finally spoke up, her voice trembling. “I-I was just checking her vitals… she woke up—”

“She’s fine," Logan interrupted, his gaze flickering toward the nurse. "You should go.” There was no malice in his voice, but the unspoken command was clear.

The nurse nodded frantically, not needing to be told twice. She slipped out of the room, leaving the two of you standing there, the heavy silence settling in her absence.

Logan turned his full attention back to you, his brow furrowing in concern. “Darlin’, you good?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair as you tried to steady yourself. “Yeah... Yeah, I’m fine.” But your voice betrayed you—it was shaky, uncertain.

He stepped closer, cautiously this time, his rough hands reaching for yours. "Come here."

You didn’t resist, letting him pull you into his chest. His warmth, the steady beat of his heart, was a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of emotions still swirling inside you. You buried your face into his uninjured shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.

Logan rested his chin on top of your head, holding you close. He could feel the tension slowly leaving your body as you leaned into him. "We’re safe," he murmured, his voice rough but soothing. "Just a clinic. We’ll be outta here soon."

You took a shaky breath, nodding against him. "I just… I hate waking up in places like this. Medical rooms. Makes me feel like I’m back in…" Your voice trailed off, but Logan didn’t need you to finish. He knew what you meant. He knew your past, the nightmares that clung to both of you like shadows.

“I know, sweetheart,” he said quietly, his arms tightening around you just a fraction. “But you’re not there. Not anymore.”

For a moment, you stayed like that—wrapped in the safety of his embrace, the world outside falling away. The pain in your body, the chaos of the last few days, all of it faded in the warmth of his presence. Logan was your anchor, just like you had been his for so many years.

After a few moments, you pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. "Where’s Laura?" you asked, your voice still quiet but steadier now.

Logan exhaled softly, nodding toward the door. "Out in the waiting room, apparently. She’s fine. Tough kid.”

You managed a small smile at that, despite everything. “She’s tougher than most adults I know.”

Logan huffed a small, tired laugh, but his expression softened as he looked at you. His thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away the sweat that had gathered there. “You’re tough too, ya know?”

You gave a half-hearted shrug, but the tension in your body had melted away for the most part. “I’ve had my moments.”

"Plenty of ‘em," Logan said, his voice gruff but affectionate. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back. “We’ll be outta here soon. Just gotta get you patched up.”

There were deep claw marks that dragged across the right side of his stomach, you were shocked they didn’t have stitches or gauze over it. Your hand went to hover over the wounds, only barely starting to concentrate on reversing the wounds before Logan’s hand firmly closed over your wrist.

“Stop it,” Logan’s voice was firm but laced with a quiet concern, his hand tightening slightly around your wrist as if to emphasize the point. His eyes, sharp yet weary, bore into yours.

“Logan, you’re hurt—” you protested softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but Logan was already shaking his head.

“I said stop,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Ain’t worth it. You know what it does to you.”

You frowned, glancing down at his wounds again, the jagged lines cutting across his stomach. “And leaving you like this is worth it? You’re bleeding, Logan. You need stitches, or—”

“Darlin’, I heal,” he interrupted, his hand moving to cup your face, his calloused thumb brushing gently along your cheek. “You don’t. Not like this. Every time you pull that trick, it damn near takes you out. Ain’t lettin’ that happen.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped you. It wasn’t just concern—it was fear, buried deep but unmistakable. He’d seen you push yourself too far before, and the memory of it still lingered, raw and unyielding.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of you. “Fine,” you muttered, reluctantly pulling your hand back. “But only because I’m too tired to argue.”

Logan huffed a small, almost amused breath, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Smart choice.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifted slightly in response. “Don’t push your luck, old man.”

“Old man, huh?” Logan smirked, though the teasing was short-lived as he winced, his hand instinctively moving to his side.

“Exactly my point,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Now sit your stubborn ass down before you keel over.”

He gave you a pointed look but obeyed, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed with a low grunt. You grabbed a clean towel from the counter and a bottle of disinfectant, perching on the chair next to him. As you worked, dabbing carefully at the wounds, the tension in the room began to ease, replaced by the familiar rhythm of your banter.

“You remember the last time we ended up in a place like this?” you asked, glancing up at him.

Logan snorted. “Which time? There’s been a few.”

“The one in Brazil,” you said with a small grin. “You tried to fight the entire waiting room because they were taking too long.”

“They were taking too long,” Logan grumbled, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “And that guy was lookin’ at you funny.”

“He was ninety, Logan.”

“And?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you pressed the towel against his side. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you keep me around anyway,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, the playful edge giving way to something softer.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. For a moment, the chaos of the past few days—the exhaustion, the pain, the fear—faded into the background. All that mattered was the man sitting in front of you, his rough edges softened in the quiet of the moment.

“I keep you around because I’m not sure what I’d do without you,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the weight of the words.

Logan’s expression shifted, the usual gruffness giving way to something raw and unguarded. He reached out, his hand settling on the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You’ll never have to find out.”

The warmth of his words settled over you like a blanket, grounding you in a way nothing else could. You stayed like that for a moment, your breaths mingling in the small space between you, the world outside forgotten.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence, and you both turned to see Laura standing there, her dark eyes watching you with an intensity that was equal parts curiosity and concern. She didn’t say anything—she never did—but the question in her gaze was clear.

“Hey, kid,” Logan said, his voice softer than usual as he straightened up slightly. “We’re good.”

Laura tilted her head, her eyes flicking between the two of you before landing on Logan’s side. She frowned, stepping into the room and holding up a roll of gauze she’d clearly swiped from somewhere.

“Resourceful,” you said with a small smile, taking the gauze from her. “Thanks, Laura.”

She didn’t respond, just crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, her gaze never leaving Logan as you wrapped the bandage around his torso.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” you muttered under your breath, earning a huff from Logan.

The girl’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture relaxed ever so slightly. You caught the subtle shift and smiled to yourself, finishing up the bandage before sitting back with a satisfied sigh.

“There. That should hold for now,” you said, meeting Logan’s gaze. “But you’re still taking it easy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, though there was no real heat behind it. “Let’s just get outta here.”

You nodded, glancing at Laura. “Think you can lead the way, kid?”

She gave a small nod, already turning to head back toward the waiting room. Logan pushed himself to his feet with a wince, and you quickly stepped in to steady him, earning a muttered “I’m fine” that you ignored.

The three of you made your way out of the clinic, Laura leading the way to the station wagon. She opened the driver door, throwing something to the back of the car as she climbed into the passenger seat. You got into the backseat, laying down.

“You can’t just take shit, you know.” Logan said to Laura.

“Actually, I took it. Had to threaten a guy.” You spoke from the backseat.

Logan closed the driver door, muttering an “of course” before looking at Laura. “I don’t know how you got us here… but, uh, thank you.”

“De nada.” Laura said, as Logan put the keys in the ignition.

“Yeah.” Logan looked back at Laura, “you can talk?” Laura nodded, “you can talk? What the fuck? Why in the fuck… What’s all this bullshit been for the last 2,000 fucking miles?”

Laura began to yell in Spanish, “tu espera que hable con tu cuando no mirarme? Tu espera que hable con tu cuando me insultas y tratar de dejarme atrás!?”

Your eyes widened at her words, but of course, Logan didn’t understand them. He cut Laura off, yelling at her, “shut the fuck up!”

“Logan!” You scolded, sitting up, “she’s a little kid—”

Laura kept eye contact with Logan, reciting names. “Jonah, Gideon, Rebecca, Delilah, Rictor.”

“What? Who’s that?” Laura continued as Logan yelled again, “who is that?”

She opened her backpack, saying the names again, “Jonah, Gideon, Rebecca, Delilah, and Rictor.” She grabbed the envelope of money with the coordinates written on them. “North Dakota.”

“What?”

Laura pulled the envelope away, “North Dakota, por favor.”

“Shit, okay. Look—” Logan tried to grab the envelope.

“No. Por favor.”

Logan finally reached over and grabbed it from her hands. “This place. Okay? Your nurse, she read too many stories, you understand? Too many stories!” He coughed as Laura grabbed a comic book from her backpack, which Logan snatched. “I’ve seen it! I’ve seen it, okay? This all here… None of this… No existo, okay? You understand me? This Eden does not exist. No!”

“Si! Eden!”

“No! It’s a fantasy, kid. See that? Those are the names of the people who just made this… They made this whole thing up. Okay? This whole… It happened once, and they just turned it into a big, fucking lie!” Laura yelled in Spanish again, “no!”

You opened the car door, slowly getting out, leveling Logan with a look that brooked no argument. “Logan. Out. Now.”

Logan froze, his hand still clutching the comic book, his jaw tightening. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?” His voice was low, cautious.

“Get out of the car, kotik,” you repeated, your tone firm. “Now.”

Laura was glaring daggers at him from the passenger seat, her small frame somehow radiating enough fury to match his. Logan glanced at her, then back at you, clearly torn between his simmering frustration and the realization that you weren’t going to back down.

Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, opening the driver’s side door and stepping out, slamming it shut behind him. “This really necessary?” he grumbled.

You didn’t answer right away, walking a few paces away from the car until you were out of earshot from Laura. Logan followed, his boots crunching against the gravel. When you finally turned to face him, the irritation in your eyes was palpable.

“What the hell was that?” you asked, your voice quiet but edged with steel. “You yelling at her like that?”

“She started it,” Logan said, gesturing vaguely toward the car, his expression defensive. “You heard her, darlin’. She’s been sittin’ on this the whole damn time, not sayin’ a word. Now she wants to throw some fantasy story at me like it’s gospel?”

“She’s a kid, Logan,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “She’s scared. She’s trying to make sense of everything, just like the rest of us.”

Logan shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I get it, okay? But this ‘Eden’ bullshit—she’s pinning her hopes on somethin’ that ain’t real. It’s a waste of time.”

“And what if it’s not?” you countered, stepping closer to him. “What if it’s real, and we’re just too jaded to believe it? You’ve been so focused on surviving, you don’t even see it anymore.”

“See what?” Logan asked, his tone tinged with exasperation.

“Hope,” you said simply, your gaze softening. “Laura’s a kid, Logan. She needs that hope, even if it feels impossible. Hell, maybe we do, too.”

Logan sighed, the tension in his shoulders sagging slightly as he looked away. “You really think it’s worth chasin’ a pipe dream?”

“I think it’s worth giving her a chance to believe in something,” you said, your voice gentler now. “If it turns out to be real, great. If not… at least we tried.”

He was quiet for a moment, his jaw working as he mulled over your words. Finally, he looked back at you, his eyes tired but not entirely unyielding. “You really think I handled that wrong, huh?”

“Like a bull in a china shop,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite the tension. “She’s not just some stray you picked up, Logan. She’s… she’s family now, whether you like it or not.”

“Family,” Logan echoed, the word heavy on his tongue. He let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s a dangerous word comin’ from us.”

“Maybe,” you said, stepping closer and resting a hand on his chest, just over his heart. “But it’s true. And you’re going to apologize to her.”

Logan’s eyes widened slightly. “Apologize? To her?”

“Yes, to her,” you said firmly, your hand not moving. “Because if you don’t, I’m sleeping in the backseat and you’re not getting a single damn word out of me for the rest of the trip.”

He stared at you for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, with a resigned sigh, he muttered, “Fine.”

“Thank you,” you said, stepping back and motioning toward the car. “Now, go make it right.”

Logan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “pushy,” but he turned and headed back to the car. You followed a few steps behind, watching as he opened the driver’s side door and leaned in.

“Hey, kid,” Logan said, his voice gruff but softer than before. Laura turned her head to glare at him, clearly still bristling from the earlier argument. Logan sighed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Look, I… I shouldn’t have yelled. Alright? That was… not cool.”

Laura’s glare didn’t waver, but she didn’t interrupt him.

“I just…” Logan paused, clearly struggling with the words. “I’m not good at this stuff. But I’m tryin’. And if you believe in this Eden thing, then… I’ll give it a shot.”

Laura blinked, her expression shifting just slightly, the anger in her eyes softening into something more guarded. She didn’t say anything, but the way she settled back in her seat, arms uncrossing, spoke volumes.

You smiled faintly, leaning on the car door. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Logan shot you a look, but there was no real heat in it. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, and you slid into the back, leaning against the window as he started the engine.

As the car rumbled to life, Laura glanced at you in the rearview mirror. For the first time, there was a hint of something like gratitude in her eyes. You gave her a small nod, a silent reassurance that everything was going to be okay.

The station wagon pulled out onto the road, the three of you settling into an uneasy but determined silence. For better or worse, you were in this together.

---

You ended up falling asleep in the back of the car, the exhaustion still weighing heavily on you. Logan’s head tilted to the side, dozing off for a second before Laura reached over and straightened the car.

“Hey.” Logan said, pushing Laura’s hand away from the steering wheel. She said something in Spanish and Logan let out a “huh?”

“Let me drive,” she spoke.

He scoffed, “absolutely not.” Logan continued driving, fighting the urge to pass out as he felt Laura’s gaze still on him. “Quit looking at me.” Laura spoke in Spanish again and he responded with, “no comprende.”

“You are dying. Charles told me.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“To not let you,” Laura responded.

Logan’s eyes fluttered closed slowly, and once his head tilted down to his chest, Laura grabbed the wheel again, turning the car to the side of the road.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The car came to a stop.

“Rest.” Laura said simply.

---

When Logan woke up his head was in your lap, fingers gently combing through his hair that for a split second he thought things were normal. That the two of you were back in the mansion late at night, keeping quiet to not wake up anyone else.

“Hey, there.” You whispered.

“Darlin’?” He coughed, looking around to see a handful of kids surrounding the two of you. “Where are we?”

“Safe.” You replied.

Logan looked at one of the kids holding a bottle of a small green serum, “hey, what is it? Where’d you get that?”

“Where we came from,” Rictor spoke. “They gave it to us when we would fight. It makes you stronger.”

“It makes you crazy is what it does. It’ll kill you.”

You spoke up, “they only gave you a little bit. Enough to help your wounds heal.”

Logan let out a grunt, “where’s Laura?”

“Asleep.” You started to comb your fingers through his hair again, “you need to get some more rest too.”

Logan shifted slightly in your lap, his head heavy against your thighs. “I’ve been restin’,” he grumbled, his voice rough and tired.

“Not enough,” you said, your thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. “You can barely stay on your feet, kotik.”

Logan closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a low grunt of acknowledgment, but still not fully conceding. “Can’t just lay around while all this shit’s goin’ down.”

“They need you alive,” you replied softly but firmly. “We’re safe for now, and you need to heal. It’s not gonna kill you to stop for a little while.”

Logan’s lips twitched in a half-smile, his eyes still closed. “You sure about that?” he muttered, though his body seemed to sink deeper against you, the tension slowly leaving his frame.

You gave a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “I’m pretty sure. Trust me for once, okay?”

Logan opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. There was something softer there now, a vulnerability he didn’t show often. “I always trust you, darlin’. Even when I shouldn’t.”

“Good thing I’m always right, then,” you teased gently, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple. “Now get some more rest.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his eyes still locked with yours. Then, with a sigh, he relented, his head settling more comfortably in your lap. “Yeah, alright. But just for a little while,” he mumbled, his voice already starting to fade as exhaustion pulled at him.

“Just for a little while,” you echoed softly, your fingers still moving through his hair in slow, soothing strokes.

---

Logan woke up from a nightmare, this time you were behind him, arm around his waist and chest pressed to his back.

“Pesadillas.” She said in Spanish, before continuing in English, “you had a nightmare.”

Logan paused for a second, looking at the way she held onto the wooden pole of the bed in front of him. “Do you have nightmares?” he asked softly.

She nodded, “si.” Laura briefly looked down at the floor before looking back at him. “People hurt me.”

“Mine are different.” Logan replied, his voice still quiet.

“Por que?”

“I hurt people.”

Laura got off the bed and walked over to the side of his, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a shiny silver bullet. “What is this?” She asked him in Spanish.

Logan shifted over to his side and sat up on his elbow, grunting in pain. Your arm fell down behind him. “You know what it is.” He took it out of her hand, rolling it between his fingers. He held it still, “it’s made out of Adamantium. It’s what they put inside of us. That’s why it can kill us.” He paused for a moment.

“Probably what is killing me now. Anyway… I got this a long time ago… and I kept it as a reminder of what I am. Now I keep it to, uh…” He stopped, briefly closing his eyes as he shook his head, “actually, uh… I was thinking of shooting myself with it. But I can’t do that to her… not after everythin’.”

There was a moment of silence before Laura spoke, “I’ve hurt people, too.”

“You’re gonna have to learn how to live with that.” Logan moved back down onto the bed, rolling slowly onto his back with a groan.

“They were bad people.”

“All the same.” He replied, dozing back off to sleep. Laura looked at the bullet still in his hand before taking it and putting it back in her jacket.

---

Logan drifted in and out for two days. You had slept only for one day, finally regaining your strength after overexerting yourself.

But when Logan did wake up, the kids were around him giggling. Logan pushed himself up and stumbled over to the tiny mirror on the wall.

“Not funny. That is not funny!” He scolded.

You let out a small, barely audible chuckle. “It’s a little humorous.” It wasn’t exactly like how he used to shave, but it was pretty damn close.

“How long have I been out?”

"Two days," you said, sitting on the edge of the small cot Logan had been resting on. "They’re leaving tomorrow before dawn. They’re gonna cross the border to Canada."

Logan snorted as he rubbed his face, still groggy. "Canada," he muttered, shaking his head.

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Logan."

"What?" He leaned heavily against the mirror, scowling at his reflection. "We both know it’s just a pipe dream."

"Maybe," you said, your tone calm but firm. "But those kids believe in it. It’s not about what’s real to you, kotik. It’s about what it means to them."

Logan turned to look at you, his scowl softening just slightly when he met your eyes. "You’re startin’ to sound like Chuck," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"Good," you replied. "He had a way of cutting through your bullshit."

Logan let out a low chuckle, though it ended in a cough. He pressed a hand to his side and winced. You were on your feet in an instant, steadying him. "You’re still pushing yourself too hard."

"I’m fine," he grumbled, though he didn’t pull away from your touch. "These kids… they’re not ready for what’s out there. We both know that."

"Then help them," you said softly. "Show them how to survive."

Logan shook his head, his expression torn. "I don’t even know if I’ve got it in me anymore, darlin’. Every time I think about fightin’, it feels like… like it’s just pullin’ me closer to the end."

"You’ve been saying that for decades," you countered, your hand slipping down to take his. "And yet, here you are. Still standing. Still fighting. These kids need you, Logan. And so does Laura."

He sighed, looking down at your joined hands. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "You’re too damn good at this, y’know," he said, his voice gruff. "Talkin’ me into doin’ the right thing."

You smiled faintly. "Someone’s gotta keep you in line."

Logan gave a low chuckle, but his eyes drifted toward the window, where the faint sounds of the kids preparing for their journey echoed through the quiet night. "What happens if it’s all bullshit?" he asked quietly.

"Then we’ll figure it out," you said. "Like we always do."

Logan nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as he seemed to make a decision. "Alright," he said finally. "I’ll help ‘em get to the border. But after that… it’s up to them."

"That’s all anyone can ask," you said, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

Logan let out a breath, leaning his forehead against yours for a moment. "You’re a real pain in my ass, sweetheart."

"You love me for it," you teased, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Logan pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression softening. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."

---

Daytime melted into nighttime again, the kids enjoying one last night around the campfire chatting, laughing. You sat with them, showing off your own mutation to some of the younger kids, briefly pausing the fire before letting it roar again.

Logan watched from inside the cabin, reminding him of when things were simpler. How you and Ororo would talk in Russian so no one else could understand what you were saying. How one time you and Rogue pied Scott in the face after he dropped the hot dogs into the fire.

Laura entered the cabin as he turned to look at her, “your friends, they seem nice,” he admitted. “Kind of reminds me…”

Laura put something into her backpack, then she walked past him to go out by the fire. He grabbed her arm, stopping her and pulling her closer. “Hey, hey, what’s going on? Huh?” She ignored him, yanking her arm free from his grasp. “You’re with your pals. You made it.”

“Where will you go?” she asked.

Logan considers the question for a moment, “nearest bar, for starters.” Laura absorbs his answer before turning back around, making her way to the exit. “Hey, I got you here. That’s all I signed up for. I even gave back the money.

She turned to face him, “such a nice man.” Laura said sarcastically.

“Hey, I never asked for this!” Logan started, his voice raising, “all right? Charles never asked for this. Caliban never asked for this. And they are six feet under the ground! Now, I don’t know what Charles put in your head, but I am not whatever it is you think I am, okay? I only met you, like, a week ago. You got your Rebecca, your Delilah, your blah, blah, blah, whatever. Everything you asked for, you’ve got it!”

Laura continued to look at him, a slight look of hurt across her face. He continued, “and it is better this way. Because I suck at this. Bad shit happens to people I care about. You understand me?”

She met his eyes, “then I’ll be fine.” Laura walked outside as Logan watched her exit.

---

Logan woke up to the sun streaming in through the small cabin. You were asleep behind him, hand lightly wrapped around his bicep. It was quiet, the kids and Laura were all gone.

On the table next to the bed was the green serum, and next to it a note, “not all at once. Rictor.” He walked outside to look out at rocky hills, the car still parked in the same spot it was when they got here.

Drones buzzed above him, making him look up. Logan climbed the stairs of the watch tower before limping to the binoculars. He saw military grade trucks driving through the forest, presumably following the kids.

Logan’s heart thudded as the trucks rolled through the forest, their engines a low growl against the quiet morning air.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the sight twisting his gut into knots.

He turned and stomped back down the stairs, his limp more pronounced than usual. The pain in his legs flared, sharp and insistent, but he pushed it down. There wasn’t time for that.

Inside the cabin, you stirred as he walked in, your voice groggy but warm. “What’s all the stomping about, kotik?”

Logan grabbed the serum off the table and shoved it into his pocket. “Trouble,” he grunted, heading straight for the bag he’d left by the door.

You sat up, your brows furrowing. “Logan.”

He didn’t stop moving.

“Logan,” you said more firmly, your voice snapping him to a halt. “What kind of trouble?”

He turned to face you, his jaw tight. “The kind that’s gonna put a lot of those kids six feet under if I don’t get my ass moving.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, pulling on your boots as you spoke. “Then let’s go.”

“No,” he barked, his tone sharper than he meant it to be. “You’re staying here.”

You froze mid-motion, your eyes locking onto his. “Like hell I am.”

“Darlin’—”

“Don’t start,” you cut him off, standing and stepping into his path. “You think I’m just gonna sit here while you throw yourself into God knows what?”

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his frustration simmering. “I don’t have time to argue with you.”

“Good,” you shot back, grabbing your jacket and sliding it on. “Because I’m not arguing. I’m coming.”

Logan shook his head, his voice low and tight. “This isn’t your fight.”

You stepped closer, your voice softening but no less firm. “Logan, when have I ever let you fight alone?”

He stared at you, his chest heaving with the weight of his unspoken fears.

“I’m not leaving you to handle this on your own,” you continued, your eyes searching his. “We do this together. That’s the deal.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he muttered, “Fine. But you stay behind me. No heroics.”

You smirked faintly, your fingers brushing over his arm. “Wouldn’t dream of it, kotik.”

Logan let out a low grunt of frustration, grabbing his gear. “You ready?”

“Always,” you replied, grabbing your knives from the table and tucking them into your belt.

The two of you stepped outside, the morning air crisp and heavy with tension.

---

Logan’s breathing was ragged as he leaned heavily against the tree. You kept a hand on his shoulder, your expression torn between worry and focus. You knew he was struggling—his healing wasn’t what it used to be—but they didn’t have time to dwell on that now.

“I’m gonna find Rice,” You said quietly, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I’ll stay on his trail. You focus on the kids.”

Logan nodded, his face grim. “You sure you can handle Rice on your own?”

“I’ve got this,” you said firmly, taking a deep breath before stepping away.

Logan straightened, clearly in pain but too stubborn to acknowledge it. “Be careful, Y/N.”

“I will,” you replied, already starting to move deeper into the forest.

You moved swiftly through the dense forest, the distant sounds of engines and shouts growing louder with each step. Your grip on your knife tightened, and your breath came steady despite the rush of adrenaline. Years of training kicked in, each movement calculated and silent.

Ahead, you spotted a group of men. They were clustered together, clearly guarding something—or someone. Rice had to be close. You pressed yourself against a tree, observing their movements, counting their weapons.

Slipping between the trees, you crept closer. The element of surprise was always your greatest advantage. In a swift motion, you stepped behind the nearest man, your blade slicing cleanly through the strap of his rifle before you took him down with a sharp elbow to the temple. He crumpled without a sound.

Before you could move on to the next, another guard turned, catching sight of you. “Over here!” he shouted, raising his weapon.

“Damn it,” you muttered, darting into the shadows as gunfire erupted. You took cover behind a fallen log, calculating your next move.

One by one, you picked them off, your movements fluid and precise. But as you turned to face the last of them, a sharp sting hit your neck. You reached up, pulling out a dart, the world already starting to tilt.

A sedative. Not enough to knock you out, but enough to slow you down. Your grip on the knife loosened as your knees buckled.

“Got her!” one of the men shouted, rushing toward you. You swung at him, catching him across the cheek, but your strength was fading fast.

“You’re a feisty one,” another voice drawled. Rice stepped out from the shadows, a smug grin on his face. “But even you can’t fight forever.”

Your vision blurred as they grabbed you, binding your wrists. You fought to stay upright, your head lolling to the side. “You... have no idea... who you’re dealing with,” you slurred, your voice defiant despite your state.

“Oh, I think I do,” Rice replied, stepping closer. “You’re the one he’s been running with, aren’t you? Always knew Wolverine had a soft spot. Let’s see how far that gets him.”

You snarled, trying to jerk away, but the sedative made your limbs uncooperative. They dragged you toward their truck, your heart pounding not from fear but from frustration. You weren’t scared. You knew Logan would come. He always did.

---

Donald held Rictor at gunpoint, slowly walking into the grass. “Nine o’clock.” A soldier by the children shouted, pointing their guns at Logan.

“That green juice is wearin’ off, huh? You know, for an old mute, it’s kind of a short high.” Donald said, as Rictor kneeled in the grass, Donald’s grip tight on the back of his neck. “Be hard to keep them claws out, soon.”

“Waste this dick, Logan!” Donald knocked Rictor unconscious with the butt of his gun, keeping the muzzle pointed at his head.

Rice walks forward from behind Donald, one of the military men dragging you beside him. “Please stop, Mr. Howlett. I’m gonna have to tell these men to fire on these children and your wife. You don’t want that. You can see the effects of the serum are wearing off. You will not survive further wounds. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Zander Rice. I believe you knew my father on the Weapon X Program.”

Logan’s look grew darker as he held up his bloody claws, “yeah. He’s the asshole who put this poison in me.”

Rice nodded, “yes, he was one of them.”

“I think I might have killed him.”

“I think you’re right.”

Donald spoke up, “why don’t you show some respect, mutie? You’re lookin’ at the man who wiped out your kind.”

“My friend Donald overstates.” Rice said. “He makes it sound more brutal than intended. The goal was not to end mutant kind… but to control it. I realized we needn’t stop perfecting what we eat and drink. That we could use those products to perfect ourselves. To distribute gene therapy discreetly through everything from sweet drinks to breakfast cereals. And it worked. Random mutancy went the way of polio. We embarked on our next endeavor.”

“Growing mutants of your own.” Logan growled out, his breathing still choppy.

“Precisely.” Rice responded.

“Dangerous times, James. You can’t- ”

Logan shot his gun at Donald, hitting his bionic arm. You acted quickly, kicking down the man’s legs while grabbing a dagger from your thigh holster, stabbing him in the gut before doing a kip-up to stab Rice directly in the throat. As you pulled your dagger out, Rice fell to the ground, dead.

You glanced over at Logan, who was still fighting against the effects of the serum, his movements becoming increasingly labored.

The soldiers around them were momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in power. Laura, who was waiting for Logan’s signal, started to attack the soldiers who stood by her friends.

Donald quickly got up and walked to one of the vans, opening the back door. “Showtime, boy!”

The clone of Logan jumped out of the back, tackling him to the ground. You ran over to the group of kids, hurriedly taking off the large metal handcuffs. Once you were finished, you watched as Logan was thrown into one of the van’s heavily armored doors, knocking it off.

The clone tried to jump on him but Logan used the door as a shield, pushing the clone to the ground. The clone tried to get up but Logan hit him with the door again, before pushing the door down against the clone’s neck.

“Get up, boy. Get up, boy!” Donald called out. The clone looked behind him at the dead body of Rice, “they did that. Get up!”

The clone slashed the bottom of the door with his claws before kicking Logan away, who landed next to Laura. The young girl screamed before running to the clone, jumping onto his back.

“Laura! No!” Rictor yelled.

Rictor’s shout barely reached your ears as everything moved in a blur of violence and chaos. Laura was already on the clone, her small body attacking with the same viciousness as Logan, her claws slashing at his back, her teeth bared in fury.

“Laura!” You called out, but it was too late. The girl was locked into the fight now, claws sinking into flesh. The clone grunted, his expression a twisted mix of pain and rage. He threw Laura off with a brutal force that sent her flying into a nearby tree.

You looked at the young kids and at Donald, still by the van. “You want revenge? Go get it.” You said, as the kids nodded and walked over to the man—their former captor.

The kids didn’t need to be told twice. Their eyes were filled with a combination of fear, anger, and a desire for revenge. One by one, they stepped toward Donald, who was still on his feet, though his bionic arm was sparking from Logan’s earlier shot. He raised his remaining good hand, trying to shield himself as the children advanced.

“Wait—wait, listen—” Donald stammered, but the children weren’t interested in his pleas.

With a primal scream, the first child reached out, his hands glowing with energy, and sent a shockwave directly at Donald, slamming him back against the van. The others followed, each unleashing their own abilities—one sent vines up from the ground to entangle him, while another froze the air around him, leaving frost on his skin.

Logan and Laura were both on the ground, the clone limping away as Rictor lifted the control van into the air before dropping it onto the clone.

“Go.” Logan heaved out before coughing. “Let’s go. Go.” He continued to tell Laura. Laura started to walk to the other children, Logan behind her gently guiding her. “Go, go, go! Go! Get out of here! Go!”

A metallic creak came from the control van, the clone underneath pushing it off of him. “Go. Go, go, go!” Logan continued ordering the kids, turning around momentarily to look in the direction of the van, seeing his clone run over. “Go, go!”

Before the clone could claw Logan again, you shoved him out of the way, throwing him to the ground as the clone’s claws tore through your shoulder. You gasped, the searing pain ripping through your body, but you bit it back, locking eyes with Logan.

“Logan, move!” you shouted, pushing him away as the clone yanked his claws free, sending blood spraying onto the grass. The clone let out a guttural growl, his feral eyes narrowing on you. His claws glistened, dripping crimson as he lunged again.

Logan scrambled to his feet, his breathing ragged, the strain evident in every movement. “Darlin’, don’t—”

The clone spun, his massive frame colliding with Logan. He roared as he grabbed him, his claws plunging into Logan’s torso before he lifted him off the ground.

“Logan!” you screamed, your voice cracking as you struggled to get up. Blood poured from your wound, but you forced yourself forward, adrenaline propelling you.

The clone hauled Logan onto the jagged stump of a fallen tree. The wood speared through Logan’s body with a sickening crunch, and he let out a choked cry of pain. Blood bubbled at his lips as the clone twisted his claws deeper, stabbing him again.

“Logan!” you cried out, your heart twisting at the sight of him impaled, struggling.

The clone raised his arm for another strike, his claws gleaming, but before he could bring it down, a gunshot rang out. The clone’s head snapped back violently, and a fine mist of blood sprayed into the air as the bullet struck him square between the eyes. His body went limp, collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud.

Your head whipped toward the source of the shot. Laura stood there, clutching the fallen gun, her small chest heaving with adrenaline. The smoking barrel glinted in the sunlight. She dropped the gun immediately, her expression shattering as she rushed toward Logan.

“No, no, no,” she mumbled, her voice shaking as she reached him. Her hands trembled as she began hacking at the jagged stump with her claws, splintering the wood with every furious strike.

You stumbled over, the pain in your shoulder nearly blinding, but nothing mattered except getting to Logan. Dropping to your knees beside him, you cupped his bloodied face in your hands. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and his breaths came in ragged gasps.

“Kotik, stay with me,” you pleaded, your voice breaking as you pressed your forehead to his. “Please. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

Logan’s lips twitched, a faint, pained attempt at a smirk. “Darlin’,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “Guess… I’m finally... gonna get some rest.”

“Shut up,” you choked out, tears blurring your vision. “You’re not going anywhere. You hear me? You’re not.”

Laura let out a frustrated scream as she finally splintered enough of the stump to free Logan. He slid off the wood with a groan, collapsing into your arms. His weight was heavy, his strength all but gone, but you held him tightly, your fingers curling into his bloodied shirt.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, rocking him gently. “You’re okay.”

Laura crouched beside you, her face streaked with tears. “He’s not okay,” she sobbed, her small hands clutching his arm. “He’s not.”

Logan’s eyes fluttered open, barely. He looked at Laura, then at you, his gaze softening despite the pain. “You two…” he breathed, his voice weak but steady. “You’re my girls.”

“Don’t talk like that,” you said firmly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “We’re getting you out of here. We’re gonna fix this.”

“Take them, and run.” He said hoarsely.

Laura shook her head, “no.”

“Run. They’ll keep coming and coming. Listen, you don’t have to fight anymore.” Laura found Logan’s hand, gripping it tightly. “Go, go.” Laura’s tears fell down in a steady stream. “Don’t be what they made you.” Logan whispered. He continued, “Laura… Laura…”

"Daddy," Laura whispered, her voice barely audible as tears streamed down her face. Her small hand gripped Logan's tightly, as if trying to keep him anchored to life.

Logan’s eyes flickered to her, the faintest smile pulling at his cracked lips.

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply, your voice cracking as you leaned closer to him. “Don’t talk like this, kotik. You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get you somewhere safe, patch you up. You’ve been through worse.”

His gaze shifted to you, soft despite the agony written all over his face. “Darlin’… you know better.”

“No!” Your voice rose as tears burned hot trails down your cheeks. You cupped his face again, leaning down so your forehead pressed against his. “No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to leave us.”

Laura’s sobs grew louder as she clung to his arm, her claws retracting as if she couldn’t bear to see them anymore. “We need you,” she choked out. “I need you.”

Logan chuckled softly, a faint, pained sound that broke what was left of your composure. “Nah… you don’t, kid. You’re strong. Stronger than me, stronger than… anyone.”

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Don’t let this be it, Logan.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, his hand brushing your cheek. “You’ve always been stubborn,” he murmured. “That’s why I love you.”

“Then fight,” you pleaded. “Fight for us. For her. For me.”

His eyes opened again, and for a moment, it was like he saw everything—every lifetime, every moment you’d ever shared, every tragedy and every fleeting happiness. “I have, darlin’… I fought long enough.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head, your voice breaking into a sob. “No, Logan, please—”

“I’ll… always find you,” he whispered, his words halting and labored. His gaze moved to Laura one last time. “Don’t… let them make you… what they made me.”

Laura let out a broken cry, clutching his hand tighter as his body slackened against you. “Daddy,” she whispered again, shaking her head in denial. “No, no, no!”

“Logan!” you screamed, gripping his face, trying to shake him awake. But his body was still, his head tilting slightly to the side. The faint, pained smirk on his lips remained as the last breath left his body.

“No!” Laura screamed, pounding her small fists into the dirt beside him. “No, no, no!”

Your hands shook as you held his face, your forehead resting against his as sobs racked your body. He was gone. The realization was like a knife twisting in your chest, carving out a piece of your soul.

Laura crawled closer, pressing herself into Logan’s side as her sobs filled the air. You wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close even as your own tears refused to stop. The two of you clung to him, unwilling to let go, unwilling to believe he was truly gone.

In the distance, the wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it the echoes of your grief.

i'm so sorry😭i totally didn't cry while writing the ending...

anyways, there is a part 2 to this which is 'deadpool and wolverine' so thank you ryan reynolds for giving us a canon why to fix things and give our characters a happy ending😊

i'm not sure when the part 2 is going to be done, so it might be a while

[a018233]

ೀ Identity v men with a s/o that sleeps naked.

Characters: , Eli Clark, Norton Campbell, Naib Subedar. Edgar Valden

content warnings: gn!reader, mostly sfw. Not really yandere, but can be read as one. Established relationships. Cockwarming in Norton's but it's not really sexual.

A/N: almost at 100 followers so I kinda wanna do a special. Someone should commission me and I'll write you whatever you want, give me sanrio photographer or buffy and my life is yours‼️‼️

Eli was surprised after finding out, he's a little traditional and modest when it came to clothes, but oddly enough, he wasn't against it. Eli can't help but think it's a little cute and endearing, though. Mainly because he thinks he's at the point of your relationship where you're comfortable doing 'weird' things with him. His biggest concern is you catching a cold. Eli prefers to keep his sleepwear on, so he won't join you in sleeping naked. Though, maybe on a hot summer night, he'd strip down to his boxers just so he can spoon you comfortably without overheating the both of you. Eli likes having you relying on him whether you realize it or not, so he prefers to stay up until you've fallen asleep so he can cover you with a blanket, it's more an act of love and reassurance that you won't accidentally catch a cold.

After you started doing it, It didn't take Norton too long to follow. He likes the close intimacy he gets from cuddling nude with you. Norton is aware he's high maintenance as a lover, to him, it's total reassurance that he's the only one for you. Reassurance that you love and trust him no matter what. The type of intimacy only he and he alone can have with you. It gives him a little pep in his step the next day. It's something looks forward to each night. He looks forward to your shared nightly routine just as much as waking up with you. I'd think at some point you two decide to kick it up a notch with cockwarming, something to keep you two locked in place together. He finds nothing as relaxing than burying himself nice and deep inside you while his arms keep you in a tight embrace.

Naib already likes sleeping in his boxers, so he doesn't really have a reaction. At least, that's what you think when you go under the covers on your shared bed. He's internally questioning himself. Is it okay to hold you? Where does he even put his hands without it being weird? Is he even allowed to look? For the first couple nights, he doesn't hold you like he usually does. But after a while, he gets used to it. Although, he won't join you in going full comando unless he just got out of the shower and dried himself fully, but he's keeping his boxers on when it comes to sleep. Naib isn't one for opening up or heart to heart conversations but having your head against his chest, and your limbs entangled with his provides comfort for him. He's a mercenary, someone who has killed for his own benefit. So it's complete solace when you ramble in a sleepy voice about your day knowing you trust him wholeheartedly.

Edgar can't help but scoff when you join him nude under the covers, he's seen your nude form before. You're his lover and muse, of course he'd seen every inch of you. As much as you're breathtaking, he's annoyed. He bought you a whole collection of all sorts of sleepwear made from the most richest material money can buy. Only the best for his lover, he can't have his muse wearing cheap clothing. Linen, silk, cotton, satin, and chiffon. With all sorts of designs he commissioned personally. Tailored to your exact size, some with your favorite colour's, colour's that match you. He even made sure the fabrics were light and breathable, and yet you choose to sleep naked? When the initial annoyance settles, he begins to feel a little flustered, yes he's seen you naked before, he has done full body portraits of you. But somehow this feels different. He can't explain why, but it feels more intimate than any canvas he's painted of you. Now, to him, it cements your love for him. That in the dead of the night, that you aren't his muse right now. But his lover. The one you love the most.

[obliviouscxnt]

His Shadow Azriel x Reader

a/n: quick little idea/drabble i had (that could honestly get turned into another series) idk if this has been done before, if it has let me know please, I'll probably delete this. I hope you enjoy :)) <333

synopsis: azriel takes you for granted

Warnings: angst

pt.2

He thought it was poetic, the way the shadows disappeared around Mor. She brightened up his life, literally.  

Never did he think he’d find someone else capable of doing such a thing. Until he met Elaine. 

The change was gradual, so gradual he hadn’t even noticed. 

They stayed with him, at first, treating the once-human girl like any other person. But then she was turned fae, and Azriel’s visits with her began. With each visit, less, and less, shadows joined him. 

He was completely unaware, she stole his focus. 

He felt protective of her, like a precious flower he had to keep from wilting. That protectiveness slowly became something more, a yearning. Even more so when Cassian discovered he was mated to the eldest Acheron.

Though the night Elaine kissed him, everything changed.

They’d sat outside, in her garden, and even though the sky was already dark they’d stayed. Getting lost in conversation. She told him about things she cared about, and he listened. She asked him about himself, and he answered.

 At some point she ended up in front of him, gazing up at his lips. 

She looked so beautiful, illuminated by the stars, surrounded by her lovely garden. A sight he felt lucky to witness. 

When she leaned forward he couldn’t stop himself. He met her halfway, so softly, so gently. But as soon as his lips touched hers, all those feelings for her died. He felt nothing.

The switch in emotions almost gave him whiplash. It was dizzying. 

Underwhelming didn’t feel like the best word for it, but it was the only thing he could come up with. Nothing was exciting about the kiss, nothing revolutionary. It wasn’t like it felt wrong, but it didn’t feel right either. 

Disappointment was what Azriel felt. A little part of him was hoping that maybe the Acheron sister would be his mate. 

It seemed fitting, right? Three brothers, three sisters. But now that her lips were against his, he knew it wasn’t right.  

The spymaster pulls back, taking a step away. Looking at the beautiful woman. Any feelings beyond protectiveness had vanished from his body. Not even a tickle of butterflies when she smiled at him, so obviously delighted with the kiss they shared.

It wasn’t her fault, any male would be lucky to have Elaine. But it was clear to him, that male couldn’t be him.

“It’s getting late, we should head in.” Her face drops at his words, he doesn’t even look at her as he begins leading her inside and back to her room.  

He should say more, apologize, and tell her how he feels so she at least has a reason. Not just silence. But his brain was still reeling from the drastic change in emotions—or lack thereof. No words leave his mouth.

He walks Elaine up to her room. Bidding her a short goodnight before leaving the frowning woman to her own devices.

He kicked himself for hurting her, for allowing it to get that far. Elaine was just so tempting, and he was so hopeful. He kicked himself for that too. 

Of course he wouldn’t have a mate. 

He couldn't even give the poor woman an apology.

It wasn’t until he made it to his room, all the way up in the House of Wind, that he realized no shadows were with him. Not even a whisper reached his ears.  

They’d been with him as long as he could remember, and now they were just gone. 

He couldn’t place the feeling they left in their absence. But he knew he didn’t like it. 

*****

You knew it was unfair of you to be jealous. He didn’t know how deep your devotion ran.  He didn’t see life the way you had, you didn’t even think he saw you as anything other than a servant. 

It wasn’t unfair of you to feel sad about that. 

You’re nothing but shadows to him. When he’s always been everything to you. From the moment he first called to you, when you were barely a flicker of darkness.

But he would never see that. 

Azriel is sound asleep when you slip through the cracks of his door and into his room. 

He hadn’t even called to you. Did he even care you were gone? 

You find yourself taking form, a form of something he could relate to. A beautiful woman, someone like Elaine, or Mor. But you knew you looked nothing like them. Your darkness couldn't captivate beauty like that. Bold and enchanting, like the Morrigan. Pure and innocent, like Miss Elaine.

A sigh leaves your mouth as you curl up in your designated corner, looking at the hands that felt alien to you. Even if you showed him this form, saw him face to face, would he see you any differently?

You doubt it. You’d always be shadows to him.

You were so busy wallowing to yourself in the corner you didn’t see the shadowsinger stir at your sigh. Didn’t see him blink awake, or sit up and look around. 

But you felt it when his eyes settled on you for what felt like the first time. Heard the gasp that left his mouth. 

Your heart stops, frozen in fear for half a second, before it starts again, and you collapse into clouds of darkness.

*****

It was the middle of the night when Azriel woke Rhys up, shouting at him from outside his mental barriers. The worry in his voice was what had the High Lord jumping out of his mate's arms, waking Cassian, and heading to the abode carved into the top of the mountain. 

Azriel paces around the office room, running a hand through his hair. If he wasn’t so stressed he would’ve noticed that his shadows don’t try to comfort him like usual.

“What’s going on?” Rhys asks as he and Cassian walk into the room. Both are in different states of undress with looks of concern on each of their faces.

Cassian immediately notes Azriel’s distressed state, a rare sight considering the spymaster had long ago mastered staying calm and stoic in the face of trouble.

Cassian almost doesn't want to know what has the male so bothered.

“There was something in my room.” 

“What?!” The reactions are simultaneous. Any sign of sleep was immediately gone from both of their faces.

“I think it was a woman… I don’t know I didn’t get a good enough look. It disappeared right after I woke up.”  His fingers grip his hair. Heart still beating fast from the interaction. No one has ever snuck up on him like that. 

He's usually the one doing the sneaking.

His shadows, which had returned sometime after he’d fallen asleep, hadn’t even noticed the stranger, if they had they certainly didn’t warn him. He tries not to feel the nerves that fact struck in him.

“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?” Cassian asks.

“Exactly what it sounds like, Cass. One second it was sitting in the corner of my room, the next it was gone.” Which made absolutely no sense, the wards surrounding House of Wind forbid winnowing of any kind. 

This was obviously a serious issue, the wards could either be faulty or someone could have found a way around them. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a vivid dream?” Cassian asks, just trying to come with any better explanation.

“Was your encounter with Bryaxis just a vivid dream?” Azriel snaps. There was no way he imagined it. No way.

Rhys diffuses, stepping in with hands raised in surrender. Silently telling Azriel that they were on his side. “What did it look like when it disappeared? Did it look like it was winnowing?” 

The spymaster thinks about it. No. No, it didn’t. 

It was like its body blended with the darkness. Became the darkness. Almost like… Azriel’s eyes widen.

A shadow. 

“What? What is it, Az?” Rhys asks, probably noticing the revelation he was having from the look on his face. 

The shadowsinger's face becomes neutral, as calm as a person with his features was capable of looking. He shakes his head. “Maybe it was nothing. Sorry for waking you guys up. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Then he left without another word.

Rhys and Cassian share a look. A mix of bewilderment, concern, and exhaustion filled their features.

Azriel waits till he reaches his room to say anything, making sure to close the door behind him before a single word can leave his mouth. “Are you jealous? Is that it? Is that why you always leave around Elaine and Mor? Why you thought it would be fun to scare me and my family? Because I don't give you enough attention?” 

His shadows scatter, detaching from his body, hiding under his bed and in the darker nooks of his room. 

“Don’t hide now. I know it was you, that’s why you didn’t warn me.” He gazes into the dark corners of his room, glaring. How could they keep something like this from him? Hide the fact that they could take form? “Show yourself.”

There was an eerie pause, Azriel’s heart began beating faster. Then the fae lights started to flicker.

With each flash more and more shadows gathered before him. Building on each other. The lights went out completely.

When he turned them back on you stood before him.

The most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Pure darkness rose from your body, looking like black smoke. It encapsulates you, different from the way it encapsulates him. The darkness wasn't an extension of your body, it was a part of you, was you, moved with you like it was just another limb.

“My intention was not to scare.” You spoke in a whisper he’d heard many times. A whisper that was most loyal to him. That fulfilled his every beck and call.

Azriel was at a loss for words. You were stunning, a word he'd not known the true meaning of until he laid eyes on you.

“For years, centuries, I’ve followed you. I chose you as my singer. I answered your call.” Tears fill your eyes, but when they fall they dissipate into smoke. Blowing away with a wave of your hand. “I have shown you nothing but loyalty, and care. I’ve sat back while watching you love others and I’ve made peace with it, I’ve accepted our differences.” You suck in a deep breath and steady yourself. “But when I leave, you don’t care, don't even notice.” Your lips tremble, voice breaking as you ask him a question he couldn’t even think to answer. “After everything I’ve done, how can I mean so little to you?” 

Azriel’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He has so much to say but his vocal cords are tied. He did care, though it was clear he hadn’t shown it enough. He found himself thinking about all the little times the shadows had been there for him, comforting him, caring for him. And now he could put a face to those moments, it wasn’t just shadows, it was you that’d been there for him over the years.  

“So yes, I was sad and mad, and maybe a little jealous... But I wasn’t trying to scare you. I was just- I don’t know! Imagining? Yearning for a life I can’t have?” 

 The fae lights began blinking again making his heart jump with every flicker. He doesn't want you to disappear yet. He opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it. 

“You don’t have to say anything, I don’t want an apology.” You lift a shadowy hand, wiping your face and steeling yourself. “Don’t fret, shadowsinger, I’m still your faithful servant. I couldn’t refuse your calls even if I wanted to. And I’m okay with that, it’s what I chose. Just don’t expect me to be there for you in moments where you can't even acknowledge my existence.” 

The lights flicker again and you're gone. 

Leaving Azriel to wonder if he’s lost you. Although, he never really had you in the first place.

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